Crack the Spine Literary Magazine

January 11, 2018| ISSUE no 247 Literary Magazine crack the spine Poetry Ken Massicotte Randi Lee Short Fiction John Waterfall Orit Yeret ISSN 2474-9095 Cover Art Dave Petraglia Flash Fiction Khalilah Okeke Jessica Rigby Micro Fiction Andrew O. Dugas Hector of Troy Communes with Scott Norwood in the Afterlife short fiction by John Waterfall This is not what I expected. Not death I mean. I expected that. The way it happened too. Me like a fool running in circles with that ingrate on my heels. Not the way I wanted it but, you know, I gave it a shake. Almost got him too, but that spear. Wide right. Could of sworn I had it lined up. Achilles, lined up, black against the sun, scrambling, a bowlegged dog, panting, angry panting and me, halfcocked ready to send a spear into his rage-hoarse gullet. It doesn’t matter now, as he drags me into viscera around my home, but he really is a fat pig. Just fat and muscle and stupid stupid pig brains. A thoughtless fist to grind the civilizations of the world into dust. Who would conspire to make such a thing? Gods, of course. Not that I should trend towards impiety now but… I mean… I really did a lot of things right. Didn’t I? I loved my wife. I loved my son. Poor little Astyanax. In death I see too much. I see the moment of decision when they chuck his fat little body off the wall. Thanks gods. I have to say. If I could have done it again, I would have spent far more of my time raving at you lot atop the wall, exposing my buttocks and farting at your holy mountain. Because here I am now, aforementioned viscera, with strange visions of the afterlife. The war does not end. It somehow expands. A giant….amphitheater of sorts. A large green battlefield. It really does look nice. A manicured emerald to dwarf all of our dusty arenas. There is a system to it. Indecipherable to me. Whoops! Bump there. Drive straight you murderous ninny! White lines with…ciphers?…. numbers, all along both sides. If this is my eternity I’ll have time to figure it out. Gods. The people. A sea of them surround the fight. We’ve somehow multiplied in constant death. Some wine-dark, some white. Which are we? White. Yes that seems right. Apollo appropriate. Lusty cur that one. Just ask my sister. There’s some sort of bull on our helmets. A small battalion of our boys lined up against theirs. And look at this! The people are mingling in this gargantuan mass. White and wine-dark mixing in strangling proximity. How far in the future is this? The tongues are strange, there seem to be tiny suns all around the top of this arena…whatever this place is. Perhaps the years have rendered our eternal war into a mockery. A positive feedback loop of what’s been done on my shores. See how they stop everything each minute and reset. How strange this all is. Gods I hate you. Remember that when my fat little boy reaches you. Or reaches here. Maybe he’ll be that brown roundish thing the soldiers are bandying about. My little boy tossed around for eternity. You know I can’t really describe the shape, It’s like a melon sized…olive… but brown and pointier on both ends. Sometimes our side throws it or runs with it and sometimes the wine-dark greeks do. By turns I think. The goal is to move this object to the other end while the other side tries to beat you. I don’t really get it. At least no one has died yet despite all the pummels. This vision would be a lot clearer if this mongrel knew how to drive a chariot. Then he could better desecrate me. Look at him howling at my wife and father in victory. It’s been two hours and he’s still not bored. I wish they’d leave, no reason to watch this anymore. It’s not unfaithful. I must be supremely dead at this point. All glory consumed in this singular shame. He’d be good at this game, Achilles. As opposed to what? Landscaping painting. Or course he would be. It’s not fair. What does this mean. The staccato back and forth, the screaming, and yes, laughing. Cruel gods you’ve crushed us into parody. I’m sure you’re up there watching this self replicating war. It’s finally become fun. Bastards. And look something’s happening. A skinny man is walking to the field. His shoulders are slumped. They’ve placed the ball at his feet. An offering? But this man is no soldier no prince no champion. All eyes are drawn to him, a weakling focal point for the rangy wild minds of this comedy. We line up to defend him as he prepares to do something. There’s something on his back. Something on all their backs. A different sequence of symbols. Names? How odd. Yet this man, I can sense his presence. He looks backwards in time at me. Almost sees me. Norwood. Yes. His name. Oh you poor bastard. He kicks the strange brown object just as the Wine-Darks bull rush. It tumbles, end over end, its destination the space between two bright yellow poles. How do I know this? Achilles is cutting me loose now, pointing to