1. Art and Diseño

The Round Up Writers Zine
ISSN: 2330-9768
January 201 5
Volume 2-2 201 5
Editors
Angelina Lim – Editor
Ed Jessup – Editor
Social Media Administrators
Angelina Lim
Ed Jessup
Website Administrator & Design
Table of Contents
The Round Up Writers Zine
Volume 2-2 201 5
2 From the Editors
4 On the High Hour by BAM
Ed Jessup
5 Tweeker by Luis Blasini
www.roundupzine.com/submit
7 so much by the time we have slept by Sophia Albanaa
By submitting your work to The Round
8 Empty Bottle by Eugene Goldin
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9 Eighty Euros by Merrill Cole
11 Pushing Up by Joe Hamilton
1 7 Did by Vimeesh maniyur
1 8 AUTHENTIC XERXES II TOENAIL CLIPPER by Daniel Pravda
1 9 Breasts and Whiskey by Frank McGivney
21 Irwin and the Captive by James W. Morris
26 In Defense of Proofreading by Gary Rainford
27 The attempted stoning of a peacock in broad daylight by MD Marcus
30 Orbituary by Nathan Witkin
32 SUBMIT!
All the works published by The Round Up Writer's Zine are that of the authors whom they represent and that
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The Round Up Writer's Zine | roundupzine.com v. 2-2 201 5
1
The Round Up Writers Zine
ISSN: 2330-9768
January 201 5
Volume 2-2 201 5
From the Editors
Howdy members and readers of our literary rodeo that we like to call
The Round Up! Thanks for digging in to our latest and greatest edition. We
are always so excited and humbled to read and publish such amazing
submissions. It is always a pleasure to provide a home for so many terrific
works. Now that we have become an established newbie I hope that we are
able to provide even more traffic and attention to your terrific works of art,
whether they be fiction, non, poetry or whatever! Keep them coming! Keep
them gritty and share!
~Cheers
Ed Jessup
Editor - Website & Design
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E
verybody witnessed the excitement when the clock sounded at noon and the shots were
heard round the town. Nobody knew which shooter got it first. All we saw was both men fired
and each one went down. The man in rawhide hit the dirt first as his blood stained the sand.
There was a hole in his chest, which smoked while his eyes closed. He took in his last supple
suck of air. We all watched him fade away along with the gun smoke ascending from his body.
Twelve steps down the path near the traveling tumbleweeds was the second man as
dead as the first, with a bullet wound in his forehead about the size of a gold coin. This unlucky
man had the most surprised gaze on him. He must’ve thought he’d win. A cocky fellow he was
when alive. He had the right to be so, winning his last three standoffs. Both were well-known
outlaws though. Legendary names.
Now flies were at their bodies and this even before the crowd had the chance to clear
out. The draw could have ended one way or the other. One fact was certain. Today, the only
winner was Death.
BAM graduated with a degree in English with honors. He's an alumnus of Sigma Tau Delta,
and co-founded Writers’ ReVision: a workshop that helped authors’ edit and find publication.
He was a journalist for two years, a columnist for three years, and a finalist in the WLT
Manuscript Competition in the thriller category in 201 4. Some of his publications can be found
in: Antiphon Magazine, Ishaan Literary Review, Bartleby Snopes (story of the month), This Very
Breath Journal, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Writer's Ezine (story of the month). For
more information visit: www.bamwrites.com
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I
Thumpthumpthump.
lay consumed in paranoid agitation. I
hadn’t slept for days. How many had it been?
Nine? Ten? I lost track. As I was saying, I lay in
my bed naked - sweating, twitching - sheets
rumpled and filthy. It was unbearable.
Although the dark drapes were closed,
the sun cut through random breaks of fabric
like blinding blades of fire. The meth which I
had acquired was gone and I hadn’t any money
to purchase more. Not for two days anyway. I
didn’t have to work the next couple of nights
and I was utterly broke. I squirmed in
aggravated convulsions.
Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!
What the fuck? Someone’s outside!? I
wasn’t expecting anyone. Who could it be?
Mooching friends? Cops? A random weirdo?
I bolted toward the window. I was certain
on hearing someone out there. Peeking
through musty drapes, the outside glare seared
my retina as I scanned hastily for any person
who would be creeping up the metal steps. No
one.
I faltered and stood frozen in paranoid
anticipation. That was when I heard them. The
neighbors were having sex in an adjacent
apartment. I leapt onto the bed and crouched at
the head of the mattress with my ear planted
against the cold, concrete wall.
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It was muted and distant – but, I knew
they were there!
I grabbed my pipe from the night stand
drawer. Sadly glancing at it, I woefully noticed
the nearly depleted silvery film of residue lining
the inside. I snatched my lighter and
desperately smoked what was left.
Trembling, I rotated the pipe left and
right skillfully not missing a spot - inhaling the
acrid fumes - taste of nickel in my mouth twisting, turning the pipe. When all was
completely gone and the bulb end was
scorched and streaked with black char, I flipped
the pipe around and carefully attempted to
place the tiny opening of the bulb to my mouth
and smoke what was left in the stem. I seared
my lips in the process.
I yelped in pain and cursed myself as I
impatiently waited the agonizing seconds for
the bulb to cool. My fingers were now
blackened from the carbon, shiny over the
grime. I smoked what was left in the stem and
lay propped up against the wall on sweat
reeked pillows.
With fucked up eyes, I glanced over
towards the black-lacquer end table and
discovered precious remnants of meth bits
sprinkled amid the dust. I grabbed a plastic
credit card which I used to line my dope up and
raked the debris over the top of the end table.
5
With a degree of satisfaction, I accumulated a thin
pitiful of crystal, dust, hair, and God knows what
else.
I placed the scrapings into the pipe and lit
up – listening to the popping of what wasn’t meth
and yet inhaled all the noxious fumes it emitted.
Thumpthumpthump. Fuck yeah! Oh, fuck
me, baby! Like that! Yes!
I lay scrunched down against the wall with
ear attentive. Barely, almost inaudibly, I sat and
listened to the muted sounds of a woman moaning.
It was coming from the apartment on the
opposite side of my living room!
I leapt out of bed and dashed to the other
room. I quickly dragged the futon couch from
against the wall to the middle of the room. I then
yanked the mattress off the futon and placed it onto
the floor against the wall. Racing to the bedroom, I
grabbed a pillow from the bed.
I returned to the living room and flopped
onto the futon mattress. Ear firmly planted against
the wall, I heard the muffled squeaking of bed
springs and the gasps and moans of sexual
passion. I lay for an hour; listening to that distant,
almost inaudible groaning. My mind raced with lewd
images of random, broken lust. Sweating and
quivering, I began masturbating like an idiot - using
the sweat of my palms as lubricant. I must have laid
there jerking off for hours.
