A quick look down a hole
Wheel me to a quick fix
Wheel me to the finish
A quick look down a hole
Down a hole

Strap me to the elevator
Stand me up
Stand me on my feet
Strap me to the elevator
The elevator

Tears slide out of my skin
Afraid to be alone
Afraid to be in front
Tears slide out of my skin
Out of my skin

I stand by the way you died
Could’ve been quicker
Could’ve been slower
But I stand by the way you died
I stand

© Chad Ewers, 2010

I follow a man because something is promising about the way he only looks
forward as he walks, through narrow streets and across the yards of colorful
homes wrapped in Catalan flags and steaming in the summer breeze. He doesn’t
look back but I know he’s leading me somewhere. We cut through alleyways and
apartments heavy with European graffiti and intricate circuits of clothing line
that tangle and rise and appear to be holding up the walls. Children flood the
thin streets, and everybody looks overheated in a way that’s passionate and not
at all discomforting. The man picks up his pace as we cross a stretch of grass,
while the breeze acquires a chill and the day prepares to end. We eventually
reach the water, and there’s a group of what I assume to be his friends on top
of a hill. They’re all limbs and long hair, melting into shadows as the sun
descends. As we approach the hill I notice the Mediterranean is dark and thick
beyond a large freight yard, with stacked boxcars and sleeping machinery all
red, yellow, and blue, stretching what must be miles along the coast. The air is
sweet and makes me hungry. Looking out over the yard and into the water, the
thought that one-day none of it may exist makes it all so pretty; in the way
that it’s pretty when Spanish girls cry.

Love Not Love – Ford Dagenham

He saw her long black hair first 1991 at her locker in college hall wearing all black with floppy black hat and knew and felt she would be special for ever.

Her boyfriend in prison she wanted nothing right now she said smoking close together in the smoking corner by kitchen bins while he said nothing at all heart in his mouth heart in his boots.

He went out in her car colour of primer at lunchtimes and she cried on his shoulder upset for no reason on birthdays at the pub on the sea wall where big boats float into London.

He dropped out of university 1994 she got her degree 1996 met a man there and too late he said something late at night after the pub shut sat in his garden staring at the stars.

She married he went wearing shiny borrowed suit and ate only booze embracing everyone and demanded to know she was happy before he could leave for the pub to punch a hand dryer and cry for two hours at the sea wall where big boats float into London.

She moved abroad 10 years and had three daughters kept in touch by telephone and postcard visited twice a year for calm days on garden furniture and quiet forest walks daughters run everywhere her husband never came.

His grandmother died 2006 she left her husband and fled home with daughters and stayed in his bed one New Years Eve where at last they touched.

She rang every night and said we’re not going out you know he laughed happy but worried about her alone in council accommodation.

She was seeing someone from the old days a friend told him he’d seen it on Facebook and he said no she isn’t but when she called she said she was and the Nick Cave song playing was burned into a sad place in his mind and he punched big holes into the bedroom door.

She hadn’t known what she was doing she said and sleeping together one more time he couldn’t stay inside her because she convulsed laughing at his rape jokes and friends again they have endless afternoon coffees.

Skyline – Eirik Gumeny

We were fucked up – on cocaine, on acid, on a case of shitty beer and
on everything else we were handed that night.  We were hot – trapped
in a tiny bathroom with a broken door and a radiator set on Kill.  We
could’ve, should’ve, just turned on the water and taken a shower.
Taken a bath, a piss, curled up on the mat and taken a nap.  I
could’ve, should’ve, fucked her against the sink, watched the both of
us in the mirror.  But we wanted, needed, air, and the window was in
better shape than the door.

We danced along that ledge, along a foot of concrete, tearing off our
clothes, laughing and shouting at the skyline that stabbed through the
streets.  We danced along that ledge, craning our necks to stare into
infinity and breathe in broken moonlight.  We could’ve, should’ve,
crawled back inside, leaned against the tub and fallen asleep in each
other’s arms.  But we were fucked up and freezing, naked and
screaming, and we wanted it to last forever.

