December 2024

Immolation is the sincerest form of battery.

JEREMY TENENBAUM, FOUNDING EDITORwith ARIA BRASWELL AND FIONNA FARRELL

COVER AND HEADER ILLUSTRATIONS BY MAX EARNEST

Please subscribe to SORTES through Patreon

SORTES is supported through the beneficent Patreonage of

BRANDON DEORE • IRIS JOHNSTON • JONATHAN MCLELLAND •
KATIE TAYLOR • KELLY RALABATE • PATRICK EBNER • ROBERT POPE • AND SHEILA MURPHY

SORTES is indexed or abstracted in EBSCO

JOIN THE SUAVE SORTES MAILING LIST

From PHILADELPHIA, the WORDSHOP of the WORLD

Cover image

Egon Baxter
“Squirrel Lady”

"I'm glad you moved in so the house will look like something again. It's sad seeing it rundown after knowing the way it used to be -- the lawn was always neat. Mowed and trimmed. Clean. Everything looked clean. Not like now; it's been vacant for two years. But nothing else; no shrubs or flowers out front. A little severe, you know? The backyard is filled with small trees. It's like a forest or a cemetery with that shrine to her husband. Ever look close at the shrine? Found something near it? Curious to see it. Mrs. Rohrthorke built it: she was good with her hands: she used concrete and stone like an artist. She had built all kinds of things back there -- bird baths and seed feeders and gnome statuettes. I saw gnomes everywhere the first time I was invited. They looked like an invading army! She even made little concrete coffins out of tin cans for some of the squirrels that died. She had a little graveyard in a corner with the markers and everything. I never thought it was strange, but I was careful not to tell anybody. People talk.""The windows. It was the windows that made the place so forbidding. The windows looked clean, but the shades were always drawn shut. That was odd. Never saw anybody looking out. Never opened either even on a warm day; at least, never any in front. It didn't help that the house is at the end of this gravel road. It looked abandoned somehow; empty. That didn't help. People thought she stayed in all day long and did God knows what behind those windows. But the reputation wasn't fair. She wasn't strange; at least I didn't think so. Just shy.""But she did go out. To the market and the dry cleaners and all the places wives go to do for their husbands and families. She was married for years until the mister…disappeared. Nice people. You think after what I said they weren't? If the mailman brought your mail to her house by mistake, she'd walk it right over. She was always quiet, but her husband always said hello. Otis his name was. He had a little company, I think, or managed one. Plumbing or roofing. Something practical, I don't know. He made a good living and they seemed perfectly normal. Well…""No children. The neighbors gossiped about that. Wondered about their love life. Used to say I was getting between them! Imagine, just because I liked to chat with Otis about my garden. But otherwise, they were seen at the movies and the supermarket and they'd always say hello and everyone liked them even if they kept to themselves. There were other couples without children, so it wasn't that strange. People in the village talked to them everywhere. Or he did to them. She was quiet. But back at the house they kept to themselves, no visitors, no friends, no family, no relatives, nobody. Not one visitor in all those years that I lived here across the street. They seemed sad somehow because of that, at least to me. But never anything but sad. Lonely maybe. Isolated.""Maybe because she had no children, she loved to care for animals. Hurt animals or abandoned ones. Birds and lost cats and what have you. Squirrels. The baby squirrel. That's what started the whole business. She loved that little squirrel. But not her husband; he didn't like it at all. Tell you the truth, she was a little chilly with him, thinking about it, her husband, that is. See them together, and he'd do all the talking. She'd just smile. That's all, smile. Never a word. But she was happy and alive with the squirrel. I'd see her in the backyard with the squirrel on her shoulder once he grew up and was tame. He'd hold on tight while she raked the leaves under that little forest of hers or weeding the garden or whatever. She'd sometimes talk to him, not like a crazy person, but the way you'd talk to a favorite cat or dog. And see how the branches of those trees come right up to the top floor windows out back? See? She let them in that way. Yep, the little babies, as she called them, came right into the house. That is…later.""No, I don't think they got along well enough as married people. From what I've told you, they weren't affectionate out in public. I don't know what they thought of one another except they never argued. She used to say to me, 'Why don't you marry him now, Agnes? You do want to, don't you? You dyed yourself blond for Otis, didn't you?' Ha! You see, she was just insecure and would say all sorts of things when Otis and I would talk and such. Sometimes he'd jokingly put his arm around me laugh and say, 'Let's get rid of that Janey.' Imagine. He even invited me along on one of his hunting trips. The idea! He was a card alright.""Otis liked his hunting trips. That was a big strain in their marriage and she'd tell people, tell mehow awful it was for her that her husband killed deer and such. He'd bring them home, strapped to the top of his car, and after she wouldn't come out for days. He made her dress and render the animals that he'd hunted. When she finally would come out, she looked...shaken...no, no, much more than that…traumatized. Each time it seemed to get worse for her. It affected her badly. I asked her one day if she ever complained to him, about how it upset her, but she just looked at me.""I don't know how long it could have gone on with what he brought home from the hunt. She said he was always asking her to join him, up there in the woods in Maine. You know, he disappeared on a hunting trip up there. He kept nagging at her to come with him and when she finally did, he disappeared. I was out of town myself at the time and found out about it later. They found his car way up in those north woods, near the Canadian border. Out there in the middle of nowhere. Isolated, rough country. She was too frightened she said to go on with him, so she'd driven up with him to the lodge and she stayed in a hotel in town. She brought her bike up on the rack where they usually strapped the dead animal. Don't know how they would have brought it back if he'd killed anything. They found the car because Mrs. Rohrthorke told them she knew about where he hunted. She knew exactly where it was even though she never went with him, at that lodge house he rented deep in the forest. Guess he told her often enough where it was. She used to tell me, too. I checked it once on a map in the library. Real isolated, believe you me. Think maybe she had a map and the directions. Never could figure out why she went on that trip. She had Mona from the market look after the little animals while she was gone. They never did find a body. ""She still has the old car locked up in the garage. Never used it again, but never sold it neither. Guess she couldn't let go of the past. Got around on that bike of hers well enough though, and by taxi until she bought the other car. But she never sold the first one. I think it was all she had left of him, even if the marriage wasn't happy, because he always did the driving. I guess she felt something for him. Marriage is a funny thing. Never been myself. Never met the right man. Sure, Otis and I got on some. Friends you know. I mean, I got the idea he was thinking of me in that way men have, but I…but I never missed it. How could I do that to Janey? I had my job and nieces and nephews. Never went in for that romantic nonsense. I think she did. But Otis wasn't really her type. I kind of liked him. Maybe if I had met him earlier. But he wouldn't leave her; didn't want to pay alimony. Oh, what am I saying? I am talking so.""He must have had a good life insurance policy because she didn't go to work or remarry after Otis disappeared. Somehow, she finally had him declared legally dead. Took awhile, with all kinds of waiting periods and documentation, newspaper ads here and there, but she did. She bought that used car even though she still had her husband's in the garage. She didn't want to sell it, she said, but she felt strange driving it. It was around that time that she went in for caring for her animals in a big way and that's when people started calling her the Squirrel Lady, because you'd see all the squirrels she fed hopping around her front yard and on the back side of the roof. Squirrel Lady. That's what they all called her. I never did. I would never call people names. But you knew something was a little funny. I mean, later. Not at first.""I think some people are made for people and others are not. I can understand that. But she didn't seem sad; she even seemed happy after Otis disappeared…died. I sure missed him. He used to stop by…oh, well; he'd stop by because he was just a big flirt. No regrets if you know what I mean. Like that French song says. Je ne regret nothin'. Not her neither. And life was easy afterwards. Peaceful. Even though she didn't have to budget, she wore plain, nice clothes that she bought from the Salvation Army riding around town with that old bike she had and she smiled all the time as if she were listening to some beautiful, secret music. She even started talking to herself a little and laughing out loud, so mothers would pull their children close to them when they passed her on the street. Maybe because she lived alone and she forgot herself. Eventually, she had groceries delivered to the house and rarely went out except for the back yard. She'd mow the front lawn and that was the only time you'd see her. Always kept the house nice. She did start inviting me in for coffee or tea now when she'd see me from out front, and the house was a neat as a pin. Simple but pretty. She had a quiet taste in her home and herself. Even her old clothes looked good. This must be around '68 or so and she looked like an elderly hippie. Independent. But never crazy. Nothing like that. Always seemed right in the head with me. Just…eccentric, or independent-minded. I liked her. It was just the squirrels; so many of them that she fed, and some she kept in a room upstairs. That was what I meant about the branch. The little lame ones could come out and exercise on the branch. Isn't that silly? But she thought about them that way. She was sensitive.""When people started calling her the Squirrel Lady the name stuck and gave her a reputation. She was hurt by that name and what people said and came out hardly at all after that. The house being isolated didn't help. There weren't any neighbors next to her; just me diagonally across the street. Her house was surrounded by wooded lots back then. Now you see they've built one house next door. She wouldn't have liked that, in fact, she owned the lot and it was sold right after she died. She left all her money and house to some animal foundation. That's when they realized how many squirrels had been in the house. How many? I don't know, thirty or forty. On top of all that, I never knew it, but he left her an interest in that business he owned or managed; had had a man run it for her. Anyway, with the life insurance and the business she had more than five million in the bank when she died. Can you believe it? And her shopping at the Salvation Army. But, like I said, she bought those used clothes and made them look good; never went out to movies or anywhere much and then not at all. Never traveled. When she died her millions really convinced people she was crazy. But some people find something in life and for her it was helping squirrels and other little animals. Did I mention the cats? No? Well there were plenty of those, too, but not nearly as many as the squirrels. She kept the cats inside away from the little squirrels. Don't know how she did it all that time. Then she stopped when they all got old and died. Said she couldn't bear having any more of her babies die. I used to think, if she really loved them so much, maybe she should have left him. Otis, I mean. She didn't care for Otis, not really. Not like I did; I mean you know as a friend…neighbor. Maybe he didn't like her so much either. I don't know.""She and I got to watching the Sullivan show Sunday nights the last two or three years it was on. One night when I was over, she started talking about Otis. Now that was strange. Not what she said. She just said she was surprised to realize he had been gone almost ten years. She said she thought of him sometimes and wished she had arranged for a funeral. I thought that was odd. I mean, I reminded her that he had…we had agreed…that is, he disappeared. I told her there was no one and nothing to bury because his body…was up in the woods somewhere. She looked up at me from pouring some tea for a second; looked at me funny and laughed and shook her head and said, yes, Agnes, but it would have put an end to it. A real funeral. A real resting place, not some...the thinking about him; if she had buried him. What had happened and if he had felt pain. Did he feel pain, she had asked me. I mean what, what could I say, he was up alone in the North Woods I would say. She hoped he hadn't felt pain when it happened, then she looked funny and I said maybe he had fallen and hit his head maybe. 'Is that how it happened Agnes?' she busted out. Then she said real sudden, 'What if it had been me, Agnes? Then she asked me how I could say he was up there in the woods. 'Something went wrong, right, Agnes? Something changed your mind about it all. It wasn't supposed to be that way.' Ha! What could I do but laugh in her face? He went up there all right. Hunting. Period.""He had to be because I…well, I just happened to be in Vermont on vacation and she got in touch with my job and that's why…that's how I came to bring…her home. She wanted to remember his passing as 'Something swift, without pain.' I couldn't tell her that was how it happened but I never did. I mean, that's how it had to have happened, right? Without pain, that's what she said again and again -- and without fear. It always seemed she said that as if she had known what happened. She must have imagined it many times. Then she went on and said, 'He kept all his hunting things in the trunk and I kept them there. Didn't want to disturb him…my memory of him. You know, it's amazing I think of him more frequently now, he's never far from me.' That was odd; I asked her, you mean from your thoughts and she looked up at me and answered, 'Yes, yes, Agnes, you know he's…never far…from my thoughts. You know that. It was a good thing Agnes that you were visiting your sister in Vermont that summer so you could meet me and drive the car back.' And so we could agree up there we wouldn't ever talk about it…ever again...Yes, yes, you drove me right back and we don't talk about it.' That's what she told me again and again. My! I am talking so. Haven't gotten out lately. Don't see many people nowadays.""I felt bad when she died. Because of the way we found her. I mean, she always mowed that front lawn right up to the end. Must have been in her seventies. And then for two weeks it went untended. I started calling over on the phone. No answer. I went up to the house. Janey, Janey! No answer. So, I called the police, and they found her in bed. Not a pretty sight in the middle of the summer. The autopsy revealed something…I wasn't sure what that was but they said it was something in the brain. Must have happened in her sleep. Instant death. Not a bad way to go if you ask me. Same as her husband, I mean…I think so, rapid, that is. And if you ask me, I thought she was one of the happiest people there ever was, at least, after Otis was gone…disappeared, you know."

