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The Sacred Cow September 2015

The Sacred Cow Vol. 4 No. 3 Editing Editor: September 2015 Andrew Sharp Poetry Overseer: Sarah Mast Garber Quality Control: Jason Ropp Matt Swartz Fiction 12 40 Celebrities That You 23 Know-How Existential Consultant: Didn’t Know Were Atheists By Eliza Callard Jared Stutzman 5 Peter and the Wolf Retold By Ricky Garni 25 The Glory That Was Layout: Andrew Sharp By Ben Herr 13 Dangling Participles By Thomas Zimmerman Cover photo: Andrew Sharp 8 Weathered By Donal Mahoney 26 The Broad and Narrow Way By Tamara Shoemaker Website: 16 Cacaphony at Midday By William Miller www.sacredcowmagazine.com 9 Ride the Peter Pan By Carol Hamilton 26 Contact: By Allison Whittenberg Jordan [email protected] 19 Bergmanesque Yahrzeit By Stephanie Sharp facebook.com/sacredcowmagazine 13 Short Arm of the Law google.com/+Sacredcowmagazine By Gerard Sarnat By Andrew Sharp 26 Iron and Water Sacred Cow Publishing Company 10775 Memory Road 20 The Gallery By Ruthie Voth Harrington, DE 19952 24 Post-Apocalypse By Thomas Zimmerman By Juan Ersatzman Essay 20 Learning from Picasso Poetry By William Doreski 17 The Secret of Spaghetti Sign up to receive each edition of By Terry Barr the Sacred Cow via email. 20 Missing You - For I. Just go to our website, www.sa 12 Blessed 21 credcow magazine.com, click the By Valentina Cano A Heaping Helping of link to subscribe, and provide your By Sarah Stoltzfus Allen Ethiopia name and email address. You may unsubscribe at any time. 23 Prosopopoeia: Face Making By Amanda Miller 12 Winter View By Alannah Taylor By Yuan Chingmang 2 The Sacred Cow September 2015

Contributors the far side of the border. Always a bit of an outsider on the “Homeless Chronicles From Abraham to Burning Man,” inside, he started writing terrible fiction at age 10, a pastime “Disputes” and “17s.” September 2015 facilitated by the onset of terrible insomnia at age 11. He takes his name seriously, and strives to embody all that it means. Andrew Sharp (“Short Arm of the Law,” page 13) is a journalist who works for a local newspaper on the Eastern Ricky Garni (“40 Celebrities That You Didn’t Know Shore of Maryland. He lives in Harrington, Del., with his Sarah Stolzfus Allen (“Blessed,” page 12) is a wife Were Atheists,” page 12) is a writer and machinist born in wife and two sons. He edits The Sacred Cow, which has dra- and mom who drinks way too much coffee. She works as Florida and living in North Carolina. His latest work is a matically increased the acceptance rate for his pieces. an administrative assistant by day and by night she writes collection of six poems, released in the summer of 2015. about her life, her love, her pursuit of happiness, and her beloved Appalachian foothills. Stephanie Sharp (“Jordan,” page 26), teaches English Carol Hamilton (“Cacophony at Midday,” page 16) as a second language at an elementary school in Greenwood, has published 17 books: children’s novels, legends and po- Del. She enjoys cooking, reading and every 10 years or so, Terry Barr (“The Secret of Spaghetti,” page 17) teaches etry, most recently, “Such Deaths.” She is a former poet lau- writing a poem. creative nonfiction at Presbyterian College, writes essays, reate of Oklahoma. and lives in Greenville, S.C., with his family. Tamara Shoemaker (“Weathered,” page 8) lives in Ben Herr (“Peter and the Wolf Retold,” page 5) lives the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with her husband, three Eliza Callard (“Know-How,” page 23) was born, raised, in Lancaster, Pa., where he works as a dorm adviser for in- children and a never-empty carafe of coffee. Her books in- and now lives in Philadelphia with her family. Forty years ternational high school students. He writes short stories, clude the Shadows in the Nursery Christian mystery series of managing — and occasionally mismanaging — her cystic humor, and opinion pieces about whatever current ideas and and “Soul Survivor,” another Christian mystery. Her latest fibrosis have given her perspective on loss and endurance. A projects interest him. book is the fantasy “Kindle the Flame.” product of Skidmore College, she enjoys family time, hiking and camping, and playing the piano. Donal Mahoney (“Dangling Participles,” page 13), a Alannah Taylor (“Prosopopoeia: Face Making,” page product of Chicago, lives in exile now in St. Louis, Mo. He 23) is a student from London, UK, who likes to write mostly Valentina Cano (“Missing You - for I,” page 20) is a has had poetry, fiction and nonfiction published in print and poetry. She is very interested in people, and how they think student of classical singing who spends whatever free time online in various countries. He has worked most of his life as and feel, but likes to write about other things too. she has either reading or writing. Her debut novel, “The an editor of one thing or another. Rose Master,” was published in 2014. Ruthie Voth (“Iron and Water,” page 26), lives in Amanda Miller (“A Heaping Helping of Ethiopia,” southeastern Kentucky, where she and her husband raise Yuan Changming (“Winter View,” page 12) edits page 21) lives with her husband in Hutchinson, Kansas. She their four children and run a Bible camp. Sometimes, in the Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver. Chang- enjoys words and has a tendency to write about the inter- aftershock of the busyness, her mind clears enough to blog ming’s poetry has appeared in publications including Best section of life and food. and write a little poetry. Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Cincinnati Review and Threepenny Review. William Miller (“The Broad and Narrow Way,” page Allison Whittenberg (“Ride the Peter Pan,” page 26) is a poet, children’s author and mystery novelist. He lives 9) is a poet and novelist (“Life is Fine,” “Sweet Thang,” William Doreski (“Learning from Picasso,” page in the French Quarter of New Orleans. “Tutored,” and “Hollywood and Maine,” all from Random 20), writes mostly poetry, but also criticism, including essays House). She lives in Philadelphia. and book reviews; he has published a few academic books in that line. Gerard Sarnat, (“Bergmanesque Yahrzeit,” page 19) was editor of the freshman literary magazine The Yardling Thomas Zimmerman (“The Gallery,” page 20, “The at Harvard. He has been a CEO of health care organizations, Glory That Was,” page 25) works as a community college Juan Ersatzman (“Post-Apocalypse,” page 24), grew and was a Stanford professor. His poetry collections include English teacher in Ann Arbor, Mich. His chapbook “Thir- up in the green heart of the United States, but was born on teen Sonnets and Some Fire Music” was published in 2012. 3 The Sacred Cow September 2015

From the editors Mail This November The Sacred Cow magazine This latest issue, our ninth, is the longest will turn 3 years old. We began in 2012 with one to date, and contains work from a num- Dear Cow, the goal of producing a literary magazine ber of new authors, as well as longtime con- that would continue until we stopped doing tributors. The material covers a wide range, I must express my outrage and disappointment over your careless use of it. We are proud that we have remained com- from satire to thoughtful fiction to food hurtful terminology in your publishing of the poem “D-------” by Jason mitted to that vision. essays to poetry, a thematic approach that Ropp in your June 2015 issue, the name of which I will not even type. People A look back at emails from our early brain- closely follows the traditional Hodgepodge who are challenged by mental differences have been stereotyped and shamed storming sessions for the Cow shows some literary school. Or, as we like to cliche it, long enough, and I simply cannot understand how an editor could think it interesting alternatives for the magazine’s something for everyone. was acceptable to perpetuate this kind of aggression by publishing such a name. It very narrowly escaped being called Let us know how we are doing; we want poem. I demand a full apology and a retraction, or I will cancel my subscrip- “Baalam’s Ass,” for example. Other suggest- to hear from you. Did you find the pieces tion immediately. ed names included “The Slaughtered Bull- boring or interesting, insightful or shallow? ock,” “The Whirlwind,” “The Warbler,” “In- Give three specific examples. Ronald Williams, dia Ink,” and “Amalgamation.” Out of those, For more on our contributors, go to the Butte, Montana The Sacred Cow was clearly a sound choice, aptly named “Contributors” page on our but it makes you wonder: Can a world with- website, where you can find more complete Ronald, out a literary magazine called Baalam’s Ass background information and links to some We would have to be deranged not to issue an immediate apology. We deeply regret be the best of all possible worlds? The logo of their personal projects. that the world contains painful realities, and we will do our best to mask those reali- design possibilities for a Slaughtered Bullock We’d also like to draw your attention to our ties in the future. magazine are also intriguing to think about. new email subscription service. On our home The magazine has been through a num- page at www.sacredcowmagazine.com, click Dear Sacred Cow, ber of design shifts over time, but the issue the link to subscribe and sign up to have each you’re reading, while it lacks the initial focus new issue delivered straight to your spam I wanted to thank you for publishing the poem “Deranged” in your June is- on choppy, awkwardly placed graphics and folder. sue. Too many people ignore the danger that deranged people present to our pull quotes, still has a lot of the look and feel Thanks for reading. society, and the actions of the heroic businessman were a great example to of that first one in November 2012. our young people. Sincerely, Rebecca McIntyre, San Luis Obispo, California Rebecca, thanks for taking the time to read the June issue. We have also found that critical analysis on a basic level contributes to the reading experience. Send us mail at [email protected], or message us at Facebook.com/sacred cowmagazine. 4 The Sacred Cow September 2015

