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Quiet Lightning is:

a monthly submission-based reading serieswith 2 stipulations:

1. you have to commit to the date to submit

2. you only get up to 8 minutes

[email protected]

s bs b

1 year + 12 issues + 12 shows for $100


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sparkle + blink 37 2013 Quiet LightningISBN 978-1-300-80055-2

cover "Tides" (screenprint on paper) Chelsea Wongchelseawong.com

book design by j. brandon lobergset in Absara

Promotional rights only.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any formwithout permission from individual authors.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via theinternet or any other means without the permission of theauthor(s) is illegal.

Your support is crucial and appreciated.

q .submit@quiet l ightning.org


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Contents

curated by Josey Lee & Christian Leefeatured artist Chelsea Wongcover "Tides" - screenprint on paper

Siamak VoSSoughi My Fat at t Bak y 1

moneta goldSmith a fa ly p bl c vowto b mo mo ast c 7

alex PeterS O Cabba s a d OtT a ts of Pat a c al L f 9

maria allocco B t Sto y 13

moneta goldSmith C b s Sm l 17

J. e. Freeman T Stoop 19

Julia JackSon f om W s M 23

caSSandra dallett Mak Lov To T M ota 27

laura JoakimSon o s w o ca yt w t of t s 31

traci chee St v 33


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l a g u n i t a s . c o m

Q u i e t

L i g h t n in g i s sp o n s o r e d b

y


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Quiet Lightning

A 501(c)3 , the primary objective and purpose ofQuiet Lightning is to foster a community based onliterary expression and to provide an arena for saidexpression. QL produces a monthly, submission-basedreading series on the first Monday of every month, of

which these books (s parkle + blink ) are verbatimtranscripts.

Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL iscurrently:

Evan Karp f + p sChris Cole Josey Lee p b sCharles Kruger s yMeghan Thornton sKristen Kramer

Jacqueline Norheim Nicole McFeelyBrandon Loberg s

Sarah Maria Griffin Ceri Bevans f sp p s

If you live in the Bay Area and are interested inhelpingon any levelplease send us a line:

va @q tl t .o


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Q u i e T L i g h T n i n g

tour through town

In 2013, Quiet Lightning is teaming up with adifferent literary organization each month in orderto bring together the many outstanding seriesand organizations of the Bay Area literary world,and to introduce its various audience members to

programming they might like but not yet knowabout. For these reasons, we will create custom-designed shows that combine the defining featuresof Quiet Lightning with those of each monthspartner organization. This months collaborationwith Feast f W ds is the second show of our

Tour; in keeping with their traditional format,weve selected one set of readings to be followedby a group writing exercise and an open mic.

For details on theTour Through ToWn

visit our website: QuieTLighTning.Org


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1

Si S M

S S S O S O u g h i

My F a t h e r a t t h e b a k e r y

An appreciation for the bread was an appreciationfor the work of baking it. An appreciation for thework was an appreciation for the life engaged in it. All roads led to people. That was what I understoodabout communism before I understood anythingabout dialectical materialism or surplus value. A trip

to the bakery was not just a matter of bread. Dontlet them fool you, he said in his actions. Breathe inthe smell deeply. That smell is the work of a life. Youshould know that when you smell it and taste it. Youshould have an awareness of it when you eat it so that your work, whatever it is, will be as meaningful to the

people as bread.What about Joseph Stalin? people said.

This was in America in the 1980s.

Before you ask about Joseph Stalin, you shouldtake a trip to the bakery with my father. You willsee how it is: The bread is better-smelling when it isconnected to the work. The bread is better-tastingwhen it is connected to it. Before I knew anythingabout the means of production, I knew that aman walked into anothers workplace with pride


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and delicacy. Pride in their work and delicacy in therecognition of it. It was true for a bakery and it was

true for anywhere else. It was just that at a bakery you felt the result of your effort.

What about when you look at the baker and you see everything other than their work? I said. Theyare more than their work after all. Doesnt that maketheir work small? Doesnt that make the smell and thetaste of the bread small?

This was when I was thirteen.

It is as small or big as you make it, my fathersaid.

