Wayne Scheer

This Is America, Isn't It?

Eugene always wanted to be a teacher. Even as a child, he'd do math problems on a blackboard and explain the answers to a classroom of stuffed animals.

His third graders loved how he'd allow them to sprawl out on the floor to do their work. And, instead of sitting at his desk, he'd get down with them and crawl from student-to-student, as they needed help. The children would call him over to ask a question just to watch him scurry about on all fours. And he'd egg them on by barking and howling whenever a child asked a particularly good question.

His students generally scored above grade level on standardized math and reading tests. He had few, if any, discipline problems because the children didn't want to disappoint him.

So he was surprised when he received notice that he was under review for "classroom management problems."

Eugene sought the counsel of his principal, who was also a friend.

"Eugene, there have been complaints from parents that your behavior in the classroom is undignified," she informed him

"Well, yes, it is. And I'm quite proud of that. But what parents complained? I'm in contact with all of them."

"Reverend Maxwell." She whispered the name as if it were a curse.

"He doesn't have a child in my class. Does he even have children?"

"That's not the point, Eugene." She avoided his eyes. "One of his parishioners saw you downtown last Saturday at the Gay Pride Rally holding hands with a man. I assume it was Gordon."

"Of course it was Gordon."

"The Reverend is threatening to go to the Board, Eugene."

"So? Don't I have the right to express my beliefs at a rally and show my affection for the person I love? This is America, isn't it?"

Eugene took a deep breadth, trying to compose himself. He continued. "My students do well. I have a great rapport with their parents. I have your support, don't I, Mary?"

She looked away. "Do you want your private life made public? Think of Gordon. He'd lose his job, for sure."

"We did think about it. That's how important it was for us to attend the rally." He tried making eye contact, but Mary focused on papers piled on her desk.

"Will you back me?" he asked.

"Reverend Maxwell is powerful, Eugene. The Board needs his approval." She paused. "I need his support raising money for the arts program."

"What are you telling me, Mary?"

"The term is almost over. I can stall."

"And what will you do then?"

"I'll write you a strong letter of recommendation."

—An earlier version appeared in The Painted Door, 2007

CP

Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and pet turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories and essays, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available here. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net.

Ross Eldridge

Good Friday with the Blue-eyed Son

I switched the telly on and the between-programmes filler had a voice saying: "This being Good Friday, you'd expect to find a film featuring Jesus. We've got one…" And it was to be "The Greatest Story Ever Told", originally released in 1965.

I saw TGSET back in 1967. How is it that I recall that? Because it was the first movie I ever went to with a friend I met back in the late spring of 1967. And what do I remember about the film? That it was long, that Jesus had blue eyes (of course, and he always wrote in red ink, don't you know), and that the scene where Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead was extraordinarily moving, even to a teenager.

Judas was, in some way, the hero of the story. He is certainly the scapegoat (everyone blames the scapegoat, as one wit put it). Without Judas's "betrayal" there would have been no crucifixion, no resurrection, no atonement, no eternal life for you and me (assuming we believe). The poor man had that terrible job to do. Imagine the love he felt for his Master, so great that he could play the part he did. Peter was prevaricating and lying, but Judas spoke the truth: "This is the man!"

The life of Judas might be the second greatest story ever told.

A great deal has happened in what might be termed my Spiritual Life over the past forty years. I suppose the major event would have been my conversion to Mormonism in the early 1970s. More recently I have wandered off into Outer Darkness. I have read a great many books with a spiritual or religious message or content, I have taught Sunday school, preached sermons, given a few obituaries and presided at my mother's funeral. I've had highs and lows to the extreme. Sometimes, at night, this year, I wake up (or I've been awake, unable to get to sleep) and I've said aloud: "Father, are you there?"

One of the Mormon General Authorities told his personal story of feeling disconnected from God and how he asked that question: "Are you there, Father?" And his Father, his God, did respond. Mine hasn't. If he does, I trust it will be gently, perhaps in a dream, rather than having a prophetic angel beam down through my ceiling in laser-lights and scare the Bejesus out of me.

As it is, I remain in a state of disconnection. Waiting. Sometimes posing the question. Perhaps hoping. And why should I be caring at all? I guess it is because I have unfinished business with dead family and friends. I'd rather like to see my mother again, my father too, and to have the seven dogs and one cat of my life running around my feet. If just for a few minutes. Is that odd? Unusual? Am I human after all?

