In The Hollow

Susan Scott

You were born small
screaming large
in a southern town at the brushy fork
of the Appalachians.

Already drawn
you slept for months
before your eyes captured
blue of another galaxy.

Far-flung swirl of stars
a celestial ferris wheel
you would alight
no fear

a fistful of moons
in your left hand
blinking neon

a harbinger
I would swathe you
tight and tense
until your head slumped

content against my chest.
All that remains in that hollow
is impression, jagged
outline of mountains you were born to.

Susan Scott taught GED mathematics for several years before returning to life on the road. In search of poetry and home, she has lived in several cities and villages throughout the world. She currently resides in Portland, Oregon and has published in halfwaydownthestairs.net and with Write Denver.

Points of View

Sharon Ackerman

All that time spent as a child
under the moon,
and I never once looked upward

Preferring to run, a jar held
high for lightning bugs,
the air damp on my arms                                 

Calling look to my father, waving
my jar of lights, as he peered
down the long telescope of years.

Where I waited, steeped in dew
and he searched the silvering air,
its large heavens, as though he knew

We would fail to find each other
in this world, so he gazed into the next.

Sharon Ackerman holds an M.Ed from the University of Virginia. She is the first place winner of the Hippocrates Poetry in Medicine international contest, London 2019. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Streetlight Magazine, The Atlanta Review, and Heartwood Literary Magazine. She is the poetry editor for Streetlight Magazine.

The CSX Circles the Carolina Cove At Midnight

Joyce Compton Brown

It rumbles in the dark
like a deep bass note     
pitched beneath coyote’s
tenor yelp, as it has
for a hundred years,
from West Virginia coal mines
through the valley. It snakes
down Linville Mountain
toward factories long dead,
past depots boarded up,
converted to tourist sites.

It passes plants where mysteries
are made, where trucks wait
to carry the load.
Slides on down to
Piedmont towns where
empty buildings loom
rust-red in the night.
Dead cotton mills
and furniture plants squat
near boarded company stores.
It rolls down to the flatlands
to a few coal plants
still churning out some power
before the final shutdown.
Moves on down to port towns
carrying oil in tank cars
for big ships to carry
on to foreign ports.

At journeys end cargo cars sit
in great tracked lots, waiting,
where kids write their songs
of I am here with spray paints
and bold words, indecipherable
to men rambling by, in language
no clearer than the coyote’s yap,
ignored as commonplace,
the jibberings of the young,
irrelevant to the journey.

Joyce Compton Brown has published in such journals as 'Main St. Rag', 'Kakalak', 'Still', and 'Flying South'. She studied poetry at Hindman Institute and Wildacres and has won several honors in art and poetry journals. Having taught English at Gardner-Webb University, she now concentrates on poetry, art, and roots music. She plays banjo, explores old music, and was keynote speaker at the American Gravestone Association Conference, 2019. Her chapbooks are 'Bequest' (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and 'Singing with Jarred Edges' (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2018).

This Morning, In the Mist

Jane Hicks

A hawk wings                 out over the valley
climbs, seeks                  a curtain of rain
thermals, wheels,         awash in summer
bathes in breeze            no prey below
no hunt                          but hawk hunger

Jane Hicks a retired teacher living in Upper East Tennessee. She has published two full length collections of poetry, appeared in numerous anthologies, and many regional publications.

A Weekend is One Thing and a Thing Later

After Robert Gober

Lee Hodge

I saw a lady silhouette on a truck’s mud flap and a
Missing cat notice written from the perspective of the cat
I’m lost before the shape of you in the rearview mirror
My mother was telling the sales woman in Talbots about her court date
While a tree was falling on the lawn
Of the former Home for Confederate Widows
After watching golf on the liquid crystal display
Studded and picturesque with prefallen trees
We read the plaque on the raptor trail for Bill Patrick
Who dedicated his life to birds of prey
Which are majestic creatures
Then the fake diamond earring of the man
Next to me on the greyhound bus
Gleamed in the smell of piss
I took half a pink pill and
The 7 Eleven parking lot
Next to the old 7 Eleven parking lot dissolves jagged
It was raining before
The woman was pulling her dog
Out through the mist of evaporating water
Dissipating in the brightness of the morning
Which is the day coming on timeless
In the space of the storm last night of the morning
I was waking to work and saw the notice again
I’m lost! I was last seen Sunday
I am sure you are cool but I would much rather be home
Help me! Please
Please
I’m lost!

Lee Hodge is an MFA candidate in poetry and fiction at Virginia Commonwealth University, and a recipient of a 2019 Carol Weinstein Grant. Her work has appeared in Clinch Mountain Review and Funny Looking Dog Quarterly. She lives in Richmond, Virginia.

Standing in a Late Season

Mark Senkus

the wind moves in the direction
of the crows over the long field
the sky does not hesitate to press
down with its cold eye

laughter early in the noise
of morning
sounding like a foreign language
the hours running through the light
from their gathered brightness

the sun today can hold no warmth
like a tire being punctured

shadows stiff against the ground
like eyes that will not blink

in the distance the canal rises with
the firm droning of water

the weight of the river
grows heavy as grieving

we do not know what
we have missed.

Mark Senkus lives in Michigan's Upper Peninsula and works as a psychotherapist. He writes in the evenings, the mornings and at work while he is on breaks. Senkus was widely published in the small press poetry underground of the late 1990s. He began writing again after a twelve year hiatus from poetry.

Words of the Sapient

Grace Curtis

We attach lattice
to our vocabulary. Crows,

gathered in a nearby tree,
speak,
sounding like rain. Each spoonful

 of day deepens
into its own murmur.

Turn off the TV, we say. Sit
in a chair, look out

into the field
that laps up sun
like a thirsty deer at a pond.

We dip our toes into
the stream
of another species’ sentience
until it feels

like our own wings beating. We crush
winter’s left-over slurps

beneath our shoes,
hoping for the best,
forever honed
into the worst, forgetting
to hold the crow’s words
close to our ears.

In Consideration of Seasons

Grace Curtis

What’s been written thus far is yammer
yielding to the rain drenched apple blossom
as if droop alone represents spring,

as if swooping swallows generate time
against the quiet unfolding of the Ash.
The river breaks open the earth

at a place few are destined to cross.
Fissures pushed forward
from puny crests, spill out

their hoard. Dirt, as dirt then silt,
marches into the tears, swept
by inevitable design, and piles up

at the base of another day. Hunger,
like a requiem to season, speaks
to drift’s relentlessness, to disappointment,

to forced renewal, to the obedience
of migration, to the nest builder’s diligence,
to the sun’s unstoppable impact

 on earth’s descent. Hunger
blankets the still cold ground
like a battlefield afloat, bucketing

mica and feldspar in deconstructed pails
of an undefinably hued river floating
beneath a shower of pink and magenta.

Grace Curtis is the author of three collections of poetry, Everything Gets Old, (Dos Madres, 2019) The Shape of a Box, (Dos Madres, 2014). Her chapbook, The Surly Bonds of Earth, was selected by Stephen Dunn as the 2010 winner of the Lettre Sauvage chapbook contest and she has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Her prose and poetry can be found in such journals as Sou’wester, The Baltimore Review, Waccamaw Literary Journal, and others. www.gracecurtispoetry.com

Dream, Three Ways

Carol Grametbauer

from inside winter’s vise                           crushed in the grip of cold
I dreamed a flowering chaos                  I dreamed a June canvas
of milkweed crowding roadsides          a million blossoms aglow
creamy bindweed flowers                       bobbing in a breeze
humming with bumblebees                   as if they were alive
the rustle and buzz                                     the sonorous summer-sounds
of the season’s fervor                                on a sun-struck afternoon
piping me away                                           like a solstice choir processing
to a green and luminous place             to an ethereal Eden
my soul’s delight                                          built of air and longing

Carol Grametbauer is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Homeplace (Main Street Rag, 2018) and Now & Then (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her poems have appeared in journals including Appalachian Heritage, Connecticut River Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Artemis Journal, and Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, as well as in a number of anthologies.

