The Blot terMarch 2019

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The South’s Unique, FREE, International Literature and Arts Magazine

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G. M. Somers ..............................Editor-in-ChiefMartin K. Smith..Publisher-at-Large, TreasurerMarilyn Fontenot.....Director of DevelopmentLaine Cunningham.....Publishing ConsultantBrace Boone III....................Marketing AdvisorRichard Hess........................Programs DirectorT.J. Garrett...........................Staff Photographer

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COVER: “The Wager” Public Domain

Unless otherwise noted, all content copyright2019 by the artist, not the magazine.

The Blot terThe Blot ter is a production of

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ISSN 1549-0351

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The B l o t t e r

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“Face the strange...changes”I recently let my blog lapse after ten faithful years of monthly input.Electrons don’t actually decay, so this is nothing like no longer writing in adiary, placing the little book in a drawer and pulling it out years later for anostalgic look and a reminiscent chuckle. Rather, it’s like placing the littlebook in a box in your shed and finding out years from now that sixteen orseventeen generations of mice made a home in the box and chewed yourdiary to make paper-scrap lining for their beds. The blog is just…gone.Or as gone as my current technical capabilities can muster a search for it.

And here’s why it’s gone. I found that whatever impetus I may have hadthose many years ago to broadcast episodes of my feelings into the voidwas no longer satisfied. Primal screaming (or in my case, primal mutter-ing) stopped having the results I’d hoped it would. No one was comingout of the woodwork to tell me what a fabulous thing my personal blogwas, and how it was helping them change their criminal ways and findenlightenment. We’re a curious species, but not that curious. And we’relazy – the blog phase of our cultural demise has moved onto and evenpast podcasts of similar mundane content. Everyone who would read orlisten to such…product is too busy creating such product. In a world ofprospective writers, why aren’t we reading?

Of course we’re reading. More than ever, if you believe the articles thattalk about the new twists in the publishing industry. Just not this self-serv-ing pseudo-revelation stuff in our online diaries that probably was nevermeant to be shared. In fact, over a million books were self-published lastyear. Each one representing a writer who wanted to be read, in search ofan audience. Were all of them…satisfied? I don’t know – the reportabout the numbers didn’t delve that deeply into the response of theauthors to their books being out there on virtual shelves. They did talkabout median incomes of authors and such. And they did talk about read-ers, as they always do, as buyers of books, as customers.

A shame, to be mislabeled like that. Car buyers are almost always referredto as drivers. Purchasers of houses as “homeowners.” Why isn’t the rela-tionship between author and reader more direct, and reflective of the feel-ing one has for the…text? Why does the book and the selling of samealways feel disconnected from the people who create and the people wholove, hate, learn, disagree, dismiss and even burn (metaphorically speak-ing, of course) the books? We’re readers, after all.

The little bookstores get it. They entreat us to read, even at the expenseof everything else. Eat, sleep, read, repeat, they suggest. Good idea. Andthey have suggestions about what to read, which are also helpful. There’snothing here you don’t already know. But, all of those self-published

MAGAZINE

We often use Bobco fonts, copyrightedshareware from the Church of theSubgenius. Prabob. We also use

Mary Jane Antique and other free-ware fonts from Apostrophic Labs

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in the Great State of Georgia!

aThe Blotter Magazine, Inc. (again, a

501(c)3 non-profit) is an education con-cern. Our primary interest is the fur-

thering of creative writing and fine arts,with the magazine being a means to thatend. We publish in the first half of each

month and enjoy a free circulationthroughout the Southeast and someother places, too. Submissions arealways welcome, as are ad inquiries.

Subscriptions are offered as a premiumfor a donation of $25 or more. Sendcheck or money order, name andaddress to The Blotter MagazineSubscriptions, 1010 Hale Street,

Durham, NC 27705. Back issues are alsoavailable, 5 for $5. Inquire re. same by

e-mail: chief@blotterrag.com.

sCAUTION

Hey, partner! Are you here to see me?

books. How do we find them? The folks at Algorythm dot com (wink,wink) have their ways, but they aren’t my ways. I am a browser, a Luddite,something resembling a Neanderthal hunter on the steppe with my spearand not much else, wandering shelves of volumes looking for words thatstand out to me. Not “key words,” not “others like you have bought this,”(how in the hell do they think that they know what I am like, after all?) oreven “others who bought this also bought this” (which makes slightly moresense in that some people like chocolate and would therefore possiblylike…other chocolate) but some distinct yet ineffable…coordinatingdevice between my eyes and brain that instructs my hand to reach out andgently grasp the book and bring it closer, tells my other hand to adjust myglasses farther up my nose so that I can see the cover, and now open thebook and now read.

But bookstores they cannot handle the influx of self-publishing, can they?Nor should we expect them to try. Just stay in business, little stores. Dowhat you can. Be there for us, so we have somewhere less maddening inthe world to go.

Yep. It’s going to require some change in our publishing to reading pathto get to those millions of self-published books. A…tool that helps ussee…virtual shelves of all those books brought to life by these perspica-cious writers who “if you want to get something done right, do it yourself.”We can’t rely on the old-school publishing industry – in flux if not turmoilover the changes that have taken place since the technology of publishingbegan to be more readily available to the writers of books a dozen or soyears back – for this. Nor can we look to the mighty online shopping mall.They’re not quite ready to embrace the idea that readers don’t just searchfor books, don’t always want selections chosen for them, pointed out tothem.

