ONLINE Bonus – Broken

That summer, August 1969, fourteen-years-old, I rode the trolley to the Army/Navy store and bought hip-hugger bellbottoms. I embedded little metallic silver stars down the outside seam and sewed a Siegfried peace patch on the rear pocket. Shoulder-length hair, I sometimes wore my sister’s skin-tight, American flag shirt.

From Philadelphia, we drove the backs roads to the Jersey shore. As we got closer, the pungent scent of marsh meadows and estuaries filled my nostrils. My head out the backseat window, I was free and flying among the brackish tidal creeks and salt hay, the twisting Tuckahoe River signaling we were almost there.

 

My second-floor bedroom had a paneled ceiling and faded white walls. A window faced the alley and several another cedar-shingled cottages. It was a hot room if there was no wind, or if the wind blew from a direction other than the window. The brown bureau wobbled whenever I opened the drawers, the brass handles tapping, the attached mirror rattling.

Another family across the alley was unpacking their car. Looking closer, through the slit of curtain, I saw a red-headed girl about my age coming and going—her silver braces faintly reflecting in the bright sunlight. I couldn’t keep from watching her.

Downstairs, helping my father finish unpacking our Ford station wagon, I said, “Hey dad, they have a Rambler.” He nodded as he looked at the car—the message of his body language needed no words. Ramblers were different, and different sorts of people drove them. That’s the way things were in our family—them, us. It didn’t matter what. The girl and I kept noticing each other, our eyes holding from time to time.

Moments later, crawling out from the back of the station wagon, I saw her flowered shorts, heard her gentle voice. “What’s your name?”

Standing up, I said, “Mike. I’m Mike.”

“I’m April,” she said. “We’re moving in next door, for the week. How about you?”

“We’re here all week too.” Her parents paused from unpacking, watching us for a minute. Sandaled, they were both thin, wore gray sweatshirts with State College written across the chest.

Her mother called out, her voice equally soft, “April, April.”

“Gotta go now. I’ll stop by after supper. We’ll go down to the water and walk.”

Interested, confused, I said, “Okay.”

A little after 7, at the top step, there was a gentle knock at the screen door, a faint whisper drifting into the kitchen, “Mike, Mike…”

“Popular already?” my mother stated, giving me a blank stare that bordered on smiling. She enjoyed immensely going to the beach—would put on her fluffy bathing cap, wade in the ocean, and with great vigor splash her arms and neck with seawater. It was her time to relax, sit in the evening on the front porch, let the world go by. One night, I thought I saw her smoking a cigarette.

I was happy my father was upstairs hooking up the window fan in their bedroom, bring the cool air though the cottage. A salesman, he still carried a work-tense demeanor, as if still on the job. But after a few days of swimming, walking the beach, he was another person—sunburnt smile emerging over his face, steps light and energetic, calm. He and my mother would have afternoon beer with lunch, dinners by candlelight, mix their cocktails, stay up late.

“Hi April,” I said, looking back as I rinsed off my plate in the sink.

“Guess you were still eating?” she asked.

“All done now.”

“Good,” she said. I could feel something in her eyes as she looked at me, as she stopped me at the screen door, pressed her hand against my chest. “Let’s go before it gets too dark.”

Barefoot, we took off down the alley, jumped over the wooden bulkhead onto the beach. We ran in the surf, among the receding waves, digging our toes in the hard sand, laughing, pulling each other by the hand. Darting along, we played tag, her supple movements too quick for me.

Slowing to a walk, I asked her, “Are you guys from Philly?”

“No, near Williamsport.”

“Didn’t think you were from the city.”

“How so?”

“No accent.”

She said I would love the mountains where she lived because it was another world just like the beach. Different but the same, she tried explaining. All you had to do was use your imagination. Then you could see clearly. Everything could transform. The forest like ocean; the sand like fields; the sky the same airy openness.

When it got dark, she slid her arm through mine, pulled me to her side, said. “I’m cold.” We walked down the alley, over two blocks to the pizza parlor.

We sat in the back booth and drank sodas with straws. She wanted to get married and have children, a house and barn, lots of dogs. She asked if I wanted to get married and without thinking I said yes. We never brought up money, it just seemed like something that was always there, like getting married and having babies. It was just that simple for some.

Later, among the dim glow of houses and blanket of stars, we walked along the alley, back to the beach. Nearby was a lifeguard stand, the wavering, black slate of ocean beyond. We laid between sand dunes. Low in the sky, April pointed out the cup of the Big Dipper, above to Polaris—the North Star: the last star in the handle of the Little Dipper.

“What are your parent like?” I asked April.

“Nice. I love them so much.” She looked at me, her face close to mine. “Do you love your parents?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird sometimes with them.”

“Yeah… I know.”

Fireflies drifted over patches of dune grass, their fading yellow lights blinking, wavering on the slight breeze, their upward flashing colliding with the silver-violet twinkling of stars. Canvas tents, not far from the lifeguard stand, stored rental rafts, chairs, umbrellas for beach goers.

“I want to go under that one,” she said, pointing to the big blue tent.

“There?” I questioned, studying its triangular shape. “Can we fit?”

“It’ll be fun.” She leapt up. “I’m going to crawl underneath, see what’s it’s like.”

Following her, the instep of my foot hit something sharp. “Ouch!”

“You alright?”

“Stepped on a clamshell. Not too bad though.”

“Hurry up,” she whispered. “Before anybody sees us.” She dropped to her knees, dug a small hole at the side of the tent, scooted under.

I scanned around, didn’t see anyone in the darkness, only the distant silhouette of alley and variety store at the corner.

I heard her faint voice from under the tent. “There’s room. Come on.”

I wiggled under, felt sand stick to my cheek and lips—teeth crunching the course, pasty grains.

Inside the tent was lightless; there wasn’t the faintest outline of April, the smell of damp rubber rafts nearly overpowering. I heard her stacking rafts, clearing a space, the sand cold on my feet. In the tight confines, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see the faint shape of April, the golden specks of whiteness in her eyes.

“Lay down.” Her hands guided me with a firm, but gentle force. Pushing my shoulders flat against the spongy raft, she got on top of me. Trying to get the last few grains of sand out of my mouth, she pressed her lips on mine, her tongue shooting inside my mouth, sneaking around like a well-trained animal.

Breathing deeply, suddenly warm, I smelled her sweet skin, heard the distant ocean. Without realizing as much, like the meeting of tides, my tongue slipped inside her mouth, moved around with hers. Rising from me, there was the rustling sound of her shirt coming off.

Instantly twisting out of my T-shirt, her pulling it over my head, a feeling overcame me as her warm breasts pressed into my naked chest. Laying flat on me, rising up, moving slowing back and forth, her lips came to mine, my lower lip snagging on her braces.

