Subsiting

J.P. Steed

The question didn’t seem to reach the old man at first, so the young woman asked it again, a little louder. The old man’s eyes moved from the sea and came to rest on the pavement at his feet. His eyes were somber and as ashen as the sidewalk. The young woman stood, marking time. She was turning to walk away when the old man cleared his throat.

Despite the effort, his utterance rattled like the opening scene of some forgotten chest. he spoke slowly and deliberately, and paused between each though—between each sentence—as if he had only so many left, and each one counted. The young woman winced at the sound.

I was born three months after my mother landed here in America. She crossed the Atlantic in 1904. February. I believe someone famous died that year.

The young woman stood squinting at what the Atlantic and 1904 had to do with her question. Her hands smoothed the front of a smart navy suit and tucked a strand of low-maintenance hair behind an ear. She was a handsome woman of twenty-seven, who looked thirty-five for an absence of make-up and an abundance of aspiration.

The had to take her straight to a hospital from the boat. She was . . . sick. The pregnancy. She had me and then died in 1910. I was alone in Boston until I was old enough to hop a train to Chicago. I like Boston, I suppose. I was a kid. I didn’t pay much attention to it—I guess I liked it. I suppose I just grew out of it.

The old man sat on a wooden bench at the end of the park opposite the playground and the parking lot. He was separated from the beach by only the sidewalk and a raised curb, over which the gray sand had spilled. It freckled the pavement like liver spots. The cries of the neighborhood children could be heard in the distance.

In Chicago I had a job and a girl, but she died in 1929.

The young woman continued to squint at the old man’s train of thought. She presumed he subsisted in one of those arthritic little houses on Allana Drive, near the park, where most of the town’s elderly people lived. She imagined his home, dim and cluttered, silent, saw the inevitable presence of a pet cat named Theodore, or Jack. Pets irritated the young woman. They were a sure sign of a dependence on companionship.

The old man shook his head. His twisted hand moved to his knees. The young woman look at the thumbs, short and square, the knuckles larger than they should have been. An intricately hand-carved cane rested against the inside of his leg. On the weathered bench was his knife, on its side, one of the shorter blades extended toward the young woman. His voice broacher gaze.

I remember her eyes . . . green . . . alive. They never seemed to focus for too long a time. She was beautiful . . . and young.

His whiskered grin subsided.

But I haven’t been able to remember her last name. I went back to Chicago . . . I told you she died?

The old man lifted his head.

It was the first time he had moved his eyes from the pavement, and he settled them on the young woman. She returned his look, detecting a shade of longing that for an instant, she comprehended. She noticed how hollow his cheeks were, seeming to hang with little hope of hanging on much longer. And his forehead was salt- and sun-beaten. The young woman shook her head to clear it and returned to her waiting, curious to see if the old man would answer her question. She left the office late this evening and on the way home crossed the ocean park to ask it. She told herself she that she felt sorry for the old man, that he was lonely and that that was why she stayed, why she waited—because he needed her.

But his sentences were becoming more sporadic and isolated.

I stayed in Chicago for a long time. Lived through the Depression, the Second Big War . . . I suppose I lived through just about everything.

At this the old man resurrected a laugh that resembled a light coughing spell. He wiped his mouth, recovered.

I finally left the year Roosevelt died. 1963 when I went back. Couldn’t remember her name. It was too late . . . Boston was too far away. I was tired.

As if to emphasize the fatigue, he exhaled, and the young woman looked to the children heavily involved in their games and laughter, oblivious to anyone outside their bark dust-bordered playground. An island on the far side of a sea of grass, the playground was always moving, alive, ever-populated. The young woman walked alone every day past the park and the children, but this had been the first time she’d noticed the old man on the bench, and something inside her had left.

I lived in Utah for awhile . . . New Mexico. I think I lasted six years in Nevada. I wasn’t comfortable . . didn’t know anyone. I was working, of course—one has to be working. It . . . helps . . . .

The young woman felt a chill and noticed the loss of light, the graying of evening. It had been a beautiful day of October, a beautiful day for the play-ground.

I was seventy-six when I finally settled here. No more work. I started coming down here because I was bored.