Satiating myself, I licked dry, metallic tasting
lips and pressed my ear back against the wall. It
was completely quiet - nothing but the reverberating
echo of passing cars on the street below. I placed
my trembling hand to my clammy forehead and
hoarsely chuckled.
You, idiot! I thought. There’s no apartment
on the other side of that wall. There’s nothing there!
It was becoming dusk and the room was
quiet. Long shadows of a late afternoon stretched
across the bare walls. I rolled over onto my other
side and lay staring at the dark, red carpet. To my
horror, it was undulating in rapid movement.
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Creeping slowly off the mattress on hands
and knees – my sweat-dripping face inches from
the funky smelling carpet - I saw ants crawling
around mixed in with the black specks of the woven
fabric.
At first, I caught the glimpse of only one.
Then, from out of my peripheral vision, a few. Then
the sheen of millions of black ants skittering about
in a crazed frenzy. I jolted up on my knees in
confused shock. I blinked the sweat from my tired
eyes. Shook my head. Slowly, like a fog dissipating
on a sunny morning from a chilled night, the insects
faded away.
I rose - wobbling from lack of food and sleep
- and returned to my bed with a sore ear. My body
was gummy and felt like rubber. The tweek was
ebbing down and I knew I had nothing - no money,
no articles to sell – nothing for the next two days.
I lay in my bed. My body was cold and
shivered from dried perspiration. Long, silent
moments passed. Finally, after days and nights,
hypnotized on the immobile ceiling fan, I drifted into
a dark and tormented sleep.
Born in the Deep South to a lower upper middle class
family, Luis Blasini was raised in Los Angeles,
California as an ardent fan of the arts. Attending film
school and majoring in English Literature at a
Southern California University - Luis was influenced
by avant-garde film directors and well-read in the
written works of the Beat Generation. Graduating with
honors in both Cinema Direction and Literature,
Uninterested by the plastic existence of Los Angeles,
he relocated to the slums of Tijuana, Mexico where,
integrating with the junkies, thieves, male hustlers,
and notorious expat homosexuals of Zona Norte, the
Author continued to keep detailed journals of his
deliciously degenerate lifestyle among the back alleys
of the border slums.
Going on a ‘Kerouac Kick’, he left Tijuana and for a
decade wandering aimlessly as a self-proclaimed
‘hobosexual’ - traveling and exploring via squalid
hotels and homeless shelters the span of the United
States, Caribbean, Central and South Americas. All
the while, writing about his experiences in a world
renowned blog.
You can log onto the authors blog at:
www.borrowedflesh.blogspot.
6
my little brother and i argued about me wanting to be a ballerina
and him, a police officer that would shoot rockets at my rehearsals.
w e w o n d er w h ere w e l earn vi o l en ce
or how to raise our voices.
i never slept,
staring at the walls covered in paintings of clouds,
lit by the dim streetlights through the window.
at night,
their voices lowered.
the theme song of friends hummed through the house.
i would silently walk down the hall,
feeling warm carpet between my toes,
listening to silence my ears craved.
i stayed awake for this,
for the hours where my parents became different people.
the television glowing
like a heart full of love.
my father would peel me clementine.
i strategically pieced them apart,
slowly,
savoring the sourness
that came only from the fruit’s juices.
w h en i t w as g o n e,
they told me to sleep.
i didn’t,
because i knew the morning would be too loud.
Sophia Albanaa is a 20 year old student at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, NJ from
Kuwait, studying English Literature. She has been writing since maybe about the age of six, and it is her
greatest passion. She has recently been published in the online on Rookie Mag and is sending more work
out as we speak Her writing tends to incorportate elements of memory and dreams and the different senses
that are connected to them.
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I ra n i n to th e fi e l d d u ri n g a th u n d e r s to rm – h o l d i n g a n e m p ty b o ttl e .
I h a d p ro m i s e d th o s e p a rts o f m ys e l f wh o h a d p a s s e d o n th a t I wo u l d ,
a n d wa s fi e rce l y l o ya l to th e i r m e m o ry.
I g ra b b e d a t th e i r e d g e s
a n d b re a th e d th e i r l o n e l y b o u n ty d e e p l y i n .
I b e l i e ve d th a t th i s wa s m y o n l y s h o t a t re d e m p ti o n .
T h e l i g h tn i n g s e e m e d to h a v e a m i n d a l l i ts o wn .
I fe l t th a t s i n ce I h a d p a i d fo r th i s ti cke t, I
s ti l l h a d s o m e d re a m s l e ft o u ts ta n d i n g .
J u s t th e n , a d i s ta n t b e l l ra n g . I s a l i va te d
a n d h e a d e d h o m e fo r d i n n e r.
Eugene Goldin was born in Manhattan and raised in Queens, NY. He is a professor of
counseling at LIU-Post, Brookville, NY. His poetry has most recently appeared in The Lost Coast Review,
The Subterranean Quarterly and Stoneboat Literary Journal.
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I
One has perfectly coiffed chestnut hair; the other is
a honey blonde. I wonder if they guess why I’m
here, but it really doesn’t matter. The blonde smiles
widely as she hangs up the phone.
know that anyone staying at Swissötel has
more than 1 00 Euros to spare, and the discount
game annoys me. But I want to earn as much as I
me show you to the elevator.” She gets
possibly can for the trip, and mid-afternoon clients in and “Let
rides with me up to the eighth floor.
are rare. So I try to entice with my reply
message—something about semen spurting over
A man in his 50s answers, thin but bulky in
my shoulder.
the torso, with silver hair and an intelligent look. He
quickly retreats into the dark hotel room, clad only
As I wait for the GayRomeo bell to ding
white boxer shorts and a white tank-top. He
again, I start putting together my outfit. The tight in
would be handsome, but he holds his face
black t-shirt and light jeans seem right.
wrong—there is a stiffness there. He watches me,
arms folded across his chest. This is obviously not
“Room 8677 you must give notice at the
reception. They will call me and let you come up.” a “let me take off your clothes” client.
I lie with my back on the bed as he hovers
I sigh to myself when I finally spot the hotel over me,
upside-down, sucking me. His ass moves
sign, having wasted fifteen minutes on slushy
closer
to
my
face, and I know what he wants. I’m
brown streets, speeding around the upscale
mildly disconcerted when I find absolutely no
shoppers, trying to avoid the giant puddles.
resistance to my tongue. Strange, he had only
spoken of blowjobs over GayRomeo.
The women at the desk are far friendlier
than other receptionists I’ve encountered in Berlin.
I wet my left hand with my own saliva—there
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9
seems to be no lube—and start masturbating him.
He cums in two minutes.
While I’m putting on my boots, he starts to
banter about his business trips to Thailand. He
spends half of his time there. He goes around the
world. He travels all over Germany, too.
know.
I’m not sure why this is important for me to
To be friendly, I begin to say something
about my upcoming vacation in Barcelona, but the
curl of his lip tells me to stop. My story is of no
interest.