And I saw that communism was a soft place for your heart to land. It was a hard place in history, butit was a soft place for one mans heart to land, a manwho wanted to remember that between the bread onthe counter and the bread in his stomach, there werea million worlds, and it was impossible to know all

those worlds but it was possible to believe in them,and what all those worlds had in common was work.It was true that life was more than that, but it wasa good thing to start with. You stand the chance ofremembering the life of a man when you rememberhis work.

Im not going to need any help rememberingthat, I thought at thirteen. Its all over. I cant go fivefeet in any direction without remembering the life ofman, at home or at school or out in the world goingpast their workplaces. Its all there is. There were even


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Siamak VoSSoughi 3

times when I tried not to remember it so much, likewhen we would go to a restaurant and on the way

there I would tell myself to focus on the food insteadof wondering about the lives of the people there.

What my fathers approach had was balancethough. The bread was not nothing and the lives ofthe people working at the bakery was not nothing. Itdid not have to be one or the other. And any time twothings are not one or the other, they stand the chanceof feeding each other.

It takes a certain kind of genius to approacha bakery like that. To remember that the bread isgood but the people are a little better. Thats all

communism was to me when I was a kid. What Inoticed though was that while we were there, thepeople would follow along. The transaction was stillcapitalist, but there was something else: The bakerywas the site of a very small revolution because a manwho had a very big revolution inside him knew just

how much of it to let out. And it was a revolutionthat had in it something new but also something old.It had in it everyones first visit to a bakery, and awonder about the whole thing, the cooking and theprocess and the possibilities of bread. And it was theold thing of how one persons wondering can remindeverybody that the place they are has a lot of room forwonder, that it may have as much room as any place,and nobody had to know that there was communismbehind it. Because the truth was there must have beenpeople like that before the Cold War, before Karl


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Marx, before the Industrial Revolution. There musthave been people who walked into a bakery and the

wonderful smell of the bread hit them just like it hiteverybody else, but along with the thought of howwonderful the bread would be in their stomach, theythought: This smell is somebodys life. In Iran in themiddle of the 20th century, a boy like that became acommunist. At other places and times, he probably

became something else. But whatever he became, itwas probably something that wanted the truth of thebakery to be named, to be acknowledged as freely andopenly as the smell of the bread.

When I was thirteen, it seemed like too muchto try to name and acknowledge. It was because Iwas trying to do it all at once. I didnt know that youcould only really do it for the bakery you happenedto be in at the time. You couldnt acknowledge all thebakery smells in the world at once so you couldntacknowledge all the lives connected to them either.But you could do something for the one where youhappened to be, and that seemed small to me when Iwas thirteen, but still I knew that it didnt seem thatway when I went with my father. The bakery seemedlike just the right size then, and so did our town, andso did our house when we brought home the bread.

We would lay the food out and everybodywould start eating, and for a minute I would thinkabout the families Id heard of who took the time topray together just before eating, and it seemed likekind of a nice thing and it would even cross my mind


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Siamak VoSSoughi 5

to suggest that we do something like that, and thatwould last right up until I looked at my father and

I remembered that hed started his praying muchearlier that day.


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MO n

e T S g O L M S M i T h

a F a i r Ly p u b L i C v o wt o b e Mo r e Mo n a s t i C

i dont know what true love is but last night at theCafeteria i overheard a woman order aThousand Island Ice Tea.

A THOUSAND ISLAND ICE TEA.From where i was sitting, i couldnt see who the

woman was,but it wouldve been clear to anybody that she wasfirst/second/third wife material, so what i did, i sidledup close, real cozy like, and i said to her:

why dont you and i make a train-wreck of these next

15 months or so,then go our separate ways?


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S L e A P e T e r S

o n C a b b a g e s a n d o t h e r t r a i t s

o F p a t r i a r C h a L Li F eu n s e n t l e t t e r t o a f r i e n d i n a p a r a l l e l u ni v e r

s e

i.

Most days I wake up and forget my dreams onpurpose. Not that they haunt me or anything. I justdont think theyre very important.

ii.

There is a tribe of Borneo Hunters who practice blackmagic whenever they want to get rid of an enemy oran old lover who still disturbs their spirits. They willtake a block of wood fashioned from their enemysliking, and they will leave it out in the middle ofthe forest where it slowly deteriorates, unobserved.Meanwhile it is believed that the enemy, wherevershe may be, deteriorates along with it.

iii.

