the rejected writer

{The Rejected Writer}

Issue 3 Sept. 2014

2

Copyright 2014

Digital Edition—Published 2014

By

The Rejected Writer

This document contains works published in The Rejected Writer and may not be re-sold in any form.

Non-Exclusive Electronic Publishing Rights and Archival Rights Reserved on Behalf of The Rejected Writer.

All copyrights are owned by the Respective Authors. Issues of “The Rejected Writer” or parts thereof may

not be reproduced in any form without written permission by the Authors of said work, except in case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews or at the respective journal(s) in which they were

originally published if applicable.

These stories are works of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales

are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictionally. All other characters, and all inci-

dents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and are not construed as real.

Cover photograph provided by Amina Lahbabi-Peters. Copyright 2014 Amina Lahbabi-Peters.

3

E ditor’s Note

This issue marks many firsts for us at The Rejected Writer. Most obviously, for

those of you who’ve followed our first two issues, we have migrated to a PDF

format in order to provide a more authentic “virtual” journal for our readers and

contributors to enjoy, which includes a full-color, professional-quality cover

photo—designed specifically for us by the talented Amina Lahbabi-Peters. Also,

a special thanks to Lucas M. Peters for supplying the photographs for “In the Fat

of Our Neighbors,” “The End of Something,” and “The Archaeologist.”

Secondly, this issue represents the most voluminous work we have received to

date. As with many start-up literary journals (especially online ones), participa-

tion is a bit limited until it can pick up some steam. Our first issue contained

three stories; our second only had one quality work published. However, our

third issue contains seven exceptional stories for your enjoyment! Unfortunate-

ly, we also rejected a fair share of submissions as well. As we know the sting of

rejection all too well, we tried to provide helpful feedback and encouragement

for those pieces that did not make it in. If your pieces were passed on, we sin-

cerely hope you will continue to read and submit!

We hope you enjoy the new format and work contained within. We appreciate

your support and hope to see our readership grow even larger. So please, if you

like what you see, pass it on!

-One of the Rejected

4

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ISSUE 3

Lucas M. Peters

In the Fat of Our Neighbors

5

Ron Heacock

A Day in the Life

7

A.M. Maracle

Counting Cars

16

Joshua Swainston

$209.95 Almond Chicken Special

21

Kristen Kauffman

The Steamstress’s Daughter

23

Daryl Muranaka

The End of Something

35

Brad Mish

The Archaeologist

40

Contributors 42

5

Lucas M. Peters

In the Fat of Our Neighbors

We are in an old, rusted, gray taxi, a ’60s era Mer-

cedes, careening through the streets of Meknes. The

people outside are hot. They crowd the tan mud walls

of the city, vainly searching for shade.

We are hotter in the taxi.

Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, elbows press-

ing into the soft flesh of our neighbors, we careen past

rickety Peugeots and ramshackle Renaults. The man to the right is wearing a violet jellaba. Thick,

black hairs cover the back of his hands and fingers. He is not wearing a wedding ring. It is the Muslim

New Year. Welcome to 1431.

We leave the city gates behind. Foothills undulate on the horizon as we plunge into the fertile

valleys below. The balding driver turns a chipped, plastic dial on the console. Suddenly, there is mu-

sic. A monotonous clack of quarter tones.

Everything seems out of tune.

The red and white median blurs past.

The man in the violet jellaba cracks his knuckles. His fingernails are thick and yellow. The

women in the back all stare ahead sullenly, shifting their weight back and forth.

At night, this road is a series of sharp turns, winding like a rapid, flowing river.

I’ve been down this road before, with friends, at night. Then the taxi was large, making like a

missile in the black night. The windows were down. The wind was ferocious and cold and biting. The

speed of the taxi terrified. The foothills were looming, shadowy specters illuminated only by a mil-

The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

6

lion star-lights. There were no quarter tones then. Only the loud roar of the engine and screaming of

cold wind.

Now there are no friends, only strangers crowding together in the sweaty summer afternoon,

shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, elbows nestled in the fat of one another.

The road swells beneath us. We sail on, bumping, rocking, digging into the flesh of our neighbors.

We have arrived at the first foothill. It has stopped undulating in the distance. We are all silent.

The quarter tones are joined by trumpets. The man in the violet jellaba picks at his nose. The women

stare ahead, unmoved.

~

Peters - In the Fat of Our Neighbors The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

7

Ron Heacock

A Day in the Life

Our art teacher’s name was Mr. Whitehall, but

he insisted we called him David. It was weird. David

wore brightly colored shirts and bell bottom dunga-

rees. That was what my mom called them. Later we

called them Levis, and nowadays, no one can remem-

ber calling them anything but blue jeans. It’s funny the

way the names change, but things stay the same. His

hair was shaggy too, though not as long as men’s hairstyles became. Nevertheless, it was long for a

teacher in a small suburban New Jersey town in 1968. I’ve never thought about it before, but I won-

der how he kept his job back then. He was, like, the only teacher in middle school who could dress

like that and get away with it. Maybe it was because he was the art teacher and he was supposed to

be free and artistic. Of course, I spent the last two months of eighth grade in a coma on a respirator at

Summit Metro Hospital, so for all I know, they did fire him.

Eddie Hubbard and I sat together in Mr. Whitehall’s, I mean, David’s fourth period art class on

Wednesdays. We were learning about woodcuts by making linoleum block prints. Eddie thought Al-

brecht Du rer, the eleventh century German artist, was the coolest illustrator who ever lived, and we

spent most classes trying to draw the nurse, Mrs. Shaffer’s, porky face, in place of one of the four

horsemen of the apocalypse. I think she was pestilence. Du rer is believed to have invented the car-

toon. Eddie was one hell of a cartoonist.

David paid no attention to us. We were his star pupils. We spent all of our time drawing. Art

class was like recess to us. Come to think of it, David didn’t pay much attention to anyone in that


8

class. After he explained our assignments for the six-week period, he would sit behind his desk most

days sketching still lifes in stick charcoal on a monstrous pad of newsprint paper he kept clamped to a

huge wooden easel.

It was David Whitehall who introduced us to Sgt. Pepper. I guess because it was the art classroom,

which was way down at the end of the school building, he could also get away with playing music during

class. This made him an instant hero to every kid in eighth grade. But listening to these songs during

class only one day a week was not nearly enough for us. A couple of weeks into the woodcutting project,

Eddie stole the record by throwing his jacket over it and stashing it behind a trashcan until the last bell

rang.

We spent every available minute after school, and on weekends, locked in Eddie’s tiny attic bed-

room memorizing each of the songs. We even recorded the whole thing on cassette tapes so we could

bring “Fixing a Hole” and “Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite” into the woods with us when it became too

hot to stay indoors. Summer was looming. The two of us were thirteen that year. We were just a little too

old to play in treehouses and just a little too young to actually date the girls we spent all of our time talk-

ing about, at least when we weren’t talking about what John Lennon and Paul McCartney really meant

when they wrote about Lucy in the sky or getting high with the help of their friends.

