From the Editor

There’s a pattern emerging in these editor’s notes. I go on some three or four-day outdoor trip, then I come back and write about it. Sometimes the connection between the adventure and Rock Salt is clear, sometimes, I’m just enjoying New England, and that feels thematic enough. I’m no adventure writer, but I am sentimental, especially when it comes to playing outside with my friends. This issue is no different.

At the end of January, we went ice fishing on Thompson Lake. I arrived late. When I stepped out of the car, my whole body clenched against the cold. Close to zero degrees, wind rushing across the frozen lake and down my neck. I hurried inside. The others were huddled around the woodstove walled off from the rest of the house by hanging blankets.

“The house wouldn’t heat up,” Arthur said. We slept on the floor, curled around the coals like lizards.

I say we went ice fishing. In truth, we tried to go ice fishing. We were amateurs. We sat on the ice all day Saturday and Sunday. We chopped holes with a splitting maul, dangled worms, then dangled smelt when the worms didn’t work. Learned about working the whole water column. We caught no fish. Probably, we were too impatient, too noisy. Chopping four-foot holes in the ice was more fun than sitting on buckets. We’ll try again next year.

This issue contains a great story about a fish. And one about winter. And one about a cabin. And plenty of others that I loved so much I had to publish them. Thanks for reading, and see you in the fall. I’m sure I’ll be feeling nostalgic about some orange leaves or something.

J.B. Marlow

Contributors 

Fiction

Alaina Hammond (“Later the Sky Shifts”) is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, and paintings have been published both online and in print. Publications include Nomad’s Choir Poetry Journal, The Word’s Faire, Littoral Magazine, Spinozablue, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Route 7 Review, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Assignment Literary Magazine, Superpresent, Jelly Squid, redrosethorns, and Flash Frog. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.

Casey McConahay (“Get Home Safely”) is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author whose work has appeared in December, Beloit Fiction, and Southern Humanities Review. He lives in northwest Ohio.

Adam Platt (“Ocean Fish”): An avid writer in his youth, Adam largely gave it up in pursuit of a career in science, designing machines to sequence genomes. Middle-aged and regretfully landlocked, he has rediscovered fiction, with “Ocean Fish” his first published short story and a speculative horror novel forthcoming.

Nathaniel Meals (“My Mother, the Translator”) was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A graduate of the MFA program at Bowling Green State University, he now studies and teaches at Georgia State University where he is earning a Ph.D. His writing appears in The Southeast Review, Masque & Spectacle, Street Light Press, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He enjoys hiking, backpacking, rock climbing, and other type two fun stuff, as well as live music and traveling. You can connect with him via email: nmeals@gmail.com or instagram: @mountain_quiet.

Scott Sorensen (“The Mating Call Open Mic”) is a junior at Dartmouth College studying English while performing standup, writing for the Dartmouth Jack-O-Lantern satire magazine, and editing the Stonefence Review. Scott is currently training to eat enough hot dogs to unsettle his friends and family but not enough to actually win a contest.

Alexis MacIsaac (“Good Time”) was shortlisted for Ireland’s RTÉ Short Story Competition 2024 in honour of Francis MacManus. Her writing has also been featured in Masks Literary Magazine (2023 story award winner), Leon Literary Review, The Bookends Review, Agnes and True, RTÉ’s Sunday Miscellany, and elsewhere. In a past life, she was a professional violinist (Riverdance, The High Kings, MacIsaac and MacKenzie). She lives in Ottawa with her husband and two sons. 

Annette Higgs (“Yasmin on the Beach”) is a writer living in Sydney, Australia. She was born and grew up in Tasmania, leaving on her 18th birthday to study literature and law at the Australian National University in Canberra. She has lived, worked and studied in Sydney, London and Italy, and holds a Masters in Creative Writing and a Doctorate of Arts from the University of Sydney. A Pushcart nominee, her short work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies in Australia, the USA, the UK and India. Her novel On a Bright Hillside in Paradise won the 2022 Penguin Literary Prize and was published by Penguin in 2023.

Micah Muldowney (“The Bar”) is the author of the collection Q-Drive and Other Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2022). His short fiction and poetry have been featured in The New England Review, Cleaver Magazine, Descant, West Trade Review, and many others. He currently lives in greater Philadelphia where he is working on a novel.

Nonfiction

Madison Ellingsworth (“Depths of Winter”) likes walking. Her writing is forthcoming in several publications, including Apple Valley Review and Lumina Journal. More of Madison can be found at madisonellingsworth.com.

Tim Walker (“In the Hole Again”) read, for pleasure, the complete novels of Charles Dickens while earning a BA in Environmental Studies, and the complete novels of Anthony Trollope while earning a PhD in Geological Sciences, and has worked as a computer programmer, healthcare data analyst, used book seller, and pet sitter. He lives largely in his own head, while he corporeally resides in Santa Barbara with his son and their cat. His essays and poems most recently appeared in Harpy Hybrid Review, Moss Piglet Zine, 3:AM, Fatal Flaw, Alchemy Spoon, and are forthcoming in Sneaker Wave Magazine.

Visual

Mahshid Gorjian (cover: Wisdom in Her Eyes) is a multidisciplinary artist and Ph.D. student in Geography, Planning, and Design. With a background in Fine Arts and Creative Technologies, she explores the intersection of art, culture, and environmental studies. Her work focuses on digital painting, R programming language, GIS, and urban design, reflecting themes of tradition, identity, and resilience. Through her art, Gorjian aims to bridge past and present, using digital tools to document and celebrate cultural heritage. https://mahshidgorjian.artstation.com

GJ Gillespie (Driftwood Portrait #1, 19th Century Sailor and Driftwood Portrait #2, Young Sea Captain from 18th Century) is a collage artist living in a 1928 farmhouse overlooking Oak Harbor on Whidbey Island, WA. A prolific artist with 22 awards to his name, his work has been exhibited in 69 shows and appeared in more than 185 publications.

Roger Camp (Oar/Rope, Camden Maine) is the author of three photography books including the award winning Butterflies in Flight, Thames & Hudson, 2002. His documentary photography has been awarded the prestigious Leica Medal of Excellence. His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, American Chordata and the New York Quarterly. He is represented by the Robin Rice Gallery, NY.

Donald Patten (Mask Gleaners) is an artist from Belfast, Maine. As an artist, he produces oil paintings and graphic novels. Artworks of his have been exhibited in galleries across the Mid-Coast region of Maine. His online portfolio is donaldpatten.newgrounds.com/art.

Alex Stolis (Lilydale, Almost Rochester, Elko, and Grey Cloud) lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Ekphrastic Review, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press.

Jack Bordnick (In Our Shadow’s) is interested in meaningful works of art that can be enjoyed by all peoples and cultures. Being a designer and sculptor has allowed him to share these professional experiences, in a beneficial way for both community and neighborhood projects.

Later The Sky Shifts Fiction

Alaina Hammond

They tell me it’s an honor to have the Admiral aboard. They tell me this to mollify me, in my natural resentment.

The Admiral understands this reality, and so he discreetly pulls me aside.

I won’t undermine your authority. I won’t assert my own as such, except in an emergency.

You are the captain; I’m in civilian clothes. The crewmen know my face, my rank. Whereas the passengers need know naught.

That is: My identity remains private. But for those elite few, yourself of course included.

You are the captain—I’m not even a sailor.

Thank you, is my sole reply. We shake hands. 

Later the sky shifts.

Then the sea shifts.

Then the ship shifts.

And worst of all, the power shifts.

We make it to shore, no damage done. 

But for a horrid hour, I lost my ship.

It shouldn’t hurt. I did nothing wrong, nor was wrong done unto me. 

But oh. I’m all too human. God, it hurts.

Back to Contributors

Driftwood Portrait #1, 19th Century Sailor by GJ Gillespie

Get Home Safely Fiction

Casey McConahay

How It Happened

Churning white clouds of stone dust in the wake of his Charger, he touched her thigh, her muscles tensing as his car rumbled faster, and she reached for the handle on the door by her side as she said please to the playwright, but the man didn’t hear her. There were poles past the weeds at the roadside—speedblurred poles at the edge of a wheatfield.

She said please to the man—held the handle.

She said, Stop. Whispered, Stop. Murmured, Stop.

The Woman in the Passenger Seat

She was born in rural Pennsylvania. Her mother was an elementary school music teacher. Her father was an electrician. She attended Madison High School and graduated as her class’s salutatorian, but by the time she began her first semester at New York University, she gave only passing consideration to her academics, and she finished with Cs in most of her courses.

Her parents had not permitted her to have pets, but she’d kept a fish tank in her dormitory one semester. When she went away for a weekend for a friend’s lavish wedding, her roommate forgot to feed the hungry goldfish, and they died in the fish tank.

She had three piercings in one ear but only two piercings in the other. She could not remember why one ear had fewer piercings, but she knew that there was a reason, so she wore three earrings in one ear and only two earrings in the other although this made her feel imbalanced.

Her name was Caroline, which was what everyone called her.

No one called her Carol or Carrie.

Discovery

Forty minutes later, a washerwoman, Mabel Samuelson, saw the car in the wheatfield. She found the man inside the vehicle, the car’s seats soaked with his blood, and after returning to her station wagon, she drove to a farmhouse in the distance, and she asked to use the telephone.

The sheriff rushed to the wreck site. He found the corpse of the woman who was thrown from the Charger, and then he looked in the car—saw the playwright.

The sheriff reached for the bill of his ballcap. They weren’t friends exactly, but he’d had drinks now and then with the playwright. He’d have Janine at the station send for Stan, the county coroner. He’d call Denise—call the wife of the playwright.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say, but he’d call her.

Denise

The playwright met Denise in graduate school. It was a whirlwind courtship, but for a time, they’d been happy. Denise’s first play, A Bonfire of Innocents, premiered to moderate acclaim, and eager to equal his wife’s success, he began work on The Glazier, a play about a laborer who repairs the windows of wealthy property owners. Although the play has since been lauded as an ambitious (if not particularly groundbreaking) debut, the earliest reactions to the play were decidedly less kind, and the first production of the play was halted after seven poorly reviewed performances.

The lackluster response to The Glazier was responsible (his friends suggested) for the playwright’s earliest struggles with alcoholism.

Encouraged by his wife, however, he continued writing. When Orchestra of Theremins premiered at New York’s Canarsie Theatre only twelve days after the playwright’s thirty-second birthday, that masterwork of absurdist theater garnered the playwright immediate acclaim, and his stature eclipsed, for the first time, that of his talented wife Denise, whose award-winning play A Bullfighter Sings at Noontime was playing a small forty-seat theater in Greenwich Village while Orchestra of Theremins was drawing considerably more attention.

By this time their marital troubles had begun in earnest, and several nights a week, Denise stayed with Lillian Abernathy, a wealthy restauranteur whom she’d been introduced to years before. The distance between the couple only increased with time, and years later, when the accident occurred, Denise was living in the mountains of Colorado with her golden retriever, Lester. She hadn’t spoken with the playwright in eleven months, and when she learned of her husband’s death, she stared for a moment at the snow-covered mountains.

Stan, she asked the man on the telephone, was he alone when it happened?
The sheriff didn’t answer her.

Forget about it, she said to him. She said, I don’t want to know it.

The Automobile

He’d purchased it from a collector in Evansville, Indiana after months and months of searching. There were weeks of restoration. Because he himself had little knowledge of automobile repair, he entrusted the work to a man named Larry Adriatico, whom he’d met through a friend, and this mechanic restored the Charger beautifully.

Because of the weather perhaps, he only drove the car in August. He drove it an average of fourteen miles per hour above the speed limit, but he’d been ticketed only twice.

Long before he became a playwright—when he was a short, stocky boy from rural Tuscarawas County—his best friend’s older brother drove the same model Charger.

That was why he’d wanted it.

Where They Met

Men wearing neckties made a path through the library, and one of the men, the university president, told a man who trailed the others in a worn, rumpled blazer, We circulate nearly a million books annually. Can you believe that? Almost a million books a year.

She was reading at a study carrel. She’d not attended that morning’s comparative studies class. Instead, she read about the fall of Jerusalem in 1099 and watched the man in the blazer slip away from the others. When the man sat beside her—when he stared at the stacks and at the low metal railings of the library’s many levels—Has no one jumped yet? he asked.

She asked, From where?

From the rails.

They wouldn’t jump.

No?

They’d die.

They might want to.

She closed her bookmarked her page with a finger.

They’ll be back, said the playwright.

Who?

The men that I’m with.

But you’re away from them now.

I escaped them. I’m their guest.

Oh.

A playwright.

Oh.

I’ll hide. Should I hide? I don’t know where.

Where?

To hide till the lecture. Will you hide with me?

Where?
Till the lecture.

Identification

Neither of the victims was carrying identification. Though the sheriff recognized the playwright immediately, he had a difficult time identifying the woman who’d been thrown from the playwright’s vehicle, whose only distinguishing characteristic was a large dappled birthmark on her thighs and her pelvis. As decorously as possible, the sheriff contacted those present at the gathering the two had attended before the accident, and while many of the guests recalled meeting the woman, no one could remember the woman’s name.

There’ve been so many, said Sharon Anderson. We can’t be expected to remember all of them.

The mayor’s fiancée, who was only twenty-five herself, thought that the woman’s name was Mary something.

Art Museums

Before the separation, Denise, an admirer of the fine arts, would sometimes take her husband to the city’s famous art museums. He’d follow her through the museum galleries, but he would pause for several minutes before a large abstract expressionist painting—the painting a tangle of runny paint drippings: swirled streaks of blue and green and white and yellow.

Are you coming? Denise would ask him, but the playwright wouldn’t answer her.

Then she’d notice the tears on her husband’s cheeks, and he would rush from the gallery weeping.

This happened on more than one occasion.

Reports of His Demise

Early articles about the car crash and the playwright’s death described in detail what was known about the incident—information about the event he’d attended, the car he’d been driving, and the cause of the playwright’s death (blunt force trauma, the coroner determined: the playwright’s death was instantaneous). With thorough, breathless effusion, those articles praised the career of the playwright whose honest and deeply felt dramatic works embody both the tragedy and the absurdity of contemporary existence, and whose powerful plays, which have been translated and performed in dozens of countries around the world, will ensure that the name of the playwright—and that his remarkable work—will be remembered long after his untimely death.

And so on.

Some of the articles mentioned that there was a passenger in the vehicle at the time of the accident, but only a few of the newspapers provided the woman’s name.

Factual Matters

She did not attend performances of any of the playwright’s plays. Though Caroline had read some plays in high school—only Shakespeare and maybe Sophocles—she thought that plays among all forms of literature were particularly silly. How could she care about a theater production when wars were being fought overseas, when protestors were marching in the streets of major cities, when women of all ages were being threatened time and again by the draconian restrictions of a patriarchal government?

She read of these topics in the newspapers the playwright subscribed to—newspapers he seldom bothered reading.

Sometimes he attempted the crossword puzzles, but he only now and then completed them.

Funeral

Of course, there were the usual problems with photographers trying to force their way into the funeral service, and some used telephoto lenses to try to photograph the famous guests, among them three Nobel Prize-winning authors and a half dozen well-known stage and screen actors who at one time or another had recited the playwright’s lines. By and large, however, the press was respectful of the funeral’s guests including Denise, the grieving widow, who sobbed throughout the service. She was consoled during the funeral by her three sisters and by her close friend Lillian Abernathy, but she was ignored, for the most part, by the majority of the service’s attendees, who were perhaps uncertain what to say to her about the man whose infidelities had been exposed by his passing.

The sitting president, a great admirer of the playwright, was unable to attend the funeral, but his condolences were delivered in person by a senator, three representatives, and for some reason, the secretary of the interior.

Life as a Bachelor

In the months that followed the separation, the work he completed grew increasingly abysmal. His plots were contrived and heavy-handed. His dialogue was tin-eared. In letters to his playwright friends, he speculated that perhaps Denise had played a bigger part in his success than he’d given her credit for—that her encouragement and support were, in the playwright’s words, the armor that protected him when he rode into battle. Without her, wrote the playwright, I am stripped and defenseless.

Only one play from this era was ever performed for an audience—an ill-conceived historical romance about time-traveling lovers who meet during the Greco-Turkish War. The play debuted to tepid reviews, and concerned that he’d lost his gift, he told his friends that perhaps he’d pursue a career in a different form of writing. Perhaps he’d become a poet or a journalist.

The commercial failure of The Echo Clouds of Chania put a strain on the playwright’s finances. Because he’d grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle that he very badly wanted to maintain, it was necessary for him to continue earning an income.

His agent suggested university lectures.

Funeral, Again

There were thirty-seven guests at her funeral. Most of them were family members. Four were friends from high school, and two were university friends who’d flown to town for the service.

Because the damage to her body had been considerable—because the abrasions on her body had left her almost unrecognizable—it was a closed-casket funeral.

While He Was Sleeping

She would go from his bed, from his bedroom. She’d take cups from the end tables—cups that reeked of gin—and rinse the cups at the sink in the kitchen. She’d fry eggs on the stove were she hungry.

She often went by herself to his study. When she looked through the albums that he kept on his shelves and saw him smiling in the photographs with friends, with Denise, she’d sometimes sit by the windows while the night crickets sang and think of plays that he’d written—all those groundbreaking plays that won awards placed on bookshelves in the room where she sat—and think of all that he’d done: all she hadn’t.

Sitting by the window with the photo album, she sometimes wondered whether a man who created lies for a living was a man one ought to live with.

Posthumous

Days before the accident, he’d completed the first draft of his final play, which he had not assigned a title. Its protagonist, a man with a severe peanut allergy, becomes the mayor of a sundown town in eastern Indiana, and when he attempts to amend the town charter to ensure that citizens of all races are welcome, the villagers assail the man with peanuts. He dies of course, but his death results in a blight on the community’s peanut crop. To atone for the mayor’s murder and to ensure a more robust harvest in the upcoming season, the townspeople sacrifice an array of farm animals to the god of the peanuts, but in the play’s final scene, a villager confesses that he burned the body of the mayor on the same altar on which the animals were slaughtered. Certain that this mistake has angered their wrathful peanut god, the villagers leave the community altogether, and they spend the rest of their lives as itinerant almond pickers.

