earthwords undergraduate literary review

E A R T H W O R D S

U N D E R G R A D U A T EL I T E R A R Y R E V I E W

ISSUE 34 UNIVERSITY OF IOWA

EARTHW

ORDS: THE U

NDERGRADU

ATE LITERARY REVIEWISSU

E 34

EARTHWORDS

earthwords: the undergraduate literary review strives to showcase the best literary and artistic endeavors of undergraduates attending the University of Iowa, foster an undergraduate literary community within the larger community of Iowa City, and to provide students with the experience of producing a literary magazine in real time.

EST. 1980 | UNIVERSITY OF IOWA | ISSUE 34 | 2013-14

THANKS TO

earthwords: the undergraduate literary review would not be possible without the gracious and generous support of the Frank N. Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing and the Magid family. On behalf of the University of Iowa College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, our staff and contributors would like to express their gratitude for such an indispensable gift. Thank you.

DEAN CHADEN DJALALIUI Alumni Association Dean’s Chair

HELENA DETTMERAssociate DeanUndergraduate Programs & CurriculumCollege of Liberal Arts & Sciences

DANIEL KHALASTCHIAssociate DirectorFrank N. Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing

ALLI ROCKWELLAdministrative CoordinatorCollege of Liberal Arts & Sciences

JAN WEISSMILLERPrairie Lights Books

We’d also like to extend our gratitude to the following for hosting and/or catering our events throughout the last year:

MOLLY’S CUPCAKES | FAIR GROUNDS | THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP

STAFF

While earthwords' editorial board, style, and length change every year, its dedication to promoting the creative works of the University of Iowa's undergraduate body remains a constant in every issue.

ADVISOR DANIEL KHALASTCHI

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF DEREK HECKMAN, SKYLAR ALEXANDER

FICTION EDITORSSARAH ARBAJE, ANDREW DELOUCAS, GRAY LANTTA, ASHLEY WISER

NONFICTION EDITORSALEX BAGLEY, JON GRAF, MACKENZIE HASLEY, ADAM JASCHEN, NICK KLEESE

POETRY EDITORSSKYLAR ALEXANDER, DAVID FREEMAN, KYLE LAWS, MAX SEIFERT

DRAMA EDITORSCHLOE WARYAN, CAITLIN DORSETT, MICHAEL BEDNARSKY

ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORSCLAIRE DIVER, JULIA JESSEN

PUBLIC RELATIONSJAMIE SIMPHER, MACKENZIE SHEEHY

DESIGN EDITORCASSIE WENGER

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

It’s hard to tell at the start of the year what kind of year it’s going to be. Initial setbacks and frustrations might make it seem like the year is shot before it even begins. Ground down by routine and the same old mistakes (the “not-this-again’s” and “will-I-never-learn’s”), it’s difficult to see when progress is being made, when life, the Universe, God-as-you-understand-Him, is gearing up to surprise you in new and exciting ways. To see the truth of this sentiment, one need look no further than the year we’ve had here at earthwords: the undergraduate literary review. When we began the year with our usual “Welcome Back” open mic, did we expect a series of slam poets to come in at the end and blow us all away? When we began promoting the deadline for this issue, did we expect one of our best promotional tools to be a delicious “Earthworm” cupcake from Molly’s Cupcakes? Did we expect to create the first-ever earthwords kickball team, helping raise money for the American Heart Association and placing second in a grueling, campus-wide tournament? Did we expect the issue you hold in your hands to feature a story about a black hole, an essay about a wizard, and a poem about an orgy gone horribly, horribly wrong? Did we expect that for the first time ever, a piece of student artwork would be named Editors’ Choice? It’s safe to say we didn’t expect any of these things to happen, but we are immensely glad they did. For earthwords, this has been a year of joyous surprises. Our "Art Speaks" event—where we paired undergraduate writers and artists and had them work together to make something new—was an experiment that surpassed our wildest expectations. Our annual “Hallowreading” event took place on a rainy night in the Haunted Bookshop, making it the spookiest of our Halloween readings to date. To top it all off, we got word that a piece we published last year (the essay “Short” from Issue 33) has been

published online in the national undergraduate writing anthology plain china.

There’s much we’ve been surprised by this past year, but the thing that has never surprised us for a second is the quality of the work our undergraduate community produces. Why should it? We’ve had thirty-four years to learn what undergraduate students at this university are capable of. We’re no longer surprised, just awed, and honored to be a part of it.

This issue offers just a sampling of the incredible work being done here. If you’re already familiar with it, dive right in, make yourself at home. If you’ve never read an issue of earthwords before, then turn that page and hang onto your hat. We think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

DEREK HECKMAN | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Halfway through this academic year, Derek Heckman, our EIC since issue 33, graduated onto greater things, leaving a void that was difficult for me to fill. Without Derek to navigate earthwords through printing and proofing and into the finished product currently in your hands, I feared that we wouldn’t be able find ourselves here like this; as Frank O’Hara said, “the slightest loss of attention leads to death,” and there has been so much to pay attention to. But Derek’s right—the undergraduates at this university are talented. Yes, I’m proud to say the contents of this magazine are the best you’ll find on campus today—and equally yes, the finished product in your hands would not have been possible without the efforts of our magnanimous and talented staff. All of them are hard-working, forward-thinking, and adaptable; their dedication to quality will certainly shape the future of this review, even as she gambols into her mid-thirties and beyond. Which is to say, just because we’re turning 34 this year doesn’t mean we can be written off and old fuddy-duddies. earthwords is her staff, and we’re still young with big dreams for our future. So sit down, buckle up, and get ready for alligators.

All my love,

SKYLAR ALEXANDER | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

81 HAST THOU CONSIDERED THE CAR: FIRST TIME OWNER'S MANUAL LUCAS SHEPHERD | NONFICTION

91 OBITUS BRIGITTA MEYER | ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

95 RIVER.EXE PETER SCHUMACHER | FICTION

103 ONE BRAD PECTOR | POETRY

107 ENDURING STRENGTH AUBREY ALSHOUSE | ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

111 DISCOVERY ANTHONY GARCIA TAORMINA | POETRY

117 THE MOMENT BEFORE, OR THE MOMENT BEFORE THAT THEA PETTITT | POETRY

121 BEING THE PASSERBY TAYLOR YOCOM | ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

“There is only one school of literature—that of talent.”

-Vladimir Nabokov

EDITOR'S CHOICE | NATASHA CHANG

Natasha Chang was notorious for doodling too much in high school. She put many of her friends and acquaintances into a state of mild shock when she decided to study human physiology instead of art, but one must admit the human body is pretty freaking cool. She still doodles stuff.

DAY 3

19 | CHANG

CONNOR MADIGAN

Connor Madigan is a third year student at the University of Iowa, where once, on a cold winter's night near the law library, Gary Burghoff (the actor famous for playing Walter Eugene ‘Radar’ O’Reilly on the TV show M*A*S*H) said to Connor, “Hey, man, those are some sweet kicks.”

23 | MADIGAN

THE ROAD VIRUS HEADS WEST

3/26/13

Don’t say ‘vehicle,’ her name is Babette: aging, flank-heavy, starts to shake at eighty+. Babs is polymer and alloy but I’m the non-living component—face obscured by cowl and aviator shades, exhaling smoke, the dead man inside her. She’ll eat blacktop and unleaded while we’re headed west like priest and horse to spread divine discontent, read the writing on the walls of bathroom stalls:lonely truckers, sour-mouthed pucker.

We cruise at seventy in fast lane—let a tailgater tailgate, wise man meditate and virus percolate.I’ve got miles yet to learn and highway scrub brush to burn. Navigate by road signs and western failing sunlight I don’t need the stress of satellite and wire.

Babette talks after her engine warms; questions with precipitous suicidal slope. Whoever put an A.P.B. out on a G.O.D.? Don’t you get dizzy spinning wheels and eating single serving meals? Why commit to white lines when we can submit to end times? Together.

24 | POETRY

Oh, Babette. One day we may violate a one way, dodge the humdrum and other dumb driving scum, listening to the constant cylinder/piston hum.But I hope for better times after we escape the heat of this decaying city, when we can strap in together, our combined waste products reduced to fingernail clippings and atmospheric CO2. Like my rages and your despair, the snowstorm in Spokane, the asshole speeding Subaru in Sarasota,this too shall pass.

ABBY TANG

Abby Tang is a senior creative writing student at the University of Iowa. Her most notable accomplishments include watching all seven seasons of Buffy in four days, and publishing a piece in The Daily Palette. Her lifelong dream is to upload her consciousness into a cloaked robot and live forever.

27 | TANG

SINGULARITY

This is your event horizon.

Across, your time is dispersed and you can see it all. You are rotating on timelike curves that propel you into Mei Sun before and you are sitting with her in the kitchen that you cleaned last week but you don’t often use so it stays clean. Mei Sun is wiping down the counter tops with a wet paper towel and she is winded. Mei Sun, you say, do you think about ghosts? I think about them, she says, I think about them sometimes. She knows what you want to hear because you have done this in the kitchen before and it is not what she wants to hear. You know she knows but you can’t swallow it or else it will weigh on you. Do you ever think about how many there must be? All of the people who aren’t alive now must be dead. That’s billions of people, I think. Billions of people and at least half as many ghosts. Mei Sun drops her towel in the garbage bin and her hand is shaking. You think so? There must be. Mei Sun does not believe in ghosts. You know this. What do you think will happen, Mei Sun is tense all over, what do you think will happen when the sun explodes? Mitchell, I hate this. What do you think will happen to the ghosts? Mei Sun flushes and her eyes well over. I think they’ll all burn up. What are ghosts made of? I don’t know, Mitchell. Mei Sun pushes her palms down her thighs. Can you burn it? I don’t know, Mitchell. I don’t think they’ll burn up. I think they’ll all be left floating in space. The people on Earth will burn up and then their ghosts will be floating, too, and those will be the last of the ghosts. Every single ghost that will ever exist will be floating together where Earth used to be. The final frontier. God damn it, Mitchell. Mei Sun leaves the kitchen and you are back in rotation.

Your tears get spun out to the edge and distributed and you do not realize you are crying. You are not crying anymore. Gravity tugs at your heart-strings and your arm-strings and your lung-strings and you are made of strings. At the end of a string there is Mei Sun and

28 | FICTION

she is shining. You meet Mei Sun at your mother’s wake. She is the daughter of the Vice President of Sales at the lumber company your mother worked for. Your mother was her father’s secretary and she took very detailed notes. You are watching your pale mother in her casket and she is dead and Mei Sun stands next to you and she speaks. Some people don’t love their mothers. She looks at you and you are still looking at your mother. Some people don’t miss their mothers after they are dead. I think that’s sad because when mothers are dead, they’re dead and that’s that. Mei Sun cries and they are heavy tears. I miss my mother, you say but you think Mei Sun is wrong. Your mother is dead but that is not that. Your mother may not be here but she is there and that comforts you. I’m glad, she says and she smiles but it quivers. Mei Sun’s hand grips the edge of your mother’s casket. You put your hand on Mei Sun’s hand and your fingers splay and relax and you feel her sinewy fingers ripple. Her fingers are under your fingers and her smile does not quiver. Mei Sun wipes her eyes with her sleeve and her black hair falls into them and you love her or you feel sorry for her or both and that’s that.

In this space there is light and there is nothing and there is you and you are spinning. Mei Sun is not here and you cannot feel her fingers under your fingers. In this space there is not Mei Sun and you feel the space without her. You feel the edge of her casket with your hand. Your fingers splay and they are thin and they look like strings that you cannot tie to anything. You feel the edge of your pale Mei Sun and her black hair has fallen along the edge of her face and there is nothing in her eyes. She is wearing a blue dress and it is velvet and it is heavy and it fills the space in the casket that Mei Sun does not fill with herself. In the casket her hand is on top of her hand and her fingers do not move. You feel the edge of her casket with both of your hands but you do not feel Mei Sun’s hands because those are not Mei Sun’s hands. The sinews have spread and they are limp and if you turned over her casket her hand would not stay on top of her hand but you do not turn over her casket because her hand would not stay on top of her hand. Mei Sun is dead and that is that and that is why you do not turn over her casket. Instead, you touch the wood of the casket and you see where there should be cracks in the wood, but they are filled with

29 | TANG

varnish. You press your fingers against the places where the cracks should be and you try to push the varnish out and fill the cracks with yourself. The varnish is dried in place and you cannot force yourself inside the cracks of the casket. That space is occupied and you are occupying this space and nothing is trying to push you out of it.