A Note at the Beginning of Autumn

James Owens

The rain has paused here,
but I like the raw wind that tears
at the branches, undressing them,
redressing, calling me

to stand at the door and watch
yellow leaves rush away
as clouds bulk taller
into the sombering afternoon.

The tough old men I knew when I was young
are gone, every one of them
with their tobacco juice and rattlesnake
canes and vast coats worn soft,

 but I've heard of a high bald on Pine Mountain
where they gather in wind like this
and talk about the lights down here.
Someday I'll go, and I'll know them.

Envoy:
There is a spider web in one upper corner
of the door frame.
Three wrapped flies
glued to the wood like seeds.

The Last Fling of Winter

James Owens

The sleepy mammal,
rimed with a silver frost,

is warm now to the touch,
has come alive in afternoon

sunshine to dart about
the swell of the fields.

Earth hides secrets
in leafless thickets:

already windflowers, adder's
tongue, bloodroot,

the gabble of the grackles.
The bulb and the grub

and the seed will tell
the first dragonflies

– metallic, uncurling –
to shimmer.

(Note: A found poem constructed with phrases from “April 6,” in Donald Culross Peattie's An Almanac for Moderns)

James Owens's most recent book is Mortalia (FutureCycle Press, 2015). His poems and translations appear widely in literary journals, including recent or forthcoming publications in Appalachian Heritage, The Adirondack Review, The Honest Ulsterman, and Dappled Things. Originally from Virginia, he earned an MFA at the University of Alabama and lives in a small town in northern Ontario.

The Painter

Amy Ellis

A man teaches a woman to mix paint
pigment and oils and liquids in jars
and glass decanters, ground together
and sloughed on a piece of wood.
Knife scraping board, his hands
on hers and they stir yellows
vermilion and paint the sky red.
There is a wicked storm coming.
There is a child crying through
the door. There is a woman nursing
a baby. There is a girl child breaking
tiles by the hearth. There is a cook
sweeping ash from the coals.
There is a woman being painted.
He puts her body into position
and marks her curves with a brush
that knows the way her body can stroke.
Her fingers are coloured blue.

Amy Ellis has a BA in Creative Writing from Longwood University and an MA in Digital Publishing from Oxford Brookes University. She is a self-published author and works in publishing in London. Follow her online @amesplaza.

“What Can I Give You?”

—Maggie Smith, “Love Poem”

Ace Boggess

The right question. Ask & ask, &
answers debate one another
on how best to remodel a basement
or replace photos lost in the fire.
Perhaps a silver necklace would do,
bracelets, a ring—symbolic or ordinary.
More basic needs interrupt the argument,
suggest groceries,
bedding, underwear, & socks.
What about that perfume you like—
the one scented with lavender & honey?
How about tickets to a show?
Gifts, like cards, can be personal things,
though never gift cards.
I wanted to offer something
that says what I want to say & can’t.
These words form a bundle
of butter-lipped lingo.
Try to get the story right,
but I speak in cubic zirconia
when I mean diamonds
raining through a hole in the roof.

Ace Boggess is author of four books of poetry, most recently I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So (Unsolicited Press, 2018) and Ultra Deep Field (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2017). His writing appears in Harvard Review, Notre Dame Review, Rattle, River Styx, and many other journals. He received a fellowship from the West Virginia Commission on the Arts and spent five years in a West Virginia prison. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.

Fiction

Bistro “Cockade”

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

A book had captured Marcel’s interest so much that he read it until the late evening, only interrupted to prepare the odd cup of espresso. It was one of those Sunday evenings in Paris soaked with loneliness, intensified by the darkness and decline of his quarter.

Marcel put the book aside and made up his mind to visit a bistro in the vicinity.

He left his house. A waxy, fat rat scurried under a pile of bulky waste on which lay the head of a mannequin- with wide open eyes. He crossed Place de Grève which was described in the book as the scene of bloody executions and agonizing deaths of thousands during the French Revolution. Marcel imagined luminous blood flowing down the gutters and between the crevices of the cobble stones, only to realize it was the reflection of the traffic lights that coloured the rainwater blood-red.

Three blocks away was a bistro named Cockade, which he had never visited before. He proceeded to the counter to order a drink. A middle-aged man with missing front teeth and a malicious smile came out of the kitchen with a tea towel over his shoulder. His appearance made Marcel shiver.

 A minute later, the man placed a glass of absinth before him.

“How did you know I wanted absinth?”

“Drink is on the house. I am the new owner, Charles-Henri Sanson.” He gave Marcel a clammy handshake.

Sanson? Wasn’t that the name of the Executioner during the Revolution?

Marcel sipped on his absinth. The guests looked like extras, dressed in funny costumes. There was not one known face among them. A woman dressed in black sat in the corner. She wept and held a bundle pressed to her chest. Two couples danced a Carmagnole to the sound of a bandoneon. Marcel was surprised to hear this Republican song and dance originating from 1792.

The bistro exhaled a strange, unreal atmosphere. He craved fresh air. When the owner noticed that he was about to leave, he pointed to a man at a nearby table who had two empty wine bottles in front of him. He wore a kind of Phrygian cap.

 “He is off his head”, the owner said. “He is a poet. Can you accompany him home?

 The man at the table looked up. "Betrayed by a whore," he slurred...

 ”Where does he live?” Marcel asked over the counter.

“Rue Quincampoix 34, ring at André Chénier.“ 

Not far from Marcel’s place.

Weird, he thought. A writer Chénier, whose head fell under the guillotine, was mentioned in the book he had read.

Marcel took his arm. The man staggered along, his legs giving up from time to time. They stood in front of a house which had been declared uninhabitable and was about to be demolished. Next to the official notice, graffiti was emblazoned on the wall: Revolution devours its own children. Marcel rang a makeshift doorbell hanging on two wires.

The creaking staircase was narrow, littered with fallen plaster. The walls dirty. Rats everywhere. Light was provided by a lantern from the street. A doorless squat toilet was yawning on one landing next to an apartment. A woman stood in the doorframe. She pulled André into the room and waved Marcel in and offered him a glass of wine. Along the walls stood paintings. “Do you like my paintings?” asked the woman, who was dressed in quaint cut clothes. They showed scenes of executions, decapitations. Their dominant colour was red. A hangman pulling a head from a basket to show it to the crowd. At the bottom of a painting what looked like a puddle of blood. Somebody must have stepped on a paint tube and squeezed the red colour onto the carpet.

Suddenly the man shouted: “You handed me over, squealer.”

“Same litany every evening”, she said.

She had long, sharp fingernails. When Marcel looked up again he was frightened: She had no face. Panic stricken, he made his way down the staircase. When he stood on the pavement he took a deep breath and lit a cigarette.

On his way to his apartment he passed the heap of rubbish again. The mannequin head was still on top. He stopped and had a close look. He saw the eyelids slowly lift, such as happens with people awaking or torn from their thoughts or when the head falls under the guillotine. After seconds, the eyelids closed again. Once more, the eyelids lifted and finally the eyes took on the gaze of the dead.

Bob in the Crosshairs

Damian Dressick

 Cheryl

 Our first date was a humid Friday night in late spring and he took me to see his uncle’s band play the Polish Falcon’s Nest. The weather was warm for that time of year and we sweat through our clothes moving around the high-ceilinged room to songs like the “Beer Barrel Polka” and “That’ll Be the Day.” I liked how his muscles bulged his tight collar and tapered sleeves, the way his big hands held me through the damp, clinging cotton of my blouse as we spun on the sawdusted wooden floor. During the slow numbers, I let him pull me in close. I stared up into his coffee-colored eyes, watched the curve of his thick lips. I adored the way his pomade-darkened hair stayed shellacked in place, except for an inky squiggle that dangled over his forehead like it was taking a dare.

