ALMOST FIVE QUARTERLY

ALMOST FIVE QUARTERLY Though 5Q guest editors ultimately have to pass on so many excellent submissions per issue, our team features work here that reached the final round of guest editor readings. Because of the nature of our project in working with guest editors, almost totally counts in our book - A5Q is our chill younger sister. Check out our current issue and happenings at fivequarterly.org.

[almost5q]

#25, summer Elisabeth Reidy Denison’s writing has appeared in Bodega, SAND, Comparative Literature Undergraduate Journal, and on Coffee and Stink. A native of Massachusetts and a graduate of the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, she now lives in New York City where she is on the editorial staff of The New Yorker.

[almost5q]

#24, summer

MEETING GOD AT 11 AM BEN EHRLICH

There is the story of a spiritual seeker in India who, upon hearing from his teacher that everyone is God, every single thing is God, went on down the road in awe of all that he saw. "The grass is God!" he thought, "The dust is God!" "The elephant in the road is God!" only he did not notice the man on top of the elephant shouting "Get out of the way! the idea perhaps being that while you are admiring one God you are ignoring another, and that might be the one you really need to listen to.

Of course this would mean that James is God. James who meets me here every week is God. James who last time told me the story about how everyone is God is God. My friend James is God, and God is never late, and we always order the same thing.

Then I must be God as well. Sitting at our usual table, I must be God as well. Waiting here at the one-hour table for “short-term customers only” for well over an hour, I must be God as well. So you could say that God is the kind of customer who overstays his welcome, according to the waitress.

And so the waitress is also God, I guess. The smiling waitress is also God. The smiling waitress who on my bill writes "Thank you, Patience" is also God. Patience is the name of God, and God and blond, and around my age.

God God God. God God God God God. We live in a world surrounded by God. The sterling silver cappuccino machine is God, The family of four each with an iPhone is God, The girl with red hair and Down syndrome selling home baked cookies is God, God God God God God God God but it is 11:45 the seat across from me is empty, and God knows that the only God I have ever wanted to see is the one who will apparently not be showing up for coffee with me today.

BIO: Ben helped found The Beautiful Brain and has been previously published in New England Review and Nautilus Magazine.

[almost5q]

#23, summer

from 30 Days to Die, Finalist, 3rd Annual Fiction e-Chapbook Contest DUSTIN LUKE NELSON

BIO: Dustin Luke Nelson is the author of the forthcoming collection "in the office hours of the polar vortex" (Robocup) and the chapbook “Abraham Lincoln” (Mondo Bummer). His 90-minute performance film "STRIKE TWO" debuted with Gauss PDF and his performance piece "Applause" debuted at the Walker Art Center's Open Field. His poems have appeared in the Best American Experimental Writing 2015, Fence Magazine, Paper Darts, Opium, 3:AM, the Nervous Breakdown, and elsewhere. His digital self is housed at dustinlukenelson.com.

[almost5q]

#22, summer

OLIVER ZARANDI BIO: Oliver Zarandi's latest stories have appeared in Hobart, HTMLGIANT, The Quietus, The Boiler, The Bohemyth and CCLaP. You can contact him on Twitter: @zarandi.

[almost5q]

#21, spring

from Music Lessons, Finalist, 3rd Annual Poetry e-Chapbook Contest TASHA COTTER

BIO: Tasha Cotter's first full-length collection of poetry, Some Churches, was released in 2013 with Gold Wake Press. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in NANO Fiction, Verse Daily, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. You can find her online at www.tashacotter.com. 

[almost5q]

#20, spring

 Wonder Springs ELIZABETH MCGUIRE

 The check-out line at Valley Foods stretched clear to the back wall of the store, but Kenny knew it would move quickly. It was a line full of regular customers, mostly locals clutching bottles, not of milk or orange juice, but “packaged liquor” that required a special license the other grocery stores in town didn’t have.  Bottles to be consumed while still in the bag. Bottles left scattered and empty on sidewalks and along the road. The majority got charged on food stamp SNAP cards, with the option of cash back. Customers step up, swipe their cards and walk away happily with a bottle of whiskey or tequila or gin, and a fifty or so in cash. The cash was usually spent on lottery tickets and cigarettes sold right by the exit. Kenny was sure there was a kid or two at home who could use a banana, or maybe some bread instead.

Kenneth Scott Morgan turned thirty-five eight months ago. A few days after his birthday celebration, he was laid off.  These days, if he didn’t force himself to get up and out of the house early, he might not get up at all. It was late summer and scorching hot. His daily check-in at the Valley Foods jobs board was mainly because it was one of the few walkable destinations from their place. The board rarely posted anything worthwhile, but he considered checking it as his “due diligence.” The fact is, it was Citizen’s Bank that transferred him his wife and Alison clear across the country a little less than a year ago. He was transferred with a promotion to branch manager. But less than three months after they moved, “Citizens” laid him off. Closed down the whole damn office. It did not help knowing that the recession was crushing banks across the country, and a big percentage of the smaller branches were shutting down. The whole ordeal was like a bad joke, including how “Citizen’s” delivered the news. One afternoon, out of nowhere, Mike Kelley, the regional manager, shows up. This was a guy Kenny had never met. Wasn’t even sure he’d ever heard his name. True, Mike was a few years younger and a little more of what the bank considered “polished.” He was certainly no genius though. He brought along Kasha, a big eyed woman from HR, who wore a frozen furrow of concern on her forehead that was pretty distracting. Kenny kept expecting her to jump in on his behalf, but she never uttered a single word. They sat down in Kenny’s office and in less than 5 minutes, Mike handed over the “tough” news that this was Kenny’s last day. Then, without losing eye contact, he slid a thick file folder across the desk. On the cover were photos of well dressed,  sophisticated people, their faces hopeful, even smiling, as they supposedly received the same news. Inside were pamphlets with titles like “Dealing with Job Loss” and “Networking on a Budget. The folder also and included information on insurance for the unemployed and a mental health hotline. To Kenny, it was like a punch in the face.

Since then, not a whole lot has improved, and his prospects remain practically nonexistent. So when Kenny and Alison had to give up their internet service, he didn’t think it cut his chances much. It’s not easy to meet people, let alone “sell” yourself, especially in this kind of predicament, in this kind of place. Wonder Springs, a town of 35,000 people in the middle of the Mojave Desert, not far from Death Valley. On the map it looks relatively close to Palm Springs and LA, but to Kenny, it didn’t feel close to anything. They couldn’t go back to Tampa, at least not now. The move was too expensive and there was nothing to go back to anymore. For the time being they had to sit tight and do their best to get by, and the bar for doing their best got lowered by the day.

When he was first laid off, Kenny woke up feeling anxious, like the floor dropped out from under him. He tried running, hoping to ease his nerves and find some perspective, but soon realized that jogging in the desert was just plain stupid. There was nowhere to go, and it didn’t feel like he was working through problems, it felt like punishment. Eventually he got into the habit of driving out into the desert, finding some comfort in the freedom and recklessness of sitting behind the wheel with his foot heavy on the accelerator.  And there was a time or two he came dangerously close to rocketing on to no return. The scope and scale of the landscape was like the moon or another planet, and Kenny couldn’t fathom how anyone could actually feel like they belong here, or that this was home. In his mind it held a challenge, an inhuman quality, and the ghost towns, abandoned mines and remnants of the deserted air force base somehow proved his point. It was certainly a far cry from the crowded urban beaches he and Alison came from.

One of his favorite spots in the desert was several miles out of town, near the mountain range off to the east. The road he takes is flat and empty and runs straight as an arrow along the Santa Fe railroad tracks. Eventually it comes to a steep pass that four different rail lines blaze through and Kenny would often make his way up to the pass overlook. There the open desert butts up against the mountains, and the pass forms a narrow gorge, where the air is still and whisper clear, and nothing but a few hawks float silently inside the chasm. Kenny loved to wait for the rumbling of the approaching locomotives as they start to gradually build off in the distance, creeping at first, gaining momentum for what seems an eternity. Eventually the pass is completely taken over, invaded by the crushing boom of the heavy, turning steel barreling through. He found it exhilarating and even a little frightening, and always made sure he got close enough to be shaken up a little. It took his mind off the monotony of what was now his every day.

           Outside the grocery store, some trucks were working on gas and electric lines. Municipal stuff. It was loud and dusty, so he didn’t hear his phone ring, just felt the vibration. It was Alison. She had taken a job at the coffee shop, which didn’t pay much but she thought it was healthy to get out. Healthy for both of them. Kenny crossed away from the construction to call her back. She picked up right away.

“Hey, how you doing?” Alison chirped.

“Good,” Kenny said. “You on break?”