We want to browse for books. Not browsing like “surfing,” but browsinglike “wandering.” Browsing like the pleasurable feeling when you find abookstore in a town you’re visiting, and it’s open and your dinner plans arefor later, so there’s some time to go in and look around – just a little; no Iwon’t buy anything, I know I have a bunch of titles on the bedside table Ihaven’t read yet, but then there’s this one volume on a shelf that you can’tresist taking down and it looks like it just might be beautiful and I don’twant to find myself someday with that twenty dollars sitting unspent in mywallet on my deathbed.

Garry - chief@blotterrag.com

March 2019

page 3

The charging bull fell, snout dishev-elling sand, firework commentscracking critically amid groaningthat slithered around the arena, thebull slithering as groaning slitheredaround the ring.

A bullfighter pulled one of the bull’shorns to get the bull back up, shrillwhistling puncturing groaning.

“Puppies are more vicious than thiscow,” someone screamed.

Large, pink capes are used at thebeginning of bullfights when stillnaive bulls charge ignorantly, allow-ing bullfighters to note defects thatneed correcting if matadors are tocreate sublimity.

Much correcting was needed here.

The bull suddenly slowed before apink cape, as if remembering hisprevious problem, crowd headsflung back, hands flung up, furiousflinging ignited by tameness.

“Be careful,” someone yelled at abullfighter. “That cow could lick youto death.”

Chuckling superiority crackedaround the ring. Crowds believe

they would do better jobs thanbreeders.

A bullfighter huffed at the bull.Finally, the bull charged at the huff-ing, somersaulting, fulcrum hornspenetrating sand, the bull havingtried hitting a pink cape with itshorns, shrill whistling shriekingamid gasps and groans and guffawsas the flying bull landed flat on itsback.

“That cow is drugged,” another manyelled.

The now standing “cow” faced ashouting picador who rotated hishorse, enticing a charge. The bullstared at that two-headed beast ofunfathomable intentions, the bull’sblack Dalmatian patches upon lightgrey unusual, not plain black orbrown like most bulls. And Itweighed one hundred and twentykilograms less than most.

The crowd clapped sardonically,disenchanted by tameness, the bullstaring at the shouting picador.Finally the bull charged, smackingthe horse’s protective padding,horse’s hooves grounded. Strongbulls rotate horses on their hindhooves. This “cow” had “false

horns.” Someone screamed: “Thebreeder is more of a crook than apolitician.”

Crowds believe they are moremorally sound than breeders.

Darkness ironically added sun-raysto the arena’s spotlights. The sky’sslice above the ring’s circular roofexposed a circular moon. The black-bull wind gauge above the arena’sclock swung unpredictably, difficultcontrolling capes in blustery condi-tions.

Gleaming Enrique Ponce strolledbeside the barrier in a suit of lights.Mist now covered the moon’s slith-er. Little hope existed that Poncecould blend that “cowardly calf ”with his red cape.

An iceberg-cauliflower cloud’s topdrifted above the arena’s tiled roof.Difficult circumstances increasedPonce’s salience under that semi-exposed mist, its unsighted sectionbrooding like events destined toturn out wrong.

He wet his cape, increasing capestability, wind restricting correction.

The bull’s increasing awareness ofdanger increased its fascination forthe ring’s creatures, vapour-icebergrising above a brown-tile sea.

The bull-wind-gauge’s head con-stantly swung, the real bull station-

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ary before a cape’s twitching edges,the bull’s flanks reddened by thepicador’s lance and the banderillas’prongs, picks and prongs revealingdanger to a previously inexperi-enced bull.

Ponce thrust the cape forwards. Thebull stared. The crowd whistled.The bull stared.

The bull finally charged, Enriqueturning, hand on hip, the bull pur-suing a retreating cape, Enriqueswitching the cape to his left hand,the bull staring, the whistling crowdwanting aggression; the chargingbull’s front hooves suddenly rose,cape horizontal above the horns,the gasping crowd surprised: Poncehad done that with that bull inthese conditions!

Ponce swung an arm up tri-umphantly, moon-cream and sky-sapphire unifying complimentaryhues, the brooding underside of thecauliflower forgotten. But crowdshave pliable memories.

Ponce’s demonstration that cape-bull unity could occur with this bullin these conditions restored thecrowd’s faith in genius, Ponce’s eyesspearing out a belief that he couldeliminate dross.

The pendulum cape swayed behindhis legs, Ponce confident becausethe bull’s head turned with themoving cape, head and cape unit-ing, like the moon gripped by theearth as the earth’s seas are grippedby the moon.

Each time the bull passed throughwhere the cape had just been thecrowd shouted “Olé”, the bull orbit-ing the man, orbiting smoothnessunleashing roaring-crowd delight,unsatisfied desire replaced by tanta-lising vibrancy.

Ponce swapped the cape to his righthand, horns rising moonwards, bal-lerina bull flying, crowd surprisebecoming cascading applause asPonce twirled the cape before thebull’s face, the bull’s head magne-tised by twirling, head and cape inmirror-image movement, Poncetwirling the cape around his body,spinning away from the bull, thecape wrapped around a gleamingtorso, a bull hypnotised by capecharm.

People roared admiringly, thecloudless moon white as milk.

