Mangrove Review Mangrove Volume 10 Volume

2012

Mangrove Review 2012 Volume 10

R M Volume 10 MangroveReview 2012

Executive Editor Editors Jennifer Marks Makeda Amadi Bryan Carufe Asst. Executive Editor Charlotte Dugan Kristine Tullo Dana Giffin Joshua Huff Brian McCann Managing Editors William Moore Samantha Davis Patricia Richmond Summer Glassie Tara Swift Kay Townsend Asst. Managing Editors Sarah Burt Design Editor Jamie Gillhespy Jason Elek

Faculty Advisor Dr. Jim Brock

Whitehall Printing Company, Naples Mangrove Review is published annually in the spring. Mangrove Review will consider submissions of poetry, prose, and artwork from Florida Gulf Coast University students, alumni, faculty, staff, administrators, and the community at large. The reading period for submissions is from September 1 to December 15 of each year.

Submission guidelines Submissions must be previously unpublished and accompa- nied by a short biography. Please do not put your name on the manuscript or file name. Instead, include a cover page with the title of your piece, your name, and contact information.

Poetry Submit no more than five poems per reading period. Prose Submit up to four narratives, but no more than 10 total pages (3,000 words) typed and double-spaced, with 1-inch margins, for any one reading period. Art All artwork must be submitted as a high-resolution JPEG image, with the title of the artwork as file name. We will consider no more than five images by any one artist per reading period.

Submit your materials via e-mail to [email protected]. Or you may mail them in care of :

Dr. Jim Brock Florida Gulf Coast University Reed Hall 227 10501 FGCU Blvd. S. Fort Myers, FL 33965-6565.

Please note that we cannot return materials.

Contents

Savior Knows Best `Ginger Cyan Allen...... 7 The Guru Kate Dupre...... 8 The Sacred Shelby Whidden...... 10 Slur Makeda Amadi...... 12 Call Me Nancy B. Loughlin...... 15 A Day with Olivia Gregg Shumann...... 16 The Way of Lies Lori Cornelius...... 17 Mr. Osprey Dobie Pascoe...... 19 Private Landing Gregg Shumann...... 20 Three Owl Memories Jamie Gillhespy...... 27 Bells and Broken Things Diego Fernandez...... 29 Familiar Michael A. Rodriguez...... 30 The Winter’s Tale Jamie Gillhespy...... 35 Orchard Kate Dupre...... 36 The Spirit of Fire Roger Higginbotham...... 38 Castle Island, South Boston Laura Severyn...... 49 Laundromat Love Charles Lytle...... 50 Blue for [re]Sale Kate Dupre...... 51 Gossip Gregg Shumann...... 52 My Dog’s Perspective Gregg Shumann...... 53 Solace Wes Fitch...... 54 Rusty Red Thing Diego Fernandez...... 55 Daytona Hitchhike Gregg Shumann...... 56 Witness Relocation Gregg Shumann...... 57 Blood Orange Makeda Amadi...... 58 Still Fresh Wes Fitch...... 59 Formation #2 Wes Fitch...... 60 Dream Ride Julianna Javier...... 61 Poor Alice Kate Dupre...... 62 The Loony Tree Jamie Gillhespy...... 63 That Gigantic Hole in Guatemala City Diego Fernandez...... 66 Levi’s Ex-Girlfriend Jeans Makeda Amada...... 68 Robert Franks’ Laundry Gregg Shumann...... 69 Boots Revisted Jamie Gillhespy...... 70 Cyber Dating Nancy B. Loughlin...... 72 Third Period Brad Basinger...... 73 Terminal Restlessness Lori Cornelius...... 77 A Toast to Dad Jim Gustafson...... 79 American Men Gregg Shumann...... 80 Tribute Dobie Pasco...... 81 Iris Blooming Diego Fernandez...... 84 Doris Holbrook Jim Gustafson...... 91 The Reflections of Oscar Wilde Jamie Gillhespy...... 92 Teeth Diego Fernandez...... 93 National Memorial Dobie Pasco...... 95 For Sale Wes Fitch...... 97 The Tides of War Andrew Gari...... 98 Just a Couple of Questions Jim Gustafson...... 104 Cover art by Gregg Shumann Front: Childhood Heroes, found object sculpture Back: Daily Devotion, mixed media sculpture MR Ginger Cyan Allen

Savior Knows Best

Swamp and wetlands pad softly on bare feet. A girl runs with those who wait, mud on their Sunday bests, flowers falling from the virgin crown of her copper-wire curls. An older man in lead smells like cigarette smoke and yellow stained fingers from his life not cut by the sharped nailed hands of trees. Cramped stomachs puff breath into the cold air, creating smog. The steady clump-clump-sink-whoosh-clump as bodies march further into the swamp, sink up to their calves in mud and brackish water. The leaves throw themselves at the girl’s feet only to get crushed by those behind not seeing but the outline of the night. Stopping only when she stops, clasping the work hands of the rough on either side, squeezing, along with eyes and cracking lips that can no longer speak. While the crickets echo their velleity, balancing act on frail exoskeletal legs, the one-eyed owl hoots to her father — the wise old in the moon,

Mangrove Review 7 and the rest is deep-bodied and weighted nothing as the cluster eventually leave — the rest is silence.

8 Mangrove Review Kate Dupre The Guru

black-and-white photography, post-processed in Adobe Photoshop

Mangrove Review 9 Shelby Whidden

The Sacred

“Even just thinking a curse word is a sin,” Mrs. Astor herself had told me when I was nine years old. I had asked her how the Bible got away with saying the word ‘ass,’ one Sunday morning, when I wasn’t even allowed to think about it. The Bible was, after all, God’s word and what He said had to be right. Her face flushed and she asked me to sit in the corner while everyone else got a lol- lipop. Then she told my grandma about the whole incident and I got a pop on the mouth. I felt vindicated when I heard her sweet tongue cross the line she herself had drawn in the sand so long ago. The morning was cool, and I was excited to finally be able to wear my sweaters again. I enjoyed my tank tops and shorts from the summer, but there was such a limited amount of time to wear cute winter clothes in Florida, so I reveled in it every year. My feet were pushed up under the pew in front of me. I was forbidden to put my feet up on the Hymnal holder or communion cup racks. My Bible was open, but I wasn’t much interested in the tithing sermon that the preacher was stressing. Around this time, just before the New Year, he would preach this guilt and fire and brimstone sermon to get people to sign up for a tithe commitment the next year. At the end of the service, there would be an invitation to come up to the alter so that members could pledge what percent- age of their paychecks they would tithe each week in the New Year. Because of that, there weren’t many people in the sanctuary that day. With most of the pews empty, I took advantage of the easy exit and went to the restroom. When I turned out of the foyer and into the hallway that led to the restroom I could see Ana Astor walking my way. She stopped in the hallway between the sanctuary double doors and her husband’s office. I lingered a moment as I considered what

10 Mangrove Review reason would cause him to miss the Sunday sermon. He was our youth pastor, so he wasn’t preaching, but he generally sat in service with his wife. All the ladies had said ‘I told you so…’ when Ana married the righteous Jackson Astor. Her father, the senior pastor of the church, had married them just before Brother Jackson had finished seminary. I couldn’t remember the ceremony, though I had apparently been in attendance. I imagined Mrs. Astor in her wedding gown walking down the aisle as she was walking towards me, but the urge to pee cut my thoughts short. Now in front of me, her blonde hair was down around her shoulders and the red clip that held her bangs back reflected in a sickening orange against the brass push panels of the doors behind her. Her tiny one inch heels sank into the fluffy maroon carpet as she stared through the vertical window and saw Brandy James, the church secretary, cuddled up on the couch with Pastor Jackson. What was worse, an older lady’s retelling mentioned that Brandy was wearing nothing but Brother Jackson’s white button down shirt Ana had ironed for him that morning. I remember the night, when I was eleven, of my first Wednes- day night service as a member of the youth group instead of the children’s church. Pastor Jackson opened his Bible to somewhere in Revelation I’d never dared to read and spoke of the end times. He told us about the Anti-Christ and of the monsters that would walk the earth hunting all of those who stood against Satan. He painted an image in our minds of a pregnant woman having her baby sliced from her stomach because she chose to be a follower of Christ in those seven years after we, those who chose God now, will have already ascended to the heavens with Jesus. He closed the service in prayer and eight or nine students, including Missy Branston who was sixteen and four months pregnant by Elliot Michaels, came forward to the alter that night to accept Jesus now instead of later after Jesus had already left them behind. Pastor thanked God for all of those kids who came

Mangrove Review 11 forward, who wanted to “hear the trumpets” on the day of Jesus’ return. The last thing he told them was that now that they’d cho- sen the straight and narrow path they were more likely to be tested than ever before. He said that Satan was going to make things happen that would cause them to want to turn away from Jesus, and they must promise God they wouldn’t give in to temptation even if they thought God had turned away first. I imagine that Ana Astor felt that way, like God had turned away first, when she opened the door to Pastor’s office and saw more of Brandy James than Brandy’s own mother probably had. It was then that, as I left the ladies’ bathroom to return to the sermon and my seat next to Mammaw, I heard Ana scream, “You dirty fucking whore!” That morning was the first time, many speculate, that Ana Astor, the pastor’s daughter, had ever cursed — at least aloud. I was so alarmed that I sank back into the swinging door of the ladies’ room and backed myself into a wicker vanity chair. Missy had just finished washing her hands and took a step towards the door when I said, “I wouldn’t.” She looked at me, confused, and opened the door anyway. By now the service had ended, or more like come to a screeching halt, and the congregation was pouring into the hall. Missy backed up and sat down in the chair facing me. She stared at herself in the huge, wall-sized mirror and laid one ringless left hand on her flat belly. “Well, maybe I’ll stop being the church scandal now,” She said, almost satisfied. I couldn’t blame her, after my incident with cursing I felt the same, but I could tell she wouldn’t have wished the shame on anyone else. I had wanted Ana Astor to get a pop in the mouth for cursing, but the slug she was due now seemed unfair. At this point Missy’s baby, Sarah, was about to enter grade school and Elliot had left her for the Army. I knew the way people looked at her even now, years later. It was Missy’s name that came up when my skirts were too short or my heels were too high. Somehow I’d forgotten

12 Mangrove Review she was a person. More guilt rolled over my stomach, but as my thoughts tapered off and I searched for something to say, Mammaw opened the door. Her long nails made her thin fingers seem a foot long as they wrapped around the edge of the door. “Let’s go, Stacy,” she said without looking at Missy. I’m not sure if it was honest curiosity or if it as to make a point of her existence, but Missy asked Mammaw, “Have you seen Sarah?” My grandmother turned to look at Missy as I ducked under her chiffon-covered arm and into the emptying hallway. I pictured the look that she always gave me when I loaded the dishwasher slop- pily and had to do it again, or when I didn’t hang all of my clothes up and left them in a pile on the rocking chair in my room. Some- how that disappointed face she gave me so often did not seem to do justice to the look she gave Missy. Though I couldn’t see her, I knew that her face read disgust, something I was used to seeing stretch across her brow, just never directed at me. “No, young lady, I have not,” was all she said in response. I could almost taste the sourness under the polite tone she laid so thickly on top of her words. Later that evening when I was home from church, I sat with my knees against my chest in a dining chair. I was playing checkers with my grandfather and the stakes were high. There were six full- sized Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cups in the pot and I was determined to win. Something in the air wasn’t nearly as care-free as usual, however. There were whispers between my mother and grandmother about the happenings earlier in the day, but I couldn’t make out everything they were saying. People stopped in, mostly ladies from Momma and Mammaw’s Sunday school class. I suspect the neighbors must have thought someone died with so many people stopping by just to talk. I brought in a pitcher of sweet iced tea, and a plate of chips and cookies like Momma asked, but she didn’t let me stay in the room. “Go keep Pappaw company, I bet he’s bored with all these hens in

Mangrove Review 13 the house,” Mammaw said. I cringed at her cutesy southern vernacular, used only in the presence of these women. She was a seventh grade English teacher, and if I said, “Me and Emmalynn are going to the movies,” I would probably not be allowed to go simply because I’d neglected to say “Emmalynn and I…” “Yes Ma’am,” was all I was allowed to say to that, so I walked back into the dining room. Pappaw was taking out a deck of playing cards so we could play Blackjack, and from somewhere on the shelf in the corner he produced a new bag of candy. I sighed as I considered the fact that I was allowed to gamble with my grandfather but could not gossip with my grandmother. They did not even try to hide their voices. I could hear names, and speculations about exactly what happened and how long Pastor had been cheating. I always grew frustrated with their whispers because, sitting in a room with them, they were hard not to listen to, yet I was expected to pretend like nothing was ever said. I was forbidden to ask questions or join the conversation, but I was also expected to partake in other adult conversations about politics and the econo- my. Gossip was absolutely off-limits. The next day I was at school early so that Emmalynn and I could go and see if Mrs. Astor, who taught chorus and piano at our public high school, was in the chorus room. Emmalynn had been my best friend since sixth grade, and she had endured many of Pastor Jackson’s gruesome end-times sermons. There seemed no pertinent reason to go to the music building and see Mrs. As- tor. Probably I was afraid that just the gossip session from the day before had made me forget she was a person, and I needed to see her in front of me with a face and feelings. When we reached the hallway the door was locked, but the lights were on. I looked at Emmalynn who was already staring back at me. With a deep breath I knocked on the door. Mrs. Astor appeared in the long window then turned the handle to let us in.

