Kiosk 44 Literature

Re-Up GenerationO

The Stars Have Been Dead for Years

Waxwing

Three Different Views from the Smoking Porch

Street Lag On Tight Intersections

The Crime

Conversation Number 74

Vintage Memories Miles To Go

Charred Birthday Candles ona Menorah

Isaac and the Father: First MemoryLIT

Lit from the Univeristy of KansasKiosk Number Fourty-Four

LiteratureKiosk Number Forty-Four

let’s talk red, red the insides

of my eyelids and you shook

me, your hand shook and showed

me in the dome light the speed as

we shook down black out there

and nothing and no one heard

let’s talk chopped tire hum running by

small ears that almost heard but did not

see us white in moon and glare

off rain drying but we shone perfect in that

let’s talk that moment we shone perfect

while rain dried and moon could glare

at us off everything

off leaves encroaching black

off grass glossed to shine encroaching

our car the only dry

the only no moon glare

let’s talk what we never can

let’s say that song, that blown out song

through open windows mist encroached,

flung up, my face and tears -

tears dismissed as air pulling my

water out to see. let’s talk

tears out and shown perfect in that

moon and you who know

you speed me to dark and stars defy

me to close my eyes or cut the lights

let’s talk cold streaks behind

my eyes dry, dry streaks behind

the car and love songs blown

out the down windows.

let’s talk about that night you made orange light move faster than I wanted

toward me on the slick black

toward rain it fell faster and harder

and white and yellow splashed away

toward ditches into green

and you knew lines that were not there

Loren CresslerConversation Number 74


Vintage Memories

By Brittany Pierpoint

A panorama account

with intimacy at its peak

reveals their coiled anatomy.

Low saturation colors the mood.

A four letter word: noun

distinguishes their kind.

Smelling Earth, they tussled in the grass.

He tasted her intellect.

It was violence on lace.

Holes of light seeped through their green canopy.

She touched his mind in all the right places.

It was jammed with their future stories.

A scent of red was tucked behind her ear.

He inhaled her warning.

It was decorated with beautified skeletons.

Lips join by wild force.

She listens to the unsaid word.

It’s circulating in the orange of his eyes.

Figures made of transparent affection

disturb the silence in each other’s lives.

Four letter word: noun.

Brittany PierpointVintage Memories


ALEX GARRISON

MILES TO GO

Alex GarrisonMiles To Go

A little man

with neat shirts

and crisp facial hair

told me once,

“No problem.”

But it always is.

We’re always giving

and taking

and walking through rooms

so blindly

it’s a wonder we don’t die.

But we do,

we do it every day;

it kills us both

to see a blonde little girl

walking through blades of grass,

and never get cut,

with a paper kite.

And it’s not really even

a kite,

it’s just a piece of paper

with a triangle drawn on

in washable marker.

Just the rain will kill it.

We saw this together

while he was driving me through

flat Kansas,

on a little state highway

that rips across the sky;

the only other images available,

being homemade posters

that said,

“Smile, your mom chose life.”

He was taking me home

because I had killed my chances

at blending into the landscape.

So we rode in a stick-shift pickup truck,

letting our friend give us the news

on public radio,

outsiders,

in communiqué.

It wasn’t the first time

I felt like washable marker.

So I told him, once,

“I love you.”


“Do you know what microwaves look like?”

The ophthalmologist smirked, jabbing at a magnified, plastic mold: one of those detachable, multi-colored teaching tools. Complete with removable iris, transparent lens, and eyelashes.

Refraction. Wavelength. Spectrum.

Like those words are supposed to mean anything to me.

The toast was cold this morning. There’s a limited window between the removal of bread from a toaster and ingestion. Wait just a little too long, like today, and you might as well just toss it. Forgot about spreading butter. If there’s no heat, the butter doesn’t melt.

But what about jam?

You mean jelly?

Now you’re arguing semantics.

No, there’s a difference.

They’re the same thing.

