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On her book, The Loss of All Lost Things

 

Interview by Claire Martin

When Amina Gautier released her third short story collection, The Loss of All Lost Things, in 2016, it was quick to gain attention in the fiction community. Gautier continues to provide a refreshing and prolific take on writing short pieces in the midst of a market that seems to be driven almost exclusively by novels. Her subject material ranges from the everyday to the unimaginable, but it is all united under a visceral, inspiring umbrella of human understanding of pain.

Her two earlier collections, At-Risk and Now We Will Be Happy, have both received numerous awards, including the Flannery O’Connor Award and the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Fiction. As a fictional short story writer myself, I was thrilled to be able to sit down and hear about her own approach to storytelling, the modern academic writing community, and bringing her ideas to life.

Claire Martin: Your recent collection, The Loss of All Lost Things, illustrates such a diverse range of material from kidnapping, to librarians, to the streets of Pompeii. What inspired you to bring the stories of all these people together?

Amina Gautier: I’m inspired, simply, to write. The stories sort themselves out into collections much later. I don’t consciously write a story with the intention of placing it in a particular collection; I just write whatever is on my mind, and, later, I look at what I’ve accumulated and take note of what themes are present and which stories seem to speak to one another. That’s how my three short story collections came together. Even though my most recent collection is about loss, some of these stories predate stories in the first two collections. While writing a variety of stories, I kept returning to explorations of loss because the subject is universal—we’ve all experienced loss in some form or another—but our handling of it is unique, individual and particular. That’s what makes it so compelling a topic for me.

CM: You’ve received an M.F.A. as well as a Ph.D. What did you find to be the greatest benefit of pursuing degrees in higher education as a writer?

AG: Actually, I don’t have an M.F.A. degree, just a B.A., two M.A.s, and one Ph.D. I graduated from Stanford in 1999 and aspiring writers weren’t encouraged to immediately pursue M.F.A.s then. The advice I received from multiple sources was cautionary. It warned that there were only a few great M.F.A. programs, that most didn’t offer good funding, that a recent undergrad would be competing with more mature writers who had led full lives and were now returning for the M.F.A. degree, and that it would be better for a beginning writer to go and obtain life experience for a few years while writing privately on one’s own dime, to work up a few strong stories and then consider applying for the M.F.A.

I’d always intended to be a writer, but I was a poor kid from rent-controlled housing in Brooklyn, and the path laid out in that advice would have caused me too many financial burdens. I believed pursuing a Ph.D. in literature and thus committing to six years of formal, dedicated study would in no ways harm my talent as a writer. Furthermore, I believed that it would make me a better writer by putting me in conversation with literary history and scholarship.

Obtaining a Ph.D. in literature allowed me to not just be a voice in the literary conversation, but to understand all of the voices speaking in that conversation. It has given my work depth and subtlety, which is not always comprehended upon the first read, but which becomes more apparent with further study. For example, my first collection At-Risk makes references to Emmett Till, minstrelsy, the performance of blackness, the law of hypodescent, and Milton’s Paradise Lost and my newest collection The Loss of All Lost Things references the Trojan War, the destruction of Pompeii, marital rape, suicide, degenerative diseases, and Trayvon Martin, but the treatment is subtle and nuanced so that most of these references would only be picked up on by the most astute reader.

CM: Your emphasis on short story writing is something I appreciate seeing in a market that’s usually driven by novels. What is it about writing short stories that speaks to you most?

AG: When I was a child, there was a commercial for Tootsie Rolls that aired on television and its jingle went like this, “Whatever it is I think I see becomes a Tootsie Roll to me!” The commercial featured kids playing and everything they saw turned into a Tootsie Roll. That’s how I feel about short stories. The world I see looks like a short story to me. Everywhere I look, I see short stories. Short stories mirror my reality. Many novels tend to be definitive; at their conclusions they often suggest that the action has been completed and that there is no more to be said. That’s not what the world looks like to me. To me, nothing ever seems to be completely finished or all the way closed.

People come to certain conclusions or live by certain beliefs, and then some new piece of information is presented, or some new experience is had that causes them to draw different conclusions. People are always changing, growing, shifting, and never sitting still. Human resolutions are temporary, often offering knowing that is fleeting or tied to a specific moment in time or set of events—just like the resolutions in short stories. When you write a short story, you allow the reader to drop in on characters and get to know them at that moment, but there is always an understanding that you could pop back in on them at a later date and they might be very different people.

CM: What, if anything, do you find to be the most important aspect of making a good short story land?

AG: Heart. I have read many short stories that were technically “good” i.e. they were mechanically clean and they featured all the necessary parts by which we come to recognize a short story—inciting incident, conflict, rising action, denouement, etc. but they fell flat because it seemed that the writers did not actually care about the characters. The characters don’t seem real; they read like types. It is as if they exist on the page only to prove a certain point and once they have done so, the story is over. Somewhere in the process of writing, you have to arrive at the point where you genuinely care about the characters. I do not mean that you have to “like” them or make them “likable.” What I am talking about is an investment of caring. Because you are a human being and your characters are based on human beings, there is a natural affinity between yourself and the characters about which you write; therefore, you should care about them. If you are going to kill off one of your characters, they should not die merely as plot fodder. You should feel their death and it should hurt you. You should grieve and mourn them.

I am not a writer who composes bubbly stories full of rainbows and happy endings; most of my stories are dark or sad and many of my characters are in pain. I feel their pain. In my first book At-Risk, two young boys are killed in an accidental homicide (death by stray bullets); in Now We Will Be Happy, a woman is a victim of domestic abuse, and in The Loss of All Lost Things, a young boy is abducted by a sexual predator. None of these stories were easy for me to write. I did not dash them off without a care. I almost didn’t write them, believing that there was already enough violence and sadness out there in the real world. But I did write them.

Each of those three stories took me years to complete because I cared so deeply about my characters. When writing, there were moments when I felt sick to my stomach and had to stop mid-page because I was crying too much, times when the research was too sickening and graphic and I couldn’t bear to read or watch anymore—I’d have to step away from the stories for months at a time to give my spirit a break. It’s true, they are only characters—they’re not real people, but they deserve to be written with care. You should care about who they are and what they will or will not do and how these actions might affect them for better or worse. Otherwise, why are you writing about them in the first place?

CM: After teaching at institutions like DePaul University and University of Miami, have you found that being an educator has helped your own writing in any way?

AG: Absolutely. Teaching helps keep me engaged and tuned in. I’ve been writing seriously for quite some time now—about seventeen years. As a result, much of my formal training has been forgotten or become second nature to me. When I first started writing, I used to think of stories in terms of their parts and components and I used to revise with attention to certain craft aspects and details i.e. I’d look at the dialogue, and then the setting, etc. But now, writing is second nature to me. I’ve arrived at that stage where I know what I know without knowing how I know it. Since teaching creative writing makes it necessary for me to deconstruct stories, to explain and discuss them one craft element at a time, it helps me to articulate that which I otherwise wouldn’t.

My students also inspire me. I talk to them about what they are reading, why they like certain stories, and in doing so I am sometimes introduced to literature of which I was previously unaware. One student expressed an interest in Japanese literature and culture, which inspired me to supplement the syllabus with short stories by Hisaye Yamamoto and Yukio Mishima. One student introduced me to Lucia Berlin’s story “Friendship” last year, which I greatly enjoyed. As a result of that, I bought Berlin’s collected works and have been working my way through it. I am definitely the richer for these stories making their way into my life.

CM: How do you balance teaching and still managing to write? What does your process look like?

AG: I am learning that this is an ever-evolving process. Teaching creative writing is both an inspiring and time-consuming process. What’s inspiring about it is that you get to discuss writing and literature in an animated and impassioned way with people who care as deeply as you do about the subject matter. A creative writing workshop is a room full of people who “get it”—who get that writing is important, affirming, and sustaining, who understand that writing takes time, effort, revision, and care. For those who often have to defend their avocation, it’s exciting and inspiring to have the ability to convey your passion, joy, and insight to people who actually want to receive it. So, the teaching of creative writing—the discussions and the re-reading of published stories, and novellas I admire—gets me gung-ho to come home and write until my fingers throb and the letters on my keyboard fade to smudges.

However, there’s also the time-consuming part i.e. the amount of time and care that goes into preparing each individual critique for workshop. Once the workshop portion of the course begins, it is a dizzying whirl of reading, responding, and critiquing, which often leaves little to no time to work on one’s own writing. This varies from writer to writer. Many writers work best by carving out an hour or two per day to devote to their own writing, but that doesn’t actually work for me. I prefer large blocks of uninterrupted time for writing and I consider the first two hours of my writing day to be more like sloughing or exfoliating—a chance to write poorly, adverbially even, to rid myself of whatever bad habits or clichés reside in me—to get rid of obvious sentences or details so that I can get to the good stuff underneath, to write my way into a sweet spot where I can remain ensconced for a few hours or days until my brain needs a break and I return to the mundane world while my mind replenishes its creativity.

This has become harder and harder to do because of both my teaching and book touring schedule, so for the past two years what I have done is build my stories during the semesters i.e. write snippets of them in notebooks, etc. and let them simmer, and then I gift myself with writing residencies during the summer breaks, where I can write and revise without interruption and bring my ideas to fruition. During the semester, I give my students their time and during the breaks I give my writing its time. Finding balance is an ongoing enterprise, but what I’ve described is the current method that presently works for me.

CM: Are you involved in any writing communities, and if so, have you found collaborating with other writers to be beneficial?

AG: I have participated in many writing conferences and residencies, such as Breadloaf, Callaloo, Hurston/Wright, MacDowell, Ragdale, and Ucross and I still consider myself to be a part of those communities. Additionally, I am a member of Kimbilio, and a Staff Member for the Sewanee Writers Conference, both of which are very important to me and in which I am deeply invested.

For writers who don’t have the luxury to go away for weeks or months to attend the conferences and residencies above, there is also that literary mecca—AWP. Some writers find AWP to be overwhelming because the conference has grown to such large proportions, but attending AWP is one of the highlights of my year. I look forward to going with the same type of fervor someone else might save for a rock concert. It’s a gathering of the tribe—a four-day respite from a world in which your words have to be translated, a chance to be in a place where everyone speaks your language. AWP is loud and raucous. It’s big; it’s unwieldy, yet it soothes me.

The idea that there is a conference for writers that draws 15,000-20,000 people does not intimidate or overwhelm me; it makes me proud and super happy that there are that many of us out there and that we have a place where we can come together and find each other, and that in that place and during that time, our interactions with one another can give us the strength to sustain ourselves as writers for the rest of the year and until we meet again.

While I don’t collaborate in the sense of engaging in a joint publishing venture with other writers, I do commune with other writers and that is of great benefit to me. I find it to be not only beneficial, but necessary to my sanity.

CM: All of the characters in The Loss of All Lost Things are animated with such relatable, real motives. In writing these people, were there any that you found yourself sympathizing with more than others?

AG: If I am going to write about a character, I have to be able to sympathize with him or her. I have to be able to sympathize with and understand all of the characters in any given story I am writing. I do not have to like any of them or condone their actions, but I do have to know from where they are coming. Although the reader may do so, I cannot sympathize with one character more than another because if I am doing so, that is a signal that my work is not yet done and the story is not yet complete, and I will have to continue revising toward a better understanding of all of the characters.

CM: What would be the best piece of advice that you could have received when you finished your undergraduate degree and entered the writing world?

AG: From Peter Rock and Samantha Chang, respectively, I received two of the best pieces of advice when I finished my undergraduate degree and was preparing to enter the writing world. First, I was told to write ten publishable stories before I submitted the first one for publication. Second, I was told to collect rejections i.e. to make a game out of getting them. Those two pieces of advice have been worth their weight in gold.

They prevented me from falling into the “write one, send one” trap into which I’ve seen so many writers fall. These writers get so engrossed in following the progress of the story they’ve completed that it gets in the way of them producing more work or different work. They wait for an acceptance or a rejection on that story before they complete another. Receiving a rejection letter sends them into a funk and they don’t write anything else for a long time, or if they do have something else completed, they become so scared of rejection that they won’t send it out. Or, conversely, their story gets accepted and they use that as a form of positive reinforcement to keep writing slightly different versions of the same story in the hopes that they will garner more acceptances, thus limiting their growth as a writer and restricting the breadth and depth of their talent. The advice I received taught me to sidestep that trap. I don’t care about rejections. I mean, I am human and rejections do bother me, but they don’t set me back or change my course. I get annoyed for about fifteen to thirty minutes when one comes my way, and then I get back to work.

Amina Gautier is the author of three award-winning short story collections: At-Risk, Now We Will Be Happy and The Loss of All Lost Things. At-Risk was awarded the Flannery O’Connor Award, The First Horizon Award, and the Eric Hoffer Legacy Fiction Award. Now We Will Be Happy was awarded the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Fiction, the International Latino Book Award, the Florida Authors and Publishers Association President’s Book Award, a National Silver Medal IPPY Award, and was a Finalist for the William Saroyan International Prize. The Loss of All Lost Things was awarded the Elixir Press Award in Fiction, the Royal Palm Literary Award, and the Chicago Public Library’s 21st Century Award. More than ninety of her stories have been published, appearing in Agni, Callaloo, Glimmer Train, Iowa Review, Prairie Schooner, Southern Review, and Quarterly West. Gautier has won the Crazyhorse Prize, Danahy Fiction Prize, the Jack Dyer Prize, the William Richey Prize, the Schlafly Microfiction Award, and the Lamar York Prize in Fiction and received fellowships and scholarships from Breadloaf Writer’s Conference, Dora Maar, Disquiet International, Hawthornden, MacDowell Colony, the Ragdale Foundation, Sewanee Writer’s Conference, Ucross Foundation, and Vermont Studio Center. She is a graduate of Stanford University and the University of Pennsylvania.

Claire Martin is studying Fiction Writing at Columbia College Chicago.  You can find her working on creative essays, wandering through Printer’s Row after hours, and becoming fully nocturnal.

April 03, 2017

Tags: Amina Gautier, Claire Martin, Interviews Editor, Author Interviews, Short Stories, Short Story Writing, Sympathetic Characters, Empathy, Writing Fully Realized Characters, Fellowships, Residences, Teaching Creative Writing, Teaching and Writing, Writing Process, Finding Balance, Benefits of PhD, Advice for Writers

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Author of A Bitter Pill to Swallow

 

Interviewed by Will Haryanto

Tiffany Gholar and I met during the last day of the Chicago Writers Conference 2016. We rode on the same bus and talked about writing, specifically self-publishing. She knew what she was talking about when she published her own art books on Amazon. It was all about getting it out there and making sure people saw it as much as possible. Tiffany talked about the costs it took to publish the books and much more.

The discussion fascinated me and we got in contact again months later. By that point, she had finally published A Bitter Pill to Swallow and attended radio shows to promote the book. When I interviewed her for the book, she told me that the book had won the Chicago Writers Association Book of the Year Award for Fiction, Non-Traditionally Published.