the sand where friction and ground have conspired to squish my genitals into red murk. The object is curving, fluttering in the gusting wind. Of course. Of course. The space where evil lives. The dead center that can never be struck, is not allowed to be struck. Norwood knows it. I can see it in the language of his knees. Don’t worry friend. It happens to the best of us. Outside the Flags Sarah woke up on the beach, her body blazed from an Australian afternoon, afro-curls caked in sand, the taste of salt in her mouth. Waves shook her ears like the echoing pangs of a hangover. She massaged the pressure - fingers came back sticky with clumps of hair, bald patches oozed from the crown of her scalp. Sarah stood up on a neon orange beach towel, cupped a jeweled hand above her brow, and skimmed the horizon for Patrick. The surf was murky like muddy windows, clouds steamed and crept in, a heavy rain began to fall. She spotted his board floating unattended, and the crimson pool unspooled around it. When they pulled him from the crest, there was nothing left, most of him departed in the sea. Sarah watched the paddle out ceremony from a slope on the sand dunes - hidden behind poaceae grasses and saltbushes. A shadow of men lined up on the water’s edge, surfboards tucked beneath strong arms, wetsuits glimmered like eel skins. Patrick’s urn was strapped to the nose of a thruster—sacred beacon glittering in the mist.They battled into the breaks, duck diving swells, reached calm waters and formed a circle. “Wait,” she whispered, tumbling down the embankment, legs waterlogged, throat shattered like crushed ice. Unable to rise, Sarah inched toward the drifting funeral—her head a pulsating vein, memories bruised and fading. She dragged herself through sand, squashing the pink blooms of pigfaces, seashells crunched beneath her knees as she crawled closer. The man who bore the urn lifted a conch horn to his mouth and blew, a tide thrashed in and whisked Sarah off the shore. Its undertow trawled her across barnacled rocks, serrating skin, before spouting out what remained of her flesh into the eye of the prayer ring. Familiar faces gazed down at her, the men looked but she remained unseen. A whirlpool swirled around her, gained momentum - formed a swallowing cocoon. “Please,” she gasped, arms flailed as she splattered ocean water. Patrick raised the shell trumpet to his lips once more, summoned the heavens with its rushing call—tossed her ashes into the sea. flash fiction by Khalilah Okeke poetry by Ken Massicotte They think I am crazy because here it is so very hot because here it is 120 degrees everyone looks for shade and I walk twenty kilometres a day alone in the desert looking for beauty. I am sixty-three a refugee I was a road surveyor in Yemen but my problem was when I was young I was very handsome more handsome than you! I was very handsome but I was very soft God made me very soft that was my problem. They think I’m crazy because here there are so many complaints we have death and so much disease but I continue to hope you can come to my tent to my garden you will find me where the birds are singing where you see the green shoots the small white flowers you will be surprised when you see so many birds. And I will show you something look! A silver sword! I keep it oiled so it shines I have skulls and dolls’ arms a shell stamped USA an eagle’s face you can see in the blackened wood. God made me very soft and here there is one man he walks naked with the goats picking at garbage he lost everything everything! when the planes came like haboob in the bombing raid his wife and children dead, dead his house broken brick and dust he’s too alone and can’t speak nobody knows his name he is the solitaire I help him because he has nobody, nothing. See my cage, I tell you there were two birds here and a third bird came I was looking at him and his eyes said to me he is very sad he is crying and so I said I free the both of you for the sake of God. And I didn’t know the American came and I didn’t know how can I greet him? I have no gifts so in the desert near the blue wet stones I caught two hud-huds and when he came to this camp I let them go and said greeting you across the seven valleys and let the prophets soar. And you know I saw him smiling he’s keeping something for me you can believe it! maybe one day he will collect me I don’t know maybe soon…. he’s ambassador! *After Nicolas Niarchos: NPR, The New Yorker Radio Hour: A Homemade Museum in a Refugee Camp. Some partial quotes in italics. Near the Blue  Wet Stones Between photos, Angela picked up a flat stone and snapped it across the pond. Three good skips before it sank. "Very impressive," Pierre said. He too chose a stone and flicked it. Five skips. "Ha ha! I win!" He winked at Angela. "And what will be my prize, I wonder?" Angela sighed. Pierre's perfect hair and white tux couldn't disguise his