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Part 3
Ogden Nesmer

I hung my head and let my shoulders droop. Everyone else wassobbing and I didn’t want to stand out. Lingering near the back, I foundmyself with friends and distant relatives I didn’t know well. I
recognized the cries of my aunt Ellen, as her new husband Steverubbed her back and consoled her. A truly beautiful girl whom I
remembered meeting at a party my sister threw back in high school
passed by in front of me, but she didn’t notice me. Her hair was dyed
an unnatural shade of red. Last time I’d seen her, at the party, maybe
fteen years ago, it was blonde. I couldn’t place her name, but
wondered if it would be enough to start a conversation based on thememory of her old hair. Would I get away with calling her ‘blondie?’Would she get the joke or think I was a creep? At an event like this,considering who I was, she probably had an unspoken obligation to benice to me. She may even feel compelled to sleep with me, assuming
she hadn’t come with a boyfriend or a husband. Impossible to say, andultimately not worth the risk. What would my sister say if she’d foundout I made a pass at one of her friends at a time like this?
I drifted over to the fold-out card table which held bottles of soda
and hors d'oeuvres. Underneath was an opened cooler lled with ice
and beer. A little tacky for such a solemn occasion, I thought, poppingfi

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A Memory is Close
but the Past isGone Foreverthe top off a Heineken. Shouldn’t there be men in tuxedos oating
through the crowd offering miniature quiches and shrimp cocktail?
Perhaps that was more of a wedding thing. In the center of theassembly of snacks was a picture of Tommy from high school. He
smiled stupidly, likely just having told an unfunny joke to thephotographer. Couldn’t they have found a more recent picture, I
thought. One where the years had taken their effect on his face, leaving
him with a few more wrinkles and a bit less good humor. But then,Tommy was always good looking. He was always athletic andcharming and funny. It was a tting representation of the youth he’dnever really let escape him, I guess.
My Uncle Paul put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,
champ.” He was solemn, but even here he wouldn’t let himself cry.
Men from his time had a responsibility never to show that kind of
emotion.
“Thanks, Paulie.”“When your dad died, I was a wreck. If it weren’t for you boys
and your sister, I know I wouldn’t have pulled through”“Thanks,” I couldn’t really think of anything else to say.
“If you ever want to talk, me and Annie are here for you kids. It’s
the least we can do.”I told him we’d be okay, that we were hanging in there. But afterI said it it hit me that I hadn’t really asked Kelly how she was doing.
Not really. When the news broke I’d called her on the phone and she
was already in the midst of sobbing. And I’d come over for a few days,
spent time with her and her husband and kids, reminiscing about all the
crazy, good times we’d had with Tommy. How great of a brother hewas. How, even after Liza had dumped him so unexpectedly, he wasgoing to be okay, right?
“He was going to be better than okay,” I had told her, and she
broke down sobbing right there in the park with a bunch of strangers
watching. She told me she’d handle the funeral arrangements, and I let
her.
“If you ever want to talk,” Paul said again, patted my shoulder,
and walked off. It had been a long time since I’d seen him, and it mademe think about my dad, which got me going a little bit. Shedding a few
tears I should have been shedding since the start of the eulogies, atleast. I closed my eyes and let the saturation form big, jiggly tears thatbroke and oozed down my face, then set off to nd Kelly.
She was smoking a cigarette behind the church. Even though I
knew her husband liked to smoke every now and again, she was alone.

fl

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“I was thinking about Rug Buggies the other day.” I missed thereference for a second, but then it hit me: one of Tommy’s many

