Five Times
by Christopher Venter
Edward R. Frances Schreiber Collins Poetry Award Winner

five times. He scrubs his hands
to kill pentagram germs. His life goals is
not easily achieved. Microscopic holocaust is
his quest. He is devoted to
five evil cells. His flesh burns, gnawed by
persistent washing. His only weapon is
green lava soap. Nothing tops
an anthem in 5/4 time. He scours to
old albums by Brubeck. Time Out is the best of his
school traumas. Hours spent in corners were
a blessing. Isolation is
clean and comforting. These memories are
something worth saving. Papers from May 5th are
kept safely sealed. He is
scraps of paper in plastic bags. He often rubs
pens between his fingers. He scribes stars with
his breath as he breathes out: He pictures
his mind is a pentangle. Mom says he’ll burn, saying
he hates crosses. He hates that
the Cross is made of four arms. He is ashamed that
he can’t make it five. With all his will
he wishes to be saved. He tells God
and he goes to a new church. Father yells
and he drives off doing fifty. He stopped for speeding
repeatedly. At home, he punishes his hands


**Five Times is a Circuit poem. Although it can be read straight through, each line, or circuit, loops back on itself. That is, the end of each line can be read straight through to the next line or back to the beginning of that same line (e.g. He is devoted to his quest/ He is devoted to five evil cells).

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Preacher Jones and Swade, the Little Gambling Man
by Austin Samsel
Edward R. & Frances Schreiber Collins Prose Award Winner
Jennie Hackman Memorial Award for Short Fiction, First Prize

Preacher Jones Hits the Highway
I can see angels all around me Lord! They sparkle and swim. They light my holy pass through the Utah desert night, Route 15 straight to Las Vegas. Bible on my dashboard, Bible on the seat, and I have a pocket-sized by my heart. I’ve got the Bible on my mind! Heck, I’ve got a trunk full of all types of bibles for handing out. Spreading the Word, my good man, the King James, Revised Standard, New American Standard, New International, Picture Book Bibles, Spanish Bibles, French, Italian, German, Swedish, even Latin Vulgate.
       Suddenly, and just for a flash, I’m light-headed and totally convinced the dry, cracked, sandy land at the road side is the very earth Jesus walked, sandal heeled, through all Israel. The next second, I’m back to normal, but realize it’s true: I’m a modern-day saint (or will be) traveling across the good earth to save souls from the furnace of hell. Too much work for one body, sadly, but I’m young and am now forever iron-willed against prostitution, alcohol, drugs, violence, greed, gutter sleep, the horrible foe Vegas.
       I see through my mind’s eye: 5:00 am. Droopy-eyed and gray-lunged bodies are slouched over rainbow-bright tables. Eyes close, they’re falling out of their bodies, eyes open, awake, stay alert! The binge is about up, they’re penniless and begging for one more dry hump on the corpse that is the cold reality of the gambler’s dream. The city is dead. Or worse it’s alive, thriving on its inhabitants intoxicated blood, the sounds of dirty fingernails scratching, and the dripping grease from clueless drones with slicked back, styled hair. Their souls are fueling those electroshock, buzzing lights. The work ahead, the work now The Work! What is it if a man resurrects a city? It is nothing to the Work of one who resurrects the world. Let Him work through this body in the here and now.
       Holy rolling in the white Ford, we’re all alive, and all we’ve got is this book and this spirit. You have to realize heaven is this highway strip and everywhere all at the same time. Bodies are running around, running out of time. The people suffer amnesia; they forget the ecstasy of simple existence and the beauty of the natural world. Even the most barren dry desert in the world was made with the gushing waterfall blessings of God’s hand. And just as each grain of sand is blessed, and each cactus and every little stone making up this road is blessed, it is rightly so that I, Jones Baker, am blessed in the same fashion, and hopefully doubly blessed for these works, which I am soon to undertake.

Swade Needs Money
“Hold on, just listen, please understand, I know the odds, I know the risks, I know how to read...I know the game. If I focus for one hour, one hour, I’ll double, even triple that money.”
       “Swade, no! Get a job for Christ’s sakes! I don’t understand why you can’t make money the right way.” “This is my work. Six hours, and I’ll come out with a thousand. I just need fifty to jump start me. You want a new dress? A new necklace? Some new furniture for the place? I’ll buy you whatever you want…anything. It’s simple. I’ll buy you a new dress. Designer! No more Salvation Army. Fine linens! It’s simple, all I have to do is play this game, which I know inside and out, and when it’s over, I come out with everyone’s money. Easy.”
       “How about you start working for one of the countless number of companies in this city and help me pay the bills?”
       There are two things I know about in life: politics and poker. I used to study political science in school, but there’s no better education than having an old-fashioned skeptical attitude towards any and every news article you can get your hands on. Question everything because the world is filled with selfish, vile, ignorant, greedy pigs and therein lies the principle that rules all motives; the beast in man resides at the base of his soul and has served as the subliminal guide in the course of human history. We’re all dirty animals.
       “Listen, nothing brings out the dog in man like poker. Simplicity: the average player has a mind no greater than the average eight year old. Take him to the laboratory; hook him up with wires and a brain scanner that measures brain activity and blood flow. You see this stuff on TV, like when they monitor a brain during sleep. “But while playing poker, instead of seeing mixed up random activity, one will find a time relational deterioration of the intellect the critical, analyzing mind. These are all faculties necessary in differentiating man from ape. Watch those black-screened diagrams of the brain. By the end of the game, the temporal lobes are covered completely by red, while the rest of the brain is blank, void of activity. It’s why they’re having religious experiences.”
       “Oh, Christ. You and your crazy theories. Before poker, all I ever heard about was George Bush and Saudi Arabia, secret societies, oil wars! Who knows? There are other things in the world!”
       “And then all of a sudden, they aren’t sitting at tables with other players. It’s become a game with God. That’s when the regular player loses. His moves are based on personal contracts with God, in some false notion of fate, or the delusion that he and God comprise ‘team good guy’ versus those four other sloppy bastards, sitting fat, and hoarding their cards. The bigger the pot, the greater the illusions; risks aren’t risks, he knows their cards. All he reads in their eyes are hallucinations—bluffing! Or they can’t beat his hand—89% odds can’t lose!”
       “Why is it impossible to have a conversation with—”
       “Finally, on that last golden pot, should a player make it so far, his mind is in a state of total degenerative psychosis. He truly, wholeheartedly believes he will win against a cold universe that is stacked up, piled up, odds against him. The misconception of the player is that he really thinks that he is the universe. When gamblers get going, they believe they’re God. That is, until they crash. This common poker player comprises the definition of what is commonly called a sucker.”
       “Just stop talking, I don’t care anymore, you’re impossible,” The fatigue in her voice tells me she’s about to fold. “Can’t you listen to me for once, and what I’m saying?”
       “You remember! How many years did I study politics and everything having to do with it? You remember don’t you? Since I was eleven, I’m an expert, I’ve studied it more than half my life, so when I tell you of the interconnectedness of politics and poker, you then have to understand by reason that I’m pretty much an expert poker player. I hate to sound arrogant but I’m just trying to get my point across.”
       “Christ, take the money, it’s the last time, Swade. I swear it.”
       “That’s fine. Because it’s the last time I’ll need it.”
       “Here’s fifty. Now give your mother a kiss.”

