“Hi. Mark; my wife Rachel. From Boston.”

“Lovely to meet you both. Our hostess said that both of the coffee pots are the same, regular.”

[…]

“Here’s some biscuits for you. Would you all like ham with your eggs? Okay. Anything else I can get for you? Mark, do you need more cream for your coffees?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

“Oh well we’ve got some more on our table you could take.”

“I can just bring some more.”

[…]

“These peaches are just perfect. I think you’d have to go all the way to Georgia to find ‘em this good.”

“They grow them here, too. Other side of the mountains.”

“Did you come over that way?”

“No, but we’ve been there before.”

“I see, I see. We drove out here right from SeaTac. We’ll be heading up into the national forest on Tuesday.” / “We once spent six days driving from St. Louis to Chicago. It’s a five hour drive!” / “We did, we did. Our watchword is, ‘don’t rush’.” / “Our other watchword is, ‘don’t be a tourist.’ We don’t like to go anywhere buses go.”

[…]

“Good morning! We’re Bob and Jo Parsons, and we’re from North Carolina. Where are you folks from?”

“And a good morning to you as well! We are Harold and Valerie. We are from Tennessee.”

“We used to live near Knoxville. Hello neighbours! Coffee pots are the same, both regular. We have more cream here if you need it.”

“These blueberries are enormous.”

“We once visited a little copper town in Tennessee, built up on a hillside like this one here. All of the workers were provided houses in town, and if they got promoted, they moved up the hill! Each job came with a specific house.”

“I suppose you could move down the hill, too!”

[…]

“This view reminds me of Bellingham.” / “Yeah, with the hill and harbor and …”

“Oh is Bellingham nice? We talked about going, but we’re spending a few extra days here instead.”

“They’re both nice.” […] “Some of the houses are similar, too.” / “I love these houses. The mid-century modern, the porches and balconies.” / “The paned-glass windows …”

“Did you take the architecture tour of the neighbourhood? It sounds interesting.”

“We walked around on our own.”

[…]

“So Bob and Jo, what brings you out to Washington?”

“We’re taking a little summer vacation.”

“We are too.” / “And Mark and Rachel, what …”

“Oooh, let me guess! Newlyweds.”

“Are you on your honeymoon?”

“The wedding wasn’t yesterday, was it?”

“Last week.”

“So it is your honeymoon!”

“Congratulations.”

“Yes, congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

[…]

“Mark and Rachel don’t say much.” / “I think they’re busy with their food.”

“All set with those plates? I can get those out of your way.”

“We’ll be checking out soon.”

“Just ring the bell when you’re ready.”

“Oh you’re only here one night? We won’t see you tomorrow?”

“That’s right.” […] “Thank God.”

“Nice meeting you!”

[…]

 Matthew Brennan is a writer and freelance editor based in the Pacific Northwest. Having earned his MFA in fiction from Arizona State University, he remains on the editorial staff of the Hayden’s Ferry Review. Brennan received several awards and fellowships for his fiction, which has most recently appeared in Ginger Piglet, The Molotov Cocktail, Fiddleblack, and Pure Slush, and is forthcoming from Trigger and The Eunoia Review. 

“Did you see that?” Luisa said.

“What’d he just do?” I said at the same time. “Was that … poison?”

“In a pen, Carlo? This isn’t a movie. No one actually does that.”

“Well he wasn’t writing on the mug.”

“Obviously.”

“What he did was completely unnecessary!”

“Maybe he was just looking at it. It was a gift, and it’s still new, you know, like the day after Christmas.”

I took a step away from her, then reached as far as I could toward her. “Yep, this is comfortable. This is where I would naturally hold something I wanted to look at.”

“Maybe he forgot his glasses.”

I shrugged and turned back to the patio.

“I wonder who he’s meeting,” she said.

Outside, the Italian summer was heating up, the late afternoon sunlight beginning to slant down over the umbrella, which kept the suited man in shadow. He was watching the street, which was quiet, the city’s siesta still waiting for the evening to cool.