“Yeah, but it’s slow, I don’t think everyone is back from vacation yet.” There was a military training base just north of Wonder Springs, and during the hottest part of the summer the families take vacations to get away from the heat while the kids are out of school.

“What have you been up to?” Alison asked. “Any news? Anything happening?”

He stared back up at the Valley Foods sign in the parking lot across the street. He bit his tongue and tried not to be sarcastic. He knew he was too sensitive. “Nothing much really, they seem to be doing a lot of work on the roads or something.” He said flatly.

“Why don’t you come down here, have a coffee, maybe we can go for Chinese later,” she said.

“I thought we were trying to conserve” Kenny said.

“Sweetie, we gotta eat,” Alison said lightly. “Come on, you need to interact with some people. Jerry is here. You should come down and have a coffee with him, say hello.”

One of the big trucks that was idling near the corner suddenly revved its engine, and a guy in a white hard hat wearing a tool belt loaded with heavy spools of wire, was raised up in a cherry-picker to the top of a utility pole. The guy in the lift was laughing and shouting down to the guy in the truck, just barely clearing the palms and electric lines. They seemed oblivious to any danger, but to Kenny it looked like an accident about to happen. He imagined the guy getting caught up in the wires, his arm sliced off or worse, as Alison’s words buzzed in his ears.

“Hello, Hello earth to Kenny…” After a moment, he realized she was still trying to convince him to come to the café.

“Sorry, it’s kind of loud out here with all these trucks.”

“Ok, I won’t ask you again,” she said. “But think about it.”

Jerry owned a novelty store that carried Navaho crafts, handmade jewelry, pottery and clothing, mainly for tourists. They also sold Lotto, which he referred to as his “bread and butter.” His store was right next to the coffee shop, which caused a minor problem since Kenny didn’t like Jerry much. They were completely different people, Jerry was outgoing and a big talker, and Kenny, even under the best of circumstances, avoided attention.

“Hey guess what?” Alison changed the subject. “Jerry is running for County Board. We have to vote for him,” she said.

“Why do I have to vote for him?” Kenny said. “Besides, no one is supposed to know who you vote for.” He got the impression Jerry was sitting right there, and that Alison was catering to both of them, and it bothered him.

“I know I know. But he has my vote!” Alison half shouted. Then added under her breath, “Kenny, come on, it can’t hurt to be on the right side of the city council... can it!? Quit making everything harder than it already is.”

“City Council?” Kenny asked, not that he cared. “I thought you said County Board.”

“I have no idea, but if I see his name I will vote for him,” Alison said defiantly.

Jerry was married, for the third time, to a timid woman named Martha, who worked at the library, and kept a hushed demeanor at all times. Her voice never rose above a whisper. Jerry on the other hand always seemed to be shouting, whether he was happy or mad, excited or somber, he managed to yell any thoughts he possessed. He also had a well-known drinking problem. It was surprising that he hadn’t been sued for some of the things he said or did under the influence of Jack Daniels, and no one could understand why he often took it out on sweet Martha. When drunk, he had a habit of embarrassing and belittling her, and then making up for it with garish turquoise jewelry from his shop. It was true that Jerry could be insanely funny at times, and that may have been his only saving grace. Kenny didn’t find him funny though. He knew Jerry had taken to asking Alison to “grab a bite” with him on a regular basis since starting at the café. Kenny wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it, partly because he didn’t want to give Jerry more credibility than he deserved. He also knew if he were still at the bank, he wouldn’t be as insecure. Lately, more and more of his old self slipped away, replaced by someone more introverted, more cautious, and more skeptical.

Kenny wanted to get off the phone. “I’ll come down, but later, after that asshole leaves.”

“Can’t you be a little friendly?” Alison said.

“You might find him entertaining but I’ve heard enough of his bullshit.” Kenny hung up, turned down a side street and headed back to the house.

At home, he straightened up the kitchen, making a neat pile of the newspapers that were scattered across the table. He cleaned up coffee grounds, rinsed the dishes and wrapped up the bread he’d left out from breakfast. The radio was on, set to the local station. He kept it on for background noise more than anything, definitely not for what you would call news. Stories covered things like how to make lemon bars or the locations of rummage sales. This morning however there was a report that caught Kenny’s attention. It was about a young high school boy and his mother who apparently shot up a propane tank that started a fire out in the desert north of town. That kind of activity was fairly common, except for the mother and son part, but blasting away at old refrigerators, microwaves, or desks was a pretty popular form of recreation. At least you would get that impression if you drove any of the back roads of the valley. These two attracted some attention because a significant fireball erupted; big enough to be seen for miles, and both the Police and Fire and Rescue were called. It was a lucky thing because the kid, Tommy Watts, had second degree burns, and the 25 mph winds spread the blaze until it was big enough to be classified as a wildfire. His mother was thrown in jail for child endangerment, and a slew of other things, none of which sounded good. The report went on to say the kid was gonna be ok, but would be hospitalized for weeks, adding that his father and stepmother would likely take over custody. There had been a court battle going on for months and the propane incident was expected to seal the deal. This all struck Kenny as part of the bigger story of Wonder Springs and why military base was brimming over with new recruits. The adults didn’t seem to offer much guidance or example to their kids, and the environment certainly didn’t offer much to aspire to, so the base looked pretty good. The story stuck with him, and was disturbing to Kenny on a couple of fronts. One, it was a depressing story of how one bad decision snowballed out of control in an instant, and two, Kenny caught himself thinking about whether there would be a job opening at the lumber yard, since the report mentioned that Tommy worked there.

A pile of laundry was staring at him from the bedroom, and it suddenly seemed like a good thing to tackle. He gathered it up into giant duffel, hoisted it over his shoulder and stepped back out into the heat. He’d throw it in at the Laundromat and then make his way over to the currency exchange to pay the electric bill. “What a day…” He thought as he stepped out. It was a long walk, and too hot to be enjoyable, but he tried to think of it as exercise. Approaching forty and all of a sudden he was looking at every move he made as exercise. Unfortunately the main street in town had the feel of a highway, so exercise or not, it wasn’t all that interesting.

The Laundromat was another place to try to avoid as much as possible. It was dingy, hot and sticky, with a stagnant detergent smell that had a choking effect if you were there for too long. Kenny tossed the laundry into the washer and parted with the pocket full of coins he’d scrounged together from the jar he now kept on his desk. He and Alison were not completely broke… yet. But they were both worried about money. Kenny tried to make a game out of squeezing what he could out of what they had, and got a kick out of making it a challenge each day. He’d even begun to ponder questions like… how far would I go for a dollar.

After starting the load of wash, he checked the machines on either side for coins. Two young women walked by and stopped out front, talking and laughing. They were carrying a stack of flyers and Kenny noticed that they’d taped one on the window of the laundry. He watched as they turned and walked away. They didn’t go far; their Ford Explorer was parked next door. Kenny could read the print through the back of the poster. It was for band called Gila Monster that was playing a concert in the desert at the end of the month. For a split second Kenny pictured himself and Alison, dancing beside a stage illuminated by a giant bonfire in the darkness of the desert. A voice from behind caught his attention. He turned to face an overweight woman folding clothes at a table in the back. “You want me to put that in the dryer when the cycle ends?” she asked.

“Ahh, no thanks.” Kenny answered. “I’m gonna take a walk and be right back.”

“Suit yourself, but don’t plan on leaving for too long. They’s others waitin’ on the machines,” she said, irritated.

“Don’t worry, I’m just running across the street,” he said. He glanced at all the empty machines, then pulled the electric bill out of his back pocket and held it up, waving it like a little flag. “Like I said, I’ll be right back.” And he pushed open the heavy door.

Outside on the street, the girls were still sitting in their truck. One of them reminded Kenny of his old girlfriend, Christine. He and Christine were together through high school and a few years after, and he’d been head over heels for her. She sang in the choir and had a voice like an angel, with the blond hair and looks to match. Eventually though, she broke his heart. After they broke up, he’d drive over to her place at night and sit for hours in the parking lot outside, just watching the lights in her window. Finally a neighbor caught him throwing tiny pieces of gravel from the driveway at the window, and threatened to call the cops. He was mortally embarrassed, with tears spilling down his face as he drove away, past the shiny black, Chevy pick-up that Christine’s new boyfriend, Chad Reynolds, had parked under the streetlamp out front. A blessing in disguise because he never went back after that.

Maybe it was Alison continually harassing him to be sociable, maybe it was the memory of Christine, but Kenny did something he rarely did, he walked over to the truck and struck up a conversation with the girls.

“Hey there. Which one of you is Gila and which is Monster?” Kenny said, nodding toward the poster. He wanted to be funny, but couldn’t come up with anything else. It didn’t matter; the girls were happy to talk and didn’t seem to notice.

