Tuesday, July 5, 2005

ISSUE 1

Contents



POETRY

...................................................................................................................................................................... 2
Skin Like Spilled Milk
Dana Kuhnline

...................................................................................................................................................................... 3
Just Inspire
Zhian Kamvar

...................................................................................................................................................................... 5
The Last American
Dru Parrish

FICTION

...................................................................................................................................................................... 7
Puddle Worm
Nicole Rainey

.................................................................................................................................................................... 10
You Love Vodka
William Ostilly

.................................................................................................................................................................... 14
Brother, Dear Brother
Thelonious Wadlington

..................................................................................................................................................................... 17
Picnic Lightning
Vincent Saint-Simon


The Awkward Alligator is brought to you by Nicole Rainey and Matt Siemer.
Cover art and Fiction page art courtesy of Curt Bozif.

Skin Like Spilled Milk (p. 2)

Skin Like Spilled Milk
Dana Kunline

For a long time I wanted to have skin like spilled milk,
smooth, glassy, impenetrable by light,
worth weeping over.

I wanted hips like the shadows under a melon,
something soft you could curve your hand around,
that didn’t exist.

Hands like birds, with quick fluttering heartbeats, long lovely
feathers for fingers, fragile pretty bones,
nails like singing beaks.

But my skin isn’t mine to change. I can see through it when
I get out of the shower, hairs stand up,
my veins show through.
When in an airplane above the midwest,
they are the thin rivers you see.

Just Inspire (p. 3)

Just Inspire (Music: Aphex Twin-"Fingerbib")
Zhian Kamvar

Tear the skin. A
flap of flesh hangs
down as this force
called gravity
welcomes it to
become one with
the ground. I dive
into the pool
of blood that waits.

Flowing out of
the arteries
and veins, it falls
down the skin like
rain from empty
Fields will flow to
empty creek beds

Down stream in the
Superior
Vena Cava
is where I will
swim. Bumping this
way and that, try
to keep up with
flowing matrix
secreted by
friendly blood cells.
I climb upon
and surf the stream
on my way to
the heart. I can

see atrium
is waiting for
me, drinking my
brothers, sharing
them with its heart's
body. Now my turn,
in atrium.
is of the right,
through tricuspid,
Pulmonary
Semilunar.

In atrium,
is of the left,
through bicuspid,
out aortic
semilunar,
dispersed into
arteries I
will flow to my
Capillaries
and give waiting
cells oxygen
to breathe and live
for one more day.

The Last American (p. 5)

The Last American
Dru Parrish

“No one writes like Hemingway anymore, I’ll tell ya.”
No need. His heart became the arms
of an age that pulled a generation
into the sea when all that was known was
the Atlantic.

“Imagine what arms! My, my, my.
Holding the gaze of Hard men
with journal eyes. Speaking glory
through callused hands.”

I paused him. Smoked cursive lungs
and set this thought;
--But with them, nothing’s the same now
no more wars to win, nothing left to wrestle

“...
They’d have to be steady.
Tremors don’t doubt sure hands
composure thick, even at the end
when they have but one way out.
They do not waver at fate.
Boredom kills all ancient lions.”

You Love Vodka (p. 10)

You Love Vodka
William Ostilly

You love vodka. There’s no sense in denying it. You just told me not two weeks ago when we were on our honeymoon, and I have a pretty good memory of that.