The man in the cream suit was filling his cup a second time when a new patron arrived – short and balding, his shirt’s underarms, collar, and a column down his spine darkened with sweat. He walked in past the hosting station and bar without a glance at us, and I had a moment’s thought to address him, ask his business, come to a warning if it felt needed. But I said nothing, and he proceeded to the patio where he sat down across from the man in the cream suit. The coffee press still in hand, he glanced across at his guest and directly filled the other cup.

They spoke quietly for a few minutes, sipping their coffee, while Luisa and I watched them. “Go check on them,” she whispered to me.

“What? No,” I said.

“See if they want anything else.”

“Like a trash bag and cleaver? You go.”

She didn’t move.

Finally, we noticed the man in the cream suit counting out a few Euros and leaving them on the table. He put his hat on and stood to leave. His sweaty little guest remained in his seat, quite still. The suited man nodded to us as he passed, the brim of his hat low, and disappeared around the street corner.

We looked back at the second man, who hadn’t moved. “Are you going to check on him?” Luisa said.

I shook my head. “How long should we wait until we call the police?”

 Matthew Brennan is a writer and freelance editor based in the Pacific Northwest. Having earned his MFA in fiction from Arizona State University, he remains on the editorial staff of the Hayden’s Ferry Review. Brennan received several awards and fellowships for his fiction, which has most recently appeared in Ginger Piglet, The Molotov Cocktail, Fiddleblack, and Pure Slush, and is forthcoming from Trigger and The Eunoia Review. 

So, what stands behind the philosopher-poet —- his mother?
No, his mother’s philosopher-poet.

In your poetry, why don’t you pay more attention to the outer world?
Because it’s cold.  It’s very cold.  And I don’t ski.

Where do you go to feel good about yourself?
I go to Bank of America.  I don’t ski.

Where do you want to be right now?
I would rather be where the crazy people are.

What do you do on your days off?
I read about cancer.
Why?
My doctor says I have to.

With which character in American literature do you most clearly identify?
Well….uh….I miss Dick Tracy.  Also Ted Bundy.
Why should we remember him?
Because Teddy-Bear Bundy is the most interesting murderer
of our generation.

Do you have any advice for your future audience?
Yes.  You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose,
but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.
Are you serious?
No.  You can pick your friend’s nose.
Thank you for sharing that.  Would you like a cigarette?
No.  I don’t need more pollution to sustain my polluted life.

Do people care about your writing?
I don’t know.
Do you care?
You tell me.

What is your assessment of the 20th century?
There’s too much irritable flesh for sale.

What do you think makes us most human?
I can’t remember.  No…wait…I forget.
What is a human being?  What are we?
Meat.
Is that all?
Damaged meat.

You seem angry.  Where does this anger come from?
Self-rage against childhood deficiencies.
Ann Landers recommends counseling.

What do we humans have most in common?
We have all seen John Kennedy shot in the head on television.
How could that happen?
Well I guess we just watch too much TV.
That part about murdering a young, great leader, well,
then we are in the murky area of Freud’s Thanatos, self-destruction,
and the predominance of weak and absent fathers in America.
In any case, Ann Landers recommends counseling.

Let’s get back to your mother.  You implied earlier that your
own mother rejected you.  Why?
Because she could never read my mind.

What do you do to release your not well-concealed rage?
I write letters to Time magazine.

Changing the subject, are you glad to be a man in today’s America?
Very much so, yes.
Why?
Because I can piss in public phone booths.

What do you have to look forward to next year?
Frank Sinatra singing “It Was a Very Good Year.”

What have the critics been saying about your writing?
They say, “Danke, nein.”
Sometimes they say other things in English.

On a more intellectual note,
what do you think will be the fruit
of the revolution in American science?
More and more Mormon scientists.
Our sources tell us that you are a student of theology.  Why?
Because I don’t believe in God.

What do you think of neo-Jungian, James Hillman?
He has a lousy imagination.

What else do you have to look forward to?
Frank Sinatra singing “I Did It My Way.”

Why do you do this kind of work?  Why do you write?
I am trying to clean the dust off the mirror,
while people like you provide the coffee and donuts.

