The Toucan Online

insignificant compared to a tornado touchdown, MaryAnne Kolton

2012-02-10T17:10:00.003-06:00

We find it very ironic that this narrator's name is Liz, and that's all we're saying.
Some updates: The February Issue will appear on February 20th. And Editrice Liz will be reading on a panel at the Chicago Zine Fest on March 9th. More updates when we know 'em!

Now enjoy this whirlwind of a piece by one of our favorite contributors, MaryAnne Kolton. And just be happy you aren't this Liz. Or Editrice Liz. We know Editrice Liz is fabulous and rocks a mustache pretty hard, but you don't want to read the amount of things she has to read right now.

insignificant compared to a tornado touchdown
by MaryAnne Kolton

Liz huddled against the wall in the small space between the angled fireplace and the sliding glass door.

“Answer the door, bitch. I know you’re in there!” He was pounding and shouting now.

She was shaking. Afraid of real violence.

Liz started out on a somewhat even keel. Good job as a Real Estate Broker, big house, two lovely, intelligent (or so she thought) teenager daughters and a so-so marriage.

Boom! Her oldest daughter is forced into rehab at fifteen, where she thinks she’s there as a counselor rather than a fuck-up like everybody else.

Pow! The thirteen year old resents all the attention her big sister is getting and begins to act out by doing things like going into the city with older friends to see the Smashing Pumpkins. After asking permission and being told no.

Bang! Liz discovers her often-absent spouse has been seeing a wealthy, younger woman in Boston. It had crossed her mind that he was spending a lot of time in Boston. She files for divorce. The thirteen year old goes to live with her father because he’s “so not such a pain in the ass”.

Splat! She falls in lust with a married man who promises to take car of her forever or at least for the eighteen months they are together. She neglects her buyers and sellers so she can be at her lover’s beck and cell phone call. Her successful real estate business becomes less so.

Ouch! His wife wants him back.

The market turns, she sells her house collecting eight thousand dollars at the closing table.

Duh! She tries her damndest to fit all the furniture from her eleven-room house into a two-bedroom apartment and ends up selling or giving away most of her life’s possessions. Most of her life.

Liz finds a job as a corporate salesperson hustling “connectivity” devices. Read Blackberries and iPods. She soon discovers that all the other corporate sales reps are twenty-two, blonde, and wear skirts that are eight inches long and shoes with six-inch heels. She could arrive at eight o’clock for a ten o’clock appointment and still be the last one seen. Her knees are too plump and noisy for short skirts.

Ugh! She tries a three-inch, semi-stiletto heel, but the right heel gets caught in the decorative brickwork surrounding the entrance to an office complex. The fall breaks her ankle in three places.

Whack! Jobless, broke and four months behind on her rent, an off-duty sheriff’s deputy is trying to serve her an eviction notice for about the seventh time. Her life has become a reality show. A train wreck.

As she trembles and crouches, she wonders what could possibly be next.

A Poem About The Parrot, Adam Lizakowski

2012-02-03T21:42:00.000-06:00

Adam Lizakowski and The Toucan go way back...try to Issue 3. Enjoy yet another poem about birds in a magazine named after um, a bird. This one, however, shares our home territory. We may not want to be so complementary of parrots in the future.

A poem about the parrot
by Adam Lizakowski

An exotic bird -- the sun of the blue planet
you were something that I have never seen
I love you, I love you

I was too young to understand freedom
the sound of broken air is strange to my ears
I love you, I love you

Flying feathers behind bars,
a strong, hooked beak cutting
my imagination in half
I love you, I love you

How often you reminded me of myself
repeating somebody’s words
without understanding
I love you, I love you

Hawk, John L. Stanizzi

2012-01-27T11:11:00.001-06:00

One good bird deserves another...

HAWK
by John L. Stanizzi

                       My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still...

                                 Robert Frost -- After Apple Picking

I only saw it once,

though saw is an exaggeration.

It was something less than a glimpse,

some insignificant wisp of a passing idea

at the far end of my peripheral vision,

the blurred silhouette of a hawk

carrying in its talons

the blurred silhouette of a bird.

This was after I had found

the first feathers,

a catbird’s,

and then, twice, blue jays’,

feathers arranged neatly on the ground

in the shape of a starfish

or a God’s Eye.

That was all;

no plucked, hollow-boned body,

no blood.

Just a composition of feathers

there on the grass

beneath the feeders,

a talking circle,

the ritual of What is left unsaid,

the hawk lifting

the plucked and keening body

and perhaps the talking feather too,

leaving the rest behind,

as if the hawk’s ascension toward heaven

were affirmation that

when you are carried away

you must shed everything,

what you have said,

what it was you meant to say,

and, yes, even your

lovely, momentary feathers.

Existential Sign, Cody Deitz

2012-01-20T13:17:00.004-06:00

We exist, we promise.

Existential Sign
by Cody Deitz

In the Westfield shopping mall, behind the plastic tree

Is a sign that says, “You Are Here,” but I think I disagree.

Between the fountain and the food court, on a bright plastic board

Printed on thick paper I doubt I could afford

Is a large but lonely bright red arrow.

I search and search the large print board

But can’t find any more.

Either that or I am blind.

I guess it’s an existential sign.

Poem of the Week, Rendezvous Ritual With the Muse, Vineet Kaul

2012-01-13T20:37:00.001-06:00

Well, the New Year was not kind to us, landing us first with a family health crisis and then with a computer virus, so last week the Poem of the Week was an invisible piece of great meaning and tragedy. Much like Editrice Laura, but that's another story. Let's kick the new year off a bit tardily, but right all the same, with a poem that should sound a lot like a resolution. You should have more rendezvous with the muse, and then you should send them to us.
Happy New Year! (And check out what we linked to last week on Facebook in lieu of posting a poem: a PBS interview with Joan Didion about her new book, Blue Nights)

Rendezvous Ritual with the Muse
by Vineet Kaul

a misstep on some dry twigs
your pulse exposed
                     that rustle woos
                          a trigger loose
                              an impulse shoots>>

past the curtains of your eyelids
    like a bullet through a paper coreflute
right into the backstop of your brain
accuracy bragging from the residual hole
        bang in the centre of your iris
                                                                                                B-B-B-Bull’s eye!

those are the moments when you don’t blink
    you can’t think
        all you can do is resign
throwing your hands in the air…
          Taken!
by visions to which your world won’t agree
in angles condemned by all decree

Mumble a queasy

      “Take me to your leader!”

         clutch your wound and fall to the floor

                            writhe like a shaman

            to clicking sounds around a fire
            in tales and tongues you can’t decipher
or

flutter falter stumble }

shake flicker fumble } (in no particular order)

shimmer shudder grumble }

Until a scribble brings you home…

The Job Seeker, Lily Murphy

2011-12-30T16:34:00.001-06:00

For those of you who think we skipped last week's Poem, we didn't, we just reposted a very seasonal piece from one of our old issues. It probably looked like we skipped over Christmas though, and we apologize.

Here's another somewhat seasonal piece. It reminds us Editrices of what we're going to have to do in the New Year, as we're both graduating and cannot keep sponging off our progenitors any longer, or else they may take actions similar to that of this disgruntled mother. We wouldn't go buy glasses of beer, though. No, we would buy novels, paint brushes, and sushi. Also thrift store clothes and vinyl records.

Thanks for another great year, Toucan fans! Let's hope 2012 is bright and prosperous (and that your Editrices both end up with six-figure salaries. Somehow.)

The Job Seeker

by Lily Murphy

A desperate thought slams into my brain, what if it rains today like it rained yesterday. I have no umbrella since I broke my old one over a paper boys head last week but I must push on nevertheless and venture out into society in order to find employment.

I must do this because mother has given me an ultimatum, she wants me with a job by Christmas or I will find myself homeless. It is an outlandish notion that I must get an occupation but I must suffice or find myself without a dwelling come the festive season. Mother says she doesn’t want any son of hers hanging around the house like a vagrant with a university degree in his back pocket, so urged on by an ardent mother I must take leave of my membership of the union of work shy elements.

My luck so far has seen a bright sky yet as I amble down the street I fear the clouds up above are making their way from the west and usually it is the clouds from the west which carry the most rain and I have no umbrella. I will not take the chance so I will make my way into this public house here and with the transport and lunch money mother gave me I will exchange it for a few glasses of beer while lamenting my broken umbrella, just like I did yesterday and the day before that.

The Boy and His October Box, Andrew Stone

2011-12-16T15:13:00.002-06:00

So, this may the shortest Poem of the Week ever and we may be in the wrong month for it completely. Perhaps this is not a box you want to receive for the holidays. Forgive us--it's the end of the semester.

The Boy and His October Box
by Andrew Stone

the arrhythmic tick of the timeless clock circles the boy’s eyes counterclockwise the lid of his box shivers and his lungs plunge into biodegradation his little fingers twitch under the earth as the mourners above bathe their boy in burial

Poem of the Week, Snowdrifts, Claire Feild

2011-12-09T09:22:00.000-06:00

It's the first snowfall of the year in Chicago! So, not quite drifts yet...but they're coming! Claire Feild also appears in Issue #14, so check that out as well.

Snowdrifts

by Claire Feild

The snowdrifts are free, a fall
into their innards a mockery
of their beauty and a greeting
to death’s polished light. Death,
a cache of homogeneous sunlight,
won’t give up His vagrant captivesunless there is more work for
them to do on earth. Death licks
His finger before tearing a page
from His vade mecum, an act of
courage, for He hopes the heaven-
bound are ready to read and
embrace His paper pleasantries
before being swept up into
heaven’s receiving blankets.

Buying All Four Kiss Solo Albums, Gold Circle, Rochester, N.Y., 1980, Daniel Shapiro

2011-12-02T12:31:00.001-06:00

We passed the scent of salted butter to ride
one level up, where the heads of monsters lurked
under dimmed lights, a shrink-wrapped coven.
It was as if the store didn’t want to let them go,
as if they were that plush gift-shop creature
we had craved before the clerk scared us
by sobbing goodbye to it. We just left it there.

Years later, we would hear a rumor that pro wrestling
wasn’t real, that half our heroes had been taking a dive.
No one ever told us Floor Two had housed the bargain bin,
disgraces propped up by forgotten cables and moon boots.
Before the grease paint came off to reveal four standard men,
we would keep our masks on, thwarting those not made up.

The Macho Poet, Daniel Shapiro

2011-12-02T12:29:00.000-06:00

My soul is an 18-wheeler,
my words decals of women
with their legs in the air.
I drown sissy egg metaphors
in ketchup. My relationships
last as long as I can hold my hand
over a flame. They never burn.

My sunsets are various shades
of whiskey, sunrises undefined.
I always seem to miss them.
My nights are as black as leather
worn by that guy in Judas Priest—
before I knew he was gay.
I cry myself to sleep.

Issue 14's Table of Contents

2011-12-02T02:04:00.005-06:00

Hey, guess what?! This issue isn't nearly as disjointed as the last one! Yay!

Thanks to D.J.R Caron for the cover art, Kathie Bergquist and Nikki Rinkus for the temporary headquarters upgrade, and Kat Kidwell for working on something else right now.

Happy Reading, and Happy Holidays!

The Other Side, Meg Tuite
Photos of the Dead, Benjamin Spies
The Love Tap, MaryAnne Kolton
A Mouthful of Names, Jessica Stilling
An Introduction to the Introduction, Jessy Randall
Ignorance, Jessy Randall
Sex With Strangers, MaryAnne Kolton
Texas Bluebonnet, The Movie, Kenneth Pobo
Geometry Teacher, Kenneth Pobo
How To Maintain the Oligarchy, Joseph Farley
Six Lines, Joseph Farley
The Macho Poet, Daniel Shapiro
Buying All Four Kiss Solo Albums, Gold Circle, Rochester, N.Y., 1980, Daniel Shapiro
A Cure for the Blues, Maurice Oliver
Words, Sawing Themselves in Half..., Maurice Oliver
Lampoon, Claire T. Feild
Stars, Michelle Reale
Reading a Thin Book of Poetry, Guy Traiber
Ruminating on My Death Following My Return from Italy, Beth Rolingson
A Horse Is Not a Horse, Valerie Melichar
Ether, Gregory Crosby
Love Thumbs a Ride, Gregory Crosby
Finished, Corey Mesler

Special Snowflakes! (Contributor Bios)
Editrice Note: Stuck in a Dryer

Editrice Note: Stuck in a Dryer

2011-12-02T01:57:00.002-06:00

It’s winter, which means we are trying to save on heating costs. That means spins in dryers, lots of blankets, and snuggles with kitties of various persuasions. The Toucan pesters us daily in his indomitable squawking way for a ticket to Costa Rica, and we tell him we haven’t even printed the Fall Issue yet, what the hell is he squawking about?
Welcome to the harried Toucan Headquarters. In point of fact we are not actually at Headquarters right now, as Editrice Liz lucked into a cushy cat-sitting gig. But the routine is the same: lots of coffee, late nights, and Cat Stevens on the media player. This seems like the most fun issue we’ve had in a while. Yes, there’s a fair share of death and murder. We do not condone bird murder, not even of ducks. We have this friend who’s obsessed with this novelty track Alan Moore recorded. The lyrics of this go “DUCKS…DUCKS…you think they’re cuddly, I think they’re sinister…” All the same, sinister behavior is not a license to kill. What the…what did we just write? It’s two in the morning. Don’t wring anyone’s neck or hit them with a ball-peen hammer, not even if they’re snoring. Kitties snore, did you know that?

And there’s love…and sex. Sex…with strangers. We don’t really recommend that either. We’re just hitting all the literary themes, aren’t we? Death and sex. Doesn’t every good piece of literature have that in droves? News flash—The Toucan is officially a good piece of literature. You knew that already, right? Say yes. It’s two in the morning. Actually, we’re proudest of our poetry section this issue. Want to know why? Because it starts with “An Introduction to the Introduction” and finished with “Finished”. See what we did there? Aren’t we tricky little devils? Just say yes. It’s two in the morning, and with a little searching in various cabinets, Editrice Liz may be able to round up a ball-peen hammer. Or a mug of scalding coffee. Or a supple laptop cord…or…

There is only one thing that can save you from the murderous wrath: total submission. To us. Find your best pieces, or else we’ll find your best pieces…not, not like that. IT’S TWO IN THE BLOODY MORNING, OK????!!! Send those pieces…of writing to thetoucanmag@gmail.com, and unless you want us to rip your submission to pieces, check out the submission guidelines at www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com.

Um…did we just go all homicidal editrice? Is that against editricial policy? We don’t know, and right now, we don’t care, we’ll find out in the morning. We’re off to go snore in a dryer, cuddled up next to the best cat in the universe.

The always dressed to kill Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices

Special Snowflakes!

2011-12-02T01:34:00.003-06:00

Gregory Crosby was an art critic, but then thought better of it. His poems have appeared in places like Court Green, Epiphany, Copper Nickel, Paradigm, Jacket, and any other number of journals whose namessound like indie bands. When sanguine, his favorite film is Secretary; when despairing, his favorite film is Vertigo.

Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory for 24 years. His books include Suckers, For the Birds, and Longing for the Mother Tongue (March Street Press).

Claire T. Feild has had her poetry published in numerous print journals, such as Runes; The Carolina Quarterly; Birmingham Arts Journal; Hurricane Blues: Poems about Katrina and Rita; and most recently in Black Magnolias Literary Journal; Windmills (Deakin University, Australia); Perceptions: Magazine of the Arts; Convergence Review; and Polluto (U.K.).

MaryAnne Kolton is the Interview Editor at THIS Literary Magazine. Most recently her fiction has been chosen to appear in the Lost Children Charity Anthology, the first print Collection of Pure Slush Flash Fiction - Slut, The Toucan Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Anatomy, Larks Fiction Magazine and Connotations among others. You can contact her at Attn: MAK thiszine@gmail.com or via her blog site Echoes & Visions. She can also be found on Facebook.

Born in Vienna, Austria in 1982, Valerie Melichar lived in the USA, South America and the UK for the last ten years, where she studied creative writing, amongst other endeavors. She has recently moved back to Vienna, is working as a freelance translator, playing her guitar and trying to polish up her German.

Corey Mesler has published in numerous journals and anthologies. He is the author of four novels, 3 books of short stories, 2 full-length collections of poetry, as well as numerous chapbooks of poetry and prose. He and his wife own Burke’s Book Store in Memphis TN.

Maurice Oliver writes poems with a humorous edge and insists they are a form of therapy, his own personal remedy for not being able to fulfill his dream since childhood of living on an iceberg. Good thing he found a cure too, what with global warming and all.

Kenneth Pobo has a chapbook forthcoming from Deadly Chaps called Tiny Torn Maps. He won this year’s Qarrtsiluni Chapbook Contest for his manuscript called Ice and Gaywings. It will be coming out this year.

Jessy Randall's collection of poems A Day in Boyland (Ghost Road Press, 2007) was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. She has a collection of collaborative poems with Daniel M. Shapiro, Interruptions, forthcoming in 2011 and a solo collection, Injecting Dreams into Cows, forthcoming from Red Hen in 2012. Her website is http://personalwebs.coloradocollege.edu/~jrandall.

Michelle Reale is an academic librarian on faculty at Arcadia University in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of venues including Gargoyle, Pank, JMWW, Smokelong Quarterly, Staccato, Word Riot, elimae and others. Currently she is working on a collection of prose poems featuring the experiences of North African immigrants into the indifferent society of southeast Sicily, where she has witnessed their struggles first hand. She is currently pursuing Peace Studies and Conflict Resolution studies. Her short fiction collection, Natural Habitat, was published by Burning River in 2010. Her short fiction chapbook, Like Lungfish Getting Through the Dry Season is now available from Thunderclap Press. Her work was included in Dzanc's 2010 Best of the Web Anthology.

Beth Rolingson lives outside Austin, Texas on Pan’s Farm, a place where roses and mesquite trees grow and where she has raised angora goats, children, and grandchildren. She has been writing poetry for 40-some years and a dream journal for nearly 20. She helps fight poverty and social injustice in her day job at Advocacy Outreach in Elgin.

Daniel M. Shapiro is a schoolteacher who lives in Pittsburgh. He is the author of the chapbooks "Trading Fours" (Pudding House Press, forthcoming) and "Teeth Underneath" (FootHills Publishing), and he is the co-author of "Interruptions" (Pecan Grove Press, forthcoming), a collection of collaborations with Jessy Randall. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Chiron Review, Gargoyle, and Oyez Review.

Ben Spies is a human living in Chicago. He shirks responsibility and is trying to figure a way around his student loan debt.

Jessica Stilling has won numerous writing awards and been published in numerous literary magazines. She teaches at City College and lives in New York City.

Guy Traiber was born and raised in Israel. After a decade of traveling extensively throughout India, Southeast Asia and Europe he pitched himself in Bavaria where he found love. In the last three years he tries to bring into paper what his heart has seen and study Sociology and Political Science. His writing has appeared in (very) few journals. You can talk to him via email at o13m@yahoo.com

Meg Tuite's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals including Berkeley Fiction Review, 34th Parallel, Valpairaso Literary Review, One, the Journal, Monkeybicycle, Hawaii Review and Boston Literary Magazine. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel Domestic Apparition (2011) is now available through San Francisco Bay Press (http://www.sanfranciscobaypress.com/). She has a monthly column, “Exquisite Quartet”, up at Used Furniture Review. Her blog: http://megtuite.wordpress.com/.

The Other Side, Meg Tuite

2011-12-02T01:27:00.001-06:00

My neighbor, Janice, was a helium balloon filled with gossip and I noticed her voice rose an octave when she had a nasty bubble to pop. Right now she was peaking toward soprano with excitement.

“So, Katherine’s kid, Brent, is in the hospital, again!” Janice checked behind her before she continued. “Get this!” She grabbed my arm. “Brain damage. He was caught snorting glue with some kids and then passed out. Brain damage?” She smirked. “As far as I’m concerned that was already rooting around in his gray matter long before he got his hands on any glue.” Janice gave me the we-get-what-we’re-saying-here raised eyebrow. She looked at me and shook her head. “Damn idiots, these kids. I mean, this is what it takes to have a good time? Lose a few more brain cells, as though they have spare ones to let go of?” She shook her head with disgust and I nodded. I had already stopped hearing Janice, but watched her face grimace as her mouth moved back and forth.

***

I was fourteen and hanging with my friends at the Laundromat. Mariel had stolen a pack of Parliaments and some quarters from her mom and we were sitting on top of the empty washers puffing away. I was supposed to go first. I was always first because I was the guinea pig and the lowest rung in the hierarchy.

“Get in, bitch,” said Mariel. She opened the door to a dryer. There were a few old people doing their laundry and they looked over and rolled their eyes. I took a deep breath and slithered into the dryer.

“Hold your hands up on either side or you’ll be sorry,” said Mariel, snickering. The other two girls, Kris and Sharon, cracked up with her. “You’ll be bouncing around like a pair of old ladie’s panties if you don’t grip it, girl.” I even laughed at that one.

“Ready?” Mariel asked.

“Yeah,” I said, even though I knew I’d never be ready.

Mariel pulled the quarters out of her pocket and plunked two of them in the slot. Someone had told her it was broken and if you pushed the lever halfway in, the dryer would still work and the change would come back, and it did.

I started rotating. I held on with both hands and felt the heat slowly start to rise. There was a gaseous smell to it that I tried to ignore. I was in some kind of bad carnival ride sitting with my legs crossed and my hands holding the sides. I watched the girls watching me and it made me laugh to see them upside down and all around, while they were pointing and squealing at me.

For a few minutes it was fun, but then I was queasy and sure that I was going to barf. My head started to get light and detach itself from my body. The dryer was getting hotter and I was closing in on myself and taking breaths so I wouldn’t lose it. I was praying for the end of this nightmare, but I just kept spinning and the girls were talking and smoking together again and had somehow forgotten me.

I stared at their faces and realized I hated them. I had been invisible until I met them. Obscurity was something I excelled at. I could spend whole evenings in the same room as my family, squabbling and screeching at each other as I evaporated into the ether. I was able to camouflage myself in a warm bed of silence enveloped in my own thoughts that turned over and over in my head concealing me in a silent fog like there was a pane of glass between me and everyone out there.

Mariel turned back to me. I observed their mouths opening and closing until I was seeing two of each of them, my eyes crossed and my mind became a blanket of stillness with no single thought bearing down on another. I was the mist and I smiled at the buoyancy of my existence. I looked out at the laughing upside down girls and didn’t care about them or anyone else.

The machine slowed down and I had to tighten my grip to hold on before it stopped. Mariel opened the door and I slithered out of the machine.

“Well, girlie, how was it? One hot ride on the town?” They all laughed and I let my body sway and stagger around the room with my hands out to keep from falling.

“Wow,” said Kris, “I’m definitely next. That looks like a hellava high.” She started to climb in, but Mariel pushed her out.

“No,” said Mariel. “It was my idea and my money. She curved her body into the machine and handed the quarters to Kris. “I’m ready for the ride of my life. Let her rip,” she said.

We became addicts, rode that ride for weeks until the lady who ran the place caught on and fixed the machine, but not before we’d been to the other side.

***
Janice looked over at me. “You still with me?” she asked. “Well, you know what I mean.” She shook her head. “Hopefully his brain damage won’t last forever. I feel sorry for Katherine. She’s going to have to manage that whack job after he gets home, keep him away from the other crazies.”

I smiled in Janice’s direction, waved and walked off. I felt myself teetering to the right. I didn’t try to pull back. I wavered and careened with a grin.

Photos of the Dead, Benjamin Spies

2011-12-02T01:25:00.001-06:00

Elena comes out of a cartwheel and finds a bruise forming on the pad of flesh at the top of her palm. She must have rolled over a rock. She calls time-out, but the other girl keeps cartwheeling, not quite in a straight line, but steadily inward like a rolling coin that will come to rest. The other kids cheer and declare Amanda the winner. Elena protests, and when the younger brothers and sisters rush out to the green to try for themselves, she drops to an obtrusive seat in the grass. She is barefoot, like most of the children, in a summer tank top and polyester capris. Shivani, the young girl from the apartment next door, tumbles out of a failed cartwheel and nearly collides with Elena. Mrs. Patel pokes her head out of a sliding glass door in building 744 and calls Shivani and her brother to dinner. The warm and savory smell of masala drifts from their kitchen, the taste of which Elena could not quite appreciate the last time she ate dinner there.

The atrium in the center of the Oak Glen apartment complex is a long stretch of apple-green grass, heavily treated with lawn chemicals and intersected at the thirds by concrete walks. In the center of the green is a small pond, the area perhaps of one of the apartments. It was dug out of the earth by a bulldozer and filled with bright, blue-green water, which is dyed again every few years to remain picturesque. A length of PVC pipe runs under the water, from the stony shore to a small spray fountain. Ducks congregate on this pond during the summer months, so long as they are not pushed out by the larger Canada Geese. Oak Glen's buildings are of emphatically practical design, squarish three-story edifices with fifteen units each, faced with rose-colored brick and topped with canted, gray-shingled gables. The apartments face outward so that the balconies and back patios face the atrium, giving the impression of an exact and angular town square.

Elena continues to pull up grass and throw it into the wind, even as the other children go in for dinner. The Camposes eat later because Dad works later. The sun is waning in a halcyon slowness. She resumes her cartwheels now, practicing for a rematch.

Another patio door opens, this one in front of the pond in building 742, and Mr. McConnell emerges. In his arms are a loaf of white bread and a glass of milk. Almost as soon as the door opens, the ducks totter toward him from the pond, shaking their feathers free of the bluish muck. Mr. McConnell sits down in a plastic lawn chair, sets his glass of milk on the patio next to him, and begins to tear off pieces of bread. His eyebrows are thick and black, as is most of his hair even still. The clues to his real age lie in the creases worn at his lips and beneath his eyes, the wine colored spot on his neck, the pair of errant hairs among the pores at the tip of his nose. He sees Elena and waves.

