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Fiction Editors John Cartwright Jordan D. Sousa Pamela Isbell
Poetry Editors John Cartwright Max Gutierrez Whitney Ginn
& You may not use Ampersand Magazine to make money. & You may only use Ampersand Magazine for educational or entertainment purposes.& You may distribute Ampersand Magazine as you see fit, as long as you donât sell it. & If you use Ampersand Magazine, you must credit the editors.
&Staff & Copyright
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I love reading things other people wrote. Itâs not a love of reading, per se; sure, I have that, but thatâs the most common type of reading love and everybody (well, almost everybody) loves to read. I have a specific reason for loving reading, and that is the multiplicity of expressive modes that I get to experience. Reading through submissions allows me to hear the voice of another person at (what I hope is, anyway) their most honest and most free. Now, this doesnât mean theyâre all masterpieces, obviously! I also like telling people how they can express themselves better, more adeptly, what have you. I like the feeling I get when I tell somebody that they can do better, and then SEE that person do whatever it is more adeptly. It makes me feel efficacious, I suppose. And we all want to feel like weâre doing something good for the world, right? I think I am. Just a tiny thing, but a good thing nonetheless.
John CartwrightHead editor of ampersand magazine
&I love reading things other people wrote.
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poetry
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reading e. e. cummings
is like trying to enjoy an ice cream cone, on a sweltering (summerâs) day you get your moneyâs worth sprinkled. with punctuation, &confusion thinking it looks quite nicebut as you. pre -pare to eat it it drips down your hand , down your wrist melting quickly & messily while all you can do is watch in be(wild)ermenta capital g falls to the ground as a pair of paren- theses dribble down the side of your hand leaving you with. no napkin; & quite a mess to clean-
&Spencer Beck
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There came a windy swayto the gravel step of my wanderings.There came a tremulous pitchto the supplication of my dusty knees.Vows dissolved, words inconsequent,there came sought and thirsty,doubt, howling mistake,there came swift dilapidation of the mind.
I dove to where the cold-blooded see no light,where crawdads pick at white flags of drowned flesh waving in the current.
There came the endings of wars.There came gulps, a live hand reaching down,there came touch.
There came now a greening contrition to the fathomless reply, a tempered season to the holy wild.There came a stitched-up soul-bargain,
a reason to sit with my feet in the river and wait.
There Came
&Megan Blankenship
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But Vera.
But Vera doesnât care if her voice is swallowed by an empty laundromat and left uneaten by any ears.Vera doesnât care if her freshly flicked burning cigarette paper becomes a paper machĂ© moth floating into brightly lit end.Doesnât care if the earliest drink entangles the tongue as the dryers spin the fans spiral Vera swims until vomit slaps the linoleum.Care. But Vera doesnât.
&Elizabeth Smith
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Fence
Thereâs a break in me that catches lightScatters and shoots the glareInto tall protected patches of pearls. Meadow foxtails. Cock-eyed aluminum cans of caramel spit. Glimmer for a moment,
In my break, thereâs a southern soulpickling in the interlocks of my rusted weave.Dog hairs dead centuries ago breathe in the wind.
The light that breaks throughChristens my confettied skinBurns. I revolve aroundEmbedded in.
&Elizabeth Smith
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Letter to a Chicago Drag
Queen, my High-ness, fall into my lap and let me take off that vinyl record bustier you made to fitOnly you could make the bought female body still look like a Michaelangelo.Your breasts, they fill my hands like honey swells the hive and drips languid into my sweetest center.Only you could make the cracked mirror and white rolled dollar bill on your legs become stained glass on the chapel of body.
Saint, my High-ness, stand on stage and sway in the rotating redorangeblue lights that hit you like fire hits a heretic wrongly accused.Your immaculate body darker in the rising.Your chapel worthy of tongueâs praise.Your hush in my ear, my only hymnal.
&Elizabeth Smith
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E. Smith On the...
On the Way Back
Mother never could stay still.She packed her heavy mule heartuntil duct tape layered thick the skin of tired boxes.Mother drove using the rear-view mirrorTo watch yellow and white narrowUntil away became a place.Mother liked to blinkand if she did not blink she pickedat the mole adjacent to her left eye.Mother was like a seed in constant searchFor soil, but once she finally found earthWe had to turn around again and go.
--But sometimes she would stopAnd fall on the limestone face.--Sometimes she would cry an internallandscape would spill down the frontAfter too much waste burned our throatsIn a Uhaul at Enon Cemetery.I started the engine and drove away halfsober Mother was drawing names on the passengerwindow then wiping away. When she hit sleepI imagined her mind jumping left to rightOne hemisphere to the next.Mother never could stay still.
