The . Hours . Festivals

Zoo

I feel so small.  Like a monkey in a cage.  Like some extinct creature in a museum diorama.  A passenger pigeon, a dodo, maybe a little sea mink cowering in a corner next to an extinct fern.  I could make friends with that chubby pupfish over there.  Or eat him.

But I’m not.  I’m human.  At least the last time I looked.  A human woman.

This brief clearing in the woods was a discovery.  A tin shelter.  Whom it belongs to I’ve no idea, there is no lock.  When the bright light comes I quickly evacuate, to hide myself, usually in the river, underwater.  I can swim a long way on one breath.  What I’ll do come winter I have no idea.  I am braiding a rope from found remnants.  When it is long enough, I plan to attach it high in a tree notch so that I might pull myself up in the foliage, hauling my rope up after me.  Yes, in winter a thick conifer.  Perhaps.

When they leave again there is often something edible left behind.  I don’t know if this is their carelessness, or if it is meant for me.  It is difficult to surmise motives.  When, if, I consume this—well, of course I do—I leave any remnant clawed, any bit of tin crushed, as if it was one of my near neighbors who devoured it.  Scattered by wolves, bears, foxes, raccoons; those coyote, my vigilant friends.

As I have no clothing I appreciate the offerings of these familiars.  A scrap of rabbit fur, the discovered remains of a ravaged deer.  If they had meant me no harm, you would think they would not have left me naked.  Soon my hair will grow longer, long enough to afford me warmth, protection.

Often now, I have moved on.  Searching for the way free.  I follow the river, or deer paths that might lead to the edge, but the woodland only thickens.  The bright light comes no matter where, both here and there.  Sometimes I just circle back to the tin house.  Perhaps they are still searching for me.  I vow to not be found.


​by Karen Alpha

painting by Edd Tokarz Harnas

DAY 5
I made it! My first 20-mile day and I can barely feel my legs. A sip from the flask as a reward, but no fire tonight. It's not a busy campsite - one RV and a cook pit too close to share. Not sure if anyone is home.

Protein rice over the camp stove tonight and another chapter of "Finding Me." It was the first day that felt strange without social media - and still no reception. Maybe the neighbors will want to chat.



DAY 6
I decided on a rest day. My legs were like jello this morning and the weather wasn't great. Windy but no rain. Probably overnight.

No one came in or out of the RV - I even knocked to ask about the cook pit. No answer so I used it anyway. Almond butter tastes better on toast.

Feeling strong again and ready to hike in the morning.



DAY 7
Crazy storm last night! A branch fell - missed me but not my tent. I pounded on the RV and no one answered. I let myself in. It wasn't locked and I wasn't safe outside.

The RV was neatly abandoned. Someone left not long before I first arrived. The food and water, gone. Photos, journals, books, and decorations still in place. It was an intentional disappearance; an entire life left behind. Not forgotten, but gone forever. What I saw in the RV is no indication of who walked away from it all. I hope I meet her.





By Sean Lukasik

​

mixed media piece by Terry Oakden

Hi, Aaron.

    I’m sitting in our tent right now, camped outside of Devil’s Backbone Brewery in Virginia. They let hikers set up in the woods near their...well, I guess it’s a campus really. They have this huge brewpub and an outdoor stage with outdoor bars, small stone bonfires, and cornhole and horseshoe sets. There’s a “Royal Flush” pinball machine like the one you used to play at Mountain Fire Pizza, before they got rid of it..