He grinned.

I watched the children . . . the ocean . . . 

As the old man’s voice disseminated, he looked up a second time, his eyes supplicating and wet. The young woman nibbled at the inside of her cheek, her forehead creased, now cold. The cries of the children filled the distant gray.

She hadn’t moved since the old man first cleared his throat, and she now noticed the stiffness in her knees, the soreness in her feet. Her arches ached in her navy pumps. As she rocked from side to side, taking inventory, she remember her father—now sixty-three—and the two back surgeries, the pins in his hip. She had the urge to run, to force the stiffness from her legs. She watched a little girl in an orange wind-breaker skip to a bright Suburban.

The air was heavy. A frost was coming.

“Okay, well . . . thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. “You have a good evening—and don’t freeze yourself to death!”

The young woman smiled and started to back away, shrugging her shoulders against the cold on her neck. She turned to walk, her eyes on the sand-freckled pavement.

“Thank you—” he said.

It was almost inaudible, maybe imagined, coming from an old chest now buried in an unraveled scarf. “—It’s twenty minutes after seven.”

But the young woman didn’t hear the old man’s answer. She hurried her stride, twenty paces closer to home. She looked up only when the park lights came on, just before crossing the street.

 

A penetrating breeze chased after the children, parents arrived to carry them back to their bedrooms, and the old man turned to watch until the last child scrambled into a station wagon. Half-immersed in the sea, the sun cooled to a burnt orange in the undulating blue, and the crispness of the coming frost floated in with the tide.

The old man was alone in the park. He struggled to his feet. Shuffling over the curb and out to the darker sand, he stood facing the sea and the sunset.

 

Almost home, the young woman dug her arms into her ribs. Her ears were numb. She approached her steps, counting the cracks, and thought of the old man in the park. At the door she turned, as if in answer to a familiar voice, and watched the last of the day slide behind the sea. She backed into an empty house. She checked the thermostat, then pushed up her navy sleeve and looked at her watch.

Seven-thirty.

 

J.P. Steed graduated in December of 1995. He plans to earn an MFA in creative writing. In his spare time he likes to build furniture. 

Falling Down

by David Pace

When I was eleven I stepped onto the deck of the Gettysburg observation tower. The deck forms a doughnut around the glass-walled battlefield museum and viewing booth, all set at three hundred feet. The deck's floor is an iron grill, ten feet wide, with a four-foot guardrail at the edge. The wind kicked that day—I felt the tower rock, and I pushed myself back against the plate glass windows with my palms to the panes for support. I could see down the steel girders to the tombstone-littered ground a hundred yards down. The wind pushed against my side and into the corners of my eyes, swaying my hundred-point body in a rhythm with the tower.

Three hundred feet of iron beneath me, rebar bracing the metal floor under me, and me twenty feet from a steel-fenced edge—how could I be afraid of falling with all the strength of the world holding me up? But on a painted still day, my heart would have pounded my ribs yellow while I stood on the open-air deck three hundred feet from the hallowed earth. With an ecstatic April wind laughing at my tenuous attachment to the wall, my brain echoed my heart in beating against my skull. The tower's sway turned to a swirl as the deck, the foundations, and Gettysburg started to spin. I pressed my palms into a suction against the glass.

My brother Nathan yelled my name from the edge of the deck. He pressed his stomach against the guardrail and leaned out over the battlefield, lifting one and then both feet off the deck. I focused on him and moved myself a foot at a time back along the glass wall, one foot, then two feet, then three feet closer to safety. I popped a hand from the wall long enough to pry the door open eight inches and squeeze my shaky legs inside. I took a full breath and traced the defense of Little Round on the contoured diorama filling the room. I let my eyes find the actual hill as I relaxed in my fish bowl of safety. To see Little Round Top I had to look around Nathan, who still leaned out so that he could look straight down onto the battlefield. He shouted, but just loud enough that I could hear a noise without words through the thick panes of glass.

***

When I met Hector, I saw a man who laughed with his son on his shoulders. I saw him lean forward over the scriptures and say, "Is this what God wants? I'll do it."

