1
“MESSAGE” BY GARY WATERS
2
FROM THE EDITORS
Our inbox overflowed this round with submissions by talented writers,
illustrators, photographers and poets from all corners of the world. From
the Australian outbacks to the Saskatchewan prairies, Vine Leaves
Literary Journal is truly a global production.
It’s also a labor of love. And sometimes, love hurts.
With so many quality submissions, it was impossible to fit in each
vignette, no matter how beautiful the piece. We read every submission
carefully, created a shortlist, and then another before debating sometimes heatedly - the final list. In the end, we had to make some
tough cuts.
While these may seem like frivolous words, we assure you they are not.
In fact, we consider it a true testament to the value of Vine Leaves and
the amazing artists who have entrusted us with their work. This issue is
fabulous.
Because each of YOU is fabulous.
As we head into the heat of summer, we invite you to sit back with your
favorite glass of wine and enjoy the fruits of labor from some truly aweinspiring literary artists.
Jessica & Dawn
xo
WORK URL
3
IN THIS ISSUE
Pg. 2 Message by Gary Waters • Pg. 4 A Drawing
Grid by Francis Raven, Winners of Logline Contest
• Pg. 5 Songbird by Adam Byatt • Pg. 6 Rain Over
Oil Front by Eleanor Bennett, We Don’t Need No
Trouble by Allen Taft, Deity by Misty Lynn
Ellingburg • Pg. 7 My First Thug by Lilah Clay,
Birthday Wishes by Michael Dwayne Smith,
Bluebeard by Courtney Bates, Pg. 8 Leaving 146
by Gary Waters • Pg. 9 Calm Before the Storm by
Matt Hentschel • Pg.10 Leg Oh by Karina Sims •
Pg. 11 Please Jesu by Emma Susannah Morrison
• Pg. 12 Misunderstanding by Gary Waters, Gnats
by Sean Corbin • Pg. 13 Feather on a Bone by
Eleanor Bennett • Pg. 14 We Forget How Long It
Has Been by Douglas Riggs • Pg. 15 No Message
in a Bottle by Claudia Tanasescu • Pg. 16
Punishment by Eleanor Bennett, The Guy Next to
Me by Terry Sanville • Page 18 Spring by Susan
Gundlach, April Fragments by Dieter Moitzi, The
Deflation of Love by Jeri Fredrickson • Pg. 19 You
Laughed by John Biesecker • Pg. 20
Phosphorescence and the Girl by Lauren Payne, A
Crime. A Grid by Francis Raven • Pg. 21 Comfort
Zone by Michael Dwayne Smith • Pg. 22 The
Window by Merrick W. Allen • Pg. 23 Questions by
Gary Waters • Pg. 24 Minimalists by Benjamin
Nash, Mother Brings the Scissors by Allen Taft •
Pg. 25 Come and Burn by Sean L. Corbin, Maybe
by Fiona Small • Pg. 26 The Northern Ward by
Jessica Au, Morris is Red by Eleanor Bennett • Pg.
27 She Writes a Poem About Writing a Poem by
“A DRAWING GRID” BY FRANCIS RAVEN
WINNERS OF THE LOGLINE CONTEST
Congratulations to the following who have won free
critiques from publishing experts and a one-year
subscription to WritersMarket.com We’ll be in contact
soon.
Susan Gundlach • Pg. 29 San Serie by Daniel
Davis • Pg.30 A Slight Prologue by Lee Barton •
Pg. 31 The Places of Goodbye by February Grace
• Pg. 32 A Blow to the Head by Francis Raven •
Pg. 33 Spinning by Jewel Beth Davis, Postpartum
by Monica Casper • Pg. 34 Wanting Mary by
Victoria Piontek • Pg 35. Fumes by F.S. Symons,
Broken Cookies by Hal Sirowitz, Relationship Stab
by Mark Rosenblum • Pg. 36 Broken by Kathryn
Roberts • Pg. 37 The History of Dirt by Allie Marini
Matts • Pg. 38 The Town / The Town at War by
Mark Tarallo, Life Stage by Joe Dolce, Pg. 39
Souvenir by Celia de la Cruz • Pg. 40 One Time by
Fiona Small, Monday Morning Algebra by Tom
O’Connell • Pg. 41 The Sky’s Absence 1 & 2 by
Scott Rusell Morris, Catty Corner by Theresa
FIRST - LYNN HARTZER
In a future society where men are extinct, the last born clone
must follow her sister back through time to find the perfect
21st Century specimen to help repopulate the world.
SECOND - TAFFY LOVELL
Angelica remembers nothing about the deaths of her nine best
friends, even though she was there for each of them.
THIRD - ELIZABETH WHITE
Every teacher has a fish story about working for a psychotic
principal. Annie Smart's is true.
Thanks to all who entered.
Milstein • Pg. 42 Temptations by Angie Ledbetter •
4
SONGBIRD
by Adam Byatt
“Why does the fat lady get to sing the last song?” asked Claire.
“I mean, it’s not like she’s Aretha Franklin or anything.” She
dragged on the cigarette before extinguishing it. “This songbird’s
gonna have the final note tonight. Fat chick be damned.”
The karaoke microphone was vacant, illuminated by a single spot light. Claire’s best friend,
Rachelle, dubbed it The Truth Amplifier. The microphone revealed a person’s ability, she
said. If they could sing, it magnified the singer’s competent vocal chords. If the singer was
a hairbrush vocalist, it simply amplified their cat-being-pulled-by-a-toddler screeching.
Flicking through the karaoke menu, Claire chose her song. It was 2 a.m. and the bar was
emptying. MIDI strains of Bon Jovi clambered out of the speaker. From their table,
Rachelle whooped her encouragement. Claire pulled the wireless microphone from the
stand, feeling its weight, balancing it before winking at Rachelle. In her head she counted
off the final bar before the lyrics started. On the last beat she spun the mic in her hand,
caught it, leaned forward and breathed the lyrics, “If you’re ready, I’m willing and able/Help
me lay my cards out on the table.”
At the first chorus she pushed the vocals, but deliberately held back from giving it
everything, “Lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me.” Her
hands followed the curves of her body, starting at her breasts, moving over her hips and
towards her crotch before she extended her hand towards the crowd. A polite smattering
of applause came from the thinning crowd, but Claire knew she had them. The second
verse spun from her lips like caramel. Perched on the edge of the tiny stage, she could feel
herself flying with the music. Grasping the mic stand in her left hand she threw her head
back for the final chorus and released the diva within, finding the pure note and producing
a sonic boom.
Putting the mic back into the clip, the audience erupted in whoops, cheers and whistles.
“Take that, you fat cow,” said Claire, dropping into the chair beside Rachelle.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
5
WE DON’T NEED
NO TROUBLE
by Allen Taft
In an unfamiliar washroom, Little Son
Bear raises his paw to his ear,
pretends his paw is a cricket, asks
himself, “Do you remember lost
porridge?”
The hint of sunbeams curled like
conch shells. Wrinkled little
spaceships. All that pale flesh on his
bed.
Little Son Bear begins to wonder why
nothing stays warm, why Papa and
Mama sleep in different beds.
A week of Papa and Mama shaping
those locks of gold into something
more like snakes. “Bathsheba is the word,” Mama says. “We don’t need no trouble,” Papa
says.
In an unfamiliar house, Little Son Bear
finds nothing is just right. The liquor is
too cold, the ladies too cold. So
much pink.
“RAIN OVER OIL FRONT”
BY ELEANOR BENNETT
His hands are so hot, so fuzzy.
DEITY
Somewhere B B Wolf’s new track
plays: “I’m gonna huff I’ve had enuff
I’m gonna puff you mothas down.”
by Misty-Lynn Ellingburg
In this city, all the girls wear their hair
like that.
Deity: noun (plural, ties).
1) Supreme God or High Being, 2) immortal, invisible Other,
3) on whose behalf we wage wars, 4) yet gentle as a
mother, 5) a hen who cares for her brood, 6) a sister, son, a
brother, 7) the One whose eyes are a flood, 8) tenacious,
under cover. 9) a father, a daughter, one heart, 10) eyes
which are dark as a lover, 11) something I cannot explain,
12) One we have yet to discover.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
Little Son Bear pulls himself up into
the washtub, runs the water, wonders
how long until he dries.
