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Immanuel sprinted furiously, Empty slivers of thought lodged in his mind in several
directions, creating a mosaic of irrational thought from which he could not escape until
he had-in his mind-a vision of his father once again, Immanuel ran harder, each stride
becoming longer as his groin ached from overexertion, The fronts of his shins wore on,
aching with each burst of pressure on his slender calves, At last, the front door of the
suite appeared, As Immanuel stopped to gaze on it he became sullen, a man withdrawn
and heartbroken, The thoughts of his father that flooded his memory were disconnected,
broken copies of a life story that Immanuel held with the utmost respect, Immanuel slowly
walked to the front door, with a lifted right hand ready to meet his new world.
My dad used to be a carver, A woodwork
furniture and things out of wood, One ti
because I didn't know the difference bet\
reading a story about a man who did all 1
the teacher asked if anyone knew a perso
hand through the air - being a scrawny, ~
- bouncing up and down as best I could
it's called that anymore, because it's not I
does that!"
Dr. Jones answered the door with an air of solemn reverence, as if he knew what the letter
had said already, Dr. Jones was silent for a moment, anticipating the reaction to come, and
quickly embraced Immanuel as he started to cry, "I found him just a couple of minutes ago,
Manny, He was a great man, the best of us, We all loved your father." Dr. Jones explained
to Immanuel that he became worried about his father when he hadn't shown up for the
lunch, which Immanuel's father was never late for, Dr. Jones had called the locksmith already by the time he gave Immanuel the letter, demanding the door to the suite be opened
immediately, Dr. Jones ran to the unlocked door to find Immanuel's father hanging in his
room, His feet dangled with imperceptible rhythm, His glasses had fallen onto the floor
next to Aristotle's scarred face, Immanuel walked slowly into the room and picked up the
book, which he restored yet again, All of Immanuel's thoughts on man were confirmed
with one look up at his father's hanging body, Everything became clearer through the tears.
And then, that fateful day, when my dad
having to embellish what few carvings he
mind you, not a carver - so that I would1
disappoint; the class loved his little snow
I sat at my desk with a proud, goofy grin,
time to the attention I received from clas
for once.
Just like Mom
By April L. Paul
" ... because as a student, I was starved for examples ... "
I settled into my chair only a minute or two late to my fiction writing workshop, The
professor - undaunted by my tardiness - continued talking about his personal experiences,
I felt my A.D.D. kick in.
Starved, Yes, I am - starved, I wish I had some more Wheat Thins, Nah, that box was too
small for $1.89, But it is such a cute little box; funny, you don't normally think of boxes
as being 'cute.' Cute is reserved for little freckled girls with curly, brown hair tied up in
pigtails complimented by shiny sea green ribbons, And oh! Those little saddle shoes, the
black and white kind, I remember owning a pair of those once, My father gave them to me
for - was it Christmas? Oh, no, it was for my seventh birthday, right afrer a particularly bad
day ...
" ... in fact, it wasn't until I read Carver. .. "
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Short Stories
My reverie about being in class remindec
seeing him look up for the first time sine
stare of seventeen pairs of eyes, I looked
those eyes to what really lie beneath, I M
going on in their lives, He was concernec
questions?"
Why, as a matter of fact, I do! But I'll bE
Questions like why do Suave shampoo b1
more expensive brands?" I've always war
less ... that's what makes the others more
different note, I've always wondered why
I'm not so concerned with why good thi1
with me if good things happened to ever
small children and beautiful women, un;
hurt, That doesn't seem very loving.
" ... a little disappointed in the journals ye
I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to hw
blaring from the black plastic radio my n
the broken antenna that she kept in her
what was that song? Oh yeah ... "I can se
The Truth Is Good for You/Just Like Mom - Analecta
)Ught lodged in his mind in several
t from which he could not escape until
gain, Immanuel ran harder, each stride
rtion, The fronts of his shins wore on,
calves, At last, the front door of the
it he became sullen, a man withdrawn
flooded his memory were disconnected,
with the utmost respect, Immanuel slowly
ready to meet his new world.
