My mother died March 20, 2011.

Her name was Lydia Kathleen. She married my father when she was seventeen. At eighteen, Lydia Kathleen gave birth to me. My father tells me about the snowstorm in Durango that night. They were scared coming down the mountain. My mother was in labor for hours. My father says soon as I came out I shit on her. He says I was a beautiful baby.

I was three when my mother abandoned me. We don’t forgive women much. Consider Eve. We forgive mothers even less. A woman who abandons her child is a terrible human being. A man who abandons his child is a deadbeat dad. Long time ago, I forgave my son’s father for wanting nothing to do with his son. I believed I did this for my son’s benefit. I forgave my mother nothing.  I wanted her to apologize for leaving me. I wanted her to repent. She never did. Not to my satisfaction, anyway.

When I was twenty-one, I found my mother the first time. It wasn’t difficult. I started with my grandmother. She wanted me to know my mother. She felt it was my right. For the longest time, my grandmother was the only person to speak to me about my biological mother, to provide stories and pictures.

My beautiful stepmother was twenty-one when she married my father and barely equipped to deal with a resentful stepdaughter. At five I wanted a mother but had no idea what that meant. It meant I had to share my father with another woman, and by the time I was ten I was too selfish for that.

By the time I was twenty-one I’d decided my biological mother, my real mother, would open the universe. She’d validate my resentment toward my stepmother; she’d validate my anger toward my father for loving this other woman more than me. Lydia Kathleen was happy to do that. She said, “I left him, not you.”

Six months later, my mother left me again.

Lydia Kathleen disconnected her phone and changed her address and didn’t tell me a thing.

She did this three more times. Oh, sure. Eventually, my mother would send me a surprise letter or give me a call or find me on My Space and I was just supposed to feel happy we were reunited again.

Except I punished her for this with her past.

I never let my mother forget she left me to become a hooker then ended up in prison. My cruelty felt justified, my anger. She left me. I had a son to protect. She was flaky; I couldn’t trust her. Lydia Kathleen was never the person I wanted her to be; she left me over and over again, and by the way, I WOULDN’T LEAVE MY CHILD FOR ANYTHING.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

My mother died March 20, 2011. A person I don’t know found her dead in her apartment. No cause of death yet.

March 20, 2011, I had coffee with my father and we spoke unkindly of my mother and neither of us knew she was dead.

March 20, 2011, I got back to work (again) on this short story I’d been working on for months called “Dog Men.” Ultimately it’s a story about how men come between women. Since I’d started the story seven months ago, I’d dedicated it to Joyce Carol Oates, then March 20 2011, I changed my mind and at the top of the story I typed, “To my mother.”

March 21, 2011, I received a message on Facebook from a stranger saying he needed to speak to me ASAP regarding Lydia. I responded asking why he’d contacted me. No answer.

March 25, 2011, I received a second message on Facebook from another person I didn’t know regarding Lydia. This time when I asked why this person had contacted me she was kind enough to respond. “Your mother died March 2oth. Your Aunt Karen wanted you to know.”

I have this picture of my mother and me; it’s the only picture I have of us. In it, my mother is a veil of hair. She has her arms around me. I have the biggest eyes imaginable. You see mostly me, which isn’t strange, is it?

Everyone remembers their first date. I certainly remember mine. I was 22 and I had just been promoted from junior copywriter to copywriter. In fact, I remember my first date like it was yesterday. Her name was Judy or Joan or Jennifer or something. I remember it started with a ‘J’ or possibly even an ‘M’.

I took her to a fancy restaurant called Yellowfin. I had been staring at my menu for only five minutes before she asked me if I was ready and I told her I wasn’t even done proofreading the menu yet, much less ready to order. I saw that the restaurant had misspelled osso buco and it had written your instead of you’re. Obviously, I made the necessary marks with my red pen. When I looked up, she was looking at me as if she were about to ask a question and then decided against it. I felt ashamed. I wasn’t sure I could date a woman who proofread faster than me. Up until that point, I was sure this was the woman I would fall in love with, move in with, marry, buy a cocker spaniel with, divorce over financial concerns, try to erase from my memory by dating a girl I met at a bar, realize I had made a mistake divorcing, re-marry, have twins with, nearly die trying to fix a flat tire for on the side of the highway, grow old with, and be buried alive by. But now?

Life is like that, you know. If you want to make God laugh, make a plan. Not that I believe in God or plans or laughter.

Our second date seemed to go pretty smoothly, although it did get awkward on the way home, when she and I played the Tagline Game. You know the one: where one person names a company and a year, and the other person guesses the tagline for that company during that year. Pretty common game. Sadly, she didn’t get one correct answer. I started with a tough one: “Microsoft, 1996.” She guessed, “What the fuck are you talking about?” when everyone knows the answer is “Where do you want to go today?” Ten questions later, I threw a softball and said, “Nike, 1999.” She guessed the tagline “Just. Please stop.” So close!