“We both are!” They laughed, as the one behind the wheel, the one who looked like Christine, answered.

“You don’t look like monsters,” Kenny said with a smile.

“You should come to our show, at the desert festival,” Christine’s clone said as she turned around and grabbed a stack of posters from the back seat. “Tell your friends!” She handed him a small pile.

“Sounds good,” Kenny replied

“Pass those around if you get a chance.” The friend piped up. “This year’s festival is gonna be EPIC!”

“We gotta go, but seriously, come to the festival,” Christine said to Kenny as she started to back up and pull out.

“All right, sure, well… maybe see you there,” Kenny said, not knowing what else to say. He stood in the street as they pulled away, feeling invigorated by the interaction, and a little empty now that it was over. If nothing else, it was something he could throw back at Alison later if their conversation turned to Jerry for too long.

Kenny decided to pick up his laundry and then go get the car. He decided it was time to splurge, take Alison for a drink and Chinese. Somehow he was completely energized, and wanted to hold on to that feeling.

He got home and hung the laundry out to dry, a new routine to save some money. It was better than using the lint traps they called dryers at the Laundromat anyway. He quickly changed clothes and called Alison just as he was about to pull out.

“Hey it’s me. I am coming down to meet you after all.”

“Great, I’ll be here,” she said.

“I was thinking we should go for Chinese like you said, and maybe have a drink either before or after,” he offered.

“Whoa! What’s got into you?” Alison said jokingly. “I’m off at seven but it’s so slow I’m sure I can sneak out a little earlier.”

“I’ve got a couple things to do and then I’ll head over.”

Alison was in front of the café watering two small aloe plants from a plastic milk jug when Kenny pulled up.

“Hey, perfect timing,” she said happily. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Ok, but I’m starving, what do ya say we eat first and then go for a beer?” Kenny asked.

“Sure,” Alison said. “I need a decent meal; I eat way too many sweets working here.”

“All right, c’mon then, let’s go.” He waved her towards the car.

“One sec… let me grab my stuff and lock up.” She disappeared to the rear of the shop. When she walked back out she had a dish towel from the café covering the top of her canvas tote bag, which wouldn’t close and hung like a lead weight.

“What’s that?” Kenny asked as she slid into the car.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I’ll tell you at dinner,” she said.

The Chinese restaurant, Wok n’ Roll, was in a strip mall around the corner. Next door was Pearl’s Beauty Supply, Top Mobile, and the Shrimp Shack, but the rest of the storefronts were empty, their windows covered with For Lease signs. Kenny and Alison sat at the front and looked out on the parking lot and encroaching darkness. The phone never stopped ringing and a few other customers came in and carried out, but as diners, they had the place to themselves. It was Friday and there was more traffic than usual, mostly pick-ups and vans full of people heading out to the casinos.

They each ordered, and Kenny brought up the bag.

“So what’s under the towel?”

“Nothing, well, not exactly nothing.” She leaned forward. “It’s a handgun,” she said.

“Handgun?” Kenny was taken off guard. “What the fuck are you doing with a gun?”

“Shhh…calm down,” Alison said. “It’s for protection is all.”

“Right,” he said.

There was a momentary silence while Kenny processed his thoughts, then sat back, straightened up. “Sooooo… where’d you get it?” he asked. “And how long have you been ‘carrying’ protection?” he said sarcastically.

“I got if from Jerry a couple of weeks ago.” She replied matter of factly. “It’s no big deal, tons of people have em.”

“That’s not the point,” he said. There was a sinking in his chest, and it wasn’t because of the gun.

Kenny noticed the eyes and ears of the woman behind the counter, so they decided to leave the conversation for later, and finished their food in relative silence.

After dinner they drove down the road to The Pour House for a beer. The place was pleasant enough, the beer was always cold, they served peanuts in the shell and played decent music. Alison stopped by the front door to chat with a few people she must have met while working at the café. She weaved her way back to Kenny and sat down to take a sip of the beer that he had ordered for her. When she reached past him for the glass, he noticed a chunky turquoise bracelet on her wrist. A quick, sharp, pang of fear and sadness, overwhelmed him.

“Cheers!” Alison raised her glass to Kenny. She smiled, and in the yellow light of the bar her face was soft and glowing and happy.

Kenny’s face was burning and his heart pounding, hit by a rush of emotion.  All of a sudden he realized how sharply things had turned, how far out of hand they had gotten, and even worse, that it was his fault. And it wasn’t just the circumstances; it was his whole attitude, his whole being. For the first time in months he saw himself through Alison’s eyes and started to panic. He had moved them there and lost his job, that was true, but more importantly since then, he had been completely miserable and was making their lives miserable. He wasn’t trying to lift them up, it was the other way around, and now it seemed clear to him that that just wasn’t right. It was his job to help her through, and try to keep her happy. But now, suddenly he was too late; she was wearing that bracelet and had Jerry’s gun. She’d moved on without him because he wasn’t there for her. And he had practically invited it to happen.

“Cheers!” he finally answered ruefully as he clinked his glass against hers.

Alison could see he was troubled, so she just started talking. “Did you hear about that kid, Tommy Watts and his mother?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sad he got hurt.”

“Thankfully he’ll be ok,” she said, then haltingly added. “You won’t believe this but.” She stopped mid-sentence. She had a sheepish smile and looked down at her feet on the barstool rung.

“What?”

“Well, when I heard it… I thought about…” She hesitated. “Anyway I always wondered what it would be like to shoot something up like that, something where you’d see a reaction.” She finished the sentence quickly. “Not a person.” She laughed. “Like a gas tank or propane tank kind of thing, like in the paper.” There was a guilty look on her face as if she embarrassed, but at the same time Kenny saw a mischievous glint. “Remember how David Letterman used to throw stuff off buildings on his show…”

They finished their second round and Kenny asked if she wanted another.

“Let’s go for a drive,” Alison said.

He stood up, knocked back what was left in his glass, and they strode out of the bar into the heat of the night, stopping for a moment to stare up at the sky. There were always millions of stars and galaxies you could see in the desert sky at night. That was one thing that was never disappointing.

They climbed into the car and headed out into the blackness of the valley, cruising in silence with the windows open. A few miles down the road Kenny finally spoke. “I’m really sorry Alison.” He choked out the words, and could feel the tears starting to well up and then stream down his cheeks, like the ones he felt so long ago. And it struck him as ironic and sad that he couldn’t remember the last time he felt anything other than anger and frustration.

“No need to be sorry, we are gonna be just fine,” she said, then squeezed his hand and said “You don’t have to worry about Jerry.”

They kept cruising into the night, the moon was bright and everything else was a mystery, disappearing into the black hole of the desert.

“Pull off on one of the side roads when you can,” Alison said.

They stopped and she got out and marched over to a big boulder, the sandy grit crunching under her feet. In the white glare of the headlights, Kenny could see her clearly, with her heavy canvas bag, but had no idea what she was up to. She skipped back to the car, a little out of breath, smiling a big wide eyed smile. “Turn off the engine for a sec.”

Kenny cut the engine and got out. The moon illuminated three cylinders she had set up on the flat top of the boulder. Then she dug out the pistol and threw the bag on the ground.

“Who’s first, you or me?” she said, turning back towards him, smiling.

Surprised, Kenny stared at the cylinders for a moment biting his bottom lip, then looked at Alison. He smiled back, and said “That depends, who’s the better shot?”

“Let’s do it together!” she exclaimed.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the night, holding the gun steady, like excited young teens. They braced and held the heavy pistol straight out between them and fired, hitting their target, a jumbo canister of whipping cream, from the cafe. There was a loud bang as the thing launched like a rocket, exploding in a mini fireball in the sky. They started laughing and couldn’t stop, until both were almost doubled over as they shot the two other cans. They couldn’t believe what they were doing, or maybe they couldn’t believe they were laughing so hard, it had been such a long time since they’d really laughed together. After the fireworks from the cans died out, Alison and Kenny stood leaning back against the car. “Things are not so bad Kenny.” Alison said simply. “But I do need to know you are here, with me. Otherwise, nothing’s worth anything.” A few giant drops of rain fell, a rare alert that a storm was coming, and the wind started to pick up as they climbed back into the car.

Driving home, Alison sat close to Kenny resting her head on his shoulder, until they could see the lights of Wonder Springs up ahead. “Were you thinking of having an affair, or already having one with Jerry?” Kenny asked, but before she could respond he said “Don’t answer that Alison. It’s my turn to do better, and I think if I don’t know, that just might help.”

 END BIO: Elizabeth is a writer and artist from Chicago.

