tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29770225408313304272024-03-13T10:37:03.031-04:00STORYCHORD.COMEvery other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience.Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comBlogger166125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-79988821236731896362017-11-09T18:15:00.002-05:002022-03-03T14:44:19.364-05:00Storychord's Full Issue Index, 2010–2017<img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q0xvKhXe-D0/WgTdSTq64xI/AAAAAAAAC1o/J27dPU6SM6wAI7JUJbbA1W1iKetlivvVgCLcBGAs/s1600/storychord2010-2017.jpg" data-original-width="612" data-original-height="462" /><br />
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<i>Storychord published a total of 150 multimedia issues -- each featuring a piece of short fiction, paired with visual art and a one-song soundtrack -- from March 2010 through October 2017. As of November 2017, editors are no longer releasing new issues, but we encourage you to browse our full archives, listed below by year, which will remain available indefinitely.<br />
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As always, all featured work remains copyright the respective authors/artists, and contributors should be contacted directly for permissions. Additional questions can be e-mailed to Storychord's founding editor, Sarah Lynn Knowles, at <a href="mailto:sarahspyblog@gmail.com">sarahspyblog@gmail.com</a>.<br />
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Many thanks to all of Storychord's contributors and readers throughout these seven years! It was a pleasure curating these multi-media storytelling experiences during that time, and we hope you will continue to enjoy and share the offerings below well into the future.</i><br />
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<b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010>2010</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/03/issue-1-tao-lin-helena-kvarnstrom-katie.html>ISSUE #1: Tao Lin, Helena Kvarnström, Katie Mullins</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/04/issue-2-greg-turner-ericka-bailie-byrne.html>ISSUE #2: Greg Turner, Ericka Bailie-Byrne, Twin Tigers</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/04/issue-3-amanda-kimmerly-crystal-barbre.html>ISSUE #3: Amanda Kimmerly, Crystal Barbre, Careful</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/05/issue-4-amanda-mccarty-nika-states.html>ISSUE #4: Amanda McCarty, Nika States, Rosie and Me</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/05/issue-5-david-fishkind-omar-bakry-weed.html>ISSUE #5: David Fishkind, Omar Bakry, Weed Hounds</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/06/issue-6-duncan-birmingham-sarah.html>ISSUE #6: Duncan Birmingham, Sarah Fletcher, nisei23</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/06/issue-7-miles-klee-mike-dote-sophia.html>ISSUE #7: Miles Klee, Mike Dote, Sophia Bastian</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/07/issue-8-dan-lopez-anna-moller-acorn.html>ISSUE #8: Dan Lopez, Anna Moller, The Acorn</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/07/issue-9-katharine-tillman-soo-im-lee.html>ISSUE #9: Katharine Tillman, Soo Im Lee, Sleep In</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/08/issue-10-marcelle-heath-steph-thompson.html>ISSUE #10: Marcelle Heath, Steph Thompson, Will Stratton</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/08/issue-11-erika-swyler-koury-angelo.html>ISSUE #11: Erika Swyler, Koury Angelo, Brock Enright & Kirsten Deirup</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/08/issue-12-robert-wexelblatt-megan.html>ISSUE #12: Robert Wexelblatt, Megan Johnson, Sisters</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/09/issue-13-lindsey-markel-sloane-leong.html>ISSUE #13: Lindsey Markel, Sloane Leong, The Novel Ideas</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/09/issue-14-richard-sanchez-gilda-davidian.html>ISSUE #14: Richard A. Sanchez, Gilda Davidian, Night Manager</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/10/issue-15-david-backer-conor-simpson.html>ISSUE #15: David Backer, Conor Simpson, Mission to the Sea</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/10/issue-16-joe-kilgore-hollis-hart.html>ISSUE #16: Joe Kilgore, Hollis Hart, worriedaboutsatan</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/11/issue-17-tommy-dakar-melanie-plummer.html>ISSUE #17: Tommy Dakar, Melanie Plummer, Sarah Jaffe</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/11/issue-18-maggie-murray-james-hannibal.html>ISSUE #18: Maggie Murray, James Hannibal, The San Remo</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/12/issue-19-allegra-frazier-graham.html>ISSUE #19: Allegra Frazier, Graham Franciose, Yellow Ostrich</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/12/issue-20-jeff-hart-rory-hejtmanek.html>ISSUE #20: Jeff Hart, Rory Hejtmanek, Emperor X</a><br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011>2011</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/01/issue-21-jake-cline-brittany-zagoria.html>ISSUE #21: Jake Cline, Brittany Zagoria, MillionYoung</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/01/issue-22-samantha-garner-cyndi-wall.html>ISSUE #22: Samantha Garner, Cyndi Wall, Reggie O'Farrell</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/01/issue-23-rita-buckley-brianna-harden.html>ISSUE #23: Rita Buckley, Brianna Harden, Holy Spirits</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/02/issue-24-anthony-jones-diana-blackwell.html>ISSUE #24: Anthony Jones, Diana Blackwell, Bridges and Powerlines</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/02/issue-25-leesa-cross-smith-jeromy-j.html>ISSUE #25: Leesa Cross-Smith, Jeromy J. Furguiele, Keegan DeWitt</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/03/issue-26-katherine-myers-katie-rose.html>ISSUE #26: Katherine Myers, Katie Rose Pipkin, Soft Black</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/04/issue-27-kimberly-bunker-eric-reichbaum.html>ISSUE #27: Kimberly Bunker, Eric Reichbaum, Overlord</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/04/issue-28-meggy-wang-justin-wood.html>ISSUE #28: Esmé Wang, Justin Wood, Cassowaries</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/05/issue-29-michael-henson-emily-jane.html>ISSUE #29: Michael Henson, Emily-Jane Robinson, Está Vivo</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/05/issue-30-laura-jane-faulds-emily-wolfer.html>ISSUE #30: Laura Jane Faulds, Emily Wolfer, Easy Lover</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/06/issue-31-clarke-clayton-oliva-bransom.html>ISSUE #31: Clarke Clayton, Olivia Bransom, Two Bicycles</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/06/issue-32-tobias-carroll-meghan-ellie.html>ISSUE #32: Tobias Carroll, Meghan Ellie Smith, Merrady and Gene</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/07/issue-33-surita-parmar-louise-chen.html>ISSUE #33: Surita Parmar, Louise Chen, The Georgian Company</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/07/issue-34-moshe-schulman-claudia-smalley.html>ISSUE #34: Moshe Schulman, Claudia Smalley, Black Books</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/08/issue-35-jacob-silverman-john-paul.html>ISSUE #35: Jacob Silverman, John Paul Kesling, Yes Know</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/10/issue-36-emily-lyon-andrea-sparacio.html>ISSUE #36: Emily Lyon, Andrea Sparacio, Graham Patzner</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/10/issue-37-brandon-bell-jessica-brookes.html>ISSUE #37: Brandon Bell, Jessica Brookes-Parkhill, Cloud Seeding (feat. Marissa Nadler)</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/11/issue-38-danielle-villano-ilana-panich.html>ISSUE #38: Danielle Villano, Ilana Panich-Linsman, RIVKA</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/11/special-issue-39-damon-naomi.html>SPECIAL ISSUE #39: Damon & Naomi</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/12/issue-40-brian-conlon-edusa-saint-motel.html>ISSUE #40: Brian Conlon, Edusá, Saint Motel</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2011/12/issue-41-nadine-vassallo-eleanor-leonne.html>ISSUE #41: Nadine Vassallo, Eleanor Leonne Bennett, Steffaloo</a><br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012>2012</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/01/issue-42-aneesa-davenport-amy-sly.html>ISSUE #42: Aneesa Davenport, Amy Sly, Unquiet Nights</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/01/issue-43-corey-eastwood-david-phillips.html>ISSUE #43: Corey Eastwood, David Phillips, Christopher Paul Stelling</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/02/issue-44-scott-daughtridge-patricia.html>ISSUE #44: Scott Daughtridge, Patricia Miller, Pearl and the Beard</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/02/issue-45-josh-luft-sean-lotman-day-joy.html>ISSUE #45: Josh Luft, Sean Lotman, Day Joy</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/03/issue-46-bryant-musgrove-hannah-mattix.html>ISSUE #46: Bryant Musgrove, Hannah Mattix, You Won't</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/03/issue-47-tegan-webb-amanda-thomas.html>ISSUE #47: Tegan Webb, Amanda Thomas, Alcoholic Faith Mission</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/04/issue-48-mike-errico-connor-pell-matt.html>ISSUE #48: Mike Errico, Connor Pell, Matt LeMay</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/04/issue-49-samantha-bell-loren-dann-9mary.html>ISSUE #49: Samantha Bell, Loren Dann, Flo Morrissey</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/04/issue-50-michael-barron-liz-pavlovic.html>ISSUE #50: Michael Barron, Liz Pavlovic, Triad God</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/07/issue-51-erin-la-rosa-desert-raven-we.html>ISSUE #51: Erin La Rosa, Desert Raven, We Are The Wilderness</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/07/issue-52-joe-sutton-shannon-doubleday.html>ISSUE #52: Joe Sutton, Shannon Doubleday, Instant Empire</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/08/issue-53-elizabeth-barker-casper.html>ISSUE #53: Elizabeth Barker, Casper Johansson, Beat Radio</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.comm/2012/08/issue-54-kate-senecal-corey-pandolph.html>ISSUE #54: Kate Senecal, Corey Pandolph, Leda</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/09/issue-55-juli-min-jen-may-ruinrenewal.html>ISSUE #55: Juli Min, Jen May, Ruin/Renewal</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/10/issue-56-deborah-mead-jeanpaul-ferro.html>ISSUE #56: Deborah Mead, Jeanpaul Ferro, Twin Oaks</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/10/issue-57-joshua-isard-sarah-certa-bern.html>ISSUE #57: Joshua Isard, Sarah Certa, Bern & the Brights</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2012/11/issue-58-jon-morgan-davies-john-berry.html>ISSUE #58: Jon Morgan Davies, John Berry, Jane Boxall</a><br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013>2013</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/01/issue-59-sarah-clayville-alanna.html>ISSUE #59: Sarah Clayville, Alanna Vanacore, Secret Cove</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/01/issue-60-kelsey-ford-jocelyn-spaar.html>ISSUE #60: Kelsey Ford, Jocelyn Spaar, Single Ben</a> (guest edited by Michael Barron)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/02/issue-61-mike-ostrov-joan-hiller-bora.html>ISSUE #61: Mike Ostrov, Joan Hiller, Bora York</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/02/issue-62-carianne-king-kelly-shee-mal.html>ISSUE #62: Carianne King, Kelly Shee, Mal Blum</a> (guest edited by Heidi Vanderlee and Amy Klein)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/03/issue-63-morgan-pile-ted-adrien-closson.html>ISSUE #63: Morgan Pile, Ted Adrien Closson, Swaying Wires</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/03/issue-64-katherine-j-lee-eve-biddle.html>ISSUE #64: Katherine J. Lee, Eve Biddle, Astronauts, etc.</a> (guest edited by Miles Klee)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/04/issue-65-kevin-lipe-erika-rier-adios.html>ISSUE #65: Kevin Lipe, Erika Rier, Adios Ghost</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/04/issue-66-kat-asharya-niki-boghossian.html>ISSUE #66: Kat Asharya, Niki Boghossian, Weed Hounds</a> (guest edited by Strawberry Fields Whatever)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/04/issue-67-michael-reilly-ellen-mueller.html>ISSUE #67: Michael Reilly, Ellen Mueller, The Top</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/06/issue-68-ca-kaufman-amanda-cruz-geordie.html>ISSUE #68: C.A. Kaufman, Amanda Cruz, Geordie Austen</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/06/issue-69-jooj-brooks-zac-thompson-bdlnds.html>ISSUE #69: Jooj Brooks, Zac Thompson, Night Things</a> (guest edited by Steffaloo)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/07/issue-70-tom-cowell-christopher-leibow.html>ISSUE #70: Tom Cowell, Christopher Leibow, Matthew Carefully & the Memorial Concern</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/07/issue-71-edan-lepucki-regina-mamou-lady.html>ISSUE #71: Edan Lepucki, Regina Mamou, Lady Lamb the Beekeeper</a> (guest edited by Amanda Bullock)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/11/issue-72-christine-barcellona-eugenia.html>ISSUE #72: Christine Barcellona, Eugenia Loli, Tiger In My Tank</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/11/issue-73-donna-vorreyer-charalampos.html>ISSUE #73: Donna Vorreyer, Charalampos Kydonakis, Bear Grass</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/12/issue-74-hb-sizemore-mickie-winters.html>ISSUE #74: H.B. Sizemore, Mickie Winters, Jamie Barnes</a> (guest edited by Leesa Cross-Smith)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/12/issue-75-erika-d-price-sally-deskins.html>ISSUE #75: Erika D. Price, Sally Deskins, Illyin Pipes</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2013/12/issue-76-elisabeth-donnelly-fabio-sassi.html>ISSUE #76: Elisabeth Donnelly, Fabio Sassi, No Other</a> (guest edited by Tobias Carroll)<br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014>2014</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/01/issue-77-franklin-klavon-courtney-kenny.html>ISSUE #77: Franklin Klavon, Courtney Kenny, Sally Fowler</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/01/issue-78-sean-adams-jamian-juliano.html>ISSUE #78: Sean Adams, Jamian Juliano-Villani, Anawan</a> (guest edited by Will Stratton)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/02/issue-79-mary-cool-rj-caputo-scott.html>ISSUE #79: Mary Cool, R.J. Caputo, Scott Barkan</a> (guest edited by Erika Swyler)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/03/issue-80-stephanie-gruessner-john-bent.html>ISSUE #80: Stephanie Gruessner, John Bent, The Motion Detectors</a> (guest edited by Emily Lyon)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/04/issue-81-amanda-miska-georgia-ponirakou.html>ISSUE #81: Amanda Miska, Georgia Ponirakou, The Mites</a> <br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/05/issue-82-sean-h-doyle-langston-allston.html>ISSUE #82: Sean H. Doyle, Langston Allston, The Beauty Shop</a> (guest edited by Lindsey Gates-Markel)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/06/issue-83-elise-winn-susan-connor.html>ISSUE #83: Elise Winn, Susan Connor, a million creatures</a> (guest edited by Esmé Weijun Wang)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/06/issue-84-madeline-mcdonnell-esme.html>ISSUE #84: Madeline McDonnell, Esmé Shapiro, Hannis Brown</a> (guest edited by Edan Lepucki)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/06/issue-85-jacob-aiello-carol-rollo.html>ISSUE #85: Jacob Aiello, Carol Rollo, Silvery Ghosts</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/07/issue-86-lauren-becker-jayme-cawthern.html>ISSUE #86: Lauren Becker, Jayme Cawthern, Luray</a> (guest edited by Amanda Miska)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/07/issue-87-jenny-hollowell-thomas.html>ISSUE #87: Jenny Hollowell, Thomas Voorhies, V0</a> (guest edited by Duncan Birmingham)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/08/issue-88-lena-valencia-giulia-palombino.html>ISSUE #88: Lena Valencia, Giulia Palombino, Mt. Royal</a> (guest edited by Allegra Frazier)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/08/issue-89-jane-liddle-brad-beatson-swmmng.html>ISSUE #89: Jane Liddle, Brad Beatson, SW/MM/NG</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/09/issue-90-colleen-diamond-emily-jane.html>ISSUE #90: Colleen Diamond, Emily-Jane Robinson, Bruce Peninsula</a> (guest edited by Helena Kvarnström)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/09/issue-91-jacqueline-colette-prosper.html>ISSUE #91: Jacqueline Colette Prosper, Morgane Santos, Mike Williams</a> (guest edited by Dan Lopez)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2014/12/issue-92-alice-kaltman-jackie.html>ISSUE #92: Alice Kaltman, Jackie Ferrentino, Blanche</a><br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015>2015</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/01/issue-93-adam-rose-andy-fabrykant-cush.html>ISSUE #93: Adam Rose, Andy Fabrykant, The Cush</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/01/issue-94-tara-everhart-ellen-siebers.html>ISSUE #94: Tara Everhart, Ellen Siebers, GHIANT</a> (guest edited by Chad Hartigan)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/02/issue-95-rk-thompson-justin-brown.html>ISSUE #95: R.K. Thompson, Justin Brown Durand, Eric Gagne</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/02/issue-96-brittany-pyle-julius-kalamarz.html>ISSUE #96: Brittany Pyle, Julius Kalamarz, Hailey Wojcik</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/03/issue-97-sarah-marian-seltzer-ali-s.html>ISSUE #97: Sarah Marian Seltzer, Ali S. Qadeer, Fake Chatter</a> (guest edited by Elisabeth Donnelly)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/03/issue-98-michelle-dove-kelly-mahoney.html>ISSUE #98: Michelle Dove, Kelly Mahoney, BELLS≥</a> (guest editied by Sean H. Doyle)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/04/issue-99-kirsty-logan-brit-bachmann.html>ISSUE #99: Kirsty Logan, Brit Bachmann, Babbling April</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/04/issue-100-stephen-langlois-anke.html>ISSUE #100: Stephen Langlois, Anke Weckmann, Red Cosmos</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/05/issue-101-jessica-maria-johnson-ally.html>ISSUE #101: Jessica Maria Johnson, Ally White, Cassandra Jenkins</a> (guest edited by Beca Grimm)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/06/issue-102-lisa-ko-cari-ann-wayman.html>ISSUE #102: Lisa Ko, Cari Ann Wayman, Folding Legs</a> (guest edited by Kat Asharya)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/07/issue-103-alexis-m-smith-sean-fitzroy.html>ISSUE #103: Alexis M. Smith, Sean Fitzroy, Numbers And Letters</a> (guest edited by Michele Filgate)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/08/issue-104-joe-okonkwo-allen-forrest.html>ISSUE #104: Joe Okonkwo, Allen Forrest, Andrew Preston</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/09/issue-106-charlie-clements-mary.html>ISSUE #106: Charlie Clements, Mary Goldthwaite Gagne, Bunny's a Swine</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/09/issue-107-robert-james-russell.html>ISSUE #107: Robert James Russell, Christine Stoddard, Thin Lear</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/10/issue-108-sara-levine-claudio-parentela.html>ISSUE #108: Sara Levine, Claudio Parentela, Magnetic Poetry</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/10/issue-109-kayli-scholz-christopher.html>ISSUE #109: Kayli Scholz, Christopher Brown, Killer Whale</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/11/issue-110-jillian-eugenios-eliza.html>ISSUE #110: Jillian Eugenios, Eliza Plumlee, Party Nails</a> (guest edited by Chloe Caldwell)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2015/11/issue-111-sara-lippmann-judith-linhares.html>ISSUE #111: Sara Lippmann, Judith Linhares, Bridget Davis and the Viking Kings</a> (guest edited by Alice Kaltman)<br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016>2016</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/01/issue-112-john-gorman-nicole-daddona.html>ISSUE #112: John Gorman, Nicole Daddona, Wildfires</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/01/issue-113-freddie-moore-madeline.html>ISSUE #113: Freddie Moore, Madeline Manning, Caravela</a> (guest edited by Danielle Villano)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/02/issue-114-eva-sandoval-hae-jin-park.html>ISSUE #114: Eva Sandoval, Hae Jin Park, Beat Radio</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/02/issue-115-tatiana-ryckman-leslie-renn.html>ISSUE #115: Tatiana Ryckman, Leslie Renn, Isa Gadaser</a> (guest edited by R.K. Thompson)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/02/issue-116-benjamin-woodard-derek-boman.html>ISSUE #116: Benjamin Woodard, Derek Boman, Home Body</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/03/issue-117-hannah-sloane-jia-sung-many.html>ISSUE #117: Hannah Sloane, Jia Sung, Many Birthdays</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/03/issue-118-leesa-cross-smith-marissa.html>ISSUE #118: Leesa Cross-Smith, Marissa Levien, Steady Holiday</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/04/issue-119-katherine-hubbard-laura.html>ISSUE #119: Katherine Hubbard, Laura Bernard, Nathan Hobbs Blehar</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/04/issue-120-chanel-dubofsky-ryan-garvey.html>ISSUE #120: Chanel Dubofsky, Ryan Garvey, Donny Dinero</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/05/issue-121-kara-mcmullen-marly-gallardo.html>ISSUE #121: Kara McMullen, Marly Gallardo, Magnetic Poetry</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/05/issue-122-phyllis-rudin-olivia-pecini.html>ISSUE #122: Phyllis Rudin, Olivia Pecini, Sophia Bastian</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/06/issue-123-katherine-gehan-candace-hope.html>ISSUE #123: Katherine Gehan, Candace Hope, Parrot Dream</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/07/issue-124-ilene-raymond-rush-hannah.html>ISSUE #124: Ilene Raymond Rush, Hannah Perry, Cor Blanc</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/07/issue-125-tobias-carroll-max-bayarsky.html>ISSUE #125: Tobias Carroll, Max Bayarsky, Dave Godowsky</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/08/issue-126-rachel-ranie-taube-joshua.html>ISSUE #126: Rachel Ranie Taube, Joshua Finnell, Elijah</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/08/issue-127-christine-rice-max-passler.html>ISSUE #127: Christine Rice, Max Passler, Rick Rude</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/08/issue-128-andrew-bertaina-colleen.html>ISSUE #128: Andrew Bertaina, Colleen Maynard, Miss Lana Rebel</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/09/issue-129-deirdre-coyle-jarod-rosell.html>ISSUE #129: Deirdre Coyle, Jarod Rosellό, Kristin Flammio</a> (guest edited by Jane Liddle)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/09/issue-130-alice-kaltman-marni-manning.html>ISSUE #130: Alice Kaltman, Marni Manning, Jon Patrick Walker</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/10/issue-131-nada-alic-andrea-nakhla-avid.html>ISSUE #131: Nada Alic, Andrea Nakhla, Avid Dancer</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/10/issue-132-eva-konstantopoulos-devyn.html>ISSUE #132: Eva Konstantopoulos, Devyn Park, Susanna Rose</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/11/issue-133-jennifer-ahlquist-lk-james.html>ISSUE #133: Jennifer Ahlquist, L.K. James, Zigtebra</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2016/11/issue-134-alexandra-sanders-cara-burke.html>ISSUE #134: Alexandra Sanders, Cara Burke, Tiny Stills</a> (guest edited by Jessica Maria Johnson)<br />
</ul><b><h2><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017>2017</a></h2></b><ul><li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/01/issue-135-lee-l-krecklow-peggy-acott.html>ISSUE #135: Lee L. Krecklow, Peggy Acott, Lucius</a> (guest edited by Sara Rauch)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/01/issue-136-wynne-hungerford-aliene-de.html>ISSUE #136: Wynne Hungerford, Aliene de Souza Howell, Dweller on the Threshold</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/02/issue-137-beth-gilstrap-scott-michael.html>ISSUE #137: Beth Gilstrap, Scott Michael Ackerman, Thea</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/02/issue-138-lisa-gordon-corey-pandolph.html>ISSUE #138: Lisa Gordon, Corey Pandolph, Bunk</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/03/issue-139-caralyn-davis-vrinda-zaveri.html>ISSUE #139: Caralyn Davis, Vrinda Zaveri, Eliot Wilder</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/08/issue-149-christopher-m-hood-ben.html>ISSUE #148: Christopher M. Hood, Ben Gancsos, Blue & Gold</a> (guest edited by Morgan Pile)<br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/09/issue-149-samuel-cole-elisabeth-fuschia.html>ISSUE #149: Samuel Cole, Elisabeth Fuchsia, Emperor X</a><br />
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<li><a href=http://storychord.blogspot.com/2017/10/issue-150-jennifer-fliss-colleen.html>ISSUE #150: Jennifer Fliss, Colleen Blackard, 2ndHand</a> (guest edited by Joy Baglio)<br />
</ul><div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-78051760426780356722017-10-02T09:30:00.000-04:002017-10-02T09:30:22.418-04:00ISSUE #150: Jennifer Fliss, Colleen Blackard, 2ndHand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Issue #150 Guest Editor <b>Joy Baglio</b> is founder and director of <a href="http://www.pioneervalleywriters.org/">Pioneer Valley Writers' Workshop</a> in western Mass., which offers one-day and multi-week workshops in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, as well as community literary events. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in </i>Tin House, The Iowa Review, TriQuarterly, New Ohio Review, PANK, Tin House<i>'s Flash Fridays, and elsewhere. Within the last year, she was runner-up in </i>Ploughshares<i>' Emerging Writer's Contest, winner of </i>F(r)iction<i>'s winter flash fiction contest, and a finalist for scholarships and fellowships from </i>Tin House, Bread Loaf<i>, and </i>Smokelong Quarterly<i>. She has been an editor and reader for a number of literary magazines, including </i>Conjunctions, LIT<i>, and </i>Slice<i>. She's currently at work on her first novel. Visit her at <a href="http://www.joybaglio.com/">joybaglio.com</a>, and follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/joybaglio">Twitter</a>. <br />
<br />
</i><center><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vkRU379DXm0/WdGHliGi1_I/AAAAAAAAC00/nMhwk4ge5EEZ7o31SQZi5i3QpEAsBATQACLcBGAs/s1600/01_C_Blackard_PathsofMemory.jpg" WIDTH=600></center><div align="right"><i>Art by Colleen Blackard</i></div><br />
<br />
<big><b>THIS HOUSE IS NOT MINE<br />
by Jennifer Fliss</b></big><br />
<br />
Though I knew it to be my street, there was something unfamiliar that I could not grasp. I found myself looking into shuttered windows and tripping on uneven concrete on the ill-lit block, brick facades hovering above and to the sides and in front of me. The sidewalk narrowed so that I found it necessary to step into the street to move forward. Even so, I carried on toward my house, where I could at least be on more familiar ground, or perhaps, before then, I would bump into one of the neighbors and I could ask them for guidance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/s/ay1z3jla6pgf5zln5q2r8xuw5srjuczd" width="500" height="110" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<b>Issue #150 soundtrack: 2ndHand "At Long Last"</b></center><br />
<br />
When I shuffled down the street, however, I encountered no one, and I decided it would be best to approach one of the houses, ring the bell, ask what was amiss, and perhaps they would recognize me. <br />
<br />
I stopped in front of number 52. The door appeared ajar with a sliver of light pouring from the perimeter of it, though as I got closer, I could see the door was not, in fact, open at all. It was closed, but I could hear muffled voices and unclear conversations. I was about to manage the steps when someone behind me said, “Hello.”<br />
<br />
I turned to find a young woman of indeterminate age, dressed as if going to a party, standing under the dull streetlamp, her hair a fluorescent red, her face in shadow.<br />
<br />
“You're early,” she said. “We were told you wouldn’t show up until eight.”<br />
<br />
“Is that so? Well, I'm sorry. I wouldn’t want to be late.”<br />
<br />
“You're Bernard, right?” <br />
<br />
“Yes,” I said, somewhat perplexed.<br />
<br />
“Andrew told me about you. He said we’d get on quite well. We’re all very excited.”<br />
<br />
“I'm surprised someone would think we’d get along well without me even being aware of the situation,” I said. “In fact, I’m not aware of any party. Is it for anything in particular?”<br />
<br />
“Well it can’t be so important an event if you don't know about it,” she said and patted my arm with her delicate palm.<br />
<br />
“I know of many important parties,” I said. “But I don’t know of one this evening.” I looked up at the closed door of number 52 when a rat scuttled right over my feet. I stumbled back ungracefully.<br />
<br />
“Rats,” she scowled. “A surprise on such a lovely street.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, a surprise,” I said, and I carefully walked up the five steps toward the door and turned back to the girl.<br />
<br />
“It will be a great party,” she said. “I am sure of it.”<br />
<br />
I knocked on the door, my own hand feeling somewhat disconnected from the rest of me. I looked down at my hand, turning it this way and that. The small bit of light that I had seen from behind the door was now extinguished, and the door finally did open, but only slightly. A faint din issued forth and a large eye framed in thick curling lashes appeared at about four feet, glaring first at my chest, then up to my face. <br />
<br />
“Bernard. You're early, you know that?”<br />
<br />
“I've only just gotten back to the street and noticed it was quite dark and empty and wondered if you could help.”<br />
<br />
The eye thought about this and abruptly shut the door. Shortly thereafter, the murmuring in the house silenced entirely. With the exception of the buzzing street lamp, the only sound was a gurgling issuing rather embarrassingly from my stomach.<br />
<br />
I turned back to see the girl still standing there, by the streetlamp. She lit a cigarette. The small burst of flame settled into a brief glow every few moments. The streetlamp above her haloed red hair buzzed and then flickered out and then back on and then kept up its quivering, leaving only a single, steady lamp on the street running a few doors down. Then the door of number 52 opened wide, but the owner of the eye and short stature had disappeared. Even still, I left the girl behind and pushed into the house.<br />
<br />
A diaphanous light filtered into the high windows from the unreliable street lamp. The light was dim, but I could still recognize the space as my own. It was a small, circular room with a large wooden table in the center. Two piles of mail stacked at attention-- one stack of envelopes, one of catalogs and magazines-- all with the right corners lined up, and next to these was a small pewter link bracelet. Instinctively, I grasped my wrist and found only short wiry arm hairs and the pliant leathery skin of an old man. <br />
<br />
I could still sense something wrong, but had to run through my walk-through, despite this sense of uneasiness. Beyond the staircase were the doors to the kitchen and dining room, and I could see a light from under them, but that would have to wait. I entered the room to the right, off the foyer, to find my living room. I walked immediately to the fireplace and redirected all four photo frames to a forty-five degree angle, as somehow they had been moved and were all intersected incorrectly.<br />
<br />
I ran my fingers along the top of the sofa, straightening the woolen blanket that lay across the top. As I made my way to the study, something softly crunched underfoot. I leaned on a chair and struggled down to find under my loafer, a leaf, a brown autumn leaf, now crushed into the rug, and as I looked, I saw another, and another, and still another leading to the dining room. Nevertheless, I could not abandon the walk-through and so tabled the mystery and stepped toward the window. Now I would open the curtains, and as I did, I saw the girl, still standing under the streetlamp, her cigarette now most likely abandoned on the sidewalk beside or beneath her.<br />
<br />
I thought to open the window and call to her, but I was interrupted by someone clearing their throat in the room.<br />
<br />
“Would you like to go now or later?” the voice asked, which I now attached to the four foot eye, and it was in fact, I could see, a small man, perhaps of 20 or 30, either really, as both ages were indistinguishable to me, and both fell under the category of “young.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I am still in search of finding out what is quite wrong here. Something is very clearly wrong. Awry. Amiss. Afoot. You see, there are no lights in any of the other houses. Or there are only very few. And I’m used to seeing many people out and about, on the front stoops or in their windows, but it’s strange that I have seen no one.”<br />
<br />
“No one?”<br />
<br />
“Well, except for that girl.” I pointed out the window.<br />
<br />
“There shouldn't be a girl out there. Perhaps you are mistaken.”<br />
<br />
“No. You can see for yourself that there is a girl out there,” I said to the young man. “Here, look,” and I parted the curtain a little more to make room, but the man did not move from where he stood in the corner, in the obscurity of the dark. He was only a shadow, though his shoes were illuminated by the light streaming from under the door.<br />
<br />
“Say, are those your dress shoes?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Perhaps.”<br />
<br />
“Why are you wearing your dress shoes on so quiet an evening? Don’t you save them for special occasions?”<br />
<br />
“I do,” he said, but then said nothing more as he opened the door to the dining room. I begrudgingly took leave of the window, and the woman on the other side and followed the small man.<br />
<br />
Now in the dining room, I could see my arrival had interfered with a certain course of events. Silver foil wrappers crunched into balls and utensils were strewn on the table, which I recognized as my own, as they had the letter “R” for my surname engraved on the handles. Forks and knives were up and down, down and up, and they had a way of disorienting me. I have a tendency to be very particular, to like things in a certain way, and when they are not that way, I get a little thrown off course. I immediately set to lining the utensils up correctly when the small man placed his hand up on my shoulder, for which he had to stretch, for I am a tall fellow, even stooped: six feet at last measurement, down three inches from my younger days.<br />
<br />
“Do you think you are ready now?” he asked. I could not say yes, for I had no idea what I would be ready for. At this age you are ready for everything and nothing.<br />
<br />
“Who is that young woman?” I asked. “Outside?”<br />
<br />
“There is no one important out there,” he said. I put the utensils back on the table and left them there. Most were properly lined up, though not all, and I twitched at the thought of leaving them there like that, tines up, sharps down. It was not in my nature to do so. As I contemplated fixing them, I heard a thump from above, though could not be certain I heard anything at all.<br />
<br />
“What was that?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“It is not anything,” he replied, and at that moment, in the sparkling yellow light from the chandelier, a flash of recognition shot through me. I knew this young man, although perhaps only as an acquaintance or a character of the neighborhood.<br />
<br />
This shot must have flashed outwardly, for he took his hand off my shoulder and stepped back into a corner of the room, his face again obfuscated, though it was not necessary, for he was familiar to me now.<br />
<br />
He edged along the wall and indicated I should follow as we made our way out of the dining room, through to the kitchen, which had also seen an incident that left quite a mess that made me feel a bit sick. I was led out the door, down the hallway towards the foyer where the mail was stacked, and then up the stairs. Each step’s particular creak was as familiar to me as my own, and as we went I wondered why I had knocked on the door at all. I usually preferred when there were fewer people on their stoops, shouting as I passed, talking loudly to each other and to no one in particular. I liked the solitude that I was usually never privy to in such a large city. Why did I need to stop to ask what was the matter? <br />
<br />
Once we reached the top, at the landing, I saw that all the doors to the rooms were open but one. It was the most beautiful room in the house, an open space with sconces and a large crystal chandelier. The walls were paneled with maple and oak wainscoting, and tall windows framed with gilt cornices looked out at the street and vice versa. It would be a good room for entertaining, but now only held storage for me, old paintings and supplies, inherited furniture, and dusty rugs. Behind the door came a loud humming, and then the white noise was punctuated by a woman's laughter. It sounded horse-like and not at all as I imagined the woman on the street would sound if she found something comedic.<br />
<br />
I started to consider the short man my host for the evening, but did not say so. He and I approached the door with the humming on the other side, and he pushed the door open with a large grin. Inside were many faces, and I could immediately tell the owner of the neighing, with her long face and droopy eyelids. Other than that, though, the faces all looked the same, astonished and aglow, and then they shouted, though I could not make out what was being said. I was handed about from one person to another, each more enthusiastic than the last. As I said, I was popular once, but now, all these people made me anxious. Despite the humming, which was louder now, and the occasional horse laugh, I could only make out, above all else, a man in a vest and mustache, looking somewhat like myself in my younger days, in the corner asking where Melinda was.<br />
<br />
“She went out for some smokes over an hour ago. I wanted to introduce her to Dad,” he said, but then everything else was clouded in my mind.<br />
<br />
“You are okay here,” the small man said. “They will take care of you.” He left me and disappeared into the crowd. The lights were brighter in here, though to tell the truth, I could not determine any of the faces any better and preferred the darkness of the street below.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Jennifer Fliss</b> is a Seattle-based fiction and essay writer. Her work has appeared in PANK, The Rumpus, Necessary Fiction, Hippocampus, and elsewhere. For more, visit <a href="https://www.jenniferflisscreative.com/">jenniferflisscreative.com</a> and follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/writesforlife">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Colleen Blackard</b> is a Brooklyn-based artist and current recipient of the Pollock-Krasner Foundation Grant. She received a BA from Hampshire College, and her drawings have been shown in London, Moscow, Tokyo, New York City, and more. Her work has been featured in such venues as Fountain Art Fair, ACA Galleries, Rush Arts Gallery, Family Business Gallery, Owen James Gallery, and Brooklyn Fire Proof. Her work combines natural, celestial and man-made elements in occasionally surreal compositions to explore light, memory, consciousness and change. Her signature style uses continuous, circular, intersecting lines to create a luminosity that clarifies the subject and gives life to every detail. Whether in ballpoint pen, archival marker, ink washes, or monotype, she is constantly pushing the envelope on the types of atmospheres and effects she can create with these dynamic lines and their interstitial light. Find her online at <a href="http://colleenblackard.com/">colleenblackard.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>2ndHand</b> makes music in western Massachusetts. <br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-9249613643717542892017-09-11T11:24:00.000-04:002017-09-12T10:14:07.398-04:00ISSUE #149: Samuel Cole, Elisabeth Fuchsia, Emperor X<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X41CcJZ-4n4/WbXa1oCqOQI/AAAAAAAAC0c/X2nI6TdOJJk9XUhcs9qO4T380F1b_sw3QCLcBGAs/s1600/606944950019_19.jpg" width=596><br />
<div align="right"><i>Photograph by Elisabeth Fuchsia</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>GIGI AND LUANN<br />
by Samuel Cole</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>Before this round of sobriety, I was seriously contemplating how to snort my mother’s cellulite, figuring we’d both benefit from the process. Colors had lost all excitement. Seasons had become a series of black and white John Virtue paintings. Days, months, and years had blended into an amalgam of seismic coddiwomple and race course immovability. Party-fun, my kind of fun, craves continuation even when the brain, suffering from actual starvation, begins to lose its mind, its reality, and its two little girls. I’ve always been attracted to desperation. And White China cocaine. Black Tar, too. And booze. All trademarks. All heads. All right. Open vein: insert fairytale. My mother gave up on me years ago. My father died of alcohol poisoning when I was nine. My attorney moved to Barbados, and my parole officer promulgated two options: straight-and-narrow rehabilitation or prison-cell recidivism. For once, I chose temperance over temperament. For me. For Mom. For Dad. For my two little girls. For my exhausting ex-wife. Drink coffee. Stay wired on caffeine. Document the journey in a pocket size journal— I’m on the last page— a gift from Eric, my sponsor/accountability buddy, the strongest voice of influence I’ve ever known. In case I do relapse, at least I can retrace some of the steps I did climb. Step six: We’re entirely ready to have God remove all defects of character. Booyah, if that isn’t me. <br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/s/361n7g83uzmk2vewdq0x2mmzlu7ynyjc" width="500" height="100" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #149 soundtrack: Emperor X “Allahu Akbar”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
Every morning, I swim a few laps in the Uptown Gym pool— scholarships are offered to the clientele of the Promise Heart Sober House, my and 19 others' slow-track-back-to-civility living situation. Eric says submersion, even with chlorine, helps detoxify maladaptive behavior. After the swim, I walk across the street and order a large caramel latte at the Starbucks inside Target Greatland. Eric says isolation is deterioration’s fondest aspiration. Being alone, he says, like Benzodiazepine, masturbation, and video games, can become a replacement addiction if one isn’t careful. I hate, and love, that he’s been clean for 12 years. He’s forgotten that abstinence to an addict often activates the compulsion to avoid it. Every month I add another shot of espresso. I’m at five. I want to be at six. Eric says seven is God’s magic number. So seven it is. I quit cigarettes, too. All or nothing this time. I can be a bit of an asshole sober. I’ve thanked Eric a billion times for the journal, in which I’ve written a personal mission statement:<i> Stay clean, be kind, and strike up a meaningful conversation with someone new every day</i>. Eric believes meaningful conversation advances a mindfulness narrative. Fucking optimist. He’s handsome, has bundles of hair, works in marketing, and drives a cappuccino-colored BMW. I’m on government assistance with thinning hair, no job prospects, and three pairs of Guinness flip-flops—it’s called osmosis. Keep up.<br />
<br />
I spot two teen girls sitting at a red table, slurping strawberry Frappuccinos and giggling about whatever teen girls find funny, probably me. I name the chunky girl Gigi, huge boobs like my Aunt Gigi, and not that I know any, the other girl looks exactly like LuAnn. God, I miss my little girls.<br />
<br />
“What can get ya?” Bob, my favorite dead-eye barista, asks.<br />
<br />
“Large caramel latte with seven shots please.”<br />
<br />
“Seven?” He sounds impressed, holding up as many fingers. “Feeling dangerous today, are we?”<br />
<br />
“You have no idea.”<br />
<br />
“If you can stand it, you can do it,” he says.<br />
<br />
“That used to be my life mantra.”<br />
<br />
“Used to? What is it now?”<br />
<br />
“Isn’t the weather great today? The birds are singing. The sky’s so open and blue. I sure can’t get enough of days like today, no siree bob.” I talk loud, trying to say normal things that normal people say to a barista. I’m about as normal as a goat without legs. Eric calls us Moment Men, says our troubles begin and end with life’s harshest drug— impulsivity. I have a hard time imagining him stealing his grandmother’s pearls to buy heroin or breaking a cop’s jaw during an arrest for a fourth DUI. He, however, didn’t seem a bit surprised when I told him about an attempt to outrun the cops— blood alcohol level at 0.22, 14 points over the legal limit— driving 105 MPH down Jolsen Road, smashing headfirst into the back of a Sedan, injuring two teen girls who were waiting for a red stoplight to turn green. Eric says an admission of guilt exhumes from rock-bottom collapse first-rate forgiveness. I hope he’s right. He also recommended I title the last page of the journal <i>CLARITY</i> and then wait with expectancy for revelation to reveal itself. He tries so hard to be helpful. What I really need is a mind reader who can rewrite my code and turn me into salient sustainability. Eric says a life devoid of wishes is already dead. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he does get it. I add eight Splenda to the latte and take a seat at the red table beside Gigi and LuAnn. Bring on some meaningful conversation, bitches. I dare you.<br />
<br />
“This place is super creepy today.” LuAnn stands, glaring at me for a second before facing Gigi. “I need to get going anyway. My mom’s on her broomstick again about me cleaning my room.”<br />
<br />
“Be nice.” Gigi stands. “For real.”<br />
<br />
I set the journal on the table and twirl a pen between my fingers, a task designed to prove that I have both the skill and determination to accomplish the task. Eric calls it control-based fidgeting. So what if it is?<br />
<br />
LuAnn walks away, disappearing through the electric doors. Gigi lingers. “Cool trick. You a magician or something?”<br />
<br />
I stop twirling the pen and set it atop the journal which I slide up, up, up, and away. Go away. But she doesn’t move, ogling the journal and the pen. Fourteen. Ten. Eight. I also like to count backwards, and never in order, another way of conciliating a severe social anxiety disorder. I quit Effexor, too. Eric doesn’t know this. Neither does my doc. Eighty-eight. Three. Four-hundred and six. She steps back. Not nearly far enough. Six-thousand. Eleven. Nine-hundred and fifty-nine. “I’ve definitely been under a few spells in my life.”<br />
<br />
“So you believe in the supernatural?”<br />
<br />
Nosey little chubster. “Like palm reading and tarot card stuff?”<br />
<br />
“Palm reading is for amateurs," she says, "and tarot cards, like fortune cookies, offer silly ambiguity.”<br />
<br />
Articulate little bitch. “Do you believe in the supernatural?”<br />
<br />
“I’m a mind reader.”<br />
<br />
“Really? Are you any good?”<br />
<br />
“Did you hear about that school teacher in Lansing who sold research papers to students for profit?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
“Called it,” she snaps. “And that was two months before my paper-trail investigation had even started. I knew that teacher was up to something sinister. I could feel in my senses, keeping after class C and D students who never turned in a research paper a day in their life. And all of sudden they’re A students.” She laughs an unfunny laugh. “No, I don’t think so. Not on my intellect.”<br />
<br />
“What happened to them?”<br />
<br />
“What do you think happened? They were found guilty and punished because failure gets what failure does.”<br />
<br />
Damn. She’s harsh. “How much do you charge for a reading?”<br />
<br />
She sits across and pulls from a yellow purse a thick, pink notebook. “Ten bucks for 15 minutes and one dollar for every minute after that.” She opens the notebook. “You got ten bucks?”<br />
<br />
I remove from my wallet the 10 dollar bill Eric gave me for an emergency—cash, to be spent on something spontaneous and useful: something unexpected, besides narcotics, that generates joy. I wonder if my little girls have their own thick, pink notebooks. And if so, what, if anything, have they written about me? So many months away. So many failures. So much for being a hands-on dad. Or a positive influence. Or their, or anyone’s, hero. I slap the 10 dollar bill on the table. “I’m in.”<br />
<br />
“I’m Sarah by the way.” She turns a page and writes on the top the date, time, and place. Her handwriting, similar to her voice, is a combination of uphill highs and traceable lows. “I don’t do height and weight and age stuff. What I do is observe, ask, process, and offer insight based on germane findings. Are you ready?”<br />
<br />
“Insight away.”<br />
<br />
“What’s your name?”<br />
<br />
“Greg.” I straighten my posture. Eric says good posture conveys the impression of active involvement. He needs to stop reading so many self-help books. And I need to find out what this mind reader chick knows. Or doesn’t. Hmm.<br />
<br />
She writes <i>Greg</i>, followed by a question mark. “Mindreader-dot-com says a name reveals what sort of storm percolates within. Typically, the shorter the name, the bigger the cyclone.”<br />
<br />
“Actually, my name’s Peaches Honey Blossom Trixie Belle Tiger Lily.”<br />
<br />
She laughs. “Good one. Greg.”<br />
<br />
“I have to ask, why mind reading and not cheerleading or lifeguarding?”<br />
<br />
She studies my face, similar to the way my little girls stare with fascination at the mop-top mannequins at the mall. “Your skin tone reminds me of the color of beer my dad drinks.” She pops her lips. “You ever heard of Duvel?”<br />
<br />
“I have.” Wonderful. Now I’m being compared to beer.<br />
<br />
“You ever drank it?”<br />
<br />
“Yup.”<br />
<br />
“Is it good?”<br />
<br />
“It’s not my favorite, but yeah it’s pretty good.”<br />
<br />
“What happened to your teeth? Why are they all chipped and yellow?”<br />
<br />
I cover with a hand my mouth. “My dentist does meth.”<br />
<br />
“That’s not true,” she says. “What happened to your eyes?”<br />
<br />
Fifteen. Ninety-nine. Four. “What do you mean?”<br />
<br />
“You have sad eyes. Why are they so sad?”<br />
<br />
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”<br />
<br />
“My dad’s eyes are sad, sadder now that his mom, my grandma, died. Did someone close to you recently die?”<br />
<br />
“I guess you could say that.”<br />
<br />
“Might that someone...” she pauses, staring at my trembling, dry-from-chlorine hands, “be a part of you?”<br />
<br />
OMG. “Mindreader-dot-com is no joke, is it?”<br />
<br />
We sit quiet for a short time. Now that her voice is off, I suddenly want it back on. Perhaps she is a mind reader. Perhaps she is clairvoyant. Perhaps she does know the whereabouts of this clarity I seek.<br />
<br />
“You have children, don’t you?”<br />
<br />
“I do. Two girls named Robin and Roxanne who live with their mother, my ex-wife, in Milwaukee. They’re 12 and 13.”<br />
<br />
“I have a sister, too. Her name’s Melia. She just turned 10.”<br />
<br />
“Is she a mind reader?”<br />
<br />
“She’s a cheerleader and a lifeguard.”<br />
<br />
“Really?”<br />
<br />
“No.” She smiles. “But she is an all-time brat.”<br />
<br />
“That’s too bad.”<br />
<br />
“What’s wrong with your hands? Why are they so dry and shaky?”<br />
<br />
I set my hands on the table. Eric says transparency, even shaky transparency, is healthier than opacity. “I swim in the morning, and the chlorine hates my skin.”<br />
<br />
“My dad's hands shake a lot, too. I think it’s partly because my mom calls him a huge disappointment. But I also think it’s because he drinks too much Duvel.” She scribbles Duvel in the notebook. “My hunch is that you also drink Duvel. Maybe not exactly Duvel, but something within its family.” She stares at my coffee cup. “I also sense that you’re not drinking Duvel these days, drinking instead a substitute liquid to help meet your need for oral, mental, and physical satisfaction.”<br />
<br />
I can’t speak. Or move. Crippled by insight. From a pubescent. I finish the coffee and hand-smash the cup as if it were a can of Duvel. “You’re good.”<br />
<br />
“I also sense that someone, probably more than one person, has called you a disappointment.”<br />
<br />
My stomach turns sour, as do a million neuron synapses exploding like bombs throughout my body, jolting me closer to the many names I’ve been called over the years: disappointment, drunkard, druggie, cheat, selfish, jerk, tool, liar, lost, weirdo, dry, super creepy. The part of my brain that craves addiction ignites, causing my salivary glands to want to go out and find as much instant relief as possible. Stay ardent, Greg. Breathe. Eight. Two. Ten-thousand. Eric says it’s best to forgive (and try to forget) the name calling. He says name calling, even nice names, is a risky exercise because it denotes branding, and branding is a risky exercise because it denotes leaving an everlasting imprint, and leaving an everlasting imprint is a risky exercise because it denotes leaving a scar, which is a wound, which is a cut, which is a trigger, which is a symptom, which is a genetic factor, which is the start, and end, to it all. I understand, though not completely. I believe names have their place, even bad names, clear reminders of the proximity between past mistakes, present struggles, and future authenticity. I want authenticity. My mom wants authenticity. My little girls deserve, and need, authenticity. I grab the journal and offer it to Gigi. “You don’t have to read my mind anymore, not if you have this.” Eric says the most reconciling thing a recovering addict can do to accelerate healing is to give away a most cherished possession, especially one that holds significant meaning. “Everything about me, good and bad, is in it.”<br />
<br />
“That I didn’t see coming,” she says, sticking the 10 dollar bill, the journal, and the pink notebook into her purse, hiding my saddest hurts, cruelest blunders, and loftiest hopes. “You're sure you’re ready to give it away?”<br />
<br />
“I wasn’t sure until right now.”<br />
<br />
“How long have been sober?”<br />
<br />
“Four months, three weeks, and two days.”<br />
<br />
“Do your little girls know about your problem?”<br />
<br />
“They do.”<br />
<br />
“Did you tell them yourself?”<br />
<br />
“I wasn’t sober enough to tell them, so unfortunately they had to hear it from their mother.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think they would have liked it if you’d have been the one to tell them?”<br />
