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JCS Press Quarterly Vol. 1

JCS Press Quarterly Volume I • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

B r o o k l y n

N Y

Editor: Alexandria Federici

Advisory & Contributing Editors Jake Shore Neil Ryan Molly Serenduke

Website Design Amanda Shore Alexandria Federici

Founding Editor: Jake Shore

Cover Artist: Walter K Martinez III

www.jcspress.com

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JCS Press Quarterly Volume I • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Fiction

Andrew J Kerbel What He Can’t Build, 5

Katy Thornton Scotch and Cigarettes, 9

Raphael Chim Something, 18

Poetry

Rachel Heinhorst Recovery, 4

Matt Nagin Hunter Among Shadows, 7

J.D. Smith Post, 23

Notes on Contributors, 29

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Rachel Heinhorst • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Recovery

It’s not terrible,

this time with myself

and the bathroom mirror –

I’m brushing my hair slowly,

running my fingers through it,

studying my face –

I’ve aged a little,

but I moisturize,

hoping to cover the neglect

of my neck, chest,

shoulders –

I’m in recovery,

I tell myself.

I am no longer his wife,

I tell myself,

touching myself, my hands

free to roam, to embrace,

to call out my name

to call out my name.

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Andrew J Kerbel • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

What He Can’t Build

A.

One year after Mom passed, Dad called. He was trembling. The speaker on my phone

was choking like a generator with scant fuel. Presumably with each step his cheek was

chafing against the cellphone’s microphone. I pulled at air under a lamp shade until I

found the switch. How unusual to swiftly maneuver through dark rooms and thresholds

yet fail to discern the nearness of a lamp’s switch to its pedestal. He finally cried out the

neighbor’s house was burning down. He was forced to evacuate when firefighters

pounded on his front door. The electricity was cut to the entire neighborhood. Sixteen

feet separated the two houses. It was the side we rarely played on when my brother and I

were kids – shaded with the must of damp lumber garden edging and organic rot. He

made out little of what I asked. I listened to his Oh my Gods. I hoped the glow from his

phone reassured him I was still there; that it wasn’t diminished by the blaze. When a

sharp crash rifled through the speaker, Dad panted that it was the car in the neighbor’s

driveway. Snarls heaved and howled behind each of his breaths.

B.

Dad sent me an email with a link to a video. The neighbor across the street had run out

of his house with a digital recorder in hand before the emergency crew arrived.

Enraged white flickering spirits danced so bright for the camera that anything in front or

behind the burning house was silhouette. A wicked ventriloquist, it dispelled and

released all voices from itself into blackness – a monologue that was somehow self-

deprecating and wholly cognizant. Get some water on it. Where is your mother?

The camera trembled for an instant when those angry spirits walloped the neighborhood

with the blast from the car in the driveway. For an instant the ascending white globe

Andrew J Kerbel

pulled aside the curtain. It illumed the neighborhood. There was no magic behind this

fire’s spirits. Neighbors, spectators and emergency crew exposed. When I clicked on the

link in the email, I wanted only to see the car blast. I did not anticipate seeing Dad.

There he was pacing the sidewalk with his phone pressed to his ear. Again, the words

Where is your mother? He shouted this into his phone. I’m certain he knew the answer

despite the hectic scene. That’s why he paced. The car fire’s fuel burned out.

C.

Two days after the fire Dad called. The remains of the car in the driveway again caught

fire. He thought the whole thing was getting rather suspicious. He talked about the

smoky sting in the air and the decrepit wood spires still rising from their foundation. His

doctor prescribed anxiety pills to deaden the deep buzzing in his body that kept him

awake.

Two months passed before I visited. Dad was still shaking as he pointed around the

ruins. His house was unharmed. Across the gap, his new neighbor’s siding was melted,

drooping, now frozen above the skeletons of shrubs. Crews had already removed the

burned spires, along with the cinder block foundation. Where the blocks once held back

soil, a near-perfect rectangular hollow remained. The driveway where the car twice

burned was transformed into a concrete pier casting into the undulating waist-tall grass.

This was the only remnant of dwelling. Two metal folding chairs had been placed at the

edge of the pier. Side by side they looked out across the unkempt backyard. The space

respired with all of its new expanse. For decades, the lost house stood sixteen feet from

my parents’ kitchen window. Light now shines through that window, as it never had

before.

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Matt Nagin

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Hunter Among Shadows

I go out

and collect

the light

like a tiger

on the precipice.

I go out

and collect

the light

like a mute

in a

noisy call center.

Again I collect

the light

but this time

it’s like

a bandit

finding a path

through

a sea of angels.

Or later I collect

the light

like a cripple

raising himself up

Matt Nagin

into verandas of paradise.

Or when there is

no light I again

go out and collect

the darkness

like a god

secretly unleashed

as dawn splatters

across

realms

of soaring potential.