I can’t remember why I was standing on the railing of the second story platform of our treehouse.

The rickety contraption was nailed together from stolen lumber and junk salvaged from abandoned

houses in a disused resort community a mile or so behind Eddie’s house. Ladders were blocks of wood

nailed with a hundred ugly nails pounded into the five birch trees that made up the foundational posts.

The roots pushed up large rocks and intertwined with each other, knotting the ground around the build-

ing site. We attached railings waist-high around the flat roof. I was probably balanced twenty-eight feet

above the rocky soil.

There were few branches growing that low on those birch trees. The forest canopy towered

above our meager fortress. Any limbs that remained were useless to build on, having been deprived of

Heacock—A Day in the Life The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

9

sunlight for decades; they might look like branches, but they were more like dead sticks that had not

fallen off yet.

Eddie and I bantered and sang bits of “It’s Getting Better.”

“I don’t know if it’s getting better or not,” Eddy said. “My dad came home drunk last night, and he

and my mom had a screaming match until dawn. I woulda came out here if the crickets didn’t make so

damn much noise.” He guzzled NeHi orange soda from a glass bottle.

We snuck out to sleep in our fort once the last summer, but the sound of a billion insects was too

loud for us suburban boys. I was lucky when I came back home; my dad had gotten up to pee, and I al-

most got caught sneaking back in.

The next song on our homemade cassette tape was A Day in the Life. John Lennon’s nasal tenor

echoed across the empty woods as we climbed up on the flat roof. We lay on our backs peering up

through the late spring greenness. Saturday afternoon clouds drifted above us like cotton balls on the

surface of a creek. I guess I was bored. I climbed up on the railing. The middle, bridge section of the song

approached. The tape had gotten tangled once, and the slight garbling made the mid-song orchestral cre-

scendo even more otherworldly and disorienting.

I asked Eddie, “When he says that part about finding his way upstairs and having a smoke, do you

think he’s talking about pot?”

“Nope,” Eddie said, pulling a rumpled Marlboro out of his shirt pocket. “He’s talking about a cig-

gy.” He made his voice all high and squeaky when he said ciggy and continued in an extreme British ac-

cent, “D’you want a toke, bloke?” I started to laugh.

He struck a paper match with one hand, using his thumb to bend it over and ignite it without

pulling it out of the book, and touched fire to the tip of the sorry-looking butt. Then he grinned with the

cigarette clenched between his teeth and squinted at me, shaking his head quickly from side to side. I

began to chuckle.


10

Eddie was always a clown. With that maniacal joker’s grin pasted to his face, he began duck-

stepping across the treehouse roof. By the time he reached the tree and spun around like a wind-up tin

soldier, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. I began to jump down onto the roof and ex-

tended my center of gravity a little too far behind. Instinctively, I reached up and grabbed that one

branch for balance. I remember looking at it clenched in my fist as I fell backward to the packed-hard

earth.

I blinked. Sunlight slanted through venetian blinds, casting orange stripes on the beige carpet. I

had a newspaper in my lap. I sighed and wondered, What was I just thinking about? The Sgt. Pepper al-

bum was playing somewhere nearby. John Lennon crooned: “I read the news today, oh boy …” I looked

down at the paper. There was a picture of a totally smashed police cruiser with an inset picture of a

beefy man, grinning, red-faced, wearing a policeman’s cap. A crowd of gawking bystanders surrounded

the wreck.

I began to read the cover story about a local cop, Randy Dugger, who had been voted fastest

swimmer in the summer games. The article described the traffic accident that claimed his life.

I looked at his picture again. Beefy face; sad eyes. The caption read: “Celebrated officer runs red

light.”

The doorbell rang. I dropped the paper on the floor and opened the front door, but no one was

there.

“Hello?” I called into the growing darkness and thought, When did it get dark? A little shiver

itched between my shoulder blades. I looked around outside on the small porch.

Our house sat on a little hill and the neighborhood stretches out in front. Across the street a mist

began to rise as the heat of the day faded, replaced by the cool damp air of evening. It was an eerie sce-

ne: lonely houses, shrouded in dusk, fog obscuring any details close to the earth. The Baxter’s old, 35

millimeter projector was set up and a movie was showing on the exterior wall of their garage. They had


11

done this in the summer as entertainment for all the kids on the block for as long as I could remember. I

walked toward their house. Ghostly black and white images danced on the siding.

Their side yard was set up with rows of lawn chairs; they were all empty. The projector sat on

top of their picnic table, clicking and flashing. The iconic clock tower of Big Ben chimed as images of sev-

eral thousand people ran through the streets of London. Soldiers threw their World War Two English

army helmets into the air. I recognized the story, but I couldn’t place any of the actors.

I sat in one of the chairs and watched. For some reason, the only soundtrack was the same Beat-

les song.

The movie just went on and on. My eyelids drooped. My thoughts were cold honey, slow and slug-

gish: Where was everyone? Why was Mr. Baxter showing foreign films in the spring on a school night? Why

was the only soundtrack a song from the Beatles Sgt. Pepper album? I drifted off.

///

I woke up on the floor of my bedroom with a sharp pain in my shoulder, and that song, that damn

Beatle’s song, was still playing. I stumbled to the bathroom with the nagging feeling that I was supposed

to be somewhere. I looked at my face, puffy in the mirror. The smell of coffee drifted upstairs. I never

drink the stuff, but it smelled so good, I decided to try some. The hot, black liquid was bitter and disgust-

ing. I wondered aloud, “Why do people drink this stuff?”

My mother’s cuckoo clock startled me and I had that feeling again: Where am I supposed to be? I

wandered outside looking for my bike.

Mrs. Collier’s big boat of a Chrysler Newport pulled up to the curb at the end of my driveway; the

horn honked. The window was rolled down and I could see her waving at me to come over to the car. As

I walked to the end of the driveway, I glanced up and down the street. Something wasn’t right.


12

It was early and neighbors were dragging garbage cans or watering gardens. The morning sun

cast long, sharp-edged shadows across the dark green lawns. Mr. Stanley, wearing a torn bathrobe and a

dazed look, shuffled up the walk, paper in hand.

When I reached the street, the Chrysler was gone, replaced by a huge, idling school bus. The driv-

er called out to me, “Hey, kid, hurry up. We ain’t got all day, y’know.”

The other seats on the bus were occupied by men dressed in identical suits and ties. I wondered,

Why are all these businessmen riding on a school bus? We turned the corner onto Phillips Street, and

then we were downtown, stopping in front of a tall, glass and aluminum office building.

I followed the crowd of suited men inside and up a broad marble staircase to a mezzanine over-

looking the foyer.

