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sparkle + blink 62
2015 Quiet Lightning
artwork Maria Guzman Capron
mariaaguzman.com
Prayer for My New Daughter by Rebecca Foust
first published in North American Review
Sufferance by Rebecca Foust first published in Bellingham Review
Sweet Sixteen by Jill Kolongowksi
first published in Pentimento Journal
Missed Connections by Alexander Peterson
first appeared at The Rumpus
Rabbit and the Professor by Jon Sindell
first published in Thrice Fiction
book design by j. brandon loberg
set in Absara
Promotional rights only.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form
without permission from individual authors.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the
internet or any other means without the permission of the
author(s) is illegal.
Your support is crucial and appreciated.

quietlightning.org
su bmit@ qui e tli g h tn i n g . o r g

CONTENTS
curated by

Sean Taylor & Evan Karp

featured artist

Maria Guzman Capron

Prayer for my New Daughter

1
Sufferance
2
REBECCA FOUST

NAYOMI MUNAWEERA

from Island of a

Thousand Mirrors

Sweet Sixteen

11
13

PABLO BAEZA

Yom Kippur

17

SHIDEH ETAAT

French Fries

21

PETER BULLEN

The Reading

29

SUZANNAH WEISS

Most of my writing is like...

35

ALEXANDER PETERSON

Missed Connections

37

JON SINDELL

Rabbit and the Professor

39

SUZANNAH WEISS

Sentences Like Seeds

43

JILL KOLONGOWSKI Manifesto

KRISTINA TEN Milkless

47

ARI MOSKOWITZ

Morrisons Desert Lament

51

RACHEL BUBLITZ

Fanny Pack: A Short Play

53

E T L IG
I
U
Q

HTNING IS SPONSORED

lagunitas.com

BY

QUIET LIGHTNING
A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression. QL
produces a monthly, submission-based reading series on
the first Monday of every month, of which these books
(sparkle + blink) are verbatim transcripts.
Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL is
currently:
Evan Karp
founder + president
Chris Cole
managing director
Josey Lee
public relations
Meghan Thornton treasurer
Kristen Kramer
chair
Kelsey Schimmelman
Sarah Ciston
Katie Wheeler-Dubin

secretary
director of books
director of films

Sidney Stretz & Laura Cern Melo

art directors
Rose Linke & RJ Ingram
outreach directors
Sarah Maria Griffin & Ceri Bevan
directors of special operations
If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in
helpingon any levelplease send us a line:
e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

- SET 1 -

RRR

RRRRRRRRRR

P R AY E R F O R M Y

N E W DAU G HTE R
with lines by Audre Lorde and William Butler Yeats

A soul in chrysalis, in first agonized molt,

must choose: ladies, or mens.
For somefor youthese rooms are fraught,
an open field where lines are drawn: think of
the White-Only signs. Or Serranos Piss Christ
and Duchamps Fountain, pitted with acid
and icepicks, de-faced. As for restrooms called
Bathrooms with Urinals, no, his words
will never dismantle the masters house.
For an hour I have walked and prayed,
musing on icepicks, how theyre made
to fit a blind hand; how kept so well honed.
You are soft as sown grass and fierce as cut glass.
You pack your new purse with lipstick, and mace.

SUFFERANCE
1,123 reported killings of trans people worldwide
within the last five years examiner.com

Transgender, as in counterfeit, as in someone appearing

or attempting to be a member
of the other gender, as in equated with transsexual
or cross-dresser or pervert
as in a term used by ugly girls as a defense mechanism
against prettier girls. As in
the only solution lies in psychology or religion or,
until 1960, an icepick lobotomy
done without drugs. Sufferance means passive
permission
from lack of interference,
as in tolerance of something intolerable, the teen set
on fire
at the back of the bus, the way the world

daily scathes you, my fear for your safety a daily

sufferance,
as in endurance, as in [archaic] misery,
as in Middle English or Latin equivalent of suffer,
akin
in its way to suffrage,
the right to vote. As in vote for, supportchild, I am
trying
to support you in this
as in Ecclesiastical, a prayer, an intercessory prayer or
petition.
Intercessory, come between.
Intercede, yesmy bodybetween yours and theirs.

Re be cca F ou st

NN
NN

NNNNNNNN

NN

OF A
A
THOUSANDND
MIR R O RS
fr o m I S L

If we could have entered the dead telephone lines

that day, followed them across the burning city, down
to our pregnant aunts quiet bungalow and into her
bedroom, this is what we would have seen. As smoke
rises over Galle Road, as muffled screams make their
way over her gate, and though there are still two
months to go, our aunt Malas belly is wrenching
and twisting. It is the third day of twenty-four-hour
curfew and Anuradha, white faced, fingernails bitten
past their quick, has been watching his wife writhe
for the last two days. He says, The hospital. We have
to go. And Mala, gasping, No Anu, please. Its only
the heat. And the baby kicking. He says, Alright. Ill
go and bring the doctor here. But she cant allow this.
Has terrible visions of what could happen to him out
there, in the unseen nightmare beyond their gate.
He carries her to their old yellow Volkswagen, the
tight, battered Bata slippers dangling off her feet.
She worries about this. The impropriety of leaving
the house in her house slippers. But then Poornam
has pulled open the gate and it is too late to ask
for other more appropriate shoes. They drive into
5

the lane. A lull in the faraway shouting, the street

festooned in sunlight and birdsong, foliage spilling
everywhere, and for a moment there is normalcy, the
sense that they are leaving the house for a walk along
Galle Face Green or Mount Lavinia beach. They turn
onto Galle Road; drive into thick, rolling smoke;
glimpse armed men, abandoned cars, looted shops.
Mala, the aching of her womb momentarily shocked
still, presses a knuckled hand against her mouth.
Anuradha whispers, God, as the clearing smoke
allows them to see. He is wrenching the wheel
around, homeward, when the hand smacks, splay
fingered against the glass next to Malas head. A
teenage boy in a torn, stained school uniform.
Behind him, the mob congeals, and the boy, in his
terror, scrambles onto the hood of their car.
Through the garnet smears on the windscreen, they
see the glint of knives, broken bottles, machetes. The
mob surrounds them completely now and though
she cannot see the mens eyes, Mala knows that they
are expecting sacrifice. Knows that this Tamil boy
in his school uniform, his face squashed against the
glass so close to her own, the open fish mouth, the
wide eyes, and that terrible gushing cut on his head,
has been chosen as sacrifice for years of deprivation,
broken governmental promises, failed examinations,
and decades of relentless physical labor. And the boy
himself, knowing this, his hands raised to protect his
delicate face, does not even beg for mercy.