Peter and the Wolf Fiction (retold) Wandering Reflections at the Symphony By BEN HERR Complete text by Sergei Prokofiev in bold E arly one morning Peter chirped the bird gaily, unaware that the gate, and decided to take a nice swim in fly!” said she. To this the duck replied: the deep pond in the meadow. opened the gate and went human creature in front of it did not un- “What kind of bird are you, if you can’t out on a big green meadow, derstand bird song. If Peter had, he would “Humph!” Peter said with a sigh of exas- swim!” and dived into the pond. You see, the duck had swum to the shore to make that after checking to make sure have replied by chirping back the question, peration. How would he catch the duck in his grandfather had not seen “Doesn’t a quiet forest usually mean trouble the middle of the pond? If he didn’t get it him go. It was a highly dangerous woods, is approaching?” back, grandpa would know he had opened reply, then jumped right back into the water to continue the argument, mostly for dra- you see, dangerous to the point that it need But as it was, the bird and the boy felt hap- the gate and gone to the meadow. “I must matic effect. not be considered unbelievably rare should py and safe in the meadow, enjoying watch- figure out a way to catch the duck or I will They argued and argued — the duck a fierce, reclusive predator such as a wolf ing each other. Since very few humans get in trouble for sure. Maybe if I had a rope swimming in the pond, the little bird suddenly show up near a human residence. with children would live in such a danger- …” hopping along the shore. Grandfather, you see, had warned Peter ous part of the woods, this was the closest Seeing the duck, the little bird flew “Actually, there are only 17 species of birds many times to say within the gated yard. thing Peter had to a friend. down upon the grass, settled next to the that can swim, but cannot fly ... all of which On the branch of a big tree sat a lit- Soon a duck came waddling around. She duck and shrugged her shoulders. are penguins,” said the bird. “So the real bur- tle bird, Peter’s friend. “All is quiet,” was glad that Peter had not closed the “What kind of bird are you, if you can’t den of proof lies with you, when it comes to 5 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Peter continued bird immediately flew up into the tree. “but I guess I can put that most urgent quest raised by only a cranky grandfather, he had From the middle of the pond ... the on hold to go after a little duck, or a cat, or no one in his life to tell him that having duck quacked angrily at the cat. perhaps a canary.” courage did NOT mean standing behind “Oh, come on! We were just getting to the In a twinkling, the cat climbed up the a wall in safety as your animal friends get point!” said the duck angrily. “Couldn’t you tree, because in the Rock, Paper, Scissors of hunted and eaten by a ravenous wolf. But the task of disproving a claim of one’s own wait a bit to break us up?” things cats are afraid of, “Wolf ” beats “Stuck since he cared a lot more about the bird abilities being more birdlike.” “See?” piped in the bird. “You can swim in in a Tree.” Which beats “The Fifth Second than the duck, he ran home, took a strong “Back off, flight supremacist!” quacked the the water. Water. The very thing cats hate. of Getting Rubbed on the Belly.” rope and climbed up the high stone wall. duck. “Ducks get our wings clipped so we You have some advantages too! See, we can The duck quacked, “OK, that’s it, I’m One of the branches of the tree around can’t fly out of the yard. Don’t hold your both be a little ethnocentric, blaming prob- outta here! Wait ... they locked the gate? which the wolf was walking, stretched flight privilege over me!” lems on the other guy.” Are you serious? How could they just out over the wall. A smarter boy would “Don’t hate on me just cause I was born “Yeah. But still. I’m stuck in a pond.” The leave me out here?!?” and in her excite- have beckoned to the cat to walk across the with the ability to fly and sing beautifully!” duck kept swimming in circles. ment jumped out of the pond. The wolf branch and into the safety of his home, and chirped back the bird in agitation. “Skill- The cat crawled around the tree and chuckled and gave pursuit. for the bird to fly over. But since his limited ful flight takes HARD WORK! You don’t thought: “Is it worth climbing up so high? But no matter how hard the duck tried to life experience made him a bit of a novice at just pop out of the egg and start flying. By the time I get there, the bird will have run, she couldn’t escape the wolf. He was heroic problem solving, he decided the best You have to put in a lot of hours training flown away. Also, I’ll get stuck, and I don’t getting nearer … “Um ... help?” quacked course of action was to play God and join your wings, and staying in flying shape. think this place is fire truck accessible, so the duck. ... nearer … “For real, someone Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the Not to mention you have to eat right. An how else will anyone manage rescue me? help me! I’m about to get eaten by a wolf fire, except in a version of the story where herb-based diet is important, yet everyone Also, why was I even pondering the first over here! Peter? Grandpa?” ... catching Abednego was already dead, because every- wants to be able to fly while eating mini- question. Of course the bird will fly away.” up with her … “Oh, come on, I bet if that one knows he was the annoying one in that mum sage.” Grandfather came out. He was angry bird were getting chased they’d come out group of friends. Grabbing hold of the “Wow, you’re out of touch, my friend. because Peter had gone to the meadow. and help it.” ... and then he got her, and branch, Peter lightly climbed over on to What’s that saying about walking a mile in “It is a dangerous place. If a wolf should with one gulp swallowed her. the tree. As they sat there making a plan, another bird’s webbed feet? It’s not easy! come out of the forest, then what would And now, to avoid the pesky task of actu- Peter wondered why grandfather was so These feet are built for water! Trust me, I’d you do?” he said in a tone that was totally ally writing a piece of story so complicated upset. He had been in the meadow, but no love to be able to put in the work required not in any way ominous foreshadowing. that it only contains a wolf walking from a farther away from the gate than the width to fly, I just don’t have that opportunity!” Peter paid no attention to Grandfather’s pond to a tree, this is how things stood: of a tree. He could have run back inside in Suddenly something caught Peter’s at- words, ensuring that by having the protag- the cat was sitting on one branch, trying no time. tention. It didn’t take much, because the onist disobey an authority figure in a chil- to figure out how to safely rub the wolf ’s Peter said to the bird: “Fly down and chirps and quacks of the strange interac- dren’s story, a lesson will be learned later. belly for 5 seconds or more, the bird on circle around the wolf ’s head, only take tion got old pretty quickly. He noticed a Also because he had taken the story of “The another, not too close to the cat, because care that he doesn’t catch you.” cat crawling through the grass. Boy Who Cried Wolf ” a little too much to in order to be unified against this new en- “And see if you can scratch its belly, too!” The cat thought: “The bird is busy ar- heart and just couldn’t take Grandfather’s emy, they needed to be in the same tree, yet added the cat. A sudden and uncharacteris- guing. I’ll just grab her.” Stealthily she warnings very seriously. not so close as to tempt the cat into forget- tic sense of altruism and compassion came crept toward her on her velvet paws. Besides, boys, as he, are not afraid of ting about defeating the wolf first ... and across the bird, and it followed Peter’s ini- “All I’m saying,” the bird continued, with wolves. But Grandfather took Peter by the wolf walked around and around the tiative, putting its life in great danger with- a wide gesture of its wings, “is that maybe the hand, led him home and locked the tree looking at them with greedy eyes. out having a clue why. if you ventured out here into the wild and gate. Peter now obeyed and went without Of course, from the wolf ’s point of view, The bird almost touched the wolf ’s head stopped relying on handouts from Grand- a fuss, because boys, as he, are very afraid trying to catch three whole elk would have with her wings while the wolf snapped papa, you’d realize how much more you of spankings. been greedy. Wanting more than just a lit- angrily at her from this side and that. could accomplish!” No sooner had Peter gone, than a big tle waddling duck seemed very reasonable. How the bird did worry the wolf in the “You really think that would work?” gray wolf came out of the forest. The In the meantime, Peter, without the same way as a policeman is worried by a quacked the duck angrily. “Every time gray wolf surveyed the meadow. slightest fear, stood behind the closed doughnut rolling down a hill away from him! we —” “I’ve been hunting down a pack elk of three gate watching all that was going on. How he wanted to catch her just like that “Look out!” shouted Peter, and the days and have almost caught up,” it thought, Having grown up in such isolation, being gingerbread man! But the bird was clever- 6 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Peter continued haps it was because they respected the boy for doing with a rope what they had not been able to do with guns. Perhaps it was because they had a change of heart and decided that such a powerful and majestic creature should not be hunted, but should be admired by the masses while slouching around behind bars. er, or “quicker” as a storyteller with less bias But more likely, it was because they were so against the wolf might say, and the wolf shocked and worried about the judgment simply couldn’t do anything about it. and safety of a boy who thought he had Meanwhile, in no great rush in spite of corralled a powerful wolf by merely tying his bird friend being in great danger, Peter a rope around its tail, that they abandoned made a lasso and carefully let it down. He their hunt and agreed to escort the boy to had never used a lasso before, but he gave it the zoo. his best shot, aimed for the wolf ’s head and The wolf, suddenly finding himself on the neck, and caught the wolf by the tail. A wrong end of several rifle barrels, lowered bit surprised, Peter decided to make do with his head, amazed at his rotten luck. the snare he had managed and pulled with And there, imagine the triumphant all his might. procession: Peter at the head, smiling Feeling himself caught, the wolf began broadly, and feeling rather proud of his an- to jump wildly trying to get loose. “What tics and achievements, in the end, not hav- did you manage to get yourself into?” won- ing learned that lesson about heeding an dered the wolf. “Especially considering this authority figure’s warning … after him was supposed to be just a quick side snack.” the hunters leading the wolf, who walked But Peter tied the other end of the rope with his head low, mourning his fulfilled to the tree, and the wolf ’s jumping only destiny of being a powerful, cunning fairy made the rope around his tail tighter. The tale wolf who got captured by a far infe- wolf was now very frustrated. He wasn’t rior and mostly inept foe thanks to some caught, his tail was simply stuck tightly. He remarkably convenient occurrences … and could have reached back and bitten the rope winding up the procession, grandfather in two, freeing himself, but he worried that and the cat, who smiled, having achieved if he wasn’t able to the noose off of his tail, its ultimate goal of receiving a portion of it would cut off circulation and he would the group’s glory, yet never having to lift so lose his tail. He turned to Peter, and in a much as a paw or contribute anything. resolute and determined manner, delivered shooting as they went. It has long since When the hunters saw the wolf, they took Grandfather tossed his head, discon- a speech that would sadly fall ununderstood been a point of debate as to whether they aim, but Peter, sitting in the tree, cried: tentedly, trying to instill the importance of by the human boy. were the world’s worst, noisiest animal “Don’t shoot! Birdie and I have already what didn’t, but likely could have happened, “I am Gray Wolf. Cousin of asphyxiated trackers, or if one of them was a PETA caught the wolf! Now help us take him with a vigor matched only by a parent whose Big Bad Wolf. Second cousin of lumberjack- member in disguise, tricking them into to the zoo.” child won big the first time they gambled: murdered other Big Bad Wolf. You ruined shooting at shadows, to ensure that they did Perhaps it was because they realized they “Well, and if Peter hadn’t caught the my hunt. You saved the lives of my snacks. not have a successful hunt. Skeptics of the had wasted all of their bullets with their wolf? What then?” You tricked me by giving me the bird. And reliability of the account given by Peter and senseless shooting and were out of ammu- Above them flew Birdie chirping mer- now you caught my tail. the hunters point out that Peter, the wolf, the nition. Perhaps it was because they were rily: “My, what fine ones we are, Peter “I’m not leaving without that tail!” cat, or the bird would surely have heard the embarrassed for having been unwittingly and I! Look, what we have caught!” For- Just then the hunters came out of the hunters coming long before they emerged hunting and shooting so close to a residence tunately for Birdie, the rather tense hunters, woods, following the wolf ’s trail and from the forest, due to said gunfire. where a young boy was playing outside. Per- who were still guarding the wolf, could not 7 The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015 Next page The Sacr