I collect the 80 Euros and leave.
No one needs to escort me out of
Swissötel.
Merrill Cole’ s most recently published book
is a translation from the German of Anita Berber and
Sebastian Droste’s 1 923 Dances of Vice, Horror, and
Ecstasy. He is also the author of The Other Orpheus:
A Poetics of Modern Homosexuality and many
creative works (mostly poems). He teaches literature
and creative writing at Western Illinois University.
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I
were days when she would become quiet; her eyes
empty of their usual life. I usually could pull her
back with a joke or funny story. A man gets a sense
first came to know Vicky-Lyn Cleary
things some time and on these days I thought
through the pawnshop. One spring day, she came of
that she was weighed down by a ghost or two in her
into my shop asking if I was looking for a
closet.
hardworking, loyal and dedicated employee. I
guessed she was a hair short of twenty. She was
When she announced her plans to marry
a pretty girl with long blonde hair and expressive Billy Mitchell,
I had to speak my mind. You see a
blue eyes that hardened with determination. What pawnbroker comes
all kinds of people. The
she lacked in experience she made up with effort. recession had been across
hard on many people in Biloxi.
Vicky-Lyn and I hit it off right away, and she
was before Mississippi legalized gambling and
worked for me for the better part of four years. We This
the tourist boom. Back then, all of the fun things
became close, well as close as a black man in
folks liked to do had to be done in secret. At the
Mississippi in the early eighties could be with a
pawnshop, you soon got a sense about people.
much younger white woman. My wife thought it
people you meet are well raised and just
was my maturity and grey hair that prompted her Some
on their luck. Others like Billy Mitchell have
to confide in me and seek out my advice. I’m not down
an
evilness
as dark as the deepest depths of Biloxi
saying she took it. I soon learned to bite my
Bay. You could see it in his eyes; they were
tongue as it became apparent that she was
constantly shifting crazily like the fire beneath the
determined to blaze her own trail. Most days
kettle. Billy had been in a few times trying to pawn
working with Vicky-Lyn were great; she brought
stuff that I was sure he had stolen. When I refused
just what this aging black man needed to get
to lend against the stuff, he became irate and loud.
excited again about coming into work. There
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11
My Daddy used to say that kids like Billy were
trouble as soon as they were out of diapers.
much of the story. Everyone that could read a
headline in the Sun Herald knew. Local boy
arrested in a string of armed robberies. But that
So what did Vicky Lyn Cleary see in Billy? I was old news, at least six months old. The
don’t know. He was tall, and I suppose goodmystery was what had brought her into my shop
looking enough, kind of like you would describe a today. Pouring us both a stiff one, I nodded for her
farm animal. That’s an attractive cow or a good
to continue.
looking hog. Some women I figure are attracted
to men with character flaws. Maybe it was a kind
“He lost his job at the lumber mill after we
of reclamation project. If she was thinking that,
had been married two months. Ever since then
then this was as futile as a cat chasing its tail. It
he’s been either angry and drunk or drunk and
had been two years since the wedding when a
angry.” She said in between sniffles.
crying Vicky-Lyn came to see me on a stormy day
in October 1 980 and I knew it must have had
I resisted the temptation to say,” I told you
something to do with Billy.
so,” or to interrupt in any way.
I closed early that day. There wasn’t going
to be much business with a hurricane- like storm
hitting the gulf coast so hard. Biloxi was known for
its storms; the kind the newscasters liked to show
with trees being bent sideways by the wind. I
brought Vicky-Lyn into the back room and gave
her a hug and a box of tissues to dry her tears. I
didn’t rush her. She needed time to get it out. I
thought back to what I knew had happened since
the wedding over two years ago. I had heard
through the grapevine that Billy had moved his
stuff into her house. This was the small clapboard
house her mother left to her only child when she
passed. Back in 1 976, word around town was that
Vicky-Lyn’s father was a drunk and the type to
beat his wife. At least that’s what people said up
until he disappeared. No one had much to say
about what might have happened to him. It didn’t
seem like anyone cared enough to ask the
question.
“He said he had it covered, but the money
we saved from the wedding didn’t last long. When
I tried to make a suggestion on where he could
look for work he told me to mind my own
business. Instead of finding a job he and his
buddies would grab their shotguns and go
hunting.”
Shortly after the wedding she had come to
thank me for everything and to tell me that she no
longer needed the job. That spark was in her
eyes, she was happy. Billy had a job at the
lumberyard and was going to take care of things. I
would have cried horse-pucky at that point, but I
knew love was blind.
“He started going out every night and
coming home drunk and loud, demanding sex.
He’d been running with that creep friend of his
Owen Jackson. I knew they were up to no good.”
She took a long drag from her cigarette, her
hands trembling. I reached over and put my hand
over hers to settle her down. “One night he came
home with a bag of money. I guess it must have
been close to a thousand dollars. He said he won
it at poker in one of those illegal bars along the
strip. He told me that we couldn’t put the money
in the bank on account the revenue people would
be attracted to it like bees to honey.”
When the tears abated, I asked her if she
wanted to tell me what was upsetting her. She
bravely pulled herself together and said, “Billy.” I
kept a bottle of Kentucky bourbon for particularly
stressful days and now pulled it out of the bottom
drawer of my desk. Of course, I already knew
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At this point, she pulled a pack of
cigarettes from her purse. She had quit smoking
when she worked for me. In answer to my
questioning look, she explained that it calmed her
nerves. I used the zippo on my desk to give her a
light. The flame cast enough light in the dim
backroom to show that Vicky-Lyn had changed for
the worse in the past two years. Her hair looked
like it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, and the bags
under her eyes had bags of their own. I could see
what looked like blood splattered on her denim
blouse.
12
“I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, so I didn’t
believe him. The money took care of some bills
and allowed me to buy some food. He went out
again the next night and came home with more
money. Then about a week later he came home
angry saying that things hadn’t gone right for him.
He said he was going to have to lay low for a
while. I tried to get him to talk about it, but he told
me to shut up. When I persisted, he pushed me
up against the wall and said I should concentrate
on being a better wife.”
“Trying to be helpful, I told him I was going
to come visit you and ask about my old job, and
that’s when he hit me. He slapped me across the
face and shook me like a rag doll. He told me that
I was finished working for that....well for you.”
call the police?”
“I don’t know. I guess I felt embarrassed
and that somehow I had brought all this on
myself. As for calling the cops, he had friends in
the sheriff’s department. They’ve been to our
house. He would just get out and take it out on
me.”
“You know what happened next, it was in
all of the papers. The Biloxi police came to the
house one day and took him away. This time he
had really done it. In robbing the gas station in
D’Iberville, he beat that clerk with his gun and
almost killed him.”