Does human life have any meaning?
“Les larmes du monde sont immuables.
Pour chacun qui se met a pleurer,
quelque part un autre s’arrete.
Il en va de meme du rire.
Ne disons donc pas de mal de notre époque,
elle n’est pas plus malheureuse que les precedents.
N’en disons pas de bien non plus.
N’en parlons pas.
Il est vrai que la population a augmente.”

I don’t speak French.  Would you like a cup of coffee?
Oh that would be lovely.
Cream and sugar, right?
Right.

 RAYMOND KEEN has recently completed his first volume of poetry, Love Poems for Cannibals. Five of his poems appeared in the July/August 2005 Issue of The American Poetry Review. Since 2010, Raymond’s poems have been accepted for publication by 13 literary journals.
Raymond spent three years as a Navy Clinical Psychologist with a year in Vietnam (1967-68); the rest as a School Psychologist in the USA and overseas. He lives with his wife in Sahuarita, Arizona. 

Wearing a black T-shirt with bold white letters reading “TNA the true genetic code,” Angle stood over Po inside his casket, staring at his favorite NASCAR T-shirt, at an empty Mail Pouch foil, at a jar with Po’s false teeth.

Angle’s brother, Clete, five years younger at 40, sidled next to him, wiping his nose on the wrist of his sweatshirt.

“Christ, Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” Angle asked.

“I think that newmonie of Po’s jumped on me when he passed,” Clete said. “I feel like death warmed over.”

“I’ll tell you what’s best for gettin’ rid of a cold,” Angle said. “You pound your dummy a few times.”

“Yea, right.”

“It’s all snot. Just comes out of different ends is all.”

“Yea, right.”

Clete disappeared, and youngest sister, Brell, holding her youngest of seven children, Echo Lee, six months old, was looking at the sole wreath of flowers standing on a pedestal next to Po’s casket. They had been sent by their oldest brother. Some folks called him Chip; others, Junior. Brell took after her deceased mother’s family, the Ritzes, with her clay red hair, mud-colored eyes and freckles. She was wearing a Cleveland Browns number 13 jersey.

“Don’t Po look good?” Angle asked her. “Looks better than when he worked at the dirt factory. Worked hard all his life.”

“He was hard at everything,” Brell said. “He was hard all the time.”

She held the baby toward Angle. “Can you take Echo Lee for a minute? I’m bushed. Been up half the night with her. Got the croup. Ain’t sleepin’ much nowadays.”

“Put her in a baby blanket and spin it counterclockwise 12 times,” Angle said.

“That worked for the boys, but ain’t no good with this young-un. I tried everything, even put whiskey and honey on my nipples. Ain’t nothin’ doin’ no good.”

Angle took Echo Lee and set her inside the casket with Po and Po’s choppers. “She ain’t goin’ nowhere and neither’s Po.”

Almost all of the Spooners and Ritzes were milling about the other rooms of the funeral parlor. Angle and Brell could hear laugher coming from the adjacent room.

“Somethin’ must be funny,” Angle said.

“Somethin’s always funny with this family,” Brell said.

An occasional viewer, like Sister Mary Paula, the volunteer social worker for Po’s hospice care, came to pay their respects. A couple of old buds sharing time with Po at the dirt factory also passed through. His brother, Chip, now stood with him over Po. Chip, despite being the oldest at 60, was the tallest of a short family, had the one full head of silt-colored hair and a dusty pepper goatee, as did Po. He wore a royal blue business suit and a matching tie with amoebas on it.

Tapping Chip on the shoulder from behind was Brell’s husband Trellis. Chip swung around. “You owe me a tire, a rim and 15 bucks,” Trellis said.

“This isn’t the time and place to discuss such matters,” Chip said.

“The hell it ain’t,” Trellis said. “Might be another ten years before you come around.”

Nodding his head, Chip slipped out a checkbook from his inside breast pocket.

Trellis gawked at the check he was holding, 500 dollars issued by the California First National.

“That ought to cover the interest and my share of Po’s funeral expenses,” Chip said flatly.

Angle’s daughter, Vallee, craned her neck inside the frame of the doorway. “We’re takin’ family pictures. Get your asses over here.”

