“Deities” – Jenny Griffin


She was the kind of woman who straightened her curls. God forbid they would bounce up and out, revealing her true nature.  Abandoned time and time again, she picked herself up and went right on living. Sometimes that meant packing up and taking the next exit off the highway. All dirt roads lead somewhere.

She ended up at the Sunshine Diner during one of these packing up and heading off days. Trying to emulate the diners of the fifties, Sunshine’s silver rimmed walls and roof blazed in the desert sun. She was dazzled. Though she was trying to spend as little as possible, nothing could keep her from coffee and a glazed donut.

Habits, even those of others, have their effect. Coffee and a donut once a day, when the sun was at its highest, and taking the time to enjoy it, was something Grandpa Mike used to do. Day after day for over forty years. He must have eaten thousands, she reckoned. “Gotta make time for your pleasures,” he’d say with a smile. But that was a long time ago. Grandpa Mike was part of her other life, one she rarely let herself reminisce on. The cool blast of air as she opened the diner door was like heaven after miles in the old station wagon. She strode forward, ignoring the hostess, took a booth by the window. Probably for parties of two or more, but who cared. She wasn’t the type of woman people stood up to.

An aging Hispanic woman approached, set down water. Too much ice made her teeth hurt. The straw would make it bearable. She studied the woman’s face as she revealed the specials in monotone broken English. How long had she been here? Too long in this place. Fingernails worn to the bone. The fire had gone out inside this woman.

Renee ordered her coffee and donut. Maybe afterwards she would have eggs, but the coffee would probably give her enough energy for the next stretch of asphalt. She watched the waitress tend to other customers, methodical in her movements, drop a check here, wipe a spill there. Still, better than what she had left behind, probably. Everyone is running from something, out here in the no-man’s land of endless highways between hubs. At least the frontier settlers had unspoiled landscape through the puckered gaps in their wagons. Now it was billboards for cars and bail bondsmen. Things change. She felt like she had not. She adapted to the circumstances. She paid the check, leaving a few singles for the waitress. Their eyes met as she reached for the door. An understanding, each recognizing something in the other. A toughness, hard to say. The heat had not abated. It was time to go.


Nevada was an unforgiving place, Las Vegas in particular.

Jackie and her husband Ron moved there five years ago from L.A. Their agency bit the dust and they found a cheap foreclosure a few miles from the strip. Part of Jackie enjoyed the anonymity this place offered. She could hide in her air conditioned house all day, no one would bother her.

Ron was beginning to slip in and out of dementia. He was no longer fully of this world, but seemed happy nonetheless. He spent his days reading his old National Geographics, reengaging in his twin childhood loves of science and nature.

He had somehow talked her into getting a cat.

“They don’t need taking care of,” he prodded, while they stood in the mall staring at kittens behind glass. “They do their own thing. Just like you.”

He twisted her arm. Still knew how to talk her into something. “I can put up with one lousy cat,” she decided, showing no outward signs of enthusiasm.

Felix, so aptly named, was astute and almost princely, true to his feline nature. Jet black with one white paw. Did that one splash of white remove him from the black brethren of lucky cats? He enjoyed a languid existence, napped often, and kept to his own schedule. Sometimes he would stop and look at Jackie before he departed for his evening prowl in the abandoned construction site behind the house. He would look for a moment, then go on his way, as if to say “Don’t wait up.”

He would return in the violet light of late evening, his bounty in his mouth. Mice, usually. Sometimes a bird or two. One time the sinister half carcass of an opossum, smiling in death. They had an understanding, Felix and Jackie. Though she liked to be alone, he made her feel less so. Two planets in orbit around a central sun that nurtured them both. Sometimes Jackie liked to walk the strip at night when Ron was sleeping, Felix curled beneath the air conditioning vent.

Bachelorette parties, guys on tour, the beautiful and damned, spilling into the streets and back into casinos, clubs, the next hot spot. It appeared to her that they were in a fog. They didn’t seem to see her. Once, people used to stare at her when she walked down the street. Red hair, smooth pale skin, a dancer’s body. She could have had her pick of the jobs in the best of these clubs. She knew she still looked good, but the sparkle of youth had been extinguished. Part of her mind still lived in that time, L.A. in the early fifties, sepia toned, parties till dawn, the taste of last night’s gin and tonic on her tongue. She had no desire to go back, but sometimes she wished she could visit.