"I've missed seeing her mow the lawn. I miss her. So I'm glad you've bought the house. Good to see it occupied. I guess you'll have to remove the car. She sold the one she drove years ago but held onto that one that belonged to Otis…oh, you had it removed ? I didn't see…must have been out. Where? The scrap yard? Saw them compacting it? Oh, that's a relief, I mean for you. The tires were deflated, I know. You found the keys in the car? You tried to open the trunk? What for? The trunk was sealed! Did I know? No…I…we…she sealed in those things of his. To remember him by. Just like one of those little tin can and concrete coffins she made for the squirrels…oh, for the life of me, I don't understand why she never got rid of that car. It was just a '62 Impala. As if she were holding onto…would have been better to have gotten rid of it long ago.... I liked her but like I said she was odd. Missed Otis a little when he ….we both did. He was lovey-dovey to me more than once. Couldn't help but like him. I would have married him. But...well, not in my life, I guess. Never you mind what I say. It's the heat, ha! Hope you got that car out easy. You watched them compact it, right? Gone, already? That's a relief…oh my, there I go again. I have been talking my head off.""Bring your husband and children around some day. Nice to see children on this quiet block. Otis used to say, 'Janey don't want children, Agnes, but I bet you'd give me a brood easy.' Oh that Otis. Otis and Janey. The odd couple. I liked her but she lived in her own world and no one paid her any mind. So, it's nice to have you in that house. Maybe I can…people will forget. Used to make me nervous looking at the house all empty with the car sitting in the garage. Glad you got rid of it. Good riddance, too. Because, people talk. They did about her. About Janey. Poor Janey. Poor Otis. Poor me while I'm at it!"

Henri Meschonnic
Translated by
Don Boes and Gabriella Bedetti
Four Poems

From Puisque je suis ce buisson, Arfuyen, 2001

more noise
in the world of head
than in the armies
of starsnot a cry
but a silence
from out of so many mouths
from beyond wordsI came out
of these mouths
I am silent
within all the words
.
.
.
plus de bruit
dans ma tête monde
que dans les armées
d’étoilespas un cri
mais un silence
de tant de bouches
hors des motsje suis sorti
de ces bouches
je me tais
dans tous les mots

From Infiniment à venir, Bernard Dumerchez, 2004

a war
all of this war
it is every war
we are not the ones who remember
all this pain
creates our history
and our history
not us
leads us
.
.
.
une guerre
toute cette guerre
c’est toutes les guerres
ce n’est pas nous qui nous souvenons
c’est toute cette douleur
qui fait notre histoire
et notre histoire
nous mène
pas nous

From Infiniment à venir, Bernard Dumerchez, 2004

it is not silence
that we hear
since there is no longer any language
no one to talk to
no one to keep quiet
I'm looking for words
but there is no longer any meaning
.
.
.
ce n’est pas du silence
qu’on entend
puisqu’il n’y a plus de langage
personne pour parler
personne pour se taire
je cherche des mots
mais il n’y a plus de sens

From Infiniment à venir, Bernard Dumerchez, 2004

to describe is still to keep things
here we do not keep
anything anymore what does it mean to describe
these are the words we placed
in the museum
a museum of words under glass
from the time they laughed
together for no good reason
from the time there were
names
.
.
.
décrire c’est encore tenir les choses
ici on ne tient
plus rien qu’est-ce que c’est décrire
c’est les mots qu’on a mis
au musée
un musée de mots sous verre
du temps qu’ils riaient
entre eux pour un oui pour un oui
du temps qu’il y avait
des noms

Stephen Baily
“The Farmer, His Daughter, And The Traveling Salesman”

The outer band of Hurricane Moskowitz passed over Farmer Brown's house just as the veteran agriculturist was slurping his evening soup. Hey, ho, the wind and the rain! Together they made such a racket he almost didn't hear the doorbell."Now who can that be in this weather?"His daughter's ice-blue eyes widened. "What if it's -- you don't think it could be -- oh my gosh, I hope it isn't -- him?"He dropped his spoon and, ruffling her blond curls, got up from the table."Don't you worry, girl. If he has the nerve to show his face, Old Bess and I will know how to deal with him."Old Bess was his pet name, not for his wife, who was long dead from overexposure to laundry detergent, but for his trusty shotgun, which he grabbed on his way to the door.Feebly illuminated by a forty-watt bulb, a stranger in a sodden seersucker suit stood fidgeting on the porch. Rain dripped from the brim of his straw boater onto the business end of Old Bess as Brown wagged it under his nose."Lie to me, mister, and I'll take the top of your head off. Is it you've been slipping those threats under our door?""Huh? Threats?""Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about -- the flyers -- the ones saying the viper is coming."The stranger indignantly repudiated the suggestion."I don't know anything about any flyers, or any viper. The name's Billig, and I'm sorry to disturb you, but my car broke down up the road a piece, and I was hoping I could use your phone to call a tow truck."Confronted with the card Billig produced from his wallet, Brown reluctantly took his finger off the trigger."Traveling salesman, eh?""Twenty years on the road. Two-ply toilet paper's my line.""You don't say. I'll tell you what then. Our phone's out, and it could be days before it's fixed, but you're welcome to spend the night and, first thing in the morning, I'll drive you to Ripoff's Garage.""That's very kind of you.""Think nothing of it. I wasn't raised to turn my back on a stranger in distress. Unfortunately," he added, "we don't have a spare room, so you'll have to share a bed with my eighteen-year-old daughter. That's her at the table."Under the stark light of the chandelier-cum-ceiling-fan, she sat with her spoon suspended halfway between her bowl and her mouth. A wayward gobbet of cream-of-mushroom soup had come to rest in the dimple on her chin."If it's all right with her," Billig said, diplomatically.Before replying, Brown stepped outside and drew the door shut behind him."The truth is, Billig," he said, over the hammering of the rain on the porch roof, "Elspeth has never been with anyone, and you seem like just the sort of man of the world to teach her what's what. You are a man of the world, aren't you?""Yes, but don't let that mislead you. I still live with my widowed mother, and I've never been with anyone either."Brown menaced him with Old Bess again. "You expect me to believe a city slicker like you doesn't know about the birds and the bees?""I've never heard Mother mention anything like that.""No matter. All you have to remember, once you're under the covers with Elspeth, is to put your -- speak up if I'm not making myself clear enough -- your big thing in her hairy place.""Big thing -- hairy place -- got it. Anything else?""Well," Brown reflected, "as long as our focus is on education, did you hear the one about the professor who dies and goes to hell?""No, I can't say I have.""While the devil's showing him around, they come to a fiery pit. 'That,' says the devil, 'is the lake of lava you're going to be spending eternity in.' 'What's called lava above ground's called magma below,' the professor says. And the devil looks at him and says, 'Why do you think you're here?' "

