Ginosko Literary Journal Fall 2014 PO Box 246 Fairfax, CA 94978 Editors Robert Paul Cesaretti Maggie Heaps GinoskoLiteraryJournal.com est 2002 Member [CLMP] Writers retain copyrights Cover art: enigmatic postcard from Germany ginosko A word meaning to perceive, understand, realize, come to know; knowledge that has an inception, a progress, an attainment. The recognition of truth from experience. … the writer shapes his story, flecked like river clay with the grit of experience and rank with the smell of human life, heedless of the danger to himself, eager to show his powers, to celebrate his mastery, to bring into being a little world that, like God’s, is at once terribly imperfect and filled with astonishing life. Michael Chabon CCC OOO NNN TTT EEE NNN TTT SSS BONE FOLDER 11 Jason Price Everett Incantation 12 The Naiad 14 James Mullard THE AGE OF AIR 15 SUMMER NIGHT 16 LAST HOURS 17 WHAT ARRIVES 18 Eileen Hennessy GRANDFATHER’S LOVER CALLS 19 Lee Varon Walking with Jesus 20 ' Woman 1950’ , from a painting by deKooning 21 Natalie Safir Amulets From Imaginary Islands: To Ward Off Poverty 22 To Ward Off Confusion 23 Roberta Allen /hotel/ 24 ### 24 ^^^ 24 Rae Uddin Dissection 25 Reach 26 The Chihuahuan 27 Lisa Olsson Dispossessed 28 Emergency Room 28 End 28 Eruption 29 Eucharist 29 William L. Alton A Still Forest Pool 31 Chris Barker FIRE IS YOUR NAME AND YOUR MAKER 34 IN THE SCHOOL OF DESIRE 35 Naomi Ruth Lowinsky A Trip 36 Yesterdays 36 Rose Mary Boehm D.J. 37 Erren Geraud Kelly SILVER SPOONS 38 Tammye Huf CLOTHESLINE 41 TONIGHT 42 WE THE WOMEN 43 Silva Zanoyan Merjanian A Sterile Place 44 Catherine Evleshin Horizon Line 49 Maureen Eppstein The Coldirons 50 Sidney Thompson Ravensbone 64 Cathy Rosoff Geography 76 Mark Belair The Name of Our Nature 78 Influx 79 Gray 80 Sandra Kohler Nine Storeys Above Inner City 81 Alternative Medicine 82 Once I Lived 83 Ariel Dawn Found Fragments 84 To a Former Lover in Minneapolis 86 Maia at the Mirror 91 David Glen Smith TO REST 93 Kathie Giorgio I See Beauty in All Your Little Fatalisms 100 Cistern Sestina 101 Molt 103 Smart For Hard Living 104 Adam Tedesco Song for Soldiers 105 The Pleasure Of Remembering Has Not Been Lost 106 Maurice Emerson Decaul The Old Woman who lived in the Cottonwood Cabin 107 m.j. cleghorn Afternoon 112 Yellow Porcelain Tile. 112 Robin(s ) 113 Jenny Aileen Contextual Despotism 114 Undocumented Sex 115 Canola 116 Virginian Ilex 117 Inheritance/Iteration 118 Jonathan Doughty Doc Gnarly 119 Mass 120 Etymology 121 Nate Duke Spoke 122 Five-Foot Hand Grenade 123 Jinn 124 Planted 125 Pet 126 Sam Kolinski Chortling One's Life Away 127 Kim Farleigh DEPLOYED, MESOPOTAMIA 143 UNSPEAKABLE 144 AS THE INQUISITION FINALLY ENDS 145 BLUE NAVY 146 ENTERTAINING THE TROOPS 147 Catherine Gonick Woman with a Hole in her Stocking 148 Something Understood 149 Waiting 150 My Father’s Voice 151 Promenade 152 Summers in Vermont 153 Anya Silver TIME AND AGAIN 154 Timothy Caldwell Artist Obsessed 158 Model in Love 159 Butterfly Night 160 Provençal Crosses 161 New Arrival 162 Claire Booker LIVING IN SKIN 163 SUNDAY BREAKFAST 165 WHAT THERE ARE WORDS FOR 167 Jed Myers THE ODDITIES 169 John Grey Night at the Park 171 Harry F Rey Execution in Slow Motion 173 Joanna Chen WISH YOU WERE HERE 174 INERTIA 175 QUAKING ASPEN 176 AVOWED 178 Marilyn Ringer noticeably bare 179 sparkling red wine 180 now what is the word for it? 181 Marina Manoukian SIX STANDING CROWS 182 APART/HATE 183 CANLEY HILL 184 REDIRECTION 185 THE DAY FINDS ME 186 Meryl McQueen THE TRUTH ABOUT FLORIDA 187 OBEDIENCE 191 Terry Ann Thaxton Painting Rain 192 Did you hear that? 193 The Loneliest Species of Whale in the World 194 Wages of Sin 195 Anne Graue At False Light 196 C G Fewston Review: Tales from the Eternal Café 200 Janet Hamill BONE FOLDER He was sad and angry because his friend had died in a way that made it suicide in everything but name and he sat in a place where they used to drink and talk about Japanese literature and bullshit about work in progress and he thought that his friend might be forgotten which would be unjust because he was part of the resistance whereas the living collaborated and his anger at himself coalesced into action of a sort and he went out and bought tiles and a foam brush and a sheet of acetate and gloves and a mask and fingernail polish remover and a bone folder and he made color copies of a photograph of his dead friend with the right type of ink and he pushed the mirror image button so that the image would not be reversed on transfer and he heated the