<br />
“I think regular dads want their girls to see them as the truth and not as a lie.”<br />
<br />
“My mom says my dad drinks because he hates himself. Do you hate yourself?”<br />
<br />
“Sometimes.”<br />
<br />
“How can you hate yourself when you have two girls who love you?”<br />
<br />
“That’s a really good question.”<br />
<br />
“Do you hate yourself today, like right now?”<br />
<br />
“Not as much.”<br />
<br />
She sighs. “I want to ask my dad if he’s got a drinking problem, but I’m afraid of what he might say. I mean, what if he is? Then what will I do?”<br />
<br />
“Love him and tell him so him every day.”<br />
<br />
“How can I tell if he needs treatment?”<br />
<br />
“Maybe you should read his mind.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t mind read my parents. Maybe I’m too close, or maybe they’re too far away. But whatever the reason, I have no idea what’s going on with them.”<br />
<br />
“Then all you can do is your very best. That’s all any of us can do.”<br />
<br />
“It was nice to meet you, Greg.” She lifts the 10 dollar bill from the purse. “Keep it. Buy something for your girls. And keep swimming. Maybe one of us will become a lifeguard after all.”<br />
<br />
“I can do that.” Can I? “It was nice to meet you, too, Gigi. I mean, Sarah.”<br />
<br />
“Did you say Gigi?”<br />
<br />
Damn it. “When I first saw you and your friend, I named you Gigi and her LuAnn.”<br />
<br />
“Why Gigi?”<br />
<br />
“You know, Gigi Lichtenstein, the top model mind reader from Paris who isn’t afraid to stop and talk to strangers.”<br />
<br />
“You want to know the name we gave to you?”<br />
<br />
Not at all. Three. Two. One. “Sure.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not bad, if that’s what you’re thinking.”<br />
<br />
“Name away.”<br />
<br />
She laughs. “Dr. Doofenshmirtz from Phineas and Ferb.” Leaving me with a heart that can drop, surge, and skip after all. Please God, whoever he is, just let him be sober.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><br />
<p><i><b>Samuel Cole</b> lives in Woodbury, MN, where he finds work in special event/development management. He’s a poet, flash fiction geek, and political essayist enthusiast. His work has appeared in many literary journals, and his first poetry collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bereft-Same-Heart-Samuel-Cole/dp/099787063X">Bereft and the Same-Sex Heart</a>, was published in October 2016 by Pski’s Porch Publishing. His second book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bloodwork-Samuel-E-Cole/dp/0998847615">Bloodwork</a>, a collection of short stories, will be published in May/June 2017. He is also an award-winning card maker and scrapbooker. For more, visit <a href="https://www.samuel-cole.com">samuel-cole.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Elisabeth Fuchsia</b> takes pictures of things that she likes and does other stuff, too. For more, visit <a href="https://elisabethfuchsia.com/">elisabethfuchsia.com</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Emperor X</b> is Chad Matheny, who has been performing live and releasing recorded music since 1998. His work previously appeared in <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2010/12/issue-20-jeff-hart-rory-hejtmanek.html">Storychord Issue #20</a>, and he performed at <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2012/04/next-week-storychords-free-50th-issue.html">Storychord's 50th Issue Birthday Party</a> in 2012 in New York City. Matheny lives in Berlin, where he helps operate Donau115, a small venue central to the Neukoelln neighborhood's booming experimental jazz scene, and volunteers as a music technology instructor with German NGO <a href="http://gsbtb.org/#/">GSBTB</a> in a program focused on supporting young refugees. For more, visit <a href="http://emperorx.net/">emperorx.net</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-31692979363381436712017-08-28T16:31:00.002-04:002017-09-20T12:52:56.581-04:00ISSUE #148: Christopher M. Hood, Ben Gancsos, Blue & Gold <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Issue #148 Guest Editor <b>Morgan Pile</b> previously published fiction in <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2013/03/issue-63-morgan-pile-ted-adrien-closson.html">Storychord Issue #63</a>. She received her MFA in Fiction from the New School and lives in Brooklyn, where she founded <a href="https://www.writebrooklyn.com/">WriteBrooklyn</a> and teaches writing at the Dalton School in Manhattan. <br />
<br />
</i><center><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fDHvY4FtORg/WaR3gHPL2XI/AAAAAAAAC0I/joJkiR_G-gIoLqPjf4yIV9jh2Qf1LkbAgCLcBGAs/s1600/gancsos_130814_117.jpg" width=596></center><div align="right"><i>Photograph by Ben Gancsos</i></div><br />
<br />
<big><b>MIGRATION PATTERNS<br />
by Christopher M. Hood</b></big><br />
<br />
I don’t want to go into the psychology of it. I’ll just say that whenever I dated someone, I found myself wondering why she was at all interested in me, which led to wondering why <i>anyone</i> would be interested, and then I’d get depressed enough that she would stop being interested. At least with this, I knew what I was getting into. It was out in the open. She wanted a new life, and I wanted someone to share mine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/s/tu7ta4nq8e6h1k8l7h5qup7swmbcupen" width="500" height="120" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe> <br />
<b>Issue #148 soundtrack: Blue & Gold "It's Only You"</b></center><br />
<br />
She came from Wzifistan, escaping the terrible slopes of volcanic Mount Krzal. She was a slight blonde thing with tremendous eyelashes and a little scar along her left cheek, small enough that it could pass for a beauty mark. Her name was Irina, and I was at the airport two hours before her flight landed with a little sign, there to chauffeur her into a new world. She sat up front in the car, though, staring out the window at the strip malls, and when I asked her about the temperature in the car, she said, “I am okay,” and then repeated it, like a mantra.<br />
<br />
She made me dinner when we got home. I tried to get her to lie down and rest, but she put her hands on mine and pushed me into a chair. Then she started trying to figure out the kitchen. She opened every drawer, looking for something, then finally made a gesture like she was striking a match and said, “Fire?” I turned the stove knob, the flame sparked on its own, and she smiled.<br />
<br />
We had sex that night-- her idea-- and afterward, she lay there and sobbed. For 20 straight minutes. I couldn’t get her to talk or anything. And then she finally said, “I am sorry. You are good at doing sex.”<br />
<br />
I waited.<br />
<br />
“I think…” She made a gesture with her finger, limp and falling.<br />
<br />
“Okay,” I said.<br />
<br />
“But you…” She made a surprised face, straightened her finger, and turned it upwards.<br />
<br />
“Okay, okay.”<br />
<br />
“It is my sister. Why I cry.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t know if this was where the con began, or the story of trauma that would be the start of our emotional intimacy.<br />
<br />
“How to ask?” She looked troubled.<br />
<br />
“Ask me what?”<br />
<br />
“You will… engage her?”<br />
<br />
It took me a moment. “You mean get engaged to be married? I’m marrying you.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud.<br />
<br />
“Her and me.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, in America, we can only marry one…”<br />
<br />
“Not marry. Just engage.”<br />
<br />
She was looking at me, excited now, her eyes green and wide, but my head was spinning. It took us a good two hours, some scratch paper, and a little Google translate, but we got there.<br />
<br />
Turns out, there was a mix-up in the legalese when the government people wrote up the regulations for citizenship through marriage for Wzifistani immigrants. They included the words “engaged to be” before the word “married,” and there it was in black and white. You only had to be engaged to an American to naturalize as a citizen. <br />
<br />
“Get her engaged to someone else,” I said. “I have this friend…” I didn’t, really.<br />
<br />
“No, you are grandfather!” She repeated this a few times, and eventually I figured out what she meant.<br />
<br />
The functionary who screwed up realized his mistake. Damage had been minimal. Most people read a thousand online reviews before ordering a new coffee maker. Who would send away for a fiancée, sight unseen? There’d only been one lonely, pathetic soul who’d signed on to the program before it could be fixed. Moi. I was grandfathered in. All I had to do was get engaged, and her sister could come. And the laws against polygamy didn’t apply to engagement. <br />
<br />
So, I agreed to do it just to get her over here. Then Irina and I could get married just as I’d planned. After all, my father and his brother came over together from County Kerry on the same boat, the Flynn boys going to America. Although it was a plane, I guess. A boat just seems romantic. Anyhow, my father was so excited to be an American that he named his son the most American name he could think of, the one from the book he’d read: <i>Huckleberry</i>. So that’s me, Huck Flynn, and if I have to put off my wedding to get her sister over to a better life, I’ll do it.<br />
<br />
Irina got on the horn, speaking this fast Wzifistani that sounded like a cross between a flute and a typewriter. Her sister was on a plane before you could say <i>naturalization papers</i>. We met her at the airport together-- no sign necessary this time. They found each other as though by radar and hugged for a good two minutes before Irina turned and introduced me to my new fiancée. <br />
<br />
“Vesta, this is Huckleberry,” she said. Her English was already improving. Vesta took my hand in her small, damp palms and said something that sounded like <i>tomato</i>. <br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Irina translated.<br />
<br />
“Tomato,” Vesta said again and pulled me into an embrace.<br />
<br />
That night, they cooked dinner together, their voices collapsing into laughter that echoed around the kitchen, but every time Irina looked at me and smiled, as though to say, <i>Don’t worry, we aren’t laughing at you</i>. And I thought, <i>This is the closest to being happy I’ve been in years</i>.<br />
<br />
So, when Olga showed up, I worried that our little family would suffer, that there would be a pack of Wzifistani women living in my house, and I would become increasingly irrelevant, once I’d gotten down on one knee for Olga, that is. But it didn’t happen. The more, the merrier. Irina presented me to Olga like I was a prize, like anyone would be happy to know me. And when I had my usual nightmares and woke up shouting, it was no big deal. They’d all seen some serious shit back in the ‘stan, just like I had in Iraq, and so they had nightmares, too. We’d wake up shouting together, then meet in the kitchen and have chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.<br />
<br />
They started trickling in, a couple a week. My house was full-- it’s only got three bedrooms, and one was full of boxes--but they didn’t stay for long. Just long enough to accept my hand, then they’d head for this apartment complex on the other side of town that was owned by this Wzifistani guy who’d come over decades before. He seemed a little iffy to me, but Irina said he was okay.<br />
<br />
The new women would get a little fresh sometimes, as though they figured the only way I would agree to help them is if I was expecting something in the bedroom. Irina said, “It is okay. If you want.” But I told her that she was the only one I wanted. And she looked happy about it, which was a relief. I’d been a little worried that she’d been planning to palm me off to one of the new girls and strike out on her own.<br />
<br />
The first one to arrive with kids in tow was Vasilisa, and we had one terrible long moment when I thought I was supposed to put a ring on the finger of her six year-old, but when I called the local INS office, there was an extended pause, and then the guy said, “So you’re the one.” But it was clear there was nothing he could do. Everything I was doing was by the book, so he ended up being decent about it and telling me not to worry about anyone under the age of 16. They could just go with their mothers.<br />
<br />
When Sonia arrived, I thought, <i>Is this a guy in drag?</i> But I didn't think so. I think she just had a masculine cast to her bristly face, and who am I to judge? I’ve been working on a paunch for a good decade now, and one of my eyes is all cloudy from that piece of shrapnel I caught in Iraq. And I know what you’re thinking-- lots of guys caught it worse over there, but I was in the first Iraq war, with the first Bush president, the one that we won in about 15 minutes. I was the only guy I knew to come back broken.<br />
<br />
But when Stanislav opened the door, I knew for sure he was a guy. After all, he had a voice like rocks being crushed at the bottom of a well and a moustache like a baleen whale. I asked him what he was doing in my house as he stood in my kitchen, straining his mug of coffee for krill. <br />
<br />
“You are homophobe?” he asked.<br />
<br />
No, I was not.<br />
<br />
“Gay marriage okay, yes?”<br />
<br />
Yes, it was.<br />
<br />
“Then put ring on it.” And he held out his knuckly, work-scarred finger.<br />
<br />
So I started buying rings in bulk, rubber ones that stretched to fit anyone. And anyone came, along with everyone. They waited patiently in line for my proposal, as though waiting in lines were part of their DNA. Word trickled back to me that the airlines were scheduling additional flights, that Wzifistani town clerks were running out of paperwork for all the divorces and annulments people were getting before booking those flights. Each morning, there was a crowd outside the house, and Irina was meeting the airport SuperShuttle at the curb with pizzas and bottled water. A lot of them hadn’t eaten in days. A local medical clinic set up a tent in the yard so the refugees could access free care, and Irina bought fabric and a sewing machine and made me a little pillow I could put under my knee when I knelt for each one of them.<br />
<br />
But she couldn’t give me the one thing I wanted, the thing that started this whole Wzifistani refugee experience: marriage. As soon as she took me off the market, boom, no more citizenship. The door would close. And yet that’s what I wanted: just a simple existence with a wife. What all the normal Americans seemed to have.<br />
<br />
Instead, I had an assembly line. And then the old feeling started to come back. I’d see Irina bandaging some poor refugee’s wound, so kind, her hair up in a ponytail, so lovely, and I’d think, <i>You sucker</i>. <i>Why would you ever think she could fall for you?</i> I was just a means to an end, a proposing machine.<br />
<br />
One night, I was deep in the dark thoughts. She was lying on my shoulder, her hair tickling my ear, and she was walking her fingers down my chest toward my boxer shorts. I said, “When are we getting married?” Her fingers stopped.<br />
<br />
“What about them?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“I didn’t ask for them,” I said.<br />
<br />
“They are my people.”<br />
<br />
“I’m supposed to be your person. That’s what getting married means.”<br />
<br />
“You have to help them.”<br />
<br />
“So, that’s why you’re doing this. I knew there had to be a reason you were willing to climb in bed with me.”<br />
<br />
She sat up on her elbow, her brow drawn. “Why do you say this?”<br />
<br />
“Come on. You’re beautiful. Why else would you be with me?”<br />
<br />
“You are handsome and sweet and funny and good at sex.” <br />
<br />
“Don’t lie to me.”<br />
<br />
“What lie?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t lie to me! It’s the one thing I can’t take.”<br />
<br />
“What lie?” she repeated, and I got out of bed and went downstairs to get a drink, stepping over sleeping Wzifistanis in the hallway and on the stairs, snoring in their headscarves and newsboy caps. <br />
<br />
The next day, I ran. I caught the SuperShuttle as it was leaving the house and rode it back to the airport where I bought a ticket to Wzifistan. It cost me a few hundred bucks, and I figured I’d have the plane to myself, that they were just zipping it back across the Atlantic empty to pick up another load of refugees to ship to my house. But the plane wasn’t empty. It was full of people with beards, newsboy caps, and headscarves, but they were all speaking English and the caps and scarves all had a little ironic flair. I realized they were hipsters, rich Americans who’d gotten pinged on their smartphones that tickets to Wzifistan were at an all-time low. I’d been so busy getting engaged to everyone that somehow I’d missed this whole cultural moment, and when I landed in Wzplatz, it was full of New Yorkers and Californians guzzling Wizz, the official lager of Wzifistan, sipping reindeer musk lattes, and talking up the local real estate scene. At first, local hustlers kept trying to give me Uber rides to the thermal pools beneath Mount Krzal or sell me time-shares on a glacial lake. But then a woman with only one arm, begging on the street, saw me, and her eyes opened wide. She said my name, <i>Huck-ell-berry</i>, and she cried and touched her forehead to the pocket of my fleece. She pulled me with her one arm into her hut, just a piece of plywood for a roof, and there on the wall was my picture, cloudy eye and all.<br />
<br />
I followed her around for a day, and everywhere I went, people kept saying something that sounded like <i>Crock-Pot</i>. I figured it meant hello at first, but they were saying it all the time, so maybe it was like <i>aloha</i> and meant everything, so I started saying it too. People would smile when I said it and laugh, and finally I met a guy who spoke some English, and he said it meant “grandfather.” Then he pointed at me. I’m only in my 50s, and I thought <i>I don’t look</i> that <i>old</i>, but he repeated it, smiling. <i>Crock-pot</i>. I remembered Irina in my bed calling me the grandfather, and realized that’s what I was. That’s why my picture was on the wall. I was <i>Crock-pot</i>, grandfather, the grandfather clause, the living, breathing, walking, proposing loophole through which an entire suffering people could find new life.<br />
<br />
All these people, living in alleys and overturned dumpsters that you’d never even see unless someone took you there, and I realized that they’d been tortured by the old Wzifistani regime, yes, but that wasn’t everything. They were priced out, too, gentrified out of their own country by all these rich Americans coming in. Wzifistan was cool now, but that didn’t help the Wzifistanis at all. It just sold tee shirts and made a lot of dough for the distributing company that had unknowingly acquired the rights to sell Wizz internationally years before when it bought out some Soviet-era distillery. I might be the savior, the one who offered them a way out of this, but I was the devil, too. A butterfly had flapped its wings in my backyard, and now a whole nation was being evicted to make way for the New Brooklyn.<br />
<br />
I found my way back to the airport. I had to wade through crowds of people, all waiting to board a plane to my house. I got to the counter, and it broke my heart to hear how much the airlines were charging, how rich they were getting off this whole thing. But I pulled out the plastic and got myself a seat. I still had a good hour before boarding, so I borrowed a phone from this place that was renting rickshaws.<br />
<br />
I called my house and asked for Irina. There was a long pause, and I could hear people wailing in the background. It was a terrible connection, all crackles and static, but finally, Irina was there.<br />
<br />
“Hello?” she said. “Who is this?”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry I left,” I said. “It must be chaos there.” She didn’t say anything at first. “Are you okay?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“I am okay,” she said. “I will marry you.”<br />
<br />
“No, no,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was a fool. I understand now. I have a purpose. I am the Crock-Pot. I will get engaged to everyone. You can do whatever you like. You are free.”<br />
<br />
I could tell she was crying. Don’t ask me how. The connection was awful, and she wasn’t sobbing, just quietly crying, but I knew. I could even see her standing in the kitchen, bare feet against the tile, one arm crossed against her body, the other holding the phone to her ear, her eyes wet, and I wondered if she could see me, too.<br />
<br />
She found her voice. “I was so worried,” she said. “Come home.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Christopher M. Hood</b> is a graduate of UC Irvine's MFA program and is the Coordinator of the <a href="https://www.dalton.org/page/programs/high-school/curriculum/notable-programs/creative-writing">Creative Writing Program</a> at the Dalton School. His work has appeared in the Santa Monica Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, and others. Follow him on <a href="https://twitter.com/c_m_hood">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Ben Gancsos</b> is a cultural voyeur. Though lacking invisibility, he’s an unheeded presence as a “fly on the wall” observer. Based in New York City, Ben travels frequently to various parts of the country, as well as abroad, photographing architectural exteriors, interiors, and people. For more, visit <a href="https://www.gancsos.com/">gancsos.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Blue & Gold</b> is a Brooklyn-based band comprised of guitarists Alex Kapelman and Chloe Raynes, drummer GG Gonzalez, and bassist Nick Salcido. For more, visit them on <a href="https://blueandgoldband.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/blueandgoldband">Twitter</a>, and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/blueandgoldband">Facebook</a>.<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-33098181977964936102017-07-17T09:08:00.000-04:002017-07-17T09:32:37.502-04:00ISSUE #147: Lindsey Baker, Alexis Wheeler, Jon Shina<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8sfvBkeCS5o/WWyz5fwucVI/AAAAAAAACzM/OJ-7CAP1_WoTxRj1HhJFucnZkK1I3IeZQCLcBGAs/s1600/December%2BOffering%2BProject.jpg" width=600><br />
<div align="right"><i>Art by Alexis Wheeler</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>MY LIFE NOW<br />
by Lindsey Baker</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>The restaurant was like this: rain or sun, we opened every day at 11 a.m. and closed at 11 p.m. I was there most mornings at ten with a cup of burned coffee, crumbs from a pop-tart pimpling the skin around my mouth, flipping chairs off tables and filling the shakers with salt and pixels of pepper. I didn’t mind the work, and I didn’t even get bored. When I was there and we were busy, I sometimes forgot that I could never see Ed again. <br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/s/n2mdx3mx8vkviy561r4cwluikqcpflon" width="400" height="100" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #147 soundtrack: Jon Shina “Discovering the New”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
The general manager, Mark, was an older man with a bad hip, and he hobbled around the restaurant like a wind-up toy, stopping to reset himself occasionally with a glass of warm Sprite. He was cruel if he didn’t like you, but he liked me. I reminded him of his daughter, he told me once. She lived in Montana with her husband and two kids and flew down every other year for Christmas. I liked Mark because he cared about the restaurant and because sometimes he asked me how I was doing, waiting for a response that sounded real. <br />
<br />
Here’s what I did when I missed Ed and I wasn’t at the restaurant: I worked with clay. I made little sculptures that looked like people and animals. Not that I had any training or was a professional or anything. I only liked the way the clay felt in my hands, wet and dry at the same time, the dry heat of the oven as I baked each new piece. I watched television while I worked, laughing along with recorded episodes of talk shows, booing with an audience as if I were there. <br />
<br />
Sometimes when my coworkers asked me about myself I would lie and say I was working at the restaurant to put myself through school. I got a late start, I’d say. Nursing, I’d say. I thought it made me sound selfless, like the good Catholic woman my father wanted me to be. He used to read Mother Theresa’s biography out loud to me before I went to bed so that I dreamt of Calcutta, of oozing sores and pulled teeth. <br />
<br />
My apartment was up the road from the restaurant. The complex was nestled between two strip malls, one with a Hooters and an Olive Garden and one with a tattoo shop and a Goodwill. My roommate Rebecca worked during the day as a receptionist at a dentist’s office and came home smelling like floss. She went out for long stretches of time at night by herself, never mentioning anything to me, coming home in the early morning hours. I lied and told her that I was from Texas and she believed me.<br />
<br />
“Things really are bigger there, right?” she said, holding a corner of my newly-purchased mattress, helping me wedge it into my room. It was the only real piece of furniture I had. “The dentist is from San Antonio and he’s big all over.”<br />
<br />
I was young enough to start over after the divorce, or that’s what everyone told me. I quit my job as an executive assistant to a prim woman at a nonprofit, the days spent scheduling her flights to places I never went. I picked Roswell, Georgia, one night when I couldn’t sleep. The restaurant was the first place to call me for an interview, and I took it, throwing myself hopefully into it, like a new diet. <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Another thing I did when I missed Ed: I had sex with one of my coworkers named Jeremy. He had a concaved sternum and thin legs, but he smelled good and he always helped me run my food out to my tables, even when I didn’t ask. <br />
<br />
Jeremy and I were closing together one night, and the last customer, a regular who sat at the bar sucking Diet Cokes, left. We moved to start stacking the chairs on the tables. <br />
<br />
“You live around here?” he asked. <br />
<br />
“Yes. Appletree Apartments?” <br />
<br />
“No way,” he smiled, breathing heavy from lifting the chairs. “I live there, too.” <br />
<br />
I invited him in that night because I was feeling sad, and I didn’t want to face all my untouched mounds of clay. Rebecca would be out late again, only the crash of her keys on the kitchen counter when she got home in the morning before she left for work. <br />
<br />
“Mind if I smoke in here?” he asked. <br />
<br />
I couldn’t remember if Rebecca was okay with smoking or not, so I just said sure. Jeremy pulled out a grinder and a bag of weed.<br />
<br />
“Do you smoke?” <br />
<br />
“No.” I used to, I almost added. Ed and I would get high and play Mario Kart for hours, tangled together on the floor under the television, laughing when we failed. Now I didn’t like how everything felt like it was too far away when I was high, like light and air were bugs crawling up on the ceiling. <br />
<br />
“Man. That’s good because I spend a lot of money on weed. I started smoking it in high school. Wow,” he laughed, packing a bowl. He had a wart on one of his fingers. “High school was almost fifteen years ago for me now. I bet if I put all that money together, I would have something big. A boat or a house.” <br />
<br />
“Maybe so.” I was sitting on the couch next to him and trying to look at the room as he might. Ed kept most of my things in the divorce, and I let him, so almost all the furniture in the apartment was Rebecca’s except for a coffee table I found at the Goodwill. It was cheap particle board, but it had these pretty Asian-looking golden flowers blooming on the legs. “But do you want a boat?” <br />
<br />
He considered, holding the smoke in. “Sure,” he said, “who doesn’t want a boat?” <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Sometimes while we had sex he kissed my wrists softly. He slept over a few times, but mostly he would pack up his work apron and his weed and head back to his place afterwards. I was pleased with this arrangement because it felt like I was doing something, that I was moving forward in some way. My sister threatened to come visit me often in our weekly phone calls, and if she ever actually did, at least I would have this to prove that I was trying. <br />
<br />
Rebecca told me that Jeremy slept with basically everyone in the complex. It was a rare Sunday morning where we were both home, and I decided to make breakfast for her. <br />
<br />
I was scrambling eggs when she told me. “Basically everyone?” <br />
<br />
Her eyes were swollen, and she was holding up spoons that she froze every night for this purpose. Her robe was open a little, and I could almost see a nipple. It felt like I was back in college, cooking in the community kitchen with my roommate, Marcy, using pans with grease left over from the meals of strangers. <br />
<br />
“Mmm. Everyone says so. He’s fucking gross. I don’t know why you want to date him anyways.” She took the spoons off to look at her reflection in the toaster. “Find a man that has money and a real job, something in finance.” We hadn’t spoken this much since I had to ask for her help with my mattress. <br />
<br />
“I don’t want to date him.” <br />
<br />
“Okay, don’t.” She poured herself a cup of coffee, unwrapping a straw from my server apron so the coffee wouldn’t stain her teeth, and then poured another one for me. I was touched more than I should have been. Maybe Rebecca and I could be friends. “And don’t let him smoke in here anymore. It smells putrid.” <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Sometimes when the restaurant was slow, Mark pulled up pictures of mountains on his phone. He was a rock climber when he was young and his hip wasn’t so bad, and he reminded me of this frequently. I looked at the mountains with their crooked points, their millions of dimples, and tried to imagine a young Mark pulling himself up them, sweating with ropes tangled around his hips. I tried to imagine his ex-wife watching him from below, how afterwards they would make love in tents by the fire. <br />
<br />
Mark knew about Jeremy, and even though he never said anything, I think he was disappointed in me. Sometimes I caught him looking at me while I rang things in on the computer, while I twisted my hair into a bun, his lips set in a thin line. One day I showed him pictures of my clay sculptures on my phone. There was an orange old lady holding a cane in one hand, the other hand clutching her back at the base of her spine. Another was a small fish, its scales green and blue. <br />
<br />
“Can I have that?” he asked. He pointed to it again, and then used his fingers to zoom in on the screen. “Reminds me of this fish I caught. My uncle used to take me out on lake Peigneur when I was a kid. Before it got drained by those miners.” I promised him I would give it to him, and he looked pleased. <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
That night I watched television while I wrapped the fish up in some pretty orange paper. I printed off a blurb from the internet about how fish are symbols of prosperity and fortune, how in some cultures fish are used in healing ceremonies. I wrote in cursive, <i>Mark-- For your hip! Love, Alexa.</i> <br />
<br />
I was thinking about how when you’re a kid, you can only imagine yourself dying young. Being old seems like an impossible reality, irreconcilable with who you are. Then, at a certain age, you start to wish for it. Daydream about it. How calm you must be in old age, how sure of yourself and the world. The way things happen no longer seeming random. Without letting myself think about it, I dialed Ed’s number on my cell phone. It rang once, and I hung up. I waited until another commercial break interrupted the movie I was watching, something about Wall Street, and I dialed it again, this time waiting while it rang and rang. <br />
<br />
“Hello?” It was Ed. He sounded tired, and I wondered if that meant he wasn’t sleeping well. I bit a swollen part of my lip, hard, until tears gathered in my eyes. I didn’t know what to say. I hung up and tucked my phone into the drawer of my Goodwill table, tracing a petal on one of the golden flowers.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t pay attention to the movie, so I turned it off and put on my uniform for the morning because I didn’t want to dirty any of the clothes tucked in my closet, things I hadn’t worn since I unpacked. I grabbed Mark’s package too, careful not to crease the delicate paper. <br />
<br />
The night was cool and damp. Every other street light was dark, leaving the parking lot patched in yellow. Jeremy’s car was there, but I didn’t feel like seeing him, like smiling along with his stoner philosophy. He could talk about the way shadows worked for hours. About how we knew more about space than we did the ocean. <br />
<br />
My car smelled like old French fries, and I decided that I would go get some food. That seemed like a normal enough task. There was a diner a mile away that I passed when I got groceries, and I thought they might have milkshakes. A man on the radio was talking about a mattress sale, 40% off, financing options, memory foam that would never forget the contours of your spine.<br />
<br />
I met Ed through Marcy at a housewarming party after college. Marcy gave a toast at our wedding, something sentimental and raunchy, something that made my father shake his head. Later I found her throwing up in the bathroom, Ed’s brother holding her hair and whispering into her ear. That was one of the last times I saw her. Ed was quiet and nerdy-looking at the party, but he was handsome and kind, and I let him touch my breasts in our host’s upstairs guest bedroom. He closed his eyes while he did it, leaning in to kiss me and then leaning back, studying the shape like a blind person, learning.<br />
<br />
The lighting in the diner was terrible, and it made me feel old. I sat in a booth, placing the little orange package of the fish on the table by the sugar after checking to make sure the table wasn’t sticky. I wasn’t sure why I brought the package in with me, but it felt nice having it there. It gave me a sense of purpose, like I might be meeting someone. It wasn’t too late yet, and the tell-tale slump of drunkness was missing from the rest of the customers. There was a couple sitting together on the same side of one booth, taking turns dipping fries to ketchup. The server wasn’t in a cheesy diner dress or anything like that, just nice jeans and a t-shirt and red sneakers. <br />
<br />
“Do you like the burgers?” I asked. <br />
<br />
She looked at me, shrugged. “The meat isn’t great, to be honest. I like the grilled cheese.” <br />
<br />
“Grilled cheese, please. And a vanilla milkshake.” <br />
<br />
She walked off to the back somewhere, and I felt very awkward without my phone to occupy me. It was still tucked into the Goodwill table. I wondered if Ed called back. The number was new and only my sister had it. I thought about giving it to some of my old friends, but I didn’t know what I could say to them, how I could possibly chart out the details of my life now. <br />
<br />
If I had my phone, I might have looked up pictures of mountains so I could talk to Mark about them. I was thinking about getting into climbing myself, couldn’t resist the draw of pulling myself up and up, of sweating everything I had ever done out of me. <br />
<br />
The door alarm sounded out, and a girl walked in. Short black dress, tall plastic heels, dark makeup messied around eyes and lips. She was blonde. It was almost a costume. She sat in a booth facing me, but she didn’t make eye contact. Her thighs squeaked against the seat as she pulled out her phone, hunched over it and the table, sniffled a little. When the server came over to take her order, she ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of fries. I noted that her eyes didn’t move very much when she talked. How she said thank you without smiling. She moved her hair back, and I saw a bruise on her neck, old and brown like the skin of a banana. I could see her bra through her dress. <br />
<br />
I wondered where Rebecca went at night. There weren’t very many places around Roswell where you could go late, except for one dark and damp Mexican club in the middle of a strip mall, next to a Title Max that never seemed to close. I pictured her there with the girl in the next booth, pictured them dancing together, passing a Corona back and forth and taking sips, the easy sharing of close friendship. How they would laugh together and check their lipstick in the single bathroom stall, how the men might track their movements across the sticky room. <br />
<br />
I got up and went over to the girl. I wanted to talk to someone. <br />
<br />
“Excuse me,” I said. The girl didn’t hear me at first. She was reading bubbles of text messages, monologues so long they went out of the reaches of the screen. <br />
<br />
“Hi,” I said, trying to make myself sound young. I couldn’t remember how to do this, how to branch across to another woman, how to initiate friendship. <br />
<br />
She looked up at me. <br />
<br />
“Hi,” she said. Her voice had the same dead chill as it did when she spoke with the waitress. Her hair was loose and willowish around her face and I realized she was far younger than I had thought, one of those girls who bloomed early and fast. <br />
<br />
“I was wondering if I could borrow your phone to make a quick call. I lost mine,” I said, the lie coming to me simply, “I was at a rest stop off 400 a while back and someone took it from the bathroom counter. I need to call my husband and let him know I’ll be there soon.” I thought she might invite me to sit down. She kept looking blankly at me. “I don’t want him to worry,” I added. <br />
<br />
The server brought my milkshake and my food over to where I was sitting and looked questioningly at me, and then at the girl. “Are you moving, or?” <br />
<br />
“She’s just borrowing my phone,” the girl said quickly. She handed her phone to me, the case thick and jelly and pink. <br />
<br />
“Thanks.” I went back to my booth. The girl’s phone was unlocked, and I pulled up the screen to dial. I didn’t know who to call. I thought about calling Marcy in Virginia and reminding her of those nights we spent sitting on the roof of our dorm sharing a blanket and a cigarette. Instead, I went to the screen with the girl’s recent calls and found someone named Lover embellished with several pink and blue hearts, someone the girl called a lot. I put the phone up to my ear and listened to the ring, for the third time that night, and inhaled sharply at the sound of the man’s voice. <br />
<br />
“Hello,” the voicemail greeting said, his voice smoky-sounding, “you’ve reached Dante. Leave a message.”<br />
<br />
I waited in the silence after the beep for a minute before I said, “Hi, it’s me.” I looked up to see if the girl was listening and she was, watching me closely, an eye of caution. “Just wanted to let you know I’ll be home soon.” I imagined there was someone listening on the other side. “I love you, babe,” I said, and hung up. <br />
<br />
I got up and passed the phone back to the girl, smiling brightly down at her. “Thanks, I mean it. He gets so worried if he doesn’t hear from me.” She looked blankly back at me. “You know how that goes, I’m sure.” <br />
<br />
She nodded. “Yeah, I know.” <br />
<br />
“Thanks again. I really appreciate it. Let me buy you your food.” I could tell I was pushing too hard, that becoming friends with this young girl was already an impossibility. I tried, instead, to give her a motherly look. “I insist.” <br />
<br />
The girl looked dully at me and then back down to her phone. “That’s okay. It’s cheap anyways.” I wondered if Dante, the girl’s <i>Lover</i>, had listened to the voicemail yet. I wondered if he knew the girl well enough to tell our voices apart, and decided he had to. <br />
<br />
I went to the counter and asked the server for a box and a to-go cup for my milkshake. After piling the food into the Styrofoam, careful to wipe the grease off my hands, I pulled out two twenties and put one on my table and one on the girl’s. “Thanks again, sugar,” I said, as if that was how I talked all the time. I grabbed the orange package and stepped out into the night. The street was mostly empty, spread out in either direction like a lightless desert highway, the trees still and stiff like cacti. Maybe I’d ask Mark to take me out to dinner tomorrow, after the morning shift, somewhere easy and bright, somewhere people his age went. I’d present him with the package and the little green and blue fish and he would smile, with tears in his eyes, remembering the way things used to be. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Lindsey Baker</b> lives and writes in Atlanta, GA. Her work has previously appeared in <a href="https://themolotovcocktail.com/about/archive-vols-1-3/vol-7/flash-fear/in-the-grain-bin/">The Molotov Cocktail</a> and Blood Moon Rising Magazine.<br />
<br />
<b>Alexis Wheeler</b> is an abstract artist living in New York State. Alexis has spent the last 25 years working as a hairdresser, and has been the owner of Crown Salon in New York City for the past 8 years. Her work with clients in the salon is about helping them bring their inner selves to outer expression, using a combination of texture, intuition, artistic technique, and connection. This process informs all of her other creative endeavors. When working in a visual art form, Alexis is relating to her internal space and the tools that inspire her: shapes, forms, colors, as well as repetitive patterns found in nature. In this way, she is following intuition, creating work that resonates with the universal quality of emotions and memories. For more, visit <a href="http://awheelerart.com/">awheelerart.com</a> or follow her on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/alexiswheelerart/">Instagram</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Jon Shina</b> used to live in Brooklyn, and now lives in the hippie woods of western Massachusetts. He is of Iraqi decent and is extremely depressed these days. Jon Shina has played shows for over a decade (playing in China and Thailand as well as all over the USA). He has done many things with VICE over the years, and he even wrote record reviews for the magazine. Jon wants to make everyone feel ALL the emotions when they listen to his music. You can find more of his work at: <a href="https://jonshina.bandcamp.com/">jonshina.bandcamp.com</a>.<br />
<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-5595463095296825802017-07-03T09:30:00.000-04:002017-07-03T09:30:25.712-04:00ISSUE #146: Julia Dixon Evans, Andrés Montiel, Jbdub113<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Issue #146 Guest Editor <b>Benjamin Woodard</b> previously appeared in <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2016/02/issue-116-benjamin-woodard-derek-boman.html">Storychord's Issue #116</a>. His recent fiction has appeared in Hobart, Corium Magazine, New South, and other literary journals. He is a frequent literary critic for Kenyon Review Online and Publishers Weekly. In addition, he helps run the literary magazine <a href="https://atlasandalice.com/">Atlas and Alice</a>. Find him online at <a href="https://benjaminjwoodard.com/">benjaminjwoodard.com</a> or on <a href="ttps://twitter.com/woodardwriter">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
</i><center><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XMx7bi9YRpw/WU7WOx0AQBI/AAAAAAAACys/iZS15RHJN3EucFPWrBR-HFB9KSqo-RQbQCLcBGAs/s1600/adreamofmemories.jpg" width=590></center><div align="right"><i>Watercolor painting by Andrés Montiel</i></div><br />
<br />
<big><b>DOGS ARE BORN HUNGRY<br />
by Julia Dixon Evans</b></big><br />
<br />
By the time the last of the pups are born, there’s blood all over the kitchen floor, smears in vague, squirming animal shapes. The tongue of our dog, oddly calm and busy at the same time, licking at everything: herself, her puppies, the floor.<br />
<br />
“We can’t keep them,” my mother says, like she’d been saying all along.<br />
<br />
“Just one,” I say.<br />
<br />
She sighs, wiping at the floor with a rag.<br />
<br />
“It’s not a good time.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/s/ftpuyek959lqsye592fawid8jfzzq34i" width="400" height="100" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<b>Issue #146 soundtrack: Jbdub113 "Gift Box"</b></center><br />
<br />
<br />
When I wake up the next morning, I find my mother, asleep on the kitchen floor next to our dog, Jinx, pink puppies between them.<br />
<br />
The doorbell rings and it’s a man I see a lot but have never met. I don’t know if it’s a boyfriend or what. I don’t know if she’s allowed to have boyfriends. I don’t know what is going on between her and my dad but they never said they were getting a divorce. They never said anything really, just stopped living together, even though nobody properly moved out. “Nesting,” I overheard my mother once tell one of her friends, both of them wine-drunk. They sat in between the kitchen and the dining room on the bar stools my mother had never wanted to buy. “It’s bullshit,” she added. “Caroline stays here, in the nest. Omar and I take turns popping in with chewed up worms.”<br />
<br />
“Uh,” the man says, scratching his beard. I know I should speak, or even just step aside, but I’m compelled to stand here and wait for him to get past this awkwardness on his own. Which doesn’t happen. “Uh,” he says again.<br />
<br />
I put a hand on one hip before realizing it’s probably a dumb move, a teenager trying to look sassy or something. I shift my weight. I instead bring that hand up to my brow to shield against the rising light from the east.<br />
<br />
“The dog had her pups last night,” I say. I don’t say, <i>You’re not my dad</i>. I don’t say, <i>Who are you to my mom</i>. I don’t say, <i>What are you even doing here</i>. “She’s in the kitchen.”<br />
<br />
“Okay,” he says. I step aside and he shuffles past me, careful not to get too close. He smells like soap and something else. Sandalwood maybe. Oranges. He’s taller than my dad. Hairier. I hear him wake my mom up, his voice real quiet and soft. I still haven’t heard much more than a syllable from him.<br />
<br />
“Hey,” he whispers to her when he is in the kitchen. I don’t want to listen to them. I don’t want to listen to my mother be sweet and morning-y with anyone. I don’t want to hear her say romantic things. I don’t want her to even say romantic things at all. She’s a mother. She’s old now. She just needs to stop. But I listen anyway.<br />
<br />
A minute later, I watch him leave. I hear the heavy creak and slam of his truck door, but no engine. He doesn’t drive away.<br />
<br />
“Morning, Caroline,” my mother says, as she walks through. She’s holding a puppy in one hand.<br />
<br />
“When’s dad coming?” I ask and it feels like the meanest thing I’ve ever said.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
It’s already hot out and I have nowhere to be but it’s obvious they’re waiting me out. I make a big production of moving shoes around by the door, unlatching loudly, a heavy click shut, not a slam but the next best, blameless thing. I walk past the man in his truck and he rubs his beard again. There’s a part of me that respects his sheepishness. There’s a part of me that likes the way he smells.<br />
<br />
I walk past the truck, fighting a childish instinct to kick a tire or even wave. I don’t look up. I wonder if this man is having second thoughts. <i>I should never have messed with a mother</i>, he’s thinking. <i>I should never have messed with a married mother.</i> Or maybe just, <i>This girl hates me.</i><br />
<br />
And that’s when I see it: A box. It’s nestled at the edge of the driveway against the mailbox, but it’s not a mail-style box. No label, not even any tape. The lid is just tucked like a shoebox, but it’s a square, a perfect cube, and about the size of a box of pop tarts. Plain brown. I look behind me but there’s no movement. It’s unlikely this nice-smelling, awkward man even saw it. My father would flip out, right now, not about the man in the truck gently waking my mother up (although: yes he would), but about the fact that I am about to open an unmarked box. He was raised in a war-ravaged country, half a world away, and always told us how all the parents of his homeland taught their children to panic about anything unattended. “A bomb,” he’d say. “You never know what might be a bomb.” But other times he’d also say, in the same grave tone: “A line, you never know what it might be for, so get in it.” I’d tell him we’re in suburban California, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say most things are not bombs and no lines ever give out free food. He’d get a faraway look in his eyes and say, thickly accented, far thicker than usual, “You have it so easy, my love.”<br />
I open the box.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The last time I had a friend over, which was the last time I had a friend I was willing to invite over, which was the last time I had a friend who was willing to come over, was a month ago, before the incident. The incident being, of course, in the last week of school when I told Kira Holloway that she was a cunt, and that her boyfriend Mac was also a cunt, and Mac, unfortunately for me, was just walking up and he overheard, and has no impulse control, which is part of why I didn’t like him in the first place, so he pushed me into the boys’ bathroom and pushed me again and then kept pushing me some more until my face was fast against the wet inside of a urinal. It split my lip and gave me two different goose eggs on my forehead and none of the administrators ever got far enough into the motive to hear that I called anybody a cunt. The other kids, however, all knew, and when Mac, their favorite golden boy was expelled, and his girlfriend Kira was more forlorn than usual, word got out that it was my fault.<br />
<br />
My mother thought it was her fault.<br />
<br />
My father thought it was his fault.<br />
<br />
I wonder if truck man knows about it and I wonder if he thinks it’s his fault.<br />
<br />
The day before, Kira and her younger sister Kristin walked home with me after school, and Kira spent the entire afternoon reminding Kristin which of them was the inferior, less perfect sister. Spoiler: it’s Kristin. The next morning, at our lockers, when I noticed Kristin drinking a Slimfast and frantically trying to smooth down her wispy hair, I couldn’t really stop myself.<br />
<br />
It backfired, sticking up for Kristin, because now Kristin won’t talk to me. Maybe it’s fear of retribution from Kira, or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that she hates me too.<br />
<br />
I haven’t spoken to anyone at school since the urinal.<br />
<br />
Since all the cunts I said.<br />
<br />
I don’t know if just one occurrence of cunt would have done the trick, but definitely the two cunts have sealed my fate: it’s not like anyone is gonna bring me any gift boxes.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Behind me, I hear the truck door swing open and shut, and the man isn’t even looking behind him as he approaches the house. I decide that maybe this is okay, that maybe even my dad knows about it, and maybe it hasn’t been happening before he moved out, or nested-out or whatever it is my parents are going to call it, because this man seems to really suck at sneaking around.<br />
<br />
I look inside the box. Beneath a nest of cotton, like the inside of vitamin bottles, is a key. I’ve seen this key before, or at least one just like it. A skeleton key, cliché and vintage, but it’s probably brand new from the hardware store. It looks just like the one for our garden shed. Beneath the key is a photograph, a Polaroid, and it’s me, and I’m happy. I don’t know when this was taken. I don’t remember this smile or who I was smiling at. But in the picture, I’m reaching to tuck my hair behind my ear and I can see the rings I’m wearing, the rings I’m still wearing. It’s fuzzy but they’re mine.<br />
I don’t know what it means.<br />
<br />
When I unlatch our splintery gate and walk into the backyard, I hear soft, high whines of all the dogs in the kitchen and I think that I should probably help my mother with them, or I think she should probably help me with this, but neither of those things happens. I don’t really want to see her, and I don’t want to have to show the man with the truck this box, and I don’t want to have him step up and be supportive and like a father figure. I think of the pups, piled up around their mother, lined up, driven only by hunger, getting in the lines of my father’s childhood. They don’t even know fear yet.<br />
<br />
The key, shiny and new, fits into the old lock of the garden shed perfectly. I’ve been in here before but not in years. I don’t think anybody has come in here in years, and it somehow manages to smell exactly the same as always. Bags of potting soil plus fertilizer plus Round-Up plus warmed plastic flower pots plus rust. <br />
<br />
Affixed to the rotting wooden walls, though, with tiny, millimeter-thick nails, are copies of the same Polaroid picture, printed out on regular printer paper, rough-cut. <br />
<br />
I spin around, my stomach lurching. It’s so much eerier in chorus: all one day, the same outfit, the same unidentifiable background, brown and yellow, varying bright spots, dozens of mes. I pull one down and regret it because what if this is a crime and what if the police come and see my fingerprints on something and say listen, we are tired of following Caroline around with her fingerprints on crimes supposedly happening to her. Listen, maybe it’s time we took a closer look at Caroline. Listen, maybe she is doing this to herself, maybe she called them cunts, and maybe she slammed her own face against the porcelain and maybe she pinned her own pictures up on a wall. Listen. Maybe Caroline’s the problem.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
“Mom,” I said, flat, trying to be stern. Probably just sounding petulant. The house was still but I hadn’t heard the truck leave.<br />
<br />
“Honey,” she says, smiling, holding out a puppy in both of her hands, an offering. “Look at this one. The runt.”<br />
<br />
I take the pup from her. It’s warm and squirmy. I could kill this so easily. What if I held it wrong, or it squirmed too much and in steadying it, I broke its little spine? What if I dropped it? What if I am currently inadvertently applying pressure to a fatal weakness in the skull?<br />
<br />
“I gather you met Jesse,” she says, and she’s not sheepish. She’s just looking at me expectantly.<br />
<br />
“I didn’t meet him,” I say. “I let him in. Didn’t know his name was Jesse.”<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
