SHELTER IN PLACE — BRENT RYDIN

Wolf Blitzer was on the muted TV, a block away from our building again. The news-ticker ran across the bottom of the screen, “…shelter-in-place. City of Boston has issued a shelter-in-…”
            “You don’t have work,” my husband said, smoking a cigarette at the window. I’d noticed him getting out of bed in the night, but hadn’t noticed him not coming back, and I woke up to dusty spring light whispering later morning than it should have. I  panicked at my lateness and nausea snagged my stomach as I tripped, tangled, from the bed. “Christ,” he said. “There’s a tank parking at our corner.”
            “What?” I said, not even sure what I was responding to.
            “Or, I don’t know. A hummer with a bunch of guns and shit.”

I remember being a kid and sitting on the carpet, feet from the screen, watching bombs fall in Kosovo in the night-vision TV light. I asked if we’d need to buy gas masks, and my father laughed, and my mother scowled at him. “Just imagine,” he said, like I wasn’t there, as she hugged her knees and bit her fingernails, “our little girl riding her bike through the neighborhood in a gas mask.” He crouched down to me. “No sweetie,” he said. “We’re safe here.”

Daniel got up and held his arms out wide and wrapped them around me. Anytime I smelled cigarettes since we’d quit, it was like burning tinfoil, but the tobacco mixed with his deodorant and coffee and it had this feel of home, more home than we already were.
            “I missed your hair like this,” he said, and kissed my forehead. I’d dyed it last week, the night before we went to City Hall and cried in the clerk’s office and stuck a mini bride-and-groom into a cupcake. “I’m going to shower,” he said.

I watched the bombs on the TV, in backpacks down the street and hurled from cars across the river. I imagined a glittering yellow bicycle, a rainbow of beads spinning in the spokes, a little girl giggling in a gas mask. I hugged my knees and bit my nails, and my stomach cramped and churned, deep down, like a sheath of paper clumsily balling up. I failed to choke down sobs at the picture of that little boy on the TV again, with his crayon sign. No more hurting people, it said. He had this beautiful, goofy little half-smile. Peace.

They released the lockdown for a while that night. The only store open was this gourmet place down the street, and he came home with champagne and brie and crackers and pepperoni. “Fancy night,” he said. “There was no real food left. No bread, no milk, no chicken. People smarter than us, I guess.”
            “Or something.” I turned back to the window and put out my cigarette. He put the groceries on the table and wrapped his arms around my neck. I leaned into him. “Are we safe here?”
            "I love you," he said.

---

Brent Rydin lives and works in Boston. He is the founding editor of Wyvern Lit, and has work published or forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, The Island Review, Cartridge Lit, and WhiskeyPaper. He has a website at brntrydn.com and tweets at @brntrydn.

URBAN EQUINES — E.B. BARTELS

In the red of night, I float between places. The neon sign across the street fills my dark room with a sharp scarlet light. I live in a neighborhood called Hell’s Kitchen. There’s a bar up the street named Perdition, and a demonic mural on the corner, but it’s only in the middle of a restless night, in the bloodshot glow, that this place feels an inferno, and in those moments, when I can’t sleep, I count the bright stripes on my blinds and listen for horses.
            I once lived in St. Petersburg, on that hook of Russia reaching out towards Finland. Time was hard to track so far north. In June, the nights were white. At two in the morning there would be a dim dip – dusk and dawn together – but besides that almost a full day of sunlight. But in winter, the darkness was perpetual. Even the daylight hours between ten and two were gray and thick with snow. I took vitamin D pills and looked for other markers of time.
            I rented an apartment on Karavannaya Ulitsa. The street runs along the Fontanka Canal and perpendicular to the busy avenue Nevsky Prospekt. Karavannaya spills into the Bolshoi Saint-Petersburg State Circus—full of bicycle-riding bears and trained cats and horses. Late each night, almost morning, at three or four, a trainer walked the horses down from the circus and along Karavannaya, so the equines could stretch their muscles, and when I was up late reading or writing or in a drunken fight with my boyfriend or rolling with insomnia, I heard their hooves on the pavement. I would notice the rhythmic sound. I would hear the beating of minutes like clock hands. I would breath in pace to their steps. I would count each clip and clop. I would realize the time, that I was up too late, and I would think that maybe it was time to sleep, and the horses, four-legged sandmen, would lull me into a dream.
            There are horses in New York. They pull carriages up 10th Avenue by my apartment toward Central Park, and many live in the stables two blocks over on 48th Street. I hear them in the mornings, and the afternoons, though then their sounds are less sharp – buried in sirens and horns and groaning buses. They clomp by, lethargic, in the evenings, tired from pulling tourists. And sometimes, I hear them late at night, just like I heard the horses in St. Petersburg, at two in the morning, as I lie in the red glow.
            Soon, though, the horses might be gone. I agree with the mayor. Horses don’t belong in a crowded city. Pavement is hard. Space is cramped. Tourists are heavy. But I, selfish, want the horses to stay: my fellow out-of-place creatures, a comfort to an American in Russia, a New England girl in New York.
            I lie in the red dark and hope to hear them.

