• Robert L. Giron

Issue 97 — Patrick Theron Erickson, Kate LaDew, Brett Weaver, Kobina Wright

Patrick Theron Erickson


There is a rottenness

in the citadel

as when great titans

clash awry

a rottenness

in men’s bones

when rottenness

is beheld on high

There is a rottenness

in the state of Denmark

William Shakespeare

can attest

as when rottenness

overtakes dear Hamlet

and in Hamlet

every man despairs.

Copyright © 2017 by Patrick Theron Erickson.

A Little of the Nectar

of the honeysuckle vine

at first blush

bud and blossom

the first hummingbird

the first bee

a little of the honey

from the honeyed honey pot

a little of the honeycomb

and no one’s beeswax

but my own

and no beehive hairdos

if you please!

Copyright © 2017 by Patrick Theron Erickson.

A Malediction

May you curl

like a leaf

wind fallen

and wind blown

May your legs

curl up

and your arms

curl under

May you spin and spin


like a leaf

no new windfalls

no new leaves

You who are far afield

who have fallen

not far from the tree


Copyright © 2017 by Patrick Theron Erickson.

About the Author:

Patrick Theron Erickson, a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself, resonates to a friend's notion of change coming at us a lot faster because you can punch a whole lot more, a whole lot faster down digital broadband “glass” fiber than an old copper co-axial landline cable. Secretariat is his mentor, though he has never been an achiever and has never gained on the competition. Erickson’s work has appeared in Former People, Literati Quarterly, Burningword Literary Journal, Crack the Spine, and Grey Sparrow Journal, among other publications, and more recently in Tipton Poetry Journal, Lavender Wolves Literary Journal, Futures Trading, Wilderness House Literary Review and Danse Macabre.

Kate LaDew


1. sudden infant. . .

you were as still as my heart,

lips as blue as the sky

2. a drunk, just like your mother

it’s been the two of you for so long.

all your other friends drifted away, into marriages, children, lives,

but he hung close, for no reason you could imagine, just waiting,

and it took you longer than it should have to realize,

he was waiting for you.

so it’s hard to believe it could be over, just like that

and it’s easier when you give your brain a moment,

blinking your eyes like snapping fingers,

not just like that, a long time coming,

an inevitability, like death.

it’s late afternoon, the middle school playground,

stumbling slow to take the swing beside him,

the only text you answered that day,

ignoring vaguely familiar numbers with vaguely familiar notes of concern and disappointment.

you stretch your lips into a smile, trying to reassemble the one he used to know.

he doesn’t give his back, and the sneer he tries doesn’t fit his face,

but the disgust is real and moving.

so it must have been a terrible drunk,

the last night you can’t remember,

it must have been different from all the other last nights you can’t remember,

when he pulled you up, brushed the hair out of your eyes

and got you home before something life-changing could happen

it must have been something monumentally different for this boy

who loves you and wants you more

than anything you’ve ever wanted in your falling down heap of a life to give you that sneer.

it hits hard, the finality of failure,

you’ve done it this time, let him see too far inside you

right down to that bottle shaped heart that never fills,

and it’s you waiting now, holding your breath.

the quiet crawls between you until he says one thing, just one thing

and it hurts too much to ask why.

maybe later you’ll want that back, the knowledge of the final straw, but now—

he steps away, leaving you with nothing but a hangover to keep you company, and a song,

a drunk just like your mother, a drunk just like your mother

you’ll never get it out of your head.

as you watch him move too far away to touch,

you decide to punish yourself, and look up, seeking some kind of absolution,

opening your eyes as wide as they will go,

the sunlight searing in and washing out the green,

the blue, the rusted metal of the swing set.

running your tongue across your lips,

you try to catch some vague dim taste of him, something to hold.

it’s no good.

you’re alone on the playground, the shadows of the monkey bars slicing across your chest,

wondering how long you’ll have to stay out here before someone misses you,

before anyone comes to get you.

you wait almost two hours, the sun melting down behind the fence.

you’re crying when you finally get to your feet; no one cares.

