Sunday, April 8, 2018

Submissions Open for Final Issue

Submit hereThe final issue is going to be in September 2018. New writers welcome!

*

The first issue of TDR appeared online in September 1999. At the time, I was 30 years old and just moving out of my parents' basement (again, and for the last time).

I had been writing book reviews for Paragraph Magazine, which focused on Canadian small press books. Then it folded. At time same time, I was curious about starting an online literary magazine, as an experiment. The internet was new. Would it work? How would it work? Could we fill a need for commentary about small press Canadian books?

Well, it did work, and it was a lot of work, and it was on top of my 9-5 work and my personal writing work, but it was fun and interesting and a challenge and found a niche, publishing fiction, poetry, book reviews, interviews, occasional essays and other features.

It was exhausting and exhilarating. And I kept it going even after I married in 2007, become a step-father to two at the same time. But by 2009, I felt it had run its course (a decade was a good run, and I wanted to focus my spare time on being a family man, and we also got turned down for a grant, which made it harder to justify continuing (i.e., paying people to do what I had done for free)). So I announced the magazine would be taking a break, which it did.

In 2010, my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, and our lives changed forever. It will sound strange to hear it, but we often said the cancer made our lives specifically better, while making them generally worse. We meant, it made us focus on what was important.

It became clear to me that one important thing I missed was being a fiction editor. Missed that engagement with writing and the surprises of reviewing submissions. So in 2011, I started TDR 2.0, a fiction only blog (with occasional interviews).

Shortly after I re-started the magazine, doctors discovered that my wife's cancer had metastasized, which meant it had become terminal. Even so, we were determined to keep our lives so-called normal. What happened in those next months I will never forget; the spirit displayed by my super hero wife will remain with me until the end of my days.

Which is to say, I kept up with the new TDR and stated that I would try to publish an issue a month. (It has slowed down to a new issue every two or three months.) In 2012, my wife passed away and the magazine continued. I took time off work, then went back to work. In 2014, I had heart surgery. The magazine continued.

So why is the next issue the final issue? Well, let's say it's the final issue of TDR 2.0. I'm going to take an extended break. There may be a TDR 3.0; there may not.

Lately, the number of submissions has dropped. I'm not sure what that means, but for a long time I have said to myself that I would continue as long as people kept sending me their stuff. That is slowing down, but it's also true that I am slowing down. And my step-children are growing up. And I have writing projects that I want to focus on without (too much) distraction.

So that's where we're at.

I'll have more to say about my reflections on two decades of online literary publishing at a later date.

For now, please submit and let's do this one more time. The final issue is going to be in September 2018. New writers are particularly welcome!

Thank you to all who have submitted over the years, and all who have been part of TDR, as writers or as staff. I'll have more to say about those fantastic people later, too.

- Michael Bryson, March 31, 2018

Fiction #77

New fiction! Issue #77
Special thanks to all who have been submitting.

Enjoy.


Fiction #77: J.W. Burns

Before Breakfast
                 
Balloons under his eyes burst.

Inside one nostril the street was bitterly cold, deserted save for a small figure paupered in Dollar Store has-beens and struggling against a nomadic municipal wind.  Each step warned of the agony locked in the next. Yet the form persisted, a yellowish haze sinking buildings in an almost putrid flood.

Then the one in bed sniffled and the street cleared. First a stray cat frothed from the sidewalk, crossed the street in tail high triumph.  Then two middle-aged woman, clicking, talking. The wind had trapped itself in a trash barrel which rocked once or twice. Then traffic, buses, a dump truck, cabs, SUVs, even a four door sedan. Pedestrians mixing on the sidewalks--

Then he sneezed and the street was gone. Without opening his eyes he knew there was no friendly hand on his shoulder. And that he was alone, a discomforting catch under his ribs. Eyes open, gazing down the bridge of his nose there was another bridge, this one spanning San Francisco Bay. Walk across that in the wind holding your vital organs hostage; the pearl that is your face having been rubbed into existence now being rubbed away, oooh shit, something, please swallow me whole—his pillow watermelon rind, the bed covers gingerbread.

'Good morning, way down at the tip of discards echo, I'll take three. Or can I take four/ Hell, yes!'

Turned his head crushing goo on the slick, hard pillow, a moment of blurred vision giving way to a brown lamp with dancing pastel oysters on the shade, a black clock sheltering black on white digits, wallpaper faded pink flowers drying on gray. Eyes again closed there was the droll howling of Murray pinching perimeters.

Wobbling, wobbling, one hand smuggled around his hard penis, seemed to cling like warm dew. There had been a a small choir of Eskimos. The Mall. A classical string trio provided the music, violin, viola and cello. The choir slowly sashayed about the stage outfitted in fur parkas, boots and mittens, their voices hopped gently back and forth, rabbits of the slightly paranormal variety searching for a place to find acceptance within the confines of the starched melodies.

Though he couldn't understand the literal sense of what was sung, he knew the sounds reflected some kind of loss, orphaned letters strung together in chains of sorrow.

His wife was standing beside him and he asked her if it was Latin. She shook her head but said nothing.

Now the choir had procured a new voice: weathered, guttural, the canine wail added an avowed  apotheosic flair causing the performance to render a broader expression of what all life could harbor in its quivering grab bag. As a slew of tiny pastel fishes fluttered from the triangular mouths of the singers, Murray was airborne, trying in vain to snap the wispy creatures from the numb light.