Jelly is fruit flavored gelatin. Jam is crushed fruit. Learn the goddamn difference.

The ophthalmologist leaned forward, cradling the model in his palms.

“The problem is here.”

He shoved his finger in the eye.

The disposALL is ravenous.

Spongy chunks of bread, hurried by the rushing water, careen towards the whirring maw.

Toast has to be warm. It can’t be cold.

The butter won’t melt.

Jam is not the same as jelly.

CHARRED

Evan MielkeCharred

CHARREDCHA


Evan MielkeCharred

The ophthalmologist fiddled in the mold for a few seconds, making screwing motions with his wrist.

“These…”

He slowly retracted his hand from the plastirubber mold. He unfurled his palm, five small rubberplasti fragments crossing the crevices of his hand.

“These are cones. They control color processing within the eye.”

The jam.

The jelly.

But they look the same.

“We think that microwaves are to blame. They degrade certain, more fragile pieces of the body.”

What, like LG and Kenmore?

“Like from space.”

Microwaves from space.

The butter.

The toast.

They look the same.

The ophthalmologist spoke metallically.

“Unfortunately, at this point, the damage is beyond repair.”

Why does everything look the same?

“There are some…”

The ophthalmologist cleared his throat nervously.

“Highly experimental treatment options. The success rate is low, the cost, high.”

Everything’s the same.

The ophthalmologist glanced over his shoulder, fiddling with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry Mr. Green, but unless you’re incredibly wealthy, this is something you’ll have to learn to cope with.”


Evan MielkeCharred

The jam.

The jelly.

The toast.

The butter.

They all look the same.

It’s okay.

I can still tell the difference.


BIRTHDAY CANDLES ON A MENORAH - BRENDAN ALLEN

Brendan Allen Birthday Candles on a Menorah

I was born into a Jewish family,

that decorated Christmas trees

and lied to me

like every good Christian

about Santa’s knowledge of my moral fiber.

I’ve seen sepia photos of my pop-pop

grinning my grin

at his bar mitzvah,

but all I got for my thirteenth birthday

was two hundred dollars

and pubic hair.

My other grandmother,

or my pop-pop’s third wife,

(out of four)

never gave birth,

but she serves roasted chicken to her dogs.

When we visit her in the city

she laughs about the rednecks in Kansas

and how they believe in God.

My pop-pop was a lawyer.

His late nights and blood pressure

taught me a lot

as a child

about why I’ll never be a lawyer.

I don’t think he believed

in anything.

My biological grandmother,

or my pop-pop’s first wife,

(out of four)

flew to Vegas with her new boyfriend

to read by a hotel pool.

She still lights a menorah every year

with rainbow-colored

birthday candles.


ISAAC AND THE FATHER:MA

TTHE

W TO

UGAS

Matthew TougasIsaac and the Father:

I

Amid clouds of white so dense they shield

The valleys from the mountain peaks;

Where light is granted open passage

To flood the cities and the streets.

In this blinding, great expanse

Two men sit as strangers would

In a distant corner all alone

To a table made of gopher wood.

The father asks his child frankly,

“Will you drink this wine with me?”

Then reaches for his hands and begs-

“For your mother then, at least?”

“Father, for every sip I take,

You take delight in my defeat-

To justify the wine you drank

When you thoughtlessly betrayed me.”

II

Where creeks of light flood darkened plains,

Where earthquakes sound of choirs,

Where fallen angels whiten sand,

Where kilns extinguish fires-

Two sons sit, with each, a father;

The elder looks above for guidance,

“Please my Father, show me pity,

I only acted in compliance.”

The youngest stands to walk away,

“But how?” his father asks him.