Inside the other room kin were already standing, posing, eldest sister, Potty, directing on one side of the room; on the other side was Sister Mary Paula holding someone’s cell camera. Spooner boys and stood with Spooner sisters and their young ones, most with silt-colored hair and silt eyes, the boys all bearded, a couple of kin like Brell, Potty and Vallee resembling Ritzes, positioned themselves in three rows. One grandson of Po’s, the very image of young Po, wore cut-off denim shorts and a home-arrest anklet. Baby Echo Lee, cradled in her mama’s arms, was playing with Po’s choppers.

“Hey, where’s Clete?” Potty asked.

They all looked around the room, at one another. The room fell quiet as they heard violent sneezing coming from the area of the kitchenette and the restroom.

“Would you much care getting him, Sister?” Potty asked, still busy shuffling family in the rows to capture the best shot.

Moments later, they heard a shriek, piercing, like a shot wheel bearing screeching through the parlor, the type only screamed when a woman sees a mouse, a ghost, or a 40-year-old man pounding his dummy.

“What the fuck did Clete do now?” Potty asked herself, the entire clan.

“Ain’t nothin’,” Angle said. “He’s just gettin’ hisself rid of some germs.”

“I share the same exact sediments,” Junior said; then stood in the middle of the back row, chin up, face forward, straightening his tie.

 Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio. His short story “Barzan and the Great Switcheroo” appeared in Issue One of Speech Bubble. His work has also recently appeared in State of Imagination, Open Magazine and Red Light Bulbs. 

My dad didn’t seem surprised to see me open the back door. He drew her closer as they squeezed past and carried her hollow body effortlessly to their bed, the springs creaking. With each of his steps, her head and arms flopped like a rag doll.

The visit to the doctor seemed to have shucked layers of memory from her. She lay there in the blackened room with a blanket nailed into the plaster over the window. I saw her eyes slitted, not really seeing. Her lips didn’t quite close all the way, and a finger of drool escaped from the side of her silent mouth. Despite the cool of the early summer morning, her hair was limp and damp with sweat. My dad pushed me out of the tomb-like bedroom and gestured for quiet.

I stood at the bedroom doorway watching him gently shift my mama’s body from side to side to remove her coat. Her breasts pressed against her nightgown looking small and defeated. My dad knelt by the bed and watched her for a while. He opened a package containing a small tube of ointment and applied a dab to her temples. Then he whispered while stroking her hair, “Edie, estoy aqui. You’re home.” She didn’t stir, and that caused a churning in my stomach.

I had supper ready when my dad came out of the bedroom.

We ate scrambled eggs and hotdogs. I had placed a jar of canned green chili and a folded cotton cloth with heated tortillas near his plate. The tortillas had black spots where I had left them on the burner too long. The silence was stifling.

After dinner, I went to my narrow bedroom and played soldiers with used bottle caps that came from the pop machine in the store. I lined up all the RC Cola caps on the floor in military formation and surrounded them with Pepsi caps on the higher vistas of the bed. The explosions, shots, and screams were loud inside my head as I destroyed whole armies of Germans who tried to harm my mama.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face without being told, I went to bed. Twining my fingers, I prayed, “God, help my mama wake up.”

Under the covers in the pitch dark, I imagined in my mind a companion to patch the leak of my loneliness; someone who loved only me. There was Janice Bennett, Linda Trendle, and Caroline Echmund. These blond and blue-eyed angels from my fifth grade class held promise in my imagination. During a game of tag, Janice had punched me hard in the arm at the picnic at Bancroft Park leaving a bruise that I cherished for a week. Linda came up to me after field day in May and said that I was a fast runner. Once, at lunch, Caroline looked directly into my eyes as she called me a creep. The depth of her pale blue eyes took my bologna and chocolate milk breath away.

The flood came to Manitou Springs on a Saturday, that’s the newsman’s day to drop off biweekly bundles of magazines to sell in the grocery store. Behind the cash register, I was ready to beg for a comic book after my dad cut the bundles free with a wire cutter. My dad gave Gerald the usual Coca Cola from the noisy pop cooler. He wiped off moisture with a tattered rag, tilted the bottle under the metal lip, and opened it with a whoosh. As he handed the bottle over, the sprinkles began outside and Gerald said, “Those are some angry clouds building up today, Manuel.”