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Katy Thornton • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Scotch and Cigarettes

Beth looked beautiful that afternoon at the Lough shore – I’m not a pansy or a poet,

though at one point I would’ve liked to be. There was no better way to describe her.

She’d returned to her normal shape, slim but filled out, full breasts and hips, just how I

liked, after havin’ Celia, who was ploddin’ around in the sand gettin’ covered in all sorts

of dirt and dust. This particularly sunny day in Belfast my wife had prepared a feast of

sorts – tomato and ham sandwiches, potato salad, bread and butter puddin’ and fresh

orange juice. This was a good day, this was a good moment. I had said somethin’ funny,

Lord knows what, and she’d flung her head back and – and –

Gasping. Moaning. Anthony, yes.  

Head flung back, Anthony ravenously kissin’ her neck, one arm stretched up to the

ceilin’ caught in his meaty hand. Fuck. Nope. That one won’t do. Can’t be havin’ my last

memory bein’ of another man fuckin’ my wife. Back to the drawin’ board, as they say.

Who says that, some twat I bet. I ask Stewart and he shrugs; he doesn’t know. Course

Stewart doesn’t know; he doesn’t have two brain-cells to rub together between those

hairy ears of his. Bit of an auld buck eejit to be honest. More fool me for askin’ really.

Ah, he’s a good lad though, anyone that brings me scotch and cigarettes is a good lad.

I suppose I sound quite calm for a man on his deathbed. The first three nights I spent

here I was bokin’ with fear; the wall damn well nearly moved in towards me and then

just before I’d get crushed, it’d have moved back out again. Really this chamber was

much larger than my former shared cell – only stank of my own piss and shit thankfully.

There was so much space to move – I’d get outta bed in the mornin’ and had a long five

second walk to the other side of the room. Beforehand I was faced with the brick barrier

almost immediately as I stood, nose centimetres from the wall. I often spent time, which

was pretty damn precious I’m sure you’ll imagine, pacin’ around, an absolute treat I

hadn’t had before. For the first three days I drank my scotch and smoked my cigarette,

Katy Thornton

which were the generous perks of bein’ a dead man walkin’ almost as soon as I’d eaten

breakfast. I’d pace with frightened precision, lettin’ the guilt wash over me repeatedly

until my stomach was turnin’ with bile so much I would be violently ill. The screws really

don’t get paid enough to witness that kind of thing.

I’ve pulled myself together a bit since then. Sometimes I do still smell the smoke – it

thrusts its way up my nostrils and then just as quickly as the sensation comes it’s gone

again. The burns on my skin still produce phantom pain as though they’d never healed.

But alas, with so much time in solitude, which at times feels like months instead of days

with fuck all to do, you find solutions to the dread; a crutch, if you will, to fend off the

despair. Sarcasm is one way a doin’ it – Andrews never likes that. Bein’ a cynical bastard

is another, which no one would fault me for. I read sometimes from the bookcase – a

nice touch given I was a teacher in my former life – before I was a murderer – but

they’re all novels I’ve read before and the ones I haven’t aren’t worthy of the paper

they’re printed on. The final remedy? I like to relive every good moment I’ve ever had so

vividly that the reality of my thinnin’ life is pushed to the back of my mind long enough

for me not want to drown myself in my bedpan. I’m quite certain my methods wouldn’t

be Freud approved; a few weeks of my “coping method” would quite certainly drive me

insane – but like scotch and cigarettes, there are perks to bein’ on a clock.

Bang.

The reverberation of the gavel that finalised my sentence to death sometimes echoes in

my ears. In reality, there’s only thunderous silence. I long to hear the effin’ and blindin’

of the other inmates, even the most vile Crumlin Road Gaol has to offer (no viler than

myself, I guess, I am the one who’s gonna die for my sins while these fuckers live out

their miserable lives within the confines of the prison) but that privilege has been

withdrawn. I’ve got Stewart and Andrews but I’m an educated man so I know they are

there purely to insure I don’t break my scotch glass and dig it into my jugular before my

day in the sun… or the hangman’s noose.. whatever.

See, I’ve got a walk to do. A nice long walk of death – how Bram Stoker of me, I should

have written a debut novel in my final days, imagine the sales - and I’m thinkin’ the walk

will be terrifyin’ to put it pathetically. I’d rather not spend that time wantin’ to scream

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Katy Thornton

and shout or thinkin’ about all the mistakes that led me to this moment. Instead, I’m

gonna have my best moments playin’ on a loop in my slightly demented noggin. No

harm being a bit demented really.