Spellbound silence thickened as thekilling sword rose. Ponce could

have used the bull’s deficienciesand the wind to avoid pleasing thecrowd; but he wanted to pleasehimself. Statistics had opposed him,bad bull, difficult conditions, but hehad to do his best while doing whathe had to do, even if that causedself-destruction.

Ponce had pursued his desired pathwhen young because he scorneddoubters. What do they know aboutinspiration and talent? He didn’tcare if he failed pursuing perfectionbecause pursuing his desires trivi-alised everything else. This meantblending himself with bulls viacapes, increasing self-destruction’sthreat, a threat irrelevant becauseonly transcendental acts relieve youfrom self.

His left hand, holding the cape, fell,horns following, the blade, risingover the lowering horns, plummet-ing into the bull’s back, the bander-illas on the bull’s flanks bouncingas the bull’s head got flung back bythe shock caused by the blade, thebull wobbling on hooves that werenow in strange positions. Then thebull collapsed, the crowd’s wavingof white handkerchiefs imploringthat an ear should be cut from thebull in official recognition of a fine

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March 2019

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performance, a sudden increase incrowd roaring erupting when thebullfight’s president’s white clothgot draped over his balcony’sbalustrade to indicate the cutting ofan ear; then Ponce was circling thering, hats flying from the crowdbeing thrown back by Ponce and hisassistants, reinforcing unitybetween man and crowd, Ponceraising his hat to a man in thecrowd, that man’s black hair tied upinto a bun, Ponce touching hisheart with his hat, the man with thetied-up hair raising an arm in abent-arm salute, Ponce raising hishat again to the man and thentouching his heart again with hishat, that man having told Poncewhen they were teenagers thatPonce was going to make it, thatman being kissed by his girlfriendin a display of “this tall, strong,handsome beast, who knew muchmore than you lot did, is mine!”

Then Ponce was on a man’s shoul-ders, Mexican-wave photographyflashes flashing with Ponce’s move-ment around the ring. Then Ponce,above a mass of followers, disap-peared through la puerta grande tobe cheered by a mass waiting out-side the ring, bad conditions havingmade popular imaginations thinkthat glory had been unachievable,popular imaginations underestimat-ing needs to transcend, perceptionas flexible as memory. v

When I was twelve, I wanted tobecome a rock star. Or at least whatapproximated a rock star in the mid-sixties when the Beatles, Beach Boys,and Elvis battled for supremacy. Atthe time, I was a gawky, self-consciousseventh grader at St. Richard’s Schoolin North Olmsted, Ohio, outside ofCleveland. My father worked for aninsurance company as a regionalsupervisor, which meant he was onthe road for much of every week. Iwaited for him to come home onehumid Friday evening in earlySeptember just before my thirteenthbirthday to ask him if he and mymother would give me a guitar as myonly gift.

He frowned, loosening his tie.“Want to be a musician, huh?”

“Guitar player.”I saw my mother smile at the

kitchen counter. My three youngerbrothers were outside in the backyardhorsing around, and my baby sisterwas asleep in her high chair.

“Tell you what,” my father said.“Another usher with me at churchteaches music lessons: Sal Leverino.He lives up the street. We’ll walk overafter dinner, see what he thinks.”

He ruffled the buzz cut he gavemy brothers and me with his electricclippers every Sunday night and got acan of beer out of the refrigerator. Itmade a spitting sound when hecracked it open.

Sal lived in another tract homelike ours and others in the develop-ments that had sprung up at thetown’s outskirts in what used to befarmland. After we rang the bell, hecame to his front screen door holdinga newspaper. My father explainedwhat we were there for. Sal noddedthoughtfully, then stepped out on the

porch next to us, the newspaper dan-gling at his side. He was a short,round man, balding, and wore thickblack glasses with a sleeveless T-shirtagainst the heat.

“Well, if he wants to play guitar,he should start by learning music on akeyboard,” he said. “That’s always myrecommendation. Piano or accordion.I can teach him either and have a fewaccordions here that I rent. If youwant a piano, you have to go to amusic store, have it delivered.Accordion is cheaper.”

A short groan escaped me. “Can’tI just learn on a guitar straight off?”

My father looked down at me.“You heard what the man said. Areyou the music expert, or is he?” Heturned back to Sal. “Accordion will befine. When can he start?”

While they discussed details, Iblew out a long breath and shook myhead. They agreed on Mondays atfour o’clock for my weekly lessons,starting immediately after the week-end.

Sal gave me a serious glare andsaid, “You’ll need to practice at least ahalf-hour a day. You ready for that?”

“Of course, he is,” my father

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replied and placed his hand on myshoulder. “Thanks, Sal. He’ll be hereon Monday. I’ll send him with acheck.”

They shook hands and we left. Asprinkler shot slow arcs of water in thefront lawn of the house next to Sal’s,and a group of kids played kick-the-can in the street. The light was fallingtowards gloaming. My father’s handwas still on my shoulder. Hesqueezed it and said, “Happy birthday,son.” I kept my grumbled reply silent.

Sal taught me my lessons in a tinyden at the back of his house. I wasskinny, small for my age, and theaccordion felt massive while I strug-gled with its bellows as it knockedagainst my chin. Sal wore a golf shirtbuttoned to the neck, shiny graytrousers, black socks, and scuffedloafers for each of our lessons. Weprogressed slowly in that crampedspace from scales with each hand sep-arately to the simplest of melodieswhere my left hand answered the rightwith a repeated progression on thesame three buttons. Sal sat on a deskchair next to me as I played and nod-ded to encourage the proper tempo.Whenever I finished a piece, heclapped once, his eyes dancing behindhis big glasses, and announced,“Good…better. Try again.”

