2010
08.31

they say hemingway could step out of his room
and mistreat his wife
after caring so much about sailor santiago
and
his battle with a shark on a small raft
off the coast of cuba.
but once on land in la finca, outside
of the world of his imagination and the cold walls
and the hard floors of the estate
facing him instead,
he was cold
as the waters off the coast of newfoundland
to his real-life wife
mary.

strange,
how we’re so comfortable inside
and outside the proscenium of the skull,
too often barren of feelings,
the rivers of our hearts
suddenly empty,
unable to flow, unable to give
air.

plants die and persons cower,
as the monster from the room
loving himself only,
now tramples living things far more
precious than his mind can
ever create.
there is something about
the tranquility of live objects,
and more destructible,
than the flitters
and filters
on the other side of the wall.

there is something
about the ephemerality
of the imagination

that preserves it and protects
it in that
strange cell.

© Carl Kavadlo, 2010
[others]
2010
08.30

when we drove through endless new jersey
in search of a sunset neither of us wanted
to see: you sang along beautifully to the radio
and i sat quietly, fingering myself through the hole
in my favorite pants, chiming in to sing along, monotone and
deceivingly unenthusiastic to the few songs i knew the words to.

you told me what made you sad and why it made
you sad and what it was about life that made
you want to fuck it away.

you told me where you wanted to be and why you wanted
to be there and how being there would make all the
difference in the world.

i counted cars that only had one illuminated headlight and told
you not everything has to be so shitty.

not everything has to be so shitty.

once i almost touched your hand. not because i loved you
but because i thought you had fallen asleep at the
wheel, when really you were probably thinking hard
or trying to remember something far away and just closed
your eyes because you forgot you were driving and
you needed to concentrate.

and at one point i knew exactly where we were but
told you to take a wrong turn because i wanted
to get lost again.

we drove across the bridge they were
doing construction on last year, and made a
left onto the beach, probably about four in the
morning. i took my shoes off before i could
even smell salty air because i knew
we were getting close.

earlier that day we smoked macanudos on a picnic table
in a large white gazebo in pennsylvania.

earlier that day we sat in the laundromat and
read old newspapers and cut out funny pictures
from magazines and wore the
clothing other people left behind and drank
sodas from the only machine on the east coast
that still only charges a dollar, waiting for the dryer to
warm our coats.

earlier that day you told me about your green
jacket.

earlier that day jimmy eat world came on the
radio and after the second verse of
a praise chorus i opened the window
all the way and took off my glasses before
i stuck my head out into to the night
and screamed so loud i hurt my throat,
not because i was happy or because i wanted
to feel alive or because i was in love,
but rather because that was just what the
moment called for and no one else was
doing it.

earlier that day we were in new york.
we drove through three states
and every time we crossed a
border we took the most beautiful
part of what we were leaving behind
with us.

and now i’m running, even though i’m barefoot
and bleeding with a girl who’s really
in switzerland, or sweden or scotland or
some stupid fucking country with an ‘s’ that’s
not new jersey, or new york, or pennsylvania
and i want to hurl myself into the ocean
i see before me, not because i’m angry,
not because i’m in love, not because it was
what the moment called for and no one else was
doing it, but because maybe, i thought
it’d be easier to float home and i didn’t want to
put my shoes back on.

and because not everything has to be so shitty.

and while all of this remained unspoken between us, i had
to apologize to my dentist and explain that the
reason i fell asleep in his chair was
because i had been up all night counting cars
that only had one illuminated headlight.

© Andrew Chmielowiec, 2010
[others]
2010
08.29

Pearled smoothness catches her attention and suddenly she is aware of the last iridescent button gliding under her fingertips. It flashes silver-blue, then deadens-leaving a dull, lifeless gray. She shrugs the silk from her shoulders with a rustle like memories better left forgotten.

Sunlight stretches under the high curtains. It tickles her bare skin as she exchanges professional attire for comfort.  She hums to herself and takes a mental inventory of the evening’s dinner ingredients.