We like to think that once a manuscript is written, everything is done and we can leave it to the gods and stars to finish the work. But that’s not always the case and certainly not in the realm of self-publishing. It takes great effort to have even one person read a self-published book. I hope this interview will shed some light on the lesser known feats of self-published writers.

 Will Haryanto: What made you write A Bitter Pill to Swallow?

 Tiffany Gholar: I was actually just fourteen years old when I wrote the short story (on pink notebook paper with purple ink) that would become A Bitter Pill to Swallow. Without giving too much away, I will say that I began with one of my plot twists in mind as I devised “what if” scenarios in my creative writing class. I was about to start high school and had spent seventh and eighth grade getting dropped off by my school bus at a library that had a large collection of books about African-American teens, but I didn’t see myself in most of them. The primary struggles the characters faced in those books involved issues of racial identity or civil rights, which felt somewhat limiting to me. Of course these are important issues, but what about adventure, suspense, romance, mystery, suspense, or science fiction? I saw A Bitter Pill to Swallow as the book I wanted to read that no one else had written yet. Over time, it grew into a novel.

WH: Are any of the characters and events based on real life? 

TG: The situation that happened to Devante and Monica was based on something that actually happened here in Chicago in the early ’90s. I read about it in the newspaper when I was a young teen and it stayed with me.

When I was in college, I was surrounded by Black women who were pre-med, and their experiences helped to inform Gail’s character.

 WH: How much research did you do before you wrote the book? Or were you researching while writing the book?

TG: From the time I was in high school, I took psychology classes and read books and articles in my free time. Before I began working on the latest version of the story, I committed myself to watching as many films as I could about people who were being treated for mental illnesses in institutional settings and reading over thirty books. I took a lot of notes. I also gleaned what I could from friends who opened up to me about what they had experienced during inpatient treatment. The biggest turning point in my research was when I visited the Orthogenic School at the University of Chicago, a therapeutic boarding school that was the inspiration for the Harrison School in the book. It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen, and was the opposite of the desolate and decrepit institutions I encountered in books and films. I also talked to a good friend of mine who is a doctor now to get insight into what Gail’s experiences in medical school might have been like, as well as to my own therapist about what he enjoys about his work.

WH: What was the hardest part about writing the story?

TG: The process of writing A Bitter Pill to Swallow was a difficult one to begin with. I had to constantly fight against my own self-doubt. I sometimes made the mistake of showing the wrong draft to the wrong person at the wrong time, and getting feedback that made me want to give up. I worked on it throughout high school and college, where I adapted it into a screenplay for my thesis project.

 The hardest part about writing it was deciding what kind of story I wanted to tell. Initially, I had envisioned it as a suspense thriller, but as I got older I felt as though some of my plot elements were trite and unrealistic. Then, after I visited the Orthogenic School my senior year of college, I realized that was the kind of setting I wanted, an environment that was positive and healing. I had to sit with that epiphany for nearly a decade before I found a premise that would work. But once I figured it out, the process of writing became much easier. I could envision the setting and my characters more clearly than ever before. Within two years I had written an outline, the screenplay, and the novel. 

WH:  How did you edit the story?

 TG: I sent my third draft to several beta readers, made some additional revisions over several months, then hired a professional to do line editing.

WH:  Why did you self-publish this book? (What was the reason why you forwent traditional publishing outlets?)

TG: I had an extremely difficult time getting an agent, and none of the small presses I contacted ever got back to me. Rather than wait indefinitely on other people, I decided to move forward with publishing my book independently. This was not my first time publishing my own book. Before A Bitter Pill to Swallow, I published three books about my artwork, so I was familiar with the process.

WH:  What is the process of self-publishing like to you? 

TG: At times it’s stressful, but the greatest reward is the creative control. In this case, I had the opportunity to use my artistic skills to create my own cover art. I spent a few months working on cover designs and ultimately decided to make four different covers, three of which single out my main characters. There are two ways I look at independent publishing: “I get to do everything!” Also, “I have to do everything!” Although, I didn’t really have to do everything. I delegated the tasks I could not do myself to others who could. The print-on-demand technology we have continues to improve and makes it so much easier for authors to share their work with audiences all over the world, which makes the process much easier.

WH: On the Amazon page, you have put the School Library Journal‘s review of the book. While it is positive, the reviewer is also critical about the writing. It seems you have left this review intact on the product information. What made you decide to put that in?

TG: I actually didn’t put that review there. Amazon did, unfortunately. I am trying to figure out what to do about it. On the one hand, I think that many potential readers would consider a School Library Journal review more prestigious than a review from a blogger. On the other hand, it’s a mixed review. I’m torn. It frustrates me, because I feel as though the reviewer sees things that I did intentionally as a mistake that I made because this is my first novel.

WH: Are there any future projects that you are working on? Any interest in working with a publisher?

TG: I have recently started doing illustration work for two independent authors who are publishing children’s books. One should be coming out very soon. I have really enjoyed illustrating and would love to work with a publisher. I am also planning to independently publish my next art book in 2018.

 WH: And lastly, what is some advice you’d like to give to aspiring writers?

TG: I have several pieces of advice to share:

• If you are publishing independently, make sure that you hire the right editor. The wrong editor can completely sabotage your creative process. Try to get as many sample edits as you can and don’t work with an editor unless you feel truly comfortable with that person. It’s a very important relationship.

• If you have an idea for a story that you could see as both a movie and a book, write the screenplay first. Then when you write it as a novel, you get to add extra scenes. It is so much less stressful than trying to cut scenes out to do an adaptation.

• Give yourself time between completing a draft and editing it. Two weeks to a month, if possible, will allow you to look at it with a new perspective.

February 20, 2017

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Writing about the art of breaking up

 

Interviewed by Karina Corona

There is nothing is more human than the experience and emotions that follow a break up. In our age of disconnect, the act of breaking up is no longer a simple good bye and good day. Whether you’re the one dumping or getting dumped, when it comes to relationships—be it one of a few years, months, or even weeks—one things is certain: things are bound to get weird. 

Michael Czyzniejewski is a master in the art of breaking up, or at least when it comes to writing about it. His book, I Will Love You For the Rest of My Life, is a collection of short stories regarding the dark and sometimes strange occurrences before, during, and after a break up. 

Hair Trigger had to opportunity to talk with Czyzniejewski about his book and more importantly, the proper pronunciation of his last name. 

Karina Corona: In the dedication, you dedicate this book to Karen who “didn’t inspire a single word of this book.” Who is Karen?

Michael Czyzniejewski: Karen is my non-breakup, the one who didn’t get away, the one who I truly love for the rest of my life. My first two books were dedicated to my parents, one each, and it was basically going to be her for book three. Sadly, the third book was all about sadness and the end of relationships, so I almost dedicated it to all my ex-girlfriends and was going to put their Facebook page urls so people who read my book could either congratulate them on moving on from me or tell them how foolish they were, depending on how they liked my book. But then I thought of a way to shoehorn Karen in, make it sweet, make her melt. Next two books will be my two kids, then my cat, then probably something abstract like punk rock or ennui. And if I write more books than that, I’ll either have to get married again (bigamy, because again, Karen = rest of life), have more kids, or something I haven’t thought of. Is Jodie Foster a cliché?

KC: Who or what did inspire you to write break-up stories?

MC: Stories always need conflict, and for some reason, the conflict I was always going to was the trouble that relationships were having. I guess that the “for some reason” is what you’re really asking for, but that’s the best I got: I wrote plots and conflicts around people’s lives falling apart in that way. I realize that a lot of stories have another conflict, another plot, AND a relationship in the background, but I haven’t gotten there yet. I’m working on a novel, without any love yet, and now maybe I just thought of my next forty pages.

KC: Some of these stories sound extremely intimate, as though they were taken directly from someone’s private journal. Are any of these stories inspired from reality?

MC: One story in particular is inspired by an ex, but only marginally. It’s the Ding Dong story. While Ding Dongs, or snack cakes in general, weren’t involved, the dynamic of the relationship—how I felt during it, how I see myself as being treated—was straight from., pain). But otherwise, I just made a lot of them up, imagined how and why people hurt each other. It was hard at first, but then easy, because hurting itself is pretty easy, can be accomplished in so many ways.

KC: I understand you’re from Chicago and while reading your book, the overall feeling was very much the feeling of Chicago—shifting in mood and tone much like the shifting weather here—but the location where these stories take place is never a thing which is mentioned. Was this something intentional or is it just second nature?

MC: Both. I’ve never really thought of setting in the way that someone like Rick Bass or E. Annie Prouix does. Or most writers. It’s for the same reasons I tend to not describe my characters—except in the grotesque sense—or give them ages or races: I want my stories to be more universal, as if they could happen anywhere, to anyone. I think I’ve succeeded in that, too. Donald Barthelme is a huge influence on me and when I think about it, none of those stories have a particular place, or descriptions of the weather or geography. Would I like to be better at that? Sure. But I don’t feel bad that I’ve left it off—you telling me that you feel like they feel Chicago makes me glad. Had you said, “Prague” or “Provo” I would have wondered what was causing that. I’ve never been to either. (Now I want to write a story set in Provo.)

KC: It’s always fun to come across writing that feels new and fresh. How did you come up with “The Braxton-Carter-Vandamme-Myers-Braxton-Carter Divorce: An Outline”?

MC: I really wanted this book to take chances, to do things I’ve never done, or maybe that no one’s ever done, and the best way to do that is experiment with form; it wasn’t like I was going to make up some new kind of suffering or heartbreak for people to endure, as you either lose someone or you don’t, through your fault or theirs (or death, I guess). So I thought about stories I’ve read, different forms, and I remember index stories and columned stories and all kinds of epistolaries, even what Dave Eggers does with the legal pages and other front and back material in his memoir, Heartbreaking Working of Staggering Genius. But I hadn’t seen anyone write a story as an outline and turn it in as the finished product (I made sure when I sent the manuscript to my editor that he knew it wasn’t an in-progress piece, but what I wanted it to look like), even though, ironically, a lot of writers have that version, because they start with an outline, or get to one at some point. I wish I’d done more of that, more forms, as so many people ask me about that story.

KC: Finally, how do you pronounce your last name?

MC: Easy: Exactly how it’s spelled.

To purchase “I Will Love You For the Rest of My Life: Breakup Stories” visit Curbside Splendor

December 19, 2016

Tags: Karina Corona, Michael Czyzniejewski, I Will Love You For the Rest of My Life, Short Stories, Interview

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Scott reveals Brains behind horror writing

 

Interview by Ben Kowalski

Scott Kenemore shambled into the world of horror writing with his 2007 satire The Zen of Zombie: Better Living through the Undead. Now the author of four horror novels, five zombie-themed satires, and 2011’s Zombies vs. Nazis—which is listed as an “unclassifiable found-document” on his website—Kenemore has made a name for himself in both zombie-themed and general horror writing.

Hair Trigger had the opportunity to speak with Scott Kenemore about his literary inspirations, his view of zombies, and his creative process.

Ben Kowalski: How did you first enter the world of horror and zombie writing?

Scott Kenemore: I’ve always liked horror. I think the formative moment in my life was being about 10 years-old, riding my bicycle to the public library and checking out a book by H.P. Lovecraft—who is my favorite writer now. I had sort of heard about [him] in connection to things like roleplaying games and was oddly curious because I never liked scary stories. They had one of his books. I took it down at the library and I read the first two stories, which were “In the Vault” and “Pickman’s Model.” I remember putting the book down and thinking, “This might be the best thing that anyone ever did, ever. I know I’m a dumb 10-year-old—I don’t know much about the world—but I feel pretty confident this is the best thing anyone ever did ever.” I’ve largely continued to feel that way as an adult.

BK: How has your view of zombies changed since you began writing about them?

SK: Being someone who does something creative with zombies has given me a better sense of how elastic they can be. I have noticed that some of the works of art involving zombies that are my favorites and mean the most to me were made by people who were taking a chance and, if not breaking the rules, bending rules.

I really like, for example, [The] Return of the Living Dead, my favorite zombie film. That’s the first film [where] zombies say “Braaaiiiins.” It’s just delightful but so much of it is risk-taking. Dan O’Bannon, the writer/director [came] up with a coherent story for where zombies came from, [tied] in Night of the Living Dead to the mythology of [The] Return of the Living Dead, [came] up with zombies wanting to eat brains, why zombies want to eat brains, [and] new rules to what can and can’t kill a zombie—really interesting stuff. 

I would say my favorite zombie short story is “What Maisie Knew” by Davis Liss. In his world, zombies can remember a little bit about their former selves when they are either in extreme pain or having sexual intercourse. The way he uses that in fiction to create a world where zombies hungering after a little slice of their own former consciousness—or consciousnesses—is awesome. I came to identify a little bit with the people who may don’t totally reinvent zombies, but bend rules in the service of being creative.

BK: You’ve written both zombie satire and zombie horror. How do those writing processes differ for you?

SK: Those tend to come from me personally feeling hatred and contempt for other people and thinking [things] suck. At least, that I could be doing a better job of them or that they deserve to be made fun of. If I think they deserve to be made fun of, then I will go with satire. If I think, “God, this guy f—-n’ sucks, this gal f—-n’ sucks,” then it becomes the motivation to do my own creative work and try to do a better job than what I’ve just read.

BK: Your most recent novel, The Grand Hotel, is a collection of interconnected short stories and a departure from zombies. Can you tell me more about that?

SK: I don’t only write about zombies. There is what you write and there is what gets published, and yet, readers only see what gets published. I also write horror fiction and straight-up scary stories, but that sometimes is a little bit trickier. I feel like I’m mostly a zombie guy. 

I’ve always loved collections of short stories and loved when they were interconnected—it was this little world. I was getting dinner along Demott Avenue in Chicago, and something I do when either I’m early or other people are late, is browse the curiosity shops and book shops along Demott Avenue. There are a lot of English language books for sale in these stores that are imported from India for English-speaking Indian audiences. One of the books I came across was something totally new to me: The Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie by Sivadasa, a story cycle from ancient India that was written down several hundred years ago but probably existed orally before that. I love the idea that this was something that had been updated and changed. [It] showed that interconnected story cycles were elastic and created people that played with and found certain uses for it again and again. It was really interesting and I wanted to do something with [it] in a cultural appropriation sort of way. I looked at what I thought was interesting about it and it was sort of the inspiration for The Grand Hotel. If anyone reads The Grand Hotel [and] the only thing they take from it is [that] they get curious about The Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie, then I did something good.

BK: What would you say is your favorite aspect of the horror genre and the process of writing it?

SK: An important function—maybe the most important function—of good horror is that it makes you question what you know. As Freud identifies in his essay “The Uncanny,” [he] says that the root of all uncanny horror is that we are realizing that something we thought we knew for sure, we don’t know for sure, or [somewhere] that we thought was a safe place is not a safe place. 