[almost5q]

#18, spring

ALEPH ALTMAN-MILLS

BIO: Aleph Altman-Mills is an autistic writer who collects acorns and likes to buy books other people have already written on. She has been published in The Legendary. She blogs and posts poetry snippets at really-fucking-confused.tumblr.com; poetry prompts are at darlingghosts.tumblr.com. She loves you.

[almost5q]

#17, spring

from Day(s) of Creation JOSE TREJO MAYA

BIO: Jose is originally from the small rural pueblo of Tarimoro in the lowlands of Mexico (born in Celaya, Guanajuato), in that his parents and grandparents had minimal to no formal education. After migrating to the United States in 1988, he completed his studies with an AA in Social and Behavioral Science from Citrus College, a BA in Sociology & Social Work from California State Polytechnic University, Pomona and an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles with an emphasis in enthopoetic language poetry of particular interest the ancient poet Netzahualcoyotl. He has had poems published in the Nimrod International Journal and Belleville Park Pages with several pending works in MS. The above is from the ms referenced above, which centers on the Tonalpoualli or count of days (i.e. from Nahuatl now known as the Sunstone Calendar of the peoples of the central plateau of present day Mexico City).

[almost5q]

[almost5q]

#15, spring

ERIN DORNEY

BIO: "Tent-Pole Moments" is an erasure poem sourced from a media interview with actor Shia LaBeouf ("Shia LaBeouf" by Tasha Robinson, A.V. Club, April 2007). The poem was written during Erin's time as the Modern Writer in Residence at Modern Art. Click here to read more Shia LaBeouf erasure poems at Hobart. Click here to learn more about Erin.

[almost5q]

#14, spring

Dust in the Curtains GRACE CASSIDY The room is full. My first instinct is to shrink, but I can’t figure out how I would do that, or even how that might be possible. If I could, it would be rude. Kellie was so thoughtful to have us all over, since we haven’t seen each other in so long. But the room is so heavy and all these people are not making it any lighter. 

Jack’s voice is coming at me from the left, talking about how his mom’s cats had babies. They’re a week old and he got to meet them yesterday. Peter’s voice is coming at me from the right. Something about a lost tennis match. The wind is whispering outside, so quiet I almost missed it. This doesn’t make the room feel any more spacious, and doesn’t make me feel any smaller.             

Kellie comes back in from the kitchen. I’m eye level with the rips at the knees in her pants. I get hopeful that her walking will initiate some type of breeze, but there’s not enough useable air in the room for that to happen. She moves gingerly through a maze of people and dirty clothes that never found the hamper. Where she walks, disrupted dust clouds rise up in the carpet before settling once she finds a spot to sit on the other side of the room. Brown strands of hair are stuck under my feet from before Kellie went blonde. She’s too distracted with opening her bag of pretzels to notice that the carpet hasn’t been vacuumed in god-knows-how-long. Jack is too busy talking about his mom’s cats to notice. Peter goes on, talking about a tennis match. 

I shift my attention to my fingers, running through the pale pink carpet fibers to draw shapes with light and dark, only to erase it once I grow tired with what I’ve made. I draw a cat. Then it’s gone. I draw another cat. The carpet looks like the bottom of a kindergartener’s shoes. The matching walls have been sweating. I can’t help but be concerned that there are too many people in this tiny, crowded space, and not enough air vents. I begin to think I’m the only person who’s feeling terribly swollen, and I wonder how long it’s going to take for my shoelaces to start pulling taut against my feet.             

Kellie and I make eye contact for a second or less before she bites into her pretzel. Crumbs fall to the carpet, getting lost and they disappear immediately. She doesn’t notice the crumbs and she doesn’t notice the carpet. It’s one of those hard, crunchy sourdough knots that come two in a pack at the vending machine for a dollar seventy-five. The kind that make your jaw sore.             

Above her head the old lace curtains don’t move the slightest bit. They’re as dusty as the pale pink carpet and as suffocating as the walls. They look like they haven’t been washed for three generations. They’ve lost most of their color to grime. At this point, they’re only noticeably white if you know what a dirty white looks like. In a room this full they look heavy, like they’ve absorbed all the water vapor from the sweating walls and the window perspiring behind them. But they’re probably just heavy from all the dust. 

If they did move, they’d likely shake the dust everywhere, getting in everyone’s eyes and burning until blind. But they stay put, still as all hell, while the wind whistles at the glass window behind them.            

Kellie looks up above her head to find the source of the noise. I wait.             

Jack goes on to say something about his mom’s cats but I’m not paying enough attention. He’s been talking about those stupid cats since he got here. Peter’s moved away from the tennis match and on to a different conversation on string theory. The wind is starting to screech at the window, clawing at the glass. 

“Kellie, do you have a pen and paper?” Jack wants to draw his mom’s cats. Peter wants to explain string theory in more detail.

Kellie reaches her hand up above her head, moving aimlessly along the sill of the window, blind to what she’s navigating. There’s nothing along the sill, but she doesn’t know that. She touches only the chipped white wood. Her hand reaches up just a little bit further and hardly comes in close contact with the dusty lace curtains. She misses the curtains by a millimeter without knowing. 

She hits the glass of the window and I know her hand feels cold for just a second. She finally moves her arm down when she hasn’t found the pen that she was looking for, and the window remains closed. The curtains remain still. The room is full and I try not to count the number of people around me.             

The wind is howling behind the fogging window. If there weren’t so many people in the room, someone might be able to comfortably open the window to let a breeze in, but there are too many people in the way. I look down at my hands and the shapes I’ve made in the dirty, pale pink carpet. I erase the cat and start fresh.             

Kellie moves her hand up again, with more energy this time. She sporadically moves her hand behind her head along the window sill, touching at the window. I know she wants the cold against her hands. Her hands get all swollen in the heat. We look at each other for a second or less but I know she’s not concentrating on vision right now. Her fingertips touch the lace curtains and the curtains shiver in response. I don’t see any dust cloud up. She moves her hands down and curtains return to their initial position, unmoved from the wind behind them. BIO: Grace Cassidy is trying to make it through the day without spilling coffee down the front of her blouse.

[almost5q]

#13, spring

From Ashes JONATHAN DANIELSON

             Mom used to say the reason Dad and I fight so much is because we’re both so alike.

           “You’reboth pigheaded,” she’d say, after Dad and I would finish screaming at each other over one thing or another. After that, she’d go mediate with him in their room and then come to me in my old room, my Kurt Warner poster from high school still on the door. “You need to get along,” she’d say, after I’d start repacking for Tucson, shoving shirts and underwear back in my bag even though I had just come up for the weekend. “Otherwise, one day you’re both going to say something you can never take back.”  

           It’s like every time I came home Dad and I would start fighting as soon as I walked through the door. Like this morning, when we were supposed to hike Camelback after breakfast and I did the dishes while he was getting dressed, but apparently I don’t know how to do dishes correctly. Apparently I do everything half-assed.

           “The skillet’s supposed to get hand-washed,” Dad said after he put his mug in the dishwasher and saw the skillet on the bottom rack. He asked how long did I used to live there, and how long did I know that’s how the skillet was supposed to get washed, and I said “Dad, who gives a shit about the skillet today?” He just tossed the pan into the sink and told me to drive back to U of A and that he would go up Camelback himself.

           “Fine,” I yelled, and I went to my old room and slammed the door, Kurt Warner fluttering from the force, and he went to his room and slammed the door. By the time we calmed down and left the house, it was mid-afternoon and we had to drive up and down 64th Street for twenty minutes just to find parking.

           “Do you want me to carry that?” I asked, after we got out and Dad opened the back door and undid the seatbelt around the backpack, the old green JanSport from eighth grade that I had no idea they still had, Mom always keeping crap like that.

           “No,” he said. The straps hadn’t been let out in the six years since I last wore it, and it rode ridiculously high on him. “I don’t want you to carry anything,” he said, and he adjusted the fit. He grabbed two water bottles from the floor boards and handed them to me. “Here,” he said.

           “Just put them in the backpack,” I said, but with the deep breath he took I just did what I was told. “Fine,” I said, and I tried squeezing them into my pockets so it didn’t look like I was jazzer-sizing up the mountain with a bottle in each hand.

           “Just carry them.”

           “They’ll fit,” I said. “There,” I said, and I held out my hands so he could see I was right. Two ladies in visors power-walked by, and after they passed we followed, the bulge on my thighs wobbling with each step until I took out the bottles, almost ripping my pockets as I did.