A single reverberating crack wrenches her back in time. She shutters and squeezes her eyes shut. It’s a vain attempt to block a gun blast she’s never actually heard. Golden hairs bristle on her arms but she focuses on filling her lungs with air, consciously expanding her chest, until the lurking disquiet slinks back to its hiding spot.

Did he realize, she wonders as she goes to the kitchen and systematically begins removing clean plates from the dishwasher, how his choice would affect her?

Pushing away thoughts of what he did or did not realize, she flips on the stereo and boppy music streams out, providing a mind numbing melody to sing along with. But even as she sings, she needs more distraction. She clicks on the TV and finds strange solace in the static movements of fictional beings.

A blaze of color beckons from the sink. She rinses peppers, eggplant, spinach and carrots and prepares to chop. Momentarily entranced by the flashing steel blade of her chef’s knife her eyes shift involuntarily to the pale green veins twisting down her wrist. Had he considered just letting his life drain away? What prompts a person to utilize one means of death over another?

Maybe if he’d left the requisite suicide note, she might understand. But they never found one. If he put explanations or apologies in writing, the wind tore them away, leaving only a dead boyfriend and unanswered questions.

She seizes a carrot and hacks with extreme prejudice. She can still see him. She pictures him exactly as he was their last night together. His last night, period. A different kitchen, a different season, but the knife was the same. She wracks her memories for some indication of what would come next. She re-examines his comments, his expressions, the way he held the knife, and finds nothing. It’s not the first time she’s played this game.

Would things have been different if she had woken when he slipped out of her bed to go home? If, still drowsy and unaware, she had reached for him and pulled him back to her, holding him close in those desperate wee hours?

She splits a pepper open and scrapes thousands of tiny seeds away from the deep scarlet flesh, as indifferent to the creamy pods as she had been to the inconvenient fetus the two of them created. The seeds scatter across the metallic sink and, in a rush of water, slide down the drain into darkness.


© Rebecca Gaffron, 2010
2010
08.28

I told her, “I think I have Assburgers.”

“Assburgers? what’s that?”

“it’s high functioning autism. I often feel that way,
that I am in my own little bubble and when I’m
talking to people I am not really conversing with them
but watching them speak. and there is a point where I
shut down and can’t say a word.”

“but you’re fine, completely normal…”

“I know,” I said, “but after a period of time,
if you put me in a social situation, I think I would go
nuts…”

“nuts?”

“yeah, nuts.”

“is that why you’re often alone and can’t survive
in a normal relationship?”

“I think so, or else I am difficult, selfish,
and self-absorbed?”

“but you don’t seem that way, I mean, you’re a really nice
guy, except you’re private.”

“well, like I said, if you put me in a room with ten people, for
a long period of time, I think I would go nuts and turn mean
and vulgar…”

“well, you’re either autistic or an asshole, and I don’t think
it’s the latter…”

“I have guilt problems as well.”

“guilt?”

“yeah, from ignoring people, and avoiding people so much,
I really like people, but need space from them.”

“have you ever sought help?”

“no…”

“maybe you should…“

“well, it’s not that difficult, I have managed this far and have adjusted so as my life is
somewhat fulfilling. I wish I could find someone who understands though.”

“I understand.”

“thank you.”


© Mike Meraz, 2010
[others]
2010
08.27

In Rome I drank absinthe. Two shots. They lit it on fire for me. It
melted two sugar cubes. I didn’t stay in the bar, I’d only come for
the absinthe it advertised. Instead I left to walk through the narrow
cobblestone streets.

I walked until I saw a man fall from a doorway onto the street in
front of me. Yellow liquid seeped from his open mouth. I walked until
I saw a mob of yelling men dragging someone (a criminal?) from a
piazza. I walked until I found my friend sitting on the steps of our
hostel.

“I drank absinthe,” I told him.
“Did you see the fairy?” he asked smiling.
“No,” I said, “I saw a man fall and I saw a man dragged away.”
“Did you stop for them?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t think that was the absinthe,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I don’t think it was.”

© Shea Newton, 2010