The child’s eyes, like thunderous waves,

Or rivers made of bone-

Beat his father’s eyes to salt,

His kneecaps then to stone;

“I’ve forgiven you despite what you cannot atone;

A father never asks his son

To sacrifice his own.”


f i r s t

Kelsey Murrell

Kelsey MurrellFirst Memory

m e m o r y


Kelsey MurrellFirst Memory


Sam AndersonO


Evan MielkeRe-Up Generation

b r a n d o n

r u s c h


t h e s t a r sh a V e b e e nd e a df o ry e a r s

Time passes without

the recognition of a blink.

The first time he met her, it was raining. He sensed the city’s rhythm as he walked down the sidewalk. Water droplets cascaded onto the street. The scent of lilac filled his nostrils. Breaking stride, he made a quick turn, but the smell had vanished.

His mother never allows him to enter the room. The man does not breathe. His leather sandals have fused to the floorboards. Stealthily, the boy creeps into the room.

His mother never allows him to enter the room. The man does not breathe. His leather sandals have fused to the floorboards. Stealthily, the boy creeps into the room.

The first time he met her, it was raining. He sensed the city’s rhythm as he walked down the sidewalk. Water droplets cascaded onto the street. The scent of lilac filled his nostrils. Breaking stride, he made a quick turn, but the smell had vanished.

The house was built around him, one hundred and thirty-

two years ago. He sits in a chair, gazing at a windowless

wall. It is all he knows. A young boy with black, wavy hair

peeks at the man through a crack in the door. His mother

never allows him to enter the room. The man does not

breathe. His leather sandals have fused to the floorboards.

Stealthily, the boy creeps into the room. The man makes

no movement. Gaining confidence, he tiptoes behind the

man’s chair. He makes his way to the front of the man.

He is coated in a thick layer of dust. Their eyes meet. The

man looks into the child’s eyes. The hazel rings expand,

swallowing the man. He remembers.

He is a man, an old man. Memories and imagination

escape him. In his room he sits, in the same manner

he has for as long as anyone can remember. His family

considers him a relic, an antique collecting dust. His

name and age are forgotten.

Brandon RuschThe Stars Have Been Dead for Years

The first time he met her, it was raining. He sensed the

city’s rhythm as he walked down the sidewalk. Water

droplets cascaded onto the street. The scent of lilac filled

his nostrils. Breaking stride, he made a quick turn, but the

smell had vanished. Up and down the street he clambered,

wading through the smog for a whiff of the subtle beauty.

Past a hotdog stand, he picked up the trail. His feet led

him down a narrow alley to a weather-beaten door. He

knocked. Slowly, the door opened. Soft lips pressed against

his agape mouth. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but

for him it was an eternity. He removed his sunglasses and

opened his eyes. He could see. No longer was he blind. She

had beautiful almond eyes set in smooth mocha skin. His

pale hand caressed her cheek. They were bound by love.

They married.

He died many years ago. His head had long since been

covered with salt and pepper hair. His wife slept on the

hospital bed. She was dying. Her illness made her skin

appear a rusty gray, and her bones protruded from her

gown, yet he had never known anything more beautiful.

He sat in a vinyl chair with his hand resting on her thigh.

A stoic doctor entered the room, followed by a legion of

students. In a monotonous voice, he delivered the news.

She would not last the night. The medical staff exited as

quickly as they entered. The two lovers sat in silence. He

avoided her gaze, choosing to stare at the threads of his

pants. Finally, he glanced upwards and held her stare.

Her taught jaw released into a warm smile. She removed

Time passes without

the recognition of a blink.

the IV. Standing by her side, he covered her with a wool

blanket and lifted her to his chest. They smiled as they

walked out the entrance doors. A savvy nurse pursued

the couple. He began to run. They ran well into the night.

When they came to a green field, he slowed his pace. The

moon was full. He lowered their bodies to a soft bed of

grass. There, she rested against his chest as they gazed at

distant galaxies. She kissed his cheek. Their eyes met for

the last time. She said goodbye and leaned back. A tear

rolled off his cheek and fell to the ground. They both died

engulfed in moonlight.