Preacher Jones Sermonizes Casino Royale
What a dream last night to prepare me for a new day. Like being electrified by the messengers of Heaven, the flashes of orange and white shocked my mind to wonderful clarity. My mind was filled by the brick and mortar of God’s paradise, his light. I awoke to the sparkling gates of morning, enchanted by an inexpressible happiness. A hop in my step, whistling, fingers out and danced at my sides gleefully. It’s true that those filled with the Holy Spirit can be spotted on any street in the world. Their happiness shows on their faces. I attained a soul consuming joy based in pure humbleness. Thank you, Lord! And it served me well, as the morning’s beauty was shattered by the corruption of my congregation which is truly the people of Las Vegas. A day long Sermon, and I thank Him for the strength and freedom of tongue.
       At this point, however, it is late and my energies have vanished. I wash the sweat off my face and tell those around of my thoughts as they come to me. “Las Vegas with pure bathroom porcelain and automatic faucets and automatic towel dispensers and automatic urinal flushers. Heaven is the only place so pure there’s no point in a bathroom at all, no, not even a sink runs in heaven. All the impurities are washed away in a glorious shower before one can enter. But, believe me, there’s automatic towel dispensers and they dispense towels of silk because you’re going to need it to wipe the tears pouring out of your eyes due to the beauty heaven hath and forever shall hold! Amen!”
       I wash my face to cleanse myself of the accumulating and dripping sweat and scrub my hands furiously too, because isn’t every action symbolic? “You know why I wash my face and hands here at this sink?” I ask it to all who might hear, expecting no response.
       “You’ve probably got some fucking O.C.D.” I pick up my head, trying to find the voice with blurred vision. I grab my glasses from the sill and put them on quickly. “I’ve seen you around here before.” I look down, not a midget but still a little, little man. If it wasn’t for his thick beard I’d think he was fourteen or fifteen years old, too young for a casino. Dressed in large boots, jeans, and a worn down tank top holes at the bottom. “No one wants to listen to all that Jesus talk, man,” he turns from the mirror towards an open stall and continues the conversation, “People come to Vegas to have a good time, gamble, drink maybe even a few other things. Religion only exists in some sick government mind control scheme. It’s dead for the people. God is dead. It’s all about controlling the people, see? And you’ve been turned all inside out by it.”
       “The man died two thousand years ago on the cross, but God lives on forever and for infinity, and you’ll be thankful for that. It’s necessary for the sun to rise every day. Don’t you know the beauty of nature is due to Jesus? He created it. And Holy Hell if the earth isn’t still alive.”
       “Listen, if God isn’t dead, how do you think Bush got re-elected?”
       “Leaders have been corrupt since the first days. Man can’t have two masters and serve them both, so give what’s due and be done with this world in due time.”
       “Hey man, I didn’t mean to get into some religious freak-out with you, I was just trying to pass some time while taking care of some business before I can get on to some more important business, if you know what I mean.”
       “I don’t know what you mean unless that business is heading out of town and finding yourself a decent church to attend. You see me, washing my hands? That’s washing away the impurities, the sins; do you see what I’m saying?”
       “Bro,” he says in his raspy voice, too deep for a man his size, “You’re not saving anyone by washing your hands, and really, you’re just losing your mind down that drain. That’s all. You wanna try and save the world? Go run for President. We don’t have much time left anyway. It’s going to get all blown up and then you tell me how alive Jesus’ Earth is then. The name’s Swade Denning, good to meet you Preacher Man.” Flush. He leaves without washing his hands.