Peter continued Fiction understand bird song, or they may have shot the little birdie for taking credit for what Weathered was, in reality, the hunter’s achievement. And if one would listen very carefully, he could hear the duck quacking in the wolf ’s belly, because the wolf in his hurry By TAMARA SHOEMAKER had swallowed her alive. Since an ending like that is just daring the world to come up with a worse ending: Peter took out a packed lunch of onion rings. Birdie started flutter- ing down to eat with Peter, but was having he dust of 60-plus years coated his bronzed face difficulty landing on his shoulder. One of the T as he stared down at the town from his perch. The hunters took off his hunting coat, revealing rest of his skin had grayed with time, but his lips a “Members Only” jacket and started acting had never cracked a smile. fidgety. Then Peter heard a twig snap, he His feet rested on a pedestal at the edge of a looked up and — used car lot, and he glared across the river at the school be- yond. They’d named the mascot after him — the Chiefs, until a court case banned the term and replaced it with the innocu- PETER AND THE WOLF ous Eagles. By Sergei Prokofiev He’d become a landmark in this town. Tourists hugged a © 1937 by G. Schirmer Inc. (ASCAP) brown leg while they posed for a camera; tired Main Street meanderers paused for a break in his shadow. Gangs graffitied Translation by W. Blok, 1961 spray-painted tattoos on one bare calf; girls kissed interested boys behind the pedestal. I worked in his shadow, operating my store where I could see the rigid profile. The eyes faded more each day, and rumors swirled that the city might give the old guy his final rest. On a drizzly day, I nestled a set of books more snugly on a shelf, pulling the window closed to bar the rain from my mer- chandise. I traced the rivulets on the glass. “Will that make you happy?” I whispered. His cheeks dripped moisture below his empty, empty eyes. 8 The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015 The Sacr

T beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one Fiction here were times when it seemed like all the of them. It was cold and damp, early spring, and I was Greyhounding from my old life to my new, from North to South. I was 24, mas- ter degreed, unwed, and pregnant. All around me, I saw failure. As each passenger climbed aboard, emptiness filled the bus. I saw the unshaved and the unshowered. The angry and confused. Widows, retirees, prac- tically invalids dragging their duffle bags. Beside me, a degen- erate unwrapped his plastic wrapped sandwiches. I stared out of the windows like a peeping Tom. Riding the bus meant never passing City Hall, never going by the nice restaurants or boutiques melting into friendly pedestrians strolling past. No businessman with wedding bands checking briefcases. No, I saw a squeegee man dirtying clean windshields. I wish I’d taken the Peter Pan, a special line that showed escapist movies. I’d taken that before when I was only go- ing as far as NYC. I saw a flick about moving an elephant cross-country. It wasn’t a box office smash but for a bus ride it was perfect. Here, there wasn’t even a blank screen. I could go for another feature length; too bad that line doesn’t go down South. A man with eyes like the sky was doing the driving. He loud RIDE THE PETER PAN talked to the passengers in the front couple of rows about how fake pro wrestling was. He asked the question, “How come every time they hit each other, they stomp their feet?” Back in high school, I was valedictorian. A decade later, long after pomp and circumstance was played, I found my- self a loser. Just another confused minority waif riding pub- By ALLISON WHITTENBERG lic transportation bouncing the back of her neck against a greasy headrest … My wish was for a miscarriage. I know that was a horrible thing to wish for. I had used up all my distractions. I put on my headphones and heard only a staticky cassette tape. The magazines I had brought, I had read too quickly. I had put away the novel I had brought miles ago. I just couldn’t get into it. It was just words on a page. Now what? There was a woman with chicken wings in her shirt pocket. Her fingers smudged the window. I’m going to kill my baby. Strangle it with my large intes- tine or with my hands like the Prom Mom. It was a fleeting thought. I blamed it on the bus. Some people get motion sickness; I get homicidal thoughts. If only the Peter Pan would go way down to Georgia. May- 9 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Peter Pan continued My rapist wasn’t big, but he did overpower me. I explained. “It’s like a Ruben, but you use turkey.” My rapist didn’t look like a rapist. He was tall, slender, a “We don’t have no turkey.” runner’s build, dark, bookish eyeglasses — kind of like me “Do you have bacon?” only male and a pervert. “Do you want a BLT?” she asked. I only had one glass of wine. “No. Bacon cheeseburger.” Date rapists aren’t any different from rapist rapists. In a “We don’t have no cheese.” be I should have flown or rented a car. Truth is, I didn’t have lot of ways, they are worse. They gain your confidence, then I squinted. “No cheese? No bacon?” the presence of mind to do either. I needed to let someone betray you. They Milli Vanilli their way into your life. They “Nope. So what do you want?” else do the driving. Let someone else make the stops and don’t carry a knife or a gun. Just a drug. And surprise. “An abortion.” turns. I was so angry. Angry at rape, domestic violence, I remember my stockings pulled down around my ankles She gave me a blank stare. the porn industry, sexism, fascism, racism, ismisms. My life so I couldn’t move my feet and run. The wheel of my mind “I’ll have a burger,” I swallowed hard and said hoarsely. wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was the smart girl. takes in the way he braced my arms, so that I couldn’t move “You want fries with that?” I should have watched my drink. my arms and clock him. The way he got inside my mind so Soon, the moon-faced waitress slid the plate my way. I should have reported it. even my voice didn’t work. Why didn’t I scream? I lived in The bun was cold, and the burger looked like an SOS sour- I should have taken the morning after pill. an efficiency on the third floor where the walls and ceilings ing pad. I shouldn’t have been in denial. were as thin as loose-leaf paper. I just don’t get it; I had done everything I was supposed RU486 could have stopped this from being compounded. I worked in the politics of shame as a counselor at a wom- to do right down to only using my first initial on the mail How am I going to look at this product for the next 18 years? en’s shelter where the politics of silence was busted every and the phone book. How did I get raped? How? What am I going to do? Where am I going? I know day. I should have come forward. Instead, I did what I urged Some fellow with a head full of shiny Liberace hair — ev- where I’m going. Macon. But where am I going? others not to do, I swallowed it down … yet the projector ery strand in place — sat next to me. I eyed him. He was I’m going home. I don’t even have a job waiting for me. I kept whirring and clacking. a brown skinned man, chubby, I don’t know why I thought had two grand saved; that’s all. There was a woman on the bus with her hair so uncombed Liberace. I should have thought Al Sharpton. My legs were cramping from a rocky night when I try to she had dreads from the neglect. Her carry on was a shop- “How’s your burger?” he asked. turn this seat into a sofa. I snuggle in the best I can. ping bag full of pain. I was just like her. Up until the rape, I said nothing. I had no other plans than to live with my mother. My moth- my life had been so fine-toothed-combed. Pregnancy dic- “My name’s Brian.” He smiled. I noticed that he was miss- er was loving and nurturing but not understanding. She tated to me that all my dreams were gone. Even my distant ing a side tooth. “You know, you are exactly what I’m look- couldn’t understand this; I couldn’t understand this. ones of going to Africa, eating raw cashews in Nairobi, trac- ing for.” A few rows behind me that Lolita pop music was playing, ing my roots … I thought for a moment: Exactly what was I looking for? A someone else turned on a hip hop station and overpowered The bus driver stopped just past Columbia. He told us to life of fox furs, red sequined evening dresses? White candles it. This all could have been understandable if I dressed like get a smoke or a coke. The previous day, I had thrown up in silver candlestick holders? The man kept smiling at me that naval-centric nymphet, but I didn’t. I never did. Even twice. Today, I was hungry. I went to the rest room to wash showcasing his missing molar. I told myself to give up. Life on that night, I had on my work clothes at the party, navy up. The smell of joints hit me as did the sight of women is not going to be gallant. skirt, light blue turtleneck. (When groping for cause and ef- brushing their teeth and washing up. Not just bird baths. He chewed his burger favoring one side. “What’s your name?” fect, fall on stereotypes.) Not just splashing under the armpits, spritz to open the dry “Ann.” I lied. It was really Arna. This is what I always did. I thought I knew Warren. We had talked before about eyes. These women had their tops off and their pants down. I never give strangers too much information. Even in singles peace, public education, and reparations. My life was going They were buck-naked crowded by the drain. clubs, when asked for my phone number, I would give only, so well. I was saving to buy a condo, something tasteful with I left the rest room and cleansed my hands with a moist the last digit. I’m always cautious, watchful. modern furniture. It would look like the furniture store- towelette I had stored in my carryall bag. I ducked into the “Ann. I like that. I like women like you. I like a woman room at Ikea. Now look at me, boomeranging back to my terminal coffee shop and sat at the counter. whose breasts are where they’re supposed to be and have a same humble beginnings, to the gray borough I grew up in. I A waitress made her way over to me and grunted at me. nice small waist like you have.” have lost control. My power is taken. My destiny. Couldn’t “Do you have any turkey?” I asked. I turned away from him and placed my napkin over my burger. he at least have opened up a condom package and put it on? “No.” “I have a truck,” he said. The woman in front of me was babbling about how thick “What do you have?” I asked. I put a $5 bill on the counter. her son’s neck is. He was in the Navy and that Navy wanted “Burgers. What did you want? A club?” “You want to go for a ride in my truck?” he asked. He to kick him out because he’d gotten fat. They have been tap- “No. I wanted a Rachel.” smelled oily and close. ing his waist and throat to find the density. She looked at me blankly. I stood up. “How old are you?” 10 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Peter Pan continued “No, Arna, how far are you along?” had swollen ankles. She was one of the nude women I “You know? How could you know?” saw in the restroom. “I just do. Something about the way you told me out of the I guess I wasn’t put into this world to be pampered; I was clear blue you were moving back home. You love Boston.” put in this world to be squeezed between a window and foul She didn’t sound angry or disappointed. She sounded psychic. smelling misery. “Everything is going to be all right. You’re not around Back home, kids ride their bikes and chase each other up “I’m 42, but I don’t want no has-beens. My daddy had kids any smoke are you? They say that now. That ain’t good for and down the sidewalk. Just thinking of that made me feel up until he was 60 ... I don’t date women over 21, 22.” the baby.” warm enough to ignore the draft that was coming from the “You don’t.” “I’m only two months in, Ma,” I told her. metal vent along side the window. “Naw, I don’t want a has-been.” “It’s too bad you have to travel pregnant. You have morn- I will not end this life. “Do you have any kids?” I asked. ing sickness and jet lag.” If it’s a girl, I will cover her pigtails with red and purple “I have grandkids,” he answered. I smiled. It felt strange to smile. “Ma, you can’t get that plastic. If it’s a boy, I will teach him to be kind. “You have grandkids.” I absorbed and repeated. from a bus because you feel every mile.” The bus started up, and I got a mild case of whiplash “Yeah, but that’s my daughter’s business.” “Buses ain’t so bad anymore. Don’t they show movies?” caused from my neck bouncing against the headrest. “What happened to your wife?” I asked. “Certain ones do. Greyhound has a spinoff. Peter Pan. There are times when it seems like all the beauty is sucked “What wife? I’ve never been married —” He leered “— Yet.” I’m just on the regular one.” out. This isn’t one of them. I made a fist. “You’re a 42-year-old grandfather. Why don’t “Well, you’ll be home soon. We’ll all be there to pick you date grandmothers?” you up.” “I done told you I don’t deal with no has-beens,” he told me. “I don’t have a job lined up.” “Have you started your family yet?” “You’re a mother now. That’s your job.” “By family, you mean a mother and a father and a child “But I had a career.” right. If you mean that, the answer is no.” I made my voice “You find something down here. You’ve always been smart.” icy as Massachusetts in December. I kept my cadence proper “Ma, I let a dumb thing happen.” and dry. “You’re the first one in the family to ever go to college, “You know what I mean. You got any shorties?” he asked Arna. You’ll find something down here. We got every- still snaggle toothed grin. thing’s Boston’s got. Just a little less of it.” “The answer is no.” I saw a mass of people heading toward the bus. “Ma, I I turned to leave. He reached for me. have to go.” “Get your goddamn hands off of me.” “See you soon.” The entire clientele craned their necks at me. An older The bus was just about to pull off as I climbed back woman next to the door looked over her glasses at me. The aboard. The driver asked me if I knew The Rock. waitress cupped her hands over her face. I crossed my fingers and said, “We’re like this.” “I went to Smith!” I told them, then I gave Grandpa the finger. There was a reshuffling of the seats, and I found my I gathered my coat around me, clutched my bag and walked middle of the bus seat gone. I went to the back. toward the pay phone. I had promised I’d call my mother It’s always those honor student, 16-year-olds who don’t when I got close to home. I pulled out my card and pressed want to disappoint their parents who hemorrhage from the digits. Ma answered on the first ring. grimy abortions. Ma took the news better than I thought. “How’s your trip going?” she asked. My mother had emphatic ears. She didn’t wear make- “All right,” I answered. This was my biggest lie yet. up or nail polish. She had basic hobbies; she liked to “It’s a cast of characters ain’t it?” she laughed. I loved her sew and cook. She was lucky; she didn’t go out to the laugh. It was full, colorful, and Southern. world to discover herself. She was married at 15. I “How far are you along?” she asked. was the exact middle child of seven. Maybe. Macon “Right outside of Columbia.” wouldn’t be so bad; it’s not like I had a job on Wall “How far are you along?” she asked again. Street. There’s shelters in my hometown or at least “I’m right in Sumter. Outside Columbia, I’ll be there in an- people in need of shelter. other two hours.” A voluptuous big-hipped woman sat next to me. She 11 The Sacred Cow September 2015

