ir ~\ ~y ...... n "' '-~ loneliness loneliness illustration john thompson 9 krista cox love song for recovering codependent he thought he had loved her as a drowning man loves the boat-mistress reaching with her sure-fingered oar, but as they capsized, seasoned by the gnawing salt of the atlantic, arms and oars impotent, he knew he loved her as a drowning man loves a drowning woman, weary, fish-breathed and failing, content to waltz helpless into the inky, starless night 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf samantha plute desert sprouts 44 jacob jones home in a coupc i drink from a wwii canteen, and wear clothes from 4th grade. the older the cheaper. at the grocery store bartering, you buy cheap, i take expired. i rub against pine trees, to capture the fresh scent. i don't just count my pennies, i make investments, in chicken stock, and 100 grand candy bars. i do hygiene in public bathrooms. my dentist is a mirror, floss, some thread. my toothbrush doubles on my head. lost a job for workers comp. had six kids as tax write offs. claimed asthma as a handicap, to get a better parking spot. i sell sod from others lawns. and use rubber gloves as condorr because it's a five for one. my showers are from the rain, my baths from the lake. have you ever missed menstruation? have you ever longed to recapture it? exorcise the demons of that sacred place that some label dark and dank like a haunted cave; send forth gallons of crimson lining when the anger overwhelms like a liquid primal scream; provide the mouth of a river to increase the life force flow into a gratifying flood? tonight, in the dark a girl cries with shamethe blood came for the first time and the whole class saw it. but thousands of years ago, in the dark the witch women of the moon laughed/ danced/ sang, giving thanks for what stained the ground beneath bare feet. cultivation by colleen card plant me bare between tilled rows of seedling wheat and fill my mouth with marrow of earth. let rain deluge my pores and flood my veins till hidden seeds burst and curl and pierce through layers of flesh to blossom in bright red drops beneath the aching sun. 2 poetry farmer's market. we thumb our r at doilies, baked goods, radishes­ torhanya calls: gold nugget nibs of noodles homemade by hands that await usthe hungarians. a dash of paprika-red freckles speckle the liver-spots of his knowing hands. unfurling like the gnarled knots of tree roots they knead, fo ld, and knead the dumpling dough. atop a leather stool his grandson perches, pinching off dough for the drying. still pinching, he winks at the wrinkled wad of ones i thrust out for the torhanya. apple-plump and apple-sweet shin yellow vidalia while scores of garlic cloves hang poised for the undead dice both fine ly. salvation costs a crumpled dollar. bowed down to the mother-herb, ' flat leaf, not italian talia reed man on bicycle 24 jason silveus carrying i wondered where the danger went. and think of the devil. this is what they call vengeance. i did ask for it. even missed my dirty friend. this is the rock that is my blanket novi heavy. and crushing. i speak too much. i think too much. i ~ i have. and don't share. if you're looking for violence, i've go1 but it costs. this is how they get you. i wondered where the danger went. and speak of the devil. this is what they call vengeance. 25 age of ... / cultivation/ budapest's best analecta farmer's market. we thumb our noses at doilies, baked goods, radishes­ torha nya calls: gold nugget nibs of noodles homemade by hands that await usthe hungarians. a dash of paprika-red freckles speckle the liver-spots of his knowing hands. unfurling like the gnarled knots of tree roots they knead, fold, and knead the dumpling dough. atop a leather stool his grandson perches, pinching off dough for the drying. still pinching, he winks at the wrinkled wad of ones 1 thrust out for the torhanya. apple-plump and apple-sweet shines one yellow vidalia while scores of garlic cloves hang poised for the undead. dice both finely. salvation costs a crumpled dollar. bowed down to the mother-herb, we glean flat leaf, not italian budapest's best laurel wiederman-bieschke 3 ' to be scrubbed clean until squeak-worthy, until emerald leaves streak green my knife hand. pepper with parsley. don't forget the paprika, lots of hungarian paprika: budapest's best­ a squat tin can of sweet, wax-bodied red peppers dried in ruby strands. untitled by bill mcc/ain i am really athletic and right-handed made of wood you are short and sweet and rubber banded and that's pretty good see i don't wanna wanna don't wanna do the things i should everyone else is evil fuckers we're just misunderstood i'm thinking about purchasing a megaphone, some new clothes angling for the motherlode looking for something new to loathe, something ugly l can grow something red that really goes you are skinny and pretty and pretty handy 1 am just skinny and nobody understands me 1 would die for ice cream and l would die for porn queens i would die