His organ gone faint, the bathroom mystic quickly overpowered it and him. As the yellow bubbles expanded and burst, he saw a small turquoise airplane winging around the bowl. Strapped in the cockpit he could hear the splash and feel the wind spying out another soul for eternity. Then he was dizzy from the rolls, loop-de-loops, backassward sweeps, the earth full of uncanny angles, sequined sharp edges, billowing, stinging. He forced himself to focus, lining his aircraft up with an approaching glide path, leveling the wings and reducing his airspeed. Touchdown was achieved with hardly a thump.

The flush receded in a gifted swirl. Down the hall through the den he heard his wife, Lisa, singing. He climbed out of the plane. Stood on his toes, danced four circles on the tile.

Melted sky. Dry dusty sand. Around a bend and she was lounging nude near a pond crocheted with reeds and floating lilies. Beyond her gleaming breasts the stream feeding the pond seemed to be coming from solid rock. All at once her arms began to move forming what at first appeared to be shapes but then letters. He said each letter aloud but failed to attach them in sequence. No matter. Lisa smiled and waved him to her. Her black hair weaved a net to catch pollen free-floaters; before he touched her this pollen had imprinted both their bodies, settling in such quantity that his lips spit and his eyelids fluttered.

Avoiding the kitchen, he went out the front door and around the house.

Under a large oak impatiens trafficked with asparagus fern. Further on a sunlit patch of small exquisite roses. Even before he was visible he knew that Murray had begun his frenzied back and forth hop-skip-romp behind the fence of his enclosure, spewing an elliptical squeal tangled in a cavernous nasal huffing. When she was dying, his mother had made almost exactly the same sound, her bald head a steely rehash of the rocket ships in the 1950s Flash Gordon serial. He held her hand tracing the depressed purple veins until she was quiet. Several times he checked to see if she’d stopped breathing. When she finally did he put her hand on her chest, bent to kiss her forehead but drew back under the withering onrush of putrid last exhalation.

When he reached the pen Murray was mute, using all his resources to repeatedly launch himself off the worn dirt floor. From a liquid stream the dog became more of a woozy vapor before settling on his haunches in a feverish stupor. The echo left by the dog's bark played tricks here, there, everywhere, nowhere. When he knocked back the bolt, Murray's lowered head was a missile, splattering molecules in all directions as he charged through the open gate and out into the yard.

Grass scattered. Murray blurred in front of scrubs, bushes, wooden fence. Then stopped, head shaking side to side. Running. Stop and start Stop and start.

'Murray,' He looked up from rinsing a stainless water dish. 'Goddamit.' Telling tone, firm

The dog froze.

‘Come here.’

Two elongated yelps carried Murray across the yard. He turned his back, refilling the water dish then watching a bumble bee hover above morning glory blossoms. Without hesitation Murray’s kaolin-colored snout found the man's hand, nuzzling the calloused palm, front paws prancing in place, hind legs affecting a submissive squat aided by the dog’s almost prehensile tail. A whimper brought the slobbery hand to rest on the canine skull. After receiving a vigorous scratching behind the ears, Murray was off on a second round of yard racing, biting the air with his exposed teeth. Dry food disposed in a second stainless dish.

When he looked at the oaks, a single symmetrical evergreen, fortunate cherry, snowballs, iris, the fresh lawn, bright blue sky in morning crispness, he stole the benefits of breath from a corpse riding in an ambulance toward the wide crater on a moon other than the one which belongs to the earth. His vision went from shimmer to boil to his sister's voice talking to a member of the public in her official capacity. When she was finished they both gurgled laughter lingering like blinking neon.

‘Murray. Murray, come on.’

The dog came quickly, stopped just short of the pen, the joy of freedom oozing in heaves and snorts from his mouth and nose. Harold rubbed the lowered head, lead him inside the enclosure, backed out and secured the gate. He walked slowly to the house, stepped inside the kitchen. Cups hung on hooks, knives comfortable in wooden block slots, springy green molding framing yellow walls.

Lisa stood in front of the stove.

‘Murray’s good.’ Words wanted to decompose before they left his mouth. ‘Take him for a walk later.’ Dispensing his breath in shallow bursts, Harold found a grin.

‘He’ll like that,’

‘You might want to come.’

‘Sure.’

She carried a plate loaded with pancakes and link sausage. After placing it in front of him she lifted each pancake to deposit pats of butter. His tongue was smart as a whip.

*

J.W. Burns lives in Florida. Recent publications in Rivet, Sierra Nevada Review S/WORD, and Ginosko Literary Review.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Fiction #77: Jonathan R. Rose

A Nameless Night in Cambodia

The room was dark except for a series of constantly flashing red and purple lights. There was a mix of 70s disco and 80s pop music blasting out of large speakers, and despite the muggy air outside the air inside the room was cold, as air conditioners were positioned in every corner of the ceiling. I knew something was strange as soon as I walked in. There were only three men inside: a pair of much older men seated at a nearby table, and a guy beside me, leaning over the metal railing just as I was. Everybody else in the room was a young, attractive woman dressed in a tight skirt and halter top. All of the women were dancing with each other, but not touching each other. They were huddled close, but not too close, making it easy for anybody staring at them to see each one individually.

I looked over at the guy beside me and he told me to just walk up and pick a woman on the dance floor.

"What do you mean just walk up and pick one?" I said.

"You can have any one of them," he replied. "All you have to do is walk over, grab her arm, and she'll be yours."

I wanted to look back at him with disgust because I thought that was how I was supposed to feel, but instead I asked him to elaborate.

He told me each of the women cost ten dollars for the entire night.

"That's it?" I said. "But that's nothing."

"It's Cambodia," he replied, "ten dollars is a lot of money here."