After the past few days of hiking it was such a huge relief to hitchhike down here. There’s no shower, but I did give myself a towel bath in one of their outdoor bathrooms. The beer was great and I’ve never eaten fries so fast in my life. Some of my trail friends are camped around me. We wandered back here with our headlamps, fairly drunk (or at least tipsy), and crawled into our tents. One of them, See-More, just sleeps under his rain fly--he doesn’t even use the tent itself. I couldn’t do that. The thought of ants and frogs and stuff crawling on me at night gives me the creeps.
I was long overdue in writing this. To tell you the truth, I have been so busy hiking North that I’ve rarely thought about you. That’s one of two things I hoped might happen with this trip; I would either obsess over you, or I would “forget” you. Of course I can’t forget you. It’s been over a year. There was a long time where I cried myself to sleep every night in our apartment. I don’t really know when that stopped. Months. Judy and Amos finally talked me into seeing a therapist. I know you aren’t haunting me, but I have been haunting myself. I felt like a ghost in our apartment. Around our friends. Around town. I clinged onto every scrap of you that remained. I miss your dark hair and how you would smile more with your eyes than your mouth. I always wanted to know what you were thinking--what was going on behind that hint of a smirk.
    I did leave my customer service job. That’s good, right? You hated how much I hated that job. I’ve been making ends meet by substitute teaching, dog walking/sitting, and a lot of freelance work. None of it pays particularly well by itself, but together it’s not a bad living and I rarely have time to be bored. What am I saying; “have?” Had. I guess I got ahead of myself. I’m on the Appalachian Trail right now! It just felt like the right time to do it, you know? We always wanted to go and I’m not chained down to my work, so. I thanked the landlord and broke the lease. Used our, well, mostly my at this point, savings to buy gear. Did the research. Talked to Cara about it. Your sister has been so supportive in general. She gave me her maps, loaned me her stove, and some other things that didn’t get trashed during her hike. I haven’t really used the maps because everybody out here uses this phone app called Guthook’s, but I still carry them anyway. I like to pretend they’re a protective totem or juju or something.

    Every single day out here is beautiful. Hard, but beautiful. Each step feels like a small triumph, in a way, and it seems like the most successful hikers (or, at least, the ones most likely to complete the trail) have the mantra that; “There’s one way out of this, and that’s to finish. One foot in front of the other, keep walking north.” I’ve relied on that, and them, a lot. We all have trail names at this point, if we’re going to. There’s See-More, of course, which is a play on his name (Seymore) and the fact that he frequently struts through camp in his underwear. I have become pretty close friends with Way. She carries a copy of the Tao Te Ching and talks about this trail being her Way, and “infinite mysteries this” and “unknowing that.” You would have gotten a kick out of her, if her woo-woo talk didn’t annoy you too much. Camped across from me are Ted and Young Ted. They’re brothers. The older one’s name is Ted, and I don’t actually know Young Ted’s name but somebody called him that and it stuck. I cheated and gave myself a trail name. It’s not really a big deal if you give yourself one, but I didn’t like a lot of the names people were suggesting for me. I thought a lot about it through the Smoky Mountains and decided it should be Hummingbird. I hum, you liked when they’d migrate through our backyard, I don’t know. It works. And there hasn’t been another Hummingbird this year yet, so people know it’s me (if they know me). My gear is too drab to really stand out. You know at least half the guys hiking out here wear girl’s shorts in the most ridiculous colors? I’m talking hot pink booty shorts. Nobody really cares. It’s obvious who the hikers are, and when I go into town it’s impossible to blend in even after a shower and stowing my pack somewhere.
I had been so focused on my own physical pain and struggle as I hiked through the cold southern states that I didn’t think about much. I either tried to push the thoughts out, or think about my next week of hiking and plan it out in my head. I’ve been snowed on three times, thought for certain I would freeze to death one night, and though I haven’t had any bear encounters yet, I have nearly stepped on two huge rattlesnakes since entering Virginia. The weather is hot now, and the trail is full of flowers and shady green leaves. The past couple days were really intense though. I came down off a mountain into a two-story shelter next to a waterfall. Spent the night there with Way and a few other fast hikers we had caught up with. Then, I had the long trek up The Priest, a mountain I’d been hearing about for weeks. The first 4k footer for a long time! When I got near the summit there was a shelter (also called The Priest shelter) where hikers confessed their “sins” to the mountain in the trail log. Some were funny, some were sarcastic, some were heartfelt and sad. A lot of confessions were about not burying poop properly or hanging bear bags right.
I picked up the pen to write something funny, but I just...started writing. I wrote an entire page of all my regrets, all my anger that you left me alone. My frustration of being unable to move on, and my disinterest in seeing other people while our friends would hint at; “how long it’s been,” in their loving but tone-deaf way. I wrote about how I just want you, and our future, back; and how I don’t want a new future without you. It came out very real, and very sudden. I lost myself in my writing.
    Way hiked into the site and set her backpack down next to me on the picnic table. I realized I was crying and I tried to hide my face so she wouldn’t see; regardless, she could definitely see that my hand was trembling over the page. When I had finished writing, I moved to rip the page out. She placed her hand down on the log so I couldn’t lift it. “I had no idea,” she said. She had been reading over my shoulder. I hadn’t told anybody on the trail about you. I’d avoided talking too much about myself anyway, but I didn’t want to invite your ghost to follow me. You left for work one morning and there was a snowstorm and you never made it home. I was alone.
    “It’s nothing,” I told Way. She nodded.
    “Everything is Nothing,” she replied. Her matter-of-fact nature combined with the absurdity of everything she says is probably my favorite thing about her. She gently took the shelter log and pen from me to write her own confession. I sat there and ate a flavorless granola bar. The oats rolled around on my tongue and felt like lumps going down my throat. The more I thought about Nothing, the more hollow I felt inside. I wanted to shred that page up; not to prevent others from reading it, but to somehow get rid of all of those feelings that were tormenting me. Way’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Would you hike to Devil’s Backbone Brewery with me?”
“You know I hike slower than you.”
“That’s fine. The beer will wait for us and I’d like the company.”
So here we are. The hike down here was silent until we got to the road and hitched in with a friendly, local trail maintainer. We met up with the Teds and a few other members of our extended trail families, drank our beer, and ate fried foods and fresh salads. Everybody acted the same toward me because, of course, only Way knew now--but I felt different. That entry in the hiker log had been the first time I had opened up about my feelings. I hadn’t even done that with my therapist, really. I felt quiet and exhausted. Laying down in this tent--our tent--and writing this by headlamp has been the catharsis I’ve needed since you died. I’ve thought a lot about you, and why I’m hiking this trail, and what will come next for me.  I think a part of you is all over this trail, but in that, “we are all made of starstuff,” way. I don’t think there’s life after death. Your brain stopped working, and “you” are gone, and you couldn’t possibly care about me or if I date again or move across the country or anything like that. If I go back to Gorham, I’ll just be haunting it as a surrogate for you. Maybe I can crash with my cousin out in Oregon for a while. I need a new start, something to let me get over this monumental sadness that I carry everywhere. I know, intellectually, it’s not what you would want for me. We had a great life together but it’s gone. Now, I hike every day, sometimes in excess of twenty miles, and eat noodles mixed with instant potatoes, and dig holes to poop in the woods. I hike like it’s my job, but I hike because it’s my life, and that’s enough for now. I think the only way forward, for me, is one footstep at a time. Ever northward. Katahdin awaits! After that, I’ll see what comes.