His eyes focus as he emerges from the boy’s stare. He does

not know the child’s name, but he looks like her. With his

first movement in decades, he grasps the boy’s hand. The

man’s life is over, but there is much more living to be done.

A cough emits from the man’s throat. His eyes glaze over,

and he speaks for the first and only time.

“Go play,” he says.


Ian CookWaxwing


Fog mutes

the punctuation

of every car’s

little red lights

of stop signs

of the pedestrians

and their hands

that touch.

spring returns

the nudity of trees

a glaring blemish

Brendan AllenThree Different Views from the Smoking Porch

We see the tower’s lights

through a nightly haze

of smoke.

We wonder where it is

and who built it

and why.


Bethany ChristiansenStreet Lag On Tight Intersections

Hey you in marmalade dress

all sticky curves and legs

like jam jars.

You, with your pickled plum eyes

set deep in sockets,

and heavy lidded,

with dents for fingers built in

to your waistline,

your neckline.

Your vee neck,

your goose neck,

your green bottle neck.

Hey you, handle of whiskey,

yeah you, with the convex

glass back

just perfect

for fitting into others’ hip pockets.

Your cheeks are white butter pats

sizzling on a hot pan.

You stink of olives

soaked in men’s martinis.

Hey you, with the floral print face,

prognosticate

and see the string of evenings

stretched out before you

like trout dead on a wire.


THE CRIME

Feloniz Lovato-WinstonThe Crime

There were five people, but only three were perpetrators. Of

the other two, one was an enabler and the other a victim. No

one else was involved. Not really.

What happened was this: Number Two decided to draw the

line. Number One was required by circumstance to go along

with Number Two, Number Three went along willingly and

Number Four ignored the situation until it was too late.

They lived together in a small house in a nameless county, next

to a large field full of feral kittens. In the wintertime the field

was barren, in the summertime there were wildflowers. Across

the field, a quarter of a mile away, stood another small house,

inside of which lived an old woman. The old woman owned

the field.

Number Two (the ringleader) insisted that the old woman had

been poisoning her cats. Number Two collected cats; that was

her thing. “I can’t have children,” she’d say.

At the time the crime was committed, there were nine

cats living with them, and they all had the same name,

Frankincense Amy. Number Five hated the cats.

Every once in a while a cat would die. Its limp little body would

be found, and Number Two would grieve. Number Two was

married to Number One, and all of the cats slept in their bed.

Number One liked the cats okay, but he often wished that his

wife would stop bringing them home. The house was too small

as it was, and their bed was even smaller.

But he never complained. At night the cats would crowd

around Number Two, lay their heads on her chest and

look into her eyes. They were remarkably like children.

Number Two and Number One never had intercourse on

account of the cats, it just seemed wrong. Had they ever had

intercourse? They weren’t sure.

Number One knew that he and Number Two had been

married before they arrived at the house; he was certain of

this. He seemed to remember things like a job and a car and

THE CRIMEdoctor’s appointments, his wife’s legs spread open, her feet in

stirrups. They had arrived at the house together in an upside-

down way, like waking up to a dream, when you just

accept what’s happening. They had arrived together

— just like Number Three and Number Four.

Number Three and Number Four were cousins,

practically brothers. It was their job to get water

out of the well. The day before the crime, Number

Two had an altercation with the old lady. This made

things tense, because the old lady owned the well,

too. So naturally Number Three and Number Four

felt sheepish about fetching water. The morning the

crime was committed, they were at the well, and the

old lady showed up. Number Four gallantly offered

to carry her pail and Number Three was astonished

— how could he? But they had been raised to carry

things for old ladies. Or so they thought.

Every conflict, every moment and every happening

in their household had a special significance because

none of them could quite remember their prior lives.

Not clearly.

Number Five was the last to appear. He was older than

the rest of them. He was not old, but there was gray in

his black hair and lines next to his eyes. Number Five

always said that he had been a musician in his prior

life, of middling success.