Despite its nuanced criticism of worker exploitation, organized religion, and the American political system, it was not the playwright’s finest work, and contemporary scholarship regards the play unfavorably. But it was well-received when it debuted some thirteen months after the death of the playwright, and it was tremendously successful during the subsequent award season.

There was another play on his writing desk at the time of the playwright’s death. Its protagonist, Carrie, is from rural Pennsylvania. At the play’s beginning, she is an old woman in a nursing home and is far removed from her days of youth and beauty. Though she fumbles at times through the fog of senescence, she remembers her experiences as a younger woman and recalls in sometimes explicit detail the famous men she’s had affairs with.

Drafts of the playwright’s work are preserved in the rare books and manuscripts library at the Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio, but this uncompleted manuscript cannot be found among them. It was discarded by Denise only a few short weeks after the death of the playwright.

To those who asked about the manuscript, she explained that it was lewd and unperformable and so different from the rest of the playwright’s material that she was not even certain he’d written it.

Why He Moved From the City

Weeks after his separation, he went to dinner with a stunning twenty-six-year-old he’d met on the subway. New to his separation, which he and Denise had agreed to keep private, he failed to realize that dinners at exclusive midtown restaurants afford one very little privacy. Photographers saw him entering and exiting the restaurant, and the following morning, they witnessed the woman leaving his apartment.

When she learned about the scandal, Denise telephoned her husband. You said we could see other people, he told her. Sobbing on the other end of the telephone, It isn’t that, Denise told him. It’s that you’ve embarrassed me in front of everyone.

Caroline was not the only woman he’d been with since he moved from the city. Of course, there were others. Far from the city’s cameras, however, most of his dalliances took place in secret, and he spared Denise a measure of embarrassment because those who knew about the playwright’s many liaisons numbered in the dozens, not the thousands.

Dinner with Friends

At dinner with friends at the Cabriolet restaurant, Caroline’s mother said she wished her daughter had never met the famous playwright. She’d have done so much, the mother told them. A woman like Caroline—she could’ve been a senator. She could have been a stockbroker or a college professor. She could have married Douglas Granderson if she wanted to. She could have been a mother.

Doris Whitley, who was childless, said, Maybe she could have done those things, but it’s better that she met him.

Better how? asked Mavis Wainwright.

Doris, who had always been a contrarian (she and her husband were members of the John Birch Society), said, If it wasn’t for the playwright, no one would know about Caroline. She’d be no more famous than you or I am.

The women paused from their plates, from their dinners. The grieving mother, whose black clothes had faded from months of wear and frequent laundering, took a sip from her wineglass.

I can’t speak to your priorities, she told Mrs. Whitley, but I can assure you that my Caroline—my beautiful and talented daughter Caroline—would rather be alive than be notorious.

Cemetery Gates

The grave of the playwright is located in section D14 of the Seaview Cemetery and Memorial Park. His headstone is inscribed with the famous monologue of Clancy the Abbot, a minor character in his play The Dance of the Waistcoated Insomniacs. On one side of the speech is the full name of the playwright who penned that immortal monologue, and on the other is the name of Denise, the playwright’s wife and companion, who was buried beside her husband when she died three decades later.

His grave is easily the most popular site in the cemetery. Pilgrims travel across the country to leave him pennies, playbills, and bottles of Tanqueray, his spirit of choice. On any given day, visitors to the gravesite will find wilted flowers and handwritten letters alongside rain-ruined copies of the plays that made him famous.

The cemetery’s caretakers take the Tanqueray.

Insecurities

Her birthmark was brown and big and splotchy. It looked as though she’d spilled coffee across her lap, and though her mother assured her that many children had similar blemishes, she’d avoided swimming pools since girlhood because even the most conservative bathing suits revealed her skin’s discoloration, and she was teased at times in locker rooms.

Later, when she began to date, she concealed the birthmark as best she could from her boyfriends. Because the birthmark crossed her thighs at a particularly delicate area, her earliest intimate encounters took place in the darkness or with her body beneath the bedsheets, and though the men who’d seen her body had never commented about the birthmark, each time she took a new lover, she worried about the way he’d respond when he saw it.

The playwright’s hair was slowly graying.

Gathering

It was early in the evening. Guests a room away from him were playing charades near the fireplace, but the playwright kept apart from them. He sat with his admirers in the home’s tiny study—a room with murder mysteries and romance novels on the small, narrow bookshelves. He’d finished six or seven Tanquerays, and it was necessary for him to sit. He slurred his speech intermittently, but he masked it so effectively that the others hadn’t noticed.

Caroline wasn’t with him yet. She’d had a tedious conversation with the mayor’s fiancée, who knew a great deal about the department stores in nearby cities and the latest trends in fashion magazines. It took her several minutes to extract herself from that conversation, and she secluded herself in the restroom for nearly thirty minutes afterward until the adamant knocking of another houseguest convinced her that it was probably time to leave.

She felt alone among the party guests. She was the youngest person present and had little in common with the rest of the men and women, so she searched for the playwright in the rooms of the house and came at last to the study with the shelves’ vapid books and with the thin-padded couches where he spoke to the houseguests. The playwright rose from a couch when he saw her, and he reeled when he stood and set his drink on the desk.

I’ve had enough, said the man. We can go now.

She said, Yes. Yes, it’s time. We should go.

Why the Woman Loved Him

Margaret, who’d been her roommate for three semesters, said, He’s rich, isn’t he? And Janet, who’d dated four of their professors, said, He’s not that old. He’s handsome.

A woman she’d never met before—a woman Caroline encountered at a gathering of the playwright’s neighbors—told her, It must be terribly exciting for a woman of your age: to be involved with a man who’s brilliant.

She couldn’t tell these women—how on earth could she tell these women?—that it was none of these things that made her stay with the playwright. It was shoes he’d never learned to tie and shirts he never ironed. It was the faucet he left running one morning and the lather on his skin after shaving.

She loved his flaws.

He was flawed.

He was human.

Exeunt

The playwright swayed when he walked from the study. No longer able to conceal his inebriation, he staggered in the direction of the house’s entrance, and Caroline followed him at a distance.

There were other guests who were leaving the party early. They met them by the doorway, and the playwright, who’d taken his keys from his pockets, said goodbye to these acquaintances and to the host who’d invited him, a sculptor who worked exclusively with aluminum cans. The sculptor too had noticed the playwright’s intoxication, and concerned about his guest’s well-being, he asked, You’re not planning to drive tonight, are you?

The playwright hesitated for a moment. Caroline stood beside him then. She’d drunk a half glass of wine and also a flute of sparkling water. The playwright studied her for signs of sobriety, and noticing the steadiness of her bearing and the clearness of Caroline’s eyes, Of course not, he told the sculptor. He told him, She’s driving.

The sculptor stepped aside for him. The playwright walked from the party with his keys in his pocket, and as they came to the Charger that he’d parked in the street, she watched him balance himself on the car hood.

Do you want me to drive us home? she asked the playwright.

No, he said to Caroline.

He spun the keys on his finger.

We’ll be fine, said the man. I can manage.

Are you sure?

We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.

Back to Contributors

Elko by Alex Stolis

Ocean Fish Fiction

Adam Platt

“How about you go top off the car while we check in?  Good practice for High School,” Father said.  A bit theatric as he handed me the keys, Dottie watching from beneath the sign for ‘Cooper’s Resort on Lake Santee,’ I could tell he was nervous.  This was a big weekend, the widower’s latest audition.

“Such a young man you’re becoming,” Dottie added, stepping out of the shade to join him.  They certainly looked the part, standing together, framed by the lake all glittering and blue.  Father, long and regal; his collar crisp, dark hair parted and gleaming in the sun, only a few hints of grey.  Dottie, too tall most of the time, fit beside him, her permanent smile suspended beneath cat-eyed sunglasses, hair wrapped as if we’d driven down in some fancy convertible rather than all cramped into the Ford. 

“And take your brother,” he added, pointing out a station adjacent to the resort, a pair of gas pumps out front, leaded and self-service.  Just a few hundred yards down the road, it felt like a test.  But the kind of test I liked.  A test I could pass.

“Let’s ride,” Frank said, suddenly behind me, grinning toothily.  He didn’t look much like Father.  Stout and freckled, his hair buzzed short to minimize time wasted in the shower which only highlighted his ears and coke-bottle glasses.

“Four hours in the car and you’re ready to jump back in?” I asked.

“Gonna give that front seat a try,” he replied. “And they got fishing stuff,” pointing out the sign above the gas pumps, ‘Cooper’s Gas and Tackle’ displayed in the same script as the resort’s, though more faded, bleached by time and sun.

It felt strange to be behind the wheel without Father, though his presence lingered in the sterile interior, so neat and tidy.  So unlike it used to be when it was Mom’s car.  She’d been driving his truck when it happened; he’d never tried to replace the truck.  Now the Ford was his and it reflected as much.  The clutter banished.  The flyers, the candy wrappers and the Crayola masterpieces gone, only a torn sleeve of Rolaids to mar the perfection. 

“How’s the water look?” I asked Frank as he slid onto the bench seat beside me.

“Gets deep fast.  Clear though.”

“See any fish?” I started the engine.

“Nah, but they’re out there. We’ll get ‘em, don’t you worry.” 

I wasn’t worried.  We’d been fishing since before I can remember, skiffing swamps with Mom’s brother John, but it had become tedious for me, the outings a chore in service of my brother’s obsession.  He hardly had the temperament for it, impatient and barely able to sit still, but he sure loved the catching.  And with Uncle John, we always caught fish.  Too many fish, more than you could count.  One on the line before the last was off the boat.  Frank couldn’t get enough.  Each catch a hit of dopamine, mainlined to the cortex.  I just tied the knots. 

“They got little boats we can use,” he said, thumbing back at the resort, “You pedal ‘em like a bike.  Look slow but they got mounts for the rods and a place for the tackle box, perfect for fishing.

“That’ll be fun,” I said, half listening, backing out of the parking space, I could feel Father’s gaze.  We rolled past the resort’s office.  Dottie waved.  I turned on the blinker.

“Hammer it,” Frank said, as we approached the road, preparing to leave the lot.   

“Hammer it?”

“Yeah, let’s see what this baby can do!”

“So just floor it?” I asked, waiting for a lone car to pass.

“Yeah, let her rip.  He won’t notice,” Frank added, looking back over his shoulder at the office.  “They’re busy inside.  Hammer it!”

“Pedal to the metal?” CLICK CLICK went the blinker. 

“Do it.  He wouldn’t get that mad.  Might even be impressed.” Frank encouraged.  I eased onto the blacktop. “Shoot, he would probably mind if we took off and kept going, leave him and Dottie to their own selves for the weekend.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It be a helluva thing,” he went on, “Two men on the road.”

“Is that what we’d be?”

“Make a run for the border, leave them to their canoodling,”

“You don’t think he’d be worried?” I responded, flicking on the blinker once more.  “If we just took off?”

“With Dottie around?  Might not even notice we’re gone.”

“That’s dumb Frank, would just ruin everyone’s weekend,” I replied as we pulled to stop alongside the gas pumps and glorified shack that was ‘Cooper’s Gas and Tackle.’

The inside was packed, every inch utilized.  Row upon row of hooks, weights, lures and baits.  Countless variations in size and shape. Every color and pattern one could imagine.  Ordered and organized, an immaculate kingdom squeezed into a hundred square feet.  There was barely room to walk down the aisles and Frank was lost in it, studying each display with a quiet solemnity that would shock every one of his teachers, somehow oblivious to the monster perched on the far wall.  I could hardly see anything else.  Massive and glistening, its silver-dollar eye stared right back at me through a taxidermist’s glaze.

“That, my friend, is an ocean fish.  An ocean fish I caught right here in this lake,” came a voice from below the beast.  It took some effort to pull my eyes downward, to the bulky middle-aged man behind the register. 

“An ocean fish?  Like a fish from the ocean?” I asked, my gaze drifting back up to the leviathan.  It resembled fish I’d caught before, only on a different scale and somehow meaner.  Its fins thicker, the spines longer and more menacing, but most of all, the size of it.  It spanned the whole wall; its mouth, gaped wide in perpetuity, looked fit to swallow a medium-sized child or vitamin-adjacent teenager.

“That’s right, a fish that’s supposed to live in the ocean,” he replied, as smoke drifted from the ashtray beside him.

“How’d it get here?”

“Well, that there’s a striper” he pronounced the word with hard I and soft R, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Striper are like salmon, they live in the ocean but they start in freshwater.  Swim up rivers to lay their eggs.”

“Like salmon? Out West?” This rang a bell.  I’d seen these fish on a nature program.  Torpedoing up waterfalls as grizzly bears snatched them from the air.

“Yeah, that’s right.  Though it wasn’t quite so perilous for the striper.  At least not until Roosevelt built the dam in ‘42,” he said with a nod out toward the lake.

“The dam?”

“Yeah, you see, this lake ain’t natural; it’s man-made.  Used to be a valley with a river running through.  The dam blocked the river and flooded the valley.  Now it’s a lake.”

“Why’d Roosevelt want a lake?” The shopkeeper was talking like he knew this Roosevelt personally; I figured I’d at least act like I knew who the man was.

“To make electricity.”

“Of course,” I nodded along, confounded as to how a lake could make electricity.

“And to be a sportsman’s paradise,” he continued after another drag, “They stocked it with trout as soon the water stabilized and those buggers took off.  Thriving and multiplying. It was only a couple years before the water was teeming.  I mean they’d wake you up in the morning with all the splashing.  It didn’t matter what bait you used, you hardly had to try.  Drop a hook; catch a fish.  People came from all around.”

“Roosevelt must have been pretty pleased.”

“Oh, tickled I’m sure, but it didn’t last.  Just when things got booming, the trout disappeared.  It started slowly and then all of a sudden.  Gone.  You couldn’t catch a fish to save your life.  Feds came back. Dumped more stock into the lake, ole Cooper even paid for a couple truckloads himself, but no dice.  They just disappeared, like the lake itself swallowed ‘em up.” 

“Where’d they go?” I asked, stepping aside to let Frank pass, heedless in his own world, perusing each aisle.

“Well, you see, the striper eggs from that last run before the dam, they hatched.  And when it came time to head back out to the sea, they found concrete and turbines blocking the way.  Trapped in the lake, they slowly grew,” he continued, easing back into his chair.  “Trout are usually the top predator in the lake, apex of the food chain.  They’re bold and aggressive; makes ‘em easy to catch.  They’d never known fear, at least until the striper got big.  Built for a completely different world; to rub shoulders with sharks and the like, the trout didn’t stand a chance.”

“So, the striper ate them?”

“They feasted,” he replied with a nod. 

“How’d you figure it out?”

“Well, there began to be rumors about the lake.  Stories of people hooking up only for something to snatch it off their line, of monsters breaking gear, but it was the stock trucks that finally keyed us in,” he replied, “You see the striper learned pretty quick that those trucks meant dinner, the sound of the diesel pulling up to the lake brought ‘em in like a bell.  Hard not to notice.  That many big fish near shore, churning up the water.  That last load they dumped, it was a frenzy; total slaughter.  Jaws and fins erupted as soon as those troutlings hit.  Snapped up in minutes; I doubt one fish made it 50 yards.”

“Tough break for the trout,” I observed, “Moving into a new home only to be devoured like that.”

“Yeah, terrible for them, no doubt. Quick, though.  Would have been paradise but for the demons in the garden,” he replied.

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“At first, Cooper and some of the others tried to switch everyone to striper fishing.  Why catch measly old trout when you contend with a monster, a real trophy fish?  But catching striper ain’t like catching trout; can’t just drop a worm off the side of a canoe and wait.  Striper need the hunt.  Need the chase.  They won’t take a worm or a plastic bait.  They need to smell the fear, to taste the blood.  You need live bait.  Live bait that can see ‘em coming.  And if you hook up, you best be prepared.  Try it in a canoe and you’re going for a swim.  People used to catching trout just didn’t take to it; pretty soon they hired some of us locals to clear out the striper,” he recalled.

“That’s when you caught this one?”

“Yep, not the biggest pulled out of the lake but the biggest one I got.  Sixty-three pounds, twelve ounces,” he replied, jabbing his thumb at the fish mounted above. 

“A helluva thing.”

“And a helluva fight, took an hour to get him into the boat,” he recalled, becoming more wistful.  “Best days of my life.  Trolling shad on saltwater rigs like we was on the Chesapeake, getting paid to do it.”

“How’d long it take before you got ‘em all?” I asked.  Turning to gesture at the lake, I caught Frank’s back as he exited, the door swinging shut behind him. 

“Oh, we could never get ‘em all.  Got a bunch, but could never get them all.  On account of the forest.”

“The forest?”

“Oh yeah, the forest.  The valley was mostly clear of trees when they flooded it but not completely.  There was a particularly large tract near the dam.  Old-growth pine.  Those trees still stand.  On a clear day, you can just see the tops of them, reaching for the sky,”

“Trees under the water?”

“Acres, and the striper learned to love ‘em.  Soon as you’d hook up, they’d dive, get tangled up in the branches leaving no choice but to cut the line.  Before long we were losing more gear than it was worth; the paychecks dried up.”

“They’re still out there?”

“Maybe a few.  Any left would be thirty years old, now.  They can’t breed in the lake; biologist says they need flowing water or some such, so all this time, no baby striper.  When the last one goes, that’ll be it.”

“You think they’ll stock the lake again after they’re gone?”

“I doubt it,” he replied.  “It’s recreational, now.  Swimming, boating. Asinine shit like that.  What are you here for?”

“I’m gonna learn how to waterski.”

“So, just the gas, then?”

“Yeah, just the gas.”

Frank was waiting in the car when I came out, smiling down at some shiny treasure in his palm.

“What you got there,” I asked, my mood souring when he opened his hands to reveal a giant fish hook.  “Did you steal it?” I asked, glowering down at him.

“Yeah, look at this thing.  It’s huge,” he replied, apparently oblivious to my disapproval as we pulled away.

“Why?”

“You was talking and nobody was paying attention.  I never seen one so big.”

“Damn it Frank, just cause you can steal something doesn’t mean you should.”

“Just cause you can’t doesn’t me you shouldn’t.”

 —

Frank woke me up the next morning before dawn.  Bubbling with enthusiasm, it took an effort to bundle him out of the thin-walled cabin without waking anyone else.  There was a chill in the air and a thick mist hanging over the lake as walked to the paddle boats, me carrying the poles, him rifling through the tackle box.  We left the dock with a hint of dawn in the east, the fog lending a ghoulishness to our passage that was lost on Frank.