3. great grandfather

who gave this to you?

the chain pulled his eyes forward,

as I held the flashing silver star of david between my fingers.

it must have been someone important, you never take it off.

after a long pause he said, soft, my father.

and does it keep you safe?

after a much longer pause he said, eyes looking back, back, back, no.

and I knew enough without asking anything more.

4. and you’re thinking this is the worst thing that’s happened to me so far

and you’re thinking what does that mean and can I stand it?

and you’re mad for ever wanting to die

and you’re mad for ever thinking if I just don’t wake up how fine that would be

and he’s inside of you like he’s searching for your heart

like he can’t stand the beating and that’s why he’s doing this to you

and you’re thinking, do what you have to,

and you’re thinking, get out of this moment before it ruins your life,

and you’re thinking, don’t let this be the last thing that ever happens to me

5. good guys

that he’d like it was obvious

it had nothing to do with who or what he was doing it to

a physical response, like breathing

and it was so easy just to like it

be young and drunk and not think beyond that

maneuver the next day to the ready explanation

so wasted, so fun, wasn’t it?

and her, alone, inevitably suffering the looks and whispers like a movie,

everything seemed to be happening to someone else

until she pressed the blue black bruises in places only she could see

because it wouldn’t occur to someone like him he was at all in the wrong,

he was at all being selfish—

but what really erupted the maddening clutches of vengeance

vengeance, like a movie

how adamantly defensive he’d be without saying a word

having no hand in it, owing nothing for how he made her suffer.

he was really such a good guy.

Copyright © 2016 by Kate LaDew.

1. the caesura of a breath

when the soul in her eyes sparks and flickers into ash,
it leaves a dark, sudden and immediate, 
that only exists after a complete brightness.

2. miscarry

I’m never going in this room again

so I center the image in my mind

blink my eyes and take a picture

develop it by touch, fingers moving in the dark

cover the dead eyes of stuffed animals

take down the crib, put the letters that spell out your name in a box

slowly dismantle and give away all my hopes and dreams for a person who no longer exists.

3. the catholic church five blocks from where I grew up

think it loud enough so the pews can hear

and maybe they’ll answer back the way god doesn’t,

wood from a slave ship, marble chipped

nothing behind the saints’ eyes

the candles go out when the doors open

4. once

when I put my arm out for support,

it’s like a knife under the ribs

I can see it turn in you without my help,

grazing the heart, little drops of blood spreading inside,

reminding you through their drip drop you were so young once.

now I speak to you in sentences a child can understand,

voice raised, sugary sweet, my hands constantly around you,

waiting for you to fail, and you were so young once, you were so young.

and a long, long time ago I was only something at the edge of your vision,

when there wasn’t a thing stopping all you ever wanted.

5. enormously small

when it first starts, I feel enormously small, your weight squeezing me into steam

it’s fast and clumsy and I think of a cruel joke, but saying it would only absolve you

rolling off, you look over your shoulder

unblinking, I replay what you’ve done on the screens of my eyes,

and in some awful mockery of paternal love, you throw a blanket my way,

as if your hands were not enough to hide me even in the darkness.

Copyright © 2016 by Kate LaDew.

About the Author:

Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, North Carolina with her two cats, Janis Joplin and Charlie Chaplin.

Brett Weaver


This chapter is from a short novel entitled PAIRIS, which is looking for a home. An American couple rent an apartment in Paris for a week, in an attempt to overcome a tragedy that is hinted in this story.

Four months earlier, Susan would have taken a right onto a lengthy stretch of Naranja Drive, ironically lined with lemon trees, passing the more established, “from-the-low-400s,“ homes, then past the obligatory Walgreens—one on every block. At First Avenue, she would have made a left and headed home past the Mountain Vista Kindergarten and its perimeter wall spotted with multi-colored letters and multi-colored numbers. Susan had always wondered why the number Seven was colored blue, and the letter L was red. Even though she never ran past that wall anymore, it still bothered her because it didn’t seem right. For children.