Jackie found herself at the Bellagio fountains, behind the throngs who worshipped as the jets rose higher. It’s amazing what man can create, this desert playground. She kept walking.

Some small bar in the Tropicana was serving two-for- one. Two gin and tonics for old times’ sake. They went down easy. Round two, old habits die hard. Ron and Felix wouldn’t miss her. There were still a few hours to go till dawn.


She closed her hand around a roll of twenties. The cool night air felt good as she strode purposefully away from the alley. Knocking the guy out had been easy. He was so drunk all his reflexes were off. Met him at the bar, sweet talking. Lured him to her car with the promise of further sweet nothings. She knew he was carrying cash, the telltale cube in his jeans pocket. She felt no guilt. He had it coming. Smart talking to the bartender. Why did some people just adore the sound of their own voice?

Renee slipped the notes into her jacket pocket as she reached her car. This money would get her a little further, across one state, maybe two. Maybe along the way she’d splurge on a Courtyard Marriott. It wasn’t like she didn’t deserve it. Lay by the pool for a day. The idea latched in her mind. Quit running for one day. Sometimes pleasure has to come first.

She sat into the car and pulled down the vanity. She liked how she looked in this half glow. Confident, unafraid. She turned the key in the ignition and rolled out onto the road.


She took an aerobics class every Tuesday morning, but not for the company. She liked the beat of the music and the peppiness of the instructor, Roberto. He was gay, with eyebrows most women would die for. That perfect arch.

Her classmates were of varying ages. Some young, cocktail waitresses staying in shape. Others at the far end of the spectrum, like Jackie, just keeping fit or getting out of the house. Even though in Las Vegas, getting out of the house meant leaving your house for another air conditioned building. Jackie liked the rhythm of the class, movements blending into each other, the women moving in unison. Just the right amount of human interaction. She could spot the others like her, at the back and in the corners. These women made eye contact, smiled, but she knew not to start a full on conversation with them. It wasn’t what she wanted, nor they. Ron never understood her need for solitude. He always needed people around, that was how he relaxed. As she grew older, she found herself retreating more. She liked being an observer, inventing stories about the people she didn’t get to know.

Roberto danced in a Chippendales style show somewhere on the Strip. Part of her wanted to organize a night for the class to go and see him perform. She knew inside it would go down a treat. So what was stopping her? The little voice that she knew was looking out for her best interests. “Think on it a little longer. You don’t have to decide just yet. “She let it win, carried on with the high kicks.

The evening light was waning as she left the nail salon after her aerobics class. The mixture of neon and natural light was disorientating for a moment, otherworldly. Plain pink shellac, the usual. Her nail lady didn’t even ask her to pick a color anymore. Over the years, Jackie had learned bits about her, though they didn’t talk much. Her son, eight years old, was autistic. His father gone, aged grandmother caring for the boy. No English spoken. That’s real hardship, she said to herself and reminded herself of it every time she cursed Ron’s snoring or this desert life, ablaze in white light.

In the car, heading back home. She dimmed her headlights before turning into the driveway, not wanting to disturb Ron in his slumber. In the final flash she saw Felix’s silhouette in the window, waiting for her to return home, betraying his icy exterior. This warmed her heart, and she found herself growing to appreciate her feline companion.

She entered the house through the back door. The hose trickled lazily on the concrete step. She told herself she really ought to turn it off, but she was already halfway inside. Cool air, a faint hum. The house in darkness. She sat at the table, spread her hands on the smooth top. An image came to her then, a memory of the shrouded woman spreading her cards on a table like this one, long ago. Psychics always fascinated her as a child. On her way to school in the mornings, Jackie and her mother would pass Miss Eleanora’s, on the ground floor of a brick two story at the end of the street. Letters on the window in faded gold spelled her name. Jackie would press her face against that window and try to peer in, her mother dragging her away muttering “Fool’s magic.” Mother was strict but gentle, God-fearing. Some things from the old country never leave you. It was God who you listened to and obeyed, not some dark eyed woman who danced with the devil.

Years later, she pulled cards from the deck in a darkened room, Miss Eleanora watching with seasoned indifference. Did she know all the times Jackie had longed to sit in this chair? Her husky voice broke the silence.