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E.B. Bartels is from Massachusetts and writes nonfiction. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Ploughshares, Fiction Advocate, Agave Magazine, Vitamin W, The Wellesley Review, Wellesley Underground, and the anthology The Places We've Been: Field Reports from Travelers Under 35. She is finishing up her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Columbia University’s School of the Arts, and she was the 2013-2014 Online Content Editor and a Co-Founder of Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art’s literary blog, Catch & Release. You can visit her website at www.ebbartels.com, tweets at @eb_bartels, and read her haikus about strangers’ dogs at ebbartels.wordpress.com.

YOUR WONDERWALL — RON RIEKKI

He shouts for the groupies to get away, that he isn’t going to have any more sex, that he’s sick of it.  He wants nobody near him.
            An eighty-year-old lies nearby on a gurney; I’d later find out he was an artillery forward observer during WWII.  He’ll tell me about a time on a sub where they had to descend so fast that every person slid down the floor until they were all piled on top of each other against a wall, bones broken, a man’s back pressed up against his open mouth.  Nostalgia.
            The schizophrenic thinks he’s a Brit pop star.  He has the accent and everything.  It feels real, except he’s from Alabama.  He’s ODed on everything he could find in his grandmother’s bathroom cabinet and the bad news is grandmothers have a lot of medicine.
            A paramedic keeps yelling for Ringo to calm the hell down or he’s going to call the cops.
            The cops are already in the room.
            Schizophrenics don’t need any more noise.  They already have enough in their head.  You want to give them quiet, reassurance, tell him the voices aren’t real.
            A woman throws her curtain back.  She looks like her makeup was put on while riding a bouncing motorcycle.  “We don’t want to have sex with you!” she yells, “No one does!”
            Quiet falls.
            No one else seems to exist now.  The schizophrenic Beatle is captivated by a woman he keeps studying as if she’s the Virgin Mary.
            “I need to set fire to the room,” he says.“No,” she says.  She’d come in for suicidal tendencies, wanted an HIV test.
            Psych patients, you’d be surprised, in hospitals tend to be the lowest priorities.  We shove them in rooms until all of the patients needing immediate care are treated.  Because we don’t know how to treat psych patients.  E.R.s are not for psychology.  They’re for controlling bleeding, keeping an airway, making sure the heart keeps beating.
            The security guard motions to me, holding up four fingers.  I’m not sure what it means.  Four seconds and he’ll shoot?  There are four of us near the patient who could all tackle him at the same time?  Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?
            I know not to move.  A finger being pointed can turn into a gun.  Schizophrenics take normal stimuli and twist it into new ways you wouldn’t believe.  The schizophrenic looks at his Virgin Mary as if he’s found his mother.
            “I hear a man’s voice,” he says.
            “So,” she says.
            “There’s a demon here,” he says.
            “I’ll kick its ass,” she says, “Sit.”
            “Wasps,” he says.
            “Sit or I’ll let every demon in this hospital on you!”
            He sits.  “It’s a bad day,” he says.
            She puts an arm around him and security dives.  I join them.  The doctor tries to slip in a needle.  We’re all pressed against the wall.  The difficulty of breathing.
            Above us, the prostitute looks down, goddess-like.  The white of her gown, celestial.

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Ron Riekki's books include U.P. and The Way North: Collected Upper Peninsula New Works (a 2014 Michigan Notable Book).  He has books upcoming with Michigan State University Press, Arbutus Press, and Finishing Line Press.

