L Iggy Christmas was reading a Stag magazine in this drugstore in Peoria. Iggy flipped quickly through the pages looking at the pictures. One picture showed a naked Brazilian lady. Another showed a man shoving nails into another man’s face. As he studied the pictures Iggy Christmas’s eyes were bright as stars. He was skinny. Big thick-lensed glasses perched on the end of his skinny nose. Big spider-like hands fumbled with page corners and a Timex on his wrist went tick tick tick. His legs were long as broomsticks and his face looked like two eyes set in the middle of a dinner plate. And he had a real hard-on from the picture of that naked Brazilian lady. Th en Voice spoke from inside Iggy’s head and Iggy’s neck snapped back and his eyes glazed. “Hello, Iggy,” said Voice. “Hello,” Iggy whispered to the ceiling. “Drop the Stag magazine, Iggy,” said Voice. Iggy dropped the Stag magazine. “Now, Iggy,” said Voice, “I want you to go over to the counter, buy a Mars candy bar, and waste the cash register man.” Iggy walked over to the drugstore counter but his eyes were still riveted to the ceiling so he kept tripping over things. Th e cash register man’s name was Old Joe and he looked at Iggy Christmas suspiciously. He was an old man with white hair and buck teeth.
{"title":"One Day Last Month Iggy Christmas Found God","authors":"M. Schulze","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0012","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0012","url":null,"abstract":"L Iggy Christmas was reading a Stag magazine in this drugstore in Peoria. Iggy flipped quickly through the pages looking at the pictures. One picture showed a naked Brazilian lady. Another showed a man shoving nails into another man’s face. As he studied the pictures Iggy Christmas’s eyes were bright as stars. He was skinny. Big thick-lensed glasses perched on the end of his skinny nose. Big spider-like hands fumbled with page corners and a Timex on his wrist went tick tick tick. His legs were long as broomsticks and his face looked like two eyes set in the middle of a dinner plate. And he had a real hard-on from the picture of that naked Brazilian lady. Th en Voice spoke from inside Iggy’s head and Iggy’s neck snapped back and his eyes glazed. “Hello, Iggy,” said Voice. “Hello,” Iggy whispered to the ceiling. “Drop the Stag magazine, Iggy,” said Voice. Iggy dropped the Stag magazine. “Now, Iggy,” said Voice, “I want you to go over to the counter, buy a Mars candy bar, and waste the cash register man.” Iggy walked over to the drugstore counter but his eyes were still riveted to the ceiling so he kept tripping over things. Th e cash register man’s name was Old Joe and he looked at Iggy Christmas suspiciously. He was an old man with white hair and buck teeth.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"101 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":"131564793","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":"An Afternoon in Rome","authors":"D. Sapp","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0008","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0008","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"57 1 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":"123183657","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}
As the lights slowly come up, we find ourselves in the modest Aberdeen cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Bourne Spenser. Edmund Spenser is an ex-patriated American who has spent the last two decades of his life in various Scottish villages. Edmund is dressed in miner’s gear, with the light on his miner’s hat still on. With Edmund is his best friend and upstairs neighbor—Wilber MacKaye. Mr. MacKaye is in his mid-fifties and his hair is white and thinning. He wears a light jacket, shirt, and blue wool tie, but at the moment his pants are draped over the faded sofa. He stands in his long blue undershorts and sings, sings. Arlene Spenser, wife to Edmund, enters. She is a transplanted Londoner, and (like her husband) in her mid-forties, with a head of long red-hair and a music-hall temperament. She once had ambitions to be an actress, but she
{"title":"Dinosaur","authors":"L. Philips","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0009","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0009","url":null,"abstract":"As the lights slowly come up, we find ourselves in the modest Aberdeen cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Bourne Spenser. Edmund Spenser is an ex-patriated American who has spent the last two decades of his life in various Scottish villages. Edmund is dressed in miner’s gear, with the light on his miner’s hat still on. With Edmund is his best friend and upstairs neighbor—Wilber MacKaye. Mr. MacKaye is in his mid-fifties and his hair is white and thinning. He wears a light jacket, shirt, and blue wool tie, but at the moment his pants are draped over the faded sofa. He stands in his long blue undershorts and sings, sings. Arlene Spenser, wife to Edmund, enters. She is a transplanted Londoner, and (like her husband) in her mid-forties, with a head of long red-hair and a music-hall temperament. She once had ambitions to be an actress, but she","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"175 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":"124304517","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":"On Seeing a Picture in Life of a Child Gone Hungry in Biafra","authors":"J. Parrott","doi":"10.1353/RCR.2011.0028","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/RCR.2011.0028","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"32 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":"121030664","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}