to be interesting i would love to be anything 4 poetry you use me up like you smoke a cig: breathing me in only to blow me oc turning me into ashes you transform into a light brocade, unraveling at the slightest touch oft stub me out when you've had enou or when you've smoked me to my fi and you just can't stand my taste anymore. maybe this t ime you'll stomp me ou once l hit the pavement with a barely audible thud, scraping your boot, making me leave my innards in a trail on the asphalt. no matter how i'm disposed of, be it fire-down in sand, or sp layed on the cement, or sp it on and tossed in the garbage, or thrown out of the car window, my embers fleeing from my body with the force of the speed you are t you will leave me wherever i end up, and walk away without a second tho 6 affl)[ p;:in i.iv junvijuii i.iv ·.n 1101~ ,c 89 contributors’ notes j.b. adams is an undergrad at indiana university, south bend, majoring in english with a concentration in creative writing. his first book bump was published in 2014, with a revised edition coming fall 2015. he lives in mishawaka with his wife jenn, and their three cats, mumu, charlie, and boi. amanda barnett is soon to graduate. she likes long adventures in the woods and backyard reading on luscious blades of grass. she is a staff writer for the preface. her poetry may ruin your life. jeffrey barrick is a bfa student who enjoys a cross-disciplinary approach working in painting, drawing, and printmaking. barrick’s work runs the gamut from representational to abstract. additionally, he also currently works as the master scenic artist of the raclin school of the arts theatre. krista cox is a senior english major who lives in granger with two precious patience-testers (children) and works in south bend with three of them (lawyers). her poetry has appeared in words dance, scissors & spackle, and melancholy hyperbole. her okcupid profile is a work of creative literary genius. chad r. forbregd uses all ten fingers when praying. niall garvin is a senior at iu south bend where he studies english and french. he wrote his first poem at age eight. thankfully, it is lost to the ages. this is his third appearance in analecta. crystal gee is a senior from michigan. she adores landscape photography, modern british literature, and star fruit. ashley hochstetler is a sculptural artist driven by the untamed wilds and unending possibilities of existence. after the rejection from hogwarts the indiana native enrolled in iusb to refine her artistic ability and broaden her perceptions of the world. outside of her studies she enjoys jumping off goombas and impromptu dance with her toddler. savannah hope still as eight baby teeth, beside the fact that she can’t lose her teeth, she can’t lose her unfledged disposition, which has caused the freshman to jump from major to major. apart from her studies she finds peace in photographing the outdoors and hiking the michiana area with her chocolate lab named sully. 90 jennifer jones is a writer, a student, a mother, a daughter, a feminist, and a book hoarder who loves old dictionaries, weird reference books, cozy sweaters, laughing until her stomach hurts, teacups, and the occasional good long rant. tracy korn is a ma graduate who has excavated buffalo bones in tornado alley (during a tornado), barfed behind madrid’s royal palace, and been envious of her best friend’s blue toilet water. when she is inevitably shanghaied onto tlc’s what not to wear, she hopes to remember “everything is writable about…” cassie laforest is an average twenty two year old with not so average daydreams. in her academic endeavors, she has recently student taught and will graduate in may. in her rare spare time endeavors, she likes reading, writing, listening to alternative music, hanging with aaron quist, and going to chicago. samantha lewis is a twenty-seven year native of the dirt roads and cornrows of northern indiana. she spends most of her days catching snapping turtles and small mouth bass amidst the cattails of chapman lake. she has two dogs, a small collection of vinyl records and an unhealthy hatred for semicolons. ann marie lindgren is a prodigy bookseller for barnes and noble. she can find almost any book without the title or author’s last name. she studies english literature and creative writing at indiana university south bend. she will go on to graduate this spring where she will proceed to file bankruptcy, go on welfare, and have lots of children. she did not choose the american dream, for indeed, the american dream chose her. nichole m.k. lindhorn is a midwestern twenty-something who is probably somewhere drawing or eating pickles. elizabeth miley is studying secondary education with a concentration in english. david dodd lee inspired her to write poetry after taking a few of his courses at iu south bend. other than writing poetry she likes to thrift shop, create diy projects, and walk man-made nature parks. chad morgan is a student, writer, and blogger in south bend. his work has appeared in hair trigger and big ugly review. he still adores mariah carey. diane passero is climbing closer to a bachelor’s degree in english and a certificate in writing. her favorite genres are flash fiction and poetry with a pull toward prose poetry. in addition to being a student, she has a husband, several children, cats, moluccan cockatoo, tarantula and various fish, which often inspire her writing. 