He says, “I bet she tastes like
porridge.”
6
MY FIRST THUG
BIRTHDAY WISHES
by Lilah Clay
by Michael Dwayne Smith
I kissed my first
thug at a rock concert
age fifteen
(until a crowd surfer
fell on our heads).
He was high on ecstasy,
had committed
armed robbery,
and shot a guy
in the chest four times
over eighty dollars.
He said condom sex
was like fucking
an inner tube.
My Grandmama raised me. Mama was no count. Never
knew my daddy, and Mama took off with a grease
monkey right before I turned eight. Grandmama never
let me have no birthday party. Said it was prideful in the
eyes of the Lord. Tried to figure that, never could. Still,
she knew best.
I was a virgin impressed
with his metaphors
and gun handling,
blonde hair to the cheek bone,
southern drawl, bare chest.
I smoked his cigarettes
and touched his back softly.
We licked each other’s earlobes.
I gave him my phone number.
He called and told me
the stories I told you.
And still went to church on Sundays,
slept with crack whores
and got a dog stoned.
We were going to meet up
in a hotel.
He said one day I would be famous
and drive by in a limousine,
and he would be under a bridge
in a cardboard box
waiting for a ride.
So here I’m fixing to turn thirty, and Lem said he gots to
throw me a party. Said he gots a question to pop. The
one you been waiting all your life for, he says.
Grandmama died last May, so I told him okay, you know
best, and now I’m looking at this big fancy cake on fire,
everybody staring like I’m shivering buck naked, and
Lem keeps saying Blow ‘em, out, Sweet Pea, make a
wish, and I’m gonna make that wish come true because
I got the question for you.
And I start to feeling a child again, seven years old,
watching Mama wave goodbye, smiling, and all I want
is to turn away. Turn and run away, like I wished I’d
done, right before I was eight.
BLUEBEARD
By Courtney Bates
At sunset,
black outlines, prairie lily sky.
The sky lowers,
brushing my lips.
I sleep in a sanctuary
of dark pine.
Letters peel off the page
at the level of ink,
grow wings and soar.
When I wake,
a bear sleeps beside me.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
7
“LEAVING 146” BY GARY WATERS
CALM BEFORE THE STORM
by Matt Hentschel She stood beside her favourite chair, a worn wicker rocker with wrinkled floral cushions
and runners that creaked almost as much as her joints. On a nearby table she placed a
plate of pastries (bought yesterday, only slightly stale) and a glass of sun tea (homemade,
the effort of the afternoon).
Nodding in satisfaction that all was ready she sunk into her rocker, quite comfortable, quite
content, and quite ready to watch the show. She gazed out the window at the world
framed within it, a world which had begun to enter twilight.
Though it had begun to dim, the world was not so dark that her aged eyes could not see
the hard-packed dirt road edging her property, or the vacant field beyond the road, or the
large, threatening clouds that loomed above the field, piled upon the horizon.
The setting sun brushed their misty peaks with an ominous rust-coloured hue and threw
their lowest expanses into a deeper darkness. Lightning flashed within those indigo
depths, revealing details previously unseen in bursts of electric blue. Every so often the
bolts broke free of the billows, some falling to earth, some running across their surface,
twining like veins that seemed to linger briefly before shattering into countless smaller
tines. Thunder arrived like a mighty wave, rolling in to rattle the casement windows, rolling
on to shores never reached.
Below the clouds, beyond the knee-high summer grass of the field, there grew an expanse
of trees, a wall of midnight which blocked the view of the small town beyond. The sole
watcher of the scene in the window wondered if the townsfolk were feeling the wrath of the
impending tempest, if its edges licked at their town yet.
Before the edges the storm sent a strong gale, a herald to let all know of its impending
arrival, it pushed through the line of trees and stirred the field of summer grass to a choppy
sea of blonde that gave rise to a symphony of static rustling, over which the few robins not
yet in hiding sung a chorus of birdsong.
Above the waves of grass a few fireflies flitted, oblivious of what was approaching,
focusing solely on their activities. Now rising, now falling, tracing out blinking paths, an
ever-shifting constellation of chartreuse stars against a midnight-black sky of trees.
The wind continued through the field, tiring as it crossed it, to eventually find its way to her
home as an exhausted breeze that entered through open windows and chased away the
lingering heat and humidity of the day. The breeze carried with it the earthen scent of an
imminent rain, eliciting a wistful sigh. It caressed with cool, delicate fingers, as the soft
susurrus of its wanderings mixed with the gentle creaking of the runners.
- continued on Page 10 Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
9
LEG OH
by Karina Sims
Commie bliss, brand-new cool kids, pacifists with bulging fists,
shouting behind massive lips, imagine this,
you tell me
the story but only half of it,
pulling me down
onto the filthy ground
by my skinny wrists, I’m about to lose my wits,
maybe you don’t have a conscience,
maybe it’s my fault
for not giving you one,
or maybe you’re just a bad son,
who can only love your mother
through your imagination.
Now we sit across the room
shooting each other with cap guns. And oh the ennui of it all, defining ourselves
with pointless captions
moving our mouths
around feelings
we can’t fathom,
talking ’bout ideas
like we have them,
or we share them, I go home
with these thoughts
scared,
I can’t bear them,
and then
she comes in the room,
collapses on the bed
beside me, talking
about god
government.
She talks about love
like it’s exciting,
you crack your knuckles,
we kiss till it turns
to biting
you casually mention
love
- continued on Page 11 Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
CALM BEFORE THE STORM
- continued from page 9 This was the savoring time; that all-too-brief period
when it seemed she was the lone spectator of a world
made solely for her.
She reached for a pastry, and found herself glad she
had food and drink and a location in which she felt safe
to weather the coming storm. The thought warmed her
in a way that only one who is truly contented can feel,
and she sunk down further into both her seat and her
comfort, all the world fading away, save for that one
serene section framed in the window.
But a loud knock at the front door presently roused her,
snapping her out of the foamy velvet comfort she had
descended into. She found herself more than slightly
annoyed that anyone could be so inconsiderate as to
disturb one who was so contented, and hoped that the
winds would carry them away before they had a
chance to knock again.
No peaceful moment is ever long for this world, she
reflected as another knock forced her up. They are only
passing things, as ephemeral as the calm before the
storm.
10
LEG OH
- continued from page 10 how it’s worth fighting for, I get bored
you get offended
when I bring up war. She looks me dead
in the eyes
like I’m the fuck’n anti-Christ
we lay in bed,
pull the hair from our heads
our hearts
to little pieces. We talk about hell and Jesus,
Do you think he’s going to save you? We laugh till we’re stupid
compare tattoos; you shift the mood
asking why mine are violent
you fall silent
when I ask why yours are too.
I can see that question move
down your middle and split, you look just like a little kid
with all those tears pouring from
eyelids, I got a heart full of belly aches
in a pit of broken spirits, you’ve got eyes like broken lanterns,
hair black and dirty,
fingers move
like damaged grass
up and down my back,
your eyelashes look like spider legs
when you walk
your body—skin over wire, veins thin as thread
coiling around your knobby bones,
and when you press against me,
your flesh is cool as ice, broken,
in so many places, your lips look like a wound
but your words are numb and
painless. You never asked me for anything
we never mentioned love
until tonight
when I kissed your eyes, those wet, blood-shot blue. You’re so beautiful sometimes
I can’t even look at you.
PLEASE JESU
by Emma Susannah Morrison
My legs slip on the sweat of the mattress. In
the shuttered gloom, I still see the glisten in the corner of
his mouth, and remember the scent of him.
Something clinks and rattles as the metal walls shiver ...
and quiet again. I stretch over the bed, searching for a
sign. Will there be a lash left from his dark eyes? I’ll pluck
it between the tips of my nails, and swallow it for a
potion. My heart hovers, waiting for the sign that last
night was a gift wrap around love.
This once. Please Jesu.
The floor shimmies, licking up my spine. Out of the
corner of my eye, the house beside mine dances, blue
boards snap and spew like feathers from a plucked bird. I
crawl for the thin robe to cover my nakedness, stumble,
run falling, as the bedroom walls… thrust up, swallowing
floor and bed, and regurgitates stones, bones,
shards. Gagging on the yellow dust and the howls deep
in my lungs, I stagger wearied, searching.