I felt my smile reflected in his, and I watched him arrange his life around his thoughts of God. Three weeks later, I held his son's hand and signed my name as a witness beside his wife's in the marriage record Tartagal. Hector's smile glowed.

A week later, Hector and I sat in his unlit shack on wrong iron chairs while red sunlight slanted through the door slats. He meant to be baptized as a pure follower of Christ with his just-married wife the next afternoon. Hector touched his fingers to the knuckles of his left hand.

"Yes. I've killed a man," he said. He had stalked him, stabbed him, and left him by a tree in the riverbed for a pocket of money.

I couldn't move my mouth. I breathed, and I help my eyes on Hector's. I felt a weight in the silence massive enough to drag this man over a cliff's edge, no matter what he strapped his arms around, or how he clawed his bleeding fingers at the cracked rock. 

The glittering light in Hector's full, dark eyes faded to empty black when twilight pushed the sun out of the sky. I looked out the door to the horizon, but I saw nothing but black.

***

In August my friend Scott and I stopped for the night with my parents in Medina, New York on our way to Utah. Medina grew from the Erie Canal. The canal widens at a bend there, forming a natural harbor and stopping place. Bargemen stopped for the night out of the flow of traffic; some decided to stay for good, and Medina was born. In time the canal stopped supporting commerce and started attracting Boy Scout Canoeists, but Medina and other canal towns survived. The legacy of the canal has become a plethora of bridges with twenty-five feet of water beneath them. Scott and I wanted to jump off a bridge together.

We drove to the Mill Road bridge at ten o'clock that night. I pulled the car down onto the towpath beneath the bridge and we walked the cobblestone path back up, wearing just shorts and used shoes. I wore a pair of my oldest brother's tennis shoes, and Scott wore my drowned brother-in-law's pitted canvas jungle boots. We followed each other to the center of the bridge and stepped over the rail onto the twelve-inch steel girder running the length of the span. 

The bridge supports itself on two concrete wedges which are buttressed, part cosmetically, by Medina sandstone. Medina sandstone comes only form the now water-filled Medina quarry. The sandstone boasts remarkable color, great nonflammability, and phenomenal pressure resistance. The town armory is made of Medina sandstone, but the stone begs fame from its use for construction inside the Vatican. The bridge has achieved only local fame, but it aspires to more.

The canal is deeper than a diving pool, and bridge at road level is less than a ten-meter platform: the distinction in bridge jumping is the water's surface. Without a crystal blue chlorinated pool at the bottom of a fall, uncertainty clouds the point of entry. A jump is a leap of faith. The faith divides into one of ignorance and one of hopefulness, there being those who don't realize that logs, cars, or dead cows are somewhere under the water, and those who acknowledge the possibilities but trust in luck both are blind. Until someone jumps, nobody knows what lies beneath the surface.

At ten o'clock on August 27, a full moon hovered between clouds in place of the sun and shone a strip of copper across the water thirty feet below us. A light breeze pushed the water under the bridge and built small ripples in the moonlight. I looked down at the water and saw only a green-black empty face, a hard table. I shared with Scott the testimonies of numerous friends whose distant cousins had jumped through hidden dead bodies of cows or horses on lazy summer nights and days. Even Joyce Carol Oates titles a story "Mule" on a character's dive from a canal bridge straight through a mule's rotting corpse. I wanted Scott to be well informed before we stepped off the bridge. The moon tucked itself behind a charcoal cloud and its glint of hope on the water disappeared. My stomach clenched and turned. I flexed my legs to push out form the finder and unfixed them when my stomach forced its will onto my brain. My mind was stronger than at age eleven, bu I could see the water thirty feet below me and couldn't tell how soft it was.

I said "We need to go when the moon comes out again."

"Hey, I'm ready to go now."

"Let's go with the moon," I said, and the veil slipped from its face. It floated between a V of clouds, like a cherry in a long stemmed glass. The moon's slow drift from the left side of the aperture to the right created a harshly tangible chronometer. "Okay, let's go on three."

"We're going at the same time, right?"

"Right," I said. The mood had slip halfway across its window. "We'll count to together to three, then jump."

"We'll jump on three?"

"No, we'll jump after three. We'll jump on four, but we won't say four, we'll just jump."