           In silence, we headed up the sidewalk past the golf course, a line of people coming off the trail in the opposite direction, Snowbirds in Ohio State shirts and Chicago Cubs hats, everyone sweaty and tired-looking, smiling and laughing and having a good time. Dad and I passed the mansions to the trail, and we hiked up the stairs made of old train posts and then continued along after the stairs disappeared and the path became dirt. Dad was breathing heavy, and after a while he stepped off the path to stretch. He nodded for a water bottle, so I gave him one. He took a drink then stared out over the Valley, his yellow ASU shirt soaked with sweat, the shirt he made sure to wear when I was around, even though he never went to ASU. Even though he never made it past a semester at Scottsdale Community. He stretched his hips and took another sip.  

           I knew if Mom was around she would have told me I should have again offered to carry the backpack. That he’s almost sixty and why am I letting him do it? That he doesn’t get mad when I don’t do whatever it is I don’t even realize he wants me to do, it’s the not realizing part that pisses him off. That I can’t take initiative on my own. Or whatever.

           “You want me to carry that?” I asked. He finished his drink and took another deep breath.

           “No,” he said, and even though I could tell he was still tired, he screwed the lid on the bottle and tossed it to me. “I told you I don’t want you to carry anything,” he said, and headed up the trail.

           “Fine,” I said.

           “Fine.” he said. “Fine, I hate that word.”

           He continued up and then I continued up, and we didn’t say anything as we went, not a word until two dudes in ASU shorts and tribal tattoos came running down the mountain. We moved aside to let them pass, and they said thanks, then Go Devils when they saw my blue Zona shorts. Dad didn’t look at me, but I could tell he was smiling. He took another deep breath, then asked if I was ready, like I was the one who needed more time.

           “I’m fine,” I said. We didn’t say anything for another ten minutes.

           I was still in high school the last time I hiked Camelback, the mountain unchanged except for all the traffic on Cholla, what with Echo trail closed so they could redo the parking lot. There were still the regulars running up and down for their daily workouts. The out-of-towners who thought it would be a fun excursion before Spring Training in the afternoon. The couples on Saturday morning dates. But because of all the extra hikers, Dad and I had to keep stepping off the path to let the out-of-towners come cautiously down. We had to keep moving over to let the regulars run by, Dad trying hard to catch his breath until I wondered if he could make it up all the way. His shirt was soaked, and the one time I asked if he was all right, he told me to quit asking. After a few minutes he pointed off the trail to a palo verde growing crooked off the mountain.

           “How about sitting over there a minute,” he said, and headed that way. When we got there, he took off the backpack and wiped dirt off a boulder. He set the pack on the clean spot and sat beside it, and I handed him his water. Behind him were the big homes and golf courses between us and Mummy Mountain. The mansions and resorts. The fancy restaurants where Dad would take Mom for birthdays and anniversaries. Dad put his hand to his knee and sat up straight, his mouth open like he was trying to get a yawn which wouldn’t come.

           “You know, here’s as good a place as any,” I said, pointing to the manicured desert landscapes.

           “You can’t see the house from here,” he said, looking over his shoulder. His arms and neck were so red I couldn’t tell if it was the sun or heatstroke. I knew he wouldn’t agree to the spot, because it wasn’t until the top that we could see our part of town, past Arcadia park and Ingleside Middle School, where I once went and where Mom used to teach. “We’re going all the way,” he then said. “You’re not half-assing this too, no matter how hard you try.”

            Down below, the parking lot for the Franciscan Rival Center was packed, with tents set up like they were having a fair. Along Lincoln, a photo radar van flashed as a car raced by.

           “You know, this is bullshit,” I said, watching the car lurch to stop and then keep going. “You keep treating me like this, I’m just going to go back down and wait by the car.”

           “Well, you couldn’t be bothered to drive up for the last six months, so why am I not surprised you’d do that?” Dad said, and he finally caught his breath. He took another sip, water dripping down his shirt.

           “Well, maybe that’s why Mom planned our little outing for her birthday, and not six months ago, because then I’d have to make at least one more trip to see you.”

           Dad stopped wiping off the water, and I knew I shouldn’t have said that.

           “Real nice,” he said. “Real fucking nice. You know what?” he said, before I could think of something to undo what I just did. “Just don’t talk to me for the rest of the day,” he said, and even though he probably wanted to sit a little longer, he grabbed the backpack and headed toward the trail.

           For twenty more minutes lizards hurried under rocks as our feet crunched over the path and we didn’t say a word. At the place where the trail closed-in and was steeper than before we stepped aside to the let two couples in Cal shirts and Giants hats come gingerly down.

           “When we get home, your mother wanted me to give you some stuff,” Dad said, one of the guys nodding thanks as he slid by.

           “What stuff?” The two women held hands and inched down and their guys laughed as their girlfriends or wives or whatever freaked out about falling.  

           “Just some stuff. We’ll talk about it at dinner,” he said, and started heading up when it was clear.

           “I won’t be here for dinner.”

           “What do you mean you won’t be here for dinner?” he said, stopping.

           “I mean I’m heading back to Tucson after this. I got class on Monday.”

           Two lean bodied regulars appeared at the top. They stepped aside to give us the right-of-way, but you could tell they wanted us to hurry.  

           “Today’s only Saturday,” Dad said, and when I didn’t say anything he adjusted the straps on his shoulders. “Fine,” he said.

           For the next hour the sun came down and our legs got heavy and we sweated and stopped every few yards for Dad to finish his water bottle and then mine. When we got to the top, it was packed, and I had no idea how we were going to do this with so many people around.

           “I got to take this off,” Dad said, and he pulled off the backpack. He pinched his shoulder blades together.

           “I told you I would carry it,” I said. I put my fists on my hips and looked for a clear spot, but hikers were everywhere. They took selfies with the Valley behind them, the Superstitions to the east, Downtown to the southwest, the Cardinals stadium a tiny bump on the western horizon. Others read books they brought with them. Others stood with their arms out wide and heads back, letting the wind blow by.  

           “I don’t know where we’re supposed to do this,” I said. I knew this was going to happen. I knew we should’ve left right after breakfast, before everyone was awake, and I knew today was not the day to give a shit about a skillet.

           “Over here,” Dad said, and he motioned to the side of the mountain that faced our home. There, two college girls sunbathed against a boulder, and a middle-aged woman stretched her calf. She smiled at us, then pulled back the tip of her foot.

           “Not here,” I whispered, but Dad squatted and set the backpack on his knee.

           “We’re all right,” he said, unzipping the zipper.

           “You know this is illegal,” I whispered, but apparently not quietly enough. The middle-aged woman tilted her head slightly, to watch us from behind her sunglasses. The sunbathers tucked their chins into their chests to lift their heads off the ground.  

           “We’re fine,” Dad said.

           Through tight lips, I smiled at the middle-aged woman, who looked away. The sunbathers whispered to each other.

           “Do it fast,” I said, but when I turned to see if Dad was ready, he was still looking in the backpack, his hands on either side of its canvas body. “Dad?” I said, but he didn’t respond, and because he was squatting and looking down, I couldn’t tell he was crying until I squatted next to him.

           “Maybe we should go back and do it by that tree,” he said, and he wiped his cheek with his burnt and sweaty hand. “Maybe you can come back next week and we can do it then. We’ll come earlier so it’s not so crowded.” The wind picked up and dust blew around us. “Maybe when all the Snowbirds go home we can--”

           “Dad--”  

           “There are too many people,” he said without trying to keep his voice down. The woman stood and wiped her hands along the back of her pants and went to the other side of the mountain. The college girls just kept whispering.

           “Dad,” I said, and I tried reaching for the backpack.

           “No,” he said, pulling it away. He blinked hard, squeezing out tears.

           “But this is where we’re supposed to be do it,” I said, reaching for it again and this time touching the soaked strap. “Because we can see the house from here.” He didn’t pull away when I took it from him.

           It was heavier than I expected, and I stepped away to get as close to the edge of the mountain as possible. I kneeled down and set the bag on the ground. I pulled back the flaps and inside was another bag, a clear plastic one. A few hikers came looking for a place to rest but just kept going. I pulled back the plastic bag, and inside that bag was a box, and on that box was a label with our last name.  

           I tried to pull the box from the plastic but couldn’t, my arms were rubbery and boneless. With my collar I wiped my eyes, which stung from my soaked shirt. I tried again to take out the box but couldn’t, it was too heavy, and then Dad reached over and peeled back the plastic and we freed it together. I hadn’t realized he was beside me, that he had come over and squatted next to me, and I held the box and he took off the lid and inside that box was another plastic bag with a metal clasp around it. He undid the clasp and I set down the box and we took the new bag and unwrapped it and let its contents out over the mountain, the gray dust mixing with the wind, taking it into itself until the bag was empty. Dad’s knees must have hurt from all the squatting, because he lowered one into the dirt and then the other, and he sat back on his heels.

           “I miss her,” I said, and I wiped my eyes and felt the earth rub over my cheeks.