She paused at this point to ground out her
cigarette in the ashtray. “We had the cash for me
I knew she was going to say nigger. I took to bail him out, but I didn’t. I let him rot there. Do
you know that I never once showed up at his
a long drink. There was an awkward moment of
silence. The sound of rain landing on the tin roof trial? He kept calling and calling. I guess he told
the cops that he was at home with me on the
was the only sound breaking the silence.
night of the robbery. A cop came by the house
and asked about his alibi. I said I didn’t know
“The next day he said he was sorry and
told me that he loved me. He said everything was where Billy spent his evenings. The cop asked
about the money. Apparently there was close to
going to be alright. He and his buddies were
$1 0,000 from the string of robberies. I said I didn’t
working on something that would bring in real
have two dimes to rub together or else I would
money. He still wasn’t working; leastways not at
have bailed him out. I was praying that he would
anything legal. Most days, he would sleep until
be found guilty and be sent away for a long time.”
noon and then his friends would come over and
drink. That Owen guy would carry on like he was
“When he got sentenced, and was put in
a ladies’ man. He was constantly putting his
hands on me right in front of Billy, who would just Parchment Penitentiary, I never once went to visit
him. I couldn’t stomach looking at him. All this
laugh as I squirmed away. Later in the evening
time he let me believe he was gambling when he
they’d all go out, and Billy wouldn’t come home
until early morning. By that time, I knew not to ask was knocking off gas stations.”
too many questions. If he came home with money, I nodded my head that I understood, but I really
didn’t. I’m not sure anyone could, unless they had
then all would be fine. If he didn’t then, I’d try to
gone through it. I watched her as she drank her
stay out of his way. He still managed to get his
bourbon, “You know I called a couple of times
licks in, if I didn’t have the right booze in the
during the trial to check up on you.”
house or if he wanted something different for
dinner.”
“I know you did. I got your messages. It
might be late, but I am here now. You have
“When he saw that I had started smoking
always been a caring man and a good friend. You
again he got angry. I laughed at the irony of
having a few cigarettes compared to a new bottle tried to give me advice about Billy, and I was too
stupid to take it. I wish I could turn back time.” Her
of whiskey every day. He hit me really hard that
day and then used my cigarette on my arms and eyes started to moisten up.
legs to teach me a lesson.”
“Why don’t you finish the story?” I said not
wanting to lose the momentum.
At this point I had to break in, pouring us
both a refill, “If he hurt you why didn’t you run or
13
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“Well today’s October 1 4th. It’s been six
months since the cell doors closed on Billy. When
I heard they had given him twelve years I thanked
God. I wouldn’t have to face him for at least ten
years. Maybe if I was lucky another inmate would
stick a shiv in his ear, and I would be done with
him. I have a friend at the courthouse who told me
about his appeal. Even then, I never thought he’d
get out. When the gas station clerk recanted his
testimony, and his lawyer found someone else
who was in the area that night who matched the
description, I knew it was only a matter of time.
“I thought about making a run for it. Then I
thought about my Mom and what she had to
endure. I used to lie awake at night listening to
her crying, begging him to stop. She stuck it out
and never ran away.” That gave me strength.”
wearing that cheap suit his lawyer bought him for
the trial. “How you been baby? It’s been a long
time.” He approached the porch saying,
“Why didn’t you return my calls? We could
have used that money for bail?” He appeared to
grow more confident the closer he got to the
steps.
“You best be turning around and getting
out of here.”
“Why, this is my home too baby? I live
here; you’re my wife. Or do you need a little
reminding of that?” He climbed the first step to the
porch. There was something about the tone of his
voice. It was threatening. He took another step
closer.
“I made up my mind that I was not going to
“That’s close enough Billy. This is my final
let Billy hurt me again. The people in Parchment warning. Get off my property.”
were good enough to warn this morning about his
release. His buddy Owen was there to pick him
“Alright, then just let me get my clothes
up. I sat at the kitchen table trying to summon my and I’ll go.”
nerve. I figured that his spell in Parchment gave
him lots of time to get as angry as a hornet.”
“I burned all your things; there is nothing
here for you.” I said with a resolve that I hadn’t
“I chain smoked and worked my way
thought was in me.
through a six pack. A lot had changed in me from
the time I’d said “I Do.” He’d seen me as the good
“What about the money you were holding
wife, the wife who like a dog was ready to please for me?” As he said this, he climbed the last step
the master. I decided he needed to see what his and was standing menacingly in front of me.
cruelty had brought out of me.”
“There’s one thing of yours I didn’t throw
“By 2 o’clock this afternoon, the rains came away.”
along with the howling wind. I sat in the rocker on
the porch my eyes waiting for the car to turn onto
As he reached out to grab me, he said
the gravel lane. I was getting a chill, so I grabbed something about teaching me a lesson. I didn’t
a woollen blanket from the hall and wrapped it
hear the rest from the sound of his shotgun
around me. As I waited, I looked at the wilting
blowing him clear off the porch.”
daisies in the flower garden. My mother and I had
planted them.This was my home and I wasn’t
I figured a story like that was worth another
going to give it up.”
drink. As I poured, I contemplated what a wise old
man should say about someone who blows their
“I didn’t have to wait long. I stayed there by spouse into oblivion. “So is he dead?”
the door as his car drove up the long lane. As he
got out of the car, I heard him say to Owen that he
“He was after I put the second round of
best be leaving.”
buckshot in his brain.”
“Hey, Vicky-Lyn baby, I’m home!” he called
After a pause to let this sink in I asked,
out, his voice barely audible over the rain. He was “What are you going to do now Vicky-Lyn?”
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14
“I’m going to the police station to make a
statement about what I did. I came here to tell you
that you were right. I’m not sure what will happen
to me, but it was important to tell you why I did
what I did.”
I saw that same steely resolve she had
shown so many years earlier. “You’re a brave
woman Vicky-Lyn. Are you sure you want to go to
the police with that story?” I thought she should
have a lawyer. At minimum she needed a friend.
“There is something that’s weighted me
down all these years. The truth about my father
never came out.” She looked up at me as she
finished her drink. You see, I couldn’t take my
mother’s cries any longer. I hit him with a cast iron
skillet when he was hurting her. I hit him, hit him
and hit him again. I didn’t stop until I was sure he
wouldn’t hurt her again. This time I want everyone
to know what happened,” She replied as she got
up and walked out of the store.
Joe Hamilton ’s BIO: After 35 years
working in the investment and banking industry I
retired and took up creative writing which has become
my passion. So far I have had 2 short stories
published, and have just finished the last edit on my
first full length novel. I live in Hamilton, Ontario with
my loving wife and 2 kids and 3 dogs.
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15
Vimeesh Maniyur is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator from kerala, in
India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and
dramas. He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment,
Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.