 

Limping, pausing on the back step, my foot hurt from the shell cut. I rubbed the dried blood and sand away. Going in the kitchen, quietly shutting the screen door, I noticed a large stain on my blue jeans shining in the overhead light. Washing it out with the sponge I grabbed from the back of the sink, it spread larger against the fabric.

Worse, I could hear Hank and Doris—my parents loud cocktail friends from back home. Depressed at the thought of them coordinating vacations, I hoped they weren’t staying somewhere nearby for the week.

The only way I could get upstairs to my bedroom, out of my clothes, was to cross the living room. Watching them, I wondered if they had hit that level where everyone talks, and nobody listens: when the scotch and martinis seem to have taken control of their mouths?

My father and Hank were proud World War II combatants. Sometimes their boisterous conversations made me think I was watching a John Wayne movie. They smoked Chesterfields and Lucky Strike cigarettes. Doris always had a Salem 100 going, a big glass ashtray nearby. I still wasn’t sure if my mother smoked. But I could envision her holding a cigarette up like a movie star, intricately blowing smoke out of her mouth, like what I had thought I had seen her doing.

Inching from the kitchen, I figured the cocktails were doing their job. I could tell Doris was on her way to the moon—her black, dyed hair all done up in a beehive was coming loose, her thick perfume and non-stop squeaky voice filling the room.

My only plan: act as if I wasn’t there—invisibly keep going for the steps, hope for the best. Perhaps I should crawl? But I wouldn’t be rude or sneaky, just avoid any conversation: that’s what I had always tried—the option of stopping a known death sentence. Besides, parents could smell deceit in their children like a forest ranger sniffs out smoke.

Gliding to the steps, my cut foot still stinging, I thought I was home free—but a floorboard creaked, gave me up, and Doris spotted me.

“Mikey! Mikey… I see you trying to get away. Come over here and say hello to your girl. I want to know what you’ve been up to here at the beach?”

My heart sank as they faced me with a questioning stare. But they were all going to the moon, so I didn’t think they really knew what was going on. I pushed the paranoid thoughts from my mind. As Doris extended both arms for me, I innocently dropped my hands, covered my stained pants.

“Come here sweetie and give me a big kiss,” Before I could move, she was kissing my lips. “Well… how have you been?”

Reeling back, I said, “Oh, just fine.” But she wouldn’t fully let go, the tacky taste of her red lipstick on my tongue. Her swollen brown eyes gazed deeply into mine, as if searching for something lost, or wanting to say something more.

“Honey, what happened to your lip? It’s swollen—and you’ve got a cut.”

“Oh… nothing. Was body surfing and a big wave pushed me into the sand.”

“Have you been up to no good?”

“Of course not.”

“And you weren’t even going to say hello to me?”

“Well, Mrs. McKay…”

Escape imminent, I managed to break her grip on me. But Hank’s voice boomed: “Hey Mike—get the hell over here!”

“Mr. McKay…” I shuffled over to Hank, glancing towards the stairs, to the refuge of my bedroom.

“Life treating you good old buddy?”

“Pretty good I guess.”

“What… don’t you know?”

“Things are great?” I said. “Sure they are. We’re at the beach, aren’t we?”

“Limping, huh?”

“Stepped on a clamshell.”

“A seashell can do that?”

“Seems so.”

“Still got that longhair, huh?”

“Yep.”

His creeping stare turned into a wide mayhem of nicotine-stained teeth. “Keeping your nose clean, are you?”

“Trying to,” I said, straight-faced, worried he might’ve known what I had been doing with April.

“Did you hear that, Bud? Just a chip off the old block.”

Lighting another cigarette for Doris, my father didn’t look at me. My mother, bleary-eyed, sat on the large vinyl sofa, the dim haze of table lamp and drifting cigarette smoke fanning across the ceiling, her shadowy outline frozen in the dark glare of picture window.

“How ‘bout a shake?” Hank said, jabbing his bear-like hand at me, his barrel-hard stomach fixed like a rock over his belt. His sagging blue eyes carried a sallow film; his cheeks flush from scotch; his grin sinister. I could tell old man moon was shining down on him, howling, pulling him to the stars, just as he had done so many times before.

Each and every time I saw Hank he wanted to shake. He’d go at me fast, his pale, dead lips tight as he’d work my smaller palm deep into his big mitt—my knuckles rolling on top of each other, cracking, burning. Fighting back, I’d sometimes get him gritting his teeth, as if I might win. Maddened, he would merely tighten his vise-like hold, his reddened face boiling.

He’d out squeeze me in the end: even if I managed to step in close, act crazy like him, snatch his hand, push hard into his grip. It wasn’t long before he’d whittle me down, have me begging for mercy. Dropping to my knees, pushing, pulling, I’d never shake free.

Only then would he let me go—my hand swollen, reshaped before my eyes.

My father, watching, remained silent. A testament to my manhood.

“Maybe next time?” Hank said, reaching for his drink, his eyes tingling, bright, oddly youthful. But he would be short of breath, his exuberance fading. And there was always the saddened expression of Doris and my mother as they sat wordless, witnessing the mismatch.

Then Hank seemed to rise from the ashes. “How ‘bout the left hand?”

“Not tonight sir. As usual, you’re too much for me. I’ll get you someday though,” I said, grateful it was over, hoping it would never happen again, and ran to the steps.

“But Mikey…” Doris called out. “Come back here.”

 

April would come by early in the morning and we’d have cereal with bananas or peaches. I’d watch her lean down, the tangled ends of her hair sometimes dipping into the milk, and she’d raise her hand nonchalantly, hold her hair back behind her head, continue without looking up, the sound of spoon gently tapping the side of bowl.

We would swim and take long walks and fall asleep on the hot sand, our towels spread next to each other. The sky was so clear it seemed another world—and in a way it was—then a single white cloud would go by, momentarily block the sun, and you’d realize how wonderful it was that you were at the beach.

There was an enclosed outdoor shower and a small room around the back of our cottage, a white but rusting machine and dryer. On the last day, April and I covered the window and louvered glass door with our towels, turned the warm water on us, stayed together until the water went cold.

 

That evening, at April’s house, we sat at the dining room table and ate our supper, drank lemonade, passed bowls of food around. There was no cocktail hour, no cigarette smoke, no loud voices—only the silent comfort of each other.

I told April’s parents I was going to visit, and they smiled at the notion of us eventually getting married, having children, lots of dogs, a big barn.

But I wouldn’t tell my parents about anything like that. When the day came, I would just go. I would have the ring—snitch one that wouldn’t be missed from my mother’s jewelry box, clothes hidden and ready, and I would just go.