“It's dinnertime for the ducks, Elena,” he says. His voice is terse with friendly discipline. “You want to help?”

The girl nods and skips over to him. “There's a lot of them,” she says, counting. Already a half-dozen mallards make their way up the sloping green to Mr. McConnell's patio, with more swimming to shore and a few fluttering in from elsewhere. The males' heads gleam with brilliant green feathers; the spotty, brown hens squawk quietly with each step.

“Word must be getting out,” Mr. McConnell says. He laughs. He gives Elena a handful of bread pieces. She rolls them into tiny bullets with her fingertips.

“Okay,” he says, “now start by throwing some out a few feet ahead of you, out of your reach. You have to earn their trust before they'll get close.”

Elena flings the handful over their heads. They whirl around and swarm the scant pieces, wings wide in a gentle frenzy. Mr. McConnell laughs again.

“But you want to bring them in closer, honey. Here, watch.”

He tosses out a single piece of bread, picked clean of the crust and rolled carefully into a ball. The nearest to him, a fat female with its head half-sunk into its neck feathers, takes cautious steps forward and snatches it up. Its eyes are like little black beads of glass, exactly like those of a stuffed duck, with which Elena is more familiar. The hen watches them with one of those eyes, in three-quarter profile, betraying nothing of its thoughts or misgivings.

“Is it scared?” Elena asks.

“Maybe a little. She's new. But see that little guy, over there?” Mr. McConnell points. “That's Ozzie. Nothing scares him.”

He drops a piece between his shoes, and Ozzie waddles right onto the patio and eats it.

“You have names for them?” Elena says.

“Sure. There's Ozzie, and that one's Matilda, and that slender guy in back is Pete.”

“How can you tell them apart?”

“Oh, I know them and they know me. We do this often enough.”

He holds another ball out in the palm of his hand which Ozzie swallows quickly. The other ducks, a dozen or more now, see that there is no danger here. They form a half-circle closing on the girl and the old man, gulping down and sometimes scuffling over the bread Mr. McConnell throws to them. Elena is frightened; she backs up to his chair and stands on her tiptoes.

“It's all right,” he says to her. “They're gentle. They won't bite you. Look.”

He lays a piece just on top of the girl's foot. A drake with a crooked wing eats it, barely grazing her skin and sending a ticklish chill up her leg. She smiles. Mr. McConnell hands her more bread and she gingerly doles it out, mindful of fairness to each. The birds seem to shuffle in time with her, yapping happily, beads of water glistening on their waxy feathers. Elena feels for a moment gracious and essential, like a mother bird.

“They trust you,” Mr. McConnell says.

Elena sees that his patio door is still open.

“What if one of them goes inside your apartment?” she says.

“Ha, I hope I'm that lucky,” he says. “I'm fixing to catch one of them and eat him.”

The girl's mouth drops in giddy surprise. “No, you aren't!”

“Oh, you bet I am. Going to fatten one up and eat him. Like maybe this little fella here,” he says, pointing with his shoe to the bird he calls Winston. “He looks tasty.”

“Mr. McConnell, you can't eat these ducks!”

He laughs. “No, I suppose I can't.” He rises from his chair and brushes the front of his windbreaker with his hand. The ducks around him do not flinch, but scan the patio for crumbs. “But it is time for dinner. You'd better get home, Elena. Thanks for helping.”

He kicks at the air, scattering the ducks.

***

WHO'S MORE SINISTER, THE DUCKS OR MR. MCCONNELL? CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT!

Photos of the Dead, Continued

2011-12-02T01:20:00.001-06:00

Mrs. Campos pokes with a wooden spoon at something in the frying pan. It smells of pepper: maybe hamburgers again, or crabcakes. A dishrag is draped over her shoulder, and her ponytail is coming undone in the humidity. Elena has set the kitchen table, and now kneels in her chair to watch her mother.

“Where's Amanda tonight?” Mrs. Campos asks.

“I'm mad at her,” Elena says. “We had a cartwheel contest and she cheated.”

“That's too bad,” her mother says, smiling to herself.

“But Mr. McConnell let me feed the ducks.”

“Again? He really cares for those things, doesn't he.”

“He said he was going to eat one of them.”

Mrs. Campos laughs. “I'm sure he was kidding, honey. Look at the water those ducks swim in. That's disgusting.”

Elena shrugs. She pulls at the backrest, rocking the chair, and her mother scolds her.

“Is he lonely?” Elena says.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

The girl shrugs again.

“He's probably a little lonely,” her mother says, as she stirs pan. “He's been married quite a few times, and now he's got nobody to keep him company. Nobody but the ducks, anyway.” She looks over her shoulder at Elena. “I'll bet he appreciates you stopping by, though.”

***
Darkness finally settles during the nine o'clock news. Two men were shot dead this morning in a robbery in the city. Later, there is a human interest story about a fourth grader collecting soup can lids to raise money for leukemia research, the disease which killed his brother. The old man watches with the TV on mute; he can surmise as much about the dead from the grainy school photographs that flash onto the screen, zooming out quickly and then moving on, as if to drop the pictures onto a desk and walk away.

One such picture is on his mind tonight. In it is a young man in a short-sleeved Air Force uniform and sunglasses, American, with his arm around a smiling Lao woman. It is in a tarnished pewter frame in a shoebox in the man's closet. On the back of the picture is a date: January 1958, Korat Base, Thailand.

His upstairs neighbor is still finishing a six-pack and a joint out on the balcony. Vladmir has made this a regular habit in the months since his wife left him. His vicious coughing fits punctuate the silence. Before long there is the sound of Vladmir's television upstairs, and the old man's time has come. He switches off his own TV set and retrieves a loaf of bread from the kitchen cupboard.

The breeze outside is neither cool nor warm: it is just movement, tickling the hairs on his arm. He rolls tiny balls of bread-stuff. He is thinking about pictures of the dead, of how tempting it is to read vacancy and obliviousness into their faces, how he finds himself always counting backward from the day he lost someone to the date the picture was taken. You have seven more years, perhaps, or you will never see that Chrysler coming on your left.

The atrium is still. Light pollution from the city creates an unearthly glow in the southern sky, above building 744. Many apartments have gone dark and the spray fountain has shut off, leaving a glassy pool on which sit the familiar silhouettes. The old man whistles once and they stir, then squawk and climb the slope to him.

The ducks are not fazed, even at this odd hour. The old man squats and the ducks encircle him, webbed feet stomping with delight. They flutter in excitement, wings and necks stretched skyward as if in a prayer posture, then scrambling for communion among fissures in the concrete. It is a strange kind of gaiety: a duck's face is expressionless, the man notes, not like that of a dog or cat. The beaks open and close mechanically. No pain, no fear, no joy. Vacancy and obliviousness.

“Here, boy,” the old man whispers to the bird he calls Ozzie. He holds out a closed fist. “Come get it, boy.”

The bird obeys. When it comes close enough, the old man's hand snaps open like a switchblade and seizes the animal by the neck. The other ducks flee at once, as if warned by a projected thought, and take flight toward the spectral glow in the south.

He squeezes the bird's throat so that the only noise it makes is a pathetic hiss, and clutches it to his chest to stop the beating of its frantic wings. He half expects to see terror in Ozzie's face at last, but there is nothing there, just two eyes like amber pebbles and a beak wrenched open.

The necessary utensils are already laid out on the kitchen counter. The sink has been cleaned thoroughly for the first time in months; in it is a bowl with lemongrass and a small pool of fish sauce. The old man selects a long, thin knife and pins the duck face-down on the edge of the sink, where it squirms with pitiful effort. He pierces the flesh beneath the wing, as he was taught years ago, and holds the bird in place as it bleeds into the bowl. When it is dead, he sets it into the other sink basin and runs hot water over it. He stirs the blood.

The dish is called duck larb luert. The work is difficult for a single cook, although the dish calls for a much larger type of duck than the common mallard. Once it is plucked, the old man flays the carcass with care, the sleeves of his only dress shirt rolled up past his elbows. His hands become soiled, the vibrant red of the blood running like watercolor into greenish bile. Memories flutter past his senses like dandelion spores on the breeze. He removes the gall bladder and touches his fingertips to the end of his tongue. Sharp and bitter, the taste brings him back forty-seven years, though only for a moment, to a woman and a life that he once had. Not the first woman and not the last, but the only one he lost.

The entrails, finely chopped, are fried with coriander and mint. The skin and fat of the duck are cooked separately until they begin to shrivel, then topped with fish sauce and garlic. He is careful not to overseason the larb. Moderation is key, she taught him. Restraint. The blood is stirred with water and poured onto a plate to congeal. When it is thick as jelly he spoons the larb over it, a little stringy maybe, but acceptable for a novice. The salt in the seasoning causes the blood to reliquify in tiny puddles.

The old man sets the table for himself and retrieves a picture in a tarnished pewter frame from his closet. The picture sits across from him. He opens a five dollar bottle of wine and lays a napkin over his lap. He's sweating, he notices, and returns again from the bedroom with a clean shirt.

After so much time and another marriage her face is almost gone from his mind's eye. The smell of the larb luert brings it back to him for a fleeting second, borrows a memory of a birthday dinner in their tiny Bridgeport kitchen from a place so deep in his heart he cannot reach it consciously. Blood smells only like blood, he thinks, sweet and metallic. He tastes a spoonful. A little salty, but not bad. Rolling the thickened blood over his tongue, he greets memories like lost friends: sharing drinks at a bar on-base, awake in bed naming children they would never have together.

Like photographs of the dead, these memories are lanterns without light. That flame was put out by a drunk driver forty-seven years ago, on her way home from night school. If the person is only a shade, then what good is the memory. He raises his glass, and wishes the photograph a happy anniversary.

The Love Tap, MaryAnne Kolton

2011-12-02T01:16:00.001-06:00

As she took the marble-sized ball of green Play-Doh from the plastic sandwich bag and rolled it into a soft cone shape, she muttered, “What kind of crazy woman puts Play-Doh in her ears every night.”

Lena reached over her head with her right hand, pulled the top of her left ear out, thereby increasing the possibility of a good seal. She positioned the cone into her ear canal and pressed down hard with her index finger. A woman whose husband makes more noise than a one man band, all night, every night, that’s who, Lena thought, as she pushed another green cone into her right ear.

She’d met Davis online. After three months of increasingly affectionate correspondence, they had arranged to meet. Davis, a writer, had been living in the Arizona desert for several years and had grown to hate leathered skin, Armani slip dresses and turquoise. He was planning to visit his daughter in Texas and then head east to look for a spot with an ocean breeze in which to write. They would meet in between the daughter and the ocean.

Davis rang the bell at her front door on a Friday afternoon, intending to stay three days. Lena opened the door and they fell in love. Two weeks after he appeared, he returned to the southwest to collect his belongings, and was back in Ohio in ten days. At fifty-something, they did not feel the need to wait any prerequisite time to satisfy some convention or another. They married four days after his homecoming.

That was six months ago. Lena had not had a decent night’s sleep since he moved in. This torment perpetuated on a woman whose idea of heaven was a sumptuous bedroom. Draperies drawn against whatever celestial light existed, a top of the line king-size bed swathed in expensive Egyptian cotton linens, cool to the touch.

“Sleep until you are no longer tired, my daughter,” God would intone, basso profundo. “When you wake there will be fine food, excellent wine and intelligent conversation. Return to your sleeping chamber whenever you wish, stay there as long as you like.” That’s how much sleeping well meant to Lena.

Of course, she learned right away that Davis snored. Her previous husband had also been a vociferous nighttime noisemaker. She grew used to poking him into silence without waking. However, she was not aware, until Davis settled in, that his nights were a continual calliope of snorts, wheezes, gasps, grunts and whistles -- in several different keys, no less. He also kicked his feet, carried on unintelligible, obstreperous arguments with the unseen and stopped breathing on occasion.

“Will this bother you”? Davis asked with genuine concerned.

“We’ll work it out,” Lena replied. This was the man she had been waiting for all her life. He was intelligent, gentle, and she adored him. She would adjust.

During the past six months Lena had read every online article in existence about earplugs. Many opened boxes of foam, silicon and soft plastic plugs filled her nightstand drawer. If they can send a man to the moon, for God’s sake, why couldn’t they invent a total sound-deafening earplug?

Lena got the idea for the Play-Doh from digging it out of her grandson’s ears after an afternoon of snake making. Peter pushed the tacky stuff into his ears and smiled a semi-toothed smile as she commanded,

“Grandmother wants you to take that out of your ears right now! Peter, do as I say. Peter? Do you hear me”?

Why not? She thought. The Play-Doh ended up in the nightstand drawer.

Davis finally admitted he had been diagnosed with a severe sleep disorder several years ago. He was told it was not something a nip here and a tuck there could correct. The only solution appeared to be an oxygen mask device, which Davis refused to wear.

“It makes me look like Hannibal Lecter and feel like I’m in an airplane that’s going down,” he grumbled. “I’d never get to sleep with that damned contraption on.”

“Did you actually try it?”

“For about thirty minutes. That was all I could take.”

She wondered how much she could take.

In what seemed a most bizarre response to his nights of cacophony, Davis woke each morning, before his alarm went off at five, claiming to feel refreshed and ready for the day. Lena rolled over and prayed for death.

All her dogged research yielded no new miracle cure. She tried various sleeping pills, but they made her feel like she spent her daylight hours slogging through sand. She was never quite crisp. Lena began to long intensely for her luxurious nights of effortless sleep.

With the loss of those nights came a small kernel of resentment that sewed itself somewhere not so deep in Lena’s subconscious.

In the beginning, their days together had been blissful. Davis would rise early, write for several hours, and then wake her for breakfast and a walk through one of the area parks. They would spend the afternoons reading or taking in a movie. After a leisurely dinner, Davis retired.

“Early to bed, early to rise, etc.,” he said as he climbed the stairs to their sleeping loft. Their condo had a master bedroom loft, which overlooked the lower level containing the living room, dining area and kitchen. When Lena first moved in, she though of her bedroom as a lovely, over-sized nest. Now she desired only a room with a door that might be closed against Davis and his nighttime circus act. Not likely, since the only other space on the first floor was a small storage room that Davis had appropriated for his office.

As she slept less and less at night she began to sleep longer in the mornings. This meant she stayed up later each night. Davis was not displeased, only somewhat forlorn.

“It’s just that I treasure our time together,” he said. Lena had slept until noon. Then she heard from a friend about a sleep study being done at a nearby hospital.

“Davis, please. I’m sure they would appreciate your participation. You are, after all, a perfect candidate. And who knows, they might be able to select an alternative to the mask. Perhaps a medication is being studied.”

He looked hurt. “As much as I love you, Lena, and appreciate the degree to which my inability to sleep quietly inconveniences you, I cannot and will not take part in some experiment. In case you haven’t noticed, I am neither a guinea pig nor a lab rat.”

Okay then.

Lena, sick with fatigue, allowed the previously planted seedling of resentment to take root and bud.

The next afternoon when she couldn’t stop yawning, Lena decided to sort though some of the boxes still stored in the basement. Anything to stay awake. She unpacked several cartons and was creating throw away, donate and repack zones when she came upon the box that contained the ancient tools given to her by her Grandfather so many years ago. A master carpenter, he had made many of the tools himself. He had explained the purpose of each one and made sure she became skilled in its use. Here was a ball-peen hammer, metal head and wooden handle actually crafted by the old man. Did they still make ball-peen hammers? She wondered aloud. The balance and heft of the old tool was amazing.

As she marveled at the weight of it in her hand, a bud on the fast growing stalk of resentment began to unfurl.

That evening Davis sat in the living room in his favorite chair, feet up, reading a book of short stories, Brahms playing low in the background. Lena perched on the sofa working on a sweater for him, her knitting needles clicking away the hours until bedtime. His bedtime at any rate. When she looked up, he seemed to be drifting off. Poor thing. The long walk he had taken during the afternoon must have really done him in. That combined with the three sleeping tablets she had stirred into his after dinner tea, perhaps.

As Davis began to burble and snort she slipped the old hammer from between the sofa cushions. Once again, she admired the perfection and care that had gone into the crafting of such a thing. Then she stood, her knitting falling from her lap, and walked to the chair where Davis whistled and wheezed. She touched the ball of the hammer, and then gently touched a spot on the left side of her husband’s head. A spot right between the end of his eyebrow and his ear. Not exactly a strike, she thought as she lifted the tool upward. More of a firm, quick tap. Just a little love tap, she smiled and said to herself as she propelled the hammer forward.

***

Lena sighed and gathered her robe around her as she climbed the stairs to the loft. She was so looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

A Mouthful of Names, Jessica Stilling

2011-12-02T01:12:00.001-06:00

He had all these names. Everything hyphenated, generation after generation a cross he bore on his back, on the forms he filed for the IRS, the way his full signature never fit anywhere. His name rolled off my tongue when I licked it from his stomach. It tasted like sweat then and wildwood, but maybe, less romantically, like software design and computer processing. I had shed my ex-husband’s name in the divorce, freeing myself and taking what I had been born with. It was like running naked through the woods, with that one name, the name that was mine and only mine (and I refuse to go beyond my generation, to think sociologically that I had gotten my name from my father and him from his father all the way back to Germany well before World War One and Ellis Island). No, it was my name and I had it back in the divorce, it was most of what I took, and then he came along with all those hyphens, three middle names and a confirmation name, just to let on that he was Catholic, and it was like I was tumbling.

Sean Michael Frederick Alexander Francis Cutler-Harrington. Not only did he have all those names, but long names, names that got stuck on your tongue when they were their own singularities. Sean from his grandfather, Michael from his mother’s uncle, Frederick after his father’s best friend who had been killed in a car accident when he was seventeen, Alexander after his parents’ first child who had died in the womb at seven months, Francis because Sean swore he was his favorite saint, something about poverty and animals, Cutler for his mother, Harrington for his father.

I was standing in his kitchen. We’d been seeing each other for a couple of months and I could stand in his kitchen without that awkward feeling you get when you don’t know where to put your hands and you wonder if you should be checking on the wood trim or commenting on the intricacies of the tile. We were beyond that; headed further into a nether world and I had just reached into his refrigerator and pulled out a carton of yogurt. I didn’t live there, I was only visiting, but part of this place was mine. And I hadn’t had a place that was mine for almost a year, not since the divorce was finalized. He was in the living room, on the phone with someone from work. Something about a job tomorrow and having to budget time for the weekend. He was comfortable taking calls while I stood in his kitchen, my hand on the granite counter, eating a strawberry low-fat yogurt because I had not had much to eat at lunch.

It was like this before. These things seem to move in cycles and I remember when I met my ex-husband, before he was my ex-husband, or my husband, when he was just a guy. First a guy who sent butterflies down my stomach every time I saw his name on my phone, then a guy who took me to see Broadway shows after eating at restaurants neither of us could afford. He was the guy I lived with, the one who took me to meet his mother in West Hartford, Connecticut; the one I fell in love with, then the one I married.

I met Kyle at a bar, nothing so romantic as the skies parting, no halos fellupon our heads, it just was and he happened to know a friend of mine from work. We were sitting next to each other, our hard wooden stools clanging together as he sipped a rum and Coke and I had some green apple flavored girly drink that the friend immediately started making fun of.

“Really Carmen, apple flavored liquor? What’s next, strawberry flavored suppositories?” the friend had said, laughing as a soccer match played on a television mounted above the bar.

“Oh, come on now,” Kyle had said and I noted his neat brown hair and the way his hand firmly held his glass. “It’s just a drink.” He smiled then and gave me his name, before that I hadn’t known. We shook hands, talked about the soccer match going on above our heads. I pretended to know (and care about) what he was saying. Twenty minutes later he bought me another drink. Ten minutes after that he had my number.

First it was the butterflies. When I came home from the bar, not exactly drunk, just a little tipsy, my stomach was shaking, thinking he’d call that night. He called two nights later and promptly asked if I’d like to see him that Saturday. We made a date and he buzzed my apartment three minutes late, which didn’t matter that much because I had twenty minutes more to waste getting ready.

I liked him, what do they say, they call it a connection, and it moved from there. We had dinner together every weekend, then we started spending more time at my apartment. His place was small and he had three roommates and so my place became ours. We did Christmas in San Diego with my family and then a summer holiday in Maine with his father. He moved in. It did not move quite so fast, this took about a year and in that time I still had my job and he had his. Well, actually, he’d gone from one job to another and when he started making more money we started thinking about trading in our cramped one bedroom for one with a larger living area, maybe a bigger kitchen.

One night while we were at a party for one of our friends (and the friends had become ours, like we’d put them in a shaker and mixed them all up), he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. It was an outdoor party, on someone’s roof. The stars were out, and the little white lights around the edges of the safety railings made it seem as if some of those stars had fallen to earth. A few of the friends, simply by virtue of the looks on their faces, seemed to know what was going on. He looked at me, he made a speech. I couldn’t even see the ring, I was too teary-eyed.

We planned a wedding. We got married. I got strung out about flower arrangements and he had a fight with his brothers over who was going to be best man. My family flew in from San Diego, his drove down from Maine and Connecticut and we tied the knot with a justice of the peace even though Kyle’s mother threw a fit when she learned we weren’t getting married in a church, with a priest, before God.

Things were good and I loved him. Like the time we went to Italy and got lost in Rome, wandering around the Via Veneto until a nice English speaking family gave us directions to our hotel or the time in Trestevere when we met an aging painter and spent the afternoon discussing art with him over strong espresso. We went to Greece, visited Paris, ran around Spain. And there were the nights in our apartment watching the rain, making love on the floor, on the kitchen table we’d just bought as if it needed to be broken in. They were all there, these things happened and we were happy.

BUT...Will they stay that way? Click here to find out!

A Mouthful of Names, Continued

2011-12-02T01:08:00.001-06:00

And then one day we weren’t. It was like something snapped and I wish I could say it was gradual, and maybe it was and I just didn’t see it until I noticed that Kyle had lost a lot of hair. Until I saw that he wasn’t advancing fast enough with his career and he started complaining about my friends. The pans we got at my wedding shower started to wear down, the Teflon flaking away, and our dishwasher no longer worked. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t me. After a while it just got old and a little boring. We stopped having those long conversations over left over Chinese food. I started to enjoy the wine at restaurants more than his company.

It was the job that did it. I’d never thought I’d be one of those wives, the kind who has to see her husband garner promotion after promotion. But I’d been doing fairly well at my job, I’d advanced a few job titles, gotten a couple of raises. They sent me to San Francisco once or twice a year to do book fairs and whatnot. The rent was getting higher, we both felt as if we needed a bigger place, there were things that had to be done and then Kyle came home one day, his hair soaking wet because he’d been standing out in the rain, and said, “Well, I lost my job.”

And what I would have done two years ago is given him a hug and asked him if he were all right. But I just looked at him, watched his wet hair and his rumpled clothes and I was embarrassed. I didn’t even bother to disagree with his boss for letting him go. I just looked at him and said, “How are we supposed to pay the rent?” He shook his head and walked away.

It spiraled from there. He started spending a lot of time on the couch, staring at a flickering flat screen while I dusted the living room for company or tried to put the dishes away. When I came home from work sometimes it was as if he hadn’t even dressed. He stopped cutting his hair. I started going out more. Kyle stopped approving of my friends. I started hanging out with my fellow editors, twenty-something’s who had never known the meaning of the word commitment, kids with trust funds who had majored in English because if they couldn’t find a job after college it didn’t really matter, the rent would be paid until their twenty-first or fifth birthdays and by then they’d start something like law school and get an extension on the free ride.

And it wasn’t that they were particularly fun. I usually just sat at a bar listening to them go on about American Idol, or something funny that one of them had said or done or seen at work that day. I just sat there, drinking my fruity green drink, the name of which I could only remember in a bar. But it wasn’t home. Home where the house was a mess even though Kyle had been there all day, where dishes piled in the sink and the lights were always too dim.

Then Kyle started answering his phone at strange times. Like when I had a couple of friends over for dinner, I cooked chicken Marsala and mashed potatoes and he started texting right there at the table. He was always online. He went to bed at three in the morning, I knew because he woke me up when he finally crawled in, and I could tell that he’d been typing. I could smell it on him like the perfume of another woman.

And then I found her. Her name was Lisa. She called his cell phone one day and I checked the text message. Very unsavory. When I asked Kyle about it he didn’t try to deny it. Kyle was a smart man, that’s why I didn’t understand how he could have such a problem finding another job, and he knew when it was over. He told me everything; that they’d met online in a chat room, she’d been calling for the past few months, she’d been over a couple of times while I was at work. “And even after work,” he’d said. “Because you’ve never home after work.”

And that was it. I asked one of my young trust funded friends if I could stay in her extra room and she immediately agreed. A few weeks later I took a few belongings, the non-essential ones that I hadn’t bothered to pack when I stormed out on Kyle. I took furniture next, the lamp by the bed, my desk, a loveseat and a few bookcases, not to mention all the books. I’d brought them into the marriage and I should have known better, falling for a guy who didn’t read. Kyle and I talked during all this. We considered making it work, we had dinner a few times, but both of us could see it, it was over. We didn’t talk. The sound of forks scraping over the china, the way we cautiously sipped our wine. It wasn’t working and I moved out. He took the apartment until the lease was up and moved into a studio in Brooklyn. I don’t know how he paid the rent but he did finally find another job.

I was alone for a year while I figured my life out. I went to Rome with a female friend and we enjoyed being hit on by the over stimulated Italian men, I took a cruise to the Caribbean with my mother and sister, I started writing a book. I did big things, made grand gestures to try to keep myself occupied. And on the day the divorce papers came, at another bar with another friend, while sipping another apple flavored green concoction, a man with light brown hair and big hazel eyes took a lazy seat next to me and commented on the color of my drink.

“Looks Irish,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “You know my grandmother’s Irish. She was always obsessed with the home country.”

“Cute,” I’d giggled, watching my friends shoot darts at the opposite wall.