The women on the dance floor started smiling at both me and the guy beside me. He returned the favor, before turning to me and saying, "I must have had half of them already. They really know what they're doing. I heard they just watch porn all day, learning how to please guys like us."

I wanted to call him a pig, a pimp, a piece of shit. I wanted to burn down the whole bar and rescue every single one of the young women on the dance floor. I wanted to take them somewhere safe, a place where they wouldn't have to sell themselves. I wanted to be a hero, but all I did was smile back at them.

"This place is paradise," the guy beside me said. "I'm from Los Angeles, but I keep coming back here. I'm going to build a house here, a big one, with four bedrooms and two bathrooms, and do you know how much it's going to cost me?"

"How much?" I asked, unable to restrain my own curiosity.

"Thirty grand, total, and that's having it built exactly the way I want it. Where else in the world can you have a big house built the way you want for a price like that?"

I was in awe, thinking about how I already had nearly half that amount in my own bank account. I wondered if that meant I could build half the house he planned to build right then and there. Two bedrooms and one bathroom, built the way I wanted, all to myself, that didn't seem bad at all.

As we continued talking, the guy beside me continued telling me about his plans, and about the experiences he had in Cambodia, particularly in the capital, Phnom Penh. At first I thought he was gloating, but the more he spoke, the more I realized he wasn't gloating at all. He was telling the truth. It just sounded surreal.

I looked back at the dancing women and noticed one in particular staring at me, but she did not approach me. It was as if there was a barricade keeping her and the rest of the young women on the dance floor, an invisible barrier they were forbidden to cross.

"They won't come to you," the guy beside me said.

I turned to him just as he handed me a beer I didn't even ask for.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, after thanking him for the beer.

"None of them will come to you," he replied. "They can't. So that one over there, the one staring at you, you have to go to her, so there is no mix up."

"Mix up?"

"This is a poor country," he said, "so nothing is free, especially sex. And if they come to you that would give you the excuse to think whatever may happen is happening because they like you, which would then give you the excuse to not pay them. But if you go to them, there is no confusion."

I stared back at what I believed was the most attractive woman in that room full of women doing all they could to be attractive. I didn't know what to feel, and I certainly didn't know what to do. But the more I looked at that attractive young woman, the more I felt drawn to her.

Crossing that invisible wall onto the dance floor was easier than I thought after it became clear it was only one sided, and when I reached the young woman, she appeared even more beautiful. I turned to the guy leaning on the railing. He smiled at me. I turned back to the young woman. All I had to do was touch her arm, and from what I understood that would be it, just a slight movement of my arm and I would possess a person. It was a disturbing thought made all the more unsettling by its clarity as a result of my crippling sobriety. I started to feel shame crawling over me. It started weighing me down. My legs started to buckle.

The young woman, perhaps sensing what I was feeling, came even closer to me. I could feel her breath and smell her scent. It was intoxicating. My urge to touch her arm became overwhelming. I looked at her face. She smiled wide. I looked back at the guy leaning on the railing. He raised his beer, congratulating me on something he seemed to know I was going to do before I did.

The young woman came even closer, so close that despite the darkness and the flashing lights I could make out the faint creases in her lips. Under any other circumstance I would have already been kissing her, but on that floor, in that bar, the thought made me shiver. I took a step back and looked at the other dancing women. I noticed an expression of exhaustion on many of their faces. I started to wonder how long they have been dancing. I wondered if that's all they did, hour after hour, night after night, like those dance contests in the fifties where the last person standing won a price, except in this bar, the prize was sexually satisfying a man for ten dollars. I then started to wonder how much of the ten dollars those women would actually get. There was no way each one was representing themselves and was allowed to pocket everything they made. I didn't know much, but I definitely knew that much.

I took another step back, followed by another and another, until I was back at the railing. I looked up at the guy leaning over it.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing," I replied. "I'm going to get something to eat on the other side of the bar. What are you going to do?"

He smiled, gestured toward the dance floor with his beer, and said, "I think I'm going to explore the other half."

* * *

Sitting at a table on an outdoor patio on the other side of the enormous bar, staring at a giant screen playing an old Spielberg movie, I still couldn't believe the meal I was awaiting cost only three dollars.

I looked behind me and saw several pool tables lined up beside each other. Nearly each one was occupied by a young man, about as old as me, and usually as white as me, along with at least two young Cambodian women who were dressed the same as the women on the dance floor in the other room. I could hear laughter from the pool tables, mostly from the men, but I also heard, and saw, the skill from which each and every young Cambodian woman played the game. The sound of their breaks had that unique crack you only get to hear in the corners of smoky pool halls where the pros play.

Still waiting for my food, I looked at another area of the bar where there were several velvet couches, and occupying almost every single one was an old, fat, white man. And with those old, fat, white men were a pair of young Cambodian women huddled near them, touching and groping them, while the men fondled them in return. I noticed braces on the teeth of one of the women, which was a word I was feeling less and less confident using, as these were not women at all, but girls doing all they could to masquerade themselves as women.

I glanced back at the Spielberg movie playing on the screen. It was showing one of those inspiring, hopeful scenes that usually come near the end of most of his films, but I couldn't watch it. I had to turn away. I looked back at the old, fat, white men on the couches.

I wanted to get up and punch those men, and I wanted to help the girls tasked with tending to their perverted needs. I wasn't exactly sure how I could help those girls, but the yearning to help them nonetheless made me feel proud. The yearning started to grow, so much so that I actually started to get up from seat, but then my food arrived.

The steam rising from the plate struck my face and immediately made it sweat. I took my first bite. The food was delicious. I took my second and third, but was prevented from taking a fourth bite when I looked up and saw a familiar face sitting in the vacant chair across from me.