Sometimes, the other members of the house heard him

singing, in an off-key voice that was very clear and

appealing. And there was a guitar in the barren living

room. But it didn’t have any strings.

Number Two, the only woman, was beautiful. She

had red hair with a mind of its own. There was a lot

of it, but it never grew past the middle of her back.

Feloniz Lovato-Winston


Number Two insisted that in her prior life, she had

come from a family of redheads. No one believed her.

She did all of the cooking and cleaning. Sometimes she

would get angry about this and insist that the others

help out, even Number Five. “Especially Number

Five,” she would say. The others would grudgingly

chip in, but they wouldn’t put their hearts in it and

finally Number Two would give up.

It was Number One’s job to find the food. Every day

he would leave when the sun was at a certain point in

the sky. The town was so far away they had never seen

it, but there was a dinky, barely-stocked general store a

mile down the dusty road. It was run by a translucent

old man. Number One paid the old man with the

money from the money box, which was buried in a

hole in the kitchen. It was magic, and it never ran out.

That was how they all lived and it worked out

fine. None of them questioned anything, especially

Number One, who was always saying “it is what it is.”

It was what it was, until their troubles began.

Their troubles began with three dead cats. It was early

summer, and three Frankincense Amys keeled over in

one day. Number Two found them lying on their stiff

little backs, one in the bed, one in the bathtub and one

in the front yard, as she went about her chores.

The previous night, she couldn’t sleep because she

thought she heard the sound of geriatric footsteps

shuffling downstairs, of wrinkled fingers opening the

bin of kibbles.

After the last little grave was dug, Number Two put

on her sun hat and her apron with the pockets and

strode across the field of wildflowers. It took her

twenty minutes. The old lady sat on her front porch,

rocking in a rattan rocker, and Number Two got

down to brass tacks.

“Three of my cats have died in the past 24 hours.”

“Izzat so?”

“Have you been poisoning my cats?”

“Why do you keep so many felines? Don’t you know

they should be free, running in the fields?”

“That is none of your business.”

“I believe it is. I own this field.”

“You don’t own the house.”

“How do you know?”

Number Two didn’t know. She did know that her cats

were dead and she had her suspicions. As for what she

didn’t know, that didn’t bear thinking about. It was

what it was.

“I know what you’ve been doing! I hear your

footsteps at night, I hear you lift the lid off their bin of

food.”

“Then don’t feed them that food, young lady. That

oughter fix your problem.”

“So you have been doing it! I knew it, I knew it! I’m

going to file a complaint with the elders.”

The old lady laughed. The fact that she was so tiny,

with her big nose and wrinkles, only made her more

menacing.

“You go ahead and try. You can do whatever you

like. Just remember: you weren’t meant to be a mother,

my dear. Ain’t nothing going to change that.”

She rocked and rocked, laughing the whole time.

Number Two stood stunned, as if someone had

thrown a bucket of ice on her head. The old lady

stunk. Number Two noticed that. She smelled

like death: like poison and rotten prunes. Number

Two didn’t know what to do, so she settled for a

vaguely familiar gesture — waving her fist in the

air — before turning on her heels and storming back

home. She could hear the squeak of the rocking chair

and the tingly feeling of the old woman’s eyes as she

walked away.

But halfway across the field she stopped. Something

little and sharp had hit her in the small of her back.

Number Two looked down and saw a tiny brown

bottle. She picked it up and examined it for a

moment before putting it in the pocket of her apron.

Sometimes Number Two felt like she was

the only person in the house who could feel

anger. Sometimes she felt like she had a problem

that no one else understood.

Back at the house, Number Three and Number Four

were having a good time. For some reason, Number

Five was spending time with them, and he was really

holding court, regaling them with disjointed tales

from his past. “I wasn’t a rock star,” he said, “but I

enjoyed middling success.”