14 Mangrove Review “What can I do for you, ladies?” she asked. She did not look pale or puffy from crying or lack of sleep. She was dressed well, better even than the day before. This didn’t sat- isfy me, she still wasn’t a person, she was a wax figurine, a robot pretending to pluck keys on the piano to her right. A cardboard cut-out Mrs. Astor would not have made the hair stand up on the back of my neck like her flawless face and sweet words did that morning. I had nothing to say. I never thought she would let us in, and I surely had not considered what to tell her if she did. She stared directly at us, looking from one face to the next. It seemed pru- dent, at the time, to pretend like nothing happened at church and just talk about normal things. I couldn’t think of anything normal to say. Her red clip was in her hair again, and it reflected in a soft pink on the white board behind her. I looked at Emmalynn. She was looking at the white board. “Did we have any homework this weekend?” Emmalynn, who was in seventh period chorus, asked Mrs. Astor. “As long as you know your scales, no,” Mrs. Astor said. I wasn’t a student in the music program at all, so I still couldn’t find words. Mrs. Astor was staring at me now, waiting for whatever I had to say. Nothing. “Did you need something, Stacy?” she asked. “No. I was just walking with Emmalynn,” I choked. “Well, it’s almost time for first period, you two should go,” she said. I took the first step towards the door and Emmalynn followed suit. We didn’t speak on the way to Algebra II, nor did we talk when we sat in our seats at the back of the room. Mr. S, whose name was unpronounceable otherwise, wrote letters and numbers and equals signs on the board. I mechanically wrote them down, crossing out the things he said to cancel and carrying everything else down to the next line. He eyed Emmalynn and me suspiciously every time he turned away from the board to talk to the class. After the bell

Mangrove Review 15 rang and I stood up to collect my things, Mr. S asked the two of us to stay behind. When the classroom was empty we walked up to his desk. Em- malynn sighed, we were always being asked to stay after class, but this time we hadn’t done anything wrong. Mr. S sat on the edge of his desk and looked from one of our faces to the next, with genu- ine concern. “Are you two alright?” he asked. With a name so long, I had expected him to have some strange accent, but he spoke like the third generation American he was. “Sure,” I said. “Yeah, I guess,” Emmalynn said. “I wouldn’t ask normally, but neither of you have spoken since you walked in. Something is wrong.” He tried to play it off as a joke, but his smirk was fake and he was already writing us a pass to the guidance counselor. “Here, you two should talk to someone about whatever is going on.” He handed us a pass on pink paper, and Emmalynn took it from his hand. We left the room without another word and headed to the office. The chairs in the guidance office hallway looked like they should be comfortable, but the stuffing flattened right to the screws that held the chairs together, leaving a sore spot under our thighs when we stood up to go into the office. Mr. S had called ahead and the counselor seemed annoyed. “The one day you two decide to behave, so there must be something wrong, huh?” the counselor said. “Go to class and don’t do anything else suspicious alright?” he told us as he scribbled out another pass. “This is ridiculous,” I said as Emmalynn and I stopped at our lockers to change books for second period. “What is ridiculous?” Emmalynn asked. “Everything. Mrs. Astor got cheated on. Nothing makes sense,” I said. “Maybe,” She said, closing her locker. She didn’t like discussing

16 Mangrove Review things like this, but I pressed my point. “Not maybe, Emmalynn, for real. This is real. Our youth pastor cheated on his wife, and she is acting like an effing robot. I mean where is he in all of this? Did she even go home yesterday?” I said. “It’s not our business,” She said, starting to walk towards the door to the patio. “Like hell, it’s not our business. Maybe this doesn’t happen at your house, but at my house all I’ve heard about since church ended yesterday is Mrs. Astor and her douche husband, and his whore girlfriend,” I almost yelled across the building. Emmalynn stopped, turned around, and walked quickly down the hallway to her right. Around the corner turned Mrs. Astor, her face was the same stone it had been an hour or so before. Her heels clicked on the waxed tile, and her eyes were on my face. She walked straight up to me and stood with just inches between our faces. “You must be thinking, well, look at what happened to Mrs. Astor. Righteous little Mrs. Astor got cheated on. Poor Mrs. Astor. But you should know that you look a Hell of a lot like your old bat-faced Mammaw right now, and I look a lot like Jesus,” she said, and stormed off down the hallway. I called my mom, telling her I had started my period and didn’t want to stay at school. Really, I just needed to make sure that my face wasn’t wrinkly and my fingernails were still short and pink. Whatever I looked like, I couldn’t figure out how Mrs. Astor looked anything like Jesus. I flipped through my Bible as I sat on my bed alone, trying to find a physical description of him. In three translations all I could really glean was that he was ragged and nothing kingly or great. That wasn’t Mrs. Astor, and her red hair clip and clacky shoes. She wasn’t like Jesus at all, who broke down and cried to his daddy for strength when he knew he was going to be crucified. But, she wasn’t like me either. I ran my finger over the corner of my eye. I could swear there were tiny crows’ feet beginning. It was then that I realized who

Mangrove Review 17 Mrs. Astor was really like, and that I wasn’t like my Mammaw at all. Gossip is a sacred responsibility bestowed upon only the holiest of God’s children. I came to this conclusion because only pastors, deacons, their wives, and those who wished to be pastors, deacons, and their wives, spread the best, juiciest gossip. Our youth group could not compete with the rumors started at Senior Luncheons, Ladies’ Tea Parties, and Fifth Sunday Barbecues. My mother and grandmother were not holy women like the deacon’s wives and such, but they were such long-time members of the church they were charged with performing the same rites. Mrs. Astor was a pastor’s wife putting in her two weeks’ notice in the school office while I flipped through the scriptures trying to find the truth in all of what she said, but there is no truth in gossip and I am not one of the privileged few allowed to spread the sacred rite.

18 Mangrove Review Makeda Amadi

Slur

The world does not need another poem to exalt in scorning the n-word, Maya Angelou is quite frankly too senile to care at any rate, so we must continue to let the expletive thrive in American culture, Black-American culture, so rich in poverty, White-American culture, so rich in other people’s culture, The Word should be kept ambiguous so if a Caucasian person slips and trips, meaning to say trigger, can brush it off with a “I have black friends,” and why limit 50% of pop music’s lyrical content to The Word. It’s not fair that white people don’t have the privilege of an equivalent, a word that when uttered sends shocks of anger, fear, sadness, up and down their spine, like a poorly played harp, something to compress their heart and make it swell, something to remind them of their fucked family history, lineage, for everyone loves an Italian girl and you don’t want to mess with an Irish guy, as close as we know our motherland is Atlanta, but the world does not need another poem to exalt in scorning the n-word, Maya Angelou is quite frankly too senile to care at any rate, so we ought to apathetically strive to let the expletive thrive in American culture, Black-American culture, so rich in poverty, White-American culture, so rich in exploitation, the meaning must be kept ambiguous, a-okay to sing along to or toss around in jest, I only propose that we diversify our slurs in pop music: tell chinks to twirk, tell wetbacks to bend over, and tell spics to drop it low.

Drop it low, spics.

Mangrove Review 19 Nancy B. Loughlin

Call Me

Call me Loopy Bubblechunks Isn’t that funnyfunnyfunny? Ha ha? See my cement smile linger Tra, la la lala. You can call me girl Or bitch It doesn’t matter which. I’ll be sorrysorrysorry three times And pirouette perfectly around you, sir For nickels and dimes Everyone knows Your Prissy Daintystep forever rises to her twinkle-toes. I’ll spinspinspin sweet and demure Reign innocent and pure. You can call me Rose For a ruse. I’d bet you’d love a cut flower’s passive, dying lure. But you’ll always have one more chance To call me Sunny Pumpkinpants. Or any other. It’s no bother or shame Because a name’s a name And for a dame, they’re all the same.

20 Mangrove Review Gregg Shumann A Day with Olivia

black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

Mangrove Review 21 Lori Cornelius

The Way of Lies

I’m working through a scene where my viewpoint character, Big Mike, is trying to figure out how to make an origami pelican to show to his wife that he does have a tender side, while their son Little Mike worries over asking his dad about coming to career day in his second grade classroom. It’s an important scene because Big Mike is a carnival heckler and after the cops got called at last year’s Career Day, Little Mike isn’t too sure he wants his dad back at Cypress Park Elementary again. My thoughts are inter- rupted when a light scent of bleach hits my nose, a reminder that I scrubbed out the bathtub before I started writing tonight. Im- mediately, I start thinking about the stuff that needs doing around the house for a moment: there’s the freezer to defrost, the oven to clean, and coupons that need to be clipped and sorted so I can buy what everyone likes and stay within the budget. I’ve lost the moment. I’m in the den, hunched over my desk and squinting at the computer screen, trying to channel Big Mike back, when my husband comes through. “I have another floor plan to show you of the studio,” Jim says. The studio is in the garage, where he records his music. I have no desire to share his space out there, but he just won’t take no as an answer. Jim’s been floor planning our future for the last two months. “Look, Diane, I’ll put you a floor lamp right here, one of those with a swing arm, right next to the desk.” He points to a rectangle next to a small circle which evidently represents my desk and the promised lamp. I could definitely use a lamp like that. “I like my desk where it is now,” I say. “All my books are right here, the printer, my favorite pictures. Everything’s just the way I want it.”

