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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission
Guidelines
Website
Stories
& Essays
A Wedding Toast For Daddy's
Little Girl
_ By Miriam N. Kotzin
Bread
_ By Debbi Pless
Flowers
_ By Rachel Miller
Gyokusai
_ By
Julie Jordan
Hearts Without Armor
_ By
Angela P. Markham
Mental Constipation and Brain Vomit
_ By
Winnie Khaw
My Best Subject
_ By
Ashley Polker
Piper
_ By
Samantha Rae
Requiem For An Author
_ By
R. Holsen
Sometimes It Pours Only Dogs
_ By
Saana Tykkä
The Black Tape
_ By
Brad Jashinsky
Poetry
A Slave To Time
_ By
Clyde Windjammer
Colour
_ By
Kaleen Love
Death By My Lover
_ By
Jessica Tempestad
I Am A Pineapple
_ By
Rachel Miller
Lament For the Lost Soldier
_ By
Melissa Augeri
Laundry Arcade
_ By
Ashley Polker
Left Silent To Dream of Wine
_ By
Kaleen Love
Mortality
_ By
Henry Grieves
Ode To Microsoft Spell Cheque
_ By
Arielle Demchuk
Reminiscent of Society As An Individual
_ By
Henry Grieves
Ship's Cook
_ By
Heather Inwood
The Phoenix
_ By
Kaleen Love
The Raven and the Dove
_ By
Melissa Augeri
Train Dreamer
_ By
Heather Inwood
Art
& Photography
S. Camargo
_ Photography
and Drawings
David C. Clarke
_ Photography
Wiltekirra Samaxionn
_ Photography
Anca Sandu
_ Paintings
Austin
Tanney
_ Photography
Ray
Tsang
_ Paintings
Mark
Warren
_ Photography
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Hearts
Without Armor
By
Angela P. Markham
Divinity, Nevada.
Two hours out of Vegas, in the middle of a desert. The kind of
town that has no reason for existing. As I come into town, I pass
the local mechanic’s place, a pathetic excuse for a garage, with
cars in varying stages of decay surrounding the business. One of
them is a sports car with the front end completely totaled and
most of the glass busted out. I recognize the car and am grateful;
it’s the first confirmation I have that I’m on the right
track. Since yesterday, I’ve been thinking I’ve been sent on a
wild goose chase. I don’t stop at the garage. There’s no sign
of human life. The particular human I’m looking for would not
stay at a place like this anyway.
I pass the garage
and proceed into town. I pass the houses first. Trailers mostly, singlewides that look like
they’ve seen their share of natural disasters. No one’s
outside, though a few assorted articles of clothing are strung up
on laundry lines. The whole place seems dead, like
something out of a western right before everyone starts shooting.
I can’t help but think people are staring at me through cracks
in their Venetian blinds as I drive past. It’s a creepy feeling.
I’m already uncomfortable, and it’s not because of the heat,
which is bordering unbearable. I pass a sheriff’s office, which
is frightening, for it means this dust bowl is the center of
whatever county I’m in. There’s one cop car outside that looks
like it hasn’t moved in a while, as well as another dusty truck.
As I near the other
end of town, where more trailers lie on the outskirts, I finally
see who I’m looking for. I’m grateful. I can finally get out
of here and back home, where I should have been in the first
place. I’ve put a lot in jeopardy by coming out here.
I pull up to the
curb and stop the car, shoving the gearshift into Park. For a
moment, I only stare. I’m not sure what I expected—no, I
expected someone immersed in desperation, borderline suicidal.
Still, as always, Eddie surprises me. He’s sitting on a wooden
bench, the kind that’s all hard wood and right angles. His face
is buried in his hands, the last two fingers of his left hand
covered in gauze and bandages. The fingers are bent at the joints,
though only God knows why. No one bends a joint to set an injury.