My dad used to be a carver, A woodworker, actually, He didn't carve so much as he made
furniture and things out of wood, One time in the third grade I got myself into a bind
because I didn't know the difference between carving and woodworking, Our class was
reading a story about a man who did all this carving - the usual ducks and stuff - and when
the teacher asked if anyone knew a person who carved, I went crazy, Hysterically waving my
hand through the air - being a scrawny, simple little girl, I was never the center of attention
- bouncing up and down as best I could while sitting Indian-style (although I don't think
it's called that anymore, because it's not politically correct) calling out, "I do! I do! My dad
does that!"
n reverence, as if he knew what the letter
nt, anticipating the reaction to come, and
"I found him just a couple of minutes ago,
I loved your father." Dr. Jones explained
1ther when he hadn't shown up for the
r, Dr. Jones had called the locksmith al:manding the door to the suite be opened
to find Immanuel's father hanging in his
n, His glasses had fallen onto the floor
slowly into the room and picked up the
1el's thoughts on man were confirmed
erything became clearer through the tears.
And then, that fateful day, when my dad came to our class to show off his carving abilities,
having to embellish what few carvings he had done - because he was really a woodworker,
mind you, not a carver - so that I wouldn't look stupid in front of everyone, And he didn't
disappoint; the class loved his little snowman ornaments and beehive shaped jewelry box,
I sat at my desk with a proud, goofy grin, knocking my black and white shoes together in
time to the attention I received from classmates, It felt good to be the center of attention
for once.
:s ... "
o my fiction writing workshop, The
ed talking about his personal experiences,
.ore Wheat Thins, Nah, that box was too
nny, you don't normally think of boxes
I girls with curly, brown hair tied up in
, And oh! Those little saddle shoes, the
of those once, My father gave them to me
enth birthday, right after a particularly bad
My reverie about being in class reminded me where I was, I looked over to the professor,
seeing him look up for the first time since he had begun speaking, only to meet the blank
stare of seventeen pairs of eyes, I looked around as well, trying to get past the emptiness of
those eyes to what really lie beneath, I was dying to know if anyone had anything interesting
going on in their lives, He was concerned with the students as well " ... does anyone have any
questions?"
Why, as a matter of fact, I do! But I'll bet no one really knows the answers to my questions,
Questions like why do Suave shampoo bottles offer "beautiful, shiny hair for less than the
more expensive brands?" I've always wanted to call up Mr. Suave and say, "Of course, it's
less ... that's what makes the others more expensive!" I haven't though, not yet, And on a
different note, I've always wondered why bad things happen to good people, To be honest,
I'm not so concerned with why good things happen to bad people, It would be just fine
with me if good things happened to everyone, I just want to know why God would create
small children and beautiful women, unable to fend for themselves, and then let them be
hurt, That doesn't seem very loving.
" ... a little disappointed in the journals you've done so far, [can see clearly ... "
[ closed my eyes, resisting the urge to hum, Ah, that takes me back! I can hear it now,
blaring from the black plastic radio my mom kept in the kitchen or the old brown one with
the broken antenna that she kept in her sewing room, Man, we had a lot of radios, Anyway,
what was that song? Oh yeah ... "I can see clearly now the rain is gone ... I can see all ob-
133
stacles in my way ... " Who sang that song? Ah, who knows, Doesn't matter, What matters
is that those were definitely the good ole' days, even though my mother and I both knew
that it's impossible for anyone to see clearly all the time, It is much easier to just accept that
there will always be obstacles, and that sometimes we can't do anything about them.
And that's when I remember her, I try to
filled with vague, rotting images, But she
bered, and for once I do see clearly, Too
But that was the last thing on my mind as I sat on the floor in my mother's sewing
room, amusing myself with scraps of fabric and naked Barbies, wondering why only their
underwear was built-on ... didn't they need bras, too? Regardless of the fact that nothing
would become of those scraps except smaller scraps, I sat working contently, listening to
Sunny 101.5 play their "seventies, eighties, and nineties." Of course, the nineties had only
just been born, I, on the other hand, was seven, and my mom, she was, well ... beautiful, I
wanted to be just like her.