inner assholiness. "Everything is a competition with you." "What? I cannot throw a stone too?" The photographer called for their attention. "Yes, but at our wedding?" "It's not my fault if you picked a bad stone. Now smile." micro fiction by Andrew O. Dugas Stones Monday morning, 6:00 a.m. The sound of a garbage truck backing up in the alley underneath Prince’s window. Prince jumps out of bed in a panic. Without putting on shoes or pants, he storms out of his fourth-floor apartment window and climbs down the fire escape. As he makes his way down, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection—his hair is messy, his face unshaven, and there’s a fresh cut above his right eye that, for the moment, has stopped bleeding. The city that never sleeps seems to be under some kind of spell—half-dazed, half-awake—much like Prince’s current situation, only he is on the move. Skipping the stairs, two at a time, he waves at the sanitation workers who have already started loading up the truck. “Wait! Wait!” he shouts, begging, as he makes his way down. “Please!” His pleas become louder as he approaches them. The two workers stare at him, puzzled. They are wearing long, dark-green overalls with reflective lights. Prince is wearing a white T-shirt and pinstripe boxers. He is now in front of them, trying to catch his breath, crunched down, resting his palms on his knees. “Whew!” he exclaims as he inhales heavily. “That was quite a run,” says one of the sanitation workers. “What happened? Lose something?” the second worker says and starts to laugh. “As a matter of fact…” Prince begins to talk, slowly. “Yes! Did you happen to see an old bedside table…red wood…sort of vintage-looking…only has one drawer…” Prince looks around. “Haven’t seen it,” one of them says. “Anything inside, Marco?” he calls out to the other worker, who goes to check the truck. “Nope!” Marco replies. “Sorry, man,” the worker says, and starts rolling the trash bin toward the truck. “Hey!” Prince stops him. “Wait a minute…” He notices the worker’s nametag. “Luke.” Luke and Prince now stand on opposite sides of the trash bin. “Yo! What’s the holdup?” Marco yells from the truck. “You have to help me out, man.” Prince holds his head with both hands. “I don’t know what to do!” He stares at Luke with a desperate look in his eyes. “What’s the problem here?” Marco steps out of the truck and approaches them. He examines Prince from top to bottom and then turns to Luke. “Junkie?” Luke throws his hands in the air. Prince is now pacing back and forth, barefoot, in the dirty alley. Marco signals Prince to calm down. “We’re not looking for any trouble here; just let us do our job.” “You don’t understand!” Prince says. “It was in there… It was in there and now it’s gone!” Luke and Marco exchange a confused glance. “Sorry, man.” Marco then says, “Whatever it was, there’s nothing we can do.” Luke and Marco start rolling the trash bin toward the truck again. “Please!” Prince cries out. “You have to help me!” He falls on his knees. “Oh, shit…” Marco says. “What the fuck, man?” He turns to Luke. “Get the fuck up, man!” he says to Prince, but Prince doesn’t move and keeps saying, “Please.” Marco backs up and changes places with Luke. “Calm down, man,” Luke says to Prince in a soothing voice. “Get up. Come on.” Prince listens to Luke and stands up. “What’s so important about that table?” Luke asks, taking off his gloves. “My dad’s watch… It was in there…” Prince stifles his tears. “And?” Marco intervenes. Prince stares at the two of them for a moment. “This is a waste of time,” Marco says to Luke, but Luke continues to look at Prince without moving. “And…” Prince finally says, “He died a year ago, and that’s all I have of him…that watch.” “Pshh,” Marco makes a noise and averts his gaze. “Sorry to hear that, man,” Luke replies sympathetically. “So why would you throw the table away?” Marco jumps in again. “I didn’t!” Prince replies angrily. “My…” he hesitates, “…boyfriend did.” “Okay.” Marco holds his hands up. “To each their own, that’s what I always say.” “So why would he…?” Marco starts again, but Luke signals him to be quiet. “We sort of got into a fight last night.” Prince paces in place and rubs his forehead. He accidently touches the cut above his eye and makes a face as he feels the burn. “And that’s his handiwork?” Luke points at the bruise on Prince’s face. “Not intentionally,” Prince explains. “He threw a book at me—my book, actually—and it hit my head… Anyway, it’s all my fault.” “Oh, good…more to the story.” Marco taps on his wristwatch to indicate to Luke they need to get moving. “We’re on a schedule, you know,” he says to Luke. “What happened?” Luke asks Prince, curious. “I…cheated on him…during my latest book tour.” Prince looks away, embarrassed to meet their eyes. “It’s not like I planned it… It happened. He found out and…as you can see, all hell broke loose.” Prince points at the