After dinner, the three of them adjourned to the parlor, where it was Brown's custom before bedtime to read to his daughter from his much-thumbed copy of Farmer Alfalfa's Barnyard Bible (edited, and with an introduction, by Clifton Fadiman). The pericope he chose while the storm continued to rage was titled “The Chicken and the Fireman.”If you're like most people -- it began -- you probably think that, whether she came before the egg or after it, Henny Penny crossed the road only to get to other side. Not so! What happened was she was scratching in the dirt for seeds one day when she saw a fire truck with its siren wailing pull up in front of a neighboring farmhouse. A busy two-lane blacktop brought her up short as she scurried toward the smoke, but she fluttered safely over the traffic and arrived just as a fireman jumped off the back of the truck and rushed into the house with a length of hose unspooling behind him.He reappeared almost immediately, shaking his head."Stovetop blaze. No big deal. Off you go now."Henny Penny balked. "Not before you tell me why you wear red suspenders."The fireman sighed. "Why is it that's the first thing every chicken asks me?""Elephants ask you something else?""I don't meet many elephants.""Then allow me to repeat myself. Why do you wear red suspenders?"In lieu of a verbal response, the fireman shucked off his suspenders, and his canvas pants fell in a heap around his ankles.His knees? Knobby. His calves? Knotty. His panties? Naughty.

In the morning, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle, though occasional gusts continued to send branches crashing down on the heads of hapless joggers. When Billig emerged from Elspeth's bedroom, he found Brown impatiently waiting for him, once again with Old Bess at the ready."I take it the viper's been back?""He slid another warning under the door during the night.""That would explain the gun -- though not why you're aiming it at me."Brown scowled. "Did you seriously think you could sleep with my daughter and there wouldn't be any consequences?"The question, though not unreasonable, was, in Billig's view, moot, because nothing had happened between him and Elspeth."I tried, but she wouldn't let me touch her without benefit of clergy.""That's my girl! All the same, you've compromised her in the eyes of the world, so now you'll have to make an honest woman of her."

After the service, the newlyweds proceeded from the drive-through chapel to the local Motel 6, where Brown, by way of a gift, had reserved the bridal suite for them. Billig hung his head when he proved unequal to the task of carrying Elspeth over the threshold, but she assured him the fault was entirely hers."I haven't been throwing up enough between meals."No sooner were they inside than she stripped off her late mother's wedding gown and arranged her person in a receptive posture on the heart-shaped water bed. He was working up the courage to insinuate his nose into her armpit when there was a knock on the door."Who's there?""It's me -- the viper!"Elspeth shrank back against the headboard. "Don't let him get me, Billig!"On quaking legs, he went to the door and opened it partway. Before him stood a stoop-shouldered old man with a broomstick in his left hand. Sudsy water was sloshing over the sides of the wooden bucket depending from his right hand."Hello there! I vas vondering if you vant your vindows viped."Suddenly conscious that he was in the altogether, Billig snatched the rabbit ears off the TV console and did his best with them to conceal his birds and bees."What a moron I feel like.""In that case," the viper said, "who better than you to tell me vy the moron jumped off the Empire State Building.""That's an easy one," Elspeth piped up. "He wanted to make a hit on Broadway.""Too bad the Empire State Building's not on Broadvay."She shrugged. "Talk about a moron."

Rita Taryan
“A Couple”

The Mardikyans take their constitutional every morning from seven to eight. By eight-o-five, it's too late................Mrs. Mardikyan is up first, shaking Mr. Mardikyan who at the age of eighty-five maybe deserves to "snooze a minute more" -- if only she'd let him."There's only this hour. Do I ask for much?" she wails."No, darling. Yes, my everything. I'm at your service, captain."Mr. Mardikyan likes to tease his wife. She says that she is not amused. But they are both relieved when there is friendliness between them................Mr. Mardikyan wrests himself out of bed. He is six-foot-two reduced from six-foot-four by age, a subduing influence. He is shorter and kinder than he was in his youth.Mr. Mardikyan sits on the foot of the bed. He pulls up his pants one leg at a time as per the familiar advice of his Zen meditation app and his mama a long-long time ago.Mrs. Mardikyan is hitting together metal objects in the kitchen................Mr. Mardikyan -- let us call him Hayk, Mrs. Mardikyan does, but let us keep calling Mrs. Mardikyan Mrs. Mardikyan even though Hayk calls her Talin and affectionately Lin because she wouldn't like it if we called her that, Lin, a nickname nobody not even her own parents ever called Mrs. Mardikyan only Mr. Mardikyan, that is, Hayk -- introduces a lightness, humor, which -- emboldened by Christ's hand holding a smiling pomegranate: a frieze pattern translated with reflectional symmetry on to wallpaper in the breakfast nook -- is a tension reliever."Hurry and drink," says Mrs. Mardikyan unwavering."There's no saying no to the general," says Hayk burning his lips on the microwaved coffee................Mrs. Mardikyan pulls on her brown wool coat, double-lined gloves, and wide leather shoes over two pairs of socks. She is always cold, as though she is grieving. Her blood gets diverted to her heart muscle.Hayk hesitates in the entrance way. He considers what to wear. He sighs gregariously. For him, despite the indifference of passing decades, it still matters what season it is.Mrs. Mardikyan cuts in front of her husband, between his rapt rosy dawdling and the white sheenless wall. She stands on her toes, unhooks his fleece, hands it to him and, while up there, strains the hovering segment of snapped pull-chain that switches off the ceiling bulb. In her seventy-seven years Mrs. Mardikyan, too, has shrunk. Plus she has wrinkled head-to-toe immersed in time. Like all of us, she started life without furrows, crow's feet, receding gums, a turkey neck, bad hips, bad back, losses................Hayk puts on the jacket. He is like a sheep in sheep's clothing. They leave the heated house.

It's still dark, a mid December moon is holding energetically. There is a sallow lackluster sunrise just ahead................Hayk licks the ball of his right index finger, he sticks his weathervane flesh-up into the sky as though assessing from what direction the wind is coming. He laughs benignly.He says, "Would you look at that. Storm's brewing off the Coast of Wife.""You think you're clever," she says, hunching.Hayk reaches around his wife's shoulders and holds her close. The weight of her husband's arm alleviates the disconcerting sensation Mrs. Mardikyan has, whenever she steps outdoors, of floating. Her shallow breathing is unobserved by others -- a neighbor dragging to the curb his incontinent bulldog; a whistle-ready crossing guard eyeing east and west; a tobacco-chewing deli owner bringing up the roll-down solid metal gate -- butHayk remarks."Everything all right, Lin?""You should have worn a hat, Hayk.""Right you are, Madam President."There is uncompromising consideration between them................They walk slowly along the sidewalk, a downwards slope encourages -- anyway forces. Gingko nuts and black walnuts, sweetgum and honey locust seed pods and tossed bottle caps, too, crack underfoot. The highest branches on London planes squeak freely. A listless sun rises on their normal route.

