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Fiction Editors John Cartwright Jordan D. Sousa Pamela Isbell

Poetry Editors John Cartwright Max Gutierrez Whitney Ginn

& You may not use Ampersand Magazine to make money. & You may only use Ampersand Magazine for educational or entertainment purposes.& You may distribute Ampersand Magazine as you see fit, as long as you don’t sell it. & If you use Ampersand Magazine, you must credit the editors.

&Staff & Copyright

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I love reading things other people wrote. It’s not a love of reading, per se; sure, I have that, but that’s the most common type of reading love and everybody (well, almost everybody) loves to read. I have a specific reason for loving reading, and that is the multiplicity of expressive modes that I get to experience. Reading through submissions allows me to hear the voice of another person at (what I hope is, anyway) their most honest and most free. Now, this doesn’t mean they’re all masterpieces, obviously! I also like telling people how they can express themselves better, more adeptly, what have you. I like the feeling I get when I tell somebody that they can do better, and then SEE that person do whatever it is more adeptly. It makes me feel efficacious, I suppose. And we all want to feel like we’re doing something good for the world, right? I think I am. Just a tiny thing, but a good thing nonetheless.

John CartwrightHead editor of ampersand magazine

&I love reading things other people wrote.

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poetry

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reading e. e. cummings

is like trying to enjoy an ice cream cone, on a sweltering (summer’s) day you get your money’s worth sprinkled. with punctuation, &confusion thinking it looks quite nicebut as you. pre -pare to eat it it drips down your hand , down your wrist melting quickly & messily while all you can do is watch in be(wild)ermenta capital g falls to the ground as a pair of paren- theses dribble down the side of your hand leaving you with. no napkin; & quite a mess to clean-

&Spencer Beck

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There came a windy swayto the gravel step of my wanderings.There came a tremulous pitchto the supplication of my dusty knees.Vows dissolved, words inconsequent,there came sought and thirsty,doubt, howling mistake,there came swift dilapidation of the mind.

I dove to where the cold-blooded see no light,where crawdads pick at white flags of drowned flesh waving in the current.

There came the endings of wars.There came gulps, a live hand reaching down,there came touch.

There came now a greening contrition to the fathomless reply, a tempered season to the holy wild.There came a stitched-up soul-bargain,

a reason to sit with my feet in the river and wait.

There Came

&Megan Blankenship

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But Vera.

But Vera doesn’t care if her voice is swallowed by an empty laundromat and left uneaten by any ears.Vera doesn’t care if her freshly flicked burning cigarette paper becomes a paper maché moth floating into brightly lit end.Doesn’t care if the earliest drink entangles the tongue as the dryers spin the fans spiral Vera swims until vomit slaps the linoleum.Care. But Vera doesn’t.

&Elizabeth Smith

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Fence

There’s a break in me that catches lightScatters and shoots the glareInto tall protected patches of pearls. Meadow foxtails. Cock-eyed aluminum cans of caramel spit. Glimmer for a moment,

In my break, there’s a southern soulpickling in the interlocks of my rusted weave.Dog hairs dead centuries ago breathe in the wind.

The light that breaks throughChristens my confettied skinBurns. I revolve aroundEmbedded in.

&Elizabeth Smith

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Letter to a Chicago Drag

Queen, my High-ness, fall into my lap and let me take off that vinyl record bustier you made to fitOnly you could make the bought female body still look like a Michaelangelo.Your breasts, they fill my hands like honey swells the hive and drips languid into my sweetest center.Only you could make the cracked mirror and white rolled dollar bill on your legs become stained glass on the chapel of body.

Saint, my High-ness, stand on stage and sway in the rotating redorangeblue lights that hit you like fire hits a heretic wrongly accused.Your immaculate body darker in the rising.Your chapel worthy of tongue’s praise.Your hush in my ear, my only hymnal.

&Elizabeth Smith

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E. Smith On the...

On the Way Back

Mother never could stay still.She packed her heavy mule heartuntil duct tape layered thick the skin of tired boxes.Mother drove using the rear-view mirrorTo watch yellow and white narrowUntil away became a place.Mother liked to blinkand if she did not blink she pickedat the mole adjacent to her left eye.Mother was like a seed in constant searchFor soil, but once she finally found earthWe had to turn around again and go.

--But sometimes she would stopAnd fall on the limestone face.--Sometimes she would cry an internallandscape would spill down the frontAfter too much waste burned our throatsIn a Uhaul at Enon Cemetery.I started the engine and drove away halfsober Mother was drawing names on the passengerwindow then wiping away. When she hit sleepI imagined her mind jumping left to rightOne hemisphere to the next.Mother never could stay still.