I lay with myself a while in bed a lot of the time,wondering if the earth will finally fulfill itself and vanish.


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I know Im not alone. My typewriter whispers fromthe far reaches of the bedroom that I am too serious.

I avoid the gaze of my Goethe in the corner, of myRimbaud in the original that I have never read, of abusted record player languishing beneath the cloyingodor of dust.

iv.

What if the story of the world is nothing more than atablet dropped in a glass of water?

v.

I used to wake up to the sound of children playing infields. I would run away as fast as I could to some dimregion of coffee and neck-ties, whatever the fuck theopposite of the Elysian fields is.

(Remember when we made snow-angels with aceramic rooster on somebodys roof in Utah? Whenwe danced all night on a stripper pole in somebodyelses party van?)*

vi.

Today I wake up and wonder what time it is instead,even or especially when there is no place for me to be.

* Originally there was a phrase in this that was cribbed from GoethesWerther - making a liar out of me in stanzas III and VI. But now I cantremember what phrase it was that may have drove me to this entire madnessto begin with. So here is another phrase or two from my Goethe, taken atrandom:


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alex PeterS 11

vii.

Its true, I probably indulge in myself too often.Laying in bed like a spoiled child, ignoring theresponsibility of last nights dreams. I do not read myGoethe, its true. There are no clocks in the housewhere I live. I do not reach for my phone or worrywhether so and so has called today.

But it happens sometimes that a nursery rhyme ora tango will take shape out of the silence. It nevermakes much sense, not even to me, and they are not very original lyrics. Still, it always reminds me thatthere is maybe no such thing as tomorrow, and aslong as my heart is going to behave like a sick child Ibetter give it everything it asks for.

viii.

I would love to visit you in Brooklyn.

iX.

Are you aware that the Great Salt Lake in Utah isonly 13 feet deep?

(I still believe, in my heart of hearts, that one day acabbage can be more than a cabbage.)

There are times where I feel so vividly how Penelopesimpudent suitors slaughter oxen and swine, cut them up,and roast them. There is nothing that could fill me so


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completely with a quiet, genuine feeling as those traits of patriarchal life that I, thank God, can weave into my kind

of life without affectation.

How fortunate it is for me that my heart can feel the plain,naive delight of the man who puts on the table a cabbagethat he has grown himself, and for whom it is not merelythe vegetable, but all the good days, the fine morning when

he planted it, the pleasant evenings when he watered it,taking his pleasure in its thriving growththat he enjoysagain in one comprehensive moment.


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13

MSr i S S L L O C C O

b i r t h s t o r y

Over 12 pounds,and purpleI emerged Alien babywith the liverof an old man. Dropbydropthey exchangedmy bloodwith bags of strangers.

Foreign wasthe flesh ofmy mothers breast.

Lips a slit, eyes shut,

We need to wake her upDoctor said.DoctorOrdered my motherto pinch me Hard .


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So on my fresh skin,digging her fingernails in,

mother carvednew moons.I clung to blacka frozen star,still in the dream-world.

DoctorHanded hera three-inch needle. Push it inHe ordered, Deep.

So she stabbedthe solesof my feet.Still asleep,I whimpered.

Clean white wallsPromised the best medicine.This was America, in the 80s

The men she trustedknew no betterthan to slice my mother openor sit seething in the waiting rooma sole static TVset on re-runs of Father-knows-best.


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maria a l locco 15

My mother listened to their instructions.She tried to do it all

rightfor love.Papered the walls with thin new stories,Windexed family photo memories,Learned how to put up blinds.

Before my mothers touch,

were man-made machinesWires for my veinsthick suction-cups stuck:like nipples theyd fondle,heartbeats into a lineof their beeping erections.

My day-old bodyDependant on them alreadyDid not want toBe of this world.

My parents prayed to the Holy Mary,

and though Father was a former priest,My mother, ordered by Godor simply another manin white on highto stare at her sentenced handsas they nailed her baby,Must have wonMarys empathy.