Outside, I noticed the welding scars on his wrists and forearms when he leaned in to kiss me. His chest felt solid against my splayed palm, reassuring, but his tongue was too big for my mouth and I could smell the sweat souring on his shirt in the night air. I told him my dad needed me home before eleven and started for the passenger door of his Dodge, leaving him standing with his thick arm on the yellow brick wall of the Falcon’s, cigarette burning away to nothing.

Lois

I could tell right away he didn’t belong in Principles of Modern Accounting any more than a golden retriever belongs in command of missile defense for the European Theatre—but there he sat, hunched in the second row, coveralls stained black, cigarette behind his ear, gnawed pencil between his fingers week after week, look of confusion on his face so intent we all assumed his first language was something quite unrelated to English, at least until the soggy afternoon around midterms when he cocked his hip and asked me for a light.

He told me he owned a garage out on the highway and had taken the class to get up to speed on the billing since his wife left him high and dry the year before. The first night he drove me out there, he put the moves on me right away, throwing his arm around my shoulder as we drove, his hand brushing at the swell of my breast.

We only ever slept together in his garage nights after class when my sister thought I was mastering the intricacies of monetary unit assumption with the ladies’ study group. Each time we did it, he bent me over the quarter panel of a car in for repairs, a Pontiac or a Chevy. He’d call me a “dirty bitch” and worse the whole time we were screwing. It excited me that he actually seemed very angry when we did it, like I was a stand-in for everything that was wrong with the world. It was flattering to be focused on so intently. It kept me coming back for a while. After the semester break, when we didn’t see each other for a few weeks, I thought I might need some kind of therapy and when I saw his number on the caller ID, I let the phone ring and ring.

Jo

No matter what you’ve heard, nothing much happened between us. Not, at least, until the middle of his divorce proceedings. Even then it wasn’t much. Twice. Maybe, three times. He’d toy with the hem of my skirt as I sat on the edge of my desk while we went over the testimony he’d give the judge. He’d grouse about how unhappy he’d been with his wife, talk up his experiences with other women. He’d compliment the smell of my dark hair, the cut of my dresses, the curve of my ass. Some nights he’d rest his hand on my knee. One night when I was pissed at Karl for not paying me enough attention, I let it stay there.

I’m well aware, however, small towns never offer generous allowances of discretion for outsiders. It isn’t a long journey—maybe only from the corner bar to the coffee shop—before lawyers, especially married ones, who don’t have their own trove of secrets to raise as a bulwark against rumor, become the butt of sexual appetite jokes, at least for the few trying months that precede the rigors of a disbarment hearing.

Martha

Thursdays were my nights. I’d press the buzzer for his apartment over the Tipple Tavern and he’d let me in. We’d sit on the bed and swig Budweiser from cold brown bottles, watch television till Leno, then screw standing up. The first time I found panties two sizes too small bunched under the bed, I told him I wouldn’t be back. The second time, I learned I might be the kind of woman who puts up with that sort of thing and he was the sort of man who would let me.

Caroline

My father’s kidney problems aren’t the root of his meanness, but I’m hoping they become the root of my forgiveness. The winding, meditative drive to Dave’s Dialysis grants us the dubious blessing of proximity. His rheumy eyes twitch in their dark sockets taking in the coal country landscape like a punishment.

In the waiting room, I read Family Circle or Redbook, think about what to make for dinner, imagine my mother in her patterned apron and bouffant pulling a tray of steaming haluski from the oven as we wait at the Formica table in the kitchen of our frame house on Sixth Street, sour look on her broad face suggesting tolerance pushed hours too far into the night and faltering. I picture my father reclined on the chilly table inside, shriveled body badged with the titanium intake valve that saves his life every week. I try to decide if my mother were still alive, would she be grateful?

Sometimes on the way back to my father’s ranch house off the highway we’ll stop at the Valley Dairy on Dark Shade Drive. He’ll order an egg white omelet with turkey bacon, slash his eyes sideways and joke with the waitress about the weather, the football team. On these mornings when he’s full of clean blood, I’ll want to ask him about the women that took him away from us, ask him if they were worth breaking our hearts, but instead I sit quietly in the booth, watch him chew his eggs like they’re beefsteak.

The Houses on Dunbar Street

Tom Patterson

The long black SUV backed in toward the curb behind Phil’s car. He was watching from a chair by the front window—his usual outpost at this time of morning. He put down his coffee mug and stood up for a better view. The SUV rolled forward, just tapping the rear bumper of Phil’s Toyota. Then it backed again several feet and stopped.

Why does GM have to make a family vehicle that big? he wondered. Parking was an issue on Dunbar Street. Many of the houses had attached garages in the rear, reachable by a service alley. But these were too small for the cars most people drove now, and it was so much easier to pull up in front and park at the curb.

He stood at the window long enough to see four persons get out: the man who drove, a woman and two small children. The woman was already calling sharply to the kids to keep close.

Well, here it comes, Phil thought as he picked up the mug and headed back toward the kitchen. He was a lean silver-haired man in his late sixties, living alone in the house since the death of his wife a couple of years earlier. He’d been in a state of anxiety ever since the Duffields—Art and Marie—had moved from the house next door. They were settling in now at Mulberry Manor, a retirement community not far away. He missed them more than he’d expected to, and almost dreaded the arrival of new neighbors in their place.

Returning to the window he saw that the visitors had been joined by a man in a plaid sport coat. He remembered seeing that coat. It was easy to imagine the conversation they were having.

Well, the place ought to go to a young family, Phil thought. These houses on Dunbar Street were still reasonable—relatively. And the elementary school just a couple of blocks away was a major draw. If you had kids it would be a no-brainer. His own kids had gone through that school twenty-five years ago. He leaned to follow the progress of the visitors across the yard. The three adults soon disappeared inside the house, the woman calling in the children as she went through the door.

Phil sat down again and returned to the paper. But paused a moment to wonder if the newcomers might subscribe. It would be good not to be the last one on the block getting a paper. He found the sports section and busied himself with yesterday’s developments.

*  *  *

Less than a week had passed when he heard that the house had been sold. And sure enough, it turned out to be the family with the giant SUV. His long-time neighbor on the other side, Frank Lennox, had found out somehow.

The new owners didn’t appear again for several more days. In that time Phil prepared himself to be open-minded, as his wife used to urge. Be patient, she would say. Let things play out before you make a judgement. But he was still trying to learn.

They were there again soon enough. He’d not seen them pull up, but heard the kids out in the yard. They squealed and laughed, darting in every direction. “Carlos—you come out from those bushes! Right now!” The mother’s voice, flute-like but clear and firm. Phil reached the window in time to see her grab the boy’s hand and lead him in through the front door.

It was just past ten in the morning. He went to the kitchen for a coffee refill. He was aware of a sense of gloom, but couldn’t explain to himself why it should be. What if the place had been rented after all? To a gang of college kids, or such? You can’t just live in a desert, he told himself. And no matter what the new family is like, you still have Frank and Madge on the other side. For now, anyway . . . .

He glanced at the calendar beside the fridge. June 17th. They should be moving in soon—well before September and the start of school.

It was almost three weeks later when he saw a long box truck pulling up next door. He wondered for a moment if this was going to be a brother-in-law job. But the workers who got out of the truck, and a second smaller van a few minutes later, were definitely professional. They were getting ramps and roll paper in place within minutes, moving with a minimum of noise. He watched a while from the living room, fascinated in spite of himself. Then, to his surprise, he felt the impulse to walk over and speak to the new neighbors. His wife would have been there well before now, he thought with a smile.

He checked himself in the hall mirror as he headed to the door. Nothing amiss. Just an ordinary old white guy with wrinkles—knobby knees beneath the walking shorts. He turned and hurried out the door.

“Hi there,” he said as he walked up behind the man and woman.

“Hello,” the man said as they both turned to face him. “It’s Mr. Sheppard, isn’t it?”

“Yes—Phil Sheppard.”