&Elizabeth Smith

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shortfiction

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Let’s Talk of Graves People began to say God wanted to drown Cainan, Arkansas, as it floundered to death in nine days of rain. The hills that enclosed the town had dirt gullets carved into them that gulped down grainy water into the valley with no end. Half of trees were obscured in the lowest parts with only boats able to pass through these areas. Neighbors pulled the sides of tan and green bass boats flush and shouted over the thumping rain. Most had not come outside since last Tuesday when the clouds parted for a moment on the fourth day; the pale sunlight barely made a glint on the gray puddles. Cainan had coped with flooding before but this time something divine was in the slanting drops that slapped windows long into the night. The low flood plain that the town sat on, wedged between the mounded hills, became a basin full of watery muck. Nothing much was there to begin with; the name of the place was bigger than the town of 512 on record. Petition after petition had been circulated to correct the town’s name, but it had yet to be transformed into the land of milk and honey. A blot was over Cainan ever since its founders gave it the unfortunate misspelling. At least that was what Reverend Donaldson said every Sunday. He especially condemned those who missed his sermon Sunday last, who would rather stay in the safety than sit in the presence of the Lord. Only prayer would deliver them to the rainbow that was promised and then shown to Noah. Only then would the flood waters recede. Only then would the dead stay in their place. Cora Ann heard most of the reverend’s speech through word of mouth; she hadn’t been to worship and wasn’t about to start going. Her mother had never made them go and the town talked about their unfortunate upraising; the family never stood a chance against sin. Droplets clung to the window screen as she let the rain pool on the sill and wet the floor. A steady sound filtered through the familiar rain patter: the soft suck of her father’s boots emerging repeatedly from the liquefied ground as he walked down the road. Hiding her can of chew in the top drawer of her vanity, Cora Ann pulled on a black pair of boots, stuffed with newspapers, and a raincoat that had been cut to

&Megan Clark

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fit her. She didn’t have a clue where her brother, Shiloh, was. He hadn’t spoken much since their mother had died about a week and half ago; his blue eyes had never looked so flat. The two hadn’t gotten along well, but it had hit him hard. Grabbing the spare shovel by the back door, she started toward the cemetery in a jerky walk as her boots kept sticking in mud. She was always stuck in something, doing something, always against her wanting to. Her father was expecting her help in the graveyard; she’d been doing it since two years ago, right after she turned sixteen. Walking down the hill from her house, she looked up at the white wooden Baptist church; it stood out sharply against the slate sky. At the very bottom, the graveyard spread out across a flat field; it sat on a floodplain. A frown stretched across her face at the sight of something sticking up out of the brown ooze, just on the inside of the cemetery’s gates. The grimy edge gave hint to the lustrous polished brass and mahogany that lay beneath the layers of soil. Cora Ann used her heel and the coffin gave an imperceptible bob in the ground. God, she thought, the amounts of money wasted on people who can’t even appreciate it. She began to remove the soaked soil, sighing as more mud would roll in to take its place. “How are you ever going to find eternal peace,” she said, glancing up at the small headstone, “Miss Mary Buchanan if you don’t help me out here.” Pleasant Valley Cemetery received its first resident around 1842. Its busiest year had been 1862 as Cainanites died for their beloved Confederacy. At neither time did people worry about perched water tables, flood run off or rainy days. All they knew was that a dead body was to be consecrated to the ground at about six feet under. Everyone wanted to rise on Judgment Day and that couldn’t happen if a body was dust from cremation. No one had the money for an aboveground mausoleum; most found such displays abhorrent and indulgent. Cora Ann wished the townsfolk would get off their damn high horse and save her the trouble of having to help put coffins back in the ground. She was going to need help reinterring Mary Buchanan. Her box was too heavy for Cora Ann to haul out on her own. Dragging her shovel behind her, Cora Ann spotted her father, Grady, through the drizzle. He worked for a paltry pay as cemetery overseer; as his assistant, she didn’t see a dime of anything. She would have to help him finish whomever he was working on and her arms already ached. Her brother, Shiloh, had gotten the backhoe stuck and hadn’t apologized for it yet. He hadn’t been seen in the graveyard since then, leaving only Cora Ann to help with the dirty work. As she came closer, her body froze as she recognized where her father stood. He hunched in the most overgrown and unkempt corner. The location may have remained unmarked but her mother’s gravesite had been branded into her head. It had been given to them for free, but people still complained. It wasn’t right for such a whore who had been strangled and left in a ditch to be buried so close to true Christians. She tried to run but the mud was impossible to walk through. Foregoing her shovel and boots, Cora Ann’s bare feet slapped in and out of the soaked grass. Her boots

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remained upright as if supported by phantom limbs. Her father’s shovel lay parallel to the desecrated grave. At first the site looked like so many others with the coffin rising out of the ground like a gasping animal surfacing for air. The pine box made by her father had the lid pried off. The once honey-colored boards were bent back, discolored and crumbling from dank decay. Cora Ann felt her legs tingle then go numb. The exposed nails lined the lid’s opening, jagged teeth guarding the gaping hole. Inside the coffin was darkness; her father had not moved closer to it. She made her legs shuffle, forced her head to bend closer toward the rotten smell. Insects crawled around inside and piece of damp red fabric was caught on nail. They had buried her mother in her best dress; a red piece made of artificial silk that Cora Ann had been allowed to play dress up in. She imagined wearing the dress now, after it had set so long in the ground. She imagined the clammy material wrapping itself around her. Without thinking, she took a step backward. Despite the rain-darkened light Cora Ann could see a faint outline where the flesh had lain. “She’s not there,” she said. Cora Ann turned to her father. “There’s nothing in there.” His brown eyes, the same as hers, looked black in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat and she couldn’t tell if the moisture on his face was tears or rain. He didn’t look up from the grave. All he said was “Jesus. Sweet Jesus.” Cora Ann shook his arm; all he did was keep saying “Sweet merciful Jesus.” Taking a deep breath, she looked one last time into the empty casket, and then started pulling her father toward the house. If she had been Catholic, she would have crossed herself. Her father made a choking sound; she realized he had been crying after all. She had only seen him cry twice before and that was right after her mother died. Sutland men were not supposed shed tears, but that changed when her mother, Alleen, was found face down in a ditch with finger marks encircling her neck. Grady Sutland wept when the deputy came to the door with the news and continued crying through the police report. Cora Ann heard that he was even seen crying in his jail cell after Sheriff Duvall didn’t buy the alibi. She knew he had been out spotlighting deer before season by himself but it was the flimsiest excuse he could have had. Usually he went with his friends and hauled in a buck; the animal’s body looking human from a distance as it dangled from her father’s shoulder. As the men drank deeply from beer cans, the humanoid bodies were strung up on trees out back by the graveyard, splayed open and becoming animal again. But this time he didn’t have anything: no friends, no buck. After her father was released due to lack of evidence, he cried with a bottle of Wild Turkey in the living room. He had clutched his whiskey bottle white-knuckled tight. It was the first time Cora Ann had ever heard him call her mother a whore. More than once people had called Alleen Sutland such. Mrs. Hardy whispered it amongst the women outside Nelson’s Grocery, like people were supposed to if brought up to be proper and polite. The whispers followed Cora Ann about town and she could see it in people’s eyes as she passed. Once Dr. Porter advised her to seek the Lord unlike Alleen; there was still time for her soul. Mrs. Fletcher, the owner of ‘Best Tressed’ hair salon, said that at least one