No, we weren’t drunk. I remember because we were staying in that awful hotel—the first one we stayed at—you know, the one with the really sad looking fake palm trees. Yes, one did fall over in the pool. Now you’re starting to remember. Anyway you were up in our room reading and I had gone down to get some ice (and maybe a soda?). I came back in the room and you looked me up and down with what appeared to be a look of disgust. I think you didn’t like my shirt. Do you remember the shirt? The orange and green one that you said was “so stupid looking it almost made me unlovable?” Yes, it was a button up, and the buttons were square. Well, it doesn’t matter what shoes I was wearing. I was on vacation, and I think I’m allowed to wear blue shoes if I want to. Why do you always do this, anyway? You just tear me down all the time when we’re trying to have an adult discussion. It’s like you don’t even care about my feelings. What’s the fucking big deal about, huh? You think that I’m going to change the way I dress just for you? Is that it? No, I’m not angry; I’m frustrated and upset. If you don’t want me to yell then you shouldn’t judge me. It isn’t like your fashion sense is so great either. I seem to recall a certain grayish-blue dress that makes me want to barf all over myself. You know, the one you wear all the time because you think it makes you look pretty. It just makes you look like a prissy whore. And you shouldn’t wear socks with dresses. What do you think of that? Now do you know how it feels? How does it feel to be insulted? Now maybe if I did it constantly you would understand.

Yeah, I felt like crying too, but that’s not even the point. That’s not even what we were discussing. Why do you always have to go on about things so that we get off-topic? I was right in the middle of the story, too, so I know you weren’t listening.

Oh, you were, were you? What was I saying then? Where was I in the story? Can you tell me or do I have to repeat it all again?

Well, that does happen to be exactly where I stopped. You got lucky I guess. I came in the room and you gave me a look of disgust. I felt like giving you one too, because you were reading that one book, Crimes that Punish or something like that. Yeah, that one. The one that I told you time and again not to read because it makes me feel stupid. But you keep reading it because you don’t give a shit about how I feel.

Anyway, I felt like giving you a look but I didn’t because I love you and care about how you feel. Don’t interrupt me, please. I won’t ask again nicely. So I put the ice over on the little sink next to the closet and I came over to the bed. You pretended not to be interested in me because you were reading. I remember that. But whatever, I thought, she does that all the time.

I grabbed the book from you and closed it, so that we could talk or have sex.

What was that you mumbled? You know what I’m talking about. You mumbled just now. I heard you but I want you to repeat it. Oh. Well, isn’t that just a fine statement to make. How dare you, really. As a matter of fact I do talk to you, and I don’t just use you for sex. You’re just saying that to make me mad.

You know a lot of women would appreciate my healthy sex drive. Yes, they would. And you know, maybe if you were better in bed, we wouldn’t have to do it so often. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t get all offended like it isn’t true. Excuse me? I do too know how to please a woman; you’re just too uptight. No, I don’t just lie there. No other woman has ever had a problem with me, so it must be you. I could have any woman I wanted. You should feel honored. It isn’t like you have any prospects. I don’t care how many people you slept with. Are you trying to make me jealous? Is that the game we’re playing? Well, if your dad hadn’t given me all that money I wouldn’t have married you. How do you feel now? Is that something you wanted to hear? What? How can your dad force you to marry me? Now you’re just making things up. Well, no one likes you either, and we all talk about you behind your back. You don’t like to hear that, do you? Well, next time you shouldn’t make me mad.

And you changed the topic again. You always do this. Why can’t we have a normal conversation without you insulting me every two minutes? It’s like you’re trying to make this as difficult as possible. Anyway, we were sitting there and I had just taken your book so that you would actually look at me when we were talking. Then I asked you if you wanted to have sex, and of course you said no because you always do. Then I said that if we weren’t going to have sex I was going to get drunk and you got mad because you love telling me what to do. No, just hold on, you can speak later.

So we went down to the hotel bar, and it looked like it had been built in a closet at the last minute. We sat down at one of like three tables and the waitress with bad make-up asked us what we wanted. I said I wanted brandy and then you said that you wanted vodka. I asked you why you ordered vodka, because I had never heard you order it before, and as I’m sure you’ll remember, you said that in that degrading voice, “I love vodka.” Remember now?

No, no it was not gin. No it wasn’t. Yes, I do remember you asking the bad make-up girl what kind she was using. Tanqueray. That’s not vodka? Are you sure? You always do this; you make things up to make me feel dumb. Why would you have a bottle here? Don’t use that tone, and no you don’t “love gin.” Where is it? Fine. I’ll look in the freezer.
Well, so what if it is gin?