SUNDAY MORNING AT JONSEYS' DINER (BIDDEFORD, MAINE) — LOUIS RAYMOND

1.

Ol’ Bill Dubois sits with a huff and a groan. Without missing a heartbeat, Sandy  bounces over to him with a pot of black coffee. He sits hunched, the sports page pinned under his elbow, and exhales into his clasped hands. “How are ya, bubba,” Sandy asks in her usual way, but among the after-mass chatter in the diner, Bill allows for a moment of heavy silence. When Sandy comes back to ask if he and his wife—Diane, his high school sweetheart—would like their usual, Bill responds by meticulously stirring his coffee. He is bound by quiet. Sandy leaves, but later, without lifting his head, Bill cuts into his bleeding yoke, glances at the empty seat beside him, and offers to no one in particular: “There ain’t a thing usual about today.”

2.

Two college kids—Daniela and Amanda—sit by windows, eating western omelets. Daniela has been going on about semiotics for about an hour. “I’m just saying,” she says, pushing her too-large glasses up, “love is an idea, a product of language, therefore it is nonexistent.” In response, Amanda forks a pepper and eats it, shaking her head at her roommate’s cynicism and defiance. She feels there must be a counter argument, but she hasn’t found the words. Then the waitress Sandy—who Daniela calls “Plain Jane”—swings by to ask if they need anything. The two shake their heads, but when Daniela goes back to pontificating, Amanda finds herself briefly mesmerized by Sandy as she bounces table to table, beaming at patrons: angelic in her grace.

3.

A family sits around a table. Four kids: Carl, Ray, Susie, and Elaine. Two parents: Becky and Estelle. Carl and Susie ball up bits of napkin and, with spoons, catapult them at each other across the table. One hits Estelle in the eye and she pretends that it hurt. All the kids laugh at their mother feigning pain, briefly forgetting that the real pain is inside her. They can’t pronounce it—Lipfnoma? Lympnomia?—but they hate it. They understand what it means. Then Susie pipes up and suggests they say a prayer. “Lovely idea,” Becky says, winking—and they all bow heads and hold hands while Sandy, hovering over them with a fresh pot of coffee, closes her eyes.

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Louis Raymond is  the author of the story collection Vacationland. His poems and stories are published or forthcoming in Umbrella Factory Magazine, Poydras Review, Bartleby Snopes, Extract(s), Dum Dum Zine, and elsewhere.

BATHROOM MIRROR, AFTER SCHOOL — MARLIN M. JENKINS

According to the Internet, he's smaller than average but he’s not sure how close to hold the ruler or if he has some more time to grow. He's well aware of all the black stereotypes and he gets the jokes from his new white friends - both boys and girls. And he doesn't want to believe what they say. But he does know that these kids can't run like kids did back home. Or play basketball. He's not being racist. After gym, in the locker room, Kevin asked if he was on the team at his school in the city, where he tries not to think about gym, where he got picked last and called Urkel because of the glasses he wore in middle school. He told mom he didn't like the glasses. He told her a lot of things before he had to move in with dad.
            It's almost 5:00 and dad will be home soon and if it's like any other day they'll sit silently at the kitchen table and pretend there's no time to make up for. He'll think about how dad met mom, wonder when dad moved to the suburbs and why this house has three bedrooms. He'll think about the few years mom and dad were married. He’ll pretend to remember having both home at once.
            He hears the automatic garage door open and pulls up his pants, zips. Washes hands. Puts the ruler away, sits at the kitchen table.

---

Marlin M. Jenkins was born and raised in Detroit, and he studied creative writing and Black studies at Saginaw Valley State University in Michigan. His work has been published by decomP, Squalorly, Black Heart Magazine, The Molotov Cocktail, and others. You can find him online at marlinmjenkins.tumblr.com and @Marlin_Poet.