Hayk slowly narrates brisk city blocks."Streets not crowded. No dog walkers yet. Oh, spoke too soon. What kind of dog is that? Two headed dog? No, two dogs. Excitable puppies. Big ones. Small ones. Medium ones. How do they walk so many? Impressive. Maybe I'll do that. Can you imagine me walking ten dogs at a time? What if they all decide to go in different directions? God bless them. What else."Hayk's voice is thin and quivers. It used to boom overhead. But Hayk still has, for Mrs. Mardikyan, a reassuring ageless ability to sing-say."Let's see."That's interesting. Guy has a green scarf on. Green must be the color of the day."That bus poster's a kitty-cat from a cartoon, I think."Tree has some fresh mulch around it. That's a good-looking tree. Good luck to you, tree."Woman eating her breakfast on-the-go. Looks pretty good. I'm jealous. Going to have to grab it from her."Man with a green bike. Green is a vibrant theme this morning."Main Street."The market's setting up. Squashes. Apples. Tons of apples. I guess people are into the apple thing. Maybe we should get a couple, maybe not."Walking down Washington."What's that about? Guy jogging with a big coat on. Wrong jogging outfit. If you're going to jog, do it right. Godspeed, guy jogging in a big coat."Sign says 'Park it here.' What's that about?"Somebody painted black spots on an orange pumpkin and put it out here in this box for people to see. The strange things people do to make their life interesting. A spotted pumpkin on display. They want it there forever, I guess."Twelve seconds to get across the road. Let's see if we make this light."We made it. With no seconds to spare. Congratulations, us."A dog wearing a green sweater with half-sleeves. I've never seen that before."Man at the fence with binoculars. Spying. What could that be about? I should call the cops."Walking to Lafayette Street. Nothing going on here. A big nothing burger."Isn't today the solstice? Feels brighter already. The good news is that it's going to be thirty seconds lighter and that will cheer everyone up. There's no question about that."Let's see."Very colorful."That's nice."It's unbelievable what people do."I've never seen that before."Biggest store Santa I've ever seen. God bless them."Happy dogs. Sad dogs. All the dogs look the same. It's very interesting."As they take the last corner and head back home, Hayk says, "Brr. Cold.""You should have worn a hat," she says."I don't mind it," he says.Hayk never lets Mrs. Mardikyan have the last word. If Hayk ever let Mrs. Mardikyan have the last word, that would mean he didn't care any more and it would be the end of things between them................As they pass the primary school, PS whatchamacallit, Hayk pulls Mrs. Mardikyan in even closer. Mornings are bracing, and they are all we have right now.

Mrs. Mardikyan rushes into the house as quickly as fifty-five minutes ago she rushed out; she is not any less desperate now to overtake the moment. She tugs at her fingers, agitates her zipper. She finds almost every second of consciousness dangerous................Hayk lingers on the concrete steps. He stomps his feet on the rubber mat. He peeks into the mailbox. He make-believes that he is still on the walk."It's too early," she says referring to mail delivery, and hanging her coat."You never know," he says, knowing full well.Hayk repeatedly lifts and lowers the lid of the mailbox that squeaks. Ever since he was a kid he's had trouble with transitions but, whether he likes it or not, something new is always beginning.The front door yawns and whines like an "aw, do I have to.""Stop dilly-dallying," says Mrs. Mardikyan, dislodging the heel of one shoe with the toe of the other shoe and the heel of the second shoe with a big arthritic toe. She isn't spared toe pain, but when she doesn't bend down she is spared a backache. She slips into felt slippers."Yes. Stopping. Forgive me, your majesty," says Hayk in the threshold but his voice falters: the volume is unconvincing, the notes lack contrast, the joke is maybe old. He is perhaps, momentarily, holding a teensy grudge.Hayk comes inside, shuts and locks the door. He can be childish, thinks Mrs. Mardikyan taking her husband's fleece and on her tender tippy-toes hanging it for him, though he stands a head taller. She leads him -- he's like a naughty schoolboy dragging his feet -- down the hallway reinforced with dark parquet................They enter the bright kitchen whose flooring is tiles painted with vine scrolls and peacocks drinking from amphoral vessels. There is a broad beam of lively sunshine in the breakfast nook.Now Hayk is excited again. He uses, as the Zen Buddhists say, his beginner's mind. He muses about where passing thoughts go.Draped over his and her chairs are the his and her purple sweaters Mrs. Mardikyan knit. She climbs into hers because she feels numb and craves texture. There is a hollow feeling where her heart is supposed to be. She stands at the sink and looks at nothing out the window, as though there is nothing out the window.Hayk sits down and leans back grazing, perhaps nudging, his sweater which slides off the chair. The sweater flies into the air and lands on purple-black eyespots on blue-green plumage."Konchol?" she asks flatly."Wonderful! Want me to help?" he says animatedly, not rising from his chair."No. Sit. I'll do it. Pick up your sweater please," she says, not turning around."Oops," he says, laughing. "My wife has eyes in the back of her head."Hayk leans down and picks up the sweater. He shakes it and tries to cover his chair with it. He pats it and smooths it but when he lets go, the sweater takes another tremendous jump, which amuses Hayk."That's interesting," he says."What?" she says, knowing what."Should I read something?" Hayk says, kicking the sweater under the table.Her husband can be so like a child, thinks Mrs. Mardikyan."Yes," she says."The Times?""Fine.""Out loud?"Suddenly a squirrel, hickory nuts-in-cheek, scampers up a communication cable running up alongside the kitchen window, startling Mrs. Mardikyan. Mrs. Mardikyan turns around. She faces the kitchen."Please," she says, panicked.She sets into motion running around the kitchen. She opens, shuts, rattles and slams, assembling ingredients: onion, butter, paprika, salt, black pepper, dried thyme, eggs, old crusty bread, yoghurt, garlic.Hayk feels his heart racing. The hair on the back of his neck stands. His scalp heats up................Sometimes Hayk's feelings trouble him. In his youth he ground his teeth and had nightmares about getting locked up in a prison. He'd wake up in a rage. As a teenager he smoked and drank. He'd fly off the handle. He threw a chair at his mama once. Fitfully, he grew up. And he kept losing jobs when it was important to keep one. He drove too fast. One day he ran a light. He talked back to the police. Hayk spent a night in jail, which was too on the money. Then he got married -- which was the smartest thing he ever did................Hayk sits back, notices breath, chuckles. He allows his feelings to evaporate like the moisture off Mrs. Mardikyan's frying and wilting onions evaporate."Here we go," he says, straightening his arms to hold the paper at a distance so he can read it. He squints. He wants to go find his glasses but he doesn't want to disrupt the momentum. It's a good day. Mrs. Mardikyan is not going back to bed today................Quickly, intently, Hayk finds a funny article about strange sea creatures or new-fangled diets or billionaires in space -- that sort of thing. He reads slowly, dutifully. His voice mingles buoyantly, tremorously, with motes.Over the stove Mrs. Mardikyan wipes her brow. She is partial to heat. A headache is coming on, but Mrs. Mardikyan feels for now only the pleasantness of blood vessels dilating. She hears a sea breeze -- that of the Black or the Caspian.

At eight o'clock two boys sleepily kick a soccer ball along the sidewalk. The bigger one starts kicking the smaller one's legs. The boys start punching each other. The crossing guard blows her whistle.At eight-o-one a girl beats her little brother to the intersection. She does a victory dance. Her brother flings his backpack into the road. The crossing guard blows her whistle.At eight-o-two four helmeted kindergarteners -- they look like drunken acorn caps -- disembark an electric cargo bike.At eight-o-three a boy wearing his jacket over his head to play a game of "can't-see" is nudged by his mother across the crosswalk.At eight-o-four a tall girl stops in the middle of the road to finish eating something warm wrapped in a napkin. The crossing guard blows her whistle. The girl wakes up and sprints to the other side.The children keep coming. Drips and drabs become a wave. It becomes harder and harder to tell one arrival from another. By eight-o-five the streets are filled with schoolchildren. They are running, lurching, staggering, zigzagging, jumping, shrieking. The shrieking especially is intolerable. The children engulf every inch of the schoolyard. They chase each other in circles, improvise games, concoct rules, break rules, make alliances, make enemies, have tantrums, all the while screaming. The screaming especially is difficult to make sense of. Finally at eight-thirty the hundreds of children are funneled into the building................Now it's silent, like a storm has passed. It seems calm, stable. We imagine that this is what the earliest condition of the universe was like. Both the storm and the silence are part and parcel of the same awakened thing.

Bill Wolak
Four Illustrations

“Round As The Touch Of Pearls”

“The Traveler's Anticipation”

“Darkness Sipping The Firefly's Lost Flickering”

“Fleeting As A Splinter Of Moonlight”

Joseph A. Miller
Five Paintings

I focus primarily on the human figure depicted in environments that create a context for psychologically charged open ended narratives. Many of these narratives explore ideas about power and vulnerability, about enchantment and play. Children are often featured because children often play.Quality of light is a common theme. In particular, the way in which atmospheric light and locale can suggest a sense of mystery and silence. These works are dark, humid and hopefully, at their best, memorable. For me, the most successful are those that evoke the feeling that an event is about to happen or has recently happened.Images of figures or figures in landscapes, in groups or in isolation, share a common feeling of significance. Wholly absorbed within themselves or the dialogue shared between one another, they wait for the unfolding of their private story.