So where was I? I’d already eliminated my teenage years in boardin’ school and college –

ahh they were grand but not anythin’ worthy of bein’ my final recall. I’m beginnin’ to

think better not have Beth in any of these memories – though I’d like to. We had some

good times together, more than most people get probably. She really was the love of my

life. Independent, smart, caring, a fantastic mother and she could prepare a mean roast

dinner, almost as good as Mam’s. She was great in the sack too – before she’d become so

committed to her work in the hospital she’d spend days upon days with me in bed –

sometimes on the kitchen table or in the bath. She was wild before all the messy

responsibilities kicked in and I worked long days in the school, often after hours with

the kids that were a bit slow and she long nights as a nurse. In those last few months she

used to gurn she was too tired for sex, or any sort of affection and threw my hands off

her when she’d get into bed at dawn. Maybe I stayed in school after hours because I

didn’t want to face her glaring disinterest. I guess she wasn’t such a terrific wife, given

the Anthony saga, but we had some good years. It’s a shame the grizzly prick has

effectively destroyed any of those wonderful memories.

Let’s go back a bit further, shall we? Childhood? There’d been a few good moments in

there. Things were a lot simpler, back before I was interested in women or even girls.

Mam’s lamb stew, oozin’ succulent juices over perfectly boiled potatoes. Had to hand it

to her, the woman knew how to cook even if she was a bit of a dozy old bat. Didn’t

matter what kind of day I’d had – been pushed off my bike and scratched the shit out of

my shins or failed a test I actually tried for, I could always be cheered up by Mam’s

home-cookin’ and tender love. You’re a good wee lad Harry, she would say no matter

what… even after she’d given me a good tongin’ she’d say that. I hardly wanted to

imagine how she’d feel about this - she’d always liked Beth.

You have been found guilty of murder in the first degree.

Hmmm… might have to avoid memories of Mam. There is that pesky remorse again,

creepin’ up my sternum, threatenin’ to form a soggy lump in my throat. Not today. I’ll

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Katy Thornton

have plenty of time to feel guilt when I’m wanderin’ soulless around the Gaol for the rest

of eternity with a broken neck. Isn’t that right, McGladdery? He was the last inhabitant

of this cell. I realise I have spoken out loud and he doesn’t respond, of course, though

Stewart gives me a worried sort of look. He doesn’t ask am I ok though because that

would probably be the most senseless thing the young lad could ask at this stage –

clearly I’m not ok with my bleary purple eyes and black overgrown stubble and oh that

every once in awhile – but only every once in awhile – I speak to the ghosts of dead men

that may or may not haunt the place. I may be educated but guilt has a way of eating

away at the brain, turning you into someone you’re not. I never used to swear so much

but dammit if it didn’t relieve some of the tension.

We’ll skip on quite nicely past the war years – speakin’ of ghosts. Not somethin' I need

to remember, the only positive thing that came out of that was Beth findin’ her callin’ as

a nurse – which was all very well and good until she’d started workin’ nights while I

worked long days in the school – givin’ her all the time in the world to be hostin’ little

pricks like Anthony…

Haul on there now, I had some good days teachin’ at the school. I quite liked it in fact – I

got to be a smug git unloadin’ my knowledge about Joyce and Wilde, bit of Shakespeare

here and there and whoever else I fancied while bored teenagers stared eyes half closed

at the blackboard, no doubt wishin’ they were elsewhere. Sometimes I tried to tell

Stewart and Andrews about these great writers – if they hadn’t been on the night shift

sometimes they were even interested in it. Or maybe they were just coddlin’ me – like

the priest.

Maybe Celia is a good route to go down, despite who helped in her procreation – though

that had been a particularly steamy night between her mother and I. Celia always loved

her dear old dad right? I was her favourite, I brought her swimmin' down by the sea or

to watch the big ferries leave the port and there was always some ice-cream in it for her

as well. There is nothin' I wouldn’t do for those doll-like brown eyes. She was a fierce

little thing, stubborn as an ox, but incredibly passionate, even when she was tiny. She

started paintin’ like mad when she was six and when she turned fourteen she won a

competition in the school. Maybe I’m a little biased but hers was by far the best, much

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Katy Thornton

nicer than Kevin Wilson’s piece, one of the young lads in my class. I don’t think I’ve ever

felt so proud as when I got to see her landscape of the big ships in the port contained in

a large wooden frame in the main hall, much larger than all the other stupid pictures of

flowers or horses or other crap those much less talented than my Celia created. I’d really

like to see her again. She’d become such an intelligent young lady.

You are the scum of the earth. Go to hell.

Yes, I was her favourite. My catastrophic mistake had rather changed our relationship

and I hadn’t seen her since the sentencing. I half expected to see her today, but Andrews

had informed me that there were no visitors when my last supper was brought. The juicy

chicken legs and roasted spuds could not even come close to maskin’ the

disappointment I felt but then again I didn’t want to remember my baby girl as someone

that could look at me with such shatterin’ disappointment.

Thud.

Time’s up. Stewart and Andrews stand formally on either side of the door. How long

have I been sittin' here thinkin' about this? I hadn’t even seen Andrews come in. Is this

it then, boys? They don’t respond, any friendship that might have existed is now gone.

