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The Magnolia Review Volume 2, Issue 2 July 2016 Editor-in-Chief and Founder: Suzanna Anderson Editor: Kristin Brooker Editor: Alicia Harmon Editor: Aretha Lemon Welcome to the fourth issue of The Magnolia Review! We publish art, photography, poetry, comics, creative nonfiction, and fiction. The Magnolia Review publishes previously unpublished work. We publish two issues a year, deadlines on November 15 and May 15. The issue will be available online on January 15 and July 15. While The Magnolia Review will not have physical copies at this time, the editors may compile a print version if funds become available. Upon publication, the copyrights of the published work(s) reverts to the author. For more information, please visit www.themagnoliareview.wordpress.com or email us at [email protected]. Table of Contents Art Tree of Life Capotă Daniela Lăcrămioara Dreaming Fabrice Poussin Star Mage Kelci Crawford Quijote’s King Fabrice Poussin Openness without Seeking Bill Wolak Two Ladies Kelci Crawford Theatrics Louis Staeble Bravado Emilio Pinedo Elephant in the Forest Maria Picone On the Hill Fabrice Poussin A Scream in the Forest Bill Wolak Evergreen Capotă Daniela Lăcrămioara Brink of the Nile Maria Picone Creative Nonfiction Sue’s Suicide Joslyn Neiderer The Eighth Grade Graduation Speech I Never Gave Hannah Robison Fiction Into the Ease Joshua Daniel Cochran Imprint Marsha Roberts Gypsies Next Door Tom Harper Spark Plugs Scott Blackburn Dear Miss Hines, Rosie Missed School Because Nittins Had Kittens and She Ate the Placenda Which Made Her Sick Robert D. Kirvel Pinning Lindsay Chudzik As We Are Married, my thoughts run backward Quinn Ramsay Those Two Legs Phil Temples Penny Altars Teressa Rose Ezell The Estelle Show Micah Bradley They Don’t Make Reruns Like They Used To Samantha Madway Speaking of Lillian Katrina Johnston Poetry Letting Go Attempt #10 Laurie Kolp Scents of Three Summers Marissa Davis I Know Why Marianne Did It David-Matthew Barnes Meditation On a French Fry Sally Zakariya Watermelon Summer Ann Howells Lord of the Song Susan Speranza Arrays in C Rita Chapman Scurf of Memory Jean A. Kingsley Orchid and Rose Ann Howells Olympia Unmoderated Marissa Davis Simply Money Kalyn Maria A Recipe for Good Health Hannah Carmack Mile Markers Lisa M. Hase-Jackson Collage on Paper Arielle Lipset The 12 on Tenth Street David-Matthew Barnes The Dog Said Bruce McRae Imposter CLS Ferguson Fiercely Loyal Edward Lineberry Notes to the Wind A.J. Huffman A Strange Shade of White Goirick Brahmachari Who’d Be a Weatherman Bruce McRae Forecast Lisa M. Hase-Jackson Late Night Radio Barbara Buckley Ristine Quits Hillary Kobernick Lines Written to the Sun Rita Chapman For You Must Wander Lana Bella Work in Progress Barbara Buckley Ristine Reviews Contributors Into the Ease There is hope. Brandon feels it, even if others said there is nothing more to be done, if he ever needs anything, or time will heal all wounds. He smiles at the ceiling. People think he smiles and they nod at their own wisdom, perhaps touching, rubbing his shoulder. But he isn’t smiling. Lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling, he can feel his teeth where he has ground away the enamel with what others think is a smile. Was a smile. Now nobody thinks much of him one way or another. The time for cheering has since passed to this, this time of hope. And he is at the helm of some terrible craft hurtling through the eons. His only passenger is in the next room dying. A fly buzzes against the window. It takes a while for Brandon to notice and recognize the sound, but when he does he thinks reflexively: stupid fucking bug. The black dot of the fly buzzes nasally and, with a hollowed rhythm against the glass, bounces and taps. He turns to watch. Beyond, the world is a blur of blue and shadow and yellow and dark and light. The fly, the stupid fucking fly, doesn’t realize that the sliver of air at the cracked window, the same opening it flew through into this horrid reality, this house moving through time at an incredible rate, the sliver of air is still there. To the left. No. More to the left. Left. The left! Down at the sill again for a moment of silence then up, buzzing and bumping to the top of the glass and now to the left, more, almost there. Can you feel the breeze and freedom, the blur of light and shadow that is the world? Will you escape this mysterious warren? The fly taps at the glass an inch from the opening, and Brandon stops breathing to watch, to curse and