The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Author: The Furious Gazelle Editors (page 2 of 48)

“Weekly,” by Jonathan Kravetz

Matt pushes open the rear door to the office and creeps across the floor in torn jeans and a flannel shirt.  He wipes his nose on his sleeve and peers through the square hole separating the front office from editorial.  He clenches his teeth against the bitter air, but can’t discern any sounds except the light tapping of a keyboard and the radiator clicking.  Then a woman’s voice and then another buzzes like a radio going in and out of tune.  Leaning closer, he attempts to translate the sounds into language, but can only make out hard k’s and soft s’s.  One of them is Jean, his editor, and the other is Mary Ellen, the 25-year old receptionist.  His girlfriend.  Maybe they’re talking about the weather or the details for an important delivery, but Mary Ellen’s face, when he saw her a moment earlier through the front glass window, had the look of someone sharing important secrets.  A chair scrapes against wood and Matt abruptly steps backwards, careens over Jean’s desk, and crashes into her chair, spilling it on its side.  He rushes to his own desk and turns on his computer.  It’s just coming to life when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“When’d you get in?”  Jean comes around to the front of his desk.

“A few minutes ago.” Continue reading

“The Inheritance” by Christine Fair

Sitting across the rotting planks of a water-worn picnic table at a lake dive in Rome City, Indiana, Chris glowered at Bob and strained not to hear him. She studied his ruddy face with his pale, hooded, sky-blue eyes. His face was unmistakably and disappointingly redolent of her own. In anger, her mom would shake her head slowly and deliberately while growling in revulsion, “You look just like him.” She usually managed to render “just” a two-syllable word to make her point. Chris hated this actuality and longed to resemble her mother who always lingered just beyond her reach. But his widow’s peak, unruly hair and godawful teeth were all lamentably hers too. Maintaining her own teeth was a Sisyphean task. They’d crack or break. Dr. Hill would patch them up. They’d break again and Dr. Hill, again, would do the needful. Bob simply let his rot. In fact he seemed proud of these gaping holes as they were yet another signifier of his indifference to the consequences of his decisions.

She wished she could be tender or something like that. But, “This putrid son of a bitch” rolled around in her head like her moist sneakers in the dryer after an early run in the dew-kissed grass of spring. She tried to appear indifferent as he plowed along in his flat, nasal Midwestern voice which also—irritatingly—sounded like a more masculine version of her own hilljack voice.  Episodically her ears grabbed onto his words and she could feel that familiar anger rearing up on its hind legs, begging for permission to lunge at him, sink its teeth into his crepe-skinned neck and suck out whatever life lingered in that wankstain’s body. She forced herself to intermittently grunt or nod, feigning interested disinterest. The task helped to keep his venomous words at bay. 

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Book Review: The Enlightenment of the Greengage Tree by Shokoofeh Azar

Review by Tess Tabak

The book’s translator asked to remain anonymous for fear of safety

 

This haunting, evocative novel spins a finely woven tapestry out of the Iranian Revolution, djinns and mermaids, and family lore. If you’re willing to go on a meandering journey, Shokoofeh Azar takes you to unique and hauntingly strange places.

This novel truly feels like a piece woven from disparate threads to create a whole. At no point until the end did I ever have any particular idea where the book was going, but I was engaged throughout. Azar sets the tone of magical realism juxtaposed with harsh realities early on, from the very beginning, when the narrator’s mother receives enlightenment from a greengage tree: “Beeta says that Mom attained enlightenment at exactly 2:35 p.m. on August 18, 1988, atop the grove’s tallest greengage plum tree on a hill overlooking all fifty-three village houses, to the sound of the scrubbing of pots and pans, a ruckus that pulled the grove out of its lethargy every afternoon. At that very moment, blindfolded and hands tied behind his back, Sohrab was hanged.” Continue reading

Poetry by Simon Perchik

*

What you open leans against wood

that is not a door you can muffle

put your arm around the only sound

 

when you knock on this kitchen table

whose corners were broken off

straight down, still lit, letting you in

 

circle her mouth not yet the room

left over and listen for the smoke

around the hush from small fires.

 

*

Just died and its rain

is already snow, comforts

the obituary page

 

with moonlight pieces

slowly circling down

as that star-shaped lullaby

 

small stones still look for 

–it’s this morning’s

though over your head the deaths

 

are hidden in silence

begging for water

that doesn’t break apart

 

the way each sky

is hollowed out for another 

–you make a sea

 

for these dead, each name

a boat, sails, the spray

midair and out loud. 

