The Magnolia Review Volume 4, Issue 1 February 2018 Editor-in-Chief and Founder: Suzanna Anderson Welcome to the seventh issue of The Magnolia Review! We publish art, photography, poetry, comics, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, experimental work, 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 The Magnolia Review publishes previously unpublished work.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 Interior Sandy Coomer The Fire That Night Christopher Woods Spiral Galaxy Sandy Coomer Phoenix Rising Sandy Coomer Creative Nonfiction Fire Pit Mara Cohen Dog Days Toti O’Brien Fiction Runaway Meredith Bailey Regifted Sally Bunch Fire Sermon Paul Lamb Empty Nest Don Noel It’s a brand new ballgame! Steve Slavin Murphy’s Law Susan P. Blevins Dustoff Under Fire Brian K. Kerley Crescent Drive Anthony J. Mohr Burning K.B. Holzman Break-In Chris Dungey A Fire in the Neighborhood Tony Concannon Poetry Fall, 1950s Wilda Morris The Burn Ben Groner III My Mother’s Things Steven R. Jakobi Ars poetica D.G. Geis Green Wings David Anthony Sam Little Grey Cloud Robert Ford Night Fire Jessica Gigot All The Lost Things Doug Bolling You and Me Lauren Klocinski Sunlight, a Jubilation Ben Groner III January Ends with You Valerie Ruberto Evil Indications Charles Joseph Albert Beautiful Fire Mark Hudson Inside a Song, the Sea Barbara Daniels Reclaiming the Flesh Scarlett Peterson Wise/Crack Bridget Malley Prometheus David Anthony Sam At Home Jamie Houghton The Fire Chief’s Son’s Sensory Memories Todd Mercer Recent Virgin John Rodzvilla Fire Chasers Maureen Daniels After the Kiss Laurie Kolp End of Romance David Anthony Sam Hero Jamie Houghton Orange Flame Richard King Perkins II Perforated Stars Speak of Serendipity Adam Levon Brown Yuletide Hilary Sideris Named Spencer Smith Residual Value Mary Hanrahan Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals D.G. Geis Again Roger Sippl Convent of the Capuchins John Rodzvilla Rockaway Hilary Sideris His Fake Castle John Rodzvilla Journey Doug Bolling The Fire Triangle Fuel Sean J. Mahoney Cursed the Sacred John Rodzvilla Monday Spencer Smith Thorns Lauren Klocinski This Magic Show Bridget Malley From the Desk of…Joshua Norton, The First Emperor of these United States of America John Rodzvilla Weatherman D.G. Geis Energy Sources Sean J. Mahoney Free Survival Guide D.G. Geis Nyctophylophobia Leah Mueller Chicago Fire Mark Hudson October Fire Richard King Perkins II Feeling the Fire Nearby Ann Colcord For Once, Heaven Opens Up Charles Joseph Albert Old Flame Burning Forest Scarlett Peterson The Fire Triangle Heat Sean J. Mahoney When Broken Ruben Rodriguez Highways Like Frozen Rivers Ben Groner III Wreath of White Richard King Perkins II Meeting Doug Bolling Winter Haiku Antonia Clark Cotton House Fire Greg Rappleye Chalice Doug Bolling On this date in the year 410, Rome was sacked by the Visigoths D.G. Geis A Great Shout John Rodzvilla Yoga Teacher Stokes the Sauna Cynthia Gallaher Reviews Contributors Runaway The day we lost Oliver, my mother was holed up in the bathroom smelling her words. All morning, she’d had on her writing face—this squinty-eyed, wrinkled-nose look, like she’d just gotten a whiff of Oliver’s diaper pail. The way I imagined it, she had to sift through several foul-smelling words before she could detect the pleasing aroma of the one she wanted. To me, the good words would smell damp, sharp, a bit earthwormy, the odor of my hands after I’d been playing in the dirt, but I never knew what they smelled like to her. What I did know was that when my mother had this look on her face, we weren’t to bother her. So instead we bothered each other. My older sister, Edie, was sprawled across the living room floor on her back humming “Who’s That Girl.” My brother, Oliver, sat in my lap, playing musical accompaniment on his See-N-Say. I plugged my ears. I launched a counterattack with lyrics from another Madonna song. But I was no match for the quack-quacking and moo-mooing, nor my sister’s off- key droning—and she knew it. Edie rolled onto her stomach and poked me in the ribs. Again. “Fiiiiine…,” I groaned. “I’ll play your stupid game.” But my surrender was not unconditional. Monopoly for two is dreadfully dull so I insisted that we make up aliases. Edie did not put much effort into