“He was cleverer than people really appreciated, I think,” Kelly twisted
her cigarette pensively. “Maybe cleverer than I realized…”“Hey,” I saw she was about to let the tears really y. “You were agreat sister. You were always supportive. Didn’t you let him live on
your couch for like six months?”“It was three. And the whole time I was telling him he needed tond a place and get out.”“Kelly.”I couldn’t help it; despite being the only girl of the three siblings
and taking the obligatory teasing for being the weakest, she was always
actually the strongest. She put herself through school and made morethan Tommy and I together. She’d been loyal to her husband throughhis struggles with alcohol, but never suffered any of his shit. She’d had
two miscarriages and pushed through to have three beautiful kids, mynieces and nephew whom I adored more than anything in my tiny life.
Seeing her cry was torture. My eyes got hot and wet and my voicebroke as I rubbed her back.
She looked me in the eyes, and although she didn’t touch me it
felt like she wanted to grab me by the collar; “why didn’t you cry?”“W-what?”“All day. All of Tommy’s friends reading eulogies. The slideshowof his baby pictures. Aunt Ellen’s speech about dad and the tricycle.
Every time I looked over you didn’t even seem to be here.” She icked
her cigarette away. “What the hell is going on, Josh?”I took two steps back. What the hell was going on?
“It’s just a lot, you know? I can’t process this all at once. I needto grieve in my own way.”flfl“That’s a load of bullshit. From someone who values truth morethan anything, I think that’s a huge fucking stinking pile of bullshit.”fifimoney-making schemes. If I recalled correctly, the Rug Buggies wererollerblades for toddlers which glided smooth as ice skates on rugs, sothat parents in Canada and the Northern contiguous states could train
their children safely for future years of hockey practice. Unsurprisingly
it was too niche to really take off without serious backing. Kelly’s kids
had some of the only pairs in existence, prototypes, but they didn’t
understand the signi cance.

She couldn’t even look at me. “I wish you’d be honest with me, but I
guess I don’t deserve that anymore?”“Kelly.” What could I say? “Stop.”“I guess it’s my fault. Maybe I’ll be feeling this way at yourfuneral… Like I’ve let you down. Like I wasn’t there because I didn’t
realize how little time we all have.” She dabbed the edge of her eyes
and wrung out her nose, somehow sensing that she had managed to not
disturb her mascara. She composed herself and put a hand on my arm.
“Kelly, come on.”
“I love you, Josh. And I know you loved Tommy. I just hopedthat you’d be able to show that at such a crucial fucking moment.”
She turned and left. And she was gone. And I was alone; mysister hated me and my brother was dead. There was nothing and nopoint, and my cigarette had gone out on its own. I walked around thechurch and out to the parking lot, sat in my car, and cried.
Why? I thought. Why? Why had I agreed to any of this stupid
shit? Was I punishing myself? And for what? Did I hate myself? Was it
deserved? Probably, I thought, probably.
A crow landed on the hood of my car and squawked in mydirection before apping off. All my relatives and various people I
knew from high school ltered out of the building, hugging each otherand wiping tears from their eyes.

fifl“What the hell is going on?”

Lake-of-the-Woods Impromptu
Salvatore Difalco

Glass and copper bongs—
Bongo drums and steel drums—
Thor’s hammer in bronze—
Someone get the Green Egg going.
Baby back ribs and brisket hmm.
And Grand Funk Railroad Live, on vinyl.
Mosquito nets and citronella—
Cosmic thoughts and walloped thighs—
Labatt Blue and Atomized Frankie’s Incense—
Ah, the forest hums from mushroom vibes
And whirling lights that might be UFOs
Though a know-it-all among us says they’re fireflies.

Hurt In Sync
Hibah Shabkhez

Box after box tumbles out, then glides past
You, indifferent. Box after box knocks
The curtaining strips aside, kindling hope,
Reviving the ardour that makes these last
Moments pure agony. Outside, like socks
Looking for their pairs, we peer at the rope
Just so, straining to watch each arrival,
Waiting for you.

PLANET AXORAD
Stephen Philip Druce

Pampered subway raisinsseesaw in a splutteringrose hip massacre,
supple lashings of ivory
jackals grovel ina snared cauldronof vampire nectar,
tulip misfits helter-skelterin heckling pigtail temples,
soprano harvests baptise
evergreen mystics ina rampant drizzle ofgospel splinters,
serenaded suburbs topple
like baritone lasers, as
nimble dish demonsparade palm tree puritansin the murky shallows
of scalded saffron.