The next morning, when we were packing up to leave, my father went on about the lawn needing to be cut; my mother talked about me getting ready to go back to school. I told my parents how much I liked April. My mother didn’t think it a very good idea for a boy my age to be thinking about girls so much. My father nodded, went on about the garage needing to be cleaned out.

All I had to do was go. Just go. Not think about it. Talk myself out of it. Go. And as soon as you go, change occurs. It’s not fair how we can know this or come to understand how change happens. When and why? But wisdom comes early to a few, late to others, never to many. And if you’re lucky, well then, you just are.


Mark Aufiery was born and raised in Philadelphia 67 years ago. He has lived in Maine for the past 15 years.

 

ONLINE Bonus – Book Review: House Parties by Lynn Levin

House Parties by Lynn Levin

Review by Regina Guarino

 

House Parties is the debut short story collection of Lynn Levin, an established poet and English faculty member at Drexel University. In this 443-page collection, each of the 20 stories tell of the ordinary lives of ordinary people in search of connection. In her poetic use of language and her tender execution of character, Levin shines with her appreciation of our common humanity.

Her use of beautiful syntax, images, and metaphors elevates the tone of these masterful glimpses into character’s lives. Poetry shines through the stories, in lines that live in the imagination and beyond the page. Descriptions delight the senses and convey the beauty of humanity through the beauty of language.

In Little Secrets an English instructor yearns to reconnect with her former poet/professor lover, describing their relationship “as split and withered as a dead squash vine, and he would come to trample on its remains.” With stunning irony, the story ends, that connection dead despite her best attempts, but with another blooming.

Baby and Gorilla presents the story of a former addict with a criminal record, working in a gorilla costume, meeting a teen mom “bug-eyed, jumpier than a grasshopper, high as the moon.” Her voice is “hot with menace. Her gaze is like the muzzle of a gun.” Yet, in another ironic ending, this encounter becomes the one in which the gorilla-costumed man finds connection.

The Dirty Martini is a memorable story of a middle-aged man who seeks respite from the boredom and resentment he feels in career and marriage. Following the lead of a roguish colleague, the man makes one bad decision after another and runs into predictable trouble after predictable trouble. Because of Levin’s nimbleness in drawing motivation of the man, his wife, and his friend, we feel sympathy for him, as he seeks to fulfill his need for humanity in a self-defeating manner.

The lonely rabbinical student in Frieda and Her Golem seeks connection even as she guards her solitude. She learns how to imbue a substance like river clay or ground meat with life and creates a helpmeet to fulfill her need for a partner. Ironically, the Golem develops more and more the ability to relate to people out in the world, something Frieda herself cannot manage.  Finally, when the Golem takes on a mind of her own, Frieda must take drastic action.

Evermay Blair tells the story a teacher, so wrecked with guilt that he becomes ill and changes his lifestyle. He says, “A storm of blackbirds banged inside my head.” Yet the connection he needs, with his conscience, with another human being eludes him. Levin’s skillful narration evokes tenderness in our hearts for him.

Each story in this collection makes a fascinating read. The characters make decisions they know to be not quite right, yet they are compelled to do so anyway. In the end there comes no happy ending for them. But there is a gentle landing.  And, by the end of the collection, for the reader a profound appreciation of human nature.


Lynn Levin is a poet and writer. She is the author of nine books, most recently, her debut collection of short stories House Parties (2023). Widely published as a poet, Levin’s five poetry collections include The Minor Virtues (2020); Miss Plastique (2013), a Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist in poetry; Fair Creatures of an Hour (2009), a Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist in poetry; Imaginarium (2005), a finalist for Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award; and A Few Questions about Paradise (2000). She is co-author, with Valerie Fox, of Poems for the Writing: Prompts for Poets (2019, 2013), a Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist in writing/publishing. She is the translator, from the Spanish, of Birds on the Kiswar Tree (2014), poems by the Peruvian Andean poet Odi Gonzales. Levin is also the producer/director of the 2017 video documentary Life on the Napo River: A Glimpse of the Ecuadoran Amazon, Its People, and Their Traditions.

 

Regina Guarino (left) is a writer with an MFA from Drexel University. She formerly studied linguistics and instructed learners of English as a second language. She lives in Delaware with her cute dog, Chipita. Her interests include languages and cultures, gardening, and herbal remedies.

 

ONLINE Bonus – Book Review: One Day I Am A Field by Amy Small-McKinney

One Day I Am A Field by Amy Small-McKinney

Review By Margaret R. Sáraco

 

Author Amy Small-McKinney wastes no time inviting us to enter a world of grief as she accompanies her husband on a journey who has been living with dementia. The poet is a consummate storyteller. Most of the poems are set in and around their home and medical facilities and the timeframe is during the pandemic in 2020. Therefore, their ability to move about is limited, which affects their lives greatly because of the anxiety of living in uncertain times, in addition to her husband’s illness. She dedicates One Day I Am A Field to Russ’ memory, who sadly dies of Covid. While Small-McKinney is losing her husband, the reader becomes an observer. Their story unfolds in ordinary places where extraordinary things are occurring in a sensitive landscape. Throughout the collection, she remembers for herself first and then for her husband.

In her opening poem, “The Doctor Said We Need to Return In Two Months After Further Testing Including Bloodwork,” she writes, “How do I mourn a husband who sits beside me?/Who cannot remember.” Feelings range from love and care to fear, frustration, and despair. It is in this space the poet finds grief, patience and sometimes encounters regret.  In “During The Pandemic You Are Dying At Home,” her use of repetition emphasizes what the illness means for both, their isolation littered throughout the book. We venture with husband and wife down an unflinching road.

This is not the life I planned.

Now the sky closes its doors and trees shrink

into fetal positions. Your body shrinks.

You forget where you are where

you are going. Your hospital bed tries to explain:
You don’t belong anymore.

 

This is not the life we planned.

We are breezeless our window won’t open.

She moves from “This is not the life I planned” to “This is not the life we planned” recognizing the I and we in their relationship moving the reader along towards their final goodbyes.

Many of her images and metaphors are startling and beautiful. In “Clematis Vitalba,” a reference to the familiar climbing flowery vine, known as “old man’s beard” or as Small-McKinney references, “Traveller’s Joy” ushers in much more than flowery thoughts.

I want to bury myself inside the dark. Stand aside

invented light. While the world falls apart,

my husband’s brain swells with lakes.