CP

Ross Eldridge lives in a tiny North Sea town on the coast of England near the Scottish border. He reads a good deal, has a go at photography, and researches family history. Ross has written a weekly newspaper column, but is now content to blog. His blog is called Barking Mad in Amble by the Sea, and it is dedicated primarily to his little dog, Cailean.

Thomas Sheehan

Hawk Performance

In apt darkness chasing him,
in mountains where great gorge,
lake and river give up daylight
with deep regret, his shadow hangs
itself forever, the evening hawk
gliding mute as a mountain climber
at grade, leaving in our path
the next hiker's awed-quick silence,

stunned breath, second look upward
on frozen eyes and drifting wings
caught forever. From Yesterday he
comes, from Far Mountains only Time
lets go of, under wings steady
as scissors as thermals gather,
not sure the joy is his, or ours.
So much light falls down from him,
from wing capture, from his endless

fleeing of the globe's universal
gravitation, and our genuflection,
we feel prostrate. World-viewed
incandescence, sun under his wings
with quick volley, slipping through
a hole in the sky, lilting the
soon-gray aura without a sound,
the evening hawk performs above us.

To look in his eye would bring
back volcano, fire in the sky,
a view of the Earth Earth has
not seen yet, Krakatoa lit
a second time, or one wayward
comet turning inward on a dime
just for performance sake.

CP

Thomas Sheehan’s latest books are Brief Cases, Short Spans and From the Quickening. A collection of cowboy stories, Where the Cowboys Ride Forever, is now in the hands of a western publisher. His work has also appeared in many print and online publications. Sheehan has several Pushcart nominations and won the Georges Simenon Award. His web site is here .

Nana Ollerenshaw

FINDING A SUBJECT FOR POETRY

You hear it, as you
glance over your shoulder
while talking to someone,
see it approach
and fondle your cheek.

When you are driving
it makes you careless.
It catches you
while you are eating a sandwich.

It likes to move in your skull
teasing you with
all the ways
it can be delivered
onto your page. It disappoints.

It reminds you of itself.
You can't medicate
against it. Sometimes you feel closer
to it in your dreams.
You fall in love with it
even if it's ugly
but you fear it.
You know its power
to possess.

CP

Nana Ollerenshaw grew up in Connecticut, married an Australian, and moved to Australia in 1965. She changed from school teaching to nursing in 1988, and currently lives in Buderim on the Sunshine Coast of Queensland.

Ruth Douillette

—Photo Bruce and Memories by Ruth Douillette

Memorial Day Tears

My husband and I sat on the patio at dusk, rehashing the day.

"Are we going to the parade tomorrow?" I'd asked. It was Memorial Day.

"I suppose," he said.

I mentioned that there would be a ceremony at the cemetery. "Taps" would be played in honor of the dead who'd died serving the country in war.

"That would be tough for me," he said.

"It would be too emotional?" I asked, tentatively. He nodded.

He'd been a Captain in the Marines. He was going to get drafted, so he signed on to become an officer. He was sent to Vietnam after Officer Candidate School. Then, Camp Lejeune after Nam. I really don't know much more than that.

He came home in 1968. I was in still in high school. We didn't know each other then. We met twenty-four years later. He would never talk about Vietnam. But he choked up watching war movies.

I tried to get him to open up. I felt shut out. What had happened? What was it like? Why would he not share with me? I loved him. I would never hurt him. I could ease the pain he'd buried.

But he wouldn't talk. Or couldn't. I let him be. For years.

But this night he seemed open. So I asked what it was that made it so difficult after all these years to talk of the past.

This is when the grenade split the air between us. My husband accused me of tossing it, but I didn't even know I'd held it, let alone pulled the pin.

This is a subject that stays buried, he said. I need to understand. I can't ask questions. He won't answer. It isn't that he doesn't trust me to be gentle. Yes, it might help if he talked, but he won't. He stormed into the house.

I sat alone feeling hurt. His hurt was bigger though, and he had every right to keep his experience to himself.

When he returned, he spoke haltingly of learning that survival meant making decisions, quick ones, life or death ones. Tough ones. He said sometimes those decisions were made "for the greater good." He said he was in charge of his men; it was his responsibility to bring them through alive. But some didn't make it.

We sat silently watching a goldfinch at the feeder.

The next day we went to the town common for a simple Memorial Day ceremony. We stood with others in front of the memorial with names of local men who'd died in war from WWI to Vietnam. Dignitaries spoke. Veterans spoke. There was a gun salute, and a bugler.