22 Mangrove Review “But we can move all that,” he says. I don’t say anything else. He doesn’t understand. Everything’s fine the way it is. We are status quo. Jim sighs. “What time are you coming to bed?” “Soon. I tucked the boys in a few minutes ago. I just want to finish this scene; it isn’t right.” I liked it better when it didn’t matter what time I came to bed, back when Jim played in a rock band at night. I finger the storyteller earrings I wear, feel the tiny dangling legs of the caveman-like drawings captured in silver. I don’t call them my muse or anything, but I wear them when I write. Jim nods and his lips pinch together. I hate that, those bird lips. He turns away, his shoulders a little slumped. It’s not that I don’t share his sadness to some degree, but I’ll do just about anything to preserve this small amount of time I have left in which to write, including lying. He and I both know I will not be to bed anytime soon. When he gave up playing in the band a few months ago, we agreed I’d limit my writing time to between when I put the kids to bed and the ten o’clock news ends, so we could spend more time together. Depending on how much fight Ben and Bryan put up, or how many things they can think to ask for before they give in to the inevitability of sleep, I can get anywhere from an hour to two hours of writing in before I am supposed to go to bed myself. A couple of years ago it would have been enough. Before I sit down to write, I always turn on the flood lights so I can see the giant banyan tree that encompasses most of the back yard. Three spotlights illuminate the tree. I rearranged my desk so the banyan is always in direct view. Long strands of sinewy growth reach down from the main arms of the tree, entwining over one another at the main trunk, folding and layering one tendon upon another, until some of the growth becomes indistinct, fully ab- sorbed into the tree. Further out, away from the base, the growths thin into long tendrils, dirt-brown in color, that stretch constantly toward, but don’t always reach, the earth below. If I have to move my desk to the garage, I won’t be able to see the banyan.

Mangrove Review 23 I never know what new thing I’ll see in the tree: a raccoon or a family of possums. Once there were golden-skinned bats. Some- times it’s just a new bit of the tree itself, a ropy growth I haven’t noticed before. Last year a large family of palm rats moved in and traveled the branches and gnarls of the tree. The back of my neck buzzed when I saw the first one, its plump body sleek as a well-fed cat. It disappeared into the dark upper branches, and a few moments later three more scrambled down and into the yard and the night beyond the lights. The more I watched, the less afraid I became. The rats took to jumping from the tree onto the roof. I could hear them as I wrote at night, running the length of the roof and sometimes rattling about in the gutters. They became my own personal acrobats in the late hours, leaping and jumping from one hairy underarm of the banyan to another. When the avocado tree was heavy with fruit they ate the ones that fell. During the day I looked for the rats, but never found anything except discarded bits of avocados and mangoes they had gnawed during the night. One night, several months before he quit the band, I showed the rats to Jim. At first, he thought they were funny. He named them “The Flying Ratezie Brothers.” Many nights when he would come in from practice and I’d still be up, writing, he’d turn on the spotlights, illuminating their night activities. “You know,” he said one night, his words measured like marks on a ruler, “these are rats.” He was staring out the window at the tree. “I counted seven just now, and that’s the ones I can see. It’s really not healthy. The kids could get into something the rats leave behind, or worse, get bit and have to have rabies shots.” I hadn’t thought of that. Watching the rats had become a comfortable ritual with me. They represented an oddity, that unusual element not generally acceptable but permissible due to their abil- ities as entertainers. They were fellow sharers of my night. They were the proverbial black sheep, only with long, hairless tails. I felt

24 Mangrove Review nearly protective of them, as though having been my discovery, only my judgment could be pronounced on them. He turned the light off. The next afternoon Jim had the ladder propped up against the tree. He sat in the large split of the limbs, brown work gloves on, hammering a reddish-brown block onto the trunk. I went outside. “What are you doing?” “I’ve been thinking about it. The rats have to go.” He pulled another block out of a bag and held it up. “See, it’s bait. It’ll take care of them.” He stood up and leaned against a heavy limb and began nailing the next bar of bait. “You mean poison? You’re going to kill them?” I kicked at a half-eaten avocado, sending it flying under the playhouse. Jim didn’t answer. He hammered more blocks onto the tree. Within a week, the rats were gone.

***

When I first started writing, Jim thought it was sweet. He had his music, his band, and seemed fond, maybe even a little proud, of telling his musician friends that his wife wrote stories. He worked then, as he does still, as a produce manager at Publix. I know the band was a nice distraction for him, even though it kept him away from us a lot. I think my writing helped him feel better about that. Band practice was usually at our house two or three nights a week, and the guys played out in clubs or at parties pretty much every other weekend. Many practice nights I kept the kids of the other band members, like a den mother to a pack of scouts. It was great fun. I liked hearing the music, hearing the guys work on new songs, the muffled rhythms of revision from the garage an undercurrent the kids and I became accustomed to as backdrop; the drums were with us always. Jim didn’t really like me going to listen to him play out though; he said it made him nervous. So I’d get the kids going in some sort

Mangrove Review 25 of activity on practice and playing-out nights, making cookies or designing personalized medieval shields made from poster board, and then slip away to the computer for a little while to get some writing done. Back then it was just more something to do, something to feel more part of a grown-up world, something to feel less alone in the night. It’s too bad Jim doesn’t play music for a living; he is a great musician. The thing that makes him better than most is his drive. Lots of guys have talent, but he is really driven to improve, driven to make all kinds of personal sacrifices for the band. Well, at least he used to be. Now he’s driven to be a better father and husband. He told me he feels like some sort of alcoholic who just woke up from a several year drunk and is trying to save his job, save his family, save himself. But we’re okay, me and the kids; we’d adjusted long ago to the way things were. Ben and Bryan love having him around more. When he gets home from Publix, he takes them to the park and they ride bikes. Sometimes they play basketball or just sit around and talk about things. Jim says things have changed between us. He says he knows that I love him, but keeps telling me I’m not in love with him. Once when I told him I didn’t know what he meant, he replied, “You’re a writer, figure it out.” Of course, I do know what he means, and he’s right: things have changed between us. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still love him. Love changes, though, and not always the way we want it to. I have to be careful not to show just how much writing means to me. I’ve figured this much out: if you have something good going for yourself and someone who loves you realizes it, they’re not going to be happy. Because they think it’s going to take away from the chance of your full love for them, that somehow their meaning will be diminished in your universe. I’m sure that’s what Jim thinks. It’s what I used to think when he first spent so much time on the band.

26 Mangrove Review “I’m giving up the band,” he said a couple of months ago. I was peeling potatoes, and I knew immediately this was a sort of omen; things had been going too well, life had settled into a nice pattern of children, housework, and writing. The omen was confirmed as I sliced into my finger with the paring knife. “God, Diane,” Jim said. He grabbed up a dishcloth and pressed it against my finger to stem the flow. “How bad is it?” He peered at my finger with a concern I didn’t feel. “It’s okay,” I said. I reached to the cabinet above the stove, and rummaged through it with my free hand. There were all kinds of bandages, ones with Batman, the Flintstones, and a new package of shiny metallic ones. I peeled the paper wrapping off of a Ninja Turtle bandage and placed one sticky end under the finger that was cut. “Look Jim, you don’t need to give up the band. I don’t want you to.” I caught a quick glimpse of the gash before I tight- ened the bandage around my finger; this one didn’t need stitches. “Working so hard for the band, I’ve been neglecting my job,” he said. “And things around here.” Then he surprised me: he took my hands and kissed them tenderly, and most gently of all, he kissed the top of the bandage on my finger. “And you. I love you so much,” he said. “I don’t want to neglect you anymore. I don’t want to lose you.” It was the time for me to be fair, to be honest, to acknowledge the fragile peace. Maybe, it was the time for me to give in. I knew what he meant. It seems we’d lost each other a long time ago, and continued to lose each other; first through his indifference and now my own. We were like shoppers in a grocery store, starting off in the same aisle, but one getting hung up in the bakery section while the other browsed in canned goods, forever spotting each other at a distance as we filled our separate carts. I blew it off. “I don’t think you’ll lose me from this,” and waved the hand with the cowabunga dudes of pizza in front of him. “It isn’t that deep.” I went back to the potatoes, carefully trimming away the brown stains that had appeared on the outside of several

Mangrove Review 27 of the peeled ones. He sighed, made bird lips, and went back to his his studio in the garage. It took him a few weeks, but Jim made good on his threat and quit playing in the band. Now he records his own songs in the studio. He keeps trying to move me out to the garage with him, tells me by doing our hobbies together, we’ll become closer. He makes detailed drawings of floor plans showing me where my desk and bookshelves could sit. I like them where they are now, here in the heart of the house. But some part of me wants to let go, wants to send me flying down the aisles past the canned peas and stewed tomatoes and find him and tell him, “I ‘m still here. I’ve been here all along, you know. Throw your bread and croissants in my cart and let’s go home.” Tonight I wait until he is in bed and I can hear his light snores coming through the door of our bedroom. I walk to the garage and flip on the light switch. Soft light beams from six small can- isters suspended from the ceiling. I try to imagine myself in this environment, without the banyan tree to look at. There are no windows here. Two tall racks of stage lights are crammed against the back wall, the one where the garage overhead door was before we converted the garage into a makeshift practice room. Each light within the rack looks at me with a hollow eye, the plastic colored gels dark without the illumination of a bulb behind them. The stage lights represent the remnants of the band equipment. Jim has sold them to a guy named Phil for half what he paid for them new. Phil is coming to pick them up tomorrow evening. A single pink-tinted gel is on the floor. I pick it up and hold it to my eyes and slowly turn in a circle, viewing every article in the garage through its blushy distortion. With my fingers so close to my face, I smell the faint echo of bleach. Jim’s desk with the computer sequencer is next to a small stand the multi-track recorder sits upon. I turn the muted pink plastic

28 Mangrove Review toward the desk and see another floor plan. This one has our desks sitting at a forty-five degree angle from one another. When he told me about this plan he said, “I want to be able to see you when you work. You are so beautiful.” He added, hesitantly, “We could make love out here sometimes, you know.” I put the plastic gel down on top of the desk and remember back to a night when the band was in high gear, nearly two years ago, before I started writing seriously. Ben and Bryan were asleep and all the guys in the band had left early, by 10:00 p.m., rather than the usual time well past midnight. I’d been watching a chick flick, one where this guy dies but his spirit can’t take off until he’s resolved stuff with his girlfriend. There’s a pretty hot scene involv- ing clay and a pottery wheel. I had downed a couple of glasses of wine. I thought I’d surprise Jim, rekindle things by force, dress up in something sexy enough to take his mind off music and make him want to come to bed. I was tired of watching television alone, tired of missing Jim, tired of waiting for us to be together when it was convenient. I wanted something steady, something purpose- ful in my life beyond the boys, beyond being the band baby-sitter. In our bedroom, I stretched a long-neglected black lace teddy on over a pair of silk panties and fastened black garters to thigh- high silk stockings. The teddy was Jim’s favorite. I brushed my hair and arranged it under a floppy black hat with a veil that hung in what I thought was an intriguing manner over my face. I imagined Jim taking off the hat and my hair tumbling down as he buried his face in it. Somehow, as is often the way when I’ve had a couple glasses of wine, this idea seemed perfect. Finally I tottered out to the garage on a pair of stilettos with heels as long as knitting needles. I struck a pose against the stage backdrop and pushed my back against the wall, forcing my chest up and nearly out of the skimpy lace suit. I lifted one leg onto the drummer’s stool, exposing what I imagined as a creamy thigh against the black garters, panties, and stockings. Jim was tinkering around with some microphone cables and

Mangrove Review 29 his amp, behind the rack of keyboards. When he straightened to adjust his microphone, I saw I had his attention — he was staring at my chest. Deepening my voice I said, “I hear you’re looking for a groupie. I’ve come to see if I can fill the position.” I had to lower my leg at this point; the heel was digging into the vinyl of the stool and I felt the unmistakable burn signaling the onset of a Charley-horse. Before I fully saw the look of irritation on Jim’s face I already felt my timing was bad. Perhaps it was the silence, suspended in the air like the moments before snowfall, or perhaps I sensed then, too late, the band had left early because of a bad practice. Whatev- er the cause, I saw my own foolishness before he spoke; I watched it as though it belonged to someone else, and prepared for it like one does a forecasted storm. “You look ridiculous,” he said. “What are you doing, trying to get into a character’s head? Have you started writing plays?” His sarcasm slapped at me. I could feel the heat of a blush over my entire body, but I resolved not to let him know that I had ever planned anything other than what he took my garb to be, the pur- poseful participation in writing. “It’s so much easier to get into the part if you’re dressed for it,” I said. “You’re not writing trashy romances, are you?” For the first time he looked up, really looked at me, and I shook my head. “You look red. Are you all right?” “I had a couple glasses of wine. It made me a little warm, I guess.” Alone a few minutes later in our bedroom, I stripped off all the lingerie and stuffed it in the Goodwill bag I keep in the back of the closet. Maybe some other woman would do better with it than I had. I redressed in my usual cotton panties, leggings, and tee shirt and sat down at the computer. I’ve been at the computer nearly every late night since; two years. Writing is reliable and solid, funny terms to apply to fiction, but it’s true. The stories change, sure, but the relationship is

