Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of A Man Without a Country Review of Gail's Place Review of Three 1-Act Plays Review of Yesterday's A Dream Crossword (Solution Posted in May. Printable version in pdf format of journal.) Jan/Feb Crossword Solution Creative Nonfiction Imagining Nora By Lisa Norris Loving the Fat Girl By Christina Fisanick Nate's Fish and Poultry Shop By G. David Schwartz The Folly of Valentine's Day By Andy Martello Poetry Hawk King By Wanda D. Campbell After the Rain By Wanda D. Campbell You Cannot Fold the Flood. By Mariela Perez-Simons And Darkness Fell By Beth L. Block Demise of a Family Resort By Carolyn Howard-Johnson The Asparagus Cutters By Joe Wilkins Fiction Voices By Ed Boyd Little White Sambo By Brett Alan Sanders Dies Irae By Timothy Reilly Follow By Dawn Paul Crumbs By Kim Tremblett Cover Art Photography by Seth Brown About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/submission.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/volunteer.html. |
Crumbs By Kim Tremblett She stood in the kitchen doorway, surveying the room as if seeing it for the first time. Feeling like she had just been given the gift of sight, everything seemed overly vibrant. Breadcrumbs were scattered over the kitchen counter, stained purple by blobs of grape jelly. The grape jelly jar, uncapped, seemed to glow with the lustre of garnets. A knife’s handle, protruding from the jar, glinted like silver, causing her to squint against the glare. Sunshine, bisected by the blinds, made an interesting pattern across the tile floor, the shadows like prison bars. Dishes, stacked haphazardly on the counter, never quite reaching the ultimate destination of the dishwasher, were like stacks of candy wafers. For three weeks the kids had been helping themselves to breakfast and dinner as well as organizing their school lunches on weekdays. The kids had made do on weekends with quick, furtive forays into this space. During those weeks, little conversation had floated from the kitchen. Only the muted clatter of dishware, swoosh of fridge opening and closing, soft clink of silverware had drifted down the hallway to the master bedroom where she had lain, enveloped in shadows. The house had become silenced by the weight of grief. Heaviness cut off sounds of laughter, of inane conversation, of any or all joy. Not even the rambunctious spirits of three growing children could permeate the pall. Now she surveyed the remains of another meal that she hadn’t participated in. Was it only a few weeks ago that she had stood at the stove flipping pancakes and turning over spitting bacon with a fork? Or was that a dream? Had this room, this house, ever resounded with the sharp cries, the giggles, the slamming of doors, that accompanied children? Or were they ghosts? She stepped down the hallway, away from the intensity of the kitchen, wishing only to have her sight restored to normal. But the same sharp vision journeyed with her to the living room. A room that immediately felt foreign. Had she been in here a few short weeks ago munching popcorn and watching Shrek with three children and a husband? Who were the people who had sprawled about the room, laughing riotously, throwing kernels at the dog who snap-caught ever single throw, no matter how wild? The dog. Where was the dog? Almost as if the dog heard her thoughts, a deep woof sounded at the back door. He wanted in. Well, he would have to wait. She was terrified of actually going to the door and opening it and facing the outside. Facing these rooms was hard enough. The woofing silenced. He had adjusted to being ignored. He had no choice. The living room was over-run with stuff. Never would she have allowed running shoes, tennis rackets, half-chewed tennis balls, papers, open CD cases, empty bowls to be left in here. Not this room. A room she’d spent hours – she clearly remembered this – pouring over paint chip samples to find exactly the right shade of taupe for the walls. A shade that complimented the deep green sofa and the two green-plaid wing chairs perched nearby the fieldstone fireplace. Why had she done that? Why had she wasted such vast amounts of time about things that didn’t matter? She couldn’t recall why it had been so important that the colour be just right. What did it matter? What did anything matter? The walls could be flamingo pink and it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t change her mood. It wouldn’t help or hurt. It just wasn’t that important. She turned away, heading back down the hallway to the master bedroom. No “master” left. Her room now. Her refuge. Her safe haven. Sinking slowly down onto the unmade bed, she lay back, sightlessly looking at the ceiling. Thankfully her intense vision had faded. Here, in this space, all was quiet and drab and boring. Rolling over, she pulled one of the pillows up tight up to her face. That scent. Faint, growing fainter every passing day, but still there. A hint of tobacco smoke and sandalwood. A diminishing scent of him. She nearly suffocated, drinking in that scent. But would it matter if she died? What did it matter, in the end, about anything. The children, poor things, were suffering from a most terrible form of neglect. But, much as a tooth stops hurting when the novocaine is applied, their pain was distant and far removed. The eldest, wise in the ways of the world as only a thirteen-year old can be, was the only one brave enough to peek into the dim interior of the bedroom. Relating the day’s events and expecting no response. Requesting