The BlotterJanuary 2019

magazine

The South’s Unique, FREE, International Literature and Arts MagazineThe South’s Unique, FREE, International Literature and Arts Magazine

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G. M. Somers ..............................Editor-in-ChiefMartin K. Smith..Publisher-at-Large, TreasurerMarilyn Fontenot.....Director of DevelopmentLaine Cunningham.....Publishing ConsultantBrace Boone III....................Marketing AdvisorRichard Hess........................Programs DirectorT.J. Garrett...........................Staff Photographer

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COVER: “Glass and Pottery” byBeatrice Somers.

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“Oh My God - I’m That Guy!”It’s January and perhaps now we can finally talk a little about this year’sThanksgiving family get-together meals. But before I get started, I want to let itbe known that I miss Turkey (the food – I’ve never been to the country and can-not actually miss it until I do) and Romaine lettuce, which is acceptably greenand crunchy, and pecan pie (I am counting calories and pecan pie really is high-er math) and some other things that seem to be troubled by the rules of engage-ment in our modern food world. Instead, we had chicken, good old reliable andunruffled chicken, with dressing…and it was noteworthy in its adequacy. Thecranberry relish, on the other hand, was marvelous, the potatoes good enoughfor government work and there was wine but I didn’t drink any wine, because Idon’t. Quit judging me. Yes, you were.

There were other things to eat and I ate them, too, but so what? The point ofthis essay is that the Thanksgiving meal is mostly about talk, and talk we did.Talked about all those things that have stewed in the back of our minds since lastThanksgiving. And, oh boy, there was drama, but now two months later it is nolonger as fresh as a new paper cut (with that self-effacing annoyance that it evereven happened because who here hasn’t gotten a paper cut and wondered why,oh lord, why me?) So, here’s a review:

It may be your opinion that we either caused or exacerbated a problem byspending the whole week together. Actually, it worked very well. Because moreof something is always good, right? Can any of you imagine this? Spending aThanksgiving week together? Madness! Mayhem! And I would like to tell youthat we have broken the code on Thanksgiving, but even I cannot lie that bald-facedly. But here’s what I think. I think we argue with my relatives and friendsbecause I’m supposed to. If you can’t talk to those folks, get the toxins out ofyour system, well, who can you talk to?

Which is my theory as to why it is actually a very good idea that we haveThanksgiving in a rented house at the beach. Because no one has the home-fieldadvantage. You can’t escape into your comfort-zone cave, or fetch the car keysand drive off (well, you can, but where are you going to go?)

And I will say right now that this essay seems to be taking a maudlin, basic-cabledrama turn, so I’ll nip that in the bud right here. What I’ve actually discovered issomething about myself. I miss arguing with my family the rest of the year and Ilike Thanksgiving. Quite a bit.

Here’s the short list of reasons why: my family is pretty smart. I mean, we argueabout some important topics, such as how loud do you really need to yell“bingo!” when you’ve filled a row or column in your card? Correct answer –“not that loud, you hurt my ears. And can you take that game downstairs, I wantthe whole living room to myself and this TV program on how dolphins and somekind of diving bird work together to catch herring.” Or: “are you still watchingthat documentary on baseball? The season is over, move on!” Correct answer –

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501(c)3 non-profit) is an education con-cern. Our primary interest is the fur-thering of creative writing and fine arts,with the magazine being a means to thatend. We publish in the first half of each

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sCAUTION

Indistinguishable from magic

“why don’t you carry the garbage down to the curb and hop on into the dump-ster, too?” And “who took the last piece of key lime pie? Correct answer - myname is Inigo Montoya and you must die!” With lots of applause for the lastone’s rhyming scheme, naturally.

We also fuss about politics, religion, science, the bad traffic on the way to the gro-cery store. The bad traffic on the way home from the grocery store. We do notfuss about there being no coffee. There is always coffee. I mean, we’re not ani-mals.

By the way, I am the paterfamilias, a role with no authority whatsoever. I canstart an argument, but rarely win – even if I’m right, which is a rarity but still sta-tistically possible. I get cranky when they all gang up on me, play devil’s advo-cate, or devil’s Uber driver, or devil’s sous chef, whichever is necessary to movethe ball downfield. But not really cranky. I don’t turn up the football game andpout. And it is mostly my fault that we will take an argument to the illogicalextreme, or at least what we think is the illogical extreme. Some of you probablythrow stuff, or jump up to try and remember the combination to the gun safe.That’s not our thing, however – to end Thanksgiving once and for all. Just makeit memorable.

In the end, we still like each other in my family. All these years later. And there’sa new generation of adults, my nieces and nephews, and my own daughters com-ing up, taking responsibility for leading the discussions. No one is off the hook –escaping from the rest of us trying to be in their business. We talk about eachother’s problems – the real ones and the ones we just seem to make up out ofthe evidence we reveal about our lives. For example, my family thinks I’m nuts. Ihave no idea how this conclusion was reached. Was it my leading a discussion on“mansplaining?” Was it my monthly blog, posted for everyone to see? A rehash ofthe phone calls I’ve made to customer service? My home-made bumper-stickeraffixed to the wife’s car? “Hot Flash! Pull Me Over At Your Own Peril” (This lastis pure fiction – but funny, right?)

They expect such behavior from me, and no one takes it particularly seriously.Counselling is suggested, but not mandated. Also, I try to turn the tables onmyself before they can, and say “I’m just blustering here, but…” or “pardon myuncredentialled bombast, but…” and they know I’m about as full of shit as I canbe full of turkey, which is a lot.

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January 2019

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Our love story ended there. Withhim in a casket, and me gazing down onhim, as if he was a penny dropped into awell. I once hung all my wishes on him,foolish enough to think it took a man tochange my fortunes. But I wrongedmyself in believing it took love to createhappiness. I’d found nothing butdisappointment in his arms, watching asmy wishes disappeared in the ripples ofhis lies, hitting my heart like stones. Even the man he presented to theworld had been one grand deception. Hemade a stranger feel like a friend in theglow of his pearly smile, a beggar a richman with a few kind words and coinweighing his pockets. He charmed, andhe enchanted. He knew the art in life,and he continued it on in death asmourners crammed into the parlor at therear of his mother’s house. Many waited behind me for achance to stare at his corpse, but no onedared rush me on. Who would hurry adead man’s fiancé? Especially when ourpairing was considered a love match, andit had been, until his secrets splinteredhis near perfect image. I brushed my fingertips against hischeek, cold without his blood flowingbeneath his pale flesh. I still love you, Ithought. How is it I do? My mind held no answer as tearswelled in my eyes. His coffee-toned hair,ashen face, and dark suit, tailored just forthis occasion, blurred in the mists of mysadness. I had nothing but memories ofhim, of when he walked in the vibrancyof his youth, a man not yet thirty. “Mary.” A hand brushed lightlyagainst my arm. “You’ve been standinghere for five minutes.” I glanced up to find my friend, KittyEverly, standing beside me, her china-blue eyes holding me with concern. Hermourning veil was thrown back over herauburn hair, her cherry-red lips curvedinto a frown. She assessed me with thesame knowing look from when we were