I stood beside Bruce. He'd begun wiping silent tears long before the bugle blew "Taps." I put my arm around him, grateful that his name was not on the monument. That was all I could do.

CP

Ruth Douillette is a freelance writer and photographer. She's an associate editor at the Internet Review of Books and blogs at Upstream and Down.

Ivan Jenson

A lesson here

there is a lesson here
as you walk through
the empty playground
of the elementary school
as you step on
a chalk hop scotch
and pass a jungle gym
you feel like you are being
tested and graded
by an unseen principal
no they can’t touch you now
as you walk by benches
and the tether ball
they can’t stop you
from just walking out
of the gates
and no bell will
call you back
you already
heard what they
had to say
and it’s funny
because all
you can remember
is that you
should have told
Mrs. Melius
your sixth grade teacher
that you
loved her

CP

Born in LA, Ivan Jenson was a prodigy in poetry and art. He moved to New York City where he received recognition and praise for his bold Pop Art. His “Absolut Jenson” painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and he has sold several works at Christie's New York. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Word Riot, Hidden City Quarterly, Thoughtsmith, Viral Cat, Poetic Desperation, and Bread & Circuses, among others.

Shaindel Beers

Rewind

Fridays Mrs. Wampler would give in
and leave the projector light on
as the film wound from one reel to the other.

At six, the world moving backward amazed us
more than the world moving forward,
though that amazed us, too.

Full blooms squeezed back into buds;
seedlings hid themselves underground,
but our favorite was our claymation version

of Beauty and the Beast. We would cheer as each
petal affixed itself to the thorny stem
and the beast grew stronger, clap as Beauty

no longer wept at his deathbed. And soon,
he was a prince again, too polite to ever
insult a crone. This taught us that beginnings

are always best, despite all they say about
Happily Ever After. If we could invent
the automatic rewind, bodies would expel

bullets that would rest eternally in chambers,
130,000 people would materialize
as the Enola Gay swallowed the bomb,

landmines would give legs and fingers
back to broken children.
Right now, teeming cancer cells
would be rebuilding blood and bone.

—From A Brief History of Time

CP

Shaindel Beers is a Professor of English at Blue Mountain Community College in Pendleton, Oregon; the Poetry Editor of Contrary; and the host of talk radio’s Translated By. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. A Brief History of Time, her first book of poetry, is available here.

Joanna M. Weston

OLD TRAINS

Musty smell of curry
burned into flea-ridden
seats, horse-hair pricking
cracked mirror
antique prints, brown
daguerreotype school
girl, unlettered eyes,
leather window strap
with worn snub-holes,
fag-ends strayed under
seats where extra suitcases
support dangling feet

Creak, bluster and crack
of ticket-collector's
rough slide-door arrival

Tingle of cinders harsh
in a tunnel, window crashed
shut leaking sooty smells,
reflecting wide-eyes, disheveled
hair, uneasy eagerness
until they burst into
country or long lines of smutted
laundry, row-houses smudged,
gardens wilted, sooted

Down the corridor, clackety
clack to the toilet-stink,
balance and pee but don't
touch: flush and watch
the sleepers catch and fly
under, sticky handles of sweat and
long-passed disease

Return to the clunkety-
clunk old velveteen; nothing to
do but smell, touch, watch

CP

Joanna M. Weston has published poetry, reviews, and short stories in anthologies and journals for twenty years. She has also published two middle-readers, The Willow-Tree Girl, and Those Blue Shoes, and a book of poetry, A Summer Father.

Robert Rogge

Winter

Winter in Holland was bad enough, but winter in Holland in a slit trench couldn’t be worse. Ian cursed the weather, the Jerries, the army, and himself for ever having joined up.

Dark, gray days, sodden with snow, or a pale, wan glow through a frigid haze greeted them week after endless week. Clear sharp days were a rarity and welcomed. Bright sunshine was almost worshipped.

The two-man slit trench had a crude roof of branches, sandbags, and snow that kept off the falling snow and sleet, but nothing could keep out the cold.

Ian wore long johns, a wool shirt and uniform, two pairs of socks, boots, bulky overshoes, greatcoat, balaclava, and mittens, yet stayed miserably cold, day and night. A wool scarf knitted by some mother, sister, aunt, or grandmother in Canada and tied over the head helped keep his ears from freezing, but it was the wind that made life so bloody miserable.