I can’t remember the first time I noticed Jesse come over, and I don’t think my mother ever knew I had noticed. Seems they’d make a point to only meet up after I’d left the house. But they weren’t ever <i>new</i>, in that awkward sort of way. They always just seemed like they’d been friends for years. Once, I had left for school but turned around to grab a book I’d forgotten. Jesse’s truck pulled into the driveway and he got out, hurrying up to the door. I walked back up to the porch and listened through the door as they laughed about old stuff, things they’d done together, people they both knew. I didn’t know where she’d met him, or how long they’d known each other, but they each could barely get a word in edgewise. They talked nonstop, equally, well, maybe my mother a little more than the man, or maybe it’s just because her voice was louder, pointier, and his was soft and almost illegible through the door. My mom and dad hardly ever talked. I couldn’t remember whether her voice was louder than my father’s. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard their voices wrap around each other like that.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
“Jesse,” she calls, and he appears from the dining room with a coffee mug in one hand and a puppy in the other. How many pups are there?<br />
<br />
“Nice to meet you,” he says, and I think if I were him I’d be glad to have something to do with my hands. I try not to squeeze the runt. I nod.<br />
<br />
“Mom,” I say, again, remembering why I’m in here. “There’s something fucked up in the shed.”<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
But the shed was empty again. Just bags of potting soil plus fertilizer plus Round-Up plus warmed plastic flower pots plus rust. As my mother and Jesse watched behind me, I ran my fingertips along the rotting wood, searching for tiny nail holes, but the wood was too porous to make anything out.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
“I think I remember this,” my mother said, back in the kitchen, holding the original photograph up to the light. “Wasn’t this prom?”<br />
<br />
“I’m wearing a <i>flannel</i>. I didn’t go to the dance, remember?”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” she says. “Right.”<br />
<br />
Jesse has yet to really speak much to me, and I try to imagine being him. I think I’d probably do the same. I don’t think I’d overcompensate and try to make small talk about how my summer is going or what grade I was in or movies this or music that. I think I’d say as little as possible. I think I’d want someone feeding me lines in one of those secret service earpieces if I was ever a man having to talk to the teen-aged daughter of my lover. I shudder at the thought of the word lover.<br />
<br />
“These keys are a dime a dozen,” she says. “They’re all identical.”<br />
<br />
I pick up a puppy and then sit down anyway, next to the pile. The puppies all seem the same to me, too. I count five. Jinx starts licking at one puppy’s butt and I watch her drink the newborn shit right out of its asshole.<br />
<br />
“I’m not making this up,” I say.<br />
<br />
“I know, honey.”<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Jesse stays the night and it’s the first time.<br />
<br />
Two soft taps and the swish of my bedroom door against the thick carpet. I know it’s my mom even though I’m facing away.<br />
“Caroline,” she says. “Jesse is gonna stay here.”<br />
<br />
I don’t say anything because I think it’d all be mean.<br />
<br />
“I mean, for you.”<br />
<br />
I flip over in bed, looking at her.<br />
<br />
“I’m worried about the picture,” she says. “So maybe it’s for me, too.”<br />
<br />
“I thought you weren’t worried,” I say.<br />
<br />
“I mean,” she trails off. “I suppose I am.”<br />
<br />
My room hasn’t changed since middle school. I wonder if we weren’t doing this bullshit nesting thing, if we’d just gotten two new smaller houses like most divorced families get, I’d have a chance to redo my room. Two rooms! Maybe I wouldn’t feel like such a shithead kid if I didn’t have such a middle school room. Maybe that would help. Maybe a new room or two new rooms would mean I’d find new friends, new neighbors, and they’d come over and we’d have new fun, two sets of new fun. Instead I have this old room, in a nest, a nest where someone knew to leave a picture. A dozen pictures. Why can’t I remember the picture?<br />
<br />
When my mom leaves the room I think: What if it’s Jesse.<br />
<br />
I quickly tiptoe, my heart stupidly racing, out of bed and lock my door, but I never brushed my teeth or washed my face, and I’ll probably break out on my chin now for two weeks as punishment for just one night.<br />
<br />
Sometimes when I’m upset, or worried, I’d lure Jinx up the stairs to sleep in my room, though she was a trained and obedient dog to a fault and would never climb up on my bed and sleep at my feet like I’d always imagined a good best friend dog would do. I’d have to settle with knowing she was in the room, or I’d pull my pillow and blanket down on the floor and curl up next to her. Like my mom this morning. Did my mother do that for her needs or for Jinx’s? I wonder if Jesse found that endearing, the interspecies midwifery of his new love.<br />
<br />
But my door is locked and I don’t want to go down there, and Jinx’s puppies need her anyway, and I’m not sure I could carry all five of them upstairs and they’ve been pissing and shitting all over the kitchen tile anyway. Too little to know anything. Hunger. No fear. Piled up, lined up for dog milk.<br />
<br />
I sleep, somehow.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The sun is barely up when I leave my room. It’s gray out, misty, not hot yet, and everything feels cloaked in the earliness. In the kitchen, my mother is on the floor again, a pillow and a blanket carefully arranged in a way that makes me think she fell asleep there and Jesse brought her the blankets to tuck her in. Of course he knows where we keep our blankets. Was he excited for the puppies to be born? He’s on the living room couch, no blanket. I stop and watch him for a second from the doorway. Kind of handsome. He’s scruffy, rugged, but soft-looking. I’ve never really looked at him this much.<br />
<br />
Outside, the grass in the backyard soaks the bottom of my feet, the hem of my pajama pants. It’s not as cold as I want it to be. It’s not as cold as it looks.<br />
<br />
The shed is unlocked, which for a split second makes me think: <i>Good, because I came out here without the key</i>, but really I should be disturbed. Really, I should not be opening this door without feeling disturbed and scared. I feel nothing except compulsion to open the door.<br />
<br />
Inside, grey morning light spills in through the open door and it’s soil plus fertilizer plus Round-Up plus warmed plastic flower pots plus rust. Plus the pictures are back. It seems tidy. It seems like they’re meant to be there. They look nice there.<br />
<br />
I run back inside. I almost slip, dewy feet against pristine kitchen tile, which my mother mopped at least six times yesterday on account of dog birth, on account of pup bathroom.<br />
<br />
Back in my room, I climb into bed and shiver.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
My mother is about to call the police. “Non-emergency?” she asks, and I think she’s asking Jesse. “Remember that time with the weird guy outside the bar and we called non-emergency?” she asks, and they both smile, and they’re having some sort of nostalgia moment and I want to ask <i>just how fucking long have you known each other</i>, but now’s not the time. I don’t really want this to be an emergency. I want it to be a sweet nostalgia moment in a few years or in a month or in a few hours.<br />
<br />
“Maybe 911,” Jesse says, and his voice is as quiet as I expect it to be. Kind. A suggestion of an opinion. A don’t blame me if it’s the wrong option. A don’t blame me for not being a good father figure right now. A don’t blame me for getting mixed up with the mother of a teen-aged daughter.<br />
<br />
But before they can call anyone, the phone rings, and Jinx barks, and all her newborn pups startle, crying more than barking. Something pisses on the kitchen floor.<br />
<br />
“Hello?” my mother says, and then hands me the phone. “It’s for you.”<br />
<br />
I stare at her and don’t reach for the phone.<br />
<br />
“It’s Kristin,” she says. The last thing Kristin said to me was nothing.<br />
<br />
“Kira is fucking with you,” is all she says. “I just want you to know. And I just—” she pauses, and her voice is ashamed. “I, like, don’t want you to get Kira in trouble.”<br />
<br />
I hold the phone to my ear in silence. Kristin doesn’t say anything else. I want my mother to think there’s a long explanation going on, although she can probably hear the absence of telephone voice from where she’s standing. I want Jesse to think I have friends, though if he’s been coming around here every morning, though if he’s known my mother long enough to have <i>remember that one time?</i> memories, he probably knows everything about me. He knows about the urinal. He knows about how I cried the first night my father wasn’t at the “nest.” He knows me, and I don't know him.<br />
I press the button to hang up and hand the phone to my mother.<br />
<br />
“It’s nothing,” I say.<br />
<br />
“Caroline…”<br />
<br />
“It’s <i>nothing</i>.”<br />
<br />
They look at each other, my mother and Jesse. Jesse’s all right. For someone who shouldn’t have messed with a mother he’s doing all right. I’m pleased with my ability to have a generous heart in this moment. I feel like I’m doing something noble.<br />
<br />
“Forget about the pictures,” I say. “Just don’t call anyone.”<br />
<br />
“Caroline,” my mother says, and it’s her warning voice, her <i>I’ll get to the bottom of this</i> voice, her <i>you can’t lie to me; lying just gets you more in trouble, young lady</i> voice.<br />
<br />
“It wasn’t Kristin,” I say. “I’m not worried.”<br />
<br />
My mother steps towards me. My mother, who I feel like maybe I don’t know any more, or maybe I knew all along but she changed before my eyes today or maybe last month or maybe when her daughter was violently beaten by a boy, or maybe when my father didn’t exactly move out, or maybe when she met Jesse, weeks or months or years or decades ago. She pulls me into a hug, her arms warm. She smells like Jinx, and like PineSol, and like Jesse: soap and sandalwood and oranges.<br />
<br />
When she pulls away, Jesse isn’t in the room. I look over her shoulder and see him in the shed, standing just one rung up the step ladder and pulling down all the pictures. He turns one around in his hands. I wonder if he’s trying to solve this. I wonder if he’s thinking about his fingerprints all over these weird pictures of this woman’s teen-aged daughter, at a house his truck is always parked in front of from mid-morning on. I wonder if he’s like me, picturing the police piecing it all together and pointing to him, and in a way it makes me feel fond of him. I smile at my mother.<br />
<br />
“Jesse—” I start.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” she says.<br />
<br />
“He’s okay.”<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
That afternoon we take the pups to the Humane Society, but we’re turned down. <i>Come back in a few weeks</i>, they say. <i>Bring the mother dog, too,</i> they say. <i>You really should get her spayed ASAP</i>, they say. <i>The runt is not going to survive the night</i>, they say. <i>We recommend you leave it here and we can euthanize it for you</i>, they say. I chide my mother for not doing research on any of this, but the longer we keep the puppies, the longer we’ll fall in love with them and keep one, but all I am thinking about is how the one we love the most is going to die tonight.<br />
<br />
“It was Kira,” I say. “The pictures.”<br />
<br />
My mom glances over. I watch the bones in her hands clench, jutting from her freckled skin as she grips the steering wheel.<br />
<br />
“I called your dad about it,” she says. “He should know this, too.”<br />
<br />
We drive past Kristin and Kira’s house, a crate of dogs at my feet and the runt on my lap, its breathing slow and intermittent, and these puppies only know hunger and maybe they’re learning the warmth of their mother, maybe they’re learning the warmth of me and my mother, maybe even Jesse, and maybe when it’s his turn to nest, my dad, too. They don’t know what to be afraid of. They see a line, and they get in it. And I think of my dad, and I think of how he knew to end his marriage, how he knew when a line was worth waiting in and when to get away from maybe-bombs. A dog and a girl learn where the dangers are, somehow, eventually. I only run from one danger into the flameburst of another.<br />
<br />
“I miss dad,” I say, one hand beneath the runt, the other hand on top, a cradle. I try to forget how it’s going to die tonight. I wonder if it will bleed. “And when I’m with dad I miss you.”<br />
<br />
“Me too,” she says. “And.” She pauses, presses a flattened palm to the side of her face, dragging it down her cheek. She looks old and tired but not distraught. “And so does your father.”<br />
<br />
I lift the runt up to my face, my mouth, and breathe in its puppy smell, sweet, dried milk in every wrinkle. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Julia Dixon Evans</b> is author of the forthcoming novel "Mother Father Daughter Burn," (Dzanc Books, 2018). Her work can be found in Pithead Chapel, Flapperhouse, Hobart, and elsewhere. For more, visit <a href="https://juliadixonevans.com/">juliadixonevans.com</a> or follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/juliadixonevans">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Andrés Montiel</b> was born in Adrogué, Buenos Aires, Argentina, and has been passionate about art since he was a young child. His journey in the field began when he became friends with a group of young artists who used to enjoy trips to the country to paint the landscapes. These early experiences would play later an important role in his work imprinting a romantic halo in his approach to painting. After studying with some successful Argentine artists in the city, Andrés enrolled in the P. Pueyrredon National Fine Arts College in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he studied fine arts and teaching. In addition to having his work exhibited in solo and group shows in the United States and Argentina, he has received numerous awards. Montiel’s paintings can be found in private collections around the world including Argentina, the United States, Israel, Canada, Spain, France, Australia, and Germany. For more, visit <a href="https://www.montielart.net/">montielart.net</a> or follow him on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/andresmontielart/">Facebook</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Jbdub113</b> is the pseudonym of Boston-area musician Jonathan Woodard (The Wrong Chaneys, Johnny Woodard and the Handsome Homeless, Dilly, Lono, Doom Arm). When he is not spreading the word of music, searching the depths for weirdness, or cheering on his beloved Celtics, he can be easily found at home with his cats and his Kate.<br />
<br />
</i> <br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-7352245552623897622017-06-19T09:30:00.000-04:002017-06-19T09:30:07.032-04:00ISSUE #145: Janet Frishberg, Andrea Sparacio, University Drive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pDRwcAkSV9Q/WUQKPiAxRwI/AAAAAAAACyQ/yq6g6jtZHg8kUFxGjpEe-0TMI5tLpnxJACLcBGAs/s1600/Andrea_Sparacio_artsparrow.jpg" width=600><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by Andrea Sparacio</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>TO KNOW, AT LEAST<br />
by Janet Frishberg</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>They sat in a therapist’s office on opposite ends of a pale green couch, and the therapist asked Mina, “What would you say to them, your unborn babies? Just imagine. The egg dropping from your ovary this month and being shed, along with the lining. Close your eyes.” The therapist paused a few moments, waiting. <br />
<br />
Kevin watched Mina trying to keep her eyes closed, eventually squeezing them shut in a way that looked like a grimace. <br />
<br />
“Tell me what you’d say to them if they were sitting in front of you on the floor, between us here.”<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/s/j6kkcvpyfw9jh8k3dhxfzpcx36c58o7z" width="400" height="120" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #145 soundtrack: University Drive “You Won't See It”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
“I’d tell them,” Mina said, flattening straight black bangs over her forehead, “I’m sorry. This is sad, isn’t it? I’d tell them I was just trying—”<br />
<br />
“Talk to them directly. Picture them in front of you,” said their therapist.<br />
<br />
“I just wanted to bring you into a good environment. Two parents who loved you. If you were going to exist. The right place. That’s all I wanted for you. One where you could totally, really be yourselves.” She was crying in a way Kevin only ever saw her do in this particular room. “I’m sorry I won’t get to know you, I think that’s what I’d say.”<br />
<br />
“And you, Kevin? What would you want to say to them?”<br />
<br />
He shook his head. Their conversation sounded like a movie script to him, not every week but this week in particular. In twelve days it’d be his thirty seventh birthday. He held his hands out open on his legs; his empty palms looked to him like the opposite of violence. <i>This is your real life</i>, he’d tell himself in the burnt orange waiting room. When he didn’t speak, Mina folded in half and laid her head sideways in his lap, her face staring towards the plant in the corner of the room, her hair spreading out over his knees as a small, dark blanket might.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
What they avoided inside the apartment together was most things, except what concerned physical objects: <i>Can you please wipe down the kitchen table/I did the laundry/did you call the plumber/what record tonight/this morning/it’s too loud for me, sweetie/how old is this ketchup anyway?</i> He never knew he would be linked to someone by such banality. <br />
<br />
And in Target, at the local hardware store, rare treks to Costco, were the actual arguments about how many spatulas they needed to buy. About what size and color trashcan the bathroom deserved. Mina saying, “I just think a red one would be <i>fun</i>, okay?” and Kevin, twenty minutes later, rolling his eyes at the frivolousness of it while they wheeled their cart through the parking lot, red trashcan inside. <br />
<br />
Then he stood, riding the cart towards the lot’s edge with his hands up like a child on a roller coaster, until it locked, and he fell off and laughed. He turned around to smile at Mina, but she was already sitting in the passenger seat of their sun-roasted Toyota, frowning at her phone.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The therapist asked them to talk about their childhoods with each other. <br />
<br />
Kevin told Mina about his shaved blond hair, the way the edges of his forehead burned and tanned and burned again in San Diego sun. The light bounced off everything there, but mostly cars. This is where he remembers growing up most: the backseat. He told Mina about his brother David, who always knew what he wanted and what everyone else wanted, too. David set the table; he pointed to where they should each sit. Their parents followed David’s hands towards chairs, smiling like this was a very good thing, to have a child so determined. <br />
<br />
Kevin told her about holding his down pillow over one ear at night, to drown out the unremarkable yelling of middle class, assimilated suburbia. There was one other Jew in his grade; they weren’t friends. Kevin swept the kitchen floor in the mornings before school and believed it made a difference. What Kevin kept secret as a child and what he didn’t want to tell Mina as an adult was the fact that he believed in God, like <i>actually</i> believed, and the way he wished with held breath, whenever they drove through tunnels, for everyone to just like each other.<br />
<br />
Mina spoke of being a girlchild, this was her word, in the woods of Northern California. He imagined her walking on dirty tiptoes to creeks and sucking small rocks in her mouth while she waded across clean water, the kind that sparkled. She told him she always wondered if this was the recipe to becoming a mermaid. Before Mina studied public policy and refugee camps and the displacement of humans, and became too afraid of the world to be certain she should have children, she ate vegan for days at a time without knowing to call it that and prayed to places not people. She plucked fennel from the edges of dirt trails, chewing the green spindles carefully, until all the flavor was gone, and then spitting it into the bushes like a gooey sac of spider eggs.<br />
<br />
He’d seen pictures of little Mina with the exact same straight-across bangs she’d return to twenty-four years later. She said she wore her dead father’s work shirts until they became dirty enough to soften with soil and fog. She grew thick pink scars along the fronts of her calves from sticks and falling, the murmurs of which could still be seen on her legs, and she read supine on the rug in the front hall, under a chandelier whose ornate light bulbs never seemed to need changing. <br />
<br />
Before she was instructed to tether herself to the world and cared about things like kitchen utensils and the color of her garbage receptacle, she told Kevin how she held on to nothing but her own firm thighs in bed at night while she fell asleep. Or, by day, the found bones of a wild quail in her sweaty palm. These miniature treasures she said she told no one of then, but kept hidden in a lilac-painted wooden box on her bookshelf.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
It was not enough—to try to know each other as children. Mina moved out of their apartment, driving to sun-roasted Phoenix, where her sister lived. Almost eight months after she’d left, when the greasy cupboards and the creaking hallway floor and the slow-draining shower became too noisy with the voices of what he’d lost, Kevin started walking his neighborhood at night, sneaking out of his condo, a reverse burglar. Even just one block north of his street, the landscape surprised with buildings he’d never seen before. <br />
<br />
One Thursday night, wandering, he remembered his brother David, dressed as the Hulk. It was the Halloween David was sixteen and Kevin almost thirteen; he knew because he was soon-to-be bar mitzvahed. He helped David apply the green paint to his skin, his nineteen-years-dead brother who could not now verify the facts of the evening or explain why exactly they were home alone one Halloween weekend as teenagers.<br />
<br />
Alone, the boys ate deep-dish pizza in David’s bedroom, and Kevin felt on the edge of all kinds of adulthood, this eating of messy foods in forbidden places. Later, but before they left the house, David handed Kevin a bunch of Smarties and then a slightly smaller something, the size of a mint. “What is it?” Kevin asked, holding the tiny white pill between two fingers. <br />
<br />
“Just swallow it, pussy,” David said, double-checking the edges of his face paint in the hallway mirror.<br />
<br />
In cool, foggy, dark air almost thirty years later, walking his now-unfamiliar neighborhood, Kevin blessed drying concrete, gutter trash, strangers in candlelit restaurant windows: <i>kadosh, kadosh, kadosh</i>, like he once sang as a child, lifting his young heels towards heaven, the way he once prayed as a boy about to become, they told him, a man. <br />
<br />
And as he walked the quiet humming streets, he tried to find what evidence could justify this new, absurd lightness in his shoulders, the tingling in his hands. He thought of belated birthday presents sent three months late, arriving in the mail with no expectation or predictability. He hoped, and doubted, and hoped.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Janet Frishberg</b> is a writer who lives and works in San Francisco. She writes fiction and nonfiction and has recently had work published in The Rumpus, WhiskeyPaper, Human Parts, Lunch Ticket, Gigantic Sequins, and The Manifest Station. For more, visit <a href="http://www.janetfrishberg.com/">janetfrishberg.com</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Andrea Sparacio</b> is an illustrator based in Brooklyn. Her artwork has appeared in Apartment Therapy, NARAL Pro-Choice America's <a href="https://www.prochoiceamerica.org/gender-card-playing-cards/">Gender Cards</a>, Harper's Bazaar en Español, Vogue Pattern Magazine & more. She enjoys painting monstery-weirdos and works under the close watch of a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BMcE2o_j2dl">tailless cat</a>. Say hello at <a href="https://www.instagram.com/artsparrow/">artsparrow.com</a> + <a href="https://www.instagram.com/artsparrow/">Instagram</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>University Drive</b> is a four-piece based out of Scranton, PA, made up of Edward Cuozzo on lsad vocals/guitar, Steve Martin on drums/vocals, John Husosky on bass, and Mike Flaherty oin opening track from their most recent album, "On/Off:Reset," which released this Spring from <a href="https://fightlessrecords.com/">Fightless Records</a>. For more, visit the band on <a href="http://www.fanlink.to/UniDrive">Fanlink</a> or follow them on <a href="https://twitter.com/uni_drive">Twitter</a>. <br />
<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-28718921615064406672017-06-05T09:30:00.001-04:002022-03-03T13:23:41.874-05:00ISSUE #144: George Smith, Tracy Kerdman, Stephen Frost<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-764UQb22Dkw/WTBdt8gt7xI/AAAAAAAACx4/WYdkJkQiMjo-IL-WYbmwbIWC_uBliHrZACLcB/s1600/Tracy%2BKerdman%2B-%2BHusband.jpg" width=600><br />
<div align="right"><i>Art by Tracy Kerdman</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>LOOKING FOR LOVE<br />
by George Smith</b></big><br />
<br />
<p><b><i>1: An Imagined Introduction</i></b><br />
<br />
“Hi. Sorry. I don’t want to bother you, but I’ve seen you around a lot, and I guess I feel compelled to introduce myself, as we seem to occupy the same space sometimes.” <br />
<br />
I tell her my name. <br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/hcrky6icwnc1fz4m7dsb2ka30rle9j31?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #144 soundtrack: Stephen Frost “Vagrants”</b></center><p><p><p><p>“Anyway, I just felt compelled to do that, to introduce myself, because I was starting to feel uncomfortable, having seen you around so much without having introduced myself. That said, I probably wouldn’t introduce myself to you, to be honest, if I didn’t find you extremely physically attractive. If you ever want to join my table you’re more than welcome, and if you never join my table that’s fine, too, obviously. I like to meet new people, but I’m terrible at meeting new people, clearly. But I’m actually good at talking, which you’ll figure out if you ever decide to come talk with me. I’ll leave now because I don’t want to infect your space, but, as I said before, you’re always welcome to join me. I’m actually an extremely relaxed person, and the act of telling you all this is probably the least relaxed thing I’ve done in a long time, and I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it. It’s because I find you extremely physically attractive, I guess. That’s why.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>2: Why Am I Doing This Again?</i></b><br />
<br />
A window table opens up, so I take it. I hadn’t enjoyed sitting in the dark corner next to the ATM, and I can see The Beauty just as well from this window table. I wonder if she has any idea that I come here to see her. <br />
<br />
If she wanted me to talk to her, she wouldn’t be wearing headphones, so I’ll just look at her occasionally and hope she’ll come over and talk to me.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I start to write something only to realize I’ve written the exact same thing before; I hope this will not become a trend. Maybe I’m destined for idiocy. There must be a better response than resignation.<br />
<br />
Robert Lowell would write when he was in a mania. He would produce a lot of garbage, then go back later and whittle it down. I think that’s the thing for me to do, considering my current state. Yes, the main thing for me to do right now is to make everything contribute to the generation of new material, which is something I can finally allow myself to do freely, without restraint, since I have finally finished work on my novel, which will probably never get published. <br />
<br />
But now I’m only watching The Beauty, who has taken off her headphones, possibly signaling she wants me to talk to her. <br />
<br />
Potential title for this story: “Mania.” Another potential title would be “The Stalker,” with all of the parts coalescing into a heartbreaking portrait of loneliness. <br />
<br />
But I’m pretty sure The Beauty has worked in the same French restaurant for at least a year, so how interesting can she actually be?<br />
<br />
A little dog is riding down the sidewalk in a little red wagon. Wasn’t there a nice poem about a little red wagon? If I could remember everything I’ve ever read, I don’t doubt I would still be an idiot. The reflection of neon on glass. The glass of the window. I feel much better next to the window because I can look at it and see what’s outside. Close the door someone has left open, or let the door stay open, even though my cardigan and sweatshirt are on the table, not on my body? Leave the damn door open. Yes, leave it open. I’m way too inflamed by passion to care. It’s nice to see one of the men at the bar reading a book instead of a phone. <br />
<br />
I’ve almost completed a quarter of a century on this beautiful planet, and now, with a quick and definitive move, I’ve switched tables yet again, and here I am in the bright corner, nestled, protected, invulnerable to sneak attacks. I can see The Beauty just as well from here, and I still have a window. And yes, The Beauty wears nail polish; I can see it on the nails of her left hand, which she is holding against her hair— no ring. She wants me to know she isn’t married. But I don’t like nail polish. I prefer a focus on non-physical concerns, prefer the life of the mind and of the spirit. I’m talking about God now. <br />
<br />
It’s raining again. I wouldn’t have been able to know that had I been sitting in the dark corner. But obviously I could never stay in a dark corner for long. Call it part of my artistic sensibility. A pool ball, the white one, has rolled under my table, and I hand it to the man who has run over, happy to think about something else for a few moments.<br />
<br />
I go outside to see if I can see a rainbow. I do not, but I enjoy the cold fresh air.<br />
<br />
Back inside, a lady close to me says “paranoid delusional disorder” two times, probably to make sure I hear her.<br />
<br />
The Beauty still doesn’t have her headphones on. Should I talk to her? If I do, I will be, definitively, for the rest of our lives, in the weaker position. So I will never talk to her first, and she will probably never talk to me first, and we will probably never talk to each other. But why be sad when I can be busy being alive?<br />
<br />
She probably knows she does this crazy stuff to me. She has probably done this crazy stuff to boys before, but why will she not talk to me? I’m beautiful! Either way will be fine, and must be, for there would be no good reason for being otherwise. Just produce good work. There is, or should be, nothing else, despite what I actually want.<br />
<br />
What I should try to do is smile at her and see what happens. It’s hard to smile at her because she’s so powerful. And now she is walking out the door. Well, yes, now I (probably) know: this has all been happening in my head.<br />
<br />
Or not. I leave two minutes after her, having finished my beer, and, waiting to cross the street, I’m forced to stop for the stupid movements of a bus. When I finally make it across the street, The Beauty is exiting the grocery store. There are two recognitions and two smiles, and we continue our movements in opposite directions.<br />
<br />
Now she may know I come here to see her.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>3: The Beauty</i></b><br />
<br />
The Young Man would go to sleep thinking about the appealing women he’d seen over the course of the day. He never had any trouble remembering the details of these appealing women, though understandably the number of appealing women he’d seen would vary from day to day, depending on how many places he’d visited and the densities of bodies in those particular places. The average number of appealing women he would see in a day was four, though on some days he would never see any appealing women, and on some days he would see more than a dozen appealing women. But no matter how high the number, no clarity, in his mind, of an appealing woman was ever diluted. <br />
<br />
But, by the following morning, the images of these appealing women would always be erased from his mind. For years, none lingered…<br />
<br />
…until…<br />
<br />
The Beauty worked in a decent French restaurant. The Beauty didn’t take the orders, but she delivered the orders, asked if there was anything else she could get. The Young Man had trouble stopping himself from staring at her. The Beauty wasn’t a classic beauty, nor was The Beauty a modern beauty. The Beauty was just Beauty; you couldn’t put any adjective before it without diminishing it, lying. The Young Man thought The Beauty probably noticed how entranced he was by her, but The Beauty provided no indication of such an awareness. The Young Man liked that. It was all The Young Man could do to not rave about The Beauty to his dinner companion, his girlfriend of eight months.<br />
<br />
The Young Man went to bed thinking about The Beauty. His girlfriend seemed to be breathing louder than usual, but his initial annoyance shifted into the understanding that he could use his girlfriend’s breathing in his imagination of The Beauty. <br />
<br />
Of course The Young Man expected to forget about The Beauty by the following morning, as he had forgotten about all of the other appealing women he’d ever thought about while going to bed. <br />
<br />
But the next morning, The Beauty was still there.<br />
<br />
And the morning after that, The Beauty was still there.<br />
<br />
Within the week, The Young Man understood he needed to see The Beauty, in person, again. The next time his girlfriend proposed going out to dinner, he would propose the decent restaurant where The Beauty worked. The Young Man knew he should wait for his girlfriend to propose going out to dinner because he never proposed going out to dinner, and starting now would probably arouse extreme suspicion.<br />
<br />
The Young Man waited for his girlfriend to propose going out to dinner.<br />
<br />
When his girlfriend finally proposed going out to dinner one week later, she proposed a specific place. After some deliberation, The Young Man responded to her proposal with a counter-proposal of the decent restaurant where The Beauty worked. His girlfriend said she really wanted to go to the place she had proposed, adding that she didn’t think the decent restaurant where The Beauty worked was good enough. Food-wise, The Young Man agreed with her, but he told her that his main course had actually been very good, that they should go back there and she should order said main course. She told him OK, she would be willing to go back there sometime in the not-too-distant future, but on this particular night could they go to this other specific place, about which she’d heard very good things? He couldn’t help but agree to go to this other specific place, mainly because she paid for at least 80 percent of their meals, which she always said she was very happy to do because she made a lot more money than he did.<br />
<br />
The day after that dinner, they didn’t have any plans together. Why should he wait around for his girlfriend to go back to the decent restaurant where The Beauty worked? He still had a few teeth in his head and a few friends around town, so he decided to call up one of those friends for dinner.<br />
<br />
That night, The Young Man returned to the decent restaurant where The Beauty worked. This time The Young Man’s dinner companion was another man, though The Young Man had made sure to invite a gay man. The Young Man was very curious about whether or not The Gay Man would comment on The Beauty. The Gay Man didn’t comment on The Beauty, and The Young Man decided to not say anything about The Beauty either, worrying about being overheard. Instead, The Young Man concentrated his energies on smiling at and thanking The Beauty when she dropped off their shared appetizer and then individual main courses. Though The Young Man wanted to make and hold eye contact with The Beauty, as soon as her eyes met his eyes, his eyes would fly somewhere else. The Young Man assumed The Beauty knew what this meant.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, The Young Man went back to the decent restaurant with his girlfriend. The Beauty wasn’t there.<br />
<br />
However, the quality of the food had improved, and approximately three weeks later, his girlfriend proposed going back to the slightly decent-er restaurant. Once again, The Beauty wasn’t there, and the higher quality of their previous meal seemed to have been a fluke.<br />
<br />
Approximately one year later, after having returned to the decent restaurant with various friends and not his girlfriend 14 times and never seeing The Beauty there, The Young Man agreed to get married. <br />
<br />
Approximately one year later, The Young Man got married.<br />
<br />
The Young Man stopped thinking about The Beauty while going to sleep and returned to his former practice of thinking about the appealing women he’d seen over the course of the day.<br />
<br />
Approximately one year after The Young Man got married, he took an afternoon off and went to a bar for a beer. The Young Man drank the beer by the window, looking out, not thinking about anything specific. And then The Young Man saw The Beauty. The Beauty was walking by and she looked exactly the same as before, and she made eye contact with him through the glass. They both looked away, then made eye contact again, then looked away again. The Beauty was holding a cup of ice cream and a small spoon. As quickly as she’d entered The Young Man’s field of vision, The Beauty exited his field of vision. The Young Man wondered if he looked the same as he had before, the last time The Beauty saw him, or if he looked different, if he’d changed. <br />
<br />
Then The Beauty was back, examining a bicycle an old man was unlocking. The Beauty and The Old Man started talking, seemingly, judging from their gestures, about the bicycle. The Young Man assumed that The Beauty wasn’t actually curious about the bicycle, that The Beauty just wanted to be in The Young Man’s field of vision. For the purpose of…<br />
<br />
The Young Man finished his beer, stood up, made sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, and exited the bar. The Young Man moved down the sidewalk towards The Beauty. The Young Man and The Beauty made eye contact again, as The Beauty continued asking The Old Man a question. The Young Man tried to smile, then looked away and walked past The Beauty, not sure where exactly he was going, but very happy that he had seen what he had seen. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>4: An Imagined Confession</i></b><br />
<br />
“I can’t quite explain how you’ve changed my life,” I say.<br />
<br />
“Please elaborate,” says The Beauty.<br />
<br />
“You’ve changed everything. I even wrote a short story about you. And me.”<br />
<br />
“You wrote a short story about me?” <br />
<br />
“And me,” I say. <br />
<br />
“What’s the short story about?”<br />
<br />
“It’s about you and me.”<br />
<br />
“And?”<br />
<br />
“Well, the subtext, I guess, is that the narrator wants to spend the rest of his life with her.”<br />
<br />
“And her is me?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, her is you.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>5: Movie</i></b><br />
<br />
I’m rewinding the movie. Call me crazy. There’s something back there I didn’t see quite as well as I should. It’s a way his eyes are looking for a fraction of a fraction of a second. I want to pause the movie on that exact moment and take a photograph of it. For future reference.<br />
<br />
When I’m around other people, I usually feel like I don’t know what’s going on. Those other people have their own worlds, and I don’t know what those worlds are, how I fit into them. When there are more people around, there are more divides, and I feel more alone. <br />
<br />
But when I’m physically alone, it’s usually better because I only have one world to try to observe. I don’t do a good job of this either, but at least I can pretend I’m making some progress in fleeting moments.<br />
<br />
I recently decided to make a movie. I had a vaguely specific idea that I thought could work quite well if I worked at it hard for a long time. The one necessity, unfortunately, was Claire, my ex-girlfriend, whom I hadn’t seen in two and a half years, acting in one of the lead roles. She was the only person I could imagine who could play the role right, and though it wasn’t the lead role, it was still an extremely important role, crucial for the success of the movie. <br />
<br />
So I sent Claire an email, explaining that I was making a movie and would like her to act in it. I told her I would be happy to send over the script, if she had any interest. I hadn’t written a script yet, only had a few pages of notes that didn’t really add up to much. But I did have that vaguely specific idea in my head; I just hadn’t quite figured it out on paper yet. But that shouldn’t matter anyway— words on paper, that is— because this was going to be a movie. But nothing matters anyway because Claire never responded to my email. Maybe she doesn’t check that email anymore; maybe she thinks my email is ridiculous and doesn’t warrant a response; maybe she’s worried she still loves me too much to risk being around me. I don’t know. <br />
<br />
There’s a good chance that if she’d sent me an email before I sent her the email about acting in my movie, I wouldn’t have responded to her email and also wouldn’t have sent her the email about acting in my movie.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, life keeps moving along, and whether or not I move along with it is probably irrelevant. People worry about making incorrect choices, but the important thing to remember is that making the correct choice may often feel like you’re not making any choice at all— that is, deciding to do nothing for a while. <br />
<br />
I try to manipulate myself to be slightly on edge at all times. The trick is not pushing myself too far in one direction because I think something bad could happen. <br />
<br />
My movie idea almost definitely won’t work if Claire won’t play that crucial role. Which is fine. I certainly don’t need to make a movie, and it’s better anyway to write fiction than to make a movie because there are so many things that can go wrong with a movie. While many things can also go wrong with writing, when something does go wrong I have absolutely nobody to blame but myself. <br />
<br />
But it does get a little lonely, the writing.<br />
<br />
And I would like a woman in my life. Certainly not Claire in any sort of long-term way, but some woman. I don’t want to make any concessions, though, refuse to be somebody I’m not. So I don’t expect to have a woman in my life in any sort of long-term way for quite some time. I’ll be needing as much good luck as possible in that direction. I need God to introduce me to a good woman. <br />
<br />
I’m at His disposal.<br />
<br />
Yes, I am waiting, patient, for the signs, trying to watch my life as closely as I watch movies like <i>Barry Lyndon</i> (Stanley Kubrick), <i>The Darjeeling Limited</i> (Wes Anderson), and <i>Breathless</i> (Jean-Luc Godard).<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>6: The Absence</b></i><br />
<br />
It’s better this way, with The Beauty not here, for now I can focus on my work, which is quite demanding. But I should have gotten here sooner.<br />
<br />
At least I’ve found myself in a classy place. No gum under the tables.<br />
<br />
Where have all of these people come from, and where will they die?<br />
<br />
He wanted to see life as it was happening, though he knew this was asking too much.<br />
<br />
But he was grateful. He didn’t need to learn how to control his emotions because he didn’t have any.<br />
<br />
Being justifiably outraged lends itself to unforgivable behavior.<br />
<br />
At this rate, we will all be dead before we know it!<br />
<br />
He pretends he has finally reached the point where he no longer cares about what anyone thinks about him or anything else.<br />
<br />
But it isn’t always bad to be around people.<br />
<br />
Are we actually doing anything at all?<br />
<br />
Yes, he thought, I am lonely.<br />
<br />
Everyone wants to pet the dog like a fucking idiot. Either this dog is new, or this dog has cancer. If this dog does have cancer, then he deserves the attention and is, indisputably, also a great dog.<br />
<br />
He wonders how many people have noticed him sitting there in the corner, sipping his gin and tonic.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>7: An Imagined Consolation</i></b><br />
<br />
Though she might never love you, you may always love her. <br />
<br />
And who says she needs to know about it?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>George Smith</b> lives in San Francisco. His short story, "Flame Thrower," was recently published in <a href="https://www.litro.co.uk/2016/12/flame-thrower/">Litro.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Tracy Kerdman</b> studied painting at the College of Charleston where she earned her B.A. in Studio Art. In 2010, she moved to New York where she continued her study of painting at the National Academy Museum and School. Her work has been exhibited in Germany, Canada, New York and throughout the United States -- from the Korean Cultural Center in Los Angeles, to the Museum of Fine Arts in Tallahassee, Florida. Her painting, “At My Real Job” is the book cover art for Gallagher Lawson’s 2015 novel “The Paper Man”. She lives and paints in New York City and Saugerties, NY with her husband. For more, visit <a href="http://tkerdman.com/">tkerdman.com</a>, and follow her on <a href="http://tracykerdman.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Stephen Frost</b> looks for cheap inspiration in Richmond, Virginia and sometimes other places. His songs have been featured on a Singaporean children's show, in Brazilian nightclubs, European fashion ads, and blogs worldwide. He's a sellout at Stereo Couture, and also plays in bands ripping off gypsy/klezmer, Led Zeppelin, and The Jesus and Mary Chain. For more, visit his <a href="https://stephenfrost.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a> and <a href="http://stephenfrostmusic.com/home/">stephenfrostmusic.com</a>.<br />
<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-79925554889081992542017-05-22T09:30:00.000-04:002017-05-22T09:30:00.945-04:00ISSUE #143: Joe Worthen, Derek Bowman, Mail The Horse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YJCS1y-YYQc/WR-GLPWA5sI/AAAAAAAACxc/skF0m8mAD6YY075MffoZJH_7IZT9BOHGwCLcB/s1600/storychord143derekprofile.jpg" width=550><br />
<div align="right"><i>Art by Derek Bowman</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>WAITRESS<br />
by Joe Worthen</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>The waitress is on a hard couch with the SEO expert, and it’s late and something is burning. The waitress has a braid that has been eroded almost past recognition by a double shift. The braid has got to be examined up close to even seem like a braid. The braid is on the way out.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/ciconq8pwy6vg4uzfhvle3fz09n9xd64?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #143 soundtrack: Mail The Horse “Magnolia”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
The SEO expert leans in and says in a gentle monotone:<br />
<br />
“Let’s party all night and for the rest of our lives.” And the SEO expert has got breath that seems too hot, and the waitress says: “Oh my god.”<br />
<br />
Someone walks into the room with a tiny burned pizza on a plate. He looks up from the pizza to the waitress with an expression of grief. He looks to the SEO expert and almost says something but doesn’t. He takes the pizza outside to probably throw it away in the dumpster, but the waitress imagines him burying it under a starlit line of poplar trees. The whole apartment is filled with smoke. <br />
<br />
The SEO expert says:<br />
<br />
“This scene is bringing me down.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I’ve got work tomorrow,” the waitress says. The waitress has shifts like traffic all through her week. Every day. Always washing her black apron and her three black shirts and pulling them out of the machine in a warm black wad.<br />
<br />
“I know a place.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” the waitress says. “For a while.”<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The waitress has got an attitude that is pretty shit but has two beautiful, long-term hopes that sustain her. And her face is pretty, though her body is small and featureless, which is fine because she feels like she can be added to any setting, any situation, without changing it in any noticeable way. The waitress is always approaching tables and blending in to the conversation, taking orders and fading out. This process is invisible and surgical. The waitress does take notes on a pad because, to be honest, the waitress has got a memory that is pretty shit because she can never remember more than two things at once, especially wine orders. <br />
<br />
The SEO expert comes back from the bathroom.<br />
<br />
“You walk weird,” the waitress tells the SEO expert. <br />
<br />
“Everyone knows me by my swagger. Let me tell you about the particularities of my walk. I step with my right foot and bob twice, double-time, my head and my leg too, they both bounce real slight. Then I step with my left foot smooth, no bob. I developed this swagger over a week in September in 2004. I was eighteen. People see my walk now, and they know me. Even from a distance. Even in silhouette, they know I’m coming.” The SEO expert continues to walk in place without diminishing or accenting his swagger, and then he sits down and looks for a moment as if he’s about to cry.<br />
<br />
The waitress receives her drink, which is well tequila with no further instructions. The SEO expert gets a glass of water and some cocktail with a name. The waitress closes her eyes and sees the black wad floating in a void, slowly rotating like something very large or like something very small.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The waitress feels like she’s come a long way over her lifetime but has no proof and no sequence of sentences or stories that bring people over to her perspective. The response is always unspoken, but she knows it reads like: If you came so far, how are you still here? <br />
<br />
This apartment is real claustrophobic going on size alone, and there are also three dudes in there also who have been talking about a website. One of them gets up and puts <i>Blade 2</i> in the DVD player. One of them passes the waitress a bong. She accepts the bong, but it seems like way too much to handle for getting a little high. She doesn’t know whether to pass it or not, so she holds it and does nothing. She would like to, if possible, take it outside and bury it under a starlit line of poplar trees.<br />
<br />
The SEO expert takes it.<br />
<br />
“Puff puff pass, daywalker.” He blows out a cloud of smoke and whispers: “But do you mind if we watch this? I haven’t seen it in like three years. And there is a lot to appreciate, if you give it a chance.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t want to watch <i>Blade 2</i>. I think that’s normal and I shouldn’t have to defend myself,” says the waitress, quiet and direct.<br />
<br />
They watch all of <i>Blade 2</i>. The waitress is always surprised and delighted when Wesley Snipes hisses at someone. The waitress never hits the bong, but she breathes so much uncirculated weed air that by the end of <i>Blade 2</i> she is feeling pretty lifted. Then they put in <i>Blade</i> for context.<br />
<br />
“I’ve got work tomorrow,” says the waitress.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
They’ve got really nice bourbon here; the waitress knows the names of most of them. But she orders house tequila. The bartender, who is wearing a black vest and bow tie, pours it slow, with his chin tilted slightly away in reproach. There are oil paintings of dogs at staggered heights on all walls.<br />
<br />
The SEO expert says: “In a lot of ways, I’m just trying to fuck whoever. But it comes from a good place because I’m actually lonely.” He smokes and smokes and smokes until his pack is gone, and then he complains in slow, aimless whorls that begin with cigarettes and spiral into numerous other areas of dissatisfaction. The waitress thinks about telling him about her two hopes. The waitress thinks about telling him one of her hopes and holding the other one back. She wonders if she ever had a third hope that she forgot like some old woman’s Moscato order. <br />
<br />
The SEO’s glass of water is at that point that gives the waitress anxiety, just under half full, where she wouldn’t be sure whether to refill it or not. It could be too late or too soon. <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The waitress doesn’t feel drunk, and she worries that she will never fully understand anything. Like the world is always eclipsed by the body, and she’ll never see anything but a luminous outline of herself and have to live by this small light. Maybe even her body is eclipsed. Maybe this eclipse is caused by the black wad. The black wad that she cleans and dries every day. The black wad that knows her shape. The bar here is underground, and the bartender tells the SEO expert that it used to be a bank.<br />
<br />
“The vault is now a lounge,” the bartender says.<br />
<br />
“Do you guys need any SEO work done?” asks the SEO expert. “I’m trying to get a pool of clients together, and I think this place is pretty cool.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t have the authority to commit to anything,” the bartender says.<br />
<br />
“Maybe I’ll leave my card,” the SEO expert says, but he doesn’t produce it. Instead he says to the waitress: “Did you know that I did SEO for one of the Spice Girls? It’s something. A woman like that pretty much optimizes herself for Google.” The SEO expert delivers this line with a lot of troubled intimacy, and the waitress wonders for the first time if he’s a virgin. <br />
<br />
“Aren’t you going to drink some more of that water?” The waitress looks at the SEO experts glass, which is just under half full. He doesn’t drink any of it, though he looks at it for a little while. <br />
<br />