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of Alleen’s children had to be a bastard with all the bed-jumping that woman did. The nastiest was when her Uncle Sal, her mother’s own brother, was at revival. He was red faced and full of the Spirit as he pointed out Cora Ann as she passed the tent. “Your mother was a sinner,” he said. His eyes rolled back in his head. “She does not rest with Jesus. A filthy whore, unclean slut who let anyone touch her.” A group surrounded him, hands outstretched to catch his swaying form and eyes glued to Cora Ann. He pointed a shaking finger. “She was dirty and so are you. I see it. You’ll burn with her.” He convulsed and garbled into tongues. Only God knew what he said after that. Cora Ann ran the entire way home; her face burning red. Shiloh asked what had happened and she told him to mind his own business. That time may have been the loudest but the worst time remained the night her father became so drunk that he wouldn’t stop crying. The bottle of Wild Turkey never left his hand after he picked it up. He clutched it to his chest, wetting his flannel shirt with whiskey and tears. Cora Ann had seen him drink before but never like this. The sight chilled her as she watched from the opening of the kitchen. His eyes latched onto her shadow. “I was good to her, wasn’t I? I treated her right.” He tried to stand up from the couch and couldn’t make it. “Only once, only once did I hit her. Only once.” Her father held up one finger to prove his point before dissolving into hiccups. “She shamed me; God, she shamed me. My wife a whore.” He laughed and Cora Ann flinched. “At least I got it for free.” Frozen in the doorway, all Cora Ann could do was stare. He had never properly confirmed all the rumors aloud. Her father had never spoken about her mother’s wanderings. She began to recede into the dark safety of the kitchen and the comforting silence. His whispers followed her like those of the town; his body became twisted on the navy sofa. The rifle above his head rattled when he struck the wall. “I don’t want you. Little whore too. Don’t want her daughter.” Much louder he said, “Where is Shiloh? Where’s my son?” His finger now began to wave her out of the room. “Shiloh,” he bellowed. “Shiloh! Goddamnit, you are all worthless.” Stiffly she left the room, walking under a spell to Shiloh’s room down the hallway. Cora Ann banged loudly on his door. ‘My mother was not a whore,’ became a desperate loop in her mind. ‘She was a good woman. Better than you ever were.’ She was shaking with suppressed rage as she continued beating on the door. “”He wants you,” she said through the wood. “You take care of him,” said Shiloh, muffled by the door. “But he wants you.” “I don’t give a damn. You’re the girl; you do it.” Cora Ann took a pin out of her hair and jimmied the lock open. He screamed at her as she opened the door. Shiloh was lying in bed with the covers pulled up around him; a thirty cent nudie magazine in his hand. “Jesus, don’t you knock,” he protested, pulling more sheets around himself. She tore the magazine out of his hands; the glossy

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half-clothed women hit the floor with a smack. “You go take care of him. He wants you.” She pointed toward the living room where low moans could be heard. “Pull yourself together.” Picking up a pair of Levis, she threw them at his face and turned around. “Shit, Cora Ann, fine. You owe me.” He brushed past her, creaking on the loose boards in the hall. She could see him adjusting his clothes and flattening down his blonde hair a moment before sauntering into the front room. Their throaty arguing became distant as Cora Ann slammed the screen door shut behind her and disappeared into the night. The dark woods made the electric lights look even more artificial as the two lumbering forms looked like shadow puppets. Their singular audience turned toward the forest, pulling her jacket closer. Before long Cora Ann was absorbed into the mess of tree trunks and evaporated into the eventide quiet. Less than a week had passed and then the rains came. Now her mother was gone. Internally Cora Ann corrected herself; her mother’s body was gone. Her mother had already robbed from her once before. The black plastic of her rain coat slapped rhythmically against her skinny knees. She had almost dragged her father to their back porch. He would have been wringing his hands if they weren’t carrying the shovels. Depositing her father onto a fraying blue lawn chair, Cora Ann opened up the back door and yelled for her brother. No answer came, nothing moved except dust motes floating by in the murky light. The two skeletal chairs in the kitchen were empty. “Shiloh ain’t here. Did you send him somewhere?” She looked over at her father, still sitting in the dilapidated chair. His fingers lightly grazed the handle of a shovel next to him. “Haven’t seen him since breakfast. Said he was fixing to go into town then.” He pulled off his hat and shook off the water. A vacant look still haunted his eyes. “Want me to get the sheriff?” “No,” he said gruffly. “Don’t need to bring this up again. We’ll handle this ourselves.” “But-“ “Leave it be, Cora Ann. Lord knows we don’t need this stirred up again.” His face began to pink and his next words came out low. “She was buried right. Got what she deserved.” “I’m still going to town.” She slipped her boots back on; her wet feet slid down toward the toe. Her father shot her a look. “Just for Shiloh. I won’t be talking to nobody else.” Stamping back down the concrete back steps, Cora Ann circled the house and started down the main road toward town. To the north the small church continued to overlook the cemetery. Their milky gray house sat nearly at the base of the hill with a direct path to the cemetery. When people walked past their residence, they moved to the other side of the road. Nothing could be that close to the dead and remained untouched by haunts. Especially the people inside. Cainan was only about ten minutes down the road, but it took longer now that the dirt had turned to mud. Nobody passed by. A rusted-red Ford could be seen sticking out of the ditch; its tailgate was down and only a bundle of barbed wire was