“So how long before I can moveon to the guitar?” I sometimes askedhim.

When I did, Sal would cock his

head, show his palms, and say, “Notsure. I’ll let you know.”

I kept my accordion lessonssecret from my friends and practicedin our basement in the hopes thatnone would hear me playing whenthey were near the house. My bestfriend, Jimmy Erlin, lived in anotherhousing development directly acrossLorrain Road from mine. We spentmany hours together listening to hisolder brother’s record collection or inhis garage where his parents hadallowed him to set up the drum setthey’d given him the previousChristmas. Jimmy would play alongthere to songs on the radio. He wasself-taught but had learned quicklyand could match the rhythms on mostof the popular hits we idolized. Hebobbed his head with his eyes closed,swinging the drumsticks, the little curlof hair in front that he slicked withBrylcreem bouncing like a pig’s tailagainst his forehead.

Another boy from our classnamed Brett began coming over withhis electric bass guitar, lugging theamplifier by its handle against his shin.Brett was more Jimmy’s friend thanmine. He thumbed random riffs whileJimmy banged away on his drums, andwe all nodded at one another idiotical-ly as summer gave way to fall, leaveschanged, and the trees finally becamebare.

“You know,” Brett said one after-noon shortly after Halloween as wewere getting ready to leave Jimmy’sgarage. “If we had someone whocould play melodies and sing, wecould form a band. Wouldn’t that bekiller?”

“Absolutely,” Jimmy replied.I hesitated, then said, “You know

I’m in the church choir. And I canplay melodies.”

They both stared at me blank-faced until Jimmy asked, “On what?”

“Well.” I felt my lips forming asheepish grimace. “Accordion. Mydad made me take keyboarding les-sons before getting a guitar, which will

happen soon. But, we could startwith it, just fool around. I know somesongs. Wild Thing. Louie, Louie.Barbara Ann. A few others.”

I watched them exchangeglances, then stare back at me. Thewhine of an airplane passed in the skyoutside. Finally, Brett said, “When doyou get the guitar?”

“Soon,” I said. “Very soon.”They looked at each other again,

then Jimmy shrugged and said,“Sounds okay to me.”

Brett shrugged, too. “Why not?”They both turned their gazes my

way again. I felt a wave of lightnessand excitement spread through me. Isaid, “Okay.”

“So, bring you accordion tomor-row,” Jimmy said. “Can you wear itthis far?”

“It’s in a case.”“All right,” Brett said. “Let’s give

it a go. See what happens.” We practiced almost every day

through the remainder of that fall andearly winter. Jimmy’s dad used towork on the side as an auctioneer anddug out his old microphone for us touse that we plugged into Brett’s ampli-fier. So, it was me on the accordion,Brett on bass, and Jimmy on drumsuntil we could manage a passable ren-dition of a dozen or so simple songs.I sang vocals and Brett would join meat the microphone for any chorus. Aswe serenaded that empty garage, Isuppose we each created our ownimages of an audience of fawning girlsfrom our class to whom we were alltoo shy to speak.

During that same period of time,Sal gave no indication that my tutelageon the accordion would be ending. Infact, I’d begun playing old ballads,polkas, and some rudimentary classi-cal pieces with enough precision thatmy father said Sal told him at churchthat I had a real and unique gift withthe instrument. By Christmas, he’dconvinced my father to increase mylessons to twice a week in order to fur-ther develop that talent. And unbe-

March 2019

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knownst to me, he encouraged myparents to sign me up for a regionalnovice competition in late February,which they did. The song Sal selectedfor me to play for it was MariannePolka.

A cold afternoon came early thatmonth when Brett burst into Jimmy’sgarage while the two of us were set-ting up to practice, his eyes wide. Hesaid, “You both better sit down.”

We did, Jimmy on the stool at hisdrum set, and me on the aluminumfolding chair I sometimes used withmy accordion. Brett made no attemptto hide his grin. “So, listen to this,” hesaid. “My neighbor asked us to play ather nephew’s birthday party. He’s ourage. Over thirty guests, and she’ll payus twenty bucks.” Jimmy’s and myeyes and smiles grew as large as his.“Our first gig!” Brett shouted, and wehooted along with him.

“When?” Jimmy asked.“Next month. Second Saturday.

Two o’clock. VFW Hall.”“Will girls be there?”“Of course. Tons.”Jimmy looked back and forth

between us, then beat out a drum rolland yelled, “Hot damn!”

Our practices intensified, as didmy own private ones with theMarianne Polka in my basement forthe accordion competition. Brett toldus that we needed to have matchingoutfits in order to look like a realband, so we scraped together ourallowances and savings and rode ourbikes down to the big departmentstore in the Great Northern Mallwhere we bought identical paisleyshirts, tight corduroy pants, and wideplastic belts with shiny square buckles.I tried without success to get my dadto forego his weekly buzz cuts, soinstead began wearing a black steve-

dore-type cap I found at SalvationArmy that resembled one I’d seen JohnLennon wearing in photographs.