“What ya think, Marty?  Three casts?  If it even takes that many with the rattler.  Uncle John gave it to me.  It rattles as you pull it through the water.  Fish can’t resist; the sound of it pulls ‘em in. You just wait,” he boasted as I tied the lure onto his line.

He cast with a grunt and the rattler vanished into the soupy air.  Frank began to retrieve as soon as it splashed, steady at first then adding subtle jerks on the rod to make it appear more life-like in the water.  I watched the line retract from the fog, waiting for a strike, that jolt of energy that came with a hit, but the rattler returned to the boat unmolested and Frank heaved it in the opposite direction.

“Not the first, but maybe the second,” he said as it landed, unseen, in the distance.  Not the second, though.  Nor the third or fourth or fourteenth.  He stopped counting at thirty.  The sun rose, burned off the fog and we started changing baits.  We tried spoons and spinners, artificial worms, and even a rubber frog.  Then we moved spots and tried them all again.  Nothing.  Not a single bite.  And Frank’s mood darkened with every futile cast.

“It’s almost 10,” I said, holding up my watch for him to see.  “We need to be heading back.  Dad rented the boat starting at 11 and he’ll be pissed if we’re late.”

“I think I felt a bite on that last one,” he replied.  “The spinner’s really starting to catch the sun, they’ll be drawn to that shine.”

“Yeah, they will, but we still got to head back.”

“Just a few more casts.”

“We gotta go.  We can try again tomorrow.  I heard live bait works best here.  Maybe we can find some worms or crickets or something.”

“Live bait?” he said, perking up a bit as he stowed the rod.  “Yeah, that could work.  What fish could resist the real deal?”

There was a breeze at our back and we made good time but the sun was higher now and seemed to lens onto the little boat, cooking us like ants under a magnifying glass.  We made it back to the dock drenched in sweat.  Dottie met us with tea and neat, little white-bread sandwiches.

“What are those?” Frank asked after downing a cup of tea.

“Cheese and cucumber sammies,” she replied, refilling his glass.  The tea was so sweet it had separated into layers that swirled around each other, resisting the compulsion to merge and homogenize.  I held out my own cup for a refill.

“Just cheese and cucumber? No meat?” Frank asked, in disbelief.

“Umm, no. No meat,” Dottie replied, a little taken back by the premise.

“What’s the point?” Frank asked walking away, not responding so much to Dottie as the universe itself.  I took one of the sandwiches and stuffed it in my mouth.

“Yum,” I said through a mushy bolus of bread.  It was bland but refreshing.  She’d trimmed the crusts and cut each down to identical rectangles which I found pleasing.  I took another, more out of aesthetic appeal than anything else.

“Marty, you look more like your father every day,” she said taking one for herself.  “The girls in High School are going to swoon.”

“Hmm,” I mumbled in reply, the sandwich paste in my mouth.  She said my name with an easy familiarity.  Marty.  The word particularly grating from her lips.  Mother had called me Martin, my real name, but for four years it’d been Marty and only Marty.  I had grand plans for High School, introducing myself as Martin on the first day and never looking back.  But those were just plans, optimistic intentions I hadn’t worked up the courage to share with anyone yet.   

“Where is Dad?” I asked, finally managing to swallow, searching for Frank or any kind of distraction to break the awkward moment.

“He’s bringing the boat around.  Should only be a minute.” 

I spotted Frank, digging in the landscaping around the resort’s office. 

“Here he comes,” she said pointing out towards the water where Father was easing up to the dock.

“I’ll go help him tie up,” I said, walking away from Dottie, though he had everything secured by the time I got there.  The boat was sleek and shiny, plated in mahogany and plush seating, the engine elegantly concealed by polished wood yet palpable in the deep rumble emanating throughout.

“How’d it go this morning?” Father asked as I came up beside him.

“Nothing.” I replied, “Not a single bite.”

“That bad, huh?  How’s Frank handling it?”

“He’s not; hasn’t given up yet.  I think he’s digging for worms at the moment.”

“I believe he’s found one,” Father said, nodding back to shore where Frank was scampering out of the bushes, something prized between his fingers.  Dottie made her way down the dock to meet us.

“A perfect day to be on the lake,” she said, her smile and cat-eye glasses directed at Father.

“Marty, you go grab Frank; we’ll load up.” His eyes trained on Dottie; the conservative one-piece failed to disguise her hourglass figure.

“Sure thing.”

I found him near the bank, hunched over his pole, a bare hook tied to the line, the uncut tail of his knot an affront to my sensibilities.

“Time to go,” I said from above.

“I know.  I’m coming,” he replied, not looking up.  A worm wriggled in his grimy fingers, trying in vain to avoid the barb.  Then Frank was up and moving, stepping toward the shore and throwing in one fluid motion.  “Just one cast,” he said as the worm hit the water.

“Just one,” I agreed. 

He took his time reeling it in, pausing frequently to let the bait sit.  Waiting.  “Alright,” I said when the worm finally broke the surface. He cast it back out, no hesitation.  “Damn it, Frank.  They’re waiting.”

“I’m coming,” he said as I turned and stalked down the shore.  He didn’t move until I reached the pier; a few tentative steps, dragging the worm through the shallows as he begrudgingly followed. 

Father sat aboard the boat, impatient in the driver’s seat, Dottie glistening in the sun beside him.  The breeze had stilled and it was hot.  “He’s coming,” I said when I reached them.

“Hot damn!” Frank hollered and I turned to find his rod bent over, the tip dancing in an unmistakable rhythm.  A fish!  He had it out of the water in seconds, dangling from the line as he ran to meet us, a familiar grin on his face. 

“See Marty, just needed one more cast.”

“Well, how about that?” exclaimed Father, joining the enthusiasm.

“Yes, well done Frank,” added Dottie, confused by the whole thing.

“Now I’m ready to ski,” said Frank as he took hold of the fish to remove the hook.  “Just needed one.  Couldn’t get skunked.”

“A nice one, too,” I said.

“Yeah, not bad.  Strange he was hiding in the shallows, big guy like this,” he replied.

“My, it’s a bright one today,” said Dottie from the boat, attempting to fan herself with a hand.

“It’ll be better once we get going,” reassured Father.  “The wind will cool you off.  Frank, throw him back and hop in.”

“He swallowed the hook,” said Frank.  “The whole thing, I can’t get to it.” 

“You got the pliers?” I asked, moving to join him.

“Nah, its mouth’s too small.  They wouldn’t fit.  What kind is it?” he asked.

“Trout I think,” taking the fish from him.

“Don’t worry, dear.  It won’t be long now,” Father reassured Dottie.  “Boys let’s go.”

“Where are the needle-nose?” I asked Frank.

“Back on shore,” he answered.  “I could run get them?”

 “Come on Marty.  Let’s go,” Father repeated.

Frank was right, the hook was too deep in the fish’s gullet to reach; feeling agitated and flustered, there was nothing to do but pull.  It came free with a sickening squelch, a piece of innards still ensnared along with most of the worm. 

“Lucky worm,” commented Frank as I tossed the fish back into the lake where it floundered, mortally wounded but not yet dead.  I tried not to think about it as we pushed off. 

Frank and I sat in the back together watching the fish slowly sink, glimmering in its last throes.  Suddenly a great maw rose from below, encircling the dying fish, engulfing it whole, before snapping shut.  I caught a flash of stripes and the swipe of a tail and it was gone.  

“Striper!” Frank and I exclaimed in time, my heart set racing with the engine as it roared to life and the boat took off.

We cruised for nearly an hour, exploring the lake.  The steady thrum of the inboard, the wind in my hair, it was hypnotic.  I soon forgot about the fish.  When we finally stopped, it was time to learn to ski.

Being the oldest, I was to go first.  I listened intently as Father explained the process; his instructions detailed but entirely confusing.  Hold on tight but don’t pull.  Let the boat do the work.  Hips forward, shoulders back.  I tried to keep it all in my head, floating in the water as the rope slowly tautened.

“Tips up,” Father called from the boat. I strained to raise the wooden skis a bit further out of the water.  The engine throttled and before I knew it, I was up, the skis gliding across the surface, me standing upon them.  I reacted without thought, pulling the rope in to my chest.  For an instant, I was staring up at the sky, a few puffy clouds here and there. Then impact, skis out from under, water up my nose.

“Keep your arms straight this time,” Father instructed as he circled around for a second attempt.  A face plant this time, vaulting over the skis, my arms rigidly straight. 

“Let the boat do the work but you gotta push back a little bit,” was Father’s advice.  I pushed back on the next try, pushed back hard and the rope popped out of my hands, flying back at the boat.

“You gotta hold on.  Don’t let go of the rope,” Father growled, coming around again, frustration beginning to show.  That time, I didn’t let go.  Lost both skis and dragged for what felt like half a mile, but I didn’t let go.

“God damn it, Marty.  You’re just getting worse.”

“Don’t use His name that way!” Dottie scolded.

“Sorry, Dottie,” Father apologized before calling out to me, “Wait there, we’ll go back for the skis.”

The boat roared off leaving me alone, afloat in my life jacket, the shore distant, barely visible.  A puffy cloud moved in front of the sun, casting a shadow across the lake and I remembered the striper, the gaping maw in the depths.  A cold chill crept in.  I imagined a horde of them schooling below, tried fruitlessly to spot the danger I felt lurking, just beneath my daggling toes.

In the distance the boat idled, Frank leaning over the side to retrieve one of the skis I’d lost.  “Take your time,” I muttered under my breath, lifting my legs to my chest.  They seemed miles away, the lake an abyss with me bobbing on the surface.  Suddenly I wanted out, had to fight the urge to swim for it.  Panic threatened to overwhelm but I refused to give in, telling myself that there was nothing to fear.  That it was silly to be afraid.  Striper eat fish, they don’t attack people.  If they did, I would have heard about it, right? 

After what felt like an eternity, I heard the engine rev and spotted the boat coming around.  I willed my knees from my chest, letting my feet hang down once more.   

“You OK?” Frank asked as he tossed me the skis, backlit by the sun, now free of the cloud’s shadow.

“Fine,” I answered, desperately wanting to give up, to climb aboard and be free of the water, done with waterskiing. 

“You’re looking kinda pale?”

“I’m fine,” I replied.  He threw the rope. 

Whether terror or repetition made the difference, I got up that time.  Shoulders back? Arms straight?  I couldn’t tell you; it just came together and I found myself atop the water.  Skiing.

The boat reached steady speed and things stabilized a bit but not as much as I’d expected.  It was a constant struggle to stay upright and keep the skis going in the same direction.  I held on for as long as seemed necessary, a minute or two, and then released the rope to glide back down into the lake.

I made it back to the boat in time for an argument.

“You’ve lost too many pairs, Frank,” Father said, as I climbed out of the water.

“But I can’t see without ‘em.”

“You don’t need to see.  Just hold on, let the boat do the work.”

“Don’t need to see?  That’s crazy.  How will I know what I’m doing?  I won’t fall.  I won’t lose them.”

“Yes, you will.  Everybody falls.  Leave the glasses in the boat.”

“I won’t fall.  But if I do, and I won’t, I’ll grab ‘em before they sink.”

“Leave them in the boat.”

“But I can’t see!”

“Damn it, Frank!”  He bellowed, Dottie an impassive observer.

“Fine,” Frank relented, taking off his glasses.

“Good job, Marty!” Father exclaimed, finally turning to me.  “You were really starting to get the hang of it at the end there.  Next time try to keep your hips a little more forward.”

“Yeah, great job, Marty,” Dottie echoed as she handed me a towel.  There was a splash at the back of the boat as Frank got ready for his turn.

“You remember what I was telling Marty?” Father called out as he worked the skis onto his feet.

“Oh, yeah.  I got it.  Hips up, tips back.  No problem,” Frank replied, squinting in the general direction of the boat.

He did it, first try.  Just popped up like he’d done it a thousand times before.  Then he was off to the races, gliding back and forth, over the boat’s wake, graceful and smooth; following some unseen track like he was born on the water.

Before long, one of his hands released the rope and slowly moved down to the pocket of his trunks.  Smooth and subtle, he pulled out his glasses and put them on, the whole operation barely noticeable.  Father’s attention was on driving, navigating between the other boats that crisscrossed the lake, and on Dottie, scrunched beside him.

With vision restored, Frank really got going.  Turning harder and slashing across the surface, generally having the time of his life.  He leaned into the skis and leveraged, gaining enough speed that it felt like he might catch the boat.  When others passed nearby, he’d cut right at them before turning on a dime to send a rooster-tail of spray flying their way. 

We came across a big cabin cruiser plowing through the lake and Frank tried this trick; the passengers clapped as a few drops of water impacted their soaring hull, though he didn’t see them.  Zooming away in the opposite direction, waving at some swimmers near the shore, he also failed to see the wake that trailed the larger vessel.  Our boat lurched over the big waves as Frank carved his little semi-circle.  He came around with speed only to meet a wall of water.  Too steep to ride over, his skis dug in and stopped.  Frank kept going.  Tumbling end over end, skipping like a stone until he slowed enough to sink.

The boat didn’t turn or slow, continuing forward as if nothing had happened.  “He’s down,” I shouted up at Father and Dottie, waving my arms to get their attention.

 —

It wasn’t until that evening that Father noticed Frank’s glasses were missing, the three of us sitting around the table waiting for dinner.

“Remember, you gotta be back by nine tomorrow.  Service on the Lake starts at ten and you gotta get cleaned up before.  Can’t have you smelling like fish in front of all those church people...,” he trailed off when he noticed Frank squinting.

“God…Damn…It,” he pronounced each word deliberately but low, so Dottie wouldn’t hear from the kitchen.  “What happened to them?”

“I think they fell off the boat,” replied Frank.

“Fell off the boat?”

“Yeah.  They were gone when I got done skiing.  Figure they bounced out when we hit those waves,” Frank expanded, looking directly at Father as he spoke.

“Jesus, Frank! Is that four pairs this year?  Those things are expensive.  I can’t afford…,” he trailed off as Dottie entered carrying a roast chicken on a platter.

“You’re gonna have to help pay for the next pair,” he continued once she returned to the kitchen, leaving the chicken on the table between us.  I furtively tried a bite.  “Maybe then you’ll be more careful.”

“She forgot to salt the bird,” I broke in, trying to change the subject.

“What?” Father replied, losing his train of thought.

“The chicken.  She didn’t salt it before she cooked it,” I repeated.

“You’re supposed to wait for the blessing,” he scolded.

“Oh, right.”

“And there’s a shaker right there, just add salt now,” he added.

“Not the same.  You salt before to keep the moisture in.  It’s all dried out now,” I explained.

“It’s fine, Marty.  Don’t worry about it.”

“We should just let Marty do the cooking” Frank jumped in, “He’s better at it.”

“Don’t start Frank.  We can’t have Marty taking care of us forever,” Father explained before turning directly to me and adding, “You’re gonna be a man soon.”

My instinct to calm the situation fled, his words an affront.  I only cooked what Mom taught me, reproductions.  The same food but by my hands.  The wrong hands, apparently.   I searched for the words, anger rising, but Dottie came in with peas and potatoes, and I deflated.  The moment passed. 

It was Frank’s turn to say Grace, Father nodding along through the stumbles.  He damn near wore out the salt shaker but finished that bird and afterwards took Dottie out to socialize with some of her friends from church who were also staying at the resort, leaving us boys to tuck in early.

“Mom would’ve loved this place,” Frank said from the bunk above me after we turned off the lights.

“Yeah, she loved the water,” I replied.  “Always loved the water.”

“Bet she wouldn’t have kept her hair dry like old Dottie.”

“She would have skied.”

“Skied? No way.”

“Oh, yeah.  Mom loved to ski.  She taught Dad.  That’s why he knows what to do.  Her and Uncle John used to ski all the time, ‘fore he got fat,” I recalled for him.  “She was good, too.  Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Just like you.”

 —

He woke me before dawn again, though not quite as early as the day before.  The fog was just as thick but moving, pushed along by a breeze, the eastern horizon an angry red.  He’d been up awhile, already gotten a fish.

“Where’d you get the bucket?” I asked as a decent-sized trout sloshed about within.

“Round back of the resort,” he replied, “Saw it yesterday when I was digging worms.”

“Why’d you keep the fish?”

“Bait.”

“Bait?” I repeated, still a bit groggy.

“Tie this on for me?” he asked, handing me the giant hook he’d stolen from the tackle shop two days before.

“You were listening!  To that old guy’s story about the striper, you were listening,” I exclaimed.

“’Course I was listening, I’m always listening,” he said, still holding out the hook to me.  “How ‘bout we get a monster for our wall?”

“Hang it in the dining room?  Have dinner every night with a big old fish,” I replied, smiling as I took the hook.  “Dottie would love that.”

“She’d shit a brick,” Frank laughed.

So, I tied on that big hook and Frank carefully threaded it through the fish’s mouth as we peddled away from the dock.  Once we reached the end of the pier where we’d seen the striper the day before, he gently cast it in and we waited.  Watching the bait swim in lazy arcs, its flanks shimmering just below the surface.  Minutes dragged by in silence.

“Anything happening?” Frank finally asked.

“Nah, it’s just lolling about in the water,” I replied, having forgotten about his lost glasses; that he couldn’t see.

“Maybe we should paddle around?” he suggested.  “Pull it behind us?”

“Yeah, cover more ground that way.” 

The sun had risen, though it remained masked by thick clouds; the fog lingered.  We set off in no particular direction.

Our bait seemed to enjoy the ride, gliding around behind the paddleboat, skimming back and forth just at the edge of my vision in the mist.  “What’s he doing now?” Frank asked.

“Waterskiing,” I answered.  “Turning and burning, just like you were yesterday.”

“Waterskiing?” he replied with a laugh.  “Everybody’s doing it now.”

It’s hard to say how far we churned through the fog, or for how long.  Socked in like a ship in a bottle, our entire world a patch of water, a paddleboat and a waterskiing fish.  Eventually, the breeze picked up and distant thunder rumbled across the lake.

“What’s that?” Frank asked, noticing a jiggle on the rod tip.  I glanced back at the bait.  It didn’t seem to be enjoying itself anymore.  Darting around, erratic.