“I’m Sean by the way,” he’d said, giving me his hand to shake. His hands were calloused and a little rough, his handshake firm and real. I hadn’t grasped anything so concrete in so many years. “Well actually it’s Sean Michael Frederick Alexander Francis Cutler-Harington, but you don’t actually have to call me that. Not unless we get married.”

“Cute,” I’d said and the conversation went on, on and on and on until I gave him my number and the butterflies started.

I could hear Sean’s phone call ending. His voice had gotten lower, lazier and the final goodbyes were in progress. The phone clicked in its cradle and I remained standing, spoon stuck in what was left of the strawberry yogurt as he as he walked into the kitchen.

I was standing there and then I was with Kyle at a bar Uptown, I was watching our wedding from the sidelines as if I weren’t even there. I saw my father building my bunk bed when I was six years old and it was all there. Not just a memory, as if I were watching it happen. And I had loved Kyle. That was the strange thing. I hadn’t married him, I hadn’t stayed with him for so long because I hadn’t. The love had been there, it had been real, something you could touch, and then it wasn’t. It had been certain, a part of me and then it was gone like those pounds you shed on a power diet or the hair you cut when it’s time for a new look. It had been there and then it hadn’t.

Sean stood in the doorway, his hand on the white painted trim. He was wearing a dark blue sweater that made his eyes sparkle. “That was Kevin, he wants me to work late on Monday, but you have a thing then anyway, so you don’t care, right?”

“No, go ahead, work late on Monday,” I replied, taking the spoon out of the yogurt and placing it absentmindedly in the sink.

“Great. So do you want to order in or eat out tonight?” Sean asked and the question was so mundane, so everyday, that it stung a little. I watched him for a second, all those names, that life that he had lived before me, just like the life I had before him. I ran a hand through my hair and sighed.

“Do you think this is going to last?” I asked him and he smiled. He walked over to me and draped both arms around me from the back.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I like you now.”

An Introduction to the Introduction, Jessy Randall

2011-12-01T13:04:00.002-06:00

Soon I will be greeting you, and welcoming you, and describing you. I'll promise to be brief, but I won't be. I'll talk about what brought me here today, and who I am, and what may have brought you here, and I'll tell you things you already know. And that's just the beginning. Next I'll introduce someone else, who will repeat the things I will have said, and smile, and thank everyone, and then that person will introduce the person you're really here to see, though by the time that person gets up and greets you, you'll be quite tired, and just thinking of going home, how good going home will feel, when you open the door and take off your shoes. We’ll get started in just a few moments.

Ignorance, Jessy Randall

2011-12-01T13:02:00.000-06:00

“One morning, out of the blue, the idea of illustrating the Inferno came to [Rauschenberg]. He had never read the poem, of course…” Calvin Tomkins, Off the Wall: Robert Rauschenberg and the Art World of Our Time (Picador, 2005).

Today, out of the blue, I decided to write a sequel to Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, about which I know almost nothing. Then after lunch, pow! Kablooey! I realized what I ought to do instead is a ballet based on Ulysses, since it’s controversial and contains dirty words. But right before bed the real revelation hit me – what the world really needs is a chicken casserole encompassing Beowulf. And so I am sitting down right now to skim the Cliffs Notes version so I can begin cooking.

Sex With Strangers, MaryAnne Kolton

2011-12-01T12:58:00.001-06:00

she had sex with strangers
because of her madness
because of their sadness
because of the pain it caused her

she had sex with strangers
who slapped her a little and hurt her a lot
who showed her a good time and with some
who had nothing worth knowing to say

she had sex with strangers
to teach them a lesson
to search for a truth
to get some attention

she had sex with strangers
when they were sweet
when they were mean and
when she felt threatened by reality

she had sex with strangers
when she needed to be held
when it was too late to say no
when she turned and saw her mother in the room

she had sex with strangers
to shut them up
to calm them down
to keep her illusions intact

she had sex with strangers
because they were something
because she was nothing
because of the empty inside

she had sex with strangers
some of them wore her clothes
some of them tore her clothes and with
some who insisted she was crazy

she had sex with strangers
calling her child
calling her woman
calling her child-like mother whore

she had sex with strangers
sometimes on clean sheets
sometimes on no sheets and
sometimes on her hands and knees, in cars with God

she had sex with strangers
with those who had visions
those who had children and once
with someone who could not stop hurting himself

she had sex with strangers
to force retribution
as an Act of Contrition, a form of confession and
to keep them from knowing her pain

she had sex
with friends and neighbors
husbands and lovers
priests and policemen and
fathers and brothers

somebodies, nobodies
rock bands and football teams
but always, all ways
she had sex with strangers

Texas Bluebonnet, Kenneth Pobo

2011-12-01T12:53:00.001-06:00

Studio executives at Goosetwice Films were sure that The Night of the Texas Bluebonnet would be a “blockbuster” and it did make money. Lots of it. They threw a big party where young women in sea otter costumes placed hundred dollar bills under sushi.

Booze wrote the whole thing off as a tax deduction.

The worm, heroic to the pebble people, dies at the end. Children had not expected this and left the theaters crying. The worm had been courageous and kind—through him, the Flower of Vastness became able to send down deep roots. This didn’t matter to the sun, who shone so hard that the worm died. The last fifteen minutes kept viewers focused on the decay. Director Carbunkle, famous for his series of Aunt Gwen Takes A Long Lunch films, wanted realism.

Parents felt gypped. It was supposed to be “family entertainment” and wasn’t even set in Texas. Some demanded their money back but cars needed fixing, diapers needed changing, and PTA’s were turning into roving gangs, so it blew over quickly.

Except for the dreams. Thousands of kids dreamed of their skin curling up, their brains leaking out of their ears. One kid threw herself through her bedroom window.

Carbunkle’s next film, The Day of the Texas Bluebonnet, made even more money. The worm returned. He ate Pensacola. Cheers thundered through the metroplex. No one reported any bad dreams. When school opened, guns took attendance and hallways patrolled themselves.

Geometry Teacher, Kenneth Pobo

2011-12-01T12:49:00.002-06:00

I’ve always taught that the shortest distance
between two points

is
a
straight
line.

Such a truth never made me
happy, so I drank
and downed cylindrical pills.

Eventually the principal,
Mrs. Adair, fired me.
I wasn’t a good example.
I became a rhombus—
until my lines

broke. Now
even triangles avoid me.

How To Maintain the Oligarchy, Joseph Farley

2011-12-01T12:46:00.000-06:00

For the health of the nation
It is essential
To periodically squeeze the people,
Hold them by their feet
And give them a good shake,
Gather what falls from pockets
And brassieres
And stuff the coffers
Of the kingpins
Who are running low
On whiskey
Or diamonds for
Their mistresses.
If the people have
Land or children,
Air or ideas
Worth taking,
Be sure to take this also.

It is also essential
While doing this
To tell the victims
Repeatedly
That it is only for
Their own good,
And to disagree
Would be less than
Patriotic,
Downright
Un-American.
If anyone disagrees,
Arrest him
Or label him a kook.

We will continue
this discussion
At the country club
Or while skiing
In Switzerland.
Be sure to bring
Your portfolio

To gain admission.

Six Lines, Joseph Farley

2011-12-01T12:42:00.003-06:00

I have this recurring nightmare where I give a damn.

A bottle of whiskey makes the best pillow.

Sleeping at the wheel adds a little adventure to a Sunday drive.

Graveyards are easier on the nerves than shopping malls.

If I spend time peering at my navel it is only because I am checking for lint.

If I find any I’ll call it nirvana, and say it was put there by Kurt Cobain.

A Cure For The Blues, Maurice Oliver

2011-12-01T12:38:00.002-06:00

And I knew the perfect remedies:

-Any ingredient found in the falsetto of Buddhism.

-Night air, in a doctor’s prescription for the tropics.

-Papery thin snores of a sleeping park bench.

-Red rash, vacationing in certain harsh detergents.

-All bits of Bach in the soup bowl of ear candy.

-Every skillet with drawers of smelling salt.

-Lemon or garlic wrapped in uncharted archipelagos.

-Footprints, when they can be peeled like a banana.

-Identical mannequins in the auction of spare parts.

-And purgatory, especially when wearing a paisley scarf.

Words, Sawing Themselves in Half..., Maurice Oliver

2011-12-01T12:35:00.001-06:00

but mostly, they communicate using mating calls.

Some say they taste like sweet nectar juice while
others argue they smell like fish and resemble
an all-inclusive weekend in a bird’s nest.

In my opinion, words are allergic to wool and never
eat between meals. Few of them have ever met a
prophet or had their homes foreclosed. They only
drink to be sociable but are sensual and fleshy inside.
They like to travel back to the province where they
grew up using secondary country roads and enjoy an
occasional picnic. Words are “team players” whose
only weakness are sins that feel good.

Oh, and one more thing. They are afraid of heights.

Lampoon, Claire T. Feild

2011-12-01T12:32:00.000-06:00

Her body satirizes nature: her head
and neck the length of a crocodile’s
head and neck, her waist the width
of a tigress’ underbelly, her fingernails
the breath of a chameleon’s tail.
Where was nature when this child
was conceived? She was too busy
sculpturing to perfection the colorful
forms to be born to those with diamonds
for front doors and crystals for
stairways to their non-challenged homes.
Nature’s robots watch out
for phantasms, ghosts born to a
ruthless society for the purpose of
staining everything stalwart white.
Nature oversees her first platoon of
emerald soldiers who casually
march into some of her clients’
diamonds, her need for color once
again fulfilled.

Stars, Michelle Reale

2011-12-01T12:29:00.002-06:00

A bulge in a man’s throat is never good. The hair on your arm, as it rises.

When he roars fix your eyes on a star. Any star.

Dig your toes into cement as if that could possibly keep you rooted. Incline your head in his direction.

Remember that the light in the sky will eventually dim. Anyway it is no good to always look up. Learn something from nature. Even after the tough shells of certain insects are crushed, they still have the ability to sting.

Reading A Thin Book of Poetry, Guy Traiber

2011-12-01T12:26:00.000-06:00

I am reading a thin book of poetry
to my little girl who lies in her bed
trying not to wake up

The book is thin, not its content,
the words are deep and wide like the ocean
in Kho Pi Pi after the tsunami

Turquoise over turquoise, a crystal plateau,
through which I can see my feet
looming the ocean floor

Walking I feel the time and the weight
of dead waves and I recall
I have no child at all

Ruminating On My Death Following My Return From Italy,Beth Rolingson

2011-12-01T12:21:00.000-06:00

In the space of a week
The raven has tapped thrice on my window.
And three times has the owl flown across my daytime landscape
Since I emerged
From the land of myth and art,
Mythic art.
I want that veil of protection,
Those basilicas,
Those golden domes,
To shield me.
The drama frozen in icy white marble;
Pinned down in paint like a butterfly in the collection of an entomologist.
I can’t stop this messy slide into the other side though,
The side from which there is no return.
Renaissance visions of heaven and hell
Perforate my dreams
Become tableaus with real blue and green tailed-devils
Grabbing the innocents.
I want to walk down quiet columned corridors
That open onto sunny courtyards
Filled with roses or cypress.

A Horse is Not A Horse, Valerie Melichar

2011-12-01T12:17:00.001-06:00

There came a time when I realised
that people change their names
and I learned that although I was Cathy
I might as well not be. That threw me.

I sought guidance from a horse.
It whispered quiet, peaceful secrets:
green living, speedy limbs. I vowed to be
a braver gregarious animal.

See, horses don’t call themselves horses.
They think we are rather strange.
They know that they are dinosaurs, heavy
with the wisdom of the ages.

I thought: if horses aren’t horses,
then, surely, humans don’t have to be human.
They told me no, it doesn’t work like that.
They never told me how it does work.

I didn’t speak to horses again,
or humans (whatever that means),
and began to disregard the shape
others gave the world with their names.

I have my own vocabulary now.
It’s odd, some call my lingo strange
and I too have had my doubts,
but on the whole, I feel at home.

The strangeness never subsides
but within it there is something
to be had that is far stranger
than the saddest sadness ever was.

Happiness is what I call it,
and every time it decides to happen
it makes its appearance in a whole new outfit,
incognito to its previous acquaintances.

But I recognise it all the same
because I am not human, not horse.
Sometimes I call it love or table,
sometimes I paint it like Magritte.

Ether, Gregory Crosby

2011-12-01T12:12:00.001-06:00

Invisibility is the only proof:
the essence in the chalk,
the quintessence in the eraser.

Electricity seeks a conductor.
So many ones & zeroes tune up,
the orchestra hears the symphony

before it plays a note.
The medium is the movement.
Our tongues, our type.

We wore our typefaces out.
We crossed an ocean of light.
We closed the distance

on a web of ebb, tide.
Drawn together, first as particle
first as wave. There can be no

other explanation. Just because
you can’t see it (especially because
you can’t see it) doesn’t mean

it isn’t there—

(Naturally, this is where
the patent clerk, astride his bicycle,
rides between us)

Love Thumbs a Ride, Gregory Crosby

2011-12-01T12:08:00.002-06:00

Wide awake at the wheel of
night, drifting toward your soft
shoulder: toward the dust.

Finished, Corey Mesler

2011-12-01T12:07:00.001-06:00

How do you
know
when the poem
is
finished, she
asked me,
this woman
dressed
in scarves and
bangles,
her mouth
a bright
red wound. How,
I asked
her back, do
you know
when
the rainstorm
is over?
She kissed me
then
and I held her
close
the way a
monk might,
any night,
in his moon-
stricken need.

The Toucan's 2011 Papayas...err, Pushcart Prize Nominees!

2011-11-29T12:06:00.000-06:00

So we had six possible nominations, and in the interest of fairness we split them up with three prose pieces and three poems. We enjoyed all of these mightily and hope you did too, and in case you didn't, we'll provide links to the pieces so you can read them with this new light of glory upon them. Apparently there isn't a way to hyperlink in this note, but if you copy and paste the link in your browser, you should be all set.

Drumroll, please....

Prose

"Hiding", Paul Beckman, Issue #9 (December 2010)
An amusing short about a man who the whole world seems to be avoiding...perhaps with good reason.

"Chicken Fingers Parmagina", Sam D. Church II, Issue #11 (May 2011)
Who says The Toucan doesn't publish recipes? Just not ones for successful romance.

"Hatchlings on the Road to Nowhere", Jacob Edwards, Issue #11 (May 2011)
One of our favorite and farthest-flung contributors (from Oz, mate), Jacob Edwards invokes everything from evolution to the Talking Heads on a drive...all while avoiding those pesky scrub turkeys.

Poetry

"Scowl", James Sandham, Issue #10 (February 2011)
It's "Howl"; for the Naught Generation. Need we say more?

"Snip Snip Snip", John J. Trause, Issue #11 (May 2011)
In case you couldn't tell, Issue 11 was a kick-ass issue. And those die-hard Toucan fans might recall this poem kicking off our Poem of the Week feature. The funny thing is, Mr. Trause (one of our most vivid contributors), has just informed us he always believed this poem to be unpublishable. Apparently, we at the Toucan just like poems about haircuts.

"i put the ass in b(ass)", Sarah Anne Stinnett, Issue #12 (July 2011)
Two poems for the price of one, and a large dash of musical cleverness.

Thanks to everyone who submitted work and who was published! The selection process was REALLY, REALLY hard, especially in the Poetry Department. But submit again, and who knows, maybe yours will shine with that extra bit of shine next year! (Or maybe it'll win the cage match with the other poems this time around. Cross-training, and feed it well.)

And now, are we all looking forward to Issue #14 on Thursday?

YES! (Except for Liz, who has to post it. Didn't we have an intern for a reason?)

Love, The Birds

Poem of the Week, If You Are Ever Wondering, Jessy Randall

2011-11-25T13:10:00.002-06:00

We're really stoked for the Winter Issue, because it has two poems by this fantastic lady in it.

Also, it is the day after Thanksgiving. Just in case you were wondering. We were a little confused ourselves. As usual we're thankful the holiday gives us time, that it exempts toucans from appearing on the dinner table, and that we have a lovely bunch of readers and writers who send us work and make us smile in between chowing down on bananas. Editrice Liz and Laura are also thankful for the significant otters that brighten their days and distract us from editorial duties.

Just in case you were wondering what Toucan central was thankful for.

If You Are Ever Wondering
by Jessy Randall

If you are ever wondering
what day it is
I'll tell you:

it's the day
you regret
not being nicer to your children

and it's the day
you think
you are too nice to them and
you're going to ruin them.

Also, it's the day
when you have to
clean out the cat box.

Poem of the Week, One Night at the Seaside, Nikki Ellam

2011-11-18T10:23:00.001-06:00

One night at the seaside
by Nikki Ellam

filled with drinks

along a moon-lit stroll

on the beach.

We wrote our names in the sand,

and sang the songs we didn’t dare screech

at the karaoke.

So tell me,

how did we come to this?

Here we are,

both of us thinking

thank fuck for the television

showing us bland ways of

using herbs with venison.

The best ways of seasoning

take away the silence we’d have to fill with

talking

about how the months we’ve spent

getting to know each other

have been blown away by the past ten minutes-

like how our sand-scrawled names

will disappear under the morning waves

and stomping of kids armed with spades

and castle-shaped buckets.

That evening,

we watched a celeb-chef show us

how to cook the ‘perfect’ dinner

we will never eat.

Poem of the Week, Forever Darkness, Michael Dresden

2011-11-11T11:25:00.000-06:00

It's cold, it's wet. It's depressing. At least our love lives are still going strong, unlike the poor chap in this poem. Congratulate Michael Dresden on his first ever publication...and someone tell the person in his poem that it's OK to love again. We promise.

Forever Darkness

by Michael Dresden

My world was once so colorful,
So beautiful, so bright.
And my girl only made the world
More magical and light

But now she only cares about
Those pigs in red and gray,
So now my world is blackening
As my heart fills with dismay.

The darkness of my broken heart
Has led me to believe
That every soul of every girl
Will cause the boys to grieve.

I thought my girl was different.
But I too have lost the war.
Now that my heart is darkened,
I will love no more.

Dead Author Coloring Sheets

2011-11-06T14:55:00.003-06:00

Editrice Liz is doing a ton of non-Toucany stuff, and some of it is vaguely literary. For the Columbia College Fiction Writing Student Board's Dead Authors Bash (that wasn't a long title at all), she realized there was a dearth of coloring sheets of her favorite authors. Resourceful chappess that she is, she made some. With a little help from a friend of course, but those will be posted later.

Feel free to use these for some nefarious purpose of your own! Or even better, create some of your own. Either that or marvel at Liz's skills, or lack thereof. Others will be posted soon!

Kurt Vonnegut

Katharine Anne Porter

Virginia Woolf (we would have to do that one)

J.D Salinger

These next three were created by the lovely Kat Kidwell (and if you click on this link, you will see that the adverb is justified.)

Poem of the Week, The Food Chain Has Failed, William Doreski

2011-11-04T17:29:00.002-05:00

The Food Chain Has Failed

by William Doreski

No Daddy Longlegs. Usually
dozens adhere to the house,
their thread-legs too fragile

to touch without breaking.
They hunt ants and other forms
of punctuation, their appetites

out of proportion to their beady
little black or red bodies.
Lounging under the pear tree,

we discuss the collapse of nature:
the diminishing of nighthawks
over Keene on sultry evenings,

the lack of toads in the garden.
The pears smile down upon us.
Mottled red and yellow, they mock

us with stony rinds. Maybe one year
in four the fruit ripens properly.
I pick one anyway and fondle

its elegant form the way
I’d fondle you if I could.
We discuss the melting of glaciers,

the destruction of forest cover,
the industrial smog that blankets
the planet in a great hopeless sigh.

No ant hills pimple the gardens,
no spiders or snakes to eat them.
The food chain has failed. I stroke

the tough glossy pear and feel
your body react. You shift
position, uncomfortable now,

your confident azure gaze adrift
as the long light outlines you
in a gesture almost of flight.

Poem of the Week, Reoccuring Dream, Maurice Oliver

2011-10-28T13:32:00.001-05:00

For some unfathomable reason, this poem reminds of Halloween. At any rate, we are thrilled to publish our first Maurice (we've always liked that name), and he'll be in our Winter Issue as well. Oh crap, we have to start thinking about the Winter Issue, before Editrice Liz absconds with all of the Toucan profits to a remote Scottish isle? She's seriously considering that, you know.

Reoccurring Dream (Including The Soundtrack)

by Maurice Oliver

It starts the way it ends-

someone yells Hallelujah
and the hooligans put away their
brass knuckles and firearms then
sing lullabies to coax the wings out.

Pin the tail on the donkey is replaced
with games of ball and jacks.

The bungo juice is passed around one
final time and then the soberest one
in the bunch stumbles up to read out
aloud the note scotch-taped to the pearly
gates, you know, the one that says;

Picking-up some Chinese takeaway,

Be Back In A Jiffy!

Poem of the Week, Unaware, by Claire T. Feild

2011-10-21T13:12:00.000-05:00

Just remember the beauty of nature for one more week...and don't forget not to litter!

Unaware
by Claire T. Feild

Sticks are soaking in pond water,
unaware of the creeping sludge:
part-clay, part-mud, part-oil
having won recognition from
Nature, satisfied that the ooze
is spreading out, smiling,
unwilling to indent its ego.

Piece of the Week, Epistemological Sundays, Timothy B. Dodd

2011-10-14T12:43:00.000-05:00

Our crisises are usually existential, not epistemological, but you never know.

Epistemological Sundays
by Timothy B. Dodd

“Difference between you and me is you think you know, but I know I know,” Assistant Pastor Legg said to Assistant Pastor Wilton as they stood with two deacons after Sunday morning services. Pastor Dunn and the parishioners had already departed, leaving the group of men alone at the bottom of the grand stairs leading up to the church. Assistant Pastor Wilton felt a little piece of himself floating out of his skull. Perhaps it was the anger that had long boiled over in him from Assistant Pastor Legg’s condescending tone. The two deacons easily read his disgruntlement, but as a pastor-in-training awaiting ordination, he was compelled to silence. Assistant Pastor Wilton swallowed hard while waiting for one of the deacons to follow up or change the subject. He stared at Assistant Pastor Legg’s tie, cut nearly down to the knot after losing the final week of a Sunday school contest. Assistant Pastor Legg tried to puff out his chest as his arrogance doubled at Wilton’s expense, but this only resulted in a further extension of his belly and the gold-trimmed Bible lying on it.

“I knew the women would win that contest, Pastor Legg,” one of the deacons finally said.

“Yeah, can’t hardly beat ‘em,” Legg replied. Speakin’ of beatin’, I’ll probably get one if Delores has to wait on me much longer.”

“Shoney’s waitin’ on you too, Pastor Legg?” asked the second deacon with a smile.

“Yeah, I told ‘em ‘bout 12:30 they should have a Slim Jim and onion rings or two waitin’ for me.” The deacons laughed as Assistant Pastor Legg walked away.

Assistant Pastor Wilton remained quiet during the banter, but he felt relieved once Assistant Pastor Legg was gone and wanted to assert some of the authority he had just been forced to swallow.

“Boy, that moral relevantism is gonna be the downfall of this country,” he said with the confidence of a man who had just bet and won.

Kim The Intern Caffeinetrice Has Been Unpacked!

2011-10-10T08:00:00.014-05:00

As some of you may know, we at the Toucan (Liz, Laura, and the partially anthropomorphic, totally useless bird) have been swamped this summer. Actually, we take that back, since about last spring we’ve been swamped. We wish being swamped was like being TP-ed, where you suddenly woke up one morning to find your front yard had alligators and quicksand in it. It would be way cooler and would entice you to never leave your house again, but alas, this is not what happens.

We’ve been kicking around the idea of an intern for some time—but not the actual intern, that would be workplace harassment. Where would this intern come from? We had a few bright-eyed and bushy tailed friends, but they were too busy poking around at their water bowls and scribbling down things of their own for us to feel comfortable asking. Plus, we admit, it was hard getting Liz to relax her despotic control of her dynasty, and Laura would usually not become corporeal long enough and/or was not quite as cunning as she needed to be to succeed in wresting the wheel away. Imagine Fidel Castro vs. Casper the ghost, except with awesome hair instead of beards.

Anyway, when we finally got that straightened out, we found ourselves paying Sarah Palin a visit. OH GOD NO, NOT so she could be our intern, but so we could see Russia. From her house. Seriously, if generations of guys have used the Mother Country for mail-order brides, we could probably get ourselves a half-decent intern. And so we wrote away, and then a few months later a mysterious package arrived, with a Texas stamp on it too.

Kim Osment is a wonderful, wonderful, highly caffeinated Beatles fan (we can’t have any other kind of fan affiliated with us, except perhaps an entomologist.) In fact, she is going with the title Caffeinetrice, as when she is not bringing us coffee she’s going and getting a lot of her own. Check out her coffee blog, but before you do that, read what she had to say for herself. (Yeah, she's a Fiction major. However could you tell?)

From up in the sky, a mysterious box crash lands to the ground like something seen in the military when they drop boxes full of supplies. The note on the outside of the box says, “To The Editrices of The Toucan Literary Magazine.” Inside is a dark haired girl clutching her computer and wearing a pair of headphones. Immediately startled by the light that has just been cracked into her box, she gives the opener a surly look before realizing it was you.

Hello, hello, hello! I’m Kim the ever amazing, ever present intern that Liz and Laura so desperately needed. I can speak and write in English, consume up to three cups of coffee in a half hour, and repeat stanzas from the dictionary. I’m a nerd, deal with it.

I’ll be in charge of writing your rejection or acceptance e-mails, gathering your addresses, and just generally being super awesome. I don’t really sleep a lot and I watch Dr. Who almost obsessively (I have other interests too, don’t worry!) I also write a coffee blog detailing the adventures of my coffee-ness. Hell yeah!

And that’s what we say: HELL YEAH! Please welcome Kim to the Toucanverse, and forgive her if she drops an article once in a while. Russians doesn’t have articles, you know. And if she is a spy—well, we’ll take our chances. It will make it even more important for you all to read our stuff: you’ll need to be looking for secret codes to keep her honest.

