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A World of Our Own? Yes?
Brother X cranked up a portable record player in our religion class and played A World of Our Own by The Seekers. On the chalkboard he wrote: A World of Our Own? Yes?
BROTHER X BY STEVEN McBREARTY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 100
Brother X cranked up a portable record player in our religion class and played A World of Our Own by The Seekers. On the chalkboard he wrote: A World of Our Own? Yes?
I sat surprised, curious, mesmerized almost, pondering the ramifications of this tour de force of an introduction to a religion class. I didn’t know what to make of it. Playing a pop song was so far removed from the norm that it was mind-blowing.
When the record had finished, Brother X sat on his desk—that was his signature move—swinging a leg up under his cassock. He waved magisterially in a let-me-have-your-attention kind of wave.
“So-o-o,” he said, pensively stroking his chin. “A world of our own. What do you fine young specimens of American manhood think that’s all about?”
She admired every perfect line. Every bead of sweat.
Ollie thought back to the day Julz had stumbled into her ballet class. Mila, their ballet teacher, had given her a stern and precise little smile and had immediately targeted her as the prime example of what not to do. In turn, Julz had worked twice as hard. Ollie couldn’t take her eyes off her. She admired every perfect line. Every bead of sweat.
JEWELS BY SHARAI ZAMORA 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 100
Ollie stared at Julz’s long delicate fingers on the steering wheel. They had a ballerina quality to them. “Tell me something,” Julz said.
“Like what?” Ollie couldn’t remember how long it’d been since she’d last said anything.
“Like anything. Tell me something interesting.”
“Did you like the care package I sent you?”
“I did. I don’t think I’ve seen a Kinder Surprise since I was a kid.”
“I know! I asked my mom if she could bring one back for me.”
Julz’s Jeep hit a pothole and the glove compartment fell open. Bills, letters, and photos flooded the floor. Ollie began gathering them up and Julz screeched the Jeep to a stop on the side of the road. “I got it, I got it,” she said.
Ollie picked up a polaroid photo of Julz’s old flame, Ruby, smiling brightly. It was two months since Ruby and Julz had split. Julz shoved the photo back in the glove compartment.
When are you coming home?
“Steven?” she whimpered after an immense pause. “When are you coming home?
AURORA AUSTRALIS BY SAMUEL DAMON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 100
Paper. Type type typing across it. Ice, pitted and crevassed, dangerous and thin. The sled’s runners smudge the white white white with typewriter-ribbon stain. I mush the dogs on, on to the pole, past Captain Scott and his lot looking like trout wrapped in paper to be thawed and fried. Still Amundsen made it. Aurora Australis. A revelation at the Tierra Del Fuego of consciousness. Paper. Ice. Los Angeles.
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I lived in LA for two years before I even thought of Steve Nixon. He was my roommate in college. At 18, when I knew him, his hairline receded like the tide before a tsunami. He screeched bad violin, speed read all the classics, and screwed the Mississippi Belle I loved and thought too chaste for sex.
Still somehow, I liked him but I hadn’t called him.
My subconscious accessed Steve Nixon’s mother’s name. Penelope.
“Directory assistance.”
“Penelope Nixon, Pasadena, please.”
“Have you consulted your telephone directory?”
“I’m as blind as Homer.”
“Uh-huh. Just a moment. Connecting.”
“No wait,” I said, but too late.
Penny Nixon answered on the first ring. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Steven, my God. I thought I’d never hear your voice again.”
“No, Mrs Nixon, this is Roald Amundsen. We met at Steven’s graduation.”
“I don’t remember. You sound exactly like Steven.”
My father tells my abuelo he’ll leave the island and never come back.
He watches the massive, other-worldly cruise ships pull out of Old San Juan Port miles and miles away. They take so long to sail over the horizon.
MI PADRE BY EMMELIE CORA 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 100
My father, just a boy back then, dozes on the beach under the palm trees on a sunny Sunday afternoon. His sister and brother call for him to play with them in the water. He pulls his hat over his eyes. Coconuts fall near him with soft thuds. Stray dogs sniff his pockets. Sometimes he watches the massive, other-worldly cruise ships pull out of Old San Juan Port miles and miles away. They take so long to sail over the horizon.
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My abuelo drops off my father at the army recruiting office in Cayey. He looks ahead in dark sunglasses as his son with a black eye and only a book bag gets out of the car.
My father tells him that if this is what he wants for him then he’ll leave the island and never come back. He won’t call, won’t write, won’t visit for Christmas. He won’t come back for anyone’s birthday or funeral.
My abuelo drives off without saying goodbye.
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