L tells Martin she is calling from the hospital and then gives him the news. “Beth had an accident on her bike this morning. When she fell, her left foot must have been trapped in the toe clip. Both of the bones in her lower leg are broken.” Lenore’s voice betrays no emotion. “It looks like she may be here for a while.” Since the divorce, Beth has lived with Martin during the school year and spent summers with her mother. It’ll take Martin two hours on a bus to get to his daughter. He lost his marriage to Lenore three years ago. He lost a car in a crash nine years ago and hasn’t been behind the wheel since then. Without a wife to drive him, he has been forced to rely on buses. Nights when he can’t sleep, Martin recounts his losses as if his life were a rosary. Th e people, possessions, and identities he has lost bump against each other like so many beads reverberating on a string. When he imagines the final loss, of life itself, he can see the string break and all his losses spinning away into the universe. And sometimes he can even picture Beth, all grown up, lying under an evening sky, her hazel eyes peering between stars to catch a glimpse of him. “Hi Daddy. I miss you.” Lenore has relinquished the phone without a word of closing or comfort to Martin. “I miss you too. How are you doing?” “It hurts, but the doctors are giving me medicine. Don’t I sound dopey? Anyway, will you come see me?” “Of course I will. Do you want me to bring you anything from here?” He hopes for a task to help him manage the fear and worry which now threaten to overwhelm him.
{"title":"Matisse in the Hospital","authors":"Allen Kesten","doi":"10.1353/RCR.2011.0020","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/RCR.2011.0020","url":null,"abstract":"L tells Martin she is calling from the hospital and then gives him the news. “Beth had an accident on her bike this morning. When she fell, her left foot must have been trapped in the toe clip. Both of the bones in her lower leg are broken.” Lenore’s voice betrays no emotion. “It looks like she may be here for a while.” Since the divorce, Beth has lived with Martin during the school year and spent summers with her mother. It’ll take Martin two hours on a bus to get to his daughter. He lost his marriage to Lenore three years ago. He lost a car in a crash nine years ago and hasn’t been behind the wheel since then. Without a wife to drive him, he has been forced to rely on buses. Nights when he can’t sleep, Martin recounts his losses as if his life were a rosary. Th e people, possessions, and identities he has lost bump against each other like so many beads reverberating on a string. When he imagines the final loss, of life itself, he can see the string break and all his losses spinning away into the universe. And sometimes he can even picture Beth, all grown up, lying under an evening sky, her hazel eyes peering between stars to catch a glimpse of him. “Hi Daddy. I miss you.” Lenore has relinquished the phone without a word of closing or comfort to Martin. “I miss you too. How are you doing?” “It hurts, but the doctors are giving me medicine. Don’t I sound dopey? Anyway, will you come see me?” “Of course I will. Do you want me to bring you anything from here?” He hopes for a task to help him manage the fear and worry which now threaten to overwhelm him.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"16 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":"125675542","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}
Th is matted and glossy photo of Yesenin bought at a Leningrad newsstand—permanently tilted on my desk: he doesn’t stare at me he stares at nothing; the diff erence between a plane crash and a noose adds up to nothing. And what can I do with heroes with my brain fixed on so few of them? Again nothing. Regard his flat magazine eyes with my half-cocked own, both of us seeing nothing. In the vodka was nothing and Isadora was nothing, the pistol waved in New York was nothing, and that plank bridge near your village home in Ryazan covered seven feet of nothing, the clumsy noose that swung the tilted body was nothing but a noose, a law of gravity this seeking for the ground, a few feet of nothing between shoes and the floor a light year away. So this is a song of Yesenin’s noose which came to nothing, but did a good job as we say back home where there’s nothing but snow. But I stood under your balcony in St. Petersburg, yes St. Petersburg! a crazed tourist with so much nothing in my heart it wanted to implode. And I walked down to the Neva
{"title":"Sergei Yesenin 1895-1925","authors":"Jim Harrison","doi":"10.1353/RCR.2011.0041","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/RCR.2011.0041","url":null,"abstract":"Th is matted and glossy photo of Yesenin bought at a Leningrad newsstand—permanently tilted on my desk: he doesn’t stare at me he stares at nothing; the diff erence between a plane crash and a noose adds up to nothing. And what can I do with heroes with my brain fixed on so few of them? Again nothing. Regard his flat magazine eyes with my half-cocked own, both of us seeing nothing. In the vodka was nothing and Isadora was nothing, the pistol waved in New York was nothing, and that plank bridge near your village home in Ryazan covered seven feet of nothing, the clumsy noose that swung the tilted body was nothing but a noose, a law of gravity this seeking for the ground, a few feet of nothing between shoes and the floor a light year away. So this is a song of Yesenin’s noose which came to nothing, but did a good job as we say back home where there’s nothing but snow. But I stood under your balcony in St. Petersburg, yes St. Petersburg! a crazed tourist with so much nothing in my heart it wanted to implode. And I walked down to the Neva","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"252 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":"121434317","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}
Th is is a crazy game of tenderness, talk softly, rock back and forth, laugh long and quietly, say I am schizophrenic but you can come in, let’s play this quiet game, pretend we’re squeezing grapes with our tongues and tasting the juices dripping down. We’re in a yellow attic, I will show you the clothes of the period, I have a muff . Do you love me for that, for showing you something that is only us? Baby, slip on this shaggy coat and we’ll walk out through the rafters.