Suppose that’s only fair, shouldn’t be makin' a habit of creatin' strong connections with

a man that’s gonna die. Stewart grabs my left arm – I swear I feel a pang from where the

burns were – and Andrew my right – before I can even register what’s happenin' I’m in

handcuffs and I’m facin' the doorway, its paintwork spoilt by the anxieties of other

condemned men. My fingernails are pulled back, red and raw, revealin' wrinkly pink

flesh like the burns that had covered much of my arms and legs and singed away my hair

months back.

Here it comes, the walk of shame. I have it all planned out. I’ve finally got it, the perfect

memory. The perfect way to go, adios, au revoir, see you later alligator.  

Beth, luminous, comin' home from the hospital, her little car trekkin' the driveway,

crushin' stones. I’d not been gone long – only six months – six months of hell – God

dammit I don’t want to think about that right now – she got out of the car and I saw – I

saw –

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Katy Thornton

Whoosh.

Whoa pal, we’re goin' out that way aren’t we? I’ve been turned around, now facin' the

massive bookshelf – my neck spasms as I whip it from side to side, lookin' at the guards,

my old friends, my companions. Have I been pardoned? What the hell? I’m all geared up

with my tiny buzz of alcohol and nicotine but I’m calm – calm as anyone can be in a

moment like this.

A man I have never seen steps in and without makin’ eye contact stands to face the

bookshelf. This is the lad who’s gonna do it, there’s no doubt in my mind. He’s got an

angel of death kind of aura, perfectly ordinary lookin’ but there’s somethin' cold about

him. He’s wearin' black – fitting, I suppose. This is sort of my funeral. I always wanted

to be burned and sent out to sea, like a Viking – the idea of burnin’ no longer appeals.

With a giant exertion of strength from muscles grown from the death of past criminals

he’s executed no doubt he slides – slides? – the bookshelf across to reveal a large hole in

the wall, the brick jagged and jarred as though a bulldozer had rammed through it and

no one ever bothered to get it fixed.

Bang.

What is this? Am I gettin' out? Is there a riot outside, are the prisoners goin' wild?

You will be hanged by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul.

Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Those little fuckers. Those absolute wanky cunts. Stewart

and Andrews definitely knew about this, those absolute shite hawks. Never trust a

bleedin’ screw. Through the hole in the wall, as if this isn’t a large enough surprise

already, there is a room. A small enough room with a very large purpose. My stomach is

turnin' rapidly with the supper I’d enjoyed only an hour previous as I try to fathom that

through the secret door – like what country are we in, it’s bloody Belfast, we don’t have

secret rooms – hangin' quite still and steady is a large piece of frayed rope, tied in a loop.

Well I’ll be damned – I’ve been sleepin' next to the noose this whole time.

My first instinct is to laugh except there’s no time, I’m bein' marched towards the gap

and my little plan has gone more than a little askew. It’s been thwarted – upended –

toppled – someone took my last moments and thought let’s take a giant shit on it and

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Katy Thornton

make it one thousand times worse. I want justice. Pah. This makes me want to laugh

more except there are hot tears fillin' my eyes and every muscle in my body is screamin'

at me to run, tryin' to summon super-human strength.

So there goes my grand plan – I don’t get my glory walk. What kind of arsehole of an

architect pulls this sort of shit? If I wasn’t about to lose my head – pun intended – I’d be

writin' a strongly worded letter to the prison commissioner about this. Poor McLaughlin

and McGladdery – no wonder they still haunt the damn place. I wonder if they’re

watchin' now – poor bastard they’re probably thinking. No one likes gettin' their

comeuppance. They’re about to get one more.

Any last words?

Ah shite, for all of my thinkin' I forgot about last fuckin'words – what is the bleedin’

point? All I can think of is in about thirty seconds I’m goin' to be a flailin' body,

desperate for air where there’ll be none – a fish caught in a dreaded hook. Should I have

gone to church more – prayed a little more fervently – no fuck I should’ve spent more

time with my wife – sweet, sweet Beth – she’s up against the kitchen sink, legs spread

with that fucker Anthony – the sink I fixed on more than one occasion – but maybe if I

spent less time fixin' the sink and more time with my wife up against it she would never

have fucked the postman to begin with. Wouldn’t have set her prized rose bush alight –

those fucking roses, she tended to them more than me in those final weeks - I just didn’t

want to stare at them any longer – fuck – it wouldn’t have caught onto the kitchen

curtains – flames lick at my arms – and wouldn’t have left Celia without a family – that

conceited face maskin' unimaginable pain – Celia is who I should be thinkin' of, I’d see

her mother in hell – takes two to tango, don’t it – fuck do I even get to go to hell after

this? Consecrated ground or not?