Brett and Jimmy spread the wordat school about our band and itsupcoming performance, never men-tioning that my accordion wasinvolved, and we began noticing newsorts of glances from our classmates.The ones from other boys seemedmixed with grudging admiration andenvy, and those from the girls held aslightly titillated interest that made thebottoms of my feet tingle. We walkedthe cracked linoleum hallways of thatold school building more erect andtried our best to affect a dreamy,removed countenance.

The morning of the regional com-petition was full of snow. My parentsdrove me towards the city in our oldstation wagon with its faux wood pan-els as the windshield wipers madetheir steady clap and I sat uncomfort-ably in the backseat in my too-smallsuit and bow tie that ordinarily onlycame out for Christmas and EasterMass.

The competition was held in theauditorium at St. Edward High Schoolwhere most of my male classmates andI would be anxiously applying foradmission the following year. Theschool was just a few minutes fromdowntown and not far from Lake Erie,which we passed on our way to it: itswater gray against the gray sky and thesmoke-stained gray buildings thatcrowded the streets beyond it. Salmet us in the foyer with several of hisother students and their families. Heexplained to us how things wouldwork; he would lead us students back-stage, check on the registrationarrangements and order of partici-pants, and then join the parents in theauditorium’s seats.

He did that, and we soon foundourselves skulking about in groups ofa dozen or so competitors of variouslevels in the wings off stage behind tallmaroon curtains. The novice divisionwent first, and I was second to per-form. I was happy to get it over withearly and found myself surprisinglycalm when called to the stage. I sup-pose the reason for that was my gener-al disinterest in how I would play andmy preoccupation instead with ourband’s upcoming gig. A bench wasperched in the center of the stage witha music stand in front of it. I’d memo-rized the song, so moved the standout of the way, settled onto the benchwith my accordion on my lap, andlooked out into the audience. Agroup of judges sat behind a table atthe very front, and perhaps a third ofthe seats in the cavernous space wereoccupied behind them; I stole a glanceat my parents who I saw over to oneside, but didn’t return the smiles andwaves they gave me.

The judge in the first seat leaneddown to a microphone on the tableand asked, “So, what song are yougoing to play?”

“Marianne Polka.”“Marianne Polka,” he repeated

into the microphone. “Fine.Whenever you’re ready, then.”

I nodded once and began to play.I tapped my right foot as Sal hadinstructed to keep the beat andtrained my eyes on my fingers movingacross the keyboard. I could almostpicture men in lederhosen andwomen in long dresses with apronfronts dancing in some Austrian beerhall as I tried to accentuate the repeat-ing “umpa pa” pattern. Several min-utes later, I was finished and laboringoff the stage with my accordion stillstrapped over my narrow shoulders towhat sounded to me like heartyapplause.

My mother had only been able toarrange a sitter until noon, so we leftbefore the rest of the competition was

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half over. Sal said he’d call my parentslater with the results. I had my bowtie off before we got to the car. Therewas enough time on the way home formy parents to stop at a drive-thru forburgers and milk shakes as a treat. Aswe neared our development, the snowstopped abruptly and rays of sunpoked through the canopy of clouds.

Sal called about four o’clock. Iheard my father greet him by namewhen he answered the phone downthe hall from my bedroom where I layon my back propped up on pillowsleafing through a teen magazineJimmy’s big brother had discarded.Perhaps five minutes passed before mybedroom door opened and my fatherand mother appeared in its threshold.

“That was Sal,” my father said.I dropped the magazine to my

lap.He grinned and said, “You won

your division.”“What?”My mother had her hand over

her mouth. She took it away and said,“Can you believe it? We’re so proud ofyou.”

My father nodded. “So, those les-sons worked out pretty well, didn’tthey? Next stop, state championshipsin Akron two weeks from tomorrow.”

I sat staring at them, blinking.My first feeling was one of reliefbecause the birthday party gig was theday before.

“Sal says you can play the same

song,” my mother told me. “And youplayed it well. Really well.”

“So, practice up,” my fatheradded. “Maybe you’ll be the next DickContino.”

I thought of the slick-hairedContino playing the accordion with hisbig, toothy smile on the LawrenceWelk Show that my father loved somuch. At his insistence, our familyrarely missed watching it togetherafter dinner on Saturday nights.

“Gee,” I heard myself mumble.”“Gee, indeed,” my father said.

“Get your brothers and sister washedup for dinner. Then we can watch thereal Mr. Contino.”

There wasn’t much to NorthOlmsted in those days, and for thoseentering adolescence, little to occupyminds or ignite passions; youthfuldreams were born elsewhere. Ourcommunity park had a crafts programduring the summers in which many ofour parents enrolled us where welearned to weave lanyards and makeplaster of Paris molds of ducks andhorses that we’d coat with tempurapaint. We had an indoor roller rink, aminiature golf course, the mall tohang out in, a White Castle, andwoods behind our development with acreek that was wide enough to skateon when it froze over in the summer.For the athletic-minded, spring offeredLittle League and late fall, CYO basket-ball. I wasn’t very athletic, and neitherwere Jimmy or Brett. That was why

our band and upcoming gig filled sucha large and thrilling place in our lives.As the day of the party approached, Iwas so consumed with anticipationthat I could hardly sleep at night. So,in that context, I guess it’s not surpris-ing how what happened next impact-ed me.

It was four days until the party,and the three of us were at the bikeracks after dismissal at school. Wewalked our bikes around the churchlike always to the corner where Brettwould go his way and Jimmy and Iwould ride in the other to our houses.Brett stopped there, looked once atJimmy, then turned to me and said,“There’s something we have to tellyou.”