Not all horror does that—some horror is just about creating likable characters and putting them into danger—but the best horror, the horror that keeps me writing, makes us ask: “Do we really know things for sure? Do we really know—in the case of a zombie outbreak, say—how we would act during a crisis? Do we really know how other people would act during a crisis?” I can make people question things like, “What would community mean during a crisis?” or, “What would working together mean during a crisis?” For me, those are really interesting questions that keep me interested in horror.

BK: Is there anything you’d like to add?

SK: If younger people are reading this interview that are doing something creative, if you are interested in writing about horror [or] zombies: Come on in, the water’s warm. There’s a lot of interesting stuff still to be written. With respect to all the people who are working in the genre now, I think a lot of us feel like the great zombie novel still has yet to be written. Maybe you could be the person to do that. If you’re interested in zombies, if you’re interested in that kind of horror, absolutely go for it and do something creative. 

Visit Scott Kenemore’s site here.

Ben Kowalski is a BA Nonfiction senior at Columbia College Chicago, creative nonfiction writer, copy editor and contributor at the award-winning Columbia Chronicle (2015), and music critic at Pop’stache.com (2014–2015). Ben is currently working on an essay collection about music, and his album reviews can be found at http://popstache.com/author/bkowalski/.

December 12, 2016

Tags: Interview, Scott Kenemore, Ben Kowalski, Fiction, The Zen of Zombie, Zombies vs. Nazis

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Fall, 2019: A Student Anthology

 

Talia Wright

          Library Locks of Honeycomb

Natalie Benson-Greer

          Backwoods

Mulan Matthayasack

          À Maman: Make Believe

Kinsey Herzog

          How to Make Jell-O Shots

Carolyn Boykin

          Perverse Spirits

Katori Hinton

          Joe & Patricia

Corrin Bronersky

          Mom

Alexis Bowe

          Behind Closed Doors

Arely Anaya

          Feeling Poopy

---

Library Locks of Honeycomb

 

She can hear voices from the inside of her greenhouse-library. They’re quick and fast, as if they’re arguing, and it makes her smile. Young people keep the space alive; she knows.

It’s in their energy—it’s in the way they move their hands. It’s in the way they’re always fighting. Fighting each other. Fighting God. Fighting to be. It’s the way they’re always fighting, and Louisa Marie can hear their voices from the inside of her sanctuary.

And she wants to know more.

Louisa Marie hasn’t had a glimpse of her greenhouse in years, and she’s missed it dearly. Now, she stands in front of its aged glass and domed top. She takes a breath as memories come flooding back. This place feels like praying. It feels like washing your face with warm water after a long day. It feels like a living, warm thing.

Baby’s breath greets her at the entrance, their tiny white heads swaying in the wind and bending to kiss her ankles. Bees and butterflies sing to her around her body; their buzzing chorus brings her back to when she was young, when her hands plunged into deep ground. Louisa Marie sighs again, remembering the way damp earth felt around her fingertips, and how green vines gave life to pink goodness. In front of this patch of land, she once grew strawberries.

A light goes on in the greenhouse, and Louisa Marie looks up. It’s nearing sunset, and indigo is moving across the sky quite comfortably. Louisa Marie can see the shadows of their bodies against the orange-green glow of the windows.

It’s time to go in, she thinks to herself, aware that her time is limited. She can’t remain rooted in this spot forever, she knows.

The door isn’t quite shut all the way, and Louisa Marie eases it open with the toe of her sandal, a movement that’s muscle memory by now. In her right arm, she holds an armful of eucalyptus, and the smell of it wafts around her so pleasantly that she sighs wistfully. Eucalyptus has always been a calming scent of cool mint and honey that could lull her to peace. In her left arm, she holds an old, wrinkled leather journal, stuffed to the brim with yellowed newspaper and sticky notes. The newspaper has words written in watery red ink between the lines. There’s so much runny writing between the columns that the color has slipped from the page and stained the corners pink.

She knows her comments will still be legible, though, wouldn’t be magic if they weren’t.

As she walks into her greenhouse, she mutters, “Now is the time for this,” and doesn’t doubt herself one bit. “There’s a necromancer here, so this must be the time.” That was part of the curse. After all, why else would she feel called back to this space after all these years? This has to be right.

A newly realized necromancer appears in the town of Old Meridian almost every twenty years, and thus, will either fulfill or commence the curse. The curse says that the necromancer will form a coven, and that coven will receive a book of spells from someone with whom the curse had once affected. Louisa Marie. This is why she is back.

Louisa Marie knows that this is how karmic cycles work; she just wishes that her grandchild didn’t have to be part of it.

She enters the greenhouse undetected. Her grandchild and their friend are busy trying to figure out the universe, or at least, the town, and she can understand the concern that lays under their tongues, and she can understand the fear, too. She can hear the stress in their voices from the doorway.

She quietly moves further into the greenhouse and lets her eyes rest on the scene. Mica is holding an aloe vera leaf in their hand and is waving it around as they talk. There’s a knife—one of her old ones—resting on the table, covered in plant gel.

Louisa Marie smiles at the sight of Mica. She hasn’t seen them in almost four years, and my, have they grown. They’re all long limbs and brown skin. All tattoos and angles. Their eyes are dark and sharp, with eyelashes so heavy that Louisa Marie is surprised that they can keep their eyes open. But they’re focused. They’re studying the other one, the one that’s called Abel.

But Louisa Marie can’t focus on that one quite yet. She’s watching Mica. Watching how their cheeks fill with pink. Watching how the light hits their gold cross earrings. Louisa Marie even notices the beginnings of curls—they’ve shaved their head again—but she can see the kinks forming in acts of resistance. They smile at Abel, and Louisa Marie can see herself, and her daughter, in them.

For a second, she is terribly sad and terribly nostalgic. Blue washes through her like she’d just walked through a rain cloud. She misses her grandchildren. She misses teaching them. She misses loving them. She misses being alive.

And she misses her books. All around Mica and Abel are stacks and stacks of books. There are books sitting on the countertops, in piles on the chairs, and stacked on the floors. It looks like they’ve been left open, some leafed through with vigor, but some have never been open. In the back of her greenhouse, she notices gaps on the shelves where these books had been taken, and they’ve amassed throughout the greenhouse.

“It’s not this one either,” Mica says, pointing at a book with a tip of the aloe plant. They sigh, dropping the plant atop the book and turning to pick up another, a larger one bound with green lokta paper. Louisa Marie remembers binding that one herself and knows that it is not what they’re looking for. “And Cleo hasn’t had any luck either?”

“No,” the other one, Abel, says, waving his cell phone vaguely. “She’s been texting me.” He laughs then, mid-sentence, and Louisa Marie watches a dimple appear in his left cheek. “She keeps complaining about all of the eerie antiques in her grandmother’s reading room. She says Bee’s no help—she passed out on the couch.”

Mica rolls their eyes and grabs another stack of books. “It’s not funny, Abel,” they say. “None of you understand this. None of you have heard the things my grandmother told me about this town. We need the spell book to protect ourselves. Are you sure your mom doesn’t have any books like these?”

Abel shakes his head, the smile sliding off his face from the hardness in Mica’s gaze. It was then that Louisa Marie got to take a good look at him. He’s got deep brown skin and browner eyes to match. His eyes are keen and focused on the material in front of him, but every couple of minutes he has to pull a short brown dreadlock from out of his face.

“My mom doesn’t know anything about this kind of stuff,” Abel says. “She probably doesn’t even know what a necromancer is.”

Now, this is a boy. This is a boy with a gift, she thinks. Abel sits in her wooden chair with his leg propped up on a stool and several books on his lap. His eyebrows come together to form a tiny ‘v’ on his forehead as he flips through pages. He shakes his head when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Mica puts another book in his lap.

They’ve been searching quite some time, Louisa Marie thinks. She wonders how long. She wonders why it’s now that she’s been called to pass on this knowledge. Finally, she places her belongings down on the table to make her presence known.

Abel looks right at her.

“Hello, Abel,” Louisa Marie says, smiling. When she does, she feels her dreadlocks begin to grow down her long, straight back. They twist and turn into each other, falling a half-inch longer than they had before. Her timer has started—she hasn’t much time.

Abel doesn’t move or make a sound. His eyes dart suspiciously between Mica and Louisa Marie, his brows furrowing even more. Louisa Marie thinks that he looks like a young doe, standing in the middle of an intersection, and it almost amuses her. On the counter next to her journal, the eucalyptus plant begins to grow toward the ceiling.

“You are Abel, right?” Louisa Marie repeats, ages of wisdom and patience behind her voice. Her voice feels scratchy in her throat, and she realizes that this is the first time she’s spoken in years.

Abel looks down at his chest as if to say, who, me?  When he looks up again, his owlish gaze doesn’t leave the sight of the top of her head. Louisa Marie has a silver crown of wispy hairs and curls that frame and brighten her face. She looks as if she were lit by a halo.

She feels her locks loop together. They grow in waves down her back. She doesn’t have time to think about this. Louisa Marie picks up the journal with an old, wrinkled hand, and holds it out to Abel. “You must be the necromancer,” Louisa Marie states, holding the journal out with one shaky hand. It’s her bad hand, and whenever she holds it out for too long, pain begins to shoot up her wrists and veins like tiny firecrackers going off inside of her. An old, magic-related injury. “I’ve been made to bring this to you.”

Abel doesn’t move from his spot. “Been made?” he repeats.

“What?” Mica cuts in, their voice like a rusty blade slicing through a sheet of crisp paper. Louisa Marie almost forgot that they are there. There’s a wiry crack in Mica’s voice that makes it painful to hear. “What are you looking at?”

Louisa Marie turns her head slightly to the left to catch a glance of her grandchild again. Mica is standing next to Abel with a deep frown painting their face pink. Their knuckles are squeezed tight around the spine of a book—so tight, their knuckles go white. They stare forward into the shop, looking right through Louisa Marie.

“There’s a woman—” Abel starts.

But Louisa Marie cuts him off. “We don’t have time for introductions,” she says, trying to be gentle, but she can feel her locks growing and knows that the honeycomb that lives in her hair is starting to drip. She can feel the honey slide behind her ear and run down the back of her neck. This isn’t good, she thinks. A eucalyptus leaf floats to the floor. She uses her left arm to thrust the journal out again. “Take this.”

Louisa Marie has been summoned from some of her favorite things: eucalyptus, warm things, and bees. So when bees begin to manifest from her fingertips, she knows that time is ticking away faster than she had expected. They zip around her outstretched arm, all the way to the journal that Abel is refusing to touch. Louisa Marie lets it drop back onto the counter.

“A woman?” Mica has turned ashen pale, hands outstretched, palms up as if waiting to receive something or surrendering. “Describe her to me.”

“She’s got deep brown skin,” Abel says. He’s turned away from Louisa Marie now and is focused on Mica. “So dark—almost blue-toned. She has round small eyes . . . kind of like yours, but darker brown. And these long, long dreadlocks that go down her back.”

Louisa Marie feels her locks grow just past her butt, and the eucalyptus on the counter crawls to join them. A golden bumblebee rests, for a moment, on her nose before she wrinkles it. When it flies away, Louisa Marie takes a step forward to get Abel’s attention.

“They know who I am,” Louisa Marie says, trying to get this out of the way. She doesn’t have much time. “My name is Louisa Marie. Tell them that.”

Abel looks lost between two competing thunderstorms brewing in the same room. He turns to Mica. “She says her name is Louisa Marie.”

Mica takes in a hasty breath through their teeth, but they don’t seem unbelieving. They drop the book they’d been holding and turn to Abel, eyes like steel. “What does she want?”

Abel is thoughtful before remembering the journal Louisa Marie had shakily held minutes before. He seems to jump a little when he notices her keen stare at him. How he forgets about spirits so easily.

“She wants to give me a book.” Abel says this like a question.

“A book?” Mica repeats. “A book,” Louisa Marie confirms, even though she knows that Mica cannot hear her.

Abel nods feebly, looking between the two of them. He’s unsure what to do next. Mica’s face is strained and pinched as if they are in pain, and Louisa keeps staring at him from across the room. Her eyes are dark and boundless. Her hair grows and grows around her shoulders, in wisps, toward the floor.

“Take this,” Louisa Marie says, taking a step forward. Abel isn’t moving or even reacting, and she knows that she doesn’t have much more time. She can feel the honeycomb beginning to gather behind her ears and around her hair. She can hear the bees gathering—hurry up! they say. “Quickly, child. I don’t have much time with you.”

Abel rushes forward as if compelled, stumbling over his own feet, and tripping over strings of eucalyptus. His breath leaves him when he stands in front of Louisa Marie. She stands there like an ancient deity, tall and proud. Old, but not in a delicate way. Somehow, he knows that this is the clearest sight of a spirit he will ever get.

Louisa Marie holds the book out to him. Her wrinkled fingers are adorned in gold rings with symbols on them, like the ones that Mica has tattooed on their body. Abel reaches to grab the book, but Mica intersects, grabbing his wrist. On their fingers are the symbols reflected. He looks between Mica and Louisa Marie again. The journal hangs in the dead air between them.

“Wait,” Mica says, and eucalyptus curls around Abel and Mica’s ankles in a slow wind, looping into their shoelaces and tightening the strings. “How do you know it’s her?”

“What do you mean?”

Mica doesn’t let go of Abel’s wrist. Their eyes are sharp when they stare ahead. They look directly at Louisa Marie, but Abel knows Mica still can’t see her. “There are false spirits, Abel. I know you’re still learning, but spirits lie. They can be deceitful. They can be vengeful. How do you know that what she’s saying is true?”

Louisa Marie clicks her tongue against her teeth in a manner Abel knows well from his own mother. The sound disturbs the bee resting on her cheekbone, and she says, “Who made them so distrustful?” It sounds like she is fussing, like this had been a common problem between the two of them. “If we had the time, my child, I’d tell you the entire history of me. But we don’t. Look at how the honeycomb drips—time is running away from me.”

And the honeycomb drips, and the hair grows, and Mica grabs Abel’s shirt like their life depends on it. Louisa Marie says, “Make them see what you see.”

“She says we don’t have time,” Abel whispers to Mica, turning his head so he can see the way that Mica’s jaw tenses. “She’s got this honeycomb falling from her hair and there are bees¾you see them right? The bees, at least?”

Mica nods minutely. There are bees, yes. Many of them. They had come between the cracks in the windows and squeezed through the bottom of the front door. They had flown around Mica’s bald head and rested on their shoulders. They had buzzed in their ears and had given them goosebumps from their sound. Now, they rest in the crevices of Louisa Marie’s hair, Abel tells them.

“Fine,” Mica says, stepping back. They let go of Abel’s shirt, but they still do not look trusting. “But only because my grandmother used to keep bees a few yards from here.”

Dreadlocks join eucalyptus on the floor of the library, the ends of each intermingling. Abel watches the strings of the plant twist around Louisa Marie’s solid gray locks.

“Quickly, child,” Louisa Marie says, gesturing toward the journal in her left hand.

Abel rushes forward to grab it from her shaky grip. For a moment, both of his hands rest on the thick leather and he feels power surge through his fingers, up his arms, vibrating all the way to his collarbone. For a moment, the book seems to vibrate. Then it feels as if it weighs nothing. And then it explodes in his grip.