Blessed 40 CELEBRITIES THAT YOU DIDN’T KNOW WERE ATHEISTS By RICKY GARNI By SARAH STOLTZFUS ALLEN Beneath the article is a photograph of Sean Penn. early morning porch sitting I haven’t read the article. I am not certain I want to know who is an atheist among celebrities or even my before the chaos friends. I think that if someone knew whether or not there was a God, I wouldn’t ask him. I would be happy cigarette to know of course, if there were. Perhaps I would like someone to just surprise me with the news. They while flicking thin pages could say: “Guess what?” gleaning morality she closes her eyes But I still wonder about the photograph of Sean Penn. He doesn’t look very happy. Then again, he never the weight of her tiny world looks very happy. Perhaps he is an atheist and it weighs heavily on his soul. Perhaps they asked him if he was piles onto minimum wage shoulders an atheist and he found it upsetting, because he loves Baby Jesus very much and he also gets upset easily into growling SNAP belly anyway even when he can’t find a parking space or a sharpened Number 2 pencil. Perhaps that was the only blessed are the poor in spirit photograph they could find of a celebrity that looked like an atheist and frankly he kind of does. Or perhaps her baby can’t play T-ball. Sean Penn is an atheist, plain and simple. And perhaps the photographer just surprised him with good news, registration takes away from rent that there really is a God, a really great one, and he can’t be an atheist anymore. Who wants to know that she shouldn’t have said they’ve been wrong their whole life? It’s really upsetting. And embarrassing. I wish the photographer had “we’ll have to see,” surprised me instead. I would be happy. And I never hit anybody. Except for Charlie when I was about 6 and two weeks ago when she already knew. anyway he just stole my double decker Corgi bus and so it was sort of his fault. was his hope worth it? last night: hot tears running streaks down dirty cheeks followed by angry accusations Like billions of dark butterflies “you never let me do anything, mama!” Beating their wings this morning: Against nightmares, rather a sleepy-warm shape Like myriads of settles against her hip Winter View Spirited coal-flakes “sorry i yelled, mama.” Spread from the sky blue eyes met Of another world tears pricked A heavy black snow in the corners of Falls, falling, fallen mother and son Down towards the horizon for theirs is the kingdom of heaven By YUAN CHANGMING Of my mind, where a little crow White as a lost patch Of autumn fog Is trying to fly, flapping From bough to bough 12 The Sacred Cow September 2015

Dangling Participles Fiction By DONAL MAHONEY Every time something breaks like the pipe in the wall we heard gushing this morning my wife wants to call a repairman because I can’t fix anything except split infinitives and dangling participles and I usually agree but this time Short Arm of the Law I mention the kayaks in the attic and say why don’t we hop in the kayaks By ANDREW SHARP open the front door and sail down the street wave to the neighbors cutting their grass B enjamin Bailey’s supper fled away down the H e had come to Nevada with plenty of energy planting their peonies worrying about crime and hope, and had picked up the other sup- mountain in stiff-legged springs, heading rap- idly out of range of his rifle. He watched the plies after arrival, including a lightly used and shout best of luck small herd of mule deer hungrily, but he did not Winchester .44-40, Model 1873, the cow- boy’s gun that had captured Eastern imag- shoot. He knew his bullet would likely just land we’re sailing away. on sagebrush and he was running low on shells. inations. He wouldn’t have been able to hit a bison if it we’re tired of the good life He was running low on everything — food, water, energy had dropped in for coffee, while the real western veterans and hope, along with ammunition. could, or liked to say they could, shoot fleas off a dog from Of those, the last one he wanted to run out of was ammu- across town. Still, the gun did give him a sense of comfort, nition. He needed at least one shell. a feeling that he might be able to augment the short arm 13 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Short Arm continued supplies and making arrangements quietly, as if when the to the sea, the constant spring rains that fed the abundant In Philadelphia, he had been almost secretive, buying up waste of water that poured in the millions of gallons out city found out that he, Benjamin Bailey, was going to Ne- green weeds, wildlfowers, and crops of summer. vada, the dam would break and the entire city would flow Osceola, a little growing settlement of about 1,000 people, west. “What, him? Well, if he’s going, I’m going too.” was in the general area where gold was to be found in the But the few friends he did tell showed no sign of rushing region. Accordingly that was where Ben made his headquar- of the law, or that people might mistake him for someone off to sell all they had and buy train tickets. Instead, they ters, in a ramshackle cabin a little way up a ravine called Dry who could. made unkind insinuations about “gold fever” and warned Gulch. The town was in the middle of a mountain range that Despite his nervousness about the do-it-yourself style him about the perils of greed. “You’re wasting everything I ran roughly north and south. Sagebrush barrens stretched of law and order, that was part of what lured him to Ne- spent my life building,” his father had argued with him. “Not to the east and west on either side, dotted with cattle loosely vada. Ben was no gunslinger or mountain man, no one-man one in a hundred is going to do any good out there. You may organized into ranches and lonely Basque shepherds keeping kingdom enforcing his rules at gunpoint. But back in Phila- as well sell the store and take it all to the racetrack.” Cynics watch over their flocks by night. delphia, he was glued in place in the social mosaic. All the and pessimists, Ben called them. He had a dream for a good Ben’s cabin was not the worst in town, but when you had property and resources were claimed and their allocation life. He feared missing his chance. Was that greed? said that, there was little more to add by way of praise. There monitored by rules and regulations piled up over the genera- were respectable gaps in the walls that did little to discour- tions. Merchants, traders and laborers struggled to make a hen he stepped off the stagecoach in Ely, age the winter wind and nothing to discourage the vermin, meager profit, working their whole lives and then dying and W Nevada, the first thing he noticed was and the chimney was apathetic about its task of discharging passing their allotted opportunity on to their children, while the color. For all the talk of gold, what the smoke outdoors. The floors were dirt. the wealthy sent their children to Harvard to learn to rule. Nevada seemed to have in abundance It was fairly typical in the town, which had been hastily There was no unclaimed gold in Philadelphia. was items in the brown and gray variety, thrown together to shelter incoming floods of men come In the west, though, the nuggets were lying around, wait- from the dark gray bare rock of the mountain slag, down together to compete for wealth. The more wealthy residents ing for someone to find them. Everyone knew the about the to the lighter gray sagebrush on the dusty valley flatlands. could boast of their simple wood frame buildings, with vir- one found in Nevada that had been worth $5,000, or was Wherever people moved, the dirt was puffed up into clouds tually no major holes in the walls. There were a couple of it $20,000? It was just lying in a sandbar, according to the of brown dust like cocoa powder that blew, settled down on saloons, and a house or two where one could obtain feminine story, or in some versions in the bottom of a creek, and a hats and coats and store counters, and gritted on teeth. Rare- company. Many people lived in shanties that were more piles man out for a Sunday stroll had picked it up, a $20,000 profit ly was there any rain to knock it down again. of material, incorporating rock and logs and tarpaper and in an afternoon. With a week’s work, Ben was happy to make Color here was like water — a treasure, savored when tin and whatever else was handy. a few dollars. found; the vivid red of the Indian paintbrush nestled in the Ben searched for a mining claim for several months with- Ben was a simple man, not a starry-eyed dreamer looking gray sagebrush, or the brief brilliant yellow of the aspen out any luck, and then, with not much better luck, worked an to make it rich and then throw it away on women and drink. display in the fall higher up in the mountains, set off by the unproductive claim for another year, eating his life savings He did not need $20,000 nuggets, at least not right away. sober dark color of the evergreens. Most of the vegetation and spending it on supplies. Doom seemed to hang in the Small $1,000 nuggets would be fine with him. He’d find a hung on, grim and determined, simply existing and not smoke cloud in the chilly evenings in his shack, as he waved good claim, work it for a couple of years and get a few thou- needing to make a display out of it. It had been there before smoke out of his face and scratched out optimistic letters sand out of it, and then build a ranch with a nice Western- the miners and was ready to survive there long after they home. The savagery of the place pressed down on him. He sounding name like the Aspen Range or the Ponderosa. He had carried away all the metal that had brought them. saw men worn down and used up by the cold winters and wanted hard work with real payoff and no lawyers and gov- The land seemed as if it were designed to showcase the sky, brutal summers that killed their horses and cattle. ernment officials looking over his shoulder all the time. to not distract from its displays of breathtaking color, the For every successful store, hotel, ranch or mining claim Once he decided to leave, he was almost feverish to start. clouds blazing red and pink and orange at sunset, towering in the Osceola region, there were a hundred men who died He imagined other, undeserving miners, probably with no piles of white clouds high above the dust, racing through the without reaching their dreams, or who were killed in mining careful plans of their own, bumbling into his claim through vivid blue afternoon sky, the black and green of the fierce disputes or robberies, whose cattle perished or disappeared. blind luck. The greedy hordes were spreading out over the thunderstorms cut through with sharp lightning bolts. At Hard work needed some luck to go with it and the dice didn’t land taking everything, in his mind. Later he would feel silly night, the stars were so thick and close it seemed you could favor most. about this; raised in the city, he had no inkling of the vast- reach up with a stick and stir them into whirling galaxies. The dice did not seem to be rolling for Ben. His first claim ness of the West, the long miles of empty land that swal- Back east, the balance had been better. Ben did not remem- had yielded only a few dollars in gold flakes, enough to buy a lowed up the handful of men willing to risk everything and ber much about the sunsets or the sky. What he did remem- little food, but nothing to build on. So he agreed immediately start over on a chance. ber now were the creeks, the waterfalls, the almost criminal when an old miner told him he had found a decent location 14 The Sacr Next page The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015

