Fiction

A Virus Is Not A Living Thing

by Geoff Schutt

Eleanor to her Biographer: My words are nothing compared to your words. I don’t know why I even bother speaking, really. I don’t know why you take the time to listen, even worse. I feel like a virus. I am a virus. I have this all figured out. You know, how a virus is not a living thing, how a virus needs a host body or whatever in order to do any harm — or even any good, I suppose, if a virus can do good. I’m a virus that’s infected you, and you better watch out, because once I’m inside you, I can become two Eleanors or four Eleanors or as many of me as your body and mind will allow before you’re no good to me anymore. I can kill you. I’m like a rock falling off a cliff. I’m not alive, but I move, and when I move, I am dangerous.

Eleanor says: I am so frightened of losing you. I am so scared that I will fill you up with too much of me that you will die.

Eleanor says: Sometimes I am afraid that you will die in your sleep, of natural causes, not even because of me, and I’ll be left, by myself, or with all of these versions of myself, and I won’t want to leave you for anyone else, so I’ll slowly die too. I mean, I would die, if I were alive to begin with.

*
She walks into the courtyard. She is alone. The only movement is the water in the fountain. The warmth is the sun above her. She sits on a bench.

I’m not waiting for anyone, she says. (The audience applauds.)

I am like a flower that blossoms and you think, how beautiful she is, but you forget what I’m called, or you don’t even know what I’m called, what kind of flower I am. It’s not like you can go to the florist and say, A dozen of her, please.

You like me best when I’m shades of a color, or perhaps two complementary colors. You aren’t one for the red roses, because they’re so common, and besides, anyone can ask for a dozen red roses. You know what roses look like.

Well, I am nobody’s red rose, sorry. (The audience gives a standing ovation. Encore, encore!)

*
Okay, okay. Let me say it like this. One upon a time, there was this girl. Let’s just say she was me, for the sake of argument. She was a very patient girl. She would wait for hours on end. She would sit on a bench in some secluded courtyard and just wait. What is she waiting for? you might ask. And she might answer, I am waiting to be alive. I am waiting for life to catch up with me, because somehow, well — somehow or somewhere —at some instant, you know — some time ago, life fell behind. I wasn’t patient. I went too fast. I sped ahead. I didn’t wait. I was impatient. Life could not keep up with me. Not the life I wanted, I mean. There were plenty of other lives along the way. It was like window shopping, you know? I could have had any of these lives. I could have gone inside, and said, I’ll take that life in the window over there. Yes, the third window over. The window with the Aimee Mann music.

Well, I want Aimee Mann to write the soundtrack for my life. I want her to start with one sentence, one lyric. I want to be a virus in that first song and then I want to be inside the next song, and the next song, until I fill an entire record. And that will be my soundtrack.

*
If you want a simpler story, more easily understood, then listen to this. Once upon a time, there was me and there was you, and by mere chance or coincidence, we happened to be in the same quiet courtyard — the one with that fountain. Except I did not see you on your bench, and you did not see me on my bench. So we just sat for the longest time, waiting. We both had grown patient. Too patient.

And then the clouds became dark, and the breeze picked up, and the storm moved toward us. We could see the clouds, and how fast they approached.

I took shelter by the door.

*
Perhaps you were always more patient than I was, because I was there first, at the door, and you were so patient that the rain had started to fall and you were sprinkled with the wet and when you stepped into my space, you realized you were not alone, and this startled you. You even jumped a little, I swear to God you did.

I saw you coming of course. I saw you, yes. I watched you, more like it, and I wondered where you came from. (This would be one entire Aimee Mann song in my soundtrack — how you walked into my space.)

You smiled at me, and I told you the honest-to-God truth. Honest, I said, even before I told you. I told you, I am a virus. I am not a living thing, but I could exist inside of you. You don’t want to be too close to me. You don’t want me inside of you.

*
You said:
I have been waiting for you.
I did not see you, but I was waiting just the same.
I knew I would see you eventually.
I knew I would find you.
I knew we would be together.
We were meant to be together.
We are like two peas in a pod, you know.
We are like bees to honey.
But we are not, nor have we ever been, a cliché.

*
You said:
Once upon a time, I believed in everything.

You said:
Once upon a time, I believed in you.

You said:
Now you want to infect me, but I believed in you.

*
I felt the tears or the rain or whatever. I felt my face and it was numb. I could not believe you were saying these things. I could not believe how cruel you could be.