Number Three wanted to know if this “made girls

like him,” and Number Five smiled. It did seem like

women had liked him, way back then. He picked up

his guitar and strummed an imaginary tune. Number

Three was impressed. “I wish I could play like that,”

he said, a fawning comment that earned a punch in the

arm from his cousin.

Just then, Number Two stomped in. The two

cousins sat up a little straighter. She didn’t greet

them, just tossed her hat silently on the broken sofa

and walked off into the kitchen. Presently they

heard her preparing the evening meal, banging the

lone pot against the only pan. Number Three and


Number Four looked at each other.

“I think it’s time to go fetch the water,” said

Number Four. They grabbed their old pails and

slipped out the door. But not before Number Three,

his voice filled with longing, said a timid “Hello,

Number Two” to his roommate while his cousin

looked on with contempt.

Number Five was left holding his empty guitar. Things

were awkward between him and Number Two.

A few days prior, Number One had come home with

a bottle of hooch and a pack of cards, and the night

had opened up like a surprised flower. None of them

could remember how to play, so they made up their

own games, drinking the sour liquor from little jelly

jars. Number Three and Number Four, skinny and

perpetually adolescent, had segued into sickness

almost immediately, vomiting in the front yard before

stumbling off to bed.

For the rest of them, the night still held promise.

Number Two surprised them by transforming,

through alcohol, from an angry harpy into a pretty

good drunk. She laughed, she teased, she remembered

jokes.

“Why did the chicken cross the road,” she said,

“because orange you going to let me in?”

Number Five and Number One laughed, because

Number Two looked so beautiful in the lamplight.

Everything seemed funny and happy. They had

forgotten about funny and happy. Number Five

refilled Number Two’s glass, and their wrists touched.

Their knees were also touching, under the table.

Eventually, Number One fell asleep in his chair,

his head lolling on his neck, and Number Two

brushed the hair off his face. He looked so silly

and sweet, asleep like that, and she and Number Five

smiled at each other.

Number Five noticed that Number Two looked more

beautiful than ever, that she seemed to be glowing.

Number Two was suddenly aware of Number Five’s

long legs, of his hands and fingers.

By dawn they had stopped talking and just sat silently,

watching morning come through the small window

in the kitchen. It felt like Number Two and Number

Five were the only people on the planet.

“It’s weird to think that the world is spinning,” said

Number Five. “It makes you feel so lost.”

Number Two agreed, but she didn’t say anything.

A few morning birds flew from tree to tree in the

small front yard. She looked at Number Five. At his

legs, especially. He was so gangly, the opposite of her

compact husband. His long-fingered hands rested

on his bony knees. Soon things would go back to

normal. The days would resume their bizarre routine.

Suddenly she felt punished.

“I don’t know how I ended up here,” she said.

Number Five smiled at her. “At least you brought

someone with you.”

“Do you think we’re in Hell?”

“We’re not dead.”

“How do you know?”

The lamp was still lit, even though the sun was

coming up. Number Five reached to turn it off and

left his arm on the table. Number Two looked at him.

She placed her hand on one of his long legs. Number

Five pulled his arm off the table. In that moment,

everything was quiet. Even the birds stopped singing.

Number Two stood up from her chair and knelt down

in front of Number Five, her hand still on his leg.

“Should we go upstairs?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m sorry - this is

probably my fault.”

He stood up and her hand fell off his leg.

Number Two was silent. After a moment, she stood

up too. Her husband was still asleep in his chair. She

bowed her head, embarrassed and hurt. Number Five

coughed.“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not that charming. I

just wanted to have a baby.”

Number Five looked at her. He wasn’t sure what she

meant by that.

“I’m confused,” he said. “How are babies made?”

“I don’t know!” said Number Two, and began to cry

beside her sleeping husband. Number Five watched.

He considered holding her, decided against it, turned

on his heel, and left the room.


And then it really was morning.

Things were different after that. Number Two

decided that she really hated Number Five. Suddenly,

everything seemed to be his fault. And on the day

that Number Two returned from her altercation with

the old lady, Number Five just made things worse.