The same song, A Day in the Life, was playing in the lobby. I bumped into the guy in front of me,

but he didn’t seem to notice. I said, “Sorry,” but it didn’t feel as though anyone could hear me. I was real-

ly getting nervous. wait, I thought this is familiar. I knew something had happened, but I couldn’t remem-

ber what it was.

At the top of the landing, a woman in a navy blue suit gave me a cigarette from a red pack and

then lit it with a silver lighter. I heard a man say, “Eldorado.” I inhaled deeply, even though I don’t

smoke. For some reason I recalled the image of my friend, Eddy.

I stood there gazing around at the people moving about on the landing. I could tell something

wasn’t right, but I couldn’t quite get the thought to form. It was as though I had an itch on my back, and

no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t reach it. My mind drifted through the strange events of the

morning. I couldn’t remember getting dressed. Maybe, I thought, This is just some weird dream.

The song continued playing, and he was reading the news again. As people milled around on the

short pile carpet, I made my way to a leather lounge chair and picked up the newspaper folded on its

arm. I sank into the deep cushions and read: “4000 holes in Blackburn, Lancashire.”


13

Whoa, déjà vu, I thought. I could hear each word in my mind before I read it. Then I was startled

by a tap on my shoulder from a man in blue jeans and a green, cable knit wool sweater.

The music abruptly stopped.

He had a shaggy haircut and a thick mustache. Bright brown eyes sparkled at me through a pair

of round, metal-framed glasses. With a crooked grin and a thick British accent, he said, “Do you mind if I

have me paper back, son?”

I held the paper up to him, and he folded it under his arm. As he began to turn, I recognized him.

“Hey, you’re John Lennon,” I said, getting to my feet.

I pumped his hand up and down, staring up into his face. I rambled on, “Wow, I am so glad to

meet you. What are you doing here?” Part of my mind wondered where here was, since I couldn’t actual-

ly remember how I’d gotten there. But I kept talking the whole time, and Lennon was letting me shake

his hand, just smiling at me like I was making sense. “I’m a really big fan,” I continued. “I love Sgt. Pep-

per’s. Every song is amazing, just amazing. I just can’t believe this; I’m really talking to John Lennon.”

My hand continued to pump. I stood there beaming; he just smiled down at me. After a moment,

he said, “So, can I have me hand back?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, letting go and stepping back, having realized that my palm was sweating.

He wiped his hand on his pants leg and looked over his shoulder toward the stairway.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I had visions of Ringo, Paul, or George coming up the stairs. A

bevy of Japanese girls dressed in plaid skirts carrying metal lunch boxes crested the top step.

“Me? Oh no, mate. I was just wondering …” He paused and looked over his shoulder again, the

grin fading slightly. “Can you tell me where we are?”

For a moment I saw something in his face; it was like a raven’s shadow crossed his features. He

was still smiling, but the expression now seemed pasted on.


14

I was suddenly cold. I tried to think about how I had gotten there, but it was like bumping into a

wall in the dark. I could recall drinking coffee and riding the bus. It was all wrong somehow. And then

there was that song. Up until a moment ago, it was playing all the time. Panic filled my chest. The air on the

landing felt damp and misty. All the hard edges began to bleed like a fog was filling the room.

I tried to speak; I wanted to tell John we were in Morris Township, New Jersey, but I knew that was a

lie. I tried to tell him my name. All I could do was moan. A deep drumming grew louder. Though I did not hear

it begin, I felt it in my feet. The throbbing in my head matched its rhythm. The pain grew heavier as the de-

tails of the room and people blurred and faded.

I tried one last time to speak: “John? Can you hear me? My name is Caleb Ross.” But I couldn’t tell if

I’d made any sound. My ears were filled with other noises: metallic clanking sounds, a rhythmic beeping, a

sucking and swooshing, and hushed voices.

Then I heard my mother sounding a little too high-pitched and out of breath. She said, “Caleb, can you

hear me? Caleb.” I tried to open my eyes; they felt weighted with lead sinkers. There was something in my

mouth, and I tried to speak again; all that came out was mumbling and groans. I couldn’t swallow. I began to

panic, but everything felt wrapped in wool. I was numb.

My mom said, “Caleb, don’t try to speak, you are on a respirator. Honey, can you open your eyes?”

I strained, but I was exhausted. I rested. Confused questions flooded my thoughts. How did I get

here? I tried hard to remember, but it only made my head hurt. The clicking and swooshing sound cycled. My

chest filled with air and deflated. I tried again to open my eyes, and I found myself in the upstairs lobby again,

standing in front of John Lennon. He smiled warmly and said, “It’s really okay, Caleb, I’ll wait here for you ma-

te.” He winked and messed up my hair.

I smiled and thought, This is real. John Lennon remembers my name!


15

But I was so tired. I couldn’t even open my mouth to say thanks. My eyes drooped shut, and when I

tried to open them again, they were stuck. I tried again and got a crack of blurred light, and then a little

more. The room was out of focus. I was more exhausted than I have ever been in my life. My mom was sitting

next to the hospital bed. I was surrounded by towers of equipment, tubes, flashing lights, and steel poles.

She said, “You rest now, honey; you’ve had a big day.”

I realized our tape of “A Day in the Life” was playing on my cassette player somewhere in the

room; I heard that patch of garbled tape.

I wanted to tell Mom this was the best day of my life, that I’d met John Lennon, but I knew I could-

n’t speak. I let my mind drift, feeling as though I was falling backward down a sink drain, spinning away

into the dark.

In the distance, I heard the last strains of the song, “I’d love to turn, you, on …”

The light in the room shrank to a pinpoint and then …

Blinked …

Out.

~


16

Angela Maracle

Counting Cars

Lucy peeks around the bathroom door to watch

her mother put on makeup. If she pays attention, she

will learn how to be beautiful too.

“Go away,” her mother says. “I’m busy.”

Sometimes Lucy goes to the office with her and

has to hide in the bathroom all day. She has books and a

doll, so she doesn’t mind, and there’s a window that looks out on a park.

Her mother says having a baby all alone in 1967 was hard, and Lucy feels bad about this. It

must be awful to have people stare at you and not want to rent you an apartment. The worst thing is

that the night she was born, Montreal lost the cup, and that made Mama really sad. So sad she

stopped pushing, and the doctors had to use forceps to get Lucy out.

They have a grumpy, white cat that hides under the table. Lucy likes to sit under there and

talk to him, but she doesn’t touch him, because he scratches. Sitting under tables is fun. When Mama

works nights at the restaurant, she stays under the staff table with her Etch A Sketch and listens to

the waitresses talking.

When the weather is nice, she sits on the porch and counts passing cars. Most of them are

blue.

“Hey, kid.”


17

It’s Motorcycle Man. He stole them a tree last Christmas.

“Hi. Where’s your bike?”

“Crashed it. Is your Mom home?”

“Yep. She’s sewing a dress and told me not to bother her.”

“She did, huh? Look, here’s a quarter. Why don’t you go buy yourself a bag of candy?”