“Fuck!” Abel drops the journal like it had caught flame, but when he looks down, he sees that it’s still completely intact. Its pages are unbothered, and the leather is still sturdy.

Mica is next to him again with a frown creating deep lines on their face—lines that didn’t seem quite right for someone so young. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Abel’s hands are red and angry and burning. He waves them as if trying to cool them off. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I need some water or something. I feel like I just touched an open flame.”

Abel looks from his hands to Louisa Marie, who, has a swarm of bees fluttering around her gray head like a storm cloud. Her eyes are wide with shock, her hands shaking at her waist. “That’s not supposed to happen,” she says. She shakes her head, and honeycomb falls to her feet. On the ground, her hair wraps and twists with eucalyptus. Abel knows that they only have a few more minutes together.

“What is supposed to happen?” Abel questions, hands throbbing. His throat feels tight.

“Not that,” the old woman says, suddenly looking very tired. Her frown weighs her face down with lines like Mica’s. She narrows her eyes at him. “You were supposed to be the one.” She shakes her head. “The one who sees spirits is the one who receives the book,” she says, as if quoting a passage, she’d once read. “That’s how it’s always been.”

Abel’s heart seems to ram against his ribs. It suddenly doesn’t feel as warm in the library, and the sun has gone down early. Mica seems far away, even though they’re only feet away. “What do you mean?”

“I mean something’s been undone,” Louisa Marie says, eyes wide. She looks up at Abel, and with every movement, something comes apart from her: a piece of honeycomb dwindles, a dreadlock grows detached from its root, a bumblebee falls from the air. She looks at Abel and doesn’t let her eyes leave his. “You’ve got to find someone who can open this book.”

“You can’t do it?” Abel asks, staring at the book that now sits atop a pile of Louisa Marie’s hair. He’s anxious now, and he feels his heartbeat in his throat, almost forgetting about how his hands flash with pain.

“No, not me,” Louisa Marie says. “It was never me. It’s got to be you—or someone like you. Tell me, are there any other necromancers in town?”

Abel shakes his head profusely, his own short dreadlocks bouncing against his forehead. When he reaches his hand up to move them away from his eyes, he finds that his forehead is sweaty. “No—I mean, not that I know of. I don’t know anything,” he admits hastily. “I don’t know anything about this town.”

Louisa Marie appears to be fading. Having given the book, time is running out; there is nothing else she is meant to do. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do,” she admits. She drags her hands through her hair, and when she pulls her hand away, dreadlocks, honey, and honeycomb follow. She shakes them off her hand, and they land atop the journal. “There is one thing,” Louisa Marie says. “Find Qweli. She’s worked in this town for years. She may know how to get this book open. Bring it to her, if you can find her.”

But Abel is uninterested in another long game of hide-and-seek. “What’s so important about this book, anyway?”

Louisa Marie smiles then, gently, but with a certain type of hardness that reminds Abel, again, of his own mother. “This is the town’s oldest spellbook. It’s meant to help you survive Old Meridian’s Curse.”

Abel’s hands burn and burn. “But what is the curse?”

Bees surge around the hands and feet of Louisa Marie. She shakes her head sadly. “This town just takes and takes and takes,” she says. Her white robe drips with honey as eucalyptus climbs up her sleeve. “You know Old Meridian was started by a woman like me?” she says laughing. “And that was stolen from us, too, so the town wants revenge. There’s a pain here, Abel.”

“But what does that mean?” Abel cuts her off, his pain and his fear forgotten. This doesn’t make any sense. He can’t figure out what she is saying.

“Pain and fear made this town want to eat itself!” Louisa Marie exclaims, and suddenly she goes blurry. Bees rise from the ground and begin to envelop her completely. Eucalyptus, hair, and honey all join forces to twist around her body. Abel can only see yellow and green and brown, and nothing more. “The book is supposed to help you put the mournful souls to rest—it’s supposed to help this town find peace.” Louisa Marie’s voice cracks at the end, and Abel hears a sound like thunder.

There’s roaring in his ears as bees fly in circles around the woman’s body, faster and faster until they become a loud, yellow blur in the middle of the library. He kneels by the counter and covers his eyes until the noise stops. He enfolds his arms for what feels like years.

When the buzzing fades, an eerie quiet fill the library. Abel slowly lifts his head and finds that Mica is kneeling beside him, holding a glass pitcher of water and some bandages. They have their hands on Abel’s shoulders like they had been comforting him—as if he’d been crying.

“What happened?” they ask. “Is she still here?”

Abel shakes his head back and forth before looking up. “Look,” he says.

In the place Louisa Marie once stood are thousands of dead bumblebees, all crumbled around the leather-bound journal.

___________________________

Talia Wright is a Chicago-based interdisciplinary artist and writer. She has been published in In These Times and Poynter Institute. She is a 2019 Pink Door Fellow. 

---

Backwoods

 

Jay’s got his rough and calloused left hand wrapped around my throat, shoving me into the wall. There ain’t much air left in me as my muscles curl under his grip. His right forearm with the winding snake tattoo cracks my sternum. Ma’s behind him, clawing at his dirty t-shirt, using all of her five-foot three-inch body, trying to pull him off me. He’s spitting curses into my face, his hot whiskey breath stinging my nose. He squeezes my throat and our cramped, musty living room behind him starts to blur. I hit the floor and hear a thud. Slowly, feeling comes back to my body, limb by limb, aching like hell. I look up to see Jay holding his nose with blood spurting out.

I know it wasn’t me that hit him. That’s when I see Ma rubbing her knuckles with a panicked look in her eye. Not one of us say a damn word for a good while. Ma’s never hit Jay like that—I didn’t know she had it in her. She backs away, trembling with fear and keeping a close eye on Jay. I pull myself up off the kitchen floor, steadying myself on the dining table, and stagger toward my bedroom. I’m shaking, each muscle sore and vibrating with anger. The front room of our apartment feels like it’s closing in on me.

“Get your stuff, you’re outta here.” Jay slurs, wiping his bloody nose on a dish towel, the dull fluorescent overhead light bouncing off his shaved head. I can’t think of a damn thing to say, my fists balled so tight that my nails dig into my skin. “You heard me, now get the hell out of my apartment.” Ma’s stone silent with her arms crossed, just staring at the ground, like she got nothing to do with it—all of a sudden it ain’t her problem. I bite my lip so hard I taste metal—then everything is hurled out of me again. I storm back to him, anger fueling each piece of my body. The palms of my hands slam against his chest, jolting him back.

“This is Ma’s apartment. If anyone needs to go, it’s you.”

He yanks me up by my collar. His fist grinds into my already raw Adam’s apple. My toes just barely drag on the floor. The muscles in his face are tense, his skin sweaty with hate.

“Listen here, boy, I’ve been around for two solid years now. Kept the bills paid and your ma happy, and I don’t give one damn if you don’t like it. Last thing we need is a drug-addict dropout taking up space.” He throws me down. My spine slams against the tile. Ma sobs in the background. Jay takes three heavy steps toward me. He lifts one dirt-caked work boot and drops it down on my chest. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.” He presses his foot into my chest further, and my ribs crunch. He gives me one last red-hot snarl, his nose crusts up with blood. He slowly takes his weight off me and turns to the refrigerator to grab another beer. I scrape myself up again, my entire body pulsing with pain. My eyes burn at Jay’s back. I’m so sick of this jackass. I think ’bout grabbing that bottle and smashing it over his bare skull.

But Ma finally breaks her silence. “Baby, maybe he’s right.” She stands up from her spot on the couch, where she’s been slinking away like a hurt animal. She holds her tears back in, wiping at her blotchy face. Her dirty blonde hair is piled up on her head. She looks tired. She takes both my hands and rubs her thumb up and down, hoping to calm me down. She won’t even look at me—just got her wet eyelashes gazing down as her thumb traces my skin. “Maybe you should take some time away. You’re growing up now, you’re almost eighteen. You need to get away from all this.” She feels guilty, but that ain’t enough. I’m so mad and so damn confused I can barely see, but it’s like the rage doesn’t have any more fight left—so I just stand there with this rumbling hate and listen to her. “You can go stay with Grandma, get some peace and quiet in the country.”

I yank my hands away from hers. “Ma, you telling me to move to South Carolina and live in Grandma’s double wide? The hell do you think that’s gonna help?” Ma wipes her tears, turns away, and lights a cigarette. The apartment seems very small, more sunken in on itself than it ever. The drywall in the kitchen is cracked and there’s blood on the tile. Jay plops down in his recliner in front of the TV and sighs like he knows it’s all over. My gut thumps with unease.

I stare at Ma, noting every sign of seriousness on her face. Her thin plucked eyebrows are stressed into straight lines, eyes deep and sad. She glances over at Jay, nervous as she flicks her cigarette. She steps into the back hallway and nods me over so that we’re just out of view from Jay. Ma talks real low. “Baby, you can’t stay here—it’s not good for any of us. You’re doing drugs, getting in fights, and failing classes. I didn’t raise you like that. You got a good heart, better than most of us. You’re gonna do real good, I know it. But, I’m not gonna let you you’re your life away. Sarasota seems to be turning you rough. A new place would be good for ya.”

There’s a hint of doubt to everything she’s saying, but I know there ain’t no changing her mind. If Jay’s behind it, then it’s sure as hell happening. Ma trying to be nice is just making me angrier. My breaths are shallow, whipping and rattling against my bruising ribs. “You just want me gone, admit it. You don’t care about the dope or the grades; you’re just tired of me. I’ll pack my stuff right now and leave. But don’t you fucking call me when Jay goes too far next time and swings at you. You know damn well he’s gotten close enough.” My words fall hard and cold into the space. Ma looks defeated, her lips curling into a whimper.

I’m packed up in an hour. Ma comes to my room, hands over directions to Grandma’s, and tries to force some mushy goodbye, but I don’t want to hear it. As I leave, I see Jay slumped in front of the TV. Ma stands behind him, rubbing his shoulders, as if he was just on the receiving end of a chokehold. I slam the front door behind me. There’s so much racing through my mind that I feel like I can’t get out of town fast enough. I toss my last duffel bag into my truck. The lady from across the hall is outside, yelling on her phone, probably to her roommate who sells dope and oxy out of their apartment. She must’ve heard the whole fight, ’cause instead of ignoring me like usual, she pauses, holds the phone away from her and shouts, “Take care, kid.”

I got my tan pickup truck from Ma’s old boyfriend, Rick, who was a little less of an ass than Jay. It’s a piece of shit but it drives. I roll down the windows to smell the salty air of Sarasota one last time. As I drive further Florida, the salt fades away and I’m left with the throbbing pain in my throat and chest. The dank scent of swamp and farmland leak into the truck, and I think of the friends that I’m leaving behind. I think of the hours we spent driving up and down the beachfront, leaning our torsos out the windows, hair and baggy band t-shirts blowing in the wind, the salt breeze and crashing waves yelling back at us. I should’ve gone and said bye to Grant, at least. We’ve known each other since we were ten, lived two blocks from each other, and spent all our time getting into shit just ’cause we could. Our group of friends always hung around, never did much, but never anything good. Not one of us ever thought we’d be leaving town. Now here I am, kicked out on my ass, beat up by Ma’s boyfriend, about to spend my senior year in some nowhere, nothing town.

If my dad were around, could I be driving to his house right now instead of Grandma’s? When I was eleven, Ma finally told me he was in prison, and I started writing letters to him. She never would tell me where he was, or how he ended up there in the first place, so I kept all the letters in a shoebox. It doesn’t make much sense to write to someone I’ve never met, but sometimes it’s all I can do when things start going to shit. My first fight, the screaming matches with Jay, all my questions about love and anger—it’s all in the letters. Sometimes it just feels like my dad is the one I should be talking to. Ma usually cries when things get bad and Jay ain’t anyone to confide in. I try adjusting the radio so I can listen to something other than my spiraling. But there’s only static and a late-night preacher. Everything happened so quickly tonight, and I can’t help but get stuck on how. By the end, Ma was sulking back to Jay like always. The morning sun is poking out on the horizon, and I got hours left of driving, telling myself that leaving is good for me somehow.

 

I pull into the dirt road of Grandma’s trailer park around 12:00 p.m. the next day. I spot her trailer right away from the tacky plastic animal lawn ornaments she sold while she lived in Florida. The flamingos, tigers, and fish crowd the patch of grass that make up her yard. I haven’t seen Grandma in years. She moved back to South Carolina when I was three or so, and Ma has only brought me to visit once. From what I can tell, they don’t like each other too much. Or at least don’t care to see each other. I hear Grandma’s a hard-ass, especially to Ma, but hell, ain’t everyone a hard-ass compared to Ma?

I get out of my truck, stiff from sitting down for ten hours. Before I’m even on the little add-on wooden porch of the trailer, the door opens. Grandma stands there, barely taking up the doorway. She has her blonde, graying hair twisted back in a knot, a thin flannel tucked into jeans, finished off with hiking boots. Her hound dog pushes out from inside, sniffing all around me, and starts to growl. Grandma is only fifty-six and she has the same high cheekbones and rounded face as Ma. She looks at me carefully, her small features and wrinkles form a stern look. Her eyebrows raise as she lingers on my neck, and I know she’s looking at the bruise from Jay. “Well, look at you. Your Ma said I’d be expecting you this week, but you sure as hell didn’t waste your time. Don’t mind Rufus, he’s getting arthritis, so he won’t do much harm.” She waves me into the trailer.

Inside it smells like saltines and gun smoke. Two rifles sit up on the wall that’s covered in cheap floral wallpaper. “Now let me give you the tour. My room, your room, kitchen, bathroom, living room.” Her finger follows her words in a quick circle, and she wheezes at her own joke. “We can talk tomorrow, go get settled in. I got my shows to watch. And remind me to teach you how to use a damn washing machine.” She wheezes again. I look down and realize Jay’s damn boot left a dirty shoe print on my shirt. I shake my head but smile for her anyway.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I drop my two bags on the floor of the spare bedroom, fall down onto the bed, not bothering to get under the thin quilt, and pass out looking at the beige, gloss-finished wall.

 

My eyes shoot open to the sound of banging. The door swings open and Grandma walks right in, hollering for me to get up. The alarm clock reads 6:30 a.m. Grandma pulls open the blinds, letting the cold morning light in. “Come on, we got a lot to do today!” I get dressed as quick as I can. I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I take a good look at myself in the mirror. Feels like I haven’t seen myself in years. The blue and gray bruises on my neck from Jay’s chokehold are twice as dark as they were yesterday. I look like hell with my hair lying flat from sleep, and gray, heavy circles under my eye. I pull my white t-shirt back to cover my bruises, so no one starts asking questions.

When I get outside, Grandma is already in her Honda, putting on brown sunglasses and driving gloves. She adjusts the strawberry tree air freshener hanging on the mirror. “Oh good, you’re done primping.”