She hears the door slam. She sees Anuradha push

through the men, pull himself onto the car, his body
in front of the boys.
She hears his words through her own shuddering
sobs. This child. He has done nothing. He is no
problem for you.
Her fingers struggle on the lock. She will jump
out. They wont hurt a pregnant woman. There are
greater human laws they will abide by. She is sure of
it. Just outside her window through the dirty glass, a
machete is raised, hefted from hand to hand. She sees
the silver gleam of it, sinks low in her seat.
Anuradha negotiating, I can give you money.
Anything. Just let me take this boy and go.
The voices, What have you got to do with this Tamil
bastard? These motherfuckers ruining this country.
Think they can take over. Time to teach a lesson they
wont forget. Crack some heads before they murder
us in our beds. Move aside.
Anuradha turns, wraps his arms around the cowering
boy. His eyes search for hers through the bloodsmeared glass. She sees the blade raised and brought
down. The flutter of his lids so familiar. His body
jerking and then sagging as it has innumerable times
over hers in the sanctity of their bed. But this time,
it is the unnamed boy who receives his weight, who
Nayomi Mu nawe e ra

shrieks the ear-shattering screams of an animal in

terror. More blood than she can imagine, running
onto the bright yellow paint of their car. Then a
hundred hands reaching out and pulling him and the
screaming boy into their midst.
She is huddled on the floor of the car, arms wrapped
about her belly, when the door is eased open. A voice
in Sinhala whispers, Come, Nona, come with me.
She looks and sees Alwis, the coconut plucker, slum
denizen. Nona, let us go home now. His calloused
hands pull her onto the seat and then out of the car.
The mob is gathered in front of the car, a blur of
limbs, and the metallic arc of weapons, but Alwiss
sinewy, coconut tree-clasping arms will not allow her
to break away, throw herself in the midst of the mob,
beg for her lovers life. She is hurried away. When
the smoke has cleared for a moment, she struggles
loose, looks back to see men on the upturned car like
flies on a day-old catch, white cans upturned, gushing
petrol. A roar as the spark ignites, catches, bursts
into flame. The mens voices roaring and falling in
time to the jumping flames. A dancing circle of men.
Those on the periphery pushing forward, curious to
see what the center holds. A louder shriek as a sarong
catches a flying cinder and the circle scatters open.
And what is it that my dark aunt sees at that moment?
Too grotesque to be revealed surely. Too horrific to be
imagined. But in the name of veracity it must be told:
two vaguely human figures, lurching in an almost
8

comic fashion, garlanded, each, with a flaming tire.

Hands bound, black rubber melting onto skin, red
flames dancing skyward, funnels of smoke obscuring
wide open mouths, a glimpse of damaged eye. The
swirl of men closes ranks. The scene is shut off from
Malas eyes like a book of naughty illustrations
slammed shut. So fast that she almost cannot accept
what she has seen. A soft rain of ash is falling, settling
into her hair and skin. At her ear, a steady stream of
words. She knows she must concentrate on this to
avoid losing herself. She knows she must walk home
now without allowing what is sheltering within her
to pour out like water onto this smoky street.
Alwiss lips, close to her ear, whisper, Look down.
Glass, madam, all over the road. She trains her eyes
on her swollen feet in their tight rubber slippers.
Watches them curiously as they step carefully over
broken glass.
They move with a will she cannot recognize as her
own. She marvels at these feet, at their earnestness in
moving away from loss. At the biology in her that has
so assuredly chosen her unborn child over her dying
husband.
At the head of their lane, a bus on its knees, front tires
exploded, hemorrhages thrusting, pushing passengers.
At the far side, a particularly jovial mob gathers.
Reaching high above their heads the men pull a
woman out of the small side window. They catch her
Nayomi Mu nawe e ra

sari pallu, pull, jumping and climbing on each others

shoulders. Mala has stopped in the street, turned to
salt, Lots wife, despite Alwiss panicked urgings.
She sees the womans open mouth, her arms flailing
in this most exposed and air-bound uncertainty
between the bus and the men. A long streak of red
bisects her forehead, and then like a cork out of a
bottle the woman is dislodged. She falls into the
circle of men, streaming to earth, sari fluttering like
a parachute. A roar of delight drowns the womans
screams. Then, again, the sound of gushing petrol.
And finally Mala allows herself to be pulled away,
down the street, into the quiet of the lane. Her red
gate within sight. The scent is rising again, the thick
fragrance of charred flesh like that which wafts from
the Muslim quarter during Eid, the festive roasting of
animal flesh.
She whispers to Alwis, Not blood. On her forehead.
It was her pottu. She must have tried to rub it off so
they wouldnt know she was Tamil. It wasnt blood.
It wasnt blood. Her mind turns over the image. The
woman falling, the pottu streaked across her forehead,
the waiting men. She knows this fixation is just
another trick of her biology to keep the other images
far away.