“The eight of cups. Wanderlust. Dissatisfaction with what you have. Ennui.” These words meant something and nothing to Jackie. She wondered how many people had changed the course of their lives over a symbol on a card.

Back in the present, she poured herself a glass of crisp white wine and sat in the dark. The psychic’s words rang in her ears. Ennui. The world rolled easily off the tongue. Maybe she and Ron should go to Paris, see the Eiffel Tower. Ask a French person to explain the word to her, give her its true meaning.

Light padding on the tiles, the swish of Felix’s tail through the air. He did not join her at the table but perched on the marble hearth. He always liked to sit somewhere cool. He regarded her from his perch, eyes unmoving.

Jackie raised her glass to him. Silence enveloped them in the half light. She felt content in that moment, yet a tiny piece of her felt that something was still missing. She knew, but still could not give it any words.


She woke to the sounds of maids in the hallway, chattering in Spanish. A crack in the curtain left a shaft of pale pre-dawn light on her pillow. She closed her eyes and tried to block out these annoyances. She could feel the presence of her many shopping bags on the other side of the room and groaned. The logical side of her brain was wide awake, making up for its absence yesterday when she visited the mall with the wad of twenties.

“Those jeans could have bought three meals.”

She sat up, mouth dry, chest tight. Where to now? Usually she had a plan in place. Sitting in some generic hotel in the middle of America. Down to her last hundred. Immigrants came here with nothing. Surely the only way for her to go was up. As soon as she had her coffee and donut, then she would decide. Halfway to California. Maybe she would go to Santa Monica, walk on the pier, dip her toes in the Pacific. The thought soothed her restless mind. A lyric came to her and she found herself humming, “California here we come, right back where we started from.”

Renee liked to be on the highway as day broke. First, the sky tinged with lavender, then pink, the colors of a little girl’s bedroom. A waning blue, knowing its time was drawing to a close, the last stars fading. Then a burst of fresh light, slightly less glaring.

When she was a little girl, she was fascinated that it could be daytime on one side of the world and night on the other. Couldn’t get her head around it. She remembered Grandpa Mike showing her how the sun and moon could appear in the sky at the same time. Two deities. She sat rapt on the grass in the hot evening. It hurt to think of him, so she stopped.

A little further down the highway, she pulled into the shoulder, got out and laid back on the bonnet. The hot metal felt smooth and comforting against her body. A large bird wheeled overhead. A condor? She was getting close. Now and again, she thought she could smell the sea on a passing breeze. She felt tired now, having driven through the early morning hours. She allowed herself to doze. The highway remained mercifully quiet in these early hours, she was alone with the road, as she had been for so long.

The road never talked back or asked questions, it just let her drive away from what needed to be left behind. She thought now of the papers in the pocket of her bag, turning thin and soft with age. The name of a hospital, a woman, a date.

© 2016 Jenny Griffin

Jenny Griffin is originally from Co. Tipperary, Ireland and has been writing fiction and poetry since her childhood.
She lives in New York City with her husband, David.

“Bad Decisions” – Mack Curry IV

My dick sometimes gets me in trouble.
My hands also get me in trouble.

My brain stops functioning during sex,
which usually lands in me in trouble.

My mouth says “come over tonight.”
In the past this would always be trouble.

Her red Saturn pulls into the parking lot.
She gets out, and I know I’m in trouble.

She wears only a trench coat and heels.
Drop the coat, and I know I’m in trouble.

We go to the bedroom and strip,
both naked to start some trouble.

She says to tie a leather belt around her neck
and grab a condom to prevent future trouble.

Open my eyes to realize I’ve been dreaming.
Never responded to her text, so now I’m in trouble.

© 2016 Mack Curry IV

Mack Curry IV is a graduating poet in the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia.  He is a native of Bowie, Maryland, and he currently resides in Hampton, Virginia.

“Wrestlers in Training” – Mack Curry IV

I threw my two-year-old brother when I was nine,
to the brown couch ten feet away.
He didn’t make it to the couch, but he was fine.

Picked him up and said, “Shhh, stop crying. You’ll be okay.”
As his gap-toothed laughter turned into crocodile tears,
I thought about the punishment I would receive that day.