           “Me too,” he said.

           My knees also hurt, so I put one to the ground and then the other, just like him. The wind blew more, and the dust blanketed us until the air finally settled. Until all was still. We stayed like that for a while, and we didn’t say anything. For once, we had nothing to say. BIO: Previously, Jonathan Danielson served as an Editorial Intern for Flatmancrooked and Kimberley Cameron & Associates Literary Agency and an Assistant Editor for Nouvella. Currently, he teaches English and writing at Scottsdale Community College, and is also an Assistant Fiction Editor for Able Muse. 

[almost5q]

#12, spring

Little Indians ADAM MATSON

 The only sound in the forest was the crunching of fresh snow beneath their boots.The sky was uniformly grey, the air warm for early March. Heavy branches loomed overhead. Smears of white snow crept up the trees like reverse shadows.

“How far is it?” Hannah asked. They were dressed for winter, thick coats, boots, hats and gloves, and she was starting to sweat.

“Not far,” Georgie replied.

It was a snow day, no school. Eight inches of fresh snow had swept in the night before. Hannah’s mother had dropped her off at the Yorricks’ house on her way to work. Georgie had greeted her arrival with an eager grin. “I want to show you something,” he said. “In the woods.”

Since their previous summer at Camp Rangeley, Hannah had noticed a change in her friend. He had returned from the Little Indian Hunt, an annual camp tradition, both terror-stricken and intrepid, as if he had seen the all world’s wonder, and its danger, in one afternoon, and wanted more of both. The Little Indian Hunt had changed her too. Georgie had told her about his experience. She had not shared hers with anyone.

 There was no path through the woods, but Georgie knew the way. He had discovered the ruins of the fire engine the previous fall. It was secreted deep within the tangled wilderness behind his house in Jasper, Maine. How the fire engine had come to be stranded in such a remote location- and when- were mysteries to him, but it was these ghostly questions of origin that drew him to the relic. Standing alone in the forest staring at the giant, abandoned machine excited him to his primal, childish core, and aroused him in another way that had also borne itself when he turned twelve. For some reason he wanted to take Hannah to the fire engine and kiss her. It was a strange desire, but undeniable. Hannah was changing too, her body budding. He wanted to touch her, and fire engine seemed to be goading him on, a rusted red beast whispering things Georgie wanted to hear.

 Hannah saw no reason why her mother had to leave her with the Yorricks on snow days. She was twelve and could handle herself perfectly well at home alone. Marissa, her older sister, had ruined everything when their parents caught her smoking cigarettes with Lacey Peters in the basement. Now Hannah was pawned off on Mrs. Yorrick, who did not work, and had been watching Hannah and Georgie since kindergarten.

Georgie’s mom was a strange woman, given to panic attacks. She watched television all day, and was afraid of everything. She constantly warned the children that the world was full of dangers: bullies and strangers and germs. Hannah and Georgie snuck out of the house through a bathroom window, stepping softly in the new snow as they trotted toward the woods.

Now Hannah glanced around nervously, mostly watching her own feet. Her feet, at least, were things she could control. The forest was sprawling and immense, filled with trees bent at nightmarish angles. She did not know where Georgie was leading her, and this unsettled her.

But her sweat did not turn cold until she saw the footprints.

“Georgie.”

“What.”

“Look.”

He had walked right through them, staring determinedly and obliviously ahead. They both stopped, stared down at the deep human tracks in the snow.

“Hm,” Georgie said. He scanned the forest. It was quiet and still. The footprints meandered off into the trees. Hannah noticed what Georgie apparently did not, that the tracks were fresh. Had to be, since it had snowed last night.

“Should we go back?” she asked.

“We’re almost there.”

Georgie had turned into quite a self-assured little pipsqueak since last summer. Hannah did not like to be led toward his secret, like some child’s game. It seemed particularly frustrating that she was bigger than him now, had grown three inches since fall, and Georgie seemed to her like a precocious small boy. Now he stomped ahead, crunching the snow beneath his boots as if he enjoyed the sound of disturbing nature. She followed, frowning at the back of his stupid head.

 The Little Indian Hunt was a camp-wide game of hide-and-seek, where the campers hid themselves on the vast, wooded Rangeley campground, and the counselors searched for them and corralled them back to the Meeting Circle like lost sheep. Or stray Indians. It followed the Big Indian Hunt, where the campers had to find the counselors. The game lasted about two hours, and any camper who stayed hidden the entire time nominally “won the game.” Almost nobody ever won. No matter where the Little Indians scattered and secreted themselves, the Big Indians always swept in and captured them, often with discouraging speed and efficiency.

Georgie was eleven the previous summer at camp, and he was determined to win the Little Indian Hunt. The past two years he had been captured both times. First he had hidden beneath his own cabin on the boys’ side of camp, a trick he thought was clever, until he was discovered a scant ten minutes into the hunt. The following year he held out for more than an hour, perched on the roof of the dining hall, until the camp director himself spotted him, and not only hauled him down, but scolded him for choosing such a dangerous place to hide.

This summer Georgie had a different plan. He would stay mobile, trudging deep into the woods to the perimeter of the camp, using distance and the camouflage of the trees to evade the counselors. It was important to him that he win the contest, not because there was any particular prize attached, but for his own pride. He would be canonized in Camp Rangeley lore forever.

He was slinking along the edge of camp when he encountered the abandoned kitchen, tripping over a rusted sink half-buried in the ground. Looking around, he saw other appliances, a stove, an ancient dishwasher, a table with three broken chairs, a refrigerator. His initial reaction was profound fear. He imagined that someone’s house had burned down on that very spot, and the phantom kitchen was all that remained. He expected three char-broiled ghosts to emerge from the trees- a mama, papa, and kid- and sit down at their old table, staring at him with singed black eyes.

He took a deep breath and looked around the forest, saw nothing but shiny green leaves flickering gold in the summer sun. Nearby he heard footsteps, hard and firm, and knew that a counselor was closing in. Georgie feared his bright red camp tee shirt would give him away if he didn’t find cover, and that’s when the idea came to him.

He pulled open the rusty door of the refrigerator, was hit by a pungent waft of mildew. All the shelves had been removed, and there was plenty of room for him to squeeze his small, wiry frame inside. His heart beat faster as he heard the footsteps approaching, and in his haste to avoid capture, he did not notice the latch on the door.

The inside of the refrigerator was pitch black, and smelled like something dead. The temperature felt like a thousand degrees. Georgie wanted out. He pushed the door, but it did not open. Panic seized him, and he kicked and pounded against the walls, sweat pouring from his face and under his arms. Tears choked up behind his nose and eyes. He squirmed and screamed and lunged forward, but the door did not budge.

 The fire engine was an unrecognizable mound beneath the snow. Hannah stared at it, unimpressed. Georgie took off his hat and scratched his sweaty hair. Hannah felt sort of sorry for him that his big surprise turned out to be a dud.

“How do you think it got way out here?” she asked.

“That’s what I can’t figure out,” he said. “Maybe the road used to come out this way, and it broke down. Or someone just drove it out and junked it.”

He brushed a clump of snow off the mound, revealing a rusty orange fender. Hannah helped him, and together they uncovered most of the engine’s cartoonish grinning grill.

“It’s kinda creepy,” she said.

“I know,” said Georgie.

“Is there anything else around?” she asked. She scanned the forest, and for a moment thought she saw movement somewhere in the trees.

“I’ve looked all over,” Georgie said. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s like a whole ghost town out here, an old, dead Jasper that nobody knows about. Full of ghosts.”

She looked at him. He was grinning, a strange mischievous expression she had seen on a boy before, an older boy last summer. She did not like what the look meant. Suddenly she felt icicles tickling her spine. She wanted to go home.

“Don’t you kinda feel like someone’s watching us?” Georgie asked.

Hannah swallowed a lump in her throat.

“Someone is watching us,” she said, staring past him at the dark face of a man peeking out at them beyond the trees.

 Hannah enjoyed the Little Indian Hunt at Camp Rangeley, but it was not her favorite event of the summer. She preferred the all-camp capture-the-flag game, which involved both strategy and bravery. Hannah liked games where she had to use her mind to out-think and defeat an opponent. Games like hide-and-seek or kick-the-can could be fun, but they were for little kids, exciting in a simple-minded way.

Each summer Hannah chose a half-assed hiding place, believing that the counselors would always find her no matter what. The campers’ red tee-shirts stuck out like beacons, and Hannah had figured out ahead of her peers that the Little Indian Hunt was just another way for the camp to pass time. And yet she couldn’t help trying to win. Georgie had raved all year at school about beating the Big Indians this summer, but he wouldn’t tell her what his plan was, or where he was going to hide. When the opening whistle blew and the campers scattered from the Meeting Circle, Hannah followed Georgie into the woods, but he turned and stopped her.

