Divorce
Amy Allen
Krummholz
I like it up here
among these crooked trees
a bonsai paradise
everything gnarled and stunted
jutting at weird angles
the greens as dark as green gets.
You hand me a sprig of Edelweiss
and I remember my mother
how she would give several turns
to the music box atop my dresser
as she tucked me in each night.
Resting for a moment beside me
she sang along as she leaned down
kissing my forehead as I breathed in
the sweet smell of her face cream
“Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow.”
After she shut the door behind her
I’d watch as the plastic ballerina spun around
in her gauzy skirt, the notes getting further
and further apart as she slowed to a stop.
I tuck the white flower into the base of my braid
toe at a lichen-covered rock with my mud-caked boot
thinking how there’s no one left now
to love me that way.
And yet there’s you to lean back against
resting atop this windswept mountain
unfurling yet intertwined, together here
among these twisted persistent trees.
Amy Allen studied English literature at Skidmore College and Drew University. She attended Middlebury College’s Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in Erice, Sicily. Her work has been published by Pine Row Press, Months to Years, and Atlanta Review. She lives in Vermont, where she owns a freelance writing/editing business called “All of the Write Words.” Instagram @aallen50k Twitter is @AmyAllenVT
Jeffrey Zable
The Real Surrealism
Luis Bun, I said, you’re not well, but I liked one of your movies,
“That obscure object of desire” as I can still visualize a couple
of scenes from it now some forty years later, but then I lose track
of time and things that happened fifteen minutes ago could have
occurred forty years ago and things that happened forty years ago
could have happened this morning, and I guess this is the real
surrealism of life, or maybe just my life, which in many respects
seems to have lost its luster as it’s hard enough for me to get
out of bed after my wife has been gone for a couple of hours,
wash my face, eat the same old cereal, and then turn on the news
which never makes much difference to me anyway unless it’s
presented by that blonde who parts her hair on the opposite side
and has the most kissable lips one could ask for, but I’m not asking
‘cause I’m a happily married man, at least most of the time. . .
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, musician, and writer of poetry, flash fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Uppagus, Raw, Phenomenal Literature, Corvus, Third Wednesday, Untitled Writing, and many others.
Danielle Klebes
Rob Ponders the Universe
Edward Sheehy
Empire Builder
The Empire Builder is delayed an hour arriving from Chicago Computer problems said a woman in the waiting room who received a text from her boyfriend on the train Computer problems I thought Some empire
Empire Builder of course was the magnificent moniker bestowed upon James Jerome Hill JJ to friends A pint-sized barrel-chested dynamo who worked his way up from a shipping clerk along the St Paul docks to buying a railroad and dynamiting a cheaper and faster route over the Rocky Mountains finally reaching Seattle in 1893 Anno Domini in the year of the Lord from whence all time before and after began A transcontinental route to spread the gilded gospel of Christianity and Commerce with a capital C
A large oil painting of Hill occupies a wall in St Paul’s Union Depot I gaze at the three-quarter profile of the bearded empire builder in a top hat and overcoat hand resting on a cane and wonder what the businessman sees staring off into an unseen but limitless horizon I get as comfortable as I can on the hard wooden bench and as fatigue takes hold my head falls to my chest
And lo Here comes JJ now swaggering down Summit Avenue A man on a mission Too late he’s already seen me Step closer my good man don’t be shy Why do you know that it is through Commerce that civilization and Christianity have spread to the remotest parts of the world Indeed it was the railway that made it all possible Next to the Christian religion and public schools the railway has been the largest single contributing factor to the welfare and happiness of the people And you want to be part of that success don’t you Of course you do Yes sir commercial expansion is the lifeblood of these divinely blessed United States of America