10

JJ
JJJ

JJJJJJJJJ

JJ

M A N IF EST O
I make the mistake of watching Elliot Rodgers
manifesto video. I watch on my phone in bed while
the gray early morning California sun slices through
the blinds. In the video the sun is hot yellow on
Rodgers face. He says if he cant have any girls, hell
take great pleasure in annihilating us all. He tells us
we deserve it. He laughs a little. But worst of all, he
looks so fucking normal. He looks like a kid I had a
crush on in elementary school. My body turns solid,
locks itself up, the way I felt once when I grabbed
a live electric fence. I get so afraid I cant leave the
house for days.
After four days at home being afraid I decide the fear
is becoming its own kind of lockup. I put on a pink
sundress and put a book in my bag. As soon as I get
out the door I realize its not as hot as it looks and my
dress is all wrong. Im very aware of my bare legs, how
naked they look from the ankle to the knee.
Normally I notice things like the new yellow roses
blooming behind the library, but today I notice the
men. How many there are. For every man with his
hands in his pockets I look for a gun. I keep trying
11

to remember faces in case I have to identify any of

them later. At the crosswalk I watch every car, try to
figure out if that red pickup or the black BMW will
run me over. I hold my dress down with my hands.
I find a bench in the little central park. I try to read
but I cant focus. Instead I watch an older, barefoot
man with a white goatee with a small, bright purple
kite beckon to two girls, maybe four years old, a
tiny blonde and a brunette whod been watching
him, both with the red faces and tangled hair of
childhood. I dont see their mother. The man hands
the kite to the blonde girl and leans down to whisper
instructions. There isnt much wind today and I cant
figure out why hes trying to fly kites. I try not to
think the worst. I feel like Im losing it. I want so
badly to not be afraid of him. The blond girl takes off,
the purple kite up somehow into the air behind her.
Another man walks past, this one younger. His gait
seems off, asymmetric; his eyes dart around in a way
thats not quite steady. He turns to watch the little
girls, the purple kite.
Hey! he yells. I flinch. Thats a good idea youve
got there! His voice carries, and now it seems like
everyone is watching the little girl with the purple
kite. Watching how even on this nearly windless day,
the kite stays aloft as long as she keeps going, a shock
of brightness against the blue sky.

12

SWEET SIXTEEN
We ran down the covered outdoor hallways in our
bare feet, the concrete floors cold and dirty at the
Best Western where Brooke wanted to have her
sixteenth birthday party. The hotel sat next to the
main intersection in town, across the street from a
decrepit strip mall with five stores which were always
changing and a gas station that never did; the Farmer
Jack grocery store across the street where everyone
would later work; an empty, marshy lot kitty-corner
with faded signs for failed local politicians, weeds
taller than I was, and a realtor signno one ever
quite brave enough to put their money on this small
town.
For now most of us were only fifteen. We were alone
in the hotel. Brookes dad was supposed to come
check on us and that was enough for me to be able
to truthfully tell my mom we had adult supervision,
though something in my chest felt all knotted up, the
way it always does when I lie. We pounded down the
hallway, our small heels going bang and I wasnt quite
sure why we were running but it felt scary and good
to be out, alone in the dark.
Brooke stopped and knocked on a seemingly random
Ji ll Kolongowski

13

door and my legs felt coiled up, ready to run again,

but the door opened and somehow, impossibly, it was
Tyler. Tyler was Brookes boyfriend, a boy shed met
online and talked to on the phone after her parents
went to bed. Sometimes shed balance the cordless
phone on the countertop while she showered and
listen to him tell her jokes. Tyler was 21, lived in
Oregon. It did not occur to us to be afraidhearing
his deep voice echo around Brookes bathroom, the
idea of talking to a boy while you were naked, the
fact that he and Brooke did not want to stop talking,
even for the length of a shower, I was almost as in
love with him as she was. And there he was in the
doorway, so ordinary in a blue t-shirt, hair wet and
clean on his forehead. Behind him in his hotel room
was a white shirt crumpled on the floor; on the
dresser there was a bottle of Hersheys syrup and a
can of whipped cream I thought then must have been
for Brookes birthday cake. Now I wonder, what was
this 21-year-old thinking, driving across the country
from Oregon to Michigan for a newly 16-year-old
girl? But then he was just there, and I thought how
good it must feel to have someone who wanted to be
near you so badly.
We sat in the hotel room in a circle, watching
television or watching Tyler tell jokes, watching Tyler
put his hand on Brookes thigh, watching how she
didnt flinch at all. I was amazed at how normal we
all acted, when I felt like we were all at the edge of
something.
14

Three loud knocks on the door. Brookes father. We

all jumped, maybe someone squealed and we hushed
her. Brooke stood in one motion, took Tyler by
the arm, and led him to the bathroom. Most of us
followed like a flock of geese, crowding in there to
help, though Im not sure with what. Tyler stepped
into the cracked tub and stood there in his clothes,
not smiling, not anything, as Brooke pulled the moldy
curtain in front of his face. Walking back across
the room, we all settled into positions we thought
seemed normal. I couldnt decide if my crossed legs
looked too formalmaybe I should bend one knee? I
looked frantically around the room for traces of him.
It seemed impossible that we wouldnt be caught, that
a power like his could be hidden so easily.
Brooke opened the door. Her father stood in a baggy
brown trench coat. He was bald and looked even
more tired than usual.
Having fun? he asked, as if he couldnt possibly
imagine we were.
Yeah! we all said, nearly in unison. My eyes felt like
they were too wide, like Id seen something awful; my
smile hurt.
We couldnt know that a month later, one of the
girls would tell her father, who was a cop, and all of
us would be questioned by the police, asked if hed
drugged or raped us; Id be so adamant that Tyler
Ji ll Kolongowski

15

had done nothing wrong though all of it felt like Id

been looking at things through the wrong end of a
telescope and I couldnt see anything for what it was,
and hed be arrested and disappear anyway; Brooke
too would slowly disappear from school; I was too
afraid to contact her, afraid to be looped into a home
where her father screamed at her that she was fucking
stupid and her mother was permanently manic,
though to me she always just seemed high-strung
and loud and near tears. Brooke would eventually
disappear for good, and whenever Id try for the next
twelve years to search for her online all I could find
were her mothers frantic blog posts pleading for
information, and when I called an unknown mans
voice saying, Sorry, wrong number.
For now Brooke stood with her hip against the door,
a goddess nearly six feet tall with wild blonde curls,
looking like shed done this before. For now the rest
of us were only seven girls, terrified by what we were
capable of.