"Hello."

It was the same girl I could have possessed on the dance floor just by touching her arm.

I did not want to talk with my mouth full, so I chewed and swallowed my food quickly. Afterwards, I took a sip from the bottle of beer that accompanied my meal, and said hello back.

"How are you?" she said.

"I'm good," I replied.

She leaned back in her chair and smiled.

I looked at my plate of food, and despite the heat in the air, I knew it was getting cold, so I took another bite, followed by another. I looked up and noticed the woman not looking, but gazing at the food.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Yes."

Her answer was unabashed, so I slid the plate over to the other side of the small table.

"Would you like a different fork?" I asked.

She laughed, and considering the nature of the bar, it didn't take me long to understand why.

The young woman ate ravenously.

As I watched her eat, I started to realize that I was actually in the kind of place I read about in books and have seen on documentaries. But instead of doing what I always thought I would do if I was ever in a place like that I did nothing but nearly succumb to its temptations and get a meal.

After she took the final bite the young woman thanked me so genuinely it made me feel like I had saved the world.

She told me she was from Siem Reap, and had many sisters, a mother, a father, and grandparents who depended on her. She said she was offered a job as a waitress in Phnom Penh and it paid well, better than anything available in Siem Reap. She took the job, but as soon as she arrived she was met by two men who put her to work in the bar that same night and every night since.

"How long ago was that?" I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "I don't remember."

I leaned back in my chair.

She told me she made enough money to send back to her family, and that was all that mattered. 

"How much do you make a night?" I asked.

"About ten dollars," she replied. "It's a lot."

I pulled out my wallet, handed her ten dollars, and said, "Now you're paid for the night."

She smiled, got up, and sat on my lap.

"I'm all yours," she said. "Do you have a room? I can do many things I know men like."

The thought was alluring, but the taste was bitter. I shook my head in an attempt to get the images of what I could do with her out of my mind.

"No, no," I said. "Tonight, you don't have to do that. I actually just want to hang out with you and talk."

She started looking around with an expression of confusion and surprise that made me question if what I was doing had ever happened to her before, or if it happened often and she was just doing what she had practiced in order to make me think it had never happened before.

She got up from my lap and sat back on her chair.

"Are you still hungry?" I asked.

She pursed her lips and nodded.

I looked at the menu and asked her what she would like, and considering the most expensive item was no more than five dollars, I did not care what she picked.

She chose a chicken dish and told me it was her favorite, so I ordered the same for myself.

When the food arrived she started eating like the meal I gave her earlier had never existed, and in between bites, we continued talking. She told me about her family, and how needy they were. She told me about the bar, and how girls constantly came and went, and how she didn't know where they came from, or where they ended up after they left.

I told her a bar like this should be closed. I said it was wrong, horrible, disgusting. I said what she was going through, what many of the young women were going through, was slavery. I told her the chains needed to be broken. I felt better as the words grew more intense, but that feeling disappeared when I saw what looked like pain on her face, as if I were driving a knife deeper and deeper into her gut.

"Why would you say that?" she said. "Without this bar, girls like me would have no way to feed our families."

"But you shouldn't have to feed your family," I replied. "You shouldn't have to worry about that. You're so young. You should only have to worry about enjoying your life."

I was about to ask her how old she actually was, but feared the answer too much to do so.

She just smiled.

I turned to the velvet couches where a different old, fat, white man sat, and two different young Cambodian girls in virtually no clothing sat on each one of his obese legs, rubbing his protruding belly like he was a perverted genie withholding their wish. He had both of his hands around their waists, squeezing them, exploring as much of their upper bodies as he could with his fingers. I shook my head and turned back to the young woman seated across from me.

"Look at that," I said. "I want to go over there and punch that guy in the face. He is disgusting."

"They will hit you," she replied.

"I don't care," I said. "That will just give me more reason to keep punching him."

She took another bite of her chicken, chewed it, and replied, "Not him, the two girls, they will hit you."

"Why would they hit me?" I said. "I would have stopped him from groping them."

"No," she replied in between yet another bite of her second dinner, "you would have stopped him from paying them money they would have sent back to their families."

After we both finished our meals, she smiled at me and said, "I want to take you somewhere."

"You don't have to do that with me," I replied, feeling good about the words and even better after I realized I genuinely believed them.

"No," she said, "it's somewhere fun, a party. Do you want to come with me?"

I agreed, but only after repeating she did not have to worry about satisfying me in any anyway, which made me feel even better.

The bill came. I looked at it and shook my head. Two full dinners for what I made in less than twenty minutes at my job back home. I paid, and made sure to leave a tip that I thought was big based on the percentage it covered, but couldn't help but feel was small based on the amount itself.

We left the large bar and took a taxi ride that lasted about ten minutes, and cost less than two dollars.

We walked into a bar that was much smaller than the one we had just left, and as soon as I walked in the young woman darted off into the crowd. I lost sight of her after just a few seconds.

Standing alone, I gazed at what looked like at least forty, maybe fifty young women who were all dressed like the one who had brought me there. They were all dancing, but not in a way that was intended for display. Instead, many of them were hugging each other, laughing with each other, and talking to each other in their own language as they danced. They looked like they were having a great time.

There were few men in the bar, and of those few men, even fewer were foreign. I counted only two, and one of them was me. The other one was talking to a young woman who had distanced herself from the dancing group. I took a few steps to get closer, curious about what they were talking about.

When I got close enough to hear the foreign man and young Cambodian woman, I was surprised to hear them both speaking Khmer. The man spoke so fluently that I believed he was either born there, or had learned the language after what had to be at least a few years living there. Either way, he was not as foreign as he seemed.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, and the young woman I came with held up a big bottle of beer.