&Elizabeth Smith
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shortfiction
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Letâs Talk of Graves People began to say God wanted to drown Cainan, Arkansas, as it floundered to death in nine days of rain. The hills that enclosed the town had dirt gullets carved into them that gulped down grainy water into the valley with no end. Half of trees were obscured in the lowest parts with only boats able to pass through these areas. Neighbors pulled the sides of tan and green bass boats flush and shouted over the thumping rain. Most had not come outside since last Tuesday when the clouds parted for a moment on the fourth day; the pale sunlight barely made a glint on the gray puddles. Cainan had coped with flooding before but this time something divine was in the slanting drops that slapped windows long into the night. The low flood plain that the town sat on, wedged between the mounded hills, became a basin full of watery muck. Nothing much was there to begin with; the name of the place was bigger than the town of 512 on record. Petition after petition had been circulated to correct the townâs name, but it had yet to be transformed into the land of milk and honey. A blot was over Cainan ever since its founders gave it the unfortunate misspelling. At least that was what Reverend Donaldson said every Sunday. He especially condemned those who missed his sermon Sunday last, who would rather stay in the safety than sit in the presence of the Lord. Only prayer would deliver them to the rainbow that was promised and then shown to Noah. Only then would the flood waters recede. Only then would the dead stay in their place. Cora Ann heard most of the reverendâs speech through word of mouth; she hadnât been to worship and wasnât about to start going. Her mother had never made them go and the town talked about their unfortunate upraising; the family never stood a chance against sin. Droplets clung to the window screen as she let the rain pool on the sill and wet the floor. A steady sound filtered through the familiar rain patter: the soft suck of her fatherâs boots emerging repeatedly from the liquefied ground as he walked down the road. Hiding her can of chew in the top drawer of her vanity, Cora Ann pulled on a black pair of boots, stuffed with newspapers, and a raincoat that had been cut to
&Megan Clark
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fit her. She didnât have a clue where her brother, Shiloh, was. He hadnât spoken much since their mother had died about a week and half ago; his blue eyes had never looked so flat. The two hadnât gotten along well, but it had hit him hard. Grabbing the spare shovel by the back door, she started toward the cemetery in a jerky walk as her boots kept sticking in mud. She was always stuck in something, doing something, always against her wanting to. Her father was expecting her help in the graveyard; sheâd been doing it since two years ago, right after she turned sixteen. Walking down the hill from her house, she looked up at the white wooden Baptist church; it stood out sharply against the slate sky. At the very bottom, the graveyard spread out across a flat field; it sat on a floodplain. A frown stretched across her face at the sight of something sticking up out of the brown ooze, just on the inside of the cemeteryâs gates. The grimy edge gave hint to the lustrous polished brass and mahogany that lay beneath the layers of soil. Cora Ann used her heel and the coffin gave an imperceptible bob in the ground. God, she thought, the amounts of money wasted on people who canât even appreciate it. She began to remove the soaked soil, sighing as more mud would roll in to take its place. âHow are you ever going to find eternal peace,â she said, glancing up at the small headstone, âMiss Mary Buchanan if you donât help me out here.â Pleasant Valley Cemetery received its first resident around 1842. Its busiest year had been 1862 as Cainanites died for their beloved Confederacy. At neither time did people worry about perched water tables, flood run off or rainy days. All they knew was that a dead body was to be consecrated to the ground at about six feet under. Everyone wanted to rise on Judgment Day and that couldnât happen if a body was dust from cremation. No one had the money for an aboveground mausoleum; most found such displays abhorrent and indulgent. Cora Ann wished the townsfolk would get off their damn high horse and save her the trouble of having to help put coffins back in the ground. She was going to need help reinterring Mary Buchanan. Her box was too heavy for Cora Ann to haul out on her own. Dragging her shovel behind her, Cora Ann spotted her father, Grady, through the drizzle. He worked for a paltry pay as cemetery overseer; as his assistant, she didnât see a dime of anything. She would have to help him finish whomever he was working on and her arms already ached. Her brother, Shiloh, had gotten the backhoe stuck and hadnât apologized for it yet. He hadnât been seen in the graveyard since then, leaving only Cora Ann to help with the dirty work. As she came closer, her body froze as she recognized where her father stood. He hunched in the most overgrown and unkempt corner. The location may have remained unmarked but her motherâs gravesite had been branded into her head. It had been given to them for free, but people still complained. It wasnât right for such a whore who had been strangled and left in a ditch to be buried so close to true Christians. She tried to run but the mud was impossible to walk through. Foregoing her shovel and boots, Cora Annâs bare feet slapped in and out of the soaked grass. Her boots
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remained upright as if supported by phantom limbs. Her fatherâs shovel lay parallel to the desecrated grave. At first the site looked like so many others with the coffin rising out of the ground like a gasping animal surfacing for air. The pine box made by her father had the lid pried off. The once honey-colored boards were bent back, discolored and crumbling from dank decay. Cora Ann felt her legs tingle then go numb. The exposed nails lined the lidâs opening, jagged teeth guarding the gaping hole. Inside the coffin was darkness; her father had not moved closer to it. She made her legs shuffle, forced her head to bend closer toward the rotten smell. Insects crawled around inside and piece of damp red fabric was caught on nail. They had buried her mother in her best dress; a red piece made of artificial silk that Cora Ann had been allowed to play dress up in. She imagined wearing the dress now, after it had set so long in the ground. She imagined the clammy material wrapping itself around her. Without thinking, she took a step backward. Despite the rain-darkened light Cora Ann could see a faint outline where the flesh had lain. âSheâs not there,â she said. Cora Ann turned to her father. âThereâs nothing in there.