Unlikely 2.0


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Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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Border Crossing
Part 2

It was on the catwalk that he first saw her. She wore a long gown of crinkled black leather. Her hair was dressed in Medusa-like coils. Her eyes were painted as black slashes. Around her graceful neck hung tangles of delicate chains.

He had had a front row seat, with a group of his industry friends. And at the party afterword the girl had come to him. Even though she was clean faced with her long hair down, wearing a simple blue dress, she still looked unreal. So tall and so thin. She reminded him of a racehorse. A greyhound.

And she was so serious looking when she asked if she might have her picture taken with him in her accented English. Downright grim! She didn't smile for the flash. She stuck by him the rest of the evening, but didn't say much of anything.

He'd done some cocaine that evening, drunk a lot of whiskey shots. It wasn't until very late that took her back to his place. The sex was mechanical, it was quick and later he could hardly remember it. Afterword he fell into a deep sleep. It wasn't until shortly before sunrise that she woke him, quaking and sniffling. When he asked her what was the matter, she said, "I'm ashamed to ever return to my village."

"Village?"

She was fifteen years old, and she had come from Romania. The modeling agencies had started traveling to her country ever since the borders had been opened, and travel restrictions lifted. They wanted the young girls for the catwalks. Her country had no laws protecting schoolgirls. No minor labor laws. And there were so many beautiful girls in the villages. Their "exotic" look was fashionable.

At least, she said, she was able to send money home and support her family. They were very proud of her. But now that she was no longer a virgin—

—he looked, and there was blood on the sheets—

—she was ashamed of herself. What she had allowed was a mistake.

She couldn't see in the darkness how his face flushed in shame, how his heart was racing. Fifteen! What had he done? This was lower than low. He had damaged this girl, a mere child. And what was more, he was a criminal. If this got out, his career...

He didn't know what to say, so for a long time said nothing.

"Don't worry," he at last told her. "I will help you. I can be a great help to you. And I would be glad to do it. "He felt awkward. He knew his voice sounded too hearty, too cheery. "I think you'll find that meeting me may have been the luckiest thing. I won't let you down."

But as she got up and dressed in the blue twilight (thin, so thin) he did not like to look at her. And when she got her bag and stood to go, he found a pad of paper in the nightstand, and had her write down her cell number.

What a relief when she finally was gone. Because when she wasn't here, she wasn't there.

* * *

The next morning when he went down to the kitchen, he found a small loaf of dark bread and some cold pork. He ate ravenously. Then he went outside to explore the area. He started walking down the lane in the direction opposite the hay meadow.

This day was humid, the sky heavy with clouds. He saw a shepherd in a field with his small flock. He passed small houses, close together, all with thatched roofs. Like his own, but smaller. He saw mothers with small children in their small fenced in yards, hanging the wash, feeding the goats.

It wasn't that the place was that foreign to him. He had grown up in the farmland of the Midwest, and had never been to the city until he took a bus to New York at eighteen. How innocent, what a hick he had been! But he missed the headiness of those days. He had been poor, lived monastically in one closet sized room, eating beans and rice. But when he began as an actor/playwright. He had lived for his work. He had been pure. Inspiration thrummed through his veins. He was alive. He was on fire.

And well...he could only hazard to guess why he was now here. And he was guessing that it was actually a good thing. Perhaps this was a benevolent universe, trying to teach him a lesson? Get him back on the right track, and working again? He had been drinking too much and doing too many drugs. This...vacation could give him perspective to see his life as it really was...

But this thought was interrupted when something—some creature&Mdash;rushed by him on the road, brushing against his arm. It was a child-sized creature with a human body and the head of a rat. It wore pants and a long, heavily embroidered white shirt with a wide leather belt around it. Marcus stood in the road, appalled, gaping at its tiny ears and its long scaly tail.

And when he started walking again, he couldn't remember what he'd been thinking about before, or even which direction he had been headed in.

* * *

That night he decided to stay up. To sit in the dark and wait. He was going to find out who was leaving him food.

It wasn't until deep in the night that he heard the back door creak open, and tentative footsteps. He flicked on the light.

The man jumped back, his eyes wide. He was about Marcus's age, with close shorn silver hair and prominent eyes that now bulged in surprise. He was wearing army surplus pants with suspenders over an old t-shirt.

"Who are you? You're the one who brings the food, huh? What is this all about?!"

He expected the man not to understand, but his answer was in accented English: "I was just trying to help."

"Here's how you can help. Tell me what the hell is going on here! Why are you here?"

"Well, some of the people in the village...they have been saying that you are a ghost. A bad spirit. An omen. That is why no one will look at you. But I felt sorry for you. I felt...obligated to help."

"Whose house is this?"

"The house is no one's. This is a house of bad luck. Abandoned."

Marcus started to pace back and forth. He began to feel a tingling in his arms and legs. His heart was beating so fast that it was making him feel faint.

"Go on, go," he growled at the man. "I don't need you to feel sorry for me. I don't need your sense of obligation. Go!"

And he was gone, as quickly as if he had evaporated.


Continued...