A Memory is Close
but the Past isGone ForeverPart 1Ogden Nesmer

Out of the blue, I checked my phone and saw the only noti cation that
could possibly give me stomach-twisting dread and hot glimmers ofhope simultaneously. The one thing I knew I should be laughing at andignoring—what surely a healthy-minded person would do in thissituation. But I was sick, that much was obvious. Four years later and I
was still silently ruminating on her, nursing my wounds and wishingfor one more chance, even though my higher brain knew that was
stupid and pathetic. And there she was, texting me at 1 am, either froma different time zone or up all night thinking of me the way I had
thought about her for so long:fi

fi‘Hey,’ was all she had said. How like her. How typicallyunful lling and necessitating of ME to do all the work of initiating.
She clearly wanted me back, but only because she wasn’t done making
me suffer. She wanted more of my heart and my time and my sanity.
Waiting for the perfect amount of time to tug the line just a hint andknowing I’d come squirming right back like the worm I was. Bitch, (Iretracted the word the instant I thought it) that’s what I would text her
back. Just ‘bitch,’ and nothing else. That would show her how I reallyfelt about her and her games. How I should have felt, and with thatA truck swerved around me laying on the horn. It wasn’t good totext and drive, I knew, but this was important. If I could just explain tothat irate driver the situation he’d understand. ‘This is the girl who
broke my goddamn heart,’ I’d say, and he’d put a friendly hand on myshoulder remembering his own failed romances. These kinds of things
bring men together.
I was a fucking idiot. She was right to dump me. I hated myself
all over again, as if I’d found out for the second time that my girlfriend
had fallen in love with my brother. Bitch.
“Speak of the devil,” I whispered to myself as I pulled into mydriveway. Tommy’s sedan was parked on my front curb. Was this why
she’d texted me? It had to be. But what did he want? Had the two ofthem conspired to team up and rekindle my feelings of defeat andshame, four years after the fact? Were they back together? I remember
how Tommy promised me he’d never see her again, after their one
dalliance— but was he going back on his word? Would I even be
surprised?
I sat in the driver’s seat of my car as the garage door slowly
descended, considering suicide right there. That would show them.
Maybe she was in there with him. They’d come to break the news tome like adults and lo, all that would be left for them was my corpse,
leaning slack against the door in the carbon-monoxide- lled trap of mygarage. I must have sat there in silence, half-serious in my suicidal
ideation, for about fteen minutes. But no one came to the door. No
one was interested in me, it seemed.
Bitches.
When I nally entered my living room, Tommy was staring out
the window with a glass of MY scotch in a coffee mug. He turned,
smiled, and gave me a big hug.
“It’s been a long time, man,” he said before letting me go. “Howare you?”“Great,” I lied. “Never better.”

fi

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He apologized for barging in while I xed myself something tofi

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nal incriminating text the tiny cinder in my heart would nally besmothered for good.

drink. I tried to be icy, but of course he broke me down. Soon we werelaughing. He knew how to make me feel at ease, even though ten
minutes before just the sight of his beat-up Nissan made me
contemplate bashing my head into putty. He was looking a little more
haggard than I’d last seen him. Like me, he explained, he’d been living
alone. He didn’t date, he didn’t go out much. He tried to drink less andless, but often failed in his endeavors. Living alone was no way to live,
he told me. When a person has no one to think off of (sic) they think
off themselves and the thinking bounces off the inside of their skull somany times like a metal ball in a glass jar that their brain turns to shit.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”“Nevermind,” he said. We were both a little drunk by now. “Mypoint is…“
“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay I can unfold the futon.”
I said it with a sneer, but I was serious, and maybe even a little hopefulhe’d say yes.
“I’m not looking for that… but I have come to ask for a favor…”“Hit me.” I killed my drink.
Tommy killed his too and gripped the sides of the coffee table
like he was ready for an earthquake. He took a deep breath, and I
almost thought I saw a tear in his eye.
“Did you know that we’re all rich?”“Go on,”“Hundreds of thousands—in some cases millions of dollars—justwaiting behind a couple strips of red tape and eager to nd a home inour bank accounts. Almost every single one of us poor working stiffs.”
Another one of his stupid schemes, but it was a good opener. “…
Go on.”“What if I told you you had nothing to lose? And if you gave mejust a couple days out of your life I could make you a rich man
overnight?”“Enough with the riches,” I leaned over to meet his gaze, “tell me
what you want.”