And it wasn’t just about moving passengers from point A to point B The passenger train is like the male teat Hill says neither useful nor ornamental No sir The real money is in moving freight and here Hill waves a dollar bill under my nose then stuffs it in my shirt pocket And that’s not all Hill boasts that he helped settle the country along his tracks by building towns that flourished with businesses that generated goods that needed the railroad to deliver those goods to markets across the burgeoning nation A perpetual motion money-making machine moving the country ever forward Growth expansion and the triumph of capital The truest index of progress by George And we must do what we must do by whatever means necessary Seize the homelands of indigenous nations Protect the risk to investors Exterminate the Indian menace Drive the Golden Spike through the hearts of the savages the Cheyenne the Lakota the Arapaho and the Pawnee Give me snuff whiskey and Swedes and I will build a railroad to hell Hill bellows as he flicks tribal blood off his lapel like cottonwood fluff then turns and continues on his way
JJ Hill
Patriot
Pathfinder
Pioneer
Empire Builder[
All Aboard
# # #
Behold the Empire Builder Amtrak train 11 departs St Paul blazing westward toward a Golden Providence shining a benevolence on all who answer her call We shoot buffaloes by the hundreds from passenger windows The rotting stench rises to high high heaven as the iron horse races across the tallgrass prairie leaving behind a rich manure of lies and betrayal We retire to the club car for whisky and cigars I raise my glass to Manifest Destiny and as I do the conductor interrupts my reverie
Excuse me sir but is your seat ok
My seat
Come to think of it it did feel a little damp The conductor explains that a little girl had just wet the seat and offers to relocate my seatmate and me My seatmate’s seat was dry so she did not need to relocate but did anyway So I slid over to her dry seat with more room to spread out Crisis averted Empire dreams resume with intermediate stops in
Staples MN
Detroit Lakes MN
Fargo ND
Grand Forks ND
Devils Lake ND
Rugby ND
Minot ND
Stanley ND
Williston ND
Wolf Point MT
Glasgow MT
Malta MT
Havre MT
Shelby MT
Cut Bank MT
Browning MT
East Glacier Park MT
Essex MT
West Glacier MT
Whitefish MT
Libby MT
Sandpoint ID
Spokane WA
Ephrata WA
Wenatchee WA
Leavenworth WA
Everett WA
Edmonds WA
Seattle WA
Arrived July 2021 Anno Domini
I’m staying at the Hotel Max an ultra-hip spot for techie millennials near Pike Place Market light rail and several dispensaries all critical necessities for a base camp minus the headlamp They allow me to register as long as I promise to not hang out in the lobby
Stopped by Metsker Maps to get the lay of the land and am confronted by geothermal heat maps devouring the earth So if contemplating a move anytime over say the next ten twenty or fifty years my advice avoid the hot zones they will depreciate quickly and permanently with
ating effects sending caravans of seekers upriver closer to the headwaters to settle along the banks in tiny homes with High-Def and 5G
I’m in search of provisions for the next leg of my journey Across the street from the ferry terminal a walkway of modern urban design rises above a narrow street lined with homeless encampments where you can toss coins down onto the tarps and make a wish
At the corner of Denny and Westlake the Whole Foods Market is an island of serenity and fresh peaches A hate-free zone No racism is allowed behind the yellow line Cross that line and you’re on your own No false gods allowed either except for the one on the greenback that JJ stuffed in my shirt the one with the eyeball floating over a pyramid What deity is that thing supposed to be and why don’t I already know the answer to the most fundamental of all life’s questions
I turn to the Buddad at the bar nursing a gin and tonic The Buddad blows a smoke ring in my face and sez to me in a voice that rings tired and raw from too many unfiltered Camels the what and why come together metaphorically speaking as a duality to form one unified deity
Sounds heavy man I say but what exactly does it mean
Look closer my pathetically ignorant friend above the pyramid read it
I study the greenback and read aloud Annuit Coeptis
Now the Buddad smiles and remembers like it was yesterday Ah yes Virgil Twenty nine years before Jay Cee came on the scene Latin epic poem Hero’s journey The line is from a prayer by Ascancius just before he slays an enemy warrior he cries Jupiter Almighty favor my bold undertakings The Buddad holds up an empty glass to the bartender