I watched Jimmy lower his eyesto the ground. I felt my eyebrowsknitting.

“So, I have this cousin,” Brettcontinued. “Name’s Joe. He’s a cou-ple of years older than us. Been play-ing guitar for a while. He wants tojoin our band.” He glanced at Jimmy.“And we want him to.”

“Okay,” I heard myself say.“Guitar player would be all right.”

“He sings, too.” Brett said. “He’sgood.”

He and Jimmy stood side-by-sideholding their bikes. I straddled mineacross from them, the sun behind mejust above the treetops. It made Brettsquint as he looked at me.

I said, “I don’t get it.

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Brett raised his eyebrows, thenblurted, “So, you’re out, and he’s in.That’s just the way it is. You know,the accordion…well, it just won’t…”

My heart clenched and my stom-ach dropped. Brett shrugged. Jimmywas still staring straight down; hekicked a pebble into the gutter. Iswallowed over a hardness in mythroat.

“Well,” Brett said. “I guess that’sit then. Thanks for everything.” Hecuffed Jimmy on the arm. “Joe andme will be at your garage in an hour.He has his own amp.”

I watched Brett climb onto hisbike and ride away in the direction ofthe mall. The church bells in thesteeple behind us chimed three times,a slow, grudging pause between eachtrill. When they finished, Jimmy finallylooked up at me quickly and said,“Sorry.”

Just as quickly, he climbed on hisown bike and wobbled away downLorrain Road towards our develop-ments. I didn’t follow him. I juststood there, a numbness filling meand watched the back of him until Icould no longer see him.

When I got home, I didn’t godown to the basement with my accor-dion like I usually did. Instead, I layon my stomach on my bed with thecurtains pulled. When my motherknocked on the door to remind meabout practicing, I told her I wasn’tfeeling well. I stayed there throughdinner, feigning the same excuse. Myfather came in afterwards, sat on theedge of my bed, and placed the backof his hand on my forehead.

When he took it away, he said,“You don’t have a temperature.”

I grunted into the pillow.“Stomach hurt?”I grunted again.“Well, get some sleep. You’ll feel

better in the morning.”I heard the door click closed

behind him. It had become fully darkin the room. I was vaguely aware ofthe sound of the television from the

family room and the occasional burstof laughter from some combination ofmy family members as they watched it.At some point, I turned over on myback and stared up into the darkness.During the time I’d been laying there,I’d decided that all I’d been taughtabout faith, hope, and charity duringcatechism classes had been a lie. Ikept shaking my head back and forth.

The next morning, I didn’t wearmy stevedore cap to school. I parkedmy bike in a different corner of theplayground and avoided Jimmy andBrett throughout the day. When I gothome, I dumped my bike and bookbag in the garage and didn’t go insideat all. Instead, I walked back into thewoods to the hidden fort that Jimmyand I had built there out of scrap lum-ber and hunks of corrugated metalwe’d scrounged from a housing siteseveral years before. There were still afew of our comic books strewn about,as well as the empty coffee cans we’dused to pick blackberries from the sur-rounding bushes in the summer. We’dcoated the floor of the fort with strawthat had now thinned and smelledcold, dank. I flipped through one ofthe comic books for a while, thentossed pieces of straw into one of thecoffee cans and thought some more.Light fell. It grew chillier, my breathcoming in short clouds; I pulled thehood of my coat up over my head andcinched its cord tight under my chin.

By the time I got back to thehouse, my father had already gottenhome from work. He and my momwere sitting side by side in the livingroom in their matching blue chairs, asthey often did when there was timebefore dinner, drinking Manhattans. Iwalked up and stood between themwith my jaw set tight.

My father stopped speaking to mymother in mid-sentence and they bothstared at me. He waited a moment,then asked, “What’s up with you?”

“I’m done with the accordion.”My father frowned deeply, and

my mother shook her head. She said,

“You can’t do that. The state champi-onships are just few days away.”

“I’m not going to play anymore.”“You don’t quit things you’ve

started,” my father said. His voice wasunusually soft. “We didn’t raise youlike that.”

My breath had quickened, and Icould feel my heartbeat thudding awayat my temples. I said, “I don’t care.”

My mother said, “Think abouthow Sal will feel. And we’ve alreadypaid him for your lessons this month.”

“I’ll shovel snow to earn moneyand pay you back. Mow lawns. I’llknock on doors.”

“Go to your room,” my fathersaid quietly, his glare hard. “And staythere. If this is what you’ve decided,you’ll tell Sal yourself. I’ve never beenmore disappointed in you.”

So, I did. Later that night, Iheard my mother’s footsteps stop out-side my bedroom door, then leave.When I opened it, I found a tray withmy dinner on it under a dish towel. Ibrought it to my desk, sat down, andbegan to cry. I ate a little of the meal,then sat staring at the white globe oflight thrown by the gooseneck lamponto the piece of lined paper I’d seton my blotter. By the time I’d decidedon what to write to Sal and had scrib-bled it down, the house had grown silent. I taped the letter to thetop of the accordion case and droppedoff both on his front porch the nextmorning before school.