Short Arm continued flapjacks (Ben had to wash the dishes) and ending with a couldn’t find nuggets, it seemed like too much work. They quiet drink (or several) over the campfire, the air seasoned decided to sell the claim and invest their money. with the rich smoke of Bullfrog’s pipe and filled with his Where to invest that money was what still divided them. stories from a life of western roaming. Even if they weren’t The day they sold the claim, they booked a room in a hotel in true, Ben felt they were some of the best he had heard. town and then talked long into the night. They built sprawl- The question of future plans became more urgent one day ing ranches and hotel empires, railroad stock fortunes and in the early summer, when Ben uncovered some large gravel trading fleets. Ben kept coming back to buying a ranch in but wanted a partner so he could claim more ground and that seemed at first like gold nuggets. As he examined them, the area. He had come to like it here, and now that it was not have an extra hand. they looked more like gold nuggets. He was suspicious, try- likely to ruin him he could enjoy it properly. The miner’s name was James T. Randolph, Ben found out ing to hold back his excitement, because he knew that only a Bullfrog still held out for his business, a saloon or a hotel, when they signed their papers. Until that time Ben had greenhorn would expect to find nuggets this big or plentiful. city life and commerce. He had been a bumpkin his whole known him as Bullfrog, a name the miner had earned with “Come look at this,” he called to Bullfrog, who wandered life, he said, and now he meant to get a suit and become the his habit of singing loudly and out of tune to himself when over and took the rocks in his hand. He turned them over a mayor, and maybe a senator eventually. A modest man, he he was in a good mood. few times in silence without showing any emotion, and Ben thought he would decline to run for president. He was in a good mood a lot, and so the neighborhood was felt the disappointment begin, even though he had known all They eventually had to turn in for the night without re- often serenaded with his booming tones. along it was not really gold. solving the issue. Bullfrog was known as a good miner and above reproach Then Bullfrog’s face cracked into a huge smile. “We’ve When Ben rolled over and sat up the next morning, he was by miners’ moral standards, which meant he put in long days struck it, Ben!” alone in the room, and the chest where they kept their gold of work, didn’t cheat at cards and limited himself to moder- Ben felt as if he were going to lose his balance. The pres- was empty. He yanked on some clothes and rushed out into ate drinking, never more than 12 drinks in a sitting. He was sure he had been carrying suddenly lifted off his shoulders, the hotel’s bar to find Bullfrog and tell him the terrible news. welcome at every table in every saloon, and Ben considered and he realized it had been heavier than he thought. Its ab- Bullfrog wasn’t there, and the innkeeper hadn’t seen him. himself very lucky to have landed a partnership with him. sence, and the fact he was newly wealthy, left him feeling Ben hurried outside, where the street was empty in the quiet Bullfrog was patient with Ben’s mistakes and taught him light and giddy. What would they say in Philadelphia now? gray of the early morning. A few lamps were on in windows, how to find any gold, if it was there. The old miner had been He might be covered in mud and dressed in rags like a hobo, and an old miner was sitting on a porch across the street right about the claim. It was a solid one, and Ben’s hope, but he could ride back East in a new suit and buy a house chewing tobacco. He told Ben around his chaw that Bull- which had been running low with his savings, picked up with running hot and cold water. He could have his old store frog had in fact come out not long before, and headed out again. They made more than enough money for their sup- back, and a dozen like it, if he wanted, which he most cer- of town. plies and bills, and began saving extra. tainly did not want. “Looked like he was in a hurry, too,” he said. “Any trouble? “You know what we oughtta do?” Bullfrog told him one Bullfrog was shouting and jumping around, grabbing him Say, are you feeling all right?” day. “We’re getting enough we could put our pot together by the shoulders, and Ben joined in, and they leaped around Ben kicked the empty wooden chest into shards of cedar, and buy a ranch or something, or a hotel, something that in circles like square dancers without a fiddle. and then hobbled around cursing and throwing together a will make us money when this runs out. Can’t do this forever bedroll, some basic food, and his gun. The loss of the gold anyway. We’re not getting any younger.” hey worked that claim urgently for the rest of was hard to take, but the deeper hurt was that he had trusted This fell in exactly with Ben’s plans, so the only discord T the summer, scarcely stopping to eat, and found Bullfrog completely. He had trusted Bullfrog’s friendship, was over which option to pick. Bullfrog was enamored with a good deal of gold. Finally, by the autumn, but Eastern greenhorn that he was, had been made a fool of. the idea of a saloon and hotel called Bullfrog ‘N Ben’s, but they started finding less, not more. They had He didn’t have much of a plan. The old miner had pointed the Ben half of the enterprise thought that was a silly name to take turns sleeping at night to guard their south, into the mountains, when asked which way Bullfrog and also preferred to live in the country, out in the invigorat- stockpiled treasure, which they kept in a chest at their camp- had gone. Ben wondered why Bullfrog hadn’t just gone to ing air herding cattle. site on the claim. Bullfrog wouldn’t trust it to a bank. Ely and caught the stage, but realized that he was smart “We’re too old to ranch,” Bullfrog argued. “Damned if I let some bandit come in there waving a pistol enough to know he couldn’t outrun telegraph messages, “You’re too old,” Ben said. “I can do most of the work. You and walk off with my hard-earned gold,” he said. which Ben certainly would have used to beat him to the next can just help out as you’re able.” Bullfrog did not seem to Ben pointed out that the bandit could do the same thing stop. By disappearing into the mountains, he could avoid the accept this in the generous spirit it was offered, and they let in their camp, and that bank robberies were fairly rare, but law, put some distance between any pursuers and come out the topic drop. Bullfrog put his foot down on this point. anywhere. Ben figured, though, that Bullfrog might stick to Despite these divergent goals, they fell into a happy routine They were already wealthy men, and the gold was waiting the mountains for some time, to make tracking harder and to of hard work, beginning the days with Bullfrog’s supreme to be spent. Mining had lost its expectant savor. If they avoid being seen. 15 The Sacr Next page The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015

Short Arm continued to go back was to give up, to trust to luck that he could for his horse. Ben followed him with the gun sights and scratch out another claim. He knew that was a stretch. He squeezed the trigger. He knew that the gun had gone off wouldn’t get lucky again, and he may as well try his luck but it seemed to have made little noise or recoil, as if it were out here as back in town. The company mine was already far away, a background noise that had little to do with what crowding out independent miners, buying up land, bringing was going on. Bullfrog stumbled and fell, but then scrambled in hundreds of laborers. He would end up as a laborer, main- to his feet and clawed his way onto the horse. Ben worked taining the canal, working for a meager wage, supervising a the lever and fired again, then again. Bullfrog whipped the There would only be one pursuer, as Ben figured a smaller team of Chinese or Indians or worse, working with them. Or horses into a gallop. Ben aimed very carefully at Bullfrog’s committee would streamline the justice process. He knew he could sign on as a cowhand at a ranch, or as a shepherd, bouncing back and squeezed the trigger again. he faced long odds. The mountains were big, and Bullfrog and die poor out here. Or, he could go back East and admit The gun clicked. He was out of shells. could cut out into the valleys at any time, or double back, or defeat, and pick up where he had left off, except poorer, start- Cursing, he reached into his pack and felt around for more. head south until he got to Mexico. He could be anywhere, ing over again, having wasted years, and die poor there. Go- There were no more. and certainly had the money to buy what he needed. Ben, by ing back was the end of the dream, but out here it was still He sat panting, staring down at his now useless gun. contrast, had nothing except a little leftover food and even out there ahead of him, riding away. Then he propped the rifle against the juniper tree, walked had to sneak out of the hotel to avoid the bill he now could back to his horse, and rode away toward town. not afford. A s he watched the mule deer herd flee, delicious “Archaeologists conducting surveys in Nevada’s Great Basin Na- B en forced his horse as fast as it could go around the ley, Ben lowered his gun and rested his head tional Park came upon a gun frozen in time: a .44-40 Winchester roasts of venison leaping down into the val- heaps of gray slag, over rocky ridges and through on his hand. A breeze whipped down off the rifle manufactured in 1882. It was propped up against a juniper groves of stubby pines. Sometimes he would hit a mountain and tugged at his shirt, bearing the tree.” advance traces of coming winter. He stood up and stretched. stream, where there would be meadows of wild- Jan. 14, 2015 flowers and grass. The air was getting crisp with Time to ride on. The Washington Post fall, and he rode through groves of golden aspen. Then he froze. In the distance, back toward the way he had After a couple of days of streaming sweat, maneuvering come, came a faint gunshot. Could he have passed Bullfrog? over and around and back, starting and stopping, cursing Or maybe it was just some rancher on a fall hunt. Ben pulled and crying, he was saddle sore, dead tired, running out of off his hat and rubbed his forehead, and looked around the ammunition and hungry. He had eaten the food he brought rough terrain. Yes, he would go back. Any hint was better Cacaphony at Midday and now had to rely on his marksmanship to bring down than riding blindly ahead. game, which was why he was so hungry. A big target like a Late the next morning, Ben sat on a rocky outcrop with his deer, not moving, was well within his skill, but he had to see back against a scrubby juniper, looking off down the ridge one first. So far, all he had done was burn up a number of and wishing for mouthful of some other food besides the By CAROL HAMILTON shells on a hopping jackrabbit. remnants of the unwary marmot he was chewing. He had He puzzled over what he was going to do on the slim found no trace of anyone when he rode back in the direction Gray-edged and frosted white chance he stumbled across Bullfrog. The man was not likely he had heard the shot. After hours of meandering he had where we re-enter unadulterated air, to stay around for a chat without some blunt encouragement. gotten desperate, riding in widening circles for miles. It was catch breath against cold In some of Ben’s more gratifying scenarios, he confronted utter folly to keep going now, low on food and ammo, and he as 12 o’clock siren starts Bullfrog, but Bullfrog tried to ride away and he shot him knew it. He was done. a train screams its passing off the horse. In calmer moments he would hold his gun on Several hundred yards away downhill, Bullfrog walked and a nearby church chimes in. Bullfrog until the old traitor was forced to put down the bag out from behind a rock, leading his horse. Ben could see the of gold, and then order him in a tough voice, “Now you get lumpy brown pack they had stored the gold in, lashed to the We insist to all frigid silence out of here! And I don’t want to ever see you again!” If he horse’s back. Ben watched him, a marmot bone still sticking we are were feeling particularly generous, they would split the gold, out of his mouth. here but that scenario did not have quite the ring of justice to it Then Ben eased up his rifle, working to steady the sights here that Ben was looking for. on his former partner and friend. His finger trembled against Hear us! He also wondered what he would do if he couldn’t find the smooth curve of the trigger. Bullfrog. Part of the reason he kept riding blindly was that Bullfrog glanced his way, stared for a moment, then leaped 16 The Sacr The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015

