Apeiron ReviewFall 2014 Issue 7
Issue 7, Fall 2014
As I was sitting in a conference surrounded by other writers and writing instructors I was pumped, as I always am, to talk about and discuss writing. Nothing new. There was a well-known speaker hired and flown in to speak to us, and speak he did. It was interesting and enlightening. Nothing new. This speaker was introduced by the dean of the institutions humanities department. The dean was not a writer. He was, in fact, at one point a math professor. He spoke of his admiration for writers and their adept ability at an activity in which he had never had
much success, but an activity, nonetheless, he does more than any other on a daily basis. We professors and professionals exchanged knowing glances. Nothing new. He told us that communication and the ability to do so skillfully was of the utmost importance to human existence and experience. This was not hyperbolic to this particular crowd. You may even call the crowd a choir, and he was certainly preaching. Nothing new. I was captivated by this nothing new going on around me. The information shared was new in the specific sense, but this was no avant-guard, system shattering meeting of artists.
And yet when posed with the editorial for the seventh issue of Apeiron I placed the heavy weight of newness upon my head and immediately had a stiff neck. Apeiron is moving in new directions, and as the humans behind the journal we have certainly been in the midst of newness in our lives. But our love and passion for the words on the page are steadfast and ancient. I realized that what were doing isnt new, and thats important. It is important to continue to share this prophecy, as Ginsberg called it. The prophecy of feeling or knowing something and having that articulated in a hint in your words
that will resonate with and throughout time. Producing and publishing this prophecy is at the core of who we are, this core of empathy, this core of what it means to be human and look to another and know, that yes, they too feel as you do. I can think of nothing less new than this, and nothing as fundamentally important. We want your prophecy and we want to give it to others who may not even know they need it. We know we need it, and thats why were here.
While the prophecy may not be new there are elements of newness here at the magazine. We have a staff! A wonderful staff with wonderful reading eyes that are working hard to help Lisa and me keep up with ever growing submissions. And I would like to single out one of those new staff members (youll meet the others later) for special recognition and thanks. Xavier Vega is not only a great writer (you can read his fiction Return to Dust in this issue) but he has also been an invaluable asset volunteering his time, reading skills, and editing expertise to help us comb through the beautiful mess that is the pre-published version of Apeiron. This, like many arts, is a labor of love, and although our love is great the hours in the day are not. And so we are ever thankful to Xavier and the others who are helping make your art a published reality. Apeiron is dedicated to its authors and the words on the page, and that is certainly nothing new.
6 Dogs Michael Bernicchi
7 Cradle 6 Judith Skillman
9 Wedding Song Robert N. Watson
10 To a Friend a Day Younger Robert N. Watson
19 Twice Bradley K. Meyer
24 Diminishing Returns Will Cordeiro
29 Simmer Kenneth Gurney
31 Garden Party Lauren Potts
32 Dinner with the Hemingways Cindy St. Onge
33 Neighbor Bob Hicks
35 Jazz Haiku (after Basho) Mark Jones
35 Bix and Tram Mark Jones
35 The Bad Plus Plays the Logan Center, 25 October 2013 Mark Jones
38 Seduction at Sixteen Kelly Andrews
The Review Staff
Design EditorLisa Andrews
Production EditorsMeredith Davis
Art AdvisorChris Butler
Unsolicited submissions are always welcome. Actually, we do not solicit submissions, so please send your work our way.
Manuscripts are now only accepted via Submittable. For submission guidelines, schedules, news, and archived issues, please visit our website at apeironreview.com
Apeiron Review. All rights revert to author upon publication
39 The Money Girls Peter McEllhenney
40 Calculating Rain Matthew Connolly
42 You Have to Eat Myron Michael
48 Burning Snakes Heather M. Browne
55 Underemployed While Being a Black American Denzel Scott
57 River Canal in Fukuoka Sarah Page
58 Condemning Colors in Pitch Pines Park Sarah Page
59 Fetched Rose Maria Woodson
66 Cellophane Malaise Kat Lerner
68 Tenderly Finnuala Butler
69 Untitled Finnuala Butler
76 Decency Derick Varn
77 Ultraviolence Vanessa Willoughby
85 Now that he has died Ann Howells
4About Our Cover
This issues cover was created using photography from unsplash.com. Why? Because we wanted to use a beautiful photo, but we didnt want to mar the photogra-phy presented within these pages with logos and text. We thought wed try something a bit different. We await your feedback.