16

PPPP

PPPPPPP

Y O M KI P P U R
the men I have loved
became women, the women
in my life who
grew autumnal
from starkly invisible,
held this wondrous being human
like a set of floating stones,
a snowy, meadowed silence,
lingering on
women, the women Ive loved sorry for the sorting in groupings,
the projections, wanting, staying
too late, leaving too early,
the remains of wrong silences
like asphalt on the tongue, the
still fury of other men, their violences,
my violences, quiet longing, running
from my selves, an unforgiving winter,
men, of which I could be construed
a part of, apart from, winter
bathes the body, hollow cold,
apocryphal, distant, unknowable.

17

and why return to the perennials?

sorry. sorry for sorry, and for women
made sorry, sorry always weaponed,
apologize for living, doing, taking
space on this earth, sorry. wrong.
sorry. Sorry.
on yom kippur I offer
mourning for the men, the men
who stayed men, the men
who wanted womanhood,
who became women, the women
who grew manhood like a seed,
who loved men though men so often
like floods would storm incomprehensibly,
maddening, forming scars
from the backs of their frightened
clutchings, the bold dutiful holding
of these things disseminated within
empire
and for children, tomorrow,
and all of us, confused, naked,
peopling, just wanting to be heard,
our isinglass frames named
anatomically, the taste of breaths
articulating silence, and for asking
to be held and also to take on
a bigger holding, a hope
that whoever we may deign to be
we will look up
18

and recognize
the stars
which look upon us
expectant
with kindness

Pablo Ba e za

19

SSSS

SSSSSSSS

F RE N C H F RIE S
In a few months Ill graduate from high school still
a virgin, not even a kiss to show for myself which
wouldnt be such a colossal tragedy if I was ugly or
awkward, which Im definitely not. The offer has
come up a whole bunch of times, but never from
the right source, which Id say, is probably the most
important part. The boys at my school with their
waxed eyebrows and designer jeans and Persian pride
and gold chains around their necks, theyre under the
impression that just because our parents come from
the same country that Ill automatically want to fuck
them. Au contraire, my friends, au contraire.
Rana, they say, come ride with me. Come in my car.
I have sweet rims and a bomb system. Ill give you a ride
home, which is code for please come suck my dick
and maybe Ill take you to In-n-Out on the way home
if youre lucky. And no Animal Style because that
would just be pushing it. I know this because I know
girls whove been stupid enough to agree to it and
have been kicked out onto the middle of Ventura
Blvd. sobbing because they pretended they were
ignorant of this secret language. These boys try to
lure me in, but I must resist such a tempting offer
21

because Im no skank and the truth is, I like girls. I

like everything about them; the way their asses slide
from side to side when they walk as if their bodies
own that air, the delicacy used for every movement,
from sharpening pencils to carefully peeling their
used-up nail polish off with their teeth, to kicking
the ball on the soccer field, to the way they run their
hands through their hair constantly as if always on
the look out for lice. Their insecurities turn me on
and if I dont get with one soon I think I might just
have a fucking heart attack and die.
I live pretty close to school so I usually just walk
home, plus we only have one car which my mother
keeps on reserve just in case she has to do something
important which is quite infrequent these days. I
think its the old, Persian man I used to be in another
life, who makes me likes these strolls; a chance to put
my headphones on and listen to Tupac and just let
it all go. Kids these days think just because a rapper
spits fast it means hes got skills. People say Tupacs
so 97, but anyone who lies like that is obviously just
ignorant and I dont really want to associate with
ignorant people. Tupac was a poet, a skilled lyricist
with a greater purpose, more style and charisma than
any of these fools today. If I liked boys he would be
the one; no one but him.
My grandfather always took walks, always talked
to the plants and animals along the way. He had
conversations with squirrels like they were his
22

friends, which sounds pretty fucking crazy except

I think thats what made him so cool. He died last
year. Cancer. It was ugly and tragic. My mother was
there, taking care of him day and night when no
one else was. They wanted to take him to one of
those depressing hospices, but my mother refused,
had him move in with us instead. My dad moved
to Texas a few months after my grandfather died
because he couldnt find work here anymore. Every
few months my father visits for two weeks and
its during these visits that I think maybe he went
for other reasons too because him and my mother
dont talk much, dont hug or kiss the way they used
to. Im not immature in that way where I think its
disgusting when my parents touch each other sweetly
or call each other stupid, over the top pet names in
Persian like, Omram, My Life; I actually prefer being
surrounded by all that love.
My mother is lonely these days. I get it. She loved
her father, but come on, live your life; thats what
he wouldve wanted. If you knew the man at all he
wouldve wanted you to embrace the time you have
left, to take more walks, breathe deeper, but all this
woman does is shop. I mean how many open-toed
sandals with two-inch heels does one person need?
How many polka dotted blouses? She usually shows
me her shopping achievements when I come home
from school, like a little kid sharing her pasta covered
art project for the day, and I have to resist the urge to
say:
Sh i de h Eta at