That was almost fifty years agonow. My children have grown intofine adults and made their own mis-takes along the way. I’ll be a first-timegrandfather in a couple months; I lookforward to that. Both of my parentshave passed away: my father about sixyears ago and my mother last July.They never moved from that house inNorth Olmsted, so I stayed aroundafter my mother’s funeral to arrangefor its sale and take care of her otheraffairs while my brothers and sisterwent back to the places they’d settledin various locations across the coun-

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try. I was the oldest and a teacher onsummer break, so it made sense forme to be the one to do that.

I’d moved to California myselfafter college and had only come backto Ohio on rare occasions afterwards.Instead, my parents made annual tripsmy way, both before and after mydivorce, as they did to all my siblings’homes. It had been quite a whilesince I was last in that house, so I lin-gered going from room to roombefore going down to the realtor’soffice to drop off the keys. I drove byJimmy’s old place and St. Richard’s onthe way; they hadn’t changed much. Ihadn’t spoken to Jimmy again sincethat afternoon when I got kicked outof the band; his father’s work trans-ferred them to Minneapolis before theend of that school year and I neverknew what happened to him after-wards, though I’ve thought of himfrom time to time. I have no ideaeither what happened with the band.

A few days earlier, after my sib-lings had left following the funeral, I’dwalked back in the woods and miracu-lously found our old fort still intact; itsat empty, dirty carpet samples nowcovering its the floor instead of straw,a few spent b-b’s scattered at itsentrance. Also, on one last drivethrough our old neighborhood beforeheading to the airport, I saw Sal mak-ing his slow, hunched way with awalker to his mailbox at the curb infront of his house; I felt a chill crawlup inside, but I didn’t stop to talk tohim. I didn’t greet him in any way.

I never learned to play the guitar.Never sang again in any organizedgroup again either. I wish I had. Iguess I still could. And I can’t recallthe last time I heard an accordion, or apolka being played; seems like timehas sort of passed them by. I supposeI could find a way to listen to both if Itried hard enough. Maybe I will. But,there are things, I’ve come to know,that are impossible to retrieve; I real-ize now that some opportunities aresimply gone forever. v

You see, I’ve been wonderingabout all these packages that havebeen showing up in front of the doorof the apartment across the hall. Theycome in all sizes and colors fromonline retailers both large and small,and they always bear the name ofsomeone who sounds like a wealthysocialite, but who happens to live inthe same economical walkup as I do.

I often try to imagine what treatsand baubles and gadgets lie beneaththe layers of packing tape, cardboard,and Styrofoam peanuts, and so far, I’vecome up with three possibilities.

The first and, I think, the mostlikely due to the sheer volume and fre-quency of the packages is that myneighbor is slowly entombing herselfwith small LEGO pieces, Polly Pockets,Mega Bloks, and other childhood con-struction-related nostalgic items. Thiswillful ‘Cask of Amontillado’-esquehermitage is no doubt an extension ofher robust online life that is boomingwith reflections of the past throughmemes and 90s kids-only pages andgenerationally themed trivia quizzesthat could only be answered by peoplewho lived through the era and not bypeople who simply have access to his-tory and the Internet.

She is building this fortress ofremembrance piece-by-piece, pausingonly to refresh her tabs and warm upa package of ramen noodles that sheordered in bulk from Amazon.Sometimes, I think I can even hear herclicking another two-by-six LEGO intoplace with her hope of someday onlyto leave a space big enough to crackher door and squeeze more packagesthrough the slit.

As I said before, this theory is themost likely, but I will, of course, share

the other possibilities.The second is that my neighbor

has lost a limb or two, and for someinconceivable reason, she is living onthe second floor of an apartmentbuilding, which doesn’t even boast asingle ramp (the latter is an accessibili-ty, ableist issue I intend to take upwith the leasing agency), so shedoesn’t often take on the burden ofgetting in and out of the apartment.Instead, opting to getting the necessi-ties delivered and saving herself thetrouble.

The third and least likely is thatshe, like me, will often, usually ataround half past two in the morning,find herself thinking of that one thingthat will brighten her day or bring aninch more convenience to her life, orjust look really cute in that one cornerof the room or on top of that shelf,and when it arrives, it will be like asmall present to herself that reaffirmsher independence and puts a smile onher face even if behind that smilethere is a slight hint of guilt at beingwasteful with money or paper andcardboard, but hey, we’re busy girls.

Maybe I’ll write her a letter to tellher to stop building the wall, or, youknow, knock on her door. v

March 2019

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“The Packages”by Molly Ashline

“Who gave these idiots microphones?”

Tuesdays at 10:00PMThe Blotter Radio ‘Zine

www.wcomfm.orgChapel Hill & Carrboro, NC

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“We Are Third World” by Sandeep Kumar Mishra

Although we are forefathers of self acclaimedfirst world nations but we are third worldIn their so called socioeconomic indexesand other “modernity is the real development” indicesWe don’t do dinner partiesBut dream of a well fed day

Our children study on the floor of old public schoolKnow the other world by the greenery andFigures hung on its pale walls They wish to run on the velvet grassInstead of rag picking every morningAs children leave old toys you have abandoned us

Here a child gets mature in his teensHe recognises the outline of a dark futuristic structureIn a pattern of present dots of daily burdens, In the tragic repetitions of a homeland songHe dreams of a young entrepreneurship but A termite death hollows out the roots of endeavour

You say to our men “Keep It In Your Pants!”And to the women, “Lock Your Knees!”But here sex is the only amusement we can haveFor a three minutes of relief we are ready to repent for life Corruptions and immorality are in full flow here

