Articles

by Stephen Haines My hands say, We’ll have Carpal Tunnel at 40. My hands say, Bartenders don’t retire, they die. The crescent-shaped tissue, cloudy-pink on the tip of my left index finger, from where I sliced it on a fruit peeler on a busy night behind a bar. Blood spewed from the wound, clouded a martini, …

by Keegan Lawler Sunfish eyes pop out so easily, hooks rippingthe wrong flesh. I feign laughter when you make bait of their eyesto bring the others back. They say a body in motion tends to stay, and a body frozen, fearful tendsto never reach you. Call yourself kinetic, call me potential, untouched. Whip the line back, …

My story “The Angels” was a surprise to me on several levels. First, I very seldom write fiction. Second, while I use a lot of speculative imagery in my writing, I’m generally more drawn to magic than sci-fi. When I sat down to write this story, there were two things influencing me: I was enrolled in an online workshop through Winter Tangerine called “Feathered We Remember” that focused on fantastical writing, and I had recently attended a lecture by David Ryan on the benefits of writing first thing in the morning (pre-coffee, pre-shower—just roll out of bed and write). I wasn’t sure that method would work for me, but I decided to try it since I had an assignment for the workshop.

My grandfather was the hero of my childhood and I believed every word of every story he ever told me. It is only now that I realize truth doesn’t necessarily reside in the details, and that facts are only a small part of our histories.

I let my feelings guide me. There’s no calculation. I remain open and trust my memories to show me an image related to what I am working on. Here’s a quick explanation of what I do: I locate an area of my body where I feel a strong emotion. I press my non-dominant hand to that area and begin to ask: What more would you like to say? What memory do I need to remember? Show me. That’s when my brush touches the paper. Asemic writing lets me reach another layer of feeling through hand, wrist, and memory.

On my 9th birthday, I received a typewriter from my parents, and I started writing that day—mostly short stories about kids battling ghosts or gaining superpowers. I didn’t start writing poetry until I was in my teens. I’ve kept journals for most of my life. Over the years I have become more disciplined about writing daily. Writing has become a cathartic exercise for me.

Right now, our country faces a crisis of mass incarceration. With five percent of the world’s population, we have twenty-five percent of the world’s incarcerated people.  The majority of these are held not in the federal prison system but in local facilities—jails.

“We’re not lost,” mom said. She took a deep breath and yelled, “Desgraciado! Imprudente! Chingón!” Each insult was like the click from a bat. She located where she was by putting insults into the air and listening to the dark city echo and holler back. Eulogio was by the taxis.

Before the employee at the Museum of Shadows lets me touch the haunted doll, she makes me put on a pair of black gloves. She says it’s for my protection, that the spirit in the doll might try attaching to me. I hold the aging boy in a sailor suit, talking to him quietly, rocking him up and down slightly to watch his obedient eyelids close and open, close and open with each soft murmur.

It begins with the smallest of breaths:
a cough, a voice split into seven veins. We joke with the coolness of broader perspective, suavely side-eye our parents.