But there is no help.
Forsaken.
Again.
On the third day, Friday, I circle back to the crumble of
my house. Two corner walls rise, a chapel, splayed
boards overlap for a roof. Holy Mary’s blue dress wears
blood in the broken glass frame hanging askew. The
chest of drawers, in every color, Papi made for me leans
on three legs. I huff the thick yellow air, beat it with my
hands, and there is the sign he left me:
A ten dollar bill.
Bellowing my grief, the bill flutters and floats to my feet.
And there, beneath it, a white hibiscus.
“MISUNDERSTANDING” BY GARY WATERS
GNATS
by Sean L Corbin
My house is inhabited by gnats that float like shadows over full garbage cans and an
unclean stove; like a cloud splintered into individual clouds that hover close together
because they miss being one cloud; like men at a bar that crowd close to me and other
mes, their beards blending into one beard, their tattoos combining to spell out Please; like
protestors protesting their lack of funds, their loneliness, their cravings of a stranger’s
fingers. When I step outside, the gnats are swarming the yard and browned siding like a
single memory of a long-faded kiss, his hands on my hips with his thumbs slipped between
my skin and the waistband of my jeans and lightly pressing my flesh between bone and
heat; like plastic armbands that never come off until scissors grow tired of remembering;
like a tumor. I go to work at the store and wash my hands after changing the trash bags
outside and gnats spread out and escape the sink and I wonder if the whole world is dying;
if I am dying; if the empty half of my bed has rotted against my skin; if I am swarming too,
unwelcome, a nuisance.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
12
LOREM IPSUM DOLOR
sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit,
set eiusmod tempor incidunt et labore
UT ENIM AD MINIM VENIAM 16
“FEATHER ON BONE” BY ELEANOR BENNETT
13
WE FORGET HOW LONG IT HAS BEEN
by Douglas Riggs
The television is on. The screen is a writhing eel. Little framed people and their little
framed arguments. Successful conflict resolution in 22 and a half minutes. Making
allowances for sponsors.
We sit on the couch. We sit there together alone. We forget how long it has been.
The smell of rotting meat is creeping under the baseboard. There are animals outside
snuffling and scraping and banging around in the dark. The trash bins are overflowing
and the animals have come to feed.
We are not hungry any longer. We can’t remember the last time we were hungry. We
prepare enormous multi-course meals. Sauces simmer. The oven is eternally preheating.
We toss lumps of uneaten food into plastic bags. The bags pile up.
Outside it is raining. It rains often. When it rains, various swollen breastlike plaster bags
bulge down from the ceiling.
We look up at the trembling sacks and watch them grow. We are up on rickety chairs
poking them with pencils. Pierced, they leak gray water. The water rushes down to
spatter on the floor. It smells of lacquer and bird droppings. The cat comes over to lap up
the filth, but we brush it away.
All the windows are boarded up. To keep out the cold air. The cold gets in just the same.
Inside it is musty and close.
We rub each other’s feet while we watch television. The skin is tough and there are odd
thicknesses about our heels and toes. Textures of sandpaper and chalk. Ribbed
parchment. Toe knuckles crack. We should probably get up. Maybe just to use the
bathroom.
There is cat litter in the hallway, little crystals scattered everywhere. It sticks to socks and
skin. The bathroom is so very far away.
We lock the cat in the bathroom because it will not stop crying. We forget how long it has
been. One constant unending whine. We feed it 17 times. We spread fresh litter
everywhere. We brush it and play with it for hours but still it keeps on crying. We lock it
away and attempt to sleep. It is difficult.
The cat tries to eat through the wall during the night. It is nearly successful. Paintchips
and splinters and pieces of sheet rock are everywhere. The pipes and guts of the wall
revealed for us to see. Pipes surprisingly bright and new. Some dewy with condensation,
others steaming, too hot to touch. Coppers and silvers and reflective metals carrying
their various fluids. Up from the well or out into the sewer. Or wherever water goes once
the best of it has been used up.
- continued on page 15 -
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
14
NO MESSAGE
IN A BOTTLE
WE FORGET HOW LONG IT HAS BEEN
- continued from page 14 -
I come to myself in waves.
The washing machine runs constantly. Something
zippered rattles and clacks in the dryer. The fan in
the bedroom turns slowly to the left, hitches, halts,
and bends back toward the right. Over and over
again.
crashing
caressing
hiding
revealing
We have our hair trimmed short. The shampoo
turns what’s left to hay. We sniff at each other’s
napes. We lay together under feathers and cloth
to stay warm. We sweat but do not move. We
sweat despite the cold. We are afraid to turn over.
muddy water from unknown
rivers
roaring water from storms in the
depths
boiling water from the belly
moon
We forget which door leads outside. All we find
are closets. Some of them are empty. Some are so
full we can’t close the door once it has been
opened. Knobs loosen and fall, roll in concentric
circles. The cat follows along with the motion, its
head rocking back and forth like a pendulum. The
cat is bored.
I feed all the fish, like Jesus
with bits and pieces of my
breasts.
Books multiply in the corners of our rooms. There
are so many of them. Books spilling out of
shelves, books looming atop dressers and
bureaus. They cluster together in piles, selfsegregating by the color of their spines.
by Claudia Tanasescu
On the shore
I scream
the same message in each
bottle
incomprehensible even to
myself
(might be my name) over and
over again.
The sea throws back at me
empty bottles
drowned mermaids and silly
pirates
babies in seashells
ghosts, treasures of
mismatched words
diamond ships carrying the sun
dying inside.
I come to myself in waves.
We use the internet. We log-in to things. We
comment and lurk and surf. We post and
download and our computers become warm. They
hum. We forget that the television or the toaster or
the vacuum is still on. The toilet flushes 3 times.
We sit on the couch and don’t say anything. We
have laptops on our laps and the television is still
on. Our thighs are sticky. We type. We look up and
change the channel. The cat paws at the boards
on a window. We draw down the shade. It gets
bored and walks away.
We forget to sleep together. We spend all morning
in the shower. The washing machine cycles down
as loud as a helicopter. There’s more water on the
floor but we can’t tell where it has come from. We
mop it up but there is more.
We put on perfume. We run our hands through our
hair. We get dressed. We walk around.
We forget how long it’s been.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
15
“PUNISHMENT” BY ELEANOR BENNETT
THE GUY NEXT TO ME
by Terry Sanville
A moment of pain and the aluminum cane falls from my hand and clatters to the sidewalk. A mob
of downtown shoppers flows around me, hurrying to take cover from the spring downpour. No
one bends to pick up the cane. With my good foot, I slide it against the restaurant’s front wall.
Damn thing doesn’t help much anyway.
Inside, the red-haired hostess wears a pasted-on smile, talks with the waiting patrons, takes their
names and the number in their parties and records it on a list. She ignores me, as if I’m still pretty
enough to compete. Somewhere in the throng, a baby lets loose a high squeal. I don’t blame it…I
hate crowds…and waiting for anything.
I turn sideways and squeeze between two fat women. They never stop chattering. A row of
hunched backs lines the bar, fills all but one space. Grabbing onto the counter, I adjust my skirt
and hoist myself onto the stool, its seat still warm from the previous occupant. I study the
breakfast menu printed on the placemat, can barely afford a short stack of buttermilk pancakes.
- continued on page 17 -
THE GUY NEXT TO ME
- continued from page 16 - The woman on my right raises a bejeweled hand and a Latino busboy hurries to refill her
water glass. I do the same. He turns and walks to the far end of the bar and talks with a
pretty blonde. Waiters and waitresses slide back and forth in front of me, like tin ducks in an
old time shooting gallery.
“I’m ready to order,” I announce but none of them stop.
The creepy guy on my left slumps in his seat, his belly pressed against the rail, shorn head
tipped forward. He wears a wool coat and scarf that looks a lot like mine. His hat,
sunglasses and beard hide most of his face. Ketchup smothers his partially-eaten breakfast,
making it look like some kind of bloody crime scene. A newspaper lies folded next to him.