“Compound” (charcoal, pastel)

“Flag” (oil over acrylic on paper on panel)

“Cassandra” (oil over acrylic on paper on panel)

“Cherish” (oil over acrylic on paper on panel)

“Drone” (charcoal, pastel)

Anne Anthony
“Museum Tag”

Marco Daniele
“Fumi-e”

Chirp chirp chirp.The chirping of crickets prevents him from sleeping a wink.Perhaps it is the stench of the room where eight of them are crammed together.Or again, the pangs of fear.Chirp chirp chirp.Kojirō huddles in the corner, enveloped by darkness that serves as a blanket. His face is buried between his knees, and his gaze is fixed on the muddy floor. However, he does not see the dirt beneath him. Instead, vivid scenes of martyrdom, recounted countless times by Father Sebastião to the village's youth, unfold before his eyes.The boy shudders as he envisions himself in the role of a tortured saint. In his waking nightmare, the torturers bind him to a post, leaving him with only the modesty of a tattered fundoshi. They line up before him, and with sadistic calm nock their arrows and draw their bows. He imagines them as spiders that have ensnared their prey in the web and can allow themselves the luxury of slowness. The sound of snapping ropes splits the air just before the flesh is pierced by those relentless darts.For Kojirō, it is too much. A scream erupts from his throat: "Mercy!"Chirp chirp chirp."Are you okay, son?"Kojirō looks up, his eyes brimming with tears.Elder Gen'emon's face is a yellowish tapestry of wrinkles, reminiscent of the nets he has handled for years as a fisherman. His hands are calloused; however, when he places them on the boy's shoulders, his touch is gentle."We must be strong, as Sebastião-shinpusama taught us," continues Gen'emon. "We must be strong, as the Christian fathers taught us when they could still walk on this earth, before God called us to this test of faith."It's not a test of faith, Kojirō would like to say. If God embodies love and goodness, why does He permit His children to suffer the torment of their persecutors? If God understands the soul of each one, why does He feel the need to test the faith of those who believe in Him? If God is omnipotent, why doesn't He punish the enemies of His people with a rain of fire?But those words die in his throat. Shame holds him back, of course, but so does the security of the old man. If Gen'emon trusts so fervently in Our Lord, who am I to express doubts?, Kojirō thinks to himself.Chirp chirp chirp."Better to sleep", says the old man. "You'll see that tomorrow it will all be over, son. Sebastião-shinpusama has hidden himself well you-know-where. They won't find him and will be forced to let us go. The magistrate isn't that cruel after all."Kojirō simply nods."They say he is a reasonable man, continues Gen'emon. "Not too cruel and never unfair. He certainly knows that the religious whims of a handful of Fukue fishermen cannot concern the shogunal power. We are like horseflies disturbing a majestic elephant...""Ele-what?" Kojirō asks.The lips of his interlocutor curl into a smile, making his face appear even more wrinkled. "A gigantic creature resides in the lands beyond the sea to the south. When I was young, oh, very young, back when there wasn't even a shogun in Edo, my dear father and I were caught in a storm while fishing offshore. We ended up, I don't want to exaggerate, three or four ri from the coast. It would have meant certain death if a Portuguese vessel bound for Malacca hadn't rescued us from the sea..."Kojirō is well aware of that story, even if it is the first time the old Gen'emon associates it to an elephant. He can recite the names of the places the old man mentions, places he will never visit, because the vast expanse of saltwater that begins at his village and stretches to the horizon marks the boundary of his entire world.Only at that moment does he glance at his fellow companions in misfortune. Seibē, Sannojō, and Jin'emon are adult men hardened by the life of fishermen. Their faces do not reveal anxiety but rather exhibit stoic resignation. Iroha and Chiko, little more than girls, have fallen asleep under the whirlwind of emotions unleashed by their imprisonment. Aunt Mego, her face stony and eyes dry after shedding all the tears she had left, gently strokes their hair.Chirp chirp chirp.I'm not as strong as the martyrs, Kojirō tells himself. I'm not as strong as Sebastião-shinpusama, nor am I like you, Gen'emon-san, or Seibē-san, or Sannojō-san. I'm not even as resistant as Aunt Mego. You would all endure the hot pincers, the cleaver, the arrows, the knocked-out teeth, the torn nails, the cuts, the burns, and the beatings. Even Iroha and Chiko would withstand them, I'm sure, to avoid causing you any displeasure as apostates. I'm not like you. I would perjure myself at the first bruise; I would deny Christ three times, or even six, nine, a thousand times, at the first broken bone. That's why I'm afraid of what tomorrow will bring. You would face martyrdom with joy on your face.He returns once more to gaze at the face of the elderly fisherman, captivated by his tales of Macao prostitutes and sea monsters. He feels compelled to interrupt and asking: Why is God doing this to me, old Gen'emon-san? Why are you doing this to us, Sebastião-shinpusama? Is there an answer to this question in the sacred texts you reference with such confidence?And again: Why doesn't God, in His infinite mercy, take my life with a broken heart right then and there, sparing me the ignominy of abjuration and betrayal? Why?Chirp chirp chirp.The symphony of crickets continues to shatter the divine silence.

Chirp chirp chirp.An invisible orchestra of cicadas heralds the arrival of a new day.The magistrate's guards who raid the prison are as menacing as oni, even without the red skin and horns on their foreheads. Their fingers seem to be made of steel, judging by the force with which they grip Kojirō's arms to force him to stand.Nobody resists. The boy, driven by fear, naturally wonders whether the others act for the same reason or if they have simply resigned themselves to their own fate.Chirp chirp chirp.Magistrate ōtomo Musashi sits on his luxurious black-lacquered camp stool. He is not as intimidating as Kojirō had anticipated: a small, plump, bald man dressed in clothes at least one size too large. Even the fan he holds in his hands and the pair of swords hanging from his belt fail to impart a fierce appearance.