Swade Heads Back To the Tables
       “Hey guys. Thanks for waiting. Is everyone all ready to start?” I say it as innocent as possible. Can’t let them know about today’s winnings. Two hours, total focus, I turned fifty into three hundred dollars, minus five for coffees. Most players like to drink beer before or during the game to get some perfect super-cool, relaxed poker face, but all it does is make them less aware. Real players know themselves. That means they know their giveaways. Flaring their nostrils, a furrow of the eyebrow, licking your lips, the little subconscious things you do every time you’re bluffing or have some unbeatable hand. 89% odds can’t lose! It can only be given away. Watch the sniffles. I play alert. If I wake up feeling self conscious, those days are the best. Days where everyone thinks I’m some eighteen-year-old freak, with the beard and all. I might be scared to look someone in the eyes if I didn’t know they were the ones about to get suckered. “Who’s dealing?”
       Two of these guys wear sunglasses, and the other two are wearing hats, and they’re all a little too overdressed for the weather. They’re hiding themselves. They sense their giveaways, but still have no clue as to what they are, easy win for me. I’ve only got two queens so I get rid of any old card number card, hardly even matters. “One, please.”
       I’ll probably buy a nice carton of cigs with this money, oh, a nice dinner tonight too. But the goal is really to quit blowing all the money on CDs, stereos, computers, TV’s, gadgets. I’ve got to save up and move the hell out of the crap-hole apartment and have myself a life supported by poker winnings. It’s possible to do too, maybe even too easy. “I’ll raise.”
       Now, it’s down to the two guys with sunglasses and me, the rest have folded and I’ve already laid out two-fifty on this pot. High roller wannabes, this game here is going to be better than I thought. I feel something like a warm heat on my shoulder like an overbearing presence behind me, strange.
       “Swade, stop your sinning, if you take one step away from this game, The Lord will take two toward you. And the name is Jones, by the way. You’re the only one that paid any mind today, and I’ve got here a book I’d like to tell you about.”
       “The game, kid,” says the dealer impatiently.
       “Raise.”
       Then, to Jones, I say, “Listen man, I promise you, after this game we’ll talk.”
       “The time is now,” he pressures.
       “Raise or fold?” asks the dealer.
       “Raise, dammit!”
       “Alright, we’re at pot’s limit, lay out your cards.”
       “Already?” I ask. “Jesus!”
       “That’s right!” says Jones. “The Game is over! Hallelujah!”
       “Halle-fucking-lujah, you jackass! Now, I don’t even have enough for a cab home. Jesus!” I push the chubby son-of-a-bitch out of my way head out for home.

Preacher Jones Has God on His Side<
       “Hey buddy, nice going, we need a player, you want in holy man?”
       Yes, I think. “Yes, I will play.” I have never played poker before. Yes, I do have a rough idea. But most importantly, I realize my debts to Swade. It was my fault he lost. What does one more game matter in God’s eyes as long as somewhere down the line he atones for the sin? The first will be last and who’s to say why he was gambling, and maybe he really needed the money. Let the Lord see my good heart and forgive my weak mind. Hear my prayers and let me win the game Swade lost. For this is no longer gambling or sin, but what’s properly due. This is making right. I’m sorry, Lord.
Swade’s Dissatisfaction
       Look at her sweet face as she sleeps. It’s just as sweet as it can be, with a few wrinkles and jagged shadows formed by the yellow light protruding through the crumpled blinds. Did she even bother to take off her make up? She’s trying to hide the toll of her life’s suffering even in her dreams. She fell asleep, tired, frail, her hands lying at her sides. Supporting her son, these past twenty-one years, every step of the way without a husband. He died. If she dies right here tonight in the midst of sleep, what was it all for, and where did it get me except the present moment staring forlornly into her room, worthless. No point in shutting the door either, it’ll creak and wake the whole damn building anyway.
       Don’t let anyone tell you anything different about Vegas, it’s a dirty town. Even the Jesus freaks are doing Satan’s work, but not to say I believe in the devil, but I do believe in Hell. It’s already here. On the way to the casinos, the blinking, buzzing lights, electrify your entire soul and you believe you’re feeding off it. On the walk back home, broken, and penniless, you damn sure realize those lights have been feeding off you your whole life. Not just Vegas, but everywhere. It’s the next big slight of hand down the road and I just fell for it again as the ultimate sucker.
       The carpet’s ripped up at the walls edges and has bubbles popping up all over in the middle. The wallpaper is peeling, and just about all that’s nice in here is what I blew my money on like the big screen TV and DVD player. Buy everything in a store, and the second you leave it all begins to lose value. And the only reason the couch is worthwhile is it’s so damn comfortable because it has slowly grown up with me the past twenty-six years and slowly depressed and conformed perfectly to my ass.
       It's 11:00 pm and I’ve finally woken up. It’s time to go back to school, get a loan, and finish what I started to finally get my mom out of here. Twenty-six years of suffering and she deserves better. Hell, I’ll get any regular job that’ll pay enough to support two. I always knew in the back of my head I’d end up back in a classroom and probably go to graduate school or get right into politics. Maybe you have to die before you can really grow up and start helping others, serving others. This world is a mess, really. Its time I clean up my act and do my part to clean up all the other crap in it too. I’ve helped make it dirty enough.
Preacher Jones Makes a Phone Call
       “Hey, Mom? Am I waking you up?”
       “Jones? Hi, yes but its fine, what’s wrong?”
       “I’m alright, but I need a favor. I’ve gone to Las Vegas again, and I don’t have enough money for gas to make it all the way home. Could you meet me half way with a can of gas, so I can make it the rest?
       “I’m getting tired of this, Jones, but yes.”
       “Thanks Mom.”

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Grief
by Jennifer Cuccaro
Jennie Hackman Memorial Award for Short Fiction, Second Prize

My friends and family thought I needed counseling.

Some of them suggested I go to one of those group therapy things. They said, There are many people going through what you are. They come together, grieve, talk to one another, and move on.

Obviously, if I thought I belonged there or needed to go, I would have.

They told me I was in denial. My best friend Rachel said, I’m here for you. I’m just two hours away. She said, Call me anytime. Maybe you just need to talk a few things through. Clear your head, you know?

They suggested other things too. You should have Drew take you to the spa. You should take a hike up a mountain. Yoga? Vacation. Write a story about it. Hypnotism is supposed to work.

They looked at me with their heads tilted like you do when scanning a row of titles in a bookstore. They looked angry. No, they looked more annoyed. Two years is a long time. You need to start living your life.

I was not really angry either. Everyone has lost someone close. Or they know someone who has lost someone, at the very least. But they didn’t get it. My mother was coming back.

I understand that this doesn’t happen all that often.