I touch his arm. “Do you mind if I read this?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s probably hung over, recovering from a lonely Friday night. I unfold
the paper and stare at headlines: “Poverty at an All-Time High,” “Suicide Bomber Kills
Twenty in Bagdad,” “Republicans Push for Social Security Cuts.” Refolding the front page, I
look for the classifieds. The guy next to me hasn’t moved. A
waitress passes and I reach out to touch her shoulder. She’s
right there, but somehow I miss and she moves away. I hate
waiting for service.
Pushing back from the counter, I slide off the stool and
almost go down. The guy next to me grabs my trembling
arm. My gray wrinkled image reflects off his sunglasses.
“Thanks. I coulda broken my damn hip.”
“You’re welcome. Aren’t you going to stay for breakfast? I
hear the pancakes are delicious. The last guy really loved
them.”
The restaurant noise sounds strangely muffled. “No, I seem
to be invisible.”
“Suit yourself.” The guy turns and resumes his former pose.
I edge toward the front entrance. Behind me somebody screams. The blonde waitress
stands in front of the weird guy, staring openmouthed at the motionless figure. The crowd’s
roar drowns out my groan. The hostess looks pale, shaken. I push through the door. Outside
along the empty street, rainwater flows in mirrored sheets across the sidewalk. I can almost
see my face in one of them. But red and yellow flashes destroy the image. I look up. A silent
ambulance barrels down the boulevard. My cane has disappeared.
SPRING
by Susan Gundlach
Time to haul out
the clever garden
hose,
the skinny green
trouble-maker
that somehow
always manages
to twist itself
into impossible knots
as it sleeps
in the garage
all winter.
APRIL FRAGMENTS
by Dieter Moitzi
1
Strange winds come blowing
from the Western ocean
with scents of dawn and salt
I unrest while sorting seaweed emotions and
jetsam sensations
My back is aching,
bent under the pressure
of the rising tide
2
This sad voice sings
ballads of foreign strands,
bringing whispers and whiffs
of supplementary realities,
Fairy Tale castles and
haunting meadows,
while piano-tunes
like muted raindrops
melt away
THE
DEFLATION
OF LOVE
3
That moment when
a whole universe feels wrong
and seagulls drop dead on a beach
and drunken ships run aground
and nothing, nothing, nothing at all
makes sense
by Jeri Fredrickson
4
"Good morning,
I just called to tell you I am still alive
I will stay here
In the Neverglades
Out of your way
Unplugged and Praying that
My grapefruit days
Will end
in the crunching
corners of a cardboard
box--it stood and stood
and stood, then crunched
inward as it twisted.
A quiet, final fold
when he said four
affairs. I’ve had four.
I only wish
Your voice on the
Answering machine
Didn’t sound
So very much like you…"
Vine
Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
18
YOU LAUGHED
by John Biesecker
You laughed. And I knew.
Before the beginning, before those moments of conversation, quiet interludes while drinking with
friends, our Friday night escape from the rigors of life. Between Pilsners and gin, we revealed
ourselves, spoke of our families and childhood. Of your growing up outside Detroit, rock and roll
and alcohol, adolescence in the Motor city. Of my youth, almost a redneck, beagles and hunting.
Those moments slowly expanded, dominated, excluded the conversations of those around us.
Became our reason for going out.
Before that night at Disco Inferno, when you stole a kiss in the chaos of beer and sweat, your
sweetness and my longing. A kiss that surprised, elated, came with a look in your eyes that
captured me. That owns me still.
Before our ”Amish” courtship, pecks before parting. Images of you, the possibilities, stealing my
sleep. Because I knew what you could be. Before our sprint to my condo in my battered, blue hatchback, giggling in the flash of streetlights,
the majority of our clothes still on your floor, a quest for condoms to consummate months of
anticipation.
Before Sunday mornings, sun on our faces, sharing coffee and newspaper on your balcony,
glances and smiles, both of us in awe of what we'd discovered. Before the ceremony, the state's sanctioning of what we already knew. What we had known
before we'd dare speak of it.
Before the trepidation and anticipation as you expanded, life growing within you. Before the pain,
the blood, the sweat and tears. The brush with tragedy as you brought life into the world.
Into our world. Before nights of exhaustion and frustration, questioning our abilities and our sanity.
Before we did it all again!
Before you read “Goodnight Kisses” to an audience of two boys and an awe-struck father, their
heads on your shoulders, their attention on the pages, my life caught in the moment, their eyes,
their breaths, their being.
Before all these memories wrapped around us, drew us together, gave us this life.
Before all of it.
You laughed.
Almost a stranger, an acquaintance, a friend of a friend.
You laughed and I felt lonely.
And I knew I loved you.
19
PHOSPHORESCENCE
AND THE GIRL
by Lauren Payne
my heart aches. i fill the bathtub
with tepid water and stand there, naked
pouring salt into it, trying to turn it
into my beloved ocean.
it is never deep enough.
my body tingles where my gills have gone dry and i swear
i can see my scales
in shadowy outline
waiting to wrap me up and glide me
through.
i can smell the ocean floor and i want to drift through the glow
to be submerged and floating in that briny universe. so much lighter
softer than this land
my legs ache. and my fingers keep rubbing together expecting
sand.
i think this is my mother’s fault. when she carried me
every day she would walk to the ocean and wade in, letting me be weightless
inside weightless
and the way my muscles feel now you would think it had turned me into a fish
like the legend of roan inish—the woman
who is also a seal.
slick and silent. darkly beautiful.
and here am i, in a city, in a plastic tub.
on dry land
a mermaid with a woman’s heart.
“A CRIME. A GRID” BY FRANCIS RAVEN
20
COMFORT ZONE
by Michael Dwayne Smith
Another episode, friends, another highlight.
Ah, Thursday nights in the big screen glow,
watching Cartoon Network, smoking high grade,
and then paid commercial broadcasts until sunrise—
eating the souls out of several cereal boxes.
Yes, amigos, those are authentic Vegan hookers
pitching ginger-based aphrodisiacs on national TV.
He is witness to that miracle, but, well, whatever,
he couldn’t afford the payments on the six-month
supply those fine birds were singing about.
Just look at the dump he’s living in. I mean, really,
might as well be an actual landfill. Can’t find the
Zig-Zags for the Snickers wrappers. Hell, it’ll take
a lot more than cosmetic work for his toad-faced,
strident landlord to ever rent this place again.
Sooty memories now and again of a more active life,
dressing up all snaps and photo-ready for that
job at the bank. Whole idea seems as alien as Hitler’s
pantaloons to him now. Hey, and didn’t he used to
have a dog? Called it David Cassidy, I think—
squeezed Partridge Family melodies from its ass.
Dog had this freaky Jane-Fonda-in-Klute haircut
that dude what’s-his-name gave it, the night he
brought over a shitload of acid. Whatever happened
to that dude, anyway? Just, hey, whatever happened?
Vine
Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
21
THE WINDOW
by Merrick W. Allen I work on the ground floor of a large accounting firm, where I crunch numbers in my ten by ten
cubicle. When I need to look at something besides my computer screen, like now, I stand up to
stretch and look out the wall of windows that gives the entire floor a view of the sidewalk on the
other side.
Did you ever notice how virtually impossible it is for anyone to walk past a store or office window
without looking at their own reflection? It’s as if we’re compelled to make sure we are still who we
think we are and that we look just exactly as spectacular as we did in our own bathroom mirrors
that morning.
The sun is always glaring against the other side of the glass making it impossible to see in, even on
an overcast day. So when pedestrians strut by and sneak a little glimpse of themselves, they have
no idea that there are rows and rows of cubicles with busy little drones in them, right on the other
side.
There’s a twenty-something professional guy that hurries by, briefcase in hand, his stride almost too
big for his legs to keep up. He glances at the window, his cell phone pressed against one ear, and
he winks at himself.
There’s a sharp-dressed blonde who stops to touch-up her lipstick, and when she glances in both
directions down the street to make sure no one is looking, she carefully adjusts her pantyhose,
while gently twisting each ankle.
I take a long deep breath and let it out slowly, while a flock of uniformed little private school kids
parades by, with Sister-Mary-Penguin-Clothes leading the procession. The boys look in, stretching
their faces into goofy shapes while sticking out their tongues, in total self-awareness, as the girls
giggle and chatter and don’t even notice their own reflections, perfect innocence.