Mei Sun is not dead in the café that you take her to that only sells small food and hot drinks. She holds a cake in the palm of her hand and tells you blow out the candle. There is no candle. Don’t make a wish, she says. I just want you to have a happy birthday. She says this with a smile and she eats the cake in one bite. Candle and all? you say, and she laughs through the crumbs and through her hand. I got a little ahead of myself. Wasn’t that my birthday cake? Of course not. It was your candle though, sorry. Mei Sun pulls another cake from the tray in the center of the table and she holds it out to you. She holds it up to your mouth. Bite, she says through her mouth and through her eyes and you obey her. You take the whole cake in your mouth all at once so you can feel her entire palm on your lips. The skin there is soft and her fingertips are resting gently on your chin. Happy Birthday. You kiss her wrist and through your lips you feel her tendons and her pulse and everything under her skin is fluttering. Happy Birthday, Mitchell. You don’t know it yet. She hasn’t told you because she thinks you are only a kiss on the wrist and that is good but you know now. You know now and there are no paths that lead away from it. You have crossed, already, and it is unidirectional.

On this path you are blind, now. Mei Sun is gone now but you have to see her in these timelike curves because she is not there. You drop this and it falls into the accretion disk and it becomes a part of it. It is the brightest thing in this universe and you close your eyes to it but that does not stop the light because your eyelids are made of skin and nothing else. You open your eyes again and Mei Sun is connected to an IV in a blue gown in a hospital bed and her eyes are closed. You are an external observer and you see the blue gloves on her hands but she is still cold. Can I get you a blanket? Mei Sun’s bare toes curl into her feet. Yes, please, Mitchell, and she does not open her eyes. You know where the blankets are. You get one for Mei Sun and you cover her.

30 | FICTION

You see her toes move under the blanket. Mei Sun does not ask for another blanket and you do not get her one. The sheets crackle under her toes and Mei Sun opens her eyes and she is already looking at you. I’m going to die but I won’t do it until I know you’re going to be fine. You breathe in. I don’t know if I’ll be fine. You have to be because I’m going to die and after that you’ll have some time but then you are going to die and you should not spend that time in between not being fine. Mei Sun is flustered and she is shaking. You breathe in and it’s heavy. It’s not that long of a time to not be fine and then I’ll die and then I’ll find you. I'll be fine then at the very least. Mei Sun is silent and she is not shaking. Mitchell, I’m going to die and that is that. You need to love me now and you need to love me fast because we are both going to burn up and we will not float together. You put your hand on Mei Sun’s blue hand. The sheets crinkle under Mei Sun’s toes and she closes her eyes. You need to be fine, Mitchell, and you are blinded in this space.

In the palm of your hand is space. You hold it there like you would hold a thing but you are only holding the potential for a thing. You turn your hand over and you drop the potential into the accretion disk and it is brighter. There is no need to close your eyes because you are looking at yourself and you are dark. You are in the ergosphere. You are in the kitchen and you are cleaning the counter top with a wet paper towel. You are shaking and you are wiping the counter top. You move to the table and you wipe down the tabletop. You wipe down the refrigerator doors. You wipe down the microwave. You wipe down the sink. You wipe so quickly and your hands are shaking so quickly that they would have to move at the speed of light in the other direction in order to stay still. You drop the ragged wet paper towel in the garbage bin. Your mother is reflected in the glistening surfaces of your kitchen. You sob. You sob on the floor of your clean kitchen the way you didn’t at your mother’s funeral. Your mother is not here and your mother is not there and you curl around the wrung out cloth because you wasted so much time being fine. Mei Sun is reflected in the glistening surfaces of your kitchen. Mei Sun is not a ghost. The reflections dry up and Mei Sun is not floating with you and you are burning.

31 | TANG

You are frame-dragging through this space but it does not slow you down. The rotations are too fast and you are moving too fast and you are knitting. Mei Sun wants to learn how to knit. She wants to make something with her hands for you before she goes. I want you to have something that I put time in to. I want to knit you a scarf. You touch her hair and you say, I would love a scarf, and she smiles from her chair and picks up the knitting needles and the blue yarn. In two days she makes half of a scarf that is crooked and blue and has plenty of knots in it. She is crying and you watch her in her chair moving the needles together and apart with her shaking hands. The yarn slips through the center of the two needles and does not catch. She tries again and she tries again but the blue yarn slips through the center and she is crying harder now. Mei Sun drops the needles and the yarn in her lap and you pick them up. You pull up a chair across from her and you begin to knit. Mei Sun watches you moving the needles together and apart because your mother taught you to knit when you were young. In a day you finish the scarf. In three days you finish a pair of gloves and you put them on Mei Sun’s hands. She holds her gloves against her face and they are blue and so are her eyes. I’ll wear these when I get cold, she says. I’ll wear these until I get cold. You wrap the scarf around both Mei Sun and you and she holds one end tight with her gloved hands and you hold on to Mei Sun until you are left with clenched fists and the space inside them and the blue scarf and the blue gloves have fallen away.

You say, marry me, into your clenched fists. You yell, marry me, marry me, marry me into your clenched fists but it does not get any louder. You open your fist and there is still only space inside and only space alongside your fingers and Mei Sun says, no. Mei Sun, please, I want to marry you. I will not leave you a widower. When people see you they will say, oh look, how sad, the widower, and that will be who you are. If I marry you, you will be the husband of a dead woman. If I marry you, you will be a widower and you won't be Mitchell anymore. I'll still be Mitchell. I'll be Mitchell who gets to marry Mei Sun and you will be Mei Sun, my wife. I want to be your husband, Mei Sun, and if that means I have to be your widower, too, then I'll take it. I won't, Mitchell. I will not marry you. When I die there won't be anything

32 | FICTION

left of me for you. Love me, now, and I will love you until the end and that's that. Don't waste your time being a widower when I'm gone. There are too many other things to do. Mei Sun touches your face with her hand and you wrap your fingers around hers like a string or a ring and you marry her right then. You don't tell her because there will be time for that later. You don't tell her but you hold her hand to your face and she is your wife and you are her widower.

It is too much and you pick up. You let go and you open your eyes and fling yourself into the center because you are just too heavy now and you want to be a part of it but you pass by the accretion disk. You pass by it and you are moving faster now and you see all of the Mei Suns with your eyes open. The Mei Sun in a field with a Frisbee at her feet because she did not catch it in time. The Mei Sun lying on her belly watching a nature documentary about the tides. The Mei Sun sleeping quietly in your lap until she coughs up a bit of blood. She says, I'm fine, and she smiles softly at you through the red stains on her tissue. The Mei Sun that is eating pasta across the table from you with sauce on her lip and the Mei Sun who is lying pale in a hospital bed whose heart is no longer beating and whose hands are blue. You are jettisoned past all of these Mei Suns and you let them go and you fall out of the universe where there are too many.

It is the end now, and you are somewhere else and that place is Mei Sun. This universe is Mei Sun. The white dwarfs, the pulsars, the red giants, the gas giants, the neutrinos, the space between them all, all the molecules, all the atoms, the light, the ghosts are all Mei Sun and you are crying now and you are heavy. Mei Sun is in your mouth and in your hair and she is not dead. Mei Sun is dead there but she is not dead here because here is Mei Sun. You feel Mei Sun on your face and she says, I was wrong. You feel Mei Sun in your hands and she says, I was wrong. You think about the collapse of a star and you think that even though Mei Sun is here she will collapse and die again and then where will she go? Mei Sun will die again and she will not be here, she will not be there. You were right, you say. When you are dead, you are dead and that is that. You collapse around your knees and you cry and you know you are crying. Your tears are Mei Sun and you press them

between your fingers until they are too dense to be Mei Sun and they fall into you and become a part of you because you are too dense to be Mei Sun. You press every Mei Sun between your fingers until they are too dense and now you are too dense. You press Mei Sun against you so hard and she becomes a part of you and now it is only you and you are too heavy. You are too heavy and you bend space around you. You are Mei Sun's event horizon and she has crossed and she is added to your density. You are Mei Sun's event horizon and her data is dispersed around your edge. You are Mei Sun's event horizon and Mei Sun is dead.

33 | TANG

DONALD E. WYRICK JR.

Donald E. Wyrick Jr. is a senior studying English, and is in the creative writing track.

37 | WYRICK JR

‘L’

CHARACTERS

MAN: Early forties. Worn. Looks many years older. Balding. Tattered clothing.

SCENEApartment 6C.

TIME11:51pm. Saturday.

PLAYWRIGHT’S NOTES

MAN mostly talks in a very quick, disjointed manner. However, great care should be taken to ensure appropriate timing during the slower, more direct portions.

SETTING

Inside MAN’s apartment. A lamp with a dented shade dimly illuminates a small, dilapidated, one room apartment. There is a single boarded up window that parallels the Chicago ‘L’ Red Line train tracks. An empty chair is situated across from MAN. There is a visible layer of dust on its surface. On the table there is an ashtray, a matchbook, an empty bottle of wine, a half empty bottle of wine, and a cupcake with blue icing that has a candle in it. A clock on an adjacent wall reads 11:51.

38 | DRAMA

AT RISE

MAN sits at the table with his back to the window, his head in his hands. He taps his foot. He sits for a moment and then pulls a pack of cigarettes from his t-shirt pocket. He strikes a match and lights a cigarette, drawing it in deep. Just as he exhales, the train roars by the window, mere feet from its pane. The room rattles. MAN sighs, closes his eyes, and looks at the ceiling. He briefly winces, visibly distraught, and then composes himself.

MANYep that’s 'bout right. Jus’ like usual. Jus’ as we was starting to enjoy some quiet. People got places to go tho. Can’t expect train’da slow for no peace. Yep. Jus’ like the postman in that way. Don’t slow down for nothin’. Nor rain, nor sleet, nor peace. Don’t bother me none. They gots a job to do and they do it. ‘Sides, I ain’t gettin’ no mail anyway. But a lot o’ folks do. They gots to be somewhere. Always gots to be somewhere. Someplace special. Someplace where they get mail. Nor rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor peace. Heh. That should be their motto. Can’t get peace ‘round here tho. Not this city. I gotta get a move on. This city’s tired. I got the itch to go. Get somewhere. Go someplace like tha rest of 'em. Someplace special. Someplace special. That’s right. I gotta go someplace special like the rest of ‘em. (pause, slower, quieter)Ain’t getting on no ‘L’ tho.

MAN flicks ash into the ashtray, grabs the bottle with his other hand, and takes a long pull.

MAN (CONT’D)Ooooweee! If that ain’t tha bes’ tastin’… from sea to shinin’ sea. I tell ya. That’s tha best. Sea to shinin’ sea. I’m gonna go to both of 'em. Someday. Coast to coast. See if they really shine, like people say. Don’t doubt they do tho. But jus’ for my own eyes, I want to see ‘em shine. I bet the sun’s gotta be just right. Ain’t no sea shinin' right now tho.

Gotta be when the sun is high up I bet. High up. Never seen no water shine tho. (pause)You ‘member Lake Michigan? Probly don’t. I took you there. ‘Member? You were three. Ain’t never seen ‘er shine tho. No matter where the sun was. We stayed there all day; never seen Lake Michigan shine. Ain’t lake to shinin’ lake tho. That ain’t how the song goes. Gotta be a real sea I bet. Mus’ be somethin’ in the water. (beat)Probly all jus’ talk. Jus’ stories to make people feel like they missin’ out on somethin’. (pause)Somethin’ special.

MAN taps his cigarette over the ashtray, stands, and begins to pace around the room. MAN glances at the clock. It reads 11:52.

MAN (CONT’D)11:52. (beat)11:52. (beat)Don’t like lookin’ at the clock. Jus’ makes time go slow. Like when I worked at the factory. They always said never to look at the clock. Jus’ makes time go slow. They right too. Strange how time works. Ain’t it strange how time works? Don’t pay any mind to it and the hands jus’ fly ‘round and ‘round. Soon as you look at it, it jus’ slows down. One time I stared at a clock and the second hand never moved. Believe that? ‘Ts true. I musta’ stared at that clock for five whole minutes. Second hand never moved. I thought the battery died so I took my eyes off it, I look back, and a whole hour passed. Believe that? ‘Ts true. (pause)Like time doesn’t wanna be noticed. (pause)Like it don’t wanna be measured.

39 | WYRICK JR

(beat)I think the clock was invented so people wouldn’t die so young. You know how I told you that people used to not live to be my age back in the day? I’m talkin’ way back now. Heh. ‘Ts ‘cuz they didn’t have clocks. Wadn’t ‘cuz they didn’t have no antiseptics or whatever. It was because they didn’t have clocks. That’s what I think. (long pause)You had one tho. I made sure of that. Was the first thing I bought when we moved in this place.

MAN looks at the clock. It reads 11:53.

MAN(CONT’D) (slow, saddened)Didn’t matter tho. (pause)You jus’ never looked at it I think. ‘Ts why you did what you did.

MAN sits back down and puts out his cigarette. He sits silently for many moments. He takes the bottle and puts it near his lips.

MAN (CONT’D) (softly)You jus’ never looked at it. ‘Ts all it was. (pause)You jus’ never looked.

MAN takes a sip and places the bottle back on the table. He looks at the clock. It reads 11:54.