My dad and Gerald walked out the entrance and looked up at the sky. I trailed behind hoping for a peek. The grey-black clouds moved in slow motion with puffs that would extend and retract like the eyes of giant snails.

“Radio says it’s been raining up near Lake George since early morning. Says we’ll be gettin’ it soon,” said my dad.

“Well, I got to go. Stay dry. Thanks for the soda.”

The store was located on the side of a slight hill with steps leading up to the entrance. It was built upon a cement slab that made the floors uneven. A doorway behind the back counter with the cash register led to our attached living room and the rest of the house.

The patter of rain on the roof grew in intensity until it became the applause for a symphony and then a solid wall of sound. I didn’t think I could have heard my dad if he had spoken to me. Fearing that the ceiling might come down on us, I stuck close to him, occasionally grabbing his shirttail.

Of course, my mama slept, or was it sleep? I couldn’t say. I only know she wasn’t with us, escaping something I didn’t understand.

Looking down from our steps with my dad, I saw the beginnings of a tributary on the street. It looked solid and muscular like you could walk over it, thick and churning.

My dad got two apples. We ate and watched.

Then, we went about our jobs. No customers entered while I stocked the candy cased with Smartie, wax lips, and candy cigarettes. My dad distributed magazines and comics on a metal rack, and we went back to the front door.

It rained so hard; the splash rose up, met the downpour, and made a wall.

The level of the water rose up the two cement steps to the storefront. In addition to tree branches and garbage, we saw an upside down kitchen table with shiny tin edging, a blue-black speckled turkey pan, colorful clothing still attached to a clothesline with clothespins, car tires, and a horse saddle bobbing up and down with an invisible rider.

Just before we closed the door, a brown dog swam by. It paddled fast with its head held high. A leash extended straight out from its neck. The leather hand loop was beyond my reach. I couldn’t get the dog out of my mind for the rest of the storm. It reminded me of me. Swimming as fast as I could, but with no one to rescue me. I was going and going with the flow.

As my dad pushed me back and closed the door, I saw a flash of a nightmare that visited me a lot. I’m running down a tunnel that gets steeper and steeper and dimmer and dimmer until I free fall in darkness. I feel the air push my face and flap my clothes as I pick up speed. I can’t see if there’s an end to this tunnel in the pitch black. I can’t tell when I’ll hit with a splat. I think about what it will feel like to hit bottom at this speed.

“Wake up your mom and take her to the Garcia’s.” he said. The Garcias lived across the alley and further up the hill.

“I wanna help you.” I did want to help my dad, but to be honest, I was afraid of being close to my mama. What if she wouldn’t wake up? What if she clung to me like a drunk? What if she stank?

“Do as I say!” His words came from deep in his chest caused a shudder that crept up my spine to the base of my head.

I stood my shaky ground.

My dad’s mouth and brow were pinched tight in thought. He told me to get some rags from the cabinet by the wringer washing machine. We stuffed them into cracks along the door opening, and then he dragged a hundred pound sack of pinto beans and another of potatoes to the door. The potatoes peeked out through the weave of the burlap. We stood back and waited like we were expecting an intruder. The light dangling from a ceiling fixture went out. The chug of the pop machine came to a halt. The store darkened just like in my dream.

All the while, the clatter of the deluge was deafening. Cupping my ears, I stood in the center of the small room and watched the door. Over and over, I traced in my mind the running steps out the back door and up the hill to safety. I imagined the front door breaking from its hinges and a wall of dirty water rushing in. I wondered what it was like to drown, what that liquid breath would feel like.

After fifteen vigilant minutes, I glanced to my right and saw water slinking toward my foot. I yelled, “Daddy!” It had come down the corner wall and scooched under the candy counter.

There was nothing we could do but sop up the water with cloths and wring them into two tin buckets. In my mind, I sang, “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza.” I didn’t dare sing it out loud. With our attention drawn away, the deluge decided to sneak under the door. The cloth on the bean sack darkened as it saturated with water.