“It’s time to go, Mr. Anderson,” the larger of the two FBI men says to me, as I twist my arms to ease
the pain from the handcuffs around my wrists.
They lead me out through the maze of cubicles, and I see my boss at the end of the main aisle in
front of his office door, his hands on his hips. As I’m ushered past him towards the exit, our eyes
lock. I shrug at him and smile a little as if to say it could happen to anybody. He turns, enters his
office, and slams the door behind him. He wasn’t smiling. Okay, so maybe embezzling $908,673.98
can’t happen to anybody.
As I’m escorted outside and towards the black Government SUV parked down the block, we walk
by my building.
I raise my head up, eyes front, ignoring the window next to me, and the invisible, rubber-necking
faces behind it, and notice one of the little school girls up ahead looking behind her. Our eyes meet,
and she smiles. I smile back at her, and somehow I know it’ll all work out just fine.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
22
“QUESTIONS” BY GARY WATERS
23
MINIMALISTS
by Benjamin Nash
by Allen Taft
It is
a single tear,
drops
of rain on tin,
an emotion, a moment
white sand
and
my daughter’s first step in the
blue ocean,
blue spaces,
blank spaces,
watching
a day
break orange and clear.
It is
The beginning of a smile,
one
kind word,
lines, lines on canvas
love
that lingers
MOTHER BRINGS THE
SCISSORS
on and on
can you see blood
in the sun slowly
going down,
a touch of color
- continued on page 25 -
After today, Jason will lock the doors.
Today in the bathroom of his home, Jason will sit on the toilet
and command feeling back into his legs. Jason will command
his penis to function, like he did on the roof of the hospital. On the hospital roof, there was a small park. Mothers and
fathers watched taxis move along the grids. Vines grew along
the railing. Jason sat next to a bed of chrysanthemums,
reading his name on the calendar someone had chalked up
here as he whispered to his body to work. J is for July. A is for
August. His mother had taken him up here, hoping the clouds
would relax him, but he had still needed the catheter that
night.
Today Jason will silently plead to his flesh and everything
under, his mantra pounding through his head—S is for
September. Today Jason’s mother will come in without
knocking. She will put the towels away, pat him on the head,
and leave. She will come back with his father’s rolling desk
chair. She will sit in it, rub cool ointment onto her hands, then
clasp her hands together, the ointment oozing between her
fingers. Jason will say, “I can do this.” She will rub the top if
the catheter and smile at Jason to reassure him, and she will
insert the tip.
After Jason’s release, she will say, “Why don’t you trim? You’ll
be in high school next year. High school boys trim.”
Jason’s mother will leave, and Jason will contemplate walking
out too. But he will know she’ll be right back, and if he is not
there, she will follow him to that place he has gone, and that
she will assure him she knows what she is doing.
Jason will attempt to concentrate on something else as the
cold blade touches the skin. He will taste protests underneath
his tongue as she rolls forward in Father’s chair, moves too
quickly, lets the blade slip, the edge so near the soft side skin
of his penis. He will feel the scrape for only a moment, but will
later trace the faint red mark with his index finger.
Today he will whisper, “S is for scissors.”
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
24
MINIMALISTS
- continued from Page 24 standing on tiptoe looking over
that make
the minimalists happy.
It is
your wedding dress,
the baby’s
ten fingers and toes,
a yellow umbrella,
yellow days,
rays,
opening
in a depressing blur or gray.
and white squares,
my rare
black,
integrity,
the lack of excess,
the exquisite
that make us minimalists.
COME AND BURN
by Sean L Corbin
I tend to see her face amongst the flames, any flames,
whether surrounded by bricks or oven coils or my own fingers
and lips. It is not by design or intention that she appears in the
heat; no, what fire does is feed on one’s essence, on those
deeply embedded elements that embrace as compounds and
tighten thickly around themselves, hardening into slow burn
kindling that burns hot, burns intense, burns hot and intense
but contained to the general vicinity of a single fire maker,
releasing ghosts into the air. And I say fire maker because it is
I, after all, that sparks the fire, that shapes the fire by instinct
into a structure meant to burn, that asks the fire to come and
burn even though what burns is me. But I do not think of her
when I strike the flint because what I am thinking of really is
that yearning to burn that all kindling must have, that need to
feel something, even if the feeling blisters.
MAYBE
by Fiona Small
Mama mama mama said maybe and I said why? And we both
knew why but maybe we were lost in dreamland and she said
death is maybe. That’s what stories are for but why? Death is
the solemn ideology of our blood and those nuns in those
temples won’t accept a maybe they need a why. Why are we
here why do we die why are we born why why why. Mama
didn’t need a why maybe maybe was good enough for her
sometimes life was a memory to her in living daylight she’d
see the veins pulsing through her body like lava soldering to
carcasses and it was a memory of her own weight. Maybe and
her mind was a feather but I am so afraid because I don’t
know why but she tells me stories and they were lullabies for
the worshipping of maybes and she says I am young and am
searching for the why but I can’t see the why or the maybe
and so help me God, lord of the maybes, figment of the why’s
imagination.
She said maybe and I said why?
Maybe she is gone; maybe she is dreaming, her open eyes
have no memory of why and I see her hugging maybe she is
gone.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
25
THE NORTHERN WARD
by Jessica Au
I know a man who lives in a businessman suit, has lived in it all his life. Lives and breathes
business. I can't tell him he's a waste of a soul and he can't tell me I'm a waste of lungs. He's
got a whole suitcase filled with plastered smiles back in his apartment, tucked ever so neatly
under his bed. Poor soul knows he'll need them when he's traveling. Knowing so keeps him
from ever having to travel.
* * *
I know a woman who lives in a smile, has lived an endless life. Life and smiles; a trip of parted
lips. I must love her, her wiled smile could fill me to the brim. She's an endless smile, all
smiles, resting in her space a quiet beamy sight. There's a disconnect somewhere between
where she sits and where her lips softly press against those neatly ordered teeth. Smiling
walls and chairs and mirrors and beds—she'd never leave.
Sweet Elysia, sweetly sitting on a bed of neatly ordered sheets. Maybe she sees through her
teeth. “MORRIS IS RED” BY ELEANOR BENNETT
26
SHE WRITES A POEM ABOUT
WRITING A POEM
by Susan Gundlach
That’s the way the cornbread crumbles
That’s the way the whole thing ends.
~Gillian Welch, folk singer/song writer/musician* How hard can it be to write a poem?
Well, I’m here to tell you
it can be a back-breaking endeavor
just to get started.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table
with all sorts of ideas racing around in my head,
an intimidating Charybdis of images, words, points—
but no one has cleared the counters or put away the dishes—
it’ll take me just a few minutes to get rid of the mess—
and I have no sharpened pencils,
and where is my notebook—I need a proper notebook
to feel a semblance of organization and progress as it fills up.
I have to set up my green pen and two fine point Sharpies, and three star-shaped paper clips.
In fact, I should also throw in a load of wash and then walk the dog
before I can clear the way for non-stop creativity.
As we stroll through 45-mile-an-hour wind and drizzle
I will plan a background concert
that will subtly supply inspiration as I work:
Gillian, of course, maybe some Mozart,
and definitely two CDs of “Dogease,” new agey tunes
that are scientifically proven to relax your dog.
As you can see, the writing prep time can be labor intensive and distracting,
but in most cases it doesn’t discourage the serious writer.
One monkey don’t stop the show. ~G.W.**
To dig into the poem itself,
I am looking for that great opening phrase,
a grabber, as English teachers say—
the “Call me Ishmael” of poetry, the “best of times,”
or at least the “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,”
even though that’s not a real first line.
Actually, now that I think about it,
why not begin with the second line of the poem—
I could continue whatever with some lessons from my life,
-
-continued on page 28 -
Vine
Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
27
SHE WRITES A POEM ABOUT WRITING A POEM
- continued from page 27 the way most writers do,
you know, growing up in Toledo,
a Mid-West, mid-size existence,
riding a school bus for an hour each way,
absorbing the importance of honesty,
hard work, now obsolescent Twinkies …
maybe sort of an ode to the middle-class
Oh me oh my oh, would ya look at Miss Ohio, ~G.W.***
I swear, if that phone rings one more time,
I will shut it off—
the doorbell is a different kind of problem …
exterminator, delivery guy, little boys, dog barking,
neighbor whose bell rings on the same frequency …
interruptions that really derail my train of thought.