A little girl, sitting in an old-fashioned ar
those little bouncing pigtails with the shi
I don't know; I can't tell because her face
wardly toward her father who towers ove1
me" - soft brown hair, worn red and na1
straight-legged jeans dirty from a hard da
and blue toes, But the truth is in his eyes
with narrowed pupils blaze down on the
" ... a valid point, but commas can be used at the author's discretion, For instance, Aaron ... "
" .. .l don't see him as a loving father. .. "
l have two cousins named Aaron, Same side of the family and everything, practically the
same birthday, Two of my dad's sisters were pregnant at the same time and each decided
she wanted to name her son Aaron, They got in a big argument about it but neither would
back down, so now we have two Aarons, A little strange, I think ... but strange things always
happen on my dad's side of the family, Someone ended up at the hospital during my last
family reunion, no kidding, I smirked absentmindedly, I don't think they were taught
conflict resolution.
And then he grabs her, quickly and firm!
I want to help her, but l can't, I'm frozen
the doorway, her lips moving silently in~
can't hear her soft voice for the radio - I'
I watch her as she sails through the air - y
an empty quilt rack setting against thew~
chets off the bottom rung, her right arm
thought that was an ugly wall, what with
across it, And now the flowers seem sick!
occurred.
" ... of course we don't sympathize with the mother ... "
That seems odd; mothers are the epitome of sympathy, aren't they? My mother was always
a pretty good mother, I think, It's hard to say, because I don't have another mother to
compare her to, But she was beautiful, so beautiful, Doesn't every daughter want a beautiful mother? I think so, You expect to grow up to be just like your mom, so you think she's
beautiful, because you want to be too.
So many things in our house were beautiful, Of course, everything my dad made in his
workshop was beautiful, And those things filled our house: two beds, several lamps, a love
seat, two end tables with a matching coffee table, lots of picture frames, a jewelry box, a
quilt rack, The quilt rack was my mom's favorite piece of furniture, because she loved sewing so much, She used it to show off some of her most extraordinary quilts on that rack,
placed right in the entryway of our house, Every time guests would visit they'd look at the
quality woodworking and gorgeous quilts and exclaim, "Why, what a lucky little girl you
are, to have such talented parents!" Yes, our house was definitely beautiful, if nothing else.
" ... the character of the father, How does he act toward his child?"
I
134
Short Stories
" ... parents seem to have issues, and the cl
The father, burning red now, strides frorr
how to move, rushes toward her tiny brol
screaming, sobbing and snorting, afraid t
now a small puddle forming beneath her.
child close but succeeds only in hurting t
to do, Untying the shoelaces of those tigl
and sings to her daughter - songs, undoL
"April... how do you feel about the moth•
Caught off guard, I answered, "Um, she
ful, very beautiful like my own mother.
~
Just Like Mom - Analecta
to knows, Doesn't matter, What matters
:n though my mother and I both knew
: time, It is much easier to just accept that
we can't do anything about them.
And that's when I remember her, I try to push her away, back into that corner of my mind
filled with vague, rotting images, But she's pushing harder than I am, begging to be remembered, and for once I do see clearly, Too clearly.
the floor in my mother's sewing
tked Barbies, wondering why only their
>o? Regardless of the fact that nothing
>s, I sat working contently, listening to
:ieties." Of course, the nineties had only
:id my mom, she was, well... beautiful, I
A little girl, sitting in an old-fashioned armchair - an ugly, faded brown one, She's got
those little bouncing pigtails with the shiny sea green ribbons, and perhaps those freckles,
I don't know; I can't tell because her face is turned from me, her small neck craned awkwardly toward her father who towers over her, Almost everything about him screams "hug
me" - soft brown hair, worn red and navy checked flannel shirt with one missing button,
straight-legged jeans dirty from a hard day's work, and loose white socks with pink stitching
and blue toes, But the truth is in his eyes, shiny with anger, Those cold, dark brown eyes
with narrowed pupils blaze down on the pale, upturned face.
Jthor's discretion, For instance, Aaron ... "
" ... l don't see him as a loving father ... "
~ family and everything, practically the
And then he grabs her, quickly and firmly, by her tiny forearm; she squeals in pain and fear,
I want to help her, but I can't, I'm frozen in fear just like her mother who is standing in
the doorway, her lips moving silently in protest, Or perhaps she isn't silent, perhaps I just
can't hear her soft voice for the radio - I'd like to think that's what happened, Regardless,
I watch her as she sails through the air - yanked from the chair as though it's on fire - into
an empty quilt rack setting against the wall, Her little brown head snaps forward as it ricochets off the bottom rung, her right arm painfully thwacking the wall behind it, I've always
thought that was an ugly wall, what with the miniature yellow and blue flowers spiraling
across it, And now the flowers seem sickly sweet, a mockery of the ugliness that has just
occurred.