We practiced wrestling moves on the basement mattress for years;
Choke slams and power bombs resulted in broken lamps and desks.
Blood and visible bruises were two of our biggest fears.

Bowties and uniforms now fill our closets as we reflect,
on moments when we would punch each other in the chest.

© 2016 Mack Curry IV

Mack Curry IV is a graduating poet in the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia.  He is a native of Bowie, Maryland, and he currently resides in Hampton, Virginia.

“Sit Next to Me” – Mack Curry IV

White Lady, why won’t you sit next to me?
My dreadlocks don’t bite, I promise.
They’re not tarantulas out to steal
your purse, so stop clutching it.
Does my appearance scare you?
Maybe it’s the open book
of poetry in my lap, or the Hampton
University alumni shirt I have on.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m
actually reading the book.
Does my direct eye contact
intimidate you when you see
the open space next to me
is the last seat left on the bus?
I’m just an Educated Black Man.
Why do you fear me so much?

© 2016 Mack Curry IV

Mack Curry IV is a graduating poet in the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia.  He is a native of Bowie, Maryland, and he currently resides in Hampton, Virginia.


“Routine” – Grayson Cameron

“I’m afraid we’re becoming routine,” she says.

She is looking at him from the doorway to the bathroom. She just finished brushing her teeth and now she is looking at him.

He’s sitting on the bed with a pillow behind his neck, reading the newspaper from this morning. He didn’t read the paper over breakfast like he normally does because the damn guys who deliver it on his block just drive by and hurl them out the window like maniacs. The thing must have landed close but then rolled down the driveway like a log. When he got up this morning and went outside he could barely find it at first. Plus it was raining. The paper was sitting by the road in the rain and anyways he just didn’t get to it.

The article he is reading now has the latest reports from a conflict several thousand miles away from his bedroom, as she walks with bare feet toward the foot of the bed. He doesn’t stop reading to look at her.

“Monkey,” she says. “Don’t you think we’re becoming routine?”

“Course not, Peacock,” he says. “Where’d you find an idea like that? In the bathroom sink?”

He does not put down the newspaper to look at her.

“Seriously,” she says. “I haven’t seen my friends in forever.”

“Neither have I.”

She says, “But do you even want to?”

And he goes on reading, but not to displease her. She knows he listens just fine while he reads.

“There’s the difference,” she says.

The reprieve he is finding while he reads some of the gruesome details in the article makes him feel exhilarated and sick. He tries to imagine being there, the small town from the article. The article says the town was hit by a 24-hour air strike. He wondered about that. He wondered if the silence was worse than the shelling, like that feeling he gets during storms when he can’t help but count the seconds after a strike of lightning until the thunder reaches through. Apparently the town has little do with the conflict. Wrong place at the wrong time, sort of thing. Twenty-four hours, that’s all yesterday and all through the night. Yesterday he had breakfast and then he went to the grocery store. He made dinner. During dinner he drank beer and then he waited for her to come over after work. That’s about all he did yesterday while somewhere else the bombs dropped and dropped.

Of course he’s never even heard a bomb before, not in real life. He sure hates thunderstorms, though. It’s been that way since he was a kid. Never seems to get over it. Maybe some things you just don’t get over, he thinks. He’s wondering if she would understand all that if he says something about it. It isn’t accustom that they talk about the war. Her father is a pacifist and she has no interest in any of that anyway.


She says, “They’ve stopped inviting us out, you know.”

He is just finishing the first page. When he is done he licks his fingers and flips through the paper for the article’s continuation. He’s thinking, A6, A6, A6… She asks him if they are a fun couple. Then she mentions Patrick’s birthday. She says they weren’t invited to the party, you know.

“Sure we were,” he says. “You don’t see A6 lying anywhere do you? Dammit. Anyways Pat called me.”

“And?” She says.

“Oh, you don’t wanna go to any party of his and you know it,” he says. “You know it and I know it. Hell, if Patrick had to be friends with himself, he’d know it to.”

She stretches her arms toward the ceiling fan and her stomach fills with air. You know it. The words are practically still in the room. Then she lets it all go. Her body deflates and she lands on the bed next to him. He crosses his knees to avoid impact.

“Stop messing with me,” she says. “I’m scared.”