Essay The Secret of Spaghetti By TERRY BARR N ot too long after my mother-in-law got mar- and is also so amenable to shortcuts. spaghetti? — then I suggest you try it. Maybe not so good It actually turns out that Persians love spaghetti, too, per- ried, her loving husband called her to say haps because it provides many of the essential food groups for your waistline, but then, when has that ever stopped a that he was bringing home his boss for sup- good old southern boy like me? One of these shortcuts, however, is not frying the spa- per. Perhaps he didn’t remember that she had never cooked a meal in her life, or perhaps he ghetti noodles in a large skillet. my Mom tried her best to vary her eve- didn’t know that their nanny/cook had the night off. In any As they “cooked,” my mother-in-law wondered why the W hen she was a young wife and mother, case, she chose not to inform him of either scenario; she vermicelli wasn’t softening. And really, when there’s no one ning meals, satisfying taste and nutri- chose to say, “Yes, of course, bring him!” else to correct you, why shouldn’t you wonder? (Though tional needs. She was creative and cer- And then she chose to cook spaghetti. again, no Persian would ever conceive of frying rice, the tainly inspired by the finest restaurants She said she had seen it done before and simply thought country’s most staple starch.) in Birmingham and New Orleans, as she conceived of the she could reproduce it. My future mother-in-law worked My father-in-law was a kind and loving man. When he ar- various ways to prepare shrimp and red snapper, shortcakes outside the home herself, rising in the ranks of Tehran ed- rived home and saw what was not happening in the kitchen, and lemon chess pies. She also adhered to her small-town ucators to become superintendent of the entire city school he ordered out and the evening was saved. No harm, no Southern roots by stewing greens with backbone meat and system. She learned to manage teachers and principals, and foul, just some poor sautéed and over-hard noodles thrown serving them with cornbread and baked sweet potatoes. Her of course, students. Spaghettis noodles, though, were an- into the Tehran night. first foray into spaghetti, however, (and you do have to give other matter. I have since eaten Persian spaghetti on many occasions. her credit for trying) was to serve veal cutlets with spaghetti Not that choosing to serve spaghetti was wrong in and of I’ve even prepared it according to what I’ve seen take place on the side, as I’m sure she had seen it done in her favorite itself, though given that this story occurred in Iran, and that in my in-laws’ kitchen. The most unique feature of this Italian restaurant, Bessemer, Alabama’s “Romeo’s.” the cast was all-Persian, you do have to wonder: why not a dish is to slice a large Irish potato, arrange these slices Only, and this pains me though it also cracks me up to say, khoresh (stew) with pomegranate sauce (Fesen-Jun), or with in the bottom of a large Dutch oven already coated with her spaghetti came from a Franco-American can. fresh greens and broiled sirloin tips (Ghorma-sabsi)? Except oil, and then add the cooked noodles mixed with meat and I was only 4 or 5 years old back in those days, and so it that if you really don’t know how to make spaghetti (boil sauce on top. This second cooking causes the potatoes to never occurred to me that this wasn’t a meal fit for the kings noodles, open jar of sauce, heat and mix), you probably don’t brown and crust just ever-so-slightly. If you believe that my father and I considered ourselves to be. I didn’t real- know much about stews that take hours to prepare and must one starch on top of another starch can’t possibly be good ize then how lower middle class we were, how my mother marinate and simmer and blend in just the right way. — for who would ever serve baked or fried potatoes with had to scrimp to manage such meals, or how tasty she made 17 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Spaghetti continued ther. In my favorite scene, one of Don Corleone’s henchmen didn’t have enough room to accommodate them all, and my is preparing sauce. And as he explains his secret to Michael, parents, being most uncomfortable in cramped quarters, de- he testifies that you have to cut those tomatoes with plenty cided to stay at the Colonial Inn near our house. of sugar. Who would argue with him? welcome them with a meal. What do you prepare for a mixed On the night that both families arrived in town, I wanted to A fter my wife and I married, we lived for a time Jewish-Christian and totally Iranian set of palates? with her family, and while most of our meals Homemade Italian spaghetti, of course. them despite her financial obstacles. So for me, spaghetti was were steeped in Persian stews, on occasion my So I bought my cans of tomato paste and puree. I peeled my Franco-American for a time, until we graduated to the finer wife’s oldest sister would make spaghetti. garlic, sautéed my onions until just brown, and at the same world of Chef Boyardee: a packaged powdered sauce mixed “I learned how to do this well when I lived in time, mixed my various meats — ground chuck, ground tur- with meat and served on a bed of plain vermicelli. Except for Rome,” she said. key — with Progresso Italian bread crumbs, Romano cheese, the potatoes, we could have been Persian. I always enjoyed her spaghetti, too, though what I’m about and eggs — and made the meatballs I knew my father, par- Other than the baked spaghetti smothered in American to tell might not sound like it. My sister-in-law did not make ticularly, loved. cheese that I was served in my elementary school lunch- her own sauce; instead, she used Ragu. At this point, Ragu I also knew this: that in my sauce I must work to form room, this was the spaghetti I grew up with, the spaghetti I was at least bottling a newer, “garden-style” sauce. I never the perfect blend of sugar and salt for my mother and my knew. The spaghetti I loved. looked on the bottle to see its ingredients, but I did taste the sister-in-law, the two who claimed the most inside knowl- And then, when I was 12, the Manzellas moved to our original Ragu. edge of “real Italian.” But I also decided to vary the recipes block so that Frank Manzella could live near his older broth- I don’t know if the garden style was really any better or if I had learned from them. I would not use lemon juice, but er Tony. Tony’s sons Randy and Timmy were great friends it was the marketing guru who made us believe in the Ragu Chianti. I would add ripe olives, too, giving the beautiful red of mine, and soon my brother Mike and I became close with garden that pleased us. sauce an even deeper blush and, I hoped, a more refined salty Frank’s son, Frankie. From football to baseball to collect- But my guess would be a greater amount of sugar. taste. I would stay away from oregano, but use just the right ing Hot Wheels cars, those years made our neighborhood My sister-in-law, though, added her own secret to the amount of basil. And a bay leaf, making sure that my 5-year- whole. What really sustained us all, though, was the recipe sauce: extra salt. And then, more extra salt, along with a old daughter received it on her plate so she could exclaim, as for spaghetti that Frank’s wife Pearl, the daughter of first healthy dose of lemon juice. These were also our red-meat- usual, “Daddy, there’s a leaf in my sauce!” generation Sicilian immigrants, prepared and passed on to less days, so she used ground turkey fried in olive oil and And, according to my mother’s written instructions handed my mother. onions. Mixed all together with the noodles, and the bottom- down many years past, I would add two heaping tablespoons Authentic Italian pasta sauce with enormous meatballs. of-the-pan potatoes, her concoction satisfied us all, especially full of sugar. I swear: That’s what her recipe called for. And always served with fresh Romano cheese to top it. when it was served with Kraft Parmesan cheese. That evening, everything came out on time, looking per- Our family spaghetti nights revolutionized then, and for Today, when I’m in a pinch, I still make spaghetti this way, fectly done. The meatballs were savory and browned. I tried me, Thursdays became my favorite day of the week because though I leave out the second portion of extra salt, the one before the families arrived and knew my Dad would be the evening’s suppers were our traditional spaghetti night. lemon juice, and use either Paul Newman’s sauce or, if I’m pleased. Now they were in the pot, absorbing the sauce along When I went off to college and later graduate school and feeling extra sporty, Rao’s homemade bottled sauce instead with the links of Italian sausage I added (sometimes I add began cooking for myself, the one recipe I had to carry with of Ragu. smallish pork chops too, but not on this night, believing that me was that pasta sauce revelation from Pearl Manzella. My Rao’s uses 5 grams of sugar per bottle. my in-laws might find too much pork unsavory). mother wrote it down for me (though she cautioned that all Lately, though, I’ve been craving Pearl Manzella’s sauce. My parents arrived first, and my mother went right to the recipes like this were just approximations), and I proceeded Yet making it fills me with trepidation as well as desire. kitchen, opened the lid on my sauce, and tasted. to heed all the directives and make my first, and if I say so Trepidation because of one night in my past. The night I “There’s not enough sugar in here!” myself, successful batch of sauce, meatballs, and tender spa- realized that ancient feuds between swarthy and pale peoples “But I put two tablespoons, like it said on your recipe!” ghetti. Sauce is a tricky thing, and some swear by oregano must have originated in spaghetti sauce. “Well, I don’t care, it needs more.” while others proclaim basil leaves to be the secret. Accord- “OK, let me do it,” and so I added another whole tablespoon. ing to my mother, though, and emanating from the very lips hristmas is a time for family, and after years of Soon my in-laws arrived, and after some chatting time and of Pearl Manzella, the true secret to old world sauce is to cut C traveling to see both our families — in Alabama cooing over the two granddaughters, we arranged ourselves the acidic tomatoes with sugar. Several tablespoons of pure and Tennessee — and with two active daugh- at the table, ready for the pasta. unadulterated processed white sugar. ters running in and out of our immediate world, My father, my wife, our daughters, and my mother-in-law And if my own ears and taste buds didn’t tell me this is we planted ourselves at home in the Christmas ate quietly and with pleasure. true, further confirmation came from watching The Godfa- season of 1996 and asked our families to come to us. We “Good,” they all proclaimed. 18 The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015 Next page The Sacr

Spaghetti continued Bergmanesque Yahrzeit* By GERARD SARNAT I thought it was good too, the one or two bites I could take. Because on either end of our antique French farm table, I saw this scene: my mother busily adding more sugar to her Grandson Simon buries borrowed keys in his toy chest plate, and my sister-in-law, commanding the salt-shaker like to get one of my damselfl y daughters’ attention, it had become an appendage. And of course, neither one sat- but she’s glued to the tube’s Sunday news shows isfied herself in the end because seasoning a food after it’s then the beginning of one of Woody’s homages cooked can never blend the ingredients in the right propor- to Ingmar’s Wild Strawberries story tion. But both took the opportunity later to confide to me: about old age’s battle between integrity and despair. “It was good, it just needed more …” Middle son fi nds them, straps both nephews “It was fine, but you know it needed more …” and Grams into their car seats ... It doesn’t take much to cause a chef to abandon his plate, My wife tiptoes to the bedside with a bowl sit back from the table, and chew on a piece of fresh Ital- of blackberries she bled for picking ian bread. You can please a majority, but when the two you from the backyard’s thorny vines, most want to please are shaking opposite ingredients as then whispers, “Dear, it’s about time ...” fast as they can, you could call it a stalemate, a disaster, or Don’t say with sadness that Dad is no more, a holiday supper. say with gratitude that he was and is ever-present, Or a family. which consoling mantra Mom’s hearing aids can’t But I never tried this dish, or pasta of any sort on this as she lurches from her wheelchair blended family again. while Ell’s stroller careens toward Poppa’s coffi n — It’s taken 20 years, but on this coming weekend, I’m making a collage of fetal-formed faces as I die? my sauce again. For some friends from Portland and Chicago. Lying down, smelling the grass and counting insects, I know. I’m just crazy. pissed by the whirring of neighboring graves’ But since I refuse to run afoul of La Cosa Nostra, my sauce plastic smiley-faced rainbow windmills, will contain two, and only two, full tablespoons of sugar, fi re ants brushed off; my grandkids take turns even in this, our more knowing “sugar-is-the-enemy-of- spinning the emoji doohickeys before converging humankind” contemporary period. For I have learned that on the ground to gather me in. how much sugar one adds to his sauce is not just a matter The 6-year-old says, “Coach, I know we can’t bring him of taste. No, there are greater battles in the spaghetti wars: back to life, but maybe we make Great-grandpa feel better.” health, culture, prowess, and pleasure (and especially two formidable women), though I remain at a loss as to whether *Anniversary of the death of a Jewish parent, sibling, child, or it’s possible, desirable, or forever futile to dream of pleasing spouse. anyone. Anyone, that is, except the cook. And I also know this: the only condiment I’m putting on the table is a container of red pepper flakes. 19 The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015 The Sacr