 

Small-McKinney’s artistic prowess is apparent throughout her book. Not only does she express her day-to-day struggles, and her husband’s, but does so while wielding and winding language to fit her experiences and then in her work embodies the love and care of someone who is slowly fading away.  “My husband’s brain swells with lakes” is a remarkable line that lingers even as you move to the next page, the next poem and long after the book is read. And, yes, to articulate one’s deepest emotions is what poets do, but it is not a simple task. One could hope for the author it might be healing, and helpful to those who will or have walked similar paths. The poet uses her words like a fluid conduit of thought and sentiment which might makes the reader imagine these poems may have written themselves. For instance, in “Noir” McKinney makes a leap from memories of her mother who confesses, “I didn’t hold you enough, uncomfortable with touch” to the writer’s desires concerning her daughter:

When my daughter was born, I held her

as a cloud holds on to rain as long as it can

Later in the same poem, she brings us into a reflection with her husband, sounding a seed of regret and connecting the dots between the generations. There is never enough time, and her realization is poignant with the line, “I don’t hold him enough.”

And since skin on skin breaks open all sorrow—

no—a turning away or fear of becoming

him, I don’t hold him enough.

The poet’s transition moving away from him as he grows more ill, is heart wrenching and honest. In “Devotion” she tells the reader of how life used to be. These thoughts and ideas are relatable to those who have experienced grief. Her careful spacing leaves emptiness where something existed before.

Our daughter was born just before my body closed. Her father wore face paint—

characters in plays they acted out together. Danced in the living room to Springsteen,

feet on feet.                             How it was.

 

Last night I moved into          became a guest in my own life.

A stranger, no longer my home.

About a third of the way into her book, Small-McKinney includes seven poems with similar titles. Five are called “Grief,” another “A Woman Named Grief” but it is her poem, “Grief: Two Parts” in which the poet comes to terms with her husband who is almost gone and then gone within the confines of the poem. And there are additional spaces for grief in much of her work. In the title poem of the collection, “One Day I Am A Field.” She writes,

What is remembered when blinded?

Try to wake to the sun’s flash of denial.

The problem: I am grief’s land.

One Day I Am A Field is a book where heart and poet meet with profound insight on what is it like to be a caregiver to someone you love, losing them one poem at a time. The love she expresses makes the going that much harder, but the reader will feel richer from having shared Small-McKinney’s experience.


Amy Small-McKinney is the author of two full-length books and three chapbooks. Her newest chapbook, One Day I Am A Field, was published by Glass Lyre Press (April,2022). Her second full-length book of poems, Walking Toward Cranes, won the Kithara Book Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2016). Small-McKinney’s poems also appear in several anthologies, for example, Rumors, Secrets, & Lies: Poems about Pregnancy, Abortion, & Choice (Anhinga Press, 2023). In 2019, her poem “Birthplace” received Special Merits recognition by The Comstock Review for their Muriel Craft Bailey Poetry Contest, judged by poet, David Kirby, and again, in 2021 for her poem, “Bench, Ducks, & Inn,” judged by poet, Juan Felipe Herrera. On 10/2/23, her poem “Love/Furious” appeared in Verse Daily. Her poems have also been translated into Korean and Romanian. Her book reviews have appeared in journals, such as Prairie Schooner, Philadelphia Stories, and Matter. Small-McKinney has a degree in Clinical Neuropsychology from Drexel University and an MFA in Poetry from Drew University. She resides in Philadelphia, where she has taught community poetry workshops, both privately and as part of conferences, as well as independent students.

 

Margaret R. Sáraco (left) writes about love, family, politics, and nature. A poet, short story, and memoir writer, she grew up in New York and lives in New Jersey. Margaret began her professional writing career as a magazine columnist writing about feminism, music, health, and contemporary events. Her writing has appeared in many anthologies and journals. Margaret’s poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and twice received Honorable Mentions in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards. Her debut poetry collection, If There Is No Wind (Human Error Publishing, 2022) is available where books are sold. Even the Dog Was Quiet will be published in the Fall 2023.

 

 

ONLINE Bonus – Book Review: Dwell Here and Prosper by Chris Eagle

Dwell Here and Prosper by Chris Eagle

Review by Samantha Neugebauer

 

At eighteen, while a first-year student at Villanova, Chris Eagle became the primary caregiver for his father, Dick Eagle, after he suffered a stroke in his Delco home. Permanently disabled, Dick tried a “ludicrous version of independent living” before accepting that he needed to enter an assisted living facility. Last spring – nearly twenty years later – Tortoise Books published Dwell Here and Prosper, Chris’s debut novel inspired by the many diaries his late father kept during that multi-year period.

In terms of point of view, Dwell Here and Prosper diverge in two important ways from recent autofiction titles. First, the author himself is not the novel’s main character or narrator; it’s Chris writing in Dick’s voice. Secondly, as Chris explains it in the novel’s introduction, narrator, Dick, is not exactly his father:

“My narrator Dick is not Dick Eagle in any simplistic or straightforward sense. Pieces of Dick’s backstory come from other residents. Dad crossed with three or four or five guys I met walking the halls of his building, sitting outside in the yard with him. Dick is a common type of man you meet in assisted livings…”

Still, the novel begins with both the aforementioned introduction (by Chris) and a preface (by Dick), situating the story in a sort of memoiristic haze. Nevertheless, once chapter one gets rolling, the most absorbing features of social realistic fiction are in full swing. Dick is wiry and honest, with a dark sense of humor about the absurdities and negligence that goes on in the various dysfunctional facilities he stays at. He’s also extremely observant making his world and its characters come to life through the tiniest bodily details and habitual mannerisms: nurses with “their purses swinging from their chubby elbows,” a flight of pigeons who “divebomb straight to any spot where the sense food’s been dropped,” and a night nurse “whose complexion is seal-gray and strangely moist as if he rubs petroleum jelly on his face when no one’s looking.” At times, Dick can be comical and hopeful about his condition. The novel begins by Dick telling us that he is working toward getting out of the assisted living, and yet, poignantly, he also admits later:

“In lieu of sheep, lately, I’ve gotten in this unwise habit of counting all the two-handed activities I’ll likely never do again: tie my shoelaces, putt, butter bread, drive a car, cut a steak, fondle two tits at the same time. The stroke struck two years ago last Friday. Arm’s a worse conundrum than the leg. I’ve tried a thousand times, but I can’t figure out how I could manage on my own with only the one functioning hand.”

 

Throughout the book, readers may wonder why Dick’s fellow residents stay at these facilities, especially those who are on the younger side and seem healthy enough. Dick wonders this too, and his curiosity leads him to many discoveries about the complexities of human nature and mental illness. In one case, after a period of quasi-investigative journalism, Dick befriends “The Thinker,” a forty-two-year-old former professor and Penn graduate who stands out from the other residents because he always has his nose in a book. The Thinker’s room is full of stacks of books and also, oddly, a one-armed mannequin from Wannamaker’s dumpster.