The Round Up Writer's Zine | roundupzine.com v. 2-2 201 5
17
Daniel Pravda is one of the wilder writers around, a combination of his Gen X upbringing and 1 8
years' worth of 1 8-22 year-old student interaction and friendship. He teaches at an underfunded,
historically-black, underdog school called Norfolk State University and is proud to fight power every day.
Daniel’s poetry has recently appeared in Broken Bridge Review, Asinine, poetrysuperhighway.com, and The
Fool's Review. He has published one book, A Bird in the Hand Is a Dumb Bird, in 2011 .
18
The Round Up Writer's Zine | roundupzine.com v. 2-2 201 5
B
“I t’ s for you r ti ts th e y a re b i g g e r th a n m i n e you
“
ri n g m e th e wh i ske y wom a n ” h e re l a xe d fhaetrsrluobby” hl i pe sr tmi cak.scHaeran ewvaesr rausnknei nd gwmh yi xsi nhge wwi tohre
i n th e sou n d a n d fe e l of h i s fi n g e rs scra tch i n g
m a ke u p g o i n g t o t h e g y m . H e kn e w s h e w a s
a g a i n st h i s g re yi n g stu b b l e .
d oi n g th e sa m e th i n g th e re , a s h e wa s d oi n g i n
a l l th ose h ote l room s wi th wom e n wh o h a d a l l
“D o you wa n t m e to d ri n k i t for you a s
we l l ” sh e wa s h a l f h i s a g e a n d worke d ou t i n a n ssihzaepseodf absresaesst. s a n d a m u l ti tu d e of d i ffe re n t
e xp e n si ve g ym i n town wh e re sh e fl i rte d wi th
you n g g i g ol os wh o h a d stom a ch s a s h a rd a s
“Th a t’ s a n ol d j oke you kn ow. You r fa ce
h er ass.
i s l ooki n g l i ke a n oi l p a i n ti n g g on e wron g , wh y
d on ’ t you g o i n a n d cl e a n you rse l f u p a n d kn e e l
“you d on ’ t d ri n k b i tch re m e m b e r you r
e . ” S h e wa s i rri ta ti n g to
a fra i d you wi l l p u t on som e we i g h t a n d g row a dthoewenahr eartethi ne fbroenstt ooff m
p a i r of ti ts. ” H i s h a i r wa s b l a ck from a b ottl e a n d p l e a sa n t to l ook a t a ntdi msehse bhuatdsah ed ewgarse e i n
e ve rywh e re h e we n t wom e n re cog n i se d h i m
se rvi ci n g a m a n wi th ora l sa ti sfa cti on .
a n d wa n te d to fu ck h i m .
“I wa n t a se ttl e m e n t” sh e cri e d from th e
S h e g ra b b e d on e of h e r b ra s, i t wa s a
b a th room . S h e h a d l e ft th e d oor op e n a n d h e
re d on e wi th l a ce a n d th e si ze on th e ta g sa i d
c o u l d h e a r th e s o u n d o f h e r s i tti n g o n th e to i l e t.
3 4 b . S h e th re w i t a t h i m a l on g wi th a b ottl e of
scotch th a t h a d b e e n m a tu re d for th i rty ye a rs i n Twhoamt ewna, sththe ey hwaodrsnt ob ict l aabsso.uOt tnhleysae cyeorutanign l ow
a ca sk, i n som e col d d re a ry h i g h l a n d i n
a n wa n te d to l i s te n to a wo m a n
S cotl a n d , wh e re th e l oca l p op u l a ti on con si ste d tuyrpi neaoti nf m
g
,
t h e o n e s w h o l i ke d b i t t e r w h i s ke y a n d
m a i n l y o f s h e e p a n d g o a ts .
p a i d b i g m on e y for tra n sve sti te s to com e to
H e l ooke d a t th e b ra th a t h a d l a n d e d i n th e i r h ote l room s.
h i s l a p a n d h e l d i t to h i s n o s e , i t o n l y s m e l t o f
th e l e m on sce n te d d e te rg e n t th e cl e a n i n g l a d y a s h e l aAyftebraschk eh ohpaidn gfi nthi sahtesdh oenwhoeurl dknj uesetsgaent d
u sed .
d re sse d a n d g o to th e g ym , sh e sa i d a g a i n
a fte r swa l l owi n g .
“ W h a t a m I t o d o w i t h t h i s ? ” h e a s ke d
s q u e e z i n g t h e l a c e c u p . T h e w h i s ke y h a d
“ I wa n t a s e ttl e m e n t”
sm a sh e d on th e fl oor b e h i n d h i m , sh e h a d n ’ t
p l a y e d b a s ke t b a l l m u c h w h e n s h e w a s a ki d .
“Wh a t typ e of se ttl e m e n t? You h a ve
H e h a d n ’ t p a rti cu l a rl y l i ke d th a t scotch i t h a d
w
h
a
t
m
l e ft a b i tte r ki n d of a ta ste i n h i s m ou th wh e n h e a ccou n ot nwehye ryeouyocuouhladveevbeer ewnalnotdigni nthgaat lbl athnek
d ra n k i t.
m on e y you h a ve stol e n from m e . ” h e d i d n ’ t
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19
op e n h i s e ye s, sh e re a l l y wa s g ood d own
th e re , h e wa s too re l a xe d to b e l ooki n g a t h e r
cryi n g a g a i n .
“I ’ m l e a vi n g you a n d I wa n t m on e y, a l ot
of m on e y for h a vi n g to p u t u p wi th a l l of you r
sh i t. ” sh e op e n e d u p a n oth e r b ottl e of wh i ske y,
th i s on e wa s from I re l a n d a n d h a d on l y b e e n
si tti n g i n som e d u n g e on for e i g h te e n ye a rs.
S h e ri n se d i t a rou n d h e r m ou th to g e t ri d of h i s
ol d m a n l u st. I t b u rn t h e r th roa t on th e wa y
d own b u t th e fl u sh from i t h e l p e d th e sh ock of
h i m kn o w i n g a b o u t t h e b a n k a c c o u n t . T h e n t h e
re a l i sa ti on h i t h e r th a t m a yb e h e kn e w
e ve ryth i n g .
from th e g ym wa s a ka ra te i n stru ctor a n d
worke d h e r h a rd b oth i n a n d ou t of th e
b e d room . S h e b rou g h t th e b ottl e u p a n d i n to
h i s n e ck a n d scre a m e d a s th e sp ra y h i t h e r.
S h e n e v e r g o t th e b l o o d o u t o f h e r
c l o th e s o r th e i m a g e o u t o f h e r m i n d .
Th e cl e a n e r n e ve r fu l l y g ot th e wh i ske y
sta i n to d i sa p p e a r or th e b l ood ou t from
b e twe e n th e I ta l i a n ti l e s .