91 aaron quist’s – aka sir mr. sweet john mary de la beatlemania (the 1965th) – passion for the beatles and women by the name of cassandra laforest keeps his writing dreams alive. in his academic endeavors, he has just finished “learnin’ the students sum english” during his student teaching at discovery middle school, and will graduate in may. aaron aspires to be a writer in the future. dylan richardson is probably writing right now as you read this. or wishing he was. cecelia roeder is a senior majoring in mass communications, with a concentration in journalism, and minoring in graphic design. she enjoys piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. charis schepers is a sophomore majoring in social work with a minor in creative writing. when not studying, she spends her time with her dog, husband, and two kids. she enjoys reading, writing, and binge-watching the walking dead and the office. josh silveus is an asshole. courtney sniadecki is nineteen and a junior at indiana university south bend. in her spare time, you’ll find her shopping for hard-to-find vinyl records or writing in her blog. she attributes all that she is and everything she has to her faith and her family. makayla stutzman is an upcoming senior at iusb pursuing a bachelor’s degree in both english and secondary english education. at only twenty years of age this may seem like an unattainable goal; however, she punishes herself each semester with an enormous class load and two jobs in order to prove to the world that she is indeed the shit. seth umbaugh is a student, writer, and musician living in michiana. he has haunted local libraries for years. he has never met a dog he didn’t like. austin m. veldman is a fiction writer, poet, and singer/songwriter from south bend, in. he has recently rediscovered poetry. “driftwood” and “derelict” are his first published poems. he enjoys reading epic fantasy, playing soccer, and hiking through woods when he is not writing. kristiane weeks is a hoosier with a passion for arts. she’s dabbled in all writing styles, but poetry and creative non-fiction are her niches. kristiane is a creative writing ma student with her ba in english from flagler college in st. augustine, florida, where much of her inspiration stems from. 92 chris williams is an english nerd. with a memory reminiscent of a goldfish, he has somehow made it through this college thing. he’s had a life-long love affair with writing, don’t tell his wife. he is also pretty sure that his beard has taken on a mind of its own, but he is not positive. nick wort is the most important person in any given room at any given time. he likes to pet cats and other small mammals. he cannot swim and eats nothing but vegetation. on the day of nick’s birth, a chorus of angels descended from heaven to greet him. 123190 iusb analecta 2014-15 body v3 proof %281%29.pdf ll!jan l. gruenewalb on an €.bucation greasy prints you left on the glass doors, on the desk by the window, won't be there tomorrow? half-full paper cups of cold coffee, leaves that came in with your shoes, is it all gone tonight? inching toward the exit, the desk left scratches on the floor, so deepwhat of those? aman, his silent mop in figure eights will leave no streak, what powerwhat power he has. 99 .matt ijenr.!j ~eajulls in buffalo in someone's library there will be a sepia-toned book with a red-checkered spine. the book itself is barely thicker than a vacation-resort pamphlet. it's organs, however, are brightly illuminated; the stoic anti-heroa soulless model for humanity. seven dreams in six hours: instead in stairs instill in the still; in dreams in staying in stay ... here's a nickel here is the ocean. 98 ll!jan l. gruenewalb on an ebucation greasy prints you left on the glass doors, on the desk by the windov1 won't be there tomorrow? half-full paper cups of cold coffee, leaves that came in with your shoes, is it all gone tonight? inching toward the exit, the desk left scratches on the floor, so deep what of those? aman, his silent mop in figure eights will leave no streak, what powerwhat power he has. credits editor: rebecca gerdes art coordinator: kelly andrews cover design and magazine layout: kelly andrews, scot peterson advisor: david dodd lee submission solicitation: eleroy ramsey, neil kelly, laurel wiederman-bieschke literature reviewers: neil kelly, laurel wiederman-bieschke art reviewers: kelly andrews, scot peterson special thanks lo: debbie richards and anne richmond for their experience, support, and excellent advice. the wolfson awards poetry7 st place winner ways of looking, by susie russell-replogle 