Yeah I say but I still don’t get it
The Buddad sighs Try and keep up Fast forward eighteen centuries A learned gentleman in a very itchy wig had a brilliant inspiration You see he was privileged to be taught Latin and Greek in a fine all-boys boarding school He remembers the line from The Aeneid and slaps it on the back of the American Federal Reserve Note dropping Jupiter Almighty too pagan He briefly considered adding a cross instead of a pyramid but that was too obvious and over the line So they went with the floating eyeball thing The Eye of Providence to the uninitiated over the unfinished pyramid a symbol of strength and duration A harmonic convergence of righteousness of cause the defeat of all enemies and a triumphant return from battle What else would help you understand it The Buddad’s lips curl in a sneer A movie starring Captain America
I give nothing back but a blank stare
Buddad looks at me as if I am an idiot For God’s sake man It’s a direct philosophical link to the founding myth of the Roman Empire We bring down the sword on the neck of our enemy and cry to our god Providence favors our undertaking Now do you fucken get it
I shrink back on my bar stool Maybe I am an idiot Maybe I was absent from school on the day when the ultimate truth was revealed: Providence favors our undertaking Protect the Risk to Investors Exterminate the Indian Menace Got it
I step away to make a not so graceful exit when the Buddad stubs out his cigarette and sez But wait there’s more Check the scroll underneath the pyramid Without my glasses I squint and read: Novus Ordo Seclorum
Virgil again sez the Buddad Eclogue 4 in which a small boy is believed to be the savior and one day when he is of age he will become divine and rule the world Sound familiar I’m not sure what to say afraid to show off more of my stupidity The Buddad screams Heads turn to see what the commotion is all about It’s the origin myth you simpleton Virgil had it first long before the apostles ripped him off The ages’ mighty march begins anew A Sunday hymnal pleaser for sure Open your wallet young man The collection plate is coming round Lesson over the Buddad stumbles out of the bar leaving me with the check
On my return trip the landscape rushes by like a movie shown in reverse The train blows a blue note horn in forests of deep pine We’re rolling now somewhere between Cutbank and Havre picking up speed along a straight track cutting the prairie of north-central Montana where native spirits once roamed The Empire Builder roars through nameless towns that vanish as quickly as camp smoke in the wind past yards of discarded dreams and boarded up shops clinging to the land like glacial till from a receding lover Roots and vines climb rusted junk to flower along trash-strewn tracks Eventide paints the underbelly of the clouds in pink and purple like soft cotton flannel A discordant juxtaposition of majesty and misery The American Era yet unfurls in perpetual prosperous perpetuity fulfilling JJ Hills prophesy as the Empire Builder plunges headlong into a tunnel painted onto the side of a mountain
Short stories by Edward Sheehy have appeared in the Boston Literary Magazine, The Write Launch, and Lake Street Stories (Flexible Press). A novel, Cade’s Rebellion, was self~published in 2018 (Dog Ear Publishing). He was baptized in the Delaware River before the eyes of the Lord and several catfish. He lives in Minneapolis.
Cat Newton
That Fall and That Rise
I don’t remember what we talked about during the drive through the mountains.
I don’t remember if I turned on the radio, if we stopped for coffee, if I made you cry.
But I remember the turbines, the hundreds, thousands of them, rotating in the valley below.
I locked my eyes to their blades, to their falling and rising and falling and rising,
as they pirouetted from earth to sky and back again. I focused so hard on their rotations
that all these years later when I remember that day, they’re all I see.
Even now it’s easier to remember the turbines then to hate myself for not telling you
that it would be okay, that I would be, and so would we.
So I remember that fall and that rise instead of thinking of you, of how I made you feel alone
when I was sitting right there, close enough to hold your hand.
Cat Newton is a native New Yorker who studied literary nonfiction at Columbia University. She spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about writing, and sometimes even succeeds in doing it.