children, when I wept over the loss ofmy adored Silky. Only, this wasn’t aneight-week-old kitten we were burying. She took my hand in hers, herwarm fingers so different from George’scold corpse. “Come sit with me by thehearth.” And with that, she led me away. Shedisrupted my thoughts when no one elsewould, as she’d always had the liberty todo. No one else had claimed such aright. No one, except for George, when Ihad trusted him. Fool that I am. I choked down asob. Fool that I was. We settled onto a chaise lounge,gold thread forming a pattern of fleur delis over a deep crimson. A screen, redand gold roses embroidered into itswhite cloth, shielded our faces from thecrackling flames nestled in the hearth.Burning oak filled my nose as smokerose from the small fire, climbing up thechimney in swirls. I imagined a soul didvery much the same when leaving abody. “He never feared death,” Imurmured as I stared into the smoke. Kitty took my hands into hers. “Hepassed away in his sleep, when he wasdreaming. I’m sure of it.” She gave me ahard squeeze, to where she might’vecracked my fingers. She only did thiswhen she was trying to lie to me for myown good. “He was thinking of you,perhaps, when he took his last breath.Don’t all men dream of the women theylove?” “Women.” I chortled at the word.Women, plural. Not singular. George’slove had not been singular. “You mustn’t feel guilty, Mary.” Hertaffeta skirts crinkled as she shifted closerto me. “This wasn’t your fault. None ofthis was expected. George was a vibrantman, and with such a vibrant love foryou.” “He died without peace.” I turnedfrom her, from the hearth, as fresh tearsstarted to roll down my cheeks. “His

mother told me that he was faint in thehours before his death. Servants werecoming into his room with buckets, forhis vomiting, and he was grasping at hisabdomen, swearing at an acute pain.” “Shhh.” Kitty guided my head to hershoulder. I eased into the crook,breathing in her lavender scent. Shealways reminded me of a walking garden,bringing calm wherever she chose toreside. “None of this will help you.” “You would rather lie to meinstead?” “I prefer to call it ‘painting a prettypicture.’” A small smile bloomed on my lips, aflower burgeoning through a harshwinter. “How could I trust you if youprovide me with tales, rather than withfacts?” “Because it is for your own good.” Wailing rang throughout the parlor.I peeked up to see who could be moregrieved than me. Mrs. Blackbourne,George’s mother, the woman who borehim and reared him. She sat on the floorin a pool of black silks, rocking back andforth, her hands lifted up to God. “My son! My son! Give him back tome.” Her voice cracked. “Please! Givehim back to his mother.” Mr. Blackbourne came to her side,kneeling beside her, whispering in herear. But she would not stand. She toreaway from him, her tears coming harder,staining her cheeks, flowing down herchin, and splattering onto the floor. “Come now, dear,” Mr. Blackbournesaid. “Let us not make more grief forthose who have come to see George.” “He’s not dead.” She tore herselfaway. “My son, he lives. I know it. All Imust do is pray, and beseech myself tothe Lord.” “There’s nothing He can do.” Hepaused for a moment, looking about atthe growing audience. “He has calledGeorge home.” “No! No, I know it. George willreturn to me.” Her head fell back, hersobs echoing through the room. Herblack veil rivered down her back, like inkin water. She thought she could rewritethis tragedy with a prayer, but it wasn’t tobe. I knew more than anyone why hisdeath would remain as it was. Kitty tapped my shoulder. “This

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“Do You Hear The Coffin Bell?”by Kat Devitt

sadness isn’t good for your health.” Shetook a handkerchief and dappedunderneath my eyes, at tears I hadn’trealized I spilt. “My love has died.” “You will come have tea with metomorrow.” She said it as if a body didn’trest in the room, as if it was any otherordinary afternoon, in any ordinaryhome. “Will you promise me?”

I nodded. I couldn’t object toher. Either I could lay in my bed, frettingover my mistakes, my regrets, and cryingover George’s betrayal, or I could sitdown with my friend for a few hours,pretending all was calm and ordinary. “I will,” I said, when I noticed thelacy hem of a dress from a womanpassing by. My gaze shot up to catch thewoman, without understanding why.And I recognized her for the whore shewas. She walked over to Mrs.Blackbourne with a calm, stringing herten-year-old daughter along. Her laceswept against the floor, brushing a pathfor her and her daughter. Her ebonysleeves cascaded down to her elbows asshe shook out a handkerchief. She fellonto her knees, beside Mrs.Blackbourne, her arm hooked aroundher, as she offered the cloth. Resentment brewed in me, likeoversteeped tea, turning my soul bitter.How dare she come and show her facehere. How dare she enter into thishouse, with that brat of hers. I wanted tostand up and scream. I wanted to rushacross the room and claw at her face.But I remained in my seat, my hands inmy lap, Kitty ignorant to my stewing. Nothing in this house was ordinary.Nothing about this funeral was ordinary.Even an afternoon alone with Kittywouldn’t return the ordinariness of mylife. All the tea and pastries in the worldcouldn’t change what had happened.And no one knew this better than me. **** “I saw you staring at that womanyesterday.” Kitty reached for a lemon tartand served it onto her plate, beginningthe conversation with what sheconsidered a polite question. But shehadn’t an idea how my anger permeated. “Who?” I asked, trying to avoid herstudy.