“This scene is sort of bringing me down,” the SEO expert says. The waitress looks at her clear, glossed nails.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The waitress does a little bit of cocaine in the bathroom and looks in the mirror. The braid is totally gone. That much is for certain. There was a point when she was young and the school bus picked her up early, when it was still dark, and took her into the city. The school bus drove her by an empty field where there was nothing but a line of starlit poplar trees. She doesn’t want to think too deeply about this memory because she’s afraid of what she’s buried in it.<br />
<br />
“They measure the alcohol here,” the SEO expert says. “They got machines on all the bottles that give you an exact pour. In the future, they will have a big device that makes all the cocktails and is full of tubes and rubber apertures and gaskets,” says the SEO expert. Like this is a simple fact.<br />
<br />
“No one wants to get drunk off the efforts of a machine,” says the waitress. There is a long pause here. The waitress realizes they might have been to this bar already. The layout is familiar, but all of the details seem new. The waitress realizes she will never be sure. The waitress is struck by a faint nausea that could maybe be the end of her small high.<br />
<br />
“Do you want something to happen?” the SEO expert asks and looks into her eyes.<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
“I want something to happen. With us.”<br />
<br />
“Oh my god,” the waitress says. She doesn’t like to explicitly talk about this sort of thing. She shrugs. The SEO expert kisses the waitress. His mouth is very warm, and he doesn’t touch her except to put one had on the back of her neck. But they stop and don’t begin to kiss again. The waitress checks the time on her phone.<br />
<br />
“I have work tomorrow,” says the waitress. The SEO expert tells her it’s still early, though it’s late, and the waitress is reassured.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Joe Worthen</b> is a writer from South Carolina. He spends most of his time sleeping and drinking cherry lime-aid on the porch. Other stories, interviews, comics, and news can be found via his website <a href="http://www.mezacht.com/">mezacht.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Derek Bowman</b> is an artist based in Greenville, South Carolina. He attended Savannah College of Art and Design where he received an M.Arch. He dotes on Bayern Munich, MMOs, ancient warfare, and his young son. Out of research, for him, comes inspiration, and he is continually intrigued through learning. For more, visit <a href="http://derekboman.com/">derekboman.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Mail The Horse</b> is a five piece that was born in a basement apartment known affectionately as the Gates Motel on Gates Avenue in Bushwick. The band has been playing the kind of rock and roll that makes lady-mullets stand on end since 2010. For more, visit <a href="http://www.mailthehorse.com/">mailthehorse.com</a>, stream or purchase tracks on <a href="https://mailthehorse.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a>, and follow them on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/mailthehorse/">Facebook</a>.<br />
<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-32467791825073395132017-05-08T16:54:00.000-04:002017-05-08T17:07:46.850-04:00CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: Now reviewing work for Summer 2017 issues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6jgo36kzseU/S4nA11FfDVI/AAAAAAAABOA/g-ZPf2NFKNY/s1600/storychordlogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6jgo36kzseU/S4nA11FfDVI/AAAAAAAABOA/g-ZPf2NFKNY/s1600/storychordlogo.jpg" /></a>Storychord.com takes a quick break from posting this week for a formal reading period. <br />
<br />
Want your work featured in an upcoming Summer issue? This reading period presents a perfect opportunity for fiction writers, visual artists, and bands to submit! <br />
<br />
Consult <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html">Storychord's submission guidelines</a> and send in your visual art (paintings, photography, illustration, mixed media/collage, etc.), short fiction, or songs for consideration. <br />
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If you are on Twitter, you can also click "Tweet" below to spread the word to the talented writers, artists, and musicians who follow you:<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-18064525600557004402017-04-24T10:00:00.000-04:002017-04-25T22:21:25.158-04:00ISSUE #142: Rona Simmons, Helena Kvarnström, Will Stratton<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UzU-h6IPJUA/WPeWsLW0qgI/AAAAAAAACk4/rKQC3BJDOVwgojmzt3syjh0srrLBxQmVwCLcB/s1600/hkvarstromstorychord.jpg" width=600><br />
<div align="right"><i>Photograph by Helena Kvarnström</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>THE REMAKING OF LILLIAN<br />
by Rona Simmons</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>Lillian packed everything she owned into the smaller of two suitcases stashed in the back of the closet she shared with Sullivan James. The closet was the only thing they had shared during their one-year marriage. They had his and her sinks in the bathroom, his coffee cups, her teacups, his magazines, her books.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/9wb37b7su3xdj1ywhmfhva83juqmpz3q?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #142 soundtrack: Will Stratton “Some Ride”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
Tomorrow Lillian James, no longer Sullivan James’ wife, no longer teacher of eighth graders, would begin life anew. Lillian’s sister, Belinda, had said, “You’re moving on. Turning the page, so to speak. Starting a second career.” After repeating another string of advice she’d pulled from the pages of Oprah magazine, Belinda had added what she thought was a knowing nod. But her sister only knew the half of it. The way Lillian saw it she was escaping the world of Belindas and Sullivans, a world stuffed with clichés and someone else’s expectations. Belinda and Sullivan would never understand. Even Lillian was unsure where she was going. Tomorrow was uncharted—as if she were entering the void at the edge of the known world.<br />
<br />
But this morning had been like any other of Lillian and Sullivan’s brief life together. With little more than a nod of recognition, they sat down to breakfast at seven, Sullivan burying his head in the newspaper, Lillian drumming her fingertips beside a bowl of oatmeal. She had pushed her thoughts of the day ahead from her mind and kept her face arranged as she had for the last year, a conforming half smile on her lips, calm brows, and her eyes fixed on her husband. She watched as he drained his cup of coffee, the prominence on his neck squirming with each swallow like a creature trapped under his skin. He folded his napkin, rose, pecked her on the cheek, and then headed for the door. Lillian shivered, waiting for “See you later, alligator,” the phrase Sullivan uttered every morning as he passed through the door.<br />
<br />
Lillian hurried to Sullivan’s study. She tore a page from a notepad squirreled away in his desk and penned a note short on details, no forwarding address, no phone number. The last thing she wanted was Sullivan to come after her. She printed her attorney’s name and address, wrote the word “Goodbye” in her teacher-precise script, then signed her name, Lillian James.<br />
<br />
At four o’clock, Lillian pulled the front door closed, dropped Sullivan’s spare key through the mail slot, and walked away.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Inside the furnished studio she had secured two weeks earlier, Lillian stretched a florescent orange top over her head and pushed her arms through the sleeves. She squinted at her reflection in the mirror. Sullivan had liked her “just the way she was,” he’d said once; and Lillian had let well enough alone. Her stub of a body appeared less like the forty-year-old self she imagined and more like the glow-in-the-dark fire hydrant in Sullivan’s corner lot.<br />
<br />
She turned and sucked in her tummy. From the rear, head twisted over her shoulder, her dimpled buttocks bulged where she had imagined two round, firm cantaloupes.<br />
<br />
Lillian sighed. The only thin aspect of Lillian James was her life. She’d grown up in a middle-class family, the second of three girls, in a middle-class neighborhood, in the middle of “fly over” country. She’d graduated from high school, then college, where she achieved an unremarkable fifty-sixth place in her graduating class, and then taken a job as a teacher. Eighth grade was an unremarkable grade, not seventh grade or ninth grade, the promising bookends of middle school.<br />
<br />
As a young woman, Lillian had dreamt a very different life. Two years ago, she’d tried to recapture the dream on a Roman holiday. She cringed at the memory. Twenty-five travelers and, of them, twenty were women about her age, most unmarried or, like Lillian, never married. They drifted from site to site in a loose gaggle, accompanied by an olive-skinned man who spoke with his hands, gesturing, pointing, throwing them in the air, and every so often sliding them along a shoulder or the small of a back. Paolo. Fellow travelers Wendy and Irene from Nebraska hung on his every word and jotted in little red notebooks secured by straps around their necks. They twittered when he came close, laughed, and gave him knowing looks when he flirted.<br />
<br />
He had flirted once with Lillian, too, after finding her alone on a second floor hotel balcony, the stars overhead, the moon a sliver hugging the rooftops. He pointed out the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, the Victor Emmanuel Monument, and the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, stepping closer with each attraction he named. The heat of his body was palpable, the heavy cologne overwhelming, the wine on his breath sharp. He tried to put his mouth on hers and his hand God knows where. He was in that near embrace when Wendy and Irene stepped onto the balcony. At the twin gasps, Lillian reeled back, bumped a table, and knocked a vase of flowers to the ground. For the rest of the journey, from Rome to Florence to Venice, Lillian walked the fringe of the group, keeping her distance from Paolo and his fluttering hands.<br />
<br />
Not long after the trip Lillian met Sullivan. They met by accident at a book signing, or rather at a bookstore where a signing was taking place. Neither had come to hear the obscure author discuss his equally obscure text, but instead collided in the fiction aisle where, as they discovered, they were seeking the same title. A conversation ensued, more on Sullivan’s side than Lillian’s, but he hadn’t tried to paw her or put his mouth on hers and so she agreed to a cup of coffee in the bookstore’s cafe. A month later they married.<br />
<br />
He found her exciting, for what reason Lillian never knew, but that’s what he’d said. And the Lillian from before had raised an eyebrow and accepted his words as fact. She’d guessed she was in love with him.<br />
<br />
In retrospect his life had been emptier than hers. He would smile and prod her to continue when she told him of her day, listening with rapt attention, whether she said bananas were fifty cents a pound or someone had had a flat tire on the highway.<br />
<br />
Sullivan had added nothing to her life. It remained thinner than thin. A big fat zero. White space trapped inside a circle.<br />
<br />
But Lillian would not face another day as her former self. She would not watch reruns of <i>Downton Abbey</i> or <i>Brideshead Revisited</i> with Sullivan or hear him say, “Whatever you want to watch is fine with me, dear.” She’d not babysit for Tina Marie, the seventh grade teacher, while Tina and her doting husband went out on a Friday night. She’d not unlock her neighbor’s home to check on Milo, empty his litter box, and change his water bowl while Sandra Foxworth sunned in Cancun. Instead, single again, Lillian would go to the gym and rebuild her body and maybe her life.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
The gym was a riot of chrome and steel under bright overhead lights. Between beats of what Lillian presumed was hip hop music, testosterone-infused grunts and groans echoed and metal clanged against metal as weights rose and fell.<br />
<br />
Eight treadmills faced her, seven grinding away as three women and four men slapped their feet against the belt like caged hamsters. Lillian approached the empty machine. She could walk, couldn’t she? That required no skill, although the keypad and lighted display panel did. Lillian stared at the buttons and dials. She punched “go” but the belt did not budge. Then a beep sounded and the lights on the dashboard flashed, mocking her.<br />
<br />
“You’ve got to push the green button,” a woman’s voice to her right said. “This one.” The woman on the next treadmill pointed to the green button on her own dashboard. She smiled and looked at ease despite the deep V of sweat on the throat of her gray outfit.<br />
<br />
Lillian nodded and smiled back. She pushed the button, and the belt crept forward.<br />
<br />
“First time?” the gray woman asked, one earbud in her hand as she spoke.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” Lillian said. Her feet were moving. It was all she could do to keep her balance and match her pace with the speed of the belt. She dared not look up again, but from the corner of her eye she noticed the gray woman jump off her machine and a flutter of fingers in the air as she left.<br />
<br />
“I was married for one month.” A male voice on Lillian’s left. She opened her mouth to speak, but saw the man was speaking to someone to his left. “Yeah, from Argentina. Met her, got engaged, got married. Her green card came in the mail thirty days later. And the next day she was gone. Vanished.”<br />
<br />
“You’re kidding?”<br />
<br />
“Wish I were. Cost me three hundred dollars to hire an attorney, place ads in the newspaper, and sue for material abandonment.” <br />
<br />
“No way!”<br />
<br />
“Way.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, and how about you? What do you do?” Another man had taken the gray woman’s place on Lillian’s right.<br />
<br />
“Well.” A pause. “I’m with the Secret Service,” a man to his right said.<br />
<br />
“Really?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, really. I live here but work out of D.C.”<br />
<br />
“No kidding? What do you do, that is, if you can say?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. Sure. I’m part of the First Lady’s detail.”<br />
<br />
“Sounds pretty interesting.”<br />
<br />
“I have a two hundred word Spanish vocabulary now.” It was the man to Lillian’s left again. “<i>Buenos Dias. Como esta? Arbole. Vestido.</i>”<br />
<br />
“Could have done Rosetta Stone for less.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not actually.” Back to the right. “And besides, she’s a pain in the ass. Nothing’s ever right. She’s had three other agents reassigned. You got to kiss ass and keep your mouth shut. Not my style, but it’s a job.”<br />
<br />
“How old are you?” From the left.<br />
<br />
“Seventy-eight. Been married three times.”<br />
<br />
“No kidding.”<br />
<br />
“Twice to the same woman.” <br />
<br />
Lillian was growing dizzy. She pressed the red button and prayed for the belt to halt. When it slowed, she stepped off and walked away.<br />
<br />
Along the far wall, astride another contraption, the gray woman whooshed back and forth in a rowing motion. Lillian approached the machine next to hers and took a seat. She gave a sideways glance at the gray woman to see where to place her feet and how to grab the pull bar. Then, again, she stared at the dashboard, flummoxed.<br />
<br />
“Looks like you need help.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll figure it out,” Lillian said.<br />
<br />
“No bother.” The woman rose and came to Lillian’s side. “By the way,” the gray woman said, “I’m Stella.”<br />
<br />
“Lillian.”<br />
<br />
“Nice to meet you,” Stella said, placing one hand on Lillian’s shoulder. “First you set your time. Here. Then your pace. Here.” Stella pointed at the dials on the dashboard, but her eyes stayed on Lillian’s face. “Then, slip your foot in here.”<br />
<br />
Lillian slipped her right foot into the stirrup. Stella pulled the strap over Lillian’s instep and tightened it. “How’s that?” she asked, her hand resting on Lillian’s ankle, her fingers warm against Lillian’s skin. Lillian held still, hoping Stella would not move.<br />
<br />
“Married?” Stella.<br />
<br />
Lillian picked at the florescent orange fabric where it stuck to her collar bone and breasts. “No. That is, I was.” She drew a hand across her forehead, wiping away beads of sweat. “I married a man from Argentina. Met him, got engaged, got married. His green card came in the mail thirty days later. The next day he was gone. Vanished.”<br />
<br />
“Really?”<br />
<br />
Stella rose and resumed rowing.<br />
<br />
“Yes. It cost me three hundred dollars to hire an attorney, place ads in the newspaper, and sue for material abandonment.” <br />
<br />
“No way!”<br />
<br />
“Way. Say, Stella, what do you do?” Lillian asked as she tugged the pull bar, sending her body in motion, matching Stella’s pace. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Rona Simmons</b> is the author of the contemporary suspense novel <a href="http://www.ronasimmons.com/current-release">The Martyr’s Brother</a> and two works of historical fiction, <a href="http://www.ronasimmons.com/other-books/the-quiet-room">The Quiet Room</a> and <a href="http://www.ronasimmons.com/other-books/postcards-from-wonderland">Postcards from Wonderland</a>, published by Deeds Publishing. She is a freelance writer and blogs for <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/rona-simmons-735">The Huffington Post Blog</a>. Her articles have been published in Deep South Magazine, Points North, and The Persimmon Tree. For more, visit <a href="http://www.ronasimmons.com/">ronasimmons.com</a> and follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/rona_simmons">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Helena Kvarnström</b> is a writer and photographer currently living in Hamilton, Ontario. Prints of her work and copies of her novella, Violence, can be found on her website: <a href="https://www.helenakvarnstrom.com/">helenakvarnstrom.com</a><br />
<br />
<b>Will Stratton</b> is a New York-based songwriter, composer, and arranger who was previously featured in Storychord as <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2010/08/issue-10-marcelle-heath-steph-thompson.html">Issue #10</a>'s musician and <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2014/01/issue-78-sean-adams-jamian-juliano.html">Issue <br />
#78</a>’s guest editor. His most recent album, Gray Lodge Wisdom, is available on <a href="https://willstratton.bandcamp.com/album/gray-lodge-wisdom">Bandcamp</a>, and his sixth album, Rosewood Almanac, will be released on <a href="http://bellaunion.com/artists/will-stratton/">Bella Union</a> on May 12th, 2017. For more, visit Will online at <a href="http://www.willstratton.net/">willstratton.com</a>.<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-62030341247527036462017-04-10T09:00:00.000-04:002017-04-10T10:00:55.820-04:00ISSUE #141: Sharla Yates, Hannah Richards, Kate Mick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--MKRsTgLrF4/WOpp3eEHxfI/AAAAAAAACkc/c9B9pecjMFsizTS_3R3IC84klmLnaRT5QCLcB/s1600/proprioception3at600pix.jpeg" width=600><br />
<div align="right"><i>Art by Hannah Richards</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>HEAVY DOES IT<br />
by Sharla Yates</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>We were seventeen. These guys—at least twenty-five. The shorter had a shaved head and wore jeans tucked into his Doc Martens. Introduced himself as Omar. His lanky friend, Rodney, wore all black and sandals and stood with slumped shoulders. They asked if they could bum a smoke—an obvious ploy to start a conversation.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/tw4ptyj5eezkaegga3huxv2f5m9bf9jl?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #141 soundtrack: Kate Mick “The Rain Cometh”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
“You can come back to the van, smoke some weed in exchange, but you have to promise to stay awhile,” Omar, the shorter, said. “No smoking and dashing.”<br />
<br />
I hadn’t decided if he was attractive or not, but leaning towards <i>not hot</i>. Their offer was an unplanned but fortunate turn of events. I looked at Jenny; she looked at the ground.<br />
<br />
Jenny had orange, silky red hair that made her hard to miss in a crowd even though she stood nine inches shorter and seventy-pounds lighter than me. She was quiet. I was not. By the way the two men kept glancing over my shoulder at her, I knew she was the reason they had approached our campsite, had bummed smokes from minors.<br />
<br />
“Sure,” I said.<br />
<br />
Omar’s van was a white VW bus with a black canopy, some sort of artifact from my parents’ teenage years. Not that my parents were hippies. They had only been contact high, if ever. Rodney pushed open the door. The insides were stark and dirty. The nostalgia made less remarkable. I stood with Jenny where we could still see our campfire. Ashes from our dinner plates floated into the trees. The moon spread thin over the river’s rippling surface.<br />
<br />
Omar said it had been a while since he had spent any time with Rodney. That they knew each other from high school.<br />
<br />
“We’re still <i>in</i> high school,” Jenny said. <br />
<br />
Rodney’s eyes met mine. <br />
<br />
<br />
Rodney would tell me later that year that though he was attracted to my friend, he will have forgotten her name by then, he knew he’d end up with me. He will also say that I ended his friendship with Omar, but it will be Omar I’m missing while he’s telling me this.<br />
<br />
But that, like so much of our story, will be later.<br />
<br />
<br />
Omar sat in the open driver’s-side door, under the campground’s one streetlamp. The light made half-moons on his glasses. He was grinning.<br />
<br />
“You listen to them?” Omar pointed at my Grateful Dead T-shirt.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t, but I did recognize the dancing bears from bumper stickers and figured they must be good.<br />
<br />
“How about The Butthole Surfers?” He turned the ignition key, pressed in a cassette tape, and an electric guitar’s slow strumming pulsed through the speakers. I was reminded of how an alien ship sounds in the movies when descending to Earth.<br />
<br />
“This album…” Omar nodded along, “is my entire life up to now. You want to know me, listen to this.”<br />
<br />
Rodney spoke up only to say where he lived—not far from where we were camping— over the hill—and that he was part Jewish and related to Chief Sitting Bull.<br />
<br />
I stuck out my tongue and sawed at my neck with my finger. “I’ll fucking cut my own throat if I hear another person say how their great-grandmother was an Indian princess.” I had given a similar tirade earlier that day. “What are we British or some monarchy?”<br />
<br />
Jenny didn’t let on that it was rehearsed.<br />
<br />
“You royalty?” Omar asked.<br />
<br />
“It’s what I was told,” Rodney said.<br />
<br />
Jenny rolled her eyes. Spending the evening with old guys wasn’t our weekend plans. That year had tempered her, I knew, but anything had to be better than more of the same.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jenny and I linked arms as we walked back. Their following footsteps rolled over gravel. When we entered the fire’s low halo, Jenny slumped down at the picnic table and poked at the coals with a long stick. Omar sat down next to her. She lifted the stick. Its end a glowing red tip.<br />
<br />
“ET phone home?” Rodney asked.<br />
<br />
The joke was dumb, but we giggled anyway.<br />
<br />
Omar rested his hand on Jenny’s thigh, and without a word, she stood and entered our tent, zipping it closed behind her. Omar stretched out on the table, hands on his stomach, and laughed a laugh like giving the open sky the middle finger.<br />
<br />
“I don’t think Jenny’s interested,” I said at last. “I mean. She probably wouldn’t want me to talk about it.”<br />
<br />
Rodney shrugged, which made me want to explain.<br />
<br />
“She had a baby a few weeks ago. She just gave him up for adoption. We wanted to get away from all that.”<br />
<br />
Omar rolled over on his side. “Usually, I’m a mean drunk.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t seem that mean to me.”<br />
<br />
Rodney motioned at Omar. I glanced at the tent. We were close enough for Jenny to hear us.<br />
<br />
“Jesus. Okay,” Omar slurred.<br />
<br />
The two of them stumbled toward the van, into the streetlamp’s parenthesis. In that space I wanted them to want me like they wanted Jenny, like Omar wanted to be known, like how we all wanted to feel better. I poured a warm wine cooler over the fire and crawled into my sleeping bag. Jenny and I lay across from one another, listening to the fire as it died, the trees creaking in the faint wind, and the river rushing against the dark.<br />
<br />
In the morning, Omar’s van was gone. Left behind was a puddle of oil.<br />
<br />
Jenny and I sat side by side on the river’s rocky embankment. Our hands searched for stones as we watched water break over slumped boulders. We had done this so many times before; it was ritual.<br />
<br />
Jenny threw first. Her stone skipped far over the surface before disappearing, silently without much of a ripple.<br />
<br />
This time, I found the largest boulder I could carry, and heaved it from between my legs. The river gasped then birthed a ripple. Another came. Then another. Rings spreading wider, larger—reaching.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Sharla Yates</b> lives in Pittsburgh. She is the author of a nonfiction story, “Address” — a finalist for the 2015 Columbia Journal Writing contest and the 2016 Penelope Niven Award — and of the recently-released poetry chapbook, <a href="https://squareup.com/store/strandedoakpress/item/pre-order-what-i-would-say-if-we-were-to-drown-tonight-by-sharla-yates-1">What I Would Say if We Were To Drown Tonight</a> (Stranded Oak Press, 2017). Her poems are published in The Boiler Journal, Lynx Eye, Shadowgraph Quarterly, and elsewhere. She is the Director of Education at Creative NonFiction and teaches graduate creative writing courses for Southern New Hampshire University. For more, visit <a href="https://www.sharlayates.com/">sharlayates.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Hannah Richards</b> is a visual artist whose work describes layers of being in terms of physicality and consciousness. Her paintings and monotypes locate moments of interacting forms in environments that convey a sense of dissonance or uncertainty. Within these is a fluidity of surface and time. Process is central to her practice. She earned an MFA in fine art from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst and a BA from Smith College. Her work has been exhibited locally and internationally, most notably in several shows across the UK and at Manhattan Graphics Center in NYC. For more, visit <a href="http://www.hannahrichards.org/">hannahrichards.org</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Kate Mick</b> is a folk musician living in the tiny town of Warren, RI. Her first album, <a href="https://katemick.bandcamp.com/">Undertow</a>, was released in December 2016 with Kate on banjo and vocals. For more, visit <a href="https://katemick.com/">katemick.com</a>. <br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-72964007342755418272017-03-28T00:24:00.000-04:002017-03-28T22:08:49.988-04:00ISSUE #140: Donald Edem Quist, Tracy Kerdman, twenty-three<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1s_FZlF4jnw/WNnlZ28jP5I/AAAAAAAACj8/-RFyr9r9QLUBLueyXrVMCjjnu8W8XKPEQCLcB/s1600/OccupationTKStorychord.jpg" width=574><br />
<div align="right"><i>Painting by Tracy Kerdman</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>A SELFISH INVENTION<br />
by Donald Edem Quist</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>DaYana drops the butt of her cigarette into a dingy embankment of snow lining the cracked sidewalk leading to her residence hall. She exhales a final exasperated cloud of wet gray smoke and watches the vapors scatter in the frigid air. Glancing down at the beige stub steaming on the packed ice, DaYana considers the contribution she has made to the billion pounds of non-biodegradable cigarette ends that become toxic trash each year. DaYana folds her arms and shivers against a sudden chill slipping under her hooded pea coat and over her shaved head. She curses herself for breaking her promise to quit smoking, then curses herself for choosing to attend graduate school in New England. Shuffling quickly up the steps to the front lobby of her dorm, she chides herself for not being asleep, for coming out into the cold, and for fretting negative workshop feedback. <br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/ngqvhbdky9xi13mtymfk88xhxu76h94i?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><p><b>Issue #140 soundtrack: twenty-three “The Firm and the Yielding Displace Each Other”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
DaYana pulls open one of the heavy steel commercial doors. She stomps her feet on the large entrance mats, but the squeak of her damp boots still echoes against the rubber tiles of the stairwell. Climbing to the third level, she decides to abandon the revisions she’s made over the last few hours. She forms a plan: she will use the bathroom and then head to her room to go to bed. She’ll snooze through the morning craft lectures and wake in the afternoon with fresh eyes and hopefully a better perspective on her piece and the “cultural incongruities” which her workshop leader and cohorts claim make the story feel less capital-A-authentic.<br />
<br />
She arrives at her floor and pauses in the doorway. Darkness shrouds the halls—part of the college’s initiative to conserve energy. The only light emanates from the glowing red emergency exit sign mounted above her. <br />
<br />
“Authentic,” DaYana says aloud to no one, letting the word linger in the quiet shadows as she slinks through the black towards the direction of the communal lavatories. <br />
<br />
Pushing through the swinging bathroom door, DaYana squints against the harsh florescence. She recites silently the opening lines of her story. <br />
<br />
<i>The hardships and joys of labor make a solid symphony. Leo knew this. If you hear one of the others tell you they predicted Leo’s betrayal, do not listen. The truth: Leo worked hard, and the company rewarded him. He started at 17 in raw materials plant 6/20. He moved on to the assembly line in factory five. By 25, he had become a tester on the third shift, a very comfortable…</i><br />
<br />
DaYana nearly stumbles as the tip of one of her insulated steel-toed snow boots hits a body curled on the restroom floor.<br />
<br />
DaYana hops over the figure. Her drowsy brain struggles to process the scene. She stands for several seconds, scanning the mass before squatting down to examine. DaYana reaches out a hand and shakes the snoring carcass. The body wakes, coughing and sputtering.<br />
<br />
“Phillip Dawkins?” DaYana hears herself say. <br />
<br />
The distinguished visiting faculty nods. “You’re a woman?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” DaYana says.<br />
<br />
“What are you doing in the men’s room?”<br />
<br />
“All the bathrooms in this dorm are gender-neutral.”<br />
<br />
Phillip Dawkins blinks slowly. “Jesus Christ.” <br />
<br />
DaYana can hear the audible clicks and creeks from the old man’s bones as Dawkins sits up with a groan. He scans the restroom and asks, “Do you know what happened to the young lady that was here a moment ago?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
“You sure? She was just here. A girl. Her breasts are substantial but not gratuitous, you know? Falling from her chest but not drooping, they tug at her clavicle, creating pockets deep enough to carry sips of water between her collarbones and her long, elegant neck?”<br />
<br />
“No. Sorry.”<br />
<br />
“But you know who I mean, right? She’s perfect. She’s got a celestial nose, the tip turned up slightly, like her face was built to point to the heavens.” <br />
<br />
DaYana claps her palms together. “Okay. I’m done with this. I've got to pee.” <br />
<br />
She stands and walks to the furthest stall. <br />
<br />
After relieving her swollen bladder, she emerges to find Dawkins swaying on his feet and gripping the sides of a sink to balance himself.<br />
<br />
DaYana leaves a basin between them as she washes her hands. <br />
<br />
“There was a party this evening over in faculty housing,” Dawkins explains. “Someone was kind enough to share their barrel-aged gin. As things cooled over there, I thought to cross that frozen tundra of a campus in search for warmer jubilation. That’s when I discovered that striking young woman in one of the downstairs common rooms taking shots of champagne, if you can believe it.” Dawkins’ hacking laugh is a piercing bark against the bathroom’s porcelain surfaces. He pauses suddenly to glance across the room again. “Where did she go?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” DaYana says, shaking her hands to dry them. <br />
<br />
She moves around Dawkins to exit the room, but he calls after her. “You’re Diana, correct?”<br />
<br />
“DaYana, like DAY and ANNA.” She turns to face him. “I’m in your specialized workshop. You critiqued me earlier today, well, yesterday.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins squints and nods. “That’s correct. I liked your story’s premise. Chinese factory worker dies trying to build a teleportation machine with smuggled parts from a microwave oven assembly line. It’s interesting enough.”<br />
<br />
“Really? Because during workshop you said my piece was ‘static, colorful static.’ Then I just had to sit there while you asked other students to rewrite my opening and read their alternative versions with you interrupting them every few lines to say, ‘Do you see what they did there, Diana?’ It was pretty awful.”<br />
<br />
“Does criticism of your work offend you? If you hope to be a better writer, you’ll have to be open to a little feedback.”<br />
<br />
“Hey. I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit. I’m open to constructive criticism. That’s not what that was. I mean, you barely said anything about my story beyond the first page, just vague assertions about how some of the cultural aspects of the narrative didn’t feel believable.”<br />
<br />
DaYana pulls back her hood. She runs her cold hands across her buzzed scalp, yawns and shakes her head. “I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins wobbles closer. “I apologize if you perceived my guidance as less than thorough. I can tell you exactly how you can improve, Diana. If you aren’t too tired, we can even discuss your fiction now, while your prose is still relatively fresh in my mind.”<br />
<br />
DaYana studies the crystalized drool at the corner of Dawkins’ mouth, leading to a thin, matted line of hair across part of his bushy, grey beard. His red, vein-streaked, eyes shake rapidly behind his horn-rimmed glasses. <br />
<br />
“Okay. Sure.”<br />
<br />
“Great. Might I trouble you for a cigarette? The nicotine does help me think.” <br />
<br />
“How do you know I smoke?”<br />
<br />
Dawkins narrows his eyes. “You have a gross compulsion to nibble the skin around your fingernails. I’ve noticed you do this during workshop. You’re even doing it now. This betrays an oral fixation or sexual frustration, and although I’m not entirely prepared to exclude the possibility that you might be starved for intercourse, you’re wearing a coat and boots, your face is red, and you obviously just came in from the cold. The only thing that would compel a person to venture out into below freezing temperatures this late at night is a vice.”<br />
<br />
“Fair enough,” DaYana says, pulling her fingers away from her mouth. “But if you were just able to figure out I just came inside, why would I go back out there?”<br />
<br />
“We won’t be long. We’ll smoke quickly-- imbue our lungs with warm tobacco and return indoors to talk about your writing.”<br />
<br />
DaYana senses the tug of sleep behind her pupils, but her extremities surge with excitement. <br />
<br />
“Fine," she relents. <br />
<br />
Dawkins beams, removing his hands from the edges of the sink and stumbling to the restroom door. <br />
<br />
Peering out into the hallway, Dawkins gasps. “Who vanished the light?” he asks.<br />
<br />
DaYana strides next to him. She removes her smartphone from her coat and taps on a flashlight application. The pair moves to the stairs. <br />
<br />
“Diana, do you think that young woman resides on this floor?”<br />
<br />
“We should try to keep our voices down. People are sleeping.” <br />
<br />
“Should we go in search for her? Should we attempt to wake her?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
On the stairs, Dawkins’ caution surprises DaYana. He turns his body sideways, both hands white-knuckled on the railing. Dawkins continues to chat about the girl he met earlier and dubs her his “Missing Muse.”<br />
<br />
“She reminds me very much of my first wife who was a dancer, trained in classical and interpretive, not a stripper or anything of the sort, although we did meet in a dive bar. HA!”<br />
<br />
Again, Dawkins expels his explosive, biting laugh, filling the stairwell with the cracking phlegm in his throat and chest. He prattles without interruption until they reach the first floor and exit the building. <br />
<br />
DaYana unbuttons her coat and reaches into the breast pocket to remove a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She offers both to Dawkins. <br />
<br />
“Aren’t you going to smoke too?” he asks.<br />
<br />
“I’m trying to quit.” <br />
<br />
“Ah, so am I,” Dawkins says. He pulls a cigarette from the package, places it between his lips. He lights the cigarette, breathes deeply, and exhales. “My current wife, she couldn’t be much older than you. How old are you?”<br />
<br />
Bouncing on the balls of her feet to generate heat, DaYana replies, “25.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, a year younger than my wife. My new bride nonplused my youngest daughter, who just turned 30. However, my spouse makes me relatively happy and keeps me young. She sincerely worries about my health and nags me to stop drinking and smoking, but breaking bad habits is difficult for men of a certain age. When I was younger, everyone smoked, at least during social occasions. We were neither fully aware, nor particularly concerned, with the physical or environmental impacts of our guilty pleasures. Did you know cigarette butts are not degradable? Huge environmental and economic burden.”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” DaYana replies. <br />
<br />
“It’s quite terrible. My daughter gave me one of those e-cigarette devices for my birthday last year, but it isn’t the same.” <br />
<br />
DaYana can feel the cold slice her lips and slap her bare skin. <br />
<br />
“Maybe you can give me your thoughts on my writing right now, just a brief overview? Big things you noticed, and then we can talk more in-depth another time.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins stares up to the cloudy sky. When he eventually returns DaYana’s gaze, he says, “Yes, of course. But first, before I forget, I have two suggestions for you if you’d really like to quit smoking. The first, chew cinnamon sticks. It helps sate the oral cravings, and it smells great. Number two, get yourself a boyfriend that will hold you accountable, Diana.”<br />
<br />
“My girlfriend usually makes sure I don’t smoke. I’ll look into the cinnamon sticks.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins’ stare widens. “Oh, I apologize. I suppose looking at you, I should have guessed you were homosexual, right?”<br />
<br />
DaYana bites her bottom lip, resisting the urge to rip the joking smirk from Dawkins’ face. <br />
<br />
“And about my writing?”<br />
<br />
Dawkins readjusts his stance. <br />
<br />
“Right, well…” And suddenly he is collapsing. <br />
<br />
DaYana bends quickly to hook her arms around his torso, but his right knee clacks loud against the icy sidewalk. <br />
<br />
“Shit. Shit. Sir, are you okay?”<br />
<br />
Dawkins turns his face away from DaYana’s belly. <br />
<br />
“Getting older is a series of indignities, Diana.”<br />
<br />
DaYana bears most of Dawkins’ weight as he climbs back onto his feet. He pulls DaYana under his right arm. She becomes a crutch. <br />
<br />
“Do you need to see a doctor? That sounded pretty bad.”<br />
<br />
“At my age, impacts like this are common. I only need to get of my legs for a while.”<br />
<br />
“Can you make it back upstairs?”<br />
<br />
“I think its best I retreat to my own quarters. We can talk there if you like, and I will undoubtedly need your aid trekking across the campus quad. My lodgings are accessible from the street, handi-capable the president informed me, which I initially felt reluctant to accept but now am very grateful I did.” <br />
<br />
DaYana glances across the snowy lawn. She can see the lights of the faculty residence hall, but the expanse, glowing under floodlights perched at the edge of the building facades, looks vast. In the quiet stillness, DaYana imagines that only she and Dawkins inhabit the entire campus. <br />
<br />
She guides their first steps. They wobble before finding a rhythm. <br />
<br />
To the crunch of packed snow under feet and Dawkins’ wheezing breath, DaYana lets her mind drift to her story… <br />
<br />
<i>… Leo’s work ethic is what we had most admired. When the bells ring through the factory at 11 a.m., Leo often stayed behind at his station. We would return to the dormitories for lunch while he stood eating over a machine or conveyor belt. Leo’s hard work provided him opportunities to steal from the company, pocketing spare pieces, parts, and defective products for his selfish inventions.</i> Dawkins tries to interject an anecdote about surviving Minnesota winters as a child and urinating his name into snow. DaYana ignores him. <i>Since Leo’s death, we found many of his contraptions hoarded in the closet of his dormitory. Despite his work ethic, Leo never understood that mature people might not always do what they want, but always what they must do. This may explain many of his peculiarities. He never sent money home to his family and never showed an interest in marrying. Leo didn’t speak much, but when he did, he spoke of places he had never visited and destinations he longed to see.</i><br />
<br />
DaYana is pushing though the door to Dawkins’ residence. She reaches intuitively for a light switch, flips it on, and navigates Dawkins across the carpet. She seats him by the window on one of two matching wooden chairs, parked beneath a half-circle kitchen table. <br />
<br />
“Thank you,” he says.<br />
<br />
DaYana replies, “It’s really late. I’m going to go back and go to bed. You should sleep, too.” She expels a final exasperated cough and turns to leave. <br />
<br />
“But we haven’t spoke about your writing yet.”<br />
<br />
“It’s okay. Maybe tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
“No, I’m a man of my word. Look, Diana, do me a favor and go into the kitchenette over there. You’ll find some plastic cups and a bottle of highland single malt scotch whiskey, Aberlour 18. Pour one for yourself. You’ve earned it.”<br />
<br />
DaYana wants to tell him that she thinks he’s had enough libations, but she complies. She returns to Dawkins with the half-empty bottle and two clear disposable cups. She pours him an inch and less for herself. Dawkins toasts his missing muse and takes a long sip. <br />
<br />
DaYana follows. The alcohol warms her cold chest. She chokes at the taste.<br />
<br />
“I first tasted scotch when I was your age. My agent sent me a bottle after I signed the deal for my first novel.”<br />
<br />
“I didn’t realize you were so young when you wrote <i>The Native Threat</i>.”<br />
<br />
“I presume you’ve read it.”<br />
<br />
“It’s my favorite.”<br />
<br />
“Your favorite book I’ve written.”<br />
<br />
DaYana takes another sip from her glass and winces. “Actually, my favorite book, period.” <br />
<br />
“In our time together, I never perceived you to be an admirer of my work, Diana.”<br />
<br />
“I was really excited to join your workshop.” <br />
<br />
She avoids eye contact but can sense Dawkins’ focus.<br />
<br />
“I feel I’ve gotten to know you well, Diana, and I can be forthcoming with you. Based on your name and background, I can assume you are familiar with Charles Marlowe’s <i>Tales of River</i> and the work of Benjuan and Lupope.”<br />
<br />
DaYana squirms in her seat. <br />
<br />
“Hemingway said, ‘From all things that you know and all those you cannot know, you make something through your invention that is not a representation, but a whole new thing truer than anything true and alive.’”<br />
<br />
“Write what you know.”<br />
<br />
“Precisely! Readers are starved for ethnic stories, but why not write about your own people? It seems you would want to follow in that literary tradition, to speak on your people’s experience.”<br />
<br />
“And what if I don’t have anything to say about my people’s experience?”<br />
<br />
“Well, you surely have something to say about that perspective.”<br />
<br />
“Okay. What if I want to say something else, explore viewpoints beyond my own? Should I assume you’ve always written what you know? You have personal experience among warring colonies in distant galaxies?”<br />
<br />
“You appear to be getting emotional. If you have been offended, that is not my intention. I'm only trying to give you sound advice. Like any industry, there are expectations. When it comes to writing and publishing, readers want to know the author has authority. They might expect someone like me to write a literary science-fiction novel, whereas most readers would expect you to write about your own culture. I'm not saying it's right, but it's true. I didn't invent these expectations; they predate me. So, of course when you decide to pen genre-bending short fiction featuring Chinese characters, it immediately raises questions about authenticity.” <br />
<br />
DaYana sucks her teeth. <br />
<br />
“Diana, if you look at the most famous works of literary fiction, the books that become canon, they are firmly rooted in the author’s own life experience.” <br />
<br />
DaYana gulps the rest of her scotch. She clears her throat and says, “Fuck canon. I’ve never been a fan of classics. What about stories that defy convention? What about authors that challenge themselves to write about what they aren’t familiar with in hopes of learning and sharing more about the world?”<br />
<br />
“Plenty of authors try to inhabit another’s skin through writing, and it most always fails.”<br />
<br />
“And that’s a reason not to try?”<br />
<br />
“You wanted to know how to improve your writing, how to be a successful author. That is why you are here. That is why you are talking to me. I’m telling you, as someone who has been at this for over three decades, a simple story based in your own personal experience is what to do. Play the race-culture-lifestyle-cards you’ve been dealt. A gay, immigrant, woman of color; that’s a literary jackpot! You should be able to secure an agent with minimal effort if you just stick to the basics and write what you know.”<br />
<br />
“If I looked like you, would we even be having this conversation? I could pretty much write about whatever, wherever, whomever I wanted and not have to worry about never getting published, right?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. Again, I didn’t set these precedents. But, yes. I could write your story, and it might be more widely embraced coming from me. However, I’m sure there would be some backlash from censor-happy social justice warriors online. If you do a Chinese factory worker story, it is empathy. If I do it, it is cultural appropriation.” <br />
<br />
DaYana grins. “Must be difficult for you, knowing that if you fail in your portrayal of another group or race, you might have to hear their criticisms.”<br />
<br />
“But isn’t that why you’ve grown so defensive, because I’m giving you criticism?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t think that what this is.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins downs the rest of his drink. “Okay,” he says, “your story’s protagonist needs to have a clearer sense of longing. The narrator explains that—what’s his name, Leo? —Leo likes to talk about places he’s never seen, but that needs to be more specific. Where does he want to go? The reader needs to understand what attracts him to other places. Don’t expect the reader to assume that Leo feels unfulfilled in his life and would be happier in another place. Why? That needs to be explained.” <br />
<br />
Dawkins pauses to belch and scratch his beard. <br />
<br />
“And the voice of your narrator, Leo’s comrade, needs to have more condemnation. Even if Leo were dead, the narrator would feel anger, even more so because Leo died radiating himself with a machine that was bound to bomb. And there would definitely be consequences for the rest of the workers because of Leo’s actions. The narrator’s life would be upturned when the factory introduced stricter regulations. The narrator should sound at least a little inconvenienced. Change the tone, or switch to a distant third person if you want more freedom in point of view.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins rocks softly in his seat.<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” DaYana says, nodding. “Seriously, that’s all very helpful.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins tips his glass at DaYana for a refill. She pours, and he continues.<br />
<br />
“I was like you. I think all beginning writers are like you. You want to defy expectations. You want to make something new, but readers don’t like new, not really. Flannery O’Connor said, ‘Endings have to be surprising but inevitable.’ Like my last book, for example. It was predictable, nothing new, but clever enough to become a critical and commercial success. It met expectations. The truth is, I can barely stand to do readings of that novel in public. However, I had a multi-book deal to fulfill and a family to support. At a certain point in every career, even yours if you stick with it, a storyteller must decide whether they intend to live on what they write. Once you’ve done that, you must then accept the fact that the unexpected doesn’t sell.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins finishes the liquor in his glass. He reaches for the neck of the bottle. DaYana snatches the scotch from the table and stands. <br />
<br />
“You should sleep. So should I.” <br />
<br />
DaYana returns the scotch to the kitchen area and then moves to exit the apartment. <br />
<br />
“Perhaps you could stay for one more drink?”<br />
<br />
“I’m tired. Maybe another time.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve enjoyed our intimate salon. You’re decent company. Are you sure you have to leave?”<br />
<br />
“Good night, sir.” DaYana pulls open the door, and the cold rushes over her. <br />
<br />
“Diana, what do you think happened to my missing muse?”<br />
<br />
Turning around to face Dawkins, DaYana lingers in the doorway. <br />
<br />
“I think she’s somewhere sleeping,” DaYana says. <br />
<br />
Dawkins nods. “Did you read my last book?”<br />
<br />
“I did. I’ve read all your books.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins’ chest swells. “What did you think?”<br />
<br />
“I thought you could have done better.”<br />
<br />
Dawkins leans back in his chair. He gazes up at the ceiling. <br />
<br />
“Sometimes I feel like that opening line to Ellison’s <i>Invisible Man</i>. I'm turning into some kind of phantasm. I'm vanishing, but when I try to sit down and write about it, I bore myself.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe you should try writing for other ghosts.”<br />
<br />
DaYana closes the door behind her as she leaves. Outside, it has begun to snow. <br />
<br />
She buries her hands in the pockets of her coat. As she trudges across the campus to her residence hall, DaYana contemplates how to incorporate some of Dawkins' feedback. She thinks about his adamant recommendations and the basics of plot: a character, different but not unlike herself, moving from conscious into subconscious, from life to death to life again, on a journey from order to chaos to retrieve some great boon or personal insight. DaYana wonders if a good story can strive for innovation and still carry depth. She considers the possibilities of defying convention and bending form and becoming successful without having to follow a restrictive template or parade herself as other.<br />
<br />
Maybe instead of dying predictably in a failed attempt to build a quantum teleportation device with pilfered microwave oven components, Leo succeeds in his experimentation. <br />
<br />
Will this revision make Leo’s story less authentic and therefore less marketable? <br />
<br />
“Maybe,” DaYana says to herself, “I won’t be for sale.” <br />
<br />
Wind blows fat flakes of snow across her face. Squinting through the precipitation, DaYana can almost see Leo in his navy coveralls… <i>He stood beside an unkempt gravestone on a white hill overlooking building 6/20, the raw material processing center where he started working as a teenager after his parents had died. <br />
<br />
Seconds earlier, Leo had been tinkering with his device in the closet of his dormitory and then an invisible hand had reached through his belly, gripped his spine, and pulled him forward through space to here, now.<br />
<br />
For several minutes, kneeling in the snow to closely examine the columns on the headstone, Leo struggled to comprehend his own name etched in granite between the dates of his own birth and death. Rereading his home province on the top of the stone, Leo began to realize the significance of his invention. His mortality had never felt more apparent and also irrelevant. <br />
<br />
Leo smiled, contemplating how the pursuit of something unfamiliar revealed a discovery greater than anything he could have anticipated. </i><br />
<br />