So I said:
I never believed in you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t.

(And I was lying, of course. It was a big fat lie. But you knew it was a lie, didn’t you? Because of your smile, and because of the way you took my hand, and because there was no amount of rain that could melt us.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

an excerpt from The Girl Behind The Glass, a novel

(for Angela Campbell, who believes)

Biographical Note:

Geoff Schutt’s short fiction has appeared in The Quarterly (edited by Gordon Lish for Vintage Books/Random House), The Best of Writers at Work, The Wastelands Review and The Laurel Review, among others. He has received three artist grants for his fiction-as-performance art from The Arts Commission of Greater Toledo. After living in Ohio for many years, he now resides in the Washington, D.C. area. His novel-length work is represented by James McGinniss of McGinniss Associates Literary Agency, New York City. More about Geoff Schutt is available at his blog, “This Side of Paradise,” at http://geoffschutt.blogspot.com

 

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Apples 6

Artist: Marsha Strong

Apples

Standard
Poetry

Has your storm passed? and other poems

by Paul Bregazzi

Has your storm passed?

I saw you on the weather report
it said you were brewing
over Mexico
and would arrive
as a teary downfall
by noon.
Of course who ever
believes the weatherman
and we had
the first squall
blowing in
around half
past
overcast.

Rus in Suburbe

Behind a straggling chainlink fence
that winds along the motorway,
upping and downing over concrete lumps
hummocks of wire and oxidising car parts,
graze the flock of suburban sheep
spread out springly through the lush
thistles, the verdant nettles,
matching the hue of the galvanizing plant,
the sun picking out their smoky coats
under the shade of the transmitter tree
they wind their way sweetly over barbed wire,
undulating zinc sheets,
fine asbestos shards, enjoying
the season of their day.

 

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Paul Bregazzi is an elementary school teacher in West Dublin, Ireland
His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in:
the print journals Crannóg, Revival, Stony Thursday, Skylight 47 and the Stinging Fly;
and online with The Ofi Press (Mexico), Shotglass Journal (U.S.),
The Weekenders Magazine (U.S.), and Southword (The Munster Literature Centre)
He has been shortlisted for New Irish Writing in the Irish Independent.
Two of his poems were longlisted for the 2013 Fish poetry competition.
He has read his work at the Irish Writers’ Centre, The Dún Laoghaire Poetry Now Fringe, on Cork Community Radio and in the National Library Dublin as part of Culture Night 2012.

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Some of his recent poetry appears online at
http://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/23/bregazzi_paul.html
http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/paul_bregazzi1.html
http://issuu.com/theweekendersmag/docs/issue_7
http://theofipress.webs.com/bregazzipaul.htm

 

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Fitz painting

Artist: Marsha Strong

Fitz

Standard
Poetry

Serious Moments

by Peter Madoda Bungane

Serious  moments  are  serious,
The  sun  blazes  a  deserted  sky,
The  moon  shines  a  sparkling  sky,
People  world-wide,  sleep  deeply,
Many  cry,  many  die,  tell  me,
How  many  things  are  in  your  mind,
Tell  me  not  to  think  of  them,
These  ever  so  serious  moments!

Tick  clock,  tick  tock  the  clock
Hands  never stop
If  I  were  a  bee, I’d  be  busy
If  I  were  a  tick,  I’d  suck  your  blood
Wonder  if  that  would  defranchise  vampires
Or  maybe  I  should  be  a  farmer
Feed  the  world,  save  the world
From  what?   Hunger, disease,  No!!!  Save
the  world from  itself.  Serious  moments!

Yes  I  want  to  have  serious  moments,
To share  with  you  many things,
To bring  the  sun  and  moon  closer,
To  bring  food  and  sanity  closer,
Or  maybe  I  should  be  a  farmer,
Feed  the  world, save  the  world,
From  what?  From   itself.
These  are serious  moments!!!
Take  it  seriously,
Better  take me  seriously.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Poet  Peter  Madoda  Bungane  is  exploring  the depths  of  the  African  psyche  and 
looks  beyond  the  cries  of  the  poor  in  subsidy  ridden  economies  of  the diaspora.
He  is  driven  to  write  by  the  images  of  contemporary events  escalating  in  Africa.
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fish painting 2011 acrylic
Artist: Marsha Strong
Fish Painting
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