When does the “lonely, solitary life” of the poet kick in?
Holy cow! How did it get so late? The dryer is buzzing, and the microwave says my tea is ready,
(even though I hear you are supposed to drink chocolate milk after exercising).
In any case, all the good words have been taken for today,
the cornbread is crumbling for sure, evening is nigh,
and I have yet to get to the grocery store.
Time to turn over this poem-writing thing to my muse
and let her cogitate until tomorrow,
when surely,
the third line of my poem
will spring,
in full armor,
from my head.
“Come on, my sweet old girl, and I’d bet the whole damn world
That we’re gonna make it yet to the end of the road.” ~G.W.****
*from “That’s the Way the Whole Thing Ends”
** from “One Monkey”
*** from “Look at Miss Ohio”
**** from “Hard Times”
28
SAN CERIE
by Daniel Davis
I'm holed up in some little whore town
about five miles from the Gulf. I could lay here all day
and listen to the rain pounding on the tin roof,
machine gun staccato that keeps me on edge,
yet is somehow comforting. Like a coarse wool blanket:
it itches, but it keeps you warm.
God, Texas is big. This Chicago boy never dreamed of skies
this expansive, or heat this oppressive.
The mulatto girl who left here an hour ago said the sunrises alone were
worth getting up for in the morning. I trust a woman with a broken
accent.
She has to work harder to get her words out. No time for lying.
Theresa just called. She said the coast was clear. I should make a break for it, take the money and go. Down to Cuba. Leave her behind, she said. She's just across town,
sleeping on a bed instead of a cot. She's afraid to see me,
but she wants to, she needs to. I have her money, but I think it's more
than that.
I think she's fallen in love with me.
I knew she'd make that mistake. Maybe because I'd already made it.
I can feel the rigid outline of the Beretta beneath my pillow.
Mariachi music drifts cautiously towards me,
from what the mulatto girl jokingly called the San Cerie Marching Band.
I hate this music. You can't sing along to it because you don't know the
words,
and you can't hum to it because the melody goes everywhere.
It's a damn mess, but the girl seemed to like it,
so I kept my mouth shut. And now that I'm alone,
I can't think of anything to say.
I met Theresa in one of those bars with a forgettable name,
the kind of place where you go for shadows instead of drinks.
She was a barmaid, short skirt, pigtails,
unhappy. I saw it in her eyes. Told her my plan the next day.
She got me the gun. She got me the car.
She also got me a kidnapping charge, but what's that on top of
everything else?
- continued on page 30 Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
29
A SLIGHT
PROLOGUE
by Lee Barton
The majestic patterns of Saturn, the glorious punishment of Mars,
quiet burdens of Venus, nimble shreds of Mercury.
Another of Lona’s dreams was to create a fashion show centered
around the planets, each planet sent out as a design in the utter
quiet night, where partying quarks bouncing from dimension to
dimension to planet to planet would find Lona’s bed and hurl their
stories up in her brain, leaving them there, subatomic vomits full of
fashion winds and hints, bolting through her bloodstream until at
times, when she woke, she felt more fabric than flesh; a monstress
of galactic designer beauty that recognized the potency in her
imagery, each planet offering a sketchboard through these drunken
On the Roadie quarks that pleaded with Lona to express each planet
in fashion, but only after tussling with Earth, because the magic
planet that Lona felt inside her dangling sweet fruit in the middle of
her soul was the filter of her essence. And any idea was wrung
through the sensual leaves that whispered through her hidden
shyness and softness that fought with her public sharpness through
her walking style, her marionette movements. With vast panoramic
persuasion she could gobble in all the tides and weave them into a
pattern that belonged in someone's loving closet.
SAN CERIE
- continued from page 29 It was her idea to ditch my partner. One round, back of the head,
no need to split the money three ways.
Smart girl.
I pull out the Beretta and hold it before my eyes. Hard and black,
warm from my weight pressing down on it.
I think I'll go across town and get Theresa,
even though I'm sure the agents are watching her, that's why she's there,
she's the distraction. He'll never leave her, they think,
and damned if they aren't right about that.
But what good is Cuba without a girl like Theresa on your arm,
And a place like this hellhole in your past?
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
30
THE PLACES OF GOODBYE
by February Grace
Wouldn’t it be great if we could avoid the places that cause the most suffering? Hospitals.
Funeral homes. Airports. Train Stations.
These are the places of goodbye.
And to me each represents varying degrees of damnation.
Some are too excruciating to be described in sounds that can form words: when
the noises do escape my lips at all, they’re guttural, primitive moans. Or sobs. Like those
heard from small, distraught, over-tired children.
The train stations are the worst.
That’s because you expect goodbyes to happen in the other places, but in this place, for
me, at least, it was only supposed to mean hello and happiness.
But I never got to have it.
The moment that was meant to happen: the wall of clocks behind me, the steps leading
to nowhere from where we stood.
I never got to have you there. That kiss. As promised. Because we never went there.
We never went there. Things had gone so wrong. I was afraid if we’d met as planned, that
I would throw myself onto the tracks.
To me, the places of goodbye have theme songs—thrown together like some sorry-ass
mental playlist; layers upon layers of piano and guitar with simple percussion, generally,
because my heart is pounding so hard that a heavier dose of drums might be the end of
it.
The worst part is you can’t avoid these places, no matter how much you want to.
Eventually someone gets sick.
Someone dies.
Sooner or later, you’re going to have to catch a flight.
But damn, damn, damn that fucking train station.
If I had the choice, I would never have to pass by it again.
Not unless it was the day goodbye healed. And I never again had to stare out the window
—at an empty platform—without having him there to grasp hold of my hand. Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
31
“A BLOW TO THE HEAD” BY FRANCIS RAVEN
SPINNING
by Jewel Beth Davis
The smooth green Coke bottle spins round and round. Adolescent hands. No faces, just anxious
hands and guilty glances. In semi-darkness in the bathroom of the Bar Mitzvah boy’s home, our
blushes obscured. Heads huddled over the center of the circle, gambling for love. Little particles
of powder from the puff on the vanity filter in a thin stream of sunlight. The smell intoxicates. My
turn. My fingers grasp the warm curve of the bottle, moist from many hands. My spin is reckless,
too much torque. Only one boy, one perfect boy. It must stop on HIM. The glass pointer bumps
against the bunched rag rug. I pray and hold my breath. It’s turning … turning … and … it …
DOES. In the expectant silence, we lean across the bottle to meet...
POSTPARTUM
by Monica Casper
You were a seedling, a tadpole, a vital dream anchored in my womb, animated by blood and
oxygen and nutrients through our spongy placenta, and you grew bigger and pushed and
prodded my ribs and organs and left me breathless and sore, but you missed your cue, you were
shy, disoriented, breech, with your head seeking my heart and your bottom finding gravity, feet
first into the world, as now, but the bouncing and breathing and walking and crying could not
dislodge you, so after hours and days with stars spinning in my eyes and my back crumpled in
agony, a syringe full of chemicals stunned me and the doctor sliced you right out of my belly, like
filleting a fish, and you were slippery and pink and you cried, and they took you away to make
you clean and pretty while they stitched me closed, obstetrical taxidermy, and I did not hold you
first, I mourned, and when my arms finally encircled you I never wanted to let go, and we knew
each other, you were an amputated limb and your departure from my body would feel always like
an exquisite haunting, and nursing you with my bluish-white milk and stroking your soft cheek
was velvet bliss, a tableau of domestic joy, and then the nightmares started, the angry coyotes
howling outside the cottage eager to tear your precious warmth to pieces, faceless strangers
ripping you from my arms to lock you inside the searing wood-burning stove, your body twisting
in charcoal grief and my soul in ashes, the sinister ceiling fan with its silver blades pulping your
pliant bones, and the always piercing terror of you vanishing into thin air, into oblivion, my tiny
phantom girl.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
33
WANTING MARY
by Victoria Piontek
Her hand caressed the crushed velvet of the pew. Nestled between her mother and
grandmother, she looked to the stained glass and searched. She wanted the Virgin Mary in her
shades of blue. She found the reds of the crucifixion instead.