"I bought this for you," she said.

"You didn't have to do that," I said. "I could have bought it."

I immediately regretted what I said after seeing an expression of regret appear on her face after I said it.

"But you were so nice to me," she replied, "so I wanted to get it for you. Plus, it's a party, and a party is always more fun with beer."

The night was hot and humid, and the beer was cold and refreshing, and went down like glacial water.

The young woman and I danced, talked and laughed the night away. She introduced me to other young women who worked in the same bar as her, or bars just like it, and it quickly became clear that the bar she had taken me to was where young women like her went to unwind after work. I was flattered she had taken me there, and did my best to not make her look bad for doing so.

By the end of the night my legs were achy. Meanwhile, the young woman started yawning constantly.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Very far," she replied in the middle of yet another yawn.

"How far?" I asked.

"About an hour outside of the city," she said.

"You look tired," I said.

She nodded.

"Why don't you come back with me to my hostel? It's closer, and the bed is big and actually very comfortable. You can get some sleep."

She smiled.

"And don't worry," I said. "You don't have to do anything when we get there."

I wasn't sure if I said that to reassure her or myself, but she agreed. We caught a taxi, and in about ten minutes we reached the hostel where I was staying. I wasn't sure if I was even allowed to bring people into my room, especially prostitutes, so we walked in quietly and quickly passed by the sleeping security guard.

As soon as we entered my room, the tiredness from the long night set in. We both kicked off our shoes, I took off my shirt, and we fell on the bed. I turned on the air conditioning, and she fell asleep almost immediately. I was astounded at how deep her sleep was. It was the kind of sleep a person has after walking a hundred miles because they had no other choice.

I turned toward her. Slightly inebriated, but by no means drunk, I nonetheless felt the kind of pleasant warmth those who drink know all too well, and in spite of the young woman's dancing and subsequent sweating she still smelled great. I inched a little closer to her. And just like in the first bar, on the dance floor, I knew all I had to do was touch her arm, and she would be mine.

I wondered what it would feel like kissing her, touching her, and having her. I could feel myself getting aroused, but then shame crawled back over me. I knew if I did what a part of me wanted to do it would undo everything I had done up to that point. So I turned away from her and faded away into sleep, but not before questioning if I was a good man for resisting the urges I had or a bad man for having them in the first place.

Hours later, we both woke up. She turned toward me and smiled.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" I replied.

"For last night," she said, "and for letting me sleep. I was so tired."

"I had an amazing time with you last night," I replied, "so thank you."

She got out of bed. The room was still dark, so she looked just like she looked throughout the previous night. It wasn't until we both stepped out of the room and made our way out of the hostel that I finally got to see her, really see her, under the light of the burgeoning sun. She looked much different. Her skin looked rougher compared to how smooth it appeared in the darkness of the bar. And despite the deep sleep she just had, she still looked tired, so unbelievably tired.

"Thanks again," she said.

"You're welcome," I replied.

She turned and walked away.

Still tired, but knowing I would never be as tired as her, I returned to my room and thought about her. I thought about all she had told me, about all she had taught me. I thought about the beer she bought for me out of the money I gave her. I wasn't sure if she had played me for a chump, and I honestly didn't care. All I knew was that I gave a young woman at least one night where she didn't have to sexually satisfy a man who deemed her body worth no more than ten dollars, and that made me feel good.

Hours later, I woke up, and the first thing I tried to do was recall the young woman's name, but I couldn't do it. Days later, when I left Cambodia and entered Thailand, where I enjoyed the beautiful beaches of the country's southern islands, her face faded from memory as well. And on the long flight home, when the young woman was no more than a story, I started to question if she meant as much to me as I originally thought, or if she only meant as much as the ten dollars I gave her that night in the bar.

*

Jonathan R. Rose was born and raised in Scarborough, Ontario. He has lived in Mexico City, Mexico for five years and is currently living in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He published his first novel, Carrion in 2015 with Montag Press, and has also published several short stories. "A Nameless Night in Cambodia," was based on an actual night in Phnom Penh that has stuck with him for many years and that's what compelled him to write about it, and he would like to thank The Danforth Review for helping him share it.

https://www.facebook.com/JonathanRRose/ 

Fiction #77: Linda Hutsell-Manning

Balancing Act

Margaret is sure the place will be packed. A controversial film in its day Jan, the local librarian decided, with North Korea threatening nuclear war and Trump tweeting insanities, dusting off The Day After would be timely. In 1983, 100 million people watched the world end, making it the highest-rated TV film in history. Back then, Margaret was immersed in Beowulf and Whitman, too busy with graduate studies to watch TV, unaware of nuclear build up or the Doomsday clock. With no internet, it was a brief horror that came and faded into obscurity. Now, one click warns impending doom, the clock’s hands hovering, the librarian says, at two and a half minutes to midnight.

So why is the turnout less than twenty? Jan says it’s about what she expected. 

No one speaks when it’s over. They file out quickly with only the odd whisper, nervous giggle. Margaret tries to remember why it is she came in the first place - her well-honed guilt over things she can’t control - acquaintances reminding her that, because she’s a writer and cares about the planet, she should see the film?

Now she’s transfixed, impaled with facts and horrors about nuclear war - information she can do nothing about but feels compelled to act upon. Horrific possibilities, Hiroshima revisited. She’s always being told she’s too emotional, too sensitive. The published author of a number of successful children’s books, she writes whimsical stories that keep her demons and traumatic childhood at bay. She has chosen to ignore her past and it’s working. Most of the time. When violence directly confronts her, however, rationality peels off, layer by layer down to raw nerve endings. The film has pulled her into an emotional barbed wire tunnel, forcing her to crawl.