"On four?" Scott said.

"Right." The right edge of the moon touched edge of blackness. Its path of light still glistened across the water where we would land. "We need to go," I said.

Scott said, "Well come on," and lifted one foot off the bridge. He brought it back, then touched my arm. "Come on."

We floated in the night and smashed through the moonlight. The August water gathered us, cradled us, and pushed us back up through the sliver of light.

***

A woman smiles while a tear traces a path down her cheek to the smiling corner of her mouth. She stands in the center of a photograph, surrounded by her husband and four children in front of the Buenos Aires Temple one year and one month after their baptism. She took one initial step of faith with no reason but to test the word. Every time they took a step forward together, they found that the word accepted them, lifted them, and pushed them further into the light. After the first blind, hopeful step, they walked with faith.

***

The moment I prepared for as the epiphany of skydiving was to step through the open door of an airplane, look straight down through two miles to the rock-littered, pit-filled, snake-infested ground, and jump. I looked forward to it as the culmination of fear.

Early on a Saturday morning I pulled into the parking lot of Cedar Valley Free Fall. My heart pumped in my throat, and then I stepped out of the car. A purple mountain range huddled twenty miles to my rear, some small hills studded the immediate landscape, and a grass prairie filled in the gaps. An early November chill guarded the ground, but a brilliant sun commanded the empty, endless sky and slowly imposed its warmth on the day.

My friend Brad and I stood under the sun and watched people float in the sky and settle on the ground. We walked into the cellar where a row of twelve parachute packs hung on a wall, and a man carefully rolled and packed a parachute on a forty-foot-long carpeted table. A woman in a jumpsuit asked if we were sure of ourselves and gave us a set of papers to sign.

The release forms voided my rights to life. By signing and/or initialing each of the thirty-two tenets set forth, I disavowed any connection whatsoever between Cedar Valley Free Fall and my decision to jump out of a perfectly good airplane two miles above the valley floor. I acknowledged that I was about to do a stupid dangerous thing, I affirmed that I could not hold my instructors liable for anything arising from the jump even if they were willfully negligent in my supervision. I certified that the equipment and airplanes that I was about to entrust my life to were potentially old, shoddy, and in disrepair, and that I was completely responsible for any damages to myself from anything related to jumping out of an airplane. If I, my relatives, my next of kin, or my estate ever choose to sue Cedar Valley Free Fall, then I pledged to pay Cedar Valley Free Fall fifty thousand dollars. 

"Brad, these guys are serious." I rattled the papers.

"We're jumping, aren't we?" he said.

Through the window I saw someone coast into the field, recapturing the earth. I signed.

We packed eight people into a muddy, red-twin engine Cessna with a Velcro door. The plane climbed a thousand feet per minute. I watched the altimeter on my chest creep to the right and tried to gauge the ascent against etc mountains in the window. At five thousand feet I looked at the Velcro door and at the bodies filling the plane, and I noted that everyone was wearing a parachute except for the pilot, Brad, and me. A carabiner locked me into my seat, directly facing the door, but it seemed that I wasn't in the best position in the event of a crash. 

Brad and I were to jump in tandem rigs, meaning that we'd each be harnessed to the front of an experienced parachutist who would correct panic, a tangled chute, or an awkward flight. I would watch the altimeter, pull the ripcord, and steer us down, but the man on my back would be my safety valve. 

The plane's twin-engined bellowing moan preempted conversation. I watched my altimeter. Every thousand feet brought me closer to the doorway and twisted my heart. At 9500 feet I slid my goggled into place and snapped my headboard on. My jump guide, Chainsaw, moved behind me and buckled us together, twice at the shoulder, and twice at the hips.

I shouted to Brad, "Are we doing this?"

He smiled and nodded. My altimeter read 10500. Our jump master pulled back the Velcro and wind thrashed through the cabin. Brad slid into the doorway with a man on his back and disappeared. The doorway was very close.
I closed my eyes, opened them, and stepped out to the doorway, putting my feet on the runner under the door. The ground wasn't dangerous. I saw no link between me and the HO scale toy train landscape lying beneath me. I thought, "It's just a toy." I couldn't see anything to fear. I moved and fell from the doorway.

