THE LOT IN PARAISO

By James Tipton

Anna María had lived alone a long time now. It had been nine years since her beloved Juan Ramón told her he was leaving her. They had been together forty years, but one day he announced he was going without her to a little pueblo far away. It was called Paraíso. There he had inherited a lot that, he was convinced, “had a view of everything.” At last, he promised Anna María, he would build the little stone house she had always wanted. He would surround it with a matching stone wall, with bougainvilleas running along the top, and a profusion of welcoming roses below, and at the windows simple clay pots, none of them broken, overflowing with the dark red geraniums Anna María loved. Juan Ramón told her these things, and then he laid his head back onto the pillow, closed his eyes, and whispered her name for the last time.

In the nights that immediately followed the funeral, Anna María left his unfinished pack of Farolitos on the old wooden table beside the bed. In the heart of each night, she would wake, feeling the mattress sinking beside her, and she knew then that Juan Ramón had returned to comfort her. Each morning, one of the four remaining Farolitos would be gone. Years earlier, at her insistence, he had cut down to smoking only one each evening. The last was now gone. She bought a new pack and opened it, but he never returned.

Every November, though, during the Day of the Dead celebrations, in the familiar crowd at the cemetery, Anna María always saw, for a moment only, his sweet old face smiling at her, but when she lifted a foot to step toward him, he disappeared.

Anna María thought nine years seemed like a long time to wait for Juan Ramón to build that house in Paraíso. Their three children had all moved to San Antonio, Texas, even before Juan Ramón died, and she rarely saw them. Sometimes she missed them, but what Anna María missed most was the bony right leg and right arm of Juan Ramón resting over her own slender body, trying to give her all the warmth he had. Now every night she slept alone in this cold room without windows.

Juan Ramón had always been the romantic one, even though Anna María wanted to be, but no one in Anna María’s family had showed much affection to each other and it was difficult, even after she married Juan Ramón, to change. Her indifferent mother and father and her violent and abusive brother had together, unintentionally perhaps, conspired to lock her heart away. Juan Ramón was always patient with her and told her that he knew her heart, though hidden, was a very big one.

They were the same age when they married, but now that time had stopped for him but not for her, she worried that she would look much older when she was finally back in his arms.

When Juan Ramón developed congestive heart failure, Anna María never left his side, and in those final weeks together she was able, every night, to tell him she loved him, offering back the same words he had said to her so many times in their life together. Sometimes they would talk for hours, like a young couple, about the wonderful house they were going to have. Their last morning together, he told her the recent weeks had been the happiest of his life.

Now, with Juan Ramón in Paraíso, each year for Anna María was like a long and lonely walk down some interminable dirt road at dusk. This year everything exhausted her. And it was again winter. With what little energy she had left, she began to accumulate things Juan Ramón might need in the new pueblo. She knitted a couple of pairs of wool socks and a scarf. In a bright bandana she tied up some dirt from their native village, and she now wore both her wedding ring and his. She kept by the bed the wooden flute he had carved as a boy and which he had given her the first night he told her he loved her. She had purchased a few packs of Farolitos as well.

When she had everything in order, Anna María sobbed for a long time and finally fell asleep imagining as hard as she could that beloved bony arm and leg still wrapped around her. Then, as if she had hardly slept at all, she woke to the sun falling on her face, and to the sound of familiar feet walking just outside the window.

The End

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Winner of November 2012 Contest

TATTOOIST

Somewhere in Eurasia, Tauranga, or New Guinea
They start this carving;

The finely honed bone, or shell, or awl
Made of something sacred.

Perhaps it was horn, not an island then, where it begins,
But in the muddle of jungle where dank

And crepe-skinned things tread or slither,
Perhaps a horn or tooth of boar is found

And whittled sharp, tight and to a point.

A meditative preparation;
The tattooist holds this moment, considering

His rendering, his text, and the gravity of this act
To which he has been entrusted.