Were the samurai, who two or three generations ago shed their own blood and that of others to reunite the country, like this? Kojirō wonders."Gentlemen… and ladies." Even the man's voice has a sweet, honey-like quality. I hope that the nights you have spent as my guests have enlightened your minds."The song of the cicadas is the only response.Chirp chirp chirp."We know that in the village of Minamitsunai you are concealing a vile kirishitan," the magistrate continues mellifluously. "Tell us where he is hiding, and your life will be spared. We do not desire the futile death of loyal subjects."The men and Aunt Mego exchange serious glances, but none of them speak."I don't want to waste time on this matter," sighs the magistrate. "Give me your… what do you call him? Your shinsai, your priest, and I won't harm a hair on your head. But if you continue this foolish disobedience, I will be forced to -- "Ōtomo's sentence remains unfinished. Instead, he waves to the guard behind Seibē. A sharp, precise blow to the knee causes the sturdy fisherman to stagger forward."Next one will be for the girls," threatens the magistrate. "And then -- ""Kill us then!" Sannojō's powerful voice even drowns out the insistent chirp chirp chirp. "None of us will deny it! And may God have mercy on the souls of the executioners!"A grin flits across Ōtomo's face. "Good" is the only word that escapes his lips before he makes yet another gesture with the fan.Sannojō finds himself on his knees beside Seibē. The two maintain a steady gaze in front of them, their expressions impassive. The only movement they make is to bring their hands to their chests, and by some strange whim of mercy, Ōtomo allows them to do so.The sound of the tachi being unsheathed by the guards behind him makes Kojirō shiver. He has never witnessed a man kill another, but it cannot be very different from what happens to fish once they are caught. The image of a man decapitated and eviscerated like a goma saba is far from humorous; on the contrary, it makes him retch."What's wrong with you, you filthy Kirishitan?" the guard bellows behind him.Kojirō suddenly turns around, startled, and in the abruptness of the movement, he loses his balance. He falls to the ground, trembling. A damp stain spreads across his worn trousers."He's pissing himself! he wants to inform everyone about the guard. "These kirishitan don't even know --""That's enough" The magistrate's voice is calm once more. Throughout his imprisonment, Kojirō imagined it as a roaring wave crashing against the cliff; however, even when he issues an order, it resembles the gentle lapping of water on the sand.Chirp chirp chirp.The cold blades rest for a few moments on the hills of Seibē and Sannojō. They shiver slightly, but they don't get upset. The knees remain together, the heels close to the buttocks.In their field of vision the two kneeling men cannot see the movements of the tormentors, but Kojirō can. Completely ignoring the hands that wield them, he watches the swords rise slowly, with the grace of a heron taking flight, and remain suspended in the air up there, ready to swoop down like the claws of a sparrowhawk.Yet another scene of martyrdom is painted before the boy's eyes: the iron that slices through the flesh in an instant, the blood that spurts, the heads that roll away like ripe pumpkins. In his vision, Sannojō's face is serene and Seibē's even bored, as if after Father Sebastião's truculent stories he had expected a more grand martyrdom.No! Kojirō says to himself, I wouldn't remain impassive like them.The words that Father Sebastião once recited in the village come to mind: "Truly I tell you, Peter, that the rooster will not crow unless you have already denied me three times."And before the cicada chirps three more times, Kojirō bursts out: "I am where Sebastião-shinpusama is! Please, Ōtomo-kakka! Ōtomo-bugyō! Spare our lives! I know where our shinsai is hiding!" The eagerness with which he speaks does not prevent him from noticing the grimace of disappointment that darkens the old Gen'emon's face. "Sebastião-shinpusama is hiding in a hut on Tori-no-Su mountain. You will find it there, in a trap door under the floor. that's how he escaped the last three inspections of your guards!"A smile flits across Ōtomo's plump face. For a moment Kojirō is sure that he will utter the words he wants most of all: "You are free, go back to your village. Go back to breaking your back on the nets and boats. Go back to your dull existence, but live."I gave in, the boy says to himself. I have never been as strong as you, Seibē-san, Sannojō-san. Yet this is how I am saving you. Aunt Mego, don't blame me. Old Gen'emon-san, forgive me if you can. Iroha, Chiko, despise me, hate me; but know that by doing so I save you. And you, Ōtomo-kakka, be blessed for letting us go. Yes, be blessed --The magistrate's fan lowers as the deceptive smile still curls his worm-like lips. The warriors' arms flash like lightning. Metal cuts through flesh and bone. The heads of the two fishermen roll on the ground.Kojirō remains petrified in front of that scene. He hears the laments of the girls and even of Aunt Mego, she who he has never seen cry, and sees the dark shadow that passes over the face of old Gen'emon; but his mind is elsewhere. Addressed to Father Sebastião, hidden in his hut, unaware of his Judas and the soldiers who are going to get him. Addressed to the souls of Seibē and Sannojō, who earned the honor of martyrdom. Addressed to the arrow-riddled saint who populated his nightmares the previous night and who now stares at him with an air of blame.Chirp chirp chirp.The boy barely notices the order given by Ōtomo: "Bring the ita-e!" and strong hands that grab him, two on each arm, putting him back on his feet. Only when the man on his right shouts in his ear: "Now you will be subjected to fumi-e! Trample on the image of that carpenter you venerate so much and you will see that Ōtomo-bugyō will save your life!"For a moment, Kojirō finds himself wondering if there is apprehension towards him in the guard's words. He's telling me this because he doesn't want me to die, obviously. But then he thinks again, and realizes: He's mocking me. This man has seen the strength of Seibē-san's and Sannojō-san's faith, and now he mocks my weakness.Chirp chirp chirp.The ita-e to be stepped on is placed in front of his feet.Kojirō has never seen a crucifix. Father Sebastião said he had brought one with him from Portugal, but had lost it during the crossing. What the boy has in mind is only a description, a half-naked man on the cross, with his palms and soles pierced by iron, his face streaked with blood.The metal tablet reproduces the image he has in his mind quite faithfully. He is surprised to know that the enemies of Christ worked so hard to create such an effigy, but then he replies: Maybe they think that the more beautiful it is, the more painful it is for us to trample it? But I would also suffer if they asked me to step on a piece of wood with a cross on it."Step on it!" The magistrate's voice is now as harsh as the steel blade that cut short the lives of Seibē and Sannojō.Kojirō hesitates. What do I have to lose? he asks. I sold one innocent man for the lives of two others, in vain. I can't save anyone, only myself. But a filthy Iscariot like me doesn't deserve to be saved.Chirp chirp chirp.He looks down at his bare feet, spattered with filth and piss that has run down his legs. It wouldn't even be right to trample on Our Lord with these feet as dirty as my soul, they still say."Step on it!" Magistrate Ōtomo repeats.Kojirō ignores him.A shot hits him behind the right ear. It's a boulder that almost sends him to the ground, but the boy remains standing. Our Lord endured the whips, the nails and the crown of thorns. They would inflict on me the swift death of the sword, or at most the agony of the noose, but it would be nothing compared to what Our Lord endured.Another shot, this time on the left side of the head.Kojirō staggers, but plants his feet firmly on the ground and does not fall. I am Pietro, he repeats in his mind. Not Judas, Peter! Like Peter I denied Our Lord. But then Peter repented and died as a martyr. This is what Father Sebastião told us. Maybe I can too --"STEP-ON-IT!" This time the order is spelled out syllable by syllable. The magistrate is panting as if he had been running, but he still remains seated on his bench. He worries because that unexpected resistance catches him unprepared."STOP ON HIM! STEP ON IT! STEP ON IT! PLACE YOUR FILTHY FOOT ON THAT FILTHY EFFIGY AND YOU WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE, BOY! OTHERWISE I'LL HAVE YOU KILLED LIKE A PIGL!"Magistrate Ōtomo Musashi's face is contracted in a grimace of anger, his eyes seem about to roll down his cheeks. And he's panting even more than before.But Kojirō doesn't give up. And this time the order is not given with an elegant gesture of the fan, but with an angry - and breathless: "KILL HIM!"I will endure martyrdom, Kojirō tells himself, before they hit him on the back of the head. This time the blow is strong, he even hears the bone in his skull creaking. Ah, if God were merciful I would die instantly!, he still says, but no mercy comes to him from heaven as he rolls to the ground.Ōtomo's men are upon him. He couldn't say the number, he didn't notice before and now he doesn't have enough clarity to count. The only thing he knows is that they are precise with the butts and shafts of their halberds.Kojirō tries to slip away from that hail of blows, but the more he struggles, the more numerous the blows reach him in the belly, ribs, back, groin, legs and testicles.I will endure, he tells himself. I will endure. I will endure. I will endure.The guards don't hit him in the face, as if they didn't want to get dirty with the blood that, given his heat, would surely gush from his nose and mouth.Or maybe it's a tactic to keep me from fainting, the boy thinks. Oh God, why don't you make me faint? Why don't you throw death on me? Anything to avoid suffering!But no merciful God listens to him. A kick hits him in the middle of the back. A stomp hits him on his right side and Kojirō feels his ribs crack. Another blow causes a twinge of pain in his genitals.I will endure. I will endure. I will endure. I will endure. Sopp --The metal pommel of a halberd comes crashing down relentlessly on his right elbow. The craaack! rings in the air and a jolt of pain reaches all the way to his toes. His bladder gives way again and, strangely, the flow of urine gives him a feeling of relief."STEP ON HIM!" Kojirō cannot see the magistrate's face, but he imagines him now purple, with his eyes bulging, so angry is he. "SON OF A BITCH KIRISHITAN, STEP ON HIM! STEP ON IT! I WILL MAKE YOU GIVE IN, YOU DEGENERATED DOG! STEP ON HIM!"A shot to the chest. A kick in the shin. Another in the groin. A sole that crashes into his toes. Kojirō can no longer follow them all, now each beating seems to affect all his limbs. He only has the strength left to say within himself, every time one arrives: Let it be the last, Lord! Let this football bring me death! I can't take it anymore, my Lord! Welcome me to paradise! I beg you!Chirp chirp chirp.I can't resist anymore, my God! One more kick and I die, come on! One more shot and bring the relief of death upon my eyes, come on! I beg you! I beg you! I BEGG YOU!God is deaf to his prayers, like him to the exhortations of Ōtomo Musashi that continue to rain down on him.I beg you, good God, free me from this suffering! Free me, otherwise I... I give in! I give in!Finally the first kick hits him in the face. Kojirō feels the entire world shattering into pieces. The pain sticks in his skull like one of the nails of the Cross, while his mouth, clogged with dirt, discovers the taste of blood.If there was a good being up there in the heavens, he says with what little lucidity he has left, he would free me from this suffering by killing me instantly. In fact, not even! It would avoid this evil at its root. Yet let me suffer. He let Seibē and Sannojō die. And he will let Sebastião-shinpusama die. Perhaps such a God in reality does not... does not exist?He expects yet another blow to Kojirō's face, but instead nothing. The guards stare down at him, like statues at the entrance to a temple. Menacing, austere, composed even in the beating. Then two of them bend over the boy.Kojirō starts to move his lips, but no sound comes out as he feels strong hands grab his arms and pull him up. They turn him towards Ōtomo-kakka. Now the magistrate's face is no longer a red Oni mask of anger, it looks like the merciful face of the Buddha."Trample on the symbol of your false faith, son" Even his voice is softer. "Bend over. It doesn't cost anything, does it?"Kojirō looks down at the effigy at his feet. The crucified god stares at him silently, without speaking. Just like His Father in heaven.The boy sighs. And his naked and filthy foot rests on the face of Christ.Cicadas echo in the distance.Chirp chirp chirp.

Garrett Ashley
“Plastics”

On the Front Lines of Plastic Innovation

Our commitment to quality, price, service and efficiency make us a standout in the plastics industry.

...............I'm paid okay. Coworkers are all pretty nice. I enjoy the work okay but it gets repetitive................I refresh injection release fluids in molds. I do quality control on new molds and once every hundred or so injections, I check to make sure everything is coming out properly. I check the molds for imperfections. They get worn out over time................I saw, when I was little, the way my father would come home and just collapse on the couch. He worked long hours, sometimes up to 48 hours at a trainyard, and he wanted me to get out of all that................I don't want you to ever have to do any of that, he said.

Facilities

We have more than a quarter of a million square feet of manufacturing and storage facilities................• PLANT BLDG A: 61,250 sq. ft.
...............• PLANT BLDG B: 50,000 sq. ft.
...............• OVERHEAD CRANES: 16 ton and 7 1/2 ton
...............• CEILINGS: 30 feet
...............• LOADING DOCKS: Eleven
...............• DRIVE ENTRANCES: Two
...............• RAIL SIDING: Seven 60,000 lb. silos, one 180,000 lb. railcar

...............We're told to come into work despite the warnings that the hurricane will certainly ravage the East Coast. The East Coast -- that's us................We load up their trucks with tin lunch boxes and thermoses of coffee, green leathery handles that smell like old sweat and the grease of their hands. We drive foggy-headed towards the plastics factory................We yawn in the parking lot. We check our shirts are still tucked into our pants. The sudden wind causes us to turn back to our vehicles, get the little jacket we keep in the back -- we drink coffee in the wind.