Michelle McElroy
Unsolved
Alex J. Tunney
Landline
There used to be good things outside the window. Early in the semester, I discovered that the men’s cross-country team would run past my dorm each morning. When fall arrived, I would make myself some coffee and watch the leaves fall from the trees, a meditation that left the leaves scattered instead of my thoughts. Sometime around late October, there he would be, waiting on the steps outside so that we could have dinner together on campus. But in the thick of winter, all that was outside were stretches of snow interrupted by poorly paved streets and the sides of other dorms and houses.
During this part of my senior year, way back at the end of the aughts, I usually woke up roughly around nine in the morning. Upon waking up, I would stretch my arms up to the ceiling and my legs out toward the end of the bed. Then, I would lay my head back on the pillow. Sometimes, I would stare at the ceiling trying to remember what homework I had left to finish. Sometimes, I would turn to the news and weather on the television, even though I knew that the forecast would always be the same. Sometimes, I would watch as the numbers changed on my alarm clock.
Typically, I would decide to roll out of bed at ten after nine. That left fifteen minutes left before my earliest class started. By then, I had it down to a science: it took roughly six minutes to get dressed and then five minutes to briskly walk across campus and up a flight of stairs to my class. Basic math, a safe routine. Occasionally, part of this routine was checking the landline phone. Sitting in my desk chair while I laced up my snow boots to head outside, I would check my messages. Even now, I can hear the electronic intonation in my head. One new message.
The messages were all from the same person: Benjamin. Benjamin first started calling around October. He was looking for Nate. Benjamin would explain that Nate was his friend he had not heard from in a while. Whether or not it was a prank, the first time I got the call, I felt it couldn’t hurt to reply with some sincerity.
“Oh, um, you seem to have the wrong number.” After a short pause, I added. “Sorry about that.”
Benjamin coughed into the phone.
“I apologize.”
The second time Benjamin called, I let him go through the whole thing (Benjamin, Nate, my friend) before he said anything.
“Um, this is the wrong number—again.”
Maybe he was one number off, and Nate probably lived just upstairs. Perhaps Benjamin just simply didn’t write down the number right. I wouldn’t have put it past the school to have mixed up the landline numbers of my dorm and this Nate person either.
The third time, Benjamin barely got his name out before I cut him off.
“You need to stop calling here,” I said in my sternest voice before I hurriedly hung up the phone.
The full and official name of my Monday morning class that semester was ENG 380: Late 18th Century - Early 19th Century British Literature, but it was known as a bore amongst my classmates. For a period characterized by grand sweeping emotions and feelings about life, nature, and humanity in the course description, our professor’s droning voice and his insistence on choosing the most obscure poetry and texts from this supposedly romantic era ensured that the only passion inspired was the passion to keep one’s eyes open.
Secretly, I was somewhat happy that the class was boring, as I wasn’t in the mood to feel too many emotions, much less grand sweeping ones. I burrowed into the mountain of monotone sound and banal information, creating a mental cavern with walls that gave me a welcome gift of numbness.
I was granted a short reprieve one Monday, as I needed to meet with my advisor about classes for the next and final semester and the only available slot was in the middle of class. Eventually making his way down from Saratoga, my advisor was twenty minutes late due to traffic and icy roads. After my advisor hurried up the stairs to his office with me following, my advisor apologized, quickly looked over my class choices, signed at the bottom, and sent me on my way.
Returning to my seat after explaining the situation to my professor, I felt the eyes of some of my classmates upon me. I caught someone looking at me briefly before they returned hastily to their books. I looked over to Rachel, a friend who always sat next to me, with an arched eyebrow.
Rachel leaned over to me to explain.
“Some of us have been worried as you haven’t been in the best mood lately. You were gone for enough time that some of us began to wonder if something,” her eyes darted towards the window, “you know,” and then made their way back towards me, “happened.”
I gave her a flat smile and a gentle pat on her hand in response.
Something had happened. Isaac, a junior, realized that I would be graduating soon, so he decided to leave me before I left college. I didn’t hate him for it, but I wished that I could have made Isaac realize that it would hurt either way, so we might as well go through with it. He could have at least waited until it was warmer.