Not just carver then, but witness,
Recorder, bearer, scribe

Of passages, of pain, of bearing,
Of succumbing but living still,

And of success—of phoenixes—this he records too,
In the circumscribed marks, the welters, the spirals,

The rolls, the coils, the double point assemblages—
This maelstrom of life.

It’s there, he writes it down—
And he whittles

The edge or the tip of this quill or stone or bone and considers
The next step which is the ink,

Which must be right, too, which must be long lived,

Which must be good, an archival stain, it must last
As long as the vessel into which he inscribes.

This ink should not be the color of blood
Because it will record dead deeds, and not the living,

Because it is not equivocal
As blood sometimes is, but mostly,
Because it is intended to last.

It is history, then, the history of one
And so, the history of us all.

And the tattooist presses the point
Into living flesh past singing nerves and spilling blood
Into yielding cells he cuts, insinuates

And somehow, they accept this transgression—
This iron and insect eggs and bronze and pine bark muck—

They take it in, this thing so foreign and yet not so,
The cells open to it, sup this potion, hold

It tight, this blue or black or green dye hold on
As the skin holds nothing else, they suck it up as if hungry as if—

As if finally the skin has a voice.

And it does.

It has a narration now, delineation
An epistemology of passages, days, of monsters and charms, metaphorical or not,

Of manhood and menarche and vast loves,
Of opalescent losses that glow for lifetimes with the cool flame of stone,

Of transgressions that can split a world,
And forgiveness that conjoins it all again and even of glittering fish—
The elocution of all this—fixed intradermal.

If memories fail, the skin will not.

Winner of October 2012 Contest

THE WONDERLAND HOME FOR THE INFIRM

by Almiria Wilhelm

Any day you care to drop by, you will find the Mad Hatter sitting in the sunny patch of the garden at six o’clock exactly. The table wobbles on broken tiles, so one leg has a used serviette, folded many times, jammed under its Victorian fancy iron work. The old man nicknamed the Mad Hatter rocks back on a green garden chair (because his nurse, Mandy, once told him not to). Sunflowers leaning against the high wall behind him look over his shoulder, inquisitively counting how many lumps of sugar go in his cup. His tea is somewhat crowded by his hat collection, but don’t let that stop you. He’ll be delighted to see you. The sunflowers’ conversation is awfully limited and he won’t talk to Mandy.

“Nice to see a new face! Sit down, sit down, there’s always room for a friend.”

There might not be a tea set for you, on account of the hats, but don’t worry, he’ll be happy to share his.

“Care for a sip of tea? No? Well…Oh no, please don’t move the hats! They are enjoying the sunshine. Don’t get much of it in there, you know?” he will say,jabbing his finger at you. Don’t be offended. He’s not referring to your lack of intelligence. He means the square grey building behind you. You see, Mr Gordon suffers from senile dementia. He gets confused easily. He thinks he’s being held there against his will, but he and his niece Mandy discussed it all before. Everything is quite all right.

Wait politely for him to finish his tea, then he’ll show off his hats. He will rummage through the mountain of headgear, dislodging a teaspoon and half the sugar bowl to get at the one he wants. Using both hands to jam it on his head, he’ll grin his gap-toothed smile at you and say, “Here’s a trick I didn’t show Alice!”

You may stare, expecting him to turn into a stack of cards fanning out in the breeze that rocks the sunflowers, or disappear a bit at a time, but the yellowed grin will remain firmly attached to a face creased like brown paper thrown in the bin and retrieved again.

“I speak the language of hats. They dream of their past on me. Hats must dream, you know? Would you like to hear the memory of the Turban?”

He will slick his finger along the satin of a creation that resembles a deep blue meringue, breathe heavily and find the sonorous voice of the turban deep within him. He will reach up, tap the stone sitting like a third eye in the gathered satin and say, “I circle the head of my prince like a serpent. I reflect the eyes of the treacherous in my gems. I mirrored the deception of Perfumed Lily and sent her to the executioner’s block. I glittered with the plots of the six sons of the prince and drew forth the hidden malice of the priests of Faa. Beware, stranger, lest thy own evil looks back at you.”