The frigid Arctic air, straight off the North Sea, swept relentlessly across the low-lying country, unfettered and chilling to the bone. It froze weapons, fingers, noses, then rushed on, uncaring. When it stung faces with hard-grained snow and biting sleet, the men suffered and were thankful that no patrols would be sent out.

Jerry was holed up, too. The front was truly a no man’s land. The snow bowed trees; the branches sagged sadly toward the ground. Bushes broke under their white load, and snow drifted into the slit trenches. When a shell exploded, frozen clods were almost as dangerous as the hot metal splinters. It was miserable.

A two-man slit was never quite long enough for a man to lie in and give the other room to stand comfortably. Digging a hole in the frozen soil was labor enough without making it comfortable.

They gouged holes in the sides so that ammo and grenades would be handy. They shit on their shovels and threw it out into the snow. They pissed into a bully can and threw it out, too. New-fallen snow soon covered the brown and yellow stains.

They smoked incessantly. Thank God, Canadian cigarettes only cost a dollar a carton. The sorry-tasting Limey Woodbines that came in the compo packs were saved for the bad days when no mail came.

Matches were precious, saved for the Tommy Cooker tablets. Petrol lighters were used for smokes. The methylated spirit tablets for the cookers gave off tremendous heat for a while as the water boiled, and chapped hands curled over the welcome warmth and became nimble for a time.

Weapons froze. Bren gunners had to hand cock and fire several rounds before the guns would warm up and function properly. Rifle bolts were stiff and hard to work until a couple of shots were fired through them.

Thank God, Jerry had the same troubles. Maybe God was on their side, as the padre kept proclaiming.

—Adapted from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

Stacey Dye

Gamblin’ Man

It’s just a small spot on the x-ray, you said.
I knew there were no small spots.

As I pushed you down that endless hallway
you confided in me:
Been watching the obits lately,
thought my odds were better—
I was bettin’ on seventy two.

For three years you chemo’ed
radiated
deteriorated
all of it eating away
at your frame
dulling your mind,
until you weren’t you anymore.

CP

Stacey Dye has been writing radio and television copy since 1979 and does voice overs at a local cable TV station. She's been writing poetry since she was a teenager. She is a member of the Internet Writing Workshop and the Wild Poetry Forum.

Angela Carlton

My Secret

Billy doesn't know my secret. Voices surround us at this gathering as Lou Reed sings how the colored girls go doo, doo doo... It's an '80s moment, quite appropriate, since it's our fifteen-year high school reunion. Billy is standing near my table. His upper lip curls a bit like Elvis when he smiles. It's his hunk-of-burning-love smile. And it still makes me quiver, a smile I get lost in. No one can find me.

I am on my third glass of Shiraz when he takes a seat beside me. We make small talk as he rubs a thumb on his Miller Lite bottle. His wife Lori is across the way holding a champagne flute. Our banquet room inside this trendy high-rise hotel is far too small. There's not enough air for the three of us.

At the beginning of the night, I kept running into her. Lori is elegant in a way, I suppose. In the bathroom I told her she is pretty, and that it's nice to finally meet her, even though I didn’t mean a damn word of it. Her hair is dark, severely short. She has masculine features: a square face with a strong nose and perfect make-up. The more I drink, the more she reminds me of a drag queen.

A few of the other single women I came with have disappeared and mingled with others. My hands are starting to shake, but not from the Shiraz. It's this damned day. I’ve thought about it over and over, all the memories, all the weight.

My eyes study Billy closely now, the way he raises his brow when he intends to make a point, his carefree, ain’t got no worries kind of laugh. It's the delicate details and comforts, these tiny gestures that defined my youth. He's talking about his favorite history teacher, Mr. Carr, how his lectures motivated him to be better and stay clean. It's a touching story, only his voice is beginning to sound muffled like we are trapped under water.

There is a faint hum inside my ear, and I can’t seem to gather any details. Something is pounding, pounding inside of me. It's hard to breathe. I need out of this box. I need a window.

These are the thoughts that rush through my head before I utter the words and finally tell him my secret, I had your baby and I gave her away. Then I add, Oh God, the reason I was home-schooled those years, but it comes out in a nervous choke, a way to fight off tears.

Billy glares at me with genuine concern then horror, the same way my mother did when I told her I was pregnant at fifteen. Tears spill from my eyes when I whisper, What have I done? My mouth is dry, so dry. I feel like I am going to vomit.