2nd place winner stardust, by chris o ' brien honorable mention stomach ache, by john thompson; walnut road, by talia reed; ode to chai, budabest's best by laurel wiederman-bieschke short fiction 1 st place winner a season for bears, by jesus moya 2nd place winner nasty habit, by matt skibbe honorable mention the best mashed potatoes and gravy i ever had by neil kelly; untitled by anne schillingsburg; enough by chris o ' brien drama 1 st place winner the clerk, by colleen card 2nd place winner the means, act one, by zorina e. jerome analecta, number 36, 2006 ii poetry the age of conti cultivation coll budapest's bes! untitled bill me the cigarette b1 the clockshop s1 fireflies rebec« cup of noodles thanks, ma lm someday on wt garbage joshu1 ghosts terri ve legends of the i blue lightning stomach ache j trash tyler mo riptide miehe/, walnut road t1 laura pimient a birth announcement the world pains me with the always present splinter that living is . a frosty winter night a baby is born, rivers of crimson, desire and doubt, gushing out of her unwrapped insides. the end and the beginning are both here to this world you have come already knowing the hurt of a broken bone outside, they do not know of you and neither do they care; a carelessly planted seed in a migrant's womb. you shall never belong. your roots, your color and your name are flagrant reminders of your alien­ ation. in your homeland you would be an aztec prince amid flowering dahlias, surrounded by the singing of sparrows and your hands would grow to grab the guavas from the tree and the waists of blossoming women with radiant copper skin under the eternally shining sun. but here you are in the coldness of a nation that does not want you, the bruises on your face glowing like the brightness of a brothel at daylight. your body is restrained of movement, hungry young maggot wanting to stretch. freedom is a lost country to you, the life that awaits you will be all too familiar to this feeling. the day nears with the hesitancy of the sun's rays like the shyness of a deflowered girl. the light coyly lures us out of our caves where they congratulate your parents in a foreign tongue they will never understand. 38 ryan smith lusk at the lake for his fifth birthday lusk was given a birthday cake, but no cane no candles, his father said, a hand on his mother's shoulder, no force, but managing to hold he no candles. have you seen what hope does to a man? lusk did not understand. he had not yet seen lake superio grey water, not blue at all, a magnanimous periphery of shells that held no oceans, his father at the center of the long rope bridge, eyes wide, and lusk sitting at the far end saying will you come if i meet you out there, and hold your hand? the waves coming and coming, stealing his answer. non-fiction i charmi keranen biokinematics i don't want to misspeak. the humanoid starts out in a normal driving position. the occupant wants to continue going along at the speed and the trajectory that he was going until he gets redirected somehow by the structures of the vehicle. the ejection is certainly a process. it's not an instantaneous, you're all the way in and then you're all the way out. there's no teleporation that we know of. moving in this up and out kind of scenario. once he separates from the vehicle, he's going to travel in a trajectory that's well defined. 28 the launch angle that he gets and the initial velocity and then the force the acceleration due to gravity. he's going to follow an arc. he will follow a parabolic trajectory and it will be tangent to the path of travel of the vehicle. the fact that he was able to observe the ejection certainly suggests that there was a launching going on. there's a separation between the passenger and the vehicle. the door was still there during that time. there were dicing injuries, injuries consistent with glass, consistent with him leaving through the window portal. 2s mow of. jf scenario. 28 the launch angle that he gets and the initial velocity and then the force the acceleration due to gravity. he's going to follow an arc. he will follow a parabolic trajectory and it will be tangent to the path of travel of the vehicle. the fact that he was able to observe the ejection certainly suggests that there was a launching going on. there's a separation between the passenger and the vehicle. the door was still there during that time. there were dicing injuries, injuries consistent with glass, consistent with him leaving through the window portal. 