noteworthy
In each issue, the editors choose a writer they would like to bring
to the readers' attention.In this issue, Julie Brooks Barbour is highlighted.
We have had the honor of publishing Julie Brooks Barbour's poems in several issues in the past. We admire her work. Now we are excited to feature Barbour's foray into micro-fiction. These pieces focus the camera eye through the voice of an"I" and create a dynamic with the reader that hooks like a good song. It is as if we are allowed to eavesdrop. "I can't tell if I'm happy" the narrator concludes one of the pieces. Can any of us?
One Evening after Work
Gifts
Pink Corduroy
The Ghost of My Aunt Visits on a Saturday Afternoon
Office 710
Into the Ravine
I pass a trio of young women. They stand in line outside a club singing a medley of choruses from 1980’s hits: “Easy Lover,” “Centerfold,” “I Just Called to Say I Love You.” Down the street, a man sorts through a box of discarded shoes. He matches them into pairs; a few already line the sidewalk’s edge. Looking up from the box and into my face, he says, “You don’t belong here.” I wasn’t thinking of hanging out at the club tonight but he makes the possibility vanish. A block down, an abandoned market blazes. A dog barks at the entrance and runs when flames shatter windows. The fire department arrives. I keep my distance. Nearby, a waitress stands outside a restaurant in her uniform and apron, lights a cigarette. Inhales, glances at the fire. Gives me a scowl. All I want is a song. I think about the jukebox inside then realize the days of choosing a tune while eating have passed. My apartment building stands a few blocks away. Its lights search for me above the diner. I long for home before I’m there.
My fiancé gave me a necklace instead of a ring, cubic zirconia and plated silver. When the chain broke a week later, I taped the pendant to my palm and drove to the beach. I browsed shops that sold taffy and shell themed decor. One shop sold rings and bracelets made from natural unpolished stones set in genuine silver. Jewelry I wanted and would wear, just for me, from no one. The owner of the shop made nightlights out of rose quartz and cared for ten miniature dragons. I could place jewels on my walls that would shine into the dark for no one else. The owner’s dragons were covered in a thin fur. They curled around my legs like cats. They sniffed my shoes, the backs of my knees. I let them swarm while she listed their names in a sweet tone. The tape unraveled from my palm as I curved my hand over their heads and backs. They leaned in. The pendant fell to the floor without a sound.
I fall asleep at a party while wearing a red ruffled dress with a low neckline. My legs are spread wide and someone takes a photo. An acquaintance posts it online: my entire slip evident, my sleeping face turned to the side. I beg her to take it down but she never responds. I drag through hours of embarrassment and end up at a friend's house. She recently bought three sofas for her living room. She hosts several book clubs and charity events throughout the year so I see the reason, but the new furniture is upholstered in pink corduroy. When she introduces the sofas, I nod my head at their existence. Then she takes a long look at me, whether in pity or surprise I can't tell, but she's seen the photo, that much I know. We don't talk about how my left breast was exposed. She asks if I want tea. In her kitchen the trash can sits in the sink, the island swarming with root vegetables. She boils water, I lean my back against the door jamb. We listen as the kettle starts its roar.
The Ghost of My Aunt Visits on a Saturday Afternoon
I recognize her right away: oval face and blue eyes like my grandmother. She hides on a shelf of canned vegetables in the supermarket. From the corner of my eye, there’s movement as I search for kidney beans. She hasn’t seen me in so long she leaps at my face. She’s wrapped in a robe and her eyes stare above folds of terrycloth, her body smaller than she was in life. I don’t remember her voice, only the movement of her body from room to room, a pained shuffle. She folds herself into my purse as if she were gossamer. At home I make chili and feed her mouth that opens like an elevator door. When she’s full she floats between rooms and gives me approving nods. I can’t tell if I’m happy.
I made a spreadsheet of columns with formulas and checked it over multiple times the week my supervisor was on vacation. The only person in the office, I kept so quiet I didn’t call anyone or play the radio. One afternoon I walked down the hall just to hear other voices but never stopped inside another door. Suite 740 was full of women, each at a computer, and through the glass I watched them talk effortlessly. Sometimes they laughed but I wanted to be dependable which meant staying put. Not wasting time. Not making acquaintances or going out to lunch. I ate a PB&J on wheat at my desk and answered the phone if it rang. I logged off the computer at exactly 5:00 p.m. each day and locked the door to the office. Took the elevator to the ground floor with other people but we only smiled, never spoke. I wasn’t sure if anyone knew my name, but I didn’t know the names of anyone. I never asked, never used my voice. At home I cleaned my taupe work heels and lined them up with the other pair in my closet. Ate rotini with store brand sauce for supper on the couch while watching TV. Went to sleep with numbers inside my head as if there were nothing else to dream.
I arrive unannounced. My friend offers me the floor of her spare room with a flat pillow and several blankets for a pallet. If I had given a month’s warning, she could have prepared. Her kindness prevents her from complaining. At dinner she decorates the rim of a plate, my name stenciled in green icing that bleeds into the sink when rinsed. I can’t figure out what she thinks of me. Last year I invited her to my house and by accident dropped a stack of her books into the ravine on my property. My aunt, uncle, and four cousins followed me down a slope. We retrieved books from dead limbs and moss. I shook oak leaves from the pages. One book never turned up. By the time my family and I emerged from the ravine, my friend had left. Once a week I browse shelves at the local used bookstore for that missing novel. When I find it, I hope my mistake will disappear from her memory and mine.
Julie Brooks Barbour’s most recent collection is Haunted City (Kelsay Books, 2017). Her work has appeared in South Dakota Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Whale Road Review, Escape Into Life, Moon City Review, Gone Lawn, Menacing Hedge, and Allium, A Journal of Poetry and Prose. She teaches writing at Lake Superior State University where she edits the journal Border Crossing.
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