30 Mangrove Review dependable. I even sold a story last month.

***

Much later tonight, when I go to bed, I’ll be careful not to wake Jim. I’ll take out my storyteller earrings and leave them next to the computer, rather than let them clank on the nightstand in our bedroom. When I get in our king-size bed, I’ll move slowly toward him an inch or two at a time, lying still between each movement, until my body has taken the chill from the sheets. If I’m careful, allow my warmth to spread in gradual increments, then if he wakes up it will seem I have been in bed much longer. That’s the way of lies, a prolonged but progressive invasion, started from holding still a little too long, until the lie is imperceptible from the truth. Once I’m sure I won’t wake him, I’ll move my arms and legs into a comfortable sleeping position, my hands tucked under my pillow, away from my face, where there’s no chance I’ll get the slightest whiff of bleach and domesticity. Maybe tonight, and if not tonight, a night very soon, the rats will come back. They’ll jump and swing in the banyan tree. In the darkness of our bedroom I’ll hear them, rolling avocado pits down the roof, traveling the tunnels of the rain gutters. I won’t need the lights on to see them. I know what they look like, their tails like the tendrils of the banyan stretching down toward the earth.

Mangrove Review 31 Dobie Pasco

Mr. Osprey

As I watch the dive dance Of the osprey His rapid swoop

Then motionless pause Riding the prevailing Wind as if posing on a rail

But know that he Is not Asleep on the wing Like Canadian honkers

But awake, alert Slit eye open Focused on the silver slice Which is his prey

Though he may sometimes Miss his mark, swerve His dive mid-flight

I would not, If I were fish Rest easy this night Knowing Mr. Osprey Lurks above

32 Mangrove Review Gregg Shumann Private Landing

black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

Mangrove Review 33 Jamie Gillhespy

Three Owl Memories

I. Zig-zag lines rim the buttered kernels that pour over the white bag’s sides and onto the card table. Above us on the cement-block walls, a bespectacled owl dons a graduation cap.

II. I toss the plush owl that spreads its polyester wings against the bright Brazilian sky. Captive in the picture’s frame, the child’s toy mimics flight, and its plastic, half-moon eyes bear raptures of mock delight.

III. A white stain on a blue horizon, puzzled by the twisted branches, reveals itself a snowy owl that drops toward the twinkling ground then back into the tangled boughs that sneer at the gray-furred creature, surveying the winter wood for the first time in its too-brief life. Attempts at freedom only pull the owl’s talons deeper, toward the frantic heart and wide yellow eyes.

34 Mangrove Review Diego Fernandez

Bells and Broken Things

If years yawned open like days do I’d pass them slow and brave ,with bits of you scattered along, like mountain tops in a blind haze, like a million fluffs of white seed carrying wishes in secret over the looks you’ve given, the flights of your eyes or voice across those awful expanses in between.

I remember you as a day in summer in ruins Ancient and aqueous, gorged with life on blood dried and words forgotten,

Mangrove Review 35 But that day in the rain in whispers is old, and that haze that expanse of gaping time hides bells and broken things.

And you, in length of river ran silent sad as howling night, a bird soaring still in storm unflinching, un-falling through the world, conjured like a dream in some jadeite sleep I forgot.

Stoic girl, shadow afar, in search for a reflection in the sky.

36 Mangrove Review Michael A. Rodriguez

Familiar

Once upon a time, an old man moved into a lonely village. The old man built a tiny stone cottage with a wooden roof and floor. Once a week, he would leave his house and walk to the mar- ket, where he would buy bread and meat. Curious men and women would try to strike up conversations with him, get a closer look at him, but his hair fell over his eyes, his beard shielded his lips, and though he answered politely, he volunteered no biography. All folk could learn was that the old man was a famous artist who had decided to retire to the countryside after his daughter died of some wasting sickness. In time, the villagers’ curiosity ebbed, and they no longer sought him out. But every now and then, someone would pass that way and espy him swiping a brush over a sheet of canvas or plucking weeds in his garden. Once or twice, a passer-by would glimpse the old man’s face as he painted, and that someone would hurry away and would not return. One day, the old man invited everyone to come and view his painting, for it was finished. Even the women great with child limped to his house and looked. Their children were born screaming. On the canvas was a nightmare, a horror half-remembered. The trees and weeds spiraled unnaturally upward, souls writhing in hellish torments. The kneeling Savior’s eyes gaped blank and black, and his face was a twisted horror, and fur enshrouded his hands, and his mouth was an abyss, and his robe was a splash of red: blood in Gethsemane. Men whispered that Satan had guided the artist’s hand. The next day, a young man visited the old one and did not leave. Folk whispered that the young man was his familiar, a demon pet, and others claimed their relationship was more carnal, though no

Mangrove Review 37 less unnatural. A girl died soon after, and the villagers duly mourned and buried her. But the next morning, the village woke to find her grave empty, her body gone. A mob gathered to torch the old man’s house, but the young man came out, only it was not the young man, for his features were blurred and misshapen, and no flames burned bright enough to illuminate his body. Never again did anyone dare approach that house, or pass by it, and folk thereafter would block up their windows and bar their doors when night fell. For a long time thereafter, no one came out from that house. It stood still and silent. Neither life nor light flashed behind the shutters. Weeks passed. Some of the men at last ventured to approach, to knock warily and call out. Hearing no reply, one man, bolder than the rest, shoved the door. It gave. Something sprang out, and the men fled screaming, for though the creature had a feline shape, its fur glistened blacker than melt- ed coal, and its eyes glowed like pits of fire. No one knows what became of that creature. No one ever saw it again. No one ever saw the strange young man again either. What fiendish transmigrations had transpired within those walls, no one dared to guess, but when two or three of the boldest men at last ventured across the threshold of that fearsome house, they found nary a stick of furniture nor a spot of dust—naught but an empty floor. Empty, did I say? Not wholly. They did find the body of the old man, curled up in the center of the floor, surrounded by strange markings chalked on the boards. The old man’s eyes had turned black, his nails were longer than his fingers, and in his mouth was a single hairball.

38 Mangrove Review Jamie Gillhespy

The Winter’s Tale

Rubies against the alabaster landscape, where boughs frosted with flickering diamonds whisper promises of a ripe fall harvest.

Like waves smacking boulders, her cape flaps in wintry winds, which gargle murmured warnings of the twisted mahogany fingers.

Phantom waves of cinnamon and clove plume through the popping limbs, burdened by heavy drifts, to her florid nose and rumbling stomach.

Bent and mangled branches sneer behind the crimson robe and knobby knees just visible, above the packed, white snow.

***

Canine follicles, beaded in ancient dust, are suspended in the paling light that tip-toes through the window’s frosty screen. In the yellowed haze, the mingled dust drifts in deliberate spirals toward the knotted pine table top and graying blade of a long-stemmed axe, which wears its own vermillion hood.

Mangrove Review 39 Rust-stained, exposed flesh. The apple’s wounded, ruby skin oozes juices, sweet and toxic.

40 Mangrove Review Kate Dupre Orchard

black-and-white photograph, post-processed in Adobe Photoshop

Mangrove Review 41 Robert Higginbotham

The Spirit of Fire Adapted from a novel in progress

After a long night of celebration, Kyla woke to yet another typical Seattle morning– cold, wet, and the unmistakable scent of smoke lingering in the air. Rain pelted the window, Kyla reluc- tantly rolled out of her bunk. It’s early, too fucking early. The sun had yet to rise and most of Seattle suffocated beneath an ashen sky. Kyla went for the trunk at the foot of the bed, removing a gas mask, a black tie, and a black rubber glove. Kyla pulled the gas mask over her choppy, blond hair, which was already matted to her head, slipped the tie around her neck and attached the rubber glove to her gas mask as a hat. Content with her appearance, Kyla nodded her head. The limp fingers of the glove jigged with the movement of her head. With a deep breath, Kyla headed to engineering. The hum of a fusion generator resonated through the bulk- heads, most of which were still damaged, each wearing their scorch marks as proud battle scars. The doors to engineering opened and Kyla winced beneath her gas mask. It was loud and she was hung over. She looked up to find the ship’s chief engineer in the control room. Kyla pulled herself up the metal staircase and slipped into the control room with him. She found Travis reviewing several physics equations on the holographic screen before him. Asshole, how does he do it? It had been his birthday yesterday and he had drunk just as much as she did. Travis leaned back in his seat and smiled silently to Kyla. He eyed the glove attached to her gas mask. It had originally been his glove, specifically his left one, which she had stolen from him last night after helping him to bed. He was drunk; she thought it would make a great hat. It did. He had yet to ask for it back and she hadn’t planned on returning it anyways.

42 Mangrove Review Kyla plopped herself into the seat next to Travis. She glared at him beneath her gas mask. He was the reason she was up this early. However, despite working at the ungodly hour Kyla considered it to be, there was one advantage. She was here, with Travis, alone. For the first time in several weeks, their work rotations had aligned, allowing them to be paired up for the day. While Travis was focused on what was supposed to be their mission, to repair the ship’s engines, Kyla had her own endeavor for today. She was going to say “hi”. Kyla was a self-imposed mute, a psychopath who had a burning fondness for fire. With a masters in chemistry, Kyla knew at what temperature, in degrees Fahrenheit, Celsius, and Kelvin, liquid propane would ignite and for how long a duration it needed to be used against human flesh to cause her target to have third degree burns covering ninety percent of their body. From her pocket, Kyla removed her chrome Zippo lighter. She began to play with it, tossing it into the air then catching it. Kyla watched as the lighter began to spiral downwards. A hand reached out and caught. It was Travis. Kyla shot him another glare. “Are you done?” Kyla shrugged. “Someone’s being difficult today.” Fucker, Kyla thought, as she proceeded to flick Travis off. “Alright, come on. I want to get the auxiliary generator installed so I can boot up the main power core by tonight. Maybe if we’re lucky, we can finish early and break into another bottle of wine.” Kyla nodded. If she remembered, it was their last bottle. They had run out of chocolate and coffee four weeks ago. Travis’ engine room hooch, however, acted better as a disinfectant than the al- cohol it was supposed to be. Monica used a good portion of each batch as cleaning solution in sickbay. Kyla followed Travis deeper into main engineering. Above Kyla was the main power core, its orange-tinted contain- ment field fluctuated as it produced just enough power to keep the lights on. The core was dying and unless Travis could jump-start it