23

You already have that fucking shirt! Its the same fucking
shirt as the one from last week!
I have this theory, and I could be wrong because Im
only human, but I think the emptier she feels inside,
and the longer my dads away, its like she has no
choice but to fill that fucking closet up. I know it
sounds like Im being tough on her, but its becoming
harder and harder to watch especially because its
only her and me in the house these days. She plays
the Persian radio too loud when I come home. I
know what youre thinking, the radio is good, the
radio plays music and is a lively and entertaining
machine, but its not that at all. Shes obsessed with
this program where the saddest Persians from all over
the world call in and ask this psychologist questions.
One time I came home a little high from school and
my mother had made a whole pan of French fries.
They were thickly sliced and brown all over like how
she used to make them when I was little and I hovered
over the stove and ate them slowly, pouring ketchup
carefully onto each one, letting the grease soak my
fingers up as some mother wept to the psychologist
about how her daughter had just come out to her and
how she thought it was just unnatural and dirty, how
could such a thing be happening to her daughter?
Doctor, its dirty, the woman said, these things are dirty.
The psychologist isnt such a bad guy, hes pretty real
24

with the lunatics who call in and he told this woman,

he said:
Lady, she is your daughter and nothing will ever change
that.
My mother was putting on Crimson nail polish and
she barely looked at me, only to say,
Rana Joon, get a plate please.
Then my mother said something that almost made me
lose a fry.
Poor woman, she said.
I stood there for what felt like a whole day, like
fucking eons, my brain crackling inside me, my
stomach begging for more fries. I knew she wasnt
head over heels about the concept. Id heard her
talking sometimes about my aunts gay neighbor in
West Hollywood who threw ragers in the middle
of the week and how inconsiderate and selfish he
was, but wed never had a real conversation about it.
The words came out from my mouth without much
thought.
Why? Why is she such a poor woman?
She finally looked up at me and in her face I thought
I saw something like malice, dragon-like, but maybe it
was just the weed getting to me.
Sh i de h Eta at

25

The neighbors child being gay I can handle, but not my

own. Not ever you.
After that I pretty much ate the whole pan of French
fries, and let me tell you it was a big pan, more
like a cauldron used for feeding a tribe of people.
My mother finally noticed and said I was being
disgusting.
You dont know your limits, Rana, you have to know when
to stop, she said.
If you dont want me eating them then dont make them,
I said and I went to my room and slammed the door
hard and I blasted Tupac and lay down in my bed and
dreamt about kissing girls.

26

- SET 2 -

PPP

PPPPPPPPP

THE READING
from The Direction Of Happiness

Id been sent. As if I was a person in need of being

sent someplace other than where I was. Where I was
was with a woman I thought needed me. Its not like
she ever said she needed me. What she said was come
home with me. She only said it once. It didnt bear
repeating, or she couldnt bear to repeat it, it comes to
much the same. I thought maybe I was a writer. She
thought I was a person in need of advice. She said go
see this guy Jack read at the bookstore. Hes a writer
she said, in a tone that implied maybe I wasnt.
The bookstore is jam-packed. Just the fact that there
is a bookstore is surprising, that its filled with people
adds to my surprise, and my irritation. One more example of excited people gathered to see someone who
is not me. Like I need more examples. There are far
more women than men. I figure this Jack guy is one
of those handsome writers. Fucking handsome writer
I mutter to myself, although no one has yet appeared.
Many in the crowd seem to know each other. There is
the whisper of anticipation. Hate that.
A lady in a floral blouse, black pants, and
masculine-looking shoes arrives at the podium.
29

First thing that pops into my head: if shes going

to wear shoes like that, why not dispense with the
flowery top? Wheres the consistency? Im angry with
everyone. You can be pissed off at a literary reading
in exactly the same way you can be pissed off in stop
and go traffic. I keep making discoveries like this. It
is not up-lifting. The woman starts gabbing about the
wonders of this Jack guy, telling a story of being at a
workshop of his, where he forbade her to leave until
she put down on paper her real and true feelings.
Feelings about what, she doesnt go into, and for that
small mercy I am grateful. The whole thing sounds
sexual to me, like hes the literary dungeon-master
and shes the enslaved wench, clutching her moleskin.
That might just be my weird perspective. Id like to
be free of weird perspectives, but, in a way, theyre
the only ones I have. She goes on to explain how the
restriction was in force for twenty-four hours, and
how she was not allowed to leave the room until the
task was accomplished. Jack watched over her even
when nature called. It just gets more and more sexual
sounding to me, and I start to expect gasps from
the audience, but everyone seems enthralled, in the
way scholarly people are enthralled, not in the way
titillated people are enthralled, which has a whole
different vibe. I start to think of the scenario shes
describing as a type of imprisonment for art, with
an arousing subtext I dont altogether understand,
but which is starting to arouse me, and that totally
changes my attitude.

30

I feel Ive been converted.

Im thinking like lock me up and throw away the key
until I produce something resembling art. Maybe
thats why the bookstore is packed to the rafters; the
great jailor of aspiring writers is here in the flesh. So
now I start to wish hed capture me, which shows
how far you can come in terms of mood change in a
short period of time. I totally forgive the ladys poor
sense of style, and remember that Im no fashion
model myself. I too kind of want to follow her to
the bathroom, until shes produces another piece of
authentic prose, but before I can take those thoughts
further, a new woman comes out to replace the one
in mens shoes. This new woman is a whole other
thing. Shes like biker-mama/beat poet/latin teacher
all in one. How is that possible, you ask. I ask myself
the same thing.
Hi, my name is Belinda, Im Jacks wife, and
youre not, she says. Im thinking: very unusual
introduction. The crowd laughs appreciatively, like
how cute is that. She wears a black leather jacket
over a scuffed-up white t-shirt, as if shes been under
the car or messing with the bike, and a red skirt that
is too small in just the way you might hope for it to
be too small. She is entirely alluring in a completely
puzzling way.
I wont keep you, she says. I want her to keep me.

