The Battered Suitcase September 2008

  He didn't understand. There was nothing to handle about my mom's death; she was just dead. I was only a few days old before the accident, so I don't remember anything about her. I've seen pictures, and that's it.

  He didn't understand I worked hard in school to impress myself. I tried telling him, but he laughed and said it made no sense, but it made perfect sense to me. I looked with envy at the kids who did well in school even though they seemed to barely try, and I wanted to prove to myself I could do well in my own way. I would go home and study my ass off, but at school, I would play it smooth and act as if I didn't know there was a test today, or I didn't know this was extra credit; I thought we had to do it.

  When the events I considered important came up, mostly those concerning girls and sex, I would try to change the subject. Sometimes I'd lie and say I had done nothing or even try to pull the "I don't kiss and tell" routine. I did this because I thought he would disapprove of the girls I did these things with. He used to try to boost my self-esteem by telling me I could have any chick I wanted, but it just made me feel like he was being sarcastic or something.

  Looking back, I think I just misjudged him. I think I was too paranoid about sharing all this personal stuff with anyone. I guess I've always been a little off with this whole friendship thing.

  ~

  In lieu of talking as I drove, I tried to focus on the good things about Dustin. The way he never told his parents he didn't believe in a god while they hauled him to church every Sunday. The way he worked at The Huddle House when school let out until midnight most nights and still made better grades than I. The way he remained calm when he saw his ex girlfriend and me holding hands at a redneck party in a field. Or the time he helped his neighbor, Miss Pransty, weed her garden even though she was an ungrateful and creepy hag who stared. I could go on, but the point I want to make is this: He was a better man at fifteen than I am now at twenty.

  I wish I would have come back to visit more. Maybe there wouldn't have been so much silence in the car. But when I left town the summer after graduation to dip my poor impressionable self into the so-called real world, I had no intention of spending any more time in Georgia.

  My father set up a checking account for me when I was five so I would have money to buy food and everything else I needed while he was fishing. Once I graduated, the balance was over seventy thousand guilt-ridden dollars. I never spent much of the money growing up since I basically lived off Dustin's family. When I graduated, my father told me to keep the checking account and do whatever I pleased with it.

  So I moved. I took the Volvo Dustin's parents gave me and headed to San Francisco where I thought I could become independent and inspired enough to write a novel. I didn't want fame; I just loved the idea of sitting at home in front of a computer making money roll in.

  I saw Dustin only once since graduation, a year after I moved. He decided to fly in so he could get more cultured and catch up on lost time. He got there on a Tuesday morning during fall break from Bainbridge's community college. He hated going to such an undistinguished college, but he wanted to stay close to his high school sweetheart Ashley. He swore he would marry her, but I never really liked her much. She was kind of prudish.

  We hugged as soon as we saw each other outside the airport, and then I drove us to my apartment. That day, we stayed in being lazy and talking about what had been going on with his family. The next morning, we got up and ready to go early so we could fit in as much of San Francisco as we could before he had to leave on Saturday. We spent most of the time on the piers walking around, talking, and just watching people. We went to Ghirardelli for ice cream and took pictures in front of the fountain. We went to museums and thrift stores and watched homeless people ramble about and saw one piss on a tree in the middle of a crowd. We went to bars at night and ignored no-talent folk singers on stage. We drank flat liquor and smoked Black and Milds as we talked about the future.

  We decided he'd visit every year, but this was the only time it happened. Don't ask me why because I have no idea.

  On Dustin's last night there, we wrote a song together. We considered ourselves songwriters even though we were the only ones who heard each other's songs. That night we picked up our guitars, he had brought his dad's old Martin, and I had my trusty Alvarez I bought in Georgia from a pawnshop. We wrote a song we titled The Truth is Raining Down. It was simple, but it was beautiful to me. The words didn't make much sense, but the rhythm reminded me of some of Dylan's first recordings, and I was proud of it. We stayed up most of the night practicing it.

  At seven the next morning, I drove him back to the airport. The goodbyes were difficult, but I was glad to have the apartment back to myself, and I know he was glad to get back to Ashley.

  After that, we lost touch. We'd email each other maybe once every six months. They were short and uninteresting ones about random news and happenings in each other's lives.

  Two years after his visit, I came close to running out of money because living at ease in San Francisco is expensive, and my novel was at a standstill. I had gotten a job at a minor newsletter doing copy and taking photographs, but it wasn't enough to compensate my expenses.

  I called my father and couldn't get a hold of him. We rarely talked, maybe twice since I moved out. I still had a key to the house, so I figured I'd drive myself back to Georgia.

  I ran ads in the paper for my furniture, sold some at a garage sale, and then took the rest to Goodwill. I put most of my clothes in the trunk of the Volvo, and I packed the ones I wear most often in a duffle bag. I put my guitar case in the backseat and walked down the street to eat one last time at Caff? Cozzolino, which had the best Italian food I'd ever eaten. I ordered the same thing I always did: fettuccine with chicken and alfredo sauce. It seemed like the perfect meal to have before taking off.