 

*

This tree abandoned at last

flows past as ravines and riverbeds

and can’t fall any more 

 

–it’s used to dirt and those initials

you carried along inch by inch

not in some stone letting you stop

 

for water –you were buried

in the afternoon, late so the light

could close the lid with leftover kisses

 

become an ocean, still burning

and between each wave the glint

from a clear silence you took for yes.

 

*

To survive you disguise each log

as the aromatic sun the mornings

can’t resist –even when naked

 

you hide some kindling close by

let it give birth in the smoke

that leaves with nothing, becomes

 

the emptiness though your eyes

never look up or warm –a fire

is feeling its way to your mouth

 

with lullabies and the small stone

falling asleep on the stove 

–you feed it wood as if your lips

 

still smell from milk and salt 

–an ancient, gentle art now lost

somewhere in those nightmares

 

set off by an empty dress

and along your forehead the light

begins to melt, wants to stay, keep going.

 

*

Even these weeds panic

circle around your fingertips

as if the stream they fasten on

 

knows only one direction –the dead

still fold their arms, dare you

to raise your hand, ask for salt

 

clear the ground before the no! no!

stops and in the silence makes room

for flowers and your mouth

 

sweetened by the warm breath

it still remembers as sunlight

struggling and the pull up! pull up!

 

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Gibson Poems published by Cholla Needles, 2019. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com

To view one of his interviews please follow this linkhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8

Book Review: The Sisters Grimm by Menna Van Praag

sisters grimm menna van praag coverReview by E. Kirshe

 

The Sisters Grimm is a new fantasy novel by Menna Van Praag. The entirety is told through the point of view narration of five protagonists, the four sisters; Goldie, Liyana, Scarlet and Bea, and Leo, a sort of spiritual brother to them, who must also kill one of them.

I’ll start with a few positives so the reader can make their own decisions. The characters are diverse, that’s nice. They all come from different ethnic and class backgrounds, Liyana’s relationship with her girlfriend was cute. The otherworld (spirit world? Hell?) of Everwhere was nicely described. There’s a lot of nice language.

Now for the downsides.

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“Diet Coke,” an essay by Maya Landers

My mom is hard to miss. She’s recognizable by her handmade skirts and Birkenstocks, by her playlists that range from Sinead O’Connor to Maroon 5. I can find her at night by the glow of Candy Crush on her phone screen. In grocery stores I track her by her sneeze: explosive, cathartic, followed by a “Whew! Thank you!” to all the people who offer a “bless you.” 

 

When I was seven, I went to a birthday party at Inflatable Wonderland in the mall. After diving into the ball pit and getting lost in the maze, I realized suddenly I didn’t know where I was. Right as I started to panic, I saw a half-drunk diet Coke at the top of a staircase. I relaxed. It was a sign: your mom is here! 

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“Conjuring” by Danielle Hanson

Eyes like ripening fruit, an image

Enters, plunges into heart and is gone.

Gather the emptiness in your arms

Until they overflow.  Trap the voices

In resin, melt it so they flutter away

Out of order—aimless moths.

Conjuring is the spitting out of words.

These are only words.  Let them in.

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Book Review: The Country Will Bring Us No Peace by Matthieu Simard

the country will bring us no peace coverTranslated by Pablo Strauss
Review by E. Kirshe

The Country Will Bring Us No Peace is a strange and eerie book about grief; not overcoming it, but being overtaken by it. Grief haunts the mean and dying streets of the country town our city-born protagonists move to, a move which they hoped would bring them past their own private tragedy, the grief of which is slowly taking them down as well. 

The story switches back and forth, abruptly, between the husband and wife narrators Simon and Marie. We get an internal monologue from each of them either giving new information or sometimes their thoughts on the same event. The way it’s written with them switching between being in and out of sync was just one example of how this is a uniquely told tale.

The story gets more surreal as it goes on, as well as darker. It starts with merely stark narration. Continue reading

“Class Clown” by Stu Newman

Dear Parent or Guardian,

   SKYLAR RICHARDS    has been suspended from Southport High 

School for       FIVE DAYS     , commencing on        IMMEDIATELY       

The grounds for suspension are                    MISCONDUCT                   

An administrative conference to determine the above was conducted 

before    SCHOOL FACULTY     on ____TODAY       . The student will be 

expected to return to school on                IN FIVE DAYS                          .

 

Personally, I thought suspension was a bit over the top. I mean, all I did was stick out my middle finger during the junior class portrait. Not exactly a high crime. I thought I had gotten away with it. I placed the finger on my thigh and hooked my thumb into a belt loop so the photographer wouldn’t notice. He was shooting a group portrait for the yearbook. It was the picture we’d all look back fondly on when we were old geezers. I imagined people pointing to me and saying, Look at that Skylar Richards, flipping the bird. What a card. 