And DaYana, finally on her way to dream, grins, too, against the barren New England chill. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Donald Edem Quist</b> is author of the short story collection <a href="http://amzn.to/2nVcPzE">Let Me Make You a Sandwich</a> and the nonfiction collection <a href="http://awst-press.com/shop/harbors">Harbors</a>. His work has appeared in North American Review, The Rumpus, Puerto del Sol, Hunger Mountain, J Journal, Vol 1. Brooklyn, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Cleaver, Knee-Jerk, The Adroit Journal, Pithead Chapel, Numéro Cinq, The Nervous Breakdown, Slag Glass City, Publishers Weekly and other print and online publications. He is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, runner-up for the Howard Frank Mosher Short Fiction Prize and a winner of the E.L. Doctorow and Peter Matthiessen Authors Competition from the Writers’ Workshop of Asheville. He is creator of the web project <a href="https://www.past-ten.com/">PAST TEN</a>, co-host of the <a href="http://poetinbangkok.com/">Poet in Bangkok</a> podcast, and serves as Fiction Editor for <a href="https://atlasandalice.com/">Atlas and Alic</a>e. He received a fellowship from Kimbilio Fiction and earned his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Find him online at <a href="http://www.iamdonaldquist.com/">iamdonaldquist.com</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Tracy Kerdman</b> is a painter based in New York, NY. She graduated with a BA in Studio Art from the College of Charleston in 2009 and studied at the National Academy Museum and School in New York. The execution of her work is direct and strong, yet the figures are fragile and vulnerable. The pleasure of painting coexists with the uncomfortable nature of the subject. The viewer is haunted yet delighted. Tracy has exhibited in museums and galleries across the U.S., Canada and Germany. For more, visit <a href="http://tkerdman.com/">tkerdman.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>twenty-three</b> is the moniker of percussionist Andy Kivela. He began the project in 2003 as a way to experiment with electronic music, soundscapes, and loops of ambient sound. The project has evolved into a way for him to experiment with Brian Eno's ideas of Generative Music as well as Erik Satie's "Furniture Music." The offshoot group, 23 Ensemble, began in 2009 as a vehicle for free expression of musical ideas in the vein of the free jazz loft scene of the 70s and 80s. He lives in Easthampton, Mass., with his partner, Nikki Beck, and their pug, Lexi. For more, visit <a href="https://collapsiblecatrecords.bandcamp.com/">collapsiblecatrecords.bandcamp.com</a>.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-165171554505420872017-03-13T09:30:00.000-04:002017-03-13T09:30:06.364-04:00ISSUE #139: Caralyn Davis, Vrinda Zaveri, Eliot Wilder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BWn4mPy1Ysw/WMNFk4fED1I/AAAAAAAACjk/-99_w4xg-sYNrXxDUdReoOXOCcGvBPTJQCLcB/s1600/StorychordVrindaZaveri.jpg" width=598><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by Vrinda Zaveri</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>THE CASE OF THE ALBINO GORILLA<br />
by Caralyn Davis</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>Sena is a one-woman production line. She scoops mayonnaise out of a jar with two fingers curved into a makeshift spoon, plops the mayonnaise onto a slice of white bread, and straightens her fingers into a knife to spread an even coating to all four corners. Complaints will be lodged if anyone bites into a glob. Same for a dry spot.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/tzk2zwmc31pwem2p796xiaiw1ckd2656?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #139 soundtrack: Eliot Wilder “L'Avventura”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
“Food!” shouts her 13 year-old stepson, Kase. He flicks her a glance from the living-room sofa where he’s sitting with his twin, Ty, and their father, Sena’s second husband, Luke. The three of them are taking a video game break to kill zombified alien warriors or some such nonsense. Sena’s 15 year-old daughter, Hannah, and her best friend, Bristol, are still outside looking for hot guys as they work on their tans and try to keep their hair dry. The two older kids didn’t make the trip, staying with the respective exes to work summer jobs.<br />
<br />
Sena is making lunch at the white laminate table in the adjoining kitchenette of their two-bedroom bungalow. Family vacation. They are at Wond-R-Land, a cut-rate south Georgia water park distinguished by slicks of suntan oil, chlorine haze, and dancing alligators that wear board shorts and gold neck chains. But the faux Cinderella lifeguards are the park’s crowning glory. Those sun-crisped young women, sporting hot pink bikinis and rhinestone tiaras, lounge in packs by the water features and scan the crowds for victims. Their attributes have inspired leers and muttered “Look at those knockers!” and “What an ass!” comments from the less discreet males in the family.<br />
<br />
“Not long now,” says Sena. No response. No one’s listening. She uses the edge of her thumb to scratch an itch near her mouth and keeps working. Luke paid for the trip, everything from the gas for the minivan to the accommodations and the park passes. He balked at eating in the main lodge’s dining room — a waste of money since the bungalow has a bar fridge, and an ice machine is positioned halfway down the path to the lodge.<br />
<br />
“Sena, the food! I’m hungry from giving these boys an ass-kicking.” Luke echoes his son and laughs like it’s not a demand. Sena has long since realized that Luke believes he never demands anything. He has reasonable expectations, and as an adult male, he has every right to express his concern if those expectations go unmet.<br />
<br />
“Eat some chips.” Sena tosses a bag of kettle chips to the sofa, hitting Luke in the shoulder when he won’t release the joystick. She could ask for help from the boys, but how many hands does she really want in the mayonnaise?<br />
<br />
“Christ, Sena, cut it out!” Luke picks up the bag with one hand and rips it open with his teeth.<br />
<br />
“Sorry,” she says. “Lunch will be ready soon.”<br />
<br />
By virtue of twelve pieces of bread for six sandwiches twice a day (lunch and dinner) for three straight days, Sena is close to the middle of the jar. Past the top third, getting mayonnaise on her knuckles and the backs of her fingers has proved unavoidable. Sena feels sure her wrist will be well-greased by the end of this seven-day/six-night excursion. Not necessarily a negative. Mayonnaise has significant moisturizing properties.<br />
<br />
<center><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
From the time she was six until she turned nineteen, Sena spent two weeks of the summer vacation with Mee-Maw, her mother’s grandmother. Mee-Maw lived in an asbestos-clad farmhouse on 25 rolling acres near Cuthbert, Georgia. When Pa-Pa was alive, the homeplace had been a semi-working peanut farm. It returned to that world, swallowed by a peanut conglomerate, after Mee-Maw died.<br />
<br />
During the years of Sena’s visits, Mee-Maw’s land was a vast wilderness where Sena and Mee-Maw hacked forts out of the brush and had picnics on chipped china in fields of Queen Anne’s lace, rabbit tobacco, and cornflower. On rainy nights, as the water striking the tin roof filled the house with mesmerizing swells and squalls, they sat at the kitchen table in their robes and had what Mee-Maw called beautifying sessions. They glopped egg-white-and-oatmeal masks, with a vinegar chaser for clarifying purposes, onto their faces. They rolled up their sleeves and painted their hands and arms with buttermilk to fade Sena’s freckles and Mee-Maw’s age spots. And always, always, they slathered their heads with a cup of mayonnaise to make their hair soft and shiny.<br />
<br />
“Dippity Do be damned,” said Mee-Maw in one of their sessions. “You don’t need to spend that kind of money on a setting gel if your hair’s in good shape in the first place.”<br />
<br />
“I’d love to have some. It’s pink and bubbly, and the girls in the ads have such fun,” said Sena. “But Mama says we can’t afford it.”<br />
<br />
“That stuff stinks like a chemical dump,” said Mee-Maw. “Wise up, girl. Use it every day at your age, and you’d have babies with flippers for feet when you grow up.”<br />
<br />
<center><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
Now 43, Sena is past child-bearing, and Mee-Maw has been dead for a quarter-century. Sena follows a beauty regimen for her face and hair: lab-created foams, exfoliants, elixirs, serums, primers, oils, and mists filled with parabens, sulfates, and other unpronounceable tidbits that are the modern-day equivalent of using arsenic as face powder.<br />
<br />
<i>Mee-Maw would understand</i>, Sena tells herself.<br />
<br />
Or maybe not. Mee-Maw liked her lipstick, but she thought wrinkles were a living roadmap of strength and survival, not scars requiring facial reconstruction. Unlike Sena, Mee-Maw had never been found wanting compared to toxin-injected, acid-peeled actresses who subsist on juice cleanses and vinegar-dressed gourmet lettuce mixes. Sena is reasonably certain Pa-Pa would have lost a finger in an unfortunate farming accident had he ever poked Mee-Maw in the stomach and said, “You’re packin’ it on, babe. Time to hit the gym,” or, during movie night, rolled out a “Demi Moore is still hot. Why can’t you pull yourself together like that?” Two years into this marriage, Sena arms herself against Luke’s digs with silence, her growing arsenal of beauty products, and solitary drive-bys for tacos or milkshakes gulped down in the gym parking lot.<br />
<br />
Finished with the mayonnaise, Sena wipes her fingers on a washcloth and grabs the squeeze bottle of yellow mustard. She starts drawing squiggly ribbons of mustard across each slice of bread.<br />
<br />
Luke’s not trying to hurt her feelings. Sena knows this. He’s just thoughtless and delusional. A runner, he leaves the boys with Sena every Saturday to go on dawn-to-dusk marathons through the swamps and scrublands outside Albany, where they live in suburban comfort thanks to Mee-Maw’s legacy. So Luke is lean and rangy at 46, and he doesn’t realize that his once-lush ponytail has turned seedy with the onset of male pattern baldness. He therefore believes he’s entitled to a wife with the waist size and wrinkle count of an NFL cheerleader.<br />
<br />
<center><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
On the drive over three days earlier, they’d gone to a box store about 20 miles out from Wond-R-Land to pick up groceries. The kids stayed in the car listening to music on their iPods while Luke and Sena went inside.<br />
<br />
“Let’s get it done,” said Luke, finding a cart and orienting himself for half a second before he strode toward the deli meats.<br />
<br />
“We’re not in a race, Luke. Slow down.”<br />
<br />
“What? Are you ready for the nursing home? I didn’t sign up for a little old lady.” He kept his pace steady.<br />
<br />
“Your legs are longer.”<br />
<br />
“Excuses, babe.” Luke stopped to avoid crushing an old man who sailed around the corner of aisle nine to block their path.<br />
<br />
Sena silently thanked the man for his unwitting bravery as they inched forward, then said: “We’ve been in the car for a hundred miles without a break. My hips need to warm up after two kids.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve told you, you should start yoga and get bendy. That’d be good for us both.” The cart traffic in the opposite lane cleared. Luke gunned it to move around the old man, at the last second snatching Sena’s hand to pull her along beside him.<br />
<br />
“I don’t have time for yoga,” she said mid-jog. Sena works a full-time job and does all the cooking, cleaning, and chauffeuring. Luke has a full-time job and a new pair of premium running shoes every 300 miles. He spends his non-working hours training or reading about new training techniques. Running is his passion; it requires sacrifice.<br />
<br />
“Make the time.” Luke stopped the cart and started tossing in packages of roast beef and turkey.<br />
<br />
Sena clutched the rail of the cold case. Tried not to gasp for air.<br />
<br />
“We need bread, cheese, mustard, mayonnaise... What else, babe?” said Luke.<br />
<br />
“Knives and forks, plates, napkins.”<br />
<br />
“We’re not having a tea party. We’ll be fine without that hoity-toity crap.”<br />
<br />
Luke and Sena circled the store like bicyclists speeding down the banked curves of a velodrome — gravity, centrifugal force, and common sense at their mercy. They picked up sandwich fixings for lunch and dinner and apples and muffins for breakfast. They bypassed every plastic utensil and paper good in the place.<br />
<br />
“What about cups? Or knives and paper towels at least.” Sena made a last-ditch appeal for sanity in the soda aisle.<br />
<br />
“They’ll have complimentary cups with the ice bucket. Stop with the doom and gloom. Let’s have fun.” Luke headed for the checkout, Sena trailing behind.<br />
<br />
<center><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
Sena’s on the fourth slice of bread with the mustard bottle when the front door slams open. Bristol breezes by. Hannah pauses long enough for a smiling “Hi, Mama!” and a frowning “You’ll spread out that mustard, right?” before she joins Bristol in a flop on the love seat.<br />
<br />
“Get the lead out, babe! You’ve got starvin’ people in here,” says Luke. He smiles at Bristol and offers to show her how to play the game.<br />
<br />
“We need ice for the drinks. Can you fill the ice bucket please?” says Sena. She adds festive swirls and curlicues to the mustard.<br />
<br />
“I thought you did already.” His voice is irritated. His eyes stay on Bristol, who’s taken control of the third joystick and is playing against the boys with help from Hannah.<br />
<br />
“The ice from this morning melted,” says Sena. “It’s 101 degrees outside.”<br />
<br />
Luke rises with a groan and walks into the kitchenette to grab the ice bucket. “Who knew I’d spend my vacation making love to this thing instead of my wife?” The door slams closed.<br />
<br />
Sena doesn’t know how he expected anything else. Their bedroom amounts to a cardboard box, and they are marooned among a tribe of children with nocturnal body clocks.<br />
<br />
<center><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
They’d met at a party thrown by a mutual friend. Dating followed. Middle age wasn’t particularly kind to Luke, giving him leathery skin and outmoded fashion sense in addition to thinning hair. He also droned on about running, but he said Sena was pretty and asked for second helpings of her pot roast, which she served him weekly. Sena wanted adult company, someone to talk to and kiss in the dark. She hadn’t planned to marry him.<br />
<br />
Then one Saturday she took her mother to a circle luncheon — a church group for old ladies, not “The Secret Circle” of sylph-like teen witches whose actions Hannah and Bristol spent hundreds of texts decoding before they swore off television forever when cancellation struck. Sena had been sipping iced tea, glancing around the table as the ladies chatted, when she noticed that a luxurious bearded fringe of white hair, fur almost, bordered every face.<br />
<br />
<i>White women turn into albino gorillas when they hit 75. I’ll be a gorilla</i>, Sena thought. <i>And alone. A damn albino gorilla with no man in sight.</i><br />
<br />
Less than a week later, Sena and Luke were sprawled on the sofa watching a movie on a rare kid-free Saturday night at her house. To the terse beats of semiautomatic weapon fire, popcorn bowl in his lap, Luke said, “We should get married. We love each other, and we make a good team. Let’s make this legal, babe.” He put the bowl on the coffee table and dusted off his hands before taking hers with a gentle squeeze.<br />
<br />
“Married?” Serena heard her voice tremble but couldn’t stop it. The fear of solitary gorilla-hood had festered. In possession of this proof that she was worthy of a life partner, Serena shut down the part of her brain whispering that she’d turned an appreciation of pot roast into true love, that he’d mistaken her willingness to impersonate a 1950s housewife while they were dating as a core characteristic of her personality. “Yes. Oh, yes, Luke.”<br />
<br />
Two months and 57 gym sessions later, Sena married Luke at a Mexican beach resort. They celebrated their first anniversary before they finished paying off the wedding package.<br />
<br />
<center><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
Luke returns to the bungalow, setting the ice bucket on the table.<br />
<br />
“They’re sandwiches, not cordon bleu,” he says. “Are you <i>trying</i> to take forever? And wipe your face. You’re covered in mayo.”<br />
<br />
“Thanks for the ice. Where ..?” Sena stops talking. Luke’s already in the living room, congratulating Bristol on making it to the next level of the game. Sena finds a clean spot on the washcloth she’s been using as a napkin and rubs it over her face.<br />
<br />
Sena’s at the twelfth slice of bread. She writes in block letters: ASS- on the first line, HOLE on the second. After the E, she draws a little star and gives it a comet tail that runs down and around the sides of the bread to frame her creation.<br />
<br />
“Food!” The roar of the crowd is somewhat garbled by flakes of fried potato, yet the message is clear. Sena slaps turkey and lettuce on six slices of bread and then starts throwing on the top slices to finish the sandwiches. When she reaches the final slice, she pauses.<br />
<br />
<i>He wants the best for us, that’s all. I can’t be alone. Not again. A damn albino gorilla with two ex-husbands. Mee-Maw would understand.</i><br />
<br />
Sena places the slice over the last mound of turkey. This time she is careful. She uses a light touch so her art, her statement, won’t be obliterated — it will soak into the bread and marinate. She picks up the sandwich and holds it aloft.<br />
<br />
“Lunch is ready,” she says.<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Caralyn Davis</b> lives in Asheville, N.C., and works as a freelance writer/editor for trade publications in the healthcare and technology transfer fields. Her fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Word Riot, Eclectica, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, Superstition Review, Monkeybicycle, and other journals. For more, visit <a href="https://caralyndavis.wordpress.com/">caralyndavis.wordpress.com</a> and follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/caralyndavis">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Vrinda Zaveri</b> is a San Francisco-based artist who creates mystical illustrations and animations of forests and creatures. Inspired by science fiction and nature documentaries, her GIFs create a visual blend of magical realism and adventure. Her studio practice is about storytelling through motion with humor and observation. With a focus on minimalistic fluid motion and surreal environments, her work relies on vivid colors and fantastical settings to generate mystery, curiosity and delight. For more, visit <a href="http://www.vrindazaveri.com/">vrindazaveri.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Eliot Wilder</b> is a Boston-based musician and writer. He notably authored <a href="http://bloomsbury.com/us/dj-shadows-endtroducing-9780826416827/">DJ Shadow's Endtroducing</a>, part of Bloomsbury's 33 1/3 book series. For more, visit <a href="https://eliotwilder.bandcamp.com/">eliotwilder.bandcamp.com</a>.<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-46837675823652767452017-02-27T09:30:00.000-05:002017-02-27T10:16:57.787-05:00ISSUE #138: Lisa Gordon, Corey Pandolph, Bunk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qRj3nB-nYS4/WLMxW9pndUI/AAAAAAAACiw/bhYi75uck4UdKq3noLPJRlN5OtTlMDCngCLcB/s1600/StoryCHabitsIllo.jpg" width=570><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by Corey Pandolph</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>HABITS<br />
by Lisa Gordon</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>I woke up to goblins in my backyard. At first, obviously, I thought I was dreaming. So I went back to sleep, and when I woke up again, there they were. I thought they would have gone back to wherever it is that goblins come from. I had to look it up, what they even were – I could never remember the difference between goblins and vampires and demons and all that. Goblins, technically, are “legendary evil or mischievous creatures, grotesquely evil or evil-like phantoms.”<br />
<br />
So I was like, great.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/szbrvlwqruw6n9814ano41f6c9hdwnxh?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #138 soundtrack: Bunk “Hatch”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
I called my sister Maggie, but she didn’t answer. I called James. “There are goblins in my backyard,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Cool,” he said. “Do they bite?”<br />
<br />
“Like I’m going to stick my hand out the door and find out?”<br />
<br />
“Want to come over?”<br />
<br />
“I do,” I said, “but what about the goblins?”<br />
<br />
“They’ll be fine.”<br />
<br />
I went over. When I got back, they were still there. I peeked through the sliding door, timid. It looked like they were just teeming around, moving around each other in empty, patternless circles. They didn’t make any noise. That night I slept with the light on and a baseball bat by my bed. I figured I would have trouble sleeping. But it was the best freaking night sleep of my life.<br />
<br />
In the morning, I wanted to thank them. They were the first things on my mind when I woke up. What were they going to look like in daylight? But they looked pretty much like what you’d imagine a grotesquely evil thing would look like. Like a small man-like figure with squat, round shoulders and big, bulbous, ugly features. They didn’t wear clothes and didn’t appear to have private parts. Like the kind of villains you’d see in movies aimed at middle school boys with zits and changing voices.<br />
<br />
I called Maggie. “Are demons genderless?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah,” she said. I could hear chopping in the background. Maggie watches all those movies about all those things. The vampires and demons and things. She likes being scared. I don’t. She has four kids, two of whom I think she might regret. “Demons are definitely genderless.”<br />
<br />
“Shit, no, I mean goblins.”<br />
<br />
The chopping stopped.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” she said. “I don’t know.”<br />
<br />
“I have some in my backyard,” I said. “I’m looking at them now. I don’t think they make noise.”<br />
<br />
“Hmm. What do they eat?”<br />
<br />
I stopped. I looked around my kitchen, with its avocado-colored fridge from the 70s and the peeling cupboards. I’d moved in four months ago, and I still had boxes lying around. “I’m supposed to feed them?”<br />
<br />
She didn’t say anything. But it was like she was saying, “God, Roxie, everyone knows that.” I was in the slow group in school. Maggie, of course, was not. She was salutatorian, and I think it’s haunted her her whole life.<br />
<br />
“Seriously,” I said. “Am I supposed to, like, keep them alive? Is this my responsibility?”<br />
<br />
“Jesus, Rox. I don’t have time for this. But for God's sake. Maybe they chose you or something. Ever think of that?” Then I heard her cry out at one of the kids. Then I heard a click. <br />
<br />
I hung up the phone wondering why she was defending the goblins. We used to be close, for, like, one month when I was in fifth grade and she was in eighth and someone broke her heart, and she was content to watch cartoons and eat Pop-Tarts with me all day. Once she even went to the mall with me and helped me pick out blue hair dye, which I never used because by the time I was ready to, she’d gotten over her heartbreak. I basically never saw her again until she moved home from college and did a bunch of drugs in the basement and then emerged to announce she was getting married to the man she’s married to now, Gary, who’s actually quite nice. If I’m honest with myself, I guess I moved into this crappy apartment to be near her.<br />
<br />
I went to look at the goblins some more. I brought out one of my kitchen stools and sat by the window and just watched from behind a carefully placed curtain. They moved around and around and around my little backyard. Just around and around and around. Small twitches, purposeful steps. There were seven of them. I almost called Maggie again because isn’t seven supposed to be an evil number or something? But I didn’t. I wanted them to look at me, but they didn’t. But I think they knew I was there. I mean, they must have, right? Especially if they like, chose me?<br />
<br />
I sat there for a long time. I almost called James again and Maggie twice more, but I thought to myself, no. Be alone (with your goblins). Practice being alone. Maggie was pretty much the reason I’d moved away in the first place – “You spend too much time with me and the kids, and it’s annoying. Get a life; try your own thing” – so I had my company transfer me to Philadelphia. It was either that or Tampa, and I’m not much of a sun person. But being in Philly was just like being here, except even more lonely and in an uglier office with worse food. Plus no James, who, for a fuck buddy, is at least reliable, and sometimes that’s all you need. The traffic was better, though. That’s what everyone said when they talked about whether or not they liked Philly. “At least we’re not on the Goddamn GWB/Zakam/whatever, idling away, wasting our lives!” my co-workers would say on Tuesday happy hours, clinking their sherries and Bud Lights in huddled spaces in cold bars. I looked out the window, waiting for snow, and sipped my Jim Beam quietly, which I told anyone who asked that it was brandy.<br />
<br />
Now I poured myself some and decided I would test them. Half a tumbler, three ice cubes from a fancy tray Gary gave me last year, and some dinner zapping away in the microwave, I turned on the TV and opened the curtain, just slightly. I turned off all the other lights in the house so I was illuminated by only that purple, hazy glow. Sometimes nothing else is more comforting than that glow. And as weird as it sounds, with the goblins out there, I felt safe.<br />
<br />
I must have fallen asleep because I woke suddenly with a start and thought: <i>The goblins!!!</i> as if something terrible had happened to them, and suddenly I was alone again. I sat up straight and peered out, and what do you know, there was one peering right back at me. We let our gazes settle on each other. I didn’t know what to do, so I raised my hand up slowly, I suppose to say, hi. Or, thank you. Or, are you hungry? Or, what’s your name? It was too dark to see the goblin’s reaction, so I just sat there for a while with my hand stupidly in the air, until I felt the goblin and I had had a meaningful moment, and then I went to bed. All night I dreamt that I was a young Drew Barrymore in a more modernized version of ET.<br />
<br />
I woke up the next morning, Saturday, to an expansive, sunny day and nothing to do. I hate weekend days with nothing to do. Especially sunny ones. It’s like everyone else is out having a totally amazing time, riding in cars with the sunroofs open, cracking open beers on brick patios, and I’m all like, bored. The thing is, I’ve never been much for friends. I’ve had a couple here and there, but I don’t seem to get along well with people. I went to a therapist once, at Maggie’s insistence, for two months, and by the end of it he was convinced I was agoraphobic, which I’m not.<br />
<br />
“Mags,” I said when she answered the phone. “I’ll come over, and we should have a BBQ. I miss the kids. It’ll be fun.”<br />
<br />
“It’s barbeque,” Maggie said. “Pronounce the whole word. I hate it when you do that.”<br />
<br />
“Barbeque,” I said. I was still in bed, my legs up against the wall, my mirror leaning against the door, unhung for months now.<br />
<br />
“We can’t. Ronald has a soccer game.”<br />
<br />
“Can I come?”<br />
<br />
“You can,” she said and sighed a little. “But I think you should try to find something else to do, you know? It’s been four months, Rox. And not much has changed.”<br />
<br />
Even though what she said hurt a little, her voice was comforting. I began to cry a little bit but hid it from her. “Okay,” I said in my most upbeat voice. “No problem.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll tell you what,” Maggie said. “We don’t have anything on Sunday night. We’ll come over for dinner. All of us. Okay? And you should cook, Roxie. Or bake. And I hope those boxes are cleared away by now. You know Annie tripped last time.”<br />
<br />
I used to cook a lot. My specialties were gruyere and broccoli soufflés in the morning and lamb burgers with homemade tzatziki sauce for lunch. There was a time when Maggie was coming over for lunch every day, and then sometimes for dinner, when she and Gary were going through a rough patch. We drank luxurious cocktails with twists of grapefruit and talked about the world in ways that made it seem more manageable.<br />
<br />
“Okay,” I said, looking around at all the boxes. She hadn’t been over practically since I’d moved in. I had a lot of work to do.<br />
<br />
Then we hung up, and I realized she hadn’t asked me about the goblins.<br />
<br />
I went to the window and watched them. Maybe it was just my angle, but I swore they didn’t look the same. Or maybe just weaker. Their circles were getting smaller, like there was less space between them when they moved around one another. Their movements were twitchier, too. I went downstairs to get a better look, and that’s when I noticed the grass. Small patches of it, circular patches – dried up. They dotted the lawn like the fabric on a girl’s party dress. I didn’t know what it meant, but it had to mean something, and I feared it was bad.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh my god</i>, I wondered, <i>am I killing them?</i><br />
<br />
I picked up the phone to call Maggie again and then hung it up before it rang. Instead, I went to my computer and Googled “what to feed goblins,” but all that came up were the rules to a game called Pathfinder.<br />
<br />
I was on my own.<br />
<br />
I started with the cabinets first, but since I don’t cook much, all I had were a few cans of chili and boxes of stale crackers. In my fridge were some dying carrots, beer cans, leftover pizza, and ketchup.<br />
<br />
Fuck, I thought. I was beginning to feel frantic.<br />
<br />
I called James. “If you were a goblin,” I said, “what would you eat?”<br />
<br />
“Ummmm. Sugar. Like, lots of it.”<br />
<br />
“Ohhhh, sugar,” I said. “Right. Thanks!”<br />
<br />
“Rox–” he said. “About tonight –”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know about tonight,” I said. “I’ll have to see. I’ll call you later.”<br />
<br />
Saturday was our night. Sometimes I felt like it was the only thing I needed to get me through the week. But now there were other things on my mind.<br />
<br />
I got my clothes on, threw on some flip flops, and opened the curtain. “I’ll be back soon, guys,” I said. “Hang in there.” I was almost out the door when I thought better of it. I put the stale crackers on a plate and put the plate on the inside of the glass door. I was testing them, I guess.<br />
<br />
The grocery store is a magical place, is it not? It had been so long since I’d been for the sake of food. Just the remarkable wonder of food. I’d been planning the meal for Maggie and the family on the car ride over. Pork roast with balsamic glaze reduction, frisee salad with homemade cilantro lemon dressing, and scallion biscuits. I held the cold pack of meat in my hands and felt inspired; the bouquet of scallions were more beautiful than ever. And then it was time for sugar. If you’ve ever wondered what kind of sugar to feed a gobin, I’d love to hear what you came up with. Because I wandered those aisles for what felt like hours. I couldn’t decide between packaged, processed sugar like Chips Ahoy and Oreos, or store-bought cake mixes with thick frosting, or just plain sugar from a box. So I bought it all. I bought it all.<br />
<br />
At home, the afternoon had spread itself through my apartment in fragile light. I dumped the groceries on the floor. I couldn’t wait to see what had happened to the plate of crackers. Much to my surprise (or, not really – wasn’t I expecting it?), they were gone. Well, almost. One of the goblins was half in my house, half out on the patio. Crumbs hung from his mouth. The others were outside, but closer to the door than before.<br />
<br />
“No, no,” I said, shaking my finger toward the goblin’s face. “Not those!”<br />
<br />
I watched his face, for what, I’m not sure. Something human? But what I saw, I’ll never know. All I know is that it sparked something in me. I ran back into the kitchen and procured one of the boxes of cookies from the jumble of grocery bags lying about. I walked back in and handed it to him. The goblin didn’t take it. Just stared at it. So I ripped it open and spread them out on the plate, and then went back into the kitchen to keep myself busy. I made a big show of opening cabinets and slamming the fridge door with a force. I unpacked everything as quickly as possible so I could get back out to see what they were up to. But I didn’t need to. Soon I heard a noise behind me, and there they were, two of them this time, standing somewhat timidly in the doorway of the kitchen. The plate wasn’t with them, but I knew the cookies were gone. They stood there, their twitches visible, waiting.<br />
<br />
“Hold on!” I cried. “Hold on, guys.”<br />
<br />
I tore open the box of Oreos and put them on the floor. They ate whole sleeves at a time. Popped them into their mouths like snakes snoveling a mouse (Maggie would say, snoveling is not a word, but I’d say, so what?). I tried not to look too closely at them. I didn’t want them to be uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
They weren’t very good sharers. The Oreos were gone in a matter of moments, and from what I could tell, the other goblins were still outside on the patio, probably starving. I ripped a Sara Lee cake from its packaging and slipped by the goblins to go out and feed the rest. The others had begun approaching the door and were in various stages of coming inside, except for one, who lagged behind considerably. He was inspecting the wooden frame around the door.<br />
<br />
“Here,” I said, putting the cake down on the ground right in front of the door. “Help yourselves.”<br />
<br />
They stared at it for a moment and then descended upon it like wolves. It was fascinating.<br />
<br />
The mistake I had made soon became ever more clear to me because back in the kitchen, it was chaos. The two goblins had torn through nearly everything in the bags and were now taking turns gnawing at the meat I’d gotten for Maggie’s dinner, holding it in their hands, which were really more of claw-hand hybrids.<br />
<br />
“HEY!” I cried. “Hey! That’s not for you!”<br />
<br />
They looked up but didn’t listen, of course. And then I don’t know where I got the courage, but I stuck my hand in between their mouths and ripped the meat away from them. It was room temperature and fell apart a little in my hands. They stared at it hungrily and then me. One of them snapped at my fingers, but it was over so quickly, I didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. I guess it’s naïve, but it hadn’t occurred to me until then that they might want to eat me. I grabbed up as much food as I could into my arms and threw it out onto the patio. It spilled out into the backyard, where I noticed the circular patches had grown bigger.<br />
<br />
“Go!” I cried, sliding open the door as wide as it would go. “Go on!” It didn’t take them long to follow the food, and they filed back outside like dutiful pupils. I stood there and watched, counting them, wide-eyed. I would have scolded them, but how? And maybe I’m crazy, but I swear the last one, the shortest one, hung his head a little as he passed me by, ashamed of what is anyone’s guess.<br />
<br />
Back in the kitchen I was a frenzied mess. I hadn’t been gripped by panic like this since my last attack before I moved. But at least now I had things to do. The meat was ruined – I’d have to get something new – but much of the other food that remained in the bags was salvageable. Unfortunately, one of the boxes of sugar had spilled everywhere, and my kitchen floor looked like a bare sandbox, the kind that skinned your knees badly if you skidded and fell, which I did, three times. So by the time the doorbell rang, I was bloody and sweet all over.<br />
<br />
“What the fuck is going on in here,” James said, his face alight. “What happened to you!”<br />
<br />
“It’s the goblins,” I said. “I’m baking. You were right – they like sugar.”<br />
<br />
James inspected me like a doctor. He pulled my hair around, lifted my shirt, and pressed his ear against my chest to hear my heartbeat. He kissed the top of my head, held me close, and whispered, “Did they hurt you?” <br />
<br />
“No,” I said, not telling him about the near-bite. I wrangled free of his arms.<br />
<br />
“Then why are you all bloody?”<br />
<br />
“They tore everything apart in my kitchen. Sugar spilled everywhere. I’m cleaning. And baking so they’ll have more food. And I need to cook. Maggie’s coming over tomorrow, and –”<br />
<br />
“This is nuts,” he said. “Let me see them.”<br />
<br />
I led him to the back porch. Despite trash from the food lying about, they were back to their normal habits – teeming around each other in circles. Even the grass was back to normal. Plush and green, perhaps even greener than before.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s weird.”<br />
<br />
“They look harmless to me. What really happened in here?”<br />
<br />
I looked at James. Suddenly he wasn’t good-looking after all, and his eyes, always big and blue and serene, were making me nauseous.<br />
<br />
“I have too much to do,” I said. “If you’re going to give me a hard time, you should go. I don’t have time for us tonight.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t have time for us tonight?” he said. “Because there are goblins in your backyard?”<br />
<br />
I looked from him to the goblins. “Yes,” I said matter-of-factly. “And Maggie. I have to get ready for Maggie tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
“Saturday is our night,” he said.<br />
<br />
“You can help me bake!” I said, getting excited again. I went back into the kitchen and drew open some of the cake packages I’d purchased. “You could make the icing! We did that once before, remember? And you liked it, remember?” I began pulling out my mixing bowls and measurers. When I turned back, he was gone.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</B></CENTER>I stayed up all night baking. Every time I put something in the oven, they’d smell it and come to the patio door, banging their big foreheads against it. The noise was like a lot of things I’d heard before, yet hard to describe. Dull and consistent. At first it scared me, and then it just egged me on, like some kind of Pavlov symptom. My hands became raw from squeezing the wooden mixing spoon. My face was covered in powder. It became difficult to breathe, and my brain was moving so fast I don’t know how I got it all done. But I did. Come late morning, the goblins were full. They laid about the grass with bellies protruding and mouths hanging open, their teeth exposed. I thought it interesting they never once touched each other.<br />
<br />
I had even cleaned up the house. All the boxes were unpacked and everything was in its right place. I dusted and vacuumed and re-arranged. I swept and wiped and bleached. I even ran out to the store again, after feeling confident that the goblins were finally asleep, to get another pork roast. It was the right decision, for when I returned, nothing had changed.<br />
<br />
Then Maggie called in the morning. “Fuck, Rox, I forgot,” she said. “I forgot about the goblins.”<br />
<br />
“No, it’s fine!” I said, my voice frantic. “They’re fine!”<br />
<br />
“I can’t bring four kids over to play with goblins. Gary won’t allow it.”<br />
<br />
“It’s fine!” I said, peering through the curtain, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb them. “They’re placid. They’re placid like a sea.” When she didn’t say anything, I went on. “Please,” I said, “just come.”<br />
<br />
I took a quick nap and then took to the kitchen again, preparing the most elaborate, gorgeous meal I’d prepared in years. Even my fancy china, freshly unpacked from my night of chaos, was ready for use, and I set out the seven plates carefully. Everything was coming together, and after artfully arranging a vase of tulips on the table and setting out tumblers for the kids’ milk, I allowed myself a glass of wine and sunk into the couch, my goblins sated and idle, and settled in to wait.<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Lisa Gordon</b> is a writer and editor from the Boston area. She has been published or has work forthcoming in Paper Darts, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Hypertext, SideReal Magazine, Eleven Eleven, the Rumpus, BelleSF, and others. For more, visit <a href="http://www.gordonlisa.com/">gordonlisa.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Corey Pandolph</b> is a former Minor League Baseball mascot and NYC-based cartoonist/illustrator for <a href="http://www.condenaststore.com/-st/Corey-Pandolph-Prints_c147708_.htm">the New Yorker</a>, MAD Magazine and Adirondack Life. His work has been internationally syndicated in newspapers, featured on screen for Comedy Central and graced fine cocktail napkins across Manhattan. Currently, he is trying to write his first comic book based on his first unfinished crime novel. Mr. Pandolph lives with his wife, Kristen and one white husky, Lulu. He also plays mediocre blues guitar and enjoys building things out of trees when he can. Visit him online at <a href="http://www.coreypandolph.com/">coreypandolph.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Bunk</b>'s recently-released sophomore album, <a href="https://bunktheband.bandcamp.com/album/citrus-sucker">Citrus Sucker</a>, was written and recorded bi-coastally by David Skelly and Michael Sokol (in Northampton, MA) and Brett Long (in Los Angeles, CA), who have been creating music together since middle school. For more, follow the band on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/bunktheband">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://bunktheband.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a> or visit <a href="http://bunktheband.com/">bunktheband.com</a>.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-62869891217244850892017-02-13T09:30:00.000-05:002017-02-13T09:36:08.020-05:00ISSUE #137: Beth Gilstrap, Scott Michael Ackerman, Thea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e1OEA9llbKQ/WKDana-KdHI/AAAAAAAACiM/T9u-rqxvP5otlrP8_7_lxYT77blejDlUQCLcB/s1600/Farmer%252BCouple.jpg" width=570><br />
<div align="right"><i>Art by Scott Michael Ackerman</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>THE GOPHER IN RAE’S CHEST<br />
by Beth Gilstrap</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>Rae took care of all her husband’s people. His parents and great uncle all moved in when their house had finally caved in after twenty years of storms beating the hell out of their roof. She had stopped asking why they didn’t do anything about the state of the place years ago, swallowed up the fact of her life of <i>have to</i> easier than she would a gel cap ibuprofen, which she had to buy in bulk when she realized the enormity of her household’s collective aching.<br />
<br />
After they were all in the ground, Hugh wanted to travel, but by golly she was tired and finally off the clock after thirty years teaching school and another ten feeding old folks. At least her parents had had the decency to die when she was a girl, her Daddy sick from pesticides they sprayed in the fields, her Mama from pneumonia. It seemed a mustard plaster on the chest did not clear the lungs as well as penicillin. She told Hugh to let her be, that he could go off gallivanting any place he pleased, but she intended to rest for once in her life.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/rx1z6axx4d2a97jtrex1bte752yp1i7t?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #137 soundtrack: Thea “Heavyweight Champion”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
“But you ain’t never been anywhere,” he said, drying the heavy stock pot and lid he’d dried a million times before.<br />
<br />
“And I’m good with that. What’s got you so worked up? Wanderlust looks strange on you. Makes you sort of pink.”<br />
<br />
“Everyone’s gone now.”<br />
<br />
“Except me,” Rae said, drying her hands on her apron.<br />
<br />
“The house is too quiet. I can’t hardly stand it.”<br />
<br />
She crossed to the living room and took a seat in Hugh’s massage chair. “I like being able to hear the air click on. The Barred Owl at night is nice, too.”<br />
<br />
“Come on, Rae. Let’s get an RV. You can listen to owls anywhere.”<br />
<br />
“Sure. Shove me in a tin can so I can still make your dinner even when I’m carsick and we’re lost on a redneck highway to nowhere.”<br />
<br />
“We can’t eat road food all the time. Cholesterol would skyrocket.”<br />
<br />
“You should learn to cook, then.”<br />
<br />
“I love you. I’m just trying to get you out in the world.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, hush,” Rae said, pushing herself almost flat in the recliner, letting the mechanism roll down her spine, highlighting all the little kinks she tried to put out of her mind during the day.<br />
<br />
“What are you saying, exactly?”<br />
<br />
“I’m saying you can’t handle losing your people. They’re gone, and you feel like you’re alone in the world. Like I ain’t sitting right next to you. Like I haven’t held your hand for most of my life. Like I’m what? You want to leave, that’s on you. Go get you a recreational vehicle if you want it. Spend the rest of your days in a bullet with wheels and sleep with one of those pullout sofa bars in your back. See if I care.”<br />
<br />
“You’ve gotten hostile in your old age.”<br />
<br />
“I’m tired, Hugh. That’s all.”<br />
<br />
“Might as well be dead.”<br />
<br />
“Who’s hostile now? I suppose you’ll throw a tantrum, but babe, I got news for you. There ain’t a thing on earth you can withhold from me that would make a difference.”<br />
<br />
“I’m going to the dealership.”<br />
<br />
“Go on, then. Pick up some chicken for dinner.”<br />
<br />
Still standing in the doorway, he turned around to face her, both hands in his back pockets, his shoulders raised, unsure. “I do love you. Same as I did the day you walked up Mama and Daddy’s porch. I thank God for that barn cat of y'all’s getting knocked up. For your tenderhearted Daddy trying to save those kittens.”<br />
<br />
“The man was a fool.”<br />
<br />
At that, Hugh’s shoulders fell, and he walked out the door to purchase his escape. Five hours later, he came home with what Rae had to admit was a cute little number, had a green retractable awning and everything. For a moment, when she stood next to her husband as he went down the list of all the knickknacks and doohickeys the thing had, she pictured the two of them on a hill above some lake, cutting up hot dogs, frying them on a camp stove, pouring pintos in the pan and listening to them sizzle, replacing suburban air with wood smoke, and seeing the whole world turned blue in the fading light. But by the time he finished gushing, the flash of optimism had passed.<br />
<br />
“It’s pretty and all, but I’m not going anywhere in that thing. Pull the awning out and set up a couple folding chairs out here on the driveway, and I might join you for ice cream or a drink in the evenings. But this bird stays put.”<br />
<br />
The next morning, Hugh packed everything he wanted, and that was that. Rae had the place to herself. She kept a similar cleaning and cooking routine for a few weeks, but then figured what the hell and started letting things pile up. Wasn’t nobody coming around. What did she care? She took to watching three soap operas in a row, stretched out on the massage chair, which she rarely left.<br />
<br />
On one of her late nights watching <i>Designing Women</i> reruns, a pain burrowed into her chest like some kind of gopher, and before she knew it, she was on her hands and knees trying to force herself to take slow, deep breaths, to focus on the funny debutante thing Suzanne Sugarbaker did. But before long, she couldn’t think about anything but calling an ambulance.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Chest pains get you seen quicker than most things. Her poor Mama had died partly because they hadn’t felt it was necessary to call the doctor in the night she was admitted. They’d said her condition could wait until morning, but not Rae’s. Hot lights on her face and a fast trip on the gurney made her nauseated, or maybe it was the thought of being cut open after she had packed her mother-in-law’s belly wound and changed her dressing. She hoped things would just sort of fade to black, but they didn’t.<br />
<br />
In a couple of hours, they had her upright sucking on ice chips. Whatever they’d given her in her IV cooled her face and soothed the gopher in her chest. She had the nurse turn on the television. By then, it was the morning show circuit, and all she could get was the one with that 90-pound blonde with the squeaky voice, the one married to that good-looking fella on the soaps. They both used to be on soaps, but that gal thinks people forgot. The doctor turned the volume down when he came in to say her heart was fine, that it was her brain on the fritz, said she might consider seeing a psychiatrist, get something to help, but in the meantime, here’s five Ativan to help her sleep at night.<br />
<br />
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Is there anyone I can call for you, ma’am?”<br />
<br />
“Yellow Cab.”<br />
<br />
“We aren’t quite there, yet,” he said. “If you do okay for a few more hours, we’ll talk about releasing you.”<br />
<br />
She watched 90-pound Kelly hold herself so straight Rae thought she must be plopped down on a stick, like those expensive dolls her mother never let her play with. She decided 90-pound Kelly was better muted. Rae could make up her own story to go along with the guests. She pretended the guests were her own dead, come back to give a review of the afterlife, but all her father-in-law wanted to talk about was Hugh’s recreational vehicle, catching mountain trout, hollering out at the gorge like a coyote, swimming a blue lake, charred meat. Maybe she was on just the right drugs. Maybe she would see a shrink and ask for more.<br />
<br />
The sun came in brighter than should be allowed in a hospital. Nurses came and went, but she hadn’t seen a doctor since the one who told her she was nutso. She heard someone with squeaky shoes coming down the hall but didn’t expect it to be Hugh who turned the corner. He was tan, had buzzed what was left of his hair, and had trimmed down considerably.<br />
<br />
“Well, if it ain’t the wild man of Borneo come to haunt my dreams.”<br />
<br />
“Hey there, Rae. How are things? Doc says you had a scare.”<br />
<br />
“Everything’s fine. I’m not dying. I’m just crazy.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t talk that way,” Hugh said, pulling up a chair. He slid the remote control out of her hand, set it on the rolling table, and placed both hands on hers. “I’ve missed you.”<br />
<br />
“Bull,” Rae said, keeping her eyes on the screen.<br />
<br />
He turned her chin his direction. “Rae, please. I’m having fun out there, yes, but it ain’t the same on my own.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure you could find some old gypsy or hell, a young one, to keep you company.”<br />
<br />
“Stop.”<br />
<br />
“You stop.”<br />
<br />
“Anyway, I’m here to get you home and settled.”<br />
<br />
Hugh had brought her a change of clothes since the doctor told him they’d had to cut off her sweatshirt. He helped her get her arms in the long sleeves and pulled it gently over her head, smoothing her hair once it was on.<br />
<br />
“I bet I look a mess. What’d you bring this shirt for?”<br />
<br />
“Because you always looked good in peach.”<br />
<br />
“My slippers?”<br />
<br />
“Right here,” he said, pulling them out of his back pocket.<br />
<br />
Once Hugh got the shearling booties on her feet, Rae felt cozy for the first time since he left. At first, she thought it was just having someone around, but by the time he brought her hot cocoa that night, rubbed rosemary oil into her stiff shoulders, and made her scrambled eggs in the morning, she knew it wouldn’t have eased her mind if it had been anyone else.<br />
<br />
While he washed and folded his clothes, she walked out to the RV. She pulled herself up the steps and inside where she opened all the cabinets, peeked in the bathroom, which only had a little soap scum on the shower door, and eventually lay down on the bed in the back. She wondered what it was like to arrive at a camp at night and open the window in the morning to an unfamiliar landscape. She wondered what 90-pound Kelly and Suzanne Sugarbaker would say. She couldn’t picture either of them under mosquito netting, going rogue without make-up, or having no agenda.<br />
<br />
“What’s going on in here?” Hugh asked.<br />
<br />
“Hell,” she said, jerking up. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”<br />
<br />
“This is my place, ain’t it?”<br />
<br />
“Just wanted to see what it was like. It suits you, actually.”<br />
<br />
“It could’ve suited you, if you’d given it a chance.”<br />
<br />
Rae fiddled with her dress, feeling the gopher poke his head up out of her heart. “I think I have to tell you something.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah?”<br />
<br />
“This gopher in my chest tells me I miss you.”<br />
<br />
“Does that mean you want to come along?”<br />
<br />
“The gopher says yes.”<br />
<br />
“What about resting?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t think I can rest without you. But you know, they say I need medication, so what do I know?”<br />
<br />
“I should think so if you’ve got a gopher in there,” he said, placing three fingers where he could feel her rapid heart.<br />
<br />
“Can we pull the awning out tonight? It’s supposed to be cool. We could light a fire.”<br />
<br />
“And I could play my harmonica.”<br />
<br />
“Or we could stay right here,” she said, pulling back the quilt and sliding inside. Snuggling into a bed that smelled like him again made her think maybe she wouldn’t have to wipe his mouth or watch his toes purple near the end. Maybe she would die first after all. <br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Beth Gilstrap</b> is the author of <a href="http://amzn.to/2lFFsNe">I Am Barbarella: Stories</a> (2015) from Twelve Winters Press and <a href="http://hyacinthgirlpress.com/yearsix/nomanswildlaura.html">No Man’s Wild Laura</a> (2016) from Hyacinth Girl Press. She works as Fiction Editor at <a href="http://www.littlefiction.com/beta/Home.html">Little Fiction | Big Truths</a>, and her writing has been selected as Longform.org’s Fiction Pick of the Week, nominated for storySouth’s Million Writers Award, Best of the Net, and The Pushcart Prize. Her fiction and essays have appeared in Bull, <a href="http://www.whiskeypaper.com/whiskeypaper/go-off-in-the-world-violet-by-beth-gilstrap">WhiskeyPaper</a>, The Minnesota Review, Literary Orphans, and Little Patuxent Review, among others. She lives in Charlotte with her husband and enough rescue pets to make life interesting. Visit her at <a href="https://bethgilstrap.com/">bethgilstrap.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Scott Michael Ackerman</b> is a self-taught artist from upstate New York. Ackerman takes an unconventional and primitive approach to painting, rejecting the boundaries of traditional culture. Rather than start with a blank canvas, Ackerman prefers to use ‘found objects’ with rough character such as old wood, windows, and doors to help inspire him. He's shown works throughout the Hudson Valley and abroad. To see more, visit <a href="https://www.lovescottart.com/">lovescottart.com</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Thea</b> is an Austin, TX based musician hailing from the green hills of North Carolina. Her recently-released debut album, <a href="https://theasounds.bandcamp.com/releases">Tangents</a>, features a mix of blues, indie rock, dream pop, and jazz. For more, listen on <a href="http://theasounds.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a> and follow on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/theasounds/">Facebook</a>. <br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-65777574277487741942017-01-30T12:46:00.001-05:002017-01-30T12:46:46.682-05:00ISSUE #136: Wynne Hungerford, Aliene de Souza Howell, Dweller on the Threshold<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nLdmb7grfKQ/WI97Yyuw7fI/AAAAAAAACh0/MEMGHJtC1-ATsCDTrO349LbK6YNJvZNRQCLcB/s1600/Storychord136Watcher.jpg" width=600><br />