86 At a supermarket in South Florida Jesse Millner
91 Quartet Sarah Bence
93 Before We Fall Silent C.C. Russell
99 Duende Denzel Scott
100 Disease Elisabeth Hewer
112 Ugly Breasts R.K. Riley
113 Apology to Wrigley, et al. Jean Kingsley
114 Agnes invokes the Nightmother her syllables made of mercury Michael Cooper
116 Meditation on Reincarnation, Roaches and Kim Kardashians Butt Jesse Millner
119 I have been way too careful with my poems Jesse Millner
120 Full-blown Sugar Jill Khoury
121 Lifeless, Inverted Lukas Hall
122 Midnight Picnic Steffi Lang
123 Fog Study Tim Buck
124 Things I Dont Post on Tumblr or Ars Poetica Hannah Baggott
125 Boiled Peanuts, Out of Season Allie Marini Batts
Fiction12 The Challenger Stephanie French-Mischo
20 From One Synapse to Another Maggie Montague
25 The Game of Diamonds Irving A. Greenfield
34 Small-Engine Repair Ray McManus
36 Last Chance Fancy Pants Robert Hiatt
43 Fusion Sherry Cook Woosley
49 Metzger Haus P.K. Lauren
60 Dear Alfredo Rose Maria Woodson
67 Living for Leaving M.G. Wessels
70 Evangeline of Tnr Matthew Donald Jacob Kelly
73 Of Gods and Curtains Star Spider
78 Return to Dust Xavier Vega
87 A Pocket for Taeko Gregory App
594 Tokyo Francis Davis
101 Perpetual Remnants of the Deceased Gina DeCagna
106 Clear Cut Brad Garber
108 Blind Mice Melody Sage
8 Words from Grandpa Ray Scanlon
18 Knuckles Jessica McDermott
61 There Are All Sorts of Holes Michelle Donahue
Photography17 Cresting the Hill Shawn Campbell
30 Reflection in My Eyes M.I. Schellhaas
41 Fern Kristi Beisecker
56 Figures, Cathedral, Nicaragua, 88 Harry Wilson
72 Life Ring Dave Petraglia
84 My Perceptive Simulacrum Savannah Hocter
92 Looking Ahead Shawn Campbell
107 Naked Summer Katherine Minott
DogsMy mother says the dogs arent smiling but sweating and they cant love only obey only once they smelled cancer and were nicer to the cat and I wonder if my mother knew love
after Erika Carters artwork
You must not cry for night,a garden of blues and greens, the fragrant stars, the little melodiesfalling silent. You must not weepfor the selvage of dusk, its framesettling against the window.
This other kind of cottonsmade to soothe, to sweep and wrapagainst your back. Your childshiding within the forbidden grove,ever restless with her dreamsof horses, her fear of wind.
8There are words as good as forgotten through disuse and resurrected by chance, words acquired in my fishing days when I had scarcely attained double-digit years, before I even knew the definition of vocabulary: Wulff, hellgrammite, Neversink. There are words that, like the unexpected advent of a hummingbird, trigger a smile, which I will pit against cellar door and Shenandoah any day: Kattegat and Skagerrak (always the pair, and they always remind me of Shagrat and Gorbag), zouave, myrmidon, erysipelas. The oldest words delight me most, words with a provenance, burnished by long service, words my grandfather taught me: peacock herl, ginkgo, caltrop, wapiti, stilettoas in my crudely-glued plastic model Douglas X-3 Stiletto that sat on my grandparents television. Unlike its prototype, the model did not end its days in a museum.
Words from Grandpa
9Robert N. Watson
Wedding SongThey brought in session men to tape my wedding songThe whole legendary Muscle Shoals rhythm section.I sat back against a poorly lacquered panel in the church foyerMy mouth taped shut, though my tongue testedThe bitter adhesive, and after a while I found myselfHumming along. I had tried banging my head against the wall,But that seemed just to make them laugh in there, The brides side twinkling an eye across the aisle. I tried thinking the music on the rack of the rehearsal piano,But it was Rachmaninoff, and the first page was mostly signatures.In person, I was pronounced husband and now the worse For wear, at which the younger wives whispered behind their handsTo each other, giggling, about the dust on my tuxedo tails,The clownish lips produced when they ripped off the tape,Mercifully all at once. And everyone said the videoCame out beautiful, and we still play it sometimes.
What was the difference if it rained the day that youWere born, or on the day before, when I was born?We were too young, our mothers were too tired, to seeThe sunlight angling through the blinds, if any did. It could have rained on Clotho and the continentFrom Sacramento to New York, the land a washcloth Held up to a shower, pale and dry one moment
And the next all dark and dripping with its purpose Once again, and it would not have mattered much, To us. On my birthday ten years later, rain Had hung a beaded curtain on your back-porch doorAs good as prison-bars, your parents must have thoughtBut breath and pulse pursued you hurtling to the swamp,A maze as strange and vivid as your fever-dreams.