Lucy thanks him and takes the coin. A quarter will buy chips, soda, and ten pieces of penny candy.

Barefoot, she bounces down the steps to the dusty sidewalk. She doesn’t know if she’s allowed to go to

the store by herself, but she guesses it’s probably okay, because five is pretty old.

“Lucy,” her mother calls from the window. “Where are you going?”

“To the corner store.”

“Just a minute.”

Mama comes outside and gives Motorcycle Man a big kiss. Her hair is the prettiest shade of cray-

on-yellow, and her fingernails are painted pink.

“Your face is dirty.” She spits on her fingers and rubs them into Lucy’s cheek. “There. And look at

your hair. Did you brush it today?”

“I think so.”

“Say your ABCs for Ricky.”

Lucy recites the alphabet, thinking about all the good things her quarter will buy. Her mother

smiles and claps.

“Isn’t she smart? Okay, run along to the store if you want. Don’t talk to strangers.”

Lucy skips away, carefully noting the cracks in the sidewalk. Stepping on one would be bad. The

sign on the store says “Abner’s Grocery,” with a picture of a Pepsi bottle. A bell sounds when she opens

Maracle—Counting Cars The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

18

the door and the old man behind the counter looks up.

“Lucy, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I got a quarter.”

“Well, isn’t that something! Where’s your mother today?”

“Her friend’s visiting. I’m going to buy chips, blue cream soda, and ten pieces of candy.”

Mr. Abner helps her pick out her treasures and she walks home slowly, carrying the bag with two

hands. Her mother is sitting on the steps, crying.

“What’s wrong, Mama? Where’s Motorcycle Man?”

“He left.”

Black eye makeup smears Mama’s face and Lucy wonders if she should spit on her fingers and

wipe it off for her.

“Is he coming back?”

“I don’t know. Don’t ever trust a man. They pretend to love you, but they lie. The only person you

can count on is yourself.”

“Do you want to share my goodies with me?”

“Sure.”

Her mother disappears inside and comes back with a bottle opener.

Lucy opens the bag of chips. “Do you want to count cars with me?”

“Not right now.”

Mama looks really sad, so she hugs her, breathing in the familiar smell of her perfume.

“Ow, you’re pulling my hair.”

“Sorry, Mama.”


19

They eat chips and candy, and Lucy counts cars … mostly blue … same as always. She wishes her

fingernails were pink and that her mother wouldn’t cry all the time.

“Do you want me to say my ABCs again?”

“Not now. I have to finish sewing my dress.”

A taxi pulls up to the curb … not blue … red, and a heavy woman struggles out with two suitcases.

Lucy’s mother jumps up.

“What are you doing here?”

The woman marches up the steps, leaving her bags on the sidewalk. “What do you think I’m doing

here? Someone has to take care of that child.” The giant flowers on her blouse make an entire garden.

Mama stomps her foot. “I’m taking care of her.”

“Not from what I hear; you’re letting her run like a wild animal.”

“So you pack up and move across the country? You left everything?”

“She’s my granddaughter.”

Lucy’s mother storms inside. Slamming, cursing, and then the hum of the sewing machine carries

out of the upstairs window. Flowered Woman sits down.

“So you’re Lucy.” She puts a hand to her mouth. Tears course through wrinkles in her face.

“Why are you crying?”

“I didn’t know about you. I would’ve come sooner. I’m your grandmother.”

Lucy doesn’t know what to say. Having a grandmother seems like a good thing. She wonders how

long she will leave her suitcases on the sidewalk.

“What do you like to do, Lucy?”

“I like coloring and watching Lassie.”


20

“I brought my Scrabble board and a deck of Old Maid cards. We’ll have fun together. This porch

needs a few pots of geraniums, I think.”

Lucy looks with wonder at her grandmother’s hands. Blue lines lace over the knuckles. She

doesn’t have nail polish.

“How long are you going to stay?”

“Until you grow up. Or until I draw my last breath, whichever comes first.”

“Do you want to count cars with me? Most of them are blue.”

Her grandmother nods. “There goes one now.”

~


21

Joshua Swainston

$209.95 Almond Chicken Special

“Hey, you can’t park here.”

“It’s alright,” said Paul, getting out of his

Volkswagen Rabbit. “I’m only going to be here a mi-

nute.”

“Do you see this sign?” The parking enforce-

ment agent balanced upon his City of Portland issued

Segway. Clad in safety pads and helmet, he resembled

an authoritarian armadillo. “The ‘P’ with the slash through it? It means no parking. So it’s not alright.

Now move your vehicle or I’ll have to give you a ticket.”

“Can you cut me a break, man? I’ve been driving around the block for twenty minutes. There’s

nothing available. I mean, look.” Paul gestured down the curb at a line of densely packed cars.

“Nothing. I’ll be inside for five minutes, max. Come on, please? My wife’s pregnant and she really

loves the takeout from The Seven Dragons.”

“If I let you park here, what’s next?”

“What?” Paul asked, not sure if he understood the question.

“Look, order needs to be maintained. To do that, the citizens of any society follow standards of

behavior that allow us to function as said society,” explained the officer. “So, what’s next? I allow you

to park illegally, and then I’m supposed to look the other way when I witness a robbery? Or maybe

ignore a murder?”

“That’s not anywhere near the same thing.”

“Sure it is. Rules are rules. They are the threads which hold humanity from falling into chaos.


22

If we cut one thread, how much longer before the entire social fabric rips apart?”

“Doesn’t it have more to do with the result? Yeah, I’m parking illegally, but it’s for the good of my

loved ones.”

The officer stood rigid. “The ends do not justify the means when it comes to the law.”

Paul looked at his wristwatch. “I could have been out of here by now. I’ve appreciated our dis-

course on the need for standards, but I’m wasting time. My wife is waiting for me.” He turned from the

officer and made for The Seven Dragons Restaurant .

“I’m going to give you a ticket,” the officer warned.

“I’ll suffer a bit of civil chaos for my own domestic tranquility.”

~

Swainston—$209.95 Almond Chicken Special The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

23

Kristen Kauffman

The Steamstress’s Daughter

If Verity Waithright was allowed to tell her

own story, she would tell you she thought her

friend Constance was looking at the dirigible,

blinded by its metallic gleam. Instead, Constance

was blinded by the chesty workman pulling at the

ropes like a seaman, tying the flying beast to land, a

smile pushed onto his lips like he had been born

for no other purpose.

When Constance saw that Verity looked to the sailor as well, she raised her eyebrows. “My,

what interesting times we live in.”

“Let’s have tea, Miss Everly.” Verity’s resolve was renewed as if they hadn’t had that exact

purpose, but boarding the dirigible didn’t keep her friend from staring. “Please, Miss Everly. Some-

one may see you.” This was, after all, high tea. “He’s bare-chested.”

“And it’s positively marvelous.” After Verity pretended not to be shocked, Constance grinned.