<div align="right"><i>Art by Aliene de Souza Howell</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>THE REWARD COMES NEXT<br />
by Wynne Hungerford</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>Something’s going on in the shimmering green country––<i>by invitation only.</i> <br />
<br />
What: A large (but not fat) Englishman has built a service-dog training facility, and the first batch of dogs have just completed the year-long training program. The inaugural Open House will include a tour of the facility, demonstrations of the dogs’ tricks & skills, and a hot dog cookout on the freshly-cut lawn, spreading for acres in mock watermelon stripes.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/xeblmvtzu0wui9nzgromn338ga8hq0pb?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #136 soundtrack: Dweller on the Threshold “Barnfire”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
Where: The Rush Foundation Headquarters, a blinding union of glass and steel. Follow the red-tailed hawk to a gate guarded by two marble Greyhounds, go up the mile-long driveway of crushed white pebble.<br />
<br />
When: Saturday, 10 A.M. thru 6 P.M.<br />
<br />
It’s Saturday. <br />
<br />
The last of the morning dew has evaporated. <br />
<br />
Cars snake down the mile-long driveway. So do short-buses and handicapped vans. The elite visitors are entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and socialites. They’re the nieces and nephews of senators, the children of big oil. They live part of the year in cottages, villas, and chateaus. They collect yachts, lighthouses, and small islands. They’ve got that Bahamian Bronze look from weekend trips to Nassau, where they dine at a world-class restaurant playfully named <i>Sweet Plantain</i> and go out on the dock after their after-dinner cocktails and climb aboard a vessel named <i>Babel</i> and ascend the Captain’s lookout, one by one, where the beautiful black ocean renders them speechless. The rich are invited so they will be impressed and donate money to the foundation and it’s the rich who come up the hill first. <br />
<br />
Next, the disabled. The disabled are invited so that they may meet the service dog of their dreams. Look at His fine work: multiple sclerosis, cerebral palsy, polio, muscular dystrophy, paralysis, severe retardation, PTSD. Bulging eyes, hands curled into claws, bibs soaked with drool. They get out of their busses and vans slowly, painfully, and chug up the wheelchair-accessible ramp. <br />
<br />
The Englishman stands in the open doorway, arms open. He greets everyone with equal charm, shaking hands, kissing hands, squeezing hands. His heart beats faster when he sees a couple approaching, a paraplegic man in a top-shelf electric wheelchair that could have easily cost ten-grand and his very blond, spiritually attuned wife. “Attuned” as in she wears braided leather sandals and a jade Buddha pendant around her neck. The paraplegic is what you’d call an anomaly because he’s rich <i>and</i> he’s a paraplegic <i>and</i> he happens to be married to the Englishman’s ex-wife. The woman with crystals in her pocket, she’s the ex-wife. <br />
<br />
God, how he loved her.<br />
<br />
She says, “What a wonderful day, Rush.”<br />
<br />
The paraplegic says, “Yes, Rush, you have such a generous heart.”<br />
<br />
The Englishman runs a hand through his flop of graying hair. His tweed suit feels a tad too small. He could use a little more room to breathe. He says, “I’m so glad you’re here.”<br />
<br />
He built this place for his ex-wife and her new husband, who was a former downhill ski champion. You can look at his angular face––of Scandinavian ancestry, almost certainly––and imagine how dangerously blue his eyes would’ve looked against the snow and how his wind-chapped cheeks would have burned the color of a baboon’s ass at the finish-line. His face is long and his nose is the slightest bit crooked, enough to be sexy, like, Oh, you broke it boxing in college? Did it hurt? What makes a man sexy is often what causes his undoing. While skiing in small-town Montana for pleasure, there had been an avalanche that swept him up and pinned him against a tree with a broken back. This kind of thing happens, just not to you or me. So, he’s a paraplegic at this point, the legs are useless, and he’s propped against the trunk of an enormous pine tree with only his head above the snow. A few hours go by and a rescue dog appears, leaping through the snow, coming toward him like an angel with chopped-liver breath. <br />
<br />
The Englishman made everyone think he was building the facility out of respect for his ex-wife’s new husband, to give him another dog, to give back to the disabled community in an underserved region. An article in the <i>Greenville News</i> went on and on about it: “Mr. Rush is a saving grace, etc.” That isn’t the whole story, of course. <br />
<br />
There’s a bad, bad bitch in the kennels. <br />
<br />
The head trainer, Constance Milton, is down there with all of the dogs. She puts bandanas on each of them. She keeps abreast of the latest literature and recently read an article suggesting that a dog wearing either a) clothing or b) jewelry is considered “Very Cute,” while that same dog in its natural state would only be considered regular “Cute.” The dogs wear their bandanas proudly and don’t mind them, all except one. Constance knows that Tilly, a little wheat-colored retriever, will hate the bandana. From the time Tilly arrived at the facility as a puppy, it was clear that she did not have the appropriate temperament of a service dog. She was impatient, hyperactive, and aggressive. <br />
<br />
The chicken incident, for example. In the gymnasium during training one day, all of the copper and cornsilk retrievers were lined up for a lesson. They panted and looked at three plastic cat carriers in the middle of the gym. Constance and her assistant trainer walked along the formation of dogs like generals before battle, urging the troops to hold steady. <br />
<br />
Looking into each pair of wet eyes, they said, “Stay down.” <br />
<br />
The trainers knelt, opened the doors to the cat carriers, and whispered, “Come on, it’s okay.” The dogs waited. From the dark holds came tiny scratches and chirps. Little adolescent chickens hopped out and pecked along the floor, avoiding the dogs at first and then coming closer and weaving among them. The dogs raised their heads and sniffed. Somebody whined. All stayed down except for small-pawed Tilly, who snapped and caught a chicken by the wing. The bird screamed and flapped, but Tilly only bit down harder and closer to the small-breasted body. She trotted away from the group, into the farthest corner of the gym, head lowered. The assistant trainer jogged over, ordering, “Drop it,” in a firm voice. When Tilly finally eased up, the chicken ran across the floor, neck outstretched, beak wide open, tongue erect. <br />
<br />
Later, the assistant trainer said, “What are we going to do about Tilly?”<br />
<br />
“What do you mean?” Constance asked, feigning ignorance. <br />
<br />
“She’s too excitable for this work.”<br />
<br />
“We don’t give up on dogs,” Constance said. “We never give up.” <br />
<br />
Constance knew the plan all along: Give Tilly to the paraplegic. <br />
<br />
She had once asked the Englishman, “What do you want to happen?”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” he said, playing with his cufflinks and imagining the cripple’s dying breath. “I’d quite like his throat to be torn out.”<br />
<br />
Constance went along with the plan because she thought there’d be something in it for her down the road. The way you train a dog is through positive reinforcement. When a dog successfully completes a task, you give the dog a treat or praise. People are the same way. What would be Constance’s reward? She thought that maybe the Englishman would love her or marry her or at least make love to her in his office suite. There were leather couches up there, beautiful soft buttery leather couches. <br />
<br />
Constance opens the door and steps into Tilly’s kennel. She says, “Are you ready, girl?” and Tilly snaps the bandana into her vicious little mouth, head slinging side to side, saliva flying. She can smell all of the visitors piled into the lobby for the Open House, the physical sickness of the disabled and the mental sickness of the rich, and she wants nothing to do with it because a dog can smell the truth. Tilly knows something is up, has known all along, and she’s pissed. She’d rather be anywhere than this kennel. This is bullshit, she growls through sparkling teeth. I want to roam. I want to live independently. I want to kill rabbits. I want to fuck a <i>wolf</i>. <br />
<br />
Tilly steps forward, lips pulled back, nose trembling like a big wet blackberry. Tilly is looking everywhere. Tilly is assessing the situation. When the human’s guard is down, she will bolt out of the kennel and down the hall. She will paw open the emergency exit door and make haste across the rolling green hills. She will dive into the woods and find her pleasure there. <br />
<br />
While the Englishman has had a plan for Tilly all along, she has been working on her own plan, the common plan, the most ancient plan there is––<br />
<br />
Escape. <br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Wynne Hungerford</b> has published work in <a href="http://www.epoch.cornell.edu/contents%20and%20contrib%20pages/64.3%20contents.pdf">Epoch</a>, The Talking River Review, The Tulane Review, The South Carolina Review, and <a href="http://therumpus.net/2013/12/weekly-rumpus-fiction-wynne-hungerford/">the Weekly Rumpus</a>, among other places. She is an MFA candidate at the University of Florida.<br />
<br />
<b>Aliene de Souza Howell</b> is a Queens-based artist who was born and raised in Nashville, TN. In her work, animal and object hybrids strip the specificity of human features to bring the focus to gesture and movement, animals and inanimate objects functioning as metaphor for human interactions with each other, the objects we use, and the natural world. Howell received her B.F.A from Guilford College and her MFA in painting from the New York Academy of Art. She also worked as muralist and educator with the Philadelphia Mural Arts Program. She recently completed a post-graduate fellowship, was critiqued by Steve Martin, and exhibited in New York City, Germany and Ireland. She is in many esteemed collections including Naomi Watts and Leiv Schreiber, Francie Bishop Good and Howard Tullman. For more, visit <a href="http://www.alienedesouzahowell.com/">alienedesouzahowell.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Dweller on the Threshold</b> is a music project comprised of Northeast punk dignitaries and longtime friends Eric Gagne (Footings, Redwing Blackbird, Death To Tyrants), Randy Patrick (The Toll, Death To Tyrants), Andrew Skelly (Kindling, Ampere), Jason St. Claire (Sweet John Bloom, Daniel Striped Tiger), and Sean Yeaton (Parquet Courts, Daniel Striped Tiger). The group has been making records together in their spare time as Dweller On The Threshold since 2010 despite being separated by thousands of miles and other full-time projects. For more, visit the band on <a href="https://dweller-on-the-threshold.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a> and <a href="https://soundcloud.com/dweller-on-the-threshold">Soundcloud</a>.<br />
<br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-6714698613674508982017-01-16T09:30:00.000-05:002017-01-16T09:30:05.009-05:00ISSUE #135: Lee L. Krecklow, Peggy Acott, Lucius<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Issue #135 Guest Editor <b>Sara Rauch</b>'s prose has appeared in Split Lip, Hobart, Gravel, So to Speak, Luna Luna, and more. Her debut story collection, <b>What Shines from It</b>, is forthcoming in 2018 from <a href="http://www.press.alternatingcurrentarts.com/">Alternating Current Press</a>. She lives with her family in Easthampton, MA. For more, visit <a href="http://sararauch.com/">sararauch.com</a>.<br />
<br />
</i><center><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q98pDQKJ9Lo/WHVi4MrPukI/AAAAAAAACg0/lp_RVA9TUJIw0eSyvY5GEscvPv8wmqlTwCLcB/s1600/Peggy%2BAcott%2BIn%2BHer%2BMother%2527s%2BFootsteps.jpg" width=600></center><div align="right"><i>Photograph by Peggy Acott</i></div><br />
<br />
<big><b>THE DEVICE<br />
by Lee L. Krecklow</b></big><br />
<br />
I bought the Device for my wife the very day she gave birth to our daughter. It made practical sense at the time. She was career oriented, my wife, and was looking down the barrel at a three-month long maternity leave, not to mention the video chat features that would permit family and friends into our home to meet our baby without us having to clean up for them—our house, or ourselves. My wife’s labor was billed as a day-long event, and the doctor encouraged me to step out for a break early in the proceedings. So I shopped. The Device was sleek and so simply formed, the barest possible design, which is actually to say it required a great deal of design. The same might be said of our daughter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/2rzax691fd8bm136cumv5dnkc342af3u?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<b>Issue #135 soundtrack: Lucius "Monsters"</b></center><br />
<br />
It was just hours after she was born that we settled into our room at the hospital and put the Device in front of her for the first time. We touched the warm, smooth screen, shuffled through applications searching for the video chat software. We called my parents, a procedure that required the help of their neighbor child, who showed them how to install the software on their computer, how to set up their new webcam; with age comes an inevitable misunderstanding of technology. The image of my parents on the screen was more pixelated than I'd hoped, and I imagine their first peek at their granddaughter was no less grainy, but it certainly didn't matter to our daughter, whose hours-old face came to life by light of the screen. Eyes opened wide. Mouth agape. Rooting toward it with face and fist, as if for breast.<br />
<br />
In the weeks that followed, eye contact with us was rare, which is not so unusual for a newborn, but engagement with the Device was alarming. It came to be the called upon method of soothing and sedating her, where cries in the night were less about my wife’s milk than about the Elmo app. For our daughter, using the Device was intuition: chubby little fingers suddenly graceful and practiced on the screen, the colorful icons so clear to her unfocused, developing eyes. With the passing of months she was showing us tricks on the Device we hadn’t thought of, teaching us how to use it more efficiently: long holds on applications allowed you to rearrange them on the home screen; double-tapping the center button brought up a list of active applications; flipping a switch on the side prevented the screen from rotating. The busier we were with work and with chores, the less time we had to learn such things, so in that way we were happy to have her guiding us. <br />
<br />
I remember the day very well—though only in hindsight, as it was unremarkable at the time—when she was past a year of age and walking well, and while not quite speaking, communicating with terrific efficiency using signs, and, more often, the Device. My wife was long since back to work, and I was a stay-at-home father. The girl opened the grocery list stored on the Device and made the sign, using small, steering fists, for driving. I obeyed, of course, she being correct most of the time, and took her to the store to pick up the items on the list: chocolate milk and popsicles and hot dogs with cheese inside and cake and cookies and doughnuts, all of which was clearly out of character for my wife to order, but I was loath to incur her wrath if I failed to check off all items on her lists. Now you know very well by now that the list was not of my wife’s making, but you must also see clearly how such a thing would not have occurred to me at the time. <br />
<br />
As the cliché goes, for parents, days are long and years are short, and before we knew it, the hours between sunrise and sunset were never our own, and our little girl was four years of age. I’d somehow been unsubscribed from the parenting-advice emails I’d been receiving, and started getting instead coupons for toy stores and child-safe organic lawn-care services. Over the course of time my wife and I noticed we had fewer date nights and babysitters on the calendar, and so many more evenings scheduled for grandparents to visit, or for neighbors with small children of their own to come over for hours of play. Time gets away, and so does one’s grasp on life.<br />
<br />
As if the situation wasn’t already out of hand, the next version of the Device hit us even harder. The voice recognition software was impressive, and our daughter began an immediate and unexpected relationship with it. Our little girl rarely spoke to us, but when she did, they were the words of the Device. “Good morning” and “you’re welcome” and “I didn’t understand that last command,” all spoken with calculated, robotic inflection. The two had conversations together, and when I happened to overhear them, I wasn’t sure who was controlling whom. When I took the Device for my own use, it took her side in most matters. It only shared the showtimes of animated films, and when I asked it for instructions on building a modest playhouse, it said “I think these are what you’re looking for,” and it took me to the website of a custom treehouse installation service. When I got frustrated and asked it about clearing its memory and starting over with a new user, it said “I’m not that kind of Device. What would your daughter think?”<br />
<br />
Then there were more years and more changes, both in form and function, as new versions of the Device grew more slender and screens got taller, all while the girl did likewise, growing mare legs and fox-like, preteen eyes, and both became more difficult to manage. My access to the Device disappeared, along with the girl; into her backpack in the morning and into her bedroom at night. There were passwords set and unknowable forms of social media and cryptic codes passed between our Device and those belonging to unseen others. A notification would sound, and my girl would jump to its service. Then another would sound, and she’d leave the house. Commands for us came through the Device and into our cell phones, sparse and direct, ones and zeros translated into words like 'dinner' and 'allowance' and 'pickup.' When even those pulses stopped, there could be no doubt of the blackout we’d entered.<br />
<br />
Our cries for help went unheard by the Device: parental locks and controls were a joke; GPS tracking was so easily disabled; browser histories always cleared. While a wayward child is the product of years, for most parents, there is a single moment when they reach a full understanding of their lack of control. A day came when our girl was in the shower, and she absentmindedly left the Device in her room. So hungry for knowledge of where she’d been, who she was spending time with, what her interests were, I brought the screen to life, just as I had the first time, more than a decade ago now, when I first touched it’s simpler, knowable form. But here now, instead of full access and trust, I was greeted by a new form of password protection, a cryptic lockscreen that demanded a thumbprint. I pressed my thumb to it, and I was rejected. I pressed again and received a more severe warning. A third time, with so much frustration, I squeezed my thumb to the scanner, and the Device went dead. So many unsuccessful access attempts cleared its memory. First correspondence. Pictures of lost teeth. Artwork. Memories. Everything we were meant to embrace inside of it was gone, taken from us, robbed, and in a fit of frustration, I smashed the Device against my girl’s dresser. The screen spidered and the housing split. Now it was finished. I was held accountable by my daughter for the violation. She went silent and stoic at the discovery of the loss, the breach of trust. She’d never backed up information. She’d kept it all inside, and now it was gone. There was a final heartbroken stare from her, and then she disappeared from our home. Hours passed. Then a full night. Then two. The police were called, but when they asked for a photograph of our girl, we’d nothing to show them but a shattered screen.<br />
<br />
By the third day, the day when most hope of locating a missing person is lost, my wife and I settled into a new brand of quiet. By the fourth day there were no longer police in the house. By the fifth, no friends or neighbors there for support. There was nothing there to fill the space in our minds or in our hearts. For so long there was the Device, for games and for validation and for mental occupation. For so long there, too, was our daughter. Now it was all vanished, without my being ready for it, and I wallowed on the couch in my fetid, years-old emptiness. <br />
<br />
Until there was the sound of a door opening. I scarcely believed the noise, and quickly deduced it was my wife leaving the house. But when I heard footsteps, slight footsteps coming and not going, I closed my eyes and held my breath. And in the silence there came a sound I felt I’d surely never heard before. It was not a beep or a ring or a digitized voice.<br />
<br />
It said, “Daddy?”<br />
<br />
And before she could leave again, before she could make herself gone from me—vanished into something that could not be held—I reached quickly for my phone and took her picture, so that she might belong to me again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Lee L. Krecklow</b> is the author of the novel <a href="http://wintergoosepublishing.com/product/the-expanse-between/">The Expanse Between</a>, forthcoming in spring 2017 from Winter Goose Publishing. His short fiction has appeared in Oxford Magazine, Midwestern Gothic, Cactus Heart, The Tishman Review, Gravel and others. For more, find him at <a href="https://leelkrecklow.com/">leelkrecklow.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Peggy Acott</b> still has her first SLR film camera – a no-frills Pentax that accompanied her through her college art degree, to Ireland, and throughout her son’s well-documented childhood. She loves the freedom and immediacy of digital photography, but still thinks watching an image emerge on the paper in a darkroom tray is nothing short of magic. Her photographs have been published online and in print, and most recently have accompanied some of her blog posts on <a href="https://storytoceremony.wordpress.com/">storytoceremony.wordpress.com</a> and <a href="https://peggyacott.wordpress.com/">peggyacott.wordpress.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Lucius</b> is fronted by Jess Wolfe and Holly Laessig and backed by their counterpart bandmates Dan Molad, Pete Lalish and Andy Burri. "Monsters" is a track from their 2013 debut LP <a href="http://smarturl.it/wildewomandeluxe">Wildewoman</a>. Lucius' second studio album <a href="http://smarturl.it/LuciusGG_DLX">Good Grief</a> released in 2016, a year in which the band notably spent more than 250 days on the road. For tour dates and more, visit <a href="http://www.ilovelucius.com/">ilovelucius.com</a>.<br />
</i> <br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-13446525906516982942016-12-05T20:41:00.000-05:002016-12-05T20:41:39.047-05:00Call For Submissions || Happy Holidays from Storychord.com<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6jgo36kzseU/S4nA11FfDVI/AAAAAAAABOA/g-ZPf2NFKNY/s1600/storychordlogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6jgo36kzseU/S4nA11FfDVI/AAAAAAAABOA/g-ZPf2NFKNY/s1600/storychordlogo.jpg" /></a><br />
In these last three weeks of 2016, Storychord.com takes a break from posting new issues to take stock of this past year's offerings and prepare exciting new ones for the site's 7th(!) year of publication. <br />
<br />
If you've ever considered sending your short fiction, visual art, or songs for consideration, this month's formal reading/review period is a prime opportunity to do so. Storychord is especially looking for visual art (painters, photographers, illustrators, mixed media/collage, etc.) and bands/musicians to pair with stories selected for upcoming issues.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.storychord.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html">Read our <b>submission guidelines</b></a> for more information -- and spread the word to the talented writers, artists, and musicians you know. <br />
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Lots more good stuff is ahead for 2017. <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/storychord">Subscribe via RSS or e-mail</a> so you don't miss a thing! <br />
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Wishing you happy holidays and a bright start to the new year,<br />
<br />
<i>--Sarah Lynn Knowles<br />
Editor/Founder of Storychord</i><br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-82794485697156758752016-11-21T09:30:00.000-05:002016-11-21T09:30:13.540-05:00ISSUE #134: Alexandra Sanders, Cara Burke, Tiny Stills<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Issue #134 Guest Editor <b>Jessica Maria Johnson</b>'s writing previously appeared in <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2015/05/issue-101-jessica-maria-johnson-ally.html">Storychord Issue #101</a>. She works and writes in Los Angeles. She was born in Panama, but doesn't have a hometown. She is currently working on a novel. Follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/jessicaxmaria">Twitter</a> or subscribe to her <a href="http://www.tinyletter.com/jessicaxmaria">TinyLetter</a> ramblings.<br />
<br />
</i><center><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4cLEQtiA7nQ/WDI4R7B7ONI/AAAAAAAACdc/GvF5GOj9stIOR6Z04OAkGQBsLLEzZLACgCLcB/s1600/Storychord_lacecollage_134peer%2Bpressure.jpg" width=600></center><div align="right"><i>Art by Cara Burke</i></div><br />
<br />
<big><b>THE 12TH GUEST<br />
by Alexandra Sanders</b></big><br />
<br />
<b>I.</b><br />
<br />
Lila Woods swiveled in the rickety desk chair holding her phone inches from her face, waiting for the vibration that meant answers. Her thoughts drowned out the bustling noise of the newsroom, as she pondered why her friend Harper Seaton would invite her to a dinner party without telling her who else was going or why her name was on the list.<br />
<br />
As a journalist, she loved mysteries, but loathed unanswered questions. While the prospect of attending a party she had no context for seemed like an adventure worth experiencing, her curiosity got the best of her and she sent a series of text messages to Harper: Where is the party? Why is she on the guest list? Who else is attending? Should she bring wine, or just herself?<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/gitkqoj4z1srud9jkh25w3mp6fmgdb7i?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<b>Issue #134 soundtrack: Tiny Stills "Burn It Down"</b></center><br />
<br />
<i>Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.</i><br />
<br />
Her face lit up as her screen did, but fell as soon as she realized Harper had ignored all her questions, writing only: “check your email.”<br />
<br />
Lila hit save on another lazy press release rewrite she was banging out for <i>The Daily News</i>. She refreshed her inbox until she saw the invitation. Beneath the date and location was a list of names of the other guests. With a glance over her shoulder to confirm that her nosey editor Davis was otherwise occupied, she entered each name into Google. Of the 11 other attendees, nine had Wikipedia pages, and six were names she had heard before in political circles. Instinctively, Lila began to jot down notes on the attendees in a feeble attempt to make connections among them. She also wanted to pinpoint a reason she might belong in such esteemed company, but was forced to give up when she saw Davis, brows furrowed, eyeing her computer screen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>II.</b><br />
<br />
Lila stood in the marble-walled apartment building lobby and second-guessed her navigation skills. But the Upper East Side building matched the address on the invitation. The conspicuous opulence of the plush cobalt carpeting and gilded chandeliers made her shift nervously in her cranberry dress and cheetah-print loafers. She considered going home to change, but calmed herself and approached the security desk.<br />
<br />
“Hello there. I’m a guest of Reese Braddock’s. Lila Woods. I don’t have an apartment number, but the invitation says 15th floor?”<br />
<br />
The man behind the security desk smirked and glanced down at a computer screen that bathed his face in a green-blue light.<br />
<br />
“Ms. Braddock owns the entire 15th floor. And it looks like she is indeed expecting you.”<br />
<br />
Lila felt her face grow hot, and worried her skin would match her dress by the time she reached the party. She managed to blurt out, “of course, thank you so much,” before stepping into the elevator—a space half the size of her Brooklyn studio and more decadent.<br />
<br />
Lila exhaled, hoping the scarlet in her face would leave her body with her breath as she gave herself a mental pep talk: <i>Nothing exciting happens if you never try new things.</i><br />
<br />
The elevator doors slid open and Lila’s eyes widened in surprise. The sprawling and minimalist apartment was starkly opposite from the antiquated décor that smothered the lobby. Everything was modern and bathed in whites, creams, and grays. Massive floral arrangements lined the hallway with branches that stretched out into the space, daring guests who walked by to bring $5,000 plants crashing to the ground.<br />
<br />
“Hello?” Lila called out softly.<br />
<br />
“Lila! Hi! So glad you could make it.” She was relieved to hear Harper’s voice, and felt the anxiety melt from her body when her friend’s arms pulled her into a hug at the threshold of the kitchen. <br />
<br />
“Since you told me you wanted to make your life a little less boring last time we spoke, I thought this might be just the thing.”<br />
<br />
“When did I tell you that?” Lila’s memory from their last encounter was as cloudy as the gin fizzes they drank that night.<br />
<br />
“Tell me you remember something? You went on and on about your horrific, sexist editor Davis and that dreadful newbie he promoted over you. You said you wanted to start a riot, and so here you are.”<br />
<br />
“Well, this doesn’t <i>feel</i> much like a riot, but it is a nice change of pace.”<br />
<br />
Lila tried to imitate Harper’s glowing smile, perfected by half a decade as a public relations rep. She wanted to appear gracious and warm to the other guests, instead of a notch above uncomfortable. Lila let Harper lead her into the living room, where the rest of the guests were gathered.<br />
<br />
“Lila, please meet Reese Braddock, our host this evening. Reese is the VP at Goldman Sachs and a very generous philanthropist. Really, she’s saving this city with her generosity.”<br />
<br />
“It is lovely to meet you, Reese,” Lila said, extending her hand. “What a stunning home you have.”<br />
<br />
“Oh thank you,” Reese waved the compliment away as if it were a fly buzzing around her head. “The most important part is the wine fridge! Are you drinking red or white?”<br />
<br />
Lila chose white, given the pale hues of the apartment and her proclivity for clumsiness when she was anxious. Wine in hand, she wandered toward the remainder of the crowd, noting how the decor seemed to be an extension of Reese’s porcelain complexion. Of the people in the room, she recognized a film director, a prominent actress, and two politicians immediately, but it took her a moment to identify the other guests from her internet stalking.<br />
<br />
“Shall we get started? Please take a seat,” Reese said, gesturing to a white, glossy dining table adorned with golden candles and extensive silverware sets that Lila feared navigating.<br />
<br />
“As we’re getting settled, I want to welcome you to my home. I am so glad you all came,” Reese said lifting her hands toward her face in delight. Her charming smile was obscured by claw-like nails painted butcher red. “For the newcomers here, every month I hold a dinner party and ask dear friends to bring their smartest, fiercest friends. Over refreshments, we talk about ways to change the world and smash the patriarchy.”<br />
<br />
Lila surveyed the animated faces of the women around the table and felt a burst of adrenaline surge through her body. She may be a poorly-paid reporter, but she realized she might have more in common with these women than she expected.<br />
<br />
Reese gestured toward a woman with sheets of cherry-red hair that fell in curtains around her doll-like face. Lila had pegged the woman earlier as the award-winning actress whose inventive outfits always shimmered across the style pages of <i>The Daily News</i>.<br />
<br />
“Please start off the discussion by talking about your recent incident at work.”<br />
<br />
The actress detailed her latest salary negotiation, which ended with her getting paid several million dollars less than her male costar. While she acknowledged her privilege, the discrepancy spoke volumes. <br />
<br />
“I am so pleased to be in such lovely company once more,” Lila heard the woman next to her speak. “This is my fourth time attending one of Reese’s dinner parties, and she has been so wonderful. I am grateful for what she does for us all.”<br />
<br />
She identified herself as an advisor to the mayor, and Lila was immediately drawn to her. The woman had bright green eyes and silver-blonde hair. She looked like Lila—just 25 years older—and had similar experiences, starting with an anxiety-filled career in journalism. As women in largely male professions, they had both faced sexist jokes, worked later and harder than their male colleagues, and always over-justified their decisions.<br />
<br />
As the woman wrapped up her introduction, Lila felt her face grow hot with anticipation of having to speak and feared that the three glasses of wine she had already gulped down would slow her vowels and soften her consonants.<br />
<br />
She cleared her throat: “Let me just say that I am honored to be in the presence of your company. All of you have carved out pathways before me so women of my generation could succeed. You kept chipping away at the glass ceiling so we could break through with a light tap.”<br />
<br />
As she listened to her own voice bounce off of the china and reverberate through the chandelier’s crystals, she realized how young and eager to please she sounded.<br />
<br />
“Anyway, I’m Lila Woods. And as a female journalist, I have faced hardships that my male peers haven’t had to suffer through. But in the interest of not being redundant, let me raise this question: how do we solve these problems? How do we create a world in which my future children will have fewer obstacles than you did, or even I did?”<br />
<br />
“I am so glad you asked,” Reese responded, beaming. “Why don’t you all help yourself to dessert and I will be right back to help answer that question. Harper, would you please help our guests with their wine?”<br />
<br />
Lila was struck by their easy closeness. Harper was usually the brightest star in any room, and rarely took orders from anyone—including Lila, her friend of six years. She had never heard Harper mention Reese’s name before, but she seemed to be the hostess’ right-hand woman. <br />
<br />
“Every year, there are fewer women involved in politics. Every year there are more reports of actresses, directors, writers, and other women who are all-stars in their fields getting kicked down a notch, feeling less-than, and not being heralded for their accomplishments,” Harper said.<br />
<br />
Lila, grasping her wine glass with one hand and passing a tray of gold-flecked macarons with the other, noticed that Harper’s usually inviting smile was firmly pressed against gritted teeth.<br />
<br />
“Well, of course, but that’s why we have a great group of people like this to brainstorm solutions to these problems.”<br />
<br />
Harper shook her head and sighed, speaking slowly as if attempting to teach a toddler the meaning of a word.<br />
<br />
“Lila, we have tried brainstorming. We have tried negotiating and we have tried being nice. Tonight, we are going to talk about ways in which we can actually create progress for once—squash these social injustices for good.”<br />
<br />
Harper turned her attention away from Lila and surveyed the faces around the table.<br />
<br />
“Ladies, aren’t you sick of being treated unfairly? Aren’t you tired of waiting for change? Well, as many of you already know, we have a plan—and so far, it’s working.”<br />
<br />
Lila was so rapt, she didn’t realize that Reese had returned, and she was carrying a small wooden chest.<br />
<br />
“Do you all know who Felix Mabry is?” Reese asked the room.<br />
<br />
“Yes!” Lila heard her voice leave her mouth before considering her answer. “He was the city official who went missing a few weeks ago. There were tons of rumors about his sordid behavior.”<br />
<br />
Lila let out an uncomfortable half-laugh as she realized how quiet the room was.<br />
<br />
“Indeed, Lila. Felix was someone who had threatened women, intentionally kept them out of influential seats, and made snide comments about them online to tarnish their reputations. Well, we decided to teach Felix a lesson.”<br />
<br />
Reese carefully placed the chest next to the platter of macarons and lifted the lid. Lila was perplexed as steam billowed out of the opening. Her brain heavy with booze, it took her more than a few moments to realize that it wasn’t steam at all, but dry ice. The vapors obscured a smaller encasement inside the chest and Lila leaned closer to see what it contained, studying Reese’s face for a hint.<br />
<br />
Reese adjusted the string of pearls laced around her neck and smiled proudly. “Inside this box are Felix’s fingers. Some of them, at least. We have already sent a few—along with strongly worded notes—to his acquaintances who were committing similar offenses. So they know that we do actually mean business.”<br />
<br />
<i>This has to be a joke. No way there are fingers in there.</i> Lila instinctively clasped her hands together as if to protect them. <br />
<br />
She looked at the faces around the table for signs of fright or disturbance, but only saw smiles and nods of encouragement. Lila, disappointed in the wicked behavior of women she initially hoped might be her friends, seemed to be the one person at the table who did not expect this. <br />
<br />
She moved toward the pocket of her blazer to switch on her tape recorder and palmed it firmly, aiming it toward Reese, Harper, and the remains of Felix.<br />
<br />
“Forgive me,” Lila said, breaking the silence. Again, her brain lost the fight to her eagerness for information and she heard her voice waver. “But how is this going to help achieve equality?”<br />
<br />
Harper gave her a sharp look. “Well, Lila, you’re forgiven because you’re new to this group, but it has already led to progress. These powerful men expect us to sit with our hands folded in our laps and wait for justice, but we have waited for too long. One year ago, we began using this—I’ll call it a slightly more forceful method—of creating change. More than a few well-deserved appointments and promotions have happened since. This has been so effective, it’s why we’ve begun inviting more women to this group, women who believe in the fundamentals of female empowerment and have experienced prejudice for years. From now on, men like Felix, men who plant public lies and ruin careers, won’t have the ability to hurt us.”<br />
<br />
Lila was taken aback by Harper, who was panting with rage. The actress pushed her chair away from the table and histrionically threw her arms around her, calming Harper with careful pats on the back as if she were in danger of shattering.<br />
<br />
“Oh, I see. Of course,” Lila muttered. She wasn’t sure what the consequences would be if she didn’t agree with the group, but she knew she wanted to keep her fingers. <br />
<br />
Lila tried to disguise her horror with feigned interest and moved toward the box to get a closer look. She peered through the clouds of dry ice and saw them: gray-blue and bent rigidly as though Felix was waving when the appendages were taken from him. <br />
<br />
As the women continued to take turns peering into the box, Lila excused herself to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Staring into the mirror, she gripped the edge of the sink hoping the cold marble edges would prevent her from fainting. She focused on what she needed to know about the big story just outside the bathroom door.<br />
<br />
Here was a murderous cult bent on retribution in the name of women’s empowerment. They were clinking glasses and discussing how rich the petit fours were over an open box of severed fingers. She cracked the door open and Reese’s voice faintly seeped into the tiled space.<br />
<br />
“As the night winds down, please consider your assignments. Pinpoint the man who has hurt your career, tried to stop you from being the fierce leader you are. And think of how you can strongly persuade him and his fellow miscreants from doing you wrong again.”<br />
<br />
Lila, still gripping the tape recorder in her now-sweaty palm, removed her shoes and tiptoed down the hallway. She peeked into the dining room and saw that the women were chatting in small groups, oblivious to her absence.<br />
<br />
Relieved, she turned to retrace her steps and collided with a red-silk-clad figure.<br />
<br />
“Careful, hun!” Reese said, gripping a knife now pointing away from them. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”<br />
<br />
Lila tried to breathe normally, despite the scream rising in her throat.<br />
<br />
“What’s that for? You already served dessert.”<br />
<br />
<i>Stop asking questions before you think.</i><br />
<br />
“Well, it might just be for you if you’re running off already. You look like you’re ready to make a break for it.”<br />
<br />
Reese’s piercing blue eyes wandered to Lila’s shoes, dangling from her fingers, and Lila began to step backward.<br />
<br />
“I’m kidding! It’s to cut the ribbon on a hostess gift. Calm down, Lila. You're here because Harper trusts you, so I trust you. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, smiling and moving toward the living room. She abruptly turned just as Lila was letting out her breath. “Oh, and the powder room is down that hall if that’s where you were headed. It’s quite easy to get lost in this place.”<br />
<br />
After Reese rounded the corner, Lila found her office and cracked open the MacBook perched on a massive white desk. She began to dig through the hostess-slash-cult-leader’s email, while periodically eyeing the door for stray dinner guests.<br />
<br />
Her cursor paused over a message dated May 13 with the subject line, “Dinner.” Lila tried to figure out why the sender’s name sounded familiar. She realized she frequently heard it from her coworker, who reported on white collar crime.<br />
<br />
<blockquote><i><br />
From: Max Coppage <br />
To: Reese Braddock<br />
<br />
<br />
Hi Reese,<br />
<br />
<br />
I really enjoyed our call the other day. I am so impressed by you and the other girls standing up for what you think is right, and I look forward to meeting the new members you welcome after your dinner party next month.<br />
<br />
<br />
We need to talk about James next. Trust me, he’s the next person you want out of your way. We’ll talk details when we meet for lunch. For now, focus on Felix.<br />
<br />
<br />
I know this all seems like a lot, but you’re doing great. Just follow my lead.<br />
<br />
<br />
Best,<br />
Max</i></blockquote><br />
<br />
She was snapping a photo of the message when she heard footsteps in the hallway.<br />
<br />
“Lila? Are you still here?”<br />
<br />
Lila flicked on the light and feigned searching the room as if she had lost something.<br />
<br />
“In here! Just looking for my jacket.”<br />
<br />
Harper pushed the door open and eyed her curiously.<br />
<br />
“I don’t recall you wearing a jacket. It’s June, Lila. Eighty degrees. Are you feeling OK?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, right.” Lila rubbed her arms to quell the imaginary goose bumps covering them. “I just don’t feel that well. I actually think I may head home, but thank you so much for having me. This is a lovely space and extraordinary group of women. I’m grateful.”<br />
<br />
Harper’s face remained severe, but she was now sporting a sinister smile that caused genuine goosebumps to sprout on Lila’s skin. <br />
<br />
<i>Or was it the same smile as always?</i><br />
<br />
“I do hope you enjoyed yourself. I selected you because of the prejudices you’ve faced and your desire to change the world. I hope you’ll work with us to create that environment you mentioned you wanted for your future children. I’ll send you an invitation in the coming weeks if you’re up to it. I will say though, this group does not look kindly upon others who don’t return after their first dinner party.”<br />
<br />
“I truly am honored, Harper. Thank you. We’ll speak soon, promise. Please give my regards to Reese and the other guests, I wish I felt better. Have a good night.”<br />
<br />
Lila felt Harper’s cold stare on the back of her head as she slipped her shoes on, slung her purse across her body and headed back down the flora-lined hallway toward the elevator, holding her breath the whole way. As the doors glided open, she stepped onto the carpet and saw sticky stains along the edges of the elevator’s walls that she hadn’t noticed earlier. She studied the lustrous marble she had leaned against on her ride to the 15th floor, and now spotted mottling and pockmarks. Above her, the rusted light cover was shaded in spots where bugs had perished.<br />
<br />
As she stepped into the lobby, Lila tapped out an email to her editor with a note about the bizarre dinner, the blur of VIP guests, and the photo of Max’s email. She decided to save the morbid details for an in-person chat. A shiver ran down her spine as the image of the freezer-burned fingers flashed through her mind. Suddenly, she felt the doorman’s eyes on her, and she hurried through the revolving door, shooting her hand skyward to catch a cab before she reached the curb.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>III.</b><br />
<br />
The next morning, Lila ambled down the paint-chipped hallway to her editor’s office, mentally rehearsing her pitch. This scoop was a far cry from her usual local dog park opening stories.<br />
<br />
“Lila Woods. You look tired.”<br />
<br />
“Did you get my e-mail? From last night?” Lila clutched her cell phone tightly, as she had sleeplessly done all night until the corners of the device created divots in her palm and the metal and plastic felt like an extension of her limb.<br />
<br />
“Yes, and it was vague. What did you learn in Journalism 101 about including the facts up front? Tell me more now.” <br />
<br />
Davis turned back to his computer screen and continued typing, nodding along as she elaborated on the party. When she uttered the word “fingers,” Davis’ perpetually annoyed expression jerked into one of shock.<br />
<br />
“Like, human fingers?”<br />
<br />
“Human fingers! Human fingers of Felix Mabry! Who I’d guess is dead though he’s just been reported missing, as far as I know. And Coppage might be behind this whole thing? Like, this billionaire possibly grasping at a political seat is leading a group of women to go on a man-killing spree in the name of what they are touting as some positive change movement? And I was up all night researching Mabry’s disappearance and trying to figure out who James is—”<br />
<br />
“It’s gotta be James Rossi.”<br />
<br />
“The mayor?”<br />
<br />
“Remember he took sudden leave during an awfully busy political season? You might be onto something, Woods. Go make some calls and see what you can find out about Rossi’s whereabouts. I’m going to send a note to a source I have in city council to see what I can get. You might not be a horrific reporter after all, you know that?”<br />
<br />
Lila smiled curtly and turned to leave his office. As she weaved around the paper-strewn desks that dotted the newsroom, Lila eyed her red, blotchy hands and attempted to rub out the dents.<br />
<br />
“Hello there!”<br />
<br />
The voice wasn’t one that belonged in the newsroom, let alone in her cubicle. Reese, now wearing a cerulean version of last night’s dress, cheerfully swiveled back and forth in Lila’s chair. <br />
<br />
“You didn’t say goodbye last night. Is everything OK? I wouldn’t want there to be any trouble, you know, with you being a reporter and all, so I figured I’d stop by to check for myself.”<br />
<br />
“Oh! Of course. I just didn’t feel that well. I got swept up in, uh, the jubilance and had a bit too much wine.”<br />
<br />
“Understandable! I’d love to have a little follow-up chat, though. I’m meeting my friend Max now for lunch. He’s a gem who you should absolutely get to know. He might even be able to enlighten you about the importance of our work. Join me?”<br />
<br />
“You know, I’d love to, but I’m quite busy—”<br />
<br />
Lila felt Reese’s nails dig into her wrist before she saw them. Reese was still sporting a genial smile, but her eyes were cast downward toward her purse. Poking out from between the metal clasps was a small, razor-sharp knife.<br />
<br />
Lila glanced around the newsroom and saw only empty chairs. She furtively glanced toward Davis’ office in a silent plea for help, but his door was closed. Reese stood, not waiting for Lila to accept her invitation, and intertwined Lila’s arm in hers.<br />
<br />
“Seems like everyone else has better things to do—even your dreadful editor, huh? Harper told me all about that pig. Shall we?”<br />
<br />
Reese led Harper into the street and gestured to a black town car that was double parked.<br />
<br />
“Well? Hop in. Let’s go.”<br />
<br />
Lila, eyeing Reese’s hand that was still half-submerged in her purse, climbed in hesitantly.<br />
<br />
<i>MMMNNNNMMM!!!</i><br />
<br />
Lila heard muffled screams and her eyes widened in shock. Davis was bound and gagged in the seat next to her.<br />
<br />
“I know you and Davis know one another, but please meet Max,” Reese said, gesturing toward the driver. “We’re just trying to help you move up the ladder, my friend. That’s all we want to do. Now, let’s discuss next steps for you and your editor here over tartine.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Alexandra Sanders</b> lives and writes in New York. By day, she's an editor at The Huffington Post who innovates in the editorial product space. By night, she bakes mostly pumpkin-flavored confections and dances around the kitchen to 90s alt rock. Check out her recipes, writing and photography at <a href="https://alexandramsanders.com/">alexandramsanders.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Cara Burke</b> enjoys various tactile art forms such as collages and embroidery. She has recently been exploring doodle art, drawing inspiration from the botany of her hometown Austin, Texas. She recently opened <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/esterjean">an Etsy shop</a> showcasing her hand-made embroidery items. View examples of her art, as well as pictures of her beloved pitbull, Pippa, on her <a href="https://www.instagram.com/esterjean/">Instagram</a>. <br />
<br />
<p><b>Tiny Stills</b> is an indie pop band from Los Angeles, fronted by Kailynn West. Tiny Stills has toured nationally and shared the stage with artists such as Anthony Raneri (Bayside), Allison Weiss, and Motion City Soundtrack and is currently staying up very late at night and eating lots of sugar and working on the next perfect feel-good-sad-anthem-sing-along for their 2017 album release. Get their debut album “Falling is Like Flying” on <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/falling-is-like-flying/id918703806">iTunes</a> or <a href="https://tinystills.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a>, and watch for tour updates on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/tinystills/">Facebook</a>. <br />
<br />
</i> <br />
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Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-8418023817351446602016-11-07T09:30:00.000-05:002016-11-07T09:30:18.792-05:00ISSUE #133: Jennifer Ahlquist, L.K. James, Zigtebra<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-klwn9Be52Cw/WB4igNGBNMI/AAAAAAAACcs/eE5ZPFRSOk03JzQetfzguOhNu_u3IU3yQCLcB/s1600/PUBLIC%2BSLEEPER%2B3012%2Bcopy.jpg" WIDTH=598><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by L.K. James</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>REPOTTED<br />
by Jennifer Ahlquist</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>I found my brother again at the garden center. I was sure I’d imagined his voice, just over my shoulder in line for the register. He’d only been dead six weeks and I’d read that things like that could happen. Auditory hallucinations. But then it came again – Paul’s growl, unmistakable and very close. <i>Becca</i>, it said. I swiveled, bumping into pansies and tomato vines around me with the unwieldy fern in my arms that Dr. Chakiryan said might help bring life back into the apartment. I thought this was a poor choice of words, or maybe an apt one because he also said that we find the meaning we want to in what other people tell us. Ben hadn’t come with me, so I couldn’t ask him if he heard it, too. He’d said he couldn’t take any more paid time off after the funeral since it was his girlfriend’s bereavement, not his. Again I heard it, practically on top of me. <i>Becca</i>.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/efptvrmbe6d96xo0oo67he0u8n4yau2t?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #133 soundtrack: Zigtebra “Where Have You Gone?”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
Paul? I whispered. The fern in my arms rustled. Paul? I looked down.<br />
<br />
Hi, Paul said, waving his frond.<br />
<br />
The woman behind me pressed her flat of flowers against my back to tell me the next register was open.<br />
<br />
Shhhh, Paul said, don’t freak.<br />
<br />
I started to protest when they wrapped Paul’s roots too tightly in burlap, but he waved again to shush me up.<br />
<br />
Beautiful plant, the cashier said, really a home-maker.<br />
<br />
Thank you, I gushed, and clutched my brother to me across the counter.<br />
<br />
<CENTER><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