The bandage is bloody. It wouldn’t have been a big deal—it
wouldn’t have been as big of a deal—except for the fact that
Eddie is left-handed. His dark hair is in disarray and drenched
with sweat. As always when it’s wet, there’s a slight trace of
curl, and there’s dust from the streets in his hair. Hell,
there’s dust all over him, on his black shoes, on his black
pants, on his white business shirt (which is ripped at the
collar), and on his black jacket, which is draped across his lap.
The whole town is nothing but dust and Eddie looks as though
he’s been rolling in it. The bandage on his bleeding hand is
filthy, not a good thing, and the blood is fresh. I can’t see
his face. I don’t have to. He is probably bruised, cut in a
place or two, a tooth might even be knocked out. Eddie is accident
prone, so to speak. He attracts trouble without ever inviting a
fight.
I’m usually the
one to bail him out; Whitney is repulsed by him when he goes on
his self-destructive binges. Eddie never tells Dana when he gets
this fucked up—she’s got the baby to worry about and that’s
enough to handle. Eddie has a lot of friends. Even the people
who’ve beat the shit out of him would probably admit to liking
him. He’s a popular guy. Still, he knows I’m one of the few
people who really care. Sometimes, times like these, I’m the
only one who cares at all.
I’ve helped Eddie
out before, and I’ll no doubt help him again. I’ve been called
out to some pretty weird places at some pretty weird hours to pick
him up and bring him home. Today is different. For the first time,
I’m wondering what I’m doing. For the first time, I’m
wondering why I always come running. I’ve got my own problems.
I’ve got too many of my own problems to be worrying about Eddie.
But I’m here and I can’t turn around. I’ve come too far.
I’m parked right in front of him.
He still hasn’t
noticed me and it’s been a while. I’m still sitting in the car
watching him and the car is still running. I rented the car at the
airport in Vegas, which is another story (one I’ll no doubt dump
on Eddie as a reminder of how far out of my way I’ve gone yet
again to help him out). It’s a black car, a convertible. The top
is down. The windows are down. The air conditioning is blasting.
It’s a million and a half degrees in the shade. I’m not in the
shade. I’m in the sun. In a black car.
I pick up the car
phone that’s located between the seats. I start to dial
Whitney’s number. I should let him know I’ve found Eddie
alive, if not necessarily well. Eddie isn’t well. He’s a mess.
I put down the phone. If I call Whitney, Eddie will hear me
talking. The last thing he needs to hear is me bitching about his
current condition to his judgmental older brother. Eddie trusts me
completely.
For the first time,
I wish he didn’t.
I’m not sure how
to get his attention. I sit in silence, hoping he’ll notice me.
Eddie’s emotional highs and lows are legendary. I’m probably
better acquainted with them than anyone. Right now, he’s so low
that I don’t want to mess with him. He’s probably straight,
too, or getting there. I hate dealing with him when he’s
straight. He’s too honest. Eddie’s a smart guy, good-looking,
too. But he’s been strung out and strung along for too many
years.
There
are people out there who call him irredeemable. Eddie’s not
irredeemable. I don’t think he needs to be redeemed at all.
He’s one of the most essentially good human beings I have ever
known. His only problem is that he’s been so far gone for so
long that normality, for him, is what society’s morally elite
call "a dangerous, self-destructive lifestyle that will lead
straight to the depths of Hell."
A
lot of these same people, Whitney included, think I’m assisting
him on his journey. Those are the people who are trying to
"save" him. They blame me for encouraging him with my
unwavering support during his fuck-ups. I’m not trying to
encourage Eddie. I’m not trying to save him, either. Unlike most
people—unlike Whitney—I can see Eddie’s point of view, where
he’s coming from. More often than not, I like his perspective
better. Eddie doesn’t bullshit. Everything’s either black or
white with him. Those shades of gray that everyone else uses to
justify their crap do not exist to him. I justify a lot of crap
with shades of gray.
But
what people think of Eddie, and what I think of Eddie, and
Eddie’s perspective on life don’t explain why I’m in
Divinity, Nevada. Why I’m here is irrelevant. The only thing
that is relevant is getting Eddie out of Divinity and finding out
how he wound up in Divinity in the first place. To do that, I’m
going to have to get his attention.
(Turn
the page) |