I fell through a quick somersault and saw the plane arc away into the sun. I continued the rotation to my front and found myself alone. I hung in the sky and air beat my face at one hundred and thirty miles an hour. The altimeter swirled to the left, my fingers named inside my gloves, and I felt motionless. I hooked my thumb through the handle at my right shoulder and raised my arm. I jerked into my harness and never looked dup at the parachute, but stared at the ground. At four thousand feet the earth still couldn't make itself real. 

***

What I can see directly frightens me. I appreciate fear because it gives me a warning, yet leaves me free to act. If I'm not strong enough to overcome my fears, however, then I'm enslaved. I don't like it that a two mile fall to earth isn't frightening because the destination is so far removed from its preceding action.

Discounting many obvious other factors, I will not put a gun to someone's head and pull the trigger, because the results are so immediate and terrible. I will not abruptly turn my back on God. What spiritual example, however, truthfully illustrates that one sure step to a two mile drop: Not praying one night? Ignoring my children for a day? Holding a single unclean image in my mind? Releasing my problems at work by yelling at my wife? Life isn't so clearly demarcated. 

***

I stand at the lip of the Grand Canyon. Quarters, dimes, a silver dollar, and tarnished pennies blanket a ledge four feet below the guardrail. I'm tall enough to step over the guardrail, lower myself to the money, and still hold the safety bar. 

My pockets would bulge. I lift my eyes from the ledge to look at the sun hanging red over the opposite lip, and light turning to rock that forms a spectrum of orange and brown extending almost to the center of the earth. I toss a rock over the edge and listen...listen...listen for it to crack against a wall. I look over at the coins, and take a step back.



David has graduated from BYU with a BA in English. He likes riding his motorcycle and is currently pursuing his Master's in English and his JD from BYU Law School.


Staff

Editor
Brooks Briggs

Assistant Editors
Chandelle Crane
Gayle Kunz
Jennifer Abbott
Janette Jeffress

Advisor
Linda Hunter Adams

Short Story Editor
Gayle Kunz

Essay Editors
Chandelle Crane
Brian Gibson

Specialty Short Story Editor
Garrett Winn

Poetry Editor
Brooks Briggs

Staff
David Allred
Jennifer Bay
Teresa Bello
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Allison Clinger
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Andrew Eoff
Carl Ernstrom
Kim Flanders
Shanna Ghaznavi
Heather Jacobson
Sarah Johnson
Jessi Justis
Bryce Knudsen
Erika Kroll
Melissa Larson
Laura Lawrence
Laura McClellan
Rebekah McDonald
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Emily Nichols
Patty Porch
Karl Rees
Lindsey Rodgers
Julie Schutthies
Teresa Silfries
Anne VanDyke
Rebecca Vernon
Valerie Whiting

fountain in city square

by Mike Farr

and
                   water flows
                   from Christ's fingertips
                   (like blood)
                    into the
                    fountain
                    of which
                    he stands
                    king
and
                    people,
                    those
                    city inner
                    and those 
                    who would 
                    come from 
                    city outer 
                    to buy,
                    those
                    all those
and
                    mothers and
                    teens 
                    with cameras 
                    stand below
                    the longing 
                    lonely one 
                    to
                                            a)    photograph
                                            b)    capture a 
                                                    portion of
                                                    Him
and
                   the preacher
                   yells and
                   screams
                   and curses
                   the sinners
                   photographing
and
                   an angry
                   black man
                   damns the
                   white men
                   who
                   hate for no
                   reason
                   within
                   Christ's arms
and
                   his brother—
                   mother's son
                   shot
                   lying
                   in his pool
                   flat on 
                   his back
                   into 
                   heaven
                   staring
                   shot by
                   they
and
                    a boy
                    upward
                    looking
                    tear filled
                    who people
                    step away from
                    because 
                    he cries
and
                    a woman
                    back
                    turned
                    who will
                    turn
                    tricks
                    lost
                    against
                    the immense
                    skyline
                    outer square
but
                    all of
                    them
                    beneath
                    the statue
                    all of them
                    invited
                    and water
                    Christ's water
                    offered to
                                               them all



If Mike Farr had named himself, he would now be going by Ed. He enjoys drinking Kool-aid, playing loud music, and reading Orson Pratt. You can visit him at home at http://www.byu.edu-mfarr.