“Seems spooked,” I answered.  “Something…,” Just then it leapt, sidelong and twisting, as a pair of jaws rose from below, barely missing the desperate trout.  A massive, spiked dorsal fin cut the surface as the striper twisted in pursuit, churning the water and rocking the boat.  The trout jumped again but the old striper would not be fooled twice, snatching the fish as it landed.  A snap of jaws and Frank’s reel began to squeal.

He hooted in delight, the rod bent double, and loosened the drag, letting the fish run.  The fog had begun to clear.  Trees were becoming visible along the shoreline and a light rain started to fall.  The fish continued to take line; I suddenly noticed the dam looming ahead.

“It’s running for the forest!”

“Forest?” Frank replied, confused.

“There’s a forest.  In the lake,” I tried to explain.

“Uh, what?”

“Trees standing on the bottom, a whole mess of them near the dam.  The striper tangled up in them when they got hooked.  It’s why they never could catch them all.”

“Well, shit,” said Frank, tightening up the drag on the reel.  “I guess I missed that part of the story.”  The line stopped feeding out and Frank leveraged himself against the mighty pull; the boat began to move.

“Pedal!” he shouted and we got to it, slowly arresting the motion.  The boat came to a halt, fins and paddle balanced in a reluctant stalemate.  Time passed unperceived as we fought, neither side gaining headway, our every effort matched by the fish.  I could see the resort in the distance ahead, I imagined Father waiting impatiently on the dock.  Service on the Lake would start soon, we would never make it. 

Thunder rumbled, closer.  The rain fell harder.  Waves sloshed up the side of the boat, rising with the wind.  Gusting in our faces, pushing back, lending the slightest advantage to the fish.  We began to move.  Backward, slow but inevitable.  Lightning struck, followed almost instantly by an explosion of thunder.  I felt a panic seeping in, a cold terror, but Frank met the squall head-on, shouting curses into the wind and laughing.

“Keep peddling,” he called out over the tempest.  “Storm won’t last long,” though it only seemed to be strengthening.  The rain came in sideways, stinging, soaking to the bone, hiding the shoreline once more.  Frank kept up his encouragement, kept us fighting, but the fish gained steadily as the storm peaked.

It moved out quicker than it had come and we found ourselves floating on glass.  The line, still taut, disappeared straight down into the clear water.  I could make out the tops of branches, haunting fingers reaching up from the depths.

“Well, ain’t that a thing,” Frank muttered, giving a yank on the rod.  I noticed movement below, a shape drawn downward in time with Frank’s pull on the line.

“I think I see something,” I said, “Give it some slack.”

“See what?” he asked, feeding out line.  The shape began to rise.

“Something.  Keep going.”

“The fish?” he asked, breathless.

“Yeah, maybe.”  It got closer.  I could make out stripes.  Frank kept giving slack.

“I think I see it,” he said, squinting into the water.  The fish was only a few feet down and continuing to rise.  “A big boy!”

It stopped just below the surface.  Slanted upward, it seemed to be considering us.

“What’s it doing?” I asked, confounded.

“Come to see the ones that hooked it?” Frank postulated, holding the fish’s gaze as he set the pole aside.

“Why’d he want to do that?” I asked as Frank’s hands found the bowline used to tie the paddleboat to the dock, his eyes locked on the striper’s.

“To gloat, maybe?” he replied, as he smoothly wrapped the rope around his ankle.

“To gloat?” I said, studying the fish, hovering over a backdrop of branches, motionless except for the occasional flick of a fin to keep it stable, solemn in his freshwater prison. “Thirty years, he’s only known the lake.”

The boat rocked suddenly and there was a splash as Frank dove, launching himself at the fish.  His ankles disappeared, the bowline tied around one, and chaos erupted as the two struggled beneath.  Frank managed to get a grip on the jaw and wrap his legs around; he held on like some aquatic bull-fighter as it thrashed.  The fish seemed as shocked as me by the sudden turn of events, unsure of how to respond at first, and then it dove, straight down, making for the depths.  The boat lurched as the bowline pulled tight, resisting the strain.

“Let it go!” I shouted, but Frank couldn’t hear under the water, nor would he have listened.  The boat continued to rock, the fish attempting to pull it under.  It gave a final heave, sinking the bow enough for water to splash over, and then it was spent.  Exhausted by the fight, it gave up.

Frank broke the surface with a gasp, grabbing onto the boat with one hand, the other still locked onto the fish’s jaw.

“Hurry, gill tie him before he gets a second wind,” Frank said between breaths, extending his ankle toward me with bowline attached to it.  I quickly undid his knot before threading it through the fish’s mouth and out one of its gills, securing it to the boat before pulling Frank aboard.

He collapsed into a puddle, bloodied and battered, and began to laugh.  A winded chuckle at first, that grew.  Infectious.  I found myself joining him, cackling unrepressed as my adrenaline faded and awareness seeped in.

“I think we missed church,” he said, as the giggles subsided.

“Yeah, but we got a hell of a thing to show for it,” I replied, eyeing the leviathan floating beside us.  It was nearly as long as the boat and must have weighed nearly as much as Frank.  I started pedaling to get us underway, back toward the resort.

“You think if we get him past the dam, he could make it to the ocean?” Frank asked, taking hold of the steerage and turning us around.  I studied the concrete behemoth that loomed ahead.  The dam wasn’t as tall as it seemed at a glance, but deeper.  A pile of loose stone sloping up from the water, not too steep to climb.  I assumed it was symmetric, the same gentle slope on the far side.

“Don’t see why not,” I replied.  We made for the base of the dam, the striper gliding alongside.

“Gonna have to hurry to get him over before he suffocates,” Frank said, jumping out as soon as we reached the shore.  “It’ll take both of us to carry him.  Hurry now!”

The fish flexed its fins when as stooped beside it, the spikes precariously close to my eyes, but didn’t thrash at our touch.  Slippery and firmer than I expected, a torpedo made flesh, it remained strangely impassive as we lifted it from the water.

The climb wasn’t steep but the footing was treacherous, Frank constantly pushing the pace.  There was a muted rumble in the air that grew as we clambered up the rocks.  We reached the top, the fish still gasping and twitching every now and then, only to be stymied by a fence, chain-linked with rolls of barbed wire atop.  It seemed to come out of nowhere to Frank, still mostly blind, but he hardly slowed.  Following it, squinting down, until he found a gap in the base.

“Here,” he said, “We can fit under,” already on his knees.  I held up the fence as we wriggled through then turned to the fish.  It was beginning to look haggard, its eyes dimming, gritted with dirt, but still gasping, still alive as Frank pulled it under.  Sensing the urgency, he didn’t wait for me and began dragging it onward, across the causeway and down a grassy decline.  

I watched them go, finally taking in the far side in horror.  Expecting a gentle slope like the one we’d just scaled, I found instead a cliff, sheer and absolute, higher than seemed possible, straight down to depths unseen.  And blind Frank was barreling right towards it. 

“Frank Stop!” I yelled, shaking the fence to get his attention over the roar of the spillway.  He didn’t hear, nor stop, instead gained speed, the fish gliding more easily, downward on the wet grass.  And then he slipped.  Feet out from under, hand still locked on the striper’s jaw, he thudded to a halt and I let out a sigh of relief.  But the fish kept going, continuing its downward slide on the slick ground.  Its turn at locomotive, Frank became the load, the one hooked and being dragged.  Unaware of the danger, unwilling to let go, they picked up speed and the edge drew closer. 

 “Frank!!!,” I screamed again, and he seemed to hear, looking back in my direction, his eyes unfocused.  An instant and then they were gone, disappeared over the ledge.  Vanished.

I don’t remember squirming under the fence but I found myself on the other side screaming, running to the edge, sliding on my knees to look down.  The drop was horrendous.  Hundreds of feet to a raging froth but Frank was right there, a mere arm’s length away. 

He hung by a rail in one hand, the fish in the other, his feet dangling hundreds of feet in the air.  Determined and unfazed by the peril, Frank was swinging, back and forth, gaining momentum with each oscillation, lending velocity to the fish until he released, flinging it skyward to soar, a bird in flight.  It hung in the air for an instant, striped magnificence, then it began to fall.  Tumbling downward, end over end, to disappear in the torrent below.

Frank reached for my hand and I pulled him up, dragged him away from the edge, holding him tight until we reached level ground and for a while after. Fighting back tears. Sobbing.

Far below, the rage of the spillway calmed to become a river, peaceful and winding, barely more than a stream.  The great white belly of the striper shone like a beacon as it floated along, a passenger inanimate, bobbing and spinning on the current until it disappeared around a bend.

“Do you think he’ll make it,” Frank asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I answered, my voice hoarse. “He’s on his way.”

We didn’t get back to the resort until after checkout.  The Ford already packed, Father waiting on the dock, enraged until he saw us.  Frank, slashed and punctured, bruises already showing.  Me, shell shocked, gashes down my back from the fence. His fury faded faster than the morning’s storm.

We drove away from Lake Santee in silence with a story no one ever really believed. Frank, slumped in the back seat, eyes closed; me, feeling much the same but at least able to take in the scenery.

“Did you have a good weekend, Marty?” Dottie asked when the quiet got to be too much.

“Martin,” Frank said, not opening his eyes.  “His name is Martin.”

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Oar/Rope, Camden Maine by Roger Camp

Depths of Winter Nonfiction

Madison Ellingsworth

The winter can be a difficult time for warm-weather surfers like myself. To remain active in the cold, I pull on spikes and run the trails near my home. Though the freezing air may nip at me through my fleece, and form crystals on my eyelashes and eyebrows, it is a welcome alternative to the frozen ocean.

I tune into the sounds of the woods while I run. The hollow drumming of a Pileated Woodpecker; the leaf shuffling of an overweight Eastern Grey Squirrel; the dripping of melted snow from tree branch to forest floor. Yet I often find my mind wandering—ambling ahead to future July waters. To half-baked sunsets over the beach houses. To the night creeping up behind me. To the next a-frame.

In my mind’s eye, I picture an Atlantic Sturgeon leaping into the air. As the water sprays up around it, I feel like the modern, female version of Henry David Thoreau. I am immersed in the waters of the Atlantic, surrounded by beautiful creatures just as complex as myself. I am living out my own version of Cape Cod. Diving down, tasting salt, and submerging in the cleansing water of the Atlantic.

The roots jutting up from the ice and mud bring me back to reality. I do my best to hop between them, my ankles and knees twisting about in an interpretive dance. Reaching a bridge, I scan the marsh, hoping to spot a Common Raven or Great Blue Heron. Nothing flies above, but I can make out a white and black mass lying on the Cordgrass just beyond the bridge. I pause and peer over the railing.

There, lounging without a care, is the largest seal I have ever seen. It is almost six feet long—even taller than I—and girthsome, like a furry, meaty slug. I stand on the bridge to admire it, and I can tell it is eyeing me, too. Even amongst the waves, in their element, I have never seen a seal like this. Later that day I learned that what I saw was a Harp Seal, and that it was on a temporary migration south from the Arctic. I concluded that he must love warmer waters, just like me.

The following morning, I made the bridge my run’s destination, hoping that I would see my furry slug friend again. But, to my disappointment, he was gone. As I looked out at the place where he had been lying, I spotted a Bald Eagle flying over the marsh. Turning back to head home, I spied an Eastern Chipmunk popping its bulging cheeks out of a trailside fallen tree. With every step, I felt that I noticed more and more. On previous runs, I had been so fixated on the warmth of the future, I did not settle fully into the beauty of the present. I had been ignoring the truth: even outside of the ocean, even in the depths of winter, nature will always charm and captivate me.

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Almost Rochester by Alex Stolis

My Mother, the Translator Fiction

Nathaniel Meals

My mother is a translator. She works remotely from a little house tucked into a wooded area. Not far from the house is a hilly field and within that field lies an old rusting car. I don't know what kind of car it is, just that it is old and a deep dirty reddish color, like a fallen chestnut spotted with mud. Thick weeds grow all around, and from certain angles, and on certain days when the sun is bright, it looks like the car is sinking. I sometimes seek out these angles and allow myself to be tricked into believing the car is actually sinking. The feeling lasts a moment and then the scene returns to normal. I walk to the vehicle, find it sits exactly as it did on my last visit, and leave to go back to my mother's house.

My mother translates books from French to English, Spanish to French, German to Spanish, Portuguese to Italian, and so on. Every now and then a small shipment of books arrives by mail and is deposited by a post office worker in the mailbox at the end of the driveway. On days when my visit coincides with a delivery, I walk down the driveway to retrieve the books and other mail. Otherwise, my mother will do this.

On my last visit, I told my mother something a coworker of mine told me, that she, my mother, is a polyglot.

"I'm told you're a polyglot," I said to her. She was sitting at her customary desk in the den area of the house. A desk lamp with a green glass shade lit her work area, and the top of her head and the small peaks of her shoulders seemed to glow. She leaned left, then right, then left again, alternating between typing and jotting notes on a pad. Opposite the lamp two books were propped up and open, sitting in special stands. One of these I know was the book my mother was translating. The other I think was a dictionary. I was in the kitchen unloading the groceries I had brought, one of the main functions of my visits.

"That is an ugly word," my mother answered me after a slight delay. I placed a few jars of preserves and cans of condensed soup on a shelf in the pantry. "Please don't call me that," I heard her then say after a time.

When she is at her desk working, she speaks without any movement in her voice. The words sound like they are coming from another place, a room I can't enter. I know my mother's attention is focused on her work. She hears me, but it’s like she is not in this house in the woods where I stand in the kitchen unloading groceries. Occasionally if I ask her a question, the time it takes for her to answer is so long I have forgotten the question. This happens every so often and I know it is just the effect of my mother's intense concentration on the book she is translating. Still, there have been moments, following a visit to my mother, on my drive back into the city where I live and work, when I imagine things I said to her having to travel great distances to reach her. I think about the starlight—barely visible in the city, but bright and crisp out at my mother's house—and how the flicker we see at night is the billion-year-old burning of a star just now reaching us.

—

In the city, I work four ten-hour shifts loading and unloading cargo at a shipping port. In the carrier terminal, massive gantry cranes slide back and forth, lifting and lowering cargo containers from vessel to unloading zone, from loading zone to vessel. The containers are big rectangular blocks, red, green, blue, black, white, yellow. I stand on the dock waving to truck drivers and crane operators. I use handheld signal flares to point out where drivers must stop, when the crane operator should lower the spreader, and when the drivers are clear to exit the loading or unloading zone. When a truck pulls up, the spreader drops slowly until it is properly aligned over the container. It fastens onto the fittings and hoists the container from the truck's chassis. The box rises high in the air, swinging ever so gently from the network of steel cables linked to the boom machinery above. It seems to float to the cargo vessel where it is lowered into the hold or stacked on the deck like a brick. The truck drives off and a new truck approaches. The cycle begins again.

All up and down the quay cranes are at work hauling containers one by one. Their motions remind me of arcade games with a movable claw. The containers they lift can weigh many tons depending on the load, and I have thought about what might happen if one were to fall. How many of us would die? Me and the other signalers are more at risk than the crane operators or the lashers up on the ship. But there are plenty of other longshoremen like myself who are also at great risk. I have asked some of my coworkers about this risk of death, what might happen if a container were dropped or a stack of containers toppled over, and they all say the same thing, more or less. "Stop daydreaming, Glen, get your head out of the clouds." They say the only way something like that might happen is if someone loses focus. "Stay alert, stay alive!" they all say. And then as we're walking back to our posts, adjusting our hard hats and green reflector vests, one of them usually yells something about my mother. "By the way, how's that polyglot mom of yours? Why don't you tell her I got some Italian tongue twisters I need her to translate!" They're only joking when they say things like this, but it still hurts to hear it, knowing my mother is hard at work and innocent. It's my fault for mentioning her to my coworkers. They are friendly people but they never miss a chance to mock or toss out a lighthearted insult.

Out on the quay it is windy and full of noise. Salty moisture clings to everything and little piles of sand have gathered along the lower edges of the iron mooring posts. The gantry cranes clank and hiss as the containers are being deposited into place with a thud. People shout, trucks beep as they reverse into a terminal or fueling station, and the harbor waters spit and slosh against the hulls of docked ships. In the open spaces between berths I can see the silhouette of the city far away across the harbor. The buildings don't look solid, and the blinking lights at the tops of skyscrapers seem sunken in a gray film.

—

My mother sits at her desk, translating in silence, alone in her house in the woods. She reads each word very closely, maybe a dozen times before she translates it. She becomes each word. Her thoughts zero in on words one by one, and inside each she sees a reflection of herself. And she reproduces that reflection in a different language. When there are no words left, she moves on to the next book, the next language, the next collection of words. Time moves in a parallel place, an "elsewhere" cut off from the act of translating, and my mother knows nothing about the movement of the clouds outside her house, the swaying of the pine trees, the trickling of rainwater in the downspouts. She is inside her house inside her head inside the book she is translating and inside word after word.

My mother is not eating. The groceries I brought her last week sit untouched in the refrigerator and pantry. The seal on the milk carton is intact. Cold cuts weigh the same as when I bought them. The loaf of whole grain bread, the same size. Lettuce is wilting. Tomatoes are soft and shriveling. Everything is as I left it like my mother has not been here for days.

"You haven't eaten," I say to her, and begin making her a ham and cheese sandwich with Black Forest ham and American cheese. I toast the bread, spread on some mayonnaise, add a few leaves of lettuce and a couple pickle chips, the same way I pack for my own lunch on days I work. Except instead of mayonnaise, I like mustard, and instead of American, I like Swiss cheese. When I was younger, my mother sometimes shared secrets about words. She told me their origins. I have forgotten most of these, but one that has stuck is mayonnaise, from the French, mahonnais, of or from Port Mahon. Another, not surprisingly, is translate, from the Latin, translatus, carried across.

I walk the sandwich in to my mother. The den feels chilly and everything seems a shade darker than usual, even the desk lamp. As usual books are open and upright in their stands. My mother's frail fingers move slowly over the typewriter keyboard. She bends forward studying the pages before her, whispering things to herself. I put the plate with the sandwich on the wooden seat of a nearby stool.

"How about a lunch break?" I say.

She pauses and turns her head toward me. She looks both confused and hyper-aware. This is a side effect of being submerged in the work of translating. She is returning to time. But there is also a tiredness to her features I have never seen before, a fatigue that has gathered in the shadows of her eye sockets, the pale line of scalp where her gray hair is parted, the dark creases of her wrinkles.