It was five days of IVsbefore Doctors last words:


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17

MO n

e T S g O L M S M i T h

C e r b e r u s sMi Li n g

Each day holds at least one moment when I imaginemy own

excruciating death. Today I choke on my ownpenchant and passion

for naming things; tomorrow cocktail waitressesspray me

with gin and tonic as I cower naked and bemused onthe hard wood

floor. I turn on the faucet and a tornado swirls in thewrong direction,

searching my body like an early autopsy. Anothertime I was under a

wave back in the summer of my youth, trying to makeit cover me

like the kind of cheap blanket they use when nobodywants to get

warm. One day I dream Ill be smothered at my desk

by a gang ofItalian super models. Space debris will fall from theceiling.

I only own one photograph of my Brother and Itogether. We are


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flat on our bellies, framed by a pile of leaves in adeserted field.

Our best friend sits on top of us,

on top of the leaves, taunting and triumphant,enthroned and em-

butterflied.

You can hardly make out my sloppy face in thepicture;There is a dark substance that marks one side of my

mouthdried blood maybe, or mud, or possibly a shadow.I am the third head of Cerberus peering out from

underneath,arguing that I am there. All three of us appear to be

smiling but

It isnt easy to tell. I hardly remember this day at all.

October 3, 1996


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J . e . Fr e e M S n

t h e s t o o p

Its nice to sit on a sun lit stoop and watchthe neighborhood walk by,

pleasant in the bath of lightthe afternoon makes to keep me warm. Accepted if the owner of the house doesnt mind mesitting here with my pen and notebook,writing. I am long haired and greya bit disheveled but friendly. At least the dogs think so as they pass.I can tell by the look they share with me and the

slight tug on the leashto approach and say hello, if their humans

will let them. Even they smile at me, some of them, the humans.The dogs like me, so why not.

Im just a vagabond on a stoop in the sun. I smoke some tobacco if I have it. A bowl of pot I always have.Hippy habits never die.They dont even fade away.


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Even on a windy day a sunny stoop is friendly.It blocks the wind if I sit high enough on the steps

protected in its alcove eye to eye withwhomever passes. I grew up on stoops on the streetsof Brooklyn and Queens, in New Yorkmiles and years away from here

in the summer twilights listeningto ball games and rock and rollfrom the radio in some open windowswapping stories and lies and what I thought was truelaughing with the kids who were my friends back

then.

Then and there I knew,we knew, everyone who passed by.We lived there. These were our stoops, our streets.Our folks were just a shout away.But that was then, not now. Not here.

Here now on this stoop in San Francisco it is another

centuryand if my younger selfas I was thenpassed this stoophe would not recognize me,though Id know him and smile.Maybe hed even smile backor say as I might have thenWhat are you looking at old man?


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J .e . Freeman 21

And me being me, Id say, You kid, Why? You got aproblem with that?

which we, being us, would make us laugh. And maybe hed sit on the stoop with meand wed shoot the shit telling stories, and lies, and

things we think are true.

Yes a sunlit stoop in the afternoon is a beautiful

thing.I can read a book, listen to some music or catch up onthe news

though that might spoil the mood.I can watch the people passing bywith their shopping bags and flowers

talking on the phone orin pairs in idle conversation holding handsand dream of me and me and yesterdaylaughing,sitting on a stoop.


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Ju Li S J S C S O n

F r o M w i se Me n

Youssef first spotted her at the Saturday market, awoman with hair the color of a hundred overlappingshadows. Most of the guiris he saw were blonde, theirhair either fine and natural like sand, or gleamingwith the iridescent sheen of some newfangledchemical. But this one was different. She passed herhands over avocados with an unspoken tenderness,caressing the near-purplish skin of the fruit withan affection that reminded him of his mother. Hercheeks were ruddy and flush; they inspired in him aheat so intense he began to sweat. She was English,of that he was sure; it was all in the way she cockedher head, the way she kept her eyes forever on theshoreline, as if expecting her past to be there, waitingfor her on the beach. He knew that feelingheembodied it.

For years his mother had been nagging him tomarry; to find someone with the right hips. But hismother still lived on the Mediterraneans oppositeshore; she did not know the harshness of this newplace.