As Grandma drives us through town toward the high school, we pass acres of farmland and strips of sad, broken shacks. The past two days have left my head buzzing. I know my friends are gonna give me hell for living in the country, not that any of us had nicer plans. I already miss the beach. This side of the state is landlocked, and it makes my breathing shallow to think about it.

Soon as we check in at school, a woman in a sweater vest hands over the paperwork and smiles wide. “Jessie! I spoke to your mom a few weeks ago, and we’re excited to have you join us next week when the fall semester begins!” I start getting mad. I tap my foot and my knuckles tense to white. This wasn’t just some snap decision ’cause Jay felt like it; this whole damn thing has been in the works. Anger starts brewing inside me, like the whole ocean is churning in my stomach and veins.

Grandma leans over and whispers, “Boy, you better pull yourself together.” I’m not less mad, but I close it off somehow. Grandma kinda scares me. I’ve heard stories of how she used to chase off Ma’s old boyfriends with her shotgun. I wonder what she thinks of Jay. I’ll bet she’d have no problem pointing that gun at him.

Every piece of Pickens that I’ve seen while driving around looks like a back road, like a shortcut through the shitty part of town. All of it overgrown and unused. Grandma pulls up to this car shop on the other side of town. She doesn’t bother to park, just pulls her Honda across parking spots, in front of the gray garage with a small, glass room attached. A red, rusted sign hangs over the building and reads: Pickens Car Repair. “Go ask for Hurley—he’s got a job for you.”

“I don’t know anything about cars, though.”

“Well, you’re gonna learn. Listen, this is how this is all gonna work. You’re gonna live at my trailer and you’re gonna go to school. You’re gonna pass your classes, you’re gonna work at the shop with Hurley, and you’re not gonna screw around. Now get out of my damn car so I can get back to Rufus and the wrestling match.”

I want to argue, but I see right into that hard expression and I know she ain’t bluffing. I guess I expected all this. And I ain’t worried about school, never had much trouble doing the work; I just didn’t want to. I feel a little sick with all the change. But I know sitting here won’t help nothing. I get out of the car and walk over to the faded glass doors.

 

Hurley’s a small, squat guy who always wears gray coveralls and has a flushed tone to his face. Somehow he looks goofy and tired in the same breath, like a Christmas elf serving a life sentence. I work at the shop on the weekends. When I get in, he’s at his desk doing paperwork, drinking instant coffee with his feet propped up on the metal desk. He likes calling me James Dean. He teaches me a new part of a car every day. Pretty quickly I can change AC belts, brakes, and tires. While we work, he wipes the grease off his forehead with his red bandana and tells me town gossip. He’ll ask about school and I tell him the truth—I just do the work, stay quiet, and the teachers don’t mind me at all. I don’t tell him that I feel restless all the time, miss my friends, and wish there was something less sad looking about this town.

In October, this new family moves into the trailer just down the slope from us. From what I can tell, it’s a dad, a kid my age, and his little sister. They seem real down on their luck, but hell, ain’t everyone in a trailer park? The dad is this real big guy, round beer gut, rough around the edges with a red face. The girl looks about five or six, energetic, and runs around in circles in the yard. They live in an old, faded trailer right by the creek bed, where the kudzu vines hang over the trees. Within the first week, I hear the dad holler real harsh at the kid and his sister. I bite my lip, drive off toward work, and keep out of it. But I keep thinking about the hollering and how it sounded whiskey-infused, just like Jay. Most of all, I think about how I didn’t hear anyone yell back.

A few weeks go by, and one day I see the kid walking toward the school bus stop, and I don’t know what gets into me, but I slow down and roll down the window.

“Hey, you headed to Pickens High?” He’s got his hands in his pockets, clothes hanging off his bones. His eyebrows furrow while he gives me a skeptical eye over. “Don’t worry man, I’m not some creep, I’m headed there too. Figure you might not wanna take the bus.” He loosens up and laughs a bit.

“Yeah, alright, thanks. I’m Logan.”

“Jessie.” He walks around the front of my truck to get in. We drive off toward school making small talk. Turns out, that’s his uncle Ben and his cousin Leslie. They moved here from Tennessee after some money problems. His parents ain’t around anymore. He doesn’t go into much detail. By the time we’re at school, we’re talking about music and movies. Other than the few times Grant’s called, I haven’t talked to another teenager like this since I moved.

I start driving us to and from school, and we hang out a few nights a week. I can finally relax and have someone to kill time with. I ain’t just waiting for the next class or shift or meal. Logan’s calmer than my friends in Sarasota; he doesn’t mind sitting in the quiet for a long time. He’s got this light blond hair that falls into his face that he twirls at constantly. There ain’t much to miss out on in Pickens, so we spend our time at my place or sitting in the lawn chairs outside. Logan says his place ain’t too hospitable, and I don’t ask what he means, ’cause I’m sure it’s gotta do with his uncle Ben. Trailer parks are strange like that, the engineering doesn’t keep sound in too well, so most of the time you can hear everyone’s business, but you just pretend you don’t know a thing.

 

It gets to a real hot day in early November. I make my way toward my truck in the student parking lot. Logan is home with some flu and I’m heading off to work, already making a list of things to do. Karl, a loud, patriotic jackass with cut-off sleeves and camo pants starts hollering at me.

“Hey, you ain’t deaf, are ya?” I try to swallow my frustration as I hear him walk up behind me. He yanks me back by my backpack and I spin around to face him. His Mountain Dew and chewing tobacco breath smacks me right in the face. “Aw, looks like you finally got some balls.” He takes a finger and pushes hard at my chest. My chest stiffens, like Jay’s boot is right back on it. “Guess the Florida boy ain’t shit then.”

As I pull my fist back to swing, a familiar feeling rushes in. This is just like any fight at South Sarasota High. Once I hit him, I clock him again. When I fight, the first punch breaks something open in me; the rage built up from all the bullshit floods out and becomes uncontrollable. This wave of sickening, relentless rage overcomes me from everywhere at once. Back in Sarasota, my buddy Grant would be by my side. Once we got to high school, there was always some anger hanging inside us. The fights weren’t serious—just dumb kids stealing a wallet or yelling nonsense at us. But we’d be in it together—Grant swinging at the other kid, getting out whatever frustration he needed to. And he’d always be ready to pull me back when I got too mad and couldn’t stop. Right now, I’m alone with my anger. The sun beats down in the lot and my rage surges through me as my knuckles crack against Karl’s ribs. The anger has washed over me and nothing else matters. Karl hasn’t gotten in one hit. He starts looking smaller and smaller. I grow tired in the heat but keep swinging. His friend with the empty gun holster slides in and pops me in the eye. I give him a quick punch and both of them slowly back away.

I’m shaking the whole drive to work. I only made it three months at Pickens before getting into some fight. I’m so goddamn mad. First, that Karl even looked twice at me, but really, that I got mad enough to hit him. I look in the mirror to see my eye already bruising up. Now I’ll have to explain it to Hurley. I smack the steering wheel. I feel trapped in the damn truck. I roll down the windows and smell manure. I was expecting to smell the salt water of Sarasota. I get angrier missing the beach. When I finally get to the shop, I’m all worked up. I jump out of my truck and slam the door. I take a deep breath and swallow the hot air and all the rage, and hope somehow it will just disappear, like my stomach acid will just break it all down. Guess that’s what I’m always hoping for—for the anger to shut itself off.

 

I walk in and Hurley doesn’t miss a damn beat. He glances up from his clipboard, to give me a look over—frowning at my eye. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I try walking past him. He’s at his desk and the low hanging tile ceiling seems closer—bringing the smell of oil and dirt right to my nose.

“Like hell. I know damn well you didn’t do it to yourself. Luanne’s gonna rip you apart.”

“Fine. That dumbass hick Karl, the kid with the American flag on his truck. Well, he pissed me off and I hit him. His friend hit me. That’s all. It’s over with.”

“Sit your skinny ass down.” I inhale sharply, trying to cool the residual anger, and sit down on the folding chair across from Hurley at his desk. He snorts and shakes his head. “Well, Karl is a little shit—but you can’t be swinging at every dumbass in the county. Luanne is gonna come after you like hellfire when she sees your eye. I sure as hell won’t be gettin’ in her way.” He pulls out a bag of almost frozen peas from his mini-fridge. He tosses the bag across the desk and I just barely catch it. I fumble with the plastic bag of peas, slick with wet, cold frost. Hurley nods. “Come on, it ain’t gonna heal itself.”

I slowly press the bag against my burning eye. “You’ve seen her go after somebody before?”

“Boy, I’ve known Luanne since she was in high school. When she met your grandpa, she had a softness about her, but she was still tough as nails. They got married and she found out about his drinking problem real quick. He came from a real tough mining family, ain’t nothing but hate in his childhood. He wasn’t much different. He started getting into fights around town and pushing Luanne around. When your ma came into the picture, Luanne had enough.

“One night, Randy, your grandpa, came home with blood all over him. Stunk of whiskey. He’d gotten blind drunk at the pub and beat this kid within an inch of his life. When Luanne asked what the hell happened, well, he was enraged. Started going at it with her, trying to deck her. They fought back to your ma’s nursery. Randy was belligerent, tried to rip the door off its hinges. Luanne grabbed the rifle and aimed it right at him. When he didn’t stop, she fired a warning shot.” I can see Grandma, under the weight of her rifle, in the middle of chaos. A raging drunk rattling toward her daughter. I wonder if that was the first time she had to use that rifle.

Hurley continues on, “That was the end of that. Luanne called the cops, and he’s still locked up. First off, for beating that kid, then a few years ago, when he beat up someone while on parole. Some just never change. Luanne wasn’t around for his parole; she knew better than to wait around for him. Now, I know all that ’cause I used to live in that same park. But don’t you dare ask her ’bout it. Luanne ain’t screwing around. She’s seen a great deal of angry men in her life and she ain’t afraid to fight back. She’s all into that tough love. But the woman has had enough shit. All that with Randy, then of course what your dad put her through.”

“Wait, what do you mean? You know my dad?” I shift forward.

“Well yeah, your ma and him were high school sweethearts. He didn’t stick around too long after she got pregnant. But that wasn’t his fault—well, not entirely. He had all that rage, just like you. Went around getting mad at nothing, raising hell. Luanne didn’t want that around her daughter in the first place, and she got her way in the end.” Hurley takes a sip of instant coffee.

I adjust the peas. “I never knew anything about him. Just knew he’s in prison. Ma won’t say another word about it.”

“Well, kid, this really ain’t my place. Luanne would kick my ass just for talking ’bout all this. Go on, get to work.” He waves me off and spins his chair around to his filing cabinet.

I sit there in disbelief for a minute. Never thought I’d know much of anything about my dad or grandpa. I have this tight feeling in my gut, like something is about to happen. All that rage, just like you. Hurley’s words are stuck in my mind for the rest of the shift.

 

When I get home with that big ole black eye Grandma lays into me. She doesn’t yell or cry like Ma would’ve. She just talks harsh and stern, her voice unwavering. She goes on about consequences and restraint. Her face is hard as stone, but I feel a sort of worry in her, like she’s staying quiet about something. She looks me real deep in the eyes. “Listen, Jessie, you ain’t gonna go down this road. I don’t want to see you behind bars—I’m just not doing it again. And I sure as hell ain’t seeing your ma go through it again.”

The mention of Ma brings a wave of frustration. “Ma couldn’t care less, she hasn’t checked on me since I got here.” Grandma’s eyebrows arch at me, and I feel a sliver of regret.

“Jessie. Your ma ain’t heartless, so stop acting like it. She calls me every few weeks, but we all know you don’t wanna talk to her. There’s no need in getting you up in a fuss, so I kept it to myself. She sure ain’t winning the mom-of-the-year award, but she loves you.” Grandma wipes the kitchen counter with a dishcloth. No matter what she says, I know Ma doesn’t wanna talk to me neither. She gave up on me. Grandma stops wiping the counter and looks at me. “You know, all of this anger and these fights, they ain’t all about you. People gotta watch you turn your life to shit.” She doesn’t say anything else, just walks back to her chair and turns on the TV. I stand in the kitchen for a moment, a splintering guilt filling inside me.

I go back to my bed and fall onto my back. The left side of my face and my knuckles burn. I got so many questions about all this, about my dad, and why everyone knows more about him than I do. I think back to what Hurley told me, and how Grandma doesn’t want to see me in jail, even Ma, in her own twisted way worries about it. They all seem like they’ve seen the future, like they know where I’m gonna end up. I feel like I’m falling into a hole with all these thoughts.

I rip a page out of my world history notebook and start writing a letter to my dad. I tell him how I got kicked out, how I live with Grandma now, about working with Hurley, and that today was shit. I start rambling toward the end. “I used to be so worried about what Ma thinks of me, now I know it ain’t going to change. She sees me as a lost cause. I know I don’t have to end up in a cell. But I bet you thought the same thing.” I stop myself before I get too deep in thought. I tell him to take care of himself and seal up the letter, adding it to the shoebox.

 

As the months go by, Logan and I grow to be real close. He’s one of those people that’s easy to talk to, maybe ’cause we both got our own personal problems to focus on. We don’t get into much trouble. We keep our heads down at school, don’t act up¾just get in and get out.

Sometime in January, we’re sitting out front on the lawn chairs. The sun has just gone down and it’s getting cold for the South. Logan’s been more skittish lately; he’s picking at the skin around his nails. His gaze is glued looking down toward his trailer. Through the blinds, we see Ben chugging a bottle of rum. We’ve been sitting in the quiet so long, I don’t remember what we were talking about. Finally, Logan speaks, “Why’d you get kicked out of your ma’s?”

I’m thrown off by the question. “Uh . . . well, I ain’t really sure. I got in this fight with Ma’s boyfriend one night. She said it was the weed and trouble in school, said ‘change’ would be good for me. But they’d been planning it. Ma had called the school weeks before the fight. I don’t even care what her excuse is. She watched me get beat on and kicked out by her lunatic boyfriend. My guess is Jay’s got more to do with it than anything.”

He keeps his eyes on Ben stumbling back and forth. “What do you mean?”

“He’s just got this way with her, like damn mind control. Even when he’s beating her son and heavy with whiskey, she’ll still come out and defend him. It pisses me the hell off.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it before.” He clears his throat. “My dad’s a real ‘man of God’ type. Tries to convince everyone he’s violent for a cause. The dude lives for the power of invoking fear.”

            His voice is solid, smooth, and there’s almost a smirk on his face. I want to ask him more, but I stop myself. Something about how we’re tucked into our hoodies, leaning back far into the lawn chairs, reminds me of the guys in Sarasota. How we’d lounge around, shit talk each other, and smoke out by the shore. Tonight’s different though. The air here is musty and dense; there’s no wind to release anything. I’m stuck on why Logan is bringing all this up now, but he always has something more serious to say than any of my old friends. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ben comes out and yells for him to get inside. He gets up quick. “I’ll catch you later.” He’s got this sunken look to him as he hurries down the slope. I sit there and a thick twinge of anger and worry starts bubbling up.