“I’m Maderos . . . Raymond,” the man said as they shook hands. “And this is my wife, Alicia.”

The woman offered her hand, and they shook as well. “We’re here, at last,” she said in an excited voice.”

“Yes,” Phil replied warmly. “Welcome . . . welcome to the neighborhood.”

He was still processing his impressions. The man, Raymond, was shorter than he’d realized, but solidly built, with bronzed leathery skin. He seemed to maintain a look of seriousness, but his smile came quickly. Alicia was at least an inch taller. Shapely, Phil noticed with a touch of embarrassment. The pale red blouse she wore set off her dark eyes well, and her black hair was pulled back and fastened . . . did they still call that a ponytail?

“You have children, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes—a boy and a girl,” Alicia responded. “Six years and nine years. The girl is older. We thought they might be in the way today. They’re with some friends who have children their age.”

Phil nodded approvingly. They watched the movers in silence for a moment. Then, wanting to say something, he made a polite offer of help. They both thanked him, but showed no sign of taking him up on it. The movers were working with impressive energy and skill.

Suddenly the head of the crew appeared at the door and called. Raymond yelled back and started off to join him. “Nice to meet you!” he said over his shoulder.

Alicia said, “I’d better go too,” and started away. “We’ll see you again soon, I hope,” she called over her shoulder.   

“Yes, I’m sure,” he answered. “And be sure to ask if there’s anything I can help you with!”

The move was completed without mishap. When the trucks were gone, about two o’clock, Phil went over again to congratulate the new occupants. This time he brought a bottle of champagne he’d put in the fridge to chill. They insisted he come back later in the evening to share. Before leaving he went out with Raymond for a few minutes to look things over and assess the damage, if any, to the lawn.

“Not as bad as it might be,” Phil said as they examined a few tracks in the grass. “I’ve got some grass seed in the basement if you want to do a little patching up. And the hose—you’re welcome to borrow it anytime. It stays at the spigot on this side, over by the hydrangea.” He pointed toward the front corner of his house.

Raymond thanked him, but assured him he had his own hose.

That evening over champagne the neighbors chatted pleasantly. They enjoyed watching the children work with some coloring books Phil had brought. With some prodding from Alicia, they did their best to show enthusiasm. After a polite interval they turned again to their own toys and devices—Rosa with her phone, and Carlos with a Star Wars item that apparently let you hold the Apocalypse in the palm of your hand.

“We’ve got to get our wi-fi in or they’ll go crazy,” Alicia said. “The people are supposed to be here tomorrow.”

It flicked through Phil’s mind to invite them over to use his PC, but he decided against it. Realizing they must have a million things to do, he took his leave after another few minutes.

In the days that followed he saw the new family only at fleeting intervals. Frank Leonard asked him more than once for his impressions, but he was hesitant. “They seem like a nice family, but I don’t see them much. They’re always on the go.”

“Do you hear them speaking Spanish sometimes?” Frank asked at one point. “I guess that’s their first language. I mean . . . you would think.”

“Well,” Phil said, “I think I’ve heard it once or twice. Especially when there’s some stress or excitement, you know.”

Frank smiled and nodded. Then Phil added, “But they all speak English well—no question.”

With that there was nothing more to be said about languages.

On the second weekend after the move Phil noticed Raymond out early, working among the shrubs in front of the house. He stepped outside and found that Raymond had cut down the large holly bush by the door. It had been there fifteen or twenty years. Phil walked over to say hello . . . and find out what other changes might be planned.

“You’re gonna put in something new here, I guess,” he said cautiously.

“Well,” Raymond answered, not taking his attention from the work, “Alicia wants some flowers—or more of them, here in the front. So we have to make room.”

“Yeah. Well, you always have to trade off. That holly tree was here a long time. Guess it was getting old anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s what we figured.” Raymond stepped back and turned to give Phil his whole attention.

“You plan leave the azaleas?” Phil asked hesitantly.

Raymond flashed a grin. “Oh yeah. She likes the azaleas. But the flowers are the main thing. She’ll have bulbs in by the truckload before next spring—tulips, daffodils and stuff.”

The holly bush went to the curb in sections, where it would be collected by the township. Meanwhile, the Maderoses pursued their renewal efforts all about the yard. Phil was gradually won over to the process. He declared that the pansies Alicia put in along the front added just the right touch of color.

Weeks went by and summer ended. As school began, the Maderos household settled into a new daily rhythm: Raymond going out to work early and coming home usually by five o’clock; Alicia seeing the children off on the school bus, then leaving for the day care center where she worked. Phil came to enjoy their presence more and more, especially the children at play in the afternoons or on weekends.

There had been a moment, early on, when he heard Alicia lecturing them about playing in their own yard. These directions related mainly to his property, since the border on the other side was lined by an overgrown privet hedge. At the next opportunity, when Alicia was busy setting out bulbs and the kids were inside, he walked over to visit. They had a pleasant exchange about perennials—spacing, fertilizing and so on. Then, finding an opening, he let her know that Rosa and Carlos were welcome to play in his yard whenever they liked. “These aren’t very big lots after all,” he said.

She smiled warmly. “Ah . . . thank you, Phil. You’re so generous. But I would hate for them to disturb you.”

“Oh, they never disturb me,” he responded. “Don’t worry about that.”

After this he would occasionally see them in his yard, or hear them tearing around the house. It was surprisingly gratifying. He thought how warmly they would have been welcomed by Louise, if she were still alive. On summer days she would have spoiled them to death with cool-aid and snacks. He would smile to see young Carlos flash by the kitchen window, destroying all in his path with a disintegrator ray. And he’d be listening unconsciously for the sounds of battle as he returned to his reading or paperwork.

* * *   

It was Monday morning, still early, when he heard unfamiliar voices outside. He went to the living room and looked out the front window. A large truck had pulled up in front of the Maderos house. The logo on the side was familiar—one of the hardware chains. Beside the truck he saw Raymond talking to a man in a work uniform. Another man was already opening the rear doors. Then there were others, and they began unloading a number of flat boxes from the truck. Raymond and the first man started walking farther into the yard.

Phil switched to a side window where he could keep them in view. Meanwhile other workers began to offload material from the truck: more large flat boxes, followed by regular lengths of wood or plastic that appeared to be posts. And all gleaming white.

Phil let go the curtain and turned from the window. A fence . . . that’s what it had to be. But why would anyone want to have a fence on Dunbar Street?

Back at the kitchen table, he returned to his task of weeding out files: statements and receipts needed for tax purposes and so on, but mostly dead paper for years.

He couldn’t concentrate on a single item.

A fence! Why would anyone . . . ? But he realized he was repeating himself.

He went back to the front window. Saw that the work was going forward quickly. The men had laid out a line coincident with the property line between his lot and the Maderos’s. And they were already digging. The cartons had been opened to yield giant squares of vinyl fence, all of the same blinding white. Each section solid—not slatted as with a picket fence.

The sight of all this stunned him, as if he’d been hit in the stomach.

He stood back from the window, debating with himself. Then he went to the closet for his hat, and headed out the front door.

As he crossed the grass toward the Maderos house he was careful to dodge the workers. He wanted no contact with them. Passing the pile of empty cartons he noticed the logo “Glo-Tex” on all of them, along with the words “Forever Fencing.” He was just in time to catch Raymond as he came down the steps.

Raymond saw Phil and smiled, but continued walking. “What do you think? Gonna be a great fence, huh?” He was already clicking the key to unlock his car.

Phil stopped, frozen. “Yeah, these guys sure know what they’re doing,” he replied lamely.

“Well, see you later,” Raymond said over his shoulder. “Don’t want this to make me late for work!”

Phil stood where he was, still trying to process his reaction. It was their yard after all. The Maderoses had a perfect right to build any kind of fence they wanted. Did they not?

The workers nodded politely as they went back and forth. He was careful to stay out of their way. He paced the property line, at a safe distance, to get a rough idea of the actual length. When he came back to his original position he saw Alicia coming from the front door. She nodded and smiled, but stayed on the porch.