“You know you’re my closest companion, do you not?” Verity nodded. “Then trust me. I’m merely

looking at the sailor.”

The waiter placed a pot of tea onto the tablecloth, and Constance took it to pour from it, pos-

sibly not letting the tea leaves steep long enough.

It wasn’t only staring at the sailor that Verity’s grandmother would protest to, but her dearest

friend, here. She tried not to care.


24

Once home, Verity peeled her gloves off for the second time that day and removed her bonnet.

When she got to her own private parlor, she placed them on the hall table and fell into a chair.

“How many times have I told you—” Grandmother poked her head in as if she was off to other

important household tasks (she wasn’t). “—Not to collapse into your chair like that?”

It’s my own chair in my own private parlor. But instead she said, “Yes, Grandmother.”

“Your uncles are coming for dinner—be sure to present yourself accordingly.”

“Are Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Lenore coming as well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And the cousins?”

“They are busy.”

Agatha was excused, because who else, after all, could lead the choir of eunuchs for the Queen’s

second cousin’s baptism? Cousin Karen had married an earl, so her absence was acceptable, too. After

all, how could she dine with Verity and her family when Karen was expected to entertain her own so of-

ten? Even Verity’s other twelve cousins with their various offices of state or happily mediocre marriages

were excused. It was only Verity with the embarrassing addiction to education who was considered in-

excusable. Until she married and joined acceptable society, she was expected to live with her grand-

mother and to entertain her uncles and their wives. (Practice, Grandmother called it.)

Uncle Edwin idly twirled his gold pinky ring as he asked, “So, Verity, how are your books?” He

grinned.

Aunt Elizabeth didn’t wait for Verity’s reply. “Yes, Verity, how are your books? You know—” She

directed the conversation to Aunt Lenore. “-—I’ve never met a young woman who studies as much as

our Verity. She’s so … literary.” The woman was full of giggles, presumably the consequence of her soda

water.

Kauffman—The Steamstress’s Daughter The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

25

Aunt Lenore returned a demure glance.

Verity was tentative. “I attended a lecture just this week on veterinary health and how if jockeys

were to approach horses differently—”

“Are you going to become a jockey now?” Grandmother asked. Her face conveyed horror, but she

tried to conceal it by selecting one of the cuts of greasy meat from the tray that Jameson (their automa-

ton) held out. His gaskets hissed and he moved next to Uncle Edwin.

“Of course not,” Verity replied. She took in a breath, ready to transform it to words-—but was cut

off.

“Don’t tell us you’re going to become a veterinarian.” Aunt Elizabeth giggled as she made eye con-

tact with nearly everyone at the table.

“That’s very sweet,” Uncle Edwin said with a baby voice reserved for the nursery. His eyes were

squinty, and Verity was willing to bet he didn’t look or sound like that when he spoke to his daughter or

her husband the Earl.

“I say,” Uncle George mumbled but everyone turned. He’d had speech difficulties as a babe, and

after recovery, the family’s rapt attention for his words hadn’t ceased. He needn’t ever speak up to gar-

ner everyone’s undivided attention. “Edwin, are you still planning on attending the fox hunt Saturday

next?”

“Oh.” Uncle Edwin sat back and crossed his arms over his elaborate waistcoat. “That’s Sunday

next?” He looked to Aunt Elizabeth. “We had heard that it was …”

“It was further ahead than a fortnight,” she said. She turned to Uncle George and repeated it, as if

they hadn’t initially heard it.

“Lord Darington changed it on account of the ball.”

“That’s funny,” Aunt Elizabeth replied. “We are having our own ball Sunday next.”


26

Aunt Lenore made a rather unseemly noise. “This duck is delectable.”

They stared a moment and then contributed their own compliments.

“Well,” Uncle Edwin chuckled. “It’s not as if the gentleman of the house has any tasks on the day

of a ball as it is, am I right?” He continued to laugh at his own joke. “And I would so love a fox hunt.”

“My boys,” Grandmother beamed. “Busy with your lives, but as if no time has passed. It’s times

like this when you bring me true joy.”

Everyone was smiling—except Verity.

“How is your schoolmate—Miss Everly?” Verity’s mother asked.

Verity brought over a trimmed panel of fabric for her. “She is well. She took me to high tea on the

dirigible yesterday.”

“How grand. Did you have a good time?”

“Indeed. Miss Everly’s gaze was stolen by one of the workman …” They shared a laugh.

“And how is your grandmother?” She was operating a cast iron pedal with her bare foot and

pushed two pieces of linen through the bobbing presser foot. A steam gasket hissed out of the side of the

machine, fainter than usual.

“Why is that faint?” Verity inspected the side.

“Leave it.” She kept operating the pedal. “I have to finish these dresses by tomorrow afternoon.

One of the finishing schools is having a recital, and—” She wiped sweat from her brow. “I don’t have

time to pull the machine apart and fix it.”

“I’m certain I could help. I studied steam powered engineering and—”

“Where did I put the shears? Oh, there. Can you pass them over, please?” There was something


27

wrinkly about her calico-printed dress that appeared as if she had slept in it (maybe there). “So how is

your grandmother?”

“Oh, you know Grandmother. The uncles came for dinner last night.”

“Did she say that thing about never being happier than when her family is all around her?”

“No.”

She knew Verity lied. “She has these dinners with her prized sons and claims she is happy to be

surrounded by family. Never mind her smart granddaughter lives with her because her steamstress

daughter has to work to pay her debt …”

It was a thought that had never borne speech, but then finally Verity said, “Why don’t you quit?”

The pedal stopped. The steam hiss died down to a whisper. “You think I never thought that?” She

stood and cupped her daughter’s face in her palms. “It’s for you that I do this.”

“It is?” The thought wasn’t supposed to hurt, but it did.

“I pay your grandmother’s debts so that you can live in a nice house and have nice things and go

to classes.” She let go and sat back down. “I would much rather be wealthy and fat like your aunts, but

family is more important to me than it is to them.”

“But their whole life is their family.”

“Then how come they don’t visit Grandmother more? How come I pay her debt while they are

wealthy? They don’t believe in family, but in a social club of relatives that compete. More money, more

attention, more things, more status …” She shook her head. “And they believe you and I are fodder for

gossip. They don’t need another subject as long as we disappoint them.” She shook her head and then

flinched as the presser foot nicked her finger and produced a spot of blood.

“Where are you off to?” Grandmother asked.


28

Mary was now selecting the necklace Verity had programmed her for earlier.

“Remember I told you about the opera?” Verity pushed the edge of the elbow glove up as high as

it would go—Grandmother’s glove, decades ago when she had the great misfortune of being single. “Miss

Everly’s invited me and a few other society members to sit in her family’s box. Tonight’s opera is—”

“I don’t like that Miss Everly. She is far too wild.”

“Wild? How so?”