Mangrove Review 43 with the auxiliary generator, it was going to go dark soon. Once it went dark, there was no getting it back online. Kyla jumped from the second to the last step on the staircase. Her combat boots made a heavy thud on the metal catwalk below. Travis removed a panel from the floor, revealing yet another section of the ship left blackened and scorched after the last battle the Ragnarok had been caught in. TheRagnarok was a Phoenix class colony ship that would allow Travis, Kyla and the rest of the crew to leave Earth and escape to another planet. As much as the Ragnarok was home, Earth was dead. Hardly anything remained after the apocalypse. Travis swore and punched the floor. “Damn it. I was hoping we could just re-route power through some of the other conduits.” Kyla tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t an engineer by any means. However, Travis and Kyla were close enough that he could effectively read her body language. “The conduits in and around the core are primary conduits. They can’t be routed around. We’re going to have to replace most of this.” Travis ran his fingers through his spiky black hair. Kyla caught a glimpse of his bleeding knuckles. Damn you’re an idiot Travis, but you’re my idiot. Kyla knew she had an almost child-like obses- sion with Travis. She wasn’t quite sure if he had caught on yet. Like her and most others in the scientific disciplines, Travis was oblivi- ous when it came to relationships. Once, Kyla had given herself a moment, and clad only in a tank top and shorts, she shared the last of her chocolate stash with Travis. They had been close enough to kiss, but Travis merely accepted the treat and went about his everyday affairs. “Kyla, think you can remove these control crystals while I get some of the spares I cannibalized from some of the systems?” Kyla nodded. She didn’t want to know what systems Travis had harvested the replacement crystals from. In her mind, everything was needed to keep the Ragnarok from killing them once the ship

44 Mangrove Review reached space. Already half of the repairs done to the ship were haphazardly jury-rigged, exposed wires dangling like nooses from the ceiling. “Great. I’ll be right back.” Kyla watched as Travis paused. He reached into his pocket and tossed Kyla her lighter with a smile. Almost instantly, she caught it and lit it. It still worked. “You’re welcome.” Kyla watched as Travis disappeared, having stolen the moment to admire his six foot frame and an ass that– damn it Kyla, focus. You have a job to do. Do this right and maybe, just maybe you can keep having more alone time with Travis where you can stare at that stupid face of his with that stupid hair and those stupid blue eyes. Beneath her gas mask, Kyla sighed. Maybe, he just doesn’t like me. I mean who would? Kyla shook her head. You know what, fuck him, I am just fine the way I am. For the first time in a while, Kyla smiled. If anything she was her own best friend, her flamethrower second, and Travis a close third. With a renewed sense of purpose, Kyla plucked each damaged crystal from its slot and deposited it into a nearby box. These days, almost everything was reusable. She slipped into a momentum and finished just as Travis appeared with another box. He smiled at Kyla before he slipped the box off of his right shoulder. He unstrapped his tablet computer from his back and the sound of ripping Velcro echoed through the large, cavernous expanse of main engineering. Travis was the only one aboard with engineering experience. He had been the chief engineer of the Ragnarok before the end of the world. Kyla knew he was determined to get the ship back into space instead of rotting away in drydock, where the Ragnarok was a cauterized wound against the burnt orange sky. Kyla removed her lighter from her pocket as Travis worked on replacing the crystals. She began to flick the lighter on and off, the small flame acting as both a relief from boredom and a safety blanket. It had been a gift for Kyla’s sixteenth birthday. Travis glanced at her as she played with her

Mangrove Review 45 lighter. He smiled before he waved for her to join him in a spot next to him. She crouched beside the engineer who had already completed half of the repairs required for the generator. “Instead of catching something on fire, why don’t I teach you about what I’m doing? Repairs would go a lot faster if I had an assistant.” Kyla nodded. Anything is better than just sitting there. It took two hours to replace everything. Kyla had picked up Travis’ instructions well enough to work on her own as he prepared to interface the generator with exposed conduit. Several large power cables snaked out of the generator and into the open power box. The crystals Kyla replaced glowed a soft white, showing that everything was as it should be. She dusted herself off as she moved towards Travis and the generator. He was smiling. He held his tablet computer in his hands. She strained for a view of the monitor. She was on her tip-toes. A diagnostic showed that everything was ready to be powered up for the first time in six years. Travis turned to Kyla and presented her with the computer. “Care to do the honors?” Kyla nodded. As she reached for the button, she grabbed Tra- vis’ hand, causing them to push it together. Travis’ smile grew as the resonant hum in the air became louder. However, such a suc- cess was short lived. The hum became discordant, a cacophony of metal grating metal in a way that was anything but good. The power conduit erupted with sparks. Travis grabbed Kyla by the waist and pulled her aside. It wasn’t enough, as a large blast caught Kyla from the side, throwing her across the room and into a bulk- head. She went limp upon impact before she slid down to the floor. “Monica, it’s Travis. Drop whatever you’re doing and get your ass to sickbay. I’m bringing you a patient.” Kyla’s eyes were half cracked open as Travis carried her in his arms. She could hear a faint voice in the background, one that didn’t belong to Travis. “What the hell is going on down there? What happened?”

46 Mangrove Review Kyla’s head wobbled for one last second before her reality went dark. When the darkness was penetrated by light, she found herself in sickbay, staring up at the ceiling. It was white, white like the sheets that Kyla found herself wrapped up in, white like the rest of sickbay which was one of the few things aboard the Ragnarok that had kept its undamaged state from before the war where everything know was gray, broken, and tattered in some way. Kyla sat up. Almost instantly, her hand went for the back of her head where a sudden sharp spike of pain erupted through her entire body, washing her entire body in a cold shiver. Travis emerged from the corner of the room. He pulled the sheets up higher and placed his glove that had become a hat for Kyla on the top of her head. She found that her combat and suit and tie were gone. Mon- ica’s doing probably. Kyla smiled as Travis tucked a stray strand of her blond hair behind her pierced ears. “You’re awake.” Kyla nodded. She regretted such a thing when her world went dizzy. “How are you feeling?” Kyla motioned her hand back and forth. “Okay is good. I’ll take an okay. I should probably get Monica.” Kyla’s eyebrows furrowed. She instantly latched onto Travis’ arm. “No?” Kyla shook her head. “Why not?” Kyla’s tongue swept over her lips. They were dry, as dry as Kyla’s mind. “Come on Kyla, let me go get Monica.” Kyla motioned her displeasure at such an idea. She didn’t want or need Monica. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re fine.” Kyla’s lips twitched. For the first time in a while, words were beginning to take shape on the tip of her tongue like a baby bird on

Mangrove Review 47 the edge of its nest, waiting to fly. Kyla turned and smiled at Travis knowingly. She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. Just stay with me.”

48 Mangrove Review Laura Severyn

Castle Island, South Boston

As usual, everything seemed to slow down as we Barely spoke and walked along the Coast of the Atlantic Ocean, with our heads Down and gazes distant. Every time it gets harder and you seem Farther from my aching fingertips that just want to Gather all of your pieces and bring you Home with me so that we no longer have to pretend that you and I are ourselves when we are separated by the Jagged edges of the nine states and Fifteen-hundred miles that are the unlikely Keys to the lock that is my home, my place, your Love that is there for me every single day when you call Me and we talk about the Non-important parts of our days that will One day be the most important details of our unlikely Pairing, our unlikely story. Quietly you take hold of my hand that has been yearning for your Rough palms that I can’t help but desire. Silently you kiss the back of my hand and without speaking you Tell me that everything’s okay, everything’s back in its Usual place and everything is ours. We Ventured along the grassy sidewalks, beside the old fort, past the Whispering lovers who share our secret, while airplanes from Logan fly above our thoughts and I want nothing more than to Xerox this moment on Castle Island, thirty minutes before You have to leave me at Terminal C for my Jet Blue flight, with Zero evidence of your kiss on my small, trembling hand.

Mangrove Review 49 Charles Lytle

Laundromat Love

I loved a girl but she only liked me back I gave her my heart & she returned it broken but my mother burned my bacon the lights went from green to yellow to red picked flowers wilted and died the news came on at 11 sharp & newspapers were there in the morning lap dogs barked for no good reason honest Abe was on every 5 I spent & on every penny I threw away the sun still set in the west bums still slept on the park benches the dryers kept spinning in the laundromat but my mother burned my bacon.

50 Mangrove Review Kate Dupre Blue for [re]Sale

color photograph, post-processed in Adobe Photoshop

Mangrove Review 51 Gregg Shumann My Dog’s Perspective

black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

52 Mangrove Review Gregg Shumann Gossip

black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

Mangrove Review 53 Wes Fitch Solace digital photograph

54 Mangrove Review Diego Fernandez Rusty Red Thing

Mangrove Review 55 Gregg Shumann Daytona Hitchhike

black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

56 Mangrove Review Gregg Shumann Witness Relocation

self-portrait, black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

Mangrove Review 57 Makeda Amadi Blood Orange

Hand-drawn in pencil. Colored in Photoshop.

58 Mangrove Review Wes Fitch Still Fresh

digital photograph

Mangrove Review 59 Wes Fitch Formation #2

digital photograph

60 Mangrove Review Julianna Javier Dream Ride

prisma color markers

Mangrove Review 61 Kate Dupre Poor Alice

digital art

62 Mangrove Review Jamie Gillhespy

The Loony Tree

When I could still respond, they asked me how it happened. “A dream,” I told them, my knees buckling beneath the weight, my feet firmly in place so that I ebbed like the sea behind the press’ podium that was covered with the white petals of my blooms. “I was on an Australian walkabout tour, attempting to sleep in the night’s oppressive heat, when the stars began to tumble down around me. They assembled themselves a kangaroo, well, a kangaroo with a celestial glow.” They nodded and scribbled furiously on miniscule pads. A kangaroo, she says. Alleges it was a “dream.” They write their laughter into quotes, but clustered around me, their laughs are submerged beneath vain disbelief, as they shake my floral snow from their heads, shoulders, and the tips of their upturned noses. “The glow remained even as I stroked its velvet fur,” I said. “I felt its teeny little marsupial arms around my waist, closing with a god-like force. Until the earth fell from beneath my feet, and then miniscule fingers worked on my yoga pants, sliding them down my legs as my bestial attacker looked up at me and gnashed his teeth.” All around me pens were frozen. I had felt the pleasure of infinity piercing into my mortal core. But, this I did not tell that illogical thousand with their cocked pens, slanted at the psychiatrist’s angle. When their time resumed, they, like all the others, would write away the truth, prescribe themselves a pill-form of dis-belief. And, still I would be standing here. Already my knees had stopped buckling. I could feel the creaking hardness of their solid mass, joints dissolving into knots and knobs. But, through the leafy green mist, I continued my story, hoping my words would reach the Glowing Masses, the ones who filled their pockets with stolen time and gentle masks of

Mangrove Review 63 men and beasts to suit their flaming lust, which popped, sizzled, and then boiled over into the bodies of well-intentioned maids. I was far from virginal. I didn’t tell them that either. But, the pain of foreign lust, “it burned between my legs. And then it forked. I felt a tickle on my spinal column, mirrored on the back- side of my jumbled entrails. A piano sensation cascaded up my vertebrae. The rapidly played scale reverberated against the wob- bling combs of my gelatin brain. The creature’s music exited my mouth in undesired moans of pleasure.” A woman in the crowd fingered her rosary. “And there I was, a huddled mass, alone in the orange-stained emptiness of the Australian outback, no longer comforted by the stars.” A thousand gleaming uvulas trembled slightly at their pos- sessors’ attempts to manipulate them into sound. Curving lips quivered with the naïve goal of wrapping themselves around that sound, the brain’s reverse approach to coherence, to making order out of words, to speaking truth into reality, into sight, into laws and logic. “And that’s how it happened.” In spite of myself, I shivered in the evening breeze, and suppressed the urge to lift myself toward the fading sun, to eat my fill of UV rays and clog my pores with chlorophyll. The copper sky must have signaled the rejoining of time with their collective consciousness, and what started as the dull throb- bing of newly awakened speech swelled into their next question. “I had the usual symptoms I guess. Some cramping the next day. I missed my next cycle. But, all the tests came back negative. I wasn’t ready for a child, so I rejoiced, called Antonio, my boy- friend at the time. ‘It’s not a baby,’ I nearly whispered. My voice had become raspy in the dehydrating fear of conception. “But still my stomach swelled. I didn’t tell him about my arms or why I’d purchased pruning shears. He wondered often at my beehive hairstyle and why I no longer let him trace the surgical scar that split my stomach into symmetry. He had liked to feel the

64 Mangrove Review life flow through me, the simple rhythm of oxygen cycles. “I guess that’s how it ended. With Tony and me. You asked how this began, but I was, still am in fact, more concerned with how it ended. What seemed so real, so warm, and full of life. The divine safety of fiery embers that sparked up on either side of his slanting, sloping, Nebrodi nose even after the celestial fires blazed mythic torture. Still, I felt secure in his moist and glowing imitations. “And then he asked if I switched perfumes. My trademark fruity scent and the sometimes-smell of lively, mineral seashore were replaced instead by the heavy, musky odor of floral blooms. But, we were on the Marriage Bridge in Eida’s garden when I con- fessed my discoveries. I had to. We were pushing through swarms of neon butterflies, their erect proboscises skimming my skin. “The other tourists just did not have this problem. “And, so we ended while leaning on vibrant cherry balustrades and intersecting beams waxing Christmas against the otherwise green landscape, monochromatic for its diversity of grasses, reeds, and low bushes. Even the river over which we looked wore a lily- pad coat so green it was nearly mythic. “In this complementary clash of epically vibrant colors, I rolled up my sleeves and showed him the sapling branches beginning to emerge.