I forgot about time and felt close to my daddy because I knew he needed me. With only the light from the storefront windows I saw his silhouette a lot. It was so dark I couldn’t tell if he was looking toward me or away. I hoped he was looking at me. Thinking about me.

Then the pool advanced. My dad used a dustpan to scoop and empty water into the buckets. I got used to the high-pitched screeches of that pan scrapping along the cement floor in a steady rhythm. Wook. Wook. Wook. My job was to carry each bucket to the kitchen at the back of the house and empty it in the sink. We couldn’t keep up.

The water level inched up and reached the metal cages with the Wonder bread, Hostess dinner rolls, and potato chips. The plastic wraps floated inches off the floor. To my surprise, as the water reached the lowest shelves, the metal cans with Green Giant green beans and Del Monte corn floated. All the foods bobbed like apples in the tub at the church Halloween party.

I hated the storm that brought on this water. I hated whatever made my mama hide behind her ocean of sleep. I hated the stubbornness of my dad.

My shoes and socks were heavy, and a watermark rose up to my pant leg. The water was heavy to lift to the sink, and I spilled a lot along the way. The inside of my fingers became raw from the metal handle.

Cockroaches scuttled across the surface of the water. My dad picked up each one in his fingers, crushed them, and rubbed the remains on his pants. He put his mouth to my ear and said, “Don’t tell your mom.” I nodded my head yes. My mom hated cockroaches and yelled at my dad each time she saw one. A lone mouse paddled out from a corner, its fur slicked back, and it looked confused by this onslaught. I watched as it swam into a dry crevice behind the meat cooler. My dad was busy scooping. I wondered if he would have stomped it if he saw it.

The low rumble of the rain turned down a notch, and I could almost hear the patter of individual raindrops.

Before the bloated creek began to retreat, we heard two bumps at the door. My dad rushed to look out through the pane in the door. I looked through the window, my height, at the side of the door. There was no one there.

That’s when my dad saw me shaking with cold. Abandoning his futile efforts, he lifted me onto the counter and wrapped me in his jacket that always hung on a nail on the back door. He hopped up on the counter next to me.

Watching him out of the edge of my eye, I followed the turn of his head. Cans with soggy labels, Hormel canned tamales, Kuners spinach, and Van Camp baked beans, jostled for attention. All the candy in the bottom drawer of the display case was ruined, Mr. Goodbars, Butterfingers, and Almond Joys. Big bags of corn masa, sugar, and flour were under water. Packaged sheets of corn leaves for making tamales spoiled.

I snuck a full glance at his face as he looked straight ahead. Surprised to see a tear on his smooth-shaved face, I wanted to give him a hug, but that wasn’t something we did.

“What’s the matter, daddy?” My voice was croaky, and I wasn’t sure that he heard me, because he didn’t say anything.

Minutes later, he replied, “I can’t replace any of this.”

“Replace what?” I asked.

“My inventory,” he began, “All the food and the soaked cooler and pop machine. The meat’ll go bad.”

“Can’t we buy some more?” I knew I shouldn’t have asked because I felt him get all tense like he was mad at me.

Weak sunrays broke through the clouds, but it continued to sprinkle. The light twinkled and winked off the shallow pool that covered the littered floor. I watched a bottom shelf along the wall. I was convinced the water was going down, and my dad did the unthinkable by getting me a bottle of grape Nehi. He wasn’t mad at me.

My dad and I noticed my mama at the same time, standing behind us. I jumped and spilled my pop. She looked misty and confused in the same frumpy nightgown. I was embarrassed for her, but glad to see her at the same time.

My dad stood, gathered her in his arms, and said, “I couldn’t keep it out. It’s all ruined.”

Her face remained blank as I stood.

“Hi, mama,” I said. I tried to embrace her, but my dad had her all wrapped up in his arms.

She blinked hard at me as my dad led her back to their bedroom. I heard the low rumble of his voice, but couldn’t make out the words. I don’t think she had much to say.

Even though she ignored me, I wasn’t too offended because I was used to her not always being a regular mom.

An hour later, in dry jeans, I helped my dad carry the ruined beans through the house to the back yard that was on higher ground. The floor of the store was littered with wet groceries.

