Adverbs

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In the attic

When I got home from work and found only my mother, she told me that my father had turned into a sparrow and had joined the others making a mess in the attic’s drafts and rafters. She had caught him in a plastic basket and was keeping him trapped there, fluttering and frantic, with a large leather-bound atlas to cover the top. The poor thing bore no resemblance to my father, but I fixed my mother a cup of chamomile tea and put her to bed early, my hand resting on her dear, troubled head until she fell asleep. Then I took the basket up to the attic and switched the bird out for the right one. My mother’s eyesight had never been good.

by Kara McKeever

 

Slide 5, by Leanna Sparks

The Dream Ballet

CHARACTERS:
 
CARRIE: A 23-year-old girl who has just come home from a date at
the top of the play.
DREAM: The embodiment of CARRIE’s lost dream to be a ballerina.
She wears a traditional ballerina outfit and should have a magical
quality about her. DREAM should appear a few years older than
Carrie.
 
SET DESIGN:

A simple set with an entrance upstage and a couch center stage. The
set should seem like something a young college student could afford.
 
(Music from Coppélia plays and then fades out.)
 
CARRIE
Thanks again. It was a…I had a really good time.

(CARRIE shuts the door upstage and lights rise. CARRIE, giddy,
walks over to the mirror by the front door and checks her face
and hair.)
 
CARRIE
What a night! Aaah! What a kiss!
 
(CARRIE walks into the kitchen to get a Diet Coke from the
fridge and begins dialing a phone. DREAM emerges from behind
the sofa and begins dancing while CARRIE has her back turned.
Once CARRIE begins talking on the phone, DREAM stands still
in fourth position.)
 
CARRIE
Hey Laura, I know it’s super late, but I had to tell you—the date
was—out of this world. He’s a dream. A dream. We had the best seats
to the ballet, and we drank the yummiest wine at this cute place in
the art district. It’s only the third date, but this guy. This guy is great.
Call me tomorrow! Okay, love you.
 
(CARRIE turns and sees DREAM.)
 
CARRIE
Holy crap, what are…who are—
 
DREAM
Hello, Carrie.

Draining time

The Draining
After Kim Addonizio

I take the blade out of its package,
my hand trembling, though determined
as it rises towards the meringue
on my face, once gelatinous now lathered
and flooding my nostrils, a medicinal mint.
The chemical trails tickle my nose hairs
causing me to stifle back a choking cloud—
then I spray histamine upon the mirror.
I’ve anointed my chin with a slice of blood.
On the vanity sits a roll of toilet paper,
and I tear off small pieces & curses,
dotting my face like the wings of a ladybug.
As the patches saturate to red from white,
I remove & replace the obscenity of my face—
leaving my brain empty & spiraled,
the same as my drained tube of toothpaste.

by Allan M. Jones

"On the Clock"

by Nicholas Shea

No One Reads Kerouac Anymore*

I pull into the parking lot at work with the gnawing feeling/knowledge
I should be doing something better with my life. College grad
returns home, becomes convenience store clerk. The stuff dreams are
made of, straight out of a brochure promising debt and nothing. I
step out of my car and gawk for the nearest distraction before suicide
solves all of my problems.

The McDonald’s connected to Signal Convenience Store owns
a spotlight that beams into the Buffalo, MO, night sky. This baffles
me. Why does a fast food restaurant in a town of 2,500 people need
a spotlight? We don’t live in a post-apocalyptic world. No roving
bands of starving survivors seek rescue from death by cannibal. Perhaps
rural folk become entranced with the big ‘ole light in the sky. Ad
execs probably picture the Clampetts strolling inside a McDonald’s,
Jed taking off his cap, placing it over his heart and saying, “We saw
a strange ray of light up there in that big black empty thingy, and
by god if it didn’t point us right where we needed to be. Bless these 
golden arches.” Or maybe somebody got a great deal on a spotlight
and couldn’t pass it up.
 
“Jesus Christ, you’re finally here,” Rachel says as I walk into the
annoyingly bright convenience store. I recently added her to my roster
of imaginary sexual conquests. Half-Filipino and half-Mexican,
trim figure, thick black hair, and dark skin.
 
“JC is pissed, Rachel. Why the hell am I working tonight?”
 
“I had to fire Patti today.”
 
“For what?”
 
“Bouncing personal checks at work. She’d have Mike come in
and—”
 
“Yeah, I don’t care how she did it,” I say. “I mean, I knew she was
retarded, but damn, how long do you really expect to get away with
cashing bad checks at work?”
 
“Took us almost two months to figure it out,” Rachel says.
 
“I already knew this place was retarded,” I say.
 
“Most people fake being nice to their boss,” she says.
 
I look around. No one’s paying attention. People stand in line at
McDonald’s, but that’s across the building, past the chain link barrier
separating the two businesses from eleven p.m. to five in the morning.
 
“Those people don’t sell weed to their boss,” I say.
 
“Shit,” she says. “You’re gonna go to that well one too many times
and end up getting your ass fired.”
 
“Whatever will I do without all this?” I ask.
 
“Spare me,” she says. “One of these days poverty will erase that
too good for this job attitude you got.”
 
“I am too good for this job.”
 
“No, no,” Rachel says, “tell me how you really feel.” She grabs her
purse from underneath the counter and walks out.
 
Alone. Standing at register one. The chewing tobacco to my right,
the cigarette racks behind me. Pint and half-pint bottles below the
smokes. To my left, trucker speed and different variations of fake
Viagra that promise erections but only succeed in making you giggle
at funny names like Jackhammer and Bonez.