I’m su-su-sorr-sorr-

Oh Christ I actually am goin' to shit myself – the rope is scratchin' at my neck, ticklin'

my Adam’s apple – the guards are speaking, readin' out my sentence again – bang –

hang until death. There’s no time – days feel like years until they are over and then they

are just days again or more so like minutes. Celia, baby girl, Christ I’m sorry, I’m so

sorry. My face is gettin' hot beneath the sack coverin' my head – when did they cover my

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Katy Thornton

face – it’s awfully wet with my spit and profuse sweatin'– it’s really rather

uncomfortable – and I am urinatin' a wee bit. I would feel embarrassed but really we’re

passed that now – Andrews and Stewart have watched me take a dump more often than

two men should really have to witness another man excretin' – the condemned man

definitely shits more than most and it’s not because of the high fibre diet.

Think of somethin' good. Quick – anything. Lamb stew. Ah wise up, we can do better

than feckin’ lamb stew. Any minute now my feet are goin' to be danglin' and I won’t be

able to breathe and my mind, given it will be lackin' in oxygen probably won’t be on top

form and we don’t have time to think about that and what should I think what should I

feel who will I miss, Celia baby you’re goin' to be fine, more than fine but I am sorry. I

try to think of the painting, the painting of the port, Celia’s face when she saw her name

engraved into a bronze plaque. Takin' her to see the ferries, seein' her off on one of those

ferries when she emigrated. Beth – despite everythin' that woman was the light of my

life – I think of white flowers and her dressed in chiffon on our weddin' day and manage

not to think of Anthony – fuck – piss off you prick give me a moment with my wife – her

smile, dark hair, red lips, long nights – I heard the scaffoldin' and lever as gears grinded

delicious together, grateful to be in use once more - that tinny metal clangin' and then -

I dropped, not down, down, down but just down, a little, and I’m swingin; and thrashin’

and kickin’ – what good will that do you, my brain says but my body won’t listen, must

fight, must get air – must get – uhhhh – air –

My body goes before my brain does.

Beth, round and full of life, literally, arms cradlin' her bump. You’re goin' to be a father

– shit – a father – what will I do as a father – then – I could teach him – or her – to

walk couldn’t I – take them to see the big ships – give them books to read – they’d be a

genius with my brains and kind, like their mother – and then I was kissin' their mother

– the bump cavin' my stomach in slightly – we did that – we made that – the death and

the pain washes away – I was a new man – I was a father now – and I couldn’t wait – to

meet – her.

To meet – her.

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Katy Thornton

To.

Meet.

Her….

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Raphael Chim • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Something

The plank bridge—or what at first glance resembled one though the skeptic was bound

to ask whether those were indeed planks upon which one presently trod and not some

lousy semi-metallic or -polyester pastiches with tree-rings painstakingly drawn

thereupon but nonetheless “real” only to the gullible—went on for some five hundred or

so meters towards the ridge which loomed over the bay upon which it cast a silhouette of

a silhouette which is to say virtually perceptually none at all. Mangroves spread below

the bridge and filled some three-quarters of the bay beyond which lied the suburbs with

lights flickering on in windows and pedestrians filing down the streets to bus terminals

or hurrying home for supper, and of course the lone tourists, hikers, or some such

photographing the sunset, cameras flaring here and then along the coastline reflected in

the still waters. A trio of men in tracksuits strolled along the bridge wiping sweat off

their brows and jabbing at air amidst chuckles and elbows. A woman in a loose dress

had her fingers around the hand of a girl no taller than one point four meters who was

humming some pop tune she must have heard at a CD rental store. A blind man was

walking his dog with cane at the ready angled at sixty or so degrees from the ground. A

bespectacled man in suit sat gazing into his lap on a bench with his back against the

railings and was perhaps reading something though in the waning light it was hard to

tell and now that she thought about it as she passed them by, perhaps none of them was

a man or woman; perhaps they were not human, in the first place, or they were simply

not there. Nakajima in a hoodie with her hands tugged in the abdominal pouch

proceeded down the bridge, glancing only every once in a while at the sky with the sun

already buried in the horizon and the multicolored clouds steadily giving way to night.

The air smelled of brine. Her eyes were on the planks below her sneakered feet. She

noticed the nails binding the planks in place and the X-shaped screwdriver slots atop

each; some were either missing or drilled in a little too deep. A few planks had I- or Y-

shaped ones and some were rusted. She was speaking to someone beside her moving at

Raphael Chim

a quantitatively identical pace. A figure ahead of them with hair thoroughly dyed blond

with highlights of violet and pink was strumming an acoustic guitar without much luck.

Nakajima did not bother to look up as she passed this figure and even if she did, it and

she was uncertain if she was doing so out of an intent to glance up at her silent

companion as a gesture of acknowledgement and gratitude for his presence alongside

her or at the guitarist as perhaps a sign of respect or even at the sky, for that matter. She

could think of nothing to say or think. A seaside breeze whistled by. A hand pulled her

hood over her head and she drew her arms inwards with her elbows cramped

momentarily into the pouch. She leant rightwards ever so slightly and let her shoulder

graze his.

“Dinner?”