Learning from Picasso The Gallery By WILLIAM DORESKI By TOM ZIMMERMAN You’re curating late Picasso global tongue. The thick people at the Museum of Fine Arts. crowd the bar, guzzling drinks Tonight the gallery will open wide Because the paintings masticate too volatile for people like me as dreaming’s yawning maw, the famished mind their subjects to pulpy shards to handle without fracturing alight with torches, dogs asleep beside you’ve inspired yourself to replace along predictable fault lines. the fire — the wrench, the ledger left behind. your teeth with plastic, ceramic, They all sport custom dental work Kandinskys, Rauschenbergs, and Blakes appear. or possibly stainless steel. in the Carpenter Gothic style. Picassos, Klees, and Leonardos glow. The dark of Caravaggios, the fear The show opens with slop and slur You want them to vomit dollars and awe of Turners swirl with Dürers, grow of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Thick right there on the marble tile. immense with Goyas, Michelangelos. and arrogant with power, donors underwriting future exhibits Cezannes and Rembrandts, Jackson Pollocks flare pose for Globe photographers Your hairdo bobs on the swells with inner energies. The bold Mirós, while the aesthetes like me wring as you cross the room to shake Rossettis, and Van Goghs imbue the air our hands and hang out as far my hand and hope I’ve enjoyed with god-light. Dreamers wake, reborn to dawn, from the bar as possible. You stride the liquor and snacks. Your smile to potencies, to robins on the lawn. among the elite like police even with your familiar old teeth, on the beat. They haven’t heard is a death trap. Once you shark yourself your plan to replace your smile with artificial choppers you’ll ingest, with the most frightening dentures by default, everything around you, you can find. But you believe learning from Picasso how in art, not nature, and art speaks to render any subject foolish the language of money, the one for the sake of a higher cause. Missing You You are a gap in my room, a missing tooth my roving tongue of a mind - for I. keeps returning to. You are a voice missing from the house, the quieted flutter of your presence a flat-line through these rooms. You are missing. By VALENTINA CANO From me. 20 The Sacred Cow September 2015

I t’s not just the fire-and-earth red of the doro wat chicken stew simmer- ing in the kettle. It’s not just the spongy elasticity of the crepe-style injera almost sticking to your fingers. It’s not even just the dark aroma of coffee beans roasting over in the coals in prepara- tion for brewing buna. Something about the entire sensory experience of making Ethio- pian food is so much more than just getting food on the plate (or on one round tray, in this case). My soul ends up being fed just as much as, if not more than, my stomach. That isn’t to suggest in the least that Ethi- opian food simply doesn’t prove satisfying, regardless of the preemptive opinion of sev- eral staunch meat-and-potatoes Midwestern farmers. I’ve been teaching cooking classes at a local kitchen store this summer, and was attempting to persuade one of my groups to allow me to introduce them to some East African cuisine, fully aware of the stark con- trast to central Kansas dining. Their pre- class joke about “learning how to eat bread and water” expressed what can be unfortu- nately common social sentiment of other countries’ food and accompanying culture — lack of both awareness and curiosity. I, however, have more than enough enthusiasm to go around, and was happy to share. Accordingly, I overrode their trepidation and took the disdain as a challenge. Even just in planning the menu, I often had to stop and take a moment. Every recipe is so much more than ingredients and quantities (especially since those are all just nebulous A Heaping Helping of Ethiopia ideas anyway) — each recipe is of names and faces and stories. I was living outside a refugee camp in northern Kenya when I met Ethiopian food and the people who make it, and they are inseparable in my memory. I know how to watch for yeasty bubbles to pop in the thin injera batter, showing it’s By AMANDA MILLER time to peel it off the hot skillet, because early one morning a young woman my age walked me through the steps. She didn’t 21 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Ethiopia continued ing cook friend served me shiro in a mini cast-iron pot on my birthday. It is impossible for me to forget the flavors of the food, and it is impos- sible for me to forget the faces behind the food. The instantaneous beam of recognition from the work-worn cof- speak English and I didn’t speak Amharic, but she was an fee man every time we came into his excellent and patient teacher. My kitchen these days doesn’t shop. We would share a nod as he au- include a clay oven and a giant flat cast-iron, but I can’t make tomatically began to pour out the milk injera without remembering the smell of the charcoal fire for my untraditional mkiato no sukari and the tin teapot she used to drizzle out the batter. (the typical dose of black espresso and I know that transliterating doro wat into simply “chicken sugar is close to lethal for me). Or the stew” is almost a tragedy, because that just doesn’t prepare silent pain in the eyes of a woman who you for a stew like none other. Not only does the deep red of is one of the last refugees from her the long-simmered onions in hot pepper berbere catch my region, still waiting after 22 years of attention, but so will the instant flavor inferno in my mouth watching others being resettled. She and stomach. Literal kilograms of hot pepper in the pot will prepared our most memorable meal do that. In between gasps for breath, I taste the undeniably in the camp as a farewell, but then we delicious fall-off-the-bone chicken and signature hardboiled left to go back to our homes, and yet eggs; I can’t help but keep eating. This is the traditional feast again, she still stayed. Or the innocent, undeveloped grins generosity, so hosts might just go without food for the next reserved for only holidays and honored guests, and it’s rare of a girl too small and young for her age, who will never couple days. to be able to prepare it in the camp. But there we were, being receive the special help she needs, since there just aren’t My Ethiopian refugee friends live faith, because they have served doro. extra resources when everyone is simply trying to survive. truly lost everything and maybe everyone they hold dear, I know brewing buna takes patience, because every time I The camp is all she’s ever known; maybe it will always be. and yet somehow they trust. They keep on cooking up stacks asked my friend if the coffee was ready, she would emphati- Just from the little I’ve known of the camp, I feel like of spongy injera, stewing up pots of lentils, brewing up ket- cally observe, “Not yet!” The coffee ceremony is an integral I could keep writing for days, trying to compile a photo tles of pitch-black buna. So do I, sharing with anyone who ritual of Ethiopian culture, so much more than a shot of album of all the faces that are stories that are lives. The is willing to try. caffeine. No one takes coffee alone (which is probably good, snapshots of memories in my mind travel all the way into But I went home after my time in the refugee camp. And because someone could have a heart attack with how strong my heart each time, pain plus joy. I hear reggae and catch a they didn’t. Most of them never will. it is). Starting with green coffee beans and going all the way waft of incense and see dust floors when I cook injera and through a triple-boil process, the process of enjoying buna is wat, in an almost startlingly holistic emotional reaction to “For by one Spirit we were all baptized into one body ... and if just that — a process to enjoy, something to share with oth- Ethiopian food. one member suffers, all the members suffer with it.” 1 Corinthians ers. Each round of successive almost-thick espresso brings Food isn’t just food; it’s relationships and community and 12:13a, 26a. people closer together, and the random popcorn is just an- culture. And when you catch even just a glimpse of those other bonus. through a tangible medium, such as preparing and eating a I want to go on and describe how the earthy sweetness of meal together, you form this bit of a connection that makes cabbage is brought out in turmeric-y alicha wat, or how but- the literal other side of the world not so far away after all. tery and meaty tibs makes a day in the desert worth it, or Geography and anthropology aren’t just school subjects how the pudding texture of spicy lentil shiro is so oddly anymore. Facts and figures and news clips become real. delicious. The culinary aspects of those observations don’t The culture of food has something deep and real served up necessarily mean anything to me; what I care about is the with it, something that lasts even longer than the five rounds sweet shy smile of the lady who showed me where she pre- of espresso. There isn’t always enough injera to go around, pared her distinct alicha, how lines of men shoveled in their so everyone reaches in with their hands as they gather around trays of tibs on long low tables in silent acceptance of the the same tray, focusing as much on sharing and fellowship as awkward white people also eating there, how my hardwork- on eating. When guests visit, they are treated with intense 22 The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015 The Sacr

Prosopopoeia: Face Making Know-How By ALANNAH TAYLOR By ELIZA CALLARD The child looks up at the clouds and sees old men, horses, a fish eating spaghetti loops She feels like the clock face is stern and commanding when it reads 9:30 a.m. on a morning when she is late for school Her mother has smiley knees Brisk keys The lightbulbs are sleepy when you first turn them on My days of being an Olympic swimmer The flower grows quickly in attempt to impress her Trucks on the road are easily made impatient: always grunting at each other (which never began) are over. My body But at night, in the dark, she feels scared, thinks she is lonely. is 40 and tired and I never competed The gambler imagines patterns in randomness Sees faces on everything even in high school, yet I had, until now, Thinks his computer breaks just to spite him for leaving tea rings on the desk imagined that door open. The two Sees his dead son in strawberries Posts on dating sites “lonely 42-year-old.” little girls giggling furiously while they leap- This old woman attends séances, speaks with spirits, reads messages in palms frog over one another to play a complex Sleeps like an empty husk, grappling for an anchor. This man talks to his gnomes four-hand piano number — I will never be Bids the queen on his stamps a safe journey one of them. It’s true I play the piano, but Makes secret, unspoken deals with the numbers on the bus arrival board in the cold Blames his pen for bad writing never like that. I could practice these skills, Tries to seduce the Sun out of hiding on bank holidays you say. What about the camera strapped Sits crying in his bedroom on Christmas Day. This boy with his lucky conker, his time honoured companion to the eagle’s back showing the flight we Is scared to go to the bathroom unaccompanied. can never have? Silent, smooth, feathered. Her with the pigtails Playing with puppets I only fly when I sleep. Scolding her shoelaces and feeling comforted by the moon Saying goodbye to seashells and thank you to her football boots Getting anxious at playtime. Seeking out for other minds Constantly projecting a mind where A mind is not, Feeling ourselves alone, In spite of what we may conjure, Spurning our imaginings. 23 The Sacred Cow September 2015