â His brown eyes, the same as hers, looked black in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat and she couldnât tell if the moisture on his face was tears or rain. He didnât look up from the grave. All he said was âJesus. Sweet Jesus.â Cora Ann shook his arm; all he did was keep saying âSweet merciful Jesus.â Taking a deep breath, she looked one last time into the empty casket, and then started pulling her father toward the house. If she had been Catholic, she would have crossed herself. Her father made a choking sound; she realized he had been crying after all. She had only seen him cry twice before and that was right after her mother died. Sutland men were not supposed shed tears, but that changed when her mother, Alleen, was found face down in a ditch with finger marks encircling her neck. Grady Sutland wept when the deputy came to the door with the news and continued crying through the police report. Cora Ann heard that he was even seen crying in his jail cell after Sheriff Duvall didnât buy the alibi. She knew he had been out spotlighting deer before season by himself but it was the flimsiest excuse he could have had. Usually he went with his friends and hauled in a buck; the animalâs body looking human from a distance as it dangled from her fatherâs shoulder. As the men drank deeply from beer cans, the humanoid bodies were strung up on trees out back by the graveyard, splayed open and becoming animal again. But this time he didnât have anything: no friends, no buck. After her father was released due to lack of evidence, he cried with a bottle of Wild Turkey in the living room. He had clutched his whiskey bottle white-knuckled tight. It was the first time Cora Ann had ever heard him call her mother a whore. More than once people had called Alleen Sutland such. Mrs. Hardy whispered it amongst the women outside Nelsonâs Grocery, like people were supposed to if brought up to be proper and polite. The whispers followed Cora Ann about town and she could see it in peopleâs eyes as she passed. Once Dr. Porter advised her to seek the Lord unlike Alleen; there was still time for her soul. Mrs. Fletcher, the owner of âBest Tressedâ hair salon, said that at least one
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of Alleenâs children had to be a bastard with all the bed-jumping that woman did. The nastiest was when her Uncle Sal, her motherâs own brother, was at revival. He was red faced and full of the Spirit as he pointed out Cora Ann as she passed the tent. âYour mother was a sinner,â he said. His eyes rolled back in his head. âShe does not rest with Jesus. A filthy whore, unclean slut who let anyone touch her.â A group surrounded him, hands outstretched to catch his swaying form and eyes glued to Cora Ann. He pointed a shaking finger. âShe was dirty and so are you. I see it. Youâll burn with her.â He convulsed and garbled into tongues. Only God knew what he said after that. Cora Ann ran the entire way home; her face burning red. Shiloh asked what had happened and she told him to mind his own business. That time may have been the loudest but the worst time remained the night her father became so drunk that he wouldnât stop crying. The bottle of Wild Turkey never left his hand after he picked it up. He clutched it to his chest, wetting his flannel shirt with whiskey and tears. Cora Ann had seen him drink before but never like this. The sight chilled her as she watched from the opening of the kitchen. His eyes latched onto her shadow. âI was good to her, wasnât I? I treated her right.â He tried to stand up from the couch and couldnât make it. âOnly once, only once did I hit her. Only once.â Her father held up one finger to prove his point before dissolving into hiccups. âShe shamed me; God, she shamed me. My wife a whore.â He laughed and Cora Ann flinched. âAt least I got it for free.â Frozen in the doorway, all Cora Ann could do was stare. He had never properly confirmed all the rumors aloud. Her father had never spoken about her motherâs wanderings. She began to recede into the dark safety of the kitchen and the comforting silence. His whispers followed her like those of the town; his body became twisted on the navy sofa. The rifle above his head rattled when he struck the wall. âI donât want you. Little whore too. Donât want her daughter.â Much louder he said, âWhere is Shiloh? Whereâs my son?â His finger now began to wave her out of the room. âShiloh,â he bellowed. âShiloh! Goddamnit, you are all worthless.â Stiffly she left the room, walking under a spell to Shilohâs room down the hallway. Cora Ann banged loudly on his door. âMy mother was not a whore,â became a desperate loop in her mind. âShe was a good woman. Better than you ever were.â She was shaking with suppressed rage as she continued beating on the door. ââHe wants you,â she said through the wood. âYou take care of him,â said Shiloh, muffled by the door. âBut he wants you.â âI donât give a damn. Youâre the girl; you do it.â Cora Ann took a pin out of her hair and jimmied the lock open. He screamed at her as she opened the door. Shiloh was lying in bed with the covers pulled up around him; a thirty cent nudie magazine in his hand. âJesus, donât you knock,â he protested, pulling more sheets around himself. She tore the magazine out of his hands; the glossy
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half-clothed women hit the floor with a smack. âYou go take care of him. He wants you.â She pointed toward the living room where low moans could be heard. âPull yourself together.â Picking up a pair of Levis, she threw them at his face and turned around. âShit, Cora Ann, fine. You owe me.â He brushed past her, creaking on the loose boards in the hall. She could see him adjusting his clothes and flattening down his blonde hair a moment before sauntering into the front room. Their throaty arguing became distant as Cora Ann slammed the screen door shut behind her and disappeared into the night. The dark woods made the electric lights look even more artificial as the two lumbering forms looked like shadow puppets. Their singular audience turned toward the forest, pulling her jacket closer. Before long Cora Ann was absorbed into the mess of tree trunks and evaporated into the eventide quiet. Less than a week had passed and then the rains came. Now her mother was gone. Internally Cora Ann corrected herself; her motherâs body was gone. Her mother had already robbed from her once before. The black plastic of her rain coat slapped rhythmically against her skinny knees. She had almost dragged her father to their back porch. He would have been wringing his hands if they werenât carrying the shovels. Depositing her father onto a fraying blue lawn chair, Cora Ann opened up the back door and yelled for her brother. No answer came, nothing moved except dust motes floating by in the murky light. The two skeletal chairs in the kitchen were empty. âShiloh ainât here. Did you send him somewhere?