fi

fi

fi

My brother could sell a boat to a camel, or something like that.
You took one look into his eyes and you wanted what he had, no matterthe cost. I knew things had been rough since he swore her off— for myown good, of course. He had spent years alone, wasting his time on
schemes that he must’ve known wouldn’t work. Was it all for me?
Regardless, when he locked into you and told you two plus two
equalled ve, you believed. You wanted to jump up and scream it: I
believe. But something else was dancing behind his eyes that night. He
seemed, not sad, but desperate. As if he was ready for ‘one nal job.’He put a hand on my knee,“Joshy,”“Don’t call me that—““I’ve got a plan. I know I haven’t been the best brother, but this isa real one. A plan that can make us both set for life. Take us out of ourrespective shit-holes of squalor and x everything with money. But you
have to trust me.”
I was drunk, but not that drunk. I stood up, sauntered over to thewindow, and pretended to stare pensively into the distance. Of course,
all I saw was my neighbor’s shitty condo and their shitty dog taking ashit. But I stared like I was looking out at heaven itself, and slowly,
intentionally, I turned back:fi“Okay, Tom.” I shot the last of my drink even though all that wasleft was a tepid puddle of ice water, “what’s the plan?”Buckingham Fountain
Daniel Andrée

If I could be the King of Prose,
I would lord over all with my poems.
Far and wide would be the swath of my domain.
Wielding a pen, this world I would claim.
I would write for justice and rule with benevolence,
The scraps of notes would count as the evidence.
If only I were the King of Prose.
Only then would this world know.

Beef Bowl Break-Up
Reza Jabrani

Yoshinori? Morelike, Bitch, I’m
out the door-i.

Roti
Solape Adetutu Adeyemi

And Roti always plays alone
Always at the edge of the playgroundShe tries to amuse herself
As the other kids stay away from her
Her involuntary body movements scare them
And even her elementary school teachers
Roti wishes they could play with her
As it is no fun to be alone
She sees them giggling and having so much fun at the playground
The fun and camaraderie she has been denied
Because she cannot control the movement of her limbs
And Roti always play alone

Part 2Ogden Nesmer

The re was spreading rapidly; where formerly the ames were just aphantom chasing the edge of the wing from a foot away, now they had
engulfed the entire crumpled mass of metal and threatened to breachthe body engul ng the cockpit and the few dozen life-size dummies
lling every seat inside the plane. I hobbled up the aisle as fast as I
could, bracing myself against the toss and turn of the vessel bygripping each row of seats tightly and pulling myself forward. A
faceless dummy rolled over and looked at me; I shivered, but kept
pushing. I shouted Tommy’s name but he didn’t respond. I got closer
and shouted again—Tommy!—but all I could see was his determinedsilhouette, gripping the steering hard and slamming ngers on all the
buttons, trying to drive the plane straight into an oncoming mountain.
“Tommy!”Finally he turned, and he was smiling brilliantly. He wore acaptain’s visored cap and extended one hand out to me to pull me

fi

fl

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closer. The side of the vessel exploded and the entire thing began tofifi