easy outlet for his thoughts. The fire crackled languorously in a slow descent to embers. “Hey. Jelly, Come on, now,” said Marie. “Quit that. You’ll scratch your face off.” Jelly looked up. Marie was leaning forward from her seat on the packs and smiling at him, though pools glistened in her eyes. “Like I said, I remembered how life used to be — and what we thought back then of what life would be like, if things ever got the way they’ve gotten, now. And — here’s what hit me — it doesn’t really feel different. It isn’t like we thought it would be, at all.” She slipped off the packs, and knelt down beside her hus- band, nestling up against him, under his arm. “We work hard now, but we worked hard, then. I mean, I don’t pretty women up in a salon, and you can’t work for the Post-Apocalypse state agriculture board. Those things aren’t really options, now, but … it’s not like rooftop urban farming was really an option, then.” Jelly chuckled. “Not too sure about that. It might’ve been,” he said. “Never really looked into it.” He tucked his arm around her back, and rubbed his chin By JUAN ERSATZMAN into her hair. “You know what I mean,” Marie said, and rolled her eyes. “We didn’t use to camp out on a roof, barricade the stairs and “I f someone wrote about us — back in the day, rolling on the gentle curves of her forehead, cheeks and worry about crime stats. People didn’t use to use knives and hide our fires at night, but we used to lock our doors, and I mean — do you think they’d call it post- chin, resolving to bright lines on the fine edges of her lips, bats a lot, but it just seemed like everybody owned a gun. Ev- erybody took those classes so they could walk around with and shining in her curious eyes. Her hair was cast in silhou- apocalyptic?” asked Marie. She was reclin- ing against a slouchy pile of their backpacks, ette, black against the sunset. Neither one said anything for little cannons under their coats … Life was hard, and life was boots stretched out toward the fire. Jelly, a moment. Then Jelly, setting down his plate, asked, “Off- deeper inside the rooftop shack, using his boots as a make- hand, what made you think of it?” dangerous. That’s no different. You know?” After a moment, Jelly said, “Used to have doctors, and nurs- shift seat, looked up from his plate and raised an eyebrow, Marie shrugged. “I don’t know, it just occurred to me today.” es and hospitals, though.” sufficiently surprised by the thought that he stopped lick- Jelly said nothing. He picked up his plate, and finished Marie looked up at him. Jelly was staring into the fire, but ing his plate clean. cleaning it, then sat, running his knuckles rhythmically his arm resumed its restless rhythm, up and down her spine, Marie ran a hand through her hair, spreading her fingers across his jaw. his fingers distractedly exploring the contours of her back. to clear the tangles. “I mean, you remember how they used “Nothing in particular made you think that?” Marie followed his gaze into the glow of the embers, the fi- to write books, and make movies about the end of civiliza- “I guess,” said Marie, “I guess maybe it was this after- nal flames dancing for what little life remained to them, and tion, climate change, nuclear holocaust … the whole thing.” noon. I was out on the far side of the roof, collecting water her mind was mired there, revolving the myriad elements of Jelly nodded, and went back to licking his plate, still listening. from the rain-bin, and checking the corn, and I was think- her world with the motion of the fire, in inadvertent medita- “And here we are now, and it doesn’t feel like those stories ing about how…” she hesitated, collecting her thoughts, tion. Finally, she spoke again, did, you know? The dread, the terror, the … the — you “… about the water. You know, it used to be easy — just “I know. I know, but what I mean is … it just … I guess know — that feeling.” turn the tap — and …” getting the water made me think. You know how we think “Wouldn’t’ve thought of it,” Jelly said, setting down the Her voice caught on a splinter, and trailed into silence. it’s the water, or it’s the radiation from the bombs, or it’s the plate, and settling his steady gaze on her. Jelly closed his eyes and bent his head. His hand became food, or the stress, or … whatever.” The long fingers of firelight played across Marie’s face, manic, rubbing at his beard in a mechanical frenzy, the only She paused. Her words were tumbling out too quickly, 24 The Sacred Cow September 2015 Next page

Post-Apocalypse continued opening had metal eyelets protruding from them at the floor, the roof, and two points between. Some of the eyelets, Ma- rie had scavenged from the ruins of a hardware store, some Jelly had fashioned from wire. A short length of shoelace was looped through each eyelet. On their separate ends of the tarp, Jelly and Marie threaded the shoelaces through the grommets on the tarp, pulled them tight, and made a knot. sharp edges untrimmed. When they finished, the hut was utterly dark, but for the “And there’s no doctor to tell us one way or the other,” she faint glow of the embers. Marie reached up and ran her hand went on. “That’s true. But maybe it’s not those things. May- along the roof until she came to one of the three small ex- be the world changed, but the plan didn’t. Maybe it’s just like haust vents they had made for the fire. She pushed the flap life isn’t that different. Maybe we were never going to … to of shingle all the way open, until she felt the cooler air on have a baby, in any world.” her hand. The Glory That Was She stopped. Jelly’s arm had stiffened around her back. His Her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, but she could jaw clenched, and unclenched. hear Jelly unrolling their pad, and the sleeping bag they laid “Maybe,” he said, and breathed hard, and deep, three times, unzipped across their pad for a blanket. They undressed in and each time, his torso heaved against Marie, and his gran- the dark, and in silence. The tarp stirred and rustled, com- By THOMAS ZIMMERMAN ite muscles trembled. He turned his eyes down to her, but pelled by the breeze. slowly, as though by force against a great reluctance. Orange Jelly, as he always did, climbed into their hard little bed light dimly reflected off the downturned corners of his lips. first, and, as always, took the side toward the wall, away from “Does it help?” the warmth of the embers. Marie piled her clothes on top of Greece: morning light bled rose, then bronze, then gold Marie nodded. the packs, now stacked between the head of the bed and the on Mount Parnassos. I was thinking of “A little,” she said. “As much as anything can.” tarp, and crawled in beside him. She reached out, found him the grassy knolls an ocean west that hold Jelly resumed his silence, now staring over the dying fire in the dark, and curled up against him. my parents’ graves, of all the dead I love. into the gathering darkness of their shack, his arm still “Hey,” said Jelly, wrapping his hands around her waist and Tragedian and archaeologist: climbing and descending Marie’s back like an automaton. pulling her tighter, “you might be right. Things might not my Attic mode. I plumbed the dank and dark, Outside, the city was quiet as sunset became twilight, and be that different than they were, back in the day.” recorded music antic in the mist twilight sank into gloaming. No birds, no cars; just the wind, “But I’ll say this,” he went on, letting go of her waist, and of dream. I burned strange herbs at Delphi, spark rustling through the verdant darkness of Jelly’s small patch- tracing her shoulder with his fingertips in the darkness. of perfumed prophecy. Olympia es of corn and beans and vegetables. “You’ve got a bunch more knots in your back than you used reigned plain and fallen. Epidaurus, scoured “Speaking of hiding our fires …” said Marie. to.” Mycenae powdered my ephemera Jelly nodded. She slipped out from his arm, and climbed Marie giggled in the dark. with dust of kings. Thoughts drifted, lotus-fl owered, to her feet. Jelly rose stiffly, wincing at the gravely rattle of “’Cause I’ve been married to you for a whole lot longer from Alfa beer to Agamemnon’s mask, cartilage in his knees. than I used to be,” she said, shoving him in the dark. “Don’t from ghosts to questions they and I would ask. “We closed up the barricade when you came home, didn’t go blaming the apocalypse for something that’s your own we?” she asked as they crossed out of the open wall. Jelly, damn fault.” padding along barefoot, glanced down at the spot on the They both laughed, and settled deeper into the bed. After a floor, where he made a charcoal mark each day when they moment, the only sound was regular, uninterrupted breath- closed the barricade, and rubbed it out each morning when ing. They slept, surrounded by the silence of the ruined city. they opened it. There was a mark. He nodded. He used his foot to shove their backpacks into the shelter. Marie pulled the tarp out from its spot next to one of the two shelves positioned along the far wall. One side of the tarp was still a faded electric blue, but they had smudged the other side black with charcoal. They stretched it across the open wall that faced east. Both walls at the sides of the 25 The Sacr The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015

The Broad and Narrow Way Jordan By WILLIAM MILLER By STEPHANIE SHARP In our living room, Her husband shot blood and water blood and water there was a picture of Hell. himself because oh God, no! oh God, no! he had seen such blood and water blood and water It hung above the couch, bad things in the war, not this! not this! where anyone could see it, “stick people” the curse in my womb my curse on the cross read its dark message. and “ovens.” preying in darkness praying in darkness My grandmother drank blood and water blood and water On the right, a highway many drinks the curse visible the curse damned was crowded with on shaky legs, weep for the child that is no more rejoice for the wounded who are remembered people drinking from said she’d kill bottles, falling down, herself if she only no time to speak eternity laughing. had a gun … when will you hear my voice? time to speak I love you. hear my voice Hell itself was many flames, But there was another no time to touch I love you. a dark city with way, beside the broad your body never clothed in skin time to touch black towers … way to Hell. no toes to count soft skin against mine nothing to receive my kisses toes to count My dad drank beer A tiny pilgrim nothing to fill my arms feel my lips on your cheek in his favorite chair, climbed a narrow, only blood and water your weight in my arms watched TV mountain road. the curse visible by Blood and Water and ignored us. Eve’s legacy in her daughter the curse damned It led to golden lights, Eve’s redemption in her daughter My mother sat with little angels circling … an open bible on her lap, “The Words of Jesus in Red.” My parents divorced; my grandmother you said one time – and as rocks My grandmother lived married a man who drank Iron and water as iron sharpens iron, change the course of water with us too. as much as she did … so you’d like to be with me you lead me And I see that picture still, well, maybe we’re not steadily have walked both ways but maybe we are changing my direction but not the middle. By RUTHIE VOTH something similar (even my chemical make-up) as I change you In Hell, there is a picture maybe… of our living room. as water smoothes rocks not harshly like I roll over you, two iron rods, clanging, gently but constantly – but changing you slowly comfortably The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015 26 The Sacr

CARTOON CAPTION CONTEST Each issue, we will feature a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, submit a caption, we choose three finalists, and you vote for your favorite. Unfortunately, we do not have the budget for a cartoonist, and none of us can draw, so we also need you to submit a cartoon with your caption. Cartoon and caption submissions must be received by Monday, Dec. 14. The winner receives a print of the cartoon signed by the cartoonist. Any resident of the United States, Canada (except Quebec), Australia, the United Kingdom, or the Republic of Ireland, or any other country (except Quebec), age eighteen or over can enter or vote. To do so, and to read the complete rules, visit cartooncontest.sacredcowmagazine.com. PREVIOUS WINNING CAPTION THIS ISSUE’S CONTEST “It’s almost impossible to draw a cartoon using Adobe Illustrator.” 27 The Sacr The Sacred Cow ed Cow September 2015