“She toted a daughter along.” Shetore into the tart, continuing with amouthful, “She comforted Mrs.Blackbourne during her...her episode.” “Her hysterics, you mean?” “Well, Mary, I was trying to tiptoearound that particular word, for the sakeof politeness, but yes. Her hysterics.” I took a sip of the Earl Grey tea,warming my belly as I raked over mysorrows. I knew the woman, and I knewher well. I never made her acquaintance.I never even bumped into her onLondon’s streets, but I knew the sinnershe was. I knew her caliber, those whotake, and take, and take without thinkingfrom whose table she snatched from. “I’ve never met her.” This wasn’tentirely a lie. “Mary.” Kitty gave me a hard stare.“Her presence incited you. Yourbreathing quickened, and your handsfisted in your lap. I saw nothing of yourface, but I saw the tenseness in yourback, your shoulders.” “I was joining my grief with that ofGeorge’s mother.” “Liar.” Kitty leaned closer, rattlingthe teacup against the saucer now in hergrasp. “You know her.” She sipped.Glared at me over the rim. “And shevexes you.” I averted my gaze from hers. “Youneedn’t know.” There are those who becomeheated during anger. Their bloodsimmers beneath their flesh, their cheeksredden, as if lashed a thousand timeswith a horsewhip. But not me. I becomestiff. Sometimes like a reed. I becomebrittle inside, and I could be broken intopieces, broken up in the waves. Like withGeorge, when I learned of his betrayal. But sometimes that anger stiffenseven further. I become like a rod, readyto thrash over the heads of those whoanger me. Much like after his betrayalsank into my mind, and I struck. Ifanything, this interrogation infuriatedme. And I was stiff enough to lash out. “Come now.” Kitty placed herteacup onto the round rosewood tableresting between us on clawed legs. “Weare friends, Mary. We have been fornearly twenty years. Surely you can tellme a little about this mysteriouswoman.”

“I said no.” “Will you not tell me even alittle...?” I slammed a fist onto that table,silver and china rattling and sliding as itrocked on its legs. “By God, Kitty, I saidno.” The table righted itself withoutfalling, but my outburst shook thecloseness between us. Kitty leaned backin her chair, her brows furrowed, her lipsparted. She sat for a moment recollectingherself. “Was she George’s mistress?” sheasked. Her question came as a dagger tomy chest. Sharply, I inhaled. I graspedthe wooden arms of my chair, diggingmy nails into the carved faces of cherubs.I imagined myself gouging out their eyes,making those winged fools, shootingarrows at victims, doomed to learn thepitfalls of love, writhe with the pain inmy heart. Kitty’s gaze softened into pity.“Your face tells it all.” “I told you too much when I toldyou he had a mistress.” “We are friends, Mary. We shareeach other’s secrets.” Not all our secrets. “None of this is your affair,” Isnapped. “It is when it concerns you.” I glanced down at the tea, steam nolonger lifting up from the chasm of thewhite china. I thought how easy it mightbe to taint it, to put an end to thisconversation of ours. But I couldn’t. I

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January 2019

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had left my secrets at home. “I do not wish to share myhumiliation with you.” I flew from myseat, storming over to the window tostare at the dark cobblestone streets ofSt. James’s Square. “She was onceGeorge’s harlot.” “Why might she be invited to hisfuneral?” “He acknowledged her daughter ashis. Made his parents accept her as theirgrandchild.” I fumed as I saw a motherand daughter pass by the window. “I donot know why they were there, but I doknow this, George lied to me. He nevertold me about their existence. I learnedtoo late about his illegitimate familywhen I wondered...I wondered…” “You wondered what?” “Why his calls became more scarce.He claimed preparations for ourwedding day kept him away, but I am nofool. I sent my lady’s maid to follow afterhim one day, when he sent his pardonsfor having to miss another visit.” “You needn’t tell me more.” I whipped around. “You pressed,and pressed me, and now you shallknow the reason for my ire.” Kitty slid onto the edge of her seat,about ready to rise. “I see how it upsetsyou—” “My lady’s maid trailed after him,and she found him on the doorstep ofthat harlot’s home, shoving his armsthrough his coat, kissing her goodbye.”Something cool trickled down mycheeks. Something salty fell onto my lips.I had cried so much these last fewweeks, I was becoming numb to mytears. “I confronted him with myevidence, and he denied it all. I believedhim for a time, until the old suspicionsbittered my heart. I followed him myself,and I saw him go to her house. I nevertrusted him again. Not after that.” “Come, sit by me.” Kitty waved at a chaise lounge, butI couldn’t rest when my guilt stirred. Ialready confided too much into myfriend. Another hour, another cup of tea,and I’d spill the whole of my tale for herears to hear. “No.” I started from the room. “Ipromised to visit George’s mothertonight for a poetry reading in his honor.I will be late if I dally here a moment

longer.” “Wait, Mary. Unburden yourself tome.” I slammed the door on Kitty’s plea.I couldn’t tell her how the wrongs of asinner twisted me into a monster farworse. I couldn’t admit to anyone what Ihad done, or else I might find myself atthe end of a hangman’s noose.**** I sat on a plush chaise loungebeside Mrs. Blackbourne, tears streamingdown her cheeks as a guest recited frommemory Queen Mab by Percy ByssheShelly. She clasped my hand into hers,but released me to retrieve ahandkerchief, as the reader came to afew lines regarding death, the recurringtheme of the night. How wonderful is Death, Death, and his brother Sleep!One, pale as yonder waning moonWith lips of lurid blue; The other, rosy as the mornWhen throned on ocean’s waveIt blushes o’er the world; Yet both so passing beautiful!

Mrs. Blackbourne snivelled besideme, her whimpers muted by ahandkerchief she pressed over hermouth. I stroked her back in smallcircles, as Kitty would do for mewhenever I grieved; for Silky, for George,for lost love. My tears mingled with hers, but fordifferent reasons. She wept for theemptiness in her bosom, for the loss ofher son, while I salted my regrets. Icommitted unspeakable acts, and now abody lay in a coffin, beneath feet ofearth. “He’s not dead,” his mother swore.“He’s not dead; he only sleeps.” I regarded her claims with the sameair as everyone else in the parlor—George was dead. He’d been withoutbreath for two days. He was gone fromus, his soul risen to the arms of heaven,like smoke rising from a flame. “Will you read this evening?” Iasked, wishing to distract her from hermourning. If only for a minute. “I’ve never been one forexhibition.” I doubted that very much. “Noteven a few lines from Lord Byron? Or

Keats? I know how you favor those twopoets.” “They’re long dead. Only theirwords survive.” She blew into herhandkerchief. “But not my George. Helives on.” “Of course he does. In our hearts.” She turned to me, her eyes redaround the rims, her nose chafed fromblowing and blowing. “You’re a sweetgirl.” She brushed the back of her handagainst my cheek. “But you do notunderstand.” And she began to cry again, muchas she did yesterday. Only, she did notwail as the words of a new poem,Shakespeare or Pope or some dead bard,drifted over the grief mingling in theparlor. She sat there shaking, her tearssilent. I rose from the seat as I crossed tothe back of the room. I went over to atable laden with refreshments, but I didnot bother to pour myself a glass ofwine, sherry, or lemonade. I simplywatched as friends and family of Georgedabbed beneath their eyes, staring at theswirls of the Oriental rug beneath theirfeet. My throat tightened. Love forGeorge flooded my heart, butremembrances of his mistress anddaughter, from the day before, damnedthe tides from entering my veins. My lastimage of him struck within my mind, likelightning in a storm. Him rising from hisoverstuffed wingback, offering to walkme to the door, our empty cups on thetable in his study. Tears slid down my cheeks. I almostturned around to flee when I collidedinto Kitty. She wore a muted gray dress,lace fringing the neckline, accordionpleats in her skirts. Her hair was pinnedinto a coif, her mouth pressed into a thinline. And her china-blue eyes were likefragile porcelain. “We must speak. Now.” “After another poem.” “I went to your home to find you.” “I came here straight away to givemy comfort to George’s mother.” Iglanced across the room at the back ofthe old woman’s head, her lace capcovering her bunches of gray curls. “Imust remain for her.” “I waited an hour for you.”