Phil hesitated, then started toward her. Picking his spaces between the workers he crossed the yard to the porch, and stopped at the steps.

“A lot going on today,” he said, attempting a smile

“Yes,” she answered, returning a faint smile herself. “We thought it would be good to have a fence—you know, as the children get older. We don’t want them to ever bother you.”

“Oh . . .” he began, but realized that any protest would be double-edged. What could he say that wouldn’t betray some disappointment, or resentment? Finally he said, “Well, they never bother me.” And with a wan smile he added, “It’s a shame you decided to spend the money.”

She responded brightly: “Oh, don’t worry. Raymond is making good money now. And you know I work also at the day care center.” She paused a moment, then added, “We just didn’t want the children to be a nuisance.”

There was no answer to this. It was too late for remonstrance. She stood looking anxious, sensing his dissatisfaction.

Phil started to speak, then simply smiled and nodded.

He turned to watch the workers again. They continued in their task like limber robots—aligning, digging, inserting, connecting. Moment by moment the white barrier grew.

He turned back to Alicia, forcing another smile. “Well, it’s going to be a fine fence. Vinyl, I see, so you won’t ever need to paint it.”

She offered no answer. Only a faint smile of her own and a tilt of her head.

“Well, I’ll get out of the way,” he said. “When they’re gone I’ll come over for another look.”

“Oh, yes. Come and see how you like it!”

He decided to walk forward to the sidewalk and go around, rather than dodge through the men as the work progressed. And now it struck him that his own yard was no longer visible. When he reached the end of the fence and turned, he gave the post a tap with his fist. It was as hard and shiny as a piece of glass.

Creative Nonfiction

The Shepherd on the Mountain

AmySue Kramer

I

A large man with kind eyes appears in my yard like the animals that emerge from the dark Pennsylvania forest where we are brand-new neighbors. He holds in his rough, dark-stained hands a gift; a delicate antique perfume bottle taken from the nearby dump. The glass is ridged and frosted and contains the ghost of a smell of someone’s loved one, someone long gone. His name is Cooney. His deep voice is gentle, melodious, a slow yodel; it rings out like Ralph Stanley singing Gloryland.

II

 A mound of crusty dirt rises high above our landscape and surrounding mountains; it is a dry skeleton of earth that emits a dead odor. Cooney is the caretaker of this landfill. He moves back and forth in his backhoe across this mound. Neighbors from miles around mockingly call this mountain of garbage “Cooney’s Mountain.”

III

Cooney lives in the “attached” garage of widow Mary’s old single-wide trailer. It has a cement floor and is furnished with a metal framed futon, television, and nightstand. A small propane heater is his only source of warmth. Local gossip whispers of a gambling addiction, poor mental acuity and terrible money management skills. To me, he is a friend who never fails to appear just when I need help getting my Prelude out of a snowy driveway.

IV

A year after we first meet, he appears with a stack of early 1900’s sheet music in a brown paper Shursave bag. Pick whatever you want, he says, so I grab the prettiest piece with blue border and orange text. It’s titled “Shepherd on the Mountain” and I decide to display it on my antique upright piano without glancing at the lyrics or ever playing the music. Later on, when I study the lyrics through tears, I will be comforted by the prophetic words: “No star with gentle light befriending will guide us to our home so dear… To yonder lofty mountain we take our winding way.”

V

It’s August. Black bears are invading from all directions to scavenge food at the dump. A loud knock at the door and I see Cooney standing in the yellow glow of the porch light. He asks if my daughter would like to see the bears up close, a rare treat. While we get ready to go with him, he rounds up other families and waits for us out front. He sinks into his Camry to lead a procession of about 7 cars up to the gate of the dump. He unlocks the chain with his key and with a presidential wave of his hand, we are led skyward. The road is narrow and is etched into the earth much like the sides of my empty perfume bottle.

We reach the top and park along the edge to the right of Cooney’s Toyota. As each car pulls into place, the headlamps illuminate the shadows moving just out of eyesight in increments. The dark forms then begin to take shape as black bears, their strength silent as they seek the best morsels of food within the garbage. The bears do not notice the bright lights or squealing children; their glistening, powerful bodies stand dormant as the mountains. The only other sound we hear is a distant train making its way towards us from the North. As we watch the bears, I see how the stars shine their light into Cooney's gentle eyes, a hint of pride beaming out of darkness.

VI

The weekend he died was a typical February winter, below zero and snowy. He became ill at work, so his co-workers dumped him in his garage and left him there alone, lying in bed. Nobody called a doctor or checked on him over the weekend. No one told Mary, his landlord and neighbor. He was too sick to turn on his heater or to get a drink of water. He died alone in a hospital bed in Pittsburgh from hypothermia caused by the cold temperatures and lack of fluids. When I visit, I quote Psalm 23 in as soothing voice as I can muster: “The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want…”

Richard Allen Arthurs wasn’t given a funeral. His brothers shook his ashes into a nearby lake then cleaned out his garage, tossing his things into garbage bags. I didn’t learn his real name until I read his obituary; he had always been Cooney to me. The name Richard Allen means powerful leader, noble. His last name, Arthurs, may be linked to Arcturus, the brightest star in the constellation Boötes, near Ursa Major or the Great Bear. Its brightness and position in the sky led people to regard this star as the "guardian of the bear" and the "leader" of the other stars in Boötes.

VII

A few months before his death, I see Cooney coming towards me with a red lantern. It is a 19th century railroad lantern with a red globe, another gift. I later learn that this particular lantern was used as a signaling device for railroad workers to use at night. Even after flashlights became available, these lanterns were preferred because of their brightness and for the fact that they would double as a heat source on chilly nights.

I don’t know why but I begin to light this lantern before dinner each day as a ritual. It is winter, and as the sun goes down I light a new wick as my daughter and I watch the flame cast images onto the wallpaper. It looks like spirits rising from the checkered linoleum. We close our eyes and have a moment of silence before saying grace.

Waiting to Clock in

K. Uwe Dunn

A nurse ran out of room 202 and grabbed the defibrillator box. This meant somebody was coding -- they had gone unresponsive -- in the nursing home, right now.

I stood there, waiting to clock in. I did nothing.

But, honestly, at that point, there was nothing I could do.

If I had found the patient not breathing, I would’ve yelled, “Call 9-1-1,” and started chest compressions.

If I was second to the room, I would’ve called 9-1-1 as the first person did chest compressions.

But the fact that the nurse ran for the defibrillator, the heart shock machine, meant they were well beyond those steps. The room was, presumably, filled with nurses and aides, providing assistance as needed.

If she wanted me to do something, she would have said, “Do this.” or “Get thing X.”

But she didn’t so I didn’t.

I would’ve been an extra body.

I would’ve gotten in the way.

Any action by me at this stage would have been purely egotistical, as if, you know, I had to act to save the day, as if I had to be the hero.

But I knew my place at that moment and it was to stay put, to stay in line.

Still, it felt strange. I was in health care. I was CPR certified. Somebody was in a crisis situation and I was standing there, looking around, counting the minutes to clock in.

I pictured the nurse straddling the resident, hand over fist, elbows out, sweat dripping, pumping her chest, both bodies shaking, the bed sliding back and forth, the ribs cracking. But still no response.

Someone hands her the defibrillator. She rips off the resident’s shirt, fastens the sticky pads -- one above the breasts and to the left, the other below, to the right -- takes the iron-looking hand grips, and presses the green button. The machine, in its creepy robot voice, says, “Apply pads firmly on skin. Do not touch patient. Analyzing heart rate. Shock advised.” Then the life-saving gadget commences with automated bursts of electricity, trying to jumpstart the heart.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. A force. A charge. A bolt.

Eeeeeeeeee-lec-tri-city, as Captain Beefheart said, courses through her being, trying to wake her up.

“Come on, come on, come on. Please. Please. Please. Don’t die on me.”