The disco ball reflects light around us; tiny sparkles dance about the room. I am having a hard time moving, rising to get OUT. From a distance, I can see the wrecked image of a long-lost girl in the wall mirror. Then his hand reaches for my shoulder.

My Billy touches me.

CP

Angela Carlton's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fiction at Work, Every Day Fiction, Longstoryshort, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, among others.

Mary J. Breen

Home Sweet Home

Gordon, my husband, always he say—too much the mess, the kids, the TV, the toys, the talking. Canadian men, Russian men, all same. Now he say he must working. Always, “So much working.” I not believe. Funeral business is same, all year. Same Russia, same here. But, now he no yell so much.

Then one day Peter is phone from work, and I say, “Gordon working, right there under nose!” But Gordon is no there, and no answer cell phone. Then I know—other woman, secretary. Always secretary. Always young. Always pretty. So I looking and I find bills. Gordon, he buy CD player and chair! Also food and wine. So I know he is go live with her. I will be like TV soap opera, knock on door and shouting, “Is my husband here?” and then scratch her eyes.

Next weekend, I following him in car he buy me for shopping groceries. He drive to big warehouse, unlock door, and go in. Big sign say “U-Store-It.” More people come, so I go in door with them. Canadians nice to foreign lady. But inside is no stores. Is many big metal doors like garage. All locked up. I walking and then I see light. Then I see Gordon. But Gordon himself only. Very, very small place. He in chair. He wearing parka coat, reading book, eating cookies, listening headphones. Gordon smiling.

And I am wishing is woman.

Why is better this than me?

—First prize winner in Writers' Union of Canada Postcard Contest, 2005

CP

Mary J. Breen is a writer and editor living in Peterborough, Ontario, Canada, where she teaches memoir writing. She has published two books about women's health, as well as essays, articles and short fiction in various publications.

Thomas Sheehan

Hands

Somehow hands carry off
hard memories of handshakes.

They find solitude in pockets
and dark burials of lint.

Often they surprise thighs
surprising them with muscles.

late afternoons, at brick labor,
they're apt to sneak home for rest.

Shovel handles give them polish;
pick handles, proud rind of callus.

They remember pine resin, horseshoes,
how crowbars throw selves backward.

Left hand has intimate recall
of fastball's inside threat;

right hand for a first stick shift
on a '46 black Ford convertible,

moments, it seems, after war was gone.
They lock magic behind another's back.

hands give the sleight of messages
hanging passive as window weights.

They promote scabs and resolute scars,
toss knuckles out of position,

meet acquaintances abruptly;
flesh of lovers is a longer row.

when they fold finally, one on top,
nothing else is left for chance.

—From This Rare Earth & Other Flights

CP

Tom Sheehan’s latest books are Brief Cases, Short Spans and From the Quickening. A collection of cowboy stories, Where the Cowboys Ride Forever, is now in the hands of a western publisher. His work has also appeared in many print and online publications. Sheehan has several Pushcart nominations and won the Georges Simenon Award.

Nana Ollerenshaw

DEPARTURE LOUNGE

Saying goodbye is sad.
There is death in it.
Who knows what will happen
between now and when we meet again,
even tomorrow.
It's our separation
the interruption of our ritual of being together,
our animal closeness in bed
if we are lovers.
It is the knowledge of days behind us
longer than days before us
remembering ourselves as we were
and as we may become.
So many people are saying goodbye
here in the departure lounge
as if their heart were in it
as if they knew how short life is
as if it were their last chance.

CP

Nana Ollerenshaw grew up in Connecticut, married an Australian, and moved to Australia in 1965. She changed from school teaching to nursing in 1988, and currently lives in Buderim on the Sunshine Coast of Queensland.

George Stovall

It's a Guy Thing

I'm out in the Hill Country (dial-up hell) hosting a Boy Scout outing and my 9-year-old son told his buddies on the way up here that it is really remote (which it is) and there are no women coming, so you can just do what you want...pee outside, the works.

The first thing one of them did was crap in my front yard.

Life is stranger than fiction.

CP

George Stovall is VP Geophysics at a little oil company in Houston that he helped start. He spends most of his time trying to move the company forward and doing all the fun stuff associated with an 8-year-old girl and a 9-year-old boy. He bought property in the Hill Country before it was "discovered" and regularly invites friends out to enjoy the wonders and beauty of a special place.