But the photographer caught it the next day. Submitted the evidence to the principal who, in turn, awarded me with a one-week suspension. Effective immediately. I didn’t care. I figured I would catch up on some TV. Maybe dust off my bong pipe. But this was not to be. Mom and Dad went ballistic. Placed me under house arrest. Assigned a litany of chores so onerous it would have horrified the Council on Human Rights. Scrub the floors. Polish the furniture. Mow the lawn. I’ll spare you the rest.

There weren’t many ways to ratchet up the punishment, with the exception of death or dismemberment. So, I figured I’d better comply while I still could walk. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you should always show remorse. The system is set up to reward the sad sack who regrets his actions. It pays to be a good actor. And let me say, I could give Tom Hanks a run for his money.

Unfortunately, the sad-sack routine did nothing for me. You see, it wasn’t the first time I’d been in trouble. Not even the first time that week. Just a few days before, I made a fart noise in study hall that nearly rattled the windows. I didn’t mean for it to be so loud. It’s amazing how sound will travel in a big room like the cafeteria, where they held study hall. BWARF! went the noise when I flapped my upper arm against the back of my other hand, which was lodged in my pit. The kids thought it was hysterical. They all knew it was me. So did the teacher. She sent me straight to the principal, who, in turn, called my parents. Just for making a stupid fart noise. God, what is this world coming to?

I’ve pulled about every stunt on Earth. And I’ve been caught just about every time. I’d make a terrible thief. Would probably land in jail for trying to steal a peanut. And I’ll admit, my antics are none too original. The fart noise was not original. Neither is mimicking teachers behind their backs, which I do a lot. I exaggerate their movements while crossing my eyes and pushing out my front row of choppers like they’re buck teeth. Drives the kids crazy. A real crowd pleaser. Skylar Richards, at your service.

And now I was about to pay for my sins with a week of hard labor. My parents sat me down. My father clasped his hands so tight, he could have cracked a walnut between them. My mother’s brows were knitted in anger. She did most of the talking. Most of the screaming, that is. Hysterical, would be a good word. Told me she was “gravely disappointed,” like I was a kitchen appliance that stopped working. Said she was “putting a list together.” Some sort of regimen fit for a Gulag laborer. All work, no play for five days. No video games. No TV. No internet.

“No internet?” I said. “How can I keep up with my schoolwork?”

“Read your books,” my mother said.

At that moment, I realized my parents were capable of anything. No matter how sinister. I used to think they were just odd people. Difficult to get along with. My father, with his trim gray hair and thick brows, always reminded me of Mr. Rogers—if Mr. Rogers had lockjaw and never smiled. My mother wore her hair in a short bob. She was rail thin. Looked like she’d been on a hunger strike for the past ten years. Against what, I don’t know. Maybe my father. He complained a lot, especially about his job. I don’t know what he did at his investment firm. Only that he had a bone to pick with a guy named Osley, who had screwed up the budget. Brought the wrong reports to the board meeting. Filled the water cooler with hand soap. I don’t know why he just didn’t fire the guy. After all, Osley didn’t seem to know his ass from a laser printer. My mother’s job, on the other hand, was easy to understand. Real estate agent. No mystery there.

Now here they were, my captors, taking away my internet. For all I knew, they had already changed the WiFi password. Or shut off the router completely. Their hearts were as black as coal. In all my sixteen years, I had never faced a more dire situation. The future looked bleak.

As the days passed, I tried to do the chores as prescribed by Mom. Things did not go well. Mowing the lawn wasn’t bad. But the housework was killing me. I don’t know if you’ve ever vacuumed, but it’s not pleasant. You drag the thing around, this cumbersome piece of plastic—it gets caught on every table leg you pass. And it doesn’t suck up every last bit of dirt. Dog hairs are particularly stubborn. Meanwhile, our black Lab, Barkley, is a virtual shedding machine. His sole purpose in life is to excrete fur. You can hold the nozzle over his hair for hours without drawing up a single strand. You’d think they would have invented a better device by now. I mean, the vacuum has been around for how long? The cavemen had them, right? I believe I read about them in the Bible. In fact, if you look closely at a picture of the Last Supper, I think you’ll see a guy vacuuming in the back of the room.

By day three, I was exhausted. Housecleaning was a thankless task. Labor intensive and unrewarding. Mom even had me changing the bed sheets. Talk about misguided inventions. It’s like trying to put a girdle on an elephant. The mattresses weigh a ton. Then there was dusting, mopping, sweeping. All straight from hell. It’s amazing that men got women to do this shit for the past two thousand years. What a racket us dudes had. No wonder we didn’t want it to end.