We went to the tool shed and got out the gas stove. We carried it through the house, and my dad connected it. The smell of raw gas thickened the air. My dad told me to open the store door. The water was off the steps and receding.

Once the gas cleared from the air, my dad lit the stove, and we had a toasty store in the middle of June.

On a trip to the shed to return my dad’s tools, I saw my mom in that robe cleaning beans in the kitchen sink. She must have gone out back to get them from the wet sack because her bare feet were muddy, but she didn’t seem to mind the mess she made on the linoleum. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me.

“Mama.” I ran to her and clutched her tight from behind.

Her body felt more like bones than flesh, and a tremor radiated out of her. Lifting her forearms, she captured my hands, but didn’t turn to return the hug. I lingered, watching her put beans in the pressure cooker. With dreamy movements, she went into the pantry and got out the tins of flour and Clabber Girl baking powder. Mixing ingredients with her bare hands, she concentrated and made faces as she worked.

I wanted her to stop and pay attention to me, to tell me everything was going to be okay, to at least pinch my cheek, but I guess she was doing about as much as she could at the moment.

My dad came into the kitchen for a drink of water. He hadn’t changed into dry clothes. He asked, “What are you doing, Edie?”

“Making burritos.” Her words were slurry, but distinct.

“Why?” He looked worried.

She moved hair from her face with the back of her hand and left a white smudge. “There are going to be a lot of people not as lucky as us tonight. They’re going to be hungry.”

By late afternoon, the water had gone down so much, people walked in the street, whole families clutching tightly, everyone soppy. Sand and grit filled the curbs. Debris wrapped around poles and street lamps. All grasses and plants pointed in the direction of the water’s flow.

I ran back and forth from the store to our kitchen making sure that my mama was still there.

Customers came in to buy food. I stood behind the register, ready to make change, but my dad gave it away, the canned goods, the cheeses, and the chips. I wanted to say, “No. Wait. We need the money,” but my dad seemed kind of happy. Three times, he walked back to my mama, leaving me in charge.

My mama and daddy carried two trays of burritos and put them on the stove. My mama told my dad to cut up a log of bologna from the meat cooler. We made sandwiches with some of the dry Wonder bread. I removed the red plastic edge of each round slice of meat.

I tried to stay close by my mama, but she wouldn’t stand still, moving around preparing food, tracking mud all over. At least my daddy had put his heavy coat over her shoulders.

The flood didn’t care if you were rich or poor. Linda Trendle, my favorite girl from school, walked by with her family. Mr. Trendle worked in the Manitou Bank. He wore a suit, and Mrs. Trendle sported a housecoat over a dress. Linda, my Linda, was dressed in pedal pushers with an orange blouse that showed her stomach.

Her father barely acknowledged us. Linda’s eyes lingered on mine as they moved away, but she didn’t wave. The wet crease of her butt looked nice, like a work of art.

I gathered three limp burritos from the tray with my bare hands, their contents burning my palms, and ran out the front door of the store. The Trendles had just turned the corner, and I sloshed in deep mud. By the time I got to the corner, they were out of sight.

Back in the store, without another word, my mama returned to our home behind. I heard the creak of the bedsprings.

I wanted to cry for my mama. Cry for me. Cry for that brown dog that probably didn’t make it, but in my dad’s face, I saw concentration, and that’s what I tried to do, think about things that had to be saved.

I thought about what we had done, my dad and I. Standing up to the storm, losing the store, but feeding a bunch of neighbors.

Because of the steepness of the valley, the water didn’t settle in. It came in uninvited, took what it wanted, and moved on.

The rains stirred up my mama enough to rise up and try to be her old self again. Maybe next time she’d come back for good.

 I live in Denver and have rented a desk in a haunted mansion off Colfax Ave. I’m haunted only by the heroes and sinners in my stories. 

Though New York City is only
one hundred and fifty miles east,
it never has that
fragrance of late fall
like Pennsylvania –
the sweet mold of decaying leaves,
the scent of back to school, and Halloween,
of days I shivered
because it wasn’t cool
to wear a jacket.