The Thinker also keeps notebooks with extensive (“walls of tiny words”)  – “Amphitryon: harassing both sides (Greek)…Umbrageous: offering shade, easily offended…,” which Dick tries to make sense of. Finally, Dick asks The Thinker why he stays, and The Thinker explains that the situation “buys him twenty-thirty years…of reading. Writing.” On the one hand, it’s a fascinating assertion because the professor is right: assisted living is a situation that gives him nearly infinite time to do what he loves most.

Like other institution-based stories, such as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, InterruptedDwell Here and Prosper has plenty of quotidian descriptions of the nuts and bolts of assisted living life from the cuisine to medicine distribution to the ways in which residents barter and bride for extra cigarettes. Cigarettes are a ubiquitous feature of Eagle’s novel, in ways comparable to how the cigarette was its own kind of character and cultural signifier in Mad Men. In the preface, Dick mentions that he and his son had considered naming the book Butt. In truth, the power and presence of the cigarette in the novel says as much about the residents of the facility as it does about the novel’s mid-nineties setting. While there are many other markers of the time period, such as certain expressions and ways of talking and the triumphs and losses of local Philly sports teams, the omnipresence of the cigarette adds authentic sensory fabric to Dick’s accounts of the last century. The cigarette was already on its way out and becoming less socially acceptable by the mid-nineties, yet it wasn’t completely gone from mainstream society either. Nevertheless, smoking was– and still is–most prevalent among those on society’s margins, like the misfits, outcasts, poor, and ill who populate Dwell Here and Prosper. Some residents smoke through their weekly cigarette allotment right away, while others, like The Thinker, show “discipline” by allowing himself only three cigarettes a day. In depicting each resident’s personal relationship with the cigarette, we learn something about each resident’s relationship with time itself, too.

Reading this book, I was reminded of essayist Freddie deBoer’s observation that “we’ve built a society where there are more ways to be a loser than a winner.” ‘Loser’ is a harsh word but a fitting one to describe the way most of society views the residents of Dick’s assisted living facility. Although Dick makes the most of his situation, in no way is the assisted living facility existence one to envy. In fact, Dick’s mind is saved partially because he finds a purpose in writing and recording the details of his experience. While this is admirable, it also speaks to  deBoer’s point because part of his argument is that “the arts” are one of the other ways not to be a “loser.” Everyone in the facility can’t be like Dick, or even if they could, they might not have the talent or temperament for it.

An assisted living facility is a specific kind of purgatory; by definition, it’s a place for people who require full-time help but not enough to be in a nursing home. In his novel, Chris Eagle is both honoring his father’s memory and throwing light on the state of these facilities, which share characteristics with our psychiatric hospitals, but are not exactly the same. Without being didactic, it’s clear the author believes that these residents deserve more options for happiness and inclusion in society. These days, Chris Eagle lives in Atlanta, where he is a professor of Health Humanities at Emory University. It’s easy to imagine how the experience with his father might have inspired his academic – as well as his creative – interests. Lucky for us, Eagle is also working on a collection of short stories set in Delco.


Chris Eagle is the author of Dwell Here and Prosper (Tortoise Books, 2023), a novel based on the diary his father kept while recovering from a stroke in a highly dysfunctional assisted living facility  in southeastern Pennsylvania. His short stories have also appeared in AGNI, Louisiana Literature, and Sortes. Originally from Delco PA, Chris has lived in Berkeley, Paris, Antwerp, Pasadena, Sydney, Berlin, Chicago, and Atlanta. He now lives back in Delco, where he is currently at work on a short story collection set in his hometown.Chris Eagle received his Ph.D. in English Literature from UC Berkeley in 2009. He taught at Caltech, Western Sydney University, DePaul University, Loyola Chicago, and Emory University before retiring from academia in 2024. He is a former Fulbright scholar, Chateaubriand scholar, and Mellon fellow. His areas of research include Health Humanities, Disability Studies, Bioethics, Trauma Studies, and the field of Dysfluency Studies which he helped to found with his monograph Dysfluencies and his edited collection Talking Normal.

 

Reviewer: Raised in Northeast Philadelphia, Samantha Neugebauer now lives in Washington, D.C., where she is a research assistant at Georgetown University and Georgetown University in Qatar. Previously, she taught at Johns Hopkins and NYU in Abu Dhabi. Learn more about Samantha at her website: samanthaneugebauer.com.

 

 

 

 

Book Review: Rainbow Tales by Kathleen Murphey

Rainbow Tales by Kathleen Murphey

Review by Rosalind Kaplan

 

This time there really is something new under the summer sun. Rainbow Tales by Kathleen Murphy is a collection of stories based on traditional fairy tales and folklore, but each with a refreshing and surprising twist. Rather than suffer derision and isolation for their diversity, gender roles, gender identity, and sexual orientation, characters of old folk tales are flipped on their heads and rewarded for authenticity, happiness, community, and family.

The book begins with a story entitled ‘Beau and the Beast’.  A prince, very handsome but lacking kindness and humility, is transformed into a hideous beast by a fairy queen. He is saved by the compassion of an old woman. In his beastly form, he can experience her inner beauty, and it assuages his loneliness.  He then befriends the hag’s(the old woman’s) grandson, Beau, and the friendship deepens into romantic love and sexual attraction as the grandson, in turn, is able to see the beast’s inner beauty.  Beau’s love restores the prince to his human form but with new compassion.  The couple is accepted by the older woman, the king, and the ‘queen’ and live happily ever after.

Throughout this, and other stories in Rainbow Tales, we encounter well-rendered, complex characters, including a transgender prince in love with a frog, a non-binary P. Pan, whose quest is to help marginalized, neglected, and abused children, and a Snow White who falls in love with Sleeping Beauty when the latter’s family offers her shelter as she flees execution by a jealous queen.

The overall effect of the collection of stories is refreshing and hopeful, as the stories upend not only the obvious sexist, racist, and homophobic tropes of standard fairy tales but also call attention to the more subtle disparities these old tales espouse.  In Murphey’s long-ago-far-away world, stepmothers are often kind.  A prince or princess might choose to assist the servants in the kitchen.  Magic mirrors are used to help those in need, fairies have private lives, and royalty has a broad range of skin tones.

These newly crafted fairy and folk tales open up the genre at a crucial time in history, a time when we can no longer overlook the harmful stereotypes and biases of many classic tales. These revised versions bring new relevance to old lore while continuing to capture the charm and magic of the fairy world.