We drove home in silence. He draped a frond out the passenger side window and we both listened to the breeze whip through the car. That was one of my favorite things about Paul – the way we could be quiet together. It’s what made us good friends and better roommates, and what had united us against the loud, untidy lives of our parents. Once, we spent the whole drive from Indianapolis back to Mamaroneck in total silence just to give them the spooks. They didn’t fight for a week after that. When they divorced mercifully a few years later, Paul took me to the driving range while the movers ferried our stuff to Mom and Darrell’s new place the next county over. He liked it better there than at the mini golf course. Too messy, too many noisy families. Thwack! Thwack! Our hits rang out and the dimpled balls raced each other into the turf. We didn’t know how to golf. We said nothing but we felt better. I felt better. Dr. Chakiryan said I need to stop using “we” when I talk about Paul.<br />
<br />
<CENTER><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
At home, I had to grab Paul’s stalk with both hands to wrestle him into the pot. He wasn’t very large, but the weight of his roots surprised me.<br />
<br />
I’m sorry it’s just terra cotta, I said.<br />
<br />
You know I’m not picky about my pot.<br />
<br />
He rustled, so I laughed, too. I put him in the sunniest window and grabbed a couple of beers. I stuck the long neck of one bottle upside down in Paul’s soil and sank into the couch.<br />
<br />
Thanks, said Paul, I’m sick of water.<br />
<br />
We air-toasted to being alone together again.<br />
<br />
<CENTER><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER> <br />
I skipped lunch with Ben the next day, said I was finally sorting Paul’s stuff. I held things up and Paul said yes, keep it, or no, I don’t need a toothbrush anymore. We kept all the vinyl because we could still listen to them together. I remembered reading somewhere that music helped plants to grow.<br />
<br />
I’m sure he would have been glad to see these put to good use, the Vietnam Vets donation guy told me when he came to pick up Paul’s clothes.<br />
<br />
Well, they don’t fit me, I said, and he smiled at me like Darrell had when he brought Mom over to the apartment after the burial. A toothless smear of well-intended pity. Darrell and Ben had sat in our secondhand armchairs drinking iced tea and watching football like it was Thanksgiving instead of a funeral. I didn’t even know we got the sports channels.<br />
<br />
Ben, it means so much to Darrell and me that you were a pall bearer today.<br />
<br />
Mom’s voice was thick but didn’t falter. She hadn’t removed her ridiculous black hat with its bird-cage netting and clutched a black silk bag in her lap. I could see the tag poking out of the top. She’d probably return it later, and I hoped she’d only get store credit.<br />
<br />
It was so special to see everyone who loved him, all his most important people, there together for him.<br />
<br />
I left them in the living room and got in bed. Mom ushered Darrell away from the game and out the door without saying goodbye. Dr. Chakiryan said that my non-confrontational attitude was why I hadn’t gone to the funeral.<br />
<br />
Limited to his terra cotta pot, Paul talked more than he ever had with legs. Things I barely noticed him doing as a person became the subjects of lengthy tutorials. The filter on the air conditioner had to be cleaned, the couch cushions rotated, the glue traps reset under the oven. The prickly fuzz on his stems bristled whenever I didn’t follow instructions quite right. An internet search told me they were called rhizomes. I wanted to know everything about him. I learned how much sun he needed and not to over-water. He walked me through setting the right rpm on the record player, taught me how to make his perfect pan-fried quesadillas (low heat, patience), and finally explained how to get the TV to sync up with the DVD player so we could re-watch Ingmar Bergman movies until I passed out on the sofa.<br />
<br />
Are you asleep, Paul? I asked once, after <i>Through a Glass Darkly</i>.<br />
<br />
I don’t think I can, he answered.<br />
<br />
I didn’t sleep much that night either, and when I did, I dreamt of a terrible spider crouched in Paul’s leaves. I dusted him in the morning in spite of his protests, just to be sure.<br />
<br />
<CENTER><B>* * * * *</B></CENTER><br />
Before we became roommates, I’d visited him in his first and only year at college. He took me to a house party where I wore a skirt Mom didn’t know I owned and got drunk fast on vodka mixed with Kool-Aid powder. When one of his friends offered me a bump from the crook of his thumb, Paul swatted the guy’s hand away. He handed him a ten for the spilled coke and practically frog-marched me back to his dorm. We ordered a pizza and Paul made me sleep on my side. He didn’t tell me off ever, but the next night at the next party he tallied my whiskey punches in pen on his arm. I was never as good at keeping track of him as he was of me. He’d gotten in the habit of staying away overnight while he was using, and I was so used to the quiet that it took more than a day for me to find his body. I’d made breakfast, done the dishes, slept in a bedroom that shared a wall with his. I hadn’t even gone in to see him, I just wanted to borrow his headphones.<br />
<br />
Oh Bec, Ben had said when I called him from the hospital. Honey, please don’t tell me you’re surprised.<br />
<br />
And then I was ashamed of both of us.<br />
<br />
When the 24-pack of beers ran out, I invited Ben over. I hadn’t gone back to work yet so cash was running low, and besides, I was beginning to miss my boyfriend. I told Paul that he was coming over and the leaves at his crown drooped.<br />
<br />
Couldn’t you just pick something up? he asked.<br />
<br />
We hadn’t had anybody else over all week, not counting the Vietnam Vets guy.<br />
<br />
C’mon, just the two of us.<br />
<br />
I tied the sleeves of a blue flannel shirt I’d held onto around his pot, to help him feel more like himself. The doorbell rang.<br />
<br />
I’m not ready, Paul said. <i>Brrrong</i> went the doorbell again.<br />
<br />
You look awesome, Paul, I said.<br />
<br />
Ben’s a prick, said Paul.<br />
<br />
Hey pretty, said Ben when I answered the door. He took a bottle of whiskey out of his bag and gave it a little shake. I grabbed two glasses and a turkey baster from the kitchen while Ben dropped his stuff in the living room.<br />
<br />
Are you making something?<br />
<br />
He watched as I tipped a generous pour into each glass, and stuck the baster into the fifth of Johnnie Walker, sucking liquor into the rubber bulb. I handed Ben a glass and shoved the long tube of the baster into Paul’s dirt. I hoped he’d loosen up soon.<br />
<br />
Do you want to watch a movie? I asked neither of them in particular.<br />
<br />
Ben swallowed whatever he had been preparing to say. I picked Paul’s favorite Bergman, <i>Fanny and Alexander</i>. He hadn’t said a word since Ben came in. The apartment got too hot, even with the windows open. Paul’s smallest leaves were looking spindly, and sweat condensed where my back pressed against the sofa cushions. Life got worse for Fanny and Alexander, despite their well-meaning family. Ben was bored. The turkey baster was only half full.<br />
<br />
It was always like this when the three of us hung out – which had been rare. Ben and Paul rooted themselves in opposite corners while I tried to bridge the space between them. I couldn’t blame Ben. He didn’t know he was ignoring Paul because I hadn’t told him anything yet. I felt the room grow more oxygenated as Paul completed his vegetal respiration furiously in the corner. I refused to speak for him. He’d been so forthcoming all week, I resented guessing at his thoughts. I hated him sitting there like an impotent chaperone. He could have tried. He could have asked for help.<br />
<br />
Ben’s hand slid from my knee to my thigh, and upwards still until it found the Y of my jeans. I stiffened, Paul swayed in the corner. I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose. Dr. Chakiryan’s voice counted in my head. In for seven. Hold for five. Out for nine. Ben’s lips found my neck, my collarbone, my earlobe. We hadn’t had sex since Paul died.<br />
<br />
Maybe we should go to your room? Ben asked from deep in his throat.<br />
<br />
No, I said, and pulled his face back towards mine.<br />
<br />
I pushed my tongue past his teeth and leaned into the cushions, arching my back so he could slide a hand around to unhook my bra. Paul said nothing. I pulled Ben’s shirt over his head, and he grinned. He reached for my breasts with both hands, his mouth a hard line. I turned my head to offer him my neck and saw Paul, perfectly still by the open window despite the breeze. We had never seen each other naked. His leaves were curling in on themselves, and I knew he’d have to say something soon. I stared, daring him.<br />
<br />
Jesus, the blinds, said Ben.<br />
<br />
He stood, red-faced, a hand outstretched to move Paul from the window sill. <br />
<br />
Don’t touch him! <br />
<br />
We stood facing each other in the cramped, too-hot room.<br />
<br />
Him? I watched the confusion settle across his face.<br />
<br />
I think I fell in love with him because I always knew what he was thinking. I wished I didn’t now. The quiet in the room was heavy. I felt it settle at the bottom of my lungs like cold air.<br />
<br />
You okay, Bec? Ben asked, his hand resting on the edge of Paul’s pot.<br />
<br />
My stomach felt too full of whatever vomit is when it’s still inside you. The Johnnie Walker made my skin too hot. They stood there not seeing each other, and I didn’t want them to. I didn’t want to be seen by them, either.<br />
<br />
You should go, I said, grabbing my shirt from the sofa. I have an early session with Dr. Chakiryan.<br />
<br />
I’m sorry, Becca, Ben said.<br />
<br />
He kissed me on the forehead and left the whiskey as he went.<br />
<br />
Paul was still quiet. I called out to him as soon as the door was closed, but he didn’t answer. I was still sweating and felt dizzy.<br />
<br />
Paul, are you still…?<br />
<br />
Paul didn’t stir. I got down on the floor next to him, my cheek on the rim of his pot. I stuck my fingers in the dirt and dug and dug and dug for his roots, twisting my fingers through them until they turned purple. The rest of the whiskey trickled out of the baster and made my hands and face muddy.<br />
<br />
Paul, I’m sorry.<br />
<br />
I tugged at the flannel, tipping soil into my lap while I held him. I petted his fronds and kissed the tiny, woolly leaves.<br />
<br />
Paul, I’m sorry.<br />
<br />
I spread his dirt across my legs, rubbed it into my arms. I buried my head in the fullness of his leaves. We stayed like that until early morning when I woke up in a puddle of booze and dirt with broken fern fronds in my hair.<br />
<br />
I rewrapped Paul, now turning yellow and brittle at his edges, in the burlap from the garden center and carried him outside to watch while I dug in the shared lot behind the apartment building. He stayed silent, stretched his leaves and turned toward the sun. The sun felt good on my face, too. I nestled him down into the fresh hole, packed him in with topsoil. He looked much bigger out in the yard than he had in the apartment. I knelt in close to pat down the earth around his stalk.<br />
<br />
Thanks, Becca, I thought I heard him whisper.<br />
<br />
I said nothing. I wiped my hands on the blue flannel tied around my waist, and went back inside for the watering can. <br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Jennifer Ahlquist</b> is a Philadelphia-based writer with a background in theater and social media marketing. A recent transplant from NYC, she is currently working towards completing a collection of very short fiction.<br />
<br />
<b>L.K. James</b> is an artist making books, comics, and other things in Portland, OR. For more, visit <a href="http://www.lkjames.com/">lkjames.com</a> or follow the artist on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/lkjamz/">Instagram</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Zigtebra</b> is Zebra (Emily Rose) and Tiger (Joseph). They are half-siblings who met in Chicago in 2010 while performing in the Pure Magical Love dance troop. Armed with a cassette of collected songs ("The Pink Line"), they set off across America on a summer road trip/tour. When they returned to Chicago they locked themselves up at Observatory Studios and recorded new material for their first studio album "The Brave," which released October 2014 in limited white vinyl from <a href="http://www.fperecs.com/catalog/zigtebra/">FPE Records</a>. For more, visit the band on <a href="https://zigtebra.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a>, <a href="https://soundcloud.com/zigtebra">Soundcloud</a>, or on <a href="http://zigtebra.com/">zigtebra.com</a>.<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-91286323987479030072016-10-24T09:30:00.000-04:002016-10-24T09:30:50.193-04:00ISSUE #132: Eva Konstantopoulos, Devyn Park, Susanna Rose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GI3HR6WxK94/WAo4pBexKbI/AAAAAAAACbA/O7ceTEy0Kuk9MUk5U78fS8jYXncaPukTQCLcB/s1600/Devyn%2BPark%2B-%2BSelf%2BPortrait%2BColor%2BStudy.jpg" width=530><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by Devyn Park</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>THERE IS NO ARTHUR<br />
by Eva Konstantopoulos</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>The sounds of the market burst in Frank's ears as he navigated through the stalls. He held his phone tightly in his hand, the address of the shop within reach as he passed colorful fruit and silver fish, whole chickens and plastic trinkets. Fresh fish here! Apples! Pears! Frank knew where he was going wouldn't fix Anna, but he had to try. <br />
<br />
Strangers shouted in Mandarin. A young mother wiped red juice off her son's cheek. Frank passed the last covered stall and walked out into the street. A little further, he thought. Maybe the next block. He'd have to look at the map again to be sure. <br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/4i35c2i383xcyn2tq8wf8vyeeap2xtz7?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #132 soundtrack: Susanna Rose “Ancient History”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
From out of nowhere, a car blared its horn. He looked to his left and met the eyes of a driver as he slammed on the brakes. The driver rolled down his window. "Watch where you're going, will you?"<br />
<br />
Frank continued on, his armpits sweaty. He could feel the driver's eyes boring into the back of his head as he turned down a litter-strewn alley. He checked the address one more time. <br />
<br />
A man named Arthur had called Frank to inform him of the shop. He said it had worked miracles for many families before him. The perfect gift was waiting for Frank. He just had to make the journey. Frank had perused the prices, researched online. There were other shops like the one Frank searched for, but they were in Beverly Hills or Brentwood with heftier price tags. Buying memories was a rich people's game, and Frank and Anna were firmly middle-class, despite years of trying to break through to the upper thresholds. <br />
<br />
At first Frank had his doubts. How had this Arthur even gotten ahold of him? Arthur’s voice was smooth and assuring, as if they were old friends. He knew things about Frank, about Anna. Weeks later, Frank would find Anna’s notepad with a small etching of a moon and a phone number. She had seen the experience on Oprah and signed up for more information online. <br />
<br />
It was an opportunity to travel to the lunar landscape without ever leaving your living room. Of course, the real thing would be better, but lunar travel was only for the elite. A memory was the next best thing, and even that at a discount place like where he was headed would require remortgaging the house. Still, it was the first time Frank had seen Anna interested in something since the accident. It was a long shot, but Frank had tried everything else. He was willing to bargain. <br />
<br />
Frank walked down the length of the alley and then retraced his steps to the only door he could find. It was unmarked. He checked the address on his phone again and then knocked. After a moment, the door opened with the lock still on. A petite woman peered out at Frank. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger. <br />
<br />
"Is Arthur here?" he asked. The young woman blinked at him, and then the door squeaked open into darkness. <br />
<br />
Inside the shop, the overhead lights were dim and fluorescent. They hadn't been cleaned in some time and scattered dead flies mixed with the grime of the city. The shop girl led Frank down a windowless hallway. He saw she was younger than he had originally thought. A girl of perhaps twenty-five with slightly hunched shoulders. He glanced into doorways, spying drab silhouettes in dentist-like chairs. <br />
<br />
The shop girl stopped at a door like all the others. The room was small, but not cramped. A screen was mounted to one wall, and next to it was a metal desk and cabinet. There was a lone chair in the middle of the room connected to a handful of probes and wires. Frank tried to memorize these details in case something went wrong, but his mind was hazy. Too many nights spent at the office, searching for answers he didn't have.<br />
<br />
The girl led him to the chair. There was a faded stain towards the front of the upholstery. The shop girl measured his head with a tape measure and scribbled on her clipboard. "How long with this take?" Frank asked. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject of an exchange. He had told Arthur he could well afford to buy.<br />
<br />
The shop girl pressed a button. The screen behind her lit up. Bright, cheerful music played. "Watch this," she said. Walking behind Frank, she closed the door. <br />
<br />
On the screen, the moon appeared, along with silhouettes of cityscapes. A clear, soothing voice emerged. <i>Thank you for being part of the future. Your memories are in good hands.</i> As the voice spoke, New York, Paris, and Hong Kong flashed across the screen. <i>Do you crave adventure? Is thrill-seeking in your blood? Have you ever thought about what it would be like to fly?</i><br />
<br />
Frank scratched his hands. They were clammy from the upholstery. "This isn't what I want,” he said. “Hello? I talked to Arthur…" Frank turned around and noticed a small camera on the ceiling. <i>Now, you can feel all the danger that life offers without any risk. Know what it's like to always get that promotion, always get the girl, and always get your way.</i> <br />
<br />
Frank wondered if Arthur was watching him right now. His skin bristled. He didn't have time for this. He stood from the chair and opened the door, looking both ways down the hall. The shop girl wasn't there. <br />
<br />
He walked to the left. The lights flickered above his head. He was definitely not in Beverly Hills. Those memory shops had been alabaster chic, with clear, sleek lines and lavender-infused air. How had he ended up here? <br />
<br />
A flash of Anna’s crumpled body flickered through his mind. He took another step forward. "Hello?" he called. “I'm here to trade." <br />
<br />
He noticed a door at the end of the corridor, a neon light underneath. He walked closer and reached for the handle. The shop girl opened the door, catching him by surprise. Frank fell back.<br />
<br />
"Sir, we will be with you shortly,” she said, her voice clipped. <br />
<br />
When Frank returned to the room, he found the video skipping, the calm voice repeating, <i>we have all you need... all you need... all you need... </i><br />
<br />
Frank sat in the chair, but after awhile, he couldn't stand the voice. He tried to fix the transmission, fiddling with the controls. The shop girl appeared at the door. Frank placed his hands in his pockets. "You guys got the sales pitch down,” he said. “Arthur spewed a bunch of this at me already." <br />
<br />
She walked around Frank and turned off the video. "How can I help you?" she asked. <br />
<br />
"I talked on the phone with a very knowledgeable man..." Frank said.<br />
<br />
She blinked at Frank. "Arthur's not here at the moment. Are you looking to buy, or sell?" <br />
<br />
This was a delicate matter and Frank didn't want to explain himself twice. "When will he be back?" he asked. <br />
<br />
"He's very busy." <br />
<br />
"Well, do you have a timeframe?"<br />
<br />
The shop girl shook her head. <br />
<br />
"Now hold on," Frank said. He had to do something. Otherwise, he would be going home to Anna empty-handed. He couldn’t bear another night hearing her crying. He cleared his throat. "I'm looking to trade." <br />
<br />
The shop girl frowned. "We're not trading today." She turned to the door. <br />
<br />
“Wait.” Frank stood up. "It’s our anniversary. Arthur said this place could help. We’ve been going through something." <br />
<br />
This piqued the shop girl's interest. "Anna is... your wife?"<br />
<br />
Frank nodded. <br />
<br />
"And you think one of our memories could lighten the load?" <br />
<br />
"I want her to be happy. I'd buy if I could. But I can barely afford the third tier stuff. A trip to Alaska, Miami before it was flooded at most…" <br />
<br />
"How can you put a price on experience?" <br />
<br />
“Can you help me?” Frank asked.<br />
<br />
“Perhaps,” she said.<br />
<br />
"And it’s safe, correct? Has anyone been hurt?"<br />
<br />
The shop girl smiled. "As far as I know, no one has ever been hurt from a transfusion. Of course, trading is much harder nowadays. Moments are more muted. We'll have to see if you have anything worth gifting." <br />
<br />
"Of course. With the memories, how does it work? Does one delete another? Can you... overload?" <br />
<br />
The shop girl took a breath. "All of our memories are 100% natural. We do not fabricate and we do not manufacture. This is a reputable business." <br />
<br />
"And what about the shelf life?”<br />
<br />
"As long as you don’t expire, sir, our memories don't expire." The shop girl checked her clipboard. "Is there a certain product your wife was interested in?" <br />
<br />
Frank sat back in the chair. "An expedition. To the moon. Arthur said it was in stock." <br />
<br />
"Your wife has good taste, sir. That’s a top of the line gift. Culled from an esteemed passenger of the flight. It’s one of a kind." <br />
<br />
"Well, that's how Anna is. She’s always trying to find the next thing. Maybe to distract herself from what's happened..." Frank trailed off. "Do you have someone you love?" he asked. <br />
<br />
The shop girl glanced up at Frank. "Of course," she said, though she seemed off guard.<br />
<br />
"When Anna and I first met, we were dead broke. Used to live off those boxed mac n' cheese dinners. But none of that mattered. We could just look at the moon. That was enough." <br />
<br />
"Perhaps another, less luxurious memory would suffice?" <br />
<br />
"The first date I took her to we laughed for three hours straight.” The shop girl seemed uncomfortable with this information, but it felt good to say this to someone. “That's how you could tell she meant it,” Frank explained. “Her shoulders would shake and they wouldn’t stop. She used to drag me on these impromptu adventures. Exploring little neighborhoods. She'd just take my hand and pull me away from whatever work I was buried under..." <br />
<br />
"Sir, I'm not sure how I can help you," the shop girl said. <br />
<br />
Frank nodded. He looked up at the camera on the wall. "Will Arthur be here soon?" he asked. <br />
<br />
"I'll check." The shop girl took a step towards the door, but Frank grabbed her arm. She startled. <br />
<br />
"Look," he said. "She's my world..." <br />
<br />
"If I may, sir?” the shop girl said. “I don't think now is an opportune time to trade." <br />
<br />
"And why’s that?” <br />
<br />
"You're upset. Which is never good for the machines. Besides, it won't be enough." <br />
<br />
"What do you mean?” Arthur said. <br />
<br />
"I'm not sure you have what others would want," the shop girl said. Her voice was gentle, but the words still stung. <br />
<br />
"Hey, I'm a good guy. I have a job. An assistant named Maureen. I'm not a dead beat." <br />
<br />
"It's just…not enough," the shop girl said. She seemed sorry about it, but Frank didn't need her pity. He stood and shuffled to the door. <br />
<br />
The shop girl watched him go. "Wait,” she said. Frank stopped. “Close your eyes. What’s the best memory you have? The most distilled moment you can remember?" <br />
<br />
Frank closed his eyes. He thought long and hard. "But why that one?" <br />
<br />
"There's a reason why you don't want to give it up." <br />
<br />
"Jesus," he said. "And you're saying that would be enough?"<br />
<br />
"I'd have to weigh it, but..."<br />
<br />
"How the hell do you do that?"<br />
<br />
"The machine, of course." <br />
<br />
Frank nodded at that. Life was all machines nowadays, technology and convenience. "On Dateline," he said. "There was this segment. Say you go in there and take more memories than I even know I have. The memories that are locked away. And it’s only later, when I’m on the outside, that I find out I'm less of a man."<br />
<br />
The shop girl seemed to relax. "With anything worthwhile,” she said, “there’s risk. In the procedure, we take memory clusters linked to a focal point. Everything's connected, like the branches of a tree. If you’re not comfortable with that, you can opt-out.” <br />
<br />
Frank twirled his wedding ring on his finger. "No,” he said, thinking of Anna as she sobbed through the night. “Let's do it.” <br />
<br />
The shop girl took out some paperwork. "Sign here. And here. Also, here. One more." She turned the sheet over and pointed to a dotted line. "Here." <br />
<br />
Frank did as he was told. The shop girl smiled.<br />
<br />
"Now, sit back, and we'll begin." <br />
<br />
She walked over to the door and locked it. The bolt sounded like a gunshot as it slid into place. Frank's hands started to sweat. The lights dimmed as the shop girl placed probes on his head and chest. Frank realized Arthur hadn't been mentioned in awhile. A small, firm truth clouded his mind. <br />
<br />
"There is no Arthur. Is there?" he asked softly.<br />
<br />
The shop girl said nothing. Frank licked his lips. He needed water. Closing his eyes, he nodded. <i>Go ahead.</i> <br />
<br />
She pressed a button. On the screen, a jumble of Frank's memories flashed by. The shop girl studied the bursts of swirling faces. He remembered sunlight, lost afternoons, wandering through markets, evenings entangled in Anna's arms. Strange how long hours at the office seemed to slip through the machine. <br />
<br />
The shop girl clucked her tongue approvingly. "You've got special ones. Pure. Not a lot of people have that." She adjusted the controls. "There. That's the focal point." <br />
<br />
On the screen now, Frank came face to face with Anna. She was mid-laugh, her shoulders shaking in slow motion. It had been a long time since he had seen her like this. She was in a field. A park in the city. She was trying to do cartwheels. Dirt was stuck to her knees. Every time Anna swung her legs over her head, her skirt would ride up and a cackle would escape her lips. <br />
<br />
It had been one of their first dates. Nervous to be alone with her, he had kept pulling up the grass along their blanket. A picnic. That's what he had proposed to her. "Let's go for a picnic." <br />
<br />
Both the shop girl and Frank watched as the images sped up, going through Frank and Anna's relationship together. They ate mac n' cheese, clinking forks in solidarity. They ran up stairs to kiss on rooftops. They listened to songs on street corners and sang along (terribly) to the music. They attempted to cook, dropping whole chickens on the floor. They carried furniture through apartments, searching for the perfect fit. <br />
<br />
Through all the memories, Anna was a dancing, breathless whirlwind. She would storm into a room and grab Frank's hand, pulling him up from cluttered desks and chairs, papers strewn all around him. “Let’s go on an adventure,” she’d say, tugging him to the door. “Let’s go, go, go.”<br />
<br />
What would his life have been without this bright star in his life? All those endless hours wandering through seaside towns, running down supermarket aisles, making silly faces in window displays, looking up at the stars, driving (the wind always in Anna's hair). Anna's thighs, the stretch marks on her belly, like warrior stripes. A brief flash of a child blinked onto the screen. But no, he didn’t want to remember that. Couldn’t remember. The last time she had seen him, really looked in Frank’s eyes, she had snarled, a primal scream erupting from her lips. "Nothing can fix this," she spat. "Nothing you can do." <br />
<br />
But still, he kept trying. The images flashed before him, the days watching and waiting and longing and fighting. His failures. Frank shifted in his chair. "Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you going to take all of them?" He had never allowed himself to consider how much of his life was built around Anna. <br />
<br />
The shop girl pressed another button. "Around the focal point, yes,” she said. On the screen, the image froze on Anna and Frank entwined on the couch. “Would you like me to stop?" <br />
<br />
Frank studied Anna’s face. She was smiling, her eyes shining. When would she look at him like that again? Now all she would talk about was the moon, drawing its silhouette over and over, tracing the lines on envelopes and magazines. <br />
<br />
"I just want her to smile again," he said. He had always strived to give Anna what she wanted. Frank nodded for the shop girl to keep going. The memories whipped across the screen, moments where Anna pushed to the edge of things. She was always doing that, stepping to the brink of cliffs and roads, parallel parking with abandon, riding bikes with her arms above her head, sitting on Frank's shoulders, her touch, soft and sure, her lips, curling upward. <br />
<br />
Frank knew what was coming, but he didn't want to see. His mind had placed these memories in a locked box where he couldn’t reach. Yet, the machine knew no bounds. It was smashing the box to smithereens. It was opening it now. No. Please. <br />
<br />
And just like that, she appeared. <br />
<br />
His little girl. <br />
<br />
Her eyes were like Anna’s, fierce and free. Days upon days flashed before him – hours playing with her, fighting with her, wrestling her to behave. Even before their baby could walk she was exploring, her laughter infectious as she learned to crawl. There was so much to look forward to then, so much joy spinning through those bleary hours. <br />
<br />
Frank couldn't help the way he remembered things. He didn't like to see their home in disarray. Didn’t like to feel his chest tightening. In these moments, he tried to comfort Anna. He tried to hold her. But nothing worked. <br />
<br />
It was no one’s fault. That’s what the doctors said. “Sometimes these things happen.” But Frank couldn’t help blaming himself for how still she lay in her crib, remembering even now the doctors saying that there was nothing to be done. As if that made it okay. <br />
<br />
The memories were darker now. There were bills. Dishes piled high in the sink. Anna collapsed, unable to stand, her t-shirts swallowing her up. A kaleidoscope of memories erupted on the screen, all about Anna dancing. Anna eating. Anna singing. Anna fucking. Anna showering. Anna shouting. The machine was ransacking Frank’s mind, looting all the boxes he had neatly organized and forgotten. What sick soul would ever want this? To feel this aching sadness? Though he supposed to feel any pain was to feel alive, to feel anything at all? Frank became unsettled, thinking of his memories, his <i>life</i>, out there for some pervert to see. But before he could stand up, before he could move, there was a sharp sound, as if a cord had been unplugged. <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Frank tapped his fingers on the counter. He didn't feel that different, though he had a sneaking suspicion he was supposed to do something, or be somewhere, but he couldn’t remember now. He watched the shop girl expertly tie a ribbon on a wrapped box, the delicate finishing touch on the perfect present. She slid the gift over to Frank. <br />
<br />
"Have a good day now," she said, a note of sadness in her voice. <br />
<br />
Back at the house, it seemed foolish that Frank had even wanted to find the memory shop now. He watched Anna unwrap the present and hold it close to her chest. He watched her dance for him. He knew he should have been relieved, but he had trouble placing her voice. Was this how she acting when she happy? He tried to remember the facts, why any of this mattered. <br />
<br />
He knew he spent nearly seven years with this woman before him. He liked how she walked, how she laughed, the lilt in her voice and the shape of her wrists. She had slender, lean fingers and almond skin, and there was a birthmark over her right hip. He knew that he asked this woman to marry him. He knew where they met, from the pictures. That they had a child…<br />
<br />
He still had knowledge of going into the shop. That he acted. Did <i>something</i>. But the pressing reason why, the insurmountable panic that led him to that unmarked door, had escaped him. <br />
<br />
And so this was his reality. Every day, he dreaded leaving work, going back to this woman, this house, where the opened present sat neatly on the mantle above the fireplace. In this house, the moon always glowed through the window. In this house, Anna always danced. Frank yearned for the clouds to cover the sky. <br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Frank walked up to the front door and fumbled for the keys. He hoped that she would be sleeping, but she was never sleeping anymore. As soon as he was inside, he saw her by the window. She was twirling and swaying. Her back to Frank. The moon memory had done this, given her something so far beyond herself she could live with the pain, at least for now. <br />
<br />
Frank dropped his heavy satchel by the door. When Anna heard him, she pecked him on the cheek. "Babe!" she cried, lifting his arms, trying to get him to move with her. <br />
<br />
"You never dance with me anymore." She pouted, spinning around him. Frank patted her on the shoulder, disengaging from her limbs. <br />
<br />
"How was your day?" Anna asked. <br />
<br />
"Just need a good night's sleep," he replied. <br />
<br />
Anna nodded. She had noticed his brush off, but chose not to react. "It's almost ready. Your favorite."<br />
<br />
Frank took off his hat as Anna wheeled out a small TV tray with a plate of mac n' cheese. She brought out another one for herself, humming the tune to "Fly Me to the Moon." Frank knew it from those great outdoor malls blasting Sinatra – American nostalgia to get you in the shopping mood. <br />
<br />
"Remember," Anna said. "How she'd fall asleep to this? We'd play it, and she'd be out like a light." <br />
<br />
Frank nodded politely. He remembered their child, but not the birth, her first word, but not Anna holding her. These were sunspots on his memory. A flash of a little girl's face burst through his mind, but then it was gone. <br />
<br />
Anna saw Frank staring off into space. She traced the outline of his knuckles with her hands and smiled softly. <br />
<br />
That smile. Slightly crooked. Pepper in her teeth. He liked how the faintest of dimples appeared when her lips curved upward. He wondered how many times he had seen her smile before. <br />
<br />
They ate on. Anna noticed his silence, but wasn’t sure what to think. His eyes strayed, settling on the mantle. <br />
<br />
"Hey," she said. "You." <br />
<br />
He speared the pasta with his fork. <br />
<br />
After a moment, Anna kneeled before him and took his head in her hands. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Is it me?” <br />
<br />
Something about his eyes terrified her. A coldness crept under her skin. Anna picked up her drink. "To the good ol' days," she said. They clinked glasses, Frank a beat behind. <br />
<br />
She ate a few more bites. Then she wiped her mouth with a napkin. She stood, taking her husband’s hand. <br />
<br />
"Come on," she said. <br />
<br />
"What for?" <br />
<br />
"I want to show you something." <br />
<br />
Frank hesitated. Anna’s eyes were glistening, and there was a flash of something, an anti-septic smell, a touch of grey. Her hair tucked around her ear, draped across her shoulders. This was a woman I could love, he thought. Her grip was gentle, but firm, a flickering light in the shadows. And then, ever faintly, he sensed a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spark, the space between, the faintest knowing, and all Frank could think as she pulled him up was he's been here before, this bright, strange land – and when her skin was on his, it was better than flying, better than every memory in the world, because it felt like the golden hour of the day, like running into the breakers and singing in stalled traffic, screaming to the sky we are here, we are here, and more than anything else, more than the moon and the sun and all the stars, Frank knew – finally, always – he was home. <br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Eva Konstantopoulos</b> is a screenwriter and author from New York. She recently wrapped production on a short film, <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/218547548/re-collection-a-short-film">Re/collection</a>, which is based on "There Is No Arthur." Her novella, <a href="http://amzn.to/2dvjzLe">Hush</a>, was previously adapted for the screen by Sigma Films and Thruline Entertainment. She has developed projects with Lost Rhino Films and Midnight Sun Pictures, and her feature screenplay, The Virgin of Poughkeepsie, was awarded Best Screenplay at the Gotham Screen International Film Festival. Her fiction has been published in anthologies and literary journals, and she's received an Equivocality Writer's Travel Scholarship to Thailand for her latest novella, <a href="http://amzn.to/2dvl0cx">East of Nowhere</a>. Most recently, she was a writers' assistant on Disney Junior's hit show, Sofia the First, where she wrote an episode of the series. For more, visit <a href="http://www.evakonstantopoulos.com/">evakonstantopoulos.com</a> or follow the author on <a href="https://twitter.com/robot_eva">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://robot-eva.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Devyn Park</b> was born and raised on the Big Island of Hawaii and received her BFA in Illustration at the Rhode Island School of Design. She currently resides in Bellingham WA. For more, visit <a href="http://www.devynpark.com/">devynpark.com</a> or follow the artist on <a href="https://twitter.com/devyn_park">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://devynpark.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Susanna Rose</b> is a singer-songwriter from Rochester, NY. Her latest album, <a href="https://susannarose.bandcamp.com/album/snowbound">Snowbound</a>, was released in 2015. Susanna plays frequently in Upstate New York. For more, visit <a href="http://www.susannarose.com/">susannarose.com</a> and follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/suzrozmusic">Twitter</a>.<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-70607016307515584632016-10-10T09:30:00.000-04:002016-10-10T09:30:13.326-04:00ISSUE #131: Nada Alic, Andrea Nakhla, Avid Dancer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ReokxTCc0vw/V_ft_4H7v8I/AAAAAAAACak/Lx3bux_l43Q3UOrgkqHJtigftCXfcyNewCLcB/s1600/post_office.jpg" width=510><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by Andrea Nakhla</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>FRANCIS FOREVER<br />
by Nada Alic</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>Sleep had forgotten me. Each night, I laid on my back waiting for it to come, but it would not come. I would say things like “I’m so tired!” to will it into existence, but it was an ancient thing and not so easily fooled. This was because I’d been in love-- but only for a few weeks so my body was still adjusting. It wanted so badly to attach itself to that other body, the one shaped long and lean, with the right amount of softs and hards. But that body wasn’t around; it was down the hall and tired from its own day. And I was committed to letting it breathe, not consuming it as I usually do. Just taking polite little bites here and there and stopping when I was full.<br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/4390sxfkqr3bg4uuryc3ni21l5zl3spc?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #131 soundtrack: Avid Dancer “Stop Playing With My Heart”</b></center><p><p><p><p> <br />
His name was Francis. He had a ponytail and wore a vintage jacket with the words <i>Sports Suck</i> hand-embroidered on the back. He was the only person in my apartment complex who didn’t recycle. If you asked him about it, he would tell you about his sources on the inside that know the truth. One day I just started taking his recyclables out of the trash and placing them in the recycling bin when he wasn’t looking. He would then take them out of the recycling bin and put them back in the trash. This sort of became our thing. After a while, it was like a call and response. Some might call it romance. And as romance goes, it was mysterious and exciting. Each time I went to the communal garbage area, I felt like I was being watched, and it gave me a full body rush. We never discussed it because we didn’t need to. What we had didn’t require labels because it existed on higher planes of consciousness. Describing these planes to you would be pointless. Dangerous, even.<br />
<br />
Francis had only ever addressed me twice. Once to tell me it was a “free country” and another time to ask me if he’d said anything stupid to me in the hallway that one time because he was drunk, and he didn’t mean it. I told him it was a free country! We laughed, but he didn’t know why.<br />
<br />
Once I showed him my easy-going side, he was hooked-- because soon after, he asked me to keep an eye out for a package for him while he was away on vacation. He gave me his number and told me to text him when it arrived. He told me not to open it or tell anyone that I had it, that it would just be our little secret. This was his funny way of asking me to be his girlfriend. I nodded with not just my neck, but with my whole being. When his package arrived, I wrapped it in a towel and hid it underneath my bed until he came to pick it up. And when he did, he stood in my doorway and asked me if I smoked and I said “n-yes.” We sat on my fire escape, and he told me about his trip to Miami with a woman named Carla, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of his lips kissing his cigarette and sucking in, which sounded like music to me.<br />
<br />
As the days went on, my want for him felt like a burden, dragging me along with it into very elaborate fantasy scenarios. I was a maid, he: a middle-aged hotel guest. I: a seahorse, he: another seahorse. I: a scrunchie, he: an endless ponytail. But my greatest fantasy of all was the feeling that I was being watched. I thought that if I just believed he was always watching me, I’d be forced to act like the kind of woman he could marry, until I really was that woman. So I made sure to create an aura of sexiness all over my apartment. There are only two ways to create sexiness: perfume and dancing, and I am allergic to perfume.<br />
<br />
No one knows this about me, but I am basically a professional in-front-of-the-mirror dancer. This is the kind of dance that no one sees. The secret kind. You’ve done this dance. Maybe it even took you a moment to remember that you’ve done it, but you have. You played a song, faced the mirror, and started moving your body. Maybe you mouthed all of the words to a song and impressed yourself with this. Maybe you turned yourself on by rounding your hips over and over again until you thought to yourself: what if I’m sexier than I even know? You are. Don’t be ashamed. How do you think that those people in nightclubs know how to dance so well? Do you think it just happened one day? No, they spent years in front of the mirror quietly thinking: does this make me look like I am having sex with my clothes on?<br />
<br />
I have found reasons to press all of the numbers that make up his number in succession and hit “call.” This is often followed by “end call” but not always. I space out all of these calls as if I were eating popcorn one kernel at a time, pausing to breathe between each bite. Have you ever tried this? It is hard. There is something within all of us that wants more popcorn than our mouths allow, but it is a spiritual practice to chew and swallow each one at a time. One kernel at a time I say:<br />
<br />
“Hello.”<br />
<br />
“Hi.”<br />
<br />
“Did you hear that?”<br />
<br />
“Hear what?”<br />
<br />
“That sound; it sounded like an animal.” <br />
<br />
“I didn’t hear anything.”<br />
<br />
“Must have been the wind.”<br />
<br />
One at a time. I hold one of his empty beer cans and, swallow. I hear his voice and, swallow. I see a baby that looks like it could be ours and, swallow.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center> <br />
I have to go to the post office today, which is the kind of thing I’d tell Francis about since our thing really got going because of a package-- or date, was it technically a date? He’d probably take care of it for me if I asked, but I haven’t seen him in a few weeks and this really can’t wait. I am returning a pair of pants because I accidentally hit “small” when I meant to hit “medium,” and I only realized this after checkout, so I had to wait for an entire system to run its course so that I could hit “medium” again. As I tracked my package on UPS, I saw it being dispatched from a warehouse in New Mexico, placed onto a truck headed to Tucson, then to another warehouse in Anaheim, and finally to my doorstep in Los Feliz. When the package arrived, I held it in my hands and felt the hands of every person that touched it, and I felt ashamed. I wanted to call them all and explain what happened. They held up their end of this, and I just watched my mistake move through the country in real time.<br />
<br />
On my drive to the post office, I started noticing signs everywhere. This is common. Signs most often appear when you are looking for them. Try it for yourself next time; almost anything can be a sign. Now that I’m in love, all of my signs are love-shaped. The license plate in front of me at a stop sign spelled out <i>FEELNIT</i>, a plastic bag that read <i>Thank You, Thank You, Thank You</i> blew from a branch like a flag, and two goth teens made out aggressively at a bus stop. I kissed my fingers, gently pressed them up against the windshield, and whispered, “Bless you.” Most people don’t know that blessings are free and you can give them away as often as you want, even if you are not religious.<br />
<br />
When I walked into the post office, I noticed a long line of people in a kind of snake formation edging towards the exit. None of us chose each other, but there we were. We had all left our special somebody-ness in the car, or at home; none of it would be required of us here. All that was required was to move the line along, and some of us were failing. There were gaps between us. Deep valleys of open space. Some bodies too close, others too far. This is because most people don’t care. Most people don’t do the work; they don’t even show up. They turn up right at the end, all out of breath, and ask, “Did I miss it?” And we say: “Yes, we handled it. It’s over, go home.”<br />
<br />
I looked around at the mess we had created and felt anxious. I let out an audible sigh which is like saying, “Unbelievable!” with your breath. Then, I looked up at the fluorescent lights above me and remembered: I am in love. I nearly burst out in laughter that I had almost forgot about this very important thing. Most people in the world right now, at this moment, are not in love. They are out of love or over love or under-loved. They are nowhere near the <i>in</i> part. They are typing online profiles that say “Looking for Love” and refreshing the page. I suddenly became self-conscious that maybe I was feeling so much love that it was making people feel uncomfortable. But I looked around, and no one seemed to notice-- that’s how rare love has become.<br />
<br />
In front of me was a large, elderly man. He was both tall and wide, a real bottleneck for our slow moving conga line. His shape demanded all of the space that this great earth would give him, and as I entered his orbit, I feared being swallowed whole by whatever magnetic force sucks you into large, dark masses.<br />
<br />
“We’re going to be here for a while,” he said. “Yes,” I laughed.<br />
<br />
I thought about pretending I didn’t understand English but remembered I didn’t know any other languages.<br />
<br />
“What do you have there?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, it’s – I made a mistake, I’m returning something.”<br />
<br />
Something about the soft look on his face said he was somebody’s father and he could tell that I was somebody’s daughter, and because of this, he chose me as his temporary surrogate. Like a reclining chair, I relaxed into it.<br />
<br />
“Me, too. I never heard the mailman ring the bell.” He held up a note that said, <i>Sorry We Missed You!</i><br />
<br />
“I hate when that happens.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t mind it. It’s fun not to know.” <br />
<br />
“Yeah, but then you get stuck here on a Saturday.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not so bad if you know you’ll get a present in the end.” <br />
<br />
“What kind of present?”<br />
<br />
“I’m picking up a package from my girlfriend.”<br />
<br />
The way he said the word “girlfriend” suggested this was a new arrangement. He hadn’t worn out the word yet, so it felt like a surprise every time the word exited his mouth, and every time, he was pleased by it.<br />
<br />
“Oh, that’s nice! What do you think it could be?” <br />
<br />
“I’m not sure. It’s for our anniversary.”<br />
<br />
Then it came pouring out of him like a faucet. “It’s a crazy story, you know? I met her in an online chat room for sufferers of IBS. <i>Irritable Bowel Syndrome</i>.”<br />
<br />
I nodded slowly, as if I had just learned something new.<br />
<br />
“It’s a very common ailment, and no one really knows what it is, if you can believe it. But millions of people have it. I’d been to the doctor all my life, and all he told me was to stop eating spicy foods. That didn’t work. So, sometime last year I decided to do some research, and I came across this online forum and started reading all of these stories. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. I started chatting with this lady who called herself Barb_63. She told me I should try hypnosis, and you know, I don’t believe in any of that stuff, but she said it worked for her.”<br />
<br />
In this time, the line had moved several feet, but he did not. I had become a part of the problem, but it didn’t bother me as much. Love is patient!<br />
<br />
“And it worked! The mind is so powerful, you know. Anyway, we kept on chatting. She gave me her e-mail address and that’s when it really started-- I’m talking every day. She lives in Rochester, New York, which is why we can’t be together, but one day I would very much like to see her in person. I just don’t have the money right now.”<br />
<br />
A small part of me worried that Barb_63 was another lonely old man or a hacker from some unpronounceable Slavic region. I wondered if she ever asked for his social security number or if he gave it to her before she even thought to ask. I wondered if any of this even mattered to him, or if it was all enough to get him through his day.<br />
<br />
“That is a real modern-day love story,” I said.<br />
<br />
As we neared the front of the line, I learned several things about Barb_63, as if with each new piece of information, her face came into focus. She used to be a hairdresser. She’s allergic to cashews, but almonds are fine. She’s fluent in Spanish. She loves to dance. I could see why he liked her. I began to like her, too.<br />
<br />
I imagined Barb_63 at her kitchen table, slowly curating herself for him via email. I imagined her as shy to start, then over time, unlocking a thousand- year-old desire within her. Something she thought had died long ago. She’d describe what she was doing, what she’d like to do, and what she hasn’t tried but would be open to. This would surprise her, how natural it felt. This is because there is always want for romance, even when it is distant and electronic: it is ancient. The need to consume and be consumed lives outside of time itself.<br />
<br />
I imagined their love as two magnets held together through satellites and wires, ones and zeros. I imagined her unbuttoning her blouse and uncrossing her legs. I imagined his want growing for her, typing and erasing the words “I love you” before hitting send. I imagined them both forgiving each other for their soft and unlovable bodies and loving them anyway.<br />
<br />
Her long life held so many pieces of herself, and she chose which to reveal and which to bury. A small part of me envied this ability as I was getting tired of constantly being watched. There was so much that I didn’t want Francis to see, but I knew that on some higher plane saw everything, like an all-seeing god. I straightened my posture at the thought of this.<br />
<br />
“Next.”<br />
<br />
It was his turn. He walked to the front and handed the woman at the counter a yellow slip of paper. She walked to the back and returned with a large blue box. It is from Barb_63. And Barb_63 is real. As he turned to leave he said:<br />
<br />
“Here it is.”<br />
<br />
“It looks big!” I said.<br />
<br />
He proceeded to walk past me and towards his future where there was probably an e-mail waiting for him from Barb_63, asking if he got the package and if he did, what did he think? I turned around and he was gone.<br />
<br />
When I reached the counter, I looked at the woman behind it and told her everything. I don’t know why I did this, but I did. I explained my mistake and how I’d pressed “small” even though I was a “medium” and I kept going; I told her about the signs and the swallowing and my profound want for sleep. That it had been so long since I’d slept that kind of dead sleep.<br />
<br />
I did not stop. I even told her about Barb_63 and the large dark mass that loved her. I told her how their love was distant and absurd, but how love does not bend in the direction of our desires. It does not look the way it’s supposed to but neither do we, and because of that we are always let down.<br />
<br />
“Next!” she shouted.<br />
<br />