MAN (CONT’D)No. I ain’t gonna think of that anymore. Nah. Not tonight. (beat)We’s supposed to be celebratin’. (pause)

40 | DRAMA

And I was jus’ talkin’ before. You know I was jus’ talkin’. I ain’t never gonna leave this place. I said I was a few times, I know. Ain’t never gone thru with it tho. Loud as that train is, I’d get lonesome without it. (pause)But that ain’t the main reason for my stayin’ you see.

MAN looks at the floor.

MAN (CONT’D) (soft)Can’t leave you here. Alone. Can’t let that happen again. (pause)Nah. I ain’t never gonna leave this place. (beat)Jus’ talkin’.

MAN takes out another cigarette and lights it. He takes several deep drags. The train screeches past. MAN shakes his head and smiles.

MAN (CONT’D)Heh. Know why I called you that? Huh? Know why? See, you cried a lot when you were a baby, but every time the ‘L’ come wailin’ by, you’d stop crying. And soon as it passed you’d start right back up again. Heh. Craziest thing I ever seen. I never got much sleep, but I didn’t mind. (pause)You cried a lot back then. ‘Cept when the train came by. (pause)That’s where your nickname came from. Know that? ‘Ts true.

MAN taps his cigarette and drinks from the bottle of wine. He stands and begins pacing again. He looks over at the boarded up window.

41 | WYRICK JR

MAN (CONT’D) (angrily)I jus’ don’t understand why tho. Why’d you do it? What was you tryin’ to do? I left you alone for one minute! I made sure it was a minute. I looked at my watch! Why you go and do somethin’ like that? What was you tryin’ to get to? The ‘L’? What for?

MAN grabs the bottle and finishes it. He holds it.

MAN (CONT’D)Ain’t nothin’ special about that train! ‘Ts just a big piece of ugly metal. Why’d you go and do that? I told you I’d be right back. I told you that! (calmer, begins to tear up)I told you that… (pause)No. No. It wadn’t you. No. I don’t mean those things I jus’ said. You know that. I don’t mean these things. I jus’ had too much wine tonight, that’s all. I left you here. Alone. Don’t matter how long it was. I left you here. It wadn’t you. I don’t mean those things I jus’ said. (pause)I went across the street, to the store. I said I was goin’ to get you a surprise treat for your fourth. You knew what it was tho. So smart… a cupcake. Your favorite kind. The kind with the icin’ that made your teeth blue. (long pause, fighting back tears)You were so excited… (pause)I never saw you so excited.

MAN looks out the window. Tears rolling down his face. He looks at the clock. It reads 11:56.

MAN (CONT’D) (mad, bitter)But why you ain’t look at the clock? Huh? Why couldn’t you have jus’

42 | DRAMA

looked at the clock? ‘Ts right there! I told you to watch the clock! All you had to do was look! (pause)Goddammit!

MAN throws the bottle at the wall. The train speeds past as it shatters.

MAN (CONT’D) (calmer)Why couldn’t you have jus’ seen the clock? Why’d you have to try and get to the train? What was there? Ain’t nothing special about that train. (pause)Ain’t nothin’ special about it…

MAN sits back down, puts out his cigarette, and looks at the chair on the opposite side of the table for the first time. He stares at the empty seat for a while.

MAN (CONT’D) (soft, tearful)Why? (beat)Why’d you have to open up that window? (pause)That catch. That broken fuckin’ catch. (beat)Why? (pause)All you had to do was look at the clock. I’d’ve been right back. I told you that.

MAN begins to sob and looks away for some time. He then turns and looks at the clock. It reads 12:00. He stops his crying and wipes his eyes on his shirt.

43 | WYRICK JR

MAN strikes a match and lights the candle on the cupcake.

MAN (CONT’D) (sniffling)Happy birthday… (long pause, quieter)Happy birthday, Ellie…

MAN watches the candle burn for a long moment and then leans forward and blows it out. The train roars past at the same time.

Blackout

END

44 | DRAMA

JACOB YEATES

Jacob Yeates is a freelance illustrator from the University of Iowa with a BFA in drawing and an English minor. His work has also appeared in Iowa City’s Little Village. In addition to expecting a long future of unemployment, Jacob also enjoys simple carbs, painful workouts, and other self-destructive behavior.

FOR MATT

Before he drank what he could of the Gamsol, my best friend said he didn’t want to play anymore.And I agreed: let’s stop this whole crazy thing. But neither of us knew how. So he biked to the gravel hills in the middle of the night,

waded waist-deep in pulverized rock, some forgotten baptism, and cried.

And I kept my mouth shut, too tired to dream, and slept my Seroquel sleep. Trying to convince myself what I saw was all there would be. Any hack knows revisions happen until what will be is. And I listened after the fact and tried to joke with a boy laying curled up in a hospital bed, thinking things aren’t so bad once they happen. Still, once you walk away, sometimes the best you can do is try to control the trembling and hope no one hears as you grab elbows and breathe between clenched teeth: That’s enough. That’s enough. That’s enough.

But at the end of it all the two of us are still here; able to smile while trading suicide stories and the names of the girls we love.

47 | YEATES

49 | YEATES

STIGMATA

LUCAS SHEPHERD

Lucas Shepherd, a senior and proud Hawkeye, hails from Washington, Iowa. His latest project has been described as a best-selling fan-fiction prequel novel, tentatively titled The Land Before the Land Before Time: Paleozoic Adventure! Look for it online, summer 2014.

53 | SHEPHERD

THE WIZARD DONOVAN

It was Zero Week when they shook our heads up and down like Etch-A-Sketches, erasing lines and dissolving connections, but only later did I realize how significantly we all changed. At the time I thought I knew what was happening because men always believe they’re in control. The changes were very subtle, like when you’re enjoying a beautiful sunset and suddenly you look around and it’s dark outside. Not everyone in basic training wanted to change but we all did. You can’t stop something like that; even Donovan with his magical powers couldn’t do much to save himself. As we stood on either side of Fabio in the courtyard, making our Week Three payphone calls, Donovan lifted up his cap to wipe sweat off his forehead. San Antonio was hot and dry, which I guess is like saying there are trees in the forest. Fabio, who earned his nickname by stepping off the bus with gorgeous, waist-long hair, called three different girls, two collect and one he paid for himself with a ten-cent-per-minute phone card. “I’ve dated every race,” he bragged casually, one hand over the phone. Even a long-sleeved uniform couldn’t conceal his grapefruit-sized biceps. He still looked handsome with a shaved head. “It’s dialing right now.” “Well, two half-black girls, so I guess that adds up to one.” I tapped the receiver and made an imploring gesture, a sort of one-armed version of praying hands, pleading for him to leave me alone. “Who you calling, Donovan?” “My girlfriend,” said Donovan. He shooed a fly off his chin. “In Delaware.” “She a witch?” asked Fabio. “What?” “A witch. She get freaky-deaky? Cast spells on you?” Donovan turned around, ignoring Fabio, who just laughed. When Fabio wasn’t looking I punched in my parents’ home phone number. The line rang four times before my mom answered

and told me what had changed since I left. Fields of corn stood knee-high. A windmill fell across the road and blocked traffic for most of the day. My picture was going to be printed in the local newspaper, in the section called Hometown Heroes. “Make sure they spell my name right,” I grumbled. A cough on the other end. “Guess what I made today? Your favorite. A double batch of snickerdoodles.” “Cookies…”

How Donovan tricked everyone into going to the Wiccan service was they had cookies there. See, we didn’t get sweet things in basic training, no Pop-Tarts or Snickers or Laffy Taffy; if our families sent us brownies or lemon squares Sergeant Reed threw them away. Air Force policy, he claimed. We had already lost all cell phones, cigarettes, and pocketknives. A few weeks without sugar and our dormitory turned into Lord of the Flies. Thus it was in the day of Donovan that various religions, even those long-established, time-honored ones, crumbled. Without access to sweets, trainees began to question God’s existence, and how very soon their hearts hardened! Imagine: Presbyterians led into temptation by sugar cookies. Methodists brainwashed by Donovan’s Harry Potter hokum. Jehovah’s Witnesses and Baptists alike drawn into a world of white macadamia nut and witchcraft. I was the last to sell out, but I couldn’t make it to Graduation Week; my Protestant resolve was no match for Donovan’s saccharine sorcery. I found myself hoping for an invitation to the Wiccan service, telling myself it was okay, that I would one day apologize to my hometown minister by paraphrasing Napoleon: an Air Force marches on its stomach. So I wanted to ask about all that witchery business but had to wait—Donovan was busy trying to convince us he was normal. As we sat in the dorm in the evening, polishing our boots and trimming loose strings from our uniforms, Donovan showed off a picture of his girl back home. I took in the image: raven hair, heavy eyeliner, and a small, hopeful shade of red pasted on her delicate lips. Her shoulders were hunched and I felt good about that. When you didn’t have a girl

54 | NONFICTION

55 | SHEPHERD

waiting back home you got smug about things like bad posture. Kennedy held the picture close to his big beak. “She’s really pretty. What’s her name?” Donovan replied, “Rachael,” which surprised me since I was waiting for Morgaine or Irmgard or Dahlia. Something more witchy. “We met on the beach, in Delaware. You guys know Prime Hook? No? Well, not a lot of people were there because school was in. I took my dog to throw the Frisbee around, just letting him get off the chain for a bit. Bigfoot, that’s his name—he’s a mutt that got abandoned outside the shelter, someone just came in the middle of the night and tied him to the front door. “Anyway, one of my tosses sailed wide left. Curved around and landed right under one of those multi-colored beach umbrellas, where this girl sat—” (here he waved the photograph with a wrist rotation) “—wearing green polka dots and pointy sunglasses. Bigfoot ran over and slobbered on her. When I got there his tongue was all over her fingers. My dog, he drools a lot when we go to the beach. He gets excited.” Kennedy groaned with anticipation. I said, “What happened next?” “She handed the Frisbee back to me. It felt like time froze after that, I mean she was just so beautiful and everything. I couldn’t see her eyes but I knew she was looking right inside me. I could feel her in here.” He tapped his chest with four curled fingers. “And she said, ‘Twenty-five people on this beach, and you hit me?’” “Nice. Good move,” said Kennedy, hanging on every word. I agreed with a vigorous nod. “Smart.” “I went to Sunoco later, to get something to drink. I left Bigfoot at home this time. The gas station attendants hate when people tie their pets on the bench out front.” “And?” “There she was, soda straw in her mouth. Her hair was wet—it wasn’t wet before. The water made her hair seem a lot darker. She smiled and said, ‘Did you come back for me?’ I said, ‘I think maybe I did.’ “And she said, ‘It’s the thought that counts.’” Fabio, shirtless, came over to where we stood. “Bedtime stories?

Aw, you three are adorable.” I’m told people who make fun of other people are, deep down, very unhappy. I don’t know. Fabio looked pretty happy. He said, in a sing-songy voice, “Are you going to give me a kissy-wissy and tuck me into bed?”

Since I slept in a bunk bed with Kennedy above me, and because I was much taller than him, we made each others’ beds in the morning. One day we woke up and shaved and brushed our teeth when I said, “Kennedy, my bed looks awful. Where are the hospital corners?”(Hospitals corners being the bane of every trainee’s existence—if our beds were improperly made Sergeant Reed thought of some creative way to punish us. A hospital corner is where you tuck the corners at the foot of the bed into an exact 45 degree angle. Rumor was that some overzealous instructors used a carpenter’s framing square to inspect the angle of hospital corners.) “The corners are there,” said Kennedy, pointing to what looked like a handful of walrus skin. He wore BDU pants and an untucked camel-colored shirt. “They look just like yours.” I made a frustrated sound. “Gimme a break,” said Kennedy, looking at me with the hatred of a scorned brother. He knelt down like he was going to redo my bunk, but instead reached into his wall locker to put away his toothbrush. He started griping about Sergeant Reed. “He has it in for me. When we were in formation he said, ‘You look as out of place as a pregnant woman in a bikini. Keep your head down, nut.’” “Yeah! Everyone got a kick out of that.” Donovan came over to line our shoes up. Everyone had a morning task; mine was to sweep the hallway, which I could accomplish in thirty seconds. Kennedy helped clean the latrine. “Try not to bump these,” said Donovan. “Sergeant Reed’s the devil,” said Kennedy, refolding my bunk’s hospital corner. He talked now to Donovan, or anyone who’d listen. “Or at least the next best thing.” “Watch out for the shoes, please.”

56 | NONFICTION

57 | SHEPHERD

“Hey, what’s the Wicca version of the devil? Do you guys even have a Satan?” Donovan blinked. He didn’t say anything, cornered between Kennedy and our bunk.