It didn’t help that my family lived in a big house. A colonial style job with a pointed entrance. Gabled, I think you’d call it. About nine windows out front. Rectangular. Double-hung, Mom would say. Dining room, living room with a fireplace, and a library filled with books last read when the Mayflower sailed over. Four bedrooms upstairs. A perfect dwelling for a dysfunctional family like ours. Even my brother Collin had his own room. He’s ten. A little blond bundle of joy. Kid’s always happy. I don’t think he even cried when he popped out of Mom’s womb. Although, I wasn’t there. Couldn’t really tell you. Anyway, Collin smiles through everything. Even Dad’s tirades. Just sits there grinning like my father is Big Bird, or Oscar the Grouch. Who wouldn’t love a kid like that?

Which brings me to day four, when a call came in from Collin’s elementary school, on that vintage ornament known as the landline. I picked it up. You use it just like a regular phone. It was the head teacher, Mr. Portman. He asked to speak to one of my parents. I guess he figured they didn’t work, and would just be sitting around the house knocking down a few suds. I clicked into prankster mode. Said to hold on. Stomped my feet like I was walking away. Then I stomped back. I imitated my father.

“Richards, here.”

“Good afternoon, sir. How are you today?”

“Goddamn busy. Busy as a bee. You must know how that is, running that school of yours. Probably not getting any younger trying to keep that nuthouse in order. What time is it anyway? One o’clock already? Where the hell does the day go? How can I help you?”

“Well, sir, I wish I were calling on a better note. But I’m sorry to say I have some rather unsettling news. It’s about your son, Collin. We’re having a bit of a problem with the young man. I’m afraid he’s been disruptive in class. We tried to work the matter out internally but—”

“Disruptive? Collin? You sure?” I said, going out of character. It was such a shock. Collin never disrupted anything. Occasionally, he’d get a little bratty, just to let us know he wasn’t actually a wind-up doll. But that was rare.

I resumed my impersonation of my father. “Goddamn kid. Misbehaving. What did he do?”

“Well, we’re drafting a letter to that effect, this afternoon. It should be finalized by the end of day. Unfortunately, we don’t have an email address for you on file. Nor a cell phone number, for that matter. Regardless, we’ll be giving Collin a hard copy to present to you when he arrives home. We just wanted to apprise you of the situation, to ensure that he delivers the letter as expected.”

I felt my face flush. I wanted to tell Mr. Portman to take his letter and deliver it to his rear end. Do what you want to me. Suspend me. Expel me. Jail me in a maximum-security prison in Bangkok. I don’t care. But lay off my brother. He never hurt a fly. I needed to get off the line before I blew it. I tried to say goodbye but Portman seemed to have taken a shine to me.

“I’m sorry to have made your acquaintance on such a trying note, Mr. Richards. Perhaps someday, we can meet under more auspicious circumstances. I would like to extend an open invitation for you and Ms. Richards to join me for a meeting, at a time of your choosing, to discuss—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pencil you in,” I said. “Gotta go. Goddamn paperwork is piling up.”

I just about hung up on him. Then I sat on the living room couch. The thing was in vibrate mode. Who knew it could do that? Barkley trotted up. Nuzzled his head on my leg. I noticed a trail of dog hairs in his wake. I gave him a little pat. “Do you believe this shit? Our little Collin causing problems at school.” Barkley groaned in sympathy. It didn’t hurt that I was massaging the underside of his neck. He liked that. After about twelve seconds of deep thought, I decided I would get Mr. Portman’s note from Collin and destroy it immediately. Burn it in that nice fireplace of ours. Keep it out of my parents’ hands.

My brother arrived home a few hours later, looking snappy in a plaid shirt and corduroy pants. I was in the kitchen, scraping dirt from between the tiles with a toothpick. He nearly walked past without so much as a hello. Offered a quick wave of his hand as he hurried by.

“Hey, skippy, what’s up?” I said. “Where you off to in such a rush?” I got up and pulled a chair from the kitchen table. “Here, buddy, have a seat. Take a load off.”

Collin plopped himself down and set his book bag on the table.

“Had a rough day, champ?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“I see. Listen, you hungry? Would you like something to eat? Ice cream? Candy? There’s a cake in the fridge. You want a slice?”

“It’ll spoil my appetite,” Collin answered, sounding all grown up.

“It certainly will,” I said, already removing the chocolate layer cake from the refrigerator. I hacked off a slice. Poured him a glass of milk. “Listen, I spoke to this guy from your school. Mr. Dorfman.”