“She walks too fast for one thing. Independent-minded, driven, social beyond those of her own

station, going to too many events …”

Grandmother’s day never varied:

5:00: Arise with pride that she’s the first to awake. She activates one of the automatons for tea and

to light the fireplace, and then at some point later claim ignorance for operating them.

5:15: Early bath.

6:00–8:00: Read all of the morning post.

8:15: Send an automaton to wake Verity, insisting she’s overslept.

8:30–9:30: Shared breakfast.

10:00: Verity is off to class, which Grandmother claims is a device to avoid her.

10:00–11:30: She reads from a popular three-volume novel.

11:30: Shared lunch.

12:30: Verity’s afternoon schedule either includes class or her friends’ receiving hours. It is at this

point Grandmother says that Verity is too busy.

12:30–3:00: Grandmother spends idle hours at home, sometimes returning to reading.


29

3:00–4:00: Afternoon bath.

4:00–6:00: Meat tea with Verity. The only acceptable conversation is tidbits of news that arrive in

the evening post.

6:00–8:00: Dress and dine in.

8:00–10:00: Read aloud from the newspaper and needlepoint until bedtime. The only alternate is if

the uncles are visiting, then reading aloud and needlepoint are substituted for “conversation.”

Every day went like this. Grandmother wanted Verity to inherit the frail structure of her

“feminine life,” but Verity wasn’t that person. Things had to change.

A steam-powered whistle hissed in the hall.

“Time to go,” I said, admittedly avoiding Grandmother’s eye contact.

“Will you have a chaperone?”

“I doubt Miss Everly’s family would lend the box without one.” Truth: I don’t know. I rushed

down the hall.

“How late is the opera?”

“About the average length.” Truth: I wasn’t sure and Grandmother wouldn’t admit to the igno-

rance of not knowing.

“Verity?”

I paused on the walkway between her prized rose bushes. She was backlit by the hall. “Have a

good time.”

“Miss Waithright!” Constance pointed to the gentleman beside her in the cab. “This is Mr. John

Taylor.” He waved, a clear sign of social ignorance. She gestured next to where I would be sitting. “And


30

this is Mr. Adam Strong.”

“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.” It wasn’t until we reached the opera house that I realized why

Mr. John Taylor looked familiar (he was wearing a shirt this time).

“Miss Everly, do you mind joining me for a trip to the powder room?”

Constance grinned at our escorts. “We’ll return shortly, gentlemen.”

“I know where I’ve seen him before!”

“It’s the funniest story. I had forgotten my shawl on the dirigible. What a pity. When I went back

for it, Mr. Taylor declared I was the loveliest thing he’d seen in months. That’s especially flattering, you

see, as the dirigible came from France—”

The older women in the powder room seemed to be eavesdropping.

Constance noticed my relative inattentiveness. She sighed and said, “I don’t know why you’re so

stubborn. After all, I brought Mr. Strong for you.”

“He’s a sailor too?”

“Just have a good time tonight. If after tonight you find him agreeable, well then worry about his

profession. Not before.” She smiled. “Fondest companion, remember? I want you to be happy, and I

could be the only person in your life who really knows what that means.”

It wasn’t until the four of us were seated in the box that Mr. Strong spoke and then only to thank

the waiter for the flute of champagne.

“Your family must be well connected,” Mr. Taylor observed.

I cringed. In polite company, you don’t talk about money or connections.

But this was Constance. “Indeed. Surprised you may be that an old, good-standing family of con-

nections would grant their daughter such independence. Is that what you mean?”


31

Mr. Strong choked on a sip of champagne.

“No, it’s alright,” she said. “All of my brothers are married, so my parents don’t worry much. If I

never marry, one of my siblings can care for me. I could marry or not marry—well, I haven’t decided on

all that. But I did decide that I wanted to know about things. Did you ever just want to know things? I

mean, why be materialistic automatons who drink away their thoughts? Live through action, am I right?”

“Agreed,” Mr. Strong said. “Mr. Taylor and I are menschen.”

I gasped. “Watch your language, Mr. Strong.”

“No—” He interrupted himself to laugh. “A mensch is a person of character, someone who uses

his hands to shape the world he’s in.”

“We could have become office managers of the dirigible,” Mr. Taylor added. “We were invited to,

actually. But we chose to be sailors.”

“Because,” Mr. Strong added, “we choose to shape the world we’re in. Why be hypothetical and

discuss life as an idle thought when you could actually reach out and touch it?”

With that, Mr. Strong touched my hand.

Our eyes met.

The curtain rose.

“I don’t want you to associate with Miss Everly anymore.” Grandmother selected a muffin and

took a bite.

I can’t say it was a surprise, but I had forgotten all my practiced replies. So I stammered. “We

have classes together … and her family has a high standing, socially, which is what you want.”

“She takes you from the house too much. If you’re looking for a husband as you claim you are, you

need to practice being home. I expect you to spend receiving hours here today.”


32

“But I was going to see mother today.”

“Your mother has enough to do. Maybe if you’d get married, she wouldn’t have the burden of

having to pay for your dilly-dallying.”

She had no idea—as I didn’t—that Mr. Strong would arrive during receiving hours. “I am Mr.

Adam Strong, a friend of Miss Everly’s.”

Grandmother was flummoxed. “Please sit. Miss Everly, you say? She’s such a charming young

girl, is she not?”

I raised an eyebrow at Grandmother.

“And who is your family, Mr. Strong?” She wouldn’t have asked him what he “did”—gentlemen

were expected to do nothing, and Grandmother expected me to be courting gentlemen.

“I’m family-less, I’m sorry to say. That is, my parents are deceased and I’m on the lookout to

create a new family.”

Grandmother said, “Oh,” followed by Aunt-Elizabeth-like giggles.

Embarrassed, I avoided both their gazes (each for different reasons, of course).

“Do you have a family home in which you expect to place this new family?”

“Grandmother,” I hissed. I cleared my throat politely and then said, “I daresay Mr. Strong

doesn’t expect us to interview him. He merely came over for tea. Isn’t that right, Mr. Strong?”

But his eyes pierced mine, and he said, “Miss Waithright, do you mind if we go for a walk?”

“She doesn’t mind,” Grandmother answered, and as the protector of my honor, she demanded

that Mary follow us.

“I … have to be far more blunt than good manners call for,” he said as if an apology.

“Sorry?”


33

“It’s just that I feel a spark and I would love to chase that spark to find a firestorm. But, you see,

I have an unusual profession. We’re off to Barcelona in a week.”

“Will you return?”

He kept stammering through his prepared phrase. “I could be handsomely romantic and sweep

you away with only hours to pack, but I thought that perhaps you might like a week to make the prop-

er arrangements—that is, if you want to. Because if you don’t want to, I understand. I’ll be gone in a

week and you’ll never have to see me again …” He trailed off as if a water supply broke and the de-

creased steam pressure took his words.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Strong—”

“No, that’s alright.” His gaze avoided mine and he said, “Let’s go back, shall we?”