Tuesday – Shannon Peil

He calls himself a fucking idiot and kicks the shitbox again before picking up his shirt, throwing it over his shoulder and turning back to walk back the way he came. He fingers the phone in his pocket and knows someone would pick him up if he tried hard enough but maybe not cuz it’s the middle of a workday and then he pats his back pocket and makes sure his wallet is in there and how much could a cab really cost from here to there, it can’t be that bad. It’s probably worth it, it’s hot as hell out here today but he could use the exercise and needs to be careful with his money for the next few weeks while he figures this all out. He wonders if he should just walk to an auto parts store and buy a starter yeah it’s probably the starter but he isn’t sure. They’d ask him what kind of car it was and he’d look at them and say it’s a 1980 shitbox, I think it’s a 1.8 liter flat four but it’s definitely a shitbox can you look that up in the system there buddy. His lighter’s in his hand now and he wonders why he even keeps it in his pocket, he doesn’t smoke anymore but he wonders if that guy at the bus stop wants to bum him one and he’s pretty sure he’s got fifty cents in his pocket. He thinks fuck this cigarette is good, worth a whole dollar even though it’s a menthol it’s not so bad and how far away is he now. Probably 10 miles and his feet are aching already and he doesn’t even know what he’ll do when he gets home. A car honks and he looks over and three girls are whistling at him and his cheeks start burning and he thinks about asking for a ride but okay the light goes green and they’re gone. He flicks the cigarette butt into the gutter and immediately receives a dirty look from a young woman on a bicycle but he’s too tired to do anything but blankly stare at her.

Vade Mecum – Hayley Chewins

The sea whips its weight behind us, pulling back like an obstinate child
when we turn to laugh in the direction of the sun. I have often thought of
this place, of you, and have put your feet back exactly where they were, in
the hollows where your heels had sunk into the sand. To say that the dunes,
the wind, the sea, all gathered together in a truce to hurry us from our
stagnant paths, undulating silently, would be whimsical – but we are in
love, and so whimsical let’s be. ‘Let’s be magical!’ I say, and you don’t
even notice the impulsive incoherence of my thought, but instead, wishing me
towards you, place your ear on mine, as if listening for the murmur of a
wave’s oscillation. I would catch you gliding, like a small boy, on the edge
where the foam’s line touched the beach; I would catch you floating, a piece
of dark kelp, in the crash of the ocean’s cerulean burden. I have pulled you
past too many memories to let this one contract and die. The darkness
threatens us from the West, motioning to the hill that winds us home. I will
sleep, a rough tide for lullabies. I will keep the pearl of your voice,
untouched. I will sleep, and rest this memory, so it can grow into a great
stalk of black kelp, and rush with the sweep of the moon’s pull towards the
apex of the sky.

What You Are About To Do, Do Quickly – Shane Jesse Christmass

The knothole in the wall had indeed become a human-house in a four-story redbrick building in Jerusalem.

The horse-cups of coffee, the eyes closed or staring, lost in watering.

The stone had clearly been rolled back, enough done, for duty-once as contentedly at his Godly task. Christ, the hero of this tale stared at Judas.

An indefinable dread came upon Jesus.

He rose to shake the acoustic shadows.

Judas ran to the donkey-house, the stable, as thin ascensions of blue smoke signalled preparations for some reason that had abandoned the mystical-enterprise and constructed the strip-mining that melted in Jesus’ mouth.

In addition, Satan yielded up the life that had spanned another life.

The synagogue, said that Jesus was resented and arranged with convenient Holy Troops and Squadrons, and that he collected all of the elemental powers of the Jewish race, but the talent was now summer-gone.

Judas whispered. “No wonder that fellow thought me forlorn.”

I spoke to her last night,
years ago-
when we were both in the same room,
and she told me how happy she was-
proud she was
of me.

We spoke yesterday evening,
years ago-
when I had moved on
and she had stayed where she was for now-
but was almost ready,
almost ready to go someplace warmer.

We spoke yesterday afternoon,
years ago-
when her hair was strawberry blond
from the Florida sun
and she told me how happy she was
for herself.