Your legs were small and cuffed by arcs of mud from whenYou stepped between the clumps of grass. You climbed the treeThat overhung the stream: the darkened bark was sweet Against your hands, and underneath the waters puckeredMilkily, and surged as if another urgeWere deeper underneath; your body tugged you down;You landed willingly on hands and knees, and stopped.
You felt the spongy ground, and you could smell the lifeThat it was breathing, and your hair itself was runningLines of rain, and in the momentary blurYou traded with the field the look of curiousSurprise of people who have never kissed before,And linger in the secret and the moisture of Each others eyes, half-worldly, wondering what theyve done.
Then you stood up and looked back at the housea sliveredThing between the lines of hair and reeds and rain.When you arrived the raindrops and the reeds had wipedThe giant fingerprints of mud from off your knees,And you were welcomed in with tokens of reproach,But you were still the smiling of your parents Sunday:Fresh as water and your infant second breath.
To a Friend a Day Younger
Robert N. Watson
The next day I was just another child, a creature Tempest-tossed, but stabbing bravely at the world With weapons new to him, to free a buried spring; You had become the present, crisply dressed in pink; And only when the party waned, and when the door Swung open for a last departure, could you hearThe storm that hailed you like a thousand ticking clocks.
It seems somehow unnatural to celebrate A single birthday here tonight; a decade goes,But not the ghost; I feel my time becoming yoursIn midnight tolls. The hour is oceanic, troubled;Dreaming dead, and suited for the mist in coatsOf wistfulness, I travel out to meet the phantomOf my age that sees a difference in the rain.
The ChallengerStephanie French-Mischo
Its cold and dark the morning of January 28, 1986. Icicles dangle from the A-frame of the old swing set in the Fiorlito backyard. Brooke, the eldest daughter, tears herself from the otherwise flat, Central Illinois view of her bedroom and wrests her damp hair into a ponytail. An embroidery floss bracelet slides toward her elbow. Only one of these woven loops of friendship remains, and it clashes with the black watch plaid of her uniform jumper. In another year, she will advance to wearing a white, robin-collar blouse with a solid navy, box-pleat skirtthe much more sophisticated high school uniform. But, if her parents get their way, her little sister will be sporting the same.
Were out of mousse, Brooke says as she enters the blaze of light and yolky paint that is the family kitchen.
Ill add it to the list. Mom folds crisp rolls in the tops of brown paper lunch sacks. And a Good Morning to you, too.
Brooke scuffs over the tile. She knows that her parents are exchanging that look as she takes a seat at the oval table of blonde wood and matching boomerang-back chairs. Atomic age, her father brags, collectible. Multi-colored planetary models of the same era sprinkle the curtains. Hes particular about how things look even if all she can see of him at the moment is his receding hairline above the newspaper.
Theyre launching the Challenger today, Cecilia says to her, as though she cares. A dishtowel protects Ceecs uniform jumper from spills. Brooke points to an imagined something on the pointed edge of the towel. Cecilia
knows better than to glance down; Brooke flicks her sisters nose anyway before placing a napkin on her lap, like an adult. Things would be easier if their parents allowed them to come to the table in their pajamas, but they refuse to listento this among many other reasonable requests. Brooke reaches for a banana, the sole alternative to the wannabe astronauts steak-and-eggs breakfast.
Theyre really going to go today, Cecilia tells her, still stuck on the stupid space shuttle.
Well see.The corner of Dads paper flops perilously
close to the grease shining on his plate. His head doesnt move, so Brooke is left to wonder if thats an accident or a response to her skepticism.
Its cold even in Florida. Mom frowns at the banana peel spanning Brookes uneaten meal like some sort of tentacle-bearing sea monster. Make sure to wear your sweaters.
Its about that time, Dad says. Coats, backpacks, shoes.
A shoveled walk lets the girls pass to the drive without slipping. Exhaust plumes from the Saabs tailpipe. Brooke cups a gloved hand under the door pull. As the oldest, she should get the front seat, but Dad has determinedout of fairness to Ceciliathat both of his daughters should sit in the back. The cars cabin is warm at least, the windows already fogging over as though they are in the clouds. They buckle up before Dad pulls through the crescent and into the street.
I hope Mission Control doesnt scrub the
launch again, Cecilia says.Columbia was delayed a couple times,
remember? Dads voice lifts. He works as a Professor of Aerospace Engineer...