I hear the door to Grandma’s open behind me. “Come on now, that ain’t your business. You’re just asking for trouble.” I hesitate, but get up from my chair anyway.

Once we’re inside, she goes back to the kitchen to start dinner. I sit down at the dining table, my jaw clenches as I stare off toward the window, listening to the faint sounds of Ben. Grandma sees my foot tapping and shouts at me from the stove. “Cut it out boy, getting mad for other people ain’t gonna do anyone any good. You know how that turned out for your dad.” I finally stop looking out the window, turn to her, and sit up straight.

“What?”

“Well, that’s what landed him in jail. Your ma never tell ya?”

“She doesn’t like talking about him.”

Grandma thinks for a second. She’s got her lips pursed and she’s shaking her head, annoyed with Ma, I assume. She sits down across from me, settles back in her chair, crosses her arms and looks at me so long it makes me nervous. “Your dad always had this switch in him, you hit that switch and bam¾anger pouring out of him. He met your ma after he got out of juvie for smacking up some teacher. I didn’t like him one bit, he had a bad attitude and a violent way about him. He was always getting mad on your ma’s behalf. Well, when he got your ma pregnant we thought he might be over all his outbursts. But one night, your dad and ma were pulling out of the gas station down on Greenview Road, right at that four-way stop. Some teen was speeding down the road, not paying any attention, and crashed right into your ma’s side of the car. Your dad was livid, he dragged that kid out of his car and beat him until his face was a bloody pulp. The kid died in the hospital that night from a brain injury. The parents had money for lawyers, so your dad got locked up for twenty years.

“Your ma was shattered, losing her wits. I decided we should move to Sarasota. There was no point in sticking around here. She was seven months pregnant. She visited your dad in jail right before we left and told him, through the plexi-glass, that we were moving and he wouldn’t be in your life. Now, I didn’t last too long in Florida. I got you and your ma settled and moved back home. Of course, your ma started right back up again dating men who had tempers. I kept in touch, mostly to check on you. I knew she was stuck in her ways already.”

This is the most I’ve heard of Dad, and there’s an overwhelming darkness to knowing he killed a kid. I hate thinking it. I try to move away from it, but my mind keeps falling back on the blind rage and the brain injury. I don’t know what to say, but I’m not sure when Grandma will feel like sharing again, so I start asking. “Has Dad ever tried to find us?”

“It doesn’t matter, hon. He ain’t worth the trouble. If he did, he’d probably just be trying to make selfish amends, healing his own guilt.”

“So, you know where he is?”

“Yep. But like I said, you don’t need to know. There’s no good in finding him. Listen, just keep your head down. If you got a temper, best thing to do is stay out of the way.”

I go back to my room and pace around. I think back to everything Grandma told me. I see Ma going to visit Dad in jail before we moved. Her wearing her pink yoga pants and flip-flops. She sits down in front of him, already crying. I bet the fluorescent lighting of the visiting room is bothering her. Dad, on the other side of the plexi-glass, trying to be sweet and careful. I see him the only way I know him. From the only picture I’ve seen, as a seventeen-year-old at the state fair with Ma. I see him young, blond stubble poking out, just like mine. The orange jumpsuit swallowing him. I bet Ma blamed it all on Grandma, bet she told Dad she didn’t have a choice. When she tells him, he slams his fist. His eyes tear up while he yells. The anger overflowing.

I get out a piece of paper and start writing to Dad. But this ain’t the regular catching up talk. This time I ask questions. I ask him about Ma, if he loved her. I ask if he’s ever tried to contact me. And if he ever figured out how to control the rage. I write so fast my hand cramps. I just keep going until I’m done.

 

A week goes by and the letters are still sitting on my bedside table. It’s an oddly breezy night, as if the waves are so big off the coast that they’re blowing all the way across the state and into low-lying Pickens. I go outside to meet Logan. I stand on my side of the dirt drive with my hands tucked into my pockets. Trees rustle overhead and shadows reach across the dark sky, the porchlamps leaving the only light for the moths to flail around. I look at Logan’s trailer sunken down the hill, waiting on him to walk out. Instead, I hear crashing and Ben’s slurred hollering. I step closer until I’m just a couple yards away. I watch through the blinds in the living room as he’s thrashing after Logan, who’s carrying Leslie. My chest tightens as they disappear from view. For a moment, I can’t hear much of anything. I gulp down the quiet air and it lands heavy in my gut.

Then Leslie’s sharp scream comes out of the trailer, slicing the air. The whole world is deathly still for a moment. A surge of blind energy takes me right up to their front step. But before my hand reaches the door handle, it opens and Logan comes out from Ben’s thrashing grip. He tumbles into the yard, his body kicks up dirt as he lands on his side.

Neither of them pay any attention to me. Logan picks himself up quick and I get a glimpse of his face and know something ain’t right. His face is cold and fixed on Ben, a red-hot glare coming through his eyes. I’ve never seen that look on him. Ben starts hollering again, his lips loose and skin flushed. “See, you ain’t got a damn strong bone in your body. No wonder your dad lost his goddamn mind and dropped you off with me.”

I see Logan’s jaw tremble with hate and a wall of energy builds up through him, and charges Ben, smashing him into the side of the trailer. I step back, I can see the relief falling out of Logan, but the hate in his eyes is radiating. After another hit, Ben’s on the ground, sluggish with liquor, just barely shouting curses. Logan shifts his weight back and goes to kick Ben in the gut. I recognize each move of his muscle, the rage coursing through his leg as his foot cracks at Ben. Each collision another discharge, and the adrenaline cycling and recycling into an uncontrollable storm. The cold white of Logan’s skin tells me he doesn’t feel it anymore, his mind has disconnected from everything. Ben lies on the dirt sputtering. Logan contracts, ready for another kick, and I get a real good look at him. His eyes reflect the yellows of the porch light. He looks real young, fresh-faced, just like my dad at the state fair.

I snap into action and push Logan back into the yard.

“Hey! Cool it.” I grip him by the shoulders, holding him in place. I feel his bones fighting against me as he thrashes toward Ben. Each push and jolt grows weaker. Slowly, he loses momentum and every rigid muscle melts. A familiar calm creeps back into his eyes. He finally looks at me and I watch the anger recede back into himself. His shoulders drop, and he steps back from me, faintly shaking his head. He seems like he’s about to explain himself, but he doesn’t need to, I been there too many times to count. “You good?”

“Yeah, uhm . . . I . . . I don’t know what happened, I just¾I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I know, but you can’t beat it out of him.” We stand there in silence in the sloped yard, looking at Ben who hasn’t bothered to get up. He looks sad and weak down on the ground.

“I gotta go check on Leslie.” Logan walks to his door, but before he disappears into the trailer he turns back to me, “Thank you.” I give him a half smile.

There’s a warm, calm buzz through my body as I walk up to my trailer. Grandma is standing in the living room, blinds pulled back, with a softness in her face. “You did good, hon.” I nod and start toward my room, but she hands over a piece of paper. On it reads the address of a South Carolina state prison. She looks at me with watery eyes and walks off to her bedroom.

            The next morning, I comb my hair back to get a good look at my jawline and I wonder if I look like my dad. I sit down and write to him again.

Last night, I watched my friend nearly beat the life out of his uncle. This kid, who I’ve not once seen angry, turned red with hate. And I knew it wasn’t right, Logan wasn’t gonna do anyone any good by fighting. So, I held him back and I felt the rage leave him. For once, I felt like I did something about the anger, even if it wasn’t my own. Recently, I stopped picturing you in a jumpsuit. I think of you, with Ma, at the state fair with that real honest, crooked smile, and I see a piece of myself. I know there’s a better side to all of this.

I seal up the letter and put it with the rest. I call Hurley and let him know I’m gonna be fifteen minutes late. I leave and take the shoebox with me.

___________________________

Natalie Benson-Greer lives in Chicago and is an undergraduate student studying fiction at Columbia College Chicago. “Backwoods” is her first published work.

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À Maman: Make Believe

 

n 2009, you and your mom leave your abusive father. You are ten, and you won’t remember much about this day besides shouting, some hitting, and muffled struggles—it’s not the first time this has happened. You try to distract yourself by hiding in your room and keeping your head buried in your book, hoping the words on the page will take you away from the moment, into a warm and bright and safe place where no one gets hurt. Eventually, your mother screams, louder than she ever has, and it snaps you out of your fantasies. It sends a cold chill down your spine as you hear thumping along the walls; your heart races, and you panic because you don’t know what to do, when finally, your mother barges into your room and slams the door shut. Her hair’s frizzy and there’s tears in her eyes. Your little heart breaks because you’ve never seen her this bad, this weak, and vulnerable and scared, and you wonder if she’ll lie to you again when you ask if she’s okay. Before you’re about to speak, she whispers for you to get up and pack your bag—but not with school books and notepads and pencils and other stationery things; she wants you to pack some clothes and your toothbrush and other bare essentials, and tells you it’s because “we’re going to stay somewhere else for a little bit.”

“Why?” you ask her.

“Daddy needs to be alone for a while.”

You don’t question anything else after that. Because with the tears in her eyes, with the bruises you see around her neck, with how tiny and frail she looks in front of you, that’s all it takes for you to know that maybe you’re never going to see your father again, but also maybe it’s for the better. And so ever since then, you’ve kept the idea in mind that it’s just going to be you two in this world.

 

It’s a struggle at first, between jumping from relative to relative for a roof over your heads, and trying to go to school at the same time—both you and your mother. She is trying to finish her college degree all while taking care of a child, and it’s because of this that you admire her, despite seeing her get sad occasionally. She won’t directly say it, but you can see the pain in her eyes even though there aren’t tears anymore; she is lonely.

By 2012, you can say you both finally settle down. It is the fall of freshman year and you are going to a five-star school in the Western Suburbs of Chicago. Your mother has a decent job in the city, and you think things are now turning for the better. You truly believe that it’s just you two in this world, and for you, that’s actually good enough.

 

She doesn’t tell you when exactly she met him, but from what you gather, you think it had to have been over the summer through one of those dating sites. Now, instead of going to the library to get English books, or helping you with math homework, or practicing badminton with you to prepare for tryouts, she’s on the phone for the majority of the time, laughing over cheesy jokes, and dressing herself up a little more to take pictures.

It wouldn’t have been a problem had you not felt like you were getting replaced. It wouldn’t have been a problem had she not suddenly told you she was engaged after meeting him only a couple of times. You have a weird feeling about him, but you keep quiet because you don’t want to do something as selfish as taking love away from your mother, even though you thought you were enough for her.

He’s from Florida and says that he’s a doctor. He says. But, when your mother called the local hospitals down there to see if he had any records that would transfer over for when he moved in, she saw that they didn’t have any. Turns out, he was in school for medicine, but never actually completed, and he spends most of his days working at a warehouse. That’s the first strike. Your mom waves it off by saying, “At least he has a job.” You turn your head back to your books.

The second strike is when you find out he drinks. Not just occasionally or socially, but daily. He craves a bottle of beer every morning after he wakes up, and he can’t go to bed without one either, and it wouldn’t have been a problem if it didn’t disgust you so much. Because you later discover Tymothy Monroe isn’t the sad drunk who sits in the corner and thinks about his previous relationship or his kids, nor is he the angry drunk that gets heated quickly and becomes aggressive. He’s just the drunk—the loud, obnoxious kind who talks and talks and talks and likes to add his two cents into everyone’s business because he suddenly thinks he’s got an IQ of 180 and that he’s always right. He is cocky and arrogant, he is rude and ignorant, and here is where you see his true colors.

Your mother does, too, but for some reason, she defends him each time. She defends him even though she really does hate it when he drinks, when they argue about stupid things and he refuses to see her side. You think she allows this because she thinks he fills the void in her chest, and even though you’re pretty sure he’s not Mr. Right, to her, having someone is probably better than having no one. Because of that, you deal with him. For four long, consecutive high school years, you will deal with him, you will accept him, you will brush off his actions and comments, and you will keep quiet all your inner feelings—all because you want to make your mother happy.

 

You’re in the living room one day, staring blankly at them on the opposite couch. There is a Victoria’s Secret bag on your mother’s lap, and she looks at you with a disappointed expression. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Tym trying for a pokerface while pretending to play on his phone, but you see right through him.

 “Mags,” your mom sighs, her tone strong. “I know you’re getting older. You’re becoming a young lady now and you’re growing, but you’re still too young to be buying these things.” She holds the lacy strap of a black lingerie piece with two fingers, as if it’s got germs, but what she doesn’t see is Tym’s secret glance between you and the garment. She eventually drops the piece back in the bag, and you watch as it sinks into the pink tissue paper until you hear something that catches your attention.

“If it weren’t for Tym, I’d have never found out about this—”

That’s strike three. Something clicks in you, and you jump up off the couch you’re sitting on, to tower over him. “What were you doing in my room?!” you shout, and instantly, your mom stands in between you both.

“Don’t raise your voice at him!” she demands. “Have some respect!”

“Then what was he doing in my room?!” You turn to her now while he continues to hide behind his phone with that stupid smirk.

“It doesn’t matter!” your mom tells you. “What are you doing with this?” She holds up the bag for emphasis and expects you to answer, but you just stare at her like how you did in the beginning. There is no point in answering her. There is no point in telling her that you weren’t the one to buy it—that Julia bought it as a joke when you were both at the mall the other day, and you specifically hid the bag in the very back of your panty drawer because you were too embarrassed to look at it, let alone wear it. There is no point in saying this, because your mother won’t believe it. She won’t see the real problem, and she doesn’t, because she had avoided your question.

So when she tells you again that you’re being inappropriate and that you need to return it, you snatch the bag away and run upstairs. You lock yourself in your room and send a text message to Julia saying to come pick you up after work so that you both can go back to the mall. In the meantime, you toss the striped bag onto your bed, pull out a notebook, and write down all the reasons you hate Tymothy Monroe.

 

The final strike, is when you’re in the middle of napping. It’s two years after he moves in, and you’re resting before your night shift at the pizza place, when out of nowhere, you can smell the odor of beer in your room. It comes from his breath, it comes from the door, and it suddenly comes close.

You’re half-awake at this point, and it only really seems odd when you feel a heavy weight dip onto the bed with you. You’re too scared to open your eyes; you don’t want to see what you think is happening, and you don’t want it to be real, but when you get the courage to look, your heart races. You begin to hyperventilate.

You see him crawling onto you like a giant bug, like a giant roach, and you shuffle around. You push and shove, but when he pins your arms up above you and locks your legs with his own, you start to cry. He shushes you with that pungent breath of his, and you try to fight some more, but nothing seems to work. Your heart races faster; it beats and bangs against your chest like it wants to get out—like the way you want to get out. It’s at this point, you know it’s not a dream. It’s not a dream when he slides his giant, dark hand down into your shorts, and you scream, “No! Stop! Please, stop!” and he shushes you like a child. It’s not a dream when he tries to stick a single, thick finger into your hole, and it’s definitely not a dream when he continues to whisper, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” into your ear, with his nose stuffed in your hair, and you can feel him inhaling your scent, feel him taking more and more away from you. It’s not a dream because it all feels too real. It’s not just something you’ll forget when you wake up, or when you’re in the shower or getting ready, or when you’re at work taking orders, or even when you’re reading books to escape from reality—no. It’s something you’ll remember every single second of your life; it will be the reason you have nightmares. It will be the reason you’re scared to come home after work, or to even be home alone. It will be the reason you can’t trust men for the next couple of years. It will be the reason you stay quiet and stay up in the middle of the night, writing over and over again all the reasons you hate Tymothy Monroe, with this exact moment at the top of the list, circled and bolded in bright red.