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inside. Cora Ann wove her way around other abandoned cars and finally reached chip-sealed streets. She knew where exactly to find Shiloh. He and his friends were all posted outside the pharmacy like buzzards perched on a tree limb. He stomped on his cigarette butt and finished his Coca-Cola as she walked under the pharmacy’s green-stripped awning. Regarding her coldly, he shooed his friends away. “What is it?” he asked when the others were out of earshot. “Have you been to the cemetery today?” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, no. Did Dad send you? He knows I’m not going in there. Especially not after…” Shiloh averted his gaze, staring as the jerk inside refilled someone’s drink. “You need to come home.” Cora Ann faltered over how to say it aloud. “Mom is- Mom isn’t- She isn’t there. She’s gone.” “What the hell are you talking about?” She pulled on his coat sleeve, trying to head him back home. “Somebody’s taken her out of her coffin.” After that Shiloh stopped resisting and followed her grim-faced. His silence scared her more than his usually violently loud self. His friends catcalled after them; Shiloh barked back at them. The human buzzards stopped circling and perched back in front of the store. As they walked home in the approaching dusk, Cora Ann worried the strings of her hood until the dense plastic was tight around her head; her dark auburn hair flattened to her skull. Shiloh stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. Their breath condensed into smoky wisps, and a fog began to cling to the tree tops. The world looked like last Christmas which had been warmer than usual and swathed in gauzy gray mist. Her mother had come home, arms full of shiny presents from town. All of them inexplicably paid for. Grady had eyed his wife and took her aside after each gift had been marveled over. Low whispers turned into poorly contained shouting. Shiloh sat on the floor staring at his new Winchester rifle, acting deaf, but Cora Ann tiptoed down the hall and looked into her parents’ bedroom. A weak ray of light spilled onto the hardwood as she peered through the crack in the door. Her father began picking up the cosmetics from the faded vanity and began throwing them on the floor. A tube of red lipstick and a bottle of rose water were crushed under his heel. Alleen grabbed his hand as he picked up a tangled jumble of her paste jewelry. Forming a fist around the baubles, he hit her across the face. Her mother hunched over, clutching her mouth with red-painted nails. Cora Ann’s gasp brought her father’s attention; she barely saw his flushed face before he slammed the door shut. All those presents had been thrown out except for Shiloh’s rifle which still hung above the sofa. Even her father admitted it was too nice to throw out. But by the time the two had made it home, another layer of mud had been added to their boots and the gun rack was empty. “Dad?” Cora Ann yelled throughout the house. She turned to Shiloh who stood rooted in the doorway. “Where’d he go at this hour?” “I’d guess he’s deer hunting. I see he took my gun.” His eyes narrowed and he ran a hand through his wet hair. “Just show me the grave.”

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Cora Ann didn’t know what to say when they came to their mother’s gravesite. The once-splayed open coffin was absent; there was no breach in the ground. She had been reburied. Cora Ann could tell by the uncommonly smooth dirt that covered the top. It was unnaturally even. “She was right there; I don’t understand.” “Well if she was, someone came out to cover something up.” “We’re the only ones who know.” She paused and then shook her head. “There’s no way he had time. I wasn’t gone that long.” Shiloh squatted down, nudging the ground with his boot. “How many people has he buried? He’s done this for nearly ten years. I don’t doubt he could have gotten it back in the ground.” “But she ain’t in there. What’s the point? She’s still missing.” “Maybe he put her back in.” “Jesus, how the hell did he manage all that?” “It don’t matter. Either way she ain’t alive. I don’t think it really matters where she is. Let it go.” “You’re just like him.” Her eyes were reproachful. “Could care less. Mom could be out in another ditch and that would be just fine by the both of you. She’s your mother.” She waved off his hand on her shoulder and stalked back to the house. Even if her mother had been a whore, she sure didn’t deserve any of this. She pushed past Shiloh who stood in the hall and ran through the first open door. Cora Ann sunk down onto the floor of her parents’ bedroom. The wood still held the delicate scent of roses. Her mother would her dab some behind her ears when Cora Ann was twelve and enthralled by the shapely glass bottle. Alleen even let her hold the fragile perfume up to the sunlight to see the reflections on the floor. Her mother showed her how to put her hair into a French twist; they looked like twins with their matching auburn hair. She may have admonished Cora Ann when she started dipping in high school but still showed her how to apply lipstick properly. It didn’t matter how impractical such a skill was for a girl who helped dig holes. Cora Ann pressed her face against the oak slates and let the scent wash over her. Shiloh thumped down the hall and into his room, slamming the door shut. She could feel the reverberations against her cheek. Cora Ann couldn’t figure out where his hothead came from. Her mother didn’t believe in raising her voice and her father was docile, except for that solitary incident at Christmas. Shiloh’s blue eyes and blonde became electrified every time he was angry. He hadn’t spoken to their mother the entire week before she died. Cora Ann hadn’t been brave enough to broke the subject with him. His pale face over her mother’s grave – solemn with a straight mouth – fixed in her mind as she began to drift off to sleep. A thud outside the window jolted her. It continued but became progressively fainter. She sat up and moved to peer over the windowsill. She saw a figure hobbling along the house’s back wall. A lump was thrown over its shoulder, encumbering each step with its weight. Cora Ann could make out a head swaying back and forth. Her heart squeezed abnormally. She could still see Shiloh’s light on in his