Don’t be startled when the old man suddenly pulls the turban off his head and aims the paste gem at you. There is no need to turn away or shield your face, mesmerized into a nightmare world by his mad tale. The stone is opaque and tarnished, reflecting only a dim, milky light, like an eye with a cataract. The turban is just a costume piece, separated from its robe when an acting company disbanded.

At half past six the door behind you will open on arthritic hinges and a plump nurse will approach.

Some days he’ll say, “Good evening, Mandy,” very politely, although his eyes may dart nervously to you, signalling that Mandy is a suspicious, untrustworthy person, to be avoided whenever possible.

“Why, Uncle, it’s nice of you to recognise me today,” the nurse will answer, “let’s pack up your hats and go inside then. It’s time for your pills.”

The old man might roll his bloodshot eyes and tap the side of his head – the side furthest from Mandy, because he is afraid of her.

“I won’t take them,” he’ll whisper, unaware of how loud he is, “she’s trying to make me crazy.”

Mandy will smile, her red cheeks spreading comfortably.

“Come now, Uncle, you heard what the doctor said.”

The hats will disappear into a big cardboard box, Mandy arranging them carefully so that she doesn’t squash the pink ostrich feather on the lady’s hat.

Other days, Mr Gordon will say nothing, seeing his hats whisked into a box and the tea things cleared as if the disembodied Cheshire Cat were attending him. Either way, your visit is now over. It’s time to leave the Wonderland Home for the Infirm.

Please come again. Mr Gordon doesn’t get many visitors, but he has a nice fortune tucked away and he doesn’t like to leave it to Mandy. So, as I said, don’t hesitate to pay him a call, although it’s probably best not to mention that you saw the smile-crinkled eyes of the nurse reflected in the dull stone of the turban as she tucked it away.

Winner of September 2012 contest

The Cat’s Pajamas by Wayne Scheer

I’ve lived in this house since I was a pup, which is a hell of a lot
longer than that cat’s been here. Francine, the woman who lives here
with me, is getting old and strange, smelling like the stuff in her
bathroom that she rubs all over herself. She spends a lot of time
with that feline on her lap and thinks it’s the funniest thing to call
her PJ, “because she’s the cat’s pajamas.”

Freaking cat. Francine treats her like she’s some kind of princess,
but I know PJ’s just running a con. A year ago she was scrounging in
open dumpsters, getting screwed by whatever came her way. But
Francine “saved” her, and now she has full run of this place.

Her food is on the counter by the sink so I can’t get at it, but she
steals my chow. She doesn’t even eat it. She licks it and gets her
cat stench all over it. And when I growl at her, Francine treats me
like I’m the bad guy.

“Curley,” she says. “You mustn’t growl at PJ.”

I hang my head and that damn cat taunts me with that high-pitched whine of hers.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Francine and it’s up to me to take care of
her. It’s not her fault this feral fur-ball, this gray-eyed grifter
has her brainwashed. PJ runs a good con, I’ll admit that, but she
doesn’t have my history with Francine. I go back to when Gus lived
here. He was the only one who called Francine Franny .

I remember how he’d tap her on the rump and say, “That’s my Franny’s
fanny.” I liked Gus. Francine did, too, and when he went cold and
still, I was the one who cheered her up.

Gus would never have fallen for PJ’s tricks, like that rumble in her
stomach she does to get attention. When I try making that sound,
Francine takes me for a walk and brings her pooper scooper.

The fact is I can’t compete with the cat. I’m too big and fat to jump
on Francine’s lap the way PJ does. And since she fell, Francine can
hardly play with me. Besides, I’m too old to chase sticks or catch
Frisbees. It was Gus who did that stuff with me, anyway. I miss the
way he smelled like he’d just eaten bacon.

When he couldn’t get out of bed anymore, I stayed close. I even slept
under his bed. He’d let his hand hang down and I’d lick it. Gus
would tickle me under my chin and tell me I was a good boy.