I received books in the post from my Aunt Helen. Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul. Grieving God’s Way. The Loss of Someone You Love. I read that woman, Kubler-Ross. Well, I read it in my sociology class on death and dying. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally the acceptance phase. The opinion of my family was that I was stuck in denial, when in fact, my personal belief was that this was just one big misunderstanding and it would eventually straighten out and blow over. And if anything, I thought I was in phase two because I have a serious bone to pick with whoever was responsible for this mistake. And to go even further, I was a little phase three as well, because I was willing to bargain all kinds to find out who it was. But it is hard to be depressed when you know with utter certainty the person who everyone else thought was dead, is coming back. Therefore, there was nothing to accept.

I’m not one of those mystical people. Or people who “believe.” But I went to a psychic anyways. I thought if there were anyone who would have seen it my way, it would have been this person. She could have found out what happened to my mother. Or told me the name of the person who took her. Or even better, she would have given me her current phone number and address. But all she told me was, She is in a better place. Like the Florida Keys? Or Ireland? I then pressed for where this better place was. She replied, The other side. Well, that wasn’t very exact. On the other side of the river? Is she in Cambridge? Or Seattle on the other side of the country? For forty bucks a pop, she could have at least given me a coastline.

My boyfriend Drew thought that I was having some issues. Well, at least, that is what I heard him explaining to people on the phone. He didn’t really believe me either, but he said, Babe, if you believe it, then I believe it. He is one of those really on-board kinds of boyfriends. Before we go to bed sometimes, he asks me why I never cry. Why should I cry? I’m as happy as a clam. Then he just rolls over and goes to sleep.

I made Drew go out and buy one of those Ouija Boards. He wasn’t happy he had to spend money on the thing and play with me too. It wasn’t much help. I never got any real words. I’d say, Tell me where my mother is. One time, I got WELLC. Well cared for? Welch’s Grape Juice? Henry Wells? An old writer, but never wrote anything about this. There are lots of places that start with WELL. Wells, Mississippi. Wellington, Colorado. Wellington, Florida. But being from Boston, all of those places are a far drive, and I don’t know where she is. And with gas being so expensive and all…

Eventually I just stopped. Stopped talking about it. I put on a sad face, so the family would believe I started the depression phase and was clear on my way to acceptance. Which in itself seemed ridiculous. My Aunt Helen dragged me to one of those group meetings. Everyone was sobbing, talking about his or her feelings and different ways to move on. I had to keep up appearances, so I thought about the time my dog died when I was eleven. But, I mean, I couldn’t say for certain that all of those people’s sisters and kids and dads were dead, and I know that sometimes people really do die. I wanted to ask them, Have you really looked into it? Are you sure they are gone for good? In my particular case, my mom is young, so obviously it is a mistake. I didn’t want to tell them that my mother was alive because I didn’t want to offend anyone, and after all, it was a grief support group.

I tried to keep up her house as best I could, but it was kind of hard when her house was in North Carolina and I was in Boston. But I had someone who cut the grass and watered the perennials I planted. Mother really loved the outside and I would not want her to think I didn’t take care of it while she was gone. I did cancel her cable and Internet. That stuff was expensive and I didn’t have a definite date as to when she would be back. I took Rufus the dog, because he is needy. I borrowed a few other things like the big TV, and I needed a toaster oven. I also took her jewelry, shoes (she always had nice shoes), and a few pictures from the mantle.

This went on for about two years. Driving to North Carolina all the time. It was okay because I got a life insurance check from my mother’s disappearance and I haven’t had to work since. People would ask, Why don’t you just sell the house? Well, she isn’t going to live with me and Drew when she gets back, that is for sure.

And as it turned out, I was right. Mom did come back.

One Sunday morning, I was watering the plants in the front of her yard. It was sunny and warm. Drew was packing up a load of things we were taking back to the apartment. We took a few lamps and an area rug.

Don’t let that hose drag across the grass. It will leave a mark, she said from the driveway.

I knew it! I said. I knew you were coming back.

She said she got stuck 130 miles west of Wellington, Colorado. The Ouija board was right. There were some weather issues and a mix-up with her flight. Then there was something wrong with the runway. It had to be de-iced. I said, For two years? She said, Tell me about it.

Drew knew my mom from before. We visited on holidays. But now, he was staring at her like he was seeing a ghost. Nice to see you again Drew, my mother said to him. He didn’t say anything. He just squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers and walked away.

He is a little constipated today, I said.

I told her how I had to stop telling people she was coming back. I told her how her own sister, my Aunt Helen, didn’t believe me. I told her everyone thought she was really dead. Well, that was just a huge assumption on everyone’s part. Where is Rufus? she said.

He is in the yard, I said.

Mom yelled for the dog, and sure enough Rufus came running. Poor baby, I missed you so much. Did Rufus miss mommy? Oh yes he did. Oh yes he did! You are looking a little scrawny. Did your big sister not feed you good?

I fed him just fine, I thought to myself. I even bought him a furry bed to sleep on, and those Protect-a-Paw booties so he could walk the streets of Boston in the winter. I realized she didn’t hug or kiss me yet. There was no warm embrace like I pictured so many times. She didn’t even ask what I had been doing for the last two years of my life.

And okay, I was a little jealous of the dog.

You gained a little weight honey, she said. That bitch.

Yea, I don’t know…somehow I haven’t had much time to go to the gym.

Then the next-door neighbors saw over the fence that Mom was back and they came running over. They just didn’t know what to say, but invited us over for dinner really soon. Drew came back out from the house.

So, you are really her mom? So, people just come back from the dead now whenever they choose? I’ve seen your death certificate. I’ve been to your grave, Drew said. I elbowed him. He can be a little over-the-top sometimes.

She didn’t answer. She just asked if we were staying for dinner.

We all piled into my car (after Drew unpacked everything he loaded in before) and went to the grocery store.

