Karla M. Jay
Mar 14, 2016 | Women's, 1st pages
Ashes to Ashes
That hazy August morning the humid breeze smelled of grass and something swampy. Cicadas buzzed in the nearby woods increasing the intensity of their drone, raising their pitch with each line the mercury climbed.
Already turning into a hell of a day, I pushed through the screen door of the Ash Country Store and Souvenirs looking for another human being. But the place looked empty. Then just as I turned to leave, the linoleum creaked behind me.
“You want a rattlesnake tail?” said a muscled storekeeper in overalls who approached the front counter.
“What did you say?” I asked, thinking I’d heard him wrong.
He wore a grease-smeared shirt and a scowl he’d probably been born with. Hulking over a gray-speckled countertop, he picked up a crossword puzzle and turned his attention to the page.
Without looking up he repeated, “I said, do you want a rattlesnake tail?”
“I’ll pass,” I said. “Just directions to Tungston, please. Apparently it’s around here.”
Here’s the thing. I was already irritated. I was tired and frazzled from driving cross country. In a moment of humility I reminded myself about my plans in coming here. I wanted to establish a place to live, albeit short-term, while I searched for my parents. My biological parents.
He ignored my question and asked me another: “Which high school you from?”
High school? “I just graduated college. Grad school to be exact.” I tried hard not to sound bitchy. I didn’t want to come across as unfriendly. I was here to find connections, not create barriers.
“Sorry.” He continued writing, head down. “Just saying. You look about 16.”
“Really?” I raised my hands in a what-the-hell gesture. “Because I’m short?”
“Yup.”
When I was 13, my grandfather on my mother’s side got throat cancer and had his larynx removed. He spent five frustrating years trying to get people to understand his buzzing speech, those mechanical tones amplified through a hand-held throat vibrator. It wasn’t until he lay in his coffin that he finally looked relieved.
I hit college and became obsessed with every aspect of retraining people to talk – from fixing broken language, unraveling mangled speech, to helping people with no speech – words frozen in the nerve bundles, unable to move toward a mouth, opening and closing, a dying mackerel with no word flow. I couldn’t fix Grandpa, but I’d made a vow to his memory to repair everyone else.
If only I had spent as much time learning to follow directions.
My trip had gone well according to Google Maps until about an hour ago when my phone lost its signal. That’s when the road signs disappeared altogether, and the trees pressed closer, their branches interweaving above the road, narrowing it down to a two-lane strip of spider-veined tarmac. Verdaphobia. If it wasn’t a real word to describe the fear of tight, green spaces, then I’d just created it.
I studied the store’s sagging interior. The aisles narrow, floorboards warped, shelves loaded with jars – jars filled with what I assumed must be stewed squirrel, pickled tadpoles or something equally inedible. “Nice place. Quaint and homey.”
He squinted my way. “As an FYI. Rattlers are hard to catch.”
I took a moment to search for words. “I can only imagine.”
“Great souvenir for folks in California.”
He’d read my license plate. I smiled. “You do look up once in a while.”
Courtney Psak
Feb 19, 2016 | 1st pages, Women's
Chapter One
I glance at my watch and notice it’s nine thirty at night, just another late night at the office. I’ve been killing myself at work trying to make partner by the time I turn thirty, which is now a little over a month away. I feel like I’ve gotten a handle on everything, and that’s exactly when my boss Kimsley comes in.
“How are you making out?” he asks. I’m surprised to see him, as this is the latest I’ve seen him stay in a while. He’s got his jacket off and his suspenders are hanging on for dear life.
“I’m good. I finished up your summaries and I was just going to go over a couple of case files.” I stand and hand over a few folders, then search through another pile.
“Listen,” Kimsley starts as he puts the files back down on my desk. He seems pretty uneasy and he’s sweating more than usual. He pulls out a handkerchief and dabs his shiny head, not looking me in the eye. “The firm recognizes everything you’ve done for us in the past six years that you’ve worked here, and especially in the past six months.”
This is it, I think. Finally my moment has come—they’re going to offer me partner! I try to keep my composure as my legs bounce under my desk. I pull strands of my strawberry blonde hair behind my ear and try to keep my seemingly large smile under wraps.
