Amarillo Bay 
 Volume 17 Number 3 

Welcome to Amarillo Bay!

Something Good To Read
Volume 17 Number 3 — Published 10 August 2015

In addition to the works in this issue — the third issue of our seventeenth year — you can read the 723 works (258 fiction, 86 creative nonfiction, 379 poetry) we have published since 1999. See the Previous Works, including the ability to search through the issues.


Fiction Editor: Richard Moseley Richard Moseley

Richard Moseley is professor emeritus in English at West Texas A&M University who taught literary courses in modern short fiction, film and literature, Southwestern literature, and the contemporary American novel. His degrees are from the University of Texas at Austin (B.A.) and the University of Cincinnati (M.A. and Ph.D.).

Great Guy
   by Edward H. Garcia Edward H. Garcia

Edward H. Garcia is retired from teaching composition, literature, and creative writing in the Dallas County Community College District. He has published many reviews and articles in The Dallas Morning News and other publications, including The Texas Observer, The Texas Humanist, Pawn Review, Texas Books in Review, Tex!, County Line Magazine, and Southwest Historical Quarterly. He is represented in Texas in Poetry 2, Texas Short Stories 2, Literary Dallas, and in two anthologies of writing by DCCCD faculty and staff, Out of Dallas and Voices from Within. Some of his poems have been translated into Albanian and published in an anthology of American poetry: Poezia: bashkekohore amerikane. He lives on the upper east side of Texas with his wife Rica.

Thomas Oliver remembers someone called him a “great guy.” It was one of his friends—long ago when they were in their 30s—and he had probably just helped the friend move or install a water heater. The friend, Bob, maybe, or Wendell, had clapped him on the arm and said, “You know, Tom, you’re a great guy. You’re the guy I can always ask and you’ll drop anything to help.” Thomas had almost said, “Yeah, a great guy, but a terrible husband,” but he didn’t want to burden Bob—he is almost certain it was Bob—with his guilt. He just said, “You’d do the same for me.” But then Bob was a terrible husband, too.

Thomas Oliver has been thinking a lot about his wife, his late wife, lately. Sometimes he slips in conversation and says “ex-wife,” but she was never that. Came close a couple of times, but neither could quite pull the trigger. Once there had been another man she almost left him for, and more than once there had been women he could have left for. One woman’s husband had picked up the signs and moved them to another state. Neither she nor Thomas had been ready to commit and both let the relationship go, though the letting go had been more on his side than hers, it now seems to him.

Terrible husband is what his wife Joanie would have called him, all the while putting up with him. He guesses she didn’t think she could do better, except for the one time that he knew about. She always figured she was going to be left. There was the fiancé in high school who broke up with her and then married the next girl and lived happily ever after. Of course, that’s probably what their marriage looked like from the outside, so maybe the fiancé was miserable, too, and thought if only he had stuck with Joanie, who lived happily ever after with her husband, etc.   Continue…

Hammer Nails
   by Jen Michalski Jen Michalski

Jen Michalski is the author of the novels The Tide King (Black Lawrence Press) and The Summer She Was Under Water (Queens Ferry Press), two collections of short stories, and a collection of novellas, Could You Be With Her Now (Dzanc Books).

She was just a girl, Sam first thought, if she thought of her at all. The girl who worked the late shift at the coffee shop on 31st and Charles Street, where Sam got her muffin and tea, had made no other impression on Sam at first other than the fact that she belonged to the legions of urban service-industry workers that filled the coffee shops of the city, seemingly cast from the same disaffected die: slightly unkempt shoulder-length blonde hair, tattoos, a blank expression, rings and jewelry of all vintages on all digits and appendages, an affinity for black and brown and gray fabrics.

Although it wasn’t rocket science, the girl quickly remembered Sam’s order, a large Chai tea with milk and a cranberry oat bran muffin, and would have it ready the nights she usually stopped by.

“What would you do if I don’t show up?” Sam laughed one evening as she counted out $4.20. “With my order, I mean?”

“You’ll show up,” the girl answered and smiled. “We’ve built this subconscious system of trust and dependence on each other. And, if not, I guess I’d give it to the homeless guy outside my building.”