It, pure energy, runs through wires, flies in the air, and now, flows through skin, blood, and organs. It spreads indifferently, the heart just another passageway, a location in space, a dot in infinity.

I could only imagine. I had never been privy to this process when a life was on the line. I had only practiced with a dummy.

I was lucky.

I remained in line, with the others, waiting to scan our fingers to kick off evening shift. I read some PSAs on the bulletin board about uniform requirements and health insurance updates.

I checked the schedule over and over again. We had three aides and two nurses on our floor that day. With that much staffing, it was looking to be a good night for us.

I nervously glanced at other staff members as they sighed and fidgeted.

One aide leaned against her boyfriend as she sipped an iced coffee and checked her phone. Two others whispered in the corner. Another shook her head and said, “This is the longest minute ever, I swear.”

Finally, it was 3 p.m., time to clock in.

It was only later that we found out the patient didn’t make it.

The woman died, there, on a bed she had only claimed the day before.

Some people live in a nursing home for a decade, some for a year. Her stay lasted all of one day, as she was gone the next.

I had never met her. All I heard was that she was “a hot mess.” She had lots of problems and took lots of meds.

They said the family seemed relieved, like they were glad to be rid of her.

One shouldn’t judge. One never knows the circumstances.

That night, alarms went off throughout the building, alerting the fire department to a potential situation. The light on the control board labeled “Trouble” was blinking red and identified the location as room 202, the same room the woman had passed away in earlier that day.

Nurses and aides rushed to the spot.

They found an empty bed in an empty room.

No one was there. Nothing was going on.

No smoke. No fire.

They called the firefighters off.

The alarm ceased.

It was quiet.

Was it a ghost?

A malfunction?

“So that’s it?” a nurse said.

“A whole lotta nothing,” an aide added.

The next day, as I stood in line again, waiting to clock in, I noticed a new person in room 202.

He was obese, missing a leg, and hooked up to an IV.

He ate, watched TV, and rang the call bell when he needed something.

He had no knowledge of the woman, her spectacular death, or the alarms. He had no way of knowing someone died there, in that same bed, only the day before.

Rappalachia 911

Michael Dowdy

1.

Like many buildings in my hometown, my middle school, which had been my father’s high school, was demolished a decade ago, after I’d left the mountains for good. The plot on the edge of the small downtown remains vacant, the parade of redevelopment schemes, with drab uniforms and saccharin songs, receiving only scattered cheers.

Mr. M, my 7th-grade Social Studies teacher, preferred of all artificial sweeteners the blood-sugar spike of disaster. Every Friday, in the building that no longer stands, Mr. M would wheel in a TV and cut the lights. Seconds after he inserted his VHS tape the sirens started to wail. Rescue 911, the CBS docudrama hosted by the Star Trek captain and cut-rate renaissance man William Shatner, exemplified Mr. M’s shaky pedagogy, or simply his fetish for the red lights of catastrophe.

 My father tells me the latest “mixed use” plan for the middle school site will be approved any day now. The Equal of real-estate sweeteners, “mixed use” pleases the tongue just enough to choke down the swill. My high school was bulldozed a few years after the middle, when the roof of the gym where I played basketball collapsed. Its earthen hole awaits a developer’s desire.

 The Wikipedia entry for Rescue 911 styles its small-screen reenactments of 911 calls as de facto public health policy. “Though never intended as a teaching tool”—a fact clear to any 12-year-old—“at least 350 lives have been saved as a result of what viewers learned from watching it.” I’m as dubious now about this statistic as I was then about the “social” dimensions of our “studies” of the show. For Mr. M, Rescue 911 was a treat for a week’s work, an hour of candy for four of whole grains. Mr. M’s “mixed use” lesson plans—to entice the 12-year-old, a bit of sweet to cut the bitter—mirrored his country’s. First, screen the misfortunes of others. Then, simmer for a sitcom-clean 30 minutes. Last, let the wounds enact their civic service willy-nilly.

 Rescue 911 debuted in 1989, the year that marked, according to one critic, “the end of history.” That year jumpstarted the history I tell myself about myself. The year I first kissed another kid on the lips, the year I watched aghast as my t-shirts pitted out in homeroom, the year I learned to touch myself, the year my tongue twitched with taboo words stripped of their bodies.

 Recorded that same year, “911 Is a Joke” appeared on Public Enemy’s 1990 album Fear of a Black Planet. Backed by a video parodying Rescue 911, the performance is vintage Flavor Flav. The group’s hype man clowns with glee, lampooning those deified “first responders” as the tardy janitors of white supremacy, black people bleeding out wherever they fell. In Social Studies, 911 was a sweet savior; for Public Enemy, 911 was accessory to murder. Between these sirens, a nation throbbed.

 Public Enemy topped the list of rappers my friend M3 and I made on notebook paper during Mr. M’s lessons. We fell a dozen MCs short of triple digits. Some names—Redhead Kingpin, Just-Ice—have faded into oblivion, while others endure—De La Soul, Slick Rick—as ciphers of rap’s “golden age.” The plastic age of Rappalachia, there on my sleepy Main Street, was being traced with this white boy’s promiscuous pen.

 In 5th grade, on safety patrol together, M3 and I sported orange belts and sashes, faux badges, and plastic yellow helmets. We made sure students boarded the buses in an orderly fashion. We raised and lowered the flag. We got up at the crack of dawn. Then, it was a prestige gig, mostly for the end-of-year trip to Busch Gardens. Now, I cringe at the cop-in-training vibe. A year of service for two days of vacation: American adulthood shrunken to size.

 When M3 blasted Run-DMC’s Raising Hell, he rejected headphones, rattling his bedroom’s tower speakers, daring his mother’s knock, missing the lyrics for the pose. By the time we ran down the MCs in Social Studies he’d basically stopped listening to hip hop. I hear he became a Wall Street bro.

 Unlike M3, I craved the retreat of my imitation Walkman. On a school bus creeping toward Busch Gardens’ “Old Country,” where we’d ride the Big Bad Wolf before skirting the all-white reenactors of Colonial Williamsburg, I played my Rap’s Greatest Hits cassette. Released in 1986, the tape featured classics (Roxane Shanté), one-hit wonders (Timex Social Club’s “Rumors”), and near-minstrel shows (The Fat Boys). My mom must’ve bought the Fakeman at Radio Shack. It was beige, the most uncool color, and its headphones were foam.

I was lucky to be on the bus. The previous month, wielding his helmet, M3 had taught me an early lesson in knowing who your friends are. I stood by as he dipped the helmet in the boys bathroom toilet and flung piss on the mirrors. Mrs. F caught us in the act, threatening our trip. Her verdict targeted my conscience, opting for the bittersweet dose of shame over the bloodier bite that would keep me at home. Guilt by association, Mrs. F pronounced.

 When, two years later, I dove into the liner notes of Public Enemy’s 1988 album It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, this guilt goosebumped my skin. The maximalist soundscape of the Bomb Squad, which produced the record, the militant symbolism of the S1Ws (“Security of the First World”), which orchestrated the stagecraft, and the jackrabbitry of Flavor Flav, which created antic levity, were all upstaged by Chuck D’s dense lyrics. Laced with allusions to black radicals, they kickstarted my education in unitedstatesian history, its sirens of rescue and neglect. My whiteness lit up like the tiny display on my beige Fakeman, blinking off and on between pleasure and shame.

 My first sleepover, that white rite of passage, was at M3’s house. At 11pm, in the din of my first panic attack, I had to call my mom, begging her to bring me home. True panic, I’d learn years later, means living in a body without a body, your own or another’s, to phone for rescue. Because we come to know ourselves when our alarms can’t be stilled, let’s call the soundtrack of white privilege Panic! At the Sleepover.

 I think now of liner notes when skimming the acknowledgments of a poetry collection, where it’s all good vibes, shout-outs, debts of gratitude. How I wish the poets would call out the haters, biters, non-believers. Minus the venom, the nectar slides down the throat like Sweet’n Low.