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room; his bed creaked. The shadow kept shuffling; the head kept bobbing. She could make out her father’s hat. He moved farther and farther away from the house toward the graveyard. Reaching into her father’s bottom dresser drawer, amongst his winter socks, she pulled out his revolver; a Smith & Wesson from his grandpa. She opened the window and leveled the gun as she had been taught to do. Cora Ann pulled back the hammer. Exhaling slowly, she crushed the trigger; her eyes shut in response to the recoil. Her father’s knees buckled as she hit him in the upper back. The body on his shoulder slid to the ground. Cora Ann stared at the gun in her hand then back out the window. It suddenly felt very heavy in her hand. Running out into the hall, she bumped into Shiloh. “What the hell was that?” he asked. “Dad’s outside. He had Mom. I had to – “ He spotted the gun and took it out of her hand. “What the hell did you do? What did you do?” “He had Mom. You don’t understand. I had to do something.” Her words came out quick and rushed. She felt like her chest was caving in. Shiloh shoved the gun into his waistband. He rushed outside with Cora Ann following behind him. She felt the dread wrap around her insides and squeeze harder. Her father had fallen a few feet from the back porch, pointed toward the cemetery. She hovered in the doorway. The sky was turning ink black with thick clouds hovering close to the earth; the rain fell steadily. Shiloh fell into the mud at her father’s side; the pistol lay on the last porch step. He flipped their father’s prostrate form over, checking for breath. The body next to the pair had slid against a tree trunk. Cora Ann was down the steps before she had even decided to move. Mud rose around her feet. It clung to her father’s face and clothes from when he fell. Shiloh was talking to her, but she didn’t hear. She was fixated on the other dead body. Her hand stretched out to it, the huddled form shoved against the tree. It felt of water, mud and fur. It smelt gamey and unclean. He father had shot a deer and was carrying it to be strung up out back. The buck had two points on one side. Its bloodied tongue protruded from between its black lips; its glassy eyes reflected the branches above it. “Shiloh,” she said. His name came out so low and slow that he didn’t look up at her. “Shiloh.” “What?” He cradled their father in his lap. Cora Ann thought her father looked like the deer; his eyes were blank and his mouth agape. “It’s a goddamn deer. It’s a deer.” She sank down next to them; her hand still rested on the animal. Its bullet hole was in the middle of its neck. “What’d you think it was, you idiot? Mom?” He used one hand to wipe his nose. His fingers lay on their father’s neck. “He ain’t going to make it.” Cora Ann dragged herself in the mud until she could hold her father’s hand. His chest barely moved up and down. “What else was I supposed to think? He did it to her. She didn’t deserve any of this.” “God, you don’t know nothing. Mom’s a slut, Cora Ann. Grady Sutland ain’t my

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dad.” He pulled their father closer to him, smoothing the mud-plastered hair. “She told me herself. She didn’t say who; just ain’t him.” “You’re a liar.” She took up her father’s hand and tried to get it to grasp hers. “He didn’t take her out of the grave either.” “Who did then?” A long pause passed between them. The rain drops began to lessen. Cora Ann felt a shudder go though her father. Shiloh clamped her father’s jaw together and closed his eyes. “No,” she said. It sounded like a strangled howl. “No, no, no.” Shiloh stared at her slumped over the body and got back to his feet. He pointed over toward the west. “She’s in a field by the highway. I couldn’t carry that rotten sack of shit far enough back to the ditch where I left her the first time. Needed to get what she deserved.” He gestured to her father’s body on the ground. “Bury him. You’re his daughter.” Cora Ann laid his head gently onto the ground; her fingers began to shake. “She loved you. They loved you.” She pushed off the ground; the mud oozed between her fingers. It slid underneath the nails. He didn’t turn around from walking up the steps. The pistol lay where he left it; a shaft of light from the kitchen fell on the barrel. She picked it up. Its weight felt heavy and familiar. Blood and mud splattered Shiloh’s white undershirt. Cora Ann didn’t flinch the second time she pulled back the hammer. She didn’t close her eyes when she pulled the trigger. Shiloh blocked the light from the doorway for a moment before crumbling onto the linoleum. The next day the local newspaper ran three headline stories on the front page. Above the fold was the weather report. It had stopped raining for over ten hours; the meteorologist claimed that the front had pushed through the area. Reverend Donaldson had a quote thanking God and his prayer group for all their hard work. Below the weather was the investigation of a murder-suicide on the outskirts of town. Cora Ann was listed as the sole surviving family member. Right next to it was the announcement of a body being found off the highway in a cow pasture. So far deputies had found a shredded piece of red fabric and a few fingers. The town continued to whisper behind her back, but no one dared say anything to her face. Cora Ann was called in to identify what was found of the body a few days later. The county allowed her to bury them all. Each one in their hole; all in neat row; all on a hill.