It felt good to get this all out. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the booze or something else. Maybe I’m just ready to finally start talking about this. I feel like I should burn this letter, somehow, in some special place. Maybe when I hike through NH. I’ll stop by our old apartment, swing by the fire pit in the backyard, and light this on fire to send it to you. Everything is Nothing. I’ll say one last goodbye to our apartment, our town, and our life. Then, I’ll keep hiking.

I loved you, I still love you, and I will always love you. But you knew that.  

                                                    Happy trails,
                                Chris (“Hummingbird”)

by Joe Noel

installation, trail journal, and trail snacks at the event by Jenny Wittmaack

Twilight at Dawn

1. Late Night Letter
Jay, you know I never watched the news
—Afghanistan, Iraq, I couldn’t point either out--
so when you went, it’s like you were lost.
Or no, it was like I couldn’t follow.
No, I was lost.

I can’t write it all in one place
so I spread it out and know it less.

Do you think your mother thinks I’m dead?
Even if she’d give them to me,
any stars of yours would be dark--
dark stars are useless. I want to shine.

2. At the Laundry
Heavy load of sweatshirts and stuff rolls up;
eventually though, they tumble, the basket turning,

working and working just to dry the clothes.
And I watch the whole pointless cycle
start again. Then it stops, jeans soaked.
No more quarters. I never have enough.
They gave us grades all through school--

math, social studies, even gym.
I mean, there’s got to be a way to know,
now, as adults, if you’re doing it right.
Even how straight our letters were got grades.

3. Another Letter
We had extra-curricular priorities, you and I;
Elle’s almost twelve, proof of that.

We had to hide from your mother back then;
even now, she can’t seem to find me.
Reality star, Elle says. Or some days,
Engineer for NASA. So I’m taking classes

on loans I might not ever be able to pay back.
Now I get what a thesis is, and I’m learning
elementary algebra. And what I’m made of.