Oh wow. That is a new building! When did Murphy’s Bar close down? This town seems like a real drag now, not many men, huh?

Mom rolled down her window and screamed out to a UPS man wheeling packages into the florists. Hey baby. I’m back!

He just waved nervously and kept going.

Mom, don’t shout out the window! People will think we are crazy.

Well, I have to find a date for tonight. I’m not going to be hanging out with you two duds.

Drew shuffled in the backseat. I looked through the rear-view mirror and he was looking at me too.

At the grocery store, we filled the cart with all sorts of things. She needed to buy everything new because I didn’t leave a single thing in the house. I didn’t want bugs and mice. She hadn’t been around for the “natural food” boom, so that was new to her. She kept asking why everything was so expensive, even though it all looked the same. She grabbed a few organic apples anyways.

When the checkout clerk finally rang everything up, mom just stood there.

Mom, are you going to pay? I asked.

Oh dear. I don’t have any money. Mind paying, since you threw all my good food out? I looked at Drew. He swiped his credit card through the machine and didn’t say a word. He sure was grumpy. Maybe he was hungry.

We pulled into the driveway and saw a herd of people standing there waiting. It was the neighbors, my Aunt Helen and her three kids, the local priest, and a lot of middle-aged men. They pointed and hugged and cried. The priest was on his knees, muttering something.

Aunt Helen screamed at the sight of Mom and fell to her knees. She started chanting some prayer, but quickly ran off to call News Channel 8 and Channel 4. Mom started yelling at the news anchors because their trucks were rolling over her front yard. One of them hit Mom’s antique rose bush with that long antenna thing that comes off the top. She was angry, but invited them all in for dinner. It was a good thing she bought all of that food because she made everyone stay for dinner. I had to clean up the dishes after.

We held a press conference in the parlor we only use for special occasions. She explained the whole thing about the airport in Colorado and not one of them asked any serious questions. They were like, Oh yeah. Of course. Weather issues. Sure. She told them if there were any questions at all, to call the doctors and the minister and the funeral home. They all checked out the verifiable information. But no one questioned that my mother was back. Because, obviously she was.

Can we go home now? Drew asked.

Well, don’t you think we should stay? It is her first night back.

I don’t think she really wants us here. He tried to say it nice, but I was getting that feeling too.

So we packed our things. I still took one of the lamps, because the one in our living room had broken. Outside we said our good-byes.

Rufus, come on, time to go. I swung open the car door. And he leaped in.

You aren’t taking the dog! Mom yelled.

Oh! Just a habit, I guess. Well, do you want me to take him anyways until you settle in?

No. She opened the door and Rufus jumped out.

I wanted that damn dog. He was mine for the last two years. I think I had him longer than she ever did. I bought him stuff and got him the good kind of food, not the generic stuff.

We drove home and I was happy to be out of there.

I couldn’t help but think our reunion was going to be somewhat different. I could ask her all the things I never got a chance to, like where did she keep the light bulbs for the house, or how to knit a scarf, or when was the proper time to send out Christmas cards. I would ask her why she never told me about her boyfriend, who I ended up meeting at the memorial. I would tell her all the things I never had a chance to, not just the whole I love you thing. Like that in ninth grade it was me who hit the cat with the car. Or that I don’t blame her for everything anymore. And then we would go outlet shopping. And have coffee. And the world would spin again.

But that isn’t how it happened, and over the next few weeks, things got worse. I was lonely without Rufus hanging around my feet. She would call me up and ask for money, citing that it was too difficult for her to find a job. And she would whine when I told her no. She would call and demand her princess cut diamond studs back. I would have given them back to her if they hadn’t been stolen last year when someone broke into my apartment. She didn’t like that explanation. She then asked about her Manolo Blahnik black pumps with the straps. I denied everything. I loved those shoes more than life.

One time, she threatened to die again, so I hung up the phone. S

he wasn’t the same mom from two years ago. I was afraid I was never going to see or talk to that mom again. We used to hug and talk about boys from the neighborhood. Make ice cream sundaes and watch Survivor. Granted I hadn’t been around all that much before she went away. And Mom didn’t like the fact that I moved to Boston. But at least then we were okay.

The life insurance company wanted their money back. I told them to go call my mother. Besides, I spent it all. How was I to know she was going to come back?

After that, Drew decided for my own mental well-being we should change the phone number. Maybe move.

And get a dog.

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Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent
by Alexander Slater
Jennie Hackman Memorial Award for Short Fiction, Third Prize

The smell in the tent was enough to keep you awake. Socks and campfire smoke and farts that were stronger than sleeping bags. I turned to look at the bastard lying next to me.
       “Jesus Baxter,” I said to him while he responded with a short and satisfied Ha!
       “It was the meatballs! It’s always the meatballs.” That night, like most of the monthly campouts, the Troop chose Italian cuisine. This was our January campout at a park somewhere upstate and it was freezing. On those nights, I would keep my clothes for the next day down in the bottom of my bag near my feet so they would be warm in the morning. Luckily, the ground we pitched the tent on was clear of snow, but you could stay awake all night watching your breath rise above your mouth in the dark. I was doing this when the smell crept over to my side.
       “How much did you eat?” I choked and sat up in my sleeping bag to unzip the tent door.
       “Enough to make sure there wasn’t any left, that’s for damn sure,” he said proudly. Baxter and I were older guys in the Troop, so we usually slept together on campouts. I never really thought of him as much of a Boy Scout, but I guess I never thought that highly of any of us. There were about twenty boys in Troop 14 at that campout, and trying to control them all was like lighting a cigarette in the wind, which Baxter was attempting to do.
       “Zip the door back up man, the lighter’s blowing out.”
       “Hell no.”
       “Come on, this will stop the smell.”
       “Yeah, and then stink up everything else in here. Take it outside.”
       “Do you know how cold it is out there?”
       “No, Baxter, why don’t you tell me?”
       “For Christ’s sake,” and he pushed me back down from the flap. He lit his cigarette, poked his head out to make sure the adult leaders were snoring in their tents, and stepped out like somebody was making him do it. I don’t think he cared much about losing his title of Assistant Senior Patrol Leader, because he would have if he got caught. But that would have required getting somebody new in that position under me. A person who would actually care if he had it. I was thinking of the particular guy when Baxter whispered his name to himself outside.
       “Dick-loving Daniel.”
       I stayed quiet for a moment but couldn’t help wonder why Baxter said it loud enough for me to hear, or how he seemed to know who I was thinking about. On most other occasions I would have told him to shut up with that colorful nickname. Daniel was two years younger than us, a high school freshman. He was skinny, pale, and had few friends. He wore his shirts tucked in and had sneakers that were so bulky and white that they boggled the mind.
       “Why, what about him?” I asked lying down again inside, watching my cold air billow.
       