Cutting Sunday School

By Sarah Jean Vantassel

Slipping out the stained glass doors
into the drawling Alabama sunshine
Leaving our sacred patent leathers
on the rocks like
shiny sacrifices on the altar
We wade deeper
with our flowered cotton dresses
clinging to our knees.



Sarah Jean Vantassel is a sophomore majoring in English from Columbus, Ohio. Sarah likes to dance and to read, and she absolutely loves her new baby sister.

The hoe

by Bryce Knudsen

Twilight begins unabruptly—
white cotton settles
against bare arms;
the hoe,
caked with mud
rests on its hooks
in the shed.



Bryce Knudsen is in the English Master's Program at BYU and plans to pursue an art minor. He enjoys nature writing, imagistic poetry, and taking photos. Recently he has established a letterpress printing shop, Bjorn Press.

Amputations

Trent Hickman

What a discovery you made, Vincent
Van Gogh, alone in your room
that Christmas Eve
when you slid a shiny blade
along your skull

and severed half
of your right ear.
The glitterati
would call it insanity,
sheer craziness,

pure scandal.
There, quivering and graceful
in your hand, you met
the finest art you'd ever created—
its fine hairs, now glistening

with shiny ornaments of blood,
its dying pink flushed
more delicately than the best
mother-of-pearl, its slim
ridges rising form the lobe

and fluting up to the edge
of the cut. Sunflowers
and starry nights dimmed
beside it, and the pastel
grade of irises blanched

at its beauty.
But even as you marveled
it wilted not a gray tatter,
a cool curl of flesh folding
in on itself. Days later,

it was only a withered bat's wing
you kept in a small box.
You would not glorify it
on canvas. Instead, you
prepared a solemn self-portrait:

in it, a tumor of bandages
upstages your long Dutch frown
and juts from the side
of your head, gauze
covering a gruesome wound.

I know your loss. Mine
is the same. I too have spent
a Christmas Eve cradling
my immaculate conceptions
my fresh-hewn darlings

still glory form the ink
of my pen. All artists bleed.
We carve holes in ourselves
so that everyone else
stays whole.



Trent Hickman will receive his Master's in English in August 1996, following which he'll pursue his PhD at New York State University at Stony Brook. Trent has had his poetry published in several literary journals, including Negative Capabilities, which is even more respected than Inscape.

Chili Peppers

             after Charles Simic

By Kael Moffat

in Las Cruces, nailed
to the porch's wooden pilings.
After morning prayers
we draw their blood
and pour it on our pale
fingers of rice.

Kael Moffat has recently graduated from BYU. He is a devoted basketball fan, loves volleyball, and likes to deceive fish with small plastic devices. He will be starting an MFA in creative writing at Fresno State in the fall of 1996

Con los muertos: El dia de los muertos, 1992

Kael Moffat

This adobe wall
has held up
thousands of human skulls
topped with candles
and knuckle-size candies
scratched with human names.

Someone's Carlos,
another's Maria
is alive again tonight
because the fishers
have come off the water,
dropped their nets
in the wooden palms of their boats,
cut flowers
empty of light,
and sing loud songs.
Orpheo de los angeles.


An old lady turns to me,
reaches under her cross
to her sunburnt breast,
points at the picture on the grave
of her twelve-year-old daughter
(her twenty-year-old ghost)
and says, "My Consuala
can hear me tonight,
can feel my breath,
and touch my hands that ache for her."

P.S. to the Stars

Kael Moffat

This is to the giant
red ones who swallow
themselves like snakes
and then shatter like hot glass,
glowing fragments spraying out
into the night.

I watch your slow
deaths from fields of brittle tares,
from cold stones on mountain tops,
and from the sands that hold
the ocean in its bounds.

I wonder what it's like
to die alone in the cold,
fleeing an unseen
point of explosion—an explosion
that fed the suns, fired the planets
like clay pots,
and gave the birds their wings.