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“I’m sorry for your lost time.” “You know how restless I can get,waiting.” I pinned Kitty with a stare. “Whatdid you do?” “I nosed around your house. Forno other reason than curiosity.” Shepulled a handkerchief out from thepocket of her dress, revealing a vial. “AndI found this.” I stumbled back a step as I read thelabel. I knew the secret she held in thepalm of her hand, I knew theconsequences I might suffer. That is, if Ididn’t sprinkle her ears with lies.Anything to abate the suspicious look inher gaze. “Tell me now, Mary,” Kittydemanded. My eyes darted about the parlor.“Put that away.” “Not until you tell me what youused this for.” “Mice.” I hooked arms with her as applausecircled around the room. Anotherrecitation had ended. But mine had onlybegun, and I was raking through myhead for an excuse for that blasted vial. “Come, step into the gardens withme.” I tugged on her arm, but Kittystood firmly by the wine and sherry. “This is more than what’s neededto kill a few rodents,” she said, wrappingand tucking the vial back into her dress’pocket. I could’ve done a dozen things torid myself of it. Smash it into a thousandtiny shards. Sprinkle my lawn with thepowder. Drop it off in the Thames. Slip itinto someone else’s pocket. Anything toavoid discovery. Why had I kept it? Perhaps a part of me wanted to befound. “Do you not believe me?” I asked. Kitty shook her head. “I don’tknow, Mary.” “My cellars had an infestation. Ineeded it.” “A man is dead.” Her eyeswandered to where George’s body hadlain only the day before. “Kitty.” I seized her hands. I gaveher a hard squeeze, trying to reel heraway from her doubts. “Please, look atme. I will tell you the truth, as I always

have.” “You didn’t tell me the truth whenSilky died.” “What?” “You adored that kitten, yes, butwhen it bit you one day… I saw...” Sheshuddered. “I saw you sneak somethinginto its water.” Her gaze collided withmine, hers set, determined, tearingdown my guard. “You take away lifewhen it hurts you.” “I was a child!” “And now you are a woman.” Shebroke free from my hold. “I thought youkind, and changed. I thought you hadgrown out of that perversion, but clearlyI was wrong.” “Your accusations are unfounded.” Kitty glared at me, her lips poisedto say more, when a pounding came atthe entrance door, cutting into the night. A commotion rose in a whirl ofblustering and footsteps. Poetry driftedinto the night as the reciter lowered hispapers to his sides. Chairs creaked as thesmall audience turned around to cranetheir heads. And Kitty broke away fromme, poking her head out the doorway. “A watchman from the graveyard ishere,” she announced to the room. Mr. Blackbourne rose from hiswingback by the window, putting hisback to the dusky night. “I’ll greet thefellow.” He started across the room,pausing to collect his wife from herperch. And the pair departed from theparlor, leaving their guests to whisper intheir wake. I shifted on my feet, a growingagitation climbing its way to clutch at myguilt, my regrets. I walked up behindKitty, placing my hand on her shoulder,as she strained to hear the conversationout in the hall. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” Iadmonished her. “Shhh.” Kitty nudged my hand fromher shoulder. “They’re speaking ofGeorge.” I tried to angle myself to see thehappenings through the crack of thedoor, but Kitty blocked my view, herbeing a few inches taller. She gave a littlegasp. I started, alarmed at her captivationinto the affairs outside. Had she betrayedmy friendship? Had she raised an alarm?

My throat tightened. My palmsdampened. My heart began to beat intempo with the ormolu clock on themantel, ticking away the moments untilmy capture. Or at least I imagined as Istarted backing away from her, swingingmy head wildly about, looking for apossible escape. “Mary Smith.” My name boomed from the otherside of the door. And I was a corneredanimal, without escape from my hunters.Kitty blocked the only entrance, and exit,from the parlor. Only a shove wouldmake her move, giving me flight, andeven then, I might be run down. Kitty stepped aside abruptly. Ithought it a miracle, and without ahesitation, I darted for the door. But shegrabbed my arm, holding me still, as Mr.Blackbourne poked his head through thedoorway, a smile in his eyes. “Mary, Mr. Redfield, the watchman,wishes to speak with you, too,” herushed. “Oh, come. Come, girl. We mighthave a wedding yet!” I furrowed my brows, thinking himmad. I couldn’t marry a corpse. I stepped out into the hall, withKitty trailing behind. Mr. Blackbournemade no objection to her followingalong, his giddiness making him seemclose to bursting. He shook a little, fromnerves, from surprise, from unexplainedjoy, as he motioned towards a man withdirt smudges on his face, his clothescaked in mud. “Mary Smith?” he asked, his voicelike thunder. I swallowed. “Yes, sir?” “Call me Mr. Redfield.” He gave mea curious look. “Your fiance lives.” I stood there, in shock. Mrs. Blackbourne burst into tears,but this time from joy. “He lives! My Godanswered my prayers. He lives!” Sheblew into her handkerchief, bending herhead over her folded hands, offering upanother devotion. “How?” I asked. “He rang the coffin bell,” Mr.Redfield explained. “I was walking bywhen I heard, and I rushed to fetch ateam to dig him out. He sits in ourchurch, at this moment, with ourpastor.” I blinked. Not sure what to say. Not