Trapped. This strip of land once belonged to it, but now the black-and-white animal barely had a corner to claw its way into. The skunk came from the shadows, a mythical creature, interrupting our jumping jack warm-ups. Across the pad female trainees, dressed in similar gray shirts and gray shorts, stopped their stretches, and I searched for one to fall in love with. Sergeant Green, our brother flight’s instructor whom they referred to as Smokey Bear, walked over to the skunk and tried to scare it away from the pad. “Get out of here,” he yelled, getting dangerously close, and my mind raced back to playground rules and the value of arriving to the swingset first. No one in formation rooted for Smokey Bear to escape a spraying. He turned already weak trainees into jellyfish. I saw it. So had others. He was one of them. I looked over at Donovan and said with my mind, Let him have it, but he ignored me, perhaps content to let nature run its course. Smokey picked up a dead branch and shook it like a pom-pom. The skunk bared its teeth, the biological weapon behind its tail preparing for an attack. A murmur rose within our ranks, decidedly pro-skunk. But not everyone cared about the battle. Fabio nodded toward the females and whispered to me, “I’ll take little blondie over there. Am I right?” Someone in the back cracked a joke. “Call in EOD,” which meant Explosive Ordnance Disposal—the bomb squad. A few trainees laughed. “Lock it up, nuts!” shouted Sergeant Reed. Thick-necked female sergeants scurried their petite, glorious, good-smelling troops away, a full-scale retreat; unfortunately men cannot afford such prudent luxuries. Inching closer, Smokey used the dead branch to poke at the skunk. A thought occurred: I wasn’t sure what kind of range that thing

had, and although I wanted Smokey to get hosed, I had no desire to be included in the collateral damage. Again I looked at Donovan, surreptitiously this time, the way you check your watch in church. I caught a starburst of light behind his eyes. Praise God. Seconds later the skunk conflict funneled into a stalemate. Smokey tossed the useless branch aside, swearing and spitting out the side of his mouth. Our suspended PT was eventually canceled. The skunk curled his tail and stared us down but never used biological warfare. While we slipped away from the pad, I realized Donovan had used telepathy or telekinesis, one of those silent magics, to save us all from battle. Of course! He was extremely versed in those dark arts. I thanked him with my mind as he fumbled along behind me. “Eyes forward,” said Sergeant Reed.

After Sunday morning services Kennedy came back to the dormitory and plopped down on my bunk. He rested his feet on the metal bars at the foot of the bed. The springs underneath him complained. He yawned. “I ate so many cookies my belly hurts. Peanut butter criss-cross.” “In the Protestant service we sang ‘This Little Light of Mine.’ We even did the hand motions, like you used to do in Sunday School.” I pointed a finger toward the ceiling, twirled it around, letting it shine. “Yeah. Sounds like a lot of fun.” I nodded. “Lots of girls go there. I talked to one. Her name was Tayler. Or Tyla?” “Probably Tayler,” I suggested. “Probably. So are you coming to the Wiccan meeting next week? Last chance before Warrior Week. You have to try those peanut butter cookies. No limit. They’ll change your life.” I nodded hungrily.

But later in the week Donovan got a letter written on yellow legal pad paper. Very formal. It was front and back, also a bad sign. Too

58 | NONFICTION

many sentences. Too much to explain. He threw a boot at his wall locker, the door of which clanged shut and then back open again. Then he sat on his bunk, the yellow paper attached to him like a prosthetic limb—he could’ve taken it off, but that wouldn’t have helped him function any better. He was heart-broken all day and no one needed to ask why. Everyone in the flight was worried their girlfriend would forget about them, or if they didn’t have a girlfriend, they were concerned about all the people they knew back home not missing them enough. The next morning, when we got up at oh-dark-hundred and prepared for morning activities, Donovan noticed me staring and gave me both middle fingers. I quickly looked away. After that our flight formed up outside the dining facility to sing the Air Force theme song. Standing in the orange burn of so many security lights we acknowledged our rich history, and I was glad to be in front of our formation because that morning my voice was a terrible snarl and I spat out clouds of jingoistic lyrics into the wild blue yonder. My element was the fourth and final row to enter the building. I stood with Fabio and Kennedy while everyone else piled in. We shuffled sideways once inside the DFAC, shoulders back, eyes forward, and as the cooks listed off available food items we responded with terse affirmation or denial. “Sausage patty?” “Yes, please.” “Eggs?” “No, thank you.” I sat down at a table next to Kennedy and scraped diced potatoes onto a slice of buttery toast. At the same time I gobbled at my pear, which was perfectly shaped, like a miniature bowling pin. Simultaneously I drank an entire glass of water. During meal times it felt like you had five arms and two throats. We weren’t allowed to speak at the table, so Kennedy discreetly pulled a glass of water up to his lips and whispered, “Something’s happening.” At the table in front of us, Fabio issued a dirty look. Table-talkers had to leave the DFAC without finishing their meal. Sometimes they kicked out other trainees, even non-offenders, at neighboring tables.

59 | SHEPHERD

It happened all the time. A proximity thing. Kennedy ignored Fabio and said, with the glass still covering his lips, “Donovan.” Usually when we finished eating we saluted the mirror beside the exit door. If Sergeant Reed was standing there and didn’t approve of our salute or marching or pivoting, or if he was just feeling nasty, he’d make us do another lap. Donovan wolfed down his breakfast, slapped the table with both hands, stood up, and didn’t even try to march. He didn’t pivot at the corners. When he walked up to the mirror, his hands stayed in tight fists at his side. “What are you doing, nut?” Sergeant Reed slid in front of the door to block Donovan. At the Snake Pit—where instructors sit—all the sergeants laughed. They laughed at dropped trays and stuttering trainees, they clamped their fangs around any breach of protocol. Sergeant Reed frowned. “You mind trying that again, Donovan?” Donovan stopped like he was going to say something. My ears perked. But he turned away from Sergeant Reed and headed for lap number two, swinging his shoulders with an angry pride as he cornered the row of tables. His face was red and his lips were trembling. “Breathe,” Kennedy said as Donovan passed by our half-empty table. Use your witchery to escape, I told him, hoping he would do to Sergeant Reed whatever he had done to the skunk. The entire facility cut their eyes toward Donovan as he approached the mirror. The members of the elite Snake Pit club watched, ready to strike. Even the cooks—all civilians—knew trouble was brewing. Sergeant Reed stood guard at the mirror, his brow plunged downward, waiting for Donovan’s second attempt. “All over some girl,” said Kennedy. “Basic training breakups—what a cliché.” “Her name was Rachael.” “Who cares?” It’s the thought that counts, she said to Donovan, her mess of polka dots and horn-rimmed sunglasses filling the frame. A few weeks into autumn. The salty spray behind him, hands clenching a slobbery Frisbee, all the colors of the rainbow in her beach umbrella. Wet hair,

60 | NONFICTION

bad posture, red lips. Donovan’s arm swung up and cocked back to his temple, fingers a quarter-inch from his right eyebrow, issuing a greeting as though his mirrored image was a four-star general, the execution crisp, straight out of the handbook we were given during Zero Week. “That’s more like it,” said Sergeant Reed. Donovan marched out of the DFAC and turned the corner. Then he was gone forever. Poof. Disappeared. Magic. Kennedy took another drink of water. “Are you going to finish that pear?” “You should have got your own,” I growled. “Well,” he mumbled. “If you change your mind.”

But to be honest we all changed, every trainee, in his or her own way, and even if it was more delicate than Donovan’s magical vanishing, we all lost a little something. This is how basic training operates: you come in at Zero Week, renegotiate your identity, and then it’s off you go. And maybe it was good, some of the things we lost, like innocence, because how long you can hold on to something as childish as that I don’t know. For myself I felt a careless leg of my soul lassoed away during Warrior Week, when we went to qualify at the firing range and three dozen M-16s erupted. The morning roared. I thought, this is what it sounds like? Like this? Brass sprinkled down and worked its way into my uniform, a cascade of spent shells, warm and tingly, like an angel was tickling me. You can’t explain something like that. You just can’t. But I regained my composure and fired well. In fact they gave me a green-and-gray-striped ribbon for shooting so accurately. I stuck it to my chest like it was a pin-on flower, a boutonnière, and I was on my way to prom. Dance, punch, limousine. As a child I used to wonder what happened to all those old flowers, you know, after all the dancing and everything was over.

61 | SHEPHERD

63 | SHEPHERD

SEE YOU LATER ALLIGATOR

CAST OF CHARACTERSMiguel de la Torres. . . . . . .Custodian managerJonny Lovett. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Security guardMaria Romero. . . . . . . . . . . .Research assistantDr. Conroy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Genetics scientist

BLACK SCREEN

Quotation illuminates the darkness:

“Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.”

-William Carlos Williams

FADE IN ON

Wide establishing exterior shot of arid Mexican desert. Sagebrush and cactus and tumbleweeds, etc. Twenty-story tower sits in middle of this nothing. Ominous music swells, fades. Large species of birds flocking to tower. Vultures? No, something much bigger. Reptilian?

CUT TO

Medium head/shoulder exterior shot of LARGE ALLIGATOR. Appears to be vertical instead of natural prone/horizontal position. Crusty, scaly, weathered skin; fangs, pink tongue.

CUT TO

Close up interior shot of JONNY, 24, thin build, wrinkled security guard uniform. SLOW ZOOM OUT to reveal MIGUEL, 33, dark features, unassumingly handsome, standing alongside JONNY.

64 | FICTION

JONNY

I guess alligators don’t have nipples.

MIGUEL

(Nods head) You would be able to see them.

JONNY

Know what’s even weirder? It really does look like they’re smiling.

Just like people say.

MIGUEL

People say that?

JONNY

People say that.

Miguel stepped away from the pressure-tested double-reinforced glass window and picked up the rotary phone, even though it hadn’t worked since the alligators toppled the communication sensor array. Instead of dead air Miguel imagined his wife’s voice, a sweet, melodic invocation. He slid his fingers down the tangled telephone cord. “What floor are we on?” asked Jonny. Dr. Conroy scoffed. “The number’s right over the elevator shaft.” “Fourteen,” offered Miguel. “I know that,” Jonny said, rolling his eyes. Shadows melted across the island-style tables, long, chemical-resistant, epoxy tops crammed with Erlenmeyer flasks, Bunsen burners, and pipettes bundled together with rubber bands. Jonny picked up a pair of tongs and with them removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth. “I meant, how many floors are above us before we start running out of places to hide?” “No one is coming to save us,” said Maria. “Ay caramba.”

“That’s a defeatist attitude,” Dr. Conroy said sharply. “I simply won’t allow it.” Miguel pulled out the spare revolver Jonny entrusted to him and peered into the chamber. Six brass tops. Along with Jonny, the lone surviving security guard employed by this outpost of Gamin Genetic Research, Inc., they probably had a bullet for every eighth alligator. Not nearly enough ammo to shoot their way out. Before long the alligators would break down the door of the fourteenth floor and the group of survivors would ascend the stairs to the fifteenth, and so on, but that plan was only sustainable until they reached the roof because then the alligators would fly up there and eat them. “A lot of trouble flapping around out there,” said Jonny, stroking his wispy mustache and watching Miguel with bemusement. “Think that gun’s gonna keep you safe, hotshot?” Miguel spun the chamber, the clicking noise radiating throughout the room. He replied, “For a time. This is a .357, a Dirty Harry pistol, yes? ‘Blow a man’s head clean off.’” “Dirty Harry used a .44 Magnum. Any real American would know that,” sneered Jonny. “Let me guess—they dub that movie for Mexicans.” “Donde está España.” “Huh?” “I am a Spaniard. My family came to America before I was born.” “Well, la-de-da,” said Jonny, making a face. He had eyes the color of cheap tequila. “When in Mexico, thou art a Mexican. You speak the language, right? That’s all I care about. Isn’t that how you got this too-good-to-be-true job in the first place?” Miguel found it easy to lie, but reasoned that lying about a lie could usher him into a deeper level of purgatory. “Perhaps my fluency is not as strong as I wrote on my application.” Jonny cackled and slapped Miguel on the shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with me, brother. Work four months, get a hundred grand? Now that’s what I call Las Vegas money.” Outside the alligators were still flying around. Their claws raking across the side of the building sounded like stepped-on kittens, a screech that made even the most stalwart of men flinch. A larger

65 | SHEPHERD

alligator crashed against the window, but the glass only vibrated momentarily. “If we had more cartridges we could blow them all away,” said Maria. “Why is the armory in the basement?” “Structural oversight,” agreed Dr. Conroy. “That’s what we get for contracting out the cheapest engineers.” Jonny laughed. “Even if we could get to the armory, we don’t need cartridges. We need bullets. Cartridges are for rifles.” “Semantics,” said Dr. Conroy. “Besides, there are rifles in the armory, so your counter-argument is fundamentally flawed.” His chin protruded like the point of a high-heel shoe, curved but smooth, and he rubbed the length of it thoughtfully. He adjusted his bifocals and shot a nervous glance toward the window. “Why are they banging their heads against the glass?” Leaning in close, his voice barely audible, Jonny whispered, “I guess they want to get in here and kiss you goodnight, Doc.” He pantomimed sloppy French kisses. “Enough,” said Miguel, grabbing Jonny’s arm and wrenching him away. “We need a plan,” said Maria. “We have a plan,” corrected Dr. Conroy. “Wait for the food shipment to be air-delivered. It’ll be less than a week. We just need to sit tight.” “How can we survive that long!” cried Maria. “Will someone come to help us? Will they see the alligators flying around and come to investigate?” “I’m afraid not, my brave laboratory assistant. The reason Gamin Research built this tall structure out here was its isolated location. Why, there’s not another living soul within a hundred miles. We’re completely alone out here in the Mexican desert.” Maria shivered, clutching her white lab coat around her bosom, absentmindedly chewing on a strand of thick, stagecoach-brown hair. Her gold chain necklace disappeared into the mystery of her chest. Again Jonny laughed, a desperate, devil-may-care cackle. “You need to work on your bedside manner, Doc.” “You ingrate. I’m a genetics professor, not a medical doctor.” Jonny said, “Still.”