Her voice is muffled by the duvet.

“Scared how, Peacock?”

“All these questions about us,” she says. “I’m scared it’s part of the routine not to ask them.”

“But you’re the Queen of questions,” he says.

“Not these questions.”

He finds page A6. He folds the paper over itself then snaps it backward to find a suitable crease. He keeps reading.

“Fire away,” he tells her. “You know I like it when you get all flustered. You do that thing with your breathing.”

“What thing?”

“Oh you know it,” he says. “I mean I’ve told you before.”

She tells him to tell her again about her breathing, so that’s what he does.

“I mean you start breathing more audibly, from your nose right before you speak,” he says. “Makes your nose flare out a bit, and your eyebrows too– they reach up to your forehead like it was your own breathing that floated them up there. Your whole head is like a damn balloon and your stare gets so intense like you’ve just witnessed the most severe of all injustices. Real dramatic stuff, I tell you.”

She turns her face away from the bed.

“Stop messing with me,” she says.

He keeps reading.

Then he says, “It’s so cute I hate it.”


“Anyways,” she says. “Do you like that we don’t go out anymore? Are we too lazy when we’re together? My mom thinks we ought to be more proactive.”

“Your mom is a yoga teacher,” he reminds her. He hasn’t looked away from the article.

“Isn’t she right though?” She says. “And how come your mom doesn’t even like me? Monkey?”

“Because of Christmas,” he says. “You know why.”

She tells him not to scare her like that.

He says, “I told you not to worry about it. It’s more a reflection on me, anyway.”

Then she says, “Well I wish she would like me.”

So he says, “Me too.”


She turns over to lay on her back and stretch her legs. Her legs stick up straight from the top of his newspaper. Stiff, bare legs. He sees them rise in his periphery. She grabs at her toes.

“What did you think about the first time you saw me?” She says.

“What’s that?” he says.

“Oh, forget it.”


“The first time I saw you I imagined how you’d look in a summer dress, floral patterned,” he says. “That’s what I think whenever I see you.”

What he really wanted to say was that that’s what he thinks whenever he sees any pretty girl. He realizes that for his whole life he’s been falling for visions of girls wearing summer dresses.

“A dress with flowers on it?” She says. “I don’t own a dress like that.”

“Well I know that now,” he says. “But how could I know that then? You asked me, anyways. Yeah, I thought about you dancing in a summer dress. Isn’t that something?”

He thinks about it some more. The first time he saw her was at a friend’s house. There was a sort of party going on, and she was sitting at a piano all alone in the living room, a beautiful parlor piano, but she wasn’t playing it. She was using the top of the piano as a table to pour two shots of tequila. She was trying so damn hard not to spill that she had her tongue out and that look on her face like little kids have when trying to color inside the lines. She said she was “eyeballing it.” He thought it was about the cutest thing he’d seen all night and so he asked her if she’d like something to chase with. She looked at him a second or two, then rifled the tequila into her mouth, straight. Really, she did. Then she offered him the other shot. Things sort of went from there, he guesses.

“I also thought about what you looked like when you brushed your teeth,” he says. “After we got to talking, I mean I imagined it while you were talking, what you looked like when you were by yourself getting ready for bed.”

“In my PJ’s?” She says.

“That’s right,” he says. “In your PJ’s and with your hair in a little bun on the top of your head. Looking right in the mirror wearing a college t-shirt or something.”

She laughs.

“Have you ever lied to me,” she says. “Huh, Monkey Man?”

He tells her he’d have to think about it.

“Are you going to stop reading that stupid book and look at me?” She growls.

“Soon as I’m done.”

Then she says, “I think we have too much sex.”

And he puts the newspaper on his lap.


“Well I doubt that’s a problem,” he says.

“My mom thinks so.”

“I thought she was all about free love, that sort of thing?” He says. “She’s not your dad, you know. I would have thought she would find it healthy or something. Why are you talking to her about our sex life anyway? You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s not fair,” he says. “Ganging up on someone without all the facts.”

“Oh yeah?” She says. He can feel her smiling at him. It’s practically there on his skin and maybe it itches.

“Goddamn conflict of interest,” he says. “That’s what that is.”

“Anyways, that’s not the point,” she says. “I’m worried we’re routine because I make it

too easy for you.”

