Issue #11 of The Boulevard
Spring-Summer 2013 Hawthorne Fellows
Edited by Jennifer Lauck
Inside the kitchen, the house is dark and musty, it smells like grandmama’s cellar, like dirty feet and dirty clothes, like piled up dishes and stale bread, like a dead mouse, like last night’s cabbage stew and this morning’s sweet crepes.
A Second Chance with the First One
That night, I stay up watching the movie over and over until midnight. When the clock on my oven blinks 12:01, I finally shut ‘er down. Every Wednesday, same routine – up ‘til midnight no matter the shift I work the next day. That’s a lot of time to think about Wednesdays. Middle of the week. Middle of our life.
In later years, when they’d become adults, and mothers of teenagers, they’d realize that Shelby had been insecure. She didn’t have a dad as far as anyone knew, and her mom wore micro-mini skirts, inhaled Virginia Slims, and colored her own hair.
How foolish to think that I had any power over the cancer clock. Molly didn’t have weeks. She had days, maybe hours. My decision to come home to LA and my business for two days was a mistake. No presentation or contract was more important than being with Molly.
Tiggle Bitties By Cassandra Mill
Izzy looks at me sideways. She knows having an obsessively fit, fanatical family member size me up is worse than a stranger (despite Megan’s good intentions). The notion of going to the mall in Sacramento suburbia also significantly ramps up the nightmarish aspects of bra shopping. Izzy diplomatically steers the conversation away from making specific plans.
Doc turned his gaze toward the arched, light-filled window across the room. Wiley’s eyes shifted to the destination, his breaths mere shallow puffs. They were there—Doc confirmed it when he smiled. Birdie stared at the bird bath in the garden, framed with velvet curtains the color of rich claret. Its cool, fresh water twinkled through the rippled glass. Perched on the rim were three glorious birds—the very same wondrous creatures under their hands only moments ago.
When in Panama, Don't Kiss the Girls by Heide Island
It’s 10:30 in the morning, still early for Panama. The streets are empty, except our stalker, an autumn colored dog. She’s tailed us since Rod brought her the remains of his arroz con huevos from breakfast. We nickname her Bonita, but then shorten it further to “Bonnie.” I wonder if she belongs to any of the people who live in the street level efficiencies.
When he’d graduated from Roosevelt High School in 1969, he hadn’t pictured a future working 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. in a hot rolling mill. His dad had worked in auto parts shop all his life. “Get an education, Harold,” he’d said. “Don’t do like me. Forty years in one business and shit to show for it.”
Hole in my Universe By Nicholai Vasilieff
I clasp the necklace around my neck and turn on my heel. My reflection in the window stares at me; wavy and warped, like I feel. Long brown hair falls to my shoulders. God, what I wouldn’t give for curls. I push it behind my ears, and wipe my sleeve across my cheek. I’ve grown six inches, to five eight, in the past year. Skinny, legs like a giraffe and bumps for a chest. I shake my head; almost all bra and I’m already thirteen. My shoulders slump. Whatever.
I thought about my dad’s view on death. I believe he would have summed it up in two words: “Game Over.” The detailed play-by-play of the soul’s journey onwards made me squeamish. My eyes wandered again towards the elevator, hoping I might find some escape in that direction.