“Th e re you g o wh ore . Th a t’ s th e g oi n g
ra te . ” H e re a ch e d i n to h i s p ocke t a n d th re w a
fi fty d ol l a r b i l l d own wh e re th e wh i ske y wou l d
sta y u n ti l th e cl e a n i n g l a d y ca m e i n on F ri d a y.
H e s ti l l h a d n ’ t o p e n e d h i s e y e s a n d wa s
fe e l i n g h i m se l f fa l l a sl e e p wh e n th e b l ood
sta rte d sp u rti n g ou t of h i s h e a d from th e
s e c o n d b o ttl e . S h e h a d p l a y e d b a s e b a l l a t
s c h o o l wi th a s wi n g th a t th e b o y s u s e d c o m e to
l o o k a t . T h e y a l s o l o o ke d a t h e r t i g h t a s s a n d
h e r b l o n d e h a i r a n d s o m e o f th e m a t h e r s i z e b
b re a sts.
T h e b l o o d m i x e d w i t h t h e w h i s ke y i n a
tra i l to th e b a th room m i rror. H i s l ooks we re h i s
g ol d m i n e , h e cou l d n ’ t e n d u p d i sfi g u re d
b e c a u s e o f s o m e l u n a ti c b i tc h o f a wo m a n , wh o
som e h ow wa s sti l l wi th h i m a fte r h e r u se b y
d a te . H e fe l t a su cki n g sou n d a s h e p u l l e d ou t a
l a rg e p i e ce of g l a ss th a t wa s i n th e b i g g e st
g a sh . B l ood ra n d own th e si n k a n d on to th e
wh i te I ta l i a n ti l e s th a t con tra ste d b e a u ti fu l l y wi th
th e cri m son .
“You stu p i d b i tch , I h a ve th e fi n a l p a rt of
th a t fou r p a rt se t of se q u e l s com i n g u p a n d n ow
you h a ve d i sfi g u re d m e . ”
“You d e se rve d i t you a re n oth i n g b u t a n
u n fa i th fu l , b a l l scra tch i n g , b a sta rd ” .
S h e d u cke d a s h e swu n g a rou n d wi th
h i s fi st a i m i n g for th e b l on d e h a i re d fa ce b e h i n d
h i m i n th e g ol d p l a te d m i rror. H e r m a i n l ove r
The Round Up Writer's Zine | roundupzine.com v. 2-2 201 5
Frank McGivney writes all manner
of tales and poems with words that spring from
the depths of his imagination in the land of the
free where the Blackwater River flows, down to
the sea in Kells in Ireland, where once the
monks drew a book with inks and inspiration
from nature itself. Reach Frank at
[email protected]
20
So
1.
, I knew that my friend Irwin tended to panic in certain situations,
to take preemptive action before thinking a situation through. I remember
he called me late one December evening about five years ago­­he was very
drunk, had just stumbled back from the local tavern, and was screaming and
crying because when he got home he'd discovered large, furry tumors growing
out of his ears. He was inconsolable until I asked him whether he was
certain he'd taken off his earmuffs.
I was therefore more than a little skeptical when Irwin rang my phone
again only a few weeks ago­­also very late at night­­to inform me in
excited tones that he had just abducted a terrorist or renegade dictator
(he forgot which) who had been hiding undercover in the United States and
imprisoned the man in his basement.
Obviously, he was intoxicated, or lying, or tragically misinformed. Or
perhaps all three, which would summarize Irwin's everyday character rather
well. (I love him like a brother, you understand­­I can say these things.)
Anyway, I knew I couldn't have a real, sober conversation with Irwin at the
moment, so to get back at him for waking me I rather quickly decided to
humor my friend, play along with the joke. "Irwin," I asked, "have you done
your homework? Are you sure the person you abducted is a CURRENT enemy of
the United States? You know, in the topsy­turvy world of international
relations, a person who is considered an amoral terrorist one week may be
Grand Marshal at the White House Easter Egg Hunt the next."
"No," Irwin said, quite seriously. "He's a current enemy, all right. I
checked him out on Wikipedia."
Well, what could be more accurate than that? The answer: phrenology
and tea leaves, but I had to concede that at least Irwin had made an
effort. Not his bailiwick, making an effort. So it would seem that no
matter how addle­brained and misguided he was, Irwin was indeed serious.
I shrugged, though I was alone and no one could see it. There seemed
nothing to do then but hang up and head over to Irwin's house and
investigate what was happening.
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2.
The streets were deserted, dark, and cold. I rapped softly on Irwin's
door, and he opened it a crack one eye wide, as if wary of a late night
visit from Jehovah's Witnesses.
"It's cold," I said. "Let me in."
He took me down to the basement without delay. He had a man there all
right, trussed up with what appeared to be a jump rope. The jump rope
secured the man to a chair­­a metal one with a floral plastic cushion that
I recognized as being taken from the kitchen set upstairs­­and the chair
was wired to a metal floor joist.
I have to say the fellow looked mighty put out.
There was something white hanging from his mouth.
Irwin saw me looking and said, "Had to gag him to keep him quiet. He
was making all kinds of gibberish noises. Doesn't seem to know any
English."
"Inconsiderate foreigner," I said.
"Yeah."
I noticed then that there were little green stripes on the white
cloth.
"Irwin, I hope you didn't gag him with one of your used sweat socks.
Could be a violation of the Geneva convention."
Irwin gave me a little shove. "It was clean," he said.
I shoved him back and soon we were wrestling­­we've known each other
since we were little kids, and to be honest neither one of us has changed
much. Irwin's captive glared at us.
Irwin won the wrestling match. He always did; he outweighs me by fifty
pounds. Soon after I conceded, Irwin and I were sitting side­by­side on the
cold cellar floor, puffing for air. "What are you going to do with him?" I
asked, as soon as I was able.
"I am," Irwin said, struggling to his feet," going to give him one of
those secret trials. Then I'm going to execute him."
Irwin's captive might have claimed not to understand English, but I
could swear his eyes widened a bit at the mention of the word "execute." I
strolled over to get a closer look at him. He was disheveled and bearded,
not as swarthy as I would have thought. He flinched when I put my face near
his.
Playing for time, I sat back down, scratched my chin. After a while I
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22
said, "Know what? We should think this through step­by­step. First, I
think we're supposed to break his will."
"His will?"
"His will to live. You know, demoralize him. Like when the U.S.
Invaded Panama to arrest Noriega. Remember? He was hiding and they blared
Eminem songs at him until he was ready to kill himself."
Irwin thought for a moment. "I have that Kathie Lee Gifford Christmas
album that my mother gave me."
"Okay," I said. "Fair enough. So afterwards we'll set up a kangaroo
court."
"What's that, exactly?"
"Well," I said, in my best know­it­all tone, "kangaroos employed as
judges tend to pronounce severe sentences on those brought before them.
Especially pickpockets."
I found myself very funny, but Irwin didn't get it. He's like that.