“Maybe we cut back on the sex?” She says. “At least I can make it harder for you, like I used to.”

“You’re serious,” he says.

He folds the newspaper and puts it aside, on her pillow. Then he looks at her until she looks away. She buries half of her face in the sheets, leaving one of her blue eyes poking up at him. She sees him, and he can see that she sees him and that she is serious. This is a proposal she has considered for some time, he realizes, probably while she brushed her teeth. Now she has said it and now the sheets are an ocean between them. That one eye has become a small, distant glacier, and the pupil a shipwrecked dingy lodged deep inside.

He is more of a poetic thinker than she knows. And he has an imagination, too. For example, he knows her face so well in this position that sometimes, more than once, he actually liked to fantasize about their relationship occupying its own separate, horizontal world. That’s some imagination. Maybe she was right about the sex.

“Peacock,” he says.

No movement.


She plunges her whole face into the bedsheet sea.

“This whole thing is a wash, anyhow,” he says. He wants to light a cigarette, but he doesn’t smoke. Never has. She has, but not him. So he stretches instead. He puts his palms flat against the mattress and pushes his chest toward the ceiling. There’s a wet spot by the ceiling fan and he’s not sure he’s noticed it before. He comes back down to earth and readjusts the pillow behind him. He feels it crush against his spine. One thing at a time.

“Do you know what I mean when I say it’s all a wash?” he says.

“Harvey,” she says. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

He watches her lay there for some time, hiding her face from the rest of the world. He could get out of bed if it wasn’t such a hassle this time of night. He thinks about going outside. It’s not raining anymore. He thinks how the nighttime would feel on his skin. If he bothers his way out of bed he probably won’t do much of anything, he thinks, just take a walk down the street and see if he can warm to the temperature. He wishes his girlfriend would raise her head already, just to see if he is gone.

“How about dinner tomorrow,” he says. “Before Patrick’s party.”

He’s looking out the window like something is coming.

“I thought you told them we couldn’t make it?” She says.

“Oh I’ll just make something up,” he says. “He won’t care anyways, he’ll go bananas. We’re practically celebrities now we’re so hard to reach. Don’t you see how that works, Peacock?”

“And dinner?” She says.

“Wherever you want.”

“Be a man and decide.”

He hates it when she asks for proof that he listens to her. What he hates even more is that he always seems to know the answer. She’ll get what she wants, but he’ll make her wait for it.


“How about the Five Spot?” he says. “Jazz Night.”

Her blue eyes resurface.

“You’re serious?” She says.

“Would I lie?”

She flies across the bed, right into his chest. She is so fast that it scares him. Inside their commotion the newspaper falls from the bed. She kisses him many times.

“God I’m so excited!” She says. “I think I’ll plan something to wear.”

She kisses him once more then hops from the bed and goes for the bathroom. He watches her skinny, pale thighs as she walks.

“Wear something you haven’t worn for a while,” he says. “Something that isn’t routine.”

“Routine,” she says. “Routine, routine, rou-tine…what a willy-nilly thing to say.”

She is shaking her head. He can see her face in the mirror.

She says, “You ever say something over and over, ‘till it sounds like a made up word?”

“I guess they’re all made up anyways,” she says. “Huh, Harvey?”


She’s putting some sort of lotion on her face now. It’s pale green with coarse beads in it that scratch against her the skin on her cheeks. He can practically smell it from the bed. It smells so good he hates it.

“To hell with routine,” he calls to her.

She raises her head and cocks her neck to catch him in the mirror. Her face is pale green and her eyes glow blue beyond the reach of the light on the nightstand beside him. In the soft light her hair looks nearly black. She looks like a monster. She smiles and blows a kiss. The skin on her face is soft underneath all that lotion. She says she loves him very much and then she closes the door for the last time.

Soon he reaches for the newspaper on the floor. The mattress squeaks, then squeaks again when he is back in his place. From behind the door he can hear her start to hum a tune. He finds his place on the page and tries to keep reading, but he pegs her song on the very first note out of her very soft lips. It is distracting. It is so cute he hates it. Someday he will do something.

Something will happen.

But for now he reads on to see how the war is going. He does all that he can to trust the good guys will win soon.