Today she would be only fifty meters down Naranja Drive, dodging the fallen lemons mottled with holes where birds had pecked at them, she would make a sharp right turn onto Stargazer Way. Her New Balance running shoes pounded the burning asphalt in a style that suggested she was either running away from something threatening, or toward something wonderful. It just depended on the day.

She checked her Garmin outside the front door of the house she shared with her husband, Steven. 39:52. Eight-minute miles. Good.

She pushed open the white front door, went inside, and immediately called out. “Steven!“

She passed down the hallway and into the kitchen where the top of a large pot trembled on the stove. She went over to it quickly, took up a padded kitchen mitt and removed the top cover, then grabbed a ladle from the countertop.

“Did you even stir it?“ she shouted out to the hallway.

The sound of feet bounding down the stairs was followed by Steven who appeared at the kitchen entrance. He was smiling and holding up a piece of paper with a line of type on it.

“The Dostoyevskys want to go to the casino again,“ he said.

“What?“ Susan blew on the ladle then sampled a steaming red liquid.

“I got my first line,“ he said.

“That’s all you wrote,“ Susan said and stirred the pot. “So you had time to be watching this then?“

Steven put the sheet of paper on the granite-topped island and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck.

“Well, you taste good,“ he said and kissed her again.

“The sauce tastes good. I taste like salt,“ she said, then eyed the dining table. “And the dining table— is—“

“Is— just where it’s always been—,“ Steven and went to kiss her again, but she pushed him back, passed through the dining area to a wide arch overlooking the living room.

“Like the living room—,“ she said.

Steven came to her side. “I got inspired.“ He regarded the living room.

“And, I’ll straighten the cushions. They’ll be the straightest cushions— “

“Inspired? One line? I suppose you’ve not started packing either?“

“You mean, clothes?“ He put his hands around on her shoulders.

“You don’t need clothes for Paris.“

“I’m taking a shower,“ she said and walked back through the kitchen to the hallway. “Watch the sauce this time.“

Steven picked up his piece of paper and followed her. She put a hand on the bannister and pushed off her running shoes. “Who are the Dostoyevskys, anyhow?“

Steven handed the piece of paper to her. She read it.

“Okay? So?“ she said and leaned one hand on his shoulder as she pulled off one running sock, and then the other.

“It’s a new story,“ Steven said excitedly. “Literary characters who don’t know they are— living in the suburbs.“

“But Dostoyevsky’s an author, not a character,“ she said and dropped her socks in his hand. “Shouldn’t it be the Karamazovs or Prince somebody?“

Steven stepped back into the kitchen. “I’m going to make a drink,“ he said. “Anyhow, it all takes place in a neighborhood called Shakespeare Court,“ Steven said. “It’s like a soap opera of literary characters.“

“Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky?“

“Well, authors, characters— same thing.“

Steven took a half-full bottle vodka from the freezer section of the fridge.

“What do you think?“ he asked. “Martinis tonight?“

Susan ran her hands through her brown hair that matched her eyes. It was about two inches above her shoulders. She used to have longer hair. But she had cut it recently. Herself.

“What about Cosmopolitans?“ she suggested.

“Too much work.“ Steven opened a glass cabinet and took out two large Martini glasses. “Besides, that’s a girl drink,“ he said and placed the glasses on the counter. He removed a bottle of dry vermouth from between the orange juice and milk in the fridge door.

“You can have a Martini for the shower, okay?“ Steven said, then pressed the shaker under the ice dispenser. The ice clunked out inconsistently.

“This has never worked properly,“ he said. “I’ve spilled more ice on the floor than—“ His eye caught the digital stove clock.

“What time are the coming again?“

Susan watched her husband. “Six.“

Steven poured some vermouth into each Martini glass, then swilled one of them around and went toss it into the sink.

“Don’t throw that away,“ Susan took the glass from him and dribbled the vermouth back into the shaker. “You always do that. Why do you always do that?“

“It’s a cocktail,“ he said and began to swill his own glass.