66 | FICTION

The large alligator continued smashing into the window, its crusty, scaly wings flapping with rage. The glass vibrated, but held. “Geez,” said Jonny. “They’re gonna break down that window before they figure out what room we’re in.” Before Jonny’s punctuation mark could settle, a scrape of claws emanated from outside the door. Just the way the other thirteen floors had. Scrapes, growls, and before long the door—not nearly as strong as the windows—would rip apart and alligators would pour in. “How do they keep finding us?” said Maria. Miguel scratched his head. “It’s as if the alligators flying around outside are signaling to the ones that are inside.” “Preposterous,” said Dr. Conroy. “Poppycock.” “Animals are smart,” said Miguel. Working as a groundskeeper for the Albuquerque Zoo, as he had before money lured him south of the border, Miguel witnessed acts of the smartest animals: parrots fluent in myriad languages, monkeys that joined hands and reached across cement culverts to grasp fallen treats, a boa constrictor named Black Betty that opened her mouth and waited for mice, thinking the open jaws a tunnel opening, to crawl inside. But the alligators showed more complex reasoning skills; in less than twenty-four hours after growing wings they had disabled the electricity, toppled the comm sensor array, and lured most of the facility’s staff out into the open with a series of elaborate traps. Miguel wasn’t sure what impressed him more: the alligators’ cognitive abilities or their gift of flight. “Poppycock,” Dr. Conroy said again. “The alligators are brainless beasts from the moat, brutes that served only one purpose: to keep unwanted, nosy, no-good investigating officials out of our way. We’re doing very important work here, my boy!” “What work is that?” asked Miguel. “Uh,” stammered Dr. Conroy. “Need-to-know basis.” Miguel started to object but Maria called out to him. “Miguel. Help me up, por favor.” He bent over and grabbed her arm. It shocked him to realize how close this gesture was to the way he grabbed and admonished Jonny for trying to scare the two scientists earlier. Miguel shook these thoughts from his mind. “I was not meant to be trapped indoors,” complained Maria,

67 | SHEPHERD

gripping the edges of her lab coat, holding on with an attachment normally reserved for children and their security blankets. “What kind of life is this, to be inside?” “Lorca said Spaniards live between walls until they die,” said Miguel. “Then they are taken out to the sun.” “Who?” “Federico García Lorca, the Spanish poet. A civil war martyr. He was speaking on the duende and its relation to death.” “I am from Ciudad de México. I’ve never been to your country.” She eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you were a simple janitor, with little interest in the arts.” “My father was a painter,” explained Miguel. He glanced down at his silver wedding ring and wondered how much he should explain to this beautiful but foreign woman. “I take my wife, Rosario, and my children, Hector and Pedro, to the art gallery in Albuquerque, where there is a modest pointillist piece in the ‘local artist’ section, painted by my father.” “I have never been to Albuquerque, or in fact the Estados Unidos.” “You lived here in Mexico your whole life?” “As a child,” said Maria, “I dreamed of crossing the border. I dreamed of Coca-Cola and Wonderbras and opportunity. But my father always said, ‘If you want to go to heaven, go to America. If you want to go to hell, go to America.’” Miguel considered this briefly before concluding, “Wise man.” “An old Mexican proverb.” “I hate to break up this romantic fiesta, but we’re leaving,” said Jonny, cutting in between Miguel and Maria. As they walked to the stairwell, Maria asked, “How is it that you came to work here?” “My uncle procured me a job,” said Miguel. Slowly, Maria’s eyes widened. “Oh. Then he…” “He worked on the ground floor. He clutched my hand as he embraced death.” “Very sad.” “A Spaniard is more alive when dead, more so than anywhere else in the world. His profile slices like the edge of a barber’s razor. That is also the poetry of Lorca.”

68 | FICTION

The ferocity of the door-scratching increased. Miguel thought he saw one creamy-colored claw poke through the metal, an almost childlike gesture of exploration—Miguel remembered Hector and Pedro, how they’d insert tiny fingers through holes of discarded cardboard boxes. “I am sorry for your uncle,” said Maria. “To die in the Mexican desert when you are from Spain is very bad luck.” Miguel tapped his chest, where he imagined his heart to be located, with three fingers. “We carry España inside us.” He cocked his revolver. Dr. Conroy clutched a fire extinguisher, ready to use it as a blunt instrument if necessary. Jonny also had his revolver cocked, an unlit cigarette dangling carelessly from his mouth. Maria held only a flashlight. Silently, the group entered the stairwell. Miguel peered down into darkness—for a time, the emergency generator had powered overhead security lights and illuminated the red EXIT signs, but the alligators had quickly found the generator and eaten it. Some smaller alligators crawled up the stairs and Maria aimed her flashlight at them. The beam caught the shine of their eyes, a ghostly glow. They were too small to fly, their wings a burden. Ravished by hunger, these miniature alligators haunted the darkness and snapped at any moving object. One crawled over and nibbled at Jonny’s boot, but its baby teeth had no bite. “Hey, that tickles,” he said, brushing the non-threatening youngster away. Dr. Conroy picked the alligator up, holding its snout shut with a pinch of his fingers. “You know, I could perform some tests on this juvenile. Perhaps find something of value—” “Silencio1,” interrupted Miguel. “No more testing. Put that thing down. Their fathers and mothers cannot be far behind.” “Screw that,” said Jonny. “They’re all flying around the elevator shaft and junk.” A raspy growl, rumbling and grumbling, sounded out from below. “Still,” said Jonny, tucking his cigarette between his ear, “we shouldn’t linger.” 1 SUBTITLE: Shut up.

69 | SHEPHERD

The group ascended to the fifteenth floor, another cluster of laboratory tables, each one filled with beakers, spiraling tubes, and charts of mathematical equations push-pinned to the walls. Everyone cracked open a glow stick because the fifteenth floor didn’t have a large window like the other floors. Phantom-green light swelled around the room. Miguel clipped a glow stick to his collar and picked up the phone. Nothing. Not even static. Dr. Conroy said, “Come, Maria. This floor has a processing room. Let’s see if we can find anything of value.” His hands were stuffed deep into his lab coat pockets. “Be careful,” warned Miguel. After the two scientists had exited, Jonny wolf-whistled. “Hot dawg.” “What?” “Even with that haggardly lab coat, Maria’s a fox. Yowza. What say you?” “I say, I am married. Rosario is waiting for me in Albuquerque.” Miguel slid a picture out of his breast pocket. “These are my two boys, Hector and Pedro, with their mother.” Jonny studied the photograph. He chuckled. “I’m the jerk, aren’t I? Guess you’re right, amigo. If I had that waiting for me at home, I’d stay abstinent in Mexico, too. I’m going to find me a gal like that—one that will pop out a few boys and make me supper on the weekend. She should show up any day now, is what I’m thinking—especially since I’m trapped in here.” “Good luck,” Miguel said sincerely. “El ciervo vulnerado por el otero asoma.2” “What in the world does that mean?” “It does not completely translate into English,” admitted Miguel. “But when you have your greatest need, a moment of beauty will rescue you.” “If you say so, brother. I’m going to secure the elevator doors.” Jonny moved to the twin metallic doors, which had not fully shut when the power went offline—an opening of five inches ran down the exact center. As Jonny grasped each door and tried to bring them

2 SUBTITLE: The wounded deer over the hill appears.

70 | FICTION

together, the scaly, gnarled hand of an alligator reached out. “Hey-oh!” said Jonny, hopping away. “Careful,” said Miguel. “We’ll get the doctor and Maria and go up one more floor.” But Jonny ignored his co-worker’s imploration. “Okay, gator,” he said. “We can do this the easy way—” he drew his pistol and thumbed the hammer back “—or the real easy way.” The door wedged free another few inches, but the safety mechanism prevented it from opening far enough for the alligator to fit its bulky, winged body inside the room. Only its head popped through. Jonny promptly inserted the barrel of his gun into the alligator’s open mouth. “You should’ve taken the stairs,” said Jonny, and pulled the trigger. From the illumination given off by their glow sticks Miguel saw chunky red matter spray the far corner of the elevator shaft. He grimaced. “Crocodile Jonny freakin’ Dundee,” exclaimed Jonny, lighting a victory cigarette. “You shouldn’t smoke,” said Miguel. “What are you, my dad?” Jonny peeked through the opening to survey his trophy kill. As he did, a second alligator appeared and stretched its hungry mouth through the elevator doors and closed its jaws around Jonny’s neck. Blood shot out in strings, dotting the floor and spattering the walls. Jonny placed his hands around the alligator’s throat, trying in vain to squeeze the fight out of it. Before Miguel could help, or even react, the darkness swallowed Jonny, his bloody body disappearing into the elevator shaft, a scream fading out as he plummeted fifteen stories. Dr. Conroy and Maria ran into the room. Maria shrieked and reflexively signed the cross. “What the blazes?” said Dr. Conroy. He held in his hand a vial of peccadillo-purple fluid. “We need to get to a higher floor,” said Miguel, staring at the vial. “It’s not safe here.” But the stairwell door pounded with violence. This time it wasn’t just the pre-pubescent alligators—something big and mean and angry

71 | SHEPHERD

waited for them. Dr. Conroy first yelped and then downed his vial of bright purplish fluid, tossing it back like a shot of hard liquor. “What was that?” Miguel asked apprehensively. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s for my sinuses,” insisted Dr. Conroy. “Now let’s figure out how to escape this floor. Perhaps we can climb up the elevator shaft.” “Not a good idea,” said Miguel. “How do you think they reached in and grabbed Jonny?” “So we’re just trapped? Preposterous.” Maria sobbed. “Why is this happening to me?” “Quiet,” Miguel said. Flies buzzed around the floor, investigating the traces of Jonny’s blood. “Where did those flies come from?” In unison the remaining three survivors lifted up their heads to the AC grate on the ceiling. The ventilation system—three enormous fans on the rooftop, now inoperable due to the power shutdown—circulated throughout the building. “That’s one thing Gamin did right,” said Dr. Conroy. “Are you crazy?” said Maria. “¡Pendejo! ¡Que cabrón! ¡A que chirlo! ¡Me cago en todo lo que se menea!3 We will be trapped in those tiny tunnels.” “We’re trapped in here,” argued Dr. Conroy. “And it is all your fault! You and your crazy research. Of course something like this would happen!” “Something like what?” demanded Miguel. Dr. Conroy stuttered for a second, then said, “Does it really matter right now?” “First we get into the overhead shaft,” said Miguel. “Then, you answer my questions.” “Yes, that certainly makes more sense than waiting here now, waiting to get picked off one by one,” said Dr. Conroy. “Splendid. If we make it to the top, maybe we can use the parachutes to fly down.” Miguel was incensed. “There are parachutes on the rooftop and you did not say?” Dr. Conroy ignored his reaction. “We must wait until cover of nightfall before deploying them. Otherwise those mangy brutes will gobble us up as we float down to the ground. Then we can sneak to the