  When I finished stuffing myself, I walked back and got in my car. I wavered at first, reluctant to leave the city. Once the Volvo sputtered to life, I put it in drive and made my way back.

  There was nothing special about the drive. Since the Volvo had no stereo, I rode with a blistering soundtrack of old country favorites in my head. Nothing like Hank Williams or Johnny Cash burning in your brain while you're making your way back to a place you hoped to always avoid.

  After almost thirty-nine long, boring, and forlorn hours, and only stopping twice to eat and seven extra times for piss breaks, I arrived back in good ole' south Georgia. I was in somewhat good spirits despite being exhausted and dry-mouthed.

  The lights were off when I pulled up at my dad's house, which was not odd since he was never home, and it was two in the morning. I let myself in and checked the fridge to see what I could drink and eat, but there was nothing. Complete emptiness except for two ice trays filled in the freezer part. I guess he cleans out the fridge now before he leaves on trips so the food doesn't spoil. It seemed dumb to me he would leave it plugged up while he was gone; it's a huge waste of electricity, but then again, he'd never been the kind of guy to consider things like that.

  I found a glass in the cabinet, in the same spot where we used to keep them when I lived there, got some ice, turned on the tap, and fixed myself some water. Not exactly the best evening capper but better than nothing. Then I checked the messages on his answering machine because the blinking red light annoyed me, and it was too dark to see how to turn it off. It seemed my father has a new woman in his life who refers to him as "honey munchkin," and it also seemed he owes a guy named Ike money for fixing his bronco, a '78 model he bought a few months after the accident. I pressed erase and carried my glass and luggage through the house.

  My room looked the same as it did the day I left. I took everything with me when I moved except a camel colored wood dresser with scratches and my iron bed painted black.

  I set my bags on the floor and crashed onto the bed. There were no sheets or blankets, but I was too tired to notice.

  Several weeks passed without the return of my father, and I spent mos
t of the time sulking around the house. I didn't try to see Dustin. I'm not sure why; it just felt awkward. I missed him, but I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to excuse myself from not talking to him for so long, and I felt bitter he hadn't tried to get in touch with me. I got a job bagging groceries at Harvey's, and I kind of hoped I'd bump into him some time, but admitting that to myself immediately brought a nauseous feeling to the pit of my stomach. Nerves, I suppose.

  I used the money from Harvey's to get out of town as much as possible. I'd usually squander the weekend in Tallahassee roaming, missing the busy life of San Francisco. I drank a lot; it's easier to pass time when you're drunk.

  About a month into my stay back at home, with still no sign of my father and no communication with Dustin, I came home after work to a message on the machine from Ashley. She sounded upset. The message was directed to my father, and she said she needed to talk to me about Dustin, but she wasn't sure how to reach me. She had no idea I was back in town. I guess whatever she had to say was secretive or serious; otherwise, she would have blurted it out on the machine. I had no idea why she would need or want to talk to me in the first place; we never really talked before.

  I picked up the phone and called the number she left. She answered after the first ring and sounded like she hadn't slept for days.

  I don't want to get into the details of the conversation, but afterwards I was pale and shaking and decided I couldn't stay there tonight by myself. I called Christina and asked if I could come over. I told her what Ashley told me, and she agreed it would be best if I did.

  I stayed there six nights before I had the courage to drive to Dustin's house to pick him up.

  ~

  I drove my car with Dustin in the passenger seat to the mud pond. The silence was overwhelming.

  When we arrived, the rain had long stopped, and it was beautiful outside. I parked the Volvo at the ramshackle church close to the bridge over the slough, and Dustin and I got out. The walk down the side of the road and through the hole in the fence seemed to take an hour, but it could have only been five minutes at the most.

  We remained silent. I started thinking about the pictures I'd seen of my mother. I thought about how I fucked things up with Dustin. I cried tears that burned deep and strong.

  After following the slough for about fifteen minutes, the mud pond came into plain view. The smell of cow manure stung my nostrils, but I looked with fondness at the knee-deep water. I headed to the rock Dustin and I used to sit on. It was still positioned solidly half in the water and half on the shore.

  I climbed the rock and sat crying. I struggled with shaking hands to unscrew the lid covering what remained of Dustin. I told him I loved him, and I was sorry I wasn't there for him. I told him about every girl I'd touched. I told him every regret I'd discovered. I prayed for the first time in years. I asked a god neither he nor I had acknowledged before to help his family deal with this. I prayed for Ashley, and I prayed for myself.

  Then I turned the urn over and let Dustin rest in the first place we ever found that, no matter what, always gave us a sense of peace and completion even when we were far from feeling we deserved it.