© 2016 Grayson Cameron

“Ivan” – Rex Brooke

There is a way to figure this out, he thought, boldly.

Ivan Ivanovich sets down his morning glass of vodka and sharpens his pencil with a kitchen knife. He looks out his window to the wide and wrinkled Volta. A brisk Spring wind is crawling across the oil slicked water. Rivulets of water trickle across the meadow. To the east, the sun glints off the snow capped Ural Mountains. He licks the tip of the pencil and lowers it against the crisp white sheet of paper.

He needed the proper symbols. Once he had them, the problem could be attacked with a more precise vocabulary which would reveal the solution.

The only thing Ivan loved better than vodka was mathematics, for he loved mathematics with a passion which would only befit a genius. Unfortunately, Ivan was no genius, and so his love dispelled itself, like pissing in the Volta, as they say.

As a youth he had spent many a happy summer day fishing in the Volta. He had known every eddy and sandbar for 15 miles. The Nikita days. Sturgeon the size of dogs. But that was much further south. Where people with a civilized culture lived. Here, at Lysva, you were lucky if you could pull dead wood from the river.

In the seven years he had lived there, Ivan had pulled a lot of dead wood from the river. It was one of the few things which weren’t taxed. He would lay it out on the banks like corpses to dry for the winter. Unfortunately, by the time it had reached Ivan’s shore, the river had leached the wood of most of its life giving fire.   But he had found early on that if the flame gets hot enough, even dead wood will burn.

Damn Petrovich. Damn the arrogance of these young people. Damn his fences. And damn his bull. She might die down there. And then what would be left?

He begins to write, and you can hear the pencil scratching across the paper.

There are two ways of solving problem, he begins, in a hierarchical manner, moving down from the general to the precise until the problem is pinned, much like a hunter spearing a salmon from a school. This is the spear method.

The alternative is the net method–starting with a lot of possible answers and tossing back the chum. It’s not unlike sculpture, where you carve away everything which is not necessary.

Now if we look at answers as being fish in the sea of the universe, we have the obvious advantages and disadvantages of both methods. Is there a one to one correspondence between answers and problems? Of course not. This is the disadvantage of the spear method. The advantage is that you have only one fish to deal with.

Ivan stops. He is hungry. Pickled herring, a chunk of hard bread, and an onion for lunch. And another glass of vodka. His problem is this:

Early last October he had led his cow down the stairs into the basement for the winter. He had purchased the cow with the last of his savings, naming her Mynka, for reasons of his own past. Now it is Spring, the grass is thickening in the meadows, but she has grown so large that he can not get her back up the stairs. He hadn’t known she was pregnant until it was too late. She was too young to be bred. One of Constantine Petrovich’s bulls must have broken through the fence and settled her. And when confronted, that bastard Petrovich claimed that Mynka had enticed his bull, and added that it takes two to make a fence, and finally, not to worry, that he wouldn’t charge a stud fee.

So there she was, as wide as she was long. Ivan could wait for her to give birth, but she wasn’t due until June, and by then most of the Spring pasture will have been eaten by the damn sheep from Constantine Petrovitch’s farm.

“This is what they call free enterprise,” Ivan mumbles. “The right to loot.”

If he couldn’t get her out, he’d have to purchase extra hay and grain. He couldn’t purchase shoelaces on his pension, let alone a season of food for a cow and calf. How he had dreamed of living in the country, free to earn his own living, free from the choking bureaucracy of his government job as a cartographer, redrawing boundaries every time the Kremlin decided to annex some poorly defended territory. Waiting thirty years for this. How foolish he had been. His whole life coming to this.

Ivan finishes his lunch and follows with a brace of vodka. He leans back in his chair and concludes: In the end, all we have left is the illusion of truth.” he writes. “All we have are models of reality. Never the thing itself.”

He tries a different approach. A different analogy. Assume that the cow is a light which requires energy in order to function. The greatest impediment to the energy flow is the stairs; now a resistance of much greater capacity than his available current. It is true that in the world of quantum probability, some current would actually tunnel through any impassable resistance, and reappear, miraculously, on the other side, like frogs after a rain, but certainly not enough current to light a stairwell. Besides, even if it tunneled through improbability, he never trusted something which couldn’t be comprehended with common sense. But obviously, the resistance had to be eliminated.