I looked down at my hands and they were empty. The package was gone and it was over. I heard a sneeze and whispered “bless you” to no one in particular. <br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Nada Alic</b> is a fiction writer originally from Toronto who now lives in Los Angeles. She is the editorial director for the art platform <a href="https://society6.com/">Society6</a>, a print-on-demand marketplace for 200k artists. For more of her work, visit <a href="http://www.nadaalic.com/">nadaalic.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Andrea Nakhla</b> is an Los Angeles-based painter and designer. Her debut show entitled “Little Joy” at New Image Art was featured in <a href="http://livefastmag.com/2016/02/interview-series-andrea-nakhla/">Live FAST Magazine</a>. Andrea and Nada have been collaborating on art books since 2014, when the pair produced the first installment of Future You (2014). Since then, they've also realized I Saw It In You (2016) and <a href="http://thisisfutureyou.com/">Future You 2 (2016)</a>. For more, visit <a href="http://www.andreanakhla.com/">andreanakhla.com</a> and follow the artist on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/andreantoinette/">Instagram</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Avid Dancer</b> is the moniker of Los Angeles-based musician and artist Jacob Dillan Summers. Summers began as a drummer, winning top honors for rudimental snare at United Corps International’s prestigious annual bugle-and-drum corps competition. He created the album artwork for his latest release, <a href="http://grandjurymusic.com/artists/avid-dancer">1st Bath</a>, by writing the album’s title in his own blood over a collage of photos from his early childhood. For more, visit <a href="http://aviddancerband.com/">aviddancerband.com/</a> or follow Summers on <a href="https://twitter.com/mraviddancer2u">Twitter</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AvidoDancer">Facebook</a>, and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/mraviddancer2u/">Instagram</a>.<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-49974502037057332802016-09-26T09:30:00.000-04:002016-09-26T10:19:42.562-04:00ISSUE #130: Alice Kaltman, Marni Manning, Jon Patrick Walker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AIu9UTANtL4/V-koYLDvAbI/AAAAAAAACaI/hjpCfTymjQkqz-ZaxMVByB6iTMdPJAm2QCLcB/s1600/birdcrazy%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width=530><br />
<div align="right"><i>Illustration by Marni Manning</i></div><br />
<p><big><b>BOSS MAN<br />
by Alice Kaltman</b></big><br />
<br />
<p>There are no olives in the pantry and I distinctly remember buying some organic pimento-stuffed ones at Whole Foods yesterday. <br />
<br />
Or maybe it was last week. <br />
<br />
The point is I need them now for the dish I’m serving tonight at our small, casual dinner party. <br />
<br />
Casual. Who am I kidding? There’s nothing casual about it. <br />
<br />
<p><center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/r1pk2p7yf96ob7zwchzrmtpx99w45ojf?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<p><b>Issue #130 soundtrack: Jon Patrick Walker “Hideous Monster”</b></center><p><p><p><p><br />
<br />
My husband’s new boss, Chet, is coming with his ‘lady friend.’ I’ve never met Chet, but from the way Dimitri describes him, he sounds like a misogynistic, entitled fuckhead. A gazillionaire who never went to college, likes to surround himself with brilliant, young, exploitable employees he treats the way a cat treats a litter box. He actually calls them all ‘kiddies,’ except for Dimitri, the new legal counsel at BangleBrains and only other person in Chet’s 50-something age bracket.<br />
<br />
“Dimitri,” I yell, “did you eat my olives?” My husband has a tendency to raid the kitchen for anything savory. A deep love of salt runs in his Greek family, and Dimitri uses his ethnicity as an excuse for these briny binges. <br />
<br />
“No,” he says. I startle and turn to find him sitting behind me at the kitchen table, clipping his fingernails, gently coaxing each crescent into a neat little pile. <br />
<br />
“That is so completely disgusting,” I say calmly. “We eat at that table. Our children eat at that table.”<br />
<br />
“Our children don’t live here anymore, Amanda.” He keeps clipping. “We’re empty nesters, remember? Hurrah!”<br />
<br />
Our youngest, Adam, left two weeks ago to start his freshman year studying ‘Theater Arts’ at a respectable Midwestern institution where he was immediately embraced by a sea of suspiciously friendly students from all those ‘I’ states: Illinois, Indiana, Iowa. He called last Saturday and said everything was "super." Super? Where is my sardonic, little Brooklyn boy?<br />
<br />
Whatever the case, I’ve never liked nest analogies, empty or otherwise. Avian imagery indicates flightiness. Plus, more than ever these days, what I need is serious grounding. Sandbags tied to my ankles type grounding. And it’s not just because the kids are gone.<br />
<br />
“Big whoop, Dimitri,” I make a little circle in the air with my index finger. “Meanwhile, I can’t find the olives I bought at Whole Foods... whenever. I need them for my pasta dish.”<br />
<br />
“You’re making your pasta dish?” He’s working on his left pinky, trying for a single clip.<br />
<br />
“Is there a problem with that?” <br />
<br />
Dimitri shrugs.<br />
<br />
“I thought you loved my pasta dish. The feta cheese, the anchovies, the basil, the olives...”<br />
<br />
“I do love it.” He hesitates. “It’s just that I thought you’d make something more, um, unusual tonight.”<br />
<br />
“What? I’m supposed to go catch a pig and roast it on a spit for your new boss?”<br />
<br />
“No...”<br />
<br />
“Maybe the pig could go sniff out some truffles in the backyard before I burn his grunty rump?”<br />
<br />
“Amanda...”<br />
<br />
I collapse in to the seat across from him. There’s a stray nail clipping on my side of the table. I grasp it between two fingers, drop it in his pile then lay my forehead on the cool glass table top. “I hate dinner parties,” I moan.<br />
<br />
“No, you don’t. You just hate Chet. Hypothetically.”<br />
<br />
I look up and give Dimitri my forlorn, Bambi Has Lost His Mother look.<br />
<br />
“Maybe he’ll surprise you. Maybe you’ll like him.” Dimitri always looks for the sunny side of things. “Some women find him quite charming.” He scoops his clippings off the edge of the table, into his waiting palm, examining his collection with pride.<br />
<br />
“Chet’s ‘lady friend’ for instance,” I say, returning my forehead to the glass. “I’ll bet she’s a piece of work.”<br />
<br />
Dimitri doesn’t respond. I look up and realize he’s left the room.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
Dimitri got me another jar of olives. He also bought me a bunch of roses. Yellow roses, which are my favorite.<br />
<br />
“Your pasta dish will be a smash hit,” he says. “I’m an idiot. I don’t know how you put up with me.”<br />
<br />
I kiss him and refrain from commenting on his bad, olivey breath. Because, really, in the husband department it doesn’t get any better than Dimitri. Even if he tends towards the unshaven, stinky side. Even if he’s got a weird eating disorder. He puts up with my critical, know-it-all tendencies. He’s a great dad to our two sons, the aforementioned Adam and our eldest, Emmett, who’s doing his medical residency up in Boston-- a provincial, parochial excuse for a city, if you ask me. <br />
<br />
And boy oh boy, did Dimitri step up to the plate when the debacle over the profile I’d written on Dr. Frances Wyvern began. He took better care of me than Snow White took of all the Dwarves and woodland creatures combined. Better than Mother Teresa in her pre-scandal glory days. How was I to know that Dr. Wyvern, the pioneering virologist who supposedly excelled at motocross racing and mountain climbing, was a total fake? My research revealed she held a top level position in the Royal Society and a MENSA membership. She sounded authentically medical and sporty during our chatty phone interviews. She looked buff and hygienic in the photos she sent. Dr. Frances Wyvern had a Wikipedia page for God’s sake. And a thoroughly convincing British accent. <br />
<br />
Then the truth came out: Dr. Frances Wyvern was actually Fred Wyckoff, a 40 year-old pharmacist who lived with his mother in a Sacramento suburb. I’d never, in my 25 years as a journalist specializing in the ‘unique’ profile, been so thoroughly duped and publicly humiliated. For months I hid out in the den, popping Ativan and watching back-to-back <i>Law and Order</i> reruns. My moods fluctuated between dark and darkest. I was paralyzed in fear that Oprah would come out of retirement and demand to interview-eviscerate me. To avoid such a fate I added Ambien to the Ativan and slept whole days away like a heavily sedated hibernating bear.<br />
<br />
But Dimitri kept me hydrated. He made me chicken soup. He rubbed my feet. He cleaned the house and paid the bills. Eventually he weaned me off my pharmaceutical A friends. He never once said, “I told you so” or “It will all be okay.” He’s still letting it play out with amazing patience, because honestly? It’s far from over. I’m still a basket case.<br />
<br />
This dinner party is gonna be a stretch.<br />
<br />
Dimitri goes off to shower and shave. I set the table with the clunky ceramic plates we picked up in Guatemala last winter, BFW, Before Frances Wyvern. I am not pulling out the good china for Chet. I’ll brown nose only so far. Maybe I’ll go frizzy haired, loud and hippy-ish tonight. Don my “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” tee shirt. If I hadn’t already shaved my legs I’d wear something short and unattractive to compliment my fuzzy shins. <br />
<br />
But we need this dinner to go smoothly. Now that I’m unemployable, blacklisted from every major publication, Dimitri’s paycheck is all we have. His job at BangleBrains has to last. There’s that pesky college tuition to pay, a crack in our brick facade, the water heater is acting fickle, the car needs new tires, and, and, and...<br />
<br />
I change out the ceramics for the china and go upstairs for my turn in the shower while there’s still enough hot water.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
“No talking about my former writing career.” I have my hair up in a flawless French Twist. I’m wearing a black Donna Karan tunic with black jeans. A bit of mascara and some red lipstick. I look like a well-heeled mime. <br />
<br />
“Former?” Dimitri says. We’re sitting in the living room, drinking a pre-beer, our traditional warm up, a beer we share before guests arrive and real drinking commences. <br />
<br />
“I’ve decided to stop writing for good. Time for a new career. Maybe I’ll become a professional dog walker. It’s more lucrative, and it’ll get me out of the house.”<br />
<br />
“Whatevs,” Dimitri shrugs and takes a pre-sip.<br />
<br />
“Whatevs? You sound like a 12 year-old girl who adores boy bands. A tween who actually <i>wants</i> to start menstruating.”<br />
<br />
The doorbell rings. Dimitri thrusts himself up off the couch and lands solidly on two feet, his arms in a wide V. “Let the games begin!” He sprints to the front door as I scurry to the kitchen. I down the rest of the beer by the sink, slurp a swig of water from the faucet, swish, and spit to get rid of yeasty undertones. <br />
<br />
When I return to the living room, there’s Chet. Everything about him is as thick and shiny as I expected. He’s got the kind of hair all men covet, especially men like Dimitri, who vainly holds on to the few pathetic strands atop his head in spite of his barber’s advice to just shave the suckers off already. Chet’s hair looks as if a small fox has taken residence a top his giant skull, all browns and blonds and hints of red, spreading its furry body from Chet’s big ear to big ear.<br />
<br />
My husband’s new boss is a massive male boulder. He’s sweaty, bloated. There’s a chance he was handsome once upon a time, with cleft chin and sparkling white teeth, but now he looks like an inflated Disney Prince pool float. Veins pop off bowling ball biceps, which squeeze out of the short sleeves of his button-straining shirt, a shirt that does nothing to conceal Chet’s sizable gut. <br />
<br />
“Helloooo,” Chet drawls. He stands spread legged with that gut thrust forward, unapologetic as he scans my body. His bright blue eyes are otherworldly turquoise. I assume he’s wearing colored contacts. “And who’s this sexy lady?” he leers at me, tongue wagging. <br />
<br />
<i>Faker</i>, I think. Men like him find women like me as sexy as having their balls waxed. I want to say, “<i>This</i> sexy lady is the kind of lady who <i>you</i> make want to puke.” But I refrain because Chet is Chet. My husband’s boss.<br />
<br />
“You must be Amanda,” a much brighter voice calls from behind the behemoth that is Chet. I crane my neck to look around Chet’s block, and I’m face to face with Chet’s ‘lady friend’ who happens to be the most beautiful woman I’ve possibly ever seen. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t for the life of me imagine our paths have ever crossed. “I’m Talulah.” She glides gracefully towards me, holding out a smooth brown hand. I notice a perfect manicure, big rings, and big knuckles.<br />
<br />
I take Talulah’s hand, which is cool and even softer than it looks. Her grip is firm, which I like in another woman. I can’t stand it when I shake a woman’s hand and she goes all fishy on me. “Nice to meet you, Talulah,” I say and mean it. She exudes congeniality, and the more she smiles that sparkling smile at me, the more she reminds me of someone. But I can’t place who it is. I know it’s someone I like, or liked; however, my addled middle-aged brain is extra fucked by my recent Wyvern-ian breakdown, so forget any recall. <br />
<br />
Instead I just take her in. Everything on her is long and caramel. Her neck, her arms, her legs. Even her obviously dyed and professionally straightened hair, which goes down to her waist. I can’t place her ethnicity. She’s about my age, though she’s had work done, obviously. Botox and fillers, probably. Rhinoplasty, definitely. Growing up in a suburban Jewish town in the 1970s, I can spot a nose job from 100 yards away. I assume Talulah’s boobs have been lifted, because hello, no middle-aged woman has a rack that upright without a little hitch and stitch.<br />
<br />
“Your house is amazing,” she sighs as she gazes at our chotkskes and funky furniture. I hope she doesn’t spot the duct tape wrapped around one leg of the coffee table. “You must have used a decorator.”<br />
<br />
“Nope,” I shrug. “We hoarded all this junk on our own.” <br />
<br />
“May I?” she asks as she points to a small majolica vase we have on our mantle. I can’t remember where we got it. I’m not even sure I like it anymore.<br />
<br />
I nod. <br />
<br />
Talulah lifts the vase as if she’s handling a newborn baby. “This is far from junk, Amanda.” She smiles at me. I smile back. She’s restored my faith in the vase. I’m about to ask her if we’ve met before when Chet interrupts, sidling up to Talulah like a horny cowboy, lassoing her shoulder with his burly arm, which he has to do at an odd angle because she’s much taller than he is, especially in her platform sandals.<br />
<br />
“Better listen to this gorgeous creature,” he says. “She’s my art and design advisor. She knows good shit from bad shit. We met last Thursday at The Standard, and on the spot I hired her to decorate my new Montauk beach house.” Chet rubs Talulah’s beautifully toned shoulder as if it’s his own cock he’s wanking. “Place is gonna be killer.”<br />
<br />
Talulah smiles tightly. Not the same winning smile I got a moment earlier, before Chet interrupted.<br />
<br />
“Yep.” Chet can’t shut up. “Took me a whole week, but I finally convinced her to go out with me. So <i>voila</i>! Here we are.”<br />
<br />
Chet tries to nuzzle Talulah’s neck. I’m thinking, ew gross, what is this, middle school? Talulah pushes him off with admirable force, and I breathe an audible sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
“Anyone want a drink?” Dimitri says too loudly.<br />
<br />
“Always,” Chet blurts. <br />
<br />
“We’ve got wine, beer-”<br />
<br />
“What kind of beer?” Chet interrupts. <br />
<br />
“Corona?”<br />
<br />
Chet wrinkles his nose. “I only drink IPAs. What else ya got?”<br />
<br />
Dimitri picks at his forearm hairs. He does this when he’s nervous. “Full bar, more or less.”<br />
<br />
“Bourbon?”<br />
<br />
“Sure.”<br />
<br />
“What kind?”<br />
<br />
“Um, I think it’s Johnny Walker?”<br />
<br />
“Forget it,” Chet sighs. “I’ll just have some water.” He drops his arm from around Talulah. She sways as if she’s been released from a body cast.<br />
<br />
“Talulah? Anything?” Dimitri asks. He’s wincing in preparation for the next line of alcohol interrogation.<br />
<br />
“I’ll have one of those Coronas, Dimitri,” she says. “I only drink Corona.” <br />
<br />
We all laugh. The three of us, that is, aside from Chet, who’s sprawled on the couch with his feet on our coffee table. At least he had the decency to remove his shoes at the front door. <br />
<br />
“So, Amanda,” Chet says, “Dim tells me you’re a journalist?”<br />
<br />
“Dim does, does Dim?” I sneak a withering glare at my newly, perhaps aptly monikered husband while Chet lurches forward to scoop a fistful of almonds from a bowl on the table. <br />
<br />
“Where have I read your stuff?” Chet stuffs the entire stash in his mouth, talking through a static of splintered nut particles. <br />
<br />
“Oh, here and there.” I’m hoping to leave it at that.<br />
<br />
Dimitri has returned with drinks. “Amanda’s profiles have been in <i>The Atlantic, New Republic, Ms. Magazine</i>,” He can’t help himself. He’s my cheerleader even when I explicitly tell him not to be. “You might remember her <i>New Yorker</i> profile on Boutros Boutros Ghali.”<br />
<br />
“Whosa Whosa WhaWha?” Chet mimics. <br />
<br />
“He was the Secretary General of the United Nations in the 90s, Chet,” says Talulah. She turns to me and smiles. “I remember that piece. I loved how you compared Ghali’s Rwandan connections to your Aunt Sadie’s relationship with the saleswomen at Loehmann’s.”<br />
<br />
I’m speechless. It’s been a while since anyone has complimented my writing. After the Wyvern scandal all I got were accusations of being a hack. <br />
<br />
“I’ve loved everything you’ve written,” Talulah continues as she settles her gorgeous body on the couch next to Chet. “When Chet invited me to have dinner with his new legal counsel and his wife, the journalist Amanda Lowenstein, how could I resist?” She pats Chet on the knee and smiles at him sexily, manipulatively. Using something I’ve never accessed in my own lady-body: feminine wiles. It works. Chet seems to melt like butter on my couch. He’s quiet, for the moment. Talulah turns back to me and says, “I died over your hilarious deconstruction of the Monkees in <i>Ms.</i> back in the late 90s.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t believe you read that,” I finally speak. Chet’s lady friend knows about my Ghali article, even more so, my feminist take on <i>the</i> original boy band. I’m turning red. My cheeks are hot.<br />
<br />
“<i>‘Keep Davy. I Wanted Mike Nesmith’s Baby</i>’. Oh. My. God. Hysterical!” Talulah throws her head back and laughs a big gutsy laugh. Once again I’m struck with that <i>I know you, who are you, where did you come from, you wonderful woman?</i> feeling. <br />
<br />
“Are you working on anything new?” Talulah asks.<br />
<br />
“New?” I squeak. My heart is beating cardiac arrest fast. The antiperspirant I caked into the crevices of my armpits is proving useless. Rivulets of sweat travel down my torso to the top of my tasteful, classy mime pants.<br />
<br />
Everyone waits for me to answer Talulah’s seemingly benign question. New? I haven’t so much as typed a “please unsubscribe” email or a “TTYL” text since the Wyvern debacle. Chet glares at me like Pablo Escobar eyeing a Colombian snitch. Dimitri looks panicked, rubbing his bald spot as if it’s a bottle and a genie might appear if he keeps at it long enough. Talulah, however, is all sweetness, patience, and light.<br />
<br />
Finally I talk. “Dogs,” I say. “Dogs in the Olive Garden.” <br />
<br />
Dimitri gapes at me, drop-jawed, with a ‘what the fuck are you talking about’ expression. <br />
<br />
I can’t help myself. It’s free association time. “How Fast Food Restaurants are moving to accommodate our pet crazy society to increase sales,” I continue. “The need for commercial service industries to address the uptick in domestic animal ownership.”<br />
<br />
“That sounds fascinating,” says Talulah. <br />
<br />
“I have a dog,” says Chet, as if he’s announced winning the Prix de Rome.<br />
<br />
“How wonderful!” I cry, as if Chet <i>has</i> won the Prix de Rome. “What kind of dog?”<br />
<br />
“Dunno,” Chet shrugs. “Labradoodle? Cockapoodle? Cockador?”<br />
<br />
Talulah frowns. “How can you not know what kind of dog you have?”<br />
<br />
Chet shrugs again. He’s good at shrugging. “I just got it, like, last summer.”<br />
<br />
Note: It is now, once again, summer.<br />
<br />
“She’s a great dog, though,” Chet continues. “Cute as a button. Only barks when I get too close to her, so like, there’s not a whole lot of petting going on. But the dog walker tells me she gets along great with all the other mutts at the dog run. I picked her cause she’s hypoallergenic. She doesn’t shed, so I can have guests in any part of my apartment,” now he leers at Talulah, “even the bedroom.”<br />
<br />
Talulah smirks and takes a long draw from her Corona.<br />
<br />
“She sounds great, Chet,” Dimitri says cheerily, like Mr. Rogers talking to preschool viewers. “What’s her name?”<br />
<br />
Chet pauses. He has to think. <br />
<br />
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Talulah says under her breath. <br />
<br />
“Bingo!” Chet finally announces.<br />
<br />
“Bingo, as in you remember, or Bingo as in her name...oh?” I ask. <br />
<br />
“Her name. Cute, right?” Chet is very pleased with himself. <br />
<br />
“Adorable,” I say, then I turn to Talulah. “Would you like a lime for your Corona? Dim, you forgot Talulah’s lime. I’ll go get some.” <br />
<br />
“Can you please stop calling me that?” Dimitri says under his breath as I pass him on my way to the kitchen.<br />
<br />
“Whatevs,” I say back. <br />
<br />
When I return with cut lime and almonds to refill the nut bowl, Chet is telling a story about a recent trip he’d taken somewhere far away and exotic.<br />
<br />
“The view from my cabana was fucking insane! Looking out over the fucking Indian Ocean. I mean, for fucking real!”<br />
<br />
“Sounds <i>fucking</i> wonderful, Chet,” says Talulah in an admirable deadpan. She gingerly squeezes a slice of lime into her bottle and takes another long draw.<br />
<br />
“I tell you, the natives couldn’t have been sweeter. You’d think that they’d hate Americans. I mean, we’ve raped that country. Literally <i>raped</i> it. Poor schmucks don’t have a pot to piss in, but they’re still smiling all the time. And the women come up to you, offering you, well...” he looks at Talulah, then over at me and smirks. “Maybe I shouldn’t talk about that in mixed company.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe not,” Talulah says as she looks at me and rolls her eyes so quick and subtly I almost miss it, but just almost. We’re comrades, me and this glamorous creature, in spite of our stylistic differences and our taste in men.<br />
<br />
“Well then,” I clap-clap my hands. “I’ll get dinner started. You all sit here and relax.” <br />
<br />
“Let me help you,” Talulah gets up. Chet reaches towards her, but she’s too quick. She’s around the coffee table in no time, maneuvering like a quarterback to escape his grabby hands.<br />
<br />
Normally I’d rebuff her offer. I hate people in the kitchen with me. I find it incredibly distracting. They want to chat, and thoughts fly out of my head while the beans burn, or I turn the burner on under the pasta pot, forgetting there’s no water in it yet, or I dress the salad with vinegar only. But maybe Talulah needs to get away from Chet and his off-the-charts racist, sexist, bigoted ways as much as I do. So I say, “That’d be great!” <br />
<br />
Before I know it, we’re in the kitchen together, and I’m letting Talulah slice the olives for my pasta dish. <br />
<br />
“Can you imagine what life is like for that poor dog?” she asks.<br />
<br />
“He seems very fond of her,” I say.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, right.” Talulah is chopping the olives. She starts to sing, “There was an asshole had a dog and Bingo was her name-o.”<br />
<br />
We both laugh.<br />
<br />
I really want to ask her, what’s a nice girl like you doing with a douche like him, even if it is just a first date, but instead I go with, “So what’s it like working with Chet?”<br />
<br />
“Impossible,” she sighs. “But he’s got money to burn, which is an art consultant’s dream.” She’s chopping at weed-wacker pace and her jaw seems tight. “Honestly? I need this gig. I’m in a financial hole.”<br />
<br />
“Ah,” I sigh, “I know about financial holes.” <br />
<br />
“I mean, let’s be real. Chet’s a bore, right?”<br />
<br />
Chet is my husband’s boss. Talulah is his date. His ‘lady friend.' Clearly not his girlfriend. Yet. Still, maybe she’s setting me up somehow? “You could say that,” I nod, trying to keep it tame.<br />
<br />
Talulah stares at me with gorgeous deep brown, heavily mascara-ed eyes. She’s about to say something else when Dimitri appears at the kitchen door.<br />
<br />
“Um, Amanda, where’d you put Emmett’s old guitar?”<br />
<br />
“In the back of his closet, behind all those books he’s never going to read again but refuses to let me get rid of. Why?”<br />
<br />
“Chet wrote a song he wants to play for us.” Dimitri is sporting a fakey-fake smile. “Once I get the guitar and he’s ready, can you two come back to the living room?”<br />
<br />
“No prob,” I say, turning the burner off and making a note to myself to turn it back on when I’m allowed back in the kitchen. <br />
<br />
“Great,” Dimitri says and dashes away in search of the guitar. It’s then when I finally get to ask Talulah, “You seem so familiar to me. Have we ever met before?”<br />
<br />
Talulah looks worried. She pauses, and it’s clear she’s making some kind of bargain with her own psyche. Then, presto change-o! She flashes me one of her cover girl smiles and says, “I’m not sure. Maybe.” She hands me the chopped and ready olives. <br />
<br />
“Thanks,” I say as I dump the olives into a big bowl. I’d ask Talulah more, but I’m so cautious I’m like the conversational equivalent of a tree stump. We chop and dice in awkward silence for a moment when finally Dimitri calls from the living room.<br />
<br />
“Come on in, girls. Chet’s ready.”<br />
<br />
“Oh Lordy,” Talulah fans herself as if she’s in a non-air conditioned subway car. “This is gonna be a trip.”<br />
<br />
Chet is sitting upright, tuning my eldest son’s semi-forgotten guitar. Dimitri is back to forearm hair-plucking, which is slightly less annoying than scalp rubbing. Talulah sits next to Chet, but with more of a gap between them than before. I remain standing with a wooden spoon in my hand, trying to look like a gourmet chef who needs to get back to work as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
Chet clears his throat. He proceeds to sing a song that is a mish-mash of guttural calls and whistles. He hums and then blurts incomprehensible phrases that sound like a blend of Yiddish and Portuguese. He nods his cleft chin, and the fox-like hair flops in his eyes. All the while he’s thumping his hand on the side of the guitar. The strings are barely strummed. When he’s done, Chet is gauging our reactions. He’s eager and expectant, like my sons used to be after they played mediocre pee-wee soccer on D-list teams. Back then we’d lie, telling them they were awesome. <br />
<br />
I am so overwhelmed with Chet’s display of clueless, terrible dreck, if I try to talk I’ll break down in hysterics. I can see out of the corner of my eye that Talulah seems to be in a similar state.<br />
<br />
My brave husband rises to the occasion. “Wow,” Dimitri says, “that was, ah, some song.” <br />
<br />
“Thanks, Dim.” Chet places the guitar string-side down on the coffee table, leans back against the couch cushions, and yawns. “It comes from a really raw place. Deep, man, really deep. Kinda takes it out of me. But I guess that’s what being creative is all about. Amanda, as a writer, you’d know about that, right?”<br />
<br />
I’m past the hysterics but still not capable of safe verbal exchange. All I can do is grin. I probably look like a demented jack o’lantern. <br />
<br />
Talulah pats Chet’s knee. “Bravo, Maestro!” she says, then turns to me. “We’d better get back to work, Amanda.”<br />
<br />
As she rises, Chet gives her a slap on the ass. Talulah’s face darkens, and she looks like she’s going to turn around and deck him. But she doesn’t. She’s back to glamour and sweetness in a blink of an eye. Together, she and I saunter away.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
“Okay then,” I say as cheerily as possible when we’re back in the kitchen. “Where were we?”<br />
<br />
Talulah’s taken a fierce stance, both hands on her hips. “That stuff about the people in the Philippines? Natives? That shit about the women offering sex? Fuck that.”<br />
<br />
I envy her defined triceps. I worked on my triceps many moons ago during three complimentary personal training sessions I got as a sign-on bonus at my gym. I assume my triceps are still there, hiding somewhere under my saggy upper arm flesh.<br />
<br />
“So it was the Philippines Chet was describing.” I turn the burner on for the pasta water. And yes, I remember to fill the pot also. “I was wondering where he’d been. Sounds like he enjoyed himself.”<br />
<br />
“Chet’s an asshole,” she says.<br />
<br />
“Not the most tactful guy I’ve ever met.” I’m still trying to be Switzerland. <br />
<br />
“That song?” she cries. “Like a bad SNL skit.”<br />
<br />
It is really hard not to join her on the Chet-bashing train.<br />
<br />
“And that jerk slapped my ass. Without asking! I don’t mind a bit of slapping when it’s consensual. That was a very non-consensual slap.”<br />
<br />
“Now where did I put the balsamic?” This may be more information than I’m prepared to digest. I start opening and shutting cabinet doors.<br />
<br />
“Come on, Amanda. This isn’t like you.” <br />
<br />
How would she know what I’m like? When I risk a quick glance back, I find Talulah staring at me, like she knows me, like really knows me. <br />
<br />
“Whaddya mean?” I squeak. I’m Jimmy Cricket, moving around the kitchen like a jumpy insect. <br />
<br />
“Okay. Time to get real,” she says. “You weren’t like this in college.”<br />
<br />
“Aha!” I stop hopping and stare back at Talulah. “So we have met. We went to college together.” <br />
<br />
She nods. “I remember you walking past Fraternity Row, flashing your tits, giving the finger to cat-calling frat boys hanging off their balconies.”<br />
<br />
I did that. For real.<br />
<br />
“DREAM ON, CRETINS. YOU’LL NEVER GET A HOLD OF THESE.” Talulah grabs her own, much nicer boobs in homage to my favorite college rant. <br />
<br />
I blush. “Did we, um, hang out?” I feel bad I don’t remember her because clearly she remembers me.<br />
<br />
“Not so much. Just a bit,” she sighs. “I was very different back then.”<br />
<br />
“Weren’t we all?” I sigh, too, and for a moment we’re quiet, remembering our younger idealistic selves, girls who called themselves women, braless, hairy, fearless, gorgeous creatures who could and would have sex with anyone they chose, who protested wars, unfair labor practices, who rallied for freedom of speech, who played guitars and zithers and danced topless whenever they could.<br />
<br />
“Alright, I’ve been trying to find the right time to lay this on you, so here it comes.” Her mouth is a taut lipstick line, her eyes are dark and steady. “You might remember me as Thomas.” Talulah stares at me. And then I start to see her, or rather, him. Thomas, a thin graceful guy who hung out with a bunch of Semiotics snobs, a clique I wasted half of sophomore year trying to break into. Thomas smoked Gitanes like the rest of them. He wore a flamboyant, paisley silk scarf around his neck. He did entire <i>London Times</i> Sunday Crossword puzzles without any hesitation. I think he played the piccolo. He stayed on the edge of their pretentious parade by choice, while I desperately wanted to march along, waving my copy of Barthes “A Lovers Discourse” or singing the praises of Derrida. Mostly I remember Thomas was the only one in that clique who paid any attention to me. <br />
<br />
Thomas had been best friends with Lars, a waspishly gorgeous blond god I had a hopeless crush on. But I was invisible to Lars. He only had eyes for Sarah, a ruling class pothead with a horsey overbite and ties to the Rockefellers.<br />
<br />
But Lars is beside the point. It’s Talulah who matters, Talulah who grins at me now. I definitely remember this smile. The only difference is 30 years ago there wasn’t a smooth coating of coral lipstick highlighting the openness or lack of pretense. <br />
<br />
“Thomas!” I can’t believe it, but I can. “Holy shit!”<br />
<br />
Talulah puts a finger to her lips. <br />
<br />
“Ohhh,” I whisper, “Chet.”<br />
<br />
She nods.<br />
<br />
“He doesn’t know.”<br />
<br />
“Obviously,” she smirks. “Hey, do you remember that party where you and I talked about <i>Petticoat Junction</i> for hours?”<br />
<br />
And then it comes back to me, a glorious flash of nostalgia. A smoke-filled, sparsely furnished off-campus apartment. Nina Simone on the stereo. Gesticulating post-pubescent know-it-alls mingling about. Thomas and I were happy schlumped on a saggy couch, talking un-ironically about <i>Petticoat Junction</i>. No deconstructing, no analyzing. No Derrida-ing. Just a couple of fangirls, as we would now be called, gushing about the Jo’s: Betty, Bobbie, and Billie. Toot, toot.<br />
<br />
I take her in. “How long have you...” I falter, “when...how...” I sound like an idiot. I’m cool with all sorts of gender variables, I am, but this is Thomas from college! Thomas! And he-she is kind of, sort of, dating my husband’s boss!<br />
<br />
“I’ve known I was Talulah since the day I was born. But this...” she traces a long line from her left shoulder to her right hip, as if she’s drawing a beauty queen’s sash, “this has been a work in progress for the last five years.”<br />
<br />
“You look amazing.”<br />
<br />
She flicks a wrist and rolls her eyes. “You’re too sweet.”<br />
<br />
“No. Seriously. You’re so fucking gorgeous, I can’t stand it.”<br />
<br />
She shrugs. “Alright. You win. I am.” <br />
<br />
“What a coincidence,” I squeal, “you coming here tonight.”<br />
<br />
“Well, it’s one thing we can thank Chet for. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see you again. I’ve been following your writing for years. I always said Amanda Lowenstein is gonna do something important.”<br />
<br />
“Who’d you say that to?” <br />
<br />
“Oh, all those self-important creeps. Lars, Andrew, that bitch Betsy, Stoner Sarah.”<br />
<br />
I feel a sense of accomplishment I haven’t felt in months. Years. Decades.<br />
<br />
“You really got a bum rap on that Frances Wyvern thing,” Talulah says. <br />
<br />
I shake and hang my head. “No. I deserved the ire. I fucked up. I got lazy. I should’ve been more diligent with background checks.”<br />
<br />
Talulah grabs me by the shoulders. “Listen. Take it from a former faker. When someone wants to pretend they’re something they’re not, if they work hard enough, they can fool anyone. That sad little man who led you to believe he was a fantastic woman? Guaranteed somewhere inside that guy, that’s who he is. But his insides don’t match his outsides. And you got caught in the in-between.” Her grip is strong, guy strong. I think how marvelous it would be to have her kind of physical strength, her kind of beauty. But mostly her kind of bravery.<br />
<br />
“Betwixt and between.” I’m suddenly exhausted, so I lean forward and turn my head to rest my cheek on Talulah’s chest. “Nice pair,” I sigh. “Mine are like two partially deflated Aerobeds.”<br />
<br />
Talulah chuckles and my cheek bounces on her fantastic, if somewhat fabricated, firmness.<br />
<br />
“We should’ve hung out more in college,” I sigh.<br />
<br />
“That’s for damn sure,” she says.<br />
<br />
“We could hang out now?” I offer.<br />
<br />
“That’s for damn sure,” she repeats.<br />
<br />
I lift my head and look up at her face. Her eyebrows are so beautifully shaped. Maybe she’ll take me for a makeover? I could use a makeover. “So, pardon my ignorance. But how does it work? Do you tell guys? Will you tell Chet?” <br />
<br />
“It depends. Some I tell, some I don’t. Because,” she lets go of my shoulders, and points to her crotch, “I haven’t done the ultimate yet.”<br />
<br />
“You still have a, a, ...”<br />
<br />
“Oh yeah,” she drawls, “and it’s a nice package. I’m gonna be sad when it’s gone. But only kind of sad. Meanwhile I’ve decided I’m gonna shock the shit out of our friend Chet tonight. Get him all riled up, then whip it out and wipe the smug smile off that pompous sucka.” She does the sassy head lolling thing that only a woman as majestic as she can pull off without looking like an idiot.<br />
<br />
“But what about the Montauk job? What if Chet fires you? What about your financial hole?”<br />
<br />
“Amanda, really,” Talulah shakes her head, “we may be a couple of old biddies, but we’ve still got to challenge the patriarchy when we can. Even if it means we lose a chunk of change. Misogynistic dickwad fighting. That’s the real job.”<br />
<br />
“There is a God!” I stage whisper and shake both fists victoriously. “But be careful. He’s a big guy.”<br />
<br />
“Ah,” she waves a hand dismissively, “I can take him down with one hand tied behind my back if I have to.”<br />
<br />
And I believe her. “You have to call me tomorrow and give me all the details.”<br />
<br />
After we exchange phone numbers, we get back to work, boiling pasta, kitchen girl talk, catching up on grown up lives. <br />
<br />
Dimitri pops his head through the kitchen door just as we’re putting on the finishing touches. <br />
<br />
“Everything okay in here?” he asks.<br />
<br />
“Right as rain,” I say with a smile.<br />
<br />
“How much longer until we eat? Chet’s got low blood sugar and says if he doesn’t eat soon he might faint or something.”<br />
<br />
“Is that a promise?” Talulah asks.<br />
<br />
Dimitri is at a loss for words.<br />
<br />
“Don’t worry, Dim,” I say, “she’s one of us. Dinner will be ready in five. Meanwhile tell Chet to chew on these.” I gently lob a bag of carrots in Dimitri’s direction. <br />
<br />
Dimitri catches the carrots, then looks at Talulah to gauge her reaction. She is, of course, smiling. Dimitri looks relieved and confused at the same time. He leaves with the bag of carrots swinging in his hand while Talulah and I finish our preparations. <br />
<br />
When we’re done, I follow Talulah to the dining room with bowls and platters of goodness. I think how we might’ve been fearless back in the day, but we were also pretty ignorant and blind. We had secrets. Now we’re wiser. Braver. Or at least Talulah is. <br />
<br />
Me? I’ve still got some learning to do. But as I watch my new friend sashay ahead of me, as I admire her perfect, dare I say slap-worthy ass, I think: Let the dogs walk themselves. She’s arrived, she’s the real thing, and I have a new profile to write.<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Alice Kaltman</b> is a writer and surfer who splits her time between Brooklyn and Montauk, New York. "Boss Man" appears in <a href="http://amzn.to/2cUu26u">STAGGERWING</a>, a collection of stories that released last month from <a href="http://www.tortoisebooks.com/">Tortoise Books</a>. Other stories appear or are forthcoming in numerous places including Whiskey Paper, <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2014/12/issue-92-alice-kaltman-jackie.html">Storychord</a>, Longform Fiction, <a href="http://atticusreview.org/author/alicekaltman/">the Atticus Review</a>, Chicago Literati and <a href="http://joylandmagazine.com/authors/alice-kaltman">Joyland</a>. For more, visit <a href="http://alicekaltman.com/">alicekaltman.com</a>, and follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/AliceKaltman">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/alice.kaltman">Facebook</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Marni Manning</b> is a Fairfax, Virginia-based illustrator specializing in watercolor and colored pencil. Recently her work has shown at Artomatic Frederick in Maryland and Gristle Art Gallery in Brooklyn, and next month she'll be part of Spoke Art Gallery's "<a href="http://spoke-art.com/collections/bad-dads">Bad Dads VII</a>" show in NYC. For more, visit <a href="http://www.marnimanning.com/">marnimanning.com</a> and follow her on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/marnimanning/">Instagram</a> or <a href="https://www.facebook.com/marnimanningart#_=_">Facebook</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Jon Patrick Walker</b> is a singer-songwriter and actor currently living in London. In March 2016, Jon released his second full-length album, <a href="http://amzn.to/2cOX0ac">People Going Somewhere</a>, which received critical acclaim and charted on numerous college stations around the country. As an <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0907895/">actor</a> he has appeared on Broadway, in films and on television. For more, visit <a href="http://www.jpwalkermusic.com/">JpWalkerMusic.com</a>. <br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2977022540831330427.post-49663025521917334272016-09-12T09:30:00.000-04:002016-09-12T09:30:15.679-04:00ISSUE #129: Deirdre Coyle, Jarod Rosellό, Kristin Flammio<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Issue #129 Guest Editor <b>Jane Liddle</b>'s writing previously appeared in <a href="http://www.storychord.com/2014/08/issue-89-jane-liddle-brad-beatson-swmmng.html">Storychord Issue #89</a>. She is a friend to birds and lives in the Hudson Valley. Her short-story collection <a href="http://421atlanta.com/product/murder-by-jane-liddle/">Murder</a> was published by 421 Atlanta in March 2016. She is currently working on a novel and a book about daydreams. For more, find her on <a href="https://twitter.com/janeriddle">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://liddlejane.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>.<br />
</i><center><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bGlrBqCUk6o/V9GRb0wXKDI/AAAAAAAACZM/istx3rwLNGcJWDsdM_UBGHYaVWrnJs9iQCLcB/s1600/Bear%2BWearing%2BHuman%2BSkin.jpg" WIDTH=570></center><div align="right"><i>Illustration by Jarod Rosellό</i></div><br />
<br />
<big><b>CASES<br />
by Deirdre Coyle</b></big><br />
<br />
Humans screamed in the ugliest way imaginable: a high shriek that devolved into dry-throated choking. The bear didn’t know how to make them stop. Humans crowded the sidewalk, but ran when she approached. She looked for a hiding place, but humans swarmed over every open space and structure.<br />
<br />
The skin stuck halfway out of a blue mailbox on the corner of 9th and 38th. Gently removing the fleshy web, the bear stood on her hind legs and held it against her body. It was a weak-looking human skin with long, light hair and clothes attached: a teal sweater, a pair of jeans, and a necklace displaying the gold symbols “A-M-Y.” Careful not to rip the epidermis, the bear stepped inside it.<br />
<br />
<center><iframe src="https://app.box.com/embed/preview/gcyth6bvcurfavydcnpxapro2e4bb6b0?theme=dark" width="500" height="88" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<b>Issue #129 soundtrack: Kristin Flammio "Everybody Else"</b></center><br />
<br />
The humans stopped screaming.<br />
<br />
As “A-M-Y,” the bear walked up 9th Avenue until she found a doorway that smelled delicious. She walked inside. Many humans stood in a small space, peering into sweet-smelling glass cases. “Amy” went behind the counter to consume whatever was inside of them.<br />
A woman with white powdered hair thrust a hand in front of her snout. “Excuse me! Can I help you!”<br />
<br />
“Amy” shoved the door of the glass case aside.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me!” the white-headed woman shouted, making a pitiful attempt to stand between “Amy” and the glass case. “Please wait in line. Someone will be with you shortly.” Whitehead’s eyes bulged from her sockets. “Amy” wondered if another person lived inside her, or if Whitehead’s eyes simply fit poorly into her skull.<br />
<br />
“Amy” reached into the glass case, removed an item, and walked outside.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
“Amy” found a bench and bit into the stolen thing. Chewing, she looked at the tall trees, the flowering bushes, the soft-skinned humans. Humans covered themselves so thoroughly: hard objects on their heads and wheeled objects on their hind legs. It was no surprise, given how easily their bodies bent into unfamiliar shapes.<br />
<br />
“Amy” noticed the skin around her hands pooling—she’d stretched it in her excitement to eat the flaky food. Using one paw at a time, she tucked the loose skin more tightly around her paw pads, creating the illusion of slim human fingers.<br />
<br />
“Hey beautiful,” said a hairless man on the sidewalk. His arm was wrapped around a metal pole. His face glistened with moisture, smelled of salt. “Amy” looked him in the eye, and his grin widened. “Are you waiting for this bus?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Amy’s” eye itched. She dabbed her eye-flap, tucking a coarse brown puff back into the eye hole and flattening the rogue fur against her snout.<br />
<br />
“You all right, sweetheart? Say, let me take you out to lunch. There’s a deli right there, c’mon. My treat.”<br />
<br />
Delicious dead animal smells were, in fact, coming from the deli. “Amy” made a small noise in the back of her throat, hoping not to alarm the hairless man until after he had acquired food.<br />
<br />
“Is that a yes?”<br />
<br />
She nodded and straightened the blond hair. The man held out his hand. She reached a paw forward, then retracted her elbow and re-tightened the skin around her fingers.<br />
<br />
“Don’t be nervous, doll, my hands are pretty clean.”<br />
<br />
“Amy” inspected the quickly slackening skin around her knuckles. She placed the limp cache of hand-flesh into his outstretched palm.<br />
<br />
“Goddamn, you are a beautiful blonde,” he said.<br />
<br />
The man bought her a steak sandwich, ordering for her when she expressed no preference vocally. “You’re gonna love it,” he said. “I like girls who are carnivores, y’know what I mean? None of this vegetarian shit. Meat, baby. Meat makes the man. Or the woman, yeah?”<br />
<br />
They sat on a stoop outside the deli, where the man put the sandwich directly into “Amy’s” lap. “You got a name, sweetheart?”<br />
<br />
“Amy” made a guttural sound.<br />
<br />
“Becky, huh? My first wife’s name was Becky. Whaddaya know. I’m sure you’re a lot nicer than that bitch. You got a sweet face. Bet you were raised right, huh?”<br />
<br />
“Amy” pressed her hand-flesh on either side of the sandwich and lifted it to her mouth. She forced the meat and bread between the loose flaps of skin and into her snout. She could feel her teeth protruding through the human flesh. A canine caught the girlish lip and stuck there until she licked it loose with her mammoth tongue. Using considerable restraint, she ate the sandwich in two bites.<br />
<br />
The man stared at her, his sandwich untouched. “Goddamn, doll,” he said. “Jesus Christ. You were hungry, huh?”<br />
<br />
She growled.<br />
<br />
“Listen, baby, I’m as eager to get back to my place as you are. I’ll give you as much meat as you want. I’ll fuck you like no vegetarian’s ever fucked you before. You ready to go?”<br />
<br />
She reached forward and removed the second sandwich from his clean-jointed fingers, eating it in one bite. The flaps of her human mouth ripped, slightly, and fur sprouted from its pink opening.<br />
<br />
The man was making loud noises in which “Amy” was uninterested. She ate the paper that had surrounded the sandwiches, abandoned the stoop, and continued along the block.<br />
<br />
“Wait!” yelled the man. “Becky—<i>Becky</i>—come back!”<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
It was getting dark. “Amy” was ready to eat a large meal, to sleep in a place where she would not be bothered. She was too far to return to the forest—if she had come from the forest? Memories shifted inside her head.<br />
<br />
“Amy” began searching for a suitable sleeping place. Humans still swarmed inside many of the buildings, and “Amy” was not interested in sleeping anywhere near them. She saw several humans sleeping outside, curled into doorways and stairwells, but they looked so exposed. Their faces hung limply outside blankets, unprotected from the elements.<br />
<br />
“Amy” spotted a dark passageway between two buildings, with no humans nearby—no one slept inside it, no one wandered around it, no one saw her enter.<br />
<br />
Something smelled appealing, and “Amy” knocked over a large blue canister. Inside, she found a myriad of unknowable items, all of which she ate for her evening meal. They were not as delicious as the item from behind the glass case, but they were here, and unguarded by human Whiteheads.<br />
<br />
“Amy” curled against the wall, leg stretched across the wreckage of her meal. She allowed flesh to fold loosely across her face, her skin stretching over her like a blanket. Reveling in the non-silence of the city, “Amy” slept.<br />
<br />
<center><b>* * * * *</b></center><br />
In the morning, “Amy” wiped steak juice along her teal sweater as she walked down Columbus Avenue. She licked and nibbled the fabric, still hungry. The skin-coat rested sloppily around her paws, creating lumpy blemishes where the girl’s well-toned forearms should have been. “Amy” used her teeth to tighten the skin, letting the outer layer adjust to the shape of her round digits.<br />
<br />
“Amy” wandered into a green area. She removed an elongated, bread-wrapped meat object from a small man’s hand. He yelled, but posed no threat. The meat object was unsatisfying. She walked along a body of water, human cubs throwing rocks into its darknesses, creating ripples that lapped over the rocks. She dearly wished to remove the human skin and bathe as herself—naked, cold water soaking through her fur.<br />
<br />
A familiar scent wafted nearer. It wasn’t food, or the human cubs scream-laughing by the water. She lifted her hand-flaps to her face and attempted to pull the skin tight. Another man sat on another bench—a long, saggy man in a dark suit, a thin clump of hair stuck limply above his mouth. “Amy” realized the familiar smell came from his weak human body. She walked several steps closer, sniffing so hard she snorted a gob of pollen. The skin around the man’s mouth gaped. He lifted a hand, pressing the flesh into place. His hands didn’t sag as noticeably as “Amy’s,” but the skin clearly had not grown around the bones the way skin was supposed to.<br />
<br />
Trying not to growl or make noise, “Amy” sat next to him.<br />
<br />
He looked up, pupils snapping outward, widening and gleaming. There were eyes within his eye holes.<br />
<br />
The mouth within his mouth opened and shut, opened and shut. The skin clearly hung on the much smaller frame of whatever body lived inside it. Finally, the man said, “Do you—do you know who I am? Do you know who you are?”<br />
<br />
“Amy” released a guttural noise.<br />
<br />
“You’re me,” he said. “That’s my necklace. I’m Amy.”<br />
<br />
“Amy” hummed in the back of her throat.<br />
<br />
“I thought I got rid of it,” the man said. “I took off my skin in the garment district—the skin you’re wearing now. I put it in the mail. I didn’t think anyone would find it.”<br />
<br />
“Amy” tilted her head. She felt fur coming from her human eyeholes, and used her hand-lumps to control the outbreak.<br />
<br />
The man leaned forward, his eye skin growing looser as he tilted his two faces. “Where did you find that? Who—what—are you?”<br />
<br />
“Amy” pulled the skin around her fingers. She growled softly.<br />
<br />
“Can I...?” The man lifted sagging fingers toward her mouth, and pulled gently at the human skin of her lips. He pulled wider, trying to look inside. “Amy” growled more forcefully. The man removed his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just wanted to see who was in there.” The man paused, tapping his feet inside appetizing leather shoes. “I walked around the garment district, naked, after shedding the skin you’re wearing. And when I was skinless, no one noticed me at all. No presentation, no existence.”<br />
<br />
He plucked at his wrist. “I found this skin in the park, even though I didn’t want to use it. I carried it with me for a while, before I forced myself to put it on. Three-piece suit attached. I didn’t want to be a businessman or anything. I didn’t want to be a man at all. I mean, I didn’t want to be a human.” He drew his feet together, then apart on the dirt path. “I looked everywhere for a different skin. A squirrel, anything. I could have fit. I could have made myself so small. But there was nothing.” He reached for his face, pulling it taut against the body beneath. “I wanted to be an animal, but only humans shed their skin.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<p><center><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifCCubMmVjY/S487kXEGvEI/AAAAAAAABPg/FTmjowIXysE/s1600/storychordlogoicon.jpg" /></center><p><i><b>Deirdre Coyle</b> is a writer, fashion librarian, and non-practicing mermaid living in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Goddessmode, <a href="http://hellogiggles.com/trash-talking-romance-novels/">Hello Giggles</a>, <a href="http://www.lunalunamagazine.com/dark/a-catalogue-of-scars">Luna Luna Magazine</a>, and elsewhere. For more, follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/deirdrekoala">Twitter</a> and visit <a href="https://deirdrecoyle.com/">deirdrecoyle.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Jarod Rosellό</b> is a Cuban-American writer, cartoonist, and teacher from Miami, Florida. He is the author of the graphic novel <a href="http://amzn.to/2csj5HU">The Well-Dressed Bear Will (Never) be Found</a> (Publishing Genius Press, 2015) and the illustrated novel, How We Endure, forthcoming from <a href="http://www.jellyfishhighway.com/">Jellyfish Highway Press</a>. He teaches comics and fiction in the creative writing program at University of South Florida, and runs <a href="https://bvpress.com/">Bien Vestido Press</a>, a small press for Latinx comics and image-based literature. For more, visit <a href="http://www.jarodrosello.com/">jarodrosello.com</a>.<br />
<br />
<p><b>Kristin Flammio</b> is a Brooklyn-based musician best known for her indie rock band FORTS. Her most recent solo work, written in the California desert, was inspired by Sade, solitude, and the strawberry moon. For more, follow her on <a href="https://twitter.com/kristinflammio">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/flampagne/">Instagram</a>. <br />
</i> <br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">
Every other Monday, Storychord features one story + one image + a one-song soundtrack -- each by a different, underexposed artist -- for a collaborative, multi-media storytelling experience. Want your work featured in an upcoming collaboration? Submit: http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/02/about-storychord-submission-guidelines.html</div>Sarah Lynn Knowleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09466115559243558266noreply@blogger.com