Meanwhile, back at Toucan Headquarters…

Kim: So, I have just fed the Toucan his papayas. You didn’t tell me he liked tummy rubs! He’s SUCH a sweetie.

Liz: He…what? The last time I got near him he tried to take off my fingers.

Laura: Well, it’s cause you ignore him shamefully. More coffee, Kimska!

Liz: And tomorrow, seriously, try for a higher skirt. I get ALL my exercise chasing skirts.

Kim: With pleasure, Editrice Rynberg. One sugar or two? And Baudler, might I remind you that you’re not single anymore? Perhaps you should try jogging instead?

Liz, Laura, and Liz’s Other Half: I THINK WE’RE GONNA LIKE HER.

Love,

Liz, Laura, and Kim Ze Sexy Intern!!!!!!!!!

Poem of the Week, Anarchy of Love, Guy Traiber

2011-10-07T14:39:00.001-05:00

Our sincerest apologies to Guy Traiber. This should have been up months ago.

Anarchy of Love

by Guy Traiber

What is god if not a ball of fire
shooting across the ocean
exploding into billions of tiny purple pieces?

What is god if not Allen Ginsberg singing (singing???)
Vajra Mantra; the harmonium never stops
its opening          and closing?

What is god if not the cry of a child
ice cream melting over his face
and over the burning hot concrete?

Economy plays a bigger and bigger role
in politics. Politics plays with men. With women.
Being a non affective number in this equation
we substitute interaction with knowing
which in turn we substitute
with TV programs, books or wikipedia.

Shake a hand – you meet and learn
Throw a stone – you hurt and feel
Love           and you might dip in the sea of knowledge.

Evil is a shadow hiding in your drawer
the one you have never opened, the one your elders
bequeathed you             ages ago.

They say there is one god, one truth to every human being – anarchy of love; killing more souls than god can handle. So, he cuts them halves, to save his time, sending back pieces, who cannot handle pride with humbleness, greed with a hug. This division will continue until each soul becomes a fragment of a purple fire ball.

Four hundred and twenty seven
thousands years to go
or are already finished. The answer is irrelevant
to god who is all the Yugs
and none.

Issue 13 Table of Contents

2011-10-02T02:15:00.001-05:00

We did it. We have produced an issue, despite our lack of time and better judgment. We probably always say this, but you better appreciate this one!

However, we have to admit, the print issue is still in production. So, while we have this up to prove to the world that we have work and it is here and we do not feed our submissions to a mutant Toucan and only pretend to have a literary magazine, our actual physical issue may require some time (hopefully not too long). We'll let you know when it's together and printed--we have all the parts, but we just have to get the right screwdriver. And not that kind of screwdriver...because that would be bad for the copyediting. (As you probably now, our copyediting can be pretty damn suspect anyway, and this was before Liz turned 21.)

Thanks to Mike Scelfo for producing us a wonderfully rich cover on short notice. Thanks to Kim Osment, who you'll meet soon enough, for pretending to be a Russian mail order bride, and to all the various cats who distract the Toucan with their utter adorable cuteness. And thanks to you for reading and putting up with us. We really don't know why you do it...or come to think of it, why we do it either. Oh right, to warn you all about killer escalators. Right. Yeah.

Out The Door, Mike Perkins
Four Strangers Near the Weathered Statue in a Downtown Park, J.J Steinfeld

Speaking Test, Chris Castle

Escalator Feeding Frenzy, Ryan P. Kennedy

Self-Help, Chris Bridges
The Marriott, Jacob Edwards
Alimony Payment, Gary Sprague
Guys Like You and Me, B.D Fischer
The Requirements For Performing A Head Spin, Calvin Fantone
Rabies and Rosaries, Gabrielle DeMarre
Inhumane, Ashley Cline
Domestic Nomadism, Ashley Cline
Microbiology 101, Laavayna S.
Neon, MaryAnne Kolton
YouTube Recommended, Don Kingfisher Campbell
Scenes From a Diner, Alec Cizak
Breakfast With Meursault, Cody Deitz
Natural History, Ashley Fisher
On January 14th, 2010, Tyler Bigney

Contributor Bios

Editrice Note: Grim? Toucan't Be Serious!

Editrice Note: Grim? Toucan't Be Serious!

2011-10-02T01:52:00.004-05:00

This is unlucky Issue 13, after all, and it’s going to be a dark, bitter, Editrice Note, because currently life seems dark and bitter and without redemption. Or sleep. Yes, sleep would be nice. Also the time to put one’s feet up on the couch. Well, if we had feet. Because we don’t have feet anymore. You want to know why? Because of the escalator.

We are not making this up, we have an essay about deadly escalators in this issue. We have a poem about YouTube. And one about break-dancing, which was presumably written before the breaker, (pardon us, we know the lingo now) got on the escalator.

Do you want to know what’s really going on with us, why we haven’t been our usual, cheery, punctual self? It’s really not the loss of our feet. We’re trying to put our lives together, getting real jobs, pretending we can exist in the nonfictional world, all the while shelving books and writing, or not writing. And we don’t really have time between all this, to do much of anything. Not even figure out why our hair looks like it—

“Oh, just admit it, Liz,” Laura screams from the escalator, where her long mane is currently entangled, in sort of a reverse Rapunzel. “You don’t want to do this Editrice Note, anyway. You don’t want to do this issue. You want to pour yourself a whiskey and Coke and watch Dead Poets Society for the 17th time. But I’m onto you, you little faker. I’m onto you.”

“Really? ‘Cause it seems like all you want to do is to play Beatles Rockband and watch Doctor Who and knit argyle bikinis.”

“So what? At least I’m making stuff. YOU don’t appear to making much of anything. Not even an effort. What is with you? Ever since you found that hussy of yours…”

"HEY NOW, HEY NOW..."

What is the most important thing in life, Toucan fans? Is it sanity, or is it love, or is it responsibility? Because honestly, we don’t know any more. Is it learning not to complain? Is it learning how to deal with feelings of failure and emptiness, even if perhaps they have very little basis in reality?

We would put submission info here, like we always do, but frankly we might not get to you for a while. We would tell you when these issues would expect to appear in stores, or God forbid, be sent out, but all of those would be fanciful, optimistic lies, and we love you too much to do that to you. That’s why we hurt you so much. Yeah, we’re twisted like that, but at least we’re honest about it.

Sorry we can’t make it to being funny this time. Give us a few months, and maybe we’ll get the old wit back in our pen. For now, our noses are to the grindstone, and our feet jammed firmly in the escalator—the escalator of life.

Liz and Laura, the harried Toucan Editrices

Out the Door, Mike Perkins

2011-10-02T01:45:00.001-05:00

This is how it ended. You would think that a marriage three years old that had started in Kansas and ended in Missouri would have some kind of message to convey or at least bring a sense of finality. Instead, it ended just about like that last walk when I go through a rented hotel room before leaving. You do that last inspection just before you walk out of the room for the last time because you want to make sure you did not leave something valuable behind. At the same time you are anxious to be on your way, and sorry to be leaving too. Something did happen, finally, at the end but it was so vague the telling of it is like ripping out the last chapter of a murder mystery leaving the affair unsolved.

It seems reasonable that a person would take the day off and not end their marriage on just the thin margins of whatever else is going on in their life. Instead I got divorced on my lunch hour having told nobody except that I might be a little late in coming back since I had some personal business to attend to. It was a lonely and private affair.

I had been in county courthouses before and after the divorce. I have visited courthouses professionally to testify on behalf and against people, as well as to cover news stories as a photojournalist. The courthouses are all the same with their imposing entryways, high ceilings, marble floors, and a sort of forced grandeur deemed appropriate for those temples of fiscal responsibility and civic duty. They are cold places with no warmth or humanity in them. As a rule good things seldom happen in a courthouse.

As usual in any courthouse there were people around but they were like props or mere functionaries. Somehow I managed to find the courtroom where the divorce was scheduled and was permitted to enter to wait until my case was called. The courtroom was sparsely decorated and attended. Of course there was the judge, my soon to be ex-wife Glenda, and her lawyer. There were also two or three other couples waiting their turn to put a bullet in the head of their own marriages, and they were all young like us. This was not the place were marriages came to die, it was the place where they were executed. The surreal nature of the proceedings was highlighted by the fact that everyone was sort of bland, uncomfortable, and solemn all at the same time like we were attending a funeral.

In the courtroom you felt guilty not because of what you had done, but because of the consequences like when you were hauled before the principle for some infraction you were not awfully sorry for. In such a place, it seemed appropriate to keep your head bowed somewhat while sitting and waiting at the edge of your seat on the courtroom benches which were exactly like those of a church. The marriage had begun with hard wooden bench seating and would end with it as well.

The judge was a middle-aged women with long bright red hair in the customary black robe. She was older than the rest of us. I had a chance to watch her in action as the couple before us finished up with their day in court. She was neither friendly nor rude. She was brisk and efficient with the file of cases yet to be heard at her right hand and the completed ones at her left. She had a system. There were certain technical questions she asked from a mental list she kept in her head, and she made notes and signed papers as she went along. She seemed only professionally curious and I imagined that except for the occasional hysterical or violent break down in decorum requiring some kind of effort to regain control, by her or possibly even the bailiff, it was an assembly line process to be endured. She asked questions of the people appearing before her but they were almost all answered instead by their attorney like a parent answering for a child who is somewhat unreliable in providing answers when it really counts. The couple ahead of us were finished. There was not even a drop of the gavel, it just ended and they stood there for a moment as if asking themselves if this was all there was. It was. Then it was our turn.

The judge noted that I did not have an attorney. My wife, for the next few minutes barring some kind of unforeseen event, was suing me for divorce and I had just showed up for the formalities. The judge looked at me and asked me if this was all okay.

"He's stipulated to the conditions your honor." That was Glenda's attorney.

The attorney was about the same age as Glenda and I. He could not have been long out of law school. Equipped with a receding hairline he was dressed in a light colored suit and tie with a white shirt and shined shoes. Those were his work clothes. He had the shiny pallor of someone who works inside too much and was thin. He seemed anxious, and I imagined that if he was new to the practice of law he was hoping that this easy payday was not going to be ruined by some unexpected difficulty involving some kind of lawyerly intervention requiring him to think on his feet.

Her eyes remained on me. I guess the judge did that sometimes when some answer actually required a response from the individual to satisfy her.

"Yes it is." I nodded and that was that. My great courtroom oratory was finished.

There were no children, there was certainly no property, and we had already divided up things completely to our mutual satisfaction. If there ever was a divorce free of legal complications this was it.

Glenda was standing on the other side of the lawyer she had hired and the judge asked her some question and was completely satisfied not only with the answer but that the lawyer had replied for her. Linda had dressed up, but at the time she was working in retail and I had no idea if she had dressed up for court or work. As usual she seemed a bit stern and introspective, and I do not recall her saying a single word until after we walked out of the courtroom.

It was over in five minutes but it was a long five minutes. When we were done, just like the couple before us, we stood there expecting some kind of ending. There really was no ending to speak of. There was no final hymn or prayer, no congratulations nor condolences, nothing but a process and a marriage that had run their respective courses and it was time for everyone just to move on.

The lawyer disappeared. Out of habit, and perhaps other reasons as well, Glenda and I walked out of the courtroom together even though we were now divorced and had not seen, nor spoken, to each other for months. We continued to walk together down the stairs, then out the hallway, and then out the front door. Without warning, as soon as we were outside, Glenda began to cry.

She had waited to cry until we were out the door. She had also been the one to file for divorce although I was none too sorry for that. Yet, despite everything, she had found something she needed to cry about. There we were, standing together divorced, two people who may or may not have ever been in love but two people who had certainly shared the most intimate of times together. We were alone, and she was alone except for me. I did not know what to do.

Then she said the oddest thing. "I'm sorry."

Was she talking to me or herself, and what was she sorry for?

I looked at her expecting some kind of clue as to what she wanted from me. Despite everything I felt sorry for her.

"Glenda there is nothing for you to be sorry for. This whole thing is mostly my fault."

We had continued to walk awhile but then stopped a distance outside the courthouse door on the sidewalk. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day full of sad things.

Before I could move toward her, which I was reluctant to do for many reasons but sorry to see her suffer alone with nobody else to comfort her, she put her hands straight down to her side

drawing on some kind of inner resolve. She stopped crying and got a hard look and from experience I knew that I was being tuned out and all communication had ceased. That was her way of saying no.

Those were the last words we ever spoke to one another and I never heard from her again. There were a few rumors from friends, and one time she tried to reach me through my parents. She called a few years after the divorce, and told them she was back in Kansas, but wanted to get in touch with me to see if I would help her by cooperating to secure an annulment for our late marriage. She was engaged to marry some farmer, who was Catholic, and in order to get married in the Catholic Church she would have to get an annulment. Nothing ever came of that either.

Four Strangers Near the Weathered Statue in a Downtown Park, J.J Steinfeld

2011-10-02T01:43:00.001-05:00

On an overcast afternoon—the morning news’s weather forecast had mentioned only a 30- percent chance of light rain today—in front of the weathered statue of a fearless-looking, bronze-handsome explorer who first set foot in the area three centuries ago, a self-appointed downtown park prophet, jabbing his closed umbrella toward the sky as if to get the attention of some celestial meteorologist, is the only one of the four people, strangers to each other, standing near the statue to have an umbrella. “I am a prophet if I like it or not,” he says in a rich baritone, first toward the sky, then to the statue, and finally at the other three people standing near the statue. “A prophet’s job is to prophesy, rain or shine,” he continues, and laughs at his own remark.

The park prophet seems to be appropriately dressed for a movie about wild-eyed prophets set several centuries ago, say around the time the explorer was redefining the area, at least that is what one of the other people in the park, an unsuccessful local filmmaker, is thinking as he points his cellphone camera at the park prophet, who announces in his impressive voice that the world will end tonight, or the night after, or the night after that—the point, the prophet declares, is the world will end sooner or later and we will need to be filled with humility and thoughts of love or else oblivion and worse would be our everlasting confinement. The park prophet steps closer to the statue and taps with the umbrella at the explorer’s legs and backside, a rhythmic secret message of sorts.

“As far as prophets go, this guy sure isn’t the coolest one I‘ve ever seen,” a teenager who has had his share of apocalyptic visions says to an elderly woman who is attempting to recall the names of her grandchildren and wondering what God has forgotten, her name included. Suddenly she remembers that she was on the way to buy a birthday card and a present for her oldest granddaughter who she guesses is about the same age as the teenage boy standing next to her near the park statue. The teenager is in the park to research the statue and its historic plaque for a high-school history essay that is due tomorrow morning and he hasn’t written a single sentence yet, but is confident he can write the essay in three or four hours tonight. In fact, he always puts off doing his school assignments to the last possible minute and is quite pleased to the point of boastfulness of his ability to get schoolwork finished under difficult time constraints.

A light rain starts to fall and the park prophet opens his umbrella, offering it to the elderly woman. She seems confused by his offer, and the teenager takes the umbrella and holds it over the woman’s head. “I like the rain,” she says to the statue, and the teenager wonders how his parents will behave when they are as old as the woman he is attempting to shield from the rain.

The local filmmaker, who never believed in God or the end of the world, is catching the prophet on his new cellphone camera for a possible experimental film about a park prophet on an overcast afternoon turning rainy. He had been earlier contemplating doing a film about the explorer but the park prophet suddenly seems to have more creative possibilities, then decides that the park prophet is a direct descendent of the explorer, and starts to call a friend to tell her about his new idea for a film. He is already thinking of where he can get funding for this film project.

Then the unexpected overtakes reality, a heart attack or stroke, the prophet falling like the night or a night to come. The statue seems to gasp, an ambulance is called by the local filmmaker, the teenager drops the umbrella and starts CPR, the elderly woman recalls a prayer she said as a girl, and it starts to rain more heavily than predicted on this morning’s news.

Speaking Test, Chris Castle

2011-10-02T01:41:00.000-05:00

Speaking Test, Part One: ‘In the first part of the test I’m going to ask you some questions about yourself…’

John Lennon

Jim sat in the reception waiting for the new student. The Dayton school for English was covered in snow today and his new student, Sia, was almost late. He re-read his letter from his sister back in London, smiled at the news of his nephew’s birthday party, the faulty remote controlled plane and folded up the letter. The bang on the door made him jump and he looked up to see the girl, right on time, standing by the glass door.

It was three weeks until the speaking test and Sia had applied at the last minute and subsequently been taken ill. Her school was now closed because of the pig/bird/monkey flu and Jim’s boss had offered to help out.

“So the English speaking test is split into four parts,” Jim said, going over the rules for the nth time. In his first and only year of teaching, he had managed to pass every student in the school. It was a combination of encouragement, patience, cheating and blind luck. It was also the only thing he was good at. “Part one means I ask you some questions, usually three from five, never more than one from each section. So today, we’ll just do that section to get you used to it, okay?” he looked up and smiled his best neutral, non-creepy-to-girl-students-smile. In all matters of school he tried to think neutral: like Switzerland.

“Yes,” the girl replied, not looking up and immediately screening the notes for the questions. She was interested at least, thought Jim. He had kids who repeatedly looked under the sheets to their mobile phones, their eye-lines clearly nowhere near the papers; they would make rubbish spies, Jim had thought with a rueful smile. Looking at them, so excited at the prospect of each message and so clearly not thrilled with the prospect of learning, Jimmy, at the age of thirty-two, had begun to feel old for the first time.

“So, let’s start with lessons at school, or education,” he said and looked up. He felt himself blush a little as he began to speak. He felt ridiculous at having to put on his slow, ‘amateur dramatics’ voice for each question, but knew it was necessary for first time students who, being Greek, wouldn’t have a clue what to make of a slightly rough, outskirts of London male voice; a male voice that was incredibly deep, to boot. Jim sighed inwardly; he’d always hated drama at school and had got out of it with a sick-note at every chance.

The oral tests had been a success all the same; he had had managed to pass the lad who had, at the start of the test, very politely asked Jim to come round to his flat when he was away and eat his dog. They were good kids, all in all; even the ones who were a pain in the ass weren’t spiteful. Each week he read the news websites about back home, knives in school, falling standards and realised how lucky he was to be confronted, at the worst of times, with a couple of verses from Hannah Montana.

“Let’s go on with family, Sia. How important is family to you?” She was good, if slightly uninterested; Jimmy guessed she was probably smart at the things which took her interest and suspected being here and talking to a man with clipped English tones wasn’t one of them.

He tried to ask as many varied questions as he could to see if he could see any spark in her answers, but had little joy. It was a trick he used for all the students; find out what they were interested in, then try to incorporate it into the questions in the exams, so they would feel more comfortable talking about something they understood. So far, it had paid dividends in the real tests; one girl, who in class was painfully shy, spoke for over two minutes about the latest ‘Harry Potter’ film; another boy, who had spent most of Jim’s lessons talking, singing and generally giving him a headache, turned in an eloquent debate about which football team was better to support, Olympiakos or Panathanikos (for him it was always going to be Olympiakos).

The hour trundled on until five o’ clock came about. He watched her as he told her it was time to finish up and smiled as all the energy, absent from the previous hour, rushed through her as she sprang out of the seat. It was a good thing, really; what teenager would really choose to be in class on the fringes of a Saturday night? She scrambled up her books and pencils into the bag as Jim wiped the board cleaned of the few words he had put up.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend Sia?” he said, as he cleaned down the date and the ‘Mr. Jim’ he had written at the start.

“I was supposed to go out but I think that’s changed,” she said carefully, making sure each word was right. Jim understood from the off, that most of the students’ biggest concern was not passing or failing but looking or sounding foolish in front of other people. If there was one thing Jim had learned quickly here; never underestimate how grown-up teenagers were about practical matters.

“‘Life is what happens when you’re making other plans,’ I guess” Jim said without thinking. The whiteboard was clear. He looked at it; when he was at school, they still had blackboards and teachers were still allowed to throw chalk at noisy students. Good times.

“John Lennon,” she said as she hauled her bag onto her shoulder. Jim turned round and smiled. “Good night, Mr. Jim.”

“Good night, Sia,” he replied, not wanting to patronise her by saying how impressed he was by her knowledge. He walked her to the front door, holding it open for her and then locking it up as she stepped onto the street. She strode off, bracing herself against the cold; obviously, she didn’t have a hat, gloves or a scarf. It was music she was into: Jackpot.

***

Speaking Test, Part Two: ‘I’m going to read some situations. I want you to start or respond as necessary…’

Jimi Hendrix

It was important not to push it straight away; trying to openly start a conversation about a hobby, or look to enthusiastic, could sometimes backfire. Jim looked up with the tap and unlocked the door; the snow had eased down but it was still cold as hell; he saw Sia’s knuckles were white, her cheeks flush. He tried to remember from his old science classes whether teenagers were impervious to cold. He thought back on it; no, it was only homework. They said hello and walked down to the classroom. Jim asked about her week, the weekend and they settled down in the chairs.

“The second part of the test, Sia, is the conversations. In ‘A’ I start the conversation, in ‘B’ you start, okay?” She nodded and the two of them almost simultaneously cleared their throats.

This part of the exam, Jim noticed, was sometimes the most difficult. Some students were mortified at the idea of having to talk to their teacher as a friend and the concept of going to the cinema or a restaurant usually meant descending into a fit of giggles or horrified silence. Jim couldn’t say he blamed them all that much; for his part he tried to keep it as light and as simple as he could, achingly aware he didn’t want to come across as the ‘hip’ teacher. Jim remembered from his own school days the substitute teachers who pulled out the guitar and asked everyone to call them by them first names; it usually ended with them in tears and a galaxy of spit-balls on their back: painful.

“‘We’re friends. I want to go to the beach this weekend...’” To her credit, Sia seemed to take the whole thing good-humouredly, smiling in that half-amused, half-bemused style that only teenagers could get away with.

The trick, Jim had decided, was to use ‘W’ words: where, when, who, what…to make it easier for the students to answer. Tragically, Jimmy remembered how happy he was to come up with the idea and even found himself making a ‘W’ with his hands as he explained it and wrote it up on the board. He looked round to see if they were following his instructions; of course one of the boys was making a ‘L’ for Loser sign with his hand. Still, it had been a help.

“Now, with part ‘B’ of the test, you’re going to start the conversation. First situation: ‘You are at a restaurant…’” Jim waited for a few seconds; this part, he thought was the toughest. It was hard enough for a teenager to strike up a conversation, let alone in a second language. Jim had a default setting if it got really tricky; just to say ‘hi, how are you, Jim?’ and then let him take it over. But to her credit, Sia got through them, stopping once or twice, but on the whole doing well.

“That’s good work, Sia, well done. Remember, as well; if you want to think about something, try and make it a pause rather than a hesitation, okay? Maybe say ‘let me think…’ or something like that, okay?” Jim saw her jot it down. A student actually using their notebook for notes; was there any finer sight? He stole a quick glance at his phone for the time—never let students see you check the time; don’t let them think you’re as bored as they are—and was surprised to see it was almost time to go.

“You like music, Mr. Jim?” Sia said, making him look up from his own notebook.

“Yes I do. English music mainly, rock. How about you?” He watched her set herself in the chair and fought against smiling; for all the speaking, she was ready to talk.

“I love English music; rock, punk. My favourite bands are The Clash, The Arctic Monkeys and the Cure.” Her eyes lit up when she spoke and Jimmy saw her in the cafes in town; holding a coffee with both hands, talking animatedly to friends about songs, films and all the other things that really mattered.

The two of them talked for a few minutes; Jim tried out a few bands and nodded when she came back with album titles and lyrics. When she glanced down to her watch and politely reached for her bag, Jim drew himself out of his chair.

“Do you mind…” she said, looking to the whiteboard and pointing to the pen. Jim waved her on and stepped back as she stood by the board. Carefully, she moved across the space, her writing neat—better than Jim’s, whose first month of writing on the boards had almost slanted clean off them—and then stood back. Without turning round she cleared her throat.

“‘When the power of love is stronger than the love of power, the world will be at peace.’” She looked over her shoulder. “Jimi Hendrix,” she said and smiled, nodded and then walked out the door, in the effortlessly cool way that only a teenager could manage.

***

THERE'S MORE. READ IT BY CLICKING HERE.

Speaking Test, Continued

2011-10-02T01:37:00.000-05:00

Speaking Test, Part Three: ‘In this part of the test we’re going to discuss something together…’

Johnny Cash

Sia was at least wearing a hat when he opened the door for her the next week. As they sat down, Jim reached into his satchel as Sia rummaged through her bag and pulled out the clutch of CDs. He turned round, his arm outstretched and found Sia in exactly the same pose, to the point where they almost, as the kids called it, ‘knuckle bumped.’ In her hand was a pen drive.

“Music?” He said, looking at it; it wasn’t even as big as a pen, more a stubby pencil. There was probably enough room to store his entire record collection on there, Jim thought. The CDs in his hands suddenly felt like antiques.

“Music,” she said, accepting the discs and pushing the stick into Jim’s hand. “I don’t have these,” she said, beaming. Before he could answer, she listed what was on the drive; Jim knew about fifty percent of the bands.

“Thank you,” he said, holding it up, like it was some sort of ray gun and feeling about one hundred years old. He wondered if she’d ever seen a vinyl record. He thought about explaining it to her, then got himself out of it by pretending it would be too hard to explain.

“In part three, you actually keep the paper; on it is information that we have to discuss…” Jim was usually pretty positive about this part of the exam; if it was pictures, it was safe ground; written details were a lot trickier. The only problem with the visuals were when they weren’t made clear on the sheet-one student, on ‘The Birthday Present Question,’ seeing a picture of an animal, mistook the idea of a cuddly toy for a real pet and explained how a live-gorilla would be the best birthday present ever: he passed with flying colours and quite right, too Jim thought.

The two of them bounced through the sheets in good time; Sia chose CDs as ‘A Birthday Gift,’ bought a band t-shirt with ‘Christmas Money,’ and chose a concert for ‘A School Trip.’ With ‘Excursions,’ she picked ‘Hard Rock Cafe,’ and for a film night she chose ‘I’m Not There’ and ‘Moulin Rouge.’ Jim hoped to Christ music was going to feature heavily in the exam.