Pause Pause Pause Pause Pause Pause Pause.

“Sure. But no chicken.”

At the end of the bridge along a slope was a hut beside which was a crooked tree

and a girl hoisting her body up against gravity with two hands clasping the tact

midsection of a ribbon which stretched and seemed on the verge of breakage, and she

hopped and sought to thrust her head through one coiled end of the ribbon and her feet

landed unto silence and hopped again and again and through the oval hollow glimpsed

and ceased to glimpse and glimpsed once more. Three sat utterly motionless in the hut

with shins parallel to another in a chamber with four walls comprising of paper dividers

overlapping with one another as cruciforms against the light from the stone lanterns in

the garden beyond and two actual walls, their feet socked and sandaled upon a mat

woven from straw, upon a long rosewood bench glinting from the lone lightbulb

dangling off the ceiling, the back of which was ornately adorned with bas-reliefs of

milkweed, chrysanthemums, azaleas and plum blossoms. An alcove in the wall

immediately across held a single scroll with Asiatic characters of an unknown origin

scrawled thereupon, below which stood a pot of what seemed to be sundried saplings

with branches grayed, crooked and entangled in one another and deprived of any leaf or

flower-buds, and to the right of which on a platform around two inches or so above the

surface upon which the pot stood, was a porcelain figurine of a miniscule monk kneeling

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Raphael Chim

with palms knitted above its head and a pole or chopstick of a sort jutting out from its

scalp clamped between its index and middle fingers. The three wore masks powdered a

sickly white and which featured nothing save a single slash made with one of those

Oriental calligraphic brushes arcing to the left of the masks. One of the visual traits by

which one might discern the strokes of such brushes from their Occidental counterparts

was the fading gradient of black from beginning to end. The lower end of the slash

seemed in this instance to split, diffract into innumerable rivulets, and was of a

generally dimmer shade than the upper end, as though the calligrapher had deliberately

depressed the brush against the mask at that point and scattered the fine threads and

the ink trapped therein; the upper end was a single solid trapezoid dot with only faint

traces of dispersal. The frail light from the bulb in the chamber lent a certain orange tint

to the chalk white of the masks. The attires of the three could not be made out in the

gloom of the chamber. A gust from the sea struck the hut and the paper dividers shook,

the sheets glued to the bamboo shafts rustled, and fell silent. The figurine of the monk

nearly caressed the floor of its own platform with its bald forehead and its pole

momentarily trained at the three other occupants of the chamber gave it a mildly jejune

resemblance to a unicorn or narwhal before it bounced back on its knees and stood up

straight once more. The branches of the sapling shook soundlessly and the pot beneath

it wobbled a little on the floor. The scroll was stationary. The three did not so much as

flinch, though the gust would seem for them to be a signal of a sort and one by one they

rise, each dragged to one’s own feet by the anachronic linen scarf wound around the

others’ and its necks. In the filtered light of the lanterns from beyond, the three were

shown to be wearing tattered bathrobes which hung loose and airy over their bodies

which lacked any of the trait or con-cavities or -vexities which might characterize one as

a man or a woman. The one in the middle had a sash fashioned from what would seem

to be an aerial root, tied around its waist, whereas the two to its left and right had aerial

roots around where the much-receded hairline of an ordinarily unmasked man would

be, knotted with two stray threads swinging back and forth behind their heads, strings it

would seem to fasten the masks over their faces. One of the three raised a hand to slide a

paper divider back and admitted into the chamber the scent of brine and salted fish, the

chill of seaside air, and the view of a garden littered with tiny round pebbles and fallen

!20

Raphael Chim

leaves of every sort and stone lanterns peeking out from between and behind bushes and

a desolate tree of indeterminate genus and species and a path paved with granite

winding its way past and through everything. As the first of the three proceeded into the

garden the scarf brought the other two along with it, all three of their masks lit up from

below by the lamplight; sandals were removed and placed in a neat row along the

threshold of the chamber they had previously sat in. Pebbles dug deep into their soles

which slipped unwittingly too into the creaks between pebbles and the invisible grains of

sand far beneath; the exposed spines of leaves pierced the fabric of their socks and

buried themselves in their feet. Not a single word was spoken. The moon rise into sight

from over the fence at the far end of the garden. The three traversed the field of pebbles

trailing beads of blood and torn fabric without so much as a glance at the main path and

soon found themselves before another hut with identical paper dividers for walls and

doors, though the doorway into this hut was far lower, barely fifty meters and flanked by

stone lanterns with wind chimes jingling, shedding notes to the winds from the four

eaves of their kasa. The three bent low and crept in, the paper dividers sliding back and

forth without a sound. There was no seat. They knelt and rested their pelvises on their

soles warm and drenched with blood and twigs and spines of leaves. There was a

lightbulb swinging back and forth overhead. One of the three fished out a pie of a sort in

polyester wrappings from beneath its mask and unwrapped it, dropped it into a crucible.