The Memorex copy of a rap tape would move like a fever among my middle school friends, the original’s liner notes kept with the love letters in a shoebox under my bed. Like the shoplifted Playboys we stashed in Ziploc bags in vacant lots, the storms of our weeks would quickly wear the copy down. The taboos of race and sex throbbing like sirens in all the white boys’ bedrooms.

Because sometimes words detonate differently, depending on the mouth. In 5th grade, M3 and I would curse up a storm in the cafeteria. Shit and fuck spat into the air like undercooked tater tots. In 7th, I devoured Too Short’s “Cuss Words,” intoning lines about Nancy Reagan giving oral sex like she’s eating “corn on the cob.” The misogynistic Too Short was nonetheless speaking truth to power. To whom was my lip-synch speaking? When I rapped along to NWA in my bedroom, never bleeping the word I’d never say in public, what racial order was I protecting, what racist was I?

The first lines I recited in public were Kool Moe Dee’s more sugary fantasies. Mrs. M, my 7th-grade English teacher, was of no relation to Mr. M, but she too mixed materials. For our knee-shaking poem recitation, she didn’t bat an eye at lyrics from the 1987 song “Wild Wild West.” After basketball practice, I’d watch Yo! MTV Raps hoping the host Fab Five Freddy would play the strange video. Kool Moe Dee and crew dress as cowboys, in a forest of heavy snow, far from Harlem, the mythic American west now black as their trenchcoats. Today, I find the video on YouTube. No waiting, no luck required. What will come from this dearth of serendipity?

A year later, after he’d dropped rap and embraced the lies that would guide the future Wall Streeter, M3 confronted me at my locker. When, his question pitched between accusation and plea, are you going to start hanging out with white people again?

 2.

How strange I never dreamed of being a rapper, of writing rhymes, moving crowds, being interviewed by Fab Five Freddy after my video premiered. Back then, except for the Beastie Boys, white rappers didn’t exist. Back then, “white rapper” was a slur. This was just before 3rd Bass and MC Serch’s perfect high-top fade, long before Eminem opened the floodgates. Some dreams are off-limits. Rightly so. So I dreamed in liner notes, listing as I went to sleep my shout-outs and step-offs. Once asleep, I dreamt of being a basketball star.

 Like hip hop’s “golden age,” my hoop dreams faded by my junior year in high school, when I couldn’t handle the glare of coal country’s hot-box gyms. That winter, after practice, I drove to see A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul in the small basketball arena of nearby Radford University. Already by then, De La was playing their hit “Me, Myself, and I” grudgingly, opening with chants of “we hate this song, we hate this song.” Dreams, like selves in triplicate, can turn on you like that.

In the past decade many of my childhood heroes, athletes and rappers, have passed. Their highlights and songs, summoned on YouTube, scroll outside of time. “All died yesterday today / and will die again tomorrow,” the poet Pedro Pietri wrote of his generation of Puerto Ricans. This repetition, its inevitability and flatness, follows the loss, far into adulthood, of one’s childhood heroes.

But the death of a hero during childhood lives longer. Perhaps each child has a death that sticks, burrowing between the shoulder blades and plunging into the gut, where it lodges like a vital organ. Mine was the basketball star Len Bias’s. Bias overdosed in June 1986, two days after being picked 2nd in the NBA draft. I was away at basketball camp, having just turned ten. I caught the news on the dorm lounge’s tiny TV. In tears, I called my mother, as I had at M3’s sleepover, this time collect by payphone. Thanks to Bias, I don’t mess with drugs. I’ve mostly stopped calling my mother, not because the sirens in my head, blood pressing my temples like a helmet, have ceased, but because I’ve grown accustomed to the panic.

The double entendre “Thanks to Bias” reduces the black body to a lesson in my education. So, let’s step back. My first death had come two years before. One night, as we pulled up to our house, blue lights and an ambulance were blocking our driveway. Our neighbor, who was twelve, had with his father’s gun accidentally shot and killed himself. Shot and killed. His father’s gun. Accident.

From these blast fragments Rescue 911 would not deliver him. Safeties unlatched, conjunctions and prepositions blown away. Take what I left out of the story. Our neighbors were the sole black family on our street. Here I am again, the black body packaged as a lesson.

The Rescue 911 episode “Bullet Wound Neighbor” has 12,000 YouTube views, the episode “Softball Hit” 441,000. The most watched, with 750,000, is “Runaway Boxcars.” Beating them all, with over 1 million views, is the video for PE’s “911 Is a Joke.” For those keeping score, Flav’s got Shatner’s number, while bullets too close to home are going unwatched.

There’s a lesson in the disparate lessons M3 and I found in hip hop. He grew into a body that would take, take, take, a mouth that would eat with relish the n-word swirling on its lips. The body I grew into had lots of questions. It would ask, ask, ask, and occasionally, too often for me, it would take.

That I made it so long before my life was touched by death illuminates the peace of the before. Was hip-hop a vehicle for toeing the danger of blackness, even as my whiteness would serve there as a shield? Beneath this ugly question rustles the idea that blackness—performative and embodied, both wilding out and dying all around me—showed me that the world is upside down and that I could assist—or at least offer my solidarity, as a teammate—in flipping the script.

Consider then how a question carries its answer: How did a white kid in southern Appalachia, far from any urban center, during the Eighties, get so into hip-hop? How, if his ears were pricked, could he not? How, in a sense, was it his passport away? And how could he not carry his Fakeman, from then on, wherever he went?

Artificial, fake, imitation, plastic, copy. To exhume these words won’t mean taking out the trash; it will mean bringing the garbage back inside. Once there, in heaps, dealing with it. Plastic may be cheap and mass-produced, but it never dies, bedrock of our closets. And “fake,” that silver bullet of white supremacy, is piling up, blocking the exits. When the house is in flames, 911 won’t arrive until the landlords reckon with the tyranny of their origin stories and leave to the fire their cherished property.

Consider then that it’s fortune or luck which brings the ambulance in time. But by Luck I mean White, and by Joke Flav meant White, and by “mixed” developers don’t mean racial integration let alone justice, and by reading liner notes like scripture and by listening to tapes like sermons I wasn’t delivered from my own sins let alone my country’s.

3.

As I rewind the memory tapes of this time, the album I never cut wobbles into focus. My MC name was Fakeman, my record Rappalachia 911, its lead single “William Shatner vs. Flavor Flav.” Mr. and Mrs. M were the co-producers. I had no DJ, living too much in the lyrics. I had beef with M3 and let that racist MF and all the others I silently ignored in middle and high school have it on the dis track. I shouted out my sidelined mom and dad. On the cover, a beige off-brand Walkman perched on a limestone outcropping, headphones dangling over the ledge, swaying in the wind.  

Sent from the future, the liner notes cleared my samples. Rappalachia bites the West Virginia writer Scott McClanahan’s satirical memoir Crapalachia as well as the Affrilachian Poets collective, founded by the Kentucky poet Frank X Walker. The first neologism mocks the stereotypes of the region, even as it flirts with reproducing them; the second accounts for the blackness of the mountains, and from way back. One diminishes, the other builds. Both let in some light. My third slipped in their cracks.

Get lost, gun claps. Good riddance, buildings which stifle, take, kill. Good riddance, whiteness, old frenemy of mine. Live long, teachers who rattle in the memory. Live long, raps with justice visions.

The liner notes fanned out in the topography of a mountain range. Below the jagged ridges, shout-outs and step-offs rolled down the page like trails and washouts, gulleys flowing into the river of lyrics running through the valley of accordion mountains. There, Fakeman spit,

Once

in the ambulance

words   &   worlds

    (Rap         &       Appalachia)

   which wouldn’t mix                    nestle against

the other’s kicks                                   like Shatner and Flav

those master jesters                                          of our plastic age.