“Well, that’s nice of you.” She put the money in the girl’s outstretched hand. “I hope you don’t have to pay for my waste. I feel like I should pay in advance or something.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The girl held Sam’s eyes for a second or two, causing Sam to wonder briefly what the girl thought beyond all this, this being quite vague, of course. What the girl thought about anything, Sam supposed.

“I’m Eve Christmas,” the girl said finally. “If you want to thank me, you can call me that and not ma’am. You make me feel old.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam laughed. “I’m Sam Pinski—I don’t like being called ma’am, either. That’s quite a name you have—there’s a story behind it?”

“Maybe.” Eve wiped some poppy seeds off the counter with her rag. “See you Thursday.”   Continue…

Hsi-wei’s Letter to Ko Qing-zhao
   by Robert Wexelblatt Robert Wexelblatt

Robert Wexelblatt is professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies. He has published the story collections Life in the Temperate Zone and The Decline of Our Neighborhood; a book of essays, Professors at Play; two short novels, Losses and The Derangement of Jules Torquemal; and essays, stories, and poems in a variety of journals. His novel Zublinka Among Women won the Indie Book Awards first-place prize for fiction. His most recent book is The Artist Wears Rough Clothing. Another, Heiberg’s Twitch, is forthcoming.

[Note: This letter by the Sui period poet Chen Hsi-wei begins as a whimsical yet conventional letter-poem but continues in prose and at length.]

A biting wind blows through Tafang, gusts from
the direction of Hsuan where we drank
till the moon set and you let me see your
elegant landscapes. Could it be these blasts
are sent by you, old friend, reproaches
for my silence? If so, please relent and
instead of snowscapes paint green mountains behind
bamboo sprays. A-tremble are the walls of
Qiong Inn; Tafang’s curs are shivering.

Last autumn, I spent three days in Daxing, my first visit to the capital in many years. The city is thriving, orderly, cleaner than it was in our day. Officials and couriers rush down the boulevards, for the new government has a great deal to do in planning the Emperor’s construction projects and prosecuting his wars. To be candid, these ambitious enterprises make me fear for the peasants. Emperor Wen is doing much to spread Buddhism and, as you know, he reinstated the Confucian examinations so that his ministries are staffed with cultured men. Now that the empire has been united, quite a few southerners are to be seen in the city, elegant figures in their bright yellow and exotic headgear. Their conceited wives and still haughtier concubines are borne about in sedan chairs, an intimidating sight.

Among the poor I could discern no change.

I went to Daxing uninvited. Even had somebody conceived the wish to summon me, where could they have sent an invitation when even I don’t know where I’ll be from one week to the next? Why did I want to go to the city in which I had so seldom been happy? Well, you too must know the longing that sometimes squeezes one in its gentle fist; I mean the yearning to see again the scenes of one’s youth and how even the memory of long-ago miseries can be dear.   Continue…

Out of the Hatbox
   by Kathryn M. Huber Kathryn M. Huber

Kathryn M. Huber started out in Seattle but ended up in Lima, Peru. In between, she studied Theater at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, OR, got a Masters in Social Work from Columbia, and spent a decade in NYC before moving to Peru the first time. After living, working, and writing in Costa Rica, Bolivia, and Atlanta with three kids and more dogs, she returned to Lima with her Peruvian husband to continue the adventure. She has just finished a novel set in 6th century Peru—the period when the Nasca culture succumbs to environmental and climate crisis. Her stories and essays have appeared in a variety of literary magazines, and include a Pushcart nomination. A taste of her work is available at kmhuber.com.

When Maggie noticed the coatrack inviting her to dance, she finally decided she’d been alone in the house too long. She had not slept well since Harold died. Nine months in a home empty of his presence had begun to play tricks with her senses. The cement of habits and routines, built over fifty years together, had started to crumble. Like stubborn blades of grass that reclaim abandoned highways, another self tugged from the shadows in the corners, from behind each frame. The glimpses when she passed the hallway mirror began to resemble all too much the sepia photographs on the walls.