       “He’s got his light on as usual. Probably jerkin’ it to the Dick Sucker’s Review,” Baxter whispered back through the thin nylon walls.
       “Oh, you’re letting him borrow one from your subscription?”
       “Shut it Slattery. Why don’t you go keep him company? You can leave your sleeping bag here.” His animosity was sharper than usual that night. I sat up again and zipped the flap down to get a look. Daniel was the only guy who had a tent to himself. He set it up a few yards away from the others after no one wanted to sleep with him. From my seat behind the flap, you could see a light from inside but no shadow or profile. The tent seemed to glow in the cold air like it was a small house for some alien on Neptune. I sat looking perplexed.
       Daniel was annoying as a Scout. He had more fervor than anyone. At meetings when I would form the guys up and we’d say the Oath and Law, you could hear him spouting it off over everybody. He ended the Law with a timpani dominance in each word, “…Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent!” Ask any of the guys to say either adjuration any other time during the week and they wouldn’t be able to get past: “A Scout is…” Daniel also had handfuls of more merit badges than I and was even on his way to getting Eagle before me; his older Senior Patrol Leader.
       Part of it, I admit, was envy, but when it came to Baxter berating him I was the one who had his back. I stood up for Daniel in my equivocal way and endured the repercussions. Maybe I didn’t want to be on Baxter’s side of things or see myself as one of those redneck Boy Scouts that kick guys out for not being “morally straight”. I just did it because he was weak, and I wasn’t. He was like some small animal you find outside your house. You’ll give it food, but it sleeps outside. Anyway, we were all young, and when we weren’t beating up on each other or blowing bug spray out of our mouths into the flames of lighters, we were counting shooting stars and laughing at stories about girls. There was an innocence that slept in those tents. We were boys. Around the fire, farts and swears flew like birds.
       “You know I tried calling him ‘Dan’ today after dinner? I was like, ‘Hey Dan! How bout you use those pretty hands of yours and get some wood!’ Were you there? Get some wood? Did you get it?” I looked up from inside the tent at Baxter who was inhaling the filter now while smiling and nodding. His acne looked like mud in the dim orange of what was left of his cigarette. I chose not to respond.
       “Anyway,” he continued, “he pulled me over to a tree and goes like this, ‘It’s Daniel, not Dan.’”
       “That’s intriguing. You know, you only think he’s gay because he doesn’t rip ass like you or lie about getting with girls. You do know that right?” “Next thing you know he’ll be telling me its ‘Danielle,’” Baxter said back, looking to see if there was anything else he could drag out from the piece of candy corn that was once a cigarette. Finally, he flicked the butt out and aimed towards the glowing Neptunian home. He somehow had enough strength in his fingers that it hit Daniel’s tent from yards away, bounced on its outer wall, and rolled down out of view. The inside went dark.
       “Did you see that?” Baxter hissed.
       “You asshole.”
       “His light just went out! That’s how you know, dammit I knew it. He’s hiding something in there. Jesus, I would love to punch open one of those dick-sucking lips. I knew he was…damn it’s cold, open the tent.” Baxter unzipped the flap and jumped in like he was going through a jungle of rubber bands. I sat back and watched him peer out the cracked-open flap on his knees.
       “Will you shut up with that shit? Keep it to yourself, you Nazi.”
       “Are you calling me a spigot?”
       “Jesus Christ.” I lowered my head.
       “First of all,” he began while still spying out at the dark tent, “I ain’t a Nazi, in fact, I can tolerate gays just as much as the next guy. But what did you say? You think I know he’s gay because he doesn’t rip ass? Hell no, Slattery, what that little fucker did is inexcusable. It’s gross and if he thinks he can get away with it he has no idea.”
       “What are you talking about?”
       “Alright, listen.” He turned to face me. His mouth dropped a little and he inhaled like he was summoning powers. “You know how you stayed back and went with the second group when we all went down to the showers tonight?”
       “Yeah, why?”
       “Well that little dick sucker was in…”
       “Don’t call him that.”
       “Listen dammit! He was in my group when we went down there. You know how the place only had four showers? I had to wait for everybody…”
       “Baxter, we’re lucky there’s an indoor facility. These parks never have that.”
       “Shut up! Listen to me. I had to wait right? I was one of the last four to go, you know, with Rat Tail and Sandals. Everybody else finished and walked back up to the site. Well, that Danny was the other guy of the four. And I didn’t know it, but I guess he took his shower faster than anybody. He was the first one done. When I got out from mine I didn’t think anybody was still in the room on the benches you know? I didn’t even look up. So I’m standing there drying off, you know my chest and my junk, everything really well so I don’t get cold when we go back outside. Finally, right as I’m pulling up my boxers, I hear him shift around on one of the benches in the room. He’s staring right at me. I couldn’t believe it. Seriously, Slattery, totally staring, like this. And I was about to say something like, ‘Fuck off fag!’ when Rat Tail turns his shower off and starts talking to me. Saying something like how his hair never dries from through the wall. But I just stare right back at him and he looks away like nothing happened. I stare at the little queer like his ass is mine and he knows it. So you know what I did? I decided to wait. I didn’t want Rat Tail or Sandals try to pull me off of him if they came out seeing my foot go through his face. I’m gonna wait till it’s just me and him. Trust me man. He knows what he did was wrong. I can’t have that kind of shit on my mind. For all I know he’s jerking off to me over there…”
       As Baxter finished on this self-flattering epiphany, his words got slow like he was catching up to them and turned again to look out our tent and into Daniel’s. The darkness, thankfully, prevented me from seeing the hair on his neck that crept out from his over-stretched shirt and into public view. I felt bad for the sight Daniel would have had to witness if the story was in fact true.
       “You really think he was looking at you because he wanted to? Do you actually think he was checking you out?” Then Baxter lunged at me. Like a lucky catch, he grabbed my mouth in his hand with perfect accuracy and pushed me down to the floor. My head jutted into the tent wall with wide eyes and I smelled the cigarette on his fingers.
       “Listen to me, Slattery. Do not say that shit. You cannot say those words. Only I can say those words. I know what happened, alright? I don’t need you telling me what I know.” I struggled beneath him but he was stronger than me. When trying to sit back up and push him off me he pushed back down harder. He had never tried this with me before. “Now listen, alright? I told you this because you’re coming with me. Danny-boy is alone now and you’re going to come with me because that fucker,” he said with spit, “is going to get what he deserves. You have to stand watch.”
       “Fuck you,” I said still struggling. It came out muffled and louder than his whispering so he told me to hush.
       “Listen. If you don’t come out with me, the leaders are going to find that cigarette butt out there tomorrow and ask who violated a Troop rule. What are they gonna think when I tell them that I saw the Senior Patrol Leader rolling up his sleeping bag and a pack of Camel Lights fell out? I know you keep your shit down there.” He moved his mouth over to my chin after I stopped fighting against him.
       “They won’t believe that,” I said back at him with rage, “They won’t trust you when I deny it.”
       “Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t. I’ll argue until we’re both kicked out of the Senior Patrol if I have to. I don’t care. But if you think I’m not going to go over to that tent and punch his kidneys until he pisses blood and threaten his life if he ever tells any one, then you’re dead wrong. You can stay right here and listen to him cry through the pillow I’ll shove down his throat.”
       “I am not going to let you fuck him up.” I never stood up like that for anyone. I felt sure of myself but not my strength. I would run to a leader and look like a pussy if I had to. I was on the edge of screaming out right then.
       “Jesus Christ, alright. Listen to me,” he said as he still had me pinned. A rock was bruising my spine through the floor of the tent. Baxter’s face quieted in demeanor and he continued, “I won’t fuck him up. Are you listening? I’m just going to go talk to him. Alright?”
       “You’re lying.”
       “I won’t. Listen, you don’t know what it’s like to have somebody look at you naked like that. I’m just going to talk to him about it. You stay outside and make sure nobody wakes up or comes out of their tents. If you hear me wailing on the kid then you can start yelling bloody murder and get every Boy Scout leader in the state to come running to the rescue. All right? I’m not gonna hit him! I was just kidding around. I have to get this thing straightened out in my head.”
       “If you touch him I’ll make sure you severely regret it.”
       “Yeah, yeah, okay. Come on. I wonder if that cigarette’s still burning.”