â She looked over at her father, still sitting in the dilapidated chair. His fingers lightly grazed the handle of a shovel next to him. âHavenât seen him since breakfast. Said he was fixing to go into town then.â He pulled off his hat and shook off the water. A vacant look still haunted his eyes. âWant me to get the sheriff?â âNo,â he said gruffly. âDonât need to bring this up again. Weâll handle this ourselves.â âBut-â âLeave it be, Cora Ann. Lord knows we donât need this stirred up again.â His face began to pink and his next words came out low. âShe was buried right. Got what she deserved.â âIâm still going to town.â She slipped her boots back on; her wet feet slid down toward the toe. Her father shot her a look. âJust for Shiloh. I wonât be talking to nobody else.â Stamping back down the concrete back steps, Cora Ann circled the house and started down the main road toward town. To the north the small church continued to overlook the cemetery. Their milky gray house sat nearly at the base of the hill with a direct path to the cemetery. When people walked past their residence, they moved to the other side of the road. Nothing could be that close to the dead and remained untouched by haunts. Especially the people inside. Cainan was only about ten minutes down the road, but it took longer now that the dirt had turned to mud. Nobody passed by. A rusted-red Ford could be seen sticking out of the ditch; its tailgate was down and only a bundle of barbed wire was
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inside. Cora Ann wove her way around other abandoned cars and finally reached chip-sealed streets. She knew where exactly to find Shiloh. He and his friends were all posted outside the pharmacy like buzzards perched on a tree limb. He stomped on his cigarette butt and finished his Coca-Cola as she walked under the pharmacyâs green-stripped awning. Regarding her coldly, he shooed his friends away. âWhat is it?â he asked when the others were out of earshot. âHave you been to the cemetery today?â He rolled his eyes. âJesus, no. Did Dad send you? He knows Iâm not going in there. Especially not afterâŠâ Shiloh averted his gaze, staring as the jerk inside refilled someoneâs drink. âYou need to come home.â Cora Ann faltered over how to say it aloud. âMom is- Mom isnât- She isnât there. Sheâs gone.â âWhat the hell are you talking about?â She pulled on his coat sleeve, trying to head him back home. âSomebodyâs taken her out of her coffin.â After that Shiloh stopped resisting and followed her grim-faced. His silence scared her more than his usually violently loud self. His friends catcalled after them; Shiloh barked back at them. The human buzzards stopped circling and perched back in front of the store. As they walked home in the approaching dusk, Cora Ann worried the strings of her hood until the dense plastic was tight around her head; her dark auburn hair flattened to her skull. Shiloh stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. Their breath condensed into smoky wisps, and a fog began to cling to the tree tops. The world looked like last Christmas which had been warmer than usual and swathed in gauzy gray mist. Her mother had come home, arms full of shiny presents from town. All of them inexplicably paid for. Grady had eyed his wife and took her aside after each gift had been marveled over. Low whispers turned into poorly contained shouting. Shiloh sat on the floor staring at his new Winchester rifle, acting deaf, but Cora Ann tiptoed down the hall and looked into her parentsâ bedroom. A weak ray of light spilled onto the hardwood as she peered through the crack in the door. Her father began picking up the cosmetics from the faded vanity and began throwing them on the floor. A tube of red lipstick and a bottle of rose water were crushed under his heel. Alleen grabbed his hand as he picked up a tangled jumble of her paste jewelry. Forming a fist around the baubles, he hit her across the face. Her mother hunched over, clutching her mouth with red-painted nails. Cora Annâs gasp brought her fatherâs attention; she barely saw his flushed face before he slammed the door shut. All those presents had been thrown out except for Shilohâs rifle which still hung above the sofa. Even her father admitted it was too nice to throw out. But by the time the two had made it home, another layer of mud had been added to their boots and the gun rack was empty. âDad?â Cora Ann yelled throughout the house. She turned to Shiloh who stood rooted in the doorway. âWhereâd he go at this hour?â âIâd guess heâs deer hunting. I see he took my gun.â His eyes narrowed and he ran a hand through his wet hair. âJust show me the grave.â
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Cora Ann didnât know what to say when they came to their motherâs gravesite. The once-splayed open coffin was absent; there was no breach in the ground. She had been reburied. Cora Ann could tell by the uncommonly smooth dirt that covered the top. It was unnaturally even. âShe was right there; I donât understand.â âWell if she was, someone came out to cover something up.â âWeâre the only ones who know.â She paused and then shook her head. âThereâs no way he had time. I wasnât gone that long.â Shiloh squatted down, nudging the ground with his boot. âHow many people has he buried? Heâs done this for nearly ten years. I donât doubt he could have gotten it back in the ground.â âBut she ainât in there. Whatâs the point? Sheâs still missing.â âMaybe he put her back in.â âJesus, how the hell did he manage all that?â âIt donât matter. Either way she ainât alive. I donât think it really matters where she is. Let it go.â âYouâre just like him.â Her eyes were reproachful. âCould care less. Mom could be out in another ditch and that would be just fine by the both of you. Sheâs your mother.