Consumer Products

Impact Plastics understands that today’s consumer market is a demanding one. Consistent quality, cost-effectiveness and timeliness are crucial to creating a successful consumer product.Our equipment and experience ensure that products are manufactured on time and on budget. These include:...............• Appliances
...............• Pet Products
...............• Office Products
...............• Beverage Ware
...............• Playground Equipment
...............• Food Storage
...............• Home Storage Products
...............• Infant Products
...............• Point-Of-Sales DisplaysOur state-of-the-art technology and the expertise of our team help customers experience cost savings, quality and dependability.

...............I don't exclusively work here -- I also clean for the Ashley Academy -- that's about thirty minutes that way. I like the people here. They've invited me out to drinks. I've lived here all my life. There's not much to do. You're looking at it................We love one another. We don't say this aloud. I don't know if you've ever felt a hole in your heart put there by a stranger.

Contract Manufacturing

When you partner with an injection molding company, you need one who will meet your specifications while meeting deadlines and staying within your budget. Impact Plastics’ capabilities and expertise make us that partner. As a complete service provider, we help you reach your goals while offering any level of support you require. Our post-molding assembly and direct distribution centers ensure that your product is manufactured according to your guidelines and delivered on time.

...............We need to leave. But we're told if we leave, we'll be dismissed. The floor manager conveyed this information to us, which was conveyed to him by Gerald................I don't know who these people think they are. We are human beings with lives. They can go fuck themselves. I didn't meant to say that. My grandpa told me a long time ago that you can be forgiven for a lot of things, including swearing and all that, and he knew a lot about God. I asked him what would happen if you veer off the road and just before hitting a tree, you screamed "Shit!" He just looked at me and laughed. "You'd be shit out of luck then," he said.

Our plant is currently closed due to extreme flooding in our area. Please contact your representative for more information.

Trying to remember what was his name it was / here is my mother, she holds me against her hip and the wind is blowing / my first memory is of the light spinning on a fire engine, my eyes squinting / the taste of fried catfish, but suddenly / learning about my father through the Christmas ornaments my mother kept, one of a yellowing snowman on skis / the smell of ice cream after having dropped it on the floorboard of the car / blowing a kiss to a faceless man in a crowd somewhere; cold day, smell of rotting leaves / my grandpa putting sugar and milk in coffee; the taste of sugar, mostly, the aftertaste of coffee / the smell of a sweating horse / my mother picking me up and carrying me home, scolding me for getting out in the road / a dog shaking itself off, a chain jingling / a dog's toenails on wood floor / Braxton Hicks -- grasping my stomach and rocking back to take some of the pressure off / my mother calling to tell me she's locked out of the house again and me hanging up and laughing for some reason / my uncle coming through the window because I've locked myself up in the laundry house / a fishy smell in a basement / the feel of water rushing through my hair / something cold touching my feet / something hot in my chest, a hot feeling, that I must take my shirt off / being un-shirted, over open water, suddenly: we swim towards something, and below us there is a sunken ship / our feet touch the mast, we pass over like fish

J. M. Hall
Three Poems

“Manhattan Sunday, Under Eternal Blue”

Every time Joshua goes
to heaven, he slowly forgetshe lives in hell. This is hell’s
intention. Its meat and potatoesare a soul passing back again
under Dante’s “portal’s arch,”with just a skosh of new
hope to abandon.

“Marooned In Plenty”

zoom in far enough
and a bit of barkis a desert where
easily, full fortywander-years
could pass forsoul for whom
to live’s to see.

“Mar. 28th, Springing Joshua”

All riotous tints of green,
waves of scents blushingdenizens -- beyond weary
anticipating biome death,febrile with high laughter
pitch. Swaying impenitentto sweet music life can’t not
make, stirred to ritual cosmic.

Contributors

ANNE ANTHONY credits her steady diet of comic books for her ardent belief in superpowers. She tells stories about her Hungarian grandparents to keep their stories alive and to remind her of the price they paid to live in the United States. She has most recently been published in The Gooseberry Pie Lit Magazine, Bull, Flash Boulevard, Flash Fiction Magazine, Levitate Magazine, and elsewhere. Her micro-fiction, It’s a Mother Thing, was nominated for Best Microfiction 2024 by Cleaver Magazine. In 2019 she released a short story collection, A Blue Moon & Other Murmurs of the Heart. She is a senior editor and art director for the online literary journal Does It Have Pockets. Find her writing at linktr.ee/anchalastudio.BILL WOLAK has just published his eighteenth book of poetry, All the Wind’s Unfinished Kisses (Ekstasis Editions). His collages and photographs have appeared as cover art for such magazines as Phoebe, Harbinger Asylum, Baldhip Magazine, and Barfly Poetry Magazine.DON BOES is the author of Good Luck With That, Railroad Crossing, and The Eighth Continent, selected by A. R. Ammons for the Samuel French Morse Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared in The Louisville Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, CutBank, Zone 3, Southern Indiana Review, and The Cincinnati Review.EGON BAXTER writes “literary,” mystery, and humorous fiction as well as ghost stories. He has lived in Boston, Athens, and Amsterdam and has stopped riding horses. Egon has published sixteen short stories thus far. He has completed one novel and is at work on two others.GABRIELLA BEDETTI’s translations of Henri Meschonnic’s essays and other writings have appeared in New Literary History, Critical Inquiry, and Diacritics. A recent article appears in The Collidescope, "Mapping Voices, Not Poems: On Translating Henri Meschonnic, a Moving Target."GARRETT ASHLEY is the author of the story collection Periphylla, and Other Deep Ocean Attractions (Press 53, May 2024). His work has appeared in Apex Magazine, Sonora Review, Asimov's Science Fiction, and DIAGRAM, among others. He lives in Alabama and teaches at Tuskegee University.HENRI MESCHONNIC (1932–2009) is a key figure of French New Poetics, best known worldwide for his translations from the Old Testament and the 710-page Critique du rythme. His poems appear in more than twenty languages and have received many prizes including the Max Jacob International Poetry Prize, the Mallarmé Prize, and the Guillevic-Ville de Saint-Malo Grand Prize for Poetry.J.M. HALL, nominated by Verdad literary journal for the Best of the Net Anthology, has published poems in numerous literary journals, including North Dakota Quarterly, and Grub Street. With a PhD in philosophy from Vanderbilt University, he has also published seventy eight peer-reviewed journal articles, four of which have recently been republished in Spanish translation, and co-edited Philosophy Imprisoned: The Love of Wisdom in the Age of Mass Incarceration. He also has thirty years’ experience in dance.JOSEPH A. MILLER is an associate professor of Art at S.U.N.Y. Buffalo State University, where he has taught drawing and painting since 1997. Miller’s work is in numerous public and private collections, and has been shown internationally in Finland, China, Poland, and the Czech Republic, as well as across the United States from Berkeley, CA to Cambridge, MA. His work is represented by Art Dialogue Gallery in Buffalo, NY and West End Gallery in Corning, NY.MARCO DANIELE was born and raised in Italy, works as a literature professor, and likes to write stuff. History and speculative fiction are two of his greatest passions. He runs a history-focused website and Facebook page and works with a television review site.RITA TARYAN was born in Budapest and grew up in Toronto. She has worked as a puppeteer, a security guard, a disc jockey, a tool and die worker, and a translator of articles and letters. Currently, she teaches English to new immigrants, asylum seekers, and resettled refugees in New York City. Her stories have appeared in BULL, Bending Genres, Hobart, Matter Press, Lotus-Eater Magazine, Panel Magazine, Expat Press, and elsewhere.STEPHEN BAILY has published short fiction in some sixty journals, including Exacting Clam, DUMBO Press, Medicine and Meaning, Umbrella Factory, BlazeVOX, and Millennial Pulp. He's also the author of five published and eight unpublished plays as well as three novels, including Markus Klyner, MD, FBI (Fellow Traveler Press). Stephen lives in France.

Support ArtWell

SORTES supports local, charitable, and community-based groups. Here's one important organization that SORTES supports:

ArtWell

"ArtWell was founded in 2000 to respond to the chronic community violence in Philadelphia by introducing a preventive, educational, arts-oriented approach to reach underserved communities and youth facing discrimination, poverty, violence, and the everyday challenges of growing up. Our mission is to support young people and their communities through multidisciplinary arts expression, education, and creative reflection to celebrate their strengths, thrive while facing complex challenges, and awaken their dreams."Charity NavigatorThe people who have worked on this publication support this cause and we urge you to as well.

Learn More & Donate!

Thank you!

Submission & Contact

SORTES is the very model of a modern major journal

Find us here and there:

To submit contributions, comments, questions, or suggestions, please email

sortesmagazine@gmail.com

The Dashing SORTES Mailing List

Join our debonair mailing list for news about upcoming issues, in-person events, performances, and whatever else we dream up to make all our lives more complicated and exquisite:

SORTES is?

SORTES is a spinning collection of stories, poems, songs, and illustrations to help while away the wintery June nights. It’s an oddball grabbag wunderkammer mixtape offering distraction and refreshment.We have neither theme nor scene. Each issue is its own creature. We publish both the sufficiently strange and insufficiently boring: swart stories, hoity poetry, magical surrealism, beatnik travelogues, hard modern haiku, pulp, fantasia, antibiography, crooning balladeering, experimental sentimentalism, and grainy sideways photography.We also host online readings, old time radio performances, and other beloved gimmicks as they occur to us. Previous issues are available via the site’s Archive link.