“A coal taken out of the fire slowly dies,” she heard her father intone from the pulpit. This
sermon was for her.
She had been much talked about in recent months. Fretted over. Cajoled. Waited for. They
rejoiced at her return. They discussed her penance.
Her mother, remembering her own youth, suggested time served. “I’m sure she’s punished
herself enough.” Her grandmother, sympathetic to both, was inclined to agree. The father, as a
pillar of the community, could not.
She had strayed, knowing it would be hard to return. She hadn’t wanted to leave. Not really,
but it couldn’t be helped. The world called, and its voice lured like the siren’s song.
It wasn’t much. To most, it was nothing. A boy, her own age of no religion. A car. A night. A lie.
She got caught, of course. She wasn’t practiced. She was innocent. They waited for her in the
formal living room under ambient lighting with the truth. She saw signs of their vigil. Stained
coffee cups with a fraction of cold liquid left, a few plates of uneaten food, worn out faces
seeking answers.
She tried to explain. “It was nothing. All the other girls. It wasn’t like that.” But they knew. “We
were young once.” And, “We’re not naïve. We know what goes on between young people
these days.”
Weeks of a cold silence ensued. Disapproval on one side. Defiance on the other. Months of
fretting and moping followed. Eventually, a fractured peace was reached. A question of light
concern. A slice of specially made pie. A return of daily ritual. Until finally, she was back in the
fold.
The father could not offer unconditional forgiveness. His way was hard. A pointed sermon. A
forgotten simile. A disregarded embrace. The girl would feel her penance.
“The devil dresses up in the angel’s clothing.” The downward strike of his fist punctuated the
father’s words.
She jumped at the sound. Her mother pulled her close and absently ran her hand up and down
the girl’s arm. The girl rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. The grandmother squeezed
her hand. The Virgin caressed the girl with blue hued light. The sermon rolled on.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
34
FUMES
by F. S. Symons
An old car arrives, leaks in its exhaust system,
holes in the rusty floorboards.
Inhaling carbon I cough in the lube pit and
shout, turn off your engine. Through the floor,
I see the driver’s long pale legs, inches above me, safe in the pleats of her khaki skirt. Years ago, my friend Kyle had been wearing a khaki shirt,
in our classroom turned shooting gallery,
bright red oozing out of the bullet hole and dyeing the cloth. BROKEN COOKIES
By Hal Sirowitz
I’d love you
until the cookie
crumbles, so why
do you keep knocking
them off the table?
RELATIONSHIP
STAB
Too slow to unscrew the oil pan plug,
I scald my arms with the car’s spewing black oil. The mechanic’s blowtorch points at me for a second. I could be incinerated in this pit, shaped like a coffin. By Mark Rosenblum
The woman’s car is dead now. It
disgorges differential fluid.
I pour in a serum, molasses brown
to nurture it back to life.
Her engine oil stinks of burnt carbon, unlike the new gold blood I inject. Her coolant oozes out pinkish and
She comments I am squeezing
too hard.
We
hug.
I loosen my
Grip.
She says I need
a shave.
I replace it with orange liquid, but first, curious, I lick a drop. It is sweet.
I move my head
back.
I finish the job, wipe the oil off black greasy cuts on my hand,
wounded like my faith. She comments that my stomach is
making
funny noises.
I observe the woman as she sips her milky coffee. I tell her I’m hungry and we should get
something to eat.
Her car roars to life, the nutrients flowing. She pays, the wind nips her receipt out of her hand and
she’s gone, just a customer, a piece of receipt paper now, carried away like a voice in the wind,
like Kyle, like the fumes of this pit I live in. Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
She says she’s
not hungry.
We stop hugging,
again.
35
BROKEN
by Kathryn Roberts
Her husband is a three-letter word. One letter shy of the ferocity that attracts attention.
Enough letters to leave a mark. His breath comes in spurts, in little one-syllable gasps. He
inscribes himself on her like a monogram, a collection of their joint initials branded onto her
skin. A collection that no one questions because it encompasses them both. He is the poker
and the mark, the white glow of the metal and the cool ash of flaking skin. He is the pain and
the balm. At night, she screams in four-letter words to scare him away.
Her husband is the child she imagines in her belly. The helpless, the immobile. The one
draining her energy, parasiting the nourishment she consumes, growing inside her until they
are a single creature. He calls for her at night when she wants sleep. She cradles him even
when his screams crash into her eardrums like waves. He suckles her in gulps, heaping
servings of more than she has prepared, more than she has left to offer. He devours her,
inside out, pushing himself through her whole body as if he deserves it, as if there is no other
way.
Her husband is an abortion. An almost born memory of a man, cut off somewhere before full
realization. The embryo she begs not to live. He is undeveloped, pulled from himself too soon
to transition from child to adult. He is the memory of destroyed tissue, of amounting to less
than wanted. She envisions him as a ghost of a possibility, something she accepted then
denied, not fully human. He comes to her in dreams and wake, haunting her daily. Some days
she begs him away, tells him he is dead, tells him he was never alive. Other days she holds
her belly as he works himself through her, still unformed, still too slippery to pin down or get
out.
Her husband is the crow that raps on the sliding glass door. The onyx-winged creature with
vacant eyes that communicate only in distorted Morse code. When she approaches him to
ask what he means, he hops back then flies to the nearest branch, just out of reach. He is a
persistent but vacant expression, a tilted head, a raven brain too intelligent for his body, too
unfocused. He is the omen flying over the house, flying over her head. The bad luck that,
once indoors, sets the house to spinning, her to fleeing.
Her husband is the broken banister he refuses to fix. The railing supposed to set the stairs to
straight but still bent and splintered. She runs her hands up him hoping to find stability but he
bends every time she approaches the landing. He is the crookedness, the wabi-sabi, the
intentional flaw in the perfect pattern. He is the guaranteed mistake. The obvious blemish.
The known quantity. His brokenness is a consistency that repeats itself in stairs and
floorboards, conversations and embraces. She tries to superglue, to shore up, to replace the
crack, but he is the weakened support beam you don't expect to fail. She can never find the
exact spot of schism.
- continued on page 37 Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
36
THE HISTORY OF DIRT
by Allie Marini Batts
… is transcribed on my skin, tattooed in things buried beneath rotten leaves and top soil. It is
blood-colored, bruise-tinted, full of sex filth and men and blackouts; it stinks of whiskey and
mushrooms, wild and mildewed in the rank core of an unkempt garden.
His fingertips are flowers, blue black and blooming the expanse of my thighs, shovels digging
holes to plant, unplanned for proper light. Nothing will be fertilized or watered, only thrown
haphazardly, like half-decayed bodies in shallow graves for bottleflies to lay eggs in. Seeds,
buried in the dirt of my back, mulched and composted, with earthworms for my handmaidens.
This thing I am, written in trowels and hasty graves, half-hidden beneath uprooted grasses: a
playground for beetles and ants.
Weedy and mud-borne, slave girl for the centipedes, my eyes are blue cauled and the dirt is
my blanket under a mattress of decay. Here: on my breasts, the scars of digging and cells
divided and gathered, masses of dead tissue cut away after they have deformed. He loves me
best on my knees, when I am bent over and faceless, gagging out mud-mouthed prayers.
I have sat down to a meal of red clay and stone soup. There is sediment in my stomach, there
is concrete in the place where babies should grow. Instead, these traitorous tissues are
ablated and blackened, quilted in a sheen of silt and the strata of earth dug out from under the
grass. I am igneous in my heart. Once I was lava, molten and terrifying; now charred stone,
like the ashes of a bonfire but harder. The history of dirt and stone: a horror, like digging up
bodies in the neighbor’s backyard.
My tongue is made of scabs, the dregs and dust and split rocks. This history is written in the
digging, the burying. Dirt, where ferns and flowers grow, if given sunlight and water. For
mushrooms and lichen, it is a place to lie down and die; to decompose and be swallowed up
by the roots of trees. The insect kingdom is a fiefdom for carnivores: the meat of mud and the
stench of leaves is a vulgar perfume, silencing the lines written in scar tissues on my body. It is
always quiet in the woods and glens, where bodies of the unlucky are laid down to bleach into
bones. This history—dirt—feeds and purges, leaves only bones behind; skeletons of unreliable
narrators and failed conquests.