Mangrove Review 65 Diego Fernandez

That Giant Hole in Guatemala City

The ‘new world,’ older than people, with jungles echoing the cries of forgotten gods and clouding as now nameless ghosts shake the dust shake the ash from their limbs to dance one last furious time.

The world falls in and these gods of ours are too young to understand.

The elements grow Titanic again, the gentle histories fade away, and Cronos here comes hungry on silent, clawed feet.

Ash is in the air, and earth rains, The sky has burned and the high temples, the before people’s pyramids

66 Mangrove Review are soon to follow. and the Earth will rise, us on its back to meet the blaze, rumbling its unaffected laugh above our attempts to remember our prayers.

The world is falling in, and the sun is walking away.

How fear comes.

Mangrove Review 67 Makeda Amadi

Levi’s® Ex-Girlfriend Jeans Style #91332 $69.50

There aren’t many features that men can flaunt like cleavage, they have to be selective What milkshake can they make to bring all the boys to the yard? The secret is super effective

More elastic than denim Embraces manly lumps More now than ever Swathed in jean, a perfect rump

Your calves will be highlighted Contours galore Regal and firm Like a mountain lion’s roar

The best bit yet to come: The bulge display You’re a man with a trouser mound So potent it turns Lesbians un-gay

Wear it for your woman Wear it for a gal Wear it for your buddy Share your goodies, be a pal

68 Mangrove Review Gregg Shumann Robert Franks’ Laundry

black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

Mangrove Review 69 Jamie Gillhespy

Boots Revisited

Lincoln Log heels crunch on asphalt as English lips push them back toward the painted-purple stalls and checkered floor of a ladies’ room dusted with traces of his eau de kitchen grease and the chemical taste of a habit he swore he’d never had.

Black velveteen and satin blends swirl her calves, holding on just below her knee caps, the excess of her thighs ending the boots’ slow and upward climb. The spotlight moon casts her as star of the parking-lot romance, a stand-in for his English Rose, abloom against an engorged moon.

***

Heads on tender shoulders wobble. More matter, with less art. The words escape the grinding teeth’s attempt to fit soggy, grocery nourishment between bites of editorial feedback.

See, there—‘English Rose,’ why is there a flower in illicit verse of backseat love and guilty winks of hotel signs, complicit in the wall’s blockade against harsh, judgmental

70 Mangrove Review mid-day glances?

That tapping sound you hear is just time’s stolen moments echoing against bony walls of a hollowed gourd. It’s not Maracas you hear, but the polluted English of the Imperial tongue’s prolonged exposure to fruited plains and waving amber grains.

***

In the darkness of a new moon, I too, could once tell matter from art, and art from artifice, black boots from an even blacker night. But, without the lunar filter and the moon man’s cynical snicker, the sun still feeds the sapling sprout of the dusty trail that rims his nostril and encircles every one of his lies, once alive, in a biological bed beside a river, tainted with rosemary waters of remembrance and the pansies of Ophelia’s final thoughts.

Mangrove Review 71 Nancy B. Loughlin

Cyber Dating

Algorithms are the E-rat’s maze to Lure them through the Introduction Phase and Ensure two strangers pay and click So each logs in as the impulsive cat Although both are convulsive mice Quickly matched and Equally enticed With seductive, cheesy profiles and Avatars so precise and sliced.

72 Mangrove Review Brad Basinger

Third Period

I was a member of the Boxcar Children book club, which meant my mom paid money to somebody and every month I got a new book in the mail. They came with this neat little box, shaped like a boxcar, which you put the books in. I had arranged mine in ascending order on my pine bookcase at home. My mom and I had matching bookcases. We got them from a guy down the street who made them himself. Hers was twice as big as mine; we had to wait for my older brother to come over to help us carry it through the door. She put hers in the living room and filled it with John Grisham novels and Clive Cussler mysteries. Mine was filled with Boxcar Children and my mom’s old Nancy Drew books. I liked to try and figure out the mystery by the end of the book, but Henry and the other Alden’s always seemed to beat me. My mother told me her books were the same. Sometimes on school Holidays or when I was sick I would watch T.V. with my Dad. He liked to watch Columbo and Murder She Wrote. By association, so did I. Once, we took a family trip to Universal Studios in Florida and went to the Murder She Wrote set. I was disappointed I didn’t get to meet Jessica Fletcher. She was the show’s crime solver and I had a few questions I wanted to ask her. However, I preferred Columbo. He was an average looking man who wore a rumpled trench coat, and always had a cigar in his mouth. At the end of the episode he’d ask a series of questions that could easily be answered, but just as the bad guy was about to walk away, Columbo would say, “Just one more thing” before asking the crime-solving question. The evildoer would stutter as he struggled to answer and Columbo would win. I became infatuated with the show. My father just warned me I shouldn’t smoke. I began taking notes on my environment. I wanted to have

Mangrove Review 73 my name on the front page of the paper. Local Boy Solves Crime. Shortly after I learned to ride my bike and was prescribed eye- glasses, I started keeping notes in my little notebook of the license plates that were on my street. 13 Southgate Avenue, Red Car, license plate number WJ22445, Guy driving black truck, license plate: MONSTAH (side-note out-of-state). I never did anything with these, but I had them just incase. Just when I was beginning to question my skill set, someone at our school decided to scribble a bomb threat on a bathroom stall. The whole building was evacuated and we had to walk to the primary school down the street. We all looked at each other trying to figure out who did it, we didn’t think it was real, but we were all scared. After the police searched the school we were allowed back to class. The next day the Principal held an assembly in the gym and she told us that someone had played a very serious joke and they were trying everything in their power to find out whom, the consequences would be severe, but if they came forward “like a man” then the punishment would be reduced. No one did. School was never the same again. We had to start bringing a hall pass to the bathroom and we had mandatory fire drills. As for me, I was busy profiling everyone in class. The principal had thought it was a boy, but I overheard Ashley tell Kristen that Eliz- abeth was the one that found the threat. Elizabeth can’t go into the boys’ bathroom. I made notes on absences and these types of things I heard around the school. I had my little notebook filled with notes and narrowed it down to two people. My suspects. There was Ben Fletcher, the kid who used to play his Gameboy, right in the middle of class. I had heard it was a girl, but I had to have a boy suspect incase, besides, anyone that has the guts to play Mario behind his science book was noteworthy. Then there was Francesca Lerner. She always made honor roll but her older brother, that was two grades above us, was always in trouble. Plus she was in my Math, Science and English class and was always getting up to go to the bathroom.

74 Mangrove Review One day we were all in Mrs. Reed’s Math class taking a test when Francesca Lerner got up to go to the bathroom. She was number one on my list. Mrs. Reed looked up from her desk to ensure she grabbed the hall pass, overlooking the bag she had stealthily slung over her shoulder. “Ahem, Francesca,” I said as I calculated my next move. The class turned to look at me and then back at her. “Where are you going?” “To the bathroom,” was her innocent reply. “Mr. Forrester, we don’t need to ask about her business. Class, get back to your tests please,” Mrs. Reed called out. I could hear a few kids chuckle as the attention was turned to me and then back to the test. I glanced down at my test and bit gently on my pencil and then looked back to Francesca as she made her way to the door. “Francesca,” I said as I waved my pencil at her, “Just one more thing. If you’re going to the bathroom, than why do you need that?” I said as I pointed to her bag. All of my hard work was about to pay off. Her face got real red as she stuttered and attempted to answer. I couldn’t contain myself. “It was you who did it! You wrote in the bathroom stall, you’re hiding pens and markers in there and think you can slip off into bathroom without anyone noticing!” “Mr. Forrester, that is enough,” Mrs. Reed called out as the class turned their attention back to me. Francesca ran out of the room crying as Mrs. Reed made her way over to my desk. “To the principal’s office, now,” she whispered in my ear. I had never been to the principal’s office before. I was told to sit quietly outside her office and after what felt like hours she called me inside. The bell rang and Mrs. Reed was with her. “Sit down,” Principal Sanders said. “Jacob, do you know why you are here?” “Because I figured it out. She, Francesca, goes to the bathroom

Mangrove Review 75 about five times a day. See… ” I grabbed my notebook from my pocket and flipped through it until I got to the notes on Francesca. “Wednesday she went to the bathroom at least four times. I’m in three of her classes. She went once in every class, twice in Mr. Petit’s because she spilled paint on herself. And then today, she already went once in Mrs. Shield’s class and here she is again.” She started to look at me confused. So I got to the point. “Ok. Look ever since Wednesday, see, you can see by these dots that she started to bring her bag to the bathroom.” I pushed my notebook closer to her so she could see. “I’m willing to bet she thought enough time has passed and was planning to strike again but someone else was in the bathroom with her. I had to say something.” The principal looked at me and shook her head gently. She started to say something, but paused to collect her thoughts. “Francesca was taking her bag to the bathroom, well, because you see when a girl becomes a woman…” I can’t bring myself to repeat the rest but the next few sentences changed my life. After she had explained everything, she called Francesca into the office and told me to apologize. “Umm, ahh, I’m really sorry Francesca, I didn’t know,” I said as I looked down at my shoes. I was sorry for embarrassing her and I was sorry that I was wrong about her scribbling. But what I was most sorry for was the awkward car ride home when my mom had to come and get me. For the first time in my life she didn’t have to ask me what I learned in school that day, I just stared at my feet and tried to ig- nore the purse that she had set down on my side of the floor.

76 Mangrove Review Lori Cornelius

Terminal Restlessness

Terminal restlessness and delirium present a challenge for the interdisciplinary team. Moreover, it presents the family with distress and despair. (from Chapter 10 “Stepping into Palliative Care” by Jo Cooper)

For five hours straight you’ve flexed your left arm and raised it, trying to rise from this bed. Where do you want to go, Mama? You circle my hand with yours, up, over to the right, and pull; then across your chest and down.

The Hospice intervention team calls it Terminal Restlessness, an indication that things are wrapping up. What these nurses don’t know about you and terminal restlessness would fill twenty Greyhound bus stations.

You’ve suffered from restlessness for as long as anyone’s memory, never content to light in one place long enough for the dust to settle around your still-packed bags.

When you broke up housekeeping, nearly 30 years ago, you doled out your possessions—furniture, pictures, appliances—and announced you were taking your show on the road. You sang the whole way out of town.

But that wasn’t the beginning of your restlessness, was it? You always had a special spot for gypsies and hobos, the way they slipped unnoticed into our little river town mesmerizing the residents with the illusion of independence

Mangrove Review 77 while marking the gateposts with a fire-charred stick.