Submitting

SORTES considers unsolicited submissions of poetry, prose, illustration, music, videos, and anything else you think may fit our format. Feel free to poke us; we’d love to find a way to publish dance, sculpture, puzzles, and other un-literary modalities.SORTES is published quarterly. Each issue includes approximately ten works of lit, visual, or performance art. We like a small number of works per issue: artists and readers should have a chance to get to know each other.SORTES, you’ll notice, is primarily a black-and-white publication, and we like to play with that (by featuring monochrome videos and photography, for example), but we’ll happily consider your polychrome submission.Submissions are ongoing throughout the year. We consider artists with both extensive and limited publishing experience. We accept simultaneous submissions but please inform us if your work has been accepted elsewhere. We publish translations and reprints on a case-by-case basis; please send us a note describing your interest. And while there's no restriction on the number of pieces you can submit, please have a heart.There’s no need for an extensive cover letter or publication history but please tell us who you are, what kind of writing or art you do, and a bit about what you’re sending us. There are no formatting requirements for text submissions. There is no fee to submit. Please send submissions as email attachments whenever possible; multimedia submissions may be sent as links.

Rights

You asked and we provide: what's up with publication rights and ownership?Simple: When you publish with us, you give SORTES one-time publication right for your work. You retain all right to your work after publication. Work published with SORTES will remain available via our online Archive.While SORTES retains the right to link to or excerpt your published work, we do not have the right to publish your work in new formats (including print). If we would like to pursue publication of your work in new formats, we'll ask you and hopefully agree to terms.

Mahoffs

SORTES was created by founding editor Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum and emeritus editor Kevin Travers. Current editors are listed in our masthead, Many of us live in Philadelphia, some luckily do not, but we invite writers and artists everywhere to live the SORTES fantasia.

Events

SORTES regularly offers readings and performances. For upcoming events, please check here and our Facebook page.

Coming Soon Enough

The SORTES 20 Reading

Sunday, January 12, 2025
7pm

Time is against us now. And everyone knows there’s less time now than before. But still we strum the proscenium of our Theatrum Mundi in More-Or-Less Working Order.The SORTES 20 reading will bring you readings and/or presentations by some and/or all of:Anne Anthony
Bill Wolak
Don Boes and Gabriella Bedetti
Egon Baxter
Garrett Ashley
J.M. Hall
Joseph A. Miller
Marco Daniele
Rita Taryan
Stephen BailyBecause we can do no better, your host will be Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum. Free, public, automatic for the people.

Zoom Link

Meeting ID: 893 0137 3814
Passcode: 000651
Call in: https://us02web.zoom.us/u/kzzEteRdU

Facebook Event

Radio SORTES

Odd Lots

A Proper Mast-Lashing

News That Stays News

To howl arrival of historic SORTES 20, I drafted a half-dozen texts murmuring through different topics: the futility of literature and art, the unkillable roaches of politics and religion, the failure of all my life's ambitions. But I wanted a tone of celebration, so instead I've written a few words for you about death.Here are some comforting thoughts on non-existence.Most things don't exist. Creation mostly isn’t. Complain however you like, but you received an invitation.People generally die, I think, without knowing. Coward death sneaks up. But what a waste to smoke in the fog! People say they’d prefer to die in their sleep but this is a terribly boring weasel. Fear of death is boring -- and transient. In the moment we die, in the space between idea and reality, as we hurry to lose all our life’s collected words, the first thing we lose is fear of death. The moment is too busy for fear.Dying promises so many choices and ways to do it, while death offers only one experience. Dying is exciting! Death, somewhat less.With death we’re rank amateurs but immediately we’re as talented as the best before us. And what excellent company! Here’s a short list of people who have died:Benjamin Franklin
Mrs. Marinelli, who lived next door
Li Po
Groucho Marx
Carmen Miranda
Uncle Louis
Pier Paolo Pasolini
David Otter
Wyndham LewisPlus cats and dogs and beetles we've loved and the ceaseless daily holocaust of animals you call food.Now, if you're doing research, I recommend Suicide by Édouard Levé and The Floating Opera by John Barth and Vampires, Burial, and Death by Paul Barber and "The Death of Oliver Bécaille" by Émile Zola ("Death has come between me and everything I have ever loved") and Dreams by Akira Kurosawa and so on.These are all living lively things, of course. Death is boring. It has nothing to say to us.O woe what’s the point, why live if we die, etc etc: well I agree with these fine points! But I’m also bored by this tired old wisdom. And why should I let the future steal my present?The future is a succession of present film-frames. If you don’t build the present, well, at this rate you’ll never die.
.
.
That’s all one can say about death. So now, instead, because I have a little space left, let me write a bit about the present moment.Now is tonic to death's Someday.We own Now. We claw it in our paw! And death has no dominion while we can still say any word.Hedonism is heroism.
.
.
This tiny text of mine, I see, has helped you quite a lot. Your fears are all allayed and life is a daily new birth. No more boring tomorrows!Like kids -- again doing Now, loving Now, relapsing into Now.
.
.
.
Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum
Editor
December 13, 2024

Correspondence

SORTES invites readers and contributors to fight amongst themselves. Please talk with us! Comment on stories and poems, letters, and the SORTES demimonde in general by emailing

sortesmagazine@gmail.com

Title

“Text.”

Name, Date

SORTES Riposte

Shop

SORTES is a mostly online journal, as you know, but every so often we can't resist existing.

Annual 2024

Buy With

My god, it's the SORTES 2024 SPECTRAL WINTER ANNUAL! In revolutionary POSTCARD form!Here are four ghastly cards celebrating the tradition of sharing ghost stories at the end of the year. Each card features original eerie illustrations and newly-commissioned horror stories:-- Irina Tall's illustrations
-- Kailey Tedesco's poetry
-- Luke Condzal's historical existential story
-- Nick Perilli's familial ghost warmer, and
-- Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum's fraternal horror.Keep them, mail them, trade them, resell them once supplies inevitably exhaust.The SORTES 2024 Spectral Winter Annual is the ideal heart-stopping gift for the rich relative who has just written you into the will. Also friends, co-workers, babies.So NOW (this very moment) is the right time to order your SORTES Spectral Winter Annuals. We're shipping vigorously!

Annual 2023

Buy With

The SORTES Spectral Winter Annual 2023 revives the tradition of haunted holiday fiction. This beautifully crafted 44-page paperback anthology features ghastly short stories showcasing a dead man’s special deliveries, a judgmental seaside specter, the pains of an aging table-rapper, the heartwarming war on the poor, and the electrifying end of the year / world, as well as poems celebrating the Jersey Devil's unsung siblings. Authors include Daniel DiFranco, Jean Zurbach, Kailey Tedesco, Max D. Stanton, Mordecai Martin, and Nick Perilli. The Annual makes an ideal holiday present for any dear friend or family member who loathes the living.

SORTES Sampler 2

Buy With

A SORTES Sampler 2 is a slender tasty book collecting weird fiction by Max D. Stanton, surrealist collage art by Danielle Gatto Hirano, and a poetry cycle by Uri Rosenshine. It’s a handsomely designed but affordable little snack of a book. We have incredibly limited copies on hand, and every day they become incredibly more limited, so leap today.

SORTES Sampler 1

SOLD OUT

A SORTES Sampler 1 was our first attempt to make the ephemeral real. It contains a dystopian farmstead fantasy by Iris Johnston, paper cutout art by Abi Whitehead, and a Coney Island noir by Mordecai Martin.

Or delay your delicious fulfillment and

Buy In Person

When in Philadelphia, please gobble up your copies from:Brickbat Books, Head & Hand Books, A Novel Idea on PassyunkPlease note that not every publication is sold in each location. If these fine stores are sold out, march to the counter and sweetly demand more SORTES.

Egon Baxter “Squirrel Lady”

Henri Meschonnic Translated by Don Boes and Gabriella Bedetti Four Poems

From Infiniment à venir, Bernard Dumerchez, 2004

Stephen Baily “The Farmer, His Daughter, And The Traveling Salesman”

Rita Taryan “A Couple”

Bill Wolak Four Illustrations

Joseph A. Miller Five Paintings

Anne Anthony “Museum Tag”

Marco Daniele “Fumi-e”

Garrett Ashley “Plastics”

J. M. Hall Three Poems

Contributors

Support ArtWell

Submission & Contact

Events

The SORTES 20 Reading

Radio SORTES

Odd Lots

Archive

Shop

Subscribe

Patreon

Egon Baxter
“Squirrel Lady”

Henri Meschonnic
Translated by
Don Boes and Gabriella Bedetti
Four Poems

Stephen Baily
“The Farmer, His Daughter, And The Traveling Salesman”

Rita Taryan
“A Couple”

Bill Wolak
Four Illustrations

Joseph A. Miller
Five Paintings

Anne Anthony
“Museum Tag”

Marco Daniele
“Fumi-e”

Garrett Ashley
“Plastics”

J. M. Hall
Three Poems