P e t e r Bu lle n

31

Here he is now, she says, and extends her arm out

in the direction of a man who is anything but handsome. He is untidy and old, late-sixties maybe. From
the waist downrock and roll has-been, black jeans,
yellow Converse sneakers. From the waist up
contractor whose bid youd never trust, plaid workshirt, poor-fitting denim jacket, pockets bulging with
note paper.
Good evening, he says, in the relaxed style of a
welcomed monarch. Really have trouble with relaxed
people. Belinda slinks off, which Im not happy about.
I strain my neck to see where she went, but cant find
her.
I hope you will bear with me while I read a
handful of poems, Jack says. I hate the not very
credible modesty that accompanies the massively
accomplished. Although in my head Im preparing
myself to sound courteous and underwhelmed should
I ever come face to face with an adoring crowd. They
bear with him alright. An almost reverent silence
falls over the place. I feel a cough coming on, but
suppress it. I dont want to be the noise-making
heretic drawing attention away from literature
incarnate. Jack reads his handful. One describes the
crumbling facade of a building slated for demolition.
The building has something to do with the ankles of
a raven- haired newlywed, already unsure about her
marriage. Its poetry, so you can connect any ass thing
together you want. Im not complaining. Actually Im
32

taken with it, falling under the spell or whatever. In

another of his poems, a man in the upstairs bedroom
of his house, studies a nude photo of a girlfriend who
has stopped calling, while homeless youths break his
car windows and steal the vehicle. I can relate to that
but Im not sure why. I rely on public transport and
no one I know has left me with a nude photo.
A few of the women in the audience looked moved
or disturbed; I cant tell which. One is teary. I want
to be able to write poems that make women teary.
That would be cool, and that would be important
or something. My trouble is I always want to do
what someone else is able to do. Jack is done with
the poems and the Q and A is starting up. My hand
goes up automaticity; its like its doing it without my
consent. Jack goes right for me, looking me dead in
the eye, and I feel shaky. Whats your question? he
says, on account of me not having said anything.
Oh, I say. I feel desperate, and afraid that no more
words are coming. Well, I was wondering if there are
particular times of the day that work best for you.
To what? he says. I swear I hear faint laughter
coming from the crowd.
Oh fuck, I say. Yes I actually say oh fuck. To write,
of course, sorry. You can imagine how Im feeling
because yeah, public humiliation has never been
among my favorite things.
P e t e r Bu lle n

33

I like your question, he says. He says it so personally,

so sincerely, like hes been waiting a lifetime for me
to show up and ask one of the most over-asked, brain
dead questions writers get asked all the time. That
faint laughter is history now. A respectful silence has
returned.
Its night-time for me, too late at night to tell you the
truth, interferes with my sleep, aggravates my wife,
makes me grumpy the next morning, but its the only
time I can manage it. he says. Hes speaking to me
with such regard. Im getting warm. I watch his lips.
I adjust myself in my seat. Suddenly posture seems
important. I want my posture to say thank you, youre
a genius, you pulled me from the fire, I freaking love
you. I raise my shoulders, I straighten my spine, no
more slumping for me.
When hes done reading, I head like a man on a
mission over to the counter to buy his book of poems.
I hold that book of poems close to my chest, thinking
irrationally that it may be taken from me by a truly
informed literary type, who is sure I wont know how
to make proper use of it.

34

SS
SS

SSSSSSSSS

MOST OF MY WRITING IS LIKE THE PEOPLE

IN MY LIFE WHO FALL SOMEWHERE BETWEEN
STRANGERS AND FRIENDS
The spoken word poem I recite in the shower is
that guy I exchanged numbers with at DNA Lounge
knowing very well wed have nothing to talk about
the next day.
The short story that got trashed in workshop is the
friend who stopped talking to me because our relationship wasnt healthy for her but still talks to a
mutual friend who regularly hallucinates that shes
the Virgin Mary.
The article I have yet to submit because its still a
little rough around the edges is the friend who says
some offensive thing every time we hang out but
occasionally says something that blows my mind so I
invite him to lunch every few weeks.
The autobiography I occasionally try to salvage is the
love interest I thought maybe was just busy when he
didnt text me back until I ran into him in a club
and he said, Whats your name again?

35

The prose poem that sounded really brilliant at the

time is the girl who instantly befriended me after a
networking event but fell off the face of the earth
after getting a boyfriend who rides a motorcycle.
The essay thats been under revision for about 4 years
is that friend from high school I IM occasionally but
never see in real life.
The same way Im still Facebook friends with all
these people in case I ever need their help or we have
something meaningful to say to each other, I save
these documents in a Google Drive folder hoping that
one day well reconnect.

36

AA

AA
AA

AAAAAAAAA

AA

M ISS E D C O N NE C TI O N S

From time to time, a woman calls my wifes cell

phone from an unknown number and leaves a long
rambling voicemail for someone named Louise. The
messages are warm and familiar, filled with details
about kids and events, illnesses and celebrations.
Often shell say to Louise by way of explanation,
Oh well, you know. The messages end with
assurances to see each other again and speak soon,
but no number to call back because surely Louise
has it. We cant help ourselveswe listen to these
misaddressed dispatches from someone elses life on
speakerphone and then erase them.
This is just one misunderstanding in the modern
world, like those love letters that arrive from the
Postal Service sealed with a kiss but forty years
too late or library books returned anonymously
decades after theyre due, long since removed from
circulation. Once I was mistaken for a priest. This
was in a motel parking lot in New Hampshire. A man
stopped me outside the room and called me father
though I was only twenty-three.
Father, he said, will you hear my confession?
37

It was winter break and I was on a road trip with

friends. Id only stepped outside to get ice.
Im sorry, I said. Im not a priest.
I was wearing a starched black shirt my mother
had given me, a white undershirt peeking through.
Hed been drinking alone in the hallway and it was
enough.
Please, he said.
So I listened while the snow drifted around us,
shifting the ice bucket awkwardly as he told me
about the daughter he loved but never saw and the
ways hed wronged her mother. I could hear the
muffled sound of the television inside our room
and see the faint glow of fluorescent light from the
managers office, but I was separate from all of it.
When he finished, I managed to say something about
forgiveness and passed a hand across my chest in a
way I hoped was convincing.
Im not religious but I believe in wordstheir
meaning and power. Sometimes I wonder where all
the lost intentions of the world go, if they dissipate
like breath. All the messages we send that are never
received, each time we get the wrong ones and
erase them, are they gone for good? Or does it mean
something if I still carry them with me, if I give them
to you?
38