My mother glances at the sandwich on the stool and says something in a language I can't understand. Then she says: "What time is it?"

I look at my watch and tell her it's one-seventeen.

"Go and check the mailbox, please, Glen," she says before turning again to face her books and typewriter. She flips the page of one of the books and slides it under a clip fixed at the book's top left corner. She leans over and writes something on the notepad, and as she does this I notice another sheet of paper poking out from under the notepad. In all my years of watching my mother translate, I have never seen such a piece of paper, almost hidden in its placement beneath the pad.

Instead of going straight to the mailbox, I first walk to the old car rusting in the field. It is a warm dry day, but the thick overcast prevents the sun from reaching the ground. I move from one position to another along the field's outer edges, waiting for a blade of sunlight to cut through the clouds and shine on the dark car. But it doesn't happen and the car just sits there unchanged, resembling a dark brown shell. I imagine the car creeping off very slowly and disappearing into the gray shadows of the tree line, as though a slug had taken refuge inside it.

I follow the trail through the woods back to my mother's house. I light breeze makes the leaves all around me rustle, and even though it is summer and everything is green the foliage sounds brittle and dry.

There is a package in the mailbox along with a couple letters. On one of the letters, I recognize the name of a publishing company my mother translates for, Tarantella Books. “Tarantella,” I hear my mother say to me inside a memory from long ago, “Italian, from the name of the seaport Taranto.” She is much younger, and I am just a boy. We live in the city. Daylight fills the large room where my mother translates. She is sitting with her back to the desk, facing the center of the room where I stand barefoot. She sings the word tarantella, repeating it over and over, rolling her tongue the way an Italian would. I start spinning around. The room is lined almost entirely with books, hundreds of them on long shelves, in stacks on the floor, scattered near the baseboards, all hugging the white walls. As I spin, the books begin to blur and with each rotation, my mother's form loses definition until she and the books and the bright daylight from the windows all blend into one watery texture. The only thing that remains clear is her voice singing, "Tarantella! Tarantella!" with an Italian accent, a rhythm and melody I spin and bob to. Then I collapse on the floor, breathless and dizzy. The room tilts like a listing ship and for a second it seems like everything, books, desk, me, my mother will be dumped out the window's small opening into the outside air.

—

"That was fast," my mother says as I walk in the door. I was gone for almost an hour, but when she is translating an hour must seem a second. The sandwich is gone from the plate. I replace the empty plate with the package and letters.

"How was the sandwich?" I say.

"Just how I like it," my mother says, reaching for the package. I am surprised at how quickly she answers me.

"When will your next visit be?" she asks.

"Saturday."

"What's today?"

"Wednesday."

Before leaving I remind my mother to eat, and I promise her that I'll bring the groceries on Saturday, as usual. I wait for her to ask me about my job or maybe just make small talk, but she stays silent and returns to her work. For both of us, there is nothing new to share, I know. We pass our days in the same manner, she translating, me loading and unloading the cargo ships. Our work is unrelated, and now that we are older there is little left that might bridge the gap of years and livelihoods.

"I'm thinking of restoring that antique car out in the field," I say to my mother from the kitchen. I hear a murmur and the shuffling of pages. My mother responds sharply.

"That old heap of junk? It can't be salvaged."

I leave her house wondering if she thinks I grind out my hours hopelessly on the quay.

 —

Two days later I am sitting in the port cafeteria. It is lunchtime. Rubber boots squeak all around me. Raincoats and sou'westers hang on racks along the walls, dripping dirty rainwater to the floor. My coworkers' gruff voices fill my ears while farther off, toward one end of the large room, the rattling of cookware echoes from the kitchen. Everyone is excited and agitated. They interrupt each other, shout over each other, dismiss each other with bursts of laughter that quickly dissolve into silence. They are talking about a cargo ship, the SS Chol. It was scheduled to dock here yesterday in Berth Three but never arrived. News came earlier today that the ship has sunk, and is now missing. I learn from my coworkers that crews from the Coast Guard, Navy, and Air Force are all out searching for survivors.

"They won't find anything but flotsam out there," someone says.

"I heard they got a body, but they don't know who it is," someone else says from the end of the table.

"No, they only found a lifeboat, half-sunk. Empty. The thing's hull was cracked through."

"It was the ship's hull that cracked, not the lifeboat. That's why it went down so fast."

It grows quiet. Some of us take bites of food and sips of water or coffee. The cafeteria's long horizontal windows are streaked with shivering trails of rainwater. It has been raining almost continuously for the last thirty-six hours. Outside the windows are stacks and stacks of cargo containers. They look like melting slabs of color from the rain on the glass. I wrap my sandwich up and put it in my lunch pail.

The conversation turns to the Chol's captain. A few people agree it was his fault, that he didn't take proper safety measures, that he underestimated the strength of the sea, and he ignored warnings of the deck officers. But the man sitting next to me claims the ship's owner is to blame. "They didn't employ a safety officer," he says, "and the lifeboats were open air, not fully enclosed."

"What's it matter when your captain's a jackass!" someone yells. Everyone chuckles in agreement. Lunch ends and we head back out into the rain and wind.

On the way to my post, I pass Berth Three. It is just a wide empty space opening onto the rough harbor waters. The gantry crane is parked, its motors and cranks silent. If it weren't for the bad weather, I would have a spacious view of the city, a view much more encompassing than normal. But the city is invisible. The air is filled with a thick stormy grayness. Clouds, rain, and fog blend into one mass that now looks like a solid unbreakable wall, now like a strange build-up of smoke without any endpoint.

I continue walking to my post at Berth Five and begin signaling crane operators and truck drivers with my flares. The flares are bright orange and use halogen bulbs visible even when conditions are poor like today. We are unloading containers from a ship that has come over from Europe. I know this because of the identification markings on the doors of each container. I direct an approaching truck in and motion to the crane operator high above. He lowers a fresh container. The brim of my sou'wester extends far over my eyebrows and I'm forced to tilt my head back further than usual to get a good look at the incoming container and the operator's cabin. Rain smacks loudly against my coat and when the container is hauled down into place I hear the heavy droplets plinking as they collide with its metal frame. I wave to the operator, the spreader unhitches, and on my cue the truck motors away, splashing through enormous puddles. Work goes on like this for hours.

Then something happens. An alarm sounds from somewhere high above, likely the bridge castle. In seconds a group of men sprint across the quay from the port security offices. They scramble up the gangway and disappear through a tiny hatch into the ship. We continue working. Finally, the alarm stops. In the midst of the pouring rain and the truck's idling engine, I think I hear screams or yelling. Moments later the men exit down the gangplank. I make out a port security officer, a pair of uniformed Customs agents, and a handful of crewmen. The Customs agents usher a young woman whose hands are cuffed behind the back. Her steps are slow, exhausted. Her hair is already drenched. Her ragged clothing hangs heavy and sodden from her slight, bony frame. I watch them return to the security offices.

Anger and sadness mix inside me as I wonder about the woman. I imagine her hiding herself in the depths of the ship, possibly in a container within a cargo hold. I imagine her hunkering in darkness for days and days, without food, without water, nothing but her own breath and a vague sense of self that comes and goes with the endless rocking of the ship and the faint noises from the engine room. In place of the world, in place of time, there is a hope building in that blackness she inhabits deep within the hull. There is no return, no past, no before, only a hope that feeds on darkness and hides inside a famished body.

"Hey! Quit your castle-building and wake up, stevedore!" The truck driver is hollering through the rain. His horn rings out. I drop one of my signal flares and he laughs as I quickly pick it up. A container is eased down onto the chassis. Grinning, the driver inches forward and stops the cab close to where I stand.

"It's just some bum stowaway," he says out the window. "They say she's half-starved. Barely legal."

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Guard told me. I passed him on my way here. Said she would've died if they didn't find her first. Probably can't speak the language."

"Maybe."

"Hey, Glen!" he shouts as he shifts into gear. "Why don't you call your mom down here to translate for her?" The window rolls up. His hoarse laugh fades into the pattering rain.

—

The next day I drive out to my mother's with the groceries. In the city it is still ash-gray and gloomy, though the rain has finally let up. But the closer I get to my mother's the brighter and bluer the sky becomes until at last, as I pull up the driveway, the sunlight glares down above the trees and shimmers on the hood and dashboard. I am excited to see my mother, and I look forward to visiting the field to see the rusting car.

It is dark in the kitchen as I enter through the back door carrying the plastic grocery bags. My mother is not at her desk and the lamp is unlit. Its green glass shade appears black in the shadows of the room, while the bookstands sit empty. Side-by-side, their strange wire structures resemble the half-visible skeleton of an unknown animal. I call my mother’s name, but there is no answer, only a silence different from the silence of my mother translating. I begin unpacking the groceries, letting the swish and rustle of the plastic bags fill the space for a time.

It occurs to me that so much of these groceries I bring to my mother arrive here on cargo ships. I unload the cargo containers, the containers are brought to a warehouse and unloaded. Then the cargo is reloaded into a truck and driven to a grocery store where they are unloaded again and shelved in the store. I buy them, load them into my car, and finally unpack them in my mother’s kitchen. This is a cycle that has no end.

After putting away the groceries, I call to my mother again, but still, there is no answer. The silence rolls out over the den and kitchen from the rooms’ shadow-darkened corners. It is a heavy silence that sinks all it touches. I leave to see the car, thinking I may run into my mother along the path or even in the field itself. In all likelihood she is back at the house in her upstairs bedroom, asleep.

Even with the intense sunlight splashed over it, the car looks different, older, rustier, more worn down. I pace around, up and down the hillocks, keeping my distance, searching for that perfect angle that will combine with the brightness and give the car that aspect of submergence. But no matter where I stand, the car looks the same. I squint, blink rapidly. Then I open my eyes wide until they burn and tear. The car's bold brown form seems to liquefy and flow toward me. I brush the wetness from my eyes. This is not the change in appearance I am waiting for.

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Grey Cloud by Alex Stolis

The Mating Call Open Mic Fiction

Scott Sorensen

I know I’m too old to come to these things now, but I love watching the new guys come through. Boys with peach fuzz goatees, baby teeth still wrapped in plastic under their pillows. It’s adorable, honestly. The older ones are entertaining in their own way, like beat-up old trucks fighting for life. No shame on me watching them cough through their last few miles.

Seats fill up steadily now that it’s only a few minutes till showtime. On the right side of the room, fifty men ranging from barely 17 to 50 sit dressed in various ways. Some wear suits, others wear muscle tees. Two or three wear spandex, and a few even brave skirts. Going for the confidence card, maybe, or humor. I can’t wait to watch those ones. They’re all clucking to each other like chickens, eyes wide and whipping their heads side to side. I love the nerves of it all, the rumbling in these guys’ stomachs. You can almost smell it in the air, the animal fear these men feel. They trade last-minute tips (as if those’ll make any difference) and the older ones particularly try to advise the younger ones, most of whom don’t listen. If they really knew what they were doing, those geezers wouldn’t be back here again.

On the far left, ten women sit looking bored, occasionally turning to make a quick comment before settling back into apathy. The atmosphere here is more like a line at the DMV than a show. One or two women’s bouncing legs betray anticipation, but the rest are steady, collected.

Spotlights hang from the rafters, aiming their beams at the stage at the front of the room. There’s a microphone in the center of the platform and two guitars (acoustic and electric) sitting on the right edge. Besides those, the stage is a black void gaping at the audience, daring the desperate to fill it.

As the hour strikes nine, a man in a navy blue tuxedo takes the stage, his eyebrows bushy and his shoes immaculately shined. He could be a cartoon magician but for his dingy, depressing surroundings. On second thought, I suppose that makes him more like a real-life magician. He plucks the microphone from its stand and turns to face the audience.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at the left side of the room, “welcome to Mating Call Monday at North Star Bar and Grill! Ladies, are you ready for a show?”

The women applaud politely. One of them coughs.

“Gentlemen, are you ready to show these ladies your stuff?”

Some of the men stay silent, hands resting in their laps, but others jump to their feet and shoop. A couple wink at the women, who continue staring at the host.

“My name is Nate Honey, and I’ll be your master of ceremonies tonight. I was a Mating Call success story myself,” Nate pauses to blow a kiss to his wife in the back row, who doesn’t stir, “and tonight it’s your turn. Whether it’s your first try or your twenty-first, the mating call open mic gives every woman a chance to find the man of her dreams.”

A bartender tiptoes into the room and hands a redheaded woman a glass of wine. She downs it in a gulp. Once in a while, I do wonder why any women come to these things. Judging by their silence, few seem to enjoy watching random men from the street strut around. Then again, the fear of loneliness can drive a person to do crazy things. My wife tells me all the time how desperate she was before she came to the open mic. To her credit, she then hastily tacks on how much she loves me.

“Without further ado, please welcome our first performer to the stage, the very talented Aidan Bolton!”

A boy in his late teens takes the stage, his mop of black hair gleaming like oil in the spotlights. He’s wearing a tight red tank top and skinny jeans, the bulges of his shoulders jutting out like cliffs over his also considerable biceps. He snags the microphone and turns to face the crowd in one swift motion.

“What’s up North Star Bar!” he shouts, raising his left arm like a DJ and bringing the microphone to his face. As much as I want to hate seeing him week after week, he really has perfected this style. “My name is Aidan Bolton, and this one goes out to the cute brunette in the front row!”

Three brown-haired women in the front row blush before looking side to side and noticing each other. Two cross their arms, but the third one never takes her eyes off Aidan. All three keep listening.

Putting the microphone back in the stand, Aidan puffs out his chest and flexes his arms like a silverback gorilla, every muscle in his upper body straining against his shirt. Bringing his head back to stare directly into the spotlights, Aidan begins chanting, quietly at first but growing louder as he goes.

“Young and hot, young and hot, young and hot!” He starts stomping now, punctuating every adjective with a foot strike on the stage. The whole room fills with the sound, pounding like a heartbeat, steady and sure of itself. The bartender walks through and drops another glass of wine beside the redhead. Captivated by the display, she doesn’t touch it.

After thirty seconds or so, the one brunette who didn’t cross her arms gets up and walks to the stage. Aidan goes silent and bends his knees, stretching his arms out before him. The girl jumps into him, and Aidan walks her out of the bar like a groom on his wedding day.

Nate Honey takes the stage again, tugging on his bowtie as he does. “Biiiiiiiig round of applause for Aidan Bolton, everybody!” The men clap wildly, realizing what Aidan’s success means for the rest of them. They really could bring someone home tonight.

“God, that was so attractive I was about ready to sleep with that guy!” Nate gets a few chuckles among the men; his wife glowers. The rest of the women, though, tap their feet expectantly. Aidan was cute, they realize, and maybe there are others like him here. “Now, for your next performer, please welcome someone who I haven’t seen in quite a while but I think you ladies are gonna like. The one, the only: Allen! Ramirez!”

An early-40’s man with gray hair and a gorgeously-trimmed mustache takes the stage. His mustache is pointed at the ends; he looks a bit like if Salvador Dalí had worked at a used car dealership instead of going into art.

“Hello, my name is Allen Ramirez, and the only thing I’ll cherish more than fine wine and literature is you. I believe Foucault put it plainly when he wrote that to truly love someone is to…”

Nate clears his throat loudly and Allen stops his commentary.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll now start my mating call.”

Allen pulls a hand up to his face, fingers curled over his chin while his thumb softly strokes along his jawline. He furrows his brow and squints off into the distance.

“Sophisticated,” he says in an even tone, measuring each syllable as he produces it. “Sophisticated, sophisticated, sophisticated. Sophisticated…”

Allen goes on for about two minutes, but not a single woman stirs. The men glance over at each other and shift in their seats. Maybe this crowd isn’t as hot as they thought.

Slowly, almost apologetically, Nate retakes the stage. Allen hands him the microphone, his other hand dropping slowly off his chin. Allen walks back to the right side of the room and takes a seat. The other men pat him on the back and comfort him, but he just keeps staring at the floor.

“Aaaaaaand a big round of applause for our friend Allen!” Nate says. “That’s alright big guy, you’ve been out of the game for a bit. You’ll get the hang of it again.”

I cringe, more from my own memories than secondhand embarrassment, as the women fall back into their stupor. Nate’s wife snickers at the display.

“Next up to the stage, we have ourselves a newcomer! Please give a warm welcome to Tristan Price!”

A teenager in a navy blue suit takes the stage, one of the youngest in the room. I even wondered for a second whether he might be too young for a mating call open mic, but then again, he had to show ID at the door. Whoever he is, I haven’t seen him at any of the other mics in town either.

“Hello,” he says, twisting the microphone cord nervously around his fingers. He looks like a mouse in a hawk’s nest, and it’s almost endearing. Almost. “My name is Tristan, and today I’m here to read you a poem.”

Tristan produces a piece of notebook paper from his pocket and unfolds it, pressing it to his pants to smooth out the creases. Men and women alike start buzzing.

“Can he do that?”

“What’s a poem?”

“Is that some kind of hippie mating call?”

Tristan clears his throat, and the crowd falls silent once again. He’s brave, I’ll give him that, and he does know how to control the room.

 —

“Falling acorns hit things on their way down,

Like branches

And leaves

And hard-packed earth.

It sounded like the squirrels had taken up trebuchets

As you and I laid under open skies

Hunting shooting stars.

I asked you what would happen if one hit us,

And you said the acorns never would.

I said I meant the stars,

And you batted my arm

And turned back up.”

—

Nate stands up near the front. “Alright, this may be fun to listen to, but gibberish only gets you so far. Are you getting to a mating call or what?”

“Well… I mean, it’s not really a mating call,” Tristan stammers. “It’s really more of a–”

“Let the kid read,” I say. The room whips around to see me, a lone geriatric in the back. I smile, my gold tooth glowing in the red lights cast over the audience. “I’d wanna hear what he’s got to say.”

Nate sits down.

—

“A star slashes the sky like tripwire,

But by the time I point,

It’s already gone,” Tristan continues.

—

“Finally you saw one,

And you clutched my shoulder, pointing at an empty black sky.

‘Tristan, Tristan, did you see that?’

Your fingernails are sharp

And your grin is wide;

You look like you met Gandhi, Babe Ruth,

And the woman you’re going to die with

In that one brief glimmer.”