“I would have preferred a vodka and soda,“ she said.

“That’s a drink,“ he held up his glass. “A Martini is a cocktail.“

Susan went over to the pot and stirred it again absently. “I did the potatoes already, and the peas will take no time.“

Steven held the vodka over the Martini shaker.

“Make mine a light one,“ she said.

“Not possible,“ he said as he shook the shaker with both hands for the required ten seconds. “There is no such thing as a weak Martini.“ Steven poured out the two Martinis, almost to the brim of each glass. “So,“ he said as he picked up the glasses, “remind me. Who’s coming again?“

“Karen and Frank,“ Susan said taking one of the glasses.

He smiled as he took a drink. “And I’ve met them before?“

“Yes, I think so—,“ she sipped her drink and also smiled. “Karen and I grew up together— We had the same mother— She’s married to Frank— Your brother-in-law—.“

“Tall man, Frank?“

“And dark, and handsome,“ Susan said and handed Steven the ladle.

“More than me?“

“You’re good-looking,“ she said and brushed his cheek with the back of her right hand. “There’s a difference.“ She turned away and headed for the hallway.

“Really? What?“

Susan moved to the stairs, then looked back at Steven. Steven who was good-looking, but not handsome. Not like Frank. “What color is seven?“ she asked.


“Seven,“ she said and looked at her husband, now stirring the pot intently. “When I say seven, what color do you think of?“

“Seven isn’t a color—“

“Yes, I know that— but—“ She looked about the room for inspiration.

There was none. Just her husband, the appliances, the food for dinner. “If you were handsome, you’d give it a color—“

“Green,“ he replied.

“Why green?“

Steven placed the ladle in a “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas“ dish on the counter. “I don’t know. I suppose because it’s supposed to be a lucky number. You know, lucky number seven. So— you win money.“ He sipped his drink. “Money’s green. I don’t know.“

At 6:15, Karen and Frank’s midnight blue Honda Odyssey pulled up in front of Susan and Steven’s two-story—from the mid 200s—desert house with Spanish tile and tan-colored paint that complemented the Catalina mountains it faced to the east.

When Frank got out of the car, he took in the house next door that had been empty for some time. Its paint was the kind of pink that would certainly no longer have been allowed by the HOA, and there were a few tiles missing from the roof. A broken real estate sign lay flat on the ground like a knocked-out boxer.

His wife, Karen was, and had been, on the phone with the babysitter for the past three-and-a-half minutes. On her lap, there was a white plastic container with a dessert inside.

“Okay, they can have one hour of video games and one hour of television,“ she said into her oversized phone. “You’ve got the list of approved games and shows, right?“ She paused while she looked at Frank who looked over at the pink house.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,“ Frank said, mentally repainting the house a color that would blend it into the mountains and the rusty evening sky. “What’s the problem?“

Karen put her hand over the phone. “What’s the problem? She’s new,“ she whispered. “It’s her first night.“

“First night? What happened to Emily?“

“Night classes. Remember,“ she said and shook her head. “If you were ever home, you’d—“

“Maybe I should take a night class,“ Frank said to the air.

“What for?“ Karen said.

The front door opened, and Steven came out holding a Martini shaker and two glasses.

“Hi there, guys,“ he said. “What are you doing out here? The party’s on the inside.“

Frank gestured Karen on the phone, and she waved at Steven.

“Oh,“ Steven said as he walked down the bricked walkway. On either side was gravel, but it was becoming sparse—two non-compliance-HOA-letters sparse. A few weeds had forced their way up. They were spindly little things, but when Steven had tried to pull them up, he had hurt his fingers. He had not yet opened the gloves Susan had bought for his birthday.

“Apparently, we have a new babysitter,“ Frank said.

Steven approached Frank who nodded to the pink house. “How long’s this house been on the market?

“You know,“ Steven said, pouring out a drink for him, “I don’t know. A while, I guess. The guy who owns it is never around. Wisconsin, I think.“

Frank took the glass quickly. “Thanks,“ he said. “I think I need this.“


“That’s half of it,“ Frank said as he took a drink.