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sure how to act. Mr. Blackbourne placed a hand onmy shoulder. “Isn’t this wonderful,Kitty?” “How?” I asked again. “He was in a stupor, seeminglydead.” Mr. Redfield lowered his voiceinto a rumble. “We’ve called the servicesof Scotland Yard to look into the matter.” This caught Mrs. Blackbourne fromher prayers. “Why?” she asked, her eyeswidening, her voice snapping. Mr. Redfield ignored her, his gazeremaining with me, watching me like aspecimen beneath a microscope, printbeneath a magnifying glass. “He’s weak.He’s ill. He’s in shock, but he stillremembers his final moments beforefalling into his stupor.” I took a step back, but Kitty caughtmy arm, willing me to stay. “He says he finished drinking cocoawith you, Miss Smith. His tasting bitter.”He paused, watching me. “Shortly afteryou left, he fell into darkness.” “What are you saying?” Mr.Blackbourne asked. “Was my son sick?” Mr. Redfield turned his study fromme. “I’m not certain.” He sighed, hisshoulders sagging, as if his professionweighed on him. “Your son is lucky,though, Mr. Blackbourne. I’ve only heardthe coffin bell twice in my experience.And the first time, the man was deliriousfrom poison.” Mrs. Blackbourne swayed, Mr.Blackbourne coming to her aid, rightingher on her feet. He murmured a fewwords to her, their happiness dissipatingwith this scrap of news. And Mr. Redfieldlooked on with a craving in his eyes, as ifhe craved whiskey or gin, weary fromthis glum business. “Scotland Yard will figure out thismystery,” he assured. Kitty twisted my arm, her glarecatching mine. I saw her reach her handinto her dress pocket, caressing the vial.She didn’t withdraw it. Not yet, at least.My breathing shortened, my throatconstricting, as I felt the hangman’snoose tightening around my neck.v

Marlene Bellwether discarded a 2Bam in the middle of the green-felt-cov-ered card table. “It’s nine fifteen,” shereminded the three other players. “Thisreally must be our last game.”

Joan Ryan surveyed the collage ofivory tiles: Winds, Dragons, Cracks, Dots,and Bams. She was only one away fromcompleting her hand. Her orangeBakelite rack (Marlene’s mahjong set wasa relic of the 60s) held two Flowers, aconsecutive run of 1, 2, and 3 Dots, andtwo Jokers. All she needed was a 1 or 3Dot to win.

“Your turn, Susie,” Joan pressedthe thin-faced blonde to her right.

“Oh shit, I think I’m dead.”Gloria Martin drummed three blue

talons on the table. “Well, just throw atile, for heaven’s sake.”

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses. I’mthinking what else I can do.”

“Yes, Susie, do throw somethingout. It’s getting late.” Marlene checkedher wristwatch.

The women knew the only reasonMarlene allowed the game to run overthe time limit she set was her husbandwasn’t home yet. Al Bellwether was anaccountant and nearing the age when hecould collect Social Security. But he wasnot ready to pull the plug he’d say when-ever the subject came up, thinking about

the retirees he knew who spent most oftheir time at the senior center or trailedtheir wives down the aisles of Stop andShop. He kept busy enough and didn’tsee any reason to move to Florida to playgolf twenty-four seven (although hisgame was improving) which was some-thing Marlene was hoping they’d do. Hesang in Saint Michael’s choir, worked outregularly at the Fitness Edge, and was anEMS volunteer. Since Al was on dutyTuesday evenings, Marlene was free tohave the game at her place as long as itended by nine because Al wanted hisdinner as soon as he came home.

Gloria Martin glared at Susie. “Didyou just throw a 2 Crack? Look at thetiles Marlene exposed.”

“Well, it could be any one of a cou-ple of hands.” Susie was clearly distract-ed. She’d been checking her phone allevening, expecting a text back from aguy she’d met on Match. She was signedup on three dating sites.

Gloria looked over her own tiles.Then, with conviction, she said, “OneDot,” at which point Joan cried “Marj!”and seized the discard that completedher pattern.

Gloria, who hadn’t won a singlegame all night, groaned. “Very nice. If wewere playing for money you would havegotten a dollar fifty from each of us.”

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The four women began tossing andturning over the tiles that popped andclattered, setting up new walls when, asif a fire had been lit under her butt,Marlene leapt to her feet nearly knockingover her bridge chair. “Al’s home.”

A tall, burly man in a pumpkin-col-ored jumpsuit came into the kitchen.Marlene ran up to her husband andwrapped her chubby arms around histhick middle and, stretching all five feetfour, waited for him to lean down andpeck her cheek.

“Hi, honey. What kept you? I wasgetting worried.”

“At the last minute we got a callfrom the Meadows. One of the old ladieslocked herself in the bathroom. Shewouldn’t open the door and we couldn’tjimmy the lock so I had to get her outthrough the window. One of us had totake her down the ladder. I swear shemust’ve weighed two hundred fiftypounds.”

“She’s okay though?”“Yeah. Just crazy as a loon. Kept

calling me Luke.”“You probably reminded her of her

husband or son.” Al stared at the three women as if

they were the next old ladies he’d becalled to rescue. “A bit late for company,isn’t it?”

Marlene gulped. “Sorry, we losttrack of the time.”

Joan pinched her lips to avoid say-ing what she was thinking while theother two women stacked the tiles inneat rows in the compartments in theworn leatherette case.

“I saved you some dinner. It’s inthe fridge. It’s the plate covered in tin-foil. I made a new ratatouille recipe. Nottoo many tomatoes because I know youdon’t like it tomatoey. All I have to do isnuke it.”

“I’m going up to change,” Al grum-bled. “You can bring it to me while Iwatch the game.”

Marlene collected the snacks andpaper plates and plastic glasses.Glowing with pride she said, “Isn’t itwonderful how my Al saves lives.”

“Yeah, it’s really wonderful.” Joanwinked at Susie who was collapsing thebridge chairs.

“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll take care ofthat.”

The women stood in a half-circlewhile Marlene took their coats off thehangers in the hall coat closet.

“Thanks for a lovely evening.Marlene,” said Susie.

“Yes, thank you,” muttered Joan.She zipped her windbreaker andsearched in her tote for her car keys.

“Next week we can play at myhouse,” Gloria suggested. Her husbandbowled on Tuesdays and played pokeron Mondays and Thursdays. Johnny did-n’t care how late she stayed out.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Wait, girls. Iwant you to take some apples from ourtree. There’s a bushel on the back porch.Please take as many as you want.” Shelaughed. “This year I’m drowning inapples.”

Marlene listened for the sound ofthe TV. She instructed the ladies, whowere clutching their bags of apples, touse the back stairs. With difficulty theyheld onto the railing and found theirway in the dark to their cars, which wereparked a fair distance from the house soas not to block Al when he pulled intothe garage.

Gloria got into her red Porscheconvertible. She revved the engine andsprayed the driveway with pebbles. Joanunlocked her Jeep and let Susie in thepassenger side. They’d come togetherbecause Susie did not like to drive at

night. She especially didn’t like drivingwhere there were no streetlights.

“Al,” Marlene had once confided,“isn’t keen on snooping neighbors,”which is why they decided to build ahouse in the woods. Joan wonderedwhat Al did that was so mysterious. Itseemed to her anyone who was an EMTvolunteer and didn’t allow his wife outpast nine couldn’t lead a very mysteriouslife.