We do homework in sync, mother and daughter,
each in silence, becoming what we can’t yet know.

4. Cleaning Up and Homing In
The laundry’s in its basket still, days later;
heaped up junk mail layers the kitchen table.
Elle’s shoes make walking the hall a hazard.
Yelling does no good. I begin with the clothes

then work my way back to the table. Then sit.
Objects finding their place eases me, even if
order’s hard to achieve and doesn’t last long.
Kitchen ready, I put on the pasta water.
Home, the fact and feeling of it, is a softening
I can make for Elle. It has to happen every day.
Memories, mom used to say, won’t cook the sauce.

5. Starting Homework in the Gloaming
I tower my textbooks against the window.

Sunset’s long over, fireball gone, but
above the black bulk of the hills
yellow highlights the important edge.

Gloaming, my new vocab, refers to being in-between.
One word embodies many meanings. Twilight,
on one hand, is darkness shouldering into
day; on the other, light blooms on the stem of night--
betweenness means living the transition.
You can’t trust words. So I start with math.
Equations. Proofs. Let’s see what x is this time.

6. Last Late Night Letter
In the small quite hours, I wake, and,
magically, feel cozy in my trailer, in my life.

Elle snores, but gently, the sound a comfort.
Let me go, Jay. Let me live, and I’ll, I’ll, I will
let you die. It’s been eleven years,
eleven years, six months. Through my window

a star I think is Venus gleams like a jewel.
Night-time is becoming my friend again.
Daylight’s no longer drudgery. I whisper

Move on, move on, only partly to you.
Embraced by star-shine, I snuggle in to sleep.


by Edward Dougherty

"Desperation" by Mary Weatherbee

THE USUAL​


Her inky-black pupils, suspended in rings of glossy hazel, dilate as she enters the dark interior of Del’s Tavern. She’s assaulted by the pungent odor of stale beer fused with shelled peanuts, like rancid lager saturating a vat of greasy peanut butter.  It’s a fragrant reminder that she’s about to break the promise she implemented over a month ago.

She scans the cheerless room, hoping Ricky’s lanky frame will be hunched over a tumbler at the bar. That for once, he’ll be waiting for her.  But all she sees is the perpetual assemblage of random barflies.  Lit by flickering neon, they’re anchored to the same seats they always use. As if Butch, the portly and bulbous-nosed proprietor, assigned a seating chart that none of them have the courage to disrupt.

Not seeing Ricky, she makes her way to the bar. A few steps in, the soles of her heels begin to shatter peanut shells strewn across the floor, a result of Del’s only source of sustenance.  For a dime, Butch will dip a soiled plastic flowerpot into a mammoth bag of cut-rate peanuts and send them across the lacquered bar to those that need sodium to accompany their musty brews.  After sucking out the insides, the barflies discard the shells onto the floor, creating a carcass-laden landscape of tawny husks that are crushed under the oily-bottomed work boots of Del’s clientele.

She walks up to the bar, and pulls out a broken-down stool, vinyl seat held together by frayed duct-tape.  She sits and crosses her legs, causing her jean cuffs to rise, which reveal her meaty ankles, one of the many despicable things she inherited from her mother.  

As she tugs her jean cuffs down, Butch approaches and cracks a monstrous grin, lips parting way to nicotine-stained teeth.  He tells her that it’s been too long. She smiles and agrees, about to order a drink when Butch waddles away, saying he’ll get her the usual.

She hasn’t wanted the usual, Butch’s sugary and watered-down take on a Boston Sour, for over a decade.  But she’ll accept it, not wanting to offend him if she declines.  She’ll wait for Ricky to arrive and order her something else, not giving Butch a chance to dislike her, even for a moment.

As Butch prepares her drink, Wallace, one of the barflies, shuffles towards the pinball machine.  He fishes around in the pockets of his threadbare coveralls, coming up with a grimy quarter. He pops it into the slot, causing the game (Card Whiz, if she remembers correctly) to quiver to life.  Flaxen lights glow, illuminating Wallace’s craggy face, nose riddled with broken capillaries.  His knobby fingers, stained with oil and grease, pop the buttons on the side. His hips undulating with each ding and rattle inside the machine, willing the pinball to hit combos and kickout holes to rack up points.

