{"title":"Poem of the Subterranean Buddah","authors":"Z. Chartkoff","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0043","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0043","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"116 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134548938","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
If I met her in the library, I’d never think she were married to a dough man. And in fact if I saw her husband on the street, with his torso slim as a French baguette, and his long-fingered hands which don’t seem like paddles or even hooks, but more like those of a man on a tropical terrace drinking rum, I wouldn’t guess that either of them go fishing in the Rocky Mountains on their vacations, or that they avidly read a Star Trek fanzine.
{"title":"The Baker's Wife","authors":"Diane Wakoski","doi":"10.1353/RCR.2011.0040","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/RCR.2011.0040","url":null,"abstract":"If I met her in the library, I’d never think she were married to a dough man. And in fact if I saw her husband on the street, with his torso slim as a French baguette, and his long-fingered hands which don’t seem like paddles or even hooks, but more like those of a man on a tropical terrace drinking rum, I wouldn’t guess that either of them go fishing in the Rocky Mountains on their vacations, or that they avidly read a Star Trek fanzine.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"102 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"132105452","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"In Pittsburgh","authors":"Daniel L. Klauck","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0046","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0046","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"59 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"122103357","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
I was during the time that the Major’s wife was pregnant that the heartworms came. Th ey swept along the ocean waves just like the Caribs and the Spanish had long centuries past, and they washed across the islands of the sea. Th ey didn’t come to Petit Trou at first, At first they hit the outer islands and the cities like San Gabriel and Guadeloupe. But everyone in Petit Trou had heard stories. First, the dogs would go. Th e worms would creep into their mouths or noses while they slept. Th ey’d travel down their arteries and curl up in the chambers of the heart, and there they’d mate and make more worms that curled up white and tiny in the ventricles and auricles and eat away the vena cava. Th ey’d slide into the lungs and fill them up like water filling up a ship. And if the carcass of a dog were opened up, the worms would spill out like a pile of tiny skeletons. Outside, the dog would wince and curl into a ball as if it wanted to surround its heart and keep the pain from coming in. Th e pain, however, was already in. And there was nothing anyone could do. Th e dog would howl and squeal. He’d shake all over with convulsions. Th en he’d die. Although the world had reached the age of science, no one understood the heartworms—why they came or why they went beyond the dogs, which they had never done before. Th ey got into the parakeets and myna birds. Th ey got into the cats and donkeys and the cattle and the mules. Th ey got into the howler monkeys. Th en they reached the people. And no one knew a way to stop them.
{"title":"How the Heartworms Came to Petit Trou","authors":"K. Huggins","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0015","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0015","url":null,"abstract":"I was during the time that the Major’s wife was pregnant that the heartworms came. Th ey swept along the ocean waves just like the Caribs and the Spanish had long centuries past, and they washed across the islands of the sea. Th ey didn’t come to Petit Trou at first, At first they hit the outer islands and the cities like San Gabriel and Guadeloupe. But everyone in Petit Trou had heard stories. First, the dogs would go. Th e worms would creep into their mouths or noses while they slept. Th ey’d travel down their arteries and curl up in the chambers of the heart, and there they’d mate and make more worms that curled up white and tiny in the ventricles and auricles and eat away the vena cava. Th ey’d slide into the lungs and fill them up like water filling up a ship. And if the carcass of a dog were opened up, the worms would spill out like a pile of tiny skeletons. Outside, the dog would wince and curl into a ball as if it wanted to surround its heart and keep the pain from coming in. Th e pain, however, was already in. And there was nothing anyone could do. Th e dog would howl and squeal. He’d shake all over with convulsions. Th en he’d die. Although the world had reached the age of science, no one understood the heartworms—why they came or why they went beyond the dogs, which they had never done before. Th ey got into the parakeets and myna birds. Th ey got into the cats and donkeys and the cattle and the mules. Th ey got into the howler monkeys. Th en they reached the people. And no one knew a way to stop them.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"44 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"116192506","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
“We broke up,” she said. “Again. For the last time.” Each word was accented harshly. She blew smoke in his face. She had only been smoking for a couple of weeks, and she still had control problems. Back at his apartment, there were several burn marks on the rug, melted nylon, where she had been careless with her ashes. Here, where we worked, the floor was a safe, marred tile. “We broke up,” she said. “Again. For the last time.” “Come on in. You want to talk about it, or ignore it?” “Whatever works. Whatever works.”