“I appreciate that, sir,” I say, trying to keep my expression stern.
“But as hard as you’ve been working, we aren’t seeing the level of excellence that we had expected you to reach by now.”
I feel my heart drop into my stomach and my eyes grow wide. You know when all of a sudden in a movie something happens that’s not supposed to and you hear the sound of a record getting scratched? That’s what I hear in my head. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’re going to have to ask you to seek new employment,” Kimsley finally says.
My fingers go numb and I suddenly feel myself getting hot. Thirty seconds ago, I was planning my gracious acceptance speech, and now I’m scrambling for my words. “What do you mean? I’ve done everything I can for this firm. If I haven’t reached the level you wanted me to, maybe it’s because I need to be given more challenging cases. I strongly suggest you give me a few more months to prove myself to you.” Suddenly I realize he’s already motioned to the security guard that I hadn’t noticed standing outside my office to escort me out.
I’m defeated. All my hard work, all of my dreams, have been crushed just like that. The security guard, who looks like the big guy from The Green Mile, hands me a box for me to pack my stuff. He’s completely stone-faced and looking at me as if I’m a prisoner who’s just been sentenced. “I’m sorry, Jill, I really am.” Kimsley looks genuinely upset, at least. With that, he walks out the door leaving me alone with the security guard. I’m only thankful no one’s here to
Kristina Baer
Feb 18, 2016 | 1st pages, Women's
Minerva’s Fox
Archibald Billings Library: The Reading Room Fresco, Campus Guide,
Brookton University, p. 22.
In 1860, Brookton University alumnus Archibald Billings donated marble from his quarry in Danby, Vermont, for the construction of a library on the campus. Billings, a classicist, stipulated that the building be modeled after the Tempio di Minerva in Assisi, Italy, and that the university commission his son, Michael Billings, to paint the fresco on the domed ceiling of the library’s reading room. Michael Billings completed Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom in 1864.
Shield and spear in hand, Minerva stands on a mountaintop gazing into the distance. Her presence in the fresco makes the connection clear between her role as patroness of the arts, commerce, medicine, and
defense, among others, and the library as the repository of learning. The owl on her shoulder, a symbol of wisdom, fixes its wary regard on a red fox peering through the grass into the reading room below, amber eyes alight, lips upturned.
September 26, 1969
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Clean-shaven, with longish brown hair curling over the collar of his khaki parka and blue (gray?) eyes, he glanced up at the fresco, then looked at me.
“In a way, yes. I know about the owl and Minerva. And Billings’s interest in the classics. But the fox?” He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
Jan Bryson
Feb 18, 2016 | 1st pages, Women's
Linda Ryan
My daughter, Jennifer Lynn Ryan, killed herself on January 2, 2012—those are the first words I’ve spoken since joining this support group a few weeks ago in late February. It’s been sufficient for me to sit and listen to other people’s stories until now. Their pain has been enough to move me to tears, and trying to speak didn’t seem possible. But I need to move on. In order to heal, I need to share my story, too.
I look around at the other faces in the room, but there is no shock or horror in reaction to my words, just understanding. It’s so rare to be in a room full of people who know what I’m going through. Our group is one of the Samaritan support groups. There are usually about ten of us at any given meeting. Sometimes, the faces change from week to week, but our stories are the same: we’ve all lost someone we love to suicide. We meet in the basement of a church about forty-five minutes from my house. The dim lighting and vaguely musty-basement smell strike me as analogous to our lives: we are all digging our way out of a very dark place.
“We had no idea she was suicidal,” I continue. I notice how choked and strained my voice sounds and try to steady myself. “We didn’t even know she was unhappy. She was quiet and moody at times, but that’s how it goes with teenage girls. Or so I thought. She never attempted to harm herself before. Unfortunately, suicide turned out to be something she was good at. She got it right the first time.”