trash bins, which Marco and Luke notice are filled with clothes, broken dishes, and a shattered mirror. Marco fishes out the pieced mirror from the bin. “Seven years of bad luck,” he mumbles. Luke nudges his arm as a sign to keep silent. Prince comes closer to the bins. “What a mess…” he sighs. “Truth is, I don’t care about all of this,” he points at the bins, “but the watch—it’s all I have…all I had. He knew I kept it there.” He begins talking to himself angrily. “He knew it, and that’s why he did it…to hurt me.” “Like you hurt him,” Luke says all of a sudden. Surprised the words came out of his mouth, Marco and Prince stare at him. “What?” Luke mumbles, “I can deduce things too.” “Hey, buddy.” Marco turns to Luke with a smile. “No one said you can’t.” Marco tosses the broken pieces into the bin and comes closer to Prince. “Like I said,” Marco puts his right hand over his heart, “there’s nothing we can do… It’s Monday morning, after the weekend…” Marco wipes off his forehead. “There’s lots of trash, lots of trucks around town… Sometimes we do three, four rounds before noon.” Marco turns to look at Luke, who nods at him in approval. “But you have to,” Prince begs again and, in a desperate move, clutches Marco’s overalls. Marco removes his hand with a swift move. “Like I said, sir,” Marco continues, “there’s nothing we can do. Start loading up,” he says to Luke, turns his back to Prince, and walks away in the direction of the driver’s seat. “Please,” Prince tries to appeal to Luke, who is now wheeling the trash bin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Luke says to Prince. “I know,” Prince scratches his head. “I didn’t mean to…” Prince points to Marco’s direction. “Not that,” Luke explains, “your boyfriend—you shouldn’t have hurt him like you did.” Prince looks at him, shocked. “You’re right, I was an asshole. Shit, I am an asshole.” Prince paces back and forth, just now realizing his feet are cold and wet. Luke stops wheeling the bin and lifts his head to locate Marco. “This watch,” he then turns to Prince, “why is it so important to you?” “I told you, it was my dad’s…” Prince explains. “And he passed away, yeah, yeah,” Luke intervenes, “but it’s not just that, is it?” Luke comes closer to Prince. “See, if it were just that, you wouldn’t be running down the street in your underwear at 6:00 a.m., probably suffering from a concussion, by the look of this bruise, digging your feet in yesterday’s trash, now, would you?” Prince’s face tightens. “What on earth do you mean? It’s the memory, of course.” Luke stares at him severely. “All right.” Prince finally breaks down. “You got me. It’s worth a lot of money, like a lot, a lot…the only good thing I got out of that man. You know he disowned me when I told him I wanted to be a writer? Yeah…and when I came out? He told me I was not his son anymore.” Prince pounds his chest. “That damn watch,” Prince continues, “worth a couple of grand…enough to get me by for a while…I need it!” Prince recites with fire in his eyes. “Now, now,” Luke steps away with a satisfied grin. He attaches the trash bin to the truck’s metal arms. There is a loud noise as the bin is mounted and the trash piles on the truck. There are sounds of glass and china being further reduced and crunched together into tiny pieces. “So, what do you say?” Prince shouts over the noise toward Luke. “Will you help me? I’ll split the profits with you, promise.” Luke smiles at Prince as he lowers the empty trash bin. “You know, people look down on us…because of what we do…” Luke wheels the bin back to its location. “But what they don’t realize…is that we know all their secrets.” Luke winks at Prince and walks over to the truck. He grabs hold of the metal arm and jumps up; he taps the back of the truck twice. “You have a good day now, sir.” Luke salutes Prince as the truck pulls away from the alley and into the city street. Trash Day short fiction by Orit Yeret Valentine, Victorious If any person had witnessed the events taking place at 6 Mulberry street, apartment 102 on October 8th from 7:53 pm until 8:04pm they would have thought Valentine a dud of a dog. After all, isn’t it the duty of any dog to protect her home and her people? Yet Valentine was quietly observing as an individual picked the door lock and entered. She remained unnoticed in the shadows as the figure, hooded and dressed in black scuttled about collecting valuables and stuffing them into his sack. When Valentine did move, she avoided clicking her claws on the hard wood floor. Valentine didn’t even bark when, at 8:05, the burglar headed for the door. However, the burglar stopped cold as he found himself face to face with a large and rather intimidating German Shepard. Imagine the shock of human resident of 6 Mulberry street, apartment 102, when he returned home at 10:16 to discover the door wide open and Valentine, triumphant, between a burglar and his escape. flash