  As the last ash dissolved in the dark brown water, my throat felt swollen, and I could barely see through the tears. I lowered myself from the rock and walked to my car as the dead air swirled silently around me, choking and consuming all that was left.

  Brandon K. Brock lives and writes in south Georgia with his fiancee, cats, dogs. He is editor and publisher of Flint River Fiction and is currently editing his first novel as well as a series of short stories for Erica Schreiner. You can learn more about Brandon through his website at www.flintriverfiction.co.nr

  Lyrics by Paul Jarvis

  The Girl From The Walled Up Room

  She fades in

  Like mercury on skin

  Her body wan and thin

  She's locked in...

  She's a mystery in bloom

  Her shivers shake the room

  She kisses me the moon

  That old tune...

  We dance through time

  To a music box's halting chime

  'Till we're out onto the square

  Past the windows weeping

  Maunday prayers

  To the place she calls her tomb -

  She's the girl from the walled up room.

  We lie so calm

  She clings to me, this balm

  Her hands are soft and warm

  But her nails are torn...

  She fades out

  Oh, morning comes to doubt -

  I can see there's no way out -

  I am her now...

  The Strangers (L' Etrangers)

  Who are all these strangers

  At my mother's house?

  Sitting in my father's chair

  Spitting on the couch?

  Mother's in the kitchen

  Not making too much sense

  She can't think - did she let them in?

  These smiling men...

  They're gonna eat with us tonight -

  The strangers

  They've got big plans for us tonight -

  The strangers...

  The clocks are moving backwards

  They say it's time to leave

  We're best friends on a knife edge

  The strangers, Mum and me...

  Drive us to the sea, they say -

  We'll live together well

  But at the cliff's edge at daybreak

  We're really going to hell...

  Late Summer Swallows

  We pick our way through windfalls

  Left rotting on the ground

  As the sun lights up the orchard

  Your car is all we've found

  Along the narrow hedgerows

  Swallows skim the wire

  Swooping down to call us

  Beyond the sinking fire

  How much will he miss you

  By sunset's next return?

  Will roads we know have vanished?

  Will maps show where we turned?

  Through a steamy window

  We eat like refugees

  Is conversation slowing

  Now breathlessness has eased?

  You want the curtains open

  So I watch the swallows crowd

  As they flee, I think of Autumn

  And the flow of changing clouds

  And will I find you near me

  When the swallows come in Spring?

  In a cheap room soon, inside my arms

  You'll dream of dreams and him...

  Of restless flight and him...

  Paul Jarvis is the lyricist for Slab!, a London-based band who originally released records from 1986-1990. Slab! have recently reformed and are working on a double CD of both previously unreleased and new material. As the music has become increasingly filmic and varied, Paul feels his challenge is to write lyrics that will match it in scope. He shies away from the confessional and instead tries to create scenarios that work as mini short stories. He believes the key to writing intriguing lyrics lies in the detail left out so that the imagination can take over. His biggest influence is Raymond Carver.

  Paul and Slab! are audible at: https://www.slab-uk.co.uk and https://www.myspace/ukslab

  Poetry by Marc Alan Di Martino

  Seagulls

  The promise of beaches in mid-winter

  Fills the air with their cries.

  Summer cannot be far off.

  Poets

  A solitude of hours

  Was allotted us

  At the creation of the world-

  A few choice fruits

  On which to stain our lips

  And the smallest leaf

  From the Tree of Life.

  Memorandum

  In winter the toilet paper is dry as leaves.

  My tongue sticks to the palate of
my mouth.

  I am young and strong, but my vision of the world

  Suffers from a lack of high definition.

  Like a new television set, I wait in my box

  Counting the hours of darkness until dawn

  Wagging my tail like a newborn puppy.

  Some things, take note, are beyond our understanding.

  My father's handwriting. My mother's. Even mine.

  Marc Alan Di Martino is a poet, writer & translator based in Rome, Italy. His work can be read in Pivot, BigCityLit, The New Formalist, Best Poem and in the American. He is looking for a publisher for a book length poem inspired by a midtown Manhattan falafel maven and Lord Byron.

  Poetry by Nick Masesso Jr

  Hit by the Thunderbolt

  H.L. Mencken said that love,

  was the triumph of imagination,

  over intelligence.

  I suppose he was just about right,

  right up until the time you're in it,

  heart-deep in the magic zone,

  where the scent of her breath

  intoxicates you like heavenly heroin

  and sweet cocaine,

  and you surrender.

  And the mere fact

  that this bizarre sight

  is even possible

  in the midst of all this madness,

  truly is a triumph,

  and you don't care

  what kind.

  Angel's in the Architecture

  On the way back from

  Yuri's Night

  we met a girl in passing

  dressed like an angel

  with the full length

  white feathery wings

  of an angel