29 evidence of a likely partial ejection kind of phenomenon, injuries sort of immediately prior to the complete ejection. some attempts at respiration gomg on. it doesn't appear that he actually expired inside the vehicle. his heart was still pumping. you would expect to see blood somewhere. there's nothing that i would point to in a photograph and say, look, right there, that's his ribs, or something like that. a body can certainly leave a deformation. the place where i would expect to see the marks is going to be at the belt line. he 's not restrained. he's up against the door. 30 charmi keranen weather permitting astride a jagged black gash, a gerrymandered line, women vice in, wielding eraser thighs. screw the context. the weather bites fine. flay pumpkinseed. dust cornmeal. cast your net on the other side. 31 ;rowd and back to the stage while 1ch or wink at a patron. working ler money for the night, working then the music begins to take off v notes, rose stops in a theatrical es her arms out as though she is to the air above our heads. :aken a single shot. my minolta is nd shoot. later, when i am alone ie into being. rose's chin is raised an enormous smile on her face. :l the edges of multiple bills spill 1dent against the darkness of the . in the moment, the photograph ath the flawless makeup. rose has nee is cheering for a little boy she rsfunction and spent much of his the audience senses this tonight glint stamatouicb &a.stern ~pit i. i'm sore on you, babe, sores on your back some, and to feel that chicken spine move, shiver; it is enough outta you, hush, hume, hum, here comes force to glove its gripped deliver, how stupid is a reptile de-functioned, exhausted knowledge gonna knead, gonna drool sum, and scare the girls away (junk some anyway), we'll stay, girl-say, you hanga' louise, we've gotta getta ol' john-boy'she's got completion in the universe and we need this answer, babe, through the noise­ delved in the void, dead, spent, black in the purse; the car crashed head first before john-boy's joint; no remains, development, or sharp point. ii. so, off made some plate went vincent, his dear catherine,­ shut up the ass-good, too, all colours bright, say, john boy took the ghost's green clay and found essential sugars to gust up a silver son's dirty hair, shorn and open, his eyes shot in the clear castle sky, let's go to the cave, boys, lets' leave the girls a mutiny and we'll find a way; bellies full of bubbling green bile, got off foot loosely and found the first floor of the yardcouple a yeast and ferms later and the small boy is done, say, we had the babe-lass, pigeon-toed, take him-she took 93 him well; now, then, down the spiraled, bleak, black metal, down the kids hiccuping awfully, down the way; dark now, second, shitting and romanticizing john boy's self to sleep, left burned in the throat the fire of bottles that nearly broke in snarls­ the wench a cur, ha, o, with breasts far too small, she found some english drab and hummed sum american tune, but, say, she was hot and red, boy, asking for our bottle, and, hm, vincent pleading to have not carried her nation's ghost­ where she took no an answer; before the babes in the basement that bartered for tobacco, too young, far too young, but found someway; kids fingering themselves in booths blotted out of slurred, peripheral sight, light outside by the bright american glow, now just, ha, vincent and john boy and a sore inclination for full lungs, up by prazskj brad, wat, turned the corner for the cobble and found a murked room, japanese goblins peering out through the cracks, o, of consciousness hoisted up by vincent's cat-in-wall, 94 came close, comically, through bar! and on porcelain-chinese-ameri1 porcelain-the girls, the two, laughing, poking fun, at the whole, the whole while, singing stupid american pop, soda rotting the hind teeth, ha, and colours came bearing smell and touch; the letters smack some sense hard and mean and cold when the stones broke the wet wasteland and stairs that led to warmth cradled babies that fell under dream some hours early, care and huff and kiss each other in bright rooms, vince led that way; but the old-man-bag who outwardly stood in protest of the open restaurant (never feeding, mind him, those mouths of pork and beef and goulash), es no restaurante, he sez, 'panish? 'talian? surelybreathing hard and slow; sheets heavy and hot, in noway; say, o, this a last hurrah! running, unclad, shared, and fat to the yup's sink to spit-up and laugh and talk and, god, tripfound that spit-up in the mouth of the sleeping where the sisters follow the boys' night along iii. english babes have mouths that yaw1 came close, comically, through bars and on porcelain-chinese-american porcelain-the girls, the two, laughing, poking fun, at the whole, the whole while, singing stupid american pop, soda rotting the hind teeth, ha, and colours came bearing smell and touch; the letters smack some sense hard and mean and cold when the stones broke the wet wasteland and stairs that led to warmth cradled babies that fell under dream some hours early, care and huff and kiss each other in bright rooms, vince led that way; but the old-man-bag who outwardly stood in protest of the open restaurant (never feeding, mind him, those mouths of pork and beef and goulash), es no restaurante, he sez, 'panish? 