For you, happiness was never any further than a jump behind the wheel of whatever ancient truck was parked in the driveway, Charley Pride belting from the 8-track player, and your sweet voice finding a harmony always slightly out of my pitch.

The open road—it’s right there in front of us again, Mama. Jump in; I’ll drive. And you? Just sing.

78 Mangrove Review Jim Gustafson

A Toast to Dad My father was An 80 Proof Professor He drank His history Showing me how Along the way After awhile I was as good If not better Than my teacher Everything He taught me Remains A Blur

Mangrove Review 79 Gregg Shumann American Men black-and-white photography, taken with vintage Mamiya camera and developed in darkroom by the artist

80 Mangrove Review Dobie Pasco

Tribute

Very early one morning I walked my father’s ashes out The long narrow fishing pier At Bayshore Park

I was grateful There was no one else on the pier

But there were white snowy egrets Lining both sides of the rail

You could count on fewer than Two hands The people who attended his funeral

He deserved more than that

I had placed an uncirculated Mercury dime And a rookie Michael Jordan card In his pocket Before the cremation

As we walked Between the snowy soldiers

I said, Dad, These are all your friends Come to your funeral

Mangrove Review 81 At the end of the pier I opened The bakelite box

The ashes were lighter And whiter Than I expected

Much like the ashes He had shoveled many times before From the old coal furnace In our basement back home

The ashes floated In a white dusty cloud To the surface Of the water

All the time we lived In Florida I had never seen my father put More than a hand or a foot In the water

But he loved the water Stood watching the waves

Pointing out over the Gulf He asked What’s over there?

When I answered Mexico, probably

82 Mangrove Review He said, in wondering awe, This water reaches All the way to Mexico And maybe even to China

Now, Dad, you are free To travel Anywhere you want In the world

Or, out of it, For that matter

Mangrove Review 83 Diego Fernandez

Iris Blooming

(For ma Chérie)

When Anna opened her eyes, which had closed in visionary focus at the climax of her story, shut against the mundane sur- rounding of band posters and fluffy bright things, she saw that her daughter, Iris’ eyes were closed, that her chest, which was just beginning to raise the bed sheets with the tender beginnings of a bosom was itself rising and falling to a slow rhythm. Anna imagined it timed to an easy jazz tune about hearts that didn’t break. How long will that number last? She wondered. Iris would soon stop requesting bedtime stories, would soon start asking to go out late, with boys, or girls, she added in her mind, noting the major- ity of female lead singers at the forefront of the posters. One can only hope! She smiled; maybe girls would cause less ice cream and old movie cry fests, which she remembered so well from her own youth. One she remembered particularly well. He had not been her “first,” but he had introduced her to indulgence in wild passion. A thing the voices of a repressive religious childhood had been struggling against ever since. She had felt cheap after such indulgence, but living – really living in every bone, every inch of skin and quivering muscle and tap dancing heart would have been worth confessing to the pope himself. A psychologist would have called him a walking id, but psy- chologists were idiots and made up words, like id. He hadn’t been the kind, like so many, whose parents had never introduced to the theory of “no,” but he sure wasn’t afraid to ask for what he wanted, wherever they might have been. A parking lot full of strange cars, a foosball table that had left little armless, man-shaped bruises on her back, even a couch, where they’d pretended to be sleeping

84 Mangrove Review when his family had walked in. Details such as location did not matter, so long as there was a relatively flat surface around. He’d changed so much for her that she’d begun to think of herself as a new Anna, completely of his invention. Iris stirred fretfully, and Anna kissed her forehead, whispering, “we’ll finish this tomorrow night.” She rose from her chair and lifted it back to Iris’ desk, where lay a pile of schoolbooks, her laptop and her journal. The last was open to an old poem. Iris wrote the most incredible poetry, but only ever about her dreams, which were probably so vivid as a result of Anna’s stories, which were quite animated themselves. Anna bent down close, to read the poem in the faint light of the open window.

Turn Says a craven voice, and face the weird, the haunted.

She closes her eyes, but the tremulous tears creep through, like rats under a door.

Open your eyes and address the Monsters that inhabit this rabbit hole. This world has a perverse nature, And horrible, deep flaws, like cavernous cracks in a blood-blue sky.

Her dreams used to be so light and pretty, a sweet series of disorder, but the arsenic fabric tide

Mangrove Review 85 of waking hours has clung to her; Oil on soft down.

She’s kept her nose above the black, crawling deluge, but so changed not even her father would know her name.

Fill your lungs with Ink. Feed (y)our addiction, You only remain What we have Let you become.

Anna shuddered. She remembered this poem, this dream. Iris had been horribly sick with a high fever that had caused Iris to have delirious nightmares, and Anna to cry from helplessness, watching her daughter toss and turn in a sleep so deep she couldn’t be shaken awake. Iris had finally woken to find her mother, half asleep herself, with deep scars in her cheeks – eroded canyons from fast running rivers of tear and eyeliner, and so had named the poem “Anna’s Tears.” This poem, though, was almost a year old, why was the journal open to this page? Iris usually kept it open to the next blank page, rushing over to write while her dream was fresh and unsullied by plain reality. Anna flipped the curiosity away, opening the journal to a fresh page, blank even of lines, which her daughter never wrote between anyway. As she grinned at its future, she noticed one school book in particular. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelly. The cover was of a man, or rather a silhouette, standing over a body on a table, arms just lifting.

86 Mangrove Review For some reason Sylvia Plath’s lines “Daddy, Daddy, you bas- tard, I’m through!” flashed into Anna’s mind. “I must be dreaming already.” She murmured. “Sleep.” She added decisively, marching herself from Iris’ room to her own. To be sure of the matter, she took a pair of her newest sleeping pills, hoping that these, at last, would work.

***

No one who remembers a dream has had just one over the course of the night. The average is twenty. Tonight, Anna’s twenty were a series of disordered harshness, rusted, random links of violence. She dreamed of him, and with every cold laugh, every stabbing stare, her bones would shift against her skin, shifting and traveling – scapula in her legs, fe- murs stretching her face, until they formed – until she became the most grotesque of cages, and he became a mirror and her poor, poor heart was trapped, held fast by spear like finger bones and wearing a sharp crown of broken teeth somewhere at the center, staring at its own misery in his face. -Tossed into the oceans deepest abyss, surrounded by mali- cious feline eyes, and the walls were shaking – the water was shaking – boiling. And she knew that though she could breathe here, she would surely die. And Iris called and the water turned to sand. Anna swam to the surface and the dunes were tossing about and crashing against each other like a hurricane against a mountain in a war that began during the world’s first hour…

***

Anna’s eyes snapped open to find herself veiled in dense early morning darkness, and a cool suit of sweat. She felt sick, not of the stomach or head, but as if the very blood in her veins had grown

Mangrove Review 87 thick and stagnant, like melancholic marsh. She’d woken with a single thought – that of Iris’ father. Perhaps it was a random connection made by her drug ridden brain, but the last stanza of her daughter’s poem had sudden significance, as did her “senseless” flash to Plath’s poem, written to a father she barely knew. Iris had never asked, not even as a child. But Anna knew that, at the age she was approaching, the questions would arise. She probably still wouldn’t ask, but she would want to. Anna, unfortunately, did not have some long, incredibly ro- mantic story to tell by way of explanation. She didn’t even have a short, boring, easily understandable one like “he went for ciga- rettes and never came back.” S he’d had a very difficult end to that painful relationship that had lasted through most of high school. He’d become violently possessive after their graduation, and when she’d finally escaped, she was left feeling broken – incomplete. That summer had been one of reflection, of discovering who she was, and then tearing that person down, so that she could begin to construct the person she wanted to be. It was a summer of empty smiles, broken mir- rors, and a roller coaster of conviction and doubt. By winter, she’d ended up in a relationship, just to prove she could still feel, with a guy who, in retrospect, was not unlike her ex, except that this new one didn’t hit her. A couple of months into the relationship, they’d been drunk and condomless, and horny. He was able to talk her into a compromise: heads they have sex, tails they don’t. It landed on heads, and the sex was great, and she’d gotten pregnant. She’d been too scared to tell him, and he’d ended up moving away, frustrated at her sudden withdrawal, and without knowing he had a daughter on the way. Anna, who’d refused to grow up for eighteen years, had done so during those nine months. She’d become Single Super Mom, moved out of her parents’ place just a year after Iris was born, and earned her Bachelor’s degree just two years after that, taking

88 Mangrove Review classes online at night, while working during the day. It was during that time she’d developed the insomnia that resulted in the constant readiness of sleeping pills in her home, which had thus far proven incurable. During her pregnancy, she’d abandoned construction on who she had (and still did) wanted to be – a woman whole, independent of fate or destiny. Independent of what the world or those in it demanded her to be, who had fears, sure, but fears that did not include being alone, in any sense of the word. Yes, she’d abandoned this simple ambition, because now she could not be totally independent, because there was a life that depended on her. She’d support this new life – and her own – without reliance on anyone else though, and that would be enough. So to save a life, two maybe, she’d taken one. She’d killed the girl who was still forming, but already breathing, who she had been that summer. All that was left of her was a picture her friend had taken one day on the docks, during perhaps her strongest day of confidence, only a week before she’d met Iris’ father. She rose now, stumbling a bit from the sleep aid still in her system, and walked to the framed photograph of her and Iris at that same dock. She picked it up and opened the frame, and out fell both pictures. One of Anna and Iris, smiling ear to ear over a frog they’d found and dubbed Cermit “with a ‘C,’” hair dripping wet, and one of a ten years younger girl, who was definitely not this same Anna. That day – the day of the photograph, she’d snuck away from her parent’s home. Rather, she’d escaped, since there was little sneakiness in running out, slamming the door at two AM, sprint- ing down the half mile of gravel and jumping into the moving bed of her best friend’s pickup. There had been no fight with her parents, just a late energy drink. They’d driven to city hall, because it was the closest place with sidewalks they could chalk on. They’d thrown water balloons in the mall parking lot, snuck into a strip club called “Sailor’s Paradise,” and gotten lap dances from disappointingly unexotic

Mangrove Review 89 strippers, and, about five AM, had found themselves on the dock at the park. Emily, the friend, had been worried about muggers. Anna was waiting for the brilliant colors of sunrise. “When dreams are caught in the light,” her grandmother used to say. That girl, that Anna had been beautiful – inspiring, caught in that light. They’d snapped a few goofy shots, and then Emily had captured her forever on film. Proof that she, this Other Anna, had lived. In that single photo, she was lying sideways, one arm curled under her head, the other lying naturally on the wind worn wood. A necklace hung, with whatever pendant it had held hidden behind that hand. Her hair lay casually in the windless day, and the sun kissed her glowing, full neckline, underneath which one could almost see the strength of ever heartbeat. The blue of her eyes shone with a promise of great things soon to come, and the corners of her contentedly unkissed lips were standing in a smile that cared not if the world saw it or no, for it existed only to take pleasure in existing. Anna stared at this girl, dreaming of the kind of woman she could have been. She felt quickly ashamed of wishing for a life without Iris, and looked instead at the eyes and smiles of their picture. Anna and Iris. Mother and daughter. Best friends, co-reliant and all the happier for it. Anna couldn’t help the smile that came to her, as dorky and broad as in the photo of the girls and the Cermit. She replaced it, taking the older one to her bed stand, smiling all the way. She set it down on her bedside table, climbing into bed and turning down the lamp. As the darkness fell over her like a warm blanket, her eyes closed against the darkness, letting dreams of Iris, who became more like her mother each day, seep in beneath the cracks in her eyelids and into the matter of her sleeping soul. Sometimes, she would awake to the morning sun, her daughter would appear, and in that moment Anna would know that in her eyes is all the possibility of the dark night horizon she once watched come alive in slow colors of newborn light.