FIRST GENERATION — STEPHANIE DEVINE

“What you need is a nice relaxing spa day,” your college roommate tells you as she leans over your desk and nudges a stack of papers until the edges come into alignment. And it reminds you of all the spa days you and your sister shared when you were in middle school, begging for the latest issue of Jane from your tired mother while you waited in line at the Shop n' Save, both of you small behind a cart piled high with frozen bags of chicken nuggets, two-for-one boxes of pasta, and that juice that came in a tube and still looked like a tube, softening in the bottom of a stained, plastic pitcher. Later, once you got bolder, you’d put a Cosmopolitan and a single sleeve of Reese’s on the dirty belt and mom would say, “Stuff will rot your brain,” but not make you remove them. Then when she was gone working a double or with her "friend," Rob, you and your sister would bring that magazine into the kitchen and mix, so carefully, recipes for D-I-Y face masks of eggs and yogurt and honey. You would paint each other’s faces and make tea, sipping it slowly in the ripped kitchen chairs, with the used bags of Lipton placed over one eye, then the other. And how you wish you could be there again, wasting hot water in your mother’s shower, sitting with your sister under the stream, when you proudly open the door of your faux-wood paneled mini-fridge and show your college roommate these things—eggs, and BOGO yogurts, and store brand honey—that you spent a quarter of your monthly food allotment on, and say, all possibility, “Look what I got. For a spa day.” How you wish you could be so still, mask washing away, rivulets of milky white dripping down your neck and trailing across the fiberglass tub floor, as your roommate looks back at you and says, “I don’t get it,” laughter already spreading across her face.

---

Stephanie Devine’s work has recently appeared in Atticus Review, Fiction Southeast, Treehouse, and Glassworks Magazine, and is forthcoming in Louisiana Literature and Pembroke Magazine. She is currently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at Georgia State University, where she is the Fiction Editor of New South. 

BRAZEN — LAURA RELYEA

There’s a picnic blanket in an otherwise blank room and you are laid upon it reading. It’s here that I know I’m in your shallow square pocket. Later, again, when rye and bourbon have made us a bit awry, conversation turns to social dynamics and I realize – I’m an oblong, surreally smooth stone you hold in your calloused palms as you drive. A totem oblivious of its own benefit. How without this Africa-shaped talisman your shoulder will cramp halfway between Mississippi and New Orleans, somewhere in the bayou. My thoughts potter a buck shy of five hundred miles.

What if I fell out of your shallow pocket in transit into the passenger seat of a woman’s black car? You have no intention of buckling in again. Reeled in, I am a spool pulled taught, preoccupied by the fading memory of a blue linen shirt that reflects the sky everywhere and two unopened bottles of beer in the door of my refrigerator. What is it to unwind – the contents of a sunroom bleached? Oysters scrubbed for shucking? A levy, in want of a hurricane? 

I am everything, including coy.

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Laura Relyea is a writer in Atlanta. She's the Managing Editor of Scoutmob and the Editor and Chief of Vouched Books. Her work has been featured in Necessary Fiction, Monkey Bicycle, Coconut Poetry and elsewhere. Her chapbook, All Glitter, Everything, was released by Safety Third Enterprises last October. She both fears and respects Glitter. 

B-MOVIE — W. TODD KANEKO

We will make it out of the Death Pagoda because we both know how to dance. You are a beautiful salsa instructor and I work at your uncle’s restaurant in San Francisco’s Chinatown. We both know how all the other busboys swoon for the way your legs kick sharp on one, the way your hips roll dangerous on two. When your uncle is kidnapped by gangsters, you turn to me—a young Kung Fu fighter from Hong Kong who snatches fruit flies out of the air with chopsticks. We will track him to Fisherman’s Wharf where I’ll scrap with a judo expert, put him down with a knife hand to the throat: cha. I’ll brawl with a boxer on the Golden Gate Bridge, sidekick him headlong into the grill of an eighteen wheeler: cha. I’ll duel with a Karate champion at the top of Coit Tower, launch him to his death with a flying backfist and a spinning roundhouse kick: cha cha cha. We’ll make out on a cable car en route to the final battle. We’ll make out in case we don’t make it out. We know that in the end, we’ll dance for our lives against that black belt cowboy and his swarm of ninjas in the Death Pagoda. You brandishing a mean high heeled shoe. Me whirling a pair of nunchakus around both our bodies. We know that every dance is a blood sport. We can save the world. We can destroy everything.

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W. Todd Kaneko is the author of the Dead Wrestler Elegies (Curbside Splendor, 2014). His poems, essays and stories have appeared in Bellingham Review, Los Angeles Review, Barrelhouse, the Normal School, the Collagist and many other places. He has received fellowships from Kundiman and the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan where he teaches at Grand Valley State University.