â She waved off his hand on her shoulder and stalked back to the house. Even if her mother had been a whore, she sure didnât deserve any of this. She pushed past Shiloh who stood in the hall and ran through the first open door. Cora Ann sunk down onto the floor of her parentsâ bedroom. The wood still held the delicate scent of roses. Her mother would her dab some behind her ears when Cora Ann was twelve and enthralled by the shapely glass bottle. Alleen even let her hold the fragile perfume up to the sunlight to see the reflections on the floor. Her mother showed her how to put her hair into a French twist; they looked like twins with their matching auburn hair. She may have admonished Cora Ann when she started dipping in high school but still showed her how to apply lipstick properly. It didnât matter how impractical such a skill was for a girl who helped dig holes. Cora Ann pressed her face against the oak slates and let the scent wash over her. Shiloh thumped down the hall and into his room, slamming the door shut. She could feel the reverberations against her cheek. Cora Ann couldnât figure out where his hothead came from. Her mother didnât believe in raising her voice and her father was docile, except for that solitary incident at Christmas. Shilohâs blue eyes and blonde became electrified every time he was angry. He hadnât spoken to their mother the entire week before she died. Cora Ann hadnât been brave enough to broke the subject with him. His pale face over her motherâs grave â solemn with a straight mouth â fixed in her mind as she began to drift off to sleep. A thud outside the window jolted her. It continued but became progressively fainter. She sat up and moved to peer over the windowsill. She saw a figure hobbling along the houseâs back wall. A lump was thrown over its shoulder, encumbering each step with its weight. Cora Ann could make out a head swaying back and forth. Her heart squeezed abnormally. She could still see Shilohâs light on in his
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room; his bed creaked. The shadow kept shuffling; the head kept bobbing. She could make out her fatherâs hat. He moved farther and farther away from the house toward the graveyard. Reaching into her fatherâs bottom dresser drawer, amongst his winter socks, she pulled out his revolver; a Smith & Wesson from his grandpa. She opened the window and leveled the gun as she had been taught to do. Cora Ann pulled back the hammer. Exhaling slowly, she crushed the trigger; her eyes shut in response to the recoil. Her fatherâs knees buckled as she hit him in the upper back. The body on his shoulder slid to the ground. Cora Ann stared at the gun in her hand then back out the window. It suddenly felt very heavy in her hand. Running out into the hall, she bumped into Shiloh. âWhat the hell was that?â he asked. âDadâs outside. He had Mom. I had to â â He spotted the gun and took it out of her hand. âWhat the hell did you do? What did you do?â âHe had Mom. You donât understand. I had to do something.â Her words came out quick and rushed. She felt like her chest was caving in. Shiloh shoved the gun into his waistband. He rushed outside with Cora Ann following behind him. She felt the dread wrap around her insides and squeeze harder. Her father had fallen a few feet from the back porch, pointed toward the cemetery. She hovered in the doorway. The sky was turning ink black with thick clouds hovering close to the earth; the rain fell steadily. Shiloh fell into the mud at her fatherâs side; the pistol lay on the last porch step. He flipped their fatherâs prostrate form over, checking for breath. The body next to the pair had slid against a tree trunk. Cora Ann was down the steps before she had even decided to move. Mud rose around her feet. It clung to her fatherâs face and clothes from when he fell. Shiloh was talking to her, but she didnât hear. She was fixated on the other dead body. Her hand stretched out to it, the huddled form shoved against the tree. It felt of water, mud and fur. It smelt gamey and unclean. He father had shot a deer and was carrying it to be strung up out back. The buck had two points on one side. Its bloodied tongue protruded from between its black lips; its glassy eyes reflected the branches above it. âShiloh,â she said. His name came out so low and slow that he didnât look up at her. âShiloh.â âWhat?â He cradled their father in his lap. Cora Ann thought her father looked like the deer; his eyes were blank and his mouth agape. âItâs a goddamn deer. Itâs a deer.â She sank down next to them; her hand still rested on the animal. Its bullet hole was in the middle of its neck. âWhatâd you think it was, you idiot? Mom?â He used one hand to wipe his nose. His fingers lay on their fatherâs neck. âHe ainât going to make it.â Cora Ann dragged herself in the mud until she could hold her fatherâs hand. His chest barely moved up and down. âWhat else was I supposed to think? He did it to her. She didnât deserve any of this.â âGod, you donât know nothing. Momâs a slut, Cora Ann. Grady Sutland ainât my
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dad.â He pulled their father closer to him, smoothing the mud-plastered hair. âShe told me herself. She didnât say who; just ainât him.â âYouâre a liar.â She took up her fatherâs hand and tried to get it to grasp hers. âHe didnât take her out of the grave either.â âWho did then?â A long pause passed between them. The rain drops began to lessen. Cora Ann felt a shudder go though her father. Shiloh clamped her fatherâs jaw together and closed his eyes. âNo,â she said. It sounded like a strangled howl. âNo, no, no.â Shiloh stared at her slumped over the body and got back to his feet. He pointed over toward the west. âSheâs in a field by the highway. I couldnât carry that rotten sack of shit far enough back to the ditch where I left her the first time. Needed to get what she deserved.â He gestured to her fatherâs body on the ground. âBury him. Youâre his daughter.â Cora Ann laid his head gently onto the ground; her fingers began to shake. âShe loved you. They loved you.â She pushed off the ground; the mud oozed between her fingers. It slid underneath the nails. He didnât turn around from walking up the steps. The pistol lay where he left it; a shaft of light from the kitchen fell on the barrel. She picked it up. Its weight felt heavy and familiar. Blood and mud splattered Shilohâs white undershirt. Cora Ann didnât flinch the second time she pulled back the hammer. She didnât close her eyes when she pulled the trigger. Shiloh blocked the light from the doorway for a moment before crumbling onto the linoleum. The next day the local newspaper ran three headline stories on the front page. Above the fold was the weather report. It had stopped raining for over ten hours; the meteorologist claimed that the front had pushed through the area. Reverend Donaldson had a quote thanking God and his prayer group for all their hard work. Below the weather was the investigation of a murder-suicide on the outskirts of town. Cora Ann was listed as the sole surviving family member. Right next to it was the announcement of a body being found off the highway in a cow pasture. So far deputies had found a shredded piece of red fabric and a few fingers. The town continued to whisper behind her back, but no one dared say anything to her face. Cora Ann was called in to identify what was found of the body a few days later. The county allowed her to bury them all. Each one in their hole; all in neat row; all on a hill.