Her steps slowed a little more each night, her legs reluctant to carry her toward the lonely bedroom. She tried not to look at the faces in the frames as she passed, and tried to ignore the odd sensations that fluttered through the half-lit hall. She held her walker a little more firmly, as if it threatened to float away, or worse, to stop altogether. Sometimes, she left the television and radio on to drown out the silence. Without Harold to animate her surroundings, objects took on lives of their own. The faces on the wall insisted on greeting her, almost speaking out loud. When Maggie found herself responding to the photographs—out of habitual politeness—it didn’t bother her that she was talking to the walls. But when the coatrack reached out and invited her to dance, she decided that things had gone too far.

It was time to move to the main building. Fran would be there to keep her company. The activities would keep her occupied. Harold had even suggested the move before his last heart attack, but she knew that he was merely thinking ahead, as always. Knowing how much he would have chafed at apartment living, she had exaggerated her own reasons for staying, insisting that she needed her garden, her kitchen, and her “things.” She told him they still had plenty of time to enjoy their little rambler before moving to the main complex. Harold had gloried in doing his own repairs, in keeping the garden nice, in being independent. He had always taken pride in his work and in his home, but above all, he had taken pride in keeping his wife well: well dressed, well cared for. (“Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well,” Maggie thought, sadly.) Harold had always paid careful attention to detail, and Maggie had been content to inhabit his well ordered world. She had never quite realized what a carefully orchestrated world it had been until its conductor had relinquished his post and left her to finish the final movement of their life’s symphony alone. Only then had Maggie begun to notice distortions in the music. Something would nag at her, she’d push it away, and it would return with the persistence of the marching broomsticks in Fantasia. The rhythms of “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” echoed in every corner. To drive them away, she turned up the radio and sang along to whatever was playing.   Continue…


Creative Nonfiction Editor: Gretchen Johnson Gretchen Johnson

Gretchen Johnson lives in Beaumont, Texas, and works as an English Instructor at Lamar University. Her short stories and poems have appeared in The Blue Bear Review, The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Poetry Harbor, Spout Press, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, and others. She received her Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing from Southwest Minnesota State University and her MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University. Her first book, The Joy of Deception, was published by Lamar University Literary Press in 2012, and her second book; A Trip Through Downer, Minnesota, was published by Lamar University Literary Press in 2014.

Misread
   by Olivia Rawlins Olivia Rawlins

Olivia Rawlins biography to come.

These were my favorite times to watch her. Her face contorted into a mixture of displeasure and confusion. A silent smile twitched the corners of her mouth, playing with the lines, creasing rosy cheeks and wrinkles in the folds of her eyes. There was a serene stillness, an unmatched realness that masked the depravity of her world and cloaked her in unwarranted ecstasy. Golden sunlight danced across leather-bound books, crinkling their taut pages and yellowing their fraying edges. Her fingers slid along the spine of one, engulfing the essence of coffee-stained words and dog-eared pages.

“Do you believe that our souls live inside of books?” Her question faintly lingered off her lips, leafy eyes focused daintily on a row of used novels. A tattered sign hung above them labeled “Classics.” “Because sometimes I feel incomplete apart from withering pages and misshapen reality…like I’m not myself unless I’m immersed in the culture of someone else.” Her words caught, as she sheepishly glanced up at me. A smile toyed a corner of her thin lips, and a slight giggle parted their perfect composure. Brunette ringlets fell across her youthful cheekbones.

“Sorry, I guess that’s weird, huh?”

“I think that your soul is most alive when you are entranced in the makings of a story, when your mind is reeling with the plot line, when your fingers are scratching against a pencil as it etches along a paper. I believe that your soul is beautifully and artfully damaged with the realness of this world, and therefore, you are the most authentic and genuine while you are inescapably lost in literature.”

Her eyes studied mine, traipsing their depths for a sense of security. She knew, though. She was secure. She didn’t need that assurance. Her head shook steadily, cheeks blazing with the timidity of a compliment. She was never good at receiving those.

“How many points do you think we get for making out in the graphic novel section?”

I tossed a wink at her, grabbing her palm and dragging her down the aisle of our bookstore.