That night, she held a house meeting. The men sat

on the old couch and she stood in front of them with

her breasts jutting against her sundress. Number

Three was painfully aware of them, and he wished

he wasn’t sitting so close to the other men.

“I want to file a complaint against the old

lady.” Number Two looked at them with blank

expectation, a look she got when she wanted

everything to go her way.

“Why would you want to do a thing like that? Who

would you even file the complaint with?”

That was Number Five, playing devil’s advocate, a

habit he had. A bad habit.

“The elders.”

“But we’ve never even seen the town.” That was

Number One. He was practical.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Number Three and Number Four shifted

uncomfortably in their seats. Number Three felt like

he was been called on to act like a man, and Number

Four had a bad feeling about the entire situation.

Number Five looked at the beautiful woman standing

in front of him. “Why are you angry at the old lady?”

“She is killing my cats.”

“How do you know this?”

“I hear her footsteps at night.”

“I don’t think you should file a complaint

with the elders.”

The rules of the house were posted on the ice-box.

They had always been there, written in old pencil on

tattered paper. One of the rules was that if you had a

complaint about the old lady who owns the field, you

could file it with the elders, who lived in the town. But

there was a caveat: everyone living in the house had to

agree. You could not file a complaint otherwise. This

was how they knew a town existed. This was how they

knew there were elders, and that the old lady owned

the field.

That night, Number Five told Number Two that

he did not agree. He was the only person who said

this. Number One looked at his shoes. Number Four

looked out the window. Number Three looked at

Number Two with sympathy and understanding.

Number Two looked angry. Number Five refused to

budge from his position, and Number Two stomped

off to bed, leaving the men to get their own dinner.

The world tilted on its axis and night fell again.

Number Two couldn’t sleep. She stood up in her torn

nightdress and crept into the kitchen. Her apron with

the pockets was lying against the back of the chair

Number Five had sat in, the night they all got drunk.


Number Two felt around in both pockets until

she found the little brown bottle. What she didn’t

know was that Number Five couldn’t sleep either,

and he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen

watching her.

The next morning Number Two made porridge

for breakfast

Towards the end of the day, Number Five developed

a fever. His forehead was hot to the touch, and he

had to lie down in the room he shared with the two

cousins. The two young men tended to him, bringing

water from their pails and answering his delirious

questions. It was the first time that someone in the

house had been sick.

Number One knew of a doctor. The owner of the

general store had told him about one. Number Two

intercepted him on his wait out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s a doctor in town. Number Five is really

sick.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“You’ll be fine here; the others are around.”

“Listen to me. I don’t want you to help Number

Five.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

As far as he knew, Number One had always been

married to Number Two. When he looked at her, he

did not see who she was, in that house at that time —

he saw how she got there, even though he could not

remember the details.

That day, he did not try to find the town and he did not

try to find a doctor. Instead, he wandered outside and

stood in the front yard like a statue.

Number Two sat in the kitchen. She had ceased

thinking. She could hear the shuffling feet of Number

Four and Number Three as they came down the

stairs. Presently, the two young men stood in front of

her, Number Four staring at the ground and Number

Three looking at her perfect face.

“He’s awfully sick.” Number Three was the first to

speak. “Is Number One going to the doctor?”

Number Two smiled. “No. We decided that it’s best

not to interfere.”

“He’s pretty sick. He might… “

“He might what, Number Three?”

Number Four let out an exasperated breath.

“You think he might die?” Number Two laughed

before she forgot not to laugh.

The room got quiet. Number Four could feel the


earth spinning under his feet and it made him dizzy.

Upstairs, Number Five had asked him for a special

favor. He thought of this favor, he tried not to think

of anything else. Number Two had removed her

morning apron and Number Three was staring at

her chest. As far as he knew, Number Three had

always been an idiot.

Number Two’s cool white hand was on Number

Three’s face. “Let’s just leave things alone.”