“Training your distant relatives is never easy if you know what I mean.“

Frank’s painting business had been successful enough for him to take on two, new workers, Karen’s cousin’s boys. From “big bad, gang and gun-filled Chicago.“ No skills to speak of, but away from Chicago. Doing a favor.

Susan came outside and up the pathway. She wore a New Orleans apron with pictures of French women dancing happily and men drinking sadly—a Toulouse-Lautrec print.

Karen got out of the car, put her phone away in her purse and waved the plastic container.

“Hey there, sis,“ Susan said and hugged her.

“So— off to gay Paris—,“ Karen said and handed Susan the plastic container. “It’s apple pie.“

“In case you forget all about America,“ Frank said and kissed Susan.

Karen turned to Frank. “Can you get that other thing out of the back seat?

“ she asked him.

“Yes, dear,“ Frank answered.

“Don’t ’Yes, dear’ me all night, okay, Frank?“

“You love birds fighting?“ Susan asked.

Karen took Susan’s arm, and they walked back to the house. “No, we are not fighting, are we, Frank?“

“Not if you say so— dear,“ Frank said, took a drink and went toward the back of the car, opened the door and took out a plastic Barnes & Noble bag.

“What’s that?“ Steven asked.

“It’s a surprise,“ Frank said and closed the car door.

“A book?“

“Good guess, Steven,“ he said, and they both turned toward the house.

“But when you open it, please remember, I had nothing to do with it.“

Inside the hallway, Karen stopped by the entrance to the living room. There was a long mirror in the hallway, and she toyed with her hair. “I’m going to have to change hairdresser,“ she said. “The left side is always shorter than the right.“ She turned to face Susan. “Your hair looks great,“ she said. “So— how’s college going? You started what— Monday?“

“It’s good to be teaching,“ Susan said. “Finally.“

The women entered the kitchen, and Karen went immediately over to the stove and lifted the lid of the pot. “And Steven?“

“Steven? Steven’s Steven. You know. He’s— wonderful.“ She took up a lime from the basket they had picked up in Cabo San Lucas a couple of years before, halved it with a paring knife, then pressed it down into the glass juicer.

“Something smell’s wonderful,“ Frank said looking in from the hallway.

“It’s the food, Frank,“ Karen called out. “Just food.“

“You’ve got to hear this,“ Steven said, pulling Frank to the stairs.

“Come on up to the writing bunker.“ Steven poked his head into the kitchen. “And I was the sous chef, Karen,“ he said. “So— if it sucks... Sue me!“

Susan took up a bottle of Cointreau. “I love this bottle,“ she said,

“because it’s square. And not round. Like normal.“ She held it up to the light and turned it. “That’s crazy, isn’t it? To love something for a reason like that.“

“It’s not crazy,“ Karen said and smiled quickly. “But you’ll drive me crazy, if you don’t make my Cosmo soon.“

Upstairs, the men walked along the hallway that was dark because the shade was down at the far end. They passed a room with several unopened paint cans set by the entrance.

Frank knelt down by the paints and picked up two of the cans. “You weren’t taking any chances,“ he said.

“What?“ Steven was a few steps ahead. “Oh, the paint. Yeah. Well— we’ll use it.“ Steven looked around absently. “Of course.

I’ve been meaning to take it downstairs, but—“

“I’d be happy to take it off your hands,“ he offered.

“Take it?“ Steven looked puzzled. “What for?“

“Well, I am a painter,“ he said. “Remember.“

Steven peered into the room, regarded the furniture huddled in the center of the room covered with an old bedspread from a grandmother, the walls bare, scrubbed smooth. “I’ll let you know.“ His feet did not cross the threshold.

Frank stood up quickly. “Okay, he said and placed one of his huge hands on Steven’s shoulder. “So what’s all this about Dostevskis? You owe money to the Russians or what?“

Downstairs, Susan sipped her Cosmopolitan while Karen blew into a spoon, then tasted the sauce. “I don’t know how you get it so, I don’t know. So just right,“ Karen said.