A heady autumn afternoon greets her. Maple trees line the street, their brilliant colors splashing the landscape. She knows she must walk the horror off, like a drunk, one step at a time; concentrate on cars, houses, people, concrete objects that will disperse the black and white images of annihilation.

A young woman and a small child approach - a cherubic blonde boy, his short arm held vertical in his mother's swinging hand. She carries library books; he chatters incessantly. His childish anticipation is obvious, infectious.

It isn't until the two of them are in front of her that Margaret sees the bandage - a clean white patch over the child’s eye.

Red-leaved maple trees blaze even redder. The woman and child stand blackened and burned, the bandage filthy and ripped. They stared at her in mute horror, whites of their eyes multiplying into stricken eyes from the film.

For an instant she thinks she’ll scream, but the Dantean instant is swallowed with their heels clicking on the sidewalk. Margaret clenches her fingernails into her palms until pain reminds her where and who she is: part of the human race, linked to life as a mother, wife, lover, one who has nurtured, comforted, protected. Gender binds her to approximately fifty percent of the human race, fifty percent who should resist what the film warns could be the world's approaching annihilation, the cold clicking of the nuclear clock. Her pain dulls slightly. She breathes deeply and concentrates on the side walk.

Mundane but necessary details of her life filter in as a temporary haven. She’s a writer, has readings, deadlines to say nothing of the endless myriad of homemaking responsibilities. She set this morning aside, apart from career and family, only to feel now that the film’s prognosis could destroy both, the kaleidoscope patterns of her life shattering into small plastic-coloured pieces at her feet.

In exasperation, she discovers she has walked full circle, past her parked car and around the block back to the library. By this afternoon, her children will be home from high school, full of anecdotes, impending deadlines, hopes, frustrations. As she retraces her steps and turns on the car ignition, the film narrator's voice intrudes.

You will be indeed fortunate if you are with your loved ones.

The sound of the car engine pushes the voice back. Tonight is one of the few times they will all be together, the end of the school and work week.

Turning into her driveway, their solid brick house seems suddenly frail. She ignores the relentless attention of two cats and an aging dog, retreats to her third floor office and types in Doomsday clock. Thirty years ago is not now. She needs to know. Google dutifully co-operates with an interminable list of articles and prophecies about current nuclear buildup and political unrest. She has less than an hour before her family arrives home.

In a recent article in The Washington Post, Dan Zak tells her that “according to International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, the detonation of 100 nuclear warheads — there are about 15,000 on the planet right now — could kill 2 billion people.”

Peter their eldest, will arrive on his motorcycle, tired and work-worn from a job he plans to endure until he can finance more education. He’ll harangue the cost of fuel, his perceived necessities, how they deplete his bank account, threaten his future.

Hillary Clinton has warned that trigger-happy Trump is liable to press the nuclear button. According to Zac “there is no button. It’s a briefcase that follows the US president everywhere: onto Air Force One, onto the golf course, onto elevators. Inside is a manual for conducting nuclear war. A how-to in case of. The briefcase is aluminum, 45 pounds and clad in leather.”* 

Andy in grade twelve, will burst in, rapid firing the day's events, complaining about demands of his part-time job, wanting assurance about taking a year off to work before leaving for university and architecture.

“Carrying the briefcase is a job shared among five military aides, one from each branch of the U.S. armed forces. The manual inside is more like a takeout menu, but instead of picking between numbered Chinese dishes, the president would choose cities or military installations in, say, Russia or China (or both) to attack.”

Kathleen, the youngest, unaware of the beauty radiating from her youthful body, the power and perception of her own mind, will alternately ask advice and parade independence. No definite plans, only endless possibilities.

“It’s more complicated in real life, but not less scary. To authorize an attack, the president would use a card of verification codes that is, ideally, on his person at all times. The briefcase is referred to as “the football,” the card as “the biscuit.”

Margaret returns downstairs to peel potatoes, concentrate on oven temperature and table setting. Right on cue, all three children storm into the kitchen, depositing belongings in her work path, full of demanding chatter: vibrant glowing bodies, reflections of herself, her husband, their own uniqueness. Margaret drinks it all in, asks too many questions, hugs each once too often. One by one, they ask her quietly if she's had a bad day. Can they do anything to help? 

“At the president’s disposal right now are a little over 900 nuclear warheads deployed on various “delivery vehicles” around the planet. Some sit atop missiles buried in the ground in Montana, North Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska and Colorado. Some are carried by submarines that are patrolling the North Atlantic and Western Pacific. Others are ready to be loaded onto aircraft in Missouri, North Dakota, Belgium, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands and Turkey.”

Margaret has pushed her pain into a tight ball and secured it but, at the touch of a warm hand on her shoulder or the sound of a concerned whisper in her ear, it threatens to escape. She laughs a lot, rough-houses Kathleen, pretends she’s fine. Several times their youthful exuberance is almost more than she can bear. Self control may well be sanity’s bottom line.

“Some of these warheads can be launched within minutes of the president’s order, hit anywhere in the world within a half hour, and deliver 20 times the explosive force of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The president can order this without consulting Congress, without being checked by the Supreme Court.”

She locks herself in the bathroom and turning on both taps, sobs into a towel. Later, face splashed pain clean, she calls shakily up the stairs that she’s going to pick up Russell at the commuter bus, home after a week in the city. Andy's loud rock station provides a convenient diversion. She knows they sense her inner turbulence and have retreated to their respective rooms.