tiles in the microwave and placed each copy of the photo onto each warm tile face down and coated them with the fingernail polish remover and smoothed them with the bone folder under the acetate and applied the tile sealer to fix the image forever and when he was done he took off the gloves and the mask and left the tiles to dry and he was crying but he did not notice or if he did he thought it was the fumes of the solvent in his eyes and then one night later that week he mixed up a batch of cement and went out and fixed the tiles with the picture of his dead friend to the facades of buildings all across the indifferent city and for the rest of the year he smiled seeing the tiles in secret places or being denounced as vandalism by the authorities. Jason Price Everett Ginosko 2014 Flash Fiction Contest winner Incantation James Mullard The walls of the room are dust covered, with small slits in the brickwork that bleed light. In a small heap, a woman sits, staring before her, into a colossal ochre mirror. Scattered around are several honey pots, lidless, exuding exotic smells, like nectar incense. The woman leans over, and the sleeve of her shirt falls into one pot, is made sticky. Eyes still locked at her reflection, body outstretched, she claws for the sticky paste. The mirrored woman follows, smirking with her, honey wadding on their fingers. After a few scoops of the paste the reflection turns, causing her hand to slip, stickying her thigh. In the mirror, the flooring transfigures beneath the reflected her – sat, instead, on a pasture of grass. Speckled across the lawn are several inflorescent buds that, bulging, bursting, abruptly open. Large quantities of seeping fat are revealed from within the little blossoms, each now limp. The woman remains, gropes again for the jars, and spreads more honey across her thighs. With a snap, the fatty matter moves, slithers across the grass, collects into a tower. It trembles, unable to sustain, and collapses once, only to collect, again, squelching as it moves. She shivers, unsure to take action, resolving to take more honey, swallowing it in measures. The tower of fat begins to appear humanoid, forming, with mutilated facets of limbs. She reaches out, slowly, towards the creature, honey dripping from her chin and legs. It steps forward, collapses, and then crawls, edging towards the glass, shattering the pane. The woman leans back, her reflection fading, as the being watches, dulled. She notices, in its fatty hands, are long claws; eyes widening, it pounces, clawing at her stomach. Through the gash, honey oozes out in measures, some already crystallised against her stomach lining. The creature leans towards her, losing consistency, and flows into her insides, until it froths out of her mouth. The Naiad James Mullard As she drifts lithely down the silver-swirling river, a nymph of the marsh foams at her mouth. Wild spurts form at each corner of her pallid lips, narrow rapids that current down to her chin. Flagrant in her brattish thirst for the rivers kiss, she hastily stoops down at the water’s edge. As she moves, wisps of pubic reeds are exposed, from beneath her skirt as she sneers at her reflection. Our Nymph mouths words towards her echoed image, and the stream responds, releasing a light fog. With a pernicious laugh, she bends further down, her miry body trembling as her arm extends. Intoxicated by the mists, she runs her fingers across the river’s tense mouth and its meandering limbs. For a moment, it erupts into eager, crashing waves, and then frogspawn collects on silent water. by Eileen Hennessy THE AGE OF AIR birds in flight over begging-bowl valley filled with nomadic hamlets of flowers aircraft full of smuggled strangers who die in their hiding places when the air shifts the sky blocks the vents SUMMER NIGHT On summer nights we gather in the square to hear the numbers beamed out and the objects called up for the count. Uncanny, the way the same things show up over and over for counting. Always deeply practical. Always impeccably polite. Counting brings to life our groves of still, white trees, our acorns in the park, our sparrows nibbling on droppings under the outdoor restaurant tables. There is no summer night without its count of the cars roaming in the commuter parking lot, the shadows of ships quietly moving offshore. Everything is so open out here. In fact, calls for head counts go out over the public address system. Sooner or later there are enough heads to allow the counting of crosses to begin. LAST HOURS Had a good dinner.