I spoke last night,
last night-
when she was away from me-
away from all of us.
And I knew how happy she was
that we knew she saw us.

© Patti Azzara, 2010

                                        Oh god, her.
What a charming outfit.
                                        That dress makes her look huge!
                                        What was she thinking?
It’s been quite a while-
how are the kids?
                                        Pretentious, spoiled brats.
And Joe? 
                                        He didn’t deserve that promotion.
                                        Look at her gloat.
I hear you are involved
in a new charity?
                                        Not another one. Another
                                        new crack. Really, what next?

It’s been great catching up! You know,
we should do lunch sometime.
                                 
                                          Gag me, if you ever call I promise
                                          I will vomit.
Alright, well, goodbye!
                                          And good riddance. I really just
                                          cannot stand that woman.

Oh, Mrs. Pale, fancy meeting you here!
How lovely to see you.

© Shelly Holder, 2010

will be the recognition of our home for the first time.

© Andrej Grilc, 2010

© Marcin J. Kuhn 2010

[others]

taking the spray, aiming
for his eyes.  At lunch
maids gab about sex.  Ali blurts,
Why don’t you have kids?
Jess, 21, says she wants to be

a therapist.  Talk turns
to unmade beds.  $7.50 an hour.
Roachy guests.  A rare tip.
Jess would abandon ship,
but she can’t afford a car,

depends on the bus.  All wrong,
she dreams of him, the menacing
voice.  In the morning,
she puts on scrubs, waits for
room assignments.

© Kenneth Pobo, 2010

© Corisa Moreno, 2010

© James Babbs, 2010

[others]

********************
     On December 31, the man who had been hailed as savior and messiah stood in a lavish hotel lobby. The eerily empty building was where the event would take place in a little over twelve hours. He was methodically picking the poppy seeds off a bagel and letting them fall into a napkin.

     The other approached him, asking, “Peyton Conrad?”

     “Yes,” Peyton said. He was in his twenties and looked like a Calvin Klein model: fit and handsome with carefully rumpled brown hair, innocent blue eyes, and a small beard.

     “I’ve seen pictures of you, read about you… but it’s funny, I’ve never actually met you,” Kenneth said. He was middle aged in an average way and had not been hailed as savior.

     “Are you Kenneth Moss?”

     “Yeah.”

     They shook hands and then were silent. Kenneth crossed his arms over his stomach and rocked on his heels. He had never killed someone before. His brother Joel, who had fought in the war, had said it became like a game after a while, not that it was fun, but it was like it wasn’t you and wasn’t real. Joel had said things like that. He had been a poet. Before. He was still alive now, but he wasn’t really living.

      “Come, sit,” Peyton said seriously. He gestured grandly toward some scarlet and gold armchairs, as if he were an old sage in some tea-drinking country. Kenneth instantly disliked him.

     After they had sat down, Peyton leaned on his armrest and stared intensely at the other. “So what are your theories?” asked the young man.

     “Theories?”

     “Who’s instructing the President? Was it a spirit? A god? God? Aliens?” He gave Kenneth a mischievous squint, as if he were about to say something naughty. “Or perhaps it’s all a conspiracy,” he joked with the slightest smile.

     “Or maybe schizophrenia.”

     “Is that what you think?” asked Peyton, raising one eyebrow.

     Kenneth had thought about this during the past month and finally decided upon the simplest, most generic answer. “I think it’s God,” he said.

     “I think it’s an angel,” Peyton replied. “She wants to test our selflessness and love for one another. She wants to find out who would be willing to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others.”

     “Like Jesus.”

     “You could definitely say that. Though I’m actually not Christian. I practice a variety of Eastern religions.”

     Peyton seemed ready to continue talking about his religious beliefs, so Kenneth cut him off. “With a few angels thrown in there?” he half-joked.

     “Right.”

     “Okay, so this is just a test? That’s all? Like Abraham and Isaac?” Kenneth hoped Peyton wouldn’t understand the reference.