"It's a fixed trial," I said, and that he understood.
3.
We turned up Kathie Lee really loud on the CD player and went out for
a while. Irwin decided that it would be too risky to bring in a bunch of
people to make up a jury, so we went down the street and woke up just one
person, Bill, a kind of lumpy guy Irwin knew who sometimes went drinking
with him. Irwin explained to Bill that he would be a judge, and all he had
to do was say "guilty" and "I sentence you to death" when he was pointed
to. "Okay," Bill said, "but I want a gavel." It seemed a reasonable
request, so when we got back to the Irwin's house­­Kathie Lee had done her
part, as the captive looked totally demoralized­­Irwin gave Bill a rubber
mallet he kept in his toolbox. Bill sat up on the washing machine with the
mallet and a six­pack. Next Irwin and I played rock­paper­scissors to see
who would be prosecutor. I won, even after Irwin insisted we do best of
three and best of five.
I stuck my thumbs under my armpits and made my speech: "The man­­and
I use that term advisedly­­that we have brought before you, your honor, is
well known to be vile scum, a foul besmirchment on the name of humanity.
He is an enemy of democracy and a would­be Hitler, or so I'm told. Do not
feel remorse when you find him guilty. Remember, as a judge and citizen of
the United States, you represent a SUPERIOR culture which must be deferred
to by less advanced peoples. If petty moral quibbling were the way to lead
the world, there wouldn’t be any Taco Bells in Switzerland. And there are.
Lots."
Irwin clapped, then remembered he was the defense attorney. He rose
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23
to his feet, put his thumbs in his armpits, like he'd seen me do. There
was a long pause. "I can't think of anything," he said. Irwin pointed to
Bill, who was taking a swig; he nearly spewed.
He pointed his mallet at the captive. "I find you guilty," he belched,
using a reasonably somber tone, though he spoiled it by giggling at the
end. "And I sentence you to death."
The captive's eyes did not widen, but he did make a kind of low grunting
sound.
4.
I talked Irwin into giving the man a last meal. I tried to ask the
captive what he wanted, but he refused to cooperate. Just moaned and
drooled a little.
I went to the internet and looked up the captive's home country to
see what their main dish was, but in the end we bought a bucket of
chicken, mostly because Irwin had no other food in the house. It was also
because the chicken place was the only eatery in the neighborhood open at
that hour­­with the exception of the all night diner, but unfortunately
Irwin and I had been banned from there (long story).
The captive wouldn't eat anyway, even after we untied his hands and
took the sock out. During a moment when Irwin and Bill both had their
backs turned, I faced the captive and showed him a certain facial
expression­­nodding my head slightly, turning down the corners of my
mouth, and slowly opening and closing my eyelids­­meant to convey the
message "Don't worry­­play along for a bit, and I'll find a way to get you
out of this." Granted, that's a lot of information for one brief facial
expression to convey, and I was not sure he understood. He locked his eyes
on mine and said something that sounded like "Gryzlep," but what was I
supposed to make of that?
5.
We decided to walk Bill home; Irwin thought it was best to have as
few witnesses as possible for the planned execution. Also, he said it
would give the captive a little time on his own to think things over.
Repent, or whatever.
I dawdled, but eventually we made it to Bill's house and pushed him
inside his doorway. On the trek back to Irwin's, I tried to imagine what
the evening had been like from Bill's perspective. Irwin and I woke him
out of a deep (drunken) sleep, gave him a mallet, made him act like a
judge sentencing a man to death, then sent him back home to bed.
He probably would think the whole thing was a sick dream.
Except that we had forgotten to take the mallet back.
When we returned to Irwin's basement, we found that the captive had
really been struggling against his bonds; the jump rope was cutting a
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24
little bit into the flesh of his arms.
Irwin decided the time had come to electrocute the guy. While he was
in the far corner of the basement with his face averted, endeavoring to
rig up something from the electrical panel, I silently approached the
captive and began trying to untie the ropes binding him. Irwin and I had
been Boy Scouts for three weeks about thirty years ago, and it was quickly
clear Irwin had remembered how to make strong knots. For some reason that
is the first thing the Scouts show new members­­how to tie different kinds
of knots in a rope. In retrospect, it seems an odd choice as top item on
an agenda for needy inner­city boys a world away from any boat or
campsite, but perhaps the rationale for it would have become clear later,
if the troop had not been disbanded (due, at least in part, to a crap game
Irwin had set up in the basement of the church where we met). Anyhow,
after much effort, I finally managed to pull the ends of the jump rope
apart, stealthily usher the captive up the cellar stairs and through the
cluttered kitchen, unlock the front door, and release the man out into the
cold night.
The captive did not say anything or look back. Just ran and ran.
I hesitated at the door before closing it, knowing I would have to
retreat downstairs again to face Irwin. He gets very petulant sometimes.
And I should say that I'm ninety­nine percent certain he would not have
had the nerve to execute the guy anyway, even if he genuinely intended to.
But let's face it: as exhausting as it might sometimes be to stir oneself
to intervene, guys like Irwin cannot be allowed to think they can make
decisions about other people's fates. Besides, let's say the captive
really were a terrorist on the lam, and I allowed Irwin to execute him.
Next thing you know, the neighborhood would be neck­deep in scruffy­
looking fanatics bent on revenge.
James W. Morris is a graduate of LaSalle University, where he was awarded a scholarship for
creative writing. He has published dozens of short stories, humor pieces, and essays in various literary
magazines, including PHILADELPHIA STORIES and ZAHIR. He has also written one play, RUDE BABY,
which was recently produced, and worked for a time as a joke writer for Jay Leno.
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25
Gary Rainford lives on Swan's Island year-round with his wife and daughter. His poetry, shaped by tides and saltwater, is
published in a wide range of literary magazines and university journals, including North Dakota Quarterly, Words and Images,
Aurorean, Omphalos, Kindred, and Blast Furnace. Gary was a featured poet on the Maine Poetry Express, at The Roundup Writer's
Zine, Artist-in-Residence in Acadia National Park, and received Topsham Public Library's Joy of the Pen 201 4 Poetry Honorable
Mention. Salty Liquor, published by North Country Press, is Gary's first full-length collection of poems. www.garyrainford.com
The Round Up Writer's Zine | roundupzine.com v. 2-2 201 5
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invisible
behind the shield
of a dirty car window
hot fries
burn my finger tips
ketchup cooling
them to tolerable temperatures
filling my mouth
with tepid mush
as communally
we feast upon and ingest
a slight, young man
his spotlight
comes on
and since we insist on watching
he gives us a show
wearing jeans so tight
they flaunt the straightness
that his hard strut
ticks and tocks
coercing his body
to form more womanly arcs
nudges and snickers
in his direction
in alliance of blanketed
superiority
in spite, by God!