“Extra pepper flakes,“ she said.

Susan peered into the dining area. “Steven told me he’d done the table,“ Susan said. “I’ll do it now.“ She took her drink into the dining room.

“Let me help you,“ Karen said at her side. “I’m happy to help. You know that. Always.“

Susan opened a drawer, took out silverware, and the two women began to set the table.

When the men came downstairs, they entered the living room where the two women sat in recliners with their drinks.

“We’re going to freshen our glasses,“ Steven said. “You girls all right?“

“Where’d you put the whatsit, Frank? “ Karen asked.

Frank pointed to the foot of one of the couches. “There,“ he said, and the men went into the kitchen.

“What whatsit?“ Susan asked and sipped her drink.

“Nothing. It’s a surprise.“

In the living room, there were two beige couches, as well as the recliners, and a coffee table with New Yorker magazines and a Sunday New York Times, all unread. One of the cushions had a red wine stain.

“That was the other night,“ Susan said and reached over to the cushion.

She scratched it with her nails. “I tried salt.“ She tossed the cushion aside. “Everything.“

“Never catch me with anything even resembling white—“ Karen said and took a drink.

“Of course, so—“ Susan finished her glass. “How are the kiddies?“

“Costing me a fortune in vodka,“ Karen said.

“Now, vodka, that’s the best cleaner, best— stain remover ever invented,“ Susan said and both women laughed.

“No, seriously, the kids are fine,“ Karen went on. “Keeping me busy though. How’s college?“ She held up her glass. “I already asked that, didn’t I? You made these very strong.“

“College is great,“ Susan said and stretched her legs. “Who knows— there may be a few e-stars among the great e-darkness of the Internet“

They were silent for a moment, and Karen looked about the room. It was room that she had been in many times before, of course—Thanksgivings, Christmases, anniversaries, and birthdays. She stood up. “You know what this room needs?“ She walked from one side to the other, then went to the window behind the couch.

“Here,“ she said.

“What?“ Susan said. “What ’here’?“

“A plant.“ Karen took another drink. “A great big, green plant.

There’s plenty of light coming from this window—it faces southwest.“

Karen turned the thin, white wand at the side of the blinds, and the slats opened in unison causing thin slabs of white sunshine to appear on the floor.

“See,“ Karen said looking outside.

“All I can see are the dust motes,“ Susan said and took a drink, then realized her glass was empty. “Before we couldn’t see them.“

She stood up quickly. “I’ll make us another,“ she said and reached for Karen’s glass.

Frank and Steven entered the living room with glasses in hand. Steven held his and the Martini shaker. “Well, Frank says he likes my writing, even if you—.“

“Frank hasn’t read a book in years, Steven,“ Karen said.

“I wouldn’t put too much— trust in—“

Frank plopped down on one of the couches. “I have read books, darling.“

“Oh, yeah. What kind?“

“The paper kind, dear,“ Frank said and took a drink.

Steven came over to Karen and sat on the edge of the couch. “He liked it.

That’s what’s important.“

“He liked the one line you wrote?“ Susan said. “I suppose you have to start somewhere.“

“I gave him the outline as well,“ Steven insisted. “Anyway, he thinks it’s great.“

“I’m going to make another drink,“ Susan said. “Come on, Karen. Let’s leave these—“ she looked back and forth between the two men, “literary—“

“Hey, something’s different,“ Steven said.

“And she’s just getting started,“ Susan said, getting up.


“My sister.“ Susan gestured the window with a sweep of her hand.

“She’s opened the blinds.“ She looked at her husband and angled her head. “Hey, opening the blinds. You like that, Steven? That’s what you call ironic, right? Blind opening? Or a pun. Whatever. You’re the PhD.“

“Yeah, I guess“ Steven noticed the pattern of sunlight on the floor. He pointed at it. “Now that’s ironic, babe,“ he said. “You see how it’s like prison bars. Karen, you’re brilliant. You’ve show us we’re living in a prison.“