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What Didnât Happen
Allen didnât wake up early in the morning full of cheer. He didnât walk downstairs with a smile on his face to find that his wife, Debbie, had cooked his favorite breakfast, sausage and eggs with salsa on top and a cup of slightly cooled coffee. Debbie didnât cook him breakfast. He didnât have time to sit at the table, sipping coffee, while sifting through the pages of his local gazette. Allenâs dog didnât bring him the paper from the sidewalk with a bobbing head, and a wagging tail. His dog didnât bring him the paper at all, but that was OKâAllen didnât have a dog. Allen didnât have kids so he didnât have to rush them off to school. But he didnât get to enjoy a long shower any way because he didnât get up on time. On his way to work he didnât seem to notice that he had worn different colored socks. But it didnât bother him much when people smirked but never told him why. However, Caroline didnât make him happy when she talked to him that morning. She didnât break up with her boyfriend, that Jeff guy, after all. Allen didnât like Jeff because Jeff didnât truly appreciate Caroline and Caroline didnât realize she deserved better. But Allen didnât interrupt because he didnât abandon his friends when they needed him. Allen didnât sit with anyone at his jobâs cafeteria during lunch. Caroline didnât eat at the cafeteria and he wasnât sure where his friends Keith and Maggy were. He didnât really mind the food but he didnât really enjoy it either. He had never had much emotion either way when it came to egg salad and whole wheat toast. However, he didnât care for the apple juice, but the juice machine didnât have any more orange juice or grape juice, and milk didnât seem appropriate. He didnât really like the apple juice, but he couldnât stand the whole wheat toast forming clumps on the roof of his mouth. So he didnât turn down the juice. He didnât want to call his mom after work, but he didnât want to lie to her either. He didnât wonder where Debbie was when he got home. So he didnât waste time changing clothes and dialing the numbers to his momâs house. He didnât want to hear her ramble
&Benjamin Eggleton
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on-and-on about the ladies from her book club, but he didnât have the heart to tell her that Gatsby wasnât that great. That night at the bowling alley with his teammates, all in their matching shirtsâred with tan sleeves and collars, he didnât bowl a single strike the whole first half of the game and he seriously didnât think he could even pull of a spare. He didnât guess that Debbie remembered Friday was Allenâs bowling night, because she wasnât discreet about kissing that man on the neck. Allen didnât mind seeing it though. He didnât get mad. He didnât get upset. He couldnât help but feel a bit of relief. He didnât wish them any luck, but he definitely didnât root for them to be stricken with heart attacks and diarrhea. So he didnât even try to fight when she asked for the divorce. He had not forgotten several old phone numbers, but he didnât have much luck. Katherine didnât ever call him back. April never turned down a conversation, but didnât have those kinds of feelings for him any longer. And of course, Caroline didnât leave her boyfriend. But the dark side of reality didnât completely smother the pulsating flame of hope. So Allen didnât quit looking. However, he didnât pull himself out of bed Sunday morning. He didnât budge out of the covers one bit. The hard wood floor beneath his bed didnât seem appealing and the cold steady rain against his window did not sound inviting. So he didnât move. And at first he didnât notice when he breathed out a thick visible breath in the crisp, chilling bedroom. He didnât want to fix the heater and didnât pretend he knew how, but he wasnât sure who to call. A hundred numbers and nothing worked. He didnât care anymore. His chair wasnât far away and at this point he didnât mind curling up into a ball with his knees tucked tight into his chest and his hands around his thighs. He didnât want to think, but he couldnât stop his mind. He didnât want to be sitting there remembering so many thoughts he couldnât count, but the cold air didnât let him move. And now he didnât have any tissues for his runny nose. He didnât know how he ended up here. He didnât recall a single event in his life as a child that foreshadowed him being right here, right now. He didnât think that event ever existed. He didnât want to think of Debbie, but at this point he didnât have much control over the matter. Sure, Debbie didnât wake up one day to find Prince Charming standing over her after loveâs first kiss, but Allen didnât exactly find Sleeping Beauty. Allen didnât have a blanket to stop the shivering and drifting away into the recesses of thought. He didnât know which way his thoughts would turn next. He didnât know if his mind would agree with some great universal truth, flooding him with epiphany, or if it would finally go off the deep-end. In fact, he didnât really have the capability, anymore, to keep control of it either way. But no matter how much his mind wandered, he didnât forget that his heart still beat and his blood was still red. Allen didnât like the cold and didnât like sitting in that chair with his heater broken. But he didnât know how to fix it and he didnât know who to call.
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play
consolas bold
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Talking With Pudding
Characters Officer Primus; silent door guard Captain Pudding; talkative scavenger
Time Afternoon; before the next soldierâs shift.
Place A crumbling totalitarian city.
The area is practically rubble, the result of neglect and war. Outside of a barely standing building, PRIMUS stands before a door as PUDDING enters.