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What Didn’t Happen

Allen didn’t wake up early in the morning full of cheer. He didn’t walk downstairs with a smile on his face to find that his wife, Debbie, had cooked his favorite breakfast, sausage and eggs with salsa on top and a cup of slightly cooled coffee. Debbie didn’t cook him breakfast. He didn’t have time to sit at the table, sipping coffee, while sifting through the pages of his local gazette. Allen’s dog didn’t bring him the paper from the sidewalk with a bobbing head, and a wagging tail. His dog didn’t bring him the paper at all, but that was OK—Allen didn’t have a dog. Allen didn’t have kids so he didn’t have to rush them off to school. But he didn’t get to enjoy a long shower any way because he didn’t get up on time. On his way to work he didn’t seem to notice that he had worn different colored socks. But it didn’t bother him much when people smirked but never told him why. However, Caroline didn’t make him happy when she talked to him that morning. She didn’t break up with her boyfriend, that Jeff guy, after all. Allen didn’t like Jeff because Jeff didn’t truly appreciate Caroline and Caroline didn’t realize she deserved better. But Allen didn’t interrupt because he didn’t abandon his friends when they needed him. Allen didn’t sit with anyone at his job’s cafeteria during lunch. Caroline didn’t eat at the cafeteria and he wasn’t sure where his friends Keith and Maggy were. He didn’t really mind the food but he didn’t really enjoy it either. He had never had much emotion either way when it came to egg salad and whole wheat toast. However, he didn’t care for the apple juice, but the juice machine didn’t have any more orange juice or grape juice, and milk didn’t seem appropriate. He didn’t really like the apple juice, but he couldn’t stand the whole wheat toast forming clumps on the roof of his mouth. So he didn’t turn down the juice. He didn’t want to call his mom after work, but he didn’t want to lie to her either. He didn’t wonder where Debbie was when he got home. So he didn’t waste time changing clothes and dialing the numbers to his mom’s house. He didn’t want to hear her ramble

&Benjamin Eggleton

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on-and-on about the ladies from her book club, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that Gatsby wasn’t that great. That night at the bowling alley with his teammates, all in their matching shirts—red with tan sleeves and collars, he didn’t bowl a single strike the whole first half of the game and he seriously didn’t think he could even pull of a spare. He didn’t guess that Debbie remembered Friday was Allen’s bowling night, because she wasn’t discreet about kissing that man on the neck. Allen didn’t mind seeing it though. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t get upset. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief. He didn’t wish them any luck, but he definitely didn’t root for them to be stricken with heart attacks and diarrhea. So he didn’t even try to fight when she asked for the divorce. He had not forgotten several old phone numbers, but he didn’t have much luck. Katherine didn’t ever call him back. April never turned down a conversation, but didn’t have those kinds of feelings for him any longer. And of course, Caroline didn’t leave her boyfriend. But the dark side of reality didn’t completely smother the pulsating flame of hope. So Allen didn’t quit looking. However, he didn’t pull himself out of bed Sunday morning. He didn’t budge out of the covers one bit. The hard wood floor beneath his bed didn’t seem appealing and the cold steady rain against his window did not sound inviting. So he didn’t move. And at first he didn’t notice when he breathed out a thick visible breath in the crisp, chilling bedroom. He didn’t want to fix the heater and didn’t pretend he knew how, but he wasn’t sure who to call. A hundred numbers and nothing worked. He didn’t care anymore. His chair wasn’t far away and at this point he didn’t mind curling up into a ball with his knees tucked tight into his chest and his hands around his thighs. He didn’t want to think, but he couldn’t stop his mind. He didn’t want to be sitting there remembering so many thoughts he couldn’t count, but the cold air didn’t let him move. And now he didn’t have any tissues for his runny nose. He didn’t know how he ended up here. He didn’t recall a single event in his life as a child that foreshadowed him being right here, right now. He didn’t think that event ever existed. He didn’t want to think of Debbie, but at this point he didn’t have much control over the matter. Sure, Debbie didn’t wake up one day to find Prince Charming standing over her after love’s first kiss, but Allen didn’t exactly find Sleeping Beauty. Allen didn’t have a blanket to stop the shivering and drifting away into the recesses of thought. He didn’t know which way his thoughts would turn next. He didn’t know if his mind would agree with some great universal truth, flooding him with epiphany, or if it would finally go off the deep-end. In fact, he didn’t really have the capability, anymore, to keep control of it either way. But no matter how much his mind wandered, he didn’t forget that his heart still beat and his blood was still red. Allen didn’t like the cold and didn’t like sitting in that chair with his heater broken. But he didn’t know how to fix it and he didn’t know who to call.

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play

consolas bold

22

Talking With Pudding

Characters Officer Primus; silent door guard Captain Pudding; talkative scavenger

Time Afternoon; before the next soldier’s shift.

Place A crumbling totalitarian city.

The area is practically rubble, the result of neglect and war. Outside of a barely standing building, PRIMUS stands before a door as PUDDING enters.