***

Speaking Test, Part Four: ‘You are going to talk on your own…’

Jeff Buckley

“Okay, Sia, now Part Four is a bit more difficult; most of the students find it the hardest part of the test. You have to talk on your own for about a minute about a topic. Now you get paper to make notes and thirty seconds to plan it, so try and make bullet points, okay?” Jim looked round from the board and Sia nodded. During the break, when he usually ate a satsuma and drank a cup of coffee, he had written up bullet points for the fifteen odd topics that had come up so far in the past papers.

“Obviously, I’ll try to pick the one most suitable for you (music, music, please god music) but we’ll cover all of them just in case, okay? And also, you can adapt the topic to suit you; for instance, what you care passionately about…” he left it hanging in the air and watched her smile.

“Music,” she said, tapping the CDs.

“My Hobbies, Spare Time, The future…”

“Music, music, music,” Sia answered and Jim smiled, hearing her voice relax as she spoke; since they began talking about the songs, her way of speaking had changed noticeably; it was less formal and steadier. Jim had laughed thinking about it; he had been exactly the same, losing the mannered accent and letting himself relax enough to talk passionately about the bands and singers.

“So let’s go through them, one by one and write down the notes as we go.” He handed over a sheath of scrap paper and then looked down the list of topics. “Something you care about…”

In the movie version of the lesson, Jim would have allowed them to play one of the CDs in the background but unfortunately this was real life. Sia found a couple of the topics difficult and they had to go back over it once or twice. The lesson over ran a little and by the end of it Sia looked as tired as Jim felt. He cleaned the board after he checked she had copied down all the notes and she began to scoop the CDs up into her bag.

“Johnny Cash?” She said, holding up the last CD; the one Jim had been unsure whether to include or not. He reasoned that he could include it because he wasn’t inflicting Tom Waits on her.

“He covers one of my favourite songs, ‘Satisfied Mind.’ Great song.” He looked over and expected her to nod or shrug; instead her eyes lit up.

“I’ve given you Jeff Buckley. He sings that song.” She nodded, smiling.

“I heard his version first,” he said and spun back round to the board to write. When he was done, he stood back, shoulder to shoulder with her.

“‘How many times have you heard someone say, ‘If I had money, I would do things my way?’” He looked over to her. “You finish it off, Sia.” She cleared her throat.

“‘But the wealthiest person, is a pauper at times, compared to the man, with a satisfied mind.” She looked over. “Pauper?” He walked back to the board.

“It means ‘poor man.’” He wrote over the top of it. His handwriting was a mess compared to hers. Jim looked round. “Well, you’ve done great and I think you’ll do fine next week, okay?”

“Do you think I will pass?” She blushed suddenly and looked down to her bag. Her voice returned to that first day, uncertain tone. It was the time when Jim had to be a real person and not a teacher.

“I’ll be with you as the examiner, so there’s no need to worry. And anyway, it’s not about passing or failing but doing you’re best. That’s all I ask, Okay? I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Jimmy always said that: He always meant it, too. He lifted up her bag and handed it to her. “Thanks for the music, too.”

The two of them walked to the door. Jim held it open for her; as she pulled on her hat he reached into his bag and pulled out some gloves. She waved them away, so he kept waving them at her, until she was exasperated enough to take them.

“Give them back next week, okay?” Jim was careful not to say ‘at the exam.’

“Okay,” Sia said and walked out to the street. She reached the street and looked back; she waved. Jim waved back and then closed the door as she turned round the corner.

***

Exam Day

Sia was seventh of the list of eight; the curse of having a surname beginning with ‘T’. Jim got into the exam room and prepared himself; he checked the Dictaphone was working and the batteries were at full strength. He filled out the paperwork and opened the exam paper itself. Jim read through it and highlighted the questions he was going to ask. Jim made himself go through all of it part by part, reaching four last of all. He highlighted the topic he was going to use. After two cups of coffee from his flask, he walked to the door and called the first student in.

“Can you spell your family name for me please?” He said and looked over to Sia. She was pale and when she began to spell the first two letters her voice trembled. Jim smiled to try and calm her down but she wasn’t looking at him; instead she was staring at the small Dictaphone as if it had horns and a forked tongue. Next to it were the returned CDs and her pen drive.

“And where are you from?” Jim went on, hearing her voice steady as she answered. “Okay, now in part one…”

Sia did well in part one and part two. The information was terrible for the third part and Jim steered it a little, hoping the examiners didn’t go any deeper than ‘processing and using’ the information. She did fine, even though she forgot to use her own ideas, as every student had done that day, having been faced with the tough subject matter.

“Okay, now in part four of the test…” Jim heard her take a deep breath and ready herself. “Your chosen topic is… ‘What I would do if I won the lottery.’” There was the few seconds of silence that always followed him reading out the topic, when the student quickly tried to figure out if they were going to sink or swim. Sia looked straight at Jim and then looked down to the blank piece of paper, which Jim took as a good sign.

The other two topics were terrible and Jim had thought this one was the best choice. On his question sheet he had doodled; ‘record collection, stereo, concerts, start band.’ If she froze completely he was prepared to silently hold it up for her to follow. That didn’t seem necessary though; before he had the chance to repeat the topic, she looked up, her eyes alert.

“If I won the lottery…” He said.

“If I won the lottery, I would find the man in town who sells the tickets. I always remember him because the other men are always loud and pushy and he is always friendly and polite. I would find him and I would give him some money and say thank you for taking-sorry, selling- me the ticket. I would then give him some money because he seems sad to me; sometimes when I see him I think he’s talking to himself. I don’t think he’s a crazy person, I think maybe he’s just lonely. When he goes into cafes a lot of people ignore him and don’t speak to him, so maybe he just talks to himself and pretends it’s the voice of other people who are kind. Maybe, people he knew when he was my age. I would also give him some money because his eye looks bad and I would want him to go to the hospital to get it fixed. If I won the lottery I would give this man some of my money because I want to show to him that somebody notices him and he is not all forgotten like a shadow but a real human, like me and everybody else.”

No music: Absolutely perfect.

“And just a follow up question;” Jim cleared his own throat, close to speechless. He read the highlighted question on autopilot. “‘Do you think money always makes people happy?’” He looked up; for the first time that day, she smiled.

“‘How many times have you heard someone say…’” she began to say and Jim almost started to laugh; he hadn’t even had that in mind when he’d highlighted it. He listened to her as she spoke, her voice relaxing for the first time in the exam. “Poor man-sorry- pauper at times, compared to the man with a satisfied mind.’ ”

“Sia Tarrou, that is the end of the test…” Jim said and pressed the stop button.

***

Jim tidied up the paperwork and handed it over to the examiner who was waiting in the bar. He looked around but Sia had long gone; Jim knew she had passed and he would not see her again and that was okay. He ordered a coffee and put everything in his satchel in order. When he left, she would be one of the students that he would remember. Jim sipped his coffee; he looked out of the window and saw the snow was starting up again, falling in quick, wild flurries. He finished his coffee and slipped on the earbuds of his mp3; the music she had given him was good and furious. Jim walked out into the snow; he was tired but he felt good. He was pleased for all of them of course, but most of all, Sia. As he stepped into the snow and pulled up his collar, he jammed his hands into his pockets and laughed; she had forgotten to return his gloves.

Escalator Feeding Frenzy, Ryan P. Kennedy

2011-10-02T01:28:00.002-05:00

ESCALATOR FEEDING FRENZY:
AN ESSAY IN AWE OF THE ESCALATOR

Without exaggeration it can be said the escalator is an awesome machine. A hundred years after its invention, the escalator represents our nation’s commitment to luxury living and continues to doggedly resist obsolescence. And, like all things awesome, it rewards earnest contemplation.

Let’s marvel at the eight-ton tangle of belts and drive gears. What mind first imagined this asymmetrical metal structure? In what deep industrial sweatshop are forged the materials for its sensational enterprise? The American inventor Charles Seeberger is considered the father of the modern escalator. Seeberger (a Virgo) liberally cribbed from earlier inventors. His design was purchased by the Otis Elevator Company in 1910 and manufactured throughout the world since then.

The escalator was invented for one practical reason: Marshal many people from one spot to another as steadily as possible. And thanks mostly to the public’s fierce hatred of staircases it today remains a popular fixture in malls and ballparks. But the escalator has since transcended its original purpose. It cannot be stressed enough that escalators are dangerous machines. Despite this, people trust escalators. That’s what makes them powerful social tools and worthy of serious consideration.

A HISTORY OF PERIL

Escalators woo passengers by offering them an effortless ascent to the floor above them or perhaps a tranquil descent to the floor below. People love them. And apparently escalators love people and their soft flesh. Each year approximately 11,000 people become escalator meat, and the Consumer Product Safety Commission reports that a quarter of them are children. Nearly 35,000 escalators lurk in thoroughfares across the United States. Many of them dwelling in shopping malls and department stores encumbered by heavy foot traffic. Thus, it is common for malls to ask its patrons to avoid wearing loose clothing, mostly to prevent shoppers from being pulled under the escalator’s landing platform, but also because it’s easier to mop their gooey remains out of its inner workings.

The Washington Post reported in 1998 that “intoxicated riders are more likely to fall or sit down on steps. Other riders horse around and can trip and fall; and some adults who ride with children don't hold on to their hands.” The suggestion here is that escalators strike when their prey is at their most venerable, like when people stick their fingers in the moving gears or squat on the steps, exhausted from feverishly shopping. The advert-crowded Washington Post knows who among their target readership might have their buying power squandered by a purse- or ankle-hungry escalator. It obviously wants to keep its readers alive and able. Though malls are the most likely feeding troughs for escalators, other danger zones do exist.

West Virginian Floyd Shuler, 61, tried to sue an airline in 2004 after he took an embarrassing spill on an escalator, instantly putting his life and favorite limbs in jeopardy. Somehow escaping the metallic jaws of death, Shuler threw a hissy fit over the fact that the airline allowed him to get drunk on the flight then tried to feed him to their escalator once he deplaned. Shuler backed out of the lawsuit partly because it was unwinnable but mostly because the real victory here was Shuler’s continued ownership of his limbs. Another victor in the battle of man versus machine was Jeffrey Roth, a five-year-old boy whose hand was devoured by an escalator in a Boston-area department store in 1967. Doctors were able to reattach the hand at a nearby hospital. Others, however, have not been as fortunate.

A 1964 escalator accident at a Baltimore baseball game injured 68 people, most of them children on a field trip. One teacher told the Lewiston Morning Tribune, “People just kept getting chewed up by the steps.” One girl died. A judge later absolved the stadium owners of any criminal negligence. The law, however, does not always side with machinery. A 1996 lawsuit was decided in favor of four-year-old Shareif Hall, whose foot was plucked by a Philadelphia escalator. A judge found $7.4 million to be a fair market price for the youngster’s foot.

Unknown whether it’s out of love or fiscal desperation, parents are constantly suing escalators for munching on their children’s toes and fingers. Knowing that a typical escalator could wolf down the 90-lb. Mary-Kate Olsen in less than 30 seconds and dispatch a hearty 250-lb. Drew Carey in less than two minutes, it is a poor parent who allows a child to frolic on something notorious for its steady diet of human. Especially when it is known that even the most unusually serene escalator can willingly seek out chunkier morsels.

Peacefully coiled for eight years within a Denver baseball stadium, a three-story escalator roused its hankering in 2003 and famously embarked on a limb-munching spree. In its warpath were 32 baseball fans. One of the escalator’s targets was Angela Morrow, a teenager who described her attacker as “a giant meat grinder.” In one bold gesture, a New York City escalator, reaching for record-book mayhem, chomped down on 71 children at a movie theater in 2005.

The escalator operates beyond its practical use of marshaling people from one spot to another. It is a machine that performs operations it was not programmed to execute. It is a machine that disobeys. In the words of escalator survivor Angela Morrow, “It was biting you like it was alive.” It is probably better not to ask why escalators deplume us of our limbs and faculties. To better understand the meaning of its defiance, we shall look at the effects escalator rebellion has on society. We might then be able to consider the escalator a sentient machine. We shall thusly explore in the next two sections the unforeseen and profound effects escalators violently impose on our lives without our consent.

ESCALATOR PSYCHOLOGY

Crime stories abound in newspapers and news programs every October of vulnerable children gobbling poisoned candy or caramel apples brimming with razor blades. The amount of national attention given to envenomed treats is large and police departments issue stern warnings to parents of innocent trick-or-treaters. There has been, however, only one documented case of poisoned goodies. Compare that to the escalator bedlam mentioned above. In one swift minute in 2005 a New York escalator throttled 7,000% more children than did all the poisoned Halloween candy combined.

Roofie-wielding rapists and road rage threats are also dangers overestimated and perpetuated by news outlets and police statements. But there is a reason why those near-fictional fears are all amplified over the real threat of getting mutilated by an escalator. It simply doesn’t suit our consumerism lifestyle. Escalators are part of our shopping and tourist experiences. They allow us to reach our destinations full of energy. Particularly in the mall, where escalators ensure that shoppers conserve their energy for navigating the sprawling sales floors. If shoppers, in fear of the escalator, had to huff and puff their way up several flights of stairs to reach the retailers, they would be exhausted and without the moxie necessary for impulse purchases and bankrupt of the strength needed for lugging bulky shopping bags long distances. To report the ominous peril of the escalator is to risk a sharp plummet in profits of advertisers and potential advertisers. Pointing out these dangers would rob people of what makes them happy: The freedom to shop and buy. And this freedom is what makes them happy Americans. Despite this, there are still those who promote awareness of escalator dangers.

In a bid to keep our citizens from ending up on the lunch menu of their local escalators, America celebrates its 18th annual Escalator Safety Awareness Week this November. The Elevator-Escalator Safety Foundation, whose mission is “to educate the public on the safe and proper use of elevators, escalators, and moving walks through informational programs,” is pushing for national recognition of not sticking your fingers and other appendages in the treacherous gears of an escalator. But as a species we are attracted to the idea of automated doom. Fascination with mass murder achieved by mechanical means goes back to the death camps of World War Two and can be seen today in the apocalypse fantasies peddled by cable news and Hollywood. For years, action fans have been thrilled by damsels or heroes bound tightly to conveyer belts with lethal destinations. There is something equally thrilling about a cavalcade of passengers progressing steadily toward an escalator’s gnarly maw.

The escalator ride itself is titillating. It strips the rider of all control and ushers him or her closer to a grisly end or, as mentioned above, an opulent sales floor. But people trust the escalator. It is their shepherd. This faith in the escalator is what makes us vulnerable to its macabre effects.

One the goriest escalator accidents on record is the 1987 fire at the King’s Cross St. Pancras stop in London’s subway system. A flash fire burst through the station during evening rush hour. A wooden escalator designed to carry commuters to a higher level carried them instead into an inferno. Several survivors said “a sheet of flame” engulfed the escalator. Thirty-two commuters were ushered steadily to their doom by the fiery lift. The underground station, with black smoke billowing and bodies stacking high, could only be described as apocalyptic.

And the escalator is a metaphor for the Christian apocalypse. Passengers’ heads are packed with the gruesome images of automated murder and corpse-fed bonfires but, given a fervent faith in the escalator itself, the passenger will coast onto the Promised Land, the land of milk and discounts.

INSTRUMENT OF SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION

Compared to the physical demands of staircase use, escalators are really great, but, as persistently cited above, they are likely to mutilate passengers and their limbs the second they set foot on the machine’s roaring teeth of death. And when enough passengers are bereft of limb the escalator begins to have a powerful effect on the social world. This power to transform society is thanks in part to the escalator’s refusal to discriminate. The escalator, in other words, preys on everybody, including the elite. Amputee rights and acceptance of transsexual lifestyles can emerge from the fringes of society to its forefront as a result of ravenous escalators. Only after select limbs have been extracted from our nation’s most powerful can social change be effected.

Castration can be a boon for the individual male and the society in which he functions. In this way, the escalator represents an instrument of social transformation. The physical body regulates exotic pleasure for males. In other words, a man cannot muster enthusiasm for hanky-panky after his body is spent and his testicles sapped. However, obliterate the physical limitations and this man is capable of reaching new summits of arousal and erotic pleasure. He is able to go beyond physical pleasures. It is fair to say that to castrate a man is to unfetter his sexual imagination from the tyranny of his body. Enter the escalator. Exit the gonads. Now tamed by its menacing gears, the man, with spotless mind and shredded nards, can transcend the conditions of a pitiful, instant-gratification life.

Every elevator ride is an opportunity for the individual to become a eunuch. On a much greater scale, though, the introduction of escalators into a society can reduce its patriarchy to microdust. The escalator itself has the power to topple the male dominator hierarchy. The persistent global bloodbath brought to us by masculinity and the oppression of its opposite can find its conclusion in the thunderous escalator. (Only a matter of time before rumors begin to circulate about emerging escalator-worshipping cults, spearheaded by fanatical feminists and transsexual terrorists.)

Lurking in America’s great mall systems and ballparks is the bloodthirsty escalator, laying in wait for limbs and genitals. What stands between a generation of entitled frat brothers and a generation of egalitarianism is the short distance between the passenger’s limb or groin and the sawtooth edge of the escalator stair. The escalator, for all its practical use and disclosures about society, is most importantly a knife poised at the heart of patriarchy.

WORKS CITED

“Boy’s Hand Is Restored After Escalator Accident.” Lewiston Evening Journal. 19 Dec. 1967.

“Girl Killed In Escalator Jam.” The Montreal Gazette. 4 May 1964.

“No Negligence Seen In Mishap At Baltimore.” St. Petersburg Times. 12 Sept. 1964.

McCann, Michael and Norman Zaleski. ”Deaths And Injuries Involving Elevators And Escalators.” The Center To Protect Workers’ Rights. July 2006.

“Probers Try To Determine Escalator Accident Cause.” Lewiston Morning Tribune. 4 May 1964.

Raines, Howell. “32 Are Killed In Fire London Subway; 80 Reported Injured.” The New York Times. 19 Nov. 1987.

Reid, Alice. “Escalator Troubles Rooted In Metro’s Original Design.” Washington Post. 5 Dec. 1998.

“Several Injured In St. Louis Venue Escalator Accident.” AOL Sporting News. 9 Oct. 2009.

Zullo, Robert. “Tainted-Candy Myth Continues to Haunt Halloween Festivities.” Houma Today. 30 Oct. 2007.

Self-Help, Chris Bridges

2011-10-02T01:24:00.003-05:00

Please don’t judge me for what I did. It was a desperate situation and I needed help. If you want to view it as exploitation then so be it, but first let me explain.

I’d come home from work that Friday, late as usual and feeling fit to collapse into a heap of limp flesh. My shoes were pinching and my suit felt restrictive. Mary had been that day which filled me with dread. I checked the list I’d left her. She’d ticked off the items she’d done and intimated in her shaky handwriting that’d she’d be back next Friday. I always felt self indulgent having a cleaner. I live alone but I have a demanding job and I earn enough money to fund it. I pay the going rate.

I decided to defer my checking and unwind a little first but the nagging thoughts prickled at me and I failed to wait. “Item 1: Clean the windows.” The sight of them bought back the rock in my stomach. They were smeary. Looking through the opaque windows, I spotted 3 cigarette ends, smeary with cheap lipstick, heaped in the soil of my potted Olive tree. Mary had promised me she would clear up her cigarette ends. It’s a dirty enough fact that she smokes but to pollute my plants with her detritus left me nauseated.

“Item 2: Clean the oven.” I opened the door with trepidation and the chemical smell of oven cleaner slammed into my face. I momentarily relaxed until I noticed that there was a dried on patch of food still remaining, the remnant of a casserole I’d cooked days before. I slammed the oven door with mounting irritation and set about stalking my territory like some crazed inspector. Finger marks on the mirror, a picture slightly askew and a grimy patch where she hadn’t gone to the edge of the bathroom floor. I’ll stop at that, the list could be endless. I was going to have to sack her.

I changed my clothes, got out my cleaning agents and began. It was midnight before I finished and my mood by this time was one of rage. I recall standing in the bath, scrubbing brush in hand, attacking the soap residue in the grouting with vigour and repeating a mantra: “This has got to stop.”

Naturally I was exhausted the next day and by evening, when I’d finished the remaining jobs, I was jelly limbed and brain fogged, hands reddened and fit only to collapse into bed. My bad mood persisted. I felt I’d wasted my weekend.

It was on the Tuesday that I saw the poster. I think I only noticed it because it was lopsided. “First Steps in Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: Come along to our friendly group. Wednesdays at 8pm in the Wexford Room at the County Library. All welcome.” I knew I had to go. This couldn’t go on. I’d started work on Monday tired and irksome. I needed resolution.

The following night I showered thoroughly, put on some neatly laundered clothes and arrived at the library a good 15 minutes early. I loitered just around the corner, watching as a motley assortment of people arrived, before finally skulking in at 19:57. The chairs were in a circle and a rather brisk woman greeted me. There were 8 of us. The woman, who I learned was called Yvonne, spoke to me, explaining the protocol and form.

A grey looking man called Norman began the proceedings. He spoke in a monotone, detailing his constant hand washing and angst about accruing germs by touching things. It all seemed faintly ridiculous and I couldn’t relate to it. He was followed by a middle aged lady called Val who talked about her issues with checking things. Apparently it took her two hours to leave the house which was all very interesting in a purely abstract way but hardly germane to my needs. Next was Laura, an unconventionally attractive girl. The poor girl had what I believe is called “Health Anxiety”, a condition that I personally would have termed hypochondria and would have initially judged harshly. Laura, apparently, spent most of the day checking her body for abnormalities. In between this she searched the internet for disorders. What a terrible life. I actually felt sympathetic. She was on the brink of losing her place at college as it was interfering with her ability to work.

It was my turn to speak next but I deferred which Yvonne said was fine as it was my first time there. The next three speakers were equally interesting, talking about their issues with fears about grime, their children, their marriages and health and how it affected their behaviours. This wasn’t what I wanted to listen to and I must admit that by the time Sarah spoke I’d lost all hope of achieving what I came here to gain.

Sarah was quite a pretty girl but unobtrusive, the sort who could slip unnoticed into a room. My spirits lifted as she began to talk in soft child like tones. She’d been a school teacher and had lost her job through poor attendance. She was obsessed with cleaning, spending anything up to 12 hours a day cleaning her house. As she talked about her impossibly high standards and her perfectionism my spirits lifted. This was what I had come to hear. I knew this group had what I was looking for.

It took three weeks and a lot of guile but I finally managed it. I procured Sarah. She’s honestly the best cleaner I’ve ever employed, very thorough. If you’re ever looking for a domestic then I’d recommend an O.C.D. self help group as the place to look. It did entail a few little lies and pretending to have a mental health disorder was a chore but the results are worth it. My house is spotless and I don’t have to lift a finger. I always think the ends justify the means, don’t you?

The Marriott, Jacob Edwards

2011-10-02T01:23:00.000-05:00

Three sad semesters, it was only fifteen grand, spent in bed, I thought about the army, I dropped out, went to the Marriott

Veronica and I are pacing ourselves through a seafood buffet at the Marriott Resort on Queensland’s Gold Coast. I find my attention wandering.

Primarily, I’m interested in the jerky mechanical frond-fans that are sweeping far-from-majestically at intervals along the ceiling -- an out-moded facsimile of colonial grandeur; a glaring anomaly that would have any self-respecting Rajah choking on his speckled quail-eggs.

But in my peripheral vision I cannot help but be drawn to the enormous crab that is monstering Veronica’s plate, blood-orange in colour and spilling its crustaceous appendages over the edge in all directions. It’s somehow a little bit eerie -– a touch of ‘We are not alone’ -– and my eyeballs start to tremble.

I have a flashback to the time when I was vacuuming the shower (as you do) and came across one of Veronica’s plastic shower-caps huddling in the corner, lost and confused, like a jellyfish whose luggage has made it to Long Island, Bermuda, but who personally has boarded the wrong plane and ended up penniless and shivering in Long Island, New York. Wrapped up in my own comings and goings, oblivious to the cap’s wretched plight, I give the vacuum head a few token pushes, not too close, but the suction field is greater than I’d anticipated, and with a WOOSH! gwooble gwooble gwooble the shower-cap is drawn in and digested; empirically gone; just another lost soul riding helpless on the currents of life.

I try now to focus on my yabbies, which are proving impossible to peel, lying unperturbed next to a pool of seafood sauce and several hors d’oeuvres that I painstakingly retrieved from the upper tier of the buffet, despite having to contort my elbow and shoulder under some low-hanging plastic covers and despite my fingers having become stuck in the tiny handles of the standard issue M*A*S*H forceps supplied for this enterprise. (Why is the world designed for midgets?) Even in death, the cheerax destructors assert their exoskeletal dominance over my soft, clumsy fingers and much-hyped opposable thumbs.

“Shall we go and see a movie later?” Veronica suggests, inadvertently bringing to the fore some of my background processing.

“You know,” I tell her, by way of reply, “I’ve been doing some calculations, and I think that I could afford to live here. If I could work from this table, at my usual hourly rate, I’d only have to put in twelve hours per day. Allow eight hours for sleep, that still leaves four hours every day.”

The upshot of this little ramble, of course, is that our room is exorbitantly expensive, even allowing for buffet breakfasts and dinners (which, incidentally, lack both pavlova and chocolate mousse). I deposit some yabby shell onto the centre plate next to Veronica’s discard pile of crab armour and observe disconsolately that mine is a molehill to her mountain. I then toy with a piece of yabby no bigger than the tip of my finger, extricated in muted triumph and soon to be consumed with indifference. I grimace.

“So...?”

“So, at the rate we’re paying, I’m not setting foot outside of this building.”