One morning, he woke me coughing. He took in enough breath to say,
“Take care of Franny, boy.”

Then his hand tasted cold and stopped smelling like bacon. It just
hung there, like it didn’t belong to him. I cried and Francine came
to see what was wrong and she cried, too. I licked her tears to
remind her I was still here for her.

But that was a long time ago, before the feline invasion. I hate to
admit it, but I’m getting too old to take care of Francine. My hips
hurt and I sleep a lot. So maybe it’s good that Francine has her PJ,
her cat’s pajamas.

I just wish that damn cat would stay away from my food.

Winner of August 2012 contest

ELEGY OF A VIOLIN By Melinda Moore

The plane sinks through wispy clouds, breaking apart any chance of moisture flowing to the land below. Stephanie Minagawa fingers the yin-yang pendant hanging from her neck and wonders how the waterway of her existence has flowed here. Last chances are supposed to come later in life.

She turns her eyes to herself, counting the scars that line her arm. They are thin, like the years between adolescence and now. As the plane lands with a bounce, she looks up to see heat waves washing the runway. People stand before the bing tells them they may, but Stephanie sits, listening to the bumps in the compartment above as people jerk out their bags. The last passenger from the back scuffs by her before she stands in the aisle and removes her violin case from the overhead compartment.

She exhales when the case is open. An out of tune strum tells her that the sound post survived the trip too. She needs to buy the green humidifiers, but there’s not even time for dinner before her first rehearsal with the University of Nothing Much begins—the only university to take her as a graduate student. Locking and zipping the case, she disembarks the plane.

#

Discordant tones and ripples of melodies slip through her ears as her bow saws against the strings, and her hand turns the pegs back and forth, trying to tune. A trumpeter blasts over everyone else, and a cymbal crashes. Her strings balance; her pegs slip. The tuning process begins again.

Even her white blouse and black slacks, standard uniform back east, are unharmonious. The guys in the brass section wear beer t-shirts and sport shorts. They slide their trombones toward women slumped over cellos and wearing long skirts with turquoise belts. Viola players are in shorts and tank tops with tattoos flirting from their shoulders as they dance their bows on their strings. The mix of ages startles her. Several old people sit throughout the orchestra, giving it more of a community program feel rather than a college atmosphere. Stephanie fingers her yin-yang, reaching out to the waterway. She feels a dry riverbed.

Her stand partner murmurs with the players in front of them until a fit of coughing overtakes her. She sounds worse than a smoker, but finally catches her breath and turns to greet Stephanie. Crow’s feet crinkle as she smiles, erasing all discomfort: it is the first enchantment Stephanie sees in New Mexico.

The welcome is fleeting as the concertmaster stands and the oboe player sounds the tuning A for everyone. Stephanie’s strings have unrolled again and people in front of her and next to her stare. She almost walks off the stage to tune, but the conductor steps up to the podium. Her bow whispers across strings as he taps his stand. Everyone stops. Her bow is frozen in midair. The conductor shrinks into himself and gives a tiny upbeat and downbeat for the subtle entrance of the orchestra. Her violin sings in the desert air: snap, sproing, pop. A marionette limp and tangled is the remains of her instrument.

#

Outside in the after heat of the sun before the stars twinkle, Stephanie hangs her head over her desiccated violin. She sits on a cement platform where garish flamenco dancers hold up their statue arms forever. The arid air has even dried up her tear ducts. She turns the wood and strings around and around in her hands, looking for any hope of saving it.

Pulling a splinter off the back of the violin, she pricks a yin-yang into her wrist. Droplets of blood reflect the moonlight before spattering on the cement. Another trumpet blares as the auditorium doors open and close. A white business card with a Zia symbol and the address for an instrument repair shop falls into her case. Looking up, she sees the smile of her stand partner before the woman walks back to rehearsal, coughing the whole way. Stephanie wraps her polishing rag around her wrist and picks up the card. Her thumb rubs the Zia symbol as her other hand fingers her yin-yang. Maybe the waterway is only in a drought.