ant at the same time and each decided
big argument about it but neither would
:range, I think ... but strange things always
:nded up at the hospital during my last
ledly, I don't think they were taught
athy, aren't they? My mother was always
rnse I don't have another mother to
J, Doesn't every daughter want a beauti)e just like your mom, so you think she's
rnrse, everything my dad made in his
ur house: two beds, several lamps, a love
lots of picture frames, a jewelry box, a
1iece of furniture, because she loved sewmost extraordinary quilts on that rack,
lme guests would visit they'd look at the
aim, "Why, what a lucky little girl you
e was definitely beautiful, if nothing else.
" ... parents seem to have issues, and the child is caught in the middle ... "
The father, burning red now, strides from the room as the mother, finally remembering
how to move, rushes toward her tiny broken daughter, The little brown-haired girl is
screaming, sobbing and snorting, afraid that she will be punished again because there's
now a small puddle forming beneath her, The mother tries to comfort her, tries to draw her
child close but succeeds only in hurting the bruised child further, So she does all she knows
to do, Untying the shoelaces of those tight black and white saddle shoes, she removes them
and sings to her daughter - songs, undoubtedly, from the seventies, eighties, and nineties.
"April... how do you feel about the mother?"
Caught off guard, I answered, "Um, she seems passive, I guess." But she's probably beautiful, very beautiful like my own mother.
ward his child?"
135
"And the father? How is his relationship with the child?"
"Mijo, we're going to the bus station for
replies in Spanish.
"I think ... " I hesitated because I didn't know what I thought, "I think he probably tried."
Yes, Yes, I think he did.
"Like from Califas?"
"And Immanuel? Do you have any thoughts about Immanuel?"
"Yes"
Immanuel, Emmanuel, I know I read somewhere what that means ... oh yes! 'God is with
us.' ls He, really? All the time? Was he standing near the quilt rack or hiding in the little
yellow and blue flowers or was He simply protecting my mom instead of me? Yes, that must
be it, My beautiful mom needed protecting.
"Oh"
"No," I smiled lightly, "No thoughts."
A Season for Bears
By Jesus G. Moya
Go. Go. Touchdown! Yes! And like that the last day of Fall ends. All of my cousins and
Uncles and me have played in Pulaski Park until it changes shape and color. The purple
air is brisk; it scratches my throat and chokes my lungs. My cheeks feel red. "Let's go home
guys; it's too dark to see the ball anyway." I'm hot and cold at the same time; like sticking
your hand under the kitchen faucet where your mom is washing dishes and she says "cuidado". My mom is standing outside of the front porch. It's time to meet Tio Gonzo at the
bus station.
She tells me to tell the taxi driver that we are picking someone up at the bus station. My
mom could do it herself but she won't because her English is bad and people always ask
"what?" when she talks. I put my mouth up to the holes in the glass between us and him
and speak my best English. The English my teacher asks me to use when I write my book
reports, not the English I speak on the playground. I let my lips touch the cold glass and my
mom pulls me back and wipes my lips clean with her handkerchief. The cab driver grunts a
reply and I stare at the earwax stuck in his ear hair.
"I read your progress report before we lef
I didn't want to say anything. I look at th
above the cab's radio.
"Why did your grades go down? I see you
changed at home."
"I don't know mom. I'm still on the hon
"You know, I think you've been acting di
"NO! Girls are stoopid! They're always w
down at some yellow and gray crusry thir
finger back quick and spit on it and wipe
"I do feel different though. Sometimes d
was so much fun playing in the park. I h;
Chema's house and everyone was dancin
time ago."
"So, que te pasa?"
I don't know mom. At school we've been
My mom has on her church clothes and her long purple coat. Maybe I should have
changed. My knees smell like grass and dirt and my fingernails are dark. I look at my
mom's face and I know that she is worried, like when we can't pay our bills. She picks at
furry white balls on her coat and keeps fixing my hair. The backseat of the cab looks greasy
and it smells like too many people.
"Mom, why don't we take the Transpo if we're going to the bus station?" I ask her in
English.
736
Short Stories
"Peeyoobirdy, ques eso mijo?
"Member that paper you signed, that orn
getting older and getting hair-
"Oh, si. But you still haven't told me hm