Editors' Foreword
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EDITORS’ FOREWORD Many thanks for picking up Euphony’s Spring 2016 issue! It has been slightly too long in the making—much like the Spring season itself. Now that we are officially out of Winter (officially, but perhaps not experientially...) we encourage you to cuddle with Euphony and whatever kind of beverage suits your fancy; to ensconce yourself once again on a Quad bench, in a café, or in the illustrious Reg (we suppose you found this issue at some such place); and to devour all that we have to offer. In this issue, you will find the customary poetry and prose. We have grief and strange surprises, reminiscing and revolution, rococo-esque representation and an obsession with feet-cleaning fish. Fire, flea markets, homages, porn… but we digress. We promise not to reveal all our goodies. It’s Spring, after all. The medievals called it the season which “pricks” everyone into lust (or love, if you’re an optimist). Let’s hope this issue will be the object of your affection. Check us out on Twitter [@euphonyjournal] for our regularly- scheduled quips and the semi-serious #euphonysuggests. See our newly-redesigned website [euphonyjournal.org] for content that is not featured in our print issues. As always, you can contact us at [email protected] for any ol’ thing. —The Editors EUPHONY VOLUME 16, NUMBER 2 SPRING 2016 Euphony is a non-profit literary journal produced biannually at the University of Chicago. We are dedicated to publishing the finest work by writers and artists both accomplished and aspiring. We publish a variety of works including poetry, fiction, drama, essays, criticism, and translations. Visit our website, www.euphonyjournal.org, for more information. Founded Spring 2000 by Stephen Barbara and Matthew Deming euphonyjournal.org Euphony is a registered member of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses www.clmp.org Copyright © 2016 Euphony Copyrights revert to authors upon publication. STAFF MANAGING EDITOR Sarah Tarabey POETRY EDITOR Rosemarie Ho FICTION EDITOR Cynthia Zhang STAFF Kayla Boling Char Daston Kevin Gislason Erin Hart Adom Hartell Julia Friedland Meera Joshi Adrian Trust Mallory VanMeeter Miles White Amanda Wiesler DESIGN Ashley Tran COVER Stefano Cagnato 4 CONTENTS CLIP OF TIME (EXCERPT) — POETRY 9 Neele Dellschaft FIRE BALL — FICTION 10 Andra Emilia Fenton SHOPPER'S GUIDE TO THE VILNIUS FLEA MARKET — POETRY 13 Doris Ferleger THE MISSIONARY'S WIFE — FICTION 14 Sam Grieve A POEM I NEVER WROTE — POETRY 24 Zachary M. Hodson CIVIC PRIDE — FICTION 25 Rich Ives CONSTRUCTION — FICTION 26 Rich Ives THE NOKKEN — FICTION 27 Sean McCarthy IN AND AROUND OWL SKULL, 2014 — FICTION 42 Tanner McSwain SNOW IS FALLING — FICTION 55 Elizabeth Morris M. HULOT AND THE CANARY — POETRY 58 JAMES NORCLIFFE ASK. IF YOU'RE UNSURE, — POETRY 59 Ed O'Casey CRUELTY — FICTION 60 Adam Reger 5 HAPPY ACCIDENTS — FICTION 69 Alex Reynolds VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF BLACK — POETRY 79 Eva-Maria Sher DOCTOR FISH — FICTION 80 Keith Stahl INSIDE A SALEM PARLOR — POETRY 92 Jake Tringali CONTRIBUTORS 94 SUBMISSION GUIDELINES 98 DONATIONS AND ADVERTISING 99 6 NEELE DELLSCHAFT CLIP OF TIME (EXCERPT) 28 my mother’s dresses, her clothes I remember and in pictures but without the known scent; I cut the flowered cotton and she regrets giving it to me, worn so long; I fleetry to give it back in other form, her to enjoy this new sewn. 29 blue skies and the windparade—going over seacove, fields, the sun blanketed with speedy clouds; winds you can’t see because all they move is too small to see from here; or winds that move everything about you, pressing your lungs and quickly drying your teeth. 30 The grieflow for so many years of decline, sometimes I fear the world will leave; like this, diseases here and there that are cut and mended but down it goes; the final state of the brain, NEELE DELLSCHAFT blood out of his nostrils as he dies, dissolved. 