A kettle began singing therefrom the melody of proximal seas crashing against boulders

encrusted with barnacles, seaweed, and crystallized salt; the ceramic lids over its bowl

and spout were designed for just this purpose, of emitting so and so notes ambiguous

and open to the three’s imagination. Another of the three began pounding on the pie

which now in the fleeting flashes of light was revealed to be cake of dried herbs or rather

tea-leaves grounded into what resembled a hamburger steak, with a whisk which had

been lying motionless on an adjacent table. The wrist to which the hand and in turn the

whisk were attached rolled up and down in its socket by a regular ninety or so degrees

up and down. This one of the three did so with such vigor the slim bamboo threads

collapsed, flattened to a horizontal bundle of uncrossing lines against the tea-cake and

then rebounded and was flattened again. The threads seemed on the verge of snapping.

The first whose task of delivery had been completed and the third who had done nothing

!21

Raphael Chim

remained perfectly still and uninvolved in any of this. All that could be heard was the

kettle’s whistle, the peculiar notes formulated by lids endlessly clinking against what

they ought to be covering and of vapor seeping through seams, and the rustle of the

whisk’s delicate threads crushing and being crushed against the tea-cake. Another gust

struck the huts. There was a thud from afar signifying the inevitable descent of the monk

figurine upon its face. Leaves scattered across the garden ground and in two avian

swarms pasted themselves onto the two doors connecting and severing the huts to and

from one another. There was nothing else to be seen.

Nakajima frowned at the overpriced bottle of coke she bought and shook it a few

times, twisted the cap first anticlockwise and then clockwise, and watched the foam

gather near the bottleneck, hiss, and dissipate, and murmured inaudible words under

her breath as Zelmire extended his hand at her with palm heavenwards and she tossed

the bottle over.

!22

J.D. Smith • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Post

THWAP!

*

The morning paper strikes the screen door

with a sound like what

the blades could have made

when they punctured Caesar’s back

hilts hitting wet bone slick sinew.

That’s laying it on a bit thick don’t you think?

Got your attention, though.

I guess.

Okay, try this: an object

thuds

sheet metal shudders without portent

only entropy.

That’s better,

but there’s still room for improvement.

Always.

*

Paper and ink? How quaint

in an age of pixels sprung full-grown from

chips transmitting faster than firing synapses.

Do you also, by any chance,

J.D. Smith

write with a quill by candlelight?

Do you copulate with a robot?

Um. [blushes]

*

It’s like we’re in a car with the pedal to the floor

on the way to a vanishing point in the horizon an unknown country

Scroll bar and click push the pedal

farther down

A page spread out on a table though

affords a respite even an illusion

of time slowing if not permanence no

not permanence but a stone in a stream

forded for the first time every time

*

A finger points to words

in no glare but their own

Say on how the next numeral

smartphone will ship

obsolete from the factory

lines

presently forming to buy its successor

place-holding

a growth field for the homeless laid-off engineers some both

Say on how the results of a recent survey

proclaim the Dalai Lama the world’s

!24

J.D. Smith

most modern man his legacy

joining vestments and science secure

even if he does not reincarnate

his Tibet crushed like a sugar cube

in its dissolution some say

sweetening the nations that survive

Say on animal sightings

white buffalo

red heifer without spot or blemish

on animal absence

a class

of vertebrates shredded in a decade

There are whispers about

the ivory-billed woodpecker (Schroedinger’s bird?)

and barracuda (ooh!) extending their range

Seals may be opened

with scalpel or trumpet blast

by waters some will live to row

down the street

[*]

Get a load of this.

[*]

Dear Dr. Maven,

I’m a thirty thirty-three-year-old man

And for the most part I can’t complain—

good job, serious girlfriend, not much student debt.

In fact, my life is perfect except for just one thing—

How can I be more entertaining to my cats?

*

(Still reading? Old habits die hard.)

!25

J.D. Smith

*

Dear Letter Writer,

An egg wash can help you with that

or a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar

and a couple of placebos cheaper than homeopathy

but no less effective.

*

The artist profiled here

takes as his organizing principle

entropy . . .

This new study, according to itself, contains

multitudes of other studies.

Some even agree on how

churches

that proclaim a Spirit of Metaphor (Holy Mascot!) empty

into white papers committees campaigns

colors of electoral maps regimental flags

as do wilder dispensations that fill former arenas

fill sanctuaries the size of warehouses

built on cement once some kind of rock

The mind like the hand wants

to hold on to something larger than itself

text breast cause breast

unified field theory (breast?)

And motorcycle clubs are poised to become

the founders

of future peoples.

*

!26

J.D. Smith

Then there are the excerpts from online chats.

*

Last night our Major League

club looked barely single A.

Well, friend, I’m just a sportswriter

who obeys the law of gravity.

If it seems so easy

maybe you should try out.