“Really?”

“Really. It’s none of our business.”

Number Four looked out the window. He noticed that

Number One was looking directly at the sun without

shielding his eyes, as if he wanted to go blind. Number

Four suddenly felt very tired. His mind went blank,

and he didn’t say anything else for the rest of the day.

He and his cousin did not go back to the room they

shared with Number Five. They slept on the floor

downstairs.

That is how the crime was committed. Quietly and

with complicity.

The next morning, Number Four walked slowly up

the stairs of the small house and into the room where

Number Five lay.

It took a long time for the remaining men in the

house to dig the hole in the front yard, the soil was so

hard and dry.

Number One left after the body was buried. He

said that he was going to file the complaint against

the elders, now that everyone in the house could

agree. Number Two had written the complaint on a

scrap of paper with an old pencil, carefully wording

her accusations while the other three struggled with

the burial. A new kitten, found just that morning,

purred on her lap.

After Number One left, Number Four remembered

the promise he had made to Number Five. He went

into the living room and picked up the guitar, bringing

it to Number Two, who sat smiling with Number

Three on the porch.

“Number Five wanted you to have this.”

“What?”

“Yesterday, when he was sick, he asked me to give

you his guitar, in case he...”

It wiped the smile right off her face. She didn’t take

the guitar from his hand.

Number One never returned, and with him gone,

Number Two could never find adequate comfort in

her litter of cats. One by one, she took them out to the

field and set them free amongst the dying flowers.

Her affair with Number Three was brief. In fact, he

seemed to lose interest in her after she changed — her

skin shriveled up and her hair turned gray. One day

they woke up and she was gone. When they looked

out the back window, across the field, they saw two old

women sitting on the porch, wrapped in shawls and

rocking in their chairs.

The duties in the house changed, with just two of

them left. Number Three gathered the food.

Number Four did the chores. It was pretty lonely.

Number Four found that he even missed Number

Two’s haranguing. It’s funny what you can miss.

Without the presence of the others to keep them

young, the two cousins grew quickly into men —

because they had to.


Number Four swore he could feel something

“opening up.”

“You mean you think we’ll get out of here?”

“I don’t know, but something’s bound to change.”

“You think it’s our fault, what happened?”

“It was everyone’s fault. I know that now.”

“But we were just kids, back then.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re still here. Our

punishment wasn’t as bad.”

They looked out the window. It seemed like the

clouds in the sky were moving, but it was really

them. They were in a strange place, where they had

once done a bad thing, even though it wasn’t their

idea. Does that count?

Their only hope was a future somewhere else, where

the motions of the planets couldn’t be felt. A place

where they had all of their memories, where even

their most shameful memories could help steer them

through life.

44

Literature from the University of Kansas Kiosk Number Forty-Four

Designed, Edited and published by students, K

iosk is a sem

i-annual award-w

inning magazine featuring the finest

art and literature the University of K

ansas has to offer.

Lit Staff:

Ryan F

azio

Am

anda Hem

mingsen

Dee H

ogan

Sydney Rayl

Alexis Sm

ith

Em

ylisa Warrick

Design Staff:

Jordan Jacobson

Jovan Nedeljkovic

Michael Selby

Lauren Schim

ming

The staff of K

iosk 44 would like to thank the D

epartment

of English and the School of Architecture, D

esign, and Planning at the U

niversity of Kansas as w

ell as Coca-Cola and K

U Student Senate.

Additional thanks to Jane H

azard, Mainline Printing,

Diana Rhodes, A

ndrea Herstow

ski, Jeremy Shellhorn,

and the City of Luxembourg.

Some elem

ents of Kiosk w

ere taken from D

eborah Turbeville’s Studio St. Petersburg (1997) and D

aniel Wolf’s

The A

merican Space (1983).

Kiosk 44 Literature

Documents

letter word

orange light

perfectwhile rain

glareoff rain

dome light

holes of light

scent of red

blades of grass