Until the black light is unleashed Rappalachia 911 will be a spool of blank tape, lyrics flowing unseen through the snow-sugared valley. The nation pulsing within its whited-out lines will be a parade of runaway ambulances aimed at a target beyond which there is only a ledge and an abyss.

Little American

Jillian Quist

“Sac de pommes de terre!” “Sack of potatoes!”

My six-year-old body slipped off the saddle in the middle of a canter. The French horsemaster barked as I came crashing down on the ring floor.

“Petite Americaine, reve toi!” “Little American, stop daydreaming!”

The horsemaster snapped his heels like a veteran soldier and raised his horse cane high in a salute.

“Attention,” he bellowed from the center of the ring as the mare galloped the perimeter, anxious for a way out.

The other riders tightened their reins. The army of pigeons roosting in the rafters woke up and stood at attention. The horsemaster stood in the center and fixed his stare on me.

“Et … alors?” “And ... then?” The maestro circled his horse cane high over his head like a lasso and slowly walked toward me.

He reminded me of my ballet teacher who pranced between her students, holding a pointed stick and tapping the parts of our bodies that stuck out too far. She poked us in a quick succession of taps—tap tummy, tap derriere, tap knee, tap leg, tap the back.

“Plié, releve.” “Bend, rise.”

Tap tap, poke poke. We stretched our young bodies high to the ceiling and pretended we were balancing a stack of our mother’s china plates on our heads.

“Leve toi!” “Get up!” “Woo woo woo!” He hooted, like a restless owl.

I got to one knee and put both hands on my thigh for leverage. It hurt, but I didn’t show it. I stood up slowly.

“Woo woo woo!” he continued, motioning for me to speed up, making faster and faster circles with his arm.

The other riders exploded with laughter. Like a conceited actor, the horsemaster turned to them and pressed his arms down slowly as if he were hushing a large audience.

“Shhhhh.” He quieted his fans. Then his eyes found my mare.

“Pas de chance, mon ami.” “No chance, my friend,” he said to her softly, and with more respect than he’d given me.

“Calme, calme,” he cooed and walked toward her. She eyed him warily. He grabbed her reins, tugged them hard, and walked ceremoniously to the center of the ring. She pulled her head back, resisting him. I hoped she’d break free, run the ring and steer clear of him, except to throw a snigger in his direction. But he had her reins tightly curled around his knuckles.

“Et toi?” he called to me again as I rubbed the dirt off my jodhpurs. I shuffled to the center of the ring, hoping he would send me home.

 “Ally oop!” he said and laced his fingers together to make a stirrup. The horse saw what was happening, snorted, and bucked away.

“Non! Non! Non!” he roared in escalating tones, yanking the reins harder. I froze. Please God, let me go home. But my mother had dropped me off instead of waiting for me like she used to. She wasn’t here to hear my prayer.

 “Non?” He checked to see if my mother was there and then pouted as if he would cry. A new round of laughter burst out from the sidelines.

“Les Americains. Bravo, courage!” he said with a military salute to me. He didn’t remind me a bit of my dad, who was a real commander. My dad had real sophistication. He’d traveled the world, and was saluted by everyone every time we went to the officer’s club on the military base near our home. At the dining hall, we’d get the best table, eat the day’s specials, and have our chairs pulled out for us. Mom sat tall like a commander’s wife. But dad never pretended he was anything special.

The mare bucked under the tight reins. Her ears were pinned back.

“Calme,” the horsemaster commanded, yanking the mare’s reins harder. She reared on her hind legs. She’d already been tricked. I knew how she felt. My mom had signed me up for horseback riding after I had a lot of fun riding on trails in the nearby woods. When my mother expressed my enthusiasm to the ring manager, he smiled, and nodded in empathy like we had something in common.

He placed the mare next to me in the mounting position. The mare snorted and spat a hot misty mucous at me. I turned my face and saw the others sitting upright in their saddles, the perfect students. The corners of their mouths turned up in a part smile. The only sounds were the pigeons rustling in the rafters.

The man made another stirrup with his hands and I stretched my leg to its full length and placed my left foot into it. He boosted me so hard that I almost see-sawed over to the other side of the saddle, but I would not let him see me fall twice.

“Ah mon dieu,” he said with phony surprise.

I sank into the saddle, one with the mare, and felt her body relax under my weight. I grabbed the reins and squeezed my legs. Heels down, I kicked her ever so lightly to move forward. She obeyed.

“Allez, allez!” He pointed to the perimeter of the ring.

“Et gallop!” He added when I reached the wooden fencing.

“Desole.” “Sorry.” He said it to the others and brought his hands together in a mock prayer for forgiveness. They nodded in solidarity.

“Les Américains," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

My back stiffened. I thought of the last time I was mocked for being an American. Just a week ago I was walking with my mother on the promenade next to the lake near our house. From a distance I saw a little girl about my age with her mother coming toward us, staring down at my blue Keds with the pink shoelaces. Her upper lip curled and her eyes widened the closer she got. I looked up to my mother to see what might be unusual about her, but it was clear, the girl focused on me. Her mouth dropped open in shock the closer she got.

She stopped in front of me and said excitedly, “Maman, regard!” “Mom, look!” she pointed at my shoes.

“Ils sont Américains.” “They are American.” Her mother threw a quick glance at us and whispered loud enough for us to hear as they strolled by looking straight ahead. My mother pretended not to notice. She’d spent too much time trying to adjust to the culture, and preferred her expat art friends. We walked past and tears filled my eyes. My mom told me I was too sensitive, but I knew I’d been mocked.

This time the insult wouldn’t stand. I looked at the horsemaster and wondered why a grown man with grey hair and a mustache needed to embarrass a six-year old. And why didn’t the French like us? Why did French kids mock me? I was getting tired of it. I threw him a backward glance, bolted straight up in my saddle, and started to trot along the perimeter. I began with a sitting trot before I posted. Every one of my lessons were on display—shoulders back, head straight, heels down. The maestro had gathered the other students to the center of the ring and spoke to them in hushed tones.

I took some breaths, happy to have the attention off me. Alone now with my mare, I leaned forward, rubbed her mane and whispered her name.

“Caramel.”

Her ears relaxed. We began again from a slow trot. I felt the rhythm of the trot and sat deep into the saddle for a sitting trot, feeling her muscles stretch and her joints flexing. She was a powerhouse beneath me. I kicked her, pressed my legs into her, squeezed and released them while I leaned forward in the saddle. Effortlessly, she moved into a canter, her three hoofbeats in stride, a trained ballerina.

I felt the rhythm of her strides and watched the sweat begin to bead on her back. We cantered around the circumference of the ring and then came to a stop again. A new stillness filled the ring. I glanced over to see the horsemaster’s mouth in motion. His arms motioned towards the different letters hanging at each quarter of the ring. A, B, C, D, we moved past all of them. His motions distracted me. He reminded me of a circus clown.

Next, I asked her to gallop. The last time we tried galloping, I‘d been thrown. This time I was ready as she sprang forward. It was like she’d just left a starting gate. I gave her full rein and wrapped my finger in her mane. Her long neck stretched out. Her legs did not hold back. I let her enjoy the run, and after our third circle, I saw everyone had turned to watch me.

I brought her to a trot, and we walked to the center of the ring, where all the horse riders had gathered. The mare held her head high, and the sweat on her body made her coat shine.  Without any help from the maestro, I dismounted, hugged Caramel’s neck, and waited to be dismissed.

“Bien fait.” “Well done.” He said to me in a low voice.

The other girls dismounted. I heard lively talking as a couple of the girls looked over at me. One of them smiled. Suddenly we were comrades, fellow horse riders in concert with each other. We gathered at the center where the horsemaster gave his last command and dispatched us to the stable. Each step away from him brought more lightness to our steps. Then one of the girls came alongside me.

‘Salut, je m’appelle Claudine,” “Hello, I’m Claudine” she said.

“Je m’appelle, Jill,” I said and we walked together side by side toward the barn.