“No—” I interrupted, and I tugged my elbow back from his gestured hand. “No, I was going to

say, I’m sorry, I need more clarity.”

“Oh.” His eyes flickered to mine.

“What exactly do you propose?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Pardon?”

“Look, I wish I wasn’t on such limited time so that we could get to know each other in a proper

setting, but then again, in our age, people marry on less than what we have to go on already. You’re

educated, rational, and you’re a mensch, too.”

“Watch your language,” I kidded.

“Is …” He grasped my hands. “Is this indicative of how you feel?”

“It is.”


34

“Then you don’t mind leaving your home for Barcelona—at least for a while?”

The blood pumping through me was enough for me to know this grand decision was the inde-

pendence and adventure I craved. “I don’t mind.” My words seemed so unlike their meaning. “But my

mother—”

“You have a mother?”

“She’s a steamstress in up-town. I can’t leave her.”

“A mensch and an artist as well. Yes, she can come. We always need steamstresses aboard.”

“You really do?”

He laughed and pulled me closer, our spark a flame. “You’ll need to learn to trust me.”

So I did, trusting him and his adventure as the dirigible took off, my mother alongside me on

the bridge, feeling the breeze on our faces as we disembarked, an old world behind, a new world not

that far ahead—a better world we could create with our own hands.

~


35

Daryl Muranaka

The End of Something

She doesn’t tell you that she loves you. In-

stead, she says that she owns you as she lies halfway

on top of you. That idea that’s planted a flag of some

sort in the middle of you somewhere is alarming, but

not surprising. You’ve come to expect that from her,

this sense of proprietorship of you, your interests,

your anatomy. Of course, the reverse should be true,

and maybe it is assumed between the two of you, but you’d never say it. Still, it’s a comforting feeling

to have the deed of you somewhere, anywhere, except floating out in oblivion. Free agency is a fright-

ening thing.

She wears her pale blue nightshirt—the old one with a large cartoon cat preening on the

front—and she looks like she’s about to preen herself. The lightness of the color matches her brown

hair, the vague olive tone of her skin. You are naked, wrapped tightly in a thin blanket. Reaching for

the phone, you lean over her and kiss her. To call in sick is the next order of business, then the ignor-

ing of the insistent ringing of the phone when the office has a problem. From the outside, you hear a

little boy running off to school with his grandmother yelling after him. The door slams twice. You rel-

ish the potential of nothing to do and not needing to share her for the whole day and the silence be-

neath the floor. Soon she’ll be leaving for home, 10,000 miles away from you.

The room is bright. The light fills the day with energy that flows through your body, energy

that needs to be ignored. Today is for laziness, and so you lay there, studying the room. You comment

on the big, white paper banner that says “Good Luck! Do your best!” It was a present from her


36

coworkers when she entered a singing contest. She did well she says, surprisingly well. That was

when you didn’t know her like this, didn’t know if you could carry on a conversation of more than

four sentences with her. The letters are thick and bold. Some are in blue, others red, with musical

notes and stars in all sorts of colors. You’re amazed by it, by the thought of her in the contest. “But

sadly,” she says, “I was eliminated in the semis. It was a good song.”

Sliding your arm around her neck moves her closer to you, and she rests her face against your

chest. Her cheek is cool compared to the warmth of her breath. You lie still until your shoulder is filled

with tiny pin-pricking pains. You shift, and she shifts, resting her chin on you. This is when she tells

you that she owns you, when she can survey you while you can only see her face. Suddenly, you flip

over on top of her and kiss her hard. Her arms snap around your neck, and her legs around your

waist. You are on top, but she is squeezing you, pulling the breath out of you. She has you like a wres-

tler in a guard position, tight and controlled. This is how it’s been since that first night.

You had gone bowling, but weren’t sure why. The day before she had borrowed a jacket from

you when a group of friends decided that you all should go for a walk in the park in the middle of

town. The trees were in bloom and there were pink blossoms and white blossoms, but springtime is

unpredictable and she was cold. You gave her your jacket.

In the middle of the park, there was a booth where people could stop and write wishes on

cards and tie them to balloons. The balloons were let go and maybe the wishes would make it to the

gods or something like that. You didn’t know; you just did it. She asked you what you wrote and you

said nothing important, embarrassed that you couldn’t think of anything profound. She wanted you to

visit her the next day. Which is what you did and why you went bowling. You both needed time to fig-

ure out what to do next, how this was going to go. You needed an excuse to go back home with her,

and she was trying to think of one. Pouncing on each other was, in retrospect, inevitable. That was six

months ago, and her leaving felt like a million years away then.

Muranaka—The End of Something The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

37

All morning, you listen to music. It’s all old music, because the selection is limited. Her best CD’s

have been packed already. Every now and again, she rolls out of bed to change the CD. She will pass you

one and then another, asking if there is something you want to listen to. You don’t care. You’re just hap-

py to be lying here, being shiftless. “I’m not making any decisions today,” you say. The biggest decision

was to spend time here and not at work.

Sometimes in-between the CD’s, you take turns singing favorite songs to each other. Not loudly, just in

whispers. When she sings, she rolls over on top of you and her hair falls down the sides of her face and

brushes the borders of yours. The ends tickle, but you don’t care, don’t move. You study each other.

By noon, the laziness of the day is hard to ignore and from time to time, you fall asleep. Each time

you wake up, you’re confused by your surroundings, not sure how long you have been asleep. Each time,

she’s watching you with her head propped up on her hand. Eventually, you ask her what she is looking

at.

“Nothing,” she says, smiling, and suddenly being more playful, rubs your ear lobe between her

thumb and fingers. It hurts. You worry something is wrong. You ask her what she’s thinking about.

“No,” she whispers and brushes back your hair. The blanket rests down below your knees, and

feeling self-conscious, you try to pull the covers over yourself. “No,” she says again and puts her hand on

yours. You shift, move closer, turn towards her, trying to hide your nakedness against her hip. When you

ask her why you shouldn’t cover yourself, she kisses your forehead and whispers into your hair that it

all belongs to her. She studies you, memorizing the mole on your chest, the sink of your belly. “That

should be reason enough,” she says.

You are glad when she says that she owns you. These little words make you feel wanted. It feels

strange to be her “property.” Somehow, it lets you feel like you’ll always be with her, that you’re perma-

nent. But inside you’re afraid that one day she’ll grow unhappy, and from underneath her bangs, she will


38

tell you that no one belongs to anyone, that she needs something that’s not you. And you won’t know

what that means.

In the late afternoon, the apartment is hot. All the drapes are closed and the ones near the foot of

the bed glow with sunlight. You turn on the air conditioner and turn it off when she says she’s cold. You

talk about nothing in particular, telling the same stories you told each other before. You listen only to

each other’s voices. There is no room for the real world today.