{"title":"Untitled Poem","authors":"Martha Aldenbrand","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0031","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0031","url":null,"abstract":"Th is is a crazy game of tenderness, talk softly, rock back and forth, laugh long and quietly, say I am schizophrenic but you can come in, let’s play this quiet game, pretend we’re squeezing grapes with our tongues and tasting the juices dripping down. We’re in a yellow attic, I will show you the clothes of the period, I have a muff . Do you love me for that, for showing you something that is only us? Baby, slip on this shaggy coat and we’ll walk out through the rafters.","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"1 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":"131148836","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":"After This War","authors":"C. George","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0025","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0025","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"2 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":"130842921","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}
two tickets to chicago please and shuffled his feet sir Goin North, Boy? to the wrinkled old man well sir we got relatives up there and im goin to help— Th ey aint gonna understand you up there you know that, Boy? well its just me and my son and we— You know your boy is gonna be goin to school with white folks? my boy knows his place He might even sit next to a white girl in his class. my boy knows whats right Suppose he start playing with the white kids white girls and boys? he gonna play with his own kind Suppose he started thinking he was equal? ibroughtmyboyupright heknowshisplace he— An suppose he wanted to marry a— MY BOY AINT GONNA Dont go interrupting me boy, now dont take your son up there so he got to mix with Radicals and Communist and Atheist now do you? no sir not no more i suppose
{"title":"Not All Dreams Die With Awakening","authors":"G. Bray","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0005","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0005","url":null,"abstract":"two tickets to chicago please and shuffled his feet sir Goin North, Boy? to the wrinkled old man well sir we got relatives up there and im goin to help— Th ey aint gonna understand you up there you know that, Boy? well its just me and my son and we— You know your boy is gonna be goin to school with white folks? my boy knows his place He might even sit next to a white girl in his class. my boy knows whats right Suppose he start playing with the white kids white girls and boys? he gonna play with his own kind Suppose he started thinking he was equal? ibroughtmyboyupright heknowshisplace he— An suppose he wanted to marry a— MY BOY AINT GONNA Dont go interrupting me boy, now dont take your son up there so he got to mix with Radicals and Communist and Atheist now do you? no sir not no more i suppose","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"341 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":"124210808","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}
in twenty-five years, when you climb the steps to your attic, looking for a china plate your mother gave you, or the quilt that has been in the family for five generations, you may come across these frogs, this family, a mother and children. they will be in the same box as the old love letters and trinkets from every city each of your friends has ever visited. will you wipe the dust from their backs, wondering which of us gave them to you?
{"title":"Souvenirs","authors":"Lynn Domina","doi":"10.1353/rcr.2011.0000","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/rcr.2011.0000","url":null,"abstract":"in twenty-five years, when you climb the steps to your attic, looking for a china plate your mother gave you, or the quilt that has been in the family for five generations, you may come across these frogs, this family, a mother and children. they will be in the same box as the old love letters and trinkets from every city each of your friends has ever visited. will you wipe the dust from their backs, wondering which of us gave them to you?","PeriodicalId":158814,"journal":{"name":"Red Cedar Review","volume":"86 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":"121406939","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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