9 ANDRA EMILIA FENTON FIRE BALL I’m not sure if I’ll miss my mark. Papi always said this is how he wanted to go, but I’ve never shot an arrow before. Mariana and Iker shot three arrows at the water and they went out with a tssssssss. But in the end, they each got one arrow in. When the first arrow hit, the boat lit up like a ball of fire. “Hi Papi.” He froze. I didn’t look at the can filled with special gasoline. I didn’t look at the puddles around us. He smiled because he was surprised to see me. I smiled too. He put the gas can down. My socks were getting wet. I stood on my tiptoes, but when I realized I had, I set my heels back down. “Come here, mi amor,” he said. And I did and I didn’t take my socks off even though they were cold because then he’d know he’d done something bad. And then he’d feel bad for a second that only I would know about and then he’d try to forget the feeling by becoming twice as bad and he’d light the match. So I just looked up at him and for a minute we were not standing on the gray tiled floors. We were not in the apartment with the brass nautical mirrors. We were nowhere near the white kitchen with the black fly-wing granite countertops he’d been so proud of. Nor were we under the ceiling he’d made higher so we could have more light. We were not in any place he had built, so we were not in any place I’d ever lived before. We were in an empty space. And it was the best place to be then because without the things he’d made there was nothing for him to burn but me. And I smiled to make it harder for him to do so. But we were not alone and Mami was screaming about the match. “Don’t you dare light that match!” And she said his name. And soon I was back in the apartment. And he was back, too. I knew because he was slowly seeing that the walls behind me were covered with the oil paintings of colorful Oaxacan women and men in dark rooms that he knew so well. And he turned his head to find the city lights shining on his back through the living room windows as they always had. And the closed doors of Mariana’s and Iker’s rooms. And he must have seen to my left the sculpture of the seashell carved out of a giant piece of obsidian. And to my right a pane of frosted glass covering the polished antique car motor and on top of that table the set of crystal FENTON EMILIA ANDRA blue ashtrays. Mami said his name again and this time it reminded him of what he had become. And his eyes opened all the way to see everything that 10 had come from his hands and he looked at them and they were rough like a builder’s. And he pressed the match head against the brown track and made a little flame. And Mami began to cry but I didn’t make a sound because I was scared to further wake the man of fire. But I smiled with my black eyes of water as if to say “it’s ok” and he put his left hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a red and white pack and lit a cigarette with the match. I ice-skated around him trying to absorb as much gasoline with my socks as I could and he found my movements amusing so I added ballet arms and we laughed together. And I picked up one of the blue ashtrays and gave it to him and he said “thank you” and tapped his cigarette against the edge. And then Mami said something. And his eyes became big again and he threw the ashtray with the cigarette inside it against the white concrete wall and it shattered into blue shards. I picked up the cigarette, which was near the shiny part of the floor but not on it and said. “No pasa nada, Papi.” But he turned all the ashtrays into blue dust smash smash smash. And the sculpture into black pieces of the sea and ran his nails through the colorful paint. And I swept where it was dry and picked up with grey rags where the floor was wet with gasoline. But the wet went down the hallway and there was too much of it. He lit one cigarette after another and at some point I lost track of where they all were. There was one cigarette that stayed with him though, the one dangling from the side of his mouth. It moved up and down held only by his lower lip as he spoke in words that were forbidden. But then again, I should have known he could do such things. And then the cigarette finally went out and when he tried to light another he opened the matchbook and it was empty. He stopped and there was no fire. And I went to my bedroom to sleep and called back to the kitchen where he was. “Are you going to bed now, Papi?” “Yes, I’m on my way, mi amor.” And in the morning I ran to his room to ask him if we could make French toast knowing he’d say yes because we liked butter so much but he didn’t answer because he wasn’t there.