Ivan studies the door frame. He takes measurements. He makes a few scale drawings. They are very good drawings. He looks from the drawing to the basement door. His dakka was built in a time when houses were constructed to last for generations. A single beam, running to a corner post, which also supported his roof, marks the top of the door frame. The beam is a full 8 meters long and a good 1/2 meter thick. It was hewn from a single tree and probably weighs close to 1000 kilograms. To move either side of the door frame would mean the collapse of his house. Ivan puts his pencil down and rubs his eyes. He tugs at his white beard, combing through the tangles with his arthritic fingers. He climbs to his feet, opens the door to his cellar, and looks down at his cow. She looks back at him, shifting her weight from side to side to ease the weight of her unborn calf. She bellows softly, and shits, plop, plop, plop—a sound like sparrows hitting the windshield of a 12 row combine.

Ivan returns to his drawings, and with his knuckle sized pencil, figures the geometry.  A brace here, at this angle, another here to take the lateral thrust of that load. His design is fragmented by, of course, the limited amount of bracing material–the last of dead wood he had been using to heat his home. But surely a good Spring flood up river would bring more. A block and tackle, attached here, would give him the necessary mechanical advantage for the hoist. The vertical load transferred to this floor member, which seemed sound enough. Seems. It should hold the load. Ivan gets back up, and jumps up and down on the floor boards. Breathing hard, he sits back down. There is no give, but there are always risks.

He knows he does not have a block and tackle, but how hard can that be to make? Two rotational cylinders in a pair of bore holes. Maybe he could get a few of those spools from the abandoned nuclear plant. And a lot of thick rope.

He taps his pencil on the table. It is not a bad table, sitting squarely under the one window. It bears the inscription, “The meek will inherit the Earth.”  He had made it the first summer they had moved to Lyvsa, before that first terrible winter, and the death of his beloved wife, when he was still guided by the impracticality of hope.

As honorable as his intentions might have been, the table bears witness to his having never used a saw in his life. He was a map maker. Not a carpenter. But God will be his witness that he has always done his best. Most of the time. Even though he doesn’t believe in God. Or at least not in a God that pays attention.

He carefully tapes the corners of the drawings to the table, and stands back. He stretches, and does a partial deep knee bend, and sits back down.

It is just past dusk when he wakes in his chair. Above him, in the dark, shards of quick silver flash and for a split second, fish are schooling in the corners. He turns on the overhead light and they are gone. He examines his drawings. A thumb-sized moth attacks the light bulb. Its shadow flits across the table.

His plan is a good one, only lacking in a few necessary materials. If he can make that block and tackle, and if the floor boards can support the load, he should be able to free Mynka with only a small reliance on luck.   He checks his plan by following the flow of gravity across the switches, where it is redirected, split, and finally recombined as it arrives at the source of the force itself. The Earth. He goes to the basement door again, pulls it open, and looks down the steps at Mynka, who is chewing on the straw, her one bad eye facing him, the color of dirty snow.

“And if there are no fish,” he tells her, “We will eat meat.”

“Moo,” she replies.

© 2016 Rex Brooke

“What to Wear” – Scott Pinkerton

Stumble, fall, scraped knees
ripped pants
needle, thread
finger prick
stitched pants, scarred pants
unique, storied
character, soul
limited engagement
frowned upon
pathset, baggage
Stumble, fall, scraped knees
ripped pants
shopping trip
pull tags
new pants, unblemished
fresh start, clean slate
empty canvas
fresh pressed
pants for any occasion
expected, accepted
unchained, storyless

© 2016 Scott Pinkerton

Coming soon!

Hi everyone!

In case you can’t tell from a title and a site full of (currently) blank pages, The Four Cornered Universe is a web-based literary magazine that was originally founded in November 2009.  After a successful three-year run, we decided to close FCU due to our ever-shrinking free time and our ventures into other areas of life including  filmmaking, graduate school, world travel, and the military.

FCU will return on June 1st, 2016.  In the meantime, please visit our Submissions page to learn how to submit your short stories and poetry for consideration.

If you have questions, please send them to fourcornereduniverse@gmail.com with “QUESTION” in the subject line.  We will make every effort to respond as soon as possible.

We wish you luck!