A Memory is Close
but the Past isGone Forevermake that rising whine that planes make in cartoons when performing a
dive.
“Tommy,” I said again and pulled myself up to his side, “this is
crazy! We need to go!”“Do you have your parachute?”“Yes, but—““You remember the plan?”“Yes. I do. But how are you getting out of here?” The mountaindrew closer and closer, faster than a speeding car.
“That’s all part of the plan. You can’t know. You have to trust me.
Do you trust me?”I didn’t want to say yes. I didn’t want him to do anything stupid
and dangerous.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then get ready to jump,”“Tom.”“Josh,” he took both hands off the wheel and looked me hard in
the eyes, more serious than I’d ever seen him. “I love you. I love you
more than anyone or anything else in the whole entire world.”“Tommy, come on,”
“It isn’t gay. You’re my brother and I love you. I remember when
you were born and mom and dad loved you more and I hated you. And
I watched you get your diapers changed and learn to walk and cry andget bullied and I remember ghting your bullies for you and teachingfi

you how to throw a punch and about which video games were the good
ones and how to pick your friends and how to get a girl into bed. I
know I haven’t always been your hero, sometimes I’ve been a real sackof shit, but those days when I was your hero were my greatest days. Ishould never ask anything of you but I’m asking you now: Jump.
Please. And trust me.”fiflI couldn’t help it: my eyes were wet and hot and if I’d lingered
any longer I’m sure I would’ve cried. But I did what I was told andthrew myself out of the plane (which hit the side of the mountain ve
minutes later as I oated down to the Earth) and when I landed in asmall village in Nepal I took a train all the way to Europe, then a boat
back to the states and by the time I was home a check for two million
dollars from an insurance company was sitting in my mailbox. I
walked inside and wrapped myself in my parachute (which I hadn’t
removed the whole way) and slept for two days, praying for the
moment I’d see my brother again and this whole plan would come to abeautiful close. I trusted him. And he’d told me that day would come,very very soon.

It Holds, It Holds
Hibah Shabkhez

The water whispers: come, come, come to me;
The bridge's bones do creak, but it holds, it holds,
Despite the scorched planks straining to break free.
The water whispers, come, come, come to me:
Like the planks, you wonder if you could be
Happier in the river's purring folds.
The water whispers, come, come, come to me;
The bridge's bones do creak, but it holds, it holds.

Prometheus was also an artist
Kashi Bakshani

In slick of ebon (five-years), my father recites the leather-cracked
fate of Prometheus:
the Creator was an artist,
sculpture our mother,kilned in tribulation,
baked by atomic heat,for bitter gash: a young flame,by holy cyclone—castigation.
Kindergarten, I read books featuring fickle goblins and brilliant kindness
followed by the Dream:
the crow and it’s dinner of liver,
it ate me, i ate, it ate me,i ate, i ache—repeat, dusk.
The original martyr, chained to stone for hamartia (sin of humane),
his eyes water, my young reflection blinks within.

url:
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minimag.space
minimagsubmissions@gmail.com
minimag.substack.com@minimag_lit@minimag_write“A Memory is Close but the Past is Gone Forever” by Ogden Nesmer
Book: I Pray to the Hungry God
Twitter: @assclapius“Lake-of-the-Woods Impromptu” by Salvatore Difalco
Book: The Mountie at Niagara Falls (Anvil Press, 2010)“Beef Bowl Break-up” by Reza Jabrani
Twitter: @coarseprose
Website: https://linktr.ee/coarseprose“Hurt In Sync” & “It Holds, It Holds.” by Hibah Shabkhez
Twitter: @hibahshabkhez
Insta: @shabkhez_hibah
Website: https://linktr.ee/HibahShabkhez“Buckingham Fountain” by Daniel Andrée
Insta: @d1andree
Website: https://danielandree.com/“PLANET AXORAD” by Stephen Philip Druce
Twitter: @DruceStephen
Insta: @StephenPhilipDruce
Book: A Shrewsbury Poet
“Prometheus was also an artist” by Kashi Bakshani
Website: k4shi.com“Roti” by Solape Adetutu Adeyemi
Twitter: @AdeyemiSolape
FB: https://www.facebook.com/pro le.php?
id=100022053407818&mibextid=ZbWKwL

fi

ISSUE100 edited, ai art, line art, and ai line art by Alex Prestia(thank yous on next page)Thank you:

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