Officer PRIMUS is a soldier with rifle in hand. HE is quite the “silent” guard, never speaking or even moving too far from HIS post. However, HIS fear and youth is all too obvious.

PUDDING is both a scavenger and a tradesman. HIS clothes are individually of good quality, yet each piece compared to the whole looks like a home-made quilt. HE carries a large, full sack over the shoulder.

PUDDING peeks around a corner and sees PRIMUS. PUDDING hides quickly.

Beat.

&Justin Blasdel

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PUDDING peeks again, then HE runs in from one side and exits out the other. PRIMUS readies HIS gun, but realizes PUDDING is not an enemy.

Beat.

PUDDING cautiously returns to investigate PRIMUS. PRIMUS looks at PUDDING, and PUDDING runs off.

Beat.

PUDDING comes back. HE stomps on the ground. PRIMUS is jolted from the sound, but HE remains at HIS post. PUDDING moves closer to PRIMUS and stomps again. PRIMUS doesn’t move. PUDDING moves even closer to PRIMUS.

PUDDINGHey.

Beat.

PUDDINGHey!

Beat.

PUDDINGHey!...Hey, hey!

Beat.

PUDDINGSo…ya don’t move? Ya don’t talk, and ya don’t move. Do ya?

Beat.

PUDDINGA soldia is a soldia, no helpin’ that. No chance o’ breakin’ rules and bein’ a problem, right? I stay here, and ya no move me off, right?

Beat.

PUDDINGRight. Good boy.

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PUDDING looks around, sits down, and massages HIS legs.

PUDDINGOoooh! Nice. Been runnin’ whole day. Legs fixin’ to fall off. Gotta keep to blood movin’. That’s ta trick. Force ta muscles to breathe.

PUDDING lies around on the ground.

PUDDINGAhhh! Good. Lyin’ on ta ground, a gift! Lyin’ on ta back, I mean. Not ta belly. Animals, they lie on belly. People…we lie on back. We see heavens. Why we better. Better than animal, they only see ahead. Us, we see above, but only when we want. Most don’t. I do. I do lots.

PUDDING stands.

PUDDINGToo much lyin’ get ya dead. Remember that.

PUDDING yells at PRIMUS in the face.

PUDDINGRemember that!

PRIMUS is frozen in fear.

PUDDINGWhat behind door?

PRIMUS stands upright and kicks HIS heels.

PUDDINGWhy ya dance? Tell me what behind door. Can ya?

Beat.

PUDDINGNope. No rules broken for ya. Good boy. Who are ya? What to call ya? I don’t like talkin’ to no-names. How to tell who I talked to? No one believe me. “I talk to nobody.” “Nobody?!?” That’s my wife. “Ya talk to nobody? It ta same as doin’ nothin’, and I don’t live on nothin’, so go out and make somethin’, or I rip ya ears off your head!” She my lovely. Wish she rip them off some days…my ears. Might be nice. Ta silence.

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PUDDING holds out HIS hand to shake.

PUDDINGCaptain Pudding. My name.

PRIMUS looks at PUDDING and shakes HIS head.

PUDDINGYa got me. I no captain. It my nickname. Ya see…if I borin’ ya, stop me. Will ya?

Beat.

PUDDINGGood. Glad ya don’t. It good story. A good story! Long ago, I was in hole with friends; Lookey and Shiv. Lookey has problem with eye. Doctor say one lazy. I say it look for new wife. His wife beat him. Not my wife! My Bett is ta best!

PUDDING laughs, then shakes HIS head.

PUDDINGNo, she aint.

Beat.

PUDDINGAnyway, Shiv named Shiv by his folks. They suffer to stupids. Bad sickness! Bad! So…we in hole…

PUDDING mimes being trapped in a small place.

PUDDING…in small hole. Very small, like dis. It was well. Ya don’t get much wells these days. Lots o’ sicks, but no wells. We trapped with no gettin’ out, and no un know we there. Lookey and Shiv scared. They blame them. They blame me! They fight, but no one win. Then they get hungry. I don’t have notin’ to eat. All had was…

Beat.

PUDDINGNo! No pudding! Got ya!

PUDDING laughs.

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PUDDINGI had wrench. No way out with that. Lookey and Shiv den tought of tings to eat: their shoes, their hats, their belts, even their hairs! Crazy! Then they thought of eatin’ me. Oh, I really, really scared. Two of them, one and half of me.

PUDDING grabs HIS stomach.

PUDDINGHave to count this. Bett does. Says I’m pregnant more than she ever is. Fat baby. So Lookey and Shiv get mad and start swingin’ and swingin’, and I start prayin’ and prayin’. “Oh, Lord, don’t let them eat me!” Don’t know why, but he listen. I was on ta ground, swingin’ my wrench back and forth, back and forth, back and…forth! I hit something. It was lever. I curious, so I pull. We all stop and listen to horrible sound, like bubble movin’ in a monster belly. Lookey and Shiv hid behind me, hopin’ ta monster eat me first. It no monster! It lever to septic tank, and it pour out more crap ‘an any person crap in whole life. It fill well, and Lookey and Shiv and me swim out. Friend in town say we look like we covered in pudding. Lookey and Shiv blam me, and people call me Captain Pud-ding den on.

Beat.

PUDDINGOh, don’t feel bad. Shiv got dysentery, Lookey lazy eye turn pink, and I got good reason to stay away from wife a whole week. Life, it crazy! Crazy.

Beat.