I shift slightly in my seat, suddenly aware of how rigidly I have been holding myself. “When I say my husband, John, and I were shocked, it’s an understatement. I know it sounds corny, but I still have trouble believing I won’t hear her feet running up the stairs or see her beautiful smile again.” I pause for a few minutes to catch my breath. I feel like my words have been rushing out in a complete dump of emotion. I think about what I should say next. It’s so hard to find the right words. You often see disasters on the news and hear victims talking about how their lives will never be the same; I now have a full appreciation for that sentiment. We will never be whole again.
I glance around the small circle of chairs and get an encouraging smile from a large man across from me wearing a Patriots sweatshirt. “Jenny left us a journal. It was right next to her, meant for us to find. I think it was her way of trying to explain it all to us. You might think I would have been anxious to read it, to understand why. But I haven’t been able to open it—not yet.
“If you had asked me a few months ago, I would have said we were a normal, happy family. Now I’m not sure what we were. Everything I thought was true isn’t. Can I possibly think I was a good mother anymore? When I think about some of the good times we had, I wonder whether I will ever feel happy again. At the moment, it’s my strong belief that the answer is a cold, cruel no.” I stop speaking. I can’t help but feel a little proud of myself. I have taken the first step.
When my parents died, I was devastated. There is a void in my life that cannot and will not ever be filled. I know I will always miss them, and I’ll always know that the world isn’t quite as good a place as it was when they were here. But with Jenny, it’s so different. Not only is there a void, but also there’s the overwhelming weight of knowing she was miserable when she died. That knowledge will stay with me forever. No amount of time or talking will ever heal that wound.
I give the others in the room a small smile, bend to pick up my pocketbook, and head for the door. It’s enough for one day.
Amy Rivers
Feb 11, 2016 | 1st pages, Women's
Chapter 1
Val Shakely was at a proverbial standstill. The world turned; she went about her life in an orderly and systematic way. But at some point, she’d gotten stuck. And she was happy to stay stuck. It was uncomplicated. If you stayed stuck, life would wash around you, like water around a boulder in the middle of a river. You could hide yourself in plain sight. As Val walked toward the restaurant, she savored her last few minutes of calm. She was meeting her cousin Gwen, and Gwen never stood still. Val and her cousin had always been close, but they were both busy professional women and a formal dinner date was a special occasion. When Gwen insisted they meet for dinner at The Vine, one of Cambria’s most upscale restaurants, Val figured something big was up. And sure enough, when they sat down across from each other that night, Gwen was bouncing on her seat, practically bursting with excitement.
“I’m going to do it, Val,” she said, her smile so big that the creases in her cheeks looked almost painful. Of course, Val knew immediately what “it” was. Gwen had been heavily involved in local politics ever since she’d returned to their hometown after college. While Val had been building her PR firm, Gwen had won a hotly contested seat on the city council. And now she had decided to throw her hat into the mayoral race. Can’t you just get married or have a baby like other women our age, Val thought, immediately feeling like a huge hypocrite. After all, it’s not like Val had done either of those things, and she was a few years older than Gwen.
K. S. R. Burns
Feb 11, 2016 | 1st pages, Women's
Seven p.m. A Wednesday. Two weeks to the day after the funeral. Kat is dead. I am not. What I am is hungry. And majorly pissed off at William. And did I mention hungry? Which isn’t strictly William’s fault but when he wanders into the kitchen as I’m putting away leftover schweinhaxen and sauerkraut—Wednesday night is German food night—I do not acknowledge his existence.
“Amy,” he says. He must be pissed off at me too because normally he calls me Ames. “Almost forgot. Next week? Prototype testing in Teeterboro.” I dump cucumber salad and braised red cabbage into plastic storage containers. At least those are less-caloric-type foods I can eat. But you know what? They don’t satisfy.
“Okay,” I say, still not looking at him because on the drive home from the funeral he said, “Well, I guess that’s that,” and I flipped out and screamed, “You’re glad? You bastard” and since then I’ve hardly spoken to him, not even to mention that my period is one day late.
“Leaving Sunday,” he says now. “Back Friday. Five days.” Five days. In my brain, Kat’s voice bellows, “The Plan! The Plan!” as loud and real and strong as if she were right there in the kitchen with us, as if she were still alive, in this world. But she isn’t, and the last thing I want to think about is The Plan. Anyway, five days isn’t long enough for The Plan.