—

At that, the women’s heads jolt up at the stage, then over to Nate, who sits there transfixed. The man couldn’t stop this if he tried. Finally, some drama.

—

“The rest of the night,

Comets shot through your irises

And died in your pupils,

Till an acorn smacked you
Right in the center of your forehead.

Thunk.

I knew it.”

—

I stand and clap. It takes everything I have not to whistle and shout, too. The men and women of the mic stay silent, but Tristan, the microphone still to his chin, smiles sheepishly at me.

“That was… not a mating call,” says Nate, scowling alternately at me and Tristan. “This is a place for young people to find their future spouses, a palace of romance, a battleground of love. You can take your jabbering outside, young man.” Nate wheels over to look at me. “And you, sir, are enabling our children to lose sight of what’s important. I’m going to have to ask you to leave as well.”

Tristan and I walk to the street outside without complaint. Our breath clouds in front of our eyes, turning the street lights behind it a rotten shade of yellow, drifting up toward the sky.

The bartender walks up to us, silent as ever. He’s tall, steady on his feet. From the streetlight, I can finally make out his face. Good God, he’s handsome – you could make a living on that jawline. He hands Tristan a double shot of whiskey in a stout glass glimmering with what looks like diamonds. He puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder and shakes his head, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. He walks back inside without a word.

“I met my wife Charlotte at one of these things, many years ago,” I say. I can’t tell if Tristan cares, but I figure he can walk away if he wants to. “My mating call was something about chivalry. I held a rose between my teeth. I was a brilliant, stupid kid. What my dad would have called a romantic – used to fall in love with my own shadow.”

Tristan studies my face like there are answers hidden in my eyebrows.

“I stayed true to my call on that stage. Char and I eloped three weeks after the mic, and we bought this little shack by the train tracks. God, the whole place used to rattle when the trains came by, then again when the two of us got going.” I take pleasure in the way Tristan’s face glows red. “That was nice for a while, and then we bought a bigger house in town. Charlotte and I drifted apart a bit, and I started showing up to these open mics.”

“Why?” Tristan asks.

“Well, it’s normal, you know, to drift a bit as the passion wears off. Our boy Aidan did well for himself tonight, but that won’t last forever.”

“No, I mean why did you start coming to these open mics?”

“I missed it, I think,” I confess. “The strange thing about a great love story is it never has much of an epilogue, and mine was boring. You feel this roaring, animal thing inside you, until all of a sudden you’re just reading books and taking long walks with a friend. Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes you find out you aren’t even friends.”

“Are you getting a divorce?” Tristan asks.

“You know, I think I probably should have realized she hated me when she kept screaming even after the sex ended.”

Finally, I get Tristan to crack. The two of us are belly laughing on the sidewalk, our heads bowed like we’re just a bit ashamed of ourselves. Nate probably wouldn’t like that joke. His wife would.

“A lot of them end like that, these open mic marriages. Tough to pick a best friend in a dim theater.”

“So what do we do then?” Tristan asks.

“I thought you were the one who didn’t need a mating call,” I tease.

“Well no,” Tristan protests, “but I could eventually use a life partner. Just to have her there at the end. Even a suicide pact would do, to be honest.”

“I might take you up on that,” I say.

“Nah, we can’t make any widows today.”

“Maybe we can make an ex-wife, though.” Tristan passes me the glass of whiskey, only half gone.

“How do I find my ex-wife, though? I mean, hopefully, my forever wife.” Tristan clarifies.

“Think of these open mic couples as the shooting stars in your poem. We happen all the time, you just gotta show up and watch ‘em go.”

“Alright, then what are the acorns?” Tristan asks.

One of the brunettes Aidan failed to woo walks out of the bar. She’s alone, her long red dress swaying side to side as she walks. She smiles over at Tristan and I swear to God I can hear his knees buckle before she turns and disappears into the heart of the city.

“Thunk.”

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Mask Gleaners by Donald Patten

In the Hole Again Nonfiction

Tim Walker

When I was a boy, sometime in the late 1950s, my family moved from our Southern California tract house to a farmhouse on the eastern outskirts of Bangor, Maine. The Penobscot River is a stone’s throw from the house, just across U.S. Route 2—nominally a highway but really just a two-lane country road—and a single-track railway. The road and its fast-moving cars were an attractive nuisance to our dog Daisy, a sweet-natured, excitable Dalmatian mix, who ended up as roadkill. The train tracks and the river were an attractive nuisance to me and my brother Mike and our two friends, sons of a doctor who lived on the grounds of the nearby state hospital, or “loony bin,” as we called it.

The realm between the road and the river was made for exploring. The world literally passed it by: below the sightlines of people passing in their cars with only the road and their destination in view, it was an abandoned space known only to the train engineers, the hobos, and the barefoot boys of summer. We flattened pennies and dimes under the wheels of the freight trains that came through a dozen times a day and talked of making spoon fishing lures out of the bright elongated slips of metal. We investigated the hobo camps littered with Sterno cans and chatted up the hobos, on the few occasions when we found any. It was somehow common knowledge that they drank the Sterno for its alcohol content, and that it was a dangerous thing to do. We fished for eels in deep spots along the riverbank. The eels would gladly take our bait, and once hooked, engaged us in a tug of war. We visualized them winding their prehensile bodies around a snag on the bottom. If our line was strong enough, we could rip them away from their holdfast and land them easily.

I don’t remember eating them, or even thinking of them as edible. Although the river held a fascination for us, we avoided touching the water, which was the color of weak tea and stank of pulp-mill and tannery waste, and probably worse things. There were rumors of medical waste washing up on the riverbank. Mike and I were capable swimmers, but the last thing we ever wanted was to be immersed in that yechy water.

One day the four of us explored farther than usual and probed the defenses of a hydroelectric plant, a complex of buildings on the bank of the river, next to a dam. We slipped through a loosely chained gate in the fence, and found ourselves in a storage yard between buildings: a new world of unfamiliar industrial objects to speculate about. We could hear the whine of the turbines in the outermost structure: a big brick building with a two-story façade, it abutted the dam on its far side.

I wondered why it seemed so deserted—when a door opened and a man came out and yelled at us. His anger prompted us to flee, but he stood in the way of our return, so we took the alternate route around the end of the big brick building, and inched along sideways on a narrow concrete ledge, with the brick wall at our backs, looking down at the water spilling over the dam.

The Veazie Dam, which was demolished in 2013, was really a weir, with the river constantly flowing over the top of its whole width. If you looked at it closely, which we were compelled to do, you could see the piss-colored water at the top of the weir rushing smoothly and forcefully over what looked like planks oriented in the direction of flow and gently sloping downstream. At their lower end was a waterfall about 20 feet high. Our position was alarmingly exposed over the surging and crashing waters of the dam. I don’t know how we kept our nerve.

At the building’s end, the concrete ledge we inched along extended as a wall bordering the deep water of the reservoir, topped by a handrail of steel pipe, with one rail at the top and one halfway down the posts. Just beyond the handrail was the familiar abandoned world of the river bank, with its weeds and spindly volunteer trees. We went over the handrail one by one, and I came last. As I shifted my body around to face the handrail, my hand slipped from the top rail, and I felt myself falling backward toward the river.

I made a desperate grab at the middle rail, caught it, and climbed over to safety.

Probably my companions were as shocked as I was by this barely averted disaster, but nobody spoke of it. I believed it lived on only in my memory, and I often replayed it and imagined how I might have fared, had I fallen into the river. Could I, by strength and luck, manage to avoid being washed over the edge of the falls? And if I could cling there, how could I be rescued? I knew it was beyond the abilities of my friends to do that. They would have to appeal to adults, and the nearest adult was the one who had scared us off. In my imagination, their quandary was almost as uncomfortable as mine, and I resented them bitterly for thinking of their own comfort when my life was at stake. But then, if I couldn’t cling to the top of the weir, and was swept over the edge, could I somehow survive and swim free of the falls’ turbulence? And if so, how much of that chemical and microbial soup would I swallow, and how sick would it make me? Or would I miss all these chances, and end up like the corpse I saw the police pull from the river near our house one day, with his gray skin abraded and peeling? Then would Mike, who usually took the lead in our adventures, be haunted by guilt? The possibilities were as endless as they were somber. And sometimes I thought that I was never in any real danger, that my nerves and reflexes were perfectly adequate to the situation, that the ledge wasn’t really all that narrow, that what in retrospect looked dangerous was really quite easy, and even a reasonable thing to do.

When I had obsessed about it long enough, all the might-have-beens ran together in a blur, and I became inured to the strong feelings evoked by these memories, relieving me from my existential unease.

As I wrote this, I did some research online, to refresh my memory of the place, and I learned about the hydraulic phenomenon known as a “hole.” At the foot of a weir, the plunging water drags down the surface water, causing it to flow backwards against the current, and forming a gyre that traps any floating object. Without white-water training, my instinct to stay on the surface would collide with my instinct to swim downstream, away from the sucking falls and the deadly turbulence. This vision plunges me from emotion recollected in tranquility into a fresh accession of dread, and I'm once more in the hole, the endless gyre of speculation about what might have been, alternately robbed of all my life experiences since boyhood, then safe and dry again in a forgiving world.

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Lilydale by Alex Stolis

Good Time Fiction

Alexis MacIsaac

Kris didn’t know where he was traveling to. He knew it was somewhere in Europe, but he needed to glance down at his plane ticket to find the exact location every time the destination escaped him. DUBLIN. What the fuck is wrong with my memory? He knew, though, that it wasn’t really his memory ¾ it was the circumstances of his life that were making him forget. 

At 6:06 pm, he walked along a tarmac in Winnipeg, Canada, to catch a connection. An all-consuming blackness belted his view; the glimmer of aircraft lights like an interruption. A wraithlike wind slashed through his shirt and he swore from the hurt of it. His agent had got the airline to hold the plane for him after he was late coming in from Vegas because he was supposed to play a gig with the band the next day. He didn’t even know where to find Winnipeg on a map. All he knew was that it was fucking cold in Canada in February and he couldn’t wait until he was deep in the air and could forget he’d ever been here.  

A stewardess had greeted him at the entrance of the plane, nodding her pointed chin and giving him an infomercial smile before checking his ticket. Briefly, he tried to imagine what it might be like to slip his tongue into her mouth and if she might make him hard, but nothing stirred in him. He felt completely unmoved.  

“Welcome aboard,” she said. Her flat eyes regarded him suspiciously.  

He wasn’t too much to look at now, he knew. He’d seen himself in the bathroom mirror at the airport before he got on the plane. Red veins marked the whites of his eyes and his greying hair needed a cut and his sweat-stained shirt needed a wash. He got too high last night on edibles and drank too much and the bourbon was probably weeping from his pores, but he couldn’t smell himself the way others could, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or something to be feared.  

There was no fear in him now, though, even though he was alone. Kris felt alone a lot lately. He usually felt most alone on travel days because the high of whatever gig he had played would have worn off by then. The aftermath leaving him with a brutal, shaky, low. And travel, usually done in the afternoons, when the sun was at its cruelest, forced him to see himself as part of the broader world. Something he didn’t realize he tried to avoid whenever he could.  

But tonight, he didn’t feel that way at all. Maybe it was because of the urgency of the flight and the excitement that he might miss the gig if he didn’t land on time. Or maybe being truly alone, without the men, whom he loved in his own limited way, was freeing. Because sometimes, they made him uncomfortable in the daylight. The lines in their face too jarring. The darkness in their eyes too frightening. They looked like him, he knew, and sometimes the knowledge of that was awful.

That morning, the rest of the band had gotten the last seats on another flight and Kris said he was fine to fly solo. He’d been on tour for the past thirty years and he learned that his best shot at making the most of it was to be passive and let things happen to him instead of because of him. Whenever he did something with purpose, it always seems to bite him in the ass. But if he sat back and let it all happen, then he had a chance at being happy at least for an instant. On tour, there was always someone ready to light a joint or pass him a beer or adjust his sound in the monitors or hand him a sharpie to sign an autograph. Even the shows followed a script that he’d been written into – the notes from his guitar no longer flowed from any kind of spontaneity. The magic, he’d found out, was never really there even when he thought it was. Lately, he’d realized it wasn’t about the music or the fans or the temporary fame. It was always the money. 

He checked his boarding pass. 16B. Breath escaped his nose. No room in business class. The stale air attacked him with the scent of sweat and bad breath. The plane had been on the tarmac for a while and those little fans didn’t stand a chance against a full flight. He wondered about his guitar, stowed in the underbelly of the plane, strings loosened while he muttered a Hail Mary before giving it up to a guy with a frosted beard and the kind of hollow gaze particular to old men. The frightening night had begun to scatter clots of snow and Kris hadn’t wanted to hand off his instrument. The man’s gloves touched Kris’ bare knuckle and he was off-put by the closeness. He had snatched his hand away and watched as the man carried his guitar with two hands instead of one. No respect.

He walked past rows of ugly people with their open laptops or newspapers. He’d always noticed that about airports: everyone always seemed ugly on travel days. And he found that his seat wasn’t empty. There was a violet purse on it, with half-spilled contents; a silver tube of lipstick, a notebook with a smiley face, a bunch of used Kleenexes. He stared at it for a moment, unsure what to do. He hadn’t even thought to look at who was sitting next to it. Suddenly, a hand reached out to snatch it and he turned his attention toward the whole person who let out a nervous laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “I should’ve known someone would be sitting here.” 

He stood there stupidly, paralyzed for a moment. Not that she was particularly pretty, but there was something in the quality of her voice that he couldn’t place. The sound of it made him feel like he was in bed, with the comfort of a hotel duvet around him and the quiet hum of the air conditioner muffling the insufferable silence. This girl wasn’t silence. She smiled at him with small, square teeth. 

He sat down beside her and thrust his bag under the seat in front of him. His shoes were wet from the snow and a stain bled into carpet. The scent of hand sanitizer and lilac wafted toward him. Again, he wondered what he must smell like. He thought back to his reflection in the airport’s bathroom mirror and his red-rimmed eyes and flat hair. He leaned slightly away from her, this creature that startled him. 

The girl took a pack of mints from her purse. He heard her crunch into the mint and her noisy swallow.

“Want one?” she asked. He accepted, even though his impulse was to decline. Their skin was the same colour, he noticed, a light brown, but where his fingers were long and thick and calloused, her fingers were unblemished and small, almost like a child’s. He ate the mint without liking it.

“Are you the reason they held up the plane?” she asked.  

Her eyes were bright but neutral. He didn’t know if she was curious or if she was just making conversation. The type of person who was friendly, chatty. The type he normally hated.  

“I guess,” he said.  

A voice boomed through the overhead speakers. Cabin Crew, please be seated for take-off.  

He felt her stare at the tattoo of the doe on his forearm. He’d gotten it when he was seventeen after a girlfriend had urged him on. Bambi was her favourite movie and a deer was “unexpected” and because it was unexpected, it was desirable. And honestly, he loved the deer on his arm. Its wideset eyes seemed to take in everything. And his ex was right – it helped get him laid a bunch.  

The woman interrupted his thoughts. “You must be a pretty big deal if they were willing to wait around for one person,” she said.  

He shrugged. “Anyone’s a big enough deal if they know the right person.” 

The plane began to lift. Wind hissed and Kris’ stomach contracted. 

“You’re an actor?” 

“An actor?” He shook his head. “No, definitely not.” 

She laughed. “Bad guess. But you’re something. You’re not normal.”  

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Ember.” 

“Amber?” 
“No, Ember.” She closed her eyes and pressed her back against her chair. She wore fake, fanned lashes, too large for her small eyes. Ember. What a shit name, he thought.  

“I know,” she declared, suddenly. Her eyes flared open. “You’re a musician,” she accused.  

He tried to smile. “I play guitar.” For the first time, he thought it sounded lame.  

She turned away from him. Initially, he had thought she was young, but the harsh overhead lights suggested otherwise; there were faint grooves in her forehead and a few wiry grey hairs sprung at her temples. “I was hoping you were a singer,” she said.  

He’d never heard that before. When women found out he was a guitarist they usually thought it was great. He felt an urge to explain himself, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. 

“Good voices are rare,” he said. “I could never be a singer, but I knew I could be a player.” 

With her eyes closed, she smiled. “I like that idea,” she said. 

“What idea?” 

“Knowing your limitations.” 

He liked what she said but he didn’t understand it. He’d never thought of what he couldn’t do as a limitation. It was just reality.  

She said, “Did I offend you?” but her eyes teased. “Tell me your story.” Her elbow perched on the rim of the window and her head rested on her fist. 

Dark brown eyes, he noticed. But they’re not warm. They’re cool.  

He wanted to talk to her even though he wasn’t sure what to make of her. She had drawn him in and he couldn’t unravel himself from whatever line she had cast. So he told her some of the tired highlights of his life, about touring from the time he was eighteen. He had a fake ID and two parents who loved him back home in Iowa, but who he needed to get rid of. He was a decent soloist, but really he was better at making other musicians sound good. He rarely took centre stage. This was the trick, he’d soon learn. People kept him around because he had the chops to make them sound good.  

“Touring,” he said to Ember, “is kind of like a drug. You’re in a stupor half the time, even though you might not be high. It’s like watching the world from inside a hamster wheel: pack up, unload, play, pack up, sleep, drive, repeat. I’ve met so many people on the road, but honest to god the faces have all just bled into each other. You know what you learn though? People need their heroes, even if their heroes are massive disappointments. I’m sure I’ve disappointed many a fan.”  

He told her he almost got married once, to a woman who had documented a full year of touring on an old camera that she claimed was going to make her rich. But when she’d developed the pictures, she’d burst into tears; it’s just too sad, she’d told him as she wiped her snotty nose on his shirt. He didn’t know what she was talking about. The pictures showed the band as it was: sleeping on the tour bus, mouths half-open; crying drunk after a particularly epic show; playing video games during the day with some Pedialyte and coffee to get them through the worst of their mornings. The truth wasn’t sad. It was just the truth. He told Ember that the girlfriend left him not long after and last he heard she was living in a commune in Costa Rica.  

And he realized he hadn’t talked to a woman like this in a long time, a year or two maybe. Slept with plenty of them, sure. But talked? Talking doesn’t count when you’re trying to get laid. It’s just lies to get someone to agree to take their clothes off. Ember made him want to reveal a bit of himself bit by bit.  