On the way home, Joan felt free togrouse about that evening. “Jesus, Idon’t know how Marlene puts up withhim.”

“Who, Al?” Susie was checking hermessages again.

“Who else would I be talkingabout.”

“Oh, Al’s not so bad.”“Come on. You saw what I saw.

Heard the way he talks to Marlene. Andthat comment: It’s a bit late for compa-ny.” She snickered. “Like Marlene wasgoing to turn into a pumpkin. Speakingof which, how about that outfit.”

“That’s the uniform he has towear.”

“Okay. What about the beard!” Shewas referring to Al’s steely gray-fleckedappendage that Marlene thought was justso masculine.

“It’s a good food catcher forMarlene’s exuberant cooking. All sheever talks about are her recipes.”

“Do you believe Marlene made usgo out the back way? We coulda killedourselves on those stairs. You know thereason she made us use the back door?It’s because Al was in the den and shewas afraid we’d disturb him. It’s positive-ly disgusting for a woman in this day andage to be so…so…subservient. Did youget that My Al saves lives. Isn’t he won-derful bit?

“Well, he did help that old lady.

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He’s an EMS volunteer. At least he’s notjust thinking about himself like the guysI’ve been meeting.” Susie reread the textshe’d been expecting, scowled, andtapped the keys.

When Susie told the women thatshe’d met this new guy online, Marlenegave her a disapproving look. “I don’ttrust dating sites. You can’t be too carefulnowadays. There are a lot of nut casesout there.”

“And losers.” Gloria snorted.“How long are you and Al married,

Marlene?” Joan asked.“It will be thirty-five in June.”“God, you’re dinosaurs,” Gloria

exclaimed. She and Johnny were goingon fifteen. And it had been a rough fif-teen, there was no denying. But secondmarriages were tough. Especially whenthere were kids and all that baggage.

“In which case,” Joan said, her toneacid rain, “you’re not one to talk. Youhave no idea what it’s like for singlewomen our age.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty goodidea.”

But, of course, Joan knew Marlenedidn’t have a clue. “I think one of usshould say something to Marlene. Don’tyou, Susie?”

“Damn.” Susie was out of bars. Sherefocused her attention on her friend.“About what?”

“About the way she lets Al bullyher.”

“Marlene loves Al. She doesn’tmind.”

Something was nagging Joan.“Susie,” she said, “do you think Jackresented my being so independent?” Jackhad died two and a half years ago. Therewere many things Joan worried about,things she might have done differentlythat she felt guilty about.

“You were, are, very independent,Joan. I think you and me, you morethan me, we were out to prove some-

thing when we were married. It was allthat women’s lib stuff. You were the onewho really took the movement to heart,and Jack, well, he had to accept thatabout you if he wanted the marriage towork. If you want to know the truth, Ithink Marlene and Al have a very goodmarriage. Okay, so it’s a little retro.”

Joan felt her heart seize. She sup-posed the ache that settled there whenJack died had been replaced by bitter-ness. “Well, Susie, if you want to know,that whole scene just pisses me off.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down. I don’tknow why you’re getting so worked up.”

Joan said she was sick and tired oftalking about Marlene and Al. Could theyjust change the subject, so Susie asked ifJoan had any plans for the weekendsince the guy she’d been texting still had-n’t said anything definite about gettingtogether. “Want to go to the movies withme and Gloria Saturday?”

“What are you seeing?”“I don’t know. I’ll call you and let

you know.”Joan parked the car in front of

Susie’s house to let her out. She openedthe window and felt the autumn nightbreeze cool her flaming cheeks. Themoon was cradling a cloud or was it theother way around? It depended on yourperspective. “Yeah. I’ll go.” Saturday,Sunday. This movie, that movie. It didn’treally matter.

Two weeks later, when Marleneoffered to host the game, Joan decidedshe’d arrive a little early so they couldtalk before the others arrived. Joanplanned on telling her that the womenfelt a little uncomfortable when Al wasaround, and maybe Marlene could sug-

gest he be a little more pleasant. Ofcourse, they weren’t blaming Marlene forher husband’s bad behavior. It wasn’tMarlene’s fault. But by not respectingher friends, wasn’t Al showing a lack ofrespect for her?

That was probably a diplomatic wayof telling her there was a problem in hermarriage. For example, this businessabout having to end the game early tokeep him company the one night of theweek she spent with friends, and thenpreparing his dinner and Al refusing tonuke it when anyone could see that aman who could carry a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman down a ladderwas perfectly capable of carrying hisplate to the microwave. Yes, she wouldsay what was on her mind and hopeMarlene would understand she wasdoing this out of friendship and concern.

It was six o’clock. The mahjonggame usually began at seven so therewas plenty of time for Joan to have thisheart-to-heart with Marlene. She put onher coat and went to the garage to starther car. There was a nasty smell comingfrom a shelf where she remembered put-ting the bag of apples. She’d forgotten tobring the apples into the house. Thepaper bag broke as soon as she picked itup. There were bugs and tiny worms inthe bag. Ugh. She had to get down onher hands and knees to collect the rottenfruit before tossing the mess in the bin.

Joan drove to Marlene’s. The dayswere getting shorter and the countryroads seemed curvier, darker. This timeshe was going to park the car closer tothe garage, so she wouldn’t have towatch her footing when she left. Alwould just have to maneuver around her.

She took a deep breath before ring-ing the doorbell. She listened to welcom-ing chimes. Marlene, wearing an apronover her red plaid shirt and jeans, cameto the door.

“Gosh, what time is it?” Strands ofMarlene’s auburn hair had pulled out ofa messy ponytail. “I didn’t realize it wasso close to the game time.”

“It’s just I’m early.”“Well please come in, come in.”

Marlene gestured with the hand free ofthe oversized oven mitt. “Sorry thingsare such a mess. I’m in the middle of acooking hurricane.”

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“It smells delicious.” Joan sniffedcinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. “You cer-tainly have been busy. Look at that.” Onthe counter there were a half-dozen pint-size Mason jars filled with applesauceand four smaller jam jars filled with whatMarlene said was a new recipe for applebutter.

“Well, I wanted to use up thoseapples, so I went through my books andcame up with this one. I hope it’s asgood as the last recipe.”

“I have to apologize but I’m afraidthe apples you gave me rotted.”

Marlene gave a knowing smile. “Iused most of mine up. But I can give yousome more if you want. And here….”She opened the refrigerator and took outthree loaves of apple bread, each onesealed in clear plastic wrap with a print-ed label: Baked with love from Marlene’skitchen. “I’m glad you came early. It willgive me a chance to clean up while youset up the game. I barely had enoughtime to make Al’s dinner I’ve been sobusy putting these up.”