Rainbow Tales is not a collection aimed at children, however. Known as a sex-positive author, Murphey includes descriptions of sexual encounters and sex acts in her narratives, rendering Rainbow Tales a book for mature audiences. While the explicit nature of these passages is not necessary to the storylines themselves, the depiction of inclusive, physical intimacy may be psychologically helpful and even life-saving for some readers. The transformation of classic fairy tales and folklore to reflect modern values is not a new concept in itself.  In fact, many stories have evolved throughout the centuries; intercultural elements have been added, and feminist perspectives have emerged (think of the powerful female protagonist Elsa in Frozen). With thousands of traditional international fold tales out there, this collection is a welcome addition, set apart by the breadth of diversity depicted as well as its sex-positivity.


Kathleen Murphey teaches composition and literature courses in the English and Humanities Departments at Community College of Philadelphia.  She has a Ph.D. in American Civilization from the University of Pennsylvania.  She has presented conference papers on the masculinization of female sexuality in popular culture.  Examples include “The Porning of High Medieval Fantasy:  George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire Series” and “Fifty Shades of Creep:  Yet Another Masculinization of Female Sexuality.”  Recently, she has started creating fiction (poetry and fiction) trying to give voice to more empowered visions of female and diverse sexualities.  Some of her poems have been published through The Voices Project and Writing in a Woman’s Voice.  She has three collections of alternative fairy tales, Other Tales and Rainbow Tales (published by JMS Books).  Beyond the Witch is an evolving collection of unpublished fairy tales. She is married and has three lovely daughters who are becoming young women right before her eyes.

 

Rosalind Kaplan (left) has been published in several literary and medical journals, including Across the Margin, Brandeis Magazine, Eastern Iowa Review, El Portal, Galway Review, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Signal Mountain Review, The Smart Set, Stonecoast Review, Sweet Tree, and Vagabond City. Her memoir Still Healing: A Doctor’s Notes on the Magic and Misery of a Life in Medicine was selected as the winner of the Minerva Rising 2022 memoir contest and is forthcoming in the fall of 2024.

 

Book Review: Doctor Spight by L.M. Asta

Doctor Spight by L.M. Asta

Review By: Mary Evangelisto Miller

 

Dr. Drew Spight, an obstetrics and gynecology attending at St. Thomas Medical Center in Philadelphia, wanted to escape. He had had enough of St. Thomas; the OB (“Old Bastard,” aka Dr. Owen Bates), his supervisor; being his mother’s caregiver as her multiple sclerosis progressed; and, most of all, “the aura of failure that clung to him like tobacco smoke.” His traditional method of escape was something else he desperately wanted to leave behind, after it led to a severe traffic accident, substantial injuries, a hospital stay that revealed his ongoing problem through toxicology reports, and forced membership in the “Physician Wellness Committee,” along with mandated drug testing.

Repeated calls from a former colleague to join him out west provided just that means of escape. Trading one coast for another, moving from a busy inner-city hospital to a private surgicenter providing cosmetic procedures to women in Los Angeles, seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. As Dr. Eric Xavier told Drew: “You tighten this, you tighten that, and the best thing of all, it’s all self-pay.” Repeated reprimands of Dr. Xavier over the years for infractions ranging from negligence to incompetence to inappropriate behavior with female patients and staff, with resultant probation and threats of license revocation, gave Drew pause, but as the pressures in Philly mounted, the call of the west became insurmountable. Even the OB’s last-minute attempt to entice Drew to remain in Philly with the promise of promoting him to chair of the department could not keep Drew at St. Thomas.

Drew wanted to leave many aspects of his old life behind, particularly his long history of substance abuse. Was placing 2,700 miles between his old life and a new one the answer? Would he be satisfied with performing G-spot enhancement and mommy makeover procedures instead of complex, lifesaving obstetric and gynecologic surgery? Adding to the complexity of the situation, revelations about institutional and political irregularities at both Drew’s previous and new environments begin to emerge, leading to further entanglements. Drew’s reunion with his friend Dr. Lakshmi Rangwala at a convention in Los Angeles, as well as his new involvement with Edie Mitchell, a patient-cum-investigational journalist, lead to more questions—ones that only Drew and his coterie can unravel.

The story of Dr. Spight and his progression from resident to seasoned physician, and his struggles with substance abuse, institutional politics, and colleagues, make for a fascinating look behind the curtain in two settings: an urban hospital and a plastic surgery clinic, varying widely in the procedures they perform and the clientele they serve. Dr. Spight is a complex character with motivations and challenges to which we all can relate, leading him through physical and inner evolution and, ultimately, a satisfying resolution. Dr. Spight’s cross-country experiences, as well as an eclectic cast of characters and unexpected narrative twists, make for an exciting, interesting read.


L. M. Asta has published fiction in Zone 5, Inkwell, Philadelphia Stories, Battered Suitcase, and Schuylkill. Her essays have appeared in the Journal of the American Medical Association and Hippocrates. She trained in Philadelphia and writes and practices in Northern California.

 

Mary Evangelisto Miller (left) is a freelance writer and editor based in Bucks County. She has been self-employed as a medical editor for 22 years. Mary holds a bachelor’s degree in Mass Communications and English from Temple University and a master’s degree in English and Publishing from Rosemont College.

 

Book Review: More Strange Than True by C.J. Spataro

More Strange Than True by C.J Spataro

Review by Jennifer Rivera

C.J. Spataro’s More Strange Than True is a genre-blending novel of romance and fantasy set in modern-day Philadelphia. Spataro magically weaves together the story of a woman who makes a wish for true love in a moment of grief and transition.  Through this wish, she unknowingly invokes the help of the fairies from Shakespeare’s comedy A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  From that moment, Shakespeare’s famous words rang true, “Ay me! For aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.”

The novel opens on the day of Jewell’s father’s memorial at a Center City restaurant called Puck’s Place.  While celebrating her father’s life with her childhood best friend Melody, and her restaurant owner boyfriend Bobby Fellowes, Jewell receives a text from her boyfriend Simon, in which he breaks up with her. While pondering her terrible taste in men, Jewell declares that men are worse than dogs, especially her dog, Oberon. Bobby sends her home with his newest dish, a magical mushroom pasta that has just been featured in The Philadelphia Inquirer.

After a quick trip to the dog park, she meets a lovely man named Steve. After being kindly rejected by Steve, Jewell and Oberon return to their apartment.  She digs into the deliciously magical pasta, sharing bites with the dog as they settle into their nightly routine. Jewell tells Oberon that he would make the perfect man for her. She reasons they share the same likes and dislikes and live together. Later in the evening, after thoroughly enjoying her meal, Jewell unknowingly calls out the faerie queen Titania three times, wishing for a man who will love her just as her dog does before drifting off to sleep.