“Portman,” Collin said, shoveling in a forkful of cake. Half of it made it to his mouth. Barkley attended to the rest. “He talked to Dad. Did he talk to you, too?”

“He did not talk to Dad. He spoke to me, while I was making believe I was Dad. It’s between you and me, buddy. Dad knows nothing.”

Collin frowned. His little brain seemed to be working overtime. He drank some milk. Only a little bit dribbled down his chin. Barkley looked disappointed. I asked to see the letter. Collin pulled it from his bag. It was on Southport Elementary School stationary. The wording was formal. I imagined Portman himself had written it. Had that tight ass’s signature phrases all over it. Dear parents, We regret to inform you, blah, blah, blah. In a nutshell, it said Collin had misbehaved. Scrunched up a piece of paper and threw it at another kid. Fortunately, the other kid survived. Unfortunately, when reprimanded, Collin stuck out his tongue. Things escalated. Collin called the teacher a name. The one that starts with “ass” and ends with “hole.” You get the picture. As I went through the note, my eyes flipped back and forth from the paper to Collin’s face. I poked at the sheet.

“You do all this?”

He didn’t answer. Took the Fifth. Smart kid.

“Well, you’re lucky Mom and Dad will never find out. That’s all I have to say.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t care? Are you crazy? They’ll take your toys away. Your video games. Your Lego Star Wars Set. Your Nerf Dart Blaster. You’ll be stripped of your guns. Every last one of them.”

His eyes opened wide. So did his little mouth. “They wouldn’t …” he said.

“Oh, but they would. Their cruelty has no bounds. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” I jammed the letter in my pocket. “You are hereby absolved of your sins.”

Collin nodded.

“But, listen,” I said, “I have to ask you, why’d you do all this stuff? I mean, you’ve always been such a good little kid.”

“Dunno.”

“That’s it? You don’t know? But you’re a straight-A student, Colly. I’ve seen your report card. Why go crazy on us all of a sudden? This kind of stuff will get you nowhere.”

“You do it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do crazy stuff. You’re always in trouble.”

I leaned forward. “Listen, little man. You don’t want to follow in my footsteps. I’m the wrong guy to choose for a role model. Look at me. Sitting home. Cleaning the kitchen. Scraping dirt from cracks in the tiles.”

Collin gazed around the room. “Place looks clean.”

“Look, Colly. If I destroy this note, will you do me a favor and cut the shit? Go back to being the good little kid you always were.”

“How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you cut the shit, too?”

“Don’t say that word. Don’t curse, buddy.”

“You just did. Even Steven.”

I took a breath. “Listen, why do you care what I do? It’s beside the point.”

Collin crossed his arms. “Fair and square.”

“Fair and … huh? What does that mean?”

Collin shrugged. I tapped my finger on the table. I realized my father did this when he was thinking, which creeped me out. I shook out my arms like they do in aerobics videos, then placed my hands on my thighs. “Listen, Colly, what if I told you I was never gonna get into trouble again? That I would turn a new leaf. Mend my ways. Become a model citizen. Student of the century.”

Of course, I could never deliver on that promise. It wasn’t in my DNA. In fact, my words rang so high on the bullshit meter, I thought I heard bells. I was a hypocrite. A crooked politician. I should have run for office right then. Collin didn’t respond. What did I expect? My words were hollow. Not fit for the discerning ears of a ten year old.

“Can I go to my room now?” Collin asked.

“Sure, buddy. Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”

Collin thumped upstairs to his bedroom. I cleared the table. Scrubbed his plate and held it to the light. I thought maybe I’d see my reflection. Make sure I was still a gangly kid with spiky black hair, and not a middle-aged guy that looked like Mr. Rogers. But there was nothing in the dish’s dull finish. I guess it was old and worn out. Like me. At sixteen, no less. Go figure.

I tore up the note and sent it down the toilet. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I went to bed that night with plenty to think about. Talk about little brains working overtime. I considered reciting the Gettysburg Address just to slow down my thoughts. Mostly, I wondered why I even cared. After all, I had spent my life perfecting the art of not giving a crap. As I lay there staring at the ceiling, Barkley jumped into bed with me. There would be dog hairs all over the place, come morning. I didn’t care. I’d clean it up tomorrow. There would be plenty of time. I had another full day before my debt to society was paid. I would take the vacuum to the hairs. I’d get that damn machine working if it killed me.

 


You can learn more about Stu Newman at his website, http://stunewman.com/author/

Poetry by Elizabeth L. Bruno

LEAVING THE LIGHTS ON

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