still in spite
of soiled blue jeans
sweat-stained baseball caps
sun-painted necks
name patches sewn
onto tucked-in shirts
hugging overgrown bellies
without surrender
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their whiteness
a glaring reflection
in shiny wedding bands
that catch the same sun
illuminating
the picket fences
of their traditional institutions
while our wandering eyes
meet at the blonde, the brunette
same, yep, same
mid-level ponytails
flat boots, big scarves hang
loose round their necks
but our boy’s wearing boots
with more heel
and courage
than this plain ol’ Jane
and assembly line Becky
making the sidewalk
his catwalk
those boots were made
for sashaying
and they’ll dare you
to your face
to put him in a box
straight or gay
or a little of both
if you please
gobbling up
the spectacle
I cannot not stare
right along
with them
out of admiration
and curiosity
ashamed they’re not
equal parts
mixed like me,
I think, like him
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28
he’s more black than white
I think,
they think,
with dark hair curling up
to form a head full
of defiant O’s
big enough to fit several
ignorant questions
a surefire indicator
of racial tainting
along his way
or maybe he’s just
one of them
latino hispanics
pep talks fuel
his fluorescent walk
with a hard unswerving
beeline glare
as he parades into war
donning armor
made of fierceness
for routine errands
on a mission to pretend
not to notice the stones
of judgment and mockery
we cascade him with
the stones that he’ll turn
to diamonds
covering himself
in blinding brilliance
on his solo journey down
Saturday afternoon
MD Marcus
is a freelance writer and poet living in the past. She equally enjoys pumping Dolly
Parton and Cash Money Millionaires while riding around in her 1 999 Toyota Avalon. Her profile articles can be
found in Simply Elevate Magazine and on PBSNet, and her poetry has been featured in the Red Dashboard
Publishing anthology, “dis-or-der,” as well as in Calliope Magazine. Please read everything she writes and go
to her website www.mdmarcus.com. Amen
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29
A
kept a safe radius from Cliff. Demoted from adult
matters after having a bout of delirium that went
all twelve head-rattling rounds, Cliff was left to
watch little Jimmy and answer endlessly questions
about Grandpa’s "orbituary."
s if the earth stopped trying to fling
everyone off with its thousand mile-per-hour
rotation, the sunrise held in the sky and
precipitated a sense of serenity. Oblivious to the
reprieve and with his head still spinning to keep
"Your father did the same thing, you
up with the world, Cliff cut right through this
know?" said an aunt or cousin who was distant in
distilled meaningfulness to answer the phone.
both relation and miles.
He was rushing to the job that had taken
him two towns away from his childhood home
and was slightly annoyed to find his father on
the other end.
"It’s really wonderful, you know?" the old
man beamed, transmitting the sunrise straight
through the earpiece.
"Wha?" Cliff asked, still having trouble
completing full words four days after the phone
call.
"When your grandfather died, your father
also had a bit of a breakdown. He claimed that
your grandfather had called him at 2:00 A.M. the
night he died in his sleep."
Shielded from this sudden warmth by a
"So you believe me?" Cliff asked hopefully.
mind clouded from a late night with little Jimmy "Maybe it’s hereditary--that the men in my family
and the approaching workday, Cliff sighed, "Dad, know when they’re going to die."
is this an emergency?"
Stiffening as if insanity was contagious and
"I am going to die, Cliff," his father said
Cliff just sneezed, the woman said, "I believe you
with such certainty that the fact seemed
are feeling the same guilt your father did about not
mundane.
being close enough to his father. That guilt is not
necessarily passed through genetics."
"Dad, it’s way too early for this kind of
conversation. I will stop by after work, okay?"
Suspecting that this woman was a social
worker ready to lead this wake into a mental
"No," his father had replied after one of
health intervention, Cliff said, "Any guilt about my
his famous silences, "It’s not too early. It’s too
relationship with my dad would be normal. His
late."
attempt to reach out to me on the day he died of
natural causes is not normal. The fact that I wasn’t
At the funeral that weekend, everyone
there for him cannot be described by something
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30
as normal as 'guilt.'"
in an "orbituary" that they could write together
when Cliff got a call from Jim.
Cliff was talking through the restraint of
"You didn't miss that plane did you?" Cliff
clenched teeth. With Jimmy bouncing on his lap,
asked in lieu of a greeting. "I told you, I really
he looked like an angry ventriloquist act. The
need to see you today."
woman cradled her tearful, knowing eyes in a
bittersweet smile.
"Don't worry, Dad, I made the flight. Just
"Closeness between people shouldn’t be promise me you won't blame yourself, okay?" Jim
soothed. "I woke up this morning and just knew
measured in physical distance," she said, and
it."
Cliff gave Jimmy an involuntary squeeze.
"People move around each other in circles that
"Jim, are you on the plane? You shouldn't
never overlap completely. But that’s living.
be using your phone on the plane, right?" Cliff's
There’s no point feeling bad about it."
concern was being tipped into the early stages of
But life moved on, and Cliff continued to panic by the chaos hissing in the background.
Voices were volleying this panic around the cabin
feel bad about this movement.
in sharp, rapid-fire echoes.
He did not hold onto Jimmy tight enough,
Flying over Cliff's pain in a cloud of
and the boy went bouncing along the Earth’s
serenity, Jim mused, "It's really wonderful, you
surface like a skipping stone, first across the
state to college and then across the country for know?"
a job. Cliff’s grandchildren grew in leaps,
Always curious about what his father might
strangers every time they arrived for their
have told him, Cliff asked numbly, "What is?"
biannual visits.
Then, on a Saturday morning that he
could tell was beaming in meaningful brilliance
in Jim’s time zone, Cliff was struck with the
exact same feeling he had the morning his
father died.
“The way everything moves around and
around in an unending dance. Tell my kids about
it when they’re old enough."
"I wish I could be there with you," Cliff said,
his voice quivering as if on the unsteady footing
between understanding and despair.
Determined not to let his son repeat his
mistake, Cliff got on the phone. Though he was
"You don’t want to be here," Jim assured
unsure if he had the physical reserves to make
the trip to Jim’s place, Cliff did find the financial him with an ironic laugh.
reserves to purchase airfare and the reserves of
"I mean, I wish you could be here."
uncashed favors and guilt to cajole Jim onto the
next plane home.
"Dad,” Jim smiled, "I’m here."
Disposing of all of his disposable income
THE END
on the last-minute plane ticket was not as
depressing as he expected. Cliff wanted to leave
an inheritance or a legacy for his children, but
bridging the physical distance with his son was
worth decades of struggle in the job that had
wedged him away from his own father at the
end.
is a small-town criminal
Nathan Witkin
He had just sat down to consider
everything he wanted to tell his son and include
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defense attorney, a notable innovator in the field of
conflict resolution, and an MMA cage fighter. He lives
in Marion, Ohio, where he cannot get a date to save
his life.
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