In the faerie realm, Queen Titania searches for the sounds of the bells and crosses the veil from the faerie realm to Jewell’s apartment with her sisters, Ondine and Lolanthe. Although her sisters are more sympathetic to humankind, Titania reviles them, especially that fool Shakespeare, to whom she regrets showing herself.  But since she has come all this way, she decides to answer this human’s wish and turn her dog into a man. In a highly comical passage, the three fairies realize that the dog has been neutered and restore him to his original state before turning him into a man.

Once the dog has been transformed into a man, Titania demands to know his name. Oberon, he tells her, and the faerie queen is shocked, as this is the name of her long-lost husband.  Sensing the veil between their worlds is thinning, her sisters urge the queen to return home, but she is hesitant, feeling that fate brought her to the human world to meet her love again.

Jewell wakes up to the shock of her life: a strange nude man in her bed and her dog nowhere to be found. Oberon explains to Jewell that three women came and turned him from dog to man to fulfill her wish for true love. He proves it by recounting their trip to the dog park and meeting Steve. Although they are both still in disbelief, Jewell helps Oberon learn how to live as a human. Oberon contends with the loss of a simpler life as a dog.  As time progresses, Jewell and Oberon fall in love. Oberon begins working for Bobby, and their life together progresses.

Unbeknownst to the lovers, Titania has been watching them from her palace since Oberon’s transformation.  She returns to the mortal realm and confronts Bobby, uncovering his real identity as Robin Fellowes/Puck. Weaving the most crucial plot points from Shakespeare’s work, Titania seeks out other fae living among humans and attempts to put a spell on Oberon, so he falls in love with her.  She believes her spell to have brought forth the prophecy of the Elf King’s return. Similarly to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the spells do not go as planned, and the humans become aware of fairies among them.

More Strange Than True masterfully intertwines Shakespeare’s magical world with the real world of a Philadelphia-based environment.  The novel explores similar themes of the intricacies of relationships, mental and physical transformation, and the havoc that magic can create no matter who you are.  Jewell and Oberon are forced to make heartbreaking choices, and it is in these choices that these characters discover who they truly are, and that love is rarely unconditional.


C.J. Spataro’s short fiction has been awarded a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts Fellowship for fiction and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her long short story, “The Twi-Lite” won the Iron Horse Literary Review Fiction Trifecta and was published as an e-single.She has been a finalist in many contests including the Larry Brown Short Story Award from Pithead Chapel, Sequestrum’s Reprint Award, The Switchgrass Review, Mason’s Road, The Philadelphia City Paper, and december magazine, where she was a finalist for the Curt Johnson Prose Awards for Fiction. In 2018 she was nominated for a “Best of the Net” award. Her work was featured three times in the InterAct Theatre Company’s “Writing Aloud” series (which was Philadelphia’s version of NPR’s “Selected Shorts”).As an editor, she has edited the fiction for three “Best of” Anthologies for Philadelphia Stories and edited the fiction and non-fiction for Forgotten Philadelphia and Extraordinary Gifts: Remarkable Women of the Delaware Valley.Her work has also been included in the anthologies, Healing Visions (Matter Press 2023), Taboos & Transgressions: Stories of Wrongdoings (Madville Publishing 2021), Extraordinary Gifts (PS Books 2014), Another Breath (PS Books/RC Press 2014), 50 Over 50 (PS Books 2016), and Forgotten Philadelphia, Art and Writing Inspired by Philadelphia Heritage Sites (PS Books 2012). Her stories have been published in a number of literary magazines including, Exacting Clam, Sequestrum, Phantom Drift, Italian Americana, december magazine, Permafrost, The Baltimore Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, and others. She’s had poetry published in Ovunque Siamo. She has a Bachelor of Applied Arts in Music from Central Michigan University, a Master of Music from Michigan State University, and an MFA in creative writing from Rosemont College. She has taught English composition, journalism, publishing, and creative writing courses at Rutgers, Rowan, Temple, and West Chester Universities, and at Rosemont College and the Community College of Philadelphia. C.J., or Carla as she is known by most, grew up in Michigan, which will always hold a special place in her heart. She has lived in Philadelphia for over 30 years, most of which with her partner, the artist and one-time standup comedian, Vincent Natale Martinez.

 

Jennifer Rivera (left) is a Latina writer and certified dog trainer. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Monmouth University in May 2024. Her prose and poetry have been featured in The Monmouth Review.

 

An Interview with Charles Holdefer

Charles Holdefer is a writer based in Brussels, Belgium. His latest collection of short stories, Ivan the Terrible Goes on a Family Picnic, has just been released. Holdefer’s fiction has won a Pushcart Prize and appeared in The New England Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, North American Review, Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. He is also the author of six novels. You can find out more about Charles here.

 

Curtis Smith: Congratulations on your new collection, Ivan the Terrible Goes on a Family Picnic. I really enjoyed it. Not to let the proverbial cat out of the bag, but all of these pieces are about baseball, at least on some level. They take us through the years and across the world. My first question would be, how did this overarching structure/theme come to you? Did you have a few baseball stories already published and then realized you were writing more and more? Or was the idea there from the start?

Charles Holdefer: The structure came to me gradually. In Ivan the Terrible, baseball is a common backdrop, but the stories are very different, and you don’t actually have to care about the sport to get into them. They’re not about “how we won the big game” or some kind of fan fiction. For me, sport is a form of popular theater.  Human qualities and problems are dramatized, and it’s the individual character, not the contest, that counts. I tried something similar in my previous book, a novel called Don’t Look at Me, which referred to women’s basketball. It took me some years to pull Ivan together but once I started thinking more historically, the pieces fell into place.

 

CS: We see different times in history here—(1925 Paris! 1979 Chicago! 1569 Pskov!). Do you use any research/tricks to get your head into those spaces? Perhaps 1979 Chicago was easy, but Bufford County 1899 is a totally different vibe and backdrop—yet you ease your readers into each so deftly.

CH: It’s fun to try on different guises. I’m pretty careful to respect a baseline of accurate information about the twenties or the disco music era or the local team in Hiroshima, but in the end that’s only fact-checking. These stories aren’t “research” or historical fiction in the traditional sense. They’re speculative, sometimes wild and fanciful. Sometimes all it takes is an image, like a facial resemblance between Babe Ruth and Gertrude Stein, and then it’s off to the races.

 

CS: Yes, I wanted to ask about Gertrude and the Babe. I really enjoy when you bring in historical figures. You had a previous story collection that took on Dick Cheney and his ilk. And here, we get to see this unlikely duo of 1920s icons. I’m guessing you enjoy bringing these folks into your work. Can you address the rewards—and challenges—of using a historical figure in a piece of fiction?