BROKEN
- continued from page 36 Her husband is the grand finale. The fireworks spectacular the neighbors set up lawn chairs to
watch. The internal combustion sparking so compellingly it must be magnificent. She recognizes
the beauty in the destruction and doesn't dare speak against it. He burns so bright his heat is
forgotten. Only she is close enough to feel him. He is the spark igniting, the bursting flame, the
explosion. She is the fuel no one considers when watching the burnout. He is the Fourth of July,
the violent holiday reduced to shimmering lights and a loud boom.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
37
THE TOWN
by Mark Tarallo
The city fares poorly in this weather. Through the bleary sheen of the drizzle, the sharp-slanted
roofs of the old houses rip into the air at nauseating angles, unintentional tableaus of the pain of
area residents. The sky offers no escape: it sits too low and encompassing, trapping the
bleakness and condensing its corrosive power, which manifests itself in the rusted-out drainpipes
and dripping sewerplates that mark every corner. Yet potential redeemers line the avenue: the
trees stand undefeated. Their gleaming, soaked trunks accentuate their own positions. I walk
among them, look up; their rain-blackened branches, uncannily sentient, mark the greysilver sky
with brushstrokes of great vulnerability. In the collective these form a language, as yet unread.
THE TOWN AT WAR
by Mark Tarallo
In seasonal purgatory between winter and spring. There’s a war going on here, the battle
between the ravages of drear and the verve of ruin. Through the sideways diamonds of the
staggering fence, I stare at the river. There is something nervous and regretful in the
shimmerings of its surface. A grievous mistral whips through, kicking up fretful little wavelets.
I once thought the river was offering up clues, the way a piece of found junk, moodily rusted
over, offers up the past. That by discerning differences in texture and flow, I could tune in to
the psyches of different days. It was slow, gropey work, directly against the American grain,
which always holds these activities as suspect. In the end, it proved undoable.
“LIFE STAGE” BY JOE DOLCE
SOUVENIR
by Celia de la Cruz
Dad found a parking space a couple of blocks from the beach. The souvenir shops and
clothing boutiques hovered in the distance.
“Can we look in the stores, Mom?” I asked in excitement.
“After,” said Dad. He always said “after” instead of saying “later.”
My brother and I grinned at each other and gazed at the colorful strips of shops. “SUNGLASSES HERE—HERMIT CRABS SALE—BATHING SUIT CLEARANCE—TEE-SHIRTS
—RAFTS—BEACH CHAIRS—POSTCARDS…”
My legs crept back to life after the long car ride. Hot and overdressed, our bathing suits clung
to sticky skin beneath our clothes. We squinted into the sun and watched Dad excavate from
the trunk the 50-lb beach umbrella with its chunky wooden pole. He trudged along the sand
with his fishing cap cocked slightly to the side and the heavy umbrella slung over his shoulder.
Dad, in his brown socks, black shoes, and small build, appeared a bit lopsided with his load of
gear, but he led the way. I trotted behind with my plastic red pail and yellow shovel.
The ocean ran to us with scalloped, bubbly waves that washed up over our toes and then
pulled away, offering glistening, sun-kissed pieces of pebbles and shells. We longed to come
closer to those golden gems, but they disappeared with the departing waves. I reached down
and finally cupped a handful of treasure. My teeth chattered and I drew my arms over my face
and head as a robust wave knocked me onto my knees. The ocean had no end.
Where would it carry me? Dad’s laughter mixed in with the booming chants of wind, water,
and flocks of gulls.
Dad and the ocean greeted each other like old friends and shared one
big, thunderous hug. He was a sailor once, like his father who was born in the Philippines.
Once, when a torpedo hit Grandpop’s ship, he and his crewmates tread in the water for 18
hours before they were rescued. Dad told us that when he was a child, he spent afternoons in
the ocean with Grandpop, who liked bobbing over the big waves while smoking a
cigar. Grandpop’s faded green tattoos on his arms spoke his stories of the sea.
“Whee!” sang Dad as he lifted me up in his arms and stepped down deeper into the sea.
“Come here. It’s okay!” he said, gleeful and out of breath as the waves spiraled in front of us,
forming tumultuous blasts of water current that lifted us high and drenched us with a soaking
warmth. I swallowed the saltwater and gasped. Dad laughed as he held me tightly and rode
the next wave. I buried my face in his chest and gripped his shoulders after glimpsing a
murmur of motion that turned into a blue-green gush. It carried us all the way back to the
beach. Dad still held me in his arms, and we shivered in joy. We were half dreaming. I slid
down into the gentler surf and pulled Dad’s hand eagerly toward a mountain
of erupting ocean, surrounded by waves that leaped and rolled like liquid dancers.
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
MONDAY MORNING ALGEBRA
by Tom O’Connell
Monday again. Fresh from his pitstop at the iconic Westgarth café, Foxy Brown, Michael approaches his tram
stop, headache and piping hot latte in tow. He crosses a side road, narrowly avoids a collision. Looks are
exchanged. The cyclist’s glare suggests Michael is at fault.
Michael continues up High street, a slew of familiar storefronts in his wake. He recalls all the business he’s
afforded them over the last year; he has put accidental stock in the cliché about uni students living on takeaway.
He looks up the street. His tram is nowhere in sight. He dawdles.
The tram stop is an island in the middle of the road. It is designed to assist disabled and elderly passengers.
Michael, conforming to neither of these minorities, considers it a waste of taxpayers’ money.
The stop is empty. Michael arrives and is greeted by a pool of vomit. The sight does not repulse him so much as
make him laugh. Their night was probably comparable to mine, he thinks. He takes the seat furthest from the
vomit.
The sky above looks heavy, untrustworthy. Like his insides. He takes out his binder of uni work and sips at his
coffee. His practise exam is due to begin in thirty minutes. Because he is ill-prepared, Michael dismisses the
practicality of practise exams. He decides that he will do well when the stakes deem it necessary.
In the distance, the southbound 86 tram appears. Michael stuffs everything back into his bag and slings it over
his shoulder. The Monday doldrums strike; right now, he realises, is the furthest he can possibly be from the
next weekend.
“ONE TIME” BY FIONA SMALL
THE SKY’S
ABSENCE
By Scott Russell Morris
The sky has finally left us
to chase the straying sun;
while the stars all last-winked,
we vainly dreamy of the sky’s return,
misremembering its expanse.
Now there is just the ground,
graying green and people pocked
with sheep unconcerned
by the disinterest of the sun,
indifferent to the unrequiting sky.
So today we trees convened,
repealed our fruitless lamentations;
we’re itching off our ivy,
sending doves and branches, broken
pieces to pursue the insidious sky.
THE SKY’S
ABSENCE II
By Scott Russell Morris
A bird on the hedge
twitters at me I worry for the sky what
will happen now that the sky has fallen
for the sun.
The hedge
worries me,
can my tongue
grasp the glasses
growing beneath?
CATTY-CORNER
by Theresa Milstein
Autumn and winter
stretch
l o n g
like shadows
before twilight.
My mother
sleeps
at dusk.
When she wakes,
she is all bear.
Wild boar.
Hear her roar. And so the cycle
begins. The waxing and waning
of moods.
How long will she stand
in my doorframe
while I beg sleep?
10:00,
11:00,
Midnight.
I need to rise
at dawn,
but
she has hours
of spite,
smears,
and slurs
left
to spend.
I scream.
Lash with words.
A sulking child,
she skulks away,
back to the comfort
of vodka and OJ.
- continued on page 42 -
Vine Leaves Literary Journal - July 2012
41
CATTY-CORNER
- continued from page 41 My father
stands in his
door-less doorframe,
catty-corner to mine.
Why does he care
more
that I hurt her,
after she spent
HOURS
hurting me?
Doesn’t he pray
for sleep, too?
It is quiet.
But I am not restful.
My heart
still pounds
forceful and fast,
pumping furious
blood
through my body
down
to
my
clenched fists.
My tongue longs
to flick forward,
my frustration.
Tornado thoughts
swirl and slash.
“TEMPTATIONS” BY ANGIE LEDBETTER
Solace-less sheets
shackle me.
The house is still.
Deadline for the October issue of Vine Leaves
Literary Journal is August 31, 2012