PUDDING“What life without rules”, I bet ya say. So now ya know Captain Pudding. How ya feel about that?

PRIMUS shrugs.

PUDDINGGood, hmm? What your name?

Beat.

PUDDINGNo mind. I look.

PUDDING takes a close look at PRIMUS’s badge.

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PUDDINGOfficer Primus.

PRIMUS stomps HIS foot.

PUDDINGThere’s that dancin’ again. Primus? That a name? Well of course ya grow up a soldier. What else ya be? Go and name ya kids numbers if that’s all ta thought ya put into it. Imagine. Why, I be Four…before Captain Pudding. Four-born don’t beat crap-covered. Primus? Primus? Hey Primus, I’m goin’ to sell ya stuff. Ya mind?

PRIMUS shakes HIS head with the intention of meaning “No, go away.”

PUDDINGWell calm down, calm down! I sell ya stuff, don’t worry. Ya so anxious, ya make me nervous. Well…on with merchandizin’!

PUDDING puts the bag on the ground and rummages through it..

PUDDINGMmm. No good.

PRIMUS wants to look in the bag, but HE will not abandon HIS post. PUDDING continues rummaging.

PUDDINGToo old...Broke...

HE takes out a magazine page and looks very closely.

PUDDINGOooh! She…not wearin’…

PRIMUS takes an interest.

PUDDINGNo! Nope. I get trouble for sellin’ it. Ya know better.

PRIMUS looks, but PUDDING hides the page in a pocket.

HE grabs a hold of something in the bag and smiles.

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PUDDINGHah! I know what ya need. Rifles are heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy. Ya need sometin’ light.

PUDDING takes out a pistol and points it at PRIMUS.

PUDDINGStick ‘em up!

PRIMUS holds HIS rifle shaking in the air.

Beat.

PUDDING laughs.

PUDDINGIt not loaded. Fool ya!

PRIMUS, still shaking, points HIS rifle at PUDDING.

PUDDINGShould of seen ya face. “Uh-uh-uh-uh.”

PUDDING laughs. PRIMUS shakes rifle barrel at PUDDING as if to say ‘get up’.

PUDDINGWhat ya pointin’ at? Ya can’t shoot. Killin’ against law. Ya have to arrest me.

PRIMUS moves towards PUDDING.

PUDDINGBut to jail me, ya leave door.

PRIMUS jumps back to the door.

PUDDINGWhat to do? I know! It against ta law for me to have this, yeah, but ya don’t know I had it. I pretend I don’t if ya pretend too. Deal?

Beat.

PUDDINGDeal?

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PRIMUS nods once. PUDDING nods back.

PUDDINGGood boy. No rules broken. We all happy.

Beat.

PUDDINGNot too happy. I want to merchandize. Can’t sell ya stuff if ya don’t need stuff, right? Right. Let’s see what else left.

PUDDING puts the gun back in the bag and rummages some more, eventually pulling out a helmet.

PUDDINGOh, this again.

PUDDING laughs.

PUDDINGYa don’t know ta story. It not long. Wanna hear?

Beat.

PUDDINGA man came and need coat. I say “I trade for ta helmet.” He say, “Okay.” We trade. A week pass, his head get bust by fallin’ brick. Goes to show ya, know what ya buyin’ and what ya sellin’. A good helmet.

PUDDING puts the helmet on.

PUDDINGI’m soldier too!

PUDDING laughs.

PUDDINGNo I’m not. Don’t kid me. Let me see what else I have.

PUDDING rummages in the bag.

PUDDINGNothin’ else to sell. Hmm.

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PUDDING stands up and walks over to PRIMUS.

PUDDINGDon’t feel right about selling nothing to ya. I got rules too. “Never leave a customer empty handed.” Guess that means.

Beat.

PUDDING puts helmet on PRIMUS’s head before PRIMUS can react.

PUDDINGThere you go. A nice, new helmet.

PRIMUS takes it off and offers it back to PUDDING.

PUDDINGNope! Can’t give it back. It a gift. You keep it.

PRIMUS still offers the helmet back.

PUDDINGWhat? You gonna run after me with it? Leave your spot?

Beat.

PUDDINGDidn’t think so.

PUDDING picks up HIS bag and stretches.

PUDDINGKeep ta blood moving. That ta trick. Well, goodbye to ya. I’ll have something tomorrow to sell ya. Promise.

PUDDING holds out hand to shake, but PRIMUS doesn’t move.

PUDDINGRight, right. Bye.

PUDDING starts to walk away, but PRIMUS gives an attention-getting cough at PUDDING.

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PUDDINGHuh? What ya want?

PRIMUS looks around for other people, then hands off a pen to PUDDING.

PUDDINGA pen. What for? Oh, a trade. I get ya. Yeah, this a good pen. A soldier’s pen! I bet it write upside down and such.

PUDDING admires pen, then puts it in a pocket.

PUDDINGThank ya, officer. You a good boy. Good boy.

Beat.

PUDDINGLots of luck soldierin’. Hope you get to fire that gun someday.

PUDDING gives PRIMUS a mock salute, and PRIMUS salutes back.

PUDDINGThere’s that dancin’ again.

PUDDING exits.

THE END

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&Stars In Rainbows

Photo Credit: Kimberly Bannister

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Ampersand Magazine is now an electronic publication that is taking

submissions at all timesstarting in July.

There is a maximum of 5 poems and 3 stories or plays per submitter.

E-mail all submissions to: ampersandrag@gmail.com

&Submission Guidelines

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