money so a pizza could be ordered or milk bought at the store and knowing that they would be allowed free access to the purse. Until the purse ran out of money. But a kindly neighbour offered to take the child to the bank and how easy it was to pass out debit cards and secret passwords. None of it mattered. Secrets? There were no more secrets to be told. The youngest, tender and sweet and only seven, would cling to the elder’s legs at the doorway, but would stay hidden. Hiding from the palpable gloom that seeped out the open door. Middle child, used to the role of the inconsequential, did not come near the room at all. Neighbours, oh, those kindly beings, who squired children to and from swimming or soccer or gymnastics. Who found the time to make an extra casserole or water the wilting flowers in the tired window boxes and discreetly remove the huge, decaying bouquets of grief that had filled the house with the dense, sweet fragrance of death. Who thought nothing of purchasing extra groceries and making sure that the shelves were stocked with kid-proof cans of pasta and boxes of micro-wave easy snacks. What would the world be like without the ‘do-gooders’. She had been a do-gooder once. Of course she had. She had taken grief-stricken people to appointments, to hospitals, to funeral homes. She had carried endless dishes of tuna casserole or meatloaf to houses that had this same dead air. Air so thick, dense, cold it could chill a 90 degree day faster than a super-charged air conditioning unit. And like all ‘do-gooders’, she had been bright and cheerful, filling in the dead space of a complete lack of conversation with inane quips about the weather. She would head home feeling lighter and happier than ever before. Nothing like someone else’s tragedy to elevate a mood. Now, while she knew she needed the ‘do-gooders’ help, she wanted to tell them to leave. Leave her house. Leave her life. Leave her alone. She’d once believed in a god. A kind man who, in her mind, was as tall as the sky and had kindly eyes, a long black beard and a deep, compassionate voice. The stuff of children’s imaginations. She’d prayed to that God many, many times and always, always, a reprieve had come. The youngest’s illness wasn’t life-threatening – just a virus. The car engine wasn’t damaged – only flooded. The lump in her breast wasn’t cancer – just a cyst. And each time the reprieve had strengthened her belief. Until now. How could one phone call change a life so completely? How could a disembodied voice shatter a life? How could it happen? How? There was no reprieve. Not from this. Impossible for a God, save his own son, to restore life. Impossible. Like asking grass to grow purple or snow to fall on a hot, summer afternoon. Silly wishes. Silly prayers. Locked in this space. Locked in this nowhere land. Where she breathed, but she wasn’t living. This was no life. There was no life. Her life was over. Her body just hadn’t caught onto that fact yet. But it would. She was sure of it. It would. She could recall, distantly now, wanting only to make a good life for her husband and children. She had been committed to bringing up decent kids. Kids who would know the value of hard work, who would stand for good, solid values. And she’d done it, hadn’t she? Didn’t they show remarkable maturity in making their own way the last three weeks? Hadn’t the eldest learned to operate the washing machine? Hadn’t she heard the hum of the vacuum, the roar of the lawn mower? Yes, they were surviving. This shadow person she had become was no longer concerned that the kids take their vitamins or that they attend the dentist for regular checkups. This shadow person didn’t care if they flossed each night or had their nightly showers or baths. This shadow person could barely form a coherent thought, so nothing was left over for anyone or anything else. Should the dog contract heartworm disease and die, it would be her fault. But she didn’t care. She would not be taking the dog to the veterinarian for the annual blood test. Those things resided in a world that was nearby, but was unrelated to her now. No list of “to do” items would prompt her into action. No school notices tacked to the fridge door would be viewed by her or signed by her. No calendar, marked with ballpoint pen, would serve as a reminder. Reminder for what? That world was gone. She shifted her head from the suffocating pillow, gasping for breath. Ironic that her body fought so hard to stay alive, would not allow her to cut off her air supply, when everything inside her felt dead. The dog barked sharply. Before, in her other life, she would have gone and let him in, patted him, made a fuss, fed him a chewy from the jar on the counter. Now she just registered the fact that the dog barked. It meant nothing. Random acts. That’s what they called accidents. Just a random occurrence. Others said there was no such thing. All things occurred for a reason. Even accidents. Neither viewpoint satisfied her. What did it matter? The result wouldn’t change. Even if a winged being came to her and explained why he had to die, it wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing would change that fact. Death was permanent. A rumble in the distance. The garbage truck. No more concern about garbage. Who cared if it was waiting patiently at the curb or not? It didn’t matter. She turned onto her side, burying her face in the pillow once more. By the time the comforting scent disappeared altogether from the soft, plumpness, she would be forever a shadow… |