      “Well, I don’t think I’m going to get a last-minute reprieve.” There was a pause, and then he said casually, “So there were some people who did think the President was crazy. They’ve really criticized this plan of his.”

     “Well you’re always gonna get those people, no matter what he does. But I remember, there was just silence that day. No one spoke out. No one knew what to say.”

      “I kept hearing fringe groups talk about conspiracies and the apocalypse. They’re the ones who spoke up while everyone else was stunned quiet. It’s like they’re comfortable with this,” said Peyton with a cringe.

     “A little creepy, isn’t it? They always make my feel a little sick. They’re not supposed to be out in the open like this, visible to all of us sane people. But more and more people are starting to believe them. They really think it’s the apocalypse. And when the world ends, you want a man with a broad smile and a comforting voice who knows what to do. Like our President. So that’s why most people are gonna listen to him, no matter what a few say,” explained Kenneth.

     They both thought about this for a minute. “Heard they didn’t get too many applications for your job,” Peyton finally said. “Well, not many who were sane and didn’t have a criminal record.”

     “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m an average man.”

     “So what made you decide to do it? Are you a hunter? A soldier?”

     He had never killed anything, but he wasn’t going to tell Peyton this. If Peyton wanted to believe he killed for fun, so be it. “Yeah, I hunt. I love to. I’m a proud member of the NRA. But, you know, liberals nowadays want to take away my right to defend myself. I just don’t understand it. I have been a Republican ever since I knew how to pronounce the word.” Kenneth expected Peyton to be a liberal and to look either uncomfortable or repulsed. But he just raised his eyebrows and looked at Kenneth with those big blue eyes, with a fascination that was almost flattering.

     “It’s interesting, that’s all,” Peyton said. “I hadn’t met anyone who actually applied for your part. But several of my friends wanted mine. I used a lot of stuff from my college application. My commitment to community service, et cetera. I figured, hey, if I could get into Princeton, I could save the nation.” He laughed. Kenneth smiled politely.

     “This has been a wonderful conversation,” said Peyton. “It’s really made me think. I feel inspired. Hope you don’t mind if I quickly update my blog.”

     “No, it’s fine.”

     After tapping on his phone for a few minutes, he handed it to Kenneth, who read the words on the screen.

Some Final Thoughts
     Like Nathan Hale, I regret that I only have one life to give for my country. Before, I had drifted through life, never really finding my purpose. It was all fun and games. But it wasn’t really fun. My soul cried out for something more.
     I am not afraid to die, knowing that it is for a greater cause than my humble existence. I often think of the children who play right now and the ones who have not even been born yet. I think of all who will have a chance to live and see their country survive, at least for a few years.
     The time fast approaches. I am looking forward to being a beacon of hope and ending America’s fear.

     “That’s good. Deep,” Kenneth said, though he hated it. Peyton smiled shyly and then tapped at his phone some more, his eyes flickering over the screen, laughing as he ate his seedless bagel. He had the same eager demeanor of all the men and women who had filled out the form, volunteering to be the victim. Apply to Die, they called it with a smile. They were all so cheerful about being killed. If Peyton hadn’t done it, many others could have quickly taken his place. “Suddenly everyone wants to die for their country,” his scowling brother had said. “When a soldier dies, nobody gives a shit. But when this guy dies, his name is going to be on the front page.”

     Somehow it didn’t seem right. Peyton didn’t look like a soldier, like a man about to die for his country. He looked like the men who were really boys, before they got uniforms and closely cropped hair. Before their jaws hardened and their eyes resolutely focused on something far away. Then they went off to a place where death became a game. Where nothing mattered anymore. Where they weren’t living.

     Kenneth wanted to either yell things or laugh, but instead he kept his voice calm. “I’ve been reading about how to slit a throat,” he said coolly. “Apparently you should push the head forward. There’s less of a chance the victim will survive. I guess you’d like that. You’d want your death to be quick.”

     Peyton looked up, mid-chew, his face distorted by the food. Kenneth was happy to see a flash of fear in those naïve blue eyes.

© Lila Rieber, 2010