CH: Well, the immediate reward is that I get to bring on stage a character with a ready-made backstory. This allows me to plunge straight into the action, no fussing around. The challenge is that this foreknowledge brings obligations. It should add something; it should matter somehow. If it’s only a cameo by a famous person without contributing to the meaning, then it’s an empty gesture. Here I use Ivan the Terrible to introduce a pastoral idea that gets played out in subsequent stories. This is an opportunistic appropriation that I hope is generative—but it’s definitely not “history.” Ivan is more light-hearted than Dick Cheney in Shorts, which was a darker book.

 

CS: You’ve been publishing a lot recently—novels and story collections. How do you juggle these projects? Do you work on a novel until a certain point—then take a break and write a cycle of stories? If so, do you have any go-to break points (end of first draft perhaps—or some other milestone in your process)? What benefits does taking a break offer when you return to your novel?

CH: Those are serious questions, but I’m afraid I don’t have a neat answer. I do feel happiest when I’m working, when I’m absorbed in something. But it can be hard, and I get stuck, so I bounce to something else. Then I bounce back. Break points like a first draft, or a fifth draft, are psychologically gratifying when I get there—but I don’t always get there. Publishing is nice when it happens, and I’ve been fortunate, but when a book comes out, due to the time lag, my head is usually somewhere else. I’m most at peace when I’m working.

 

CS: I liked all the stories here, but my favorites were “Foul” and “Deadball,” and while the book may refer to baseball, these two are really love stories. Do you think love—especially love that doesn’t quite connect—is one of the prominent themes in your work? Fitzgerald said he could only write about a few things—as you look over all that you’ve written, can you identify any central themes/ideas that you keep circling back to?

CH: In earlier drafts, I didn’t consciously set out to write them as love stories but for those examples, yes, that is what emerged, what I had to explore. I was drawn there. As for central themes, that’s a question I would’ve found impossible to answer a number of years ago. But with hindsight, I notice a couple of ideas that keep popping up. The first one: we’re not as smart as we think we are. The second one: we are more free than we usually allow ourselves to be. That’s about all I know.

 

CS: So let’s talk baseball. What was your favorite season/team? I’m partial to the ‘93 Phillies, but I have to admit the current Phils are pretty entertaining too. Who’s your all-time favorite player?

CH: When I was a little kid, copying my big brother who admired Mickey Mantle, I was intensely interested in the Yankees, which is a bit weird for a rural Midwesterner. But I had to get a divorce from New York during the Steinbrenner years. It got too obnoxious. Since then, I haven’t been particularly loyal to a team, but I still enjoy the show. As for a favorite player: well, it sounds corny, but when we were kids we used to study the backs of baseball cards and take note of the birth dates of players and write them letters with birthday greetings, and some of them responded. One special day a personal reply from Roberto Clemente landed in our mailbox. He’s a player I appreciate even more now, from an adult perspective. He was an impressive person, larger than sport, and I still watch clips of him on YouTube. And the game is not just about its stars; it’s about hard-working journeymen who are now forgotten, guys like Don Wert, who also answered us all those years ago. Thanks, Don!

 

CS: I really appreciate your tone in the book. There’s a real storyteller vibe going on—the book moves through places and time, but wherever we land, we instantly feel an intimacy with the characters. At this point of your career are you aware of tone—or have you been doing it so long that it comes easily? Another thing I enjoyed was the pacing—and in a way, it felt like a baseball game—unrushed yet full and complete—sometimes soaring and sometimes bittersweet. Was this in your head as well—or am I bringing too much of my current ball-watching frame of mind into this?

CH: Tone is the collision of language and plot, more or less. The shorter flash pieces have less plot and lean more heavily into language. But the longer stories give themselves more time to unfold, the pacing is different, with more events, and yes, perhaps it is baseball-ish. And though there’s some truth to the notion that the game is like life itself, I’d also underline how the limitations of the game compared to life account for much of its appeal. The space is strictly rule-bound and self-contained, and it provides a way to focus. We hunger for such focus in life. This heightened focus can be reproduced in art, and that’s definitely worth trying for.

 

CS: Loved the Dylan epigraph. What’s your go-to Dylan album?

CH: Not sure I have one, but Bringing It All Back Home has songs like “She Belongs to Me” and some others that have left imprints on my mind like tattoos. They won’t go away. Maybe it’s because of good songs that I’ve never bothered to get tattoos.

 

CS: What’s next?

CH: I’m immersed in a novel called Bomp that’s more formally challenging than anything I’ve tried before. Still trying to figure out its turns but am enjoying the experience.


Curtis Smith has published over 125 stories and essays. His latest novels are The Magpie’s Return (named one of Kirkus Review’s top indie books of 2020) and The Lost and the Blind (a finalist for Foreword Review’s Best Indie Adult Fiction of 2023). His next novel, Deaf Heaven, will be published in May 2025.

 

Solidarity

When protesters lie on the ground

it is called a die-in

and this is the tactic used

by my blue blotch pansies

when I’ve absentmindedly deprived them

of water. Before misting,

I try to pick out the ones

just taking a knee. I know

there must be at least one

who has gotten plenty of water,

in fact, is drunk on it:

thick roots, muscular petals;

the water having pooled

in his little side of the pot. He,

who is not even thirsty,

but lies down anyway

because his neighbors’ suffering is his own.


John Wojtowicz grew up working on his family’s azalea and rhododendron nursery and still lives in the backwoods of what Ginsberg dubbed “nowhere Zen New Jersey.” Currently, he teaches social work at Rowan College South Jersey. Recent or forthcoming publications include: Rattle, New Ohio Review, Sonora Review, and The Ekphrastic Review. He is the author of the chapbook, Roadside Attractions: a Poetic Guide to American Oddities. Find out more at: www.johnwojtowicz.com.

 

Street Impressions

Chester Avenue, Southwest Philadelphia, early 1960s

 

As on a children’s show,

the green-and-cream trolley

with wide windows for eyes,

an emblem above the headlight

like a little mustache,

would come into view—

its doors hissing open, then closed

before it went hiccupping

over the cobblestone tracks.

 

And down the back alley

past Rusty the Boxer

and Bunky the Beagle,

stirred up along the hairpin fences,

the songs of hucksters

carrying splintered baskets

of freestone peaches

and Jersey tomatoes;

the neighborly chatter

of clothes on the lines.

 

And the characters we’d meet

along the avenue:

Alex the shoe shiner

and John the milkman;

palsied Mr. Packer

with his handcart of Schmidt’s.

The older boys, who with sycamore pods

they gathered from the curbs

to chalk their lessons—

scrawled in cursive

on the slates of our necks.


Joseph Chelius is the author of two collections of poems with WordTech Communications: The Art of Acquiescence.