Officer PRIMUS is a soldier with rifle in hand. HE is quite the âsilentâ guard, never speaking or even moving too far from HIS post. However, HIS fear and youth is all too obvious.
PUDDING is both a scavenger and a tradesman. HIS clothes are individually of good quality, yet each piece compared to the whole looks like a home-made quilt. HE carries a large, full sack over the shoulder.
PUDDING peeks around a corner and sees PRIMUS. PUDDING hides quickly.
Beat.
&Justin Blasdel
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PUDDING peeks again, then HE runs in from one side and exits out the other. PRIMUS readies HIS gun, but realizes PUDDING is not an enemy.
Beat.
PUDDING cautiously returns to investigate PRIMUS. PRIMUS looks at PUDDING, and PUDDING runs off.
Beat.
PUDDING comes back. HE stomps on the ground. PRIMUS is jolted from the sound, but HE remains at HIS post. PUDDING moves closer to PRIMUS and stomps again. PRIMUS doesnât move. PUDDING moves even closer to PRIMUS.
PUDDINGHey.
Beat.
PUDDINGHey!
Beat.
PUDDINGHey!...Hey, hey!
Beat.
PUDDINGSoâŠya donât move? Ya donât talk, and ya donât move. Do ya?
Beat.
PUDDINGA soldia is a soldia, no helpinâ that. No chance oâ breakinâ rules and beinâ a problem, right? I stay here, and ya no move me off, right?
Beat.
PUDDINGRight. Good boy.
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PUDDING looks around, sits down, and massages HIS legs.
PUDDINGOoooh! Nice. Been runninâ whole day. Legs fixinâ to fall off. Gotta keep to blood movinâ. Thatâs ta trick. Force ta muscles to breathe.
PUDDING lies around on the ground.
PUDDINGAhhh! Good. Lyinâ on ta ground, a gift! Lyinâ on ta back, I mean. Not ta belly. Animals, they lie on belly. PeopleâŠwe lie on back. We see heavens. Why we better. Better than animal, they only see ahead. Us, we see above, but only when we want. Most donât. I do. I do lots.
PUDDING stands.
PUDDINGToo much lyinâ get ya dead. Remember that.
PUDDING yells at PRIMUS in the face.
PUDDINGRemember that!
PRIMUS is frozen in fear.
PUDDINGWhat behind door?
PRIMUS stands upright and kicks HIS heels.
PUDDINGWhy ya dance? Tell me what behind door. Can ya?
Beat.
PUDDINGNope. No rules broken for ya. Good boy. Who are ya? What to call ya? I donât like talkinâ to no-names. How to tell who I talked to? No one believe me. âI talk to nobody.â âNobody?!?â Thatâs my wife. âYa talk to nobody? It ta same as doinâ nothinâ, and I donât live on nothinâ, so go out and make somethinâ, or I rip ya ears off your head!â She my lovely. Wish she rip them off some daysâŠmy ears. Might be nice. Ta silence.
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PUDDING holds out HIS hand to shake.
PUDDINGCaptain Pudding. My name.
PRIMUS looks at PUDDING and shakes HIS head.
PUDDINGYa got me. I no captain. It my nickname. Ya seeâŠif I borinâ ya, stop me. Will ya?
Beat.
PUDDINGGood. Glad ya donât. It good story. A good story! Long ago, I was in hole with friends; Lookey and Shiv. Lookey has problem with eye. Doctor say one lazy. I say it look for new wife. His wife beat him. Not my wife! My Bett is ta best!
PUDDING laughs, then shakes HIS head.
PUDDINGNo, she aint.
Beat.
PUDDINGAnyway, Shiv named Shiv by his folks. They suffer to stupids. Bad sickness! Bad! SoâŠwe in holeâŠ
PUDDING mimes being trapped in a small place.
PUDDINGâŠin small hole. Very small, like dis. It was well. Ya donât get much wells these days. Lots oâ sicks, but no wells. We trapped with no gettinâ out, and no un know we there. Lookey and Shiv scared. They blame them. They blame me! They fight, but no one win. Then they get hungry. I donât have notinâ to eat. All had wasâŠ
Beat.
PUDDINGNo! No pudding! Got ya!
PUDDING laughs.
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PUDDINGI had wrench. No way out with that. Lookey and Shiv den tought of tings to eat: their shoes, their hats, their belts, even their hairs! Crazy! Then they thought of eatinâ me. Oh, I really, really scared. Two of them, one and half of me.
PUDDING grabs HIS stomach.
PUDDINGHave to count this. Bett does. Says Iâm pregnant more than she ever is. Fat baby. So Lookey and Shiv get mad and start swinginâ and swinginâ, and I start prayinâ and prayinâ. âOh, Lord, donât let them eat me!â Donât know why, but he listen. I was on ta ground, swinginâ my wrench back and forth, back and forth, back andâŠforth! I hit something. It was lever. I curious, so I pull. We all stop and listen to horrible sound, like bubble movinâ in a monster belly. Lookey and Shiv hid behind me, hopinâ ta monster eat me first. It no monster! It lever to septic tank, and it pour out more crap âan any person crap in whole life. It fill well, and Lookey and Shiv and me swim out. Friend in town say we look like we covered in pudding. Lookey and Shiv blam me, and people call me Captain Pud-ding den on.
Beat.
PUDDINGOh, donât feel bad. Shiv got dysentery, Lookey lazy eye turn pink, and I got good reason to stay away from wife a whole week. Life, it crazy! Crazy.
Beat.