You kick at him, but that seems to make things worse—your shorts lower further. He pauses at this, and then looks at you in a way that makes you feel small, makes you feel weak and vulnerable and scared—in a way that makes you feel filthy and dirty and gross because you’re having someone eye you like you were a piece of candy to lick all over, and you, on the other hand, just wanted to fucking sleep.

You both hear the garage opening, and there’s a small hiatus between you. The second he looks away, is when you kick him off for good. He falls and scrambles along the floor, and you feel your chest heaving, your heart squeezing, and you’re panting. You grab your blanket and yank it up to cover your body, curling away onto your pillow, legs still alert in case he dares to come on top of you again. You begin to sob over the fact a horrible thing from a disgusting man has just happened to you.

And as he hesitates before leaving to greet your mother, you can feel his eyes linger on your curled body from the doorframe for another minute, watching you and taunting you some more, before he finally walks off like all of this was nothing.

 

Three out of the four years pass, and the weather is nice one summer weekend. Your mom asks what everyone wants for lunch, and you tell her you don’t care. She suggests burgers, hot dogs, or even both. You tell her you still don’t care. You’re broken. You’re hurt. You don’t want anything to do with him, and you know your mom can sense this change in you, but she doesn’t understand why. She tries to read you while in the kitchen, and Tym excuses himself to start the grill, but even when he leaves, you don’t feel any different. Your mom lets it go and tells you to help her set up. She begins cutting the lettuce, onions, and tomatoes, and you open the fridge to get the ketchup, mustard, and pickles. It’s going fine until she starts something. Until she sees something.

“Maggie.”

You look over, and she has abruptly stopped in the middle of her task, staring at you, your left arm in the middle of grabbing the condiments.

“What’s that?”

You instantly slam the fridge door and begin to walk away when she sets the knife down and cuts you off. She stands in the middle of the hallway and grabs your forearm, and you already know what she’s talking about; you don’t have to look at the scars that haven’t fully faded yet.

“You cut yourself?”

You don’t answer her like the first time she confronted you, but this time, she gets annoyed. You feel her fingernails digging into your skin, frustrated by your silence, and they could’ve left their own scars if they dug any deeper. “No!” she shouts at you, like she would a dog. “No, Maggie! This”—she shakes your wrist so you understand, and you understand perfectly—“you don’t ever do this, okay? Don’t ever do this again!”

You see tears brimming at the corner of her eyes, and for a second, you feel something inside of you. A feeling that makes you want to crawl back to her, like how you would when you were a little girl on a rainy night, and she would hold you and tell you everything was okay. A feeling that gets you soft, like the kisses she’d leave on your cheeks after putting your hair into braids for kindergarten, and she’d tell you how pretty you looked. It’s a feeling that makes it seem like it’s just you two going through this world again, because now all her attention is on you, and that’s all you ever wanted it to be.

Tym comes in through the backdoor, and she glances at him and he glances at you, and then it’s like everyone wants to know what’s going on.

But it’s there, you realize, there’s not enough of you to reach out and grab that feeling, to save it. Because now her attention is on him, and if only she knew the truth about that monster, and didn’t look at him like a god, like he was enough and everything for her when you thought she’d only ever need you.

“Okay,” you respond monotonously.

But that’s another broken promise to her and to yourself because later that night and all the nights that follow, when reading isn’t enough to make you forget, when writing all the reasons you hate him isn’t enough to get all these sour feelings out, you do it again and again, in your dark room with nothing but your headphones and soft music playing, hoping for better days, hoping that he would go away, or that someday, someone would save you.

 

A couple months after the incident, your mom’s had it with this change in you. She doesn’t notice the new scars anymore because it’s winter and you’re wearing long sleeves now, but she doesn’t like that you have a bitter attitude to everything. It’s actually really pissing her off. You’re in your room reading The House on Mango Street when she knocks. You get up from your bed to unlock the door, and she steps in to question you if everything’s okay.

“It’s nothing,” you merely say, and she looks like she’s going to throw a fit now.

And she does. She snaps. She tells you how she doesn’t appreciate your two-word responses whenever she asks what’s wrong, and she also doesn’t appreciate your sarcasm, your stupid remarks, every time Tym talks. She doesn’t know when it all started, but it needs to stop; it needs to stop right now, Maggie, because she didn’t raise you like this. You’re being childish. What’s your problem?

You feel something bubbling inside of you, but you try your hardest to hold it down because you have a feeling it’s not going to be good.

“Answer me!” your mother screams, and you’re shaking now. You’re just as angry as she is, but you can’t say it. You’re scared that she won’t believe you—not with the way she looks at him, with how she’s so in love with him and with the idea that he’s perfect for her even though he drinks everyday and is a slob and has assaulted her daughter. She’d give up everything for him, and you envy that. You despise that.

She sees that through your expression. Finally, something she can read. “Is it Tym?” she asks, her voice low. “You don’t like him?”

“No,” you let out automatically, tightly. Your throat is dry, and you feel your eyes watering at the memory of that afternoon before work. You want to spill it out, but you’re still holding back.

“Tell me why,” she states, and it’s suddenly hard for you to breathe. You don’t respond for another long while, and she gets furious. “Do you not understand how selfish you’re being?” she says. “I’ve been through so much with your father, and the one chance I get to be with someone, you won’t allow it. You won’t even tell me, Mags. You’re acting like a brat!” She pauses and waits for you to reply, but you still say nothing. She’s livid.

“How would you like it if Janine brought you over to her house, and all of a sudden, her dad didn’t like you? With no explanation whatsoever. He doesn’t say anything to you; he just turns his head every time you talk, says mean things behind your back, and scoffs and snickers and rolls his eyes in that same, ignorant way you do every time Tym tries to have a conversation!”

She was not going to bring your best friend into this. She was not going to use her against you, and compare her father disliking you, like it was the same thing with your hatred for this man.

“He hasn’t even done anything to you—”

That’s your next trigger. “He touched me, Mom!”

The world seems still. It’s quiet between you two, and she stares at your outburst with a horrified look on her face—like the look she had when she pulled out the lingerie from the Victoria’s Secret bag, like that look she had when she found out you self-harmed. It’s the same look she has when she catches Tym drinking again, or when he calls her a bitch, but then uses the excuse that he’s too drunk to really mean it. It’s the same look you remember her having when your father first hit her.

Now she doesn’t say anything, and you can see the information processing through her eyes, see them growing darker and darker with each passing second, and for a moment, you feel this huge weight off your shoulders. You feel relieved that she knows, that you can tell her anything again without having to worry about her turning her back on you. That she can help and that she’ll get rid of him because she finally sees how badly he’s damaging your relationship, and god, do you get that feeling again where it’s just you two in this world and nothing else matters. . . .

But then, you see the opposite happening. You see her pupils locking onto you, targeting you, and her words, what you feared the most, smack you across the face. She has the bitter attitude now.

“Why are you making a stupid story up?” she mutters. “He would never do that. Why would he ever do that?”

That, you don’t have an answer for. But it triggers something else in you, a new kind of adrenaline. So when she leaves, you lock the door again and pull out your notebook. Instead of going back to dark nights, instead of reading the problems away with a fantasy, you begin to write your own world. You write about life being fair and where no one would turn their back on you. You write about falling in love with someone who doesn’t treat you as bad as how your father or this alcoholic treats your mother. You write stories similar to Fitzgerald and Hemingway, about jazz and dancing, and about going to Paris or some other place where the sun also rises—a place that is warm and bright and safe, where no one gets hurt. You write about how you never want to come back to the West Suburbs of Chicago after graduation, and memories being alone with him again. You had it now. For three years, you waited for someone or something to come save you from this madness, but you realize now that only you can save yourself. And you will.

 

The final year of high school comes by quickly, and Tym drives you one morning. The car ride is quiet, and you’re looking out the window to avoid any conversation. The route only takes ten minutes—just ten minutes with him, and then you’ll be away; that’s all you ever want in life now.

“I’m not a pervert,” he says out of nowhere.

Your breath halts.

“Your mother told me what you said to her, you know. That’s ridiculous that you’d think I’d do such a thing.”

Both your hands clench at your sides. He had the audacity to speak to you as if you were stupid. As if you were a little girl and had just made up some sick tale, and he didn’t do any of it.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mags—”

“Don’t call me that!”

He ignores you. “I’m not a pervert,” he repeats. “I don’t know where you get these ideas, but you gotta stop that make-believe stuff. It makes you sound crazy, and it breaks your mom’s heart, Maggie.”

He makes it seem like everything is your fault. That’s your strike.

You want to shove him off like you did two years ago. You want to smack his head against the back of the seat, the window, the windshield or something, and you want to see him die. You want to see blood all over his face, gushing from his forehead, his nose, his giant lip, and you want to see it running—running, like what you’ve wanted to do all those times you were stuck in a room alone with him, and he would give you those eyes that only you knew what was meant, what was promised, and you’d want to tell, but you knew no one would do anything about it, no one would believe you because even your mother didn’t. You want him unconscious. You want him to slump against the steering wheel with his foot still pressed on the pedal, and you want the car to accelerate and swerve in different directions until you crash. You want to crash, and you want the car to burn, to inflame his body along with it until it turns to ash because you want no trace of him in this world anymore. You want him dead and gone forever so that you can finally breathe, so that you no longer have to be afraid of men, so that ugly face would disappear from your memory, and you could have your sanity again.

But instead, you say nothing. You don’t fight. You can’t fight. Because you can’t win. You’ve learned to keep quiet, and that is what you will do until you can get away from this town. You get out of the car when he pulls up to the school, and you shut the door without looking back.

In homeroom today, the counselors come to talk about colleges, and as you stare down at the list of schools they suggest, you know you want to go far. You want to get away from Carol Stream, from Wheaton, from Illinois in general because you want to get away from this man, this monster, but you know you could never leave your mom like that—regardless of the fact that she’s taken his side, regardless of the fact that she doesn’t believe you and how she probably never will.

The only thing you’re sure about is how these next four years are the most important of your life. And you don’t want to be dragged down by anything or anyone, anymore.

You settle with an art school in Chicago, about thirty minutes from home, but still far enough away.

And when your mom asks, “What did you decide?” at dinner and you tell her, she gives you that look again. But it’s now a look that doesn’t faze you, because you’re so used to it. You don’t care anymore. You’re numb. “You want to be a writer?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs loudly and begins to pull up the school’s website on her laptop to look at the tuition. “If that’s what you really want. . . .”

And when there’s nothing else for her to say, nothing else for her to do to convince you that maybe you should try something more realistic, you go up to your room, lock the door, and pull out your notebook. And you will continue to do this, continue to write and write and write—excluded from the world, in a dark room with nothing but your headphones and soft music playing—making believe, making stupid stories up, because apparently, that’s all you do best.

_____________________________
Mulan Matthayasack is a Chicago-based artist whose works mainly revolve around young adult fiction and romance. Her most recent work “SunKissed” and “À Lui: All The Things You’re Good At” can both be seen in the latest issues of Mental Papercuts.

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How to Make Jell-O shots

 

Everyone loves to get shit-faced, but you know what everybody doesn’t love? Your shitty taste in alcohol. I swear to God, every time a couple of dudes come up to me and tell me they got alcohol, it’s the same damn thing every time: some Captain Morgan, a bottle of cheap vodka, and maybe some tequila. That’s depressing, especially when you have nothing to mix it with. Some people may not care, and chug whatever you’ve got, but people like me can’t stomach that crap. But you know what everyone does love? Jell-O shots. Now, I know what you may be thinking: Really? Jell-O shots? What am I, some kind of frat boy? Some kind of teen girl going to a music festival, trying to sneak in alcohol? Well, newsflash sweetie, Jell-O shots taste fucking good, and are a convenient way to get alcohol in your system. They are extremely popular at parties and people will never turn them down. They’re really not even that hard to make. I’m not even an alcoholic (though I may sound like one) and I make about two hundred of ’em for parties I go to. So if you don’t want your next party to fucking suck, follow this guide to make some delicious Jell-O shots.

Let’s start off with what you’re going to need. So write this shit down before you go to the store, or you’re probably gonna forget, let’s be honest. Just booze and Jell-O mix right? WRONG! You need the cups to put the shots in! I get mine on eBay because they conveniently come in packs of fifty along with lids. Lids aren’t completely necessary, but if you have to transport these shots anywhere, you’re gonna want lids. Or you’re gonna have a big ol’ mess of alcoholic gelatin on your hands. So you can get these online or probably at a grocery store, they’re essentially portion containers like restaurants have for sauces. I do two hundred shots, but you don’t have to do that many if the gathering is smaller. I recommend you do at least fifty or else it’s worthless. These things go fast, you’d be surprised. You will also want some kind of cooking spray like PAM—also not required. But I do think oiling the cups up first, helps the Jell-O slide out easily, just so your party guests don’t have to struggle—unless you want them to—your call. A pitcher is needed to pour the Jell-O/alcohol mixture into the cups. Don’t try and use a bowl, you’re gonna fail, these cups are small, you need a pitcher. If you have no cookie sheets at home, buy paper plates to stack your shots onto, so they can solidify in the fridge. If you have no measuring cups (why don’t you?). Buy at least a one-cup measuring cup. If you are transporting these shots, get a cooler. Depending on how many you make, get a fairly large one. You don’t want super warm Jell-O shots, that’d be fucking gross.

Now moving on to the Jell-O and alcohol part. So, for alcohol, don’t be a cheapskate and get some shitty, no-name, huge bottle of vodka. Your shots will taste like shit and you will look bad, and you should feel bad. Buying flavored vodka makes the shots taste A LOT better. Also the leftover alcohol can be used for mixed drinks! So here are my go-to alcohols, you may choose whatever fits your tastes, or if you’re rich, go ahead and buy the expensive shit. These alcohols are fairly cheap, but still flavored and get the job done: blue raspberry (UV blue), cherry (UV red), strawberry (Strawberry Smirnoff), apple (New Amsterdam Apple), and orange (New Amsterdam Mango). Orange vodka exists, but mango vodka tastes better in my opinion. Now for the Jell-O, just get the matching flavor. DON’T GET LIME JELL-O! IT TASTES FUCKING BAD AND NOBODY LIKES IT! Trust me, it is the most unpopular flavor. At Pride fest, where they were selling Jell-O shots, lime was so unpopular the volunteers started selling ’em to minors, since they were the only ones who would take ’em. Lime is just bad and doesn’t work well with alcohol either.