I walk with my hands stuffed
in the pockets of a Descendents hoodie, too thin
for the weather. Goosebumps prick my body.

Shouting voices grow louder,
muffled music escapes
the building, and skateboards crack
against pavement. The parking lot is littered
with punk kids, half unloaded vans,
and boxes of merch : T-shirts and records spill
over the ground.

The windows are still cluttered
with flyers and posters,
Bedford : Nerve Agents : Strung Out
A New Found Glory : Abscission
layered underneath An Albatross
for tonight.

The homemade sign, stenciled and spray painted
US HOMEBASE
hangs above the door.

People mill
around –
in and out the door
and back in again.

I pass by faces
I almost recognize.
A nod or wave
from former best friends
as I walk through the crowd.

We were going to free Tibet,
feed the homeless,
and save every cow, chicken, and pig
from the slaughter house.

An Albatross is already playing,
their former pop-punk identity
mutated into this noise-rock-funk-side-show.
I stand in what should have been a pit : stare
as they writhe,
his back arched : screams pulled from
somewhere deep in his diaphragm
the band splayed behind him : hunched
over distorted keyboards and screeching guitars.
Becoming the descendants of Iggy
and the Stooges : the MC5 : T Rex
preaching to their new followers,
Brothers and sisters…

I look to the audience :
tight jeans, designer sneakers,
hair messy in just the right way :
all eyes locked on the performance.

I walk out
without saying goodbye.

 Andrea Janov is a graduate from Wilkes University’s MFA program and has poems appearing in recent issues of Apparatus, Chiron Review, Word Fountain, 322 Review, Out of Our, Ripasso, Side B and Blue Lotus Review. 

I look at our tangled
fingers -
as we listen to reruns
of Married with Children
chatter on the TV.

 Andrea Janov is a graduate from Wilkes University’s MFA program and has poems appearing in recent issues of Apparatus, Chiron Review, Word Fountain, 322 Review, Out of Our, Ripasso, Side B and Blue Lotus Review. 

August 10, 1998

The photo in the newspaper
bright blue and yellow tag
spray painted on the side
of the concession stand
at the Swoyersville Little League Field

August 9, 1998

We were sitting in the front yard,
Hey, we have something to show you.
          You drove us to the Little League Field.
          Your smiles full of pride
          as everyone stared.
                    AS(Amanda’s Smile. Justin’s tag)
                    MIA(Missing In Action. Mark’s tag)
                    213(Their friendship tag. Only they know what it means)
                    painted on the white concrete.

 Andrea Janov is a graduate from Wilkes University’s MFA program and has poems appearing in recent issues of Apparatus, Chiron Review, Word Fountain, 322 Review, Out of Our, Ripasso, Side B and Blue Lotus Review. 

So he asked me why I feel the need to hold on to things, why I have trouble letting go. I guess he means the jar. Is it the divorce? he asks. Fuck no, I tell him. He seems to like when I drop the F-bomb. I hold on to my spit because it’s mine, that’s all. I don’t want someone else getting hold of it. Why? That’s his favorite question. Because. That’s my go-to answer.

One session down. I’m a little worried about the next one. He’s starting to make me nervous. How do I feel about Dad leaving us? Do I think he abandoned me? Does he still love me? Is it my fault? All the jabber kind of adds up. It’s just a stupid jar, right?

So, anyway, I thought I’d confess something to you before he makes me confess it to him. The reason I started the jar, the reason I saved my spit… it’s because of you. That first week of school I overheard you telling Sharon that you swapped spit with Tommy at Bible Camp. I saw how she looked at you and how you looked back. It gave me, I don’t know, a kind of buzz, I guess.

I’ve been afraid to ask, but would you swap spit with me? I like you a lot and it would mean so much.

Hopefully I’ll be done with this therapy before Jeremy’s party next month. You can give me your answer then, okay?

Yours truly,

Tommy (I wish!)

You know who.

 Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania, fireworks capital of the world, with his novelist wife and a herd of reformed feral cats. His work may be found in various places, including The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Bartleby Snopes and Pure Slush. He edits the annual Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink. Find him at his blog.