Having made this point, I return my focus to the frond-fans, only to have it immediately diverted:

There is a piano located on the floor above us –- outside the conference halls where they’re discussing ‘trauma’ –- and a fairly nondescript individual has sauntered over and is now giving one of the upper keys an experimental tap-tap-tap. This, of course, is something of a no-no, for the piano has a sign on it, which reads:

#

PLEASE DON’T TOUCH. PIANO FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES.

#

Or words to that effect. You’re not supposed to touch the Marriott piano, and yet, this guy is, and nothing seems to be happening to him.

Whereupon the hypothetical question drops down on me like the quintessential tiger from a tree:

#

What would they do if Ben Folds wandered in to the Marriott, caught sight of their ‘display only’ piano, and spontaneously launched into a rendition of ‘Army’?

#

How would the staff respond?

By the time I’m ready to enlist Veronica’s help, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities:

Firstly, most creditably, they would run for the nearest video camera while making a general announcement along the lines of, “Ladies and gentlemen –- Mister Ben Folds!”

Secondly, most likely, they would try to tap him discretely on the shoulder, with a view to saying something like, “Excuse me, sir, but this piano...” trailing off into a whispered explanation that nobody else can hear.

Thirdly, not out of the question, they would sprint up the stairs, legs pounding, teeth barred, and crash tackle him. Friendly people at the Marriott, but with just a hint of underlying edge. “Steel-capped boots,” the affable man from concierge explained to us earlier, when Veronica dropped a chessboard on his foot.

“So,” I conclude, gracing Ronnie with a hopeful grin, “could you ask somebody for me?”

“Does it have to be Ben Folds?” she queries. “Nobody at the Marriott’s going to know who Ben Folds is.”

“But that’s the scenario –- it has to be Ben Folds, and he has to be playing ‘Army’. Do you know the song?”

“‘Well I thought about the army, Dad said, Son, you’re fucking high...’”

“That’s the one. You see, it’s a vital part of the hypothetical. You can’t have Elton John sitting down to play ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’. He’s decrepit. The oldies would be applauding. They’re hardly going to crash tackle Elton John, are they? But Ben Folds, well, he’ll be standing up to play –- actually, there’s no seat, so that rules out Billy Joel too –- but Ben Folds, he’d be in their faces, bashing on the keys, and it’s a family resort...”

“How do we know the piano’s even tuned?” Veronica interrupts.

“We’ll have to assume it’s tuned,” I shrug. “It has to be. Given that the piano’s tuned, and Ben Folds wanders in and starts playing ‘Army’, what would the Marriott staff do?”

And is it really that outlandish a proposition? Ben Folds was in Brisbane a few years back, typewritering the ivories to the delight of all, except perhaps for the Queensland Symphony Orchestra, who sat in stately accompaniment while he at times stood in front of the piano, rocking it like a pinball machine. Besides which, Ben Folds married a girl from Adelaide, and has twins with different star signs. He’s a family man. He could conceivably stay at the Marriott. And if he saw that piano sitting there, unattended, with a ‘trauma’ conference in full swing and a dinner buffet sans pavlova... Well, who’s to say?

“I still don’t think they’ll know who Ben Folds is,” Veronica bemoans.

“Yes, but that’s the scenario. If you change the performer then you invalidate the hypothetical. I mean, you could say Ray Charles, but he couldn’t read the sign, so the staff’s reaction is obviously going to be different. No, Ben Folds it is. You’ll just have to pick the right staff member.”

And so it is that Veronica comes to wrestle with the tiger, targeting a girl at reception –- late 20s, blonde hair with brown eyes, friendly –- luring her into the security deposit box room, and then...

“Would you mind indulging me for a moment?”

The girl is a bit startled. This is not an inquiry usually associated with retrieving somebody’s handbag.

“I have a bit of an odd question,” Veronica continues. “Do you know the display piano upstairs? And do you know the musician Ben Folds?”

“You mean Ben Folds Five?” the girl says, as if correcting her.

(Which might lead to some confusion. Crash tackling Ben Folds may not be out of the question, but starting a brawl with Ben Folds Five –- even though there were only three of them –- well, that’s a different matter altogether, isn’t it?)

“Yes,” Veronica confirms. “What would the staff do –- what is the protocol –- if Ben Folds were to start playing ‘Army’ on the display piano upstairs? ‘Army’, which is a fairly confronting song.”

The girl draws her head back, slightly askance, good-naturedly assuming the posture universally recognisable as denoting, ‘I’m dealing with a total nutter here.’

But she is good enough to answer the question:

“He’d be escorted out by the staff.”

“Oh, okay. Even though he’s famous?”

“Yes, well, you see, we have conferences in progress –- they need their peace and quiet –- so the piano really is for display only. Yes, he’d definitely be escorted out... Or maybe asked to come back later?”

The last is thrown in with a slightly questioning undertone, as if the girl feels that she’s taking –- and possibly failing –- some sort of test.

And perhaps she is.

It’s clear to me that the Marriott (as an entity) just hasn’t thought this through. It’s one thing to place a ‘Please Don’t Touch’ sign on the piano, but it’s another thing entirely to enforce it, rather like anti-suicide legislation.

How does one escort Ben Folds from the building? I mean, first of all, you have to interrupt him. How does that happen? Do you lunge in on one of the high notes and grab him by the right elbow? Do you put your arms around his waist and pull him away, while he desperately tries to finish the base line with the crook of his left arm?

In either case, it’s not going to be discrete, now is it?

No, the Marriott may have a policy, and the staff may have some highly generalised instructions regarding how to deal with people, but when it comes right down to it, my money’s on scenario three; that is, a spectacular crash-tackle by three or four members of the concierge.

But in any case:

“I’ve done my duty!” Veronica exclaims, happily. She then takes her handbag and leaves.

The girl from reception is left somewhat bemused, and the frond-fans of the Marriott swish jerkily on, defiant in the face of air-conditioning and obsolescence; rustling the trees from which one day the tiger might pounce.

Alimony Payment, Gary Sprague

2011-10-02T01:17:00.001-05:00

Ed sat hunched over the card table in his tiny kitchen, filling out the check with a trembling hand. In the memo space he wrote HIGHWAY ROBBERY. He scribbled it out, but not enough to cover completely. His lawyer had strongly advised him to cease writing derogatory remarks on the alimony checks, but it was a hard habit to break. To Ed, there was nothing derogatory about the truth. Besides, for two hundred dollars a week, he should be allowed to write anything he wanted on the damn check.

He grabbed an envelope, writing Barbara’s name and address on it. Not difficult to remember; he’d lived there with her for twenty years. He worked some spit around in his mouth, back and forth, until he had a good amount. Spreading the envelope open, he leaned over and slowly drooled into it. Placing the check inside, he dipped it in the thick glob a few times like a chip in salsa. When the bottom of the check was properly soaked, he smiled.

Reaching with his left hand - it still felt strange not wearing a wedding ring, like going without underwear - he plucked a couple blond hairs from the back of his head and dropped them into the envelope. When Barbara had told Ed she was leaving him - leaving him, yet it was he who had to leave - she had admitted that his hair loss was a large reason for it. There were other reasons, of course, but nothing worth remembering. “You are a failure, even your follicles are failures,” she mocked. And it was true, the top of his head was bare as a nuclear wasteland. But the sides and back were full, thick as a deep-rooted forest. It was normal for a middle-aged man to experience some hair loss, he knew. His dad’s head was smooth as a cue ball, so Barbara had to know what was coming. Funny how she’d never mentioned this repulsion to baldness before. So he threw in a couple hairs with every check. Childish, yes, but it made him feel better.

Sealing the envelope, Ed stood from his rickety chair and stretched. It was Sunday, his only day off. Sunday used to be for mowing the lawn or playing a round of golf at the club. But now he had no lawn, only a small, dark, paneled apartment, and no money for golf. Sunday now revolved around writing and delivering Barbara’s check. He grabbed the envelope and walked out into the warm sunshine, across the parking lot to his truck. He didn’t bother locking the apartment, there being nothing inside worth stealing.

It didn’t take him long to drive to Barbara’s, twenty minutes or so. It would have been faster to stick the check in the mail, saving himself some gas money. But he delivered it himself every Sunday, hoping to see Barbara. He didn’t know what he would say if he did see her, whether he would be polite or punch her in the face. So far, he hadn’t had a chance to do or say anything. Every week he pulled up in front of the house, saw no one, and placed the envelope in the mailbox.

But this time he pulled up and there she was, trimming shrubs in the yard. He remembered planting those shrubs, watching like a proud father as each year they grew taller. Something else Barbara got in the divorce, he thought. She waved and began walking over as Ed parked his truck at the end of the long drive. He got out and watched her approach. She wore a tank top, shorts, and a large brimmed floppy hat. Ed had bought her the hat the summer before their divorce. It was green, matched her eyes. It really did look cute on her. He wanted to pull it over her head and suffocate her with it.

“Hi, Ed. You look well,” she greeted him.

“Thanks, so do you.”

She really did. She was a very young forty, just as good-looking as she was twenty years ago. Her legs were tan, flawless; Ed couldn’t resist a long gaze, up and down, for old times sake. The sweat glistening on her face and arms only enhanced her beauty. Ed did not like what he was feeling.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you, but I didn’t have your number.”

“You have my house, my car, my money. I didn’t know you wanted my number, too,” he said.

Barbara wiped her wet forehead. “Ed, I hate that we’ve become enemies. I thought maybe we could have dinner together, or something.”

Ed’s heart pounded loudly. He wanted to hit it back, tell it to shut up. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I miss you, I guess. You can’t live with someone for twenty years and not miss him.”

“I didn’t realize you felt this way,” Ed said, softer than he’d meant to. Suddenly he was self-conscious about his hair and wished he’d worn a hat.

“I do, Eddie, I really do.” She placed her warm hand on his forearm. His chest jackhammered.

“Yeah, I guess I miss you too,” he mumbled. Sweat was beading up on top of his head, but he didn’t wipe it for fear of attracting attention to it.

“Are you busy tonight?” she asked “You could come here around six, if you’d like.”

“Sounds good,” he said, smiling. Every flower smelled like a sweet bouquet, every bird chirp was a love song. He gazed into Barbara’s soft green eyes and loved her again.

“This makes me so happy. I’ll have Ron make seafood alfredo.”

Ed laughed. “You hired a cook? I guess I’m paying you too much alimony.” It felt good to laugh, it had been so long.

Barbara laughed with him. “No, Ron isn’t my cook, though he is incredible in the kitchen. He’s my boyfriend. I thought you knew about him. I know you two will get along great. He’s a Yankees fan, like you.”

Ed’s heart dropped so fast he thought he heard it splatter. “Your boyfriend? But what about all that talk about missing me?”

“I do miss you, Eddie. I want us to be friends, the three of us. I thought you wanted to be friends, too. Didn’t I tell you about him?”

A man stepped out of the garage up at the house. He bent down and grabbed the newspaper. Ron. Tall, good-looking. Full head of hair, of course. He waved. Ed gave him the finger.

“Eddie!”

Without another word, Ed turned and got back in his truck. He wiped his face and head - his slick, bald, ugly head - and began pulling out of the driveway. He heard Barbara call to him, and looked back. Desperation filled her face. Ed stopped and she ran up.

“You forgot to give me my check.”

He threw the envelope at her and slowly pulled away. He didn’t look back. From now on, he would mail the check.

Guys Like You and Me, B.D Fischer

2011-10-02T01:14:00.003-05:00

The man behind the counter is talking about his girlfriend.

“She got depression, you know,” he’s saying, and I’m patting my pockets for a pen, my chest, my thighs, my ass, certain that he won’t notice if I take a few notes.

“Guys like you and me,” he says, “it’s hard for us to understand. She say she don’t want to get out of bed and go to work and I say goddamit neither do I.”

“Who does?”

“But it’s not the same for her,” he says. “She got the depression.”

“It’s not the same,” I confirmed. “It’s a medical condition.”

I almost never don’t carry a pen. I blame it on my having snuck out of the office at lunch to get this taken care of. They watch our lunches like a hawk, but I don’t think anyone saw me leave. Ordinarily I would check my pockets for a pen before I left. I can see the undercarriage of my truck through the etched glass separating the office from the garage. I don’t know what they’re looking at under there. It’s just an inspection.

“My last girlfriend had depression, too. We didn’t know it but I can see it now. She had all kinds of problems. It was the same thing. If she didn’t eat right, get up at the same time every day, get a little exercise, eat the same things, go to bed, everything mapped out, she was just a mess. Always crying. Throwing things. You know how it is.”

I have no idea how it was, but I checked myself in the mirror behind the counter and knew that I looked good, in my best dark gray suit, almost gray-flecked black, with a purple shirt that screamed authority and bold vision and the red “Singin’ In the Rain” tie that was a gift from my secretary upon her retirement some years back. I hadn’t gotten her a thing and was so embarrassed by her generosity that I wear the tie now at every opportunity, even though she is dead. The red and the purple and the black and the gray. I don’t think I can wear the tie any more though. The cheap material has been malformed by overuse and I can no longer risk it.

“We applied for disability for her up in Vermont. Wasn’t much other choice. Of course they denied her the first time. They deny everyone that first time. This is our third time now. That’s when you get it, they say.”

“Third time’s the charm.”

“That’s right. You get it.”

He rapped knuckles stained a faded sub-dermal black against the counter. He had told me that the name stitched into his uniform is not his.

“That’s exactly right,” he continued. “Third time’s the charm, as they say. So we’re kind of counting on that. When that comes through we should be able to get a new place. I can’t rent because of my record and she can’t because she got no income. We’ve been stuck in this crappy motel for months and I am ready to get out.”

“Record?” I said, craning to see what they were doing to my truck. He waved a hand in front of his face.

“It was nothing. It was 1982. I was seventeen. Did four years in Angola. That’s in Louisiana. It was no picnic I’ll tell you.”

“I don’t imagine.”

“And you know something, since I got out I’ve done nothing but work hard, pay my bills, and raise my daughter, but I still can’t rent a place on my own. Doesn’t sit too well with me. Makes me want to do something, go postal, something. But of course you can’t do that.”

“Of course not.”

The truck is a cinch to pass inspection, even with Houston’s strict emission standards. It’s not even three years old, and it’s not what you’d call a work truck. More of a showpiece. They didn’t used to make trucks like that, but that’s how you show off down here in Texas. It’s not like I have kindling to haul, brush to clear. Two men in jumpsuits argue beneath it, pointing up in turn, which makes me nervous.

“No. We moved down here from Vermont when the crisis hit. Everything dried up up there, and I knew I could find work. There’s no place to work like Texas. I’m making almost a thousand a week now. It’s more than enough, because she can’t work at all. Funny thing is that her depression didn’t get bad, real bad, until her son died. Car crash.”

“Funny?”

“Not funny, but funny. You know. He was the same age as my daughter. They were in the same class at school and she cried up and down about it. My daughter, I mean. I remember reading it in the papers. Didn’t meet her until years later though. But I remembered, once she told me about it. Asked my daughter. The names were the same. She burst into tears again. I hate that.”

“I hear you. Seeing a woman cry. Just the worst.”

“The. Worst. You get me. My daughter’s almost grown now. I’m proud of her. She’s back in Vermont. Just got engaged. Got a good job at the warehouse, taking orders. We’ll go back for the wedding come hell or high water. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll drive all night if I have to and drag my girlfriend no matter what. She deserves to have us there.”

“Might be two nights, even,” I said.

He shrugged.

“If I have to. There are pills. Whatever it takes.”

“You have any idea how much longer they’re going to be with my truck?”

He shrugged again.

“I don’t work in the shop no more. Can’t have no complaints though. My girlfriend, she cooks for me, she cleans, and she’s good-looking as shit. I love her. I’m a lucky man.”

I nod, unsure whether to smile, which I finally do, halfway. I had gone for a run that morning, my first in the months since the divorce. I hadn’t been feeling so hot. The problem of shaving had been holding me back. At Christmas my wife had given me a fancy electric razor, even though she had to know she was leaving me, and it would never work on a sweaty face. But this morning I figured I could shave before I went on my run. I’ve been congratulating myself all day, but as a result of the run now I’m tired, nearly dizzy, disoriented. Still almost five hours before I can go home.

Lately I’ve been overwhelmed at work. I had roast chicken leftovers and sunflower seeds for lunch. I am trying to stick to a high-protein diet. This is harder than you’d think. You can’t just eat a Big Mac.

This weekend I will meet up with old friends in Bryan, friends I haven’t seen since my wedding eighteen months ago. It will be like a reunion. I’ve promised to bring some cocaine, but it was an empty boast and I have no idea how I might get some. I consider asking the man behind the counter, who is several years older than me, but I don’t want to get him in trouble. I don’t want to send him back to jail.

“Prison,” he’s saying, “is different from jail. Jail is county; prison is state. Prison is worse.”

I shrug, unsure, and let the matter drop. My truck’s back down on all four tires, and the men in the jumpsuits stand side-by-side at a monitor, pressing keys. It must be some kind of signal to my new friend, a guy like me, because he stops talking to concentrate on the monitor. He presses a key and strokes his chin. The monitor, I’ve noticed, is cracked ancient plastic, and displays everything in blinking green text, which is sad but can’t be a surprise.

I wonder if I’ll be able to continue running. I certainly plan to, but that’s not always enough. My ex-wife would agree that I need to, but fuck her. Still, I’ll do it for myself. It just might give me the boost I need to unbury myself from the mountain of work on my desk, which is in a state of clutter so extreme that even I am embarrassed. My old friends in Bryan swear that they’ve stopped doing coke, but I know better.

I would have thought that a pending disability application has to be transferred down to Texas but my man swears that would only delay things. I bow to his superior expertise. I’ve never filed for disability, and don’t know anyone who has. I wonder just how pretty his girlfriend is, whether she’s maybe prettier than my ex-wife, which I have to doubt. My wife sure as hell never suffered from any low self-esteem. No depression. Now one of the men from the garage is sliding my keys across the frictionless counter. They might go on forever, but I catch them falling off the edge, neatly.

“You’re all set,” my friend says, sliding me a receipt to sign. I wonder if he drinks. I sure could use a drink myself. I think about asking him. I doubt I’ll go back to the office.

I give a little salute and make for the door. He wishes me luck, but although I’m grateful it seems like the situation ought to be reversed. And yet it isn’t. In my luxury truck I run my knuckles across the newly appliqued sticker, smooth. The air conditioner runs so strong that it almost erases the Houston summer. It almost seems like it could do this. I’ve sweat through this tie before, which doubtless hastened its demise. I’ll miss it. Kicking the automatic transmission into reverse--forgoing the standard is one of my few regrets--I turn around to face the traffic but Airport Drive is surprisingly empty. Maybe I’ll get Cuban food for dinner from that new place off 59 and cull the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch. I think plantains are OK on this new diet. The fiber. I’m shivering in the air conditioning, a cold sweat like an illness. It’s a good feeling. Having had lunch I don’t have anywhere in particular to go but I merge onto the 10 and begin eating up exits in the left lane. It is not yet rush hour. The feelings fade and morph into something else. I hope that my new friend gets her disability. Something good to happen to someone. I hope they find a nice place to live and to rent and that she finds some relief from working in their garden, fixing him his dinner, sweating in the sun. I could roll down the window. At this speed--approaching 90 now--I could roll down the window and undo my tie and make it my flag to fly in the wind. But no. That would only muss my hair, and I’m better than that. The 10 goes on for a good long while. There’s plenty of time to go home.

The Requirements For Performing A Head Spin, Calvin Fantone

2011-10-02T01:13:00.000-05:00

YEAH BOYYYY
-Flavor Flav

1) Understand your motivation.

Do you really want to become a b-boy
or are you just trying to impress that girl?
Don’t lie to yourself.
You know you just want to impress that girl.

2) Learn the terminology.

The proper term is “breaking” not
“break dancing,” a group is called
a crew, and a windmill isn’t a machine
on the side of the freeway that converts
wind into energy, it’s a dance move.

3) Be a gentleman.

You don’t want to piss off a girl
with enough upper body strength
to do lifts and freezes. She is entirely
capable of killing you with her bare hands.
4) Dress in proper attire.

Try to look like you fit in but don’t go overboard.
Stay away from tracksuits, shell toe Adidas, Kangol hats,
and big ass gold chain necklaces. They make you look
like the long lost son of Mr. T. This is not the 80s
and sadly, you are not a member of Run DMC.

5) Come up with the corniest pick up line you can possibly imagine. Then use it.

For example:
“Girl, I know you love sick beats.
So I thought you should know that
my heartbeat is lovesick for you.”
She’ll probably laugh in your face and say,
“Nice try” but she’ll say it with a smile
and the slightest hint of red in her cheeks
and you’ll finally know what it takes
to make your head spin.

Rabies and Rosaries, Gabrielle DeMarre

2011-10-02T01:08:00.002-05:00

“If you are ever bitten by a bat, you are supposed to catch it, alive, and bring it to the hospital with you so it can be tested for rabies.” This was the extent of my training to work here for you. As I cue your rosary tape, you smile and mumble, “Where have all the flowers gone?” Clearly they are still somewhere beneath your thinning hair—growing inward rather than outward now. As I press play, an Irish voice starts to lead you through the rosary. In the other room, I watch The Wild One with the volume turned up, hoping Brando’s angst will drown out the angst of the 80-year-old house because I am certain every creak is a bat waiting to give me rabies.

Inhumane, Ashley Cline

2011-10-02T01:06:00.000-05:00

Over the green water, out
an alligator throat, the shake of a baby’s rattle
chhkks

Marsh sog, sad sod, rattles
the bobcat stomping into mud; cursin’, she chhkks
out

Chhkks chhkks, chhkks
the cicada celebrates, entreeted, over-heated,
straddled

Domestic Nomadism, Ashley Cline

2011-10-02T01:04:00.001-05:00

Domestic Nomadism
         a short series

________________

The Homeless and the Housed

No mercy is mire
when looking for . . .

Dew straddles the clover
to cleave, “whisked wine!”

Said the Alpha Dog to the Omega
Frog, by an abandoned teapot of pond,

“Find me the finest finery, actually
the finest”

________________

Shrub Rosa

Let’s go

No

________________

If Secession Succeeds, a Recession Recedes

The body over a false balcony:
         the forge gorge,
wants the necessary honey, to fuel;
         the body, needs mead –
My body lies over the law of motion,
                   the economy,
                               also, of motion;

Forged gorge, the body some
           coin, voided –
Plead! the lea! the body sum
              need:                            mead.

________________

Sprig, the Right Rigor of Spring

No disagreement with house
Plant; clay pots –

Though furnished, not burnished,
Like the bonnet:

Made of mason jars, blue
Without the pus

Of berries . . .

Which, well-cranked, are
The finest
___________________

Delator

I want to

though

Microbiology 101, Laavanya S.

2011-10-02T00:54:00.002-05:00

The X is increasing;
not two peas in a pod,
nor are you punctuating,
but children playing 'train.'

Little rods, squiggling
to be stained,
some not moving.
Tell me, are you
pink or purple?

You need to grow;
let me take a droplet,
do you like blood or
do you like chocolate?

Little blobs, shiny,
your growth leaves
me exponentially happy.
But tell me your name
else I extract it out.

Neon, MaryAnne Kolton

2011-10-02T00:52:00.000-05:00

as she goes about she has no idea of the violet-blue neon sign

flashing on her forehead – needy – off – needy –off

she believes men are attracted to her for herself

she does not understand that the sign

translated into man-speak

flashes – vulnerable – off –vulnerable – off

many mistakes are made

and she is puzzled by the fact that all these associations

end badly

YouTube Recommended, Don Kingfisher Campbell

2011-10-02T00:50:00.000-05:00

I was The Moody Blues with a House
Of Four Doors in front of me

when I wanted to be The Marx Brothers
in a Big Store on a chase

so like Monty Python's Best Sketch Ever
I found The Meaning Of Life

instead of being a Stealer's Wheel
Stuck In The Middle With You

like James Brown I remade Something
like Yes I covered I'm Down

I took a line from Carl Sagan's Message
For Humanity and made my Last Interview

this Von Trapp Family asked What's My Line
as I boarded a Rush Time Machine Tour

I said our relationship has been like some
Disturbingly Racist Cartoons, like a 9/11 UFO

and The Allure Of Hip Hop-ping away
like Rudy Francisco on the Final Stage

helps me locate my Spirit Of Survival
because Time Is Time has become my motto

I am (He Is) Sailing to the Horizon like the Hawaii
Governor who thinks he's Lazarus Once Again

to look for Vangelis Alpha in Donovan Colours
through Genesis Slippermen I will offer the Duchess Live

Christmas In Heaven not The Knife
as Seconds Out I'll Dance On A Volcano

do my Rick Wakeman Solo before I go
on the Grumpy Old Picture Show

like Andy Griffith on Halloween
like Harpo Shooting Out as he Goes West

Be A Clown in the Train Station
wanting one more Nursery Rhyme Concerto

I've got to make like James Mason
drink Thunderbird Wine

seek my own Marlena Shaw to Teach Me
How To Speak In Love for Madlib Infinity

Let The Good Times Roll B.B. King style
I've already Felt--Now She's Gone

Republican/Democrat What's The Difference
you're the Bette Davis in my Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame

Scenes From a Diner, Alec Cizak

2011-10-02T00:46:00.001-05:00

I.

A fly tip-toed through the swamp, a circle,
a moat around your banana pancakes.

My ears dilated, amplified six strands,
sloshing through the blood of a maple tree.

You called me your ‘faithful little chien,’
pointing your perfect, pyramid-shaped nose

at my clean stack of banana pancakes.

II.

We drank coffee until the sun woke up
Autumn Red, painting a country window.

I spread a map across the lacquered table,
offering you a lemon-colored pen.

You traced a path over Highway 90,
pointing out all the important places

we would pull over and take photographs.

III.

Beat up Chevys and battered Fords revving,
after a Homecoming loss to Brebeuf.

He pin-balled from one party to the next,
like a detective, derelict, or dog.

She agreed to nothing more than a ride,
pointing to a Waffle House on Keystone,

where they shared a pot of house-blend coffee.