'talian? surelybreathing hard and slow; sheets heavy and hot, in noway; say, o, this a last hurrah! running, unclad, shared, and fat to the yup's sink to spit-up and laugh and talk and, god, tripfound that spit-up in the mouth of the sleeping where the sisters follow the boys' night along iii. english babes have mouths that yawn, 95 come to dance before moon beam, native to the rooted shoe, the old yups come here to diesand that grits between piers on cold-sore construction; spotted spiders beneath each girder still in part of the quick light, boys' feet smaller than their northern dates, mar the turks, see, that see the gray hair more than their brothers see their mothers, and squint-eyed young man found his, in the american brew, (bastard, call him) her lips fat from clasp, sour, little plum, to the free sprawled chandeliers that 'loominate softly children in the height, crooked teeth and slighted sightthe expanded smiles come from landed, light-toed, sweet legs, but the dreams of the german pilot stay still apart; he filed aimlessly into cobblestone, barraged in pattern near golden raised stair-cased homes, a fountain robbed stately by eastern thieves with string and weight­ their get-up broke hands when the longer touched the guards' changest. vitis and his cock saw honey through her dress, maybe blue, borrowed a note from the shallows of proper french, you are pretty, petty silk, the cock sit proper and right, there it comes! but too late, disappeared under the oak steps clogged in cobble, beat in shade, gone where rifles of goats and mortars laid 96 .qian garuin ~ometijilljl of tije lonel !1jdoj6owojt{) 11!9 s,a.1n1nn fiction vultures jordan eash (an excerpt) the 2010 analecta "jesus christ, you'd think a guy smart as you'd remember to put oil in his car before he drives out into the middle of the desert!" the metallic clash of the hood slamming down echoed over the cracked, shimmering landscape on either side of the highway and sent a pair of distant vultures scrambling into the air. the sound startled andy, too, who had been star­ ing at the birds. walt came around the front of the car to where andy stood polishing his glasses with a handkerchief. "friends of yours?" walt asked, nodding towards the vultures, now gently gliding specks in the clean sky. they seemed to face each other as they circled, like fencers delicately planning their next move. "what?" "those birds, you know 'em? you got the same haircut." he laughed. "you said you were a what.you call it?" "i'm an ornithologist." "that's it." walt ran his hands, coated in engine grease, through his stringy hair. he took a pack of marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one. "i asked you not to do that," andy said. he never took his eyes off the circling scavengers. they were getting closer to the ground, flying faster. "that's when we were in your car. we ain't in your car anymore." he sighed, sending a cloud of smoke rushing from his mouth and nose. walt leaned against the car, almost too hot to touch in the afternoon sun. andy stood straight, hands in his pockets, eyes on the sky. "so what should we do?" he asked. "you got a cell phone?" walt said. "yes. there's no signal, though." "shit." walt dropped the butt and crushed it with the toe of his boot. "never thought i'd die like this. thought maybe someone would knife me in chuckawalla, now i get out of the pen and i'm going to be eaten by buzzards all 62 'cause of some moron profess1 "now's as good a time "i was joking." andy licked his lips. ". "well, it ain't a very g< "what did you do?" "none of your damn b do, mister wizard? why you the vultures, circling < grunt, more like a snorting pi~ "i don't want to die." "yeah, you do. you ai time to die' and everything. ~ andy stared at walt fa bird came down on top of the distracted by something on th "did you know that a called a 'venue?"' he said. " pick clean." he smiled. "it's walt raised an eyebro' factory." the object of the sma' the larger one dropped a shn "she said i was too di "who did?" "my wife." walt took out another andy took a deep bre they-" ves out into the middle of the g landscape on either side of ,ndy, too, who had been star:h a handkerchief. pecks in the clean sky. they rou were a what you call it?" :k of marlboros from his shirt vengers. they were getting :ling a cloud of smoke rushing . oon sun. andy stood straight, ght i'd die like this. thought o be eaten by buzzards all the 2010 analecta 'cause of some moron professor and his broke down car." "now's as good a time to die as any," andy said. "i was joking." andy licked his lips. "you never told me you were in prison." "well, it ain't a very good way to hitch a ride, is it? tellin' everybody you're a felon." "what did you do?" "none of your damn business is what i did." walt kicked at the crushed cigarette on the pavement. "what'd you do, mister wizard? why you wanna die out here?" the vultures, circling close above their meal, passed too close to one another. the larger one let out an angry grunt, more like a snorting pig than a sound any bird should make. "i don't want to die." andy blinked. "yeah, you do. you ain't taken your eyes off those nasty birds this whole