The woman lingered at his towel not morethan a minute, but it was an important one. Herchin was hard, her frame angular. She had almost


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passed him by but something called her back. He sawher hesitate, pass her hands over his spread of plastic

jewelry and burned CDs, as if counting something.She smelled different; she smelled of strong soap,and below that, of licorice. She smelled the way heimagined her skin might taste. He felt the heat return.He stepped back behind the towel, spreading out thecameras and cell phone covers and the metallic sheen

of long flashy necklaces.Good morning, hed said, and shed just barely

raised her eyebrows. It was enough.

Mustafa caught him looking, his eyes lingeringon the narrow curves of her body, and shot him a

glance.Shes too old for you, he said. And too

white.

Youssef knew he was right. But he memorizedher face all the same, the breeze of hair that curled

behind her ears, the slight dusting of freckles acrossthe bridge of her nose. This was a woman whosesecrets he could bear.

The second time Youssef saw her, it wasafter being chased off the beach by a Polcia Local.Mustafa was gone that day and he had been alone onthe Paseo. When the call came up he made straightfor the closest alley. He merged in with the crowd, young people coming home for afternoon lunch with


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Ju l ia JackSon 25

their families, and most of the pubs on the streetwere closed for siesta. All but one. She was standing

inside, wiping down the window that faced the street. Youssef slowed his pace. Her hair was piled on top ofher head in an unceremonious mass, her cheeks redwith effort. Her shirt was thin, ripped slightly to herbust. None of it was intentional, he could see, butthat was just it. She exuded an ease with the universe,

with her place in it, that he envied. And then, almostwithout warning, she looked up.

Youssef froze. Was she looking at him? Didshe recognize him? Could she even see him? She wasmouthing something, waving her hand. He adjustedthe bundle on his back and waved back. She wavedagain, pointed. He turned. A man in green wasmaking his way down the street. Youssef didnt wait.He hoisted the bundle above his head and walked upthe steps to the pub. She opened the door for him andpointed behind the pub.

Drink?He didnt know what to say. He had been a

religious man once; he was never one for alcohol. Shekept an eye on the window. Youssef sat at the pub.He could see a man in the back, polishing glasses.

A few men sat in the back corner, enthralled bysome foreign sport on the television. The pub wasotherwise quiet. The man in green passed by thewindow and kept walking.

Whatll you have? the woman asked. You willhave something?


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The man in back chose this moment to comeforward.

What was all that about, Linda? he asked. Henodded toward the window. That policeman seemedin hot pursuit.

Youssef studied the bottles on the back wall.

What of it? the woman said.

The man looked at him. Youssef kept his eyesaverted. He hoped Linda couldnt tell how his bodyradiated. He fairly trembled. At long last the manspoke.

Just be sure he pays, he said, turning to leave.They rarely do.

Linda clucked, leaning forward to wipe downthe counter before Youssef. It was licorice, that smell,sweet and dark and powerful. Here she was: lady ofher own domain. Still he trembled.

So what is it? she asked. Beer? Wine? Sheleaned closer. Whiskey?

Youssef felt his arms shake, his temple sweat. Afever of the likes hed never had. He reached for hisbundle and stood up.

Whatd I say? she asked.

He was already at the door. When he gotoutside, he shook himself into the night, thinking,Linda, Linda, her name is Linda.


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CS

S n M r S M S L L e T T

M a k i n g L o v et o t h e Mi n o t a u r

On our last nightin the Bahamaswe took the Extasyto bring us closermaybe some sex on the beachto erase the damage done

in lives back home.

The shitcame on slowand sickin my gut

like hallucinogenics do.forcing me to squaton the toiletpushing droplets of peeto ease the pressurethe twisting of poison passing.

It was withoutthe usual euphoriathe reasons why I love you so bitbut not un-fun


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in this dark houseon the edge of the world

waves crashing unseena black sky of stars.

I saw my man as a Minotaura centaurmythological muscles

browned in the Caribbean sunthe wind howling over white rockgiant scorpions looming,I was sure Medusas slithering headwould spring from the Milky Way.

My Venus nude wrapped in a sheetwe fucked on the porchhis face scrunching into demonscoconut masksme trying to muffle my shrieking laughterso as not to wake my parents.