3 SUBTITLE: #@$%!&^%@*!

72 | FICTION

jeep and, providing they haven’t eaten it yet, we’re home free. What do you say, Miguel? Good plan, yes?” Reluctantly Miguel pried off the AC grate and helped first Maria, then Dr. Conroy up and into the shaft. They squeezed through the claustrophobic space and made it to a vertical tunnel. Silently, as if afraid of giving away their position to the alligators, they stretched out their arms and legs and shimmied up the tunnel. Miguel thought this could be a stroke of luck; they could make it to the rooftop undetected, preserving their precious ammunition. But when they reached the top of the tunnel, a screen of fan blade protectors blocked their progress. Miguel climbed up front and tried in vain to bend the sturdy metal. “No use,” he called down to the other two remaining survivors. “We will have to get out at the nineteenth floor and take the stairs.” They kicked off the AC grate and spilled out onto the nineteenth floor. Miguel squinted in the low light. Prison cells lined both sides of the corridor. Cobwebs clung to every corner, gray clouds to catch thoughts and ideas on their way up. Spiders drooped and dangled on strings as Miguel investigated the row of prison cells. He turned to the two scientists. “You both know secrets,” said Miguel. “Something strange has been going on here for the past few days. And I speak of more than just flying alligators. I know the research here is illegal, but why are there cells up here?” Dr. Conroy stroked his oversized chin. “Hmm,” he said. “Miguel, we probably won’t make it out of here alive, so I may as well tell you. Why not? You see, there’s this grand and terrible thing. Yes, grand and terrible. It’s called imagination. We are each born with this gift; some, however, employ it more than others. I always imagined I could fly.” Dr. Conroy began to pace the dusty room, his steps echoing down the corridor. “My colleagues mocked me. Humans simply cannot fly without aid of contraptions, they said. Poppycock! “The Mexican government has more convicts than they know what to do with, Miguel. Have you ever known a man that, if given the choice, wouldn’t take an opportunity to fly, to soar into the majestic sky, over a lifetime of imprisonment? So we housed them here and—

73 | SHEPHERD

well, the tower is so high because prisoners are, eh, encouraged to participate in flying experiments. And we were so close to perfecting the formula when—” Miguel interjected. “The prisoners fell to their deaths and the alligators ate them. That is the real reason for the moat, not to keep people out, but to clean up your failures. And when the alligators ate the men, they were also eating the flying formula.” “Indeed. Who knew it would work so well on reptiles? But that was a happy coincidence. Now we can use that to our advantage! I have personally taken a small dose of the formula—the perfected formula, mind you, mixed with alligator DNA—and now I’ll fly out of here and save us all.” Maria sobbed and groped for Dr. Conroy’s lab coat. She pulled from his pocket a very frightened baby alligator. “Doctor!” she wailed. “You fool! What have you done?” The baby alligator scurried off down the corridor. Dr. Conroy laughed. “I’ve discovered the secret of aviation, my sweet assistant! I’ve improved man, given him wings. I’m a god! I’m—I’m—” Dr. Conroy’s complexion darkened. “S-Something’s wrong…” His neck twitched and then jerked violently from side to side. “Stand back,” Miguel said to Maria, but she remained by Dr. Conroy’s side. The doctor’s fingernails fell off and claws the size of steak knives replaced them. Up, up to the ceiling his torso rose, his body growing to nine feet in height. His nose turned into a snout, chin growing longer and longer, jawbones elongating and swapping teeth for fangs. His arms and legs diminished in size but grew in thickness. With a muscled stump of an arm he slapped away Maria; she tumbled down the corridor and hit her head against a brick wall. Dr. Conroy pulled out bars from the cells, testing his newfound strength. The prison bars clattered to the floor and rolled off to the side. He roared a horrible, dragonish roar. “What’s happening?” he said in a throaty growl. “The evil has come looking for its master,” said Miguel, his legs weaker than pudding cups. He aimed Jonny’s revolver and fired off three rounds, but the bullets ricocheted off Dr. Conroy’s now-scaly chest. “Yes,” roared Dr. Conroy. “This feels so right!” Wings began to

74 | FICTION

sprout behind him, one from each shoulderblade. They twisted in the air and flapped without lifting him. “Come on—I want to fly!” Maria awoke and screamed. Miguel’s heart pounded. He knew right then he’d never hold Rosario’s soft hands again or go mountain-climbing with his boys up Sandia Peak. How would they even remember him? He would die on the nineteenth floor of this research tower and be forgotten. Dr. Conroy, his eyes serpent-like, his body muscular and scaly, clamped his jaws open and shut as he hovered over Miguel. “I am the Dragon Beast!” He lunged for Miguel, missing him by the length of his razor-sharp claws. “Ah! You’re swift for a mere janitor.” Miguel ran down the hallway and lurched into an open cell, praying that the shadows would conceal him. Dr. Conroy—the Dragon Beast—paced outside, hunting for flesh. “Here, kitty, kitty,” the Dragon Beast called out in a singsong voice. A figure of pure evil, he slithered across the opening of the jail in which Miguel hid, a guttural cackle emanating from his throat, his fingers drawing zigzags in the low light, claws slicing empty air with a sickening, scarcely audible zing. Miguel balled his fists, but then uncurled his fingers. When approached by a large animal, carnivorous or otherwise, his zoo employee manual had advised to ‘go for the eyes with a stab of your thumbs. Repeat as often as necessary. And as always, call for backup.’ Miguel smiled grimly. No one could help him. This was it. “What do you think?” asked the Dragon Beast. “Any last words?” “Just two thumbs way up, you mad—” But before Miguel could attack something round and metallic poked through the Dragon Beast’s chest. Air hissed out of his reptilian lungs, the sound of rapidly deflating balloons. Dr. Conroy closed his eyes and slumped over sideways, a splintered prison bar jabbed straight through his ribcage; behind him stood Maria. Miguel gasped. “You stabbed him?” “Fencing lessons, ages eight through twelve.” She swept her bangs aside with a head toss. “I am stronger and more capable than you suspect, Miguel. You do not know my entire story. Now let’s get those parachutes and escape this nightmare.”

75 | SHEPHERD

Before they ran to the stairwell Miguel paused to consider Dr. Conroy’s corpse. It sat big and hulking but calm and still. His mind knew no more imagination. Ten minutes ago he dreamed of flight, and even now, hunched over on the floor, pierced by death, a childlike smile crept over his lifeless face. Miguel chuckled, shook his head, and offered an impromptu eulogy. “Disorder summons us, seizes us, possesses us, and destroys us in an instant.” “Is that also from the poet Lorca?” asked Maria. “Donne.” Miguel and Maria cautiously entered the stairwell. A snarling, hissing, sinister disturbance echoed up from the lower floors, but the top appeared to be devoid of alligators. Miguel slid up the stairs with his shoulder blades against the wall, the metal handrail pressed against his spine. He exhaled as silently as possible; his lungs, like hot air balloons, burned and swelled on either side of his pounding chest. He first noticed the stars as he stepped out onto the rooftop. Had so many stars always existed? The twinkling bulbs faded out as a glimpse of golden sunrise threatened the horizon. Miguel and Maria found three parachutes hanging from hooks close to the door, but unfortunately all but one was ripped to shreds. Maria raised her hands in defeat. As she did, her lab coat opened and revealed a curious medallion chained around her neck. A broken-hearted-blue emerald, centered in the medallion, caught the small traces of light available and dazzled Miguel. “You were not meant to see that,” said Maria, tucking the medallion into her shirt. “Sorry.” He looked away. She sighed. “I did not want to tell you this, Miguel.” “Okay then,” he said, shrugging. “We can forget it.” “I am a saboteur, Miguel. Part of a secret league known only as Humans Against Human Testing. This medallion identifies me to other saboteurs. We believe that man’s reach often exceeds his grasp—you see, dear Miguel, I, too, know of poetry. But I played the…what is it? The bimbo, so all the men ignored my actions. For weeks I worked alongside Dr. Conroy, masquerading as his assistant, but secretly slowing his research, dismantling this joke that is Gamin Genetic Research, Inc.”

76 | FICTION

“Your secret is safe with me,” said Miguel. “I am sorry, but I must not let you live. You know too much.” “You must be jok—” Miguel started to say, but Maria him pushed down the stairs. Toppling over and rattling down the unforgiving steps, he slid to a halt at the bottom and peered up at Maria, who raised her hands palms up, a consoling gesture. “Lo ciento4,” she said, and slammed the door. When Miguel attempted to stand and give chase a sharp pain coursed through his leg—he’d broken it, or at least bruised it to the point of a woeful limp. He breathed in deeply. Through the open door at the top of the stairs he saw the morning sun peek through. In the dim light he viewed once more his family’s photograph. Rosario’s gentle smile. Hector and Pedro, exuberant grins. Miguel checked his revolver. Three rounds. Two for the alligators, one for himself. Footsteps below him radiated through the stairwell. He cocked the trigger and squinted in the low light, hoping to make his last shots count for something. He curled his sweaty fingers around the revolver’s grip. Whatever was moving around below him got closer, the noise causing his head to throb and ache. Miguel steadied his aim and ignored the pain in his leg as the creature appeared above the rise of steps— “Whoa! Don’t shoot, brother.” “Jonny? But…your throat is shredded.” Jonny placed a hand on his neck. He removed his hand and stared hard into the blood on his fingertips. Then he said, “What, this? Just a scratch. A minor wound. Knocks my voice down a few octaves, but you play the cards life deals you.” He ripped some fabric off his security guard uniform and wrapped it around his neck like a handkerchief. “That oughta seal the leak.” “Where have you been?” “Oh, right. It’s dark in here. Sorry.” Jonny clicked on an electric lantern that was clipped to his belt. The light revealed an assortment of weaponry strapped to Jonny’s body. “Where did you get all those guns?” “The armory, man. I fought that alligator all the way down to the basement. It’s crazy down there. You don’t even want to know! I’ll tell

4SUBTITLE: Sorry about that.

77 | SHEPHERD

you over a cerveza if we live to see a bar. So where’d everybody else run off to?” “Dr. Conroy turned himself into a dragon beast.” Jonny shook his head. “Man! I knew that guy was up to no good. I knew he wasn’t telling us the whole story. He was all, ‘None of this is my fault, I just do genetic research and junk.’” “Yes. He did say things like that. Or similar.” Miguel sighed. “Maria took the last parachute.” “She’s gone? Too bad. I thought we had a romantic future.” “Ay yi yi…” Miguel shook his head. “How can you be so cavalier when we are most certainly doomed?” Jonny tossed a machine gun to Miguel and spun around. Strapped to his back: a beautiful, glorious, wonderful parachute. “Guess what else they store in the armory? Reserve parachutes. Now let’s go before it’s completely light out. Also, we should hurry because of the explosive charge I set in the basement.” He glanced nervously at his watch. “It is still a mystery how you are alive.” “We’ll both be goners if we don’t get out of here. Anyway, I’ve been in far worse scrapes than this.” “My leg is broken,” said Miguel. “Help me along.” Miguel and Jonny did a three-legged race to the top of the stairwell. Jonny glanced out the door, the first rays of morning light cracking through the opening. “Well,” he said through his teeth, “Maria didn’t make it too far.” Out on the rooftop a dozen alligators swarmed a shred of white lab coat and parachute canvas. A broken-hearted-blue emerald medallion rested in the midst of the frenzy. The alligators snapped their jaws at each other, clearly hungry for more flesh. “If only she had waited,” lamented Miguel. “Looks like we’re going to have to shoot our way out of here,” said Jonny, loading the first round into his M-16. “You ready?” “How long do we have until the explosive goes off?” “Honestly, I completely forgot what the timer was set at. We should really get going.” They burst out onto the rooftop and gunned down the alligators

78 | FICTION

that were clustered around Maria’s corpse. Miguel shed a tear, unsure whether it was sorrow for Maria’s plight or out of overwhelming, fearful adrenaline. A large alligator swooped at Miguel, unaffected by the bullets that sprayed off its belly. The winged beast got so close that Miguel felt its hot and sour breath on his face. “Head shots, brother,” said Jonny, putting the large alligator down with a three-round burst to its face. “What, you never played video games?” Three alligators backed in, their heavy tails swaying, their wings keeping them directly above Miguel and Jonny. They inched in closer, all the while keeping their heads protected by the armor of their backs. “They are learning!” shouted Miguel. A flailing tail struck Jonny across the shoulder and he went tumbling, his M-16 clattering across the rooftop. As the alligators converged on him, Jonny emitted a muffled cry. Miguel shot at the alligators until he heard that distinct tick-tick-tick of an empty magazine, and then fought them off with the butt of his machine gun. The weapon’s stock crashed against the alligators’ snouts and they snarled as they withdrew from the recumbent Jonny. “Geez, man! I thought you were just a janitor. You got a killer’s eye.” By this time the alligators had regrouped and they curled their bodies and flapped their wings angrily at the two men. “Hey-oh.” Jonny leapt up. “Wait,” said Miguel. He hobbled over to Maria’s medallion, grasped the golden chain, and fired a few rounds over his shoulder as he hobbled away from danger and over to the edge of the roof. More alligator corpses thudded on the rooftop. “Van damage,” said Jonny. “Nice shooting. You’d make a great American.” “No,” said Miguel. “I am a great American.” A happy hoot left Jonny’s mouth. He turned to the empty expanse behind them and said, “Here we go, partner. Hold on tight.” Miguel’s belly rolled around as he realized how much higher twenty stories seemed when looking down from the very top. He clenched his teeth and steadied his resolve.

79 | SHEPHERD

“Better hurry,” warned Jonny, glancing at his watch. “That explosive charge—”

CUT TO

Wide establishing exterior shot of arid Mexican desert. Tower stands portentously. Same shot as first scene—sagebrush and cactus and tumbleweeds, etc. Twenty-story tower explodes, fiery spiral, building topples, plumes of dust/smoke. Did the two men escape? Yes! Parachute emerges from dust/smoke, sways in the breeze but holds the weight of MIGUEL and JONNY.