“You can’t come,” he said. “This place is mine.”

“What place?” she asked.

“Can’t tell. I’m sorry.”

He almost did look sorry. She decided she would laugh at him later, when he was inevitably caught. While he disappeared into the woods, she stalked off to find her own hiding spot, somewhere that would be her own little secret.

The sleeping cabins were clustered and separated by sex. Girls were not allowed on the boys’ side of the camp, and vice versa. The boys’ side rose along the wooded hill behind the tennis courts, while the girls’ side protruded out on the peninsula by the lake. Her heart beat faster as she snuck along the path past the infirmary, slipping onto the boys’ side. The cabins were red clap-board squares with arched triangular roofs. Hannah spotted Sugarloaf cabin sitting on the top of the slope. Sugarloaf was one of the larger cabins, and she knew from sleeping in its counterparts on the girls’ side that there would be a loft at the back of the rear wall. Campers stored sleeping bags and other gear in the lofts, and Hannah thought she could hide behind them and probably not be found.

She trotted up the steps of Sugarloaf. Stopped. Listened. She could hear nothing but the rustle of the leaves in the forest, and the distant gleeful cries of excited kids running from their counselors. The cabin was dark as she eased open the screen door. It smelled of boys inside, their sweat and bathing suits and deodorant. She expected all the campers to be gone.

She did not expect a counselor to be staring at her.

 Crouching in the snow, Georgie turned and followed Hannah’s frightened gaze. A man with dark hair and either a black or brown jacket stood about fifty yards away, peering at them from behind a tree. Somehow Georgie knew instinctively not to call out to the man, not to say hello, not to invite him over. He looked away quickly, thinking that perhaps the best thing to do was pretend he had not seen anything at all.

“Don’t look,” he whispered to Hannah. He now knew he was not going to kiss her, especially not with some weird man watching them. He felt alone in the strange woods next to the large, snow-covered mound. The powers of the fire engine had been white-washed away.

“Come on, let’s go back,” he said quietly, and he started off toward his house, retracing their tracks.

 The man followed them at a shrinking distance. Every time Hannah turned to look for him he was there, and every time he seemed to be staring directly into her eyes. Her sweat ran cold now. She thought if they kept walking, plodding toward the goal of Georgie’s house, they would be safe. Movement was crucial. She knew they could not stop.

The nagging thought that kept recurring to her as she tromped through the thick snow was that this man, whoever he was, was not where he supposed to be. Georgie’s property was vast and spread across many acres. She and Georgie had explored it countless times over the years, and she knew the territory pretty well, knew also that Georgie did not have neighbors. So there was no reason for this man to be roaming around their woods. And why was he out after a storm? Shouldn’t he have a job that he should be at? Kids stayed home from school on snow days, but adults still went to work. Those were the rules. So why wasn’t this man at work?

They trudged on and the snow seemed to get thicker with each step. Her clothes weighed heavily with sweat and dampness from the warming air. The forest around them became foggy, almost sticky. Georgie said nothing and for once Hannah wished he would turn and give her his goofy grin, if only to reassure her that they were safe. Instead he bent his head and marched, and she walked almost right on his heels, an invisible hand prodding her forward.

Suddenly Georgie cried out and fell, and she stumbled into him, her knee striking the back of his head. She went down face-first in the snow, came up wet and coughing. Georgie clutched at his leg, buried up to his thigh in snow.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I fell in a hole,” Georgie grumbled. “Dammit.”

He had begun to swear lately. That was another one of his new things.

“I think I lost my boot,” he said. He scrunched his face and pulled at his leg, and sure enough his foot came free bare of boot and sock. He peered into the hole and began to dig.

Hannah got to her knees, looked up and froze. The man now stood over them, staring down at them with his hands on his hips. His lips were grinning in a feline way she had seen once before, but there was no joy or compassion in his lifeless eyes.

“Lost your boot,” he said in a slow, raspy voice.

Georgie looked up, startled. He stopped digging.

The man turned his attention to Hannah. “What are you doing out here?”

She did not like the way he looked at her.

“It’s a snow day,” Georgie said, as if the man would understand. Then he seemed to think of a better answer. “I live here.”

The man did not even look at Georgie. He glanced casually up at the tree beside him, as if he was just out for a stroll, taking in nature’s beauty. Then he reached up and viciously snapped a low-hanging branch off a tree.

Hannah bent to a crouch, the strategist in her recognizing the man’s actions as a move of some kind. But she knew he was not playing any game. She knew they should be home inside the house right now, that one of Mrs. Yorrick’s many imagined dangers was in fact coming true.

“What are you doing?” Georgie asked the man, still clutching his bare foot.

The man examined the length of branch, flexed it in his hands, then swung sharply and cracked Georgie over the head. Georgie released a startled grunt and fell forward into the snow. His hands dropped from his bare foot, which came to rest on the frozen ground.

“Georgie?” Hannah cried, but her friend did not respond.

“Come on back to that fire truck with me,” the man said to her. “I want to show you something.”

Hannah was more scared than she had ever been in her short life, but the strategist came screaming to her rescue. In capture-the-flag, when the rival team had you cornered in their territory, you retreated until you crossed the line back onto your own side. This was not a game, but the rules still applied. She turned and ran into the forest.

 The door to the refrigerator swung open and suddenly Georgie was blinded by sunlight. He toppled out onto the leafy ground. For a moment he thought he had freed himself, and his heart fluttered with pride, until he saw Dan Beale, one of the counselors from Pleasant cabin, looming over him.

“You all right, Georgie?” Dan asked. “I heard you screaming.”

Georgie stared at his feet, embarrassed. “I’m okay,” he muttered.

“Hell of a hiding place,” Dan remarked, holding the refrigerator door. “You’re almost off the reservation though, chief. Almost broke the rules.”

Georgie said nothing. He had not considered his strategy cheating.

“Anyway, you’re caught,” the counselor said. “Go back to the Circle. You know the way?”

Georgie nodded, but Dan Beale was pointing anyway. Georgie trudged back to camp, wiping tears from his face and sucking his pride back into his throat like a gob of phlegm, spitting out his defeat on a tree. He had failed to beat the game again. But as he approached the camp he felt a peculiar excitement building inside him. He had discovered something unexpected and mysterious in the forest. The refrigerator had been like a black portal leading to a darker side of the world, a place that existed only on the fringe, and he had not been afraid to crawl into it. Only afraid to be trapped inside, but that he wouldn’t tell anyone.

When he returned to the Meeting Circle he saw that most of the Little Indians had already been captured. One or two of his friends looked at him curiously, wondering aloud how he had held out for so long. Hannah had been captured too, he noticed. She sat by the big rock at the fire pit, quietly hugging her knees. He told the other campers of his adventure, regaled them with his hero’s quest to beat the Hunt, his unexpected brush with suffocating death. The other campers grinned and offered him their hushed respects, except for Hannah, who stared off toward the lake, still hugging her knees.

 When Georgie awoke in the cold snow, his foot was numb. His head throbbed, and the looming trees left him momentarily disoriented. But everything came rushing back to him. The strange man had attacked him, smacked him with a tree branch, which now lay harmlessly at his side.

Where was Hannah? Georgie turned a quick circle, saw footprints leading away into the forest. Two sets of tracks, one small with steps far apart, one larger, the tracks deep, methodical.

Hungrily Georgie clawed at the snow, yanking his boot free from its burial. He shoved his icy pale foot back in and stood up. The forest swam around him. He leaned against a tree, clutched his head. Took a deep breath. Hannah was in trouble, and he was the one who had led her out here. He would be blamed if something went horribly wrong.

He bent down and picked up the snapped tree branch, then charged into the woods after the fleeing footprints.

 Her chest burned and hot tears poured down her face. Her breaths came in wheezing gasps. She did not know how long she had been running, but she knew she could not go much further. Hannah turned and looked for the man. Steamy fog rose up from the snow. He was not immediately visible, but she could hear him, plodding along. Every step she took needled her with the punishing certainty that she was leaving tracks. Any escape was futile. The snow would give her away even if she ran for a hundred miles.

She collapsed to her knees, sucked in more crying breaths. Georgie had crumpled like a doll, and she realized, with a pang of horror, that he might be dead, and nobody was going to help her. She was alone in the woods.

But not yet defeated. This was a strategy game, more complicated than hide-and-seek. During the Little Indian Hunt Georgie had found himself a clever place to hide, and might have beaten the game if he had stayed there and not panicked. She needed to think strategically. Where could she hide that the man would not reach her, even if her tracks led him to her?