Judith Quaempts

Passage

I park my car beside a leaning fence
and walk through the woods to this rise
above the river where our sweathouse stood.
Gone now, dismantled when he died.

The frame he built of willow boughs,
blankets, burlap, all burned in one last fire,
the rock pit filled. A rusted dipper
hangs from an alder branch like an epitaph.
The pond steps washed downriver seasons ago.

Once, we crawled on hands and knees
into a warm and humid darkness.
He counted in Indian when he poured ­
our sweat rose, then ran
in rivulets down our bodies.
Even our breath grew hot.
Sometimes we talked, more often not.
We seldom needed words.

We rinsed in a pond dammed from the creek,
back and forth we went,
until the rocks grew cold
and our bodies glowed
like the embers in the dying fire.

Now I scrabble down the rock bank
to the river. I feel my way along
its moss slick bottom. Gray green
water embraces me like a long lost friend.

How blue the sky is.

—First appeared in T-Zero, 2004

CP

Judith Kelly Quaempts lives and writes in eastern Oregon. Besides here, her work has been published in T-Zero, and Drunk and Lonely Men.

Andrew McCallum

endgame

the candle goes out
with a little smoke flourish
nudging me awake

I must have fallen
asleep, I mumble, my mouth
still full of slumber

I sort through our limbs
deciding which are mine, yours
shove feet into shoes

I should go, I say
swaying among the bottles
rolled drunk on the floor

rubbing your eye and
temple with your ring finger
mmm, you agree

you return to sleep
slipping sleek as a selkie
back into the sea

fathoms multiply
between us as you plunge down
to the ocean floor

the click of the latch
as I leave closes more than
a door behind me

CP

Andrew McCallum lives in southern Scotland. His work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies, and has received several awards.

Angela Carlton

Dear You

I am caught up in the silence,
your web, those promises,
each one wicked. As I lay
in silk with you, trembling,
naked, cold, but warm from
your sweat and the heat in
your eyes, I think maybe this
one time, I will reach you.
Maybe this one time you won't
hide. You won't run. You won't
escape. But somebody always
leaves, don't they? And what
are we left with but space,
nothing.

Jaded, no rest, weary of
this, but still I come back.
Yes, dangling, but I find
a way to crawl. I find a way
to get to you, “I need to quit,”
I say, trembling. Again, I am
naked, head spinning under the
silk, only this time, I am
shivering. And where are you?
Where-where-where-where?
I need to know.

So this is the very day, the
moment, I break. There is too
much silence here, and all those
promises-promises-promises.
I have come undone now.
Look! Take a good hard
look, first love, before
you put me back together.
See. It’s tricky:

Here are the parts. Fix me.

CP

Angela Carlton's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fiction at Work, Every Day Fiction, Longstoryshort, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, among others.

Jim Coppoc

Living

This is how it happens. A man lies in bed, his woman beside him. He says to her he cannot continue. She cries. A month passes. They return to the same bed. She tells him she has taken another. Many others. He cries. She tells him she never loved him. He kisses her and leaves the bed. They are ended. Both reconsider, never at the same time. There is a son, a toddler. One of his first words is sorrow. Another is shame. His bowels are affected. He seems not to cry enough.

There is music, almost a soundtrack. One song tells the man everybody knows the war is over everybody knows the good guys lost. Another tells the woman every state line comes with a new set of laws. The music is hostile and follows a counterpoint. The man and the woman listen attentively.

There is the natural separation of belongings. The money and the furniture are easy. The music is not. They agree to burn each other's albums. They will not. There is also the separation of time. Who is responsible for the son? When will the family be together? This is said for the son's sake. Neither the man nor the woman will admit that they need it more.

There are friends. The friends are not divided. They counsel each to forget the other. They admit a certain satisfaction, an old skepticism confirmed. They are no longer the man's or the woman's friends.

The son sleeps six point seven miles from one of his parents every night. The parents sleep six point seven miles from each other. In this town six point seven miles takes seventeen minutes to drive. The son marks time by landmarks: the water tower, the railroad, the highway. He counts his fingers and sings familiar songs. He chooses which pedestrians have earned his smile. He looks out the window and names the things he knows.

And this is life, or how it must be.

CP

Jim Coppoc lives in Ames, Iowa, and is the author of two books and three chapbooks of poetry, a blended-genre lyric memoir, and several plays. He edits Second Run Magazine and teaches English at Iowa State University and Creative Writing at Chatham University.