Although some taxable souls fashion to run charityThe poor wears tattered clothesBut rich wear them to look different

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March 2019

There is an agreement between the person sitting in the carAnd the poor begging for some help

Devalued lives full of shadows of slavesWhere poverty live with out evacuationWe are caught here in the web of the foreign aid spidersWe prop up this capitalising protuberanceAnd force feed the bourgeois class

Our propaganda has become just to see and sigh and cryCivil war is source of political life and deathWe don’t turn palms upright to foretell futuresThe line of our hands has become undefinedWe have failed to understand the kind of battlefieldWe are in and our weapons to deal with itWe shout for freedom of expression but never tried to knowThe difference between our skin and our Lips

We are a nation that sighs and cries for debt relief,A divided country, brainwashed by anti-propagandaIts leaders becoming millionaires every second,And the people, poorer every minute,The land filled with milk and honey,Still cries “no money”

Our self styled media with fake moralityAiming for PR and controversyThey interview a petty thought repeatedlyTo make it a philosophyTheir voice spreads pure venomBy wearing gentle dressOn the throat of third worldIn the name of so called minorityEvery news is labelled with religious stampThey highlight the immoral as a face of nationBelittle the good-intentions

Sex and violence is a new form of entertainment Here big lawyers and corporations openlyInfluence in the demo-crazy capitalsTo gain huge profits

Is this injustice with poverty and sufferingNot a clear indication of false thoughtsThat argue over a Third World at this juncture.

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“Innovations Reviewed”by Ben Nardolilli

With each album comes a training class,some new way to listen to music,treating the experience as an experiment,what it is like to hear the soundsurrounded by silence in a bedroom,or how it struggles against the jaggedrhythms of trains and copy machines,what does it offer to the listenerwho is focused? To ears that can hearbut are competing against distracted eyes?An album also trains one in argumentwith oneself, over the very definitionof a genre, or the nature of a song,the idea of lyrics might be reconsidered too,and not because the work is great,even the terrible stuff that oozesout of speakers like melted plasticteaches one just how far an art can fall.

March 2019

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CONTRIBUTORS:

Kim Farleigh has worked for aid agencies in three conflicts: Kosovo, Iraq and Palestine. He takes risks to get theexperience required for writing. He likes fine wine, art, photography and bullfighting, which probably explains whythis Australian lives in Madrid; although he wouldn’t say no to living in a French château or a Swiss ski resort. 154 ofhis stories have been accepted by 91 different magazines.

William Cass of Coronado, CA, writes, “by way of briefly summarizing my publishing background, I’ve had over 150short stories accepted for publication in a number of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Revew,and Zone 3. My children’s book, Sam, is scheduled for release by Upper Hand Press in April, 2020. Recently, Iwas a finalist in short fiction and novella competitions at Glimmer Train and Black Hill Press, received a Pushcartnomination, and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal.”

Molly Ashline writes, “I am a North Carolina writer and am beginning my MFA in writing at Antioch University inJune. I recently completed a performative art collaboration in Greensboro called Blue Breath.”

Sandeep Kumar Mishra is an outsider artist, poet and lecturer in English Literature. He runs Kishlaya Outsider ArtAcademy in Rajasthan, India. He has edited a collection of poems by various poets - Pearls (2002) and written aprofessional guide book -How to be (2016) and a collection of poems and art - Feel My Heart (2016). Recently hiswork has published in New England Review, Society of Classical Poets, Permafrost Journal, Human Touch Journal,Blue Mountain Review, International Times, Literary Yard, Mud Season Review, Verbal art, Stone coast Review,Asian Signature, Chiron Review, Convergence, Harbinger Asylum, Helix, High Plains Register, Literary Orphans,Marathon Literary Review, Phenomenal Literature, Quail Bell, Really System, Red Fez, The Brasilia Review, TheCriterion, Third Wednesday, Ygdrasil, ZOUCH Magazine & Miscellany.

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in the great borough of Brooklyn in New York City. His work has appeared in PerigeeMagazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana,Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish anovel.

The Dream Journalreal dreams, real weird

Please send excerpts from your own dream journals. If nothing else, we’d love to read them. Wewon’t publish your whole name.

mermaid@blotterrag.com

A friend of mine in Real Estate makes the deal of her life and is celebrating by jumping into the ocean in full regalia –gold blazer and all. I run upstairs to get her one of the striped beach towels to dry off with – or at least wrap up herwet self – and by the time I get back she’s already talking with prospective clients at the hotel bar. We walk back to hercar, across the street and through a parking lot and over a fence. There it is, an old ‘70’s gold pickup truck with specialinserts in the back for catching vermin. She’s finally on her way, and now I have to find my way back to the hotel. Icross the parking lot, walk up a hill with a family of hikers, cut over a stream bridge and see the architect’s develop-ment, with all of the stainless-steel ornamentation. I go in the front door and down the hall, out the back door andalmost run into a forest ranger. In the back yard are many gang members doing mischief of one sort or another, but Icannot find the bit of woods I’m supposed to cut through to get to the road that I cross back to the hotel at the beach.I do, however, run a long way, which is good, because I haven’t done my exercise yet today, and this will count.

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THE POST-APOCALYPTIC DINING GUIDE,a bizarrely humorous tale of an attempt to save a society gone to hell when evolution jumps the tracks.

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