The resplendent afternoon has dwindled into a dour grey evening. Russell is tired and says little on the way home. His 'how are you' and kiss on the cheek turns her instantly into a plastic mannequin whose tough exterior emanates anger masquerading hidden pain. Why, when she is turmoil, does she want least comfort? As if she needs pain and hoards it, embellishes it. Margaret translates Russell's silence into indifference.

“There have been a number of almost mistakes. In 1961, a B-52 bomber broke up over North Carolina and dropped two warheads to the earth; each had the potential to explode with the force of 200-plus Hiroshimas.”

Once home, the children rush down to kidnap Russell’s attention. Margaret bangs things in the kitchen, pretending she doesn't mind. She’s draining pasta when Kathleen bursts in with 'look what Dad's brought you'. Flowers from a street side vendor hidden in his briefcase. The lurch in her chest makes half the spaghetti slide into the sink.

Kathleen hands her the bouquet and, steering her toward the cupboard for a vase, tells her she’ll take over in the kitchen. Margaret knows she’s close to losing control. She lectures herself with the ‘good home, kind husband, healthy children, successful author’ lecture. Once in the dining room with the flowers, she notices a bottle of wine on the table. Russell, outwardly unresponsive, is still wonderfully kind and generous. She hasn't even combed her hair or put on lipstick. She could still but, instead, pours a glass of wine and sits down.

“In 1979, Carter’s national security adviser, Zbigniew Brzezinski, was told that hundreds of missiles were on their way from the Soviet Union; a minute before he called the president to coordinate a devastating response, he was told that the military had misinterpreted a training exercise.”
 In the living room, Russell and the boys carry on their usual frenetic conversation, Peter, on one side, into serious details concerning motorcycles while Andy, on the other, pontificates a Chemistry problem. Russell always seems to enjoy this, the back and forth bantering, a three way verbal fencing match.

Kathleen calls from the kitchen that she needs assistance and, moments later,  Margaret's family stream in around her gallantly bearing the feast. They never ask directly but they always seem to sense her fragility. Margaret can’t be sure whether it’s their astuteness or her transparency. The children have seen the film - Kathleen said she and Andy watched it at school earlier that week. They survived. Why can't she?

“In 1983 and 1995, Moscow came within minutes of retaliating against false alarms — the first prompted by sunlight reflecting off clouds, the second by a NASA research rocket.”

She knows she’s too quiet at supper but her quiescence lets Russell monopolize the children. She feels their energy wash over him, watches him drawn into spirited discussions and rivalry. It soothes her, a momentary respite.

Afterward, Russell builds a fire in the Franklin stove and turns on the radio. On Friday nights, their ceremony involves sitting a guarded distance from one another,  each recounting the week's events, putting out silent antennae to re-establish a relationship polarized by the week's separation.

“In 2007, six warheads were mistakenly flown from North Dakota to Louisiana before anyone realized that nuclear weapons had been in the air over the United States.”

Still Margaret says nothing about the film, and Russell, sensing her self-imposed distancing, retreats into the newspaper. She watches him, his strong features, large sensuous mouth - she’s adored him since they first met. Adored, and at times, hated him, often at the same time for the same reasons. He still has such a pull on her, even after thirty-three years.

“The Doomsday Clock, a symbolic estimation of global peril, has ticked closer to the midnight of Armageddon since 2010. It was six minutes to midnight then. In 2012, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved the clock to five minutes to midnight. In 2013, to three.” Since Trump and Kim Jong-un have begun sparring, two and a half.

The fluid-voiced radio announcer says twelve cellists from the Berlin Philharmonic will play the Beatles' Yesterday, a taped concert with the audience clapping passionately as soon as they recognize the piece. She can see them - twelve cellists of international stature, alone on stage, twelve sets of strings in plaintive ritual, the voice of humanity. As the piece ends, audience response is tumultuous.

Margaret stares at the crackling fire licking seductively at the blackening wood. Why are they clapping? Music is nothing but a drug to lull them, art a distraction from death’s reality. The artist, and she includes herself, is no more than a propagator of lies, lulling a humanity that could, within minutes, turn into indifferent gasses, mutilation.

The cellos begin again. She drifts into their melancholy. A piece of wood snaps violently, sending a spark through the grate. Margaret jumps up to snuff it out and is impaled by sound and flame.

To be instantly dead. To be vaporized. But no, she would be burned and blinded, left groping through the rubble. Cold, sleet, wet snow. The sound of pain everywhere. Death dancing off to one side, mocking burned flesh, protruding bones.

The cellos play on, tripping across notes until audience applause and the commentator's voice pull her back into the room.

Russell looks up from his reading. "Going to sit down again?" His voice runs down her spine but the pain tells her that loving him right now is weakness.

"Margaret?"

She sinks down against his male presence, momentarily aware that the film's finality may not be inevitable, that this reality is still possible.

He places his hand on her knee and runs it up the inside of her leg, turning her pain to instant lust. She wants to ravage him right there on the couch. Impossible, of course, as the children could appear at any moment. Lust snaps back to pain and a voice reminds her she is not worthy of enjoyment, happiness, that her purgatory has not yet played out.

"Let's go to bed." He’s either unaware of the shift or ignores it.

"I should let the dog out."

As they stand, Russell grasps her shoulders firmly, gazes at her. "I love you," he says quietly, then disappears up the stairs. Numbness has set in, her body's reaction to anguish overload. She’s tired and it’s too heavy. 