When they braced for landing, he realized he didn’t know a thing about her. 

“Do you want to come to the show tomorrow?” he asked. “I can leave a ticket for you at the stand.” 

She looked down at her phone and he wondered if she heard him. But then she smiled crookedly and said, “Yeah. Why not?” 

—

He played well that night. There was extra adrenaline because he’d missed soundcheck from oversleeping and arrived with only minutes to spare. The lights flashed red, blue, purple; the cry of the crowd an ominous thrum in the backdrop. He thought of Ember briefly before he went onstage. He wouldn’t be able to make her out in the crowd – she’d be a particle in the stands. But he played for her, he realized later. He hadn’t felt that electric in years. Afterward, she texted him. Great set! Where r u?  

They met up at his bandmate’s hotel room. A party. A good time. She wore a mini skirt and a grey sweater and she looked neither young nor old because she had the hands of a child but the cold wisdom of a woman and he felt a shudder run through him as he hugged her. In the room, he lit a joint and passed it to her. She took a deep inhale and left an imprint of her lip gloss where his mouth had been. The smoke curled at her lip, her eyes half-closed, as if in meditation. He stood close to her so that they were almost touching, but they probably looked more like friends to the outside, side-by-side but apart. There were lots of people there he didn’t know. In the corner of the room, his singer was snorting cocaine with a teenager. The teen had silvery glitter in her hair and a crop top that exposed a slightly sloped belly. On the bed, a bunch of guys were watching a UFC rerun and a stranger was screaming “cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker!” at the screen, cheeks hot, spittle flying from his mouth. Someone else yelled “let’s get dirty!” and a woman wobbled on her feet and began to take off her black T-shirt until her more-sober friend pulled it down again and whispered a few words in her ear. Someone changed the TV channel to porn - a woman on all fours moaned while a man with thick hands grabbed her neck from behind. Ember stiffened beside him. He looked away too, taking a final toke. He hated that stuff even though most guys he knew were into it. Someone would change the channel soon, though. That kind of stuff never lasted.

Ember said something to him but Kris couldn’t hear it so he just nodded politely, but then he heard her say loudly, “I said, can we go somewhere else?” Her eyes seemed sharp in the room that seemed so blurred and he took her hand and led her to the hallway where they walked in silence to his room. 

When he opened the door, he hated himself. The room was too empty. The air too stiff. Too much peace when he wanted noise. But she’d asked him to leave and even though he’d thought of sex, he didn’t think to seduce her, and this was strange for him but he didn’t dwell on it; he just accepted it for what it was. 

“Is it like that every night?” she asked.  

“Like what?” 

She sniffed. Her eyes focused on the undisturbed bed before she looked at him again. “Whatever that was. That scene.” 

He was confused. No one had ever asked

 after a job. Musicians especially. That was just a bunch of people relaxing.” 

He hated the way she was looking at him. He wasn’t sure if it was pity or sadness or both. She took his hand and squeezed it. Her skin felt cold, almost frigid. Touching, their palms were dry.  

“It was just…it was just a bit disturbing,” she whispered. Her eyes shone and he felt a deep thud in his throat, something crawling where it shouldn’t be. Disturbing?  

“I thought you knew,” he said. “I thought you’d get it.” And there was something wet on his cheek and he wasn’t sure what it was for a moment until he realized that he was crying. And he had to snatch his hand away from the cold fingers because this wasn’t what was supposed to happen, not this night that was supposed to help him sustain a high and forget what needed forgetting. He moved past her and hit the wall with his fist with a crack, so angry that he was crying and that Ember was here to see it when all he wanted was a good time again tonight like all the other nights but she’s seen something in him and now he was just so fucking angry, so angry that he wanted to hit something again and again and again and he was hitting it again and again and again, and there was a wetness on his knuckles, dark trickles of blood and someone screaming at him in the background to stop! Please stop! And he did stop, then, his fist shredded and wounded. Ember was crying too, weeping, even, he would say. She took one step toward him and then another one and another one with her stockinged feet and her childish hand reached out to grab his own and she took her sweater sleeve and wiped him down so that red-stained grey and then her head was beneath his scruffy chin and he could smell jasmine in her hair and it was coarse beneath his chin but it was so sweet, the feeling of her under him and holding him at the same time.

—

He woke up the next day alone in his bed. No evidence of anyone else existed at all. He sniffed the pillow next to him, but it smelled only faintly of bleach, not of any perfume, not of anything human. Did he dream it? Was there a woman here who’d seen him to his bed and made him feel warm when he’d felt so empty? Maybe. I think so. He tried to remember her name. Emma? Amber? No, none of those were right. He’d forgotten. His hand was wrapped in a cut-up grey woolen rag hardened with blood. His head stuffy but blank. He knew he had to be somewhere today. London? Munich? Not a clue. He needed to check his boarding pass. He felt fine though, satiated. Last night must have been fun with whoever she was. A good time.

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In Our Shadow’s by Jack Bordnick

Yasmin On the Beach. Fiction

Annette Higgs

Manly Beach was famous, Yasmin was aware of that, as she crunched across its gritty sands in a blustery dawn wind. Breakers washed in relentlessly and she spotted a few surfers, grey seals in their wetsuits, riding foamy crests. She couldn’t help but think of them as foolhardy, after the news this week. A man bitten in half by a shark off Little Bay. Yasmin enjoyed swimming but wasn’t sure she would ever be able to go into the sea again. Certainly not at Little Bay.

Manly Beach suffered from its great fame. The sand wasn’t clean, there were old concrete water pipes half-buried under low dunes, the famous Norfolk Pines were looking ratty. A row of businesses lined the street opposite the beach: cafés just opening, swimwear places still closed this early in the day, racks of brightly-coloured surfboards, entrances to a few lucky apartment blocks enjoying views of the ocean from their balconies. What would it cost to rent there, she wondered?

Idle speculation, since she’d lost her job. Well, not exactly lost it. Made redundant. Or not even that. What was the right word, when you were forced out of your job by sexual harassment and agreed to take a bundle of hush money to keep your trap shut? Considering the matter now, as she trudged along in the wind, Yasmin wondered if she’d acted wisely. Or even ethically. Should she have complained to some watchdog? Been more of an activist?

—

Yasmin had grown up near the mouth of a river. As a small child, she’d scurried about on sandy estuary beaches, building sand castles and trying to dig to China. Not far from her childhood home, a sloping bank of prickly gorse led down to a fingernail beach called Second Sands. Her mum had made her wear plastic buckle-on sandals when she went down there to paddle, because of the soldier crabs. Their purple backs skittered across the wet sand when the tide was out, tiny crab legs scrabbling in and out of the little holes they dug. Yasmin wondered if there were any crabs on Manly Beach. All she could see were a few strips of slimy-looking seaweed, not even any sea shells. It was an urban beach, well-used.

Her childhood town, was not far from the open ocean and terrible weather often blew in. As a kid, she’d learnt how to walk with a strong wind behind her. The technique involved leaning back. Out at the mouth of the river, the winds had whipped huge whitecaps around the rocky feet of a promontory, a lighthouse perched atop. There were wild beaches out there. Not sheltered little coves like Second Sands but long, free, untouched stretches of sand and seaweed with names like Five Mile Beach and Nine Mile Beach, looping up the coast to who-knew-where. Now, trudging along the edge of the Pacific Ocean, Yasmin missed that fierce wind and welcomed the chill Manly breeze.

Outside of her town there’d been several lighthouses, painted white with red horizontal stripes, standing where the river met the sea. Big ships, lumbering like stately whales, often glided into the river heading to the container dock and the factories. Pilots had to go out and help the ships negotiate their way through the reefs and sandbanks at the entrance to the estuary. In Yasmin’s class at school there’d been a girl named Philippa whose father was a pilot, Captain Barber. She couldn’t remember now if she’d ever seen Captain Barber, but thought so, and was sure he’d had a thick beard and wore moleskins and a sou’wester. As a child, Yasmin had considered the profession of pilot to be one of courage and glory.

She hadn’t been home for some time, and thought about going back, as she stepped in and out of the wavelets breaking on the beach. As far as Yasmin knew, on the mud flats of Second Sands the sea still ebbed out on long tides, leaving wide expanses of wet sand for the scuttling soldier crabs. She had a recurring dream about that place. The details were dream-hazy and involved a threatening tide coming in and purple soldier crabs spiky under the bare soles of her feet.

—

When the man was taken by the Great White at Little Bay, people were watching from the headland. Some even videoed the scene on their phones, yelling Oh my God! and Fuck!!! and similar desperate and helpless noises. Yasmin had seen the videos online, though they were quickly pixilated and slapped with warnings to viewers because the scene was so awful. Authorities closed the beaches straight away. Not only at Little Bay; also at Malabar, Maroubra, Coogee, Clovelly, and La Perouse. Helicopters scoured the inshore ocean, checking for the shark, or for any sharks. They never found the culprit.

It was the first shark fatality in Sydney for decades, though it seemed to Yasmin the news was more or less constantly filled with stories of sharks grabbing people, munching off their limbs, puncturing them so their blood stained the sea, up and down the coast, all around the country. At the tiny beach off Second Sands, the crabs were the only creatures she’d had to think about. Swimming there had been fun. Since she’d moved to Sydney to start the accounts job she’d just lost, Yasmin had never dared swim out of her depth.

According to news reports, the man taken by the shark off Little Bay had been an experienced diver. Yasmin wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse—his life claimed by the ocean he loved. In Yasmin’s view, you had to be careful about nature. It was mistaken to consider the natural world benign. Her dream of the crabs, she felt, was a warning of some kind.

A meandering line of her footsteps straggled behind her, imprinted in the wet sand, the unceasing waves dashing in and obliterating her passing.

—

As she rounded the point, she saw today’s ocean temperature chalked on a concrete pillar protruding from the beach wall. Twenty-one point two, the figures artistically entwined with a drawing which looked, at this distance, like a large shark. The man who chalked up the numbers was a local character; Yasmin had heard about him, seen his Instagram. Surely he hadn’t chosen to celebrate sharks at a time like this? Though she was inclined to warm fuzzy feelings about the guy who rose before dawn, rain or shine, to measure the ocean temperature with a meat thermometer and post the figure for the early swimmers, this unmistakable outline of a shark left a bad taste.

There were few people around; the sun had been up for half an hour. Like the surfers, some of the early swimmers had opted for wetsuits, usually grey or charcoal or shiny like platinum. How would a shark, if there was one out there, tell the difference between a swimmer and legitimate prey? Perhaps swimmers were legitimate prey for the denizens of the ocean. Peering towards the horizon, Yasmin spotted a fin out there, for a moment she thought she saw a fin. Perhaps an upturned surfboard? Or something more sinister?

Yasmin gave herself a mental shake. She was brooding too much on the shark tragedy. Probably to obscure her own mini-tragedy: moving to Sydney for a dream job, then being ousted so ignominiously, and none of it her fault.

The man who chalked the temperatures every day sat on a beach rock near his handiwork, gazing pensively seaward. At least, he looked pensive to Yasmin as she neared him, though she could have been projecting. He was leaning his weight on a long, furled golf umbrella as if it were a wizard’s staff.

She paused in front of the chalk drawing. Not a dolphin or a porpoise; definitely a shark. This was too much. She had to say something. ‘A shark, mister? After what happened at Little Bay?’

The man looked up from his reverie and paused to consider his response. He had thin hair and tanned wrinkles, an old fellow, maybe in his seventies by the look of him, though Yasmin was in her twenties and found it difficult to estimate the age of older people.

After a few moments, he replied. ‘We all have to co-exist. People swim in the ocean, sharks swim in the ocean, occasionally there’ll be a clash.’

‘And people will always come off worse,’ Yasmin said, tasting a bitterness which wasn’t, she knew, entirely about sharks. She plumped down on a nearby rock, suddenly feeling tired of everything. The old bloke seemed to intuit her mood.

‘What’s up, love?’

Yasmin’s skin crawled at his use of the familiarity. Her mind reasoned it was just an old-fashioned hangover from earlier times. She glowered at him with a grimace of distaste but he seemed to miss her disapproval.

‘You look a bit glum,’ he said mildly. ‘Want to talk it over?’

The sun had risen above the eastern horizon and the ocean, the poorly-named Pacific Ocean, had begun to glitter. The wind was still inhospitable, the surfers were still impersonating seals. The man was a stranger, though not completely. People around here seemed to like him, to judge by social media. Perhaps he had some advice for her.

Yasmin introduced herself, told him she lived in a pokey flat in Surry Hills. She’d taken the early ferry over to Manly because she wanted to feel real wind on her face, not grimy city draughts. The bloke grinned at this, as the salty breeze whipped Yasmin’s long dark hair across her face.

‘I’ve just lost my dream job,’ she told him.

‘Bugger.’

‘It was in a big city law firm, in accounts. I moved to Sydney to take it. Then one of the creepy old partners exposed himself to me in the office, and they offered me a payout to leave and shut up about the whole thing, and I took it.’

It all sounded so grubby, now she’d said it out loud.

The bloke regarded her steadily. ‘Did you get any support?’ he asked, sounding like someone from corporate HR.

Yasmin snorted at the thought of it. ‘There are only two female partners in that firm, one old girl who’s proud of acting as much like a man as possible, and a younger bitch who’s willing to sell her soul to make money. Those two told me to accept the cash and go.’

A few of the swimmers were returning from their ocean swim out to Cabbage Tree Bay, hurrying up the beach, stripping off swim caps, ready for coffee. The old bloke watched them, his hands clasped between his knees. He drew in a breath.

‘In an earlier life,’ he said, ‘I too came a cropper in the corporate world. I was one of the high-fliers. Yeah, it was full-on. Then one day—bam. Down and out. I won’t give you the full story, you’re depressed enough, but here’s my tip: you’re better off out of it. There are too many—well, sharks in that sea.’

Yasmin had to smile at the rueful cliché. ‘What did you say about co-existing with sharks?’

‘Well, yeah, if you go into their world, you’re never going to win, unless you manage to steer clear of them. So leave them to it. Come back to the real world, Yasmin. Community. Want to come swimming here in the mornings?’

Yasmin gazed seawards. The wind was whipping up choppers farther out. The ocean changed in a blink from silver to slate as clouds scudded across the morning sun. She turned back to this chance acquaintance, this wise pilot, who had steered her out of the storm. 

‘I think I’ll leave Sydney.’

Rising to her feet, she said goodbye and he bid her good luck, and she wandered up to the street to look for a decent café.

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Driftwood Portrait #2, Young Sea Captain from 18th Century by GJ Gillespie

The Bar Fiction

Micah Muldowney

I stopped out front of the dive and let out a long whistled breath. Wonder. Fear and loathing. There was no sign or indicator of its use or occupancy, just the number peeling back away above the entryway. In the daylight, I’d have guessed it was maybe a cheap garage or traphouse or maybe a signal box off a switchyard, plain, mispointed block, sprawled squat and graceless as a drunk laid up in a dumpster, walls built for the sake of walls only and painted a worked-over blue two or three feet off the ground like jardineros will with a tree to ward off the sun. The paint was flaked and coated in a thin greasy residue of maybe organic origin and the one small window off the side was meager to say the least and latticed so tight with rebar it could hardly have let in enough sun to fill a thimble.

Here goes nothing. Pure experience.

I stepped up on the flag and went to open the door but checked a second; the slab was heavier than I anticipated. I tried peering through the inset lite instead, to see if maybe I hadn’t better wait outside. No luck. Too fouled with grime to make anything out. And besides, it felt unclean—like a letch gawping through the crack in the bathroom door. So, I set my teeth and, applying my shoulder, turned the lever once again.

The door swung open, then set to like it’d never open again. I let my eyes adjust to the dim. If anything, the inside was smaller and darker than it appeared from the outside. More like a bunker than anything aboveground. A bell went off. Every patron in the place swung round to see who it was. A few from my circle shouted their greeting.

Inwardly, I shrank from their beery calf-faces.

I steeled myself. Just nerves, I said.

But that was a lie. Truth was, I’m not at all afraid of people or places like this. No, it was something else, something altogether hairier crawling the pit of my stomach. Revulsion. And bits of sick.

I’ll preface this with a confession:

I don’t drink.

Never have.

Doesn’t make sense to me. Maybe it’s my OCD, but why would anyone with a mind worth a tinker’s dam choose to be outside of it? That I would even call this a ‘confession’ at all is, I think, telling, and that’s honestly how it feels. Try telling someone you don’t drink sometime. See what happens.

I’m serious.

I can tell you what’ll happen; they’ll put on a ‘yeez’ face like you’ve come out, or they’ll talk down their nose at you (as ‘allies’ always do) about that other friend they have that doesn’t drink, or they’ll just offer condolences. Like you’ve got yourself a condition … but thank goodness it isn’t catching. The truth is, drinkers run terrible risks. Bookie’s odds are ten to one you’ll do something dangerous, career-ending, or even criminal if you drink long and hard enough, and nearly a hundred to one you’ll do something stupid. Many, many times. Drunk dialing an ex, getting a face tattoo, wolf-whistling a priest. And for what? If there is a joy unique to the inebriated, I have yet to come across it. It’s just escape, pure and simple—that and the cheap solace that at least in a bar, no one notices you’ve just said something daft or contemptible ‘cause they’re all just as impaired. Unless they decide to hit you over it.

That’s also why drunks hate the designated driver. They love to repeat that delusion, that mass hysteria, that mermaid’s song of the articulate drunk, the profound tippler, the thinking boozehound, etc. almost as much as the one about someone’s grandma living to a thousand and smoking a pack a day. Humphrey Boggart they’ll say, Brick Pollitt. Frank Sinatra. After all, celluloid is chock full of those divine rogues; laconic maybe, but pithy, clear-eyed to a fault, with all the anthologized quips and punchlines. In real life, though, the best a drunk can hope for is originality through incompetence, and they can’t have someone hanging about the place that gives them the lie, someone capable of sound judgment or, (worse yet) remembering what happened the next day. People resent it, even when they’ve asked you out. I hadn’t willingly been in the company of drinkers since … well, since maybe never. And yet here I was, out for the ‘pure experience’ in this votive shrine to the cup and jug.