She talks about mountains and lakes that you never saw but will. Whole towns and cities are built

in your mind. Buildings rise up from your imagination, like trees over the grass; shops and churches and

homes emerge from the ground. Rivers cut through the earth and feed into the bluest oceans. These im-

ages become more and more vivid, until they become real, they take up space. Then this space rises up

between you and her and grows to the real 10,000 miles until you see your future without her. You wor-

ry. Tables grow in restaurants that you’ve never seen her in and with them, fuzzy faces laughing around

flickering candlelight and wine glasses. And you’re not there. There are crisper faces staring past your

ethereal presence, calling you “a buzz kill” when she remembers you.

But, for now, she says she’s not afraid of the future, and maybe you should learn from that, draw

strength from that. It’s a disappointment to her when she sees how much you worry. Where’s your spirit

of adventure? Where’s your courage? Where’s your trust? In her eyes, you can hear her doubts about

you. You feel how different you are. No, not because your skin is a different color, your eyes a different

shape. That would be simple. Instead, your differences are more basic than that and you worry. You

think strangely. Maybe there is too much of being a man in her eyes, her speech, her thoughts. Maybe

there is too little of that within you, or maybe too much of a little girl’s mind inside yours. Do other peo-

ple worry about such things? You feel silly. You are thinking like a child, not an adult, but the fear is a

hard knot in your stomach.

In the evening, she says she has no food for dinner. Your stomach has been growling for a long

time, but it hasn’t started to cramp yet. Yesterday’s half loaf of bread will only get two people so far.


39

Denying the hunger will only prolong the laziness so far. She’s hungry, she says, and tells you to get

dressed. She goes into the bathroom and wants you to decide on where to eat. As you put on your pants,

you try to think of someplace that you haven’t been to in a while, someplace she hasn’t been to yet. You

want something the two of you can share, a touchstone. When she comes out, she picks up the keys and

heads out the door. You’re not sure if this is the end of the day or the end of something else. And you still

don’t have any answers.

~


40

Brad Mish

The Archaeologist

I found the hands in one of the outermost

squares of the grid. Eighteen paces from the temple,

ten from the closest dwelling, and one meter down

beneath paprika-colored earth. They were my first

major find, and I had them as white as eggshells by

the time I proudly presented them to my professor.

He said they belonged to a male, an adoles-

cent—a thief. You could tell by the way the wrist bones were cleaved so cleanly. My euphoria evapo-

rated into the hot desert air at the sound of such cruelty. That was not the sort of story I was hoping

to hear.

I went back to my excavation pit and stared. Once, an arm had been laid bare there, turned so

that blue veins faced blue sky and held tight against an unforgiving stone. A full-grown man had held

a heavy blade high above his head, preparing to bestow what he called justice upon the accused, and

when the time came, the leading edge fell all the way down until it kissed the face of its siltstone ac-

complice. Then, while the boy shrieked and the surface of the stone began baking a sticky layer of

iron, the chieftain lifted his weapon skyward again to take the second hand.

The circumference of the wrist did not match the age of the bone. He was suffering from mal-

nourishment. He had probably stolen bread.

Later that day, the professor let me in on a secret. He had found dozens of sets of hands just

like mine, but he had never found one of the many fingerless skeletons that should be out there. I


41

asked him why he thought that was. He shrugged. “Exiled, I guess.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I held my palms out in front of my face, traced their lines with my

eyes, and thought of all the things they could do. It took one to wave, two to pray, and a stranger’s to

make peace. These men were thieves, but they weren’t monsters.

I knew what the truth must have been. There were no skeletons because those who have balled

their fists in marble-knuckled anticipation can leave no clues for those who seek them. They build no

homes, start no fires, and paint no history. They eat like vultures and excrete exposed and ashamed.

I hoped for something different. An elephants’ graveyard bereft of phalanges that signaled a soci-

ety of stump-fisted men who had found each other. With a man blessed with a resilient pinky finger for a

king, they would work with what they had, persistently hunting prey and warding off predators in a hail

of rolling-pin forearms. In the end, a few women would find their way to the camp, and a new dexterous

generation would arise. The elders would instill humility and humanity into their young. They would

share their bread.

My fantasy ended, and I saw that the sun was rising. Its rays slipped through the cracks between

my fingers and cast tarantula shadows across my face. I wept.

The dry earth took my tears and sucked them into its depths. Down below. Where whole civiliza-

tions huddle together waiting to be discovered, but lonely skeletons with cleanly cleaved wrists sleep a

lonely sleep—dreaming dreams that will go unanswered.

~

Mish—The Archaeologist The Rejected Writer—Issue 3—Sept. 2014

42

C ontributors

Lucas M. Peters has been living in Morocco since 2009 where he teaches literature and writing at Al Akhawayn University. You can find him on Twitter @lucasmpeters and on the web www.lucasmpeters.com.

Ron Heacock lives with his wife, Karen Walasek, and her loyal service dog, Finn. They split their time between the farm, HillHouse Writer’s Retreat, in the hills of southern Tennessee and their home in the city of Portland, Oregon. Ron spent many years as a performing songwriter and has shared the stage with such notable artists as Alan Ginsberg and Pete Seeger. His work has been published in Connotation, PaperTape, The LIMN Literary & Arts Journal, Cease Cows, The Elohi Gadugi Journal, Far Enough East, and The Pitkin Review. He has an MFA in creative writing from Goddard College.

Angela Maracle recently had two pieces published in Microfiction Monday, and won second place in the flash fiction Chest Writing Contest sponsored by author Mike C. Paulus. She is cur-rently one of five finalists in the 2014 short story contest at defenestrationism.net.

Joshua Swainston believes in the power of rejection. Nothing makes a writer want the payoff of being published more than rejection letters. He keeps every letter he’s received printed in a ma-nila folder and reads them about every three months, when he needs a good ass kicking. His first self-published novel “The Tacoma Pill Junkies” is available through his website www.tacomapilljunkies.com and he is currently the Editor-at-Large for Creative Colloquy (www.creativecolloquy.com)

Kristen Kauffman is a 2012 graduate of Goddard College and currently teaches creative writ-ing at Yavapai College in Prescott, Arizona. Fall 2014 will be the fourth semester in which she has taught Writing Steampunk Fiction, a writing course that analyzes cultural values through both historical fiction and science fiction.

Daryl Muranaka was raised in California and Hawaii. He received his MFA from Eastern Washington University and spent three years in Fukui, Japan in the JET Program. He currently lives in the Boston area with his wife and two children. In his spare time, he enjoys aikido and taijiquan and exploring his children’s dual heritages. Brad Mish earned an accounting degree in 2009, and instead of going out and getting himself a steady career has been making a mess of things ever since. He would like to be a professional author, but would settle for just being published one time before either of his parents die. Thankfully, they have good genetics.

http://www.lucasmpeters.com

http://defenestrationism.net

http://www.tacomapilljunkies.com

http://www.creativecolloquy.com

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