CUT TO

Medium shot of MIGUEL and JONNY as they parachute to safety. Behind them the tower continues to burn and flaming alligators drop like comets from the sky.

MIGUEL

Where will you go next?

JONNY

Geez, I dunno. Definitely not Las Vegas. (Beat) They got alligators in

España?

MIGUEL

Only in zoos.

JONNY

(Sighs) Still…

80 | FICTION

CUT TO

Long shot of heroes descending into desert, sun continues to rise in background. Hungry clouds swag on the deep as hellacious journey ends. Music begins, a slickin’ cool hero’s anthem like ‘Badonkadonkey’ by Born Ruffians or ‘The Surf’ by Lotus. MIGUEL and JONNY look at each other and laugh a long, triumphant, exhausted laugh as we

FADE OUT

ROLL CREDITS

81 | SHEPHERD

HAST THOU CONSIDERED THE CAR : FIRST TIME OWNER’S MANUAL

MAKE & MODEL My first car is a 1989 Ford Crown Victoria, painted brown like a pirate ship.

GENDER & NOMENCLATURE My car is a woman and her name is Vicky. I am a man and my name is not Vicky.

SPACIOUS INTERIOR It’s 2003 and I’m nineteen years old and the world is confusing but I don’t care about things like that. I move back into my parents’ double-wide mobile home, a rectangular living space that’s planted along Sockum Ridge Road. We live on this rocky, dusty, wooded trail seven miles south of Washington, Iowa, the nearest hub of humanity. My dad co-signs a $1750 loan from West Chester Savings Bank to pay for the car, which is four years younger than me. “Now you can build up your credit,” he says, as though he’s a genie that just popped out of a magic lamp and granted my first wish. “Gee, thanks,” I say. “I’ll think I’ll go for a ride. Be home later.” I smoke tobacco cigarettes in my car. I smoke other kinds of cigarettes in my car. I play rock-n-roll in my car and swear in my car and keep extra sets of clothes in her trunk for when I don’t come home at night. In my parents' house there are many rules, because they don’t allow smoking of any type of cigarette and they listen to Southern Gospel music and they only Christian cuss like “darn” or “gosh.” My car thus becomes a space I inhabit, an apartment on wheels, a tent trailer or camper, a mobile one-man gypsy caravan. I eat in my car. I sleep in her, too. On a long and arduous trip to Chicago, under the cover of a purple night, I pee into an empty Gatorade bottle, refilling

83 | SHEPHERD

84 | NONFICTION

it about halfway full. The Gatorade bottle’s label reads lemon-lime and this makes me laugh.

ENGINE SPECIFICATIONS 5.0 liter heart 4 Goodyear tires 8 spark plugs that fire like brainy synapses Automatic transmission Built for speed

HISTORY OF CLOSE CALLS 1. On the way home from a Metallica concert in Moline, with my work buddy Jared in the passenger’s seat, it begins to rain as we near Iowa City and Coralville. We need to go south on 218, back to Washington, Iowa. First a light drizzle, then a sprinkling, then as we pass the Dubuque Street exit it flows from heaven like the angels are wringing out their celestial laundry. I just want to be home. Sheets of water fold across Vicky’s face, wipers crying as they chop back and forth. “Easy, baby,” I say. “Who are you talking to?” asks Jared. “Never mind,” I tell him. And then at the 80/218 interchange, when trying to merge with heavy clunky big rigs, oil and water and radiator fluid and heartache and everything that leaks out onto 218 grabs hold of Vicky’s tires and spins us around 540 degrees. Jared swears—not Christian cussing, but urgent, secular swears—as we spin all the way around, then half again, so that we are facing oncoming traffic. Fortunately, due to a small miracle if you believe in God or a twist of fate if you believe in Man, my car has slid wonderfully onto the shoulder, and with a crunch of gravel we stop and breathe and swear and say thanks to whatever we believe in. A state trooper eases in behind us. He taps on Vicky’s glass and looks at my license and has me step out of my car.

“Slick out here tonight,” he says. A plastic rain-guard hugs his hat. Beads of water pile up on the brim, scoot forward, fall onto my shoes. “A little,” I admit. He hands me a breathalyzer. I place it in my mouth and sigh into the straw-like plastic nozzle, my relief registering 0.00%. Although I have driven my car before in a drunken hazy state, many times on gravel roads and dirt roads and blacktops, this time I am sober. Back in the car Jared stabs a cigarette into his mouth. Smoke seeps out narrow cracks at the tops of our windows. We are wordless. We listen to AC/DC’s greatest hits CD, continuing down 218. When the song ‘Highway to Hell’ comes on I push the skip button and Jared doesn’t complain. 2. There is a party at Sunset Park—cars line both sides of the entrance, all the way to the rocket slide, the municipal pool, and the wood playground, cars and minivans and SUVs smooshed together like a finished game of dominoes. Yet I try to squeeze by at first, with my Jolly Roger boat of a car, because I want to drive by the pool and see if Megan is lifeguarding. A twist in the road up ahead will be difficult to navigate. Vicky fights me every inch of the way, so I acquiesce and throw her transmission in reverse. Godsmack blares out of the rear window subwoofers but I can still hear that grating, sickening screech as Vicky’s front bumper scraps one of the parked cars. Her bumper draws a line down the side of the car. I survey the damage: a thick line with many patterns that reminds me of the way sheet music looks. A poetic scrape on this car, a Grand Prix, blue in color. A racing stripe. No one at the park sees me. Everyone is at the celebration. I drive to the car wash across from Fareway and wash blue paint off of Vicky’s bumper.

VENTILATION SYSTEM My oldest sister wants a ride to Sunday evening church service, so I say let’s go. On the Wayland Highway she begins to wheeze. It’s

85 | SHEPHERD

like air bleeding out of a balloon, but methodically, or maybe it sounds more like a half-broken kazoo playing the same note over and over again. Her wheezing gets louder and louder until finally I decide to say something. “What’s wrong with you? Did you bring your inhaler?” “Do you smoke in here?” she asks. I shrug. “Sometimes.” “It’s really bothering my asthma.” “Well, sorry.” “Cancer of the lung,” she says. “You shouldn’t smoke.” “You should’ve brought your inhaler,” I grumble. Families toting bibles and purses and coloring books stroll into church as we pull into the parking lot. My older sister says, “Come to the service tonight. You could sit by me.” “No,” I say. “I smell like smoke.”

ON THE GLORY OF SUPERIOR PERFORMANCE Vicky and I like to race. Does it surprise you that we are fast? We race everywhere: 1. We race lifeguard Megan, 55 mph in a 25 zone. Megan peels off as we zip by the bowling alley. We keep going. Probably somewhere behind us Megan is curling her fingers around her steering wheel and shaking her brown tumbling hair and licking her lips. Who knows. Who knows what girls think of speed. 2. We race on Interstate 80 where semis puke their guts out just to make it to Columbus or Omaha, motorcycles with their loud yellings dare police cruisers, and hitchhikers move rapidly and reflexively from thumbs-up signs to middle fingers. We race everyone. 3. We race on the gravel glory of Sockum Ridge Road to my parents’ house. Vicky’s high-beams reveal the edges of our Midwestern landscape: black walnut trees reaching out as gargoyles: frozen and grotesque, made foolish by time. The moon, a glow-in-the-dark banana. Cornfields flickering like film caught in a movie projector. No other cars exist out here so I close my eyes and race Fate by counting

86 | SHEPHERD

to the age of invincibility: nineteen years old. Gravel munches. Dust billows. I see it all in the darkness of my mind. While Vicky spits loose rock behind us I keep my eyes shut, trusting that she will guide us home. She always does.

FLUIDS TO KEEP US GOING Vicky orders premium gasoline, which costs more now that our country is at war with two different Middle Eastern countries. On the nightly news George W. Bush reassures a restless nation. Some old guys at work say I’ll get drafted, but I don’t know. I don’t know about things like that. I order Midwestern staples like Templeton Rye or Hawkeye Vodka. A temp from work buys me beer at Hy-Vee, a case of thirty. I order Apple Pucker or Miller High Life or Captain Morgan. At Casey’s General Store the fumes from Vicky’s gasoline make my stomach do a somersault. We both like our drinks hard. Vicky breathes smoke and I breathe smoke. Each night we live and die around Washington, Iowa.

MAINTENANCE ISSUES As everyone does once in their life, I doubt the meaning of the universe. What is heaven? It’s so far away on a summer night. If I grew up in church, and I no longer attend church, did I grow up at all? But when I drive my car all these metaphysical problems disappear into the rear-view mirror. My thoughts are fixed. I don’t wonder if the earth was once without form and void, or if instead ex nihilo nihil fit—something came out of nothing, a Big Bang, kablooey. Because Vicky did not evolve, nor was she created by a Divine Being; thus she has no conflict of otherworldly interest. Parked in a farmer’s culvert somewhere in the forested blanket of Sockum Ridge Road, a mile or two from my parents’ house, I sit on Vicky’s hood and bathe in the aroma of wild mustard. So many plants lurking out here in the middle of nowhere. Bluestem. Bottlebrush. Goldenrod. A field of foxtail grass catches a breeze and crackles behind me. The sun falls carelessly.

87 | SHEPHERD

And I know that something is wrong with me, deep inside, a thing that cannot be fixed with substances or sin or the sixty-mile-per-hour hug of a curve. It could be mistaken for Midwestern malaise, this uneasiness in my soul, but I suspect greater forces at work. At work bible verses learned in Sunday School float through my mind. During my morning shower various hymns like ‘Oh, What a Savior’ and ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus’ escape my lungs. It’s all part of my wiring. When the stars fade in, glowing like a thousand sets of eyes, when the moon swells like a glow-in-the-dark lemon, I drive Vicky home. Try to forget. As we park she clears her throat, a raspy engine shutter. “Me too,” I say.

CIRCUIT DIAGRAM On the Fourth of July, we pull into the parking lot behind the fairgrounds. I sit with Megan, the lifeguard we raced a few months ago. Her mom is white and her dad is Hispanic and Megan has the nicest, thinnest, brownest legs. I don’t touch them, though. She is only seventeen. Her eyelashes flitter like dragonfly wings. “My birthday’s next month,” she promises. “August 15th.” Above the grandstand fireworks curl and yawn across the night sky. Yellows, blues, reds. White so brilliant and startling you have to look away. They sparkle and drip and whistle and sizzle through the air. I say, “What do you want for your birthday?” “To be older,” she replies. What if everyone’s wish came true? Call me a pessimist, but the world would be a terrible, terrible place. Even so, I hope Megan’s wish is answered. She deserves that magic lamp. A girl like her can only stay young for so long. “Your veins stick out,” she says, pointing to my forearms. More fireworks. The flashes of light change Megan’s complexion, as though she can blush in a variety of colors. “Where do they go?” she asks, still talking about my forearm veins, noticing how they slip out of view where my elbow hinges. “It

88 | SHEPHERD

looks like they just disappear.” “Veins go to your heart,” I explain, starting my car. “You just can’t see them.” Vicky and I drive Megan home. She lives with her grandparents near the old water treatment plant in a two-bedroom, one-story house. “We left before the grand finale,” she laments as Vicky idles in the driveway. “We’ll stay the whole time next year.” “I won’t be here next year. After graduation I’m going to stay with my mom in Florida for the summer, then I’m off to college. Iowa State or Iowa.” “That’s a good plan,” I admit. “I was supposed to go to bible college once.” “So what happened?” “I didn’t.” She shuffles in the front seat, searching for her sandals. “Your car sounds funny.” I shrug. “She’s just restless.” A miniature windmill creaks in the front yard. Megan kisses two of her fingers and presses them against my cheek. I listen to Korn on the way home. I eject the CD and put in the latest Limp Bizkit. I take that CD after half of a song and toss it in the back seat. I turn on the local radio station, KCII (“The One to Count On”). The deejay takes calls from people praising the fireworks show. “Kids don’t understand what Independence Day means,” says one caller. “They just want to complain about Iraq and Afghanistan from the comfort of their parents’ basements.” The deejay responds quickly. “We’ll hold off on calls for this rendition of ‘America the Beautiful.’” Cough—an explosion roars under Vicky’s hood. Her transmission gums up; I yell only the ugliest curse words. She redlines on the Wayland Highway, unable to shift to higher gears. I trudge homeward with my car wheezing and the summer wind blowing. I stomp on the gas pedal but she is mostly unresponsive. Locked in a low gear, I have

89 | SHEPHERD

to jam the accelerator to the floorboard just to make it home. As Vicky eases to a rest in my parents’ driveway I shut off her ignition, and the sound she makes is sorrowful blubbering.