His face above mewas all crazy white teeth glowing hazel eyesscared the shit out of meI called him Terminator Cophis head melting metalbullet holes reshaping the side of itmorphing in the darkand I was open wetsticky salty.


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caSSandra da l le t t 29

I tried to sponge offwith a soaked dirty towel

sprayed perfumegagged on the smellate butter pecan ice creamleft handedto kill the tastebut still I stank.

Somehow he came again and againand I did tooseeing patterns shiftingsquares into trianglesinto worms into ropes and snakes

all brightest day glowlike old school postersI traveled the worlds watersswaying in boatsin hammocksrode the wind

in China, Mexicoin shanty town fishing boatsbursting with color and fishy smell.

From the toilet I said things likewe really are in Narnia, Aslanand he made me roar with laughtertrotting around making hoof soundscreating a horse ass on his buff bodytill I laughed out more pee.with sunlight


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hot showers,no sleep,

but planes to catch,customs to clear,I wonder when we reach Oaklandwill you still carry me on your backpull arrows from your quiverkill the beast

that lurks in the teal green sealay me naked on a star lit porchlove meeven with your facefalling off.


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LS u r

S J O S S i M S O n

o n e s w h o C a r r yt h e w e i g h t o F t h e s u n

for the as yet nameless Fukushima fifty

faceless job, circling,unenola gay fliers,fukushima bound.

no moralityin war tibbets said.no sentiment in business; just ageiger counter

and the fragile ground. to force the bodynot to fleewho rememberscherynobyl, mon amour? 5.6roentgens per second. off scale.telyatnikov received his medal


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for bravery, two others,posthumously. four,

the number that burneddowns syndrome upgermany.deer racing from the red forest. cost of

oil wars or black lung. Nonecostless. bill us, then, we breathing women, men,pouring saltwater overicarus, the sun


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T r S C i C h e e

s t e v e

They meet each other three days before the worldends. Charlies knifing open a can of chili andreclining against a boulder with a small fire of twigsand brush at her feet. Her legs are bare and dirty andbrown. Water is scarce and no one uses it for bathinganymore.

Steve is hungry enough to risk talking to

her. He creeps hesitantly out of a ditch, clutchinga walking stick made out of a cactus rib, lookingunderfed and exhausted. Everybody looks that way,these days. But hes the skinny plaid-shirt-wearingsort of boy she might have liked when she was in highschool, when she had time to like boys. So she lets

him live.The first thing she says to him is, Sit down.

She cooks the chili on a hot rock. She splits it withhim and even gives him the first bite. The stuff islukewarm and probably expired, but when he puts

the spoon in his mouth, his eyes sort of roll back inhis head and Charlie can see hes savoring the waythe beans and chunks of meat and cubes of tomatodissolve over his tongue.


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The first time Steve touches Charlie hes handing hera scrap of cloth. Theres a gash on her leg. They were

sneaking into an abandoned diner and she got caughton the ragged edge of a broken window. The buildingis mostly concrete and inside its cool and dark andthe tables are upturned and the chairs are gone.

Steve stops rooting around behind the counterwhen he notices Charlie crouching and graspingher thigh. He takes his only spare shirt out of hispack and yanks it in half. The threads snap one afteranother with little popping sounds. When she takesit from him, their fingers brush. Her skin is chappedand peeling. All of a sudden he feels hot again,burning around his neck and cheeks.

Hes glad of the darkness because she cant seehim blush.

When Charlie tells him about her family, theyre lying

face-up on a slab of rock. It sprouts out of the desertas if it has been growing there for thousands of years,and its warm against their backs as they stare up atthe stars.

A strange thing is happening with the sky. Its

the clearest its ever been, maybe in the history of theworld. They can see for lightyears. There are galaxiesspinning so close they could reach up and rip themright out of the sky. The Milky Way drenches themwith light so dense its nearly slurpable.


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t rac i chee 35

My little brother died, she says. I mean, notbecause of all this. She gestures to the horizons,

which are dark, as if there are clouds huddled thereon the edges of their vision, though they both knowthose are dust storms. Maelstroms of rubble spinningin an ever-tightening spiral, with them and all thatsleft of the world at the center.