{"title":"Waltzing","authors":"E. h","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0035","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0035","url":null,"abstract":"“We broke up,” she said. “Again. For the last time.” Each word was accented harshly. She blew smoke in his face. She had only been smoking for a couple of weeks, and she still had control problems. Back at his apartment, there were several burn marks on the rug, melted nylon, where she had been careless with her ashes. Here, where we worked, the floor was a safe, marred tile. “We broke up,” she said. “Again. For the last time.” “Come on in. You want to talk about it, or ignore it?” “Whatever works. Whatever works.”","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"63 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"122689370","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
J pauses on the little terrace before Hanne’s front door. She’ll certainly shoot him a look with those large eyes of hers when he waltzes in at 11 in the morning, even if it is Pascal, her wild 14-year-old, who needs the talking-to. But Hanne has been around the block. She understands what it means to search for love. Th e courtyard is strewn with bottles and plastic cups from last night’s Bastille Day celebrations. Buildings on either side of the courtyard are laced together by strings of colored bulbs, their light feeble in the sun. Once a third building enclosed the courtyard but it didn’t survive the war and now the yard opens to the street like a window. Hanne claimed to have rented the house because of the yellow plum tree that arches over it and bears translucent, golden fruit. “Morgen.” Pascal sits naked, framed by his window, writing in a notebook, song lyrics for his band perhaps. Th e sill is where he used to chat with Sybille, his girlfriend from across the courtyard until she dumped him the week before. One leg shields from view what is not meant to be seen, but only just, an arrangement of discretion and tease executed by someone who knows people look at him. A shell hangs from a leather thong around his neck and a sliver of earring shines through thickets of hair. He is tall for his age, lithe, and dark-eyed. His position has him lit to the best advantage; sunlight burnishes his calf and dabs a shoulder. Joel imagines standing close enough to breathe in the naked Pascal as he might a handsome stranger waking beside him. Pascal’s knowing smile reads Joel’s mind. “Congratulations. You’re the first schwul American I’ve met,” he had said after Joel moved in. He let Joel know that he’d had erotic encounters
{"title":"Where Johannes Brahms Was Born","authors":"E. Lehman","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0050","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0050","url":null,"abstract":"J pauses on the little terrace before Hanne’s front door. She’ll certainly shoot him a look with those large eyes of hers when he waltzes in at 11 in the morning, even if it is Pascal, her wild 14-year-old, who needs the talking-to. But Hanne has been around the block. She understands what it means to search for love. Th e courtyard is strewn with bottles and plastic cups from last night’s Bastille Day celebrations. Buildings on either side of the courtyard are laced together by strings of colored bulbs, their light feeble in the sun. Once a third building enclosed the courtyard but it didn’t survive the war and now the yard opens to the street like a window. Hanne claimed to have rented the house because of the yellow plum tree that arches over it and bears translucent, golden fruit. “Morgen.” Pascal sits naked, framed by his window, writing in a notebook, song lyrics for his band perhaps. Th e sill is where he used to chat with Sybille, his girlfriend from across the courtyard until she dumped him the week before. One leg shields from view what is not meant to be seen, but only just, an arrangement of discretion and tease executed by someone who knows people look at him. A shell hangs from a leather thong around his neck and a sliver of earring shines through thickets of hair. He is tall for his age, lithe, and dark-eyed. His position has him lit to the best advantage; sunlight burnishes his calf and dabs a shoulder. Joel imagines standing close enough to breathe in the naked Pascal as he might a handsome stranger waking beside him. Pascal’s knowing smile reads Joel’s mind. “Congratulations. You’re the first schwul American I’ve met,” he had said after Joel moved in. He let Joel know that he’d had erotic encounters","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"11 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-08-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"126916336","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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