R A BBI

JJJJJ

JJJJJJ

T A N D THE PR O F ESS O R

The Professor shelved cans while Rabbit set cereal the

next aisle over. Hey Rabbit, The Professor yelled at
3 a.m. Will you get me a Coke, please? The Rabbit
raced off on flapping clown feet, raced back stumble
bumble with a can of Coke.
Erik, the bullet-headed night-crew chief, glared. Why
cant Moe Ron get his own damn Coke?
Ah, said The Rabbit. See, The Professor figured its
much slower shelving cans than boxes, so its smarter
for me to go get it than him. Right, Professor?
The Professor was hopping to avoid the brown foam
gushing over his fist and onto his boots. His abashed
smile withered under Eriks reproach: For the last
time, doofusbean soup dont go in beans.
The Professor slapped his drippy head, clamped
beaver teeth to his lower lip. Rabbit whipped off his
bandanna and wiped The Professors apron and hand.
You guys should gay marry, Eric snickered.

39

Rabbits ears burned red, but he didnt speak. Erik

bowled away laughing. I should have popped him,
said Rabbit, pounding his fist. The Professor slung
his arm around Rabbit. Thats a nice compliment he
gave us, Rabbit.
Youre right, Professor. It just means were good guys.
That weekend, the Night Stockers faced the Day
Crew in a Shirts versus Skins full-court hoops grudge
match. Look, were the good guys! The Professor
told Rabbit. Were all wearing white.
Rabbit nodded, but his mind and eyes were on Rick
Forman: The Needle. The Needle had gone to high
school with the pair, but while they were apt to be
stock clerks forever, he was a fraternity president on
his way to B-school. Rabbit watched The Needles
back muscles ripple as he warmed up with bank
shots. Hey there, Rick, Rabbit murmured sociably.
The Needle flashed his old cutting grin, and Rabbit
discerned behind the grin the remembrance of the
origin of nicknames: the rabbity shaking when Rabbit
was bullied, the science teacher whod dubbed his
most hapless student The Professor. Youve crawled
out of the darkness, said The Needle.
Yeah, said Rabbit, watch out for us night crawlers.
He thought the line clever, but wasnt sure why.
The Night Crew held their own for a while. The
40

Professor turned the wrong way, accidentally setting

a screen that freed Erik for a basket. Brilliant,
Professor! Rabbit hollered, sneaking a nervous glance
at The Needle. Rabbits big moment came when he
grabbed a loose ball and plodded up the court and laid
it in as three Skins overtook him. Super fast, Rabbit!
The Professor cheered. But when Rabbit started back
up the court while glancing at a courtesy clerk he had
a crush on, he bounced off The Needle and fell back
onto the blacktop. He stared up at The Needles leer.
He thought he should jump up and smash his mean
grin, but sat there consoling himself that hey, he
wasnt shaking, and that was something.

Jon Si nde ll

41

SS
SS

SSSSSSSSS

S E N T E N C E S LI K E SE E D S
I am ten, away at sleep away camp, my cabin-mates
staging a late-night pow wow. My bunkmate
complains theres nobody for her to talk to. Someone
points out my presence; she says I dont talk so it
makes no difference.
I am thirteen on my porch, listening to my dad talk
about loneliness. He tells me when a tree falls in the
forest and nobody hears it, it still falls. I say sound
requires matter to travel through. He says thats
irrelevant. Hes right. Air is everywhere, even places
without ears.
I am twenty-one in my dorm room, crying over a
breakup. The affection that begs to be expressed
runs up against the inside of my skin. I contemplate
writing love notes with no expectation for a response,
just to get it out of me. The fruit ripens and rots.
I am twenty-three in a cosmetics store, wasting time
trying on samples. When I arrive home with no
evening plans, I panic and take pictures so my face
doesnt go to waste.

43

I am twenty-four in a meeting, trying to focus on

next years marketing plan as a perfect sentence slips
through the cracks of my brain. I jot it down when I
get back to my desk, but the sequence and lexicon are
lost.
The mind of a writer is a forest full of trees. They
often fall in front of deaf ears, toward readers turning
blind eyes. Their fruits ripen and rot.
A forest is a self-contained ecosystem. Trees fell
before they fell before people. They made sound
waves before ears. They had chlorophyll before green.
But changes in air pressure are not sound, and
meanings are in the mind of the beholder. Reading
creates new meanings. Writing creates new words.
Speaking creates new sounds.
I am twenty-four and keep diaries from since I was
nine. I dont read themId be too embarrassedbut
it helps to know theyre there. It helps to hoard ideas.
But my breath catches when I think of them locked
in a desk drawer, a diary coffin.
Writing reminds me of death. An idea stops being
dynamic once its put to rest on paper, resolved, no
longer in flux.
But not writing reminds me of death too, or of never
being born. Sentences either fester in my brain like
44

seeds underground or rot like fruits that fall and also

end up underground. Underground, they birth more
plants, which end up underground themselves.
Asking why I write is asking why roots grow
branches. Trees fall and make sounds whether or not
I hear them. The sounds propagate between me and
the trees; the trees and I simply scatter the seeds that
dont wonder why they grow and the sounds that
never wonder if anyone hears.