“Where is Al?” Joan asked, suddenlyuncomfortable, feeling that she’d bargedinto a place she shouldn’t be.

“Upstairs getting ready for a meet-ing. He was promoted to captain of histeam. Honestly, the way he goes on,you’d think he made president. He’ll beleaving soon. You didn’t block thegarage, did you?”

“I guess I forgot,” she lied. Then forsome silly reason her eyes filled withtears. She fumbled for the keys in herpurse. “I’d better move the car. I didn’tmean to take up his space.”v

Izzy had his bow and quiver alreadypacked, so he went on ahead to scoutfor tracks, while his foster-brother, Wes,stayed behind to answer the phone. The stream about a mile out fromthe main trail had some signs of recentactivity. Some of the jewelweeds werepopped and chewed on, a couple of toeprints on the soft mud, and some pelletlooking droppings were scatteredaround a small hole. Izzy took soft steps around theperimeter of the hole, looking for therabbit’s escape route. There was a smallgrass opening that resembled a gopherhole on top of the tiny hillock, so hegrabbed a good sized rock, and on hissecond try, he picked it up high enoughto cover it. The rabbit had only one exit,so all he had to do was cross the smallgully, and wait. He was half way up the far sidewall, his hands wrapped around theexposed roots of a tree, when the stepsbehind him startled him, making himlose his grip. He slipped along the dirtwall into the muddy water. He wiped hisface of water and pebbles, and saw Weswith his arms hugging his own shoul-ders. “The hell? Give a ‘whoop’ whenyou’re coming up behind someone. Ithought you were a bobcat,” Izzy said.He threw a splash of water at Wes, notsatisfied with just yelling at him. Wes was still hugging himself. Hiseyes kept darting to his sides, like he waslooking for help. He crossed the gully towhere Izzy knelt on the brown mud.Wes grabbed a stick and drew circles inthe mud. Izzy knew he drew circleswhen he was nervous. “Hey, are you alright? What hap-pened?” After about a minute of it, Wes tooka deep breath, and said, “The phone callwas from your mom.” Izzy spat at the water, and startedclimbing out of the gully, again. Hethought it was something serious, but it

was just his mom. “Did she call to tell me happy birth-day? I hope so because I’d love to tellher it was three weeks ago. Happy fuck-ing fourteenth birthday to me.” Climbing the roots right behindIzzy, Wes said in a strained voice, “No,man. It’s about your dad.” Izzy got to the top, and unhookedthe bow from his backpack. He wasstringing it, when Wes met up with him.Wes’ once dark skin was now pale, butthen again, only seeing the sun for thirtydays out of the year could do that toyou. Izzy was just your average run ofthe mill brown, little Mexican boy whenhe was sent up here in Melville fromSouthern California. Now, he could passfor a well-tanned Texan. Izzy nocked an arrow, aiming at therabbit hole on the other side. The arrowwas steady, and sharp. If that rabbitshowed its face, then it’s dinner. “Whatabout him? He got drunk and beat herup again?” “I’m sorry, but he, he passed away,”Wes said. The arrow was trembling, morelikely to hit the dirt forty yards behindthe rabbit hole than to hit a running tar-get. “He took his sweet ass time.” Izzyput the bow down, and sat on a fallenlog. “That’s just wrong, man. He wasyour dad, and your mom needs you.” He reached into his pack for thebag of spicy beef jerky. He bit off a bigchunk, and just chewed. His jefe wasgone, and there was nothing he could doabout it, even if he wasn’t almost twothousand miles away. Wes tapped Izzy’s shoulder. “Hey,did you hear me? Your mom needs you.” Still chewing, Izzy responded, “Iheard you. I just don’t know what youwant me to do about it. I don’t haveanything she needs. It’s not like I gotany money.” “She doesn’t want money, she

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wants her son. You got to go.” Izzy threw the piece of jerky in thegully. “Oh, now she wants me? Wherewas that the last six years?” The last time he spoke to his mom,she was playing the “Wanna comehome?” game. Every January for sixyears, and it always ended with, “Oh, toobad. Try again next year.” Wes sat down next to him. “Look, Iget it. You’re still pissed off, but he’sgone. Your family is still there, though.” His eyes were starting to sting, soIzzy closed them, and said, “Them, fami-ly? You’ve been more family to me thanthey ever were. When I got so bad theycouldn’t deal, they sent me here. Whyshould I go when things suddenly getbad for them?” Wes stood up, and grabbed hisbow. He put his foot in between thelimbs of the bow, and bent the top limbback to string it. “Because if it was mydad who passed away, I’d be with myfamily. I wouldn’t care how angry Iwas.” Standing and holding his bow atthe ready, Izzy said, “Easy for you to say.The angriest your dad ever got with youwas that time you were cleaning thatwhitetail, and you cut into the bladder.Twenty pounds of meat wasted. All yourdad did was sent us to hunt some moredinner.” “Took us two days, but it was fun,”Wes said, as he pulled the string to flexthe bow. “And you’re right. I don’tknow what it’s like to have parents likeyours, but acting like his death doesn’t

matter to you is stupid. You’re muchbetter than that.” Izzy stretched the bow again. “Notthat much better, I promise. I stillremember the angriest my old man evergot.” Still no movement from the hole. He went on, “It was when I lit thetoilet paper in the school bathroom onfire. The second I got through the frontdoor, he shoved me to the wall, and hitme in the gut so hard he broke threeribs.” The leaves were starting to swirlaround. The wind was picking up, butnot hard enough to move the arrow inflight too much. It was noon, but theclouds had gotten darker. Rain was com-ing. “When I fell,” Izzy continued, “hestarted kicking me. I blocked most ofthem with my arms, but it ended upbreaking my wrist. Mom and my sistersjust watched. Didn’t try to stop him, orhelp me stand. After I could walk, theyput me on a plane. Trust me, I’m notneeded, or wanted.” Wes lowered his bow, and had hishead down. He had heard some of itwhen Izzy first got there, but it had beenalmost six years since Izzy spoke aboutit. Wes grabbed an arrow from hisquiver. The wind was picking up dirt. Thewater in the gully had ripples from thesprinkles of rainfall, so he grabbed thehat from his back pocket and put it on. “I’ll tell you this, no matter what,you’re my brother,” Wes started as hetook aim at the rabbit hole. “I don’t givea shit if we’re blood or not. You’re want-ed here. Never doubt that, but you’reneeded over there. At least, until youbury your dad. After that, you can stay,or you can come back.” Taking his own aim, Izzy said,