The taproom was dim and soupy with smoke except here and there, where it was irradiated with neon and halogen. I found myself blinking back tears at the nicotine fumes and the smell of sweat and fermentation and the strident glare of the infinity box over the bar proclaiming ‘unhappy hour’ and the stupid bigness of the gestures of arms and hands and the deafening throb of a chunky neon-noir-looking jukebox in the corner that (improbably) bore the word ‘Sapphire’ on its front in an extravagant profusion of cursive and lens flares and pumped the air so full of the loudest hits of the seventies and eighties there was no room left in it for speech. The walls were dark wood—stained, rough-grained and uneven as if we ourselves were spilt in the vat to sparge and boil and foment, each vertical inch covered in ikons, saints and heroes of the vat and still, their names etched across the spidery shields and badges and stopper labels in crescive typesetting reminiscent of the Appalachian romance of moonshine. Each worn and pawed-over in clumsy reverence as if there was nothing more in the world than drink and drink was salvation and our only consolation and sure escape. The floor was tacky, pulling ‘schlip schliip’ at the rubber of my soles. Why? WHY? It was like a blasphemy of walking on the sticky fingers of children. I felt like I couldn’t in good conscience put my feet down. I hurried to the bar and stood there, hopping from foot to foot.

Trent was the one who invited everyone, our little writers’ circle, and he is everywhere and in his element and clearly enjoying himself. He spoke to everyone, poking and interrupting and laughing and laughing until I thought it must be a convulsion.

‘Hey, look who made it! Glad you’re here. What’ll you have Chuck? It’s on me.’

‘Thanks. Thanks. It’s alright. I’ll get my own.’

If anything, Trent grows more jovial. He throws open his arms, slops something fizzy on the floor. Sticky floors. His voice is in full bellow, broad and over-articulated, and yet still slightly slurred and louder even than the music warrants. There is something performative about it as if calling the others to witness.

‘What’s that? Nonsense. No ceremony here—enough with the act. What’ll you have?’

‘Nothing, thank you. I’m Ok. Really.’

‘To the devil with your formalities, Chuck, and your stupid holier-than-thou airs. Enough. Tonight we drink.’

He gestures to all sides, indicating everyone else understands what he’s about. 

‘Together. That’s how you make a tribe. You drink and laugh at the devil and carry on and spit in the world’s eye. Now what’ll you take?’

He’s succeeded in getting his audience now. Conversation along the bartop has drifted off and their eyes have wandered over, curious to see what follows. Trent has grown more belligerent, knotting his shoulders a little, steadying his frame against a table as if for a blow. I stutter.

‘Look … I’m sorry … I’m just … just not much of a drinker. I don’t mean to be a …’

He’s taken it as a personal affront; His brow darkens. There’s thunder in his eyes.

‘Not much of a drinker? Whatcha mean? Who doesn’t drink?

Looks around.

‘Who doesn’t drink? Whatsa matter with you anyway?’

He places a heavy finger on my chest, makes a move like he’ll grab my lapel, but thinks better of it. Or maybe just forgets.

‘I said I’m paying. Whydya have to do this, every time? You didn’t do this for Chris. We’re all in this together. Together. You’re no better than the rest of us!’

This, emphatically to the crowd. Het up.

‘You think you are. You do!’

By this time Chris’ stepped in, moved us apart a bit. I can breathe again but my head’s spinning. Not sure if it’s beer fumes or the emotions running high.

‘Yo. Reel it in man. It’s ok. Relax. We’re all here. Drinking. Having a good time.’

‘Thinks we’ve got dirt under our fingernails. If this were absinthe …’

He gestures with his right, anointing the floor again.

‘You can bet Chuck’d … But no, I get it, we get it ... We worked hard. No one gave me anything. I worked for it. What would you know about it?’

‘Chuck don’t know nothin’ man. Chuck don’t say he knows nothin’ either. Let it go, man. We’re haven’ a good time. It’s a good place. I know I’ll be coming back.’

Trent’s mollified now. Contents himself with a poisonous look and muttering something under his breath.

‘Well, since we’re all here.’

He casts me another wounded look, then it’s back to his writer’s circle spiel.

‘This is where it all began—literature in the vernacular. With the Danes. In a bar or longhouse or a mead hall. Thanes holding up the mead cups and skalds singing blood and thunder and the guests laughing and fighting, and sharing stories. Good stories are the great equalizer—soaked in shared danger, common feeling … not like those pricks’ll tell it … Pound, Joyce … ‘not 26 men in the world can understand my poem’ … No, you’ve gotta feel it. It explains itself in a room. The reader should be intensely alive. The word should glow hot in your hand. So tonight, we’re gonna be intensely alive. We’ll recite, read our work aloud to get the feel for it. So cheers, and drinks on me for anyone who wants a go at it.’

He raises his glass, the contents whooshing dangerously high, and the others follow suit with a good-natured shout. So far, I can tell it’s been rehearsed, writ out beforehand as surely as if he were reading off the back of a napkin. He continues, but now he’s looking me straight in the eye.

‘And if you don’t have the nerve, the penance is Karaoke. Classics only.’

This followed by another round of shouting and people pulling up this or that little piece on their phones and jockeying to go first.

Trent waves them down then wipes his palm on his front. I’m not sure what was on it, but I’m not going to shake his hand. He pulls a folded sheet from his pocket and begins to hum and unfold it, bit by bit. Ponderous thick fingers. Then he puffs himself thumping up like a chartist demagogue from a worked-up ambo.

‘This is it, folks. The skalds song. Pure experience for you.’

And he began reading, slowly, like a throatier, basso profundo Robert Frost.

I once had a piano teacher that’d stop me every other minute when I was playing for her. ‘nono’ she’d say, ‘you play like dog. Dog walking down the street and piss on every fire hydrant. He no care. When everything especial, nothing especial. Choose which fire hydrant you gonna piss on.’ 

Trent recited like dog.

‘We didn't live in apple country

            but everybody had a little apple, nearly everybody had

                        a little apple orchard.

If there was ever any trouble,

it seemed like, if there was ever any trouble,            

                                                anything that happened

that shouldn't have happened it seemed  that I—                              

was right in the middle of it.

We used to,

It seemed like in the family               

            by the time we got to school,

by the time we were school-age and went to school,

we used to steal apples, sometimes   

on the way home from school,

                        and I was always for that. 

Somebody would mention and

                                                            all right

we'd go steal a few apples,

                        eat em' on the way home. 

They didn't object to much—             people,

if you didn't start throw'n 'em

and waste'n 'em

                        They wouldn't mind if you'd get one to eat,

                        put a couple in your pockets, they wouldn't say a thing,

but if you arms full an' started throwing them

                                                an' wasting them,

they'd really,              

                                    oh boy,

            they'd get mad at you. 

            They were thrifty little people. 

There was a general cheer and table drumming and drinks passed round and the sick and hearty meeting of flesh on flesh. It was, I admit, better than I had thought it would be. But the burr of his diction was so wantonly cornpone, so patently inelegant I couldn’t suppress a smile in my hand.

Like dog. 

He didn’t miss it of course, but he’s in his cups now, exulting, basking in the commendation. His piggy eyes beam with malice.

‘What, Chuck, not up to your standards? What a shock! Too bad ... Everyone else seemed to get it.’

He looked around as if for a second, pantomiming. He’s already pretty far gone; there are four empty glasses at his elbow, besides the one he’s gesturing with.

Suddenly, I feel sick. The derision, the closed curtain of thick-lidded faces and gales of witless laughter. I grab the back of a chair to steady myself. I need air. Start coughing.

‘C’mon then Chuck, let’s see if you can do better. Jackson here says you can’t. Anyone like those odds?’

He almost spits it. Slams down the bill on the bar.

Someone breaks in. I think it’s Britt but I can’t tell.

‘It’s ok Trent. It was stunning. Brilliant really. Wow. Chuck doesn’t look so good. Why don’t I just ...’

Trent gets this wicked twist of a smile.

‘Karaoke it is for Chuck. Hope you’re not as uptight on stage as you are with a drink.’

There’s a tightness growing across my chest. I have to pull my shoulders apart.

‘No. I’ll go. I’ll …’

My fingers have gone pins and needles. I flex them, swallow. All I can think of is this silly little ditty, a nursery rhyme really, that I had written for my friend Elisabeth when we were teenagers. At the time, she’d been gushing about folk pathways and the genius of collective composition. Bylina, folksong, lullabies, clapping games, Inuit children stories. All too perfect, too archetypal to have been authored by an individual. So of course I wrote her a single-author nursery rhyme just to be a tick.

There is a lot that goes into a good doggerel. The rhyme scheme and scansion can be pretty demanding ‘cause you’ll want it to roll off the tongue (and easily) if a child’s to sing it. Thematically, it’s got to tie into something mundane and domestic—an image or activity that any child can relate to—and yet insinuate a larger, more adult metaphor at its core, sometimes with oblique references to infamous events or public figures, and if it can refer to a season or astronomical event, so much the better. Ah, I thought. Music lessons begin in the fall. Mortal discipline. The aphorisms of mastery. Don’t piss on every fire hydrant. Lizzy was so annoyed at the cheek she didn’t write for a month, but I thought it elegant in its own way. I still do.

‘One-y and a two-y and a three-y and a four
up bow, down bow, aft and fore.
Five-y and a six-y and a seven and an eight
the cricket and the fiddle-man never play late.

Why does the cricket chirp at night?
Because he hasn't resin'd right.
How do you make him play his scale?
Loosen his wings and tighten his tail.’

The room erupts in laughter.

‘That all you got? Ha! C’mon, Chuck, even you need a drink after a sorry showing like that. I thought you thought you were something special!’

Trent pounds my back with all the violent friendliness of a sore winner. I can’t feel my fingers at all. I try to laugh it off, not to shrink from the pressing hands, the sounds of wood and glass and giddy horse laughter. I sniff, sit down, head spinning. The recitation goes on, but I can’t hear anything. I smell sweat and rot and fermentation and salt and stale and used gum. It’s on my hand from under the chair, and the room is swimming like a bomb went off in my head, and I’m sinking, and I think I’m going to be sick. People are leaving me alone now. I breathe. Slower. SLOWER. I can recognize the faces now, but there’s still a rubber band around my neck and I still think I’m going to be sick. Some time has passed. A couple of people have recited now. I’ve registered some banter and applause between bits of relative quiet and self-seriousness. I feel for all the world like my head is inside their mouths, like their words are licking the roof of my own. I move to go to the bathroom, get jostled hard. Someone helps me break from the crowd. Britt.  I thank her. Let go of her hand. Just going to the bathroom. As soon as I get away from the closeness my head clears a bit. I have a headache, but my pulse comes down and I’m more or less myself again. There’s just the one bathroom, and it’s occupied. I lean my face against the door, thanking it from depth in my soul for being so solid and real and so cold on my forehead. There is no handle, just a round hole where one should have been. I can hear the person inside. It’s Trent talking to himself, dialing, calling someone on his phone. My ears perk despite themselves. I have nowhere to go. So I listen a bit.

‘Hey momma bird. It’s me, peanut.’

His voice is so tender, so unguarded. Purring like an organ wren wrapped in velvet. I can’t make out her response, but it sounds thrilled and he laughs, high and natural and sweet. I’m imagining his face, but I can’t get it to jive with that voice. 

‘No, of course not. Well, maybe a little. But I’m a big boy. I can hold my drink. Of course, I can. I’m a Gill, aren’t I? Well, that’s not why I called. I just missed you momma.’

This last is delivered in a voice so saccharine I snort a little before I can stop myself, but his mother takes it in stride, goes on and on in that doting, hennish tone every teenager loves in secret but won’t tolerate in front of friends. And he just takes it. A grown man. All ‘yes momma’ and giggles and preternatural naturalness. It almost feels like he’s stroking the phone in his hand.

‘No, it’s ok. I told you. Yup. I’m eating alright. Sleeping. And they’re good people here … stout hearts.’

He laughs.

‘I know, I know, you were anxious they’d turn up their nose at this ‘Idaho farmboy,’ but they aren’t like that. It’s the ideas that count, momma. The community, just like you always told me. Like the story with the bridge ladies … by the way, did Fey make it out …?’

At this, she goes on cooing for some time, starting in on talk of this and that on the homefront. What with his bullheadedness, I’d never have guessed he had so many friends moving or getting married or having kids. After a while, he brings it back to the present.

‘Y’know, I brought them out today, momma … My turn for the circle. Took them to Joe’s. I told you—it’s like Five Corners back home ... No, momma, it’s not just a writer’s group. It’s a society. You can take’em to a bar. It’s something special ... You’d love it, hear’n them read and laugh and cheer. I gonna tell you, I miss you and pop SO much, I don’t know if I could bear it out here without’m … No, they’re all nice, I told you … Well, there’s always the ONE, right? Thumb up their ... you know, like Dirty Grandpa.’

It’s her turn to laugh.

‘It’s too bad. I like’m, I try to get’m to come round but so far it’s no good ... I know mamma, you’d get’m to see. You’d get’m to come round.’

At this point, I step away.  It’s getting too personal and I don’t really want to hear how it continues. He just goes on and on. I’ve never heard him talk like this, like there is just so much waiting to spill out. It’s time for me to go. No one really notices.

Trent’s voice—that soft, sweet voice—keeps echoing in my head as I make my way home. And his mom, you can tell from how she stroked and fretted all over him she’s not the drinking kind. But if gets him to call home, if it gives her back her sweet little boy, well … maybe it’s ok. She’ll live with it.

I find I can’t find it in me to despise him like I did, and it burns in my chest. He’s changed, or maybe I have, because not ten minutes ago I couldn’t help it. No, there’s something there that wasn’t there before. Something hidden, but none the less real. And what is it in him that can’t share itself sober? That thing that needs unlocking, permission to go free and breathe the outer air, to live in its own skin? Has that thing always been there? Waiting? Pinning away? Whining in in the dark of the morning to stretch its legs and take in the fragrance of the passing night? Is this the hair in his throat, the unscratchable itch behind his claws or closed look? The soft and curled and beautiful inward thing that cannot be touched perchance the miracle tremble and fade and be lost to memory like the flare of Fátima’s sunfire parhelion?

I can imagine his face now. Relaxed around the eyes and in the jawline, smiling, open, deaf to fear and judgment. I doubt I’ll ever see it that way, but I know it’s there now. More important, I know I’ll see the shadow of it in his every flinch and haw.

I’ve made it to campus now. I’m passing people on my way up the quad towards home. The dusk is glowing. Fireflies dip and rise, weft keen and amber gold spun off the warp of the night. Little dippers, we called them back home. The air is soft, and my tongue has shrunk back to its normal size. It’s still light enough that people are moving along slowly, catching each other’s eye, nodding here and there, perhaps smiling. They look the way they always have, I suppose, and I’ve never much loved the faces of strangers. But tonight … tonight it seems some part of that revelation has wedged itself in each glance, each little smile, illuminated as if some invisible cantle of their soul, tucked far back and away is secretly humming Dôme épais to itself low and lax and inviting like slackwater turning under the keel, promising force and compass and change of the tide. Maybe it’s imaginary. I don’t know. It feels different—physically different. I can feel it in my skin and in the way my breath moves in and out of my lungs.

I’ve arrived back at home. Tino is out. It’s still a pretty early night. I push open the door and make my way back to the bathroom. It’s open a crack and I catch a chance reflection in the glass. I move in. In the back of my eyes, it’s still there, I can see it. That same secret and fragile and beautiful joy that’s holed up inside too precious to hide away, yet too precious to let them touch. Just like Trent.

When I used to visit my grandmother, I’d always stand nose-pressed and marvel at her hutch in the great room. It was a room for entertaining, so it followed that it had the nicest things in it, but that hutch, with its rich brass trim and old shaker charm, held the nicest things of all. Silver souvenir spoons all hanging in rows from their bright enameled handles, perfectly round and smooth, the stems braided or scalloped, stamped with the names of far cities, landmarks, and native sons. Depression-era glass, blue delphite and monax. Bibelots wrapped in hot-pressed felt. Best of all, the gold-plated cutlery, opalescent, delicate, and exquisitely formed as a Nicobar pigeon. The queen, I thought, must eat with such things. And never once were they used, not even for Christmas. They were too nice to touch—or so said my mom, usually when I tried to touch them—but I never did, and neither did anyone else. The hutch was always locked. Many a time I imagined taking them out, stroking them, turning them in the light, and I knew (we all knew, though no one could ever prove it) that late at night when the house was quiet, grandma must take a key off some secret chain ‘round her neck and unlock the case and take them out and eat a piece of cake ooooooh so slowly. All by herself. No grandkids. Just her.

I still think drink is revolting, but I see now how they need it, need to give themselves permission to be uninhibited, to be something they love and of which they are afraid. Sometimes, late at night, after the kids are in bed, we all need to take whatever it is out of the hutch and eat midnight cake.

I go into my bedroom and grab my phone out of the drawer of the dresser, but catch myself. That’s right, I’d told them I ‘don’t have a cell.’ Easy there. I pocket it and walk out. There’s a booth round the corner, a real museum piece. It’s an unclean thing, to say the least, but it does work. At least according to Saoirse and Tom. They joke about it all the time, trying to figure out ways to get someone to use it. See, it smells exactly like crotch, they say. Always. No one knows why. Well, somebody probably knows, but who’d confess to that? They offered me a hundred bucks to lick it once after they’d seen me polish the kitchen as hard and bright as the buttons on Nurse Rached’s blouse. They knew I wouldn’t take it. They knew. It could have been a thousand. I pocket some change off the counter, walk out, around the corner to where it sits in a dirty halo of smudged glass under the streetlamp. I get a flashback from the bar, pause, then open the door with my elbow. Thank goodness I’m wearing long sleeves. I pick up the phone and yank it outside the box. Smells as advertised. Arm’s length. Deposit quarters and thumb through my phone for the number, dial 267-SLYDIAL, and then:

‘Hey Trent, just wanted to say sorry for being such a killjoy tonight … wasn’t feeling myself. It was a good time. I had a good time, so thank you. Loved your poem – took me back … y’know, summers, picking peaches and fighting with crab apples and watching the wasps get drunk. That’s the stuff that makes us, isn’t it? Anyway, just wanted to apologize and say thanks. Anyway, see you in class.’

I know it won’t change anything, really. He’ll keep his thorns and drumfire. We won’t be any friendlier. I doubt we’ll even speak of it.

But I know. Now I know.

I think I’m going to call my mom.

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