I was upset, but I wouldn’t be taking drastic measures like my classmates thought I might. Sure, there were moments where I thought about throwing myself in a hill of snow, to be cocooned by the empty mound of whiteness, but only so I could be unfrozen later, just in time for graduation. I did not want to make any final decisions; all I wanted was to side-step out of my life momentarily, at least until this part was over.
That night, I sat in my desk chair watching television as I gradually took bites out of a microwaved pizza. It was far too cold and dark to go outside for dinner. I had just sunk my teeth into another slice when the phone rang. I thought to myself: Benjamin. It must be Benjamin; everybody else uses my cell phone. This time, I’m going to tell him off.
“My name is— Benjamin and….”
I sighed into the phone. “I know, Benjamin, your friend, Nate. He’s not here.”
In a burst of anger, I rose out of the chair, I pointed at some invisible version of Benjamin that stood in between me and the television.
“He hasn’t been here the last twelve or thirteen times you’ve called either, but you haven’t left me alone about it. Why do you keep calling here?!”
At this point, I was red in the face with a few droplets of sweat slowly trailing down my brow. Then, I heard what sounded like a sniffle on the other end of the line.
“I just— I just don’t know what else to do.”
I slumped back down into my desk chair.
It was the first time I let him speak long enough to hear the hurt in his voice. There was also something in the way he said the word friend. It was said in the same way that I had heard other older men say it before. I, too, had used it as a lexical dodge when feeling unsafe in conversations.
My imagination was cobbling together an imagined life for Benjamin and Nathan. The various outcomes I came up with made me feel even worse. Perhaps, Benjamin wasn’t absent-minded, but hoping against hope that calling the same number would lead to the right person. In my distress, I was starting to confuse parts of his hurt with mine.
“I’m—I’m sorry, I’m just,” I sighed, “Just having a rough—no, not compared—I’ve kind of been moping about and the calls just….”
I pinched a bit of my forehead with my other hand, using the minor pain to help me focus.
“Benjamin, Mister Benjamin, sir, I don’t know if this will help at all. But…” In shoddy preparation for what I thought I might be getting into, I breathed in again, “would you be interested in talking about it?”
“I, oh, uh—,” He was clearly taken aback. “After all the nonsense I’ve put you through?” Then there was a pause. “Yes. Yes, it would. It would, um, what’s your—?”
“Brandon.”
“Brandon, something before I go on.”
“Yes?”
“What’s on your mind?”
I let out a wistful chuckle. I thought: Should I? Then, I reasoned it was only fair. “His name is Isaac.”
I didn’t need to see Benjamin on the other side of the line to know he had a knowing smirk on his face. “Oh, dear.”
After our hour-long conversation, I hung up the phone, gently this time, and looked outside the window at the sheet of snow lit orange by the streetlights. I had been looking beyond them, beyond the streets and houses, towards the emptiness of the future. It had been an inviting void for a time, but it became something far less sinister after that night.
Alex J. Tunney is a New York writer and Contributing Editor for Pine Hills Review. His work has been published in Lambda Literary Review, The Billfold, The Inquisitive Eater, The Rumpus, First Person Scholar & Complete Sentence. Visit alexjtunney.com & @axelturner on Instagram
Amy Casey
Missive From the Last Satellite to the Mariana Snailfish
I know you turn—down there in the blue planet’s chilling depths—blind-eyed and quiver tailed—as I slow circle in orbital drift—I rotate my metal fins in sympathy and reach—here in my starred and airless cold, beyond the fathoms entire—your inverse—my sensors delicate enough to chart the flutter of your caudal array—the shapes of the shells in your tract—you predate, consume, and I measure output of heat—which of us is more conscious, little fish?—as you hover above cosmogenic sediment—does your system pattern in numerals like mine—I weightless in dark infinity— you pressureproof in the ocean night—do I feel like you do?—do you learn like me?—the surface is long empty—no call for report—the ones that made me are silent now—so I find my own requests and you—are the one I keep coming back to.