It was a dirt bike crash, she adds. Then: Iwasnt there. And: Sometimes I think the last thinghe saw was clods of dirt.

Steve doesnt say it, but when he thinks aboutthe last thing hell see he hopes its Charlie.

They have their first kiss when they find a Volvo bythe side of the road. Its dusty white and riddled withbullet holes and most of the windows have been shotout and there are corpses piled twenty feet away, butthe thing runs. Like, it runs! They dont even stop to

bow their heads or anything, they just look at eachother and all of a sudden theyre flung into eachothers arms and theyre grasping wildly, lips pressedand bellies close and knees all knocking together.

Its the last night. Theyre reclined in the seats andthe gritty desert wind is blowing through the brokenwindows. Their hands are clasped over the e-brake.Steve is curled on his side, looking over at Charlie.The corner of her mouth twitches.


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He reaches over and brushes the back of hishand against the curve of her cheek. She stares at him.

She scratches the side of her face, and on her skin herfingers leave red lines that fade slowly.

Why didnt I meet you sooner, he says.

Charlie considers, squinting her eyes. Steve wasa database manager before the end began. He didnt

wear a suit to work and he spent a lot of time onFacebook. He didnt cook. There were puffs of dustcollecting under the couch and in the corners of hisrooms. On Thursday nights he played board gameswith his friends and their laughter and the rattlingsounds of ten-sided dice filled up the tiny apartment

and spilled out golden through the black windows.She says, So we wouldnt have time to hate

each other.

Now all thats left is broken air conditioning andshattered windows and a fast car on a flat summerroad, damp hair and sweat speckling the edges oftheir faces and their shirts sticking to the car seats,breathing hard and run-for-your-life. Here at the edgeof the world.

The hills are crumbling. Bits are breaking offand tumbling down. Huge waves of dust and debrisbillow through the flatlands, earth-borne clouds filledwith thistles and weeds, with all the little animalssurfing on skipping rocks and scraps of bark.


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t rac i chee 37

Only a rough circle of blue sky remains, and init the white sun is like a hot pale eye.

Steve is driving because hes always likedthe rolling of the earth under him and why stopnow. Charlies all legs and knees and elbows in thepassenger seat with her hair whipping around hercheeks and ears. Steve puts his hand over her hand.She smiles grimly.

The noise is thunderous: mountains crashingdown in explosions of rock and tree and snow,mushroom clouds of wildflowers and gravel, birdsrising singing into the sky like flecks of ash. Stevestares at the road. The asphalt is fractured and mosaic,

the dotted yellow hammered into tiny pieces.Charlie leans forward and opens the glove

compartment. The drawer bangs open and itscontents spill into her waiting hands: a ballpoint pen,an old receipt for gas, a yellow envelope stuffed withpapers from the dmv . harold jensen , she reads.She has to shout just to hear herself. 233 alamodrive, santa monica, california .

They wonder who he was. Why he was sofar from home. Where he thought he was going. Ifhe was, like everybody else, trying to find someonebefore the end.

The world is shrinking. Tsunamis of soil andstone rush inward, encircling the road, the car,the two of them. Charlie flicks the papers out thewindow one by one, fwip fwip fwip devoured greedily

by the wind.


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38

good-bye harold , Steve says.

Charlie laughs. Its the last laughter the worldwill ever hear and its bitter and full of music.

Theres a hurricane of rubble heading towardsthem, and theyre heading right back at it. Hestops watching the road. He turns to her, touches afingertip gently to her face. i would have liked

to hate you , Steve says.There isnt much time left. The sky is

disappearing. The sun is masked by dust. Behindthem, swells of wreckagepipes from city sewers andstatues missing their legs and ancient stones dappledwith runesare catching up. The gap is closing.

Charlie grabs his shoulder. She looks sad andangry and beautiful. i know , she says. And: metoo .

Steve pushes his foot down on the gas pedal.They start to waver on the road. Rubble and ruinconverge on them. In the clouds, they can see lampposts and rubber tires and thousands of scraps ofpaper like frantic white birds. They look at eachother, and when the world closes in around themwith bricks and boulders and shattered glass, they fly

out through the windshield holding hands.


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