Brother, Dear Brother (p. 14)

Brother, Dear Brother
Thelonious Wadlington

The stars sat still, watching us watch them. Each cloud seemed to have gone on holiday at the behest of each star; or rather, through our own wills. The flattened grass under our naked backs did not prick or itch, but seemed only to bend under our weight and will as we laid side by side, hand in hand, exposed to the night exposed to us. A wan moon blanketed us in its bluish glow and a cool, favonian breeze traversed our skin glistening with the sweat of passion from the heat of a midsummer’s night.

I turned to him and he turned to me on his side, slender and curved like a tulip seeking sunlight, his jet-black hair falling over his eyes but leaving his rubious, supple lips free to press against my own while he pulled and pressed me close to him until our midriffs were laved against one another and our legs were woven together. My hand traveled down his side and rested on his waist. He was so smooth like an angel’s down. My fingers migrated up the centre line of his back and I palmed his velvety nape, the tips of my fingers in his hair. Oh! How gentle he was when he slid his delicate hand into the longing furnace that was my loins and I writhed and my body arced into him as I whimpered under his breath. He silenced me with his fine, incarnadine lips and floated above me as if underwater and lifted by a current.

Above me, he pulled his lips away from mine and his obsidian eyes stared into me. It was like gazing into a mirror. His visage was my own and he was haloed by the moon behind him, his hair hanging like willow branches. He smiled softly and, at this, I smiled and I felt the tears welling in my own eyes then rolling down my temples. He smoothed the hair from my brow and wiped the tears away with his hand. He leaned in close to me, rested his cheek against mine, and kissed my ear. I turned my head and his lips met my neck, and again…and again. Our bodies together, he stretched his arms out on either side until his hands were in mine. Our fingers crossed and our arms parallel he dragged them along the grass and above my head until our bodies were like spears.

‘I am you and nothing more,’ he whispered, and he raised both of my legs onto his shoulders and slipped into me. My very skin tinged and I whimpered again and gasped as if my essence had been spilled into the night. I clenched… He pushed… I clenched… he felt so fluid as he delved into me and into me as I clasped his glazed, pallid back with both hands, moiling to keep my talons from harming him. The trees harkened my cries and the cherry blossoms floated down on us. Deeper he pushed… I clenched… I brought my hands down up on the earth and clasped and wrenched the grass from her, his sweat dripping onto my chest. A drop of his blood fell onto my neck from where he had bitten his lip.

Oh, my brother! My hand moved down my torso and I fondled my own item and brought my hand up again, caressing my chest above the back-and-forth of my body. My hand slid up my neck, collecting blood and sweat and I brought it to my mouth. Oh, my sweet-tasting brother! I took my other hand, aquiver, down and clutched myself; stroked myself in time with his metronomic thrusts. Oh! How I thought or bodies would blaze with fire when he let loose from his rod his nectar inside of me and I onto my already dampened self. My body collapsed. My brother laid on me, his breath hot on my chest, and then he brought his lips, one still raw from the pangs of ecstasy, to mine and he tasted so sweet. With the same black eyes he looked into me.

‘Brother, dear brother...’ he said, and floated to the earth beside me. We laid side by side, hand in hand, exposed to the dawn exposed to us. I turned and he turned toward me and wrapped his arm around me. We slumbered beneath the matutinal elegy of the waking lark.

Picnic Lightning (p. 17)

Picnic Lightning
Matt Siemer

On a hill of bright yellow grass, surrounded by a vast yellow field that seemed to stretch forever, we sat down to eat. The hill was chosen for the stream that ran at its base and the short, gnarled tree that, though bereft of leaves, we could sit under and where at least two of us five could put our backs against it. Mom, of course, got one of the prime spots. Cassie took the other. I laid out the pink blanket, and sat around it with Sam and Poe.