cheer this epic struggle that must end, that can never end. The monitor, a little walkie-talkie thing made for infants and such so it’s ridiculous and cute and brightly colored, gurgles suddenly, a scrapey sound, a dried stick rasping against rusted metal beneath a blanket. She must have turned over. The monitor is extremely sensitive, he thinks, remembering the packaging. Extremely Sensitive! it had said in the bulleted list of attributes on the glossy box. Come to think of it, Comes in Playful Colors! was also on the list. The fly edges to the right and away, bumping, buzzing, pathetic. Brandon imagines getting up and grabbing a dry fold of newspaper or grocery store flyer and making it into a roll, imagines doing this and striding to the window, to the fly, to end the struggle, but instead rubs his eyes and pretends to not hear the buzzing, lower in tone now, growing tired, the whispered thumping against the glass lighter and less frequent, longer rests upon the sill. But his mind turns to another matter. She will need to be bathed soon. Warm water in a plastic basin. Towels and washcloths, soap and lotion. He will have to grind his teeth and try not to show the rings under his eyes (keep the lights low) or the tremor of his lip, hand, eyelid. His voice will rise, too high and will sound strange, even to her. When he turns or reaches down for something, he can let his face go, let the eyes bulge, let his lips tremble, then wipe with the back of a sleeve or cough or say something in a silly voice to mask the change and smile at her again, the sweet child so tired and so old (due to the velocity of the house) having lived from the cradle to her waiting grave in only eight short years. He must go into her bright room, see her surrounded by stuffed animals and balloons and flowers and wash her bird-thin body as they stare into each other’s eyes and talk about whatever can be talked about to take away the reality, and he’ll have to do it. Soon. The monitor gurgles again, this time with something that might have been an utterance. She may have shifted, or quite clearly called out “daddy.” The piece of shit monitor. Sharp, Clear Reception! Either way, he has to get up. Warm water and things. He rises and stretches and his back cracks three times. Looking about, the place is a wreck, once a living room and now a room in which he actually lives. Like a Neanderthal. The fire-ring is missing, spears leaning against the wall… He ignores the pictures he cannot look at, the cave-paintings of this period. Her small handprint in a frame. *** “I want to eat my soup outside,” she says brightly, a dry luster in her little voice. Brandon smiles at her and busies himself with great gestures, swooping arms and bent knees, torso doubled over one moment, over-arching the next, his face contorting from grimace to goofy smile to blankness as he moves and gets her in the chair. He makes her put her arms around his neck so it doesn’t seem like this is all, this is all she weighs now. Once on the back porch, she talks brightly and Brandon forgets everything, becomes as light as light, pushing away every other thought but this moment now, dappled shadow on the yellow lawn, the exact temperature and direction of breeze, Elaine’s glossy copper eyes, the shape of her mouth in smile, and the commotion of twenty or thirty blackthroated sparrows contending for the ridiculous mound of seed he placed for their amusement. And she tells of her dream about a maze, a labyrinth (he blinked stupidly when she used that word) that can never end but—and this is the good part, she said and took another labored breath. You don’t even realize it’s a maze because it’s life. But you can escape, sometimes even on accident. Having fetched a pen and paper, he writes this down. He wants to remember everything. She watches the sparrows chirp and bump each other over the excess. Enough seed to pop all their bellies three or four times, she says at some point while he writes. But he has questions. If the maze is there but you might not know, and… if it doesn’t even matter— “Does it even matter, Lainey?” Brandon asks. She is asleep, her head nestled in a fluff of pillow and blanket, and she might sleep for a couple of hours. Especially after so much light, so much movement and a healthy amount of soup (with morphine, of course). She could sleep until eight, maybe even nine. He turns to the side to avoid her lovely face contorted slightly in pain and exhaustion and takes out his phone.

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