fiction by Jessica Rigby It’s the only picture I will ever own of you. I saved it from mom’s ire, her rage and anomy, Her violence and her vodka. I kept it, secretly— Bound in a box and wound up with a little brass turnkey. Listen, careful, will you, dad, to its melody? It plays like this: You are that You you were, before the morphine raped you; Before hell itself persuaded, invaded and betrayed you. Subtract the call to arms, Agent Orange, catch twenty-two. Dusty glass preserves, protects, this clever boy’s sinew. Absently, I see why people were so puzzled by you; Drawn to your song despite themselves, never breaking through. Poised as you are, teetering, on the incongruity Of being neither man, nor boy; caught, inequitably, Between uncharted power, and utter vulnerability. My heart turns and folds at the look in your eyes: Pleading, yet full of hope; framed by shadows, slow receding. Over the years, your face becomes leaner, harder, deep— —That of a man who must grit his teeth and clamp down Just to keep himself in check and in control, Dad. Aye. Life takes its toll, Dad. I run my fingers along the tin that frames your emblazoned hair. The green of yours eyes spills over, accentuating that fragile air You hid so well. As to contain them, I bring my fingers to your eyes. With a familiar rush, I think of how they always regard mine: As if you see the hollow space inside me, The parody, the façade. I, so caught in its windswept middle, Fettered, in homage, to an implacable god. This is the You I love the best; the only You I wish to know: The You who flew above the moon; who benumbed fire and melted snow. Before red hair was swept away, before succumbing to decay, Before their war, her booze, your blood, this strife, Before that horrible, insufferable night when the chariots claimed you And snatched you from sight. With fire, compassion, this You pierces through me. You’re the unabridged You I always wanted You to be. You are simple. You smile. You’re subtle. You’re free! Now, Dad, you’re all life has left you to be: The wreck of a toy ship trapped in a still pool, Bereft and renounced to weeds. Framed poetry by Randi Lee Andrew O. Dugas Andrew O. Dugas’s work has appeared in 100 Word Story, Unlikely Stories, Instant City, LITNIMAGE, Mixer, and many other places. His novel “Sleepwalking in Paradise” was published by Numina Press in June 2014. There is a fair to middling chance he mailed you or someone you know a haiku on a postcard. Randi Lee Randi Lee is a writer, a mother, a dog lover, a friend, a creator, and a real life NPC. Ken Massicotte Ken Massicotte lives in Hamilton (The Hammer), Ontario. He has published in several journals, including: Wilderness House Literary Review, Gray Sparrow, Poetry Quarterly, Ginosko, Crack the Spine, Matador, Sleet, and Easy Street. Khalilah Okeke Khalilah Okeke was raised in the Pacific Northwest and now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Down in the Dirt magazine, The Red Eft Review, The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal, and The Plum Tree Tavern. Dave Petraglia A Best Small Fictions 2015 Winner, Dave Petraglia’s writing and art has appeared in Bartleby Snopes, bohemianizm, Cheap Pop, Crab Fat, Crack the Spine, Five:2:One, Foliate Oak, Gambling the Aisle, Gravel, Hayden’s Ferry, matchbook, Medium, McSweeney’s, Mojave River Review, Necessary Fiction, North American Review, Per Contra, Points in Case, Prairie Schooner, Popular Science, Razed, SmokeLong Quarterly, and others. His blog is at www.davepetraglia.com Jessica Rigby Jessica Rigby is a part-time college student and a full-time thinker. Her main studies, both in life and university, are creative writing and traditional photography. She has had works published in The Cliffhanger, Gandy Dancer and Nota Bene. John Waterfall John Waterfall is a writer living in Manhattan and a MFA candidate at the New School. His interests include genre fiction, literature about animals and The Hold Steady. A proud father of two cats and one on-the-way baby girl. After receiving a BA in English from Boston University and a MFA in filmmaking from the New York Film Academy, John worked as a screenwriter and bookseller. Orit Yeret Orit Yeret writes short prose and poetry. Originally from Israel, she currently lives in New Haven, CT. In addition to writing, she engages with various forms of art such as painting and photography. Her work recently appeared in the Borfski Press and Ink Pantry, and is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys and Evening Street Press.       Contributors Poetry Editors Michelle Donfrio Olivia Kiers Short Fiction Editors Laura Huey Chamberlain Jacob Guajardo Creative Non-Fiction Editor Suke Cody Editor-in-Chief Kerri Farrell Foley Flash Fiction Editor Preston Taylor Stone Crack the Spine Staff WWW.CRACKTHESPINE.COM BECOME A MEMBER OF CRACK THE SPINE CRACK THE SPINE LITERARY MAGAZINE