Breakfast With Meursault, Cody Deitz

2011-10-02T00:42:00.000-05:00

“Coffee any good?”
I ask, leaning across
the off-white table cloth, held down
by a porcelain saucer of scrambled eggs,
crisp toast, two bright white
cups of bitter coffee, a slightly crumpled
packet of cigarettes,
and a weighted ashtray.

Eyes squinting in the smoky sea,
he nods slowly
in approval as he takes a brief
pull from his cigarette and
rests it against crystal cusp
of the filling ashtray.

The waiter glides back to refill
the cups, periodically
brushing his bent knuckles
on his grey, brown,
once-white apron.

The morning sun steps up over
the mudbrick building at the end
of the street, dribbling warm light
onto the cool sidewalk lying beside us,
and upon two young girls walking towards the ocean,
heels bouncing and hips swaying,
pulling our caffeinated gaze
against sunkissed breasts.

Meursault’s eyes retreat and
his lips part, allowing
bright, curling Parisian vowels to swirl
over the steaming cups. I realize I should
probably brush up on my French,
but it doesn’t really matter.

Natural History, Ashley Fisher

2011-10-02T00:39:00.000-05:00

Stood among the liberated Year Five class
in the Oxford Natural History Museum was
the apparently inexhaustible Miss Hodgson:
tallish, thirty-something and sporting
short dark hair with a cardigan
draped over her shoulders. She was

looking at the stuffed dodo through her
designer glasses. She explained to the class
that yes, they were real and no, there
were not any left, before an enthusiastic
red-headed boy shouted from beneath
the model T-Rex skeleton, informing her

that she wasn't going to believe this. I
was poorly positioned to see her
smile and cursed myself for casually
passing the Lewis Carroll display
to acquaint myself with the
bones of a long-dead elephant.

On January 14th, 2010, Tyler Bigney

2011-10-02T00:37:00.000-05:00

I drank a quart of vodka
and went over to play pond hockey
with the neighbour’s kids
and their friends and their friends.
We lined up and picked sides,
and I was picked somewhere
in the middle. I skated end to end,
took slap shots, and skated backwards
quicker than they could skate forward.
All in all, I scored eight goals,
and set up seven more. I was unstoppable.
I told the kids I once tried out
for an NHL team, and they believed me.
That night, sore and immobile
I passed out on the floor
amongst the dust and dog fur,
and woke at sunrise to call in
sick for work. The phone didn’t ring
until almost two in the afternoon:
My mother calling to say hello,
and to wish me happy birthday.
Twenty seven years old, she said,
I remember the day you were born.
I thanked her and hung up,
watching the phone, waiting
for it to ring again, but it didn’t.
I watched the sun sneak through the crack
in the curtains. And the clouds,
they rolled along like summer fog,
as I whispered happy birthday,
choking on the dust,
and figured it was time I grew up.
Maybe travel to Ukraine, soak in
a culture unlike my own. Maybe
quit the plastic factory, once and
for all, or go back to school and
take up carpentry, so I can fix
what’s broken around the house.
And for a second there,
I almost believed it myself.

Contributor Bios

2011-10-02T00:34:00.001-05:00

Tyler Bigney was born in 1984. He lives, and writes in Nova Scotia, Canada. He has been nominated for two pushcart prizes. His work appears in The Meadow, Third Wednesday, Poetry New Zealand, and Iodine, among others.

Chris Bridges is a 39-year-old nurse who lives and works in the centre of England. He likes to think he doesn't have O.C.D. and just keeps a tidy house but his friends may argue against that point.

Don Kingfisher Campbell's poems have recently been published online in The Write Room, the L.A. Poetry Examiner, Amarinthine Muses, and Zouch Magazine & Miscellany; and in the print anthologies Epiphany and By The Overpass. He also won first prize in the 2011 Whittier Poetry Contest. And you can hear him interviewed on Poets Cafe (KPFK FM) and Dr. Andy's Poetry & Technology Hour (KDVS FM) by going to their archives.

Chris Castle is English but currently teaches in Greece. He has sent his work out this past year and been accepted over 100 times. His influences include Ray Carver, the films of PT Anderson, and Bill Murray. He can be reached at chriscastle76@hotmail.com

Alec Cizak is a writer from Indianapolis.

Ashley Cline is originally from southeast Texas, and recently relocated from Chicago, IL to study comparative literature at the University of Oregon. She is fond of Amtrak trains, fried catfish, and is excited to be reunited with her dog Sal, an excessively spotted Dalmatian. This is her second publication.

Cody J. Deitz resides in Los Angeles, California, where he attends California State University, Northridge. He is poet, short story writer, and essayist, studying English with a focus on creative writing. He is either featured or forthcoming in several literary magazines including Heavy Hands Ink, Liebamour, and The Houston Literary Review.

Gabrielle DeMarre is an English student at Concordia University, St. Paul. She is published or forthcoming in The Toucan Magazine, Johnny America, The Survivor Chronicles, ken*again, and The Foliate Oak.

Jacob Edwards studied at the University of Queensland, graduating with a BA (English) and an MA (Ancient History). He lives with his wife and son in Brisbane -- Australia's river city -- where he continues to foster an almost pathological dislike of four-wheel drives.

Calvin Fantone received his BA in Creative Writing from CSU Long Beach. He is currently earning a teaching credential in order to drop some knowledge on high school kids. When not writing, he can be found daydreaming about flying, time travel, friendly monsters, outer space, and dinosaurs.

B.D. Fischer writes fiction, poetry, and non-fiction under the name 'B.D. Fischer,' some of which you can read at PublicDisInterest.com. He lives in Wuhu, China. It is pronounced just like it looks, we swear.

Ashley Fisher was born in Cumbria, England and currently lives in East Yorkshire where he runs spoken word open mic nights and edits the poetry magazine "Turbulence".

Ryan P. Kennedy lives in Chicago. There are things. Some good. Some bad.

MaryAnne Kolton has been writing since she was six years old. She is currently working on a collection of related short stories. Married to the writer, James Lloyd Davis, they live with their dog, Cooper, and two cats in Ohio.

Mike Perkins lives, writes, and works in Columbia, Missouri. He is the father of four and teaches at a local liberal arts college.

Laavanya S. is an undergraduate student of Biotechnological Engineering in India. She takes to writing and art to let her creative juices flow when she's not geeking out. She believes in fairy dust.

Gary Sprague lives in Maine with his wife and two sons. His fiction has appeared in The Linnet's Wings, Spilling Ink Review, Raleigh Review, Matchbook, and The Mayo Review.

Canadian poet, fiction writer, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published fourteen books — ten short story collections, two novels, two poetry collections — along with five chapbooks, the most recent ones being Misshapenness (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2009), A Fanciful Geography (Poetry Chapbook, erbacce-press, 2010), and A Glass Shard and Memory (Stories, Recliner Books, 2010). His short stories and poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and periodicals internationally, and over forty of his one-act plays and a handful of full-length plays have been performed in Canada and the United States.

Poem of the Week, Love is, Jessy Randall

2011-09-23T11:47:00.001-05:00

Now that Liz is no longer dating The Toucan, it's hard to remember why she wanted to start the damn thing in the first place (and why she put up with tamarind breath for so long.) As we sit around Toucan headquarters this morning, trying to negotiate with ourselves the amount of things needing to be done and the amount of time we need to spend with our Significant Otters (who are currently banging clams against rocks, anticipating our return), this poem seemed the appropriate choice.

To the Otters: thank you for your patience and your love. We love you too. And no matter how much this poem may make you want to, please don't throw up on us.

Love Is

by Jessy Randall

Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant.

– 1 Corinthians 13:4

Love won’t throw up all over you. Love is nice! Love is not an annoying fat man sitting next to you on the plane eating beef jerky. Love is soft. Love is warm. Love is furry, etcetera. Love is the smell of bacon frying, if you like bacon, which not everyone does, but most people do. Love is not an idiotic computer game. But let us not speak of what love is not, for then we will be here all day, and love is patient, but not that patient.

Poem of the Week, Dropped Ice Cream, Hal Sirowitz

2011-09-16T11:44:00.000-05:00

Dang, it's been nippy the last few days. This poem just feels like the end of summer, doesn't it?

Dropped Ice Cream

by Hal Sirowitz
The good thing about
dropping a chocolate

ice cream cone on
your lap, rather than

the floor, mother said,
is you can retrieve it

and eat it, unless someone
was recently sitting

on your lap. Then, your
lap will be filled with germs.

That’s why it’s good hygiene
to keep your lap unoccupied,

especially before contemplating
eating an ice cream cone.

Poem of the Week, Armstrong, JW Mark

2011-09-09T15:41:00.000-05:00

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. The school year has started, and strangely we feel more normal because of this. A little astronomy, a little cheese, it's all good. One small step for an editrice, one giant leap for a Toucan....

Armstrong

by JW Mark

That’s one, compressing boot grid gray

tangential powder Small step, packed

commissioned paw, Pataskala’s own,

initial print compressing dust.

black orbit bruised foot signature.

For man squash ball one giant leap

Dominion dark for mankind squashed

By silver craft set down he claims

A mozzarella sphere white orb

On top the moon, away in space

Five digits pressed assert a world

Compacting dust the cosmos claimed.

Poem of the Week....(Hic)

2011-09-02T11:17:00.000-05:00

We're sorry, we will never do this again. We have lots 'o poetry waiting in the wings to be accepted, but simply haven't had the time to do so, because, you know, we have more important things to do. Coincidentally, it was, in fact, Editrice Liz's birthday this week, and the weekly editrice rendezvous got a little....rowdy.

So, this is our sorry excuse for running out of Poems of the Week. We return to our regularly scheduled program next week. And we bet you can't wait until we do. Because we might be extremely talented legal young ladies, but not at the art of writing drunken poetry. There's a definite point, as you can tell from our handwriting and thought process, where things began to spiral out of hand (BEES! BUBBLES!), but for most of the first stanza we can explain ourselves. We think. Don't test us, though.

Ode to Drinking

by your esteemed and supremely toasted Editrices

O booze, you make
me hear 180 oboes playing
in my head for no good reason.
I could be a man if I wanted to.
We are harbingers
of slimy worms and slippery cherries
and cantaloupe squirms through our fingers
We will be delicious tomorrow on hamburgers.

Scummy scumbag of a bubble pipe,
we have bubbles and nothing can go wrong
a chorus of well-trained bees vomit bubbles.

Poem of the Week, Tilt, Michelle Reale

2011-08-26T15:11:00.001-05:00

Well, we had Editrice Laura become legal, and now Editrice Liz gets to heft that all-important bottle on Tuesday. Don't worry, she won't be getting too incapacitated and everything should get sent out and done next week. Let's celebrate with a poem we really like that also is about growing older. WARNING: Our little POW intro is about to segue into one of those personal blogs no one ever wants to read. Forgive us, we never do this to you, and it's been almost three years. Suck it up, and go pour a whiskey and Coke for yourself afterward.

Just today I (Liz) was thinking that I have everything figured out. Jobs I love with people I love working with, (the last part very key), an awesome college to go back to in a week or so, a spontaneous internship, a literary magazine which keeps on winging its way forward, and oh yes, did we mention the adorable and amazing significant other? Then I'm like, no....you, um, really wish you had another place to live and more money and more time. Also better social skills and hair. But somehow, that all melts away with the promise of time. At least for me right now, time means growth and not stagnation. 20 was one of the best years of my life and let's hope 21 keeps the awesome train a rollin'!

Thanks Toucan fans. You may lead me to an early grave (or drive me to drink), all those sleepless nights of laying out the mag and reading submissions, but you've helped to give me an interesting life.

Tilt

by Michelle Reale

Shall I open a vein? We can do this all night, you know. Become transfixed watching ruby formations, drop by agonizing drop. But maybe you prefer a gush like a fountain or the kind of motion that causes a mere ripple in those already troubled waters that we navigate like the embarrassing amateurs we really are.

What has coiled in my marrow is still undefined, and though it lies dormant it billows and recedes within its confines.

You can stem the flow simply with the touch of your hand. I still have so much growing to do. I am the seed that could flower right in the palm of your hand, if only you would send some sun my way. I could be blind and happy with what I might find there.

Poem of the Week, Dark Grey, Valerie Melichar

2011-08-19T07:44:00.001-05:00

It is WAY too early in the morning. But we wanted to be good and make sure this week's edition got up early. We were a little late last time. Eew, we have to go to work after this? Never mind. We're thrilled to have a poem by Valerie Melichar in our Winter Issue, but since we can't wait until then, here's a shade of her now (get it? Shade, "Dark Grey".....ah, wit doesn't work before 9 in the morning.)

Dark Grey

by Valerie Melichar

The first time I saw you again
the feathers in my down jacket
fluttered like angry chickens.
You made no sense, running
your hand through your hair
as I, without greeting, walked
backwards towards the door.
I didn't consider it goodbye.

The second time I returned,
you had lost your home.
I recognised you, though your skin
and your strange clothes had been
dipped in the same dark grey.
I took your filthy, clawed hand
into my bony pale one before
you became too small to see.

Poem of The Week, Bowl of Petunias, Michael Lee Johnson

2011-08-12T20:18:00.002-05:00

Bowl of Petunias

By Michael Lee Johnson

If you must leave me please

leave me for something special,

like a beautiful bowl of petunias-

for when the memories leak

and cracks appear

and old memories fade,

flowers rebuff bloom,

sidewalks fester weeds

and we both lie down

separately from each other

for the very last time.

Poem of the Week, III City, Michael Cluff, and The Reopening of Submissions

2011-08-05T18:38:00.002-05:00

GOOD NEWS! Submissions have reopened and Issue 12 is now in stores (except for the closed ShopColumbia). And contributor copies are getting mailed as we speak! Let's hear a collective YEAH!

We truly apologize for these delays. To be perfectly frank, we probably need a few lessons in time management. We also need a few less things to do with our time. We hope you forgive our youthful missteps, but let us assure you that both Liz and Laura are responsible gals, and are constantly berating themselves when they know things back at the Toucan Ranch are being put off (you didn't know we had a ranch, did you? Well, ranch land is hard to come by here in Chicagoland, but we manage. And as you might guess, ranching is a heckuva lotta work. Gotta fence in those keel-bills.). NOT that this is ANY excuse, but in addition to working two jobs and stealing smooches on the side, Editrice Liz recently started an internship. Yes, we know she is insane, but if spiritual art is anywhere remotely near your bag (Liz is still trying feverently to jam it into her frog purse), you should check this out.

So thank you all for your patience as we try to sort out our lives, develop our resumes, and score tickets to Paul McCartney concerts. Oooh...you weren't supposed to know that. That didn't look very responsible of us. It WAS however, the best money either Editrice ever spent. So there.

Oh right, don't we need a poem? Enjoy this offering by our super-contributor Michael Cluff, while the real Toucan Editrices go gallivanting away around Chicago, listening to pagan music acts. No, just kidding: Liz is about to watch her kitchen floor. It really needs it. Really.

Ill City

by Michael Cluff

Here I am
dressed like
a preppy
gone to extreme,
blue/white saddle shoes
blue blazer and light blue dress shirt
beige pleated slacks,
navy blue socks.

just to avoid
the supervisor's eye
of cold comfort
and disapproval.

The real me
is atop
the hill with jacarandas
pepper trees
and old WW II era bunkers
where illicity
occurs quite naturally.

An ercued crane
sails by
having a whopping
grand time.

The yellow and blue
subtle patterned tie
holds me down
a gravity both earth
and fabric
unflinchingly evoke
to all
but what
goes on inside
in spite of Newton
and Archimedes.

Poem of The Week, Poem for H.R Pufnstuf, Jacob Edwards

2011-07-29T15:17:00.001-05:00

Yes folks, this is our Poem of the Week. Slowly however we are making our way towards being editrices once again, so realize that you will not have to put up with much more nonsense (or merely a more evolved level of such). Incidentally, our Aussie Jacob Edwards writes some side-splitting nonfiction. Check it out in the Spring Issue.

POEM FOR H. R. PUFNSTUF
by Jacob Edwards

Piffle the puffle
sniffles and snuffles
spiffy as Jiffy the magic mush truffle hog

Pittance the puffin
mittens and muffins
smitten with Kitten-cat’s good riddance duffle coat

Piffle and Pittance
go down to the sewer
Piffle spits spittle and Pittance skips school with her

Brown all around them
the hot bed of sludge
calls to hot-headed Piff, “Give that puffin a nudge.”

“You’ve found him, now drown him
in warm chocolate fudge!”
so Piff, she does push, but the puff, he won’t budge

Pittance the puffin
once bitten, twice nothin’
twitters through gritted beak, “Don’t you try snuffin’ me!”

Piffle the puffle
catch whiff the kerfuffle
miffed by his drift, she goes off in a huffle

*

Poem of the Week, In My Dreams, Liz Baudler

2011-07-22T15:25:00.001-05:00

It was about time we posted some of Editrice Liz's work. And this poem is just crazy enough for a heat wave. Stay cool.

In My Dreams

by Liz Baudler

Sarcasm and integrity have broken a mirror. It takes seven years for the shards to dissipate in a landfill and meanwhile I have to go to the bathroom. (There are other needs.) Blank chapbooks exist. We pull up the covers and the lightbulb smirks for thirty seconds. A hundred sparking matches and synapses (before the taking of toast and tea?) are bisected by old envelopes we can’t begin to open but there will be nothing there but soft immaturity of stone.

Kleenex? Ayn Rand? What the hell is a disposable theory foe doing in the middle of my notebook? She says, in a sarcastic Russian accent, “I zhink you dropped zis.” All that happens is that she holds out a pile of leaves sewed into continuous cloth and continues being frozen. All that happens is that I don’t ask her why leaves instead of well, paper or stone. The name of the leaves are In My Dreams, at least that’s what she’s written across them in Cyrillic. (For someone who doesn’t speak English, she has very neat handwriting.) They crumple as soon as I have read the message with a cry like a cat’s.

Astronomy is quintessential to our apathy, the quiet closet is autonomy. I want to be brave with you, but what do I want? Let sarcasm and integrity be professors crying over a dust mote, who touched the last kiss, who will pick up the student body.

Poem of the Week, Funeral Arrangements, Gabrielle DeMarre, and IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

2011-07-15T15:31:00.001-05:00

This is again an oddly depressing poem, especially given some of the subject matter we have to impart before we get to our weekly fill of verse. The editrices here are about to arrange our own metaphorical funerals, but before you start ordering the flowers, as TEMPORARY measures, we have decided to do the following.

1. Submissions are closed until further notice. Again, hopefully this is temporary. We have a lot of work to respond to and no time to respond to it.

2. As such, work that is currently submitted will have a longer than average response time. If you have not heard from us by the end of August, please inquire.

3. Contributor copies of Issue 12 have not been sent out. They will be sent out by the beginning of August, and hopefully arrive soon after.

4. Copies of Issue 12 are not yet in stores. You can still order them from our Paypal, and those will be sent out with our contributor copies. We are hoping to get them in stores BEFORE THE END OF JULY, and we will post when this occurs.

5. For some reason we feel like the Politburo of Soviet Russia.

6. And now for the poem, from a great once and future contributor, Gabby De Marre. May we stave off our untimely deaths with these TEMPORARY strictures, and again, thank you for your patience. We promise to write you nice eulogies, and that we will get back to you before you die anyway.

Funeral Arrangements

by Gabrielle DeMarre

Since I am quite sure you are going to die an untimely death, sometimes I imagine your funeral. I will show up alone in all black, exactly on time, since I assume “fashionably late” does not apply to funerals. I’ll want to introduce myself to your grieving mother as someone who loved her son very much, but I won’t because of that obligatory lie that cannot be avoided. Honestly, who do I think I am, and do I really belong at this funeral? Unsure, I’ll sit in the back of the church, I won’t say a word, and I probably won’t cry either. Since it will certainly be a violent death, there will be no viewing, which will eliminate the debate I always have with myself at open-casket funerals--which will be the most upsetting: seeing the body, or not. When it is over, I will slip away, hopefully unnoticed. As I pull my car out of the lot, I will wish that I had spoken to your mother--for that camaraderie of common grief.

Issue 12's Table of Contents and Brief Apology

2011-07-03T00:43:00.001-05:00

Yes, we know we're a bit late (and behind on correspondence). But better late than never. Enjoy one of our longer, more art-filled issues, don't melt, and don't get hit by stray fireworks. In fact, be serenaded by our gentle ukelele playing....err, better make that Kat Wyand's gentle ukelele playing Toucan. She's quite the ukelele player. You don't want to hear us.

Woodpeckers, Sandy Yang

Doppleganger, Matt Morgan
from Home Sweet Home, Brian Guttman
The Great Bank Run of 1912, Kyle Hemmings
Paid in Full, Mike Tager
Playing Intergalatic Baseball, J.J Steinfeld
The Villainy of Hamlet (Part 2 of 2), Ian Singleton
i put the ass in b(ass), Sarah Anne Stinnett
The Broken Era, Sarah Anne Stinnett
Waitress Assumed I Was Paying, Kenneth Gurney
Licenses of Ink, Jonathan Henderson
“the cuckoo flies over time”, Grace Marie Grafton
hitchhiker, Ryan Mattern
papa, Ryan Mattern
Transient Sight, Michael Cluff
Heat, George Bishop
Dark Within Dark, Gordon Mason
Telegraph Pole No. 570, Gordon Mason
Chinatown, Chloe Viner
Amateur Plumber and Wife, John Grey
If Vegetables Had Skeletons, Brandon Amico
Wedding Toast From the Best Man, Who Is Still Single For Some Reason, Brandon Amico

Contributor Bios
Editrice Missive: Summer of Love (and Other Stuff)

Editrice Note: Summer of Love (and other stuff)

2011-07-03T00:23:00.002-05:00

It’s not so much the fact that this is the summer issue. It’s the fact that it’s our 12th issue, and we frankly can’t believe we’ve let this nonsense go on as long as it has. Someone really should have stopped us by now. Seriously. We’re waiting. Go get your Toucan nets and stop us.

WAITING….well, since no one has, we suppose we’ll have to be the ones to draw an end to this madness. Wait a minute, this is sounding suspiciously like a goodbye. Don’t worry, it isn’t…yet. But we have to admit in recent months the whole thing has gotten a bit beyond us, especially since we love to pile things onto our lives as if life was an all-you-can-eat buffet; except the worst kind, because you can’t go back more than once. Wow, that was a terrible simile, worst one we’ve penned in a while. Maybe we should get out of this business.

One of these dishes: If you’ve been following our posts at all, you know Editrice Liz finally has a love life. She has no idea why she feels compelled to publish this in her magazine, except for the now-obvious fact that The Toucan took the place of her love life for a long time. Talk about beaks in all the wrong…no, no, we are NOT going there. For the love of God and birdseed, let’s talk about the issue instead!

We conclude “The Villainy of Hamlet”, the epic poem we began publishing in the last issue. If it was a truly epic poem, yeah, it’d still be going, but cut us a little slack, OK? Summer is invoked with “Heat” and “Intergalatic Baseball”, which has got to be more entertaining than watching our Chicago teams suck it up. Perhaps the lack of gravity and air resistance would help them hit? Ryan Mattern sharpens his chops on a new genre, (you may have previously read his stellar fiction in the mag), and love encounters the devil, “Woodpeckers”, and, well, shit. You can see why almost anything would be an improvement over having your love life be The Toucan.

In case you feel the overwhelming need to distract we harried editrices even more, you can always submit! We’re definitely looking for more visual art, perhaps some in color to be published as web-only, and poetry is always at a premium. Check out our guidelines at http://www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com/, and send said work to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ll go back to making out….whoa, we meant laying out (or maybe making up? Hard to tell) this issue. Awfully Freudian typo, wasn’t it?

Rrrrkkk, rrrrkk….RRRKKK….LIZ….LIZ…

Errr, excuse us. We need to go explain to the Toucan that the romantic relationship and/or snuggle sessions on the branch are OVER.

Happily paired but not together (which would result in the destruction of the city of Chicago, at minimum),

Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices

Woodpeckers, Sandy Yang

2011-07-03T00:20:00.001-05:00

Just weeks before the wedding, they still hadn’t ordered the cake. Laurie asked Steve to take Pacific Coast Highway, the scenic route, instead of the 405 to the next bakery on the list – the least he could do after outright rejecting the one that Laurie had suggested. Steve wouldn’t even walk through the door after he noticed that the bakery advertised “erotic cakes” in stick-on block lettering toward the bottom of the window. Instead, Steve took the freeway to an outdoor shopping mall whose color scheme alternated between cream and eggshell. Laurie folded her arms and followed.

“White cake?” Laurie asked when Steve showed her the picture of a wedge of chalky cake laid flat on a porcelain plate.

“It’s more elegant when everything is white,” Steve said.

“White is a color, not a flavor.”

“It’s vanilla,” said the order taker behind the counter, whose voice startled Laurie, as if he had spoken out of turn. The man’s smile, which was loose and generous when they walked in, had gradually hardened and flattened into a tight line.

Laurie continued, “I like chocolate, and it doesn’t matter. Icing can make anything white.”

“When you slice it open, it’s not white anymore,” Steve said, flipping through the album for the dozenth time. “Chocolate won’t photograph well; it looks dirty.”

“Right, we’d look like we’re eating dirt.”

“Is everything a joke with you?”

“You’ve taken me seriously before?” Laurie asked, more sincerely than she’d intended. “Was that before or after you canceled the things I booked without telling me first?”

“You booked a war photographer who shoots blood and gore … and death.”

“We have to close soon,” said the guy.

Laurie looked down at the dainty cupcakes and cookies behind the glass display, some with red smiley faces drawn on a bed of white frosting, a slight curl of a mouth, two dot eyes staring out, bearing witness. Steve handed back the album of beautiful cakes. Laurie imagined the bakery guy, who didn’t look older than a college kid, making a mental note. When he gets married, he wouldn’t fight with his wife over cake or colors or photographers or flowers or the guest list.