“You’re kicking me out, too?” “No, you’re always welcomed here.This is your home as much as mine.” “And if I don’t come back? Whatwill that mean?” “Nothing. Like I said, this is yourhome. You come and go as you please.” Izzy’s arrow was shaking. Hecouldn’t get it to hold still. His breath-ing was ragged, like he just ran up anddown the stairs. “I don’t know what todo.” “Then, how about this. If I hit thatrabbit, you go to your dad’s funeral. Ifyou get the hit, you stay. Simple, don’tyou think?” The arrow stopped shaking. Izzywas steady, and sharp again. Wes wasright. Let skill and luck decide. Izzy laughed. “I think it’d be easierif we flipped a coin for it, but I’m down.” “Remember, go for the center,” Weslaughed, too. “Say hi to your mom forme, would you?” “You sound pretty damned sure ofyourself. Last time I checked, I got morekills than you.” “I’m a natural late bloomer.” “Pride is the deadliest sin of all, mybrother.” The two stopped laughing whenthe rocks around the rabbit hole tum-bled over. They took slow inhales, andquick exhales. There was a squeal, butnothing came out. The wind was blow-ing harder, so they pulled even fartherback on the string to keep the arrowstraight. After a minute, Izzy’s pulling armwas getting tired, but as he was about torelax, the rabbit bolted out of the hole,and the two loosed their arrows. v

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“Looter”by Jean Blasiar

A scruffy looking young man enters a bus depot waiting room. He takes a seatclose to a “brother” who is hanging onto a worn duffle bag for dear life. Bothyoung men are quiet for a while, look around nervously, finally at each other.They jerk their heads up in acknowledgment.“Wattsup?” the one who entered last says.The other one shrugs. “Damn bus is late. Broke down getting here. Where yougoing?”The man with no luggage shrugs. “The coast.”“It’s underwater.” Looks away.“Just meetin’ up with some guys.”The one with the luggage looks the other one over. “You thinkin’ a makin’ akillin’?”The other one shrugs, looks away. “Maybe.”“Yeah? Well, when we get there, look for my momma’s house, a one story frameprobably floating down the Little Pee Dee River, or the Humongus Pee Dee Riverby now.”“Your momma live there?”“All her life. I was with her through one of these killer storms when I was a littlekid. Days later, looters took what was left of our stuff. Momma said we werelucky to have each other.” He scoffs at that. “Startin’ over again.”“You could help.”The one clinging to the duffle bag looked at him. “That why you goin’? Tohelp?”The other one looked away. “Maybe I will,” he said.“What?”“I said, ‘Maybe I will’.”“Yeah, that’s why you’re meetin’ up with some guys ain’t it… to help.”“You don’t know.”“I know. I seen your kind before. When I was ten. Me and momma and grand-ma in a boat in the middle of the night. Old folks and little kids screamin’ andcallin’ for help. Un uh, man. You do what you settin’ out to do and don’t looktwice at us in the boat.”Sound of air brakes outside the depot waiting room. The bus has arrived.The one without luggage gets up. “Time to go, dude.”“I’ll probably have to kill you, I see you lootin’.”The one without luggage laughs. “You learned to swim I hope.” v

The DreamJournal

real dreams, real weird

Please send excerpts fromyour own dream journals. If

nothing else, we’d love toread them. We won’t pub-

lish your whole name.

mermaid@blotterrag.com

I quite like the idea that a gooddream can be a continuous loop ofnon-accomplishment: a moment intime, one with promise and hope,but in which nothing happens. Ourbrains are able to suspend the dis-belief that we don’t move forward,but hold in something outside sta-sis, where that hope and promise isnot fulfilled but remains ever outthere just beyond grasp, over thehorizon, around a corner. Theanticipation of pleasure of any sortis satisfaction enough, perhaps, forus. The test we’ve studied for andare about to take. The loverupstairs, waiting for us. The lasthour of a drive home to family. Themeal on the table, hot and ready.The finish line in sight. Our abilityto imagine joy is one of the greattools of humanity.

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“What Memories Remain?”Your mind was an echoof its former selfbefore you died,giving us names we didn't know,wanting to fight shadowsthat weren't there,recounting ancient eventsas though they were yesterday,vice versa,then slapping us silent with a brief knife of clarity,you yourself for a moment,before all that you were tumbled back,and you stared at usblankly,

until your eyes closedsealing off the dull lightthat sputtered there.

And then all that was leftwas your breathing,your faded chest rising,falling, rising,falling,until there was no rise leftand you died,the little that was left of you gone

wherever men like you go.

Two by Edward Lee

January 2019

page 15

CONTRIBUTORS:Kat Devitt of Cape May Court House, NJ, is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has appeared inTWJ Magazine, Bold + Italic, Scarlet Leaf Review, Ariel Chart, and Fiction on the Web, with anupcoming publication in Magazine of History & Fiction. She’ also acts as the fiction editor for Bold +Italic. She’s working hard on many more short stories, and she’s researching for a novel. Check herout at https://katdevitt.com/ for more.

Marsha Temlock is a freelance writer and professor of English at Norwalk Community College in CT.Her most recent book, The Exile, is a coming of age novel about a young girl from Ghana who iscaught in the crossfire of her parents’ tribal warfare.  She was a contributor in The Blotter Magazine’sMarch, 2016 issue.

Alfredo Flores of Ontario, CA, writes. “I’ve have been published in the Coffin Bell Journal, TheRumpus, and am one of the Mount San Antonio College Writer’s Day winners. I am an avid reader ofhorror, sci-fi, and fantasy stories. My favorite authors in the genres are Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett,and Dean Koontz.”

Jean Blasiar has many published short stories, plays and books, and was in The Blotter Magazine’sNovember, 2016 issue.

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines inIreland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. Hisdebut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is cur-rently working towards a second collection. He also makes musical noise under the namesAyahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and PaleBlond Boy.  Mr. Lee resides in Longwood, Co. Meath, Republic of Ireland and his Facebook page canbe found at www.facebook.com/edwardleewriter

“Some Gains Are Still A Loss”A shovel that only ever dug gravesstands in the uneven cornerof the cracked centreof the world,some dirt still painting its blunted edge,while cackling men and women,semi-blind from staring at false suns, choose not to acknowledge its existence,now that they reside in falsely-coloured livesthat no longer know deathas delicately as their ancestorsonce did.

EVENT OMEGA. The end of civilization. The end of the world. The end of everything. But hey, you still gotta eat.From the warped and twisted mind of slipstream-absurdist author Joe Buonfiglio comes

THE POST-APOCALYPTIC DINING GUIDE,a bizarrely humorous tale of an attempt to save a society gone to hell when evolution jumps the tracks.

Who knew the end of the world could be so much fun!Find it on Amazon!