“I guess we’ll just have to give it a try.”   Continue…


Poetry Editor: Katherine Hoerth Katherine Hoerth

Katherine Hoerth is the author of a poetry collection, The Garden Uprooted (Slough Press, 2012). Her work has been included in journals such as Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, BorderSenses, and Front Porch. She teaches literature and creative writing at the University of Texas Pan American and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor of Fifth Wednesday Journal.

Firedrill
   by Jared Pearce Jared Pearce

Jared Pearce teaches writing and literature at William Penn University. Some of his poems are forthcoming from Albatross, Asymptote, and Bird’s Thumb, while others have recently been shared in Far Off Places, Belle Reve, Apeiron, Angle, and The Lake.

During faculty cake the alarm sends
us chatting down the stairs, across the lawn
to the safe point where we can see the man
flailing his arms to return us again.   Continue…

Give Us this Day our Daily Train
   by John Grey John Grey

John Grey is an Australian born short story writer, poet, playwright, musician, and Providence, RI, resident since the late seventies. He has been published in numerous magazines including Weird Tales, Christian Science Monitor, Greensboro Poetry Review, Poem, Agni, Poet Lore, and Journal Of The American Medical Association as well as the horror anthology “What Fears Become” and the science fiction anthology “Futuredaze.” He has had plays produced in Los Angeles and off-off Broadway in New York. He was the winner of the Rhysling Award for short genre poetry in 1999.

Here comes the freight train,
its cargo, the usual needs
of a tiny, out-of-the-way town.
And off it goes,
with plenty left on board
for more important places.
A few newspapers,
handful of mail,
dry goods, a lump of something
from the refrigerated car—
we hardly matter.   Continue…

Ode to a One Night Stand
   by John Grey John Grey

John Grey is an Australian born short story writer, poet, playwright, musician, and Providence, RI, resident since the late seventies. He has been published in numerous magazines including Weird Tales, Christian Science Monitor, Greensboro Poetry Review, Poem, Agni, Poet Lore, and Journal Of The American Medical Association as well as the horror anthology “What Fears Become” and the science fiction anthology “Futuredaze.” He has had plays produced in Los Angeles and off-off Broadway in New York. He was the winner of the Rhysling Award for short genre poetry in 1999.

If it’s merely the limbs, the thighs,
that are called for
then the heart goes up in smoke.

Humanity eluded,
out comes the dark underside
of muscle,
fingers that parachute down
on warm fluttering bellies,
genitals that rise up at all costs.   Continue…

How to Catch a Monarch
   by Pat Hanahoe-Dosch Pat Hanahoe-Dosch

Pat Hanahoe-Dosch has an MFA from the University of Arizona in Tucson, Arizona, and is currently an Associate Professor of English at Harrisburg Area Community College, Lancaster campus. Her book, Fleeing Back, is available through futurecyclepress.org or Amazon.com . Her poems have been published in The Paterson Literary Review, The Atticus Review, War, Art and Literature, Confrontation, The Red River Review, San Pedro River Review, and Marco Polo Arts Magazine, among many others. Her poem “A 21st Century Hurricane: An Assay” was recently nominated for this year’s Pushcart Prize in Poetry. You can read some of her work online at pathanahoedosch.blogspot.com. Visit her website at phanahoedosch.weebly.com.

Smear your hands with pollen
and stand still like a tree
rooted into the lawn by a flowering
bush of purple blossoms like firecrackers,
and hold your hands, palms out,
motionless, pollen stains skyward.   Continue…

Why They Sold the House
   by Pat Hanahoe-Dosch Pat Hanahoe-Dosch

Pat Hanahoe-Dosch has an MFA from the University of Arizona in Tucson, Arizona, and is currently an Associate Professor of English at Harrisburg Area Community College, Lancaster campus. Her book, Fleeing Back, is available through futurecyclepress.org or Amazon.com . Her poems have been published in The Paterson Literary Review, The Atticus Review, War, Art and Literature, Confrontation, The Red River Review, San Pedro River Review, and Marco Polo Arts Magazine, among many others. Her poem “A 21st Century Hurricane: An Assay” was recently nominated for this year’s Pushcart Prize in Poetry. You can read some of her work online at pathanahoedosch.blogspot.com. Visit her website at phanahoedosch.weebly.com.