I let Baxter out of the tent first as I threw my boots on unlaced. I crawled out as quiet as I could and looked and listened. The moon was almost full and not as high as it could be. It had to be after midnight and breathing the cold January air was like a knife going down. I wanted it back up in my hand so I could stab Baxter from behind and end this, wake up in my sleeping bag, warm. I could hear one of the leaders snoring a few tents over and it became all I could hear. I didn’t realize Baxter was whispering to me until he turned around in his crouched stance.
       “Hey!” he whispered hard, “are you listening to me? If he’s asleep and he screams or something, just run back to the tent. We’ll say it was a joke, alright?”
       “Baxter, why do you even want me here with you if you’re only going to talk to him?” I asked rubbing my cold hands.
       “I’m not going to go back in that tent having you think I did more than I plan on doing. Do you understand? I’m not going to have you tell anyone about this because you’re going to know exactly what’s going to happen. Besides, you don’t trust me anyway. You would’ve come on your own.” We kept walking and came to Daniel’s tent. I thought about him in there, sleeping in his bag. All one hundred pounds of him, with his short blonde hair still parted and untouched. I remembered the first campout he came on. The way he didn’t talk to anyone and how the guys were instantly drawn to it. “Did you see how tight his khakis are?” “His mother probably dressed him.” “His boyfriend probably dressed him.” “Shit, yeah he did.” “I remember him from school last year. They all said he was gay.” “Great, a fag in the Troop.” “I’m not sharing a tent with him.” I started shaking, from the cold and for him. I was telling myself that I would give Baxter five minutes. If he were in there longer I would drag him out or call for help. I’m here for you Daniel, I kept thinking.
       “Holy shit, look, it’s still lit,” Baxter said to me when he picked up the butt in his hand. He put it out with his fingers and threw it back down.
       “Baxter, I’m giving you five minutes.” He looked at me, then shrugged.
       “Fine. That should be enough. Just enough time to get it out of him.” He moved closer to the tent and kneeled next to its side. I know from experience that when someone does this, even if there’s moonlight, you can see a shadowy profile on the wall of the person. It’s like a bad effect from a ghost movie when all you can see is black cartoons of people without feet getting taller and skinnier on a wall.
       “Shh.” Baxter looked up to me from his position. “I can hear him breathing. He’s awake.” The sound of the zipper coming down on Daniel’s tent was long and clean as Baxter executed with surgical precision. I stood behind him, kept my head moving from tent to tent, and thought, Let’s get this over with, as Baxter pushed his head in.
       “Daniel?” he asked in a whisper.
       To this day I remember thinking that if sounds were physical, then the voice that came out of that tent would have looked like a cat up in a tree or a duck covered in oil. But it was human.
       “Yeah?” asked Daniel.
       “Leave the light off.”
       The zipper went back up and from then on the two talked inaudibly. Every now and then I would hear Baxter use words like, “see,” “like,” and “teach.” My heart kept beat like a jazz drummer and I would jump upon hearing something snap. Something move. Somebody turn over. What the hell is going on in there? What the hell was I doing? This…I’m not…Who am…
       “Because you liked seeing me naked didn’t you? You disgusting shit. Are you listening to me?” Baxter’s voice shattered the silence of the campsite as if he slid it off a table and onto the floor.
       “Baxter! Shut the hell up!” I tried whispering back.
       “Tell me Daniel! Tell me you were looking at me!” The unmistakable sound of a slap to the face sent me into a panic. I started fumbling in the dark for the zipper. I pushed and clawed at the nylon door.
       “Baxter, you fuck! Don’t touch him!” I had stopped whispering. I looked around and saw a tent light turn on. Then another.
       “Knock it off out there,” the ignorant voice of a leader boomed. Then Daniel cried out and I heard his body meet Baxter’s fist. He sounded hollow. I heard it again.
       “Tell me you fucking faggot! Tell me you were looking at me! Scream it out so we all can hear! Say it you bitch! Tell me you’re my bitch!”
       “I’m your bitch!” Daniel shrieked. Fist met flesh. I found the zipper.
       “Say it again! Tell me you’re a faggot!”
       “I’m a faggot!” The flap ripped open as I zipped it down and saw Baxter on top, the shadow of his fists.
       “Say it again!” Baxter cried out one last time as I wrapped my arm around his neck and pulled back. Leaders came running to help. I fell back with Baxter landing on top of me and the wind was knocked out of me. From inside, out of the broken body of a boy, Troop 14 heard a part of Daniel rise through the roof of that tent and go into each one of us.
       “I am a faggot.”
       Leaders wrestled Baxter off and away from me when I heard Daniel weeping from the doorway. I sat up and saw him on his back with his thin arms out and bent at the elbow, reaching for something. He was gasping for air. In shock, I closed my eyes and covered my face. Tears started flowing with an ease I had never known. Scouts were gathering around me then, and we stood there looking in.