90 Mangrove Review Jim Gustafson

Doris Holbrook

After Cherrylog Road by James Dickey

Doris Holbrook never knew she was famous and not just for being easy. When she gave in to him, in the junkyard, she moved the axis of the planet. Though slight, at great magnitudes the smallest ad- justment can change the tides. Think of the difference a decimal point makes when misplaced. It can send computers into lock- down. Doris may not remember that day as different from the rest. He, the laureate, the Emeritus, the master of his craft, the motorcycle rider, never forgot. The details live forever clipped to a wire with clothespins. They hang dripping in the deep darkroom of the muddy red Georgia hills, where Doris and he came together in that junkyard. They didn’t mix words; got right down to business. He came to conquer, to let his dog run wild. She came to get even with the confederacy of ghosts and their relentless tango in her head. While in their brutal battle, she lay still, numbly staring up at a single cloud through a small hole in the rusty roof of the Pierce-Arrow. He, meanwhile, drove himself, full throttle, swerving through traffic like a rookie getaway driver. Then, in the awkward end, that moment when anything said is wrong, they slipped away in separate directions. He going east to where the promise of each day lives. She west, where the only promise is the dark aftershock of regret.

Mangrove Review 91 Jamie Gillhespy

The Reflections of Oscar Wilde

(After Narcissus and Echo by Fred Chappell)

A single dark deed did halve Have the portrait out of which oozed the rot I not of a decadent soul hidden beneath the hood. stood When the painted covenant I did trace, face I felt tremors of the deal I barely knew to I had made. There was but one chance at grace, face foretold in that old, mimetic myth. with

I knew it was but my duty beauty, to pierce through the canvas mirror and into his that is soul, to free the tortured frame, made rough enough in my place, to become what I abhor, for so that the eternal sun one may shine upon those still, unblemished hands man’s that can even survive my knife. life*

* Quoted from Duchess of Padua

92 Mangrove Review Diego Fernandez

Teeth

I think, engulfed in dark, cracked-tattooed and alone as any sun at night.

I recall, for reprieve, your unintentioned smile, a familiar drop of light.

you, beautiful and light as man’s first sunrise, over the long snowed earth.

I remember, I close my eyes against the night and I taste again the coy colors of your eyes, hidden behind crystalline cascades of song-yellow hair, shorter than it must be, now - - long enough, you thought, to hide your roseing cheeks, the unapologetic furrow of your tulerie lips, smiling over the warm snowed hills where I would bury my own

Mangrove Review 93 blushing lips to feel your heart so close.

I remember ,frozen now to this world that has you so far away, when forgetfulness licensed us a moment free, when I forgot not to, when you let me get so close I could count the scents on your hair. I kissed that tender frosted cheek, so briefly I can’t remember what taste or tingle lingered on my lips, but still I live, still myself, when you held my scruffed and shadowed skin against your own kiss, and you cooed to me, quiet as talking to a morning dove, said you should go, slipped your hands from my back, and flew to light some other land of lives.

94 Mangrove Review Dobie Pasco

National Memorial

She was sick in the car All the way to the cemetery But she had promised to visit

It had been more than a year So Memorial Day seemed right

The stones are well kept And orderly But so many Hill upon hill

They call it Bushnell But there is no town Only a farmhouse where A widow sells Flowers and flags

They did look good Beside his stone Bouquet on the left, flag on the right Making his end of the row Marker Stand Out

Just down the narrow road Is the state prison camp Busy this day With visitors

Mangrove Review 95 When the crowds are gone And all the flags down

There will be The darkness of a starless night A slight scent of honeysuckle In the air

And the dead silence Of spirits rising

96 Mangrove Review Wes Fitch For Sale

35mm black and white, digital scan

Mangrove Review 97 Andrew Gari

The Tides of War

Intro This is an excerpt from the graphic series I have been working on called Exiled Abyss: The Coming of Ragnarok, from the chapter “The Tides of War.” In this section of the story the protagonist, Scai Rayburd (Page 1, Panel 2 Left) has been framed and made a war criminal by his superior officer, General Hikura, to cause a World War between the three major civilizations: Hintara (Where Scai is from), Nara- thu, and Lohengrin. Being branded a criminal, Scai has been ban- ished and made an enemy of Lohengrin by the crowned Prince, Giovanni vi Lohengrin (Page 1, Panel 1 Center), once a close friend, for conspiracy of espionage against he and his older sister, Monica vi Lohengrin (Page 1, Panel 2 Right). Monica believes Scai over the news through her long friendship with him, and plans to stop the war in case Hikura is planning something. Giovanni, despite his friendship and admiration for him as a soldier, is convinced that Scai is trying to corrupt his sister into helping him and is forcing her to fight his battles through some form of mind control. Monica has asked Scai and his comrade-in-arms, Gayle Bishop (Page 1, Panel 4 Left) to stop a Narathian Naval siege on a (quickly losing) Hintaran Fort before the Lohengrian Cavalry arrives. The group stops to devise a strategy to get through the warzone and negotiate with the Narathian Commander, but they are interrupt- ed by Giovanni and his escort of guards.

98 Mangrove Review Mangrove Review 99 100 Mangrove Review Mangrove Review 101 102 Mangrove Review Outro Gayle puts on a ruse to threaten Monica’s life, but in the confu- sion she manages to pull Monica away, leaving Scai to fight the guards, and proceed toward the Narathian encampment.

Mangrove Review 103 Jim Gustafson

Just A Couple of Questions

It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education. Albert Einstein

Did scales fall from Paul’s eyes on Damascus Road? Or could it be he had allergies And itchy eyes from springtime’s blooming trees?

Did the wedding wine served up by Jesus At Cana’s Elk’s club hall come from water Or did Peter go to the liquor store?

Did the bread and fish that fed the masses Really multiply from just five and two Or did Pete stop at McDonald’s drive-thru?

Did God give Moses all ten commandments When he rode a ski-lift up Mt Sinai Or did he just say “Let’s give these a try?”

104 Mangrove Review MR

Mangrove Feature Awards Faculty judges for the Feature Awards determine the most accomplished works produced by current FGCU students that appear in Mangrove Review.

This year’s winners are: Kate Dupre, for her art Diego Fernandez, for his prose Makeda Amadi, for her poetry

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Mangrove Review is the student-edited literary and arts magazine for Florida Gulf Coast University, showcasing the work of FGCU students, faculty, staff, administrators, alumni, and members of the community. The views and opinions expressed inMangrove Review are solely those of the individual authors and in no way represent those of the editors and staff ofMangrove Review, employees of Florida Gulf Coast University, or the University Board of Trustees.

Mangrove Review gratefully acknowledges support from the Student Government of Florida Gulf Coast University and the College of Arts and Sciences.

If there are no mangroves, then the sea will have no meaning. It is like having a tree without roots, for the mangroves are the roots of the sea... — words of a Thai fisherman

Mangrove Review takes its name from the mangrove tree. Of the over 50 species of mangroves worldwide, Florida’s three native species — black, white, and red — form the habitat necessary to preserve the life cycle of the estuaries that line the length of the Florida peninsula. Without them, Florida would quite possibly be nothing more than a mere nub off the coast of Georgia.

Contributor notes

Makeda Amadi is a senior at Florida Gulf Coast University. She is a Communication major with minors in English, Creative Writ- ing and Advertising. Currently, she is the president of the university’s Creative Writing Club. If she wasn’t writing she’d still be writing.

Ginger Cyan Allen is a student at FGCU, doing something important (she thinks). In her spare time (a concept she is starting to forget exists) she acts in Shakespeare productions and does anything theatre related she can. She also likes science and photography…. and coffee, lots of coffee. She keeps a poetry notebook named Traipse and writes with a fountain pen because it looks cool and feels like something a writer should do.

Brad Basinger is a Junior at FGCU, originally from Biddeford, Maine. This is his first time being published.

Lori Cornelius teaches in the English Department at FGCU. She learns as much from her students as they claim they do from her. The rest of her inspiration comes from her husband, her children, and the dogs: Texas Pete and the entire Marshmallow Gang. She thinks every writer in the solar system, maybe the universe, should go to the Sanibel Island Writers Conference.

Kate Dupre is a junior Art major at FGCU. The visual arts are Kate’s emphasis, especially graphic design, photography and painting. Kate finds bliss in the simple things in life. She enjoys being outdoors, making crafts, riding her bike everywhere, and caring for her pet mouse Lychee. Kate aspires to have her own vegetable garden and to serve the Lord all the days of her life.

Diego Fernandez writes simply for the love of words. He is inspired by writers like Nabokov, Neruda and Ondaatje, and his ambition is to write a book that will be banned in every Catholic school in America.

Wes Fitch grew up in the keys. There the interaction of nature and humans was evident. This relationship shaped his view on the world. He received his Associates Degree from Miami Dade Col- lege. He is working on his bachelors degree and plans on becom- ing a curator.

Andrew Gari is a 21-year-old Software Engineering major in his third year, and he spends most of his time on the computer like any college student. He says, “I game, I draw, I write; the long and short of it is, I’m a nerd and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He’s been drawing cartoons since the fifth grade, and writing since the fourth. He’s currently working on two graphic series, the more notable of the two is an epic called Exiled Abyss, where he and his co-writer (Kennith Kavanagh) write the story in parallel. He writes the story as a series of graphic novels, and Kavanagh as a series of traditional novels.

Jamie Gillhespy is an English major at FGCU. She is almost finished with her first year of the graduate program, and is looking forward to her second. She loves black boots, owl jewelry, cookie- dough ice cream, and marsupials, but not in that order. If she could have dinner with any three people dead or alive, she would chow down on cheese blintzes with Oscar Wilde, C.S. Lewis, and Taylor Hanson (of the band who sings “MmmBop”).

Jim Gustafson graduated from Florida Southern College and received his master degree from Garrett Theological Seminary at Northwestern University, in his hometown of Evanston, Illinois. He lives in Fort Myers, Florida where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds. His poems have most recently appeared in Symmetry Peb- bles, and Hektoen International Journal, 10X10, Barefoot Revie. www.jimgustafson.com

Robert Higginbotham was born in Fort Myers, Florida, on January 25, 1991. He is currently a graduating senior with a B.A. in English with a creative writing minor. He has been writing for as long as he can remember and always in the science fiction genre. This is his first publication with the hope that many more can follow.

Julianna Javier is from Naples, Florida. This is her second year here at FGCU, seeking a degree in Art. Art has been her passion since she was a toddler. Her family originally comes from the Do- minican Republic so she has a Caribbean background. She has lived on the coasts of Florida for almost her whole life. Being surrounded by water has made the Ocean her main inspiration. She loves painting and drawing ocean scenes and marine life. She is a vegetarian, so she greatly appreciates and is also very inspired by wildlife. Her favorite mediums to draw and paint with are pens, markers, and acrylic paint. She likes to paint and draw anything from illustrations, to realistic images, or abstract images. She makes art to reveal the beauty in natural forms, and to free her mind.

Nancy B. Loughlin is a Florida Language Arts teacher and a 2010 Golden Apple recipient. She is currently Language Arts De- partment Chair at Island Coast High School. Prior to her teach- ing career, she was an award-winning journalist in northern New Jersey specializing in affordable housing, zoning, and education. She is a certified yoga teacher and marathon runner.

Charles Lytle was born in New York City in the late 80’s. Raised in Clearwater, Florida, he attended FGCU on an athletic scholar- ship and is currently pursuing a professional basketball career.

Dobie (Leonard) Pasco. He has always written as Dobie. Born in Sharpsville, PA. BA, Michigan State U, MS Univ. of Tennes- see, Air Force veteran. Early poems in Red Cedar Review, Works, other “littles.” Recently began writing again after a long period of not writing.