Margaret stands in the doorway watching the dog sniff his way into the evening's damp grass. An over-ripe moon hangs low on the horizon, the sky star-speckled. From the doorway, she watches his dark form move along the front hedge, faintly hears TV sounds from inside. The children have stayed home this evening - must be a good movie. She whistles for the dog but he’s ignoring her, on nightly patrol.

That a two hour film should have such an effect on her is irrational. Is she going mad? Middle aged women do that sort of thing - one of the escape hatches. To escape what: A wonderful husband, three talented vibrant children, continuing book sales, a good middle-class life with more love, more comfort than she ever dreamed of as a child?

No. To escape herself, though at this point, she is not ready to admit it, that invisible line of black pain that shadows wherever she goes, whatever she does. It tags onto things, situations, people, wrenching her into knots, distorting reality. The film is exactly the kind of thing it feeds on.

She turns on the porch light and steps outside, listening to the TV’s drone, the dog sniffing somewhere in a distant flowerbed. She imagines Russell's body outlined under the sheets, waiting. You will indeed be fortunate if you are with your loved ones. The pain snaps and she spins into it again. It would be best if it happened now while they are together in the house. They could comfort each other. Ridiculous because nothing is going to happen. She’s locked into a mental pattern that insists she must simulate pain in order to fully understand. Understand what and why?

Physical pain for herself she can manage, being acquainted with its power, something to be endured, fought against, ultimately mastered. But this pain would be for everyone - her own beautiful children, almost grown, yet a mere breath from being infants gazing with trusting eyes. She thinks of children clustered around her feet at libraries and schools, so easily enraptured by fantasies she spins for them.

Thousands of faces watching, waiting. Their bones to litter a dead earth gone mad in pursuit of power.

The sound of a piano sonata drifts now into the night air, Kathleen playing the piano. One of life’s miracles, watching talent spring from her children, abilities she can only dream of. Notes drift through the darkness to surround her, demanding she acknowledge the life flowing through them - Kathleen's young arms, strong fingers, the dip and scratch of a pen transcribing the original manuscript - all reborn through the yellowed keys of their old upright. Kathleen, woman-child sitting at the piano, nurtured and loved, waiting for life to begin.

Only the blackened ivories of the piano remain, askew against a projecting section of the stone foundation. The pen, the sound, the hand swallowed like the ozone layer, evaporated into a cold, dead earth.

The wind picks up and a sharp gust chills her face, throwing dead leaves in drunken swirls across the light-streaked lawn. Calling the dog again, she moves into shadow, squints to locate his moving form. In the back corner of the yard where autumn-weary flowers lay flattened in their beds, she sees the dog’s tail thumping furiously. At the sound of her footsteps, he turns to nose her legs, his body rippling with anticipation. “What is it?” she says, giving his back a pat. “Find a treasure?” He dives forward again and she bends over to see he’s discovered a small lifeless form. “It’s dead,” she says, turning away. “Come on, now, time to go in.” The dog noses her again, bends toward the small lifeless shape.

A dead bird on the blackened earth.

She stands impaled like a moth, staring at the thing. She could get a shovel and bury or leave it. What difference will it make? Drawn by the dog’s seeming urgency, she bends down to take a closer look and notices a slight opening and closing of its yellow-edged beak. She picks it up, cupping her hand around its faint heartbeat, a fall migration casualty, survival only for the fittest.

Margaret has rescued birds before, more than she cares to remember, but always in the spring or early summer when baskets or boxes can be rigged on clothes lines or window ledges. She can't take it in the house, not with two cats, not this time of year.

She walks toward bushes alongside the house, the dog following close behind. Light from the window spills onto the lawn, the branches black beneath. If she leaves the bird underneath this thick foliage, it will be out of wind and rain to survive or not. As she tips her hand under the bush, the bird, which to this point has remained perfectly still and listless, clamps its overly-long claws around her finger. She pushes gently with her other hand. The grip increases.

"I can't take you inside," she says, pulling her hand back, staring at its small grey body. The bird opens hooded lids, staring back. Something snaps then, like a door opening unexpectedly, its back draft dissolving the afternoon’s apocalypse, closing to restore sanity. 

The bird opens and closes its beak again, more precisely this time. "All right," Margaret whispers, "you win," and only after she tucks the bird inside her open jacket, will it release its claws from her finger to rest in her hand. For tonight, she’ll make a place for it in the basement furnace room. With luck, tomorrow it will be able to fly.

The visceral effects of the film have slipped back into the screen, the Doomsday clock’s ticking lost in the night wind. Just before reaching the porch, over Kathleen’s piano chords and the TV’s drone, Margaret hears a faint chirping that resonates into her fingertips.

*

Quotes from Dan Zak’s article “Nervous About Nukes Again? Here’s What You Need to Know About The Button. (There is no button)” 3 August 2016 The Washington Post. 

Linda Hutsell-Manning has eleven published children’s books as well as short fiction and poetry in Grain, Quarry, lichen, Litwit Review, Prairie Journal Trust & The Danforth Review. Her latest novel is That Summer in Franklin, Second Story Press. In 2017, a play, A Certain Singing Teacher, was premiered; “Finding Moufette”, a children’s story,  published online, Common Deer Press and an excerpt from her memoir re teaching in a one room school in the 1960's, published in Hill Spirits III by Blue Denim Press. She is currently completing this memoir.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

TDR's 2018 Journey Prize Submissions

TDR has submitted three stories to the 2018 Writers' Trust / McClelland & Stewart Journey Prize:
Fingers crossed! And best wishes to all involved in this process.


Sunday, January 7, 2018

Fiction #76

New fiction! Issue #76
Submissions now open for #77!

Special thanks to all who have been submitting. Enjoy.