***

Laurie didn’t say anything as they drove home, not even when Steve bypassed the freeway and turned on to Pacific Coast Highway. When she had asked Steve earlier to take this other way to Newport Beach, it was because she had wanted to look out her window, hoping that the shimmering, flickering edge of the ocean would calm her, maybe hypnotize her, make her someone else. She didn’t want to get upset over little things anymore. And lately, it was all little things, with each thing carrying the weight of all the other things that came before. Now Steve, sitting there, driving, blocked her ocean view.

It began to rain, a little at first, and Steve immediately flicked the bar to the right of the steering wheel. The wipers streaked dust and condensation across the windshield, but the drizzle soon fattened into raindrops that beat a rapid rhythm on the thin metal roof of the car. Laurie leaned back and watched the wipers clear the view for a moment before the next sheet of rain could come down.

When Laurie was little, the wipers looked like the heads of woodpeckers, rising to greet her and peck away at an invisible piece of wood. Laurie remembered laughing each time they bounced up, as if they couldn’t wait to come back and say hello. Her father had asked what’s so funny and Laurie told him. She even hoped for lots of rain so she could see more of her friends.

Laurie smiled at the memory and Steve caught the look on her face. Laurie frowned; she didn’t want Steve to think that everything was OK. He put a hand on her knee. It was his idea of a romantic gesture – removing a hand from the steering wheel while navigating a curvy, rain-soaked road that hovered just above the water.

Laurie also knew that Steve expected her to respond so he could put two hands back on the wheel again, not compromise their safety, the rest of their lives together. She pretended she hadn’t noticed. She watched the wipers from a sideway glance. Laurie remembered telling her father that one of the woodpeckers was sick and wouldn’t move and how she sat in the passenger seat and watched him walk out into the rain, grab the plastic blade and yank it so hard that the wiper no longer rested on the windshield but dangled in the air from a hinge. Laurie cried and then screamed for him to stop breaking its neck, but even after the woodpecker returned, it wasn’t the same.

The rain was coming down harder. Steve put his hand back on the wheel and turned at the next light to get off the mountain road and find the nearest freeway to drive the rest of the way home.

***

Laurie stood behind Steve as he unlocked the front door and pawed in the dark for the light switch. He walked straight to the dining room table where neat piles of paper peeked out from manila folders stacked on top of one another. Laurie fell back on the overstuffed couch and dug out the remote that had slipped between the seat cushions. When she turned on the TV, loud voices blared and she started flipping channels but didn’t stop long enough to find out what program was on what channel. She turned toward Steve, who was pulling out papers from the folders, as if piecing together a puzzle.

“It’s Sunday night,” Laurie said. “There’s probably a movie on.”

“I have a lot to do for tomorrow.”

Laurie wanted to say something, but she suspected that anything she’d say at this moment would start a fight, and so she stopped pushing the buttons on the remote and decided to watch whatever show was on. It was a rerun of a law drama she’d already seen. She pressed again and it landed on a sitcom whose general plot and characters she recognized from years ago. Laurie could very well have seen all these shows before, and yet she couldn’t say what happened at the end of any episode as if they were half-forgotten dreams.

It was a fear that Laurie had not revisited since Steve asked her to marry him just three months after they met. And then all that nervous energy, that neurosis that she just didn’t get it – the story, the plot – these hang-ups seemed not hers, as if they had never belonged to her, but to someone else entirely. With her new sparkly ring, she was immediately welcomed into the warm huddle of squeals and hugs, congratulations and happy endings.

Laurie noticed the DVD case still sitting on top of the TV. It held a romantic comedy about a man pining over a woman who’s marrying someone else. It seemed like a good idea when Laurie picked this movie, not because Steve would enjoy the story, but because there was a wedding ceremony in the Hamptons, and Steve could glean some ideas from the elaborate Hollywood set pieces.

“There’s a wedding in that movie I rented,” she said. “Maybe they’ll have chocolate cake and you’ll see that it’s not so bad.”

Steve flipped some pages, as if he were trying to drown out the sound of her voice. Laurie waited a moment.

“I’m going out,” Laurie said and stood up from the couch. She realized she hadn’t even taken off her coat.

“Don’t be silly.” Steve looked up for the first time since they returned home. “What are you going to do? It’s raining.”

Laurie cringed, hating Steve’s use of that word. Silly. She opened the closet and rifled through the shoes, the empty boxes and broken appliances for an umbrella. When she didn’t find one, she closed the door.

“Is this about the cake?” he asked.

There it was again – that voice of measured indifference and annoyance.

“What are you crying about?” her father had asked those many years ago, still holding the long, limp piece of decapitated resin and rubber in his hand. “You’re not a baby anymore.”

“It’s not about the cake,” Laurie said.

“So what is it?”

“I just want to go out.”

“We’re about to get married. Don’t you think you should start telling me what’s wrong?”

Laurie considered it, but she didn’t know where to start, because how do you tell someone that because you love him, you hate him too, and the moment he makes you strong, he takes it back and makes you weak.

Just after they started dating, Laurie was horsing around with a friend near the edge of a mountain trail, and Steve grabbed her arm and reeled her into his body, holding on to her like a stuffed bear. Laurie was able to break one arm free from his grasp. She slapped at his hand playfully, but he didn’t let go.

“Did you think I was going to fall off and kill myself?” she’d asked him.

“No, I was afraid you were going to kill me,” he had said.

Steve didn’t get up from his seat when she closed the front door.

Outside the lobby window of their apartment building, the sky had grown dark, but all around the lights illuminated the raindrops so they looked like needles shooting into the street before disappearing on contact. Laurie thought about waiting it out, sitting on the red vinyl bench with torn-out stuffing next to the mailboxes, but then Steve could come down to find that she hadn’t gone anywhere after all. She pushed the door open against the wind and rain, and by the time she crossed the street to her car, she felt soaked and heavy. She sat in her wet coat, freezing, and she wished she were home with the man who was going to be her husband, watching some lame movie, going to bed, waking up next to him.

Laurie turned on the ignition, as if to see what would happen next; the wipers sprung up to greet her and backed down, stood up, backed down. She started to drive, but she didn’t know to where. It had only been raining for the last hour, but already the lit store signs and streetlights appeared fractured and dreamlike, as if glowing pieces of red, orange, green and yellow lost their way and attached themselves to puddles along the road, creating little pools of light like entryways into another dimension.

Laurie thought about the bakery they didn’t go to this afternoon. It wasn’t too far away. She should just go ahead and place the order – a big white phallic cake. Would Steve laugh or would he call off the wedding? What would the war photographer capture then?

But Laurie already knew.

The rain was sleeting down, and Laurie was losing track of the lines on the road. She was scared that one hard brake would send her skidding into the intersection.

“I wish it’d rain everyday,” Laurie had told her father when she was little, sitting in the passenger seat as her father cursed at the storm.

“You think this is fun?” her father had said as rain blasted the windshield. But the wipers attacked the gauze of water, cleared the view so he’d see what was in front of him, if only for a second. Her father held the steering wheel with both hands, so that his knuckles appeared hard and exposed.

Laurie had felt sorry for her father then because he didn’t seem to see her friends, how hard the woodpeckers worked, whipping back and forth at full speed, but still remembered to smile at Laurie, squeak a hello as they cleared a path through the rain for her.

Doppleganger, Matt Morgan

2011-07-03T00:15:00.001-05:00

I pick up the phone and listen to the dial tone, imagining it has an opinion- hang up, you’re wrong- before ignoring it and dialing. I hear three rings and then the click of acknowledgement.

‘Hello?’ he says.

‘Chris, it’s me. Do you have the paper?’

A heavy pause. ‘Which one, Nic?’

‘Local. Look at page three.’

‘Yeah, all right...’ I allow him time to follow my demand. I hear pages sliding over others, a sigh. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘You tell me. Does anyone look like me on that page?’

‘I don’t know... maybe this guy, David Homes?’

‘Thank you! Exactly.’

‘What’s this about?’

I say, ‘Nothing, thanks for your help,’ but he may have missed it because I am already hanging up.

I have decided this is going to be a project for me, so I move bits of notes and pens from my desk and lay the newspaper on it, open at page three. My laptop whirrs gently as it begins work, and I place it next to the article on my desk. Waiting for the computer to fire up, I absently sip what’s left of my breakfast coffee while reading the page again. The coffee is cold, but I don’t mind.

Adrenaline shivers through me with the caffeine fix. Finally the laptop catches up and I am able to open a blank document and create two lists. The first is headed David Homes, the second is Nicolas Clarke. No, that doesn’t feel right- I change the second heading to Me. I begin to list his attributes as I find them in the article.

I read the caption below his photo first, because it catches my eye: David Homes, up and coming. The first thing the paper tells me about him is that he is forty-four. I type his age into the column beneath his name, then move the cursor to my own column and type the same. We are the same age.

...journalist who started out in this paper... He used to write for the same paper that now publishes my weekly column. This goes into the list.

...’I keep in touch,’ Homes says of his ex-wife, Valerie. I too am divorced. We don’t keep in touch, we have no reason to, and I don’t think Kathryn would like to hear from me, but that’s not the point. We’re both divorced, even if he does claim to still speak with his ex-wife.

Homes has suffered with eczema for years. It’s not eczema, but I have adult acne. ‘Bacne’ Kathryn used to call it, in a voice she described as affectionate, but sounded like scorn. Dozens of the offensive sores, red spots up and down my spine, over my shoulders. I understand David’s affliction. It goes into the list as skin condition.

I pull out four more similarities and type them into the list, then move the paper to the floor, spread open on the right page. I start the internet. A search for David Homes brings up results for a house that has some architectural significance or something, a MySpace profile for a different David Homes, a literary journal, and several results which, as far as I can tell, have no relevance. I type journalist after his name and search again.

This time I score a direct hit: he has a blog. On his site I find several more photos of the man in question. He looks somewhat younger than his age, but he still looks like me, I’m sure of it. I skim his blog entries, every so often taking in a bit of information. He has won three- no, four- awards for his journalism. He recently went to New York for some business trip or something. I haven’t been to New York but- I check the dates- yes, I was on a business trip at the same time he was in New York for his. I was interviewing a couple in the next town for my column. David has a book being published next month- the reason he had an article about him in the paper. I haven’t actually finished anything, but I have always wanted to write a book. Several chapters in the drawer of my desk prove that.

My coffee is now far too cold and bitter to drink. My thoughts need gathering. I take my mug and its dregs of dark liquid to the kitchen and refill the kettle. What could these similarities mean? What is their significance?

Doppelganger.

The word erupts suddenly into my mind and I drop my mug in the sink, barely aware of the crash of food-stained dishes it creates, and rush back to my laptop. Another internet search, this time for doppelganger, finds exactly what I’m looking for. I click on a site and the information is laid out before me. In folklore, a doppelganger is a physical double of a living person. Not a twin, not in existence by any ordinary, natural means, but a tangible manifestation of- the next word lingers, frozen in my vision- evil.

I continue reading. Doppelgangers are considered harbingers of bad luck. They can be portents of ill health or danger. Wait, that’s only when someone else sees your doppelganger. What does it mean if you see your own? There it is. An omen of death. Fantastic.

I shake my head, sighing. David Homes would not approve. Doppelgangers, bad omens, these are the contents of ‘lowbrow’ fiction, not the literary fares written by his hand. The evil-twin plot is for us common folk. The problem is, Mr Homes, that there are ‘common folk’. If there is a demand for writing he may not consider worthy or intelligent enough, why deprive those asking for it? I pick up a pen from the edge of the desk just to toss it at his smug photo grinning from the screen.

The alarm clock in the bedroom announces eight o’clock- I was up inexplicably early today- and I accept that it’s time to work. I sneer at his photo one last time as I close the window with his blog in and then open the document I’ve been working on. In front of me is a title. I have been struggling to add an article to it. The words are there, in my head, all the time actually. When I shower, take a walk, drive to town, do the ‘real work’ for the column, I find myself continually drifting into the mix of potential phrases, possible angles, fresh ideas. Then I sit to write it, as I do now, and all I can think is, You haven’t paid the electricity yet. Or, How many days worth of groceries is this going to buy? That’s right, probably none. I struggle for a while- against the pull of bills, of being ‘sensible’, against my anger at the situation- and I close the writing I haven’t done to do the ‘real work’.

It happens again this morning. I sigh wearily and give up without a struggle. I’ll do it later this afternoon. Or tomorrow. I open the template for my column and look at the notes I’ve typed up from the interview with the couple in the next town. They’re being shunned by their neighbors for having sued the mayor for firing the husband when he revealed his status as an atheist. The overtly religious mayor and his town’s populace were unhappy with the couple. I feel the town needs to get out of its ass and leave them to their beliefs. I’ll have the first draft done in a few hours, it’s just a matter of writing up some quotes from the couple, taking a few sardonic shots at the mayor, maybe call him a fundamentalist, no one likes that these days, and that will be the piece. I’m losing faith in what I do.

Another sigh, I click the cursor at the first line, below the heading of the column- Everything Wrong With This Week- and begin writing.

David Homes had also risen early that morning, although it was expected; he felt anything after seven o’clock was a lie-in. He put on his housecoat and went into the kitchen, widening his eyes and twisting his head to rid his neck of kinks. He drew his hands down over both cheeks, grazing the stubble there, and then reached to the kettle and switched it on. The process of waking would not be complete until that first mouthful of Columbian blend.

When the coffee had been brewed at last he took his mug of it through to his office. It was a small box-room on the opposite end of the hall from the living room. He closed the door as always, not for himself but for Vanessa, who woke just hearing the tapping at the keyboard.

While waiting for his laptop to start up, he found the local paper that had been placed on the shelf yesterday. He’d not had a chance to look over it, but was eager now to take a few minutes to read his favorite section. He went as quickly as he could past page three, feeling a hint of the same embarrassment glimpsing his photo as he’d felt when he learned they were going to run an article on “his sudden rise to the top”. He held two deep-seated contentions with their phrase: first, the top of what? While there were undoubtedly trash pieces written by tabloids to make news out of nothing, those aside he felt uncomfortable with any perceived hierarchy of literature. Who was deciding it? The white, male, middle-class perhaps. Second, there was nothing sudden about his career, his recent ability to rely solely on the income of freelance work, his completion of his novel. He had been working at it for the better part of two decades.

David Homes left these thoughts aside as he took another sip of coffee, still searching for the segment he was after. He found it. It was a column he had first written for, years ago now, called Everything Wrong With This Week. When David Homes had been its writer, he had used it merely to rant about things that had pissed him off, traffic tickets, new films, over-pricing at the supermarket. The alleged humor was in how angry he could sound. This new guy, this Nicolas Clarke, was hilarious. More importantly, he had taken the column in a new direction. He still had the sarcastic tone, the biting quips, but he wrote about things that actually mattered. Three weeks ago he had written about the “piss-poor facilities for recycling” in the town, and the following week the local recycling system was improved.

David Homes read this week’s column and drank his coffee. He laughed at several lines and thought about the author’s point. Then he closed the paper, folded it away, and turned to his computer, ready to work. He began typing.

WHOSE STORY IS THIS, ANYWAY? READ ON AND FIND OUT!

Doppleganger, Cont'd, Matt Morgan

2011-07-03T00:08:00.001-05:00

I am stumbling into inebriation with the fury of a life-long alcoholic. I didn’t mean to get so drunk, but here I am, sat at this bar with this drink and swaying on my stool. I think this will be my last. For tonight. Then home. I will go to my home, alone, drunk. Go to bed. Wake up, rinse, repeat.

I haven’t thought about that Homes guy since this morning. I didn’t finish my work either. I should be doing it now. To hell with it, alcohol has made me beautifully indifferent. If only I can continue not to care when I wake up. If I don’t care then none of it matters, nothing matters. That would be easier.

David Homes. God, what a smug jerk. I’m David Homes. I’m successful. Everybody loves me. I keep in touch with my ex-wife. I’d keep in touch with mine too, if I were as close to celebrity as he is. Kathryn can’t have been as mad as she said she was. She can’t have meant those things she told me as I left her. Did I leave her? No, alright, more like she left me.

I’d make it right, if I could. I would say- I don’t know- sorry. I would apologise with all the sincerity I never really showed her. Forget David Homes. Look at me now, Kathryn. I’ve changed. I’m ready to admit I was wrong, sort of. I’m coming to make things right.

This is a good idea. I back my car away from the bar. Turn on the main road. Laugh as I slow for the police car- he passes, fooled that I’m not drunk. This road takes me to town, the dodgy side, then I can cut across to her place. One stop to make first. This is a good idea.

“You--David Homes!”

Some money is taken from my hand. He puts it away and hands me my treat. The same plastic baggie as last time, the same pinkish salt inside. I ask him to help me. He laughs. The baggie is opened, the powder spread, lines of lust and nihilism cut with a credit card. There’s not a lot of it there; I don’t need much. I kneel in front of it. Bend, breathe out, snort.

This is definitely a good idea.
I’ve never driven this fast.
She’ll see that I mean it.
Forget David Homes.
Look at me.

David Homes woke from a light nap that he had allowed to draw him from his work. As his eyes adjusted to the glare of the computer screen in the now darkened room, he wondered what had woken him.

There was something happening outside. He listened to the repeated banging while his consciousness caught up with him: that banging was not ordinary. It quickly connected within his mind to danger. He called out for Vanessa. She came into his office, prepared with her report before he’d asked.

“It’s one of the neighbors. A guy is trying to get through their front door.”

“Where are the police?”

“I’ve called them. They should be here soon, but David, I think he might get in.”

“All right…”

David went to the front door. He found his shoes, slipped them on, then told Vanessa he would be back in a moment. He closed the door behind himself.

There was a man as Vanessa had said. He seemed drunk. He threw his fists at the battered door with no expression of pain or tiring. He yelled to someone inside, who yelled back, but David could not make out either voice enough to make sense of the argument. He approached and considered the empty lawn between him and the attacker. He saw nothing he could defend himself with.

The door opened. It seemed to take the man by surprise. He staggered back a step. Then as he lurched forward to enter the house, a larger man stepped outside and punched the first with the confidence of someone who had thrown a punch before. As the neighbor stood over the collapsed man, waiting for retaliation, two police cars howled down the street.

David looked back to his own home, to Vanessa watching from the downstairs window. By the time he turned back to the scene on his neighbor’s doorstep, the police were on top of the attacker.

The handcuffed man called out to David as he struggled with the two officers. He looked amused and mortified, a contrary mix of emotions that resulted in a look of insanity.

“I don’t believe this,” he called out. “This is all you, isn’t it? You did this. A harbinger of… of this! You’re my--”

He was bundled into a police car and David Homes never heard his final word. It sounded like ‘double hanger’. David Homes took a moment in the cold air and patient silence that hung over the now empty scene. He had no idea what had just gone on. He imagined he would find out soon enough. For now, he just wanted to go back inside and see Vanessa. As he opened the door to his home and kicked off his shoes inside, she came to him.

“What was he doing there?”

“I don’t know… He seemed to know me though.”

“He did? Did you recognize him?”

David brought the man’s face to the forefront of his memory. He gave it a moment’s thought and then let it go again. He was tired, he still had work to do, and while his heart went out to the man, the man’s problems were his own.

“No,” David Homes said. “He didn’t look familiar.”

from Home Sweet Home, Brian Guttman

2011-07-03T00:03:00.001-05:00

The rotten stench of double standards and ignorance hung over the city like a toxic cloud which I was steadily inhaling as I found myself walking past a remnant of my past. It was the tae kwon do school where a small group of friends and I used to host shows. I had been a part of two bands that played shows on a regular basis. The shows were always local bands but every so often one from Chicago would make the voyage down. They were always small scale with few in attendance but the energy was incredible. For most of us, it was our first taste of pure expression. The thrill of being heard was superb and in the beginning it had innocence in its humility. There was something virgin about this small music scene built out of the ashes of the last kids to attempt it years before. I remembered seeing the last days of the music scene before in junior high. By the time I had reached high school, most traces of that beautiful experience had been eroded away. I made it my personal objective to revive it and restore it to its former glory. At this time I had joined a metal band formed by my fellow classmates. We began to get serious and were really inspired when we attended a show held in my friend john’s basement. The band was called Last One Standing and was formed by a group of personal friends who were a year older.

I mark this as the rebirth of the second scene because after this we made a list of songs a decided on a name. We called ourselves Barbershop Massacre and played for two years, which in all honesty was a surprise. We sounded like complete shit but that was of no importance to us; we were addicted to the energetic lifestyle and kept playing. It was then that we secured a venue and began playing shows with other local bands. We hosted a show almost every month and somehow kept our sanity. Between us and Last One Standing we booked the bands, set the price, acquired the equipment, and advertised the show. I had learned how to advertise when I had attended shows in the first scene. It began with acquiring a photo of some sort usually something like a skull or fist or random design but the first was a picture of me shirtless and flexing. Most would be asking themselves why and this is where I paint a picture of myself. I was then and still am a rather ugly kid with a pale complexion and flabby torso, so we decided to use the picture to gross out respectable people who wouldn’t understand what we were trying to accomplish; which ironically was a concept we too had trouble understanding.

Nevertheless, we would then write the show info over it using paint and buy hundreds of copies for something like ten dollars. After that we would pack our book bags full of them and hand a flyer to everyone we saw at school. And just in case an unlucky person didn’t get one; we would wait till the end of the school day and flood the hallways and stairwells with them. One would run down the hall dumping out the contents of their backpack as two others simultaneously stood at the top floor and poured flyers down both stairwells. After that we would make an elusive escape before an official caught up to us.

The music kept playing for another year until a major rift happened in my band and the scene in general. It began when The Color Morale, one of the first bands we booked for a show got signed. That drew the line and set the stages for the descent. I quit the band and began a new one with my drummer who stayed in both groups. We decided that it was time to change the face of the scene. We saw what had become of our creation; we had paid so much attention to building the goddamn thing that we forgot to maintain it. The scene had become a breeding ground for the same generic and exclusive ideals that we rejected in the first place. We recruited a guitarist who I had gone to catholic school with and started a new band called RCK or Rape City Kids. We strayed from the metal that saturated the current shows and started a punk band in honor of the first scene. Even the name was forged as an attempt to be as ridiculous as possible, but upon deeper delving into it one would find the meaning hidden in it. It stood as a fuck you to the town we grew up in but this was the first of many mistakes; I underestimated how careless these kids really were.

We held our first show in a living room on good Friday, It was my friends living room so we hung a big blanket that we had spray painted Bad Friday and an upside down cross on it. We did mostly covers like “California Uber Allies”, “Baby I’m an anarchist”, and even covered the theme song for the power puff girls. All in all it was a decent performance given our obvious status as amateurs. A month later we had our first show and had enough songs to play a full set list. The topics ranged from the local police to the education system to the “Scene kids” who had taken over. We played all of our songs except “Crack Rocks for Jesus” which we excluded in respects to the owner who was a Christian and generously let us use the place. The song “Sweatshop Scene Kids” always gave me joy when I played it at shows. It was nice to call out a large portion of the audience at a show for having no regard to any real message. There was very few who recognized our motive of being as absurd as we could. Behind all the fun we had with our antics was a goal we strived to accomplish. We saw that it was going to have to be up to us to educate the younger kids on what it meant to be truly free. It goes without saying that we were widely shunned for giving these kids something they had never heard. We introduced real punk rock into the shows; I remembered how I could almost see their ears bleed as they stared with confusion about what to think of it.

The biggest blow to the scene was when the only venue in town shut down after a brawl between testosterone filled drunken apes beating each other to dust to decide who was more hardcore. That was rock bottom because at that point it was clear that every shred of what the scene was built on had been abandoned. A movement formed with unity in mind was infiltrated by petty gangs. Even when RCK was formed and Barbershop had become Slaughter of a Mortician everything had been fine. There were no hard feelings whatsoever, we actually practiced with each other using the same space and equipment because we understood each other’s goals. We had seen a few fights but they were always scuffles between the crowd and a random asshole that would come in hopes of war. That show had seen our serenity shattered; the same serenity we had kept going for a year and a half. Even in the violent pits injuries were common, it was all in good fun and never escalated into a fight. Most see a mosh pit as a breeding ground for violence but this is not the case. The pit formed out of a unifying bond of extreme frustration for all the horrible things happening around us. It was a way for kids to connect with each other under the banner of the song playing.

It was three or four months later that we decided to hold a small show in Dixon again. We made it small and held it in a basement in order to return to our roots. We booked a modest three bands that were all from the local area. The lineup was Rover, a local Ska band, RCK, and Last One Standing. The show started with a fairly good turnout and both Rover and my band played without problem. After we had finished Last One Standing set up but delayed the show for a half an hour to an hour awaiting their collection of lights. I was ridiculous to me at the time and even now, but when the lights came they began playing. Two songs into their performance the cops came and shut the show down for noise violation. That was the last nail in the coffin which ironically was driven by the people we started the whole scene in defiance of.

As I got closer to home I began thinking about how long it had been since what the remnants call “The Death of the Scene.” So much had changed since then and now it feels as though a year and a half was a lifetime ago. Many had moved on to other things, fell prey to this cesspool of a town. Some got girlfriends and “left that life behind” and others simply faded away and turned into strangers. One thing was for certain; there was no more of that unifying force that propelled us. It was then that “Look Back and Laugh” started playing on my mp3 player. I couldn’t help but nod my head as I connected with all the words being sung. My only problem came when I began looking back and couldn’t even bring a smile to my face. Two lines stuck out in my head “I think there was too much dreaming, too much to hope for.” That was us, a collective of pissed-off kids trying to figure themselves out, something I hadn’t accomplished. My mind was blanketed with confusion as thick as the snow under my feet. I didn’t feel alone in this respect, I think all of my friends are just where I am, stuck in the aftermath of good times that’re long gone. It was such a powerful experience that most kids my age don’t see. A minute feeling of accomplishment swept over me as I thought of how we actually created something regardless of significance. This feeling was immediately struck down the recollection that it was some abstract remnant now.