WARRANTY In the morning my dad squints at the car and shakes his head. He gives a prognosis. “She has a week or so to live.” Grabbing onto his shoulder I wail, “Doctor! Give her more time. What about an organ donor?” He slides me underneath Vicky’s hood on a slab of cardboard, rolling a flashlight to my position. “See there. Shine the light up there,” he says. “The car caught on fire last night. Overheated the transmission fluid or something. The pan has scorch marks around it—the engine smoldered all night. How’d you not notice the smoke?” “There were fireworks last night,” I say miserably, crawling out from under my car, saddened by my own lazy excuse. “Will she start?” He taps his teeth. “I don’t think so. And I don’t think I can repair it. Might cost about as much as you paid to get the parts, plus labor. Well, you got good use out of it while it lasted.” “Yes,” I say. “While it lasted.” Nothing ever happens fast—redemption or destruction, both are a process. Anything that can be fixed takes effort. Things that fall apart “out of nowhere” have been on that path for some time. I tore up my first car with a strange sense of recklessness and abandonment that betrayed my sense of loyalty to her, and I thought everything would work out in the end, I really did, because I was only young and selfish and desperate to drive, drive, drive away from the darkness of adulthood, away from people that work eat sleep breed lie love hope die in the unsettling comforts of Washington, Iowa, the heart of the Midwest, a place of heartbreak but more importantly a place of salvation if only you seek it—because salvation exists as the lone constant in this amazingly gloriously weird country—a corner of gravel, prairie grass, cornfields, a land of nighttime skies that taste like fruit, where I bought my first car, a 1989 Ford Crown Victoria.

90 | SHEPHERD

BRIGITTA MEYER

Brigitta Meyer never brings a knife to a gunfight. She brings a dragon.

93 | MEYER

OBITUS

PETER SCHUMACHER

Peter Schumacher is an English and geoscience student at the University of Iowa. This is the first time any of his works have been published, in earthwords or otherwise. Peter’s hobbies include reading, writing, playing video games, and helping to design a webcomic called The Adventures of Crawdaddy.

97 | SCHUMACHER

RIVER.EXE

<Running analysis:

\Calculating water velocity:

--11.765 meters per second bearing northwest.

\Estimating water depth:

--14.326 meters at center.

\Calculating distance across:

--38.862 meters.

\Analysis complete.

\Conclusion reached:

--This is a problem.

--Required object for retrieval is on wrong side

of river.>

<Running solution programs:

\solution_1: Attempt to swim.

ERROR: Water is too deep in center—head unit

would short circuit.

\solution_2: Build a raft out of trees and cross using posterior

rotors as means of propulsion.

ERROR: Trees on this bank are of insufficient size.

\solution_3: Vaporize river.

ERROR: Would damage surrounding ecosystem.

\solution_4: Build a dam.

ERROR: Water velocity is too high.

\Out of viable solutions.>

98 | FICTION

<Running frustration program:

\Damn it.>

<Running observation processors of surrounding area:

\Observation:

--A group of forest creatures stand watching exactly 10.973

meters away. Subjects include: two squirrels, a moose, three

birds, and precisely 10,267 ants.

\Observation:

--The temperature is 15.56 degrees Celsius, with a humidity of

exactly 30%.

\Observation:

--The sky is a lovely shade of blue.

ERROR: None of this is helping.>

<Rerunning analysis of river:

\Analysis complete.

\Result:

--It is still there.>

<Running improvisation programs:

\Attempting to splash water out with boulder.

--. . .

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Failure. Boulder was of insufficient size. Feet units are

now wet.

\Attempting stroke of genius.

--. . .

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Failure. Should have downloaded latest update.

\Attempting system reboot.

--. . .

--//load_roboman.2.6.1.exe

--//run_system.startup

--//loading

--. . .

--Reboot complete.

--Result:

The river is still there. Also: the forest creatures

have thrown caution to the wind and have

increased proximity. Shoulder units have sustained

bird poop.>

<Running diagnostics for reboot solution failure:

\Checking database…

\Checking processors…

\Checking philosophy drive…

\Diagnostics complete.

\Result:

--River exists outside of self, and therefore cannot be affected

through personal action.>

<Updating sense of self:

\Update complete.

\Running flabbergast program:

--Well I’ll be damned.

99 | SCHUMACHER

<Updating observations:

\Observation:

--The forest creatures have become cuddly, though the moose

is having none of it.

--Registering data from tactile sensors: Squirrels are quite soft.

--Emotion programs are heating up. Warm fuzzy detector

has activated.

\Observation:

--The sun is setting.

\Observation:

--The temperature is now 8.61 degrees Celsius.

\Observation:

--Still none of this is helping.>

<Resuming improvisation programs:

ERROR: Process interrupted by input from audio

and olfactory sensors:

--The moose has passed gas.>

<Processing…

\Conclusion reached:

--The moose has issued a challenge.>

<Attempting response.

ERROR: Flatulence program has not been installed.

\Searching for compatible substitute…

\Activating posterior flamethrower.

\Receiving input from audio sensors:

--The forest creatures are screaming.>

<Updating observations:

100 | FICTION

\The surrounding trees and bushes have been replaced with

piles of ash.

\The moose remains unimpressed.

\Emotion programs have sustained damage.>

<Resuming river problem processing:>


\Attempting to freeze the surface of the river.

--. . .

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Failure. Freeze ray was removed during last repair

session due to over-abuse of smoothie function.

\Attempting acceptance of predicament—

<STUBBORNNESS SYSTEM OVERRIDE>

\Attempting to punch something and hope it works.

--. . .

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Failure. Right hand unit has sustained damage.

--Registering pain:

Ow.>

WARNING: Pressure building in ventilation systems.

<Running emergency spaz-out drive:

\. . .

\//load.spaz.exe

\Alkjehto438951yp2thoi34wurgbvsp9fudiglwshfdjbvlidsjkblkvj

nlk//?#K%$_@(#JHURFB!)_@(IR_FJOQE_INWONGV

101 | SCHUMACHER

\. . .

\Ventilation systems have restored to normal.>


\Attempting to swallow pride and ask for help.

--. . .

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Moose are rude.

--Emotion programs have sustained further damage.

\Attempting to part water like Moses.

--. . .

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Failure. Insufficient holiness.

\Attempting rocket boosters.

(crash!)

--Attempt complete.

--Result:

Complete and utter failure. Rockets malfunctioned

due to river water infiltrating the circuitry. Also: left

foot unit is missing.>

<Rerunning frustration program:

\Shit.>

102 | FICTION

BRAD PECTOR

Brad Pector is majoring in philosophy and visual art. He considers himself an eclectic idealist, drawing influences from many realities. He can usually be found enjoying an iced coffee and/or critiquing normalized methodology.

105 | PECTOR

ONE

Tonight has only moments in mind field drive space

seeking wet needles or quick licks of

ditches overhead.

It is not whatbut are and am.

Everyone can die happily with eyesfixed on stars

seeping lumen spheres shift to borrowed breasts

said ancient as doves.

Their will as white in all true color.

I would befalsifying onestill identity

if it wereabsent raccoons

for a tear cycle.

They live withinpure depths of birdlime life.

106 | POETRY

Weak and dazedI find myselfspot on spoken

no ill set rhythmwith luring tulips

at worlds’ softest side.

I dare not revise anyabled back-turn try.

Before the sun meets mist lips I must bow

beneath glare stretches’golden sky goddess

and hold life circlesbetween my earthed feet.

AUBREY ALSHOUSE

Aubrey Alshouse is a senior at the University of Iowa with a BFA in ceramics and BA in psychology, pursuing a career in art therapy. The current piece was inspired by her friend, Michael, who’s taught her to smile when confronted with a challenge and never stop climbing.

109 | ALSHOUSE

ENDU

RING STREN

GTH

ANTHONY GARCIA TAORMINA

Anthony Garcia Taormina is a senior English major from Santa Monica, California. He likes wearing sweaters, staring at screens, and is just a happy dude. He’s going to make a movie with Jared Zimmerline someday.

DISCOVERY

To my dismay, after returning home from a business trip in ThailandI learned of a tragic house fire that had claimed the lives of ten unfortunate souls while I was gone.The bodies had all been retrieved, but due to the severity of their burnsIdentifying them was proving difficult.Additionally, coinciding with the fire was the disappearance of ten individualsWho otherwise had no known affiliation with each other,Leading the police to believe the two scenarios were linked in some fashion.They showed a name and picture of each one, none of whom I recognized,And urged anybody with information to come forth. At first, I felt nothing but the distanced sadness that is born from all depressing news broadcasts, butThen I recognized the address of the location and a great anxiety seized me.Rushing to my computer, I logged into the private blogI shared with the ten other members of my biweekly orgy assembly andUpon seeing that it had not been updated in over a week, I felt nauseous.I reached for my phone to call one of them but I couldn’t bring myself to dial,Knowing full well that while I was eating tom yum goong under the night lights of BangkokMy orgy mates perished in a passionate blaze no doubt caused by Mei Ling’s insistence to

113 | TAORMINA

Bake a fresh loaf of chocolate banana bread during every session, for a sort of after-orgy tradition.

The next two hours were a blur of oscillating emotion,Spurts of delirium and anguish interspersed with hollow moments of profound numbness.When I finally came to, I was in the fetal position on the bearskin rug in my bedroom,Clutching its head by my side.I craned to stare into the grizzly’s obsidian eyesSearching for an answer, some wisdom, any sort of advice reallyBut all I saw was the reflection of a broken, lonely man lost in a glossy sea of obscurity.With what little strength I had, I maneuvered to the computer and looked up the missing ten.I observed each picture with great care, poring over every detailEvery crease of their skin, every pigment swirling in their irisesAnd one by one, I matched each face to a body—to a friend.Seeing the identities of my orgy mates felt like a betrayal of the pact we had all made on the day we met.The group was for individuals who wanted to participate in large jamborees of sexual natureBut were too nervous and weak to be associated with such things.To bypass this mental hurdle, a man whom I had known only as Robert MustangProposed the idea of masks.This was met with great enthusiasm;We had finally cracked the code to engaging in anonymous, communal copulation.We each selected a unique mask and agreed to never show our faces For who we were away from the sweatyInterlocking mass of sexual enlightenment was not relevant.

114 | POETRY

Furthermore, to drive home the point, we all chose fake names to mimic Robert’s:Sonja Sykes, Malcom Tiger, Brenda Monarch, Rasputin Jackson,Mei Ling, Lola Henrietta, Hector Red, Huck Finn, & Mitch.That I was sure Mustang, who appropriately wore a horse head mask andRoutinely flaunted his vast knowledge of all things James Bond, was really aDentist and father of two named Morton Grigsby sickened me.The same could be said for any of the other nine members as well—Sweet, docile Brenda and her fuzzy pink ski maskHuck Finn’s knack for comedic timing and bucktoothed namesake maskThe striped Carnival mask on Tiger and his unusually hairy elbowsHector Red’s aggressive bedroom technique and his mask with the large sombrero attached to itSonja’s sequined tribal bird mask and that euphoric warble she’d release mid-coitusLola’s cinnamon chewing gum and her ever-changing mask selectionMei Ling’s aforementioned love of baking and authentic Swedish Chef mask The Deluxe Iron Man helmet worn by Rasputin and his frequent use of the catchphrase buttonMitch’s plain brown paper bag and dedication to not letting us know a single thing about him—I had intended to go to the grave ignorant of their alter egos;Now, gazing at their pictures, I longed to have died in that fire with them,Wedged clammy and free.

115 | TAORMINA

117

THEA PETTITT

Thea Pettitt is a human being who has had a wide variety of life experiences, all of which led inevitably to the current moment, this one, the one that’s happening right now.

119 | PETTITT

THE MOMENT BEFORE, OR THE MOMENT BEFORE THAT

The feeling of wanting without knowingWanting to know, or knowing you wantTo want without knowing what, or how

The possibility of a garden in the springtimenightshades—eggplants, tomatoes, tomatillos,pimientos, sweet and hot peppers,

Savory herbs. Blackberries twined in the fencebehind the compost bin. You only use dirty wordswhen you aren’t talking about fucking me.

We are wrong about ourselves and right about each other. The possibility that you are going to make love to me.

It’s possible, whether or not I love youWhether or not it’s possible I love you It’s possible I love you, whether or not

TAYLOR YOCOM

Taylor Yocom is a junior at the University of Iowa and is pursuing a BFA in photography and a museum studies certificate. Her photographs and collages have been on display around Iowa City. When she’s not creating, she’s usually chasing a cat, trying to get it to love her.

123 | YOCOM

BEING TH

E PASSERBY

ISSUE 34

UNIVERSITY OF IOWA

E A R T H W O R D S

U N D E R G R A D U A T E

L I T E R A R Y R E V I E W

E A R T H W O R D S

U N D E R G R A D U A T E

L I T E R A R Y R E V I E W

earthwords undergraduate literary review

Documents