Then she thought of the fog. It was foggy because of water. Because of the river. The river that cut through the back of Georgie’s land. She was near it. Beside it, in fact. She glimpsed the flat plain of snow where no trees grew, and knew the river lay frozen beneath that snow.

She heard footsteps approaching through the woods. Now the man was whistling, trying to smoke her out. She took a step out onto the river. Heard the faint crack of ice. It was March, and warm, and Mrs. Yorrick had always warned them never to walk out on the ice in March. But it was her only chance. She lowered herself to a crouch, held out her arms, and trotted deftly across the snowy surface. On the opposite bank she sank to her knees beside a tree. Turned to face the approaching man. He had to believe she had given up, so she started to cry, loudly, shivering against the tree. She cried until the man appeared. He stopped a short distance away. Grinned his feline grin.

Come closer, she thought. I know what you want but you won’t get it.

She had seen that look once before, during the Little Indian Hunt. She had crept into Sugarloaf cabin and stopped short when she saw one of the counselors- Roger, she thought his name was- lying on his bunk. For a moment they locked eyes, frozen in mutual surprise. Then Roger grinned, and Hannah realized with another shock that he was naked. Embarrassment hit her like a punch, and she dropped her eyes to the floor.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and she turned to go, fearing most of all that now she would be in some sort of serious trouble.

“Wait,” the counselor said. “Hold on.”

Hannah stopped, turned, glanced at him, immediately looked away. He was clutching himself, pale fingers grasping a thick purple head. She had never seen one like that before, but knew she should not be seeing it now.

“Come here a minute,” the counselor said, rising slightly from his bunk.

Hannah did not want to disobey him. She felt some dark, perverse magnet sucking her deeper into the cabin. But the strategist whispered in her ear. Just run. Somehow she knew he would not follow, not like that.

She pushed open the cabin door and ran.

 The man seemed to relax seeing Hannah slumped against the tree in the snow. He too was out of breath. Now he stepped calmly toward her, squashing her tracks beneath his large boots as if he enjoyed obliterating the signs of her escape.

Then they both heard the crack. The man froze, stared down at his feet. A large chunk of snow-covered ice broke loose from the river a few yards away, opening a portal of rushing water. The man looked up at her, concerned and slightly angry.

She watched him closely, her tears gone. She rose slowly to a crouch.

“Hannah?”

Georgie’s voice startled her, and she stepped back against the tree, bumped her head. The man turned but did not dare move his feet. Georgie stood on the bank of the river, holding the severed tree branch that the man had used to club him over the head.

 Georgie clutched the branch in his hand. His head still throbbed from the blow. He saw Hannah shivering on the opposite river bank, her face flushed and streaked with tears.

“Did he hurt you?” Georgie asked.

Hannah glanced at her feet, then looked up at him, fresh tears in her eyes. “Tried to,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

The man glared at Hannah, then at Georgie. “You little shits shouldn’t be out here. You stay right where you are and don’t move.”

Georgie felt his chest fill with hot rage. He imagined the man hurting Hannah, grabbing her hair, holding her down, doing things he could only grasp with the dark fringes of his imagination. And for some reason he was also upset, angry with himself for letting the man beat him, jealous of the man for taking off into the woods with Hannah. Something might have happened between them while he was unconscious, something he only vaguely understood.

Georgie took the tree branch in both hands and swung it down hard against the fragile icy surface of the river.

The crack rippled across the snow like a small fissure opening in the earth’s crust. A shelf of ice broke away beneath the man’s left foot. He tottered, waving his arms, his eyes bulging with panic, then fell hard on his right leg, crashing into the swift grey water. He clawed at the ice, which crumbled like white graham crackers in his thick fingers.

Georgie and Hannah stared at the man struggling in the river, neither saying a word. With a sudden gurgle the man was sucked beneath the broken surface of the ice. They watched the hole where he had been a moment ago, then turned downstream to see if he would resurface.

He did not.

 Hannah looked up first. Georgie met her gaze with an expression of boyish concern. They glanced together at the river and silently understand the new dilemma. Hannah needed to cross the river, but she did not want to break through the ice and fall in.

They walked upstream in silence, each on either side of the snowy white line that divided them. Hannah did not want to think about the man, did not know if they should tell someone what happened, feared how much trouble they would be in if they told. She stared down at her feet and walked. Georgie had gotten her into this. If it weren’t for him and his stupid fire engine they would not be out here.

Georgie watched her imploringly from the other side of the river.

“You have to cross,” he said eventually. “It’s the only way back to the house.”

“I’ll only cross if I know it’s safe,” she replied. She stared at him. If he crossed over, she decided, and did not break through, then she would follow him back over. He had rescued her after all. Without him the man might have gotten her. Or not. And if not, his death would have been her lonely burden to bear. She had set the trap. Georgie had cracked the ice. If he crossed the river and came to her now she would go with him, maybe even kiss him. That was what he wanted, and she sort of wanted it too.

 Georgie thought of the refrigerator in the middle of the woods, the rusty door that had swung open to reveal his deepest fears. The refrigerator had almost killed him, but he had been freed, and his adventure briefly became a Camp Rangeley legend.

What he wanted was Hannah, on the other side of the river. Carefully he stepped out onto the ice and walked across to where she was standing. She took his hand and together they walked home. The ice did not shatter or give way beneath them.

 BIO: Adam is originally a native of Acton, MA, and now resides in Malibu, CA. He has previously had short stories published in The Berkeley Fiction Review, The Indiana Voice Journal, The Broadkill Review, Happy Magazine, and The Cynic Online Magazine, with forthcoming publications in Decades Review and The Bryant Literary Review. He has also published a collection of short stories called Sometimes Things Go Horribly Wrong (Outskirts Press). 

[almost5q]

#11, winter

BIO: Ian Sands lives and works in Northern California. He has published in Apocrypha and Abstractions, Foliate Oak, Treehouse, Quail Bell, Hobo Pancakes, and others. When he was a kid, he was in an imaginary band called Shrimp Scampi and the Side Salads.

[almost5q]

#10, winter

EMILY PRESENT

LOVE AND ORANGEJUICE IN 2025

 I.

this is where we start this is where it happens

laughing over a dog park limb running over fries eating cereal to change each other

ceremonial challah is not to be ignored we are creating a family mythology rounded out and tainted only one of us can have a family

our veins exposed like linen try to listen to the world sideways and see, that life does not exist yet

II.

I would like to have my future baby know what it’s like to purge the world but, I know that seems extreme.

doesn’t it?

yellow ties are always overly luxurious and, I want it that way

I want to feel Overt and I want to know how it feels to be the only one who looks like this but, i know how it feels to be the only one who looks like this

But with you

we are wearing matching thermal pajamas in reverse in a room with wilted artificial  flowers and this is what love is

I am cooking shakshuka with you baked inside you are a drumstick that i take with me to all the parties

you let me live in your insides and I climb your sadness and breathe to it

III.

this cantor here, is a magician

this chuppah, is in a rain forest

so we have to find a new place to wed

it will happen in the silk sock district over dum dums and mozzarella and salmon tartare, if we’re lucky

the days are longer now and quieter we are wrapped in seaweed of our past but feelings, remain

I truly don’t regret a sea-shell

IV.

and when our child goes to space in 2054 I am not sorry to say, we are not going with them

we are going on a sabbatical to Paris and I am going to live inside a dying man’s books and I am sorry, but that is what will happen

V.

my parents loved each other very much and then they didn't

if that ever happens to us, we will take a pill and learn to love, again

i think they lost their love inside an Eric Fischl painting or the one that said DESIRE and hung over the fireplace I know how this sounds, but it’s true

we’ll never own an Eric Fischl, just my brother’s art so we can’t lose our art, I mean, our love maybe just misplace it

and if we do, i’ll scoop it up with that tiny fork you found me

there is syrup in this coffee and, I am coming to your honor never once, but twice

VI.

I was never taught how to clean myself but I was taught, how to listen and how to digest feelings but not, food

in 1999, I learned what a body really was and how to count flesh you re-imagined for me, what it's like to re-learn your outline

we start to drink orange juice   in preparation to have a girl

and we remember, we can always opt out of the world BIO: Emily Present’s poems have recently appeared in HTMLGIANT, Wu Wei Fashion Mag, The Atlas Review and SIMILAR : PEAKS :: She is co-founder and editor of glitterMOBmag.com. She lives and writes in New York City.

[almost5q]

#9, winter

RITA CIRESI

[almost5q]

#8, winter

Who Killed My Brother?

GRACE CASSIDY

BIO: Grace is currently attending school at American University, where she is studying Literature and concentrating in creative writing, alongside Women's, Gender & Sexuality Studies.