Su zanna h We i ss

45

KKKK

KKKKKKKK

M IL K L ESS
I hate the word skyscraper. It sounds so mean.
He tells me he was never sad. Cold maybe. And tired.
And broke. Too broke to buy the textbooks or fix
the stovetop or the shutters that banged against the
kettle when the wind blew against the kettle on the
stovetop or treat the measles. Too poor to buy a car.
Too tired to ride the bike. But he had to ride the bike
to get to the library to borrow the textbooks to light
the fire. To get the degree. To light the fire. To boil
the water. Uphill, both ways, in the snow. He studied
physics. Everybody studied physics. This was before
the invention of poetry on that side of the river.
He tells me it is good to be able to fill a room with
what you own and see it all without turning your
head.
He tells me in those days he siphoned gasoline with
his mouth. With his blue lips and yellow teeth and
white tongue, with his mouth. With his cheeks
strained translucent and veined. For his buddys
car with his mouth. All the time. To light the
fire. To boil the water. To sweat out the measles.
47

This was before the invention of Internet articles

that explain how to safely siphon gasoline. This was
between the invention of safety and the invention of
mouths. On that side of the river.
Even young and spotted. Even small and lean, he
loved the smell of gasoline. He loved the word
skyscraper. He thought of a tongue depressor one
hundred stories tall. Say aah. He thought of a big
flat popsicle stick two hundred stories tall. Say aah.
He thought of hot days, hot-hot days, and a popsicle
that is easy. Sweet fruit without the cracking of
pomegranate rind, without the popping out of seeds.
These sounds sick like resetting a bone. No, this
was instant. A dripping popsicle and its stick three
hundred stories tall. Say aah, and scrape away the
white stuff.
Scrape away the white stuff.
Say aah. Scrape away the clouds.
I hate the word skyscraper. It sounds so.
I hate the weeks. I only like the weekends.
I tell him that I am not sad. That I am not sad. Just
that when I am somewhere, I want to be somewhere
else. Just that no matter where I am, as soon as I get
there, I want to be going somewhere else. He tells
me it must be a privilege. To have the time to pay
attention. He tells me that maybe he has been sad,
48

after all, but that he had been using a different word

for it. Mathless. Milkless. On that side of the river.
He tells me that in the coldest months, his grandmother would walk to the barn and find the whitest
milkless cow and slit its throat near the river. Then
she would dig a trench in the snow and bury the
slight, white milkless cow and count two weeks in
chalk on the wall and come back down to the river.
There she would dig up the cow and take a sharpened
knife to the hide and slice one frozen sheet of meat
and rebury the cow near the river. He tells me that in
the coldest months, he had beef popsicles to eat and
if he ever wanted more, he would call to Baba: The
river!
To the river! To cut away the fat. To scrape away the
white stuff. No, this was instant. The kettle red and
screaming. This was before the invention of wanting.
On that side of the river.
They dragged the cows down and carved numbers on
their hooves. They boiled the fat down and carved
symbols onto the candles. Onto the soap and the
candles. On that side of the river. A baby on each
hip. A son or daughter wearing a rabbit fur hat on
each hip. Each hip the bodys knife. Each hip a rescue
flare, each hip the bodys knife.
They burned the barns down and wrote equations
in the ashes. They scraped the sky clean and wrote
Kri st i na Te n

49

equations in the blue. I tell him I want to go there.

To fill the room with pomegranate seeds. To light the
fire. To watch the steam rise. To write poetry on the
window, with my finger. Cold and reaching, a skyscraper, my finger. Write it backwards, so he can read
it, or in symbols. I want to go there.
To go there, and eat, and then wait to get hungry.

50

AAA

M O RR

AAAAAAAAAA

I S O N S D E S E R T L A M E N T

I chose the desert for my setting. For a character,

I chose a man with scruffy facial hair and a long
unwashed lions mane. The man in my story wore
leather pants and snakeskin boots.
Jim Morrison, right?
That might be who youre thinking.
When I was younger and more depressed, when I
drank too much, I tried to act like Jim. I turned my
back to the stage, I walked with a swagger, and I
narrowed my eyes when pop songs became popular.
But Ill never have groupies, Ill never drink a bottle
of Hennessey in a single sitting, and Ill never endure
the desert heat. Ive never eaten peyote and I probably
never will. I want to wear his boots though, and
croon his lyrics.
When I get stuck, I want to reach for his Pamela.
But Ill leave the desert, and those riders on the
storm, to the jukebox heroes.
One time, I ran into Jim at a local dive, and I asked
51

him how he packed so much life into his boozedrenched voice. He looked at me with those sad
beautiful eyes and didnt answer. Instead he called
the bartender over. Another drink for me and my
new friend.
We sat there drinking. The sun faded through the
small square bar windows. Jim finished his drink
and ordered another. I sipped mine, feeling the heat
coming off Jim like he was more than another fading
star. I asked him more questions. I have so many.
How do you know when a song is finished?
How does one become a Shaman?
Why wasnt Pamela enough for him?
This time he did answer. Go to the desert, he said.
You must go to the places you dont ever go. And you
must stay.

52

RRR

RRRRRRRRRRR

FANNY PACK
A S H O R T P L AY

furia and perditaboth extremely ugly and

old femaleslounge in chairs around a table,
blood covering their faces and dribbling down
their front. The table itself is covered in blood and
bits of guts/bones. A fanny pack sits in the center
of the table, on the floor around them are other
pieces of clothing.
perdita
We ought to think about cooking one. Might be a
nice change.
furia
Thatd take forever.
perdita
Not if we cut em up all tiny-like... Add some salt and
spice.
furia
I like em kickin. Otherwise whats the point?
Otherwise we might as well be havin a stinkin
burger.

53

perdita
Yeah... Thats right.... Im just good and thick, thats all
I am....
furia
... Hey, cheer up now, Perdy!
(Taking the fanny pack off the table and strapping it on
her head)
Lookie-here, lookie-at-me, with my fancy bag, just
walking round like I was King o Everything!
Me next!
perdita laughs.
perdita
furia tosses the fanny pack to perdita, she puts it on.
perdita (continued)
Oh yeahand lookie-lookie I dont think no ones
gonna eat me!
furia and perdita erupt with laughter. It takes them
a while to recover.
furia
(Wiping away tears)
Oh now.... Thats good... Oh yeah.
54

perdita
(Throwing the fanny pack across the room)
All this laughins got me hungry again!
Id go for another.
Thinkin mallet or ax?
furia perdita furia
Oh, the mallet. Yes. Makes the meat so nice n tender.
End of play.

Ra ch e l Bu bli t z

55

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