The jetpacks we were promised

like some kind of mass-production Messiah

have come only in the form of

a few concept models.

For now.

But when? How soon is when?

*

These days outer space looks like a job for the private sector.

Give or take launchpad and liftoff explosions.

Whatever, Godwin.

Asteroids and planets can be mined,

moons’ oceans explored for signs of life.

But the commute would be a bitch.

That’s a hurtful choice of words.

Yes, exclusive.

!27

J.D. Smith

Why not “a bear”?

Because “bear” has less negative connotations.

And I like bears.

More than turtles?

Wiseass.

They’re my spirit animal.

Okay.

I’ll send you links to some videos.

Just this once.

*

How much lift and thrust can we suck

from the sun, from uranium?

So far, how far have we come?

Um.

With what pitch do we pitch the next ark?

*

Here’s a story of somebody

Trying to a restore a shanty home.

Shanty home?

Shanty home.

!28

Notes on Contributors • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Raphael Chim is a Hong Kong-born

Chinese soon to complete his MA in

Creative Writing. At present he is

developing a Sino-Japanese folk

philosophy as the antidote to the

Westernization of discourse worldwide.

Other writings of his might be found on

Cha, aaduna, and Epoché magazine.

Alexandria Federici is the Managing

Director of JCS Theater Company. After

graduating from Baruch College with a

Bachelor’s in Management of Musical

Enterprises, Alex managed the finances

for artists like LCD Soundsystem,

Slipknot and Radiohead. Rachel Heinhorst teaches for the

College of Southern Maryland, writes

poetry and publishes here and there.

Andrew Kerbel and his wife, Sarah,

make plenty of time to fold paper until it

flies and splash through puddles with

their son around their home in

northeast Wisconsin. He is a graduate of

the MFA program at Goddard College,

copywriter, ultramarathoner and

advertising instructor at a private

university. His writing can be found in

the 2011 Montréal International Poetry

Prize, the Farmer General, among

others.

Walter K. Martinez III is an artist from

New Mexico living and working in

Brooklyn since 2007. His works explore

the contemporary American landscape

through the manipulation and re-

appropriation of recognizable symbols.

Heavily influenced by the early

renaissance artists such as Caravaggio

and Albretch Durer, he combines

modern materials and traditional

techniques with a contemporary eye to

weave a narrative tapestry to understand

the ever more connected and complex

world we live in. Matt Nagin is an author, educator,

actor, filmmaker and standup comedian.

He has been published in Writer's

Digest, The New York Post, Mic.com,

The Humor Times, The Higgs-Weldon,

Grain Magazine, Arsenic Lobster,

Spillway, Dash, Antigonish Review and

many, many more. His first book of

poetry ("Butterflies Lost Within The

Crooked Moonlight") was released in

2017. He also wrote and directed the

short film, "Inside Job," which

premiered at The Mediterranean Film

Festival Cannes, where it won Best Short

Film.

Neil Ryan is videographer, editor and

co-founder of Brane Productions, a

Brooklyn-based production company.

Molly Serenduke is a writer and

activist. She completed a playwriting

fellowship at The Juilliard School.

Molly's work has been presented by

PBS, Open City and others. She lives in

Brooklyn, New York with her wife,

Laura, and her dog, Jade.

Amanda Shore is a project manager,

political junkie, and ecstatic dance

enthusiast living in Somerville,

Massachusetts.

Jake Shore is an award-winning

playwright, novelist, short story writer,

director and educator who teaches

courses in playwriting and literature at

St. Joseph’s College, where he’s also the

Director of the Academic Advisement

Center. His play entitled Holy Moly

premiered in August, 2016 at The Flea

Theater and was simultaneously

released with the tandem novel, A

Country for Fibbing. Broadwayworld

states, "The debut and simultaneous

release of Holy Moly and A Country for

Fibbing, an innovative multi-media

experience, marks the first time a play

with a correlating novel have been

simultaneously released in the United

States." Last August his play, The Devil

is on the Loose with an Axe in

Marshalltown, was listed in Playbill’s “13

Shows Not to Miss Off-Broadway August

1–16.”

J.D. Smith’s fourth poetry collection,

The Killing Tree, was published in 2016,

and in 2007 he was awarded a

Fellowship in Poetry from the National

Endowment from the Arts. His one-act

play "Dig" was produced in 2010 and

adapted for film in 2011. Smith works in

Washington, DC, where he lives with his

wife Paula and their rescue animals Roo,

Pantera and Mr. Clean.

Katy Thornton is a 22 year old who has

just finished a thesis on the Magdalene

Laundries for her MA in Creative

Writing at University College Dublin.

She worked as the fiction editor of a

!30

quarterly literary magazine, The HCE

Review and will be published in the MA

Anthology We Can Walk Into Others at

the end of September. She had her first

short story "7 Minutes" published with

Headstuff in April. She hopes to finish

her debut novel later this year.

!31

!32