Butch winks as he plops down her cocktail, causing a shriveled maraschino cherry to rock in the golden liquid.  Off his wink, she flashes a crooked smile, tilts her head and emits an overzealous thank you.  Even before the words emerge, right when her cheek muscles contract to create the off-kilter smile, a wave of self-hatred washes over her.  Anger rises, causing her milky-white skin to redden at the fact that she smiles and complacently whispers words of gratitude to any flirtatious glance, wink, or nod.  She knows it’s happening, can hear the small cry from the back of her mind trying to quell the instantaneous reply.  The inner shriek attempting to calm her crooked smile and cheerful response but it spews forth, unchecked whenever someone of the opposite sex engages her.  

Like her sturdy ankles, she blames this inherited trait on her mother, another constant reminder that she holds the physical and emotional attributes of a weak woman she hasn’t seen since her and Ricky started dating. Whose hair parted to the same side as hers, who is to blame for her pale skin breaking out into red, scaly rashes, and whose lack of self-respect allowed one of many stepfathers to shower down abuse over the years.  She inherited the worst from a woman she left in a crippled and tear-filled wreck, bawling into the shag carpet the color of rotten plums, when she was sixteen. Vowing to never return. To never become her.

To calm down, she hoists the Boston Sour to her lips but notices the grimy fingerprints that plague the scratched tumbler. She looks at the soiled glass and wants to throw it.  Hurl the cocktail she never wants, but never has the courage to refuse, at the potbellied man who made it. She fantasizes the drink sailing past him, smashing into the tarnished and greasy mirror. Causing the dollar bills taped up to the burnished surface to come crashing down, shards of glass piercing the green-inked portraits of presidents long since passed.  

But instead, she sips the weak and candied drink as Wallace curses at the varying chirps and whistles emitting from the pinball machine.   Knowing that as soon as Ricky’s whip-thin silhouette appears in the doorframe, she’ll straighten up and smile. Relying on the knee-jerk reaction she just cursed to bring him into her arms.  Not caring that the promise she made to herself was broken the moment she agreed to meet him here. Not caring that Ricky will utter excuse-riddled apologies that are disguised as requests for her to be the warm body he crawls into bed with after a double shift.  Not caring because underneath the tavern’s familiar odor of ale, Jiffy, and despair, Ricky’s pleas are the same as hers – he doesn’t want to be lonely, and neither does she.

​
by David Ebeltoft

Special thanks to Vinnie for letting me film this at Volo on Market Street in Corning, NY.

The summer I got my driver's license, I was going through my actively-embracing-white-trashiness phase. At the time, I was

styling my hair every day.
sunbathing at the gravel pit a mile from my house.
working 3 part-time jobs.
disregarding my curfew.
wearing obnoxiously bright lipstick.
sporting jelly shoes, a fuck-ton a bracelets, overly distressed light wash jeans, barely-there tops. Sometimes just a swimsuit.

While unintentional, that's how it came to be that I appear naked in my driver's license photo. The pale pink edge of my tube top, barely visible, allowed the exposure of
​
bony shoulders
care-free cleavage

Since then, I've been through nearly every cycle of emotion toward my driver's license photo

ironic pride
actual pride
light embarrassment
deep shame
dread
joviality
aloofness
denial
nostalgia
longing

I've seen every type of reaction to my license photo, from friends, family, bartenders, judges, law enforcers and store clerks.

Glances: furtive, cautious, incredulous, creepy, mirthful, blank
Whistles: sexual, surprise
Gestures: Hand-over-mouth, raised eyebrows, held breath, blushing, laughter, choked laughter, adjusting glasses.
Verbal responses: Well now. I see, I see. This is you?
New licenses have been printed, with the exact same photograph because of
addition of organ donor status.
name-change due to marriage.
replacement for pick-pocket incident in Madrid.
state-wide changes to license design.
name-change by way of divorce.
​
Today, 15 years have passed since the license was issued. I am

waiting in line at the DMV.
applying obnoxiously bright lipstick in the reflection of a laminated "NO SMOKING" sign.
sporting jelly shoes, overly distressed light wash jeans, and a pale pink tube top.
ready for my closeup.


By Willa Rose Vogel

Images by Arlie Sommer