“Poe!” Mom called, “Go to the river and get some water!”

Poe complied. I could see him as he staggered down the hill to the berry-red stream, where he scooped up the water in a pail. As young as he was, I was surprised that he was able to carry the pail back up to the top where we all waited. He stumbled once or twice, holding the bucket against his left side with both hands as he trudged slowly upward. He set the pail next to Mom, and then sunk down where he was sitting before. Mom was busy talking to Cassie who seemed to not be listening. No one really listened to Mom except Poe, probably because he got the least amount of attention.

The three of us littler ones spread ourselves out on the blanket and stared up into the dark sky and the fast-moving sea-green clouds that pulled themselves across its surface. Sam thought that she could touch them, they looked so close to us, but when she tried she didn’t even come close. I laughed as I watched, knowing that they would be out of reach. The only way she could stand a chance of touching them would be to climb the tree and try from there. But that wasn’t an option now that Mom and Cassie were against the trunk. Mom had discovered the red water and was drinking from it. Then she offered some to Cassie. Sam had once asked her if she could try some, and Mom had said that it wasn’t for kids. We stared at Cassie in envy as she pulled the pail to her. Cassie got to do everything. She was the only one who could make Mom smile.

Time passed, and Poe’s stomach started to rumble. Sam and I told him to keep quiet, but he told us he couldn’t. He looked like he was going to cry, but his stomach didn’t stop.

“We were supposed to have a picnic,” he said, “but there’s no food and I’m hungry.”

I told him to keep quiet. I tried to comfort him as best I could without Mom seeing. Sam tried to comfort him, too.

“Eat some grass,” she said, “maybe that will make your stomach stop.”

Poe turned off of the blanket and, with tears streaming down his face, pulled up some of the yellow grass and shook off the dirt. He looked back at us, the limp grass in his hand, as if to ask us whether this was the grass we were talking about. To reassure him, I went off the blanket and took some grass and put it in my mouth. Poe was still crying, but he ate the grass and picked up another handful. Sam and I watched him, waiting for his stomach to relax into silence. We had forgotten about Mom.

And Mom had forgotten about us in her conversation with Cassie until, reaching for the now half-empty pail, she knocked it over. Anger flared in her bloodshot eyes and she bared her yellow teeth. Cassie moved away, pale and fearful. Mom didn’t notice her. She looked around for a target, and her eye fell on Poe, still eating grass on the edge of the blanket. She screamed in rage, and all three of us suddenly noticed her staring at us. Poe was trembling. Mom’s shout had scared away his tears.

“Come here, Poe,” she called. She did not yell it, but there was something in her voice that was so much more disturbing than if she would have yelled. Poe tried to stand, but he couldn’t. He tried twice before Sam got up the courage to try and help him. As Sam started to help Poe, however, the empty pail was hurled at her head and it knocked her over.

“Don’t touch him,” Mom said, “go get some water from the river.”

Sam took the bucket and started down the hill. Poe climbed to his feet and walked toward Mom. She stayed sitting as he walked up, but her eyes did not leave him.

“Kneel down,” she told Poe. He did. “Who told you to eat grass?”

Poe didn’t answer, and I knew he was trying to keep Sam and I from getting in trouble.

“Who told you to eat grass?” she said again. This time it was more of a command than a question, and though Poe started crying again and hung his head, he didn’t answer. There were still flecks of dirt on his cheeks around his mouth. The tears were smearing them. There was complete silence around us. I couldn’t hear myself breathe. I couldn’t hear Poe cry.

“Look at me,” Mom said.

Poe looked up, and as his watery eyes met Mom’s her hand came up. I saw a flash of color over my shoulder and looked just in time to see a bolt of neon-pink lightning as it came out of the green clouds and slammed into the yellow ground very far away. I kept looking at where it had struck until the afterglow faded from my eyes. Behind me, Poe was falling down the hill.