this endeavor. Her “Debbie” was a half-assed conjured being, given nothing more than a name and an occupation (dentist). She was as stale and boring as the Cheerios in Oliver’s snack cup. I, on the other hand, was Isadora Fountainswallow. Isadora was loosely based on a neighbor of ours who had perfect thief hands—long, tapered fingers, gentle enough to tuck you in at night yet nimble enough to crack a safe under pressure. Isadora’s hair was flame-red, she carried a silver cigarette holder, and she wore fuchsia lipstick. Isadora did not pocket gems or lift expensive artwork; she stole time—seconds, minutes, and hours, which she hoarded in one of those big tubs of margarine. Edie shrugged, unimpressed. Edie had always been a purposeful child, and my attempts to subvert her true nature were often the source of our disagreements. Games like Monopoly, Risk, and chess were fun because they made sense, because one played them to achieve a clear goal—to win. She often refused to play the games I made up: Deep Space Zookeeper (pretty much what it sounds like) and Spy (which usually involved tailing our double-agent Bantam hens—I was on to them—around the yard and recording their suspicious activity). Imagination for imagination’s sake did not interest Edie, a trait that made her unwavering support of our mother’s writing time all the more curious. Edie was the only one who dared to call it “writing.” Mother would not name what it was she did with her notebook and pen in the bathroom. I knew it as “it.” Most days “it” would come on suddenly, like a stomach virus. Mother could be sitting on the living room couch folding laundry, in the middle of listening to how that fart-blossom Cassie McAllister had invited all the girls in class over for a sleepover birthday party except for you and the mutant who chewed her hair, when the towel in Mother’s hands would go limp, drop to the floor. There’d be a quiver about her lips and you could just tell she hadn’t heard a word you’d said. She’d go vacant, inanimate, the blink of her eyes and the quiet rasp of her breath the only thing differentiating her from the laundry basket. I’d see how far I could deviate from the topic at hand, informing her that aliens had just landed on the roof to abduct Oliver or zombie snails were rising out of the earth to eat our brains until her lips would draw into a knot and she’d say “Shhhh.” Edie took the pragmatic approach. She’d put her hand on the small of our mother’s back and usher her to the bathroom. “Go ahead, Mom. We’ll watch Oliver,” she’d say. And as soon as my mother acquiesced—it never took much cajoling— Edie’s shoulders would slacken; her eyes would glisten with what I dismissed as triumph at playing the good, thoughtful daughter. In truth, what I saw in my sister’s eyes unsettled me. I didn’t understand why someone who’d gotten what she wanted would still look so grim. Monopoly commenced. Money was distributed. Chance and Community Chest cards were meticulously shuffled. My little brother had taken a shine to the battleship—the game piece Edie always used, yet she chose not to pry it out of his hands, settling for the car instead. Curious to see how far Edie’s munificence could be pushed, Isadora opted to make her own game piece out of a fleck of sock lint, a piece of tape, and a Barbie hair brush. Edie’s eyebrow went up, but she said nothing. She would not risk inciting a row that would disturb our mother. Edie never wondered—at least not out loud—what our mother produced in there. She just seemed to accept that this was something Mom did, that it was normal—necessary, even—to depart, sometimes mid-sentence, for some other plane of existence. However, despite my irritation at our mother’s behavior, I was curious. I dared to ask her what she wrote about only once. “Do I ever ask to look in your diary?” she’d said. “I don’t have one.” “Well, you should.” She’d placed her palm on my cheek. “Every artist needs raw material.” Artist. It was a word I associated with paint-by-number pictures of rainbows and dogs, the dingy button-down shirts of my father’s we used for smocks in art class, and people who cut off their own ears. But one fact loomed larger than any other, filling my belly with a warm flutter: Our mother had stamped me as the artist—not her. Not my sister.