So most of these Jell-O flavors are pretty easy to find except green apple. It’s a special Jolly Rancher flavor and is sometimes harder to find. Flavors like blue raspberry, orange, and cherry come in big boxes. Apple and strawberry come in small boxes. So get one of each big box, and two of each small box. Lemon is an option, but I’ve found it’s not a super popular flavor. Not as bad as lime, but still not great.

Now, can you do this with normal vodka? Yeah, but if you’re going through all this effort you might as well get flavored, to be honest. So now that you got everything you need let’s start making these shots. I always do this with another person. I’ve found it’s way easier and doesn’t take as long with two people. If you’re lonely or none of your friends wanna help you (get new friends), that’s fine. Lay out the trays/plates and place the cups on them. Make sure you spray the cups with PAM or cooking oil first. Like I said before, it just makes for easy dispensing. Now you can start boiling the water for the Jell-O. I always have two pots of water boiling to make the process quicker, but you don’t have to. So for the big boxes (six ounces), you dump one box of the Jell-O mix, for the small (three ounces), just dump in two boxes, two cups of the boiling water, one cup of the correct alcohol flavor, and one cup of ice-cold water. Now, don’t try to add more alcohol. You may be thinking, Huh? If I add more alcohol, that means the shots will be more fun! No, they won’t be. They’ll taste like shit and barely have the consistency of Jell-O. If you add too much alcohol it can ruin the gelatinous state of the shots, and that’s the whole fucking point. Just don’t. So mix this little concoction up with a spoon. Try not to have it too close to your face. The alcohol fumes are a little strong when mixed with boiling water. The first time I made the shots, I inhaled too much and felt lightheaded.

Now begins the pouring process. Fill the cups as high as you can. Nobody wants to get a half empty cup, they’d be fucking pissed. Make sure you have enough space for the lid to go on top, don’t overfill either. Once you’re done and your pitcher has run out, do the next flavor. Like I said, easy, right? Once finished, you will stack your trays/plates on top of each other in your fridge. You may have to clear some space, take out anything you don’t need. Yes, that means the Chinese takeout that’s been sitting in some tupperware at the back of your fridge. I let these babies sit in the fridge overnight. I’ve never had them in the fridge for less than, like, twelve hours. So, if you’re on a time-crunch, you shouldn’t have made these in the first place.

Next morning they should be jiggly, wiggly, alcoholic Jell-O raring to go! If you’re transporting them, put the lids on ’em all and stack them in the cooler. I always put some ice packs or ziplocks of ice to keep ’em cold. So that’s it? That’s it! Every party is more fun with Jell-O shots! Even if you’re a fucking loser you can make a party fun with these! You can even sell them at concerts or festivals. Hell, I’ve seen ’em go for $3 a pop! Some people will put straws in the shots to pry them out easily, but my trick is use your finger. I slide my finger around the edge of the cup, and it slides right out! Then I just drop it down the hatch! Or you can use your tongue—apparently I’m a pussy for using my finger, but it’s way easier. That sentence sounded more sexual than I intended. Oh well!

Obviously, Jell-O shots are not equivalent to an entire shot of alcohol, but three or four of these things will get you somewhere. They’re just easy. When you don’t wanna chug, but also don’t wanna have to deal with shitty tasting alcohol, a Jell-O shot is a delicious and convenient option. Have them in between drinks. Take them earlier before drinking! Remember to drink responsibly. Or don’t, I don’t really give a shit!

 

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Kinsey Herzog lives in Omaha, Nebrasks after graduating from Columbia College Chicago in 2018. Her most recently published piece is “The Right Place and the Right Time” on Storynews.net.

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Perverse Spirits

 

The sun beat down on the corrugated, tin roof from a cloudless sky. The metal had rusted in many places, producing an overlay of new tin grafted onto old in odd patches. The heat it produced, encapsulated the two-room shack housed beneath it, transforming it into an oven that broiled the raw, pungent smell of Fannie’s sweat. It comingled with the blood, mucus, urine, and feces that lay in a pool between her raised legs, stirring into a nauseating stench. The hands of Cora, the midwife; Fannie’s mother; and two sisters strained to hold Fannie’s thrashing form still as her back arched with the force of another pain. The women looked across her body at each other, shaking their heads, death swimming in the unshed tears pooling in their eyes, preparing for the death that lingered in the fetid air around them.

Cora was a big woman, standing just under six feet in height, broad shouldered, and muscled as some men. Sweat poured from her forehead, sliding over her coarse features which contorted from the strain. Her muscles bulged and flexed as she grabbed Fannie across her back, rolling her onto her side, allowing the other women to snatch the soiled sheet from beneath her before rolling her back onto the bare mattress. Her large, strong hands began kneading the round mass of Fannie’s abdomen as it hardened with another contraction. Fannie’s heels dug into the mattress and she threw her head back, her mouth stretched wide in a scream. Cora could see the entirety of the baby’s form outlined and knew that the head was not pointing down the way it should.

“Lord,” she whispered, turning her face upward, seeking direction and solace from heaven. “Help me, Jesus. Show me what to do,” she prayed, the gentle healer’s spirit encased in her formidable body reaching out to her spiritual gifts. Beneath Cora’s skin, she felt snakes writhing in agitation, cold suddenly enveloping her, radiating from the hands that touched the baby still in Fannie’s womb and upward through her body. Her gift manifested itself in warmth and light, or cold and darkness. This was cold.

Beaulah, Fannie’s older sister, wiped a cool, wet rag across Fannie’s brow, cooing soothingly. Her mouth moved in silent prayer as fear twisted her heart, seeing again the wreckage of her sister’s body when they had found her nine months before this day.

Fannie, legs sprawled apart, the lower portion of her body torn and mutilated, her life’s blood seeping into the dry ground. Deep wounds circled her neck, dark bruising welts, her breathing shallow and labored. She had screamed until James Henry, her sister’s husband, arrived and carried her limp form back to the house. Fannie never told her sister what or who had attacked her that day in the woods. She had simply lain listless and silent for weeks, staring at the wall, while being tended to by her family as her stomach began to swell.

Beaulah visited every day, ignoring the whispers of the family and folks around her, praying with, and for her sister. Discernment was not a gift that she possessed, but anyone with two eyes could see the madness that had descended upon Fannie. 

She gazed into Fannie’s eyes, noting the same fixed stare focused on the space beyond her. Reaching out, she stroked the hand resting in her sister’s lap.

“Fannie? Fannie? I knows you can hear me.”

She waited and began again, keeping the skin-to-skin contact, her voice soft. “It weren’t your fault. This ain’t what God want for you. You gon’ keep on an’ lose that baby chile’, an’ then what James Henry gon’ do?”

Fannie slowly raised her eyes to search her sister’s. When she spoke, her voice dry from disuse, Beaulah barely recognized it.

“You don’t know, sister. You don’t know what I done. An’ this here is my punishment.”

Her eyes lowered again, and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks, dripping onto the round mound beneath the faded housedress she wore.

“That ain’t so. God don’t be like that. We all got judgement an’ that a sure thing, but he ain’t gon’ punish a youngin’. You know it ain’t nothin’ he cain’t forgive if we ask him.”

Fannie raised her eyes to search her sister’s again, a glimmer of hope sparking. Beaulah seized it, speaking rapidly as she fell to her knees, her head in her sister’s lap, forehead bumping against the roundness of the baby. She pulled both of Fannie’s hands into her own, shaping them into the familiar form of prayer.

“All us needs to do is pray. Pray wit’ me Fannie, pray wit’ me.”

Beaulah would have done anything to save her, promised the Lord any sacrifice, and that day, Fannie found God again, both of them leapt and danced with joy, shouting and praising his lost sheep being brought back into the fold. Something in God’s word had reached her, and Fannie had sobbed in Beaulah’s arms, her words incomprehensible to anyone but the God she now served.

God became more real to Fannie than he ever had been before, offering her absolution from the darkness that had surrounded her since the attack. He became her light. Day after day, Beaulah found her cradling her stomach with one hand, holding her bible with the other. And now, the baby was coming, the special son that Fannie was assured God had promised her. 

 

Looking up, Beaulah saw Cora raise her chin, motioning her and the other women into place to hold Fannie’s shoulders down. Each woman pressed one hand down on a shoulder and used the other to hold an ankle. Her mother, Corinn, stood at her head and added her hands and strength to pin Fannie to the bed.

Cora used one hand to press against Fannie’s stomach while she reached up through her vagina, pushing her hand upward, grunting in pain as a contraction squeezed her arm and wrist, making her pant until it passed. Feeling the small feet of the child, she wrapped her hand around both feet and yanked, putting all her strength behind it, and felt the body sliding forward. Turning the baby to ease out the shoulders, she pulled again until he lay in her waiting hands, face down.

Even from the back, she could see that his head was misshapen from the force of being pulled through the narrow birth canal. His blue-black skin was pale, showing no hint of blood flow, and she turned him quickly, gasping at the sight of his nose squashed into his face, his bulging eyes, and his wide, silent mouth.

But, more than his disfigured head and face, more than his large body and shriveled legs, was the darkness that radiated from him in waves as he began struggling to breathe, his body twisting with the effort. The snakes under her skin rolled in protest and Cora felt her eyes rolling upward, her body swaying unsteadily.

“Jesus, somethin’ wrong wit’ him. Look at him.” Cora hissed the urge to place her large hand over his face and deny him the breath of life rising and writhing with the snakes. Beaulah, Ethel, and Corinn shrank away from her, their eyes rounded in terror, their open mouths flapping without sound.

“Wha’s wrong?! Give him to me,” Fannie cried, having forced herself into a sitting position. Grimacing as pain tore through her body, she reached out for the fragile newborn. The smell of copper rose into the air as hot blood rushed from her, startling Cora, who blinked twice, freeing herself from her trance, and moving into action. She looked down at the baby once more, hearing the words that would end him clearly whispering across her mind. The baby’s eyelids slid open slowly and stared at her, unflinching.

Cora felt her body deflate, the ramrod steel of her determination dissolving as she stared into his eyes. Her light melted. The snakes stilled.

Hastily, she pushed the baby into Fannie’s arms and turned, moving quickly across the room to her bag, her large bare feet making prints in the dust of the earthen floor. She rummaged, hands trembling as she searched for the herbs to pack Fannie’s womb, and stop the bleeding before she lost both mother and child. On the bed, Fannie clutched the child to her chest, and from the corner of her eye, Cora saw him wriggling. He was alive.

“Fannie, he ain’t right chile, he evil; I can feels it.” Cora called up the last of her remaining courage as she walked back across the room. “You know I got the sight, was born wit’ a veil an’ I can see it. You got to let me send him back.” Her head swiveled from side to side as she attempted to catch the eyes of the other women who stood with heads bowed, each slowly making their way closer to the door.

Fannie stared down into his small distorted features, all too big, overpowering his face, with his dark skin turning purple from his efforts to breathe. She laid him in the crook of her arm and leaned her head down until her mouth covered his nose and mouth, and she exhaled into him, watching his small chest rise. She ran her fingers lovingly over the wrinkled crevices of his skull, down his cheek and across his small body, and then repeated the procedure.

She noticed the small, shrunken legs attached to his large torso and wondered if they might be able to support him. She gazed into his eyes, willing him to live, infusing him with her spirit, remembering that God had talked to her and shown her how to still the darkness she saw swirling there in the depths.

“He be alright. God, I’ll help him be alright.” She spoke against the tendrils of evil and malice, the same ones that she had seen in the eyes of his father, Charles, that last day in the woods.

 

They met at that place, deep within the trees, the one that had become their own. It had been that way for months as he had loved her the way that her husband never seemed able to, making her insides glow, praising her beauty. She forgot the hard callouses on the palms of her hands from scrubbing, washing, hoeing the yard, and always cleaning or cooking. His touch seemed to soften her.

“Come away wit’ me, Fannie,” he begged, his breathing still harsh in her ear as the passion eased from them both. She reached down to smooth her dress back into place as she turned her head away.

“You know I cain’t do that, Charles. I got them kids. They cain’t come wit’ us. I got to stay wit’ ’em ’til they get big. Then us can go.”

His body hardened against hers and he leaned back to look directly in her eyes, forcing his words through his lips. “You don’ loves me, Fannie. You loves him an’ them.”

“No, Charles, I loves you, it jus’. . . .” The words faltered, flopping around in her mind like a fish out of water, and her limbs began to tremble under his gaze.

He stood up, his body rigid, swelling with fury growing in him as she spoke, and she watched his eyes change, becoming darker, larger. Something swirled in their depths just as his hand made a fist and came down to strike her. 

Her left eye exploded with pain, her hands flew up to cover it, leaving her defenseless against the blows he rained on her. The bone in her forearm cracked from the force of the next blow, and then fell limply at her side. She tried to form words that would stop him, bring back the love between them, but nothing came through her swollen lips except grunts and groans.

He lifted and slammed her into the earth, and felt the soft grass that had been their bed a moment ago, now filled with stones and brittle branches that dug into her back. One hand fumbled with his manhood as he stretched her legs open wide, pulling and clawing at her as he tore her body. 

His face was a rictus of hatred as he pounded into her broken flesh. She remembered the raw searing pain as tissue ripped and tore. He pounded her body; his hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing until the last of his rage poured out of him with his seed flowing into her. She saw him stand and walk away, never looking back at her ravaged body while her fractured mind tried to comprehend what happened as the pain dragged her down into complete darkness.

 

She closed her mind to the memory and looked down at her son. Hers, not his. Tears slid down her cheeks, anointing his head and body. She knew that she could make her son better, fix in him whatever it was that had broken in his father that day. Her love would fix him.

“You gon’ be different,” she whispered into the shell of his ear. She would not let him die; she would not let him leave her. Only God could take him away from her, and He wouldn’t do it. He had promised her through His forgiveness that He would not. She curled her body around the baby protectively, watching the slow rise and fall of his little chest with each harsh and labored breath. Her fingers and palm continuously rounded his crown, smoothing the dented skull before moving to stroke her fingers on either side of his nose, shaping it.

Cora turned away, her shoulders hunched, her face a closed mask of despair. She imagined pulling the child from Fannie’s arms and bashing his head against the floor. The feeling in her was so strong, her legs strained to move on their own. Frantically searching for support, she found Beaulah’s eyes locked into her own, along with Ethel and Corinn. She paused, hesitating to do what, in her heart, she felt was right.

But the moment passed. She could not do it now without it looking like a murder. Sighing in resignation, she moved toward the other women, forming them into a circle as she joined hands with them. “God’s Will will be done sisters, let us pray,” she intoned. She closed her eyes and turned her back to Fannie and her son.

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Carolyn Boykin is currently working on her MFA thesis at Columbia College which had its origin in the short story, “Perverse Spirits.” In 2019 she received the Daniel Friedman Award for her story “Ugly” in Hair Trigger 41 and the Compassionate Chronicles award from Words for Charity for “Afros Bellbottoms and Bald Heads” and “Body of Work.”