time and then you're all 'now's a good time to die' and everything. what, your wife leave you?" andy stared at walt for a moment, and then looked away. the birds drifted calmly to the ground. the larger bird came down on top of the carrion and began to pull it apart. the smaller one landed a few feet away. it seemed distracted by something on the ground. andy watched it dance around the strange object. "did you know that a group of vultures is called a 'kettle' when they're in the air, but on the ground they're called a 'venue?'" he said. "and the parsis in india, when they die they leave their bodies outside for the vultures to pick clean." he smiled. "it's called a 'sky burial."' walt raised an eyebrow. "right. again with the death stuff. it's a good thing we didn't break down near a rope factory." the object of the small bird's attention leapt at its bald head. a snake. the little vulture let out a crackling yelp. the larger one dropped a shred of meat from its beak as both birds took to the air again . "she said i was too distant." andy said. "who did?" "my wife." walt took out another cigarette. "can't imagine why." andy took a deep breath. "you know, the great thing about vultures is-" his voice was strained. "you see, they" 63 the 2010 analecta andy sobbed. he stepped backwards against the car, slid down to the searing asphalt. he put his hands over his eyes and his knees to his chest. walt sighed. "god's sake," he said, "get up. she's just a woman, right? you don't need her." "she was the only person i knew." "how jong were you together?" "since high school." "how long's that?" "thirty years. she left me for another guy in my department." "i'd kick his ass." "what would that solve?" "shit ifl know. it'd make me feel better, though, and it has, let me tell you." walt dug his hand through his hair again and sat down next to andy, his legs splayed strait out ahead of him. "tell you what i do. i don't know anybody. and it don't bother me one bit. i get to a place and feel like stayin' there, i do. ifl get tired of it, i go. never need no­ body's permission. and look how i am." "you're a felon." "i'm free! i do what i want because all i got to worry about is me. hell, ifl were you, i'd thank god i was free of that old ball and chain. think of everything you missed out on all those years. college? i never been, but i've heard stories. and you with just her. damn." 64 poetry ginger ale and amare1 shawn heston i went bowling at an elk's loe with johnny depp. it was dark but he was upset they weren't bowling well. then i threw one into the wall a girl i went to high school w brought out drinks. i never liked her but she had a great body. leaning over a balcony, she might fall but i couldn't stop staring ... she said she knew the door cc and her father was angry. we were in a mcdonald's dri' she gave me two singles for a cheeseburger and jalape1 the screen said i ordered pan his voice told me to pull forn and keep my foot on the puss: :l :qian garuin ~omet~in.!j tlf t~e lone{!i grauif.9 this new melancholy tastes of the bitter figs we had slathered in honey to drown their tough texture to force them to be sweet the way the august sun smothered me following the burial. i only knew her through grainy photographs danny carried on pilgrimages back to tiffin. i never cared enough to hate her diamond ring. i never thought of her breathing. and now danny's spirited me away; here where they were and loved, where they conceived a newborn son. perhaps it was an apology; perhaps it was unnecessary that eventually i dressed and left. the truth refused coercion. the page obstinately remained blank on her pillow the way it silentlyin brilliancewas over. 97 during the day i drive else doing the same. behind the vanishing t to do now is make t. and then i wait. i am at the epicenter of most earthly entanglements by: jacqueline becker often while watching bumblebees i wonder, i wonder how it is they are able to fly. science says they shouldn't. laying in the cool grass staring at the clouds, watching them move, slowly revolving, i remember i forgot to notice them yesterday. when the tree branches freeze and have icicles, but the ground stays warm and green, i ask myself, if i were taller would my head be colder? night at winter is always more beautiful, it has more stars and the moon seems brighter, yet often no one looks long enough to notice. i saw a spider spin a web, its beauty so carefully and intricately constructed, only to be torn apart minutes after completion. the 2011 analecta page 89 parents. i know it's a pain turn to you cause my old 11 be in trouble. i'm not etty valuable. if he got he can afford the loss, 1ld be going as soon as planned on was an idle of georgian bay on entertain the inevitable keep my mouth shut and lock sunday night when asked questions later. ay morning. they didn't >ut no one who under­ ~ate. every time i heard e law school, i drove ced that i was only trying >r a boatload of students my mouth shut. i took it aypromise.