Here are the chips and cracks of what was spoken,
or was not. There is the quiet of her anger,
here, the hyperbolic breath, the inhalation of his carefully structured
indifference, and there, the cruelty of closed glass doors,   Continue…

Unexpected Shower
   by Eloísa Pérez-Lozano Eloísa Pérez-Lozano

Eloísa Pérez-Lozano grew up bilingual and bicultural in Houston, Texas. She graduated from Iowa State University with her M.S. in journalism and mass communication and her B.S. in psychology. Her poetry has been featured in The Bayou Review, Illya’s Honey, The Acentos Review, The Ofi Press, Silver Birch Press, the 2014 Houston Poetry Fest anthology, the Austin International Poetry Festival’s 2015 “Di-vêrsé-city” anthology, the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival’s 2015 “Boundless” anthology, and VONA’s Voices Against Racial Injustice: An Arts Forum, among others.

It was supposed to be 75 degrees outside,
perfect summer dress – flip flop weather.
The light humidity caressed my arms like a shawl
before I shut the car door and headed to work.

The drops started to fall as I looked for a spot
but no big deal, I thought.
Warm rain is like a liquid hug,
refreshing and cozy all at once.   Continue…


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Works by Issue

Works are published the first Monday of February, the third Monday of May, the first Monday of August, and the first Monday of November.

2015, Volume 17 Number 4, 2 November 2015 — Future Issue
Number 3, 10 August 2015 — Current Issue
Number 2, 18 May 2015
Number 1, 2 February 2015
2014, Volume 16 Number 4, 3 November 2014
Number 3, 4 August 2014
Number 2, 19 May 2014
Number 1, 3 February 2014
2013, Volume 15 Number 4, 4 November 2013
Number 3, 5 August 2013
Number 2, 20 May 2013
Number 1, 4 February 2013
2012, Volume 14 Number 4, 5 November 2012
Number 3, 6 August 2012
Number 2, 21 May 2012
Number 1, 6 February 2012
2011, Volume 13 Number 4, 7 November 2011
Number 3, 1 August 2011
Number 2, 16 May 2011
Number 1, 7 February 2011
2010, Volume 12 Number 4, 1 November 2010
Number 3, 2 August 2010
Number 2, 17 May 2010
Number 1, 1 February 2010
2009, Volume 11 Number 4, 2 November 2009
Number 3, 3 August 2009
Number 2, 18 May 2009
Number 1, 2 February 2009
2008, Volume 10 Number 4, 3 November 2008
Number 3, 18 August 2008
Number 2, 19 May 2008
Number 1, 11 February 2008
2007, Volume 9 Number 4, 12 November 2007
Number 3, 6 August 2007
Number 2, 7 May 2007
Number 1, 5 February 2007
2006, Volume 8 Number 4, 6 November 2006
Number 3, 7 August 2006
Number 2, 8 May 2006
Number 1, 6 February 2006
2005, Volume 7 Number 4, 7 November 2005
Number 3, 8 August 2005
Number 2, 2 May 2005
Number 1, 7 February 2005
2004, Volume 6 Number 4, 1 October 2004
Number 3, 2 August 2004
Number 2, 3 May 2004
Number 1, 2 February 2004
2003, Volume 5 Number 4, 3 November 2003
Number 3, 4 August 2003
Number 2, 5 April 2003
Number 1, 3 February 2003
2002, Volume 4 Number 4, 4 November 2002
Number 3, 5 August, 2002
Number 2, 6 May 2002
Number 1, 4 February 2002
2001, Volume 3 Number 4, 5 November 2001
Number 3, 6 August 2001
Number 2, 7 May 2001
Number 1, 5 February 2001
2000, Volume 2 Number 4, 6 November 2000
Number 3, 7 August 2000
Number 2, 1 May 2000
Number 1, 7 February 2000
1999, Volume 1 Number 3, 1 November 1999
Number 2, 2 August 1999
Number 1, 3 May 1999