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Letters For Your Leaving
by Jaclyn Sheltry
The Wallace Stevents Poetry Prize, First Prize

Drogi Papa,
Will you please come back?
The tomatoes in your garden
Are marked with black spots now
And the yellowed stems snag
From the abandoned weight.
You would not remind me to pick them
When they were red.

I know you don’t want to hear this.
(I see you slap your knee with that
Callused hand,
Mumble—
Chodz tu—
but I do not understand).

Papa,
Please come home—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted
Your creamed ogorek,
And the sound you made when we
Complained of its saltiness
Has faded.
Papa,
Please forgive me
For crying—
I know you won’t approve.
But I had to write this letter,
Because all I can remember of your face—
Folded by the years—
Is your nose,
How thin it had become…
That’s all;
I know you will tell me to stop this
Nonsense,
And eat—
Jedz!

Now I must find how to send this to you;
I don’t know where to begin.
Zawsze kochajaca,
Jaclyn

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Onset of the Attack
by Meghan Maguire Dahn
The Wallace Stevents Poetry Prize, Second Prize

Braid it, bastard; adorn
It with bows. My head holds
Other things than ribbons,
Holds glimmers
That even in your most sympathetic
Moment, you cannot imagine. My mind
Knows colors you can’t see:

        You’ve never boiled down the bodies
        Of cochineal beetles until beet-blood
        Embraced every fiber of the petticoat.
        I was fourteen; my mother found it.
        She eyes the garment, my red-
        Rimmed fingertips, her knuckles white.
        Then, laughter: loud. Red-of-face,
        Tears-in-eyes, my mother laughed
        So hard she had to grip for balance
        The knitting chair. “We’ll have to hide
        This before your father returns.”

You only imagine your privileged access
To red ribbons. You pretend
You are delusional, but you expose yourself:
You bind first my wrists,
Then my braids.

Since I can’t rip out your eyes,
The ribbons, my braids will suffice.

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To Live And Stay
by Megan McHugh
The Wallace Stevents Poetry Prize, Third Prize

If home is a rock
I want a list of ingredients,
Official documentation
Of all that is contained
Within these sheetrock walls,
All the colourful particles
That cling together to form
This domestic monolith.

Oh god, the minerals
That are held in drawers,
In kitchen cabinets,
The dirt that falls from
The sole of our shoes,
Burrows into the rug
And hides out like a
Thief behind the living
Room curtain-

The minerals that
Comprise this aggregate,
The clear quartz of your
Eyes, solid enough to
Make me stay, but
Softer than the marble
Of the cold foyer floor,
A runway that ends at
The front door, a slippery
Path to the great outdoors

Covered by miles
Of lawns and origami
Shrubbery with roots
Held intact by the
Persistent weight
Of little rocks, dedicated
Anchors

That hold and clutch,
Press and push roots
Into an earth that sometimes
Tries to uproot, sometimes
Tries to say
A home is where
You live without
Pressure to hold you
In place, home is
Water bubbling contentedly
On the stovetop,
And never feeling
The urge to quit
The cast-iron confines
And boil over.

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Actuary of the Phantasmagorical
by Jason Mozzicatto
The Wallace Stevents Poetry Prize, Third Prize

it is all relative
just keep track of each abacus bead
from Chinese, to American, to Indian
from reality to the diode and back
yin or yang, cup or wand,
zero or one, off or on, dead or alive,
logic, dna, platonic order
canonical text, fiction, bazooka gum funnies overlook merely one, and surely you will miscalculate

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