PUDDINGâWhat life without rulesâ, I bet ya say. So now ya know Captain Pudding. How ya feel about that?
PRIMUS shrugs.
PUDDINGGood, hmm? What your name?
Beat.
PUDDINGNo mind. I look.
PUDDING takes a close look at PRIMUSâs badge.
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PUDDINGOfficer Primus.
PRIMUS stomps HIS foot.
PUDDINGThereâs that dancinâ again. Primus? That a name? Well of course ya grow up a soldier. What else ya be? Go and name ya kids numbers if thatâs all ta thought ya put into it. Imagine. Why, I be FourâŠbefore Captain Pudding. Four-born donât beat crap-covered. Primus? Primus? Hey Primus, Iâm goinâ to sell ya stuff. Ya mind?
PRIMUS shakes HIS head with the intention of meaning âNo, go away.â
PUDDINGWell calm down, calm down! I sell ya stuff, donât worry. Ya so anxious, ya make me nervous. WellâŠon with merchandizinâ!
PUDDING puts the bag on the ground and rummages through it..
PUDDINGMmm. No good.
PRIMUS wants to look in the bag, but HE will not abandon HIS post. PUDDING continues rummaging.
PUDDINGToo old...Broke...
HE takes out a magazine page and looks very closely.
PUDDINGOooh! SheâŠnot wearinââŠ
PRIMUS takes an interest.
PUDDINGNo! Nope. I get trouble for sellinâ it. Ya know better.
PRIMUS looks, but PUDDING hides the page in a pocket.
HE grabs a hold of something in the bag and smiles.
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PUDDINGHah! I know what ya need. Rifles are heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy. Ya need sometinâ light.
PUDDING takes out a pistol and points it at PRIMUS.
PUDDINGStick âem up!
PRIMUS holds HIS rifle shaking in the air.
Beat.
PUDDING laughs.
PUDDINGIt not loaded. Fool ya!
PRIMUS, still shaking, points HIS rifle at PUDDING.
PUDDINGShould of seen ya face. âUh-uh-uh-uh.â
PUDDING laughs. PRIMUS shakes rifle barrel at PUDDING as if to say âget upâ.
PUDDINGWhat ya pointinâ at? Ya canât shoot. Killinâ against law. Ya have to arrest me.
PRIMUS moves towards PUDDING.
PUDDINGBut to jail me, ya leave door.
PRIMUS jumps back to the door.
PUDDINGWhat to do? I know! It against ta law for me to have this, yeah, but ya donât know I had it. I pretend I donât if ya pretend too. Deal?
Beat.
PUDDINGDeal?
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PRIMUS nods once. PUDDING nods back.
PUDDINGGood boy. No rules broken. We all happy.
Beat.
PUDDINGNot too happy. I want to merchandize. Canât sell ya stuff if ya donât need stuff, right? Right. Letâs see what else left.
PUDDING puts the gun back in the bag and rummages some more, eventually pulling out a helmet.
PUDDINGOh, this again.
PUDDING laughs.
PUDDINGYa donât know ta story. It not long. Wanna hear?
Beat.
PUDDINGA man came and need coat. I say âI trade for ta helmet.â He say, âOkay.â We trade. A week pass, his head get bust by fallinâ brick. Goes to show ya, know what ya buyinâ and what ya sellinâ. A good helmet.
PUDDING puts the helmet on.
PUDDINGIâm soldier too!
PUDDING laughs.
PUDDINGNo Iâm not. Donât kid me. Let me see what else I have.
PUDDING rummages in the bag.
PUDDINGNothinâ else to sell. Hmm.
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PUDDING stands up and walks over to PRIMUS.
PUDDINGDonât feel right about selling nothing to ya. I got rules too. âNever leave a customer empty handed.â Guess that means.
Beat.
PUDDING puts helmet on PRIMUSâs head before PRIMUS can react.
PUDDINGThere you go. A nice, new helmet.
PRIMUS takes it off and offers it back to PUDDING.
PUDDINGNope! Canât give it back. It a gift. You keep it.
PRIMUS still offers the helmet back.
PUDDINGWhat? You gonna run after me with it? Leave your spot?
Beat.
PUDDINGDidnât think so.
PUDDING picks up HIS bag and stretches.
PUDDINGKeep ta blood moving. That ta trick. Well, goodbye to ya. Iâll have something tomorrow to sell ya. Promise.
PUDDING holds out hand to shake, but PRIMUS doesnât move.
PUDDINGRight, right. Bye.
PUDDING starts to walk away, but PRIMUS gives an attention-getting cough at PUDDING.
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PUDDINGHuh? What ya want?
PRIMUS looks around for other people, then hands off a pen to PUDDING.
PUDDINGA pen. What for? Oh, a trade. I get ya. Yeah, this a good pen. A soldierâs pen! I bet it write upside down and such.
PUDDING admires pen, then puts it in a pocket.
PUDDINGThank ya, officer. You a good boy. Good boy.
Beat.
PUDDINGLots of luck soldierinâ. Hope you get to fire that gun someday.
PUDDING gives PRIMUS a mock salute, and PRIMUS salutes back.
PUDDINGThereâs that dancinâ again.
PUDDING exits.
THE END
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&Stars In Rainbows
Photo Credit: Kimberly Bannister
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Ampersand Magazine is now an electronic publication that is taking
submissions at all timesstarting in July.
There is a maximum of 5 poems and 3 stories or plays per submitter.
E-mail all submissions to: [email protected]
&Submission Guidelines
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