On our third date, she invited me up to her apartment and that’s when I really got a taste of her sense of humor. Upon walking in, I asked where all her books were. She laughed and said, “I don’t read.” I joined in her laughter and let the joke ride, assuming that, in reality, she was probably just getting the books’ hardcovers professionally dusted at the local antiquarian’s, like I do every few months. Later in the night, we watched television and things got pretty romantic. She was loosening my tie (Windsor knot) when a Ford commercial came on and, man, was it horrible! All style and no substance. I deconstructed it for her, explaining what made it a bad commercial and I guess she disagreed with me because she just kind of stared at me in wonder. I went over my argument again, point by point, and she shook her head and got all huffy. She was a tough nut to crack! “Listen,” I said, “advertising is subjective and there’s no reason to get all steamed up.” I then tried to lighten the mood by offering to play the Tagline Game, but I guess she was still sore from losing the other night because, at that point, she asked me to leave.

Obviously, I called her the next day, to make sure she was okay. Again, I told her it was fine if she disagreed with my deconstruction of the Ford commercial, but she told me that it wasn’t my deconstruction that bothered her.  It was clear that she was in denial. I recited to her the definition of ‘denial’ (I had memorized it during a previous relationship) and that’s when she hung up. Well that’s that, I thought. End of story, right?

Wrong.

Because something happened the next night. I was at home, putting my professionally-dusted books back onto the bookshelves when the same Ford commercial came on. I knew it was a sign. Obviously, she was thinking about me. So I did what any self-respecting man would do: I created a website that weighed the pros and cons of the Ford commercial. I made sure there were almost as many pros as there were cons—I didn’t want her to think I was giving in to her opinion, but I also wanted her to feel good about her opinion. The Ford commercial was bad, but thinking otherwise didn’t make her a bad person. And maybe she can recognize bad commericals for other companies, but just not Ford? That would be something.

Anyway, I emailed her the link to my website, but she changed her email address. Also, her phone number. And yes, yes, I wrote a tri-fold brochure and had an art-director buddy lay it out, which I mailed to her. But, alas, it was returned to sender.

What can I say? It’s just your typical “Boy Meets Girl, Boy Dates Girl, Boy Deconstructs A Ford Commercial, Girl Dumps Boy, Boy Creates Tri-Fold Brochure” story. Nothing big. And sure, it’s got a sad ending. I mean, I never saw her again and she broke my heart. But the good news is, I never saw that Ford commercial again.

Man, that commercial sucked.

Fiction from Len Kuntz is up at LitSnack. He is also interviewed.

Enjoy something instructive with How to Butcher Someone’s Self-Esteem at Metazen, by J. Bradley.

Random Cartography Notes, not only is a great title, it is also an e-chapbook available from Gold Wake Press.

At Annalemma, a story by Tawnysha Greene.

Read something from Nate Pritts at Everyday Genius.

Chris Tarry is interviewed by The Rumpus.

At Bartleby Snopes, Practice, by Michelle Reale.

Emprise Review 18 includes Jenn Gann, J. Bradley, Salvatore Pane, JA Tyler, and Nate Pritts.

I must have read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn a long time ago, back when I was a teenager or something like that. Never finished it. Figured there wasn’t much to it. A bunch of ignorant White folks saying ‘nigger’ over and over. If I wanted to hear someone say ‘nigger’ 219 times in a row, I’d go down to the corner of any Martin Luther King Boulevard and, sure ‘nuff, after an hour or so, I’d have heard ‘nigger’ enough to be satisfied.

Hadn’t even thought about Mr. Twain’s novel since I was 16 or so and would of probably been content to keep not thinking of it except I read about how they planned to publish the book without the nigger-word. Instead they’ll substitute the word ‘slave’ each time. And I thought that was strange. You know how many ‘niggers’ are in that book? Seems like a lot of work to take out all the ‘niggers’ and replace them with ‘slaves’.

But I just shrugged my shoulders. I don’t really see any benefit in it. Publisher, NewSouth Books over in Montgomery, Alabama, say now students can discuss the book in class, but seems to me they could do that before.

I put the whole thing out of my thoughts and tended to my life, but the nigger-word popped into my head at random times. When I was with my woman. Brushing my teeth. Sitting on the toilet. You know what kind of weird feeling it is to think about the nigger-word while your bowels move?

Anyway, I kept trying to make sense of it. Turned it over and over in my mind and couldn’t get any perspective. Went to my old copy of Huck Finn, but that damn publisher had ruined it for me. Had me replacing ‘nigger’ with ‘slave’ every time I saw it.

Maybe it’s just me, but some of it just don’t make any sense. Like when Huck’s father says, “’There was a free slave there from Ohio—a mulatter, most as white as a white man.’” Well, I was thinking, is he free or is he a slave? The boy Mark Twain got some logical problems there. And my mind’s turning around and I’m all confused. But then I blinked hard twice and realized that I was playing tricks on myself. It never said ‘slave’ in the first place.

I already had problems reading this book, like I said before, but now, because of that crazy publisher it didn’t even make any goddamn sense.

Since reading was getting me nowhere, I put down the book and went out to the closest Martin Luther King Boulevard. Figure, if I can’t get some understanding of what the publisher is trying to do, I’ll stand on MLK and I’ll hear the nigger-word so much that I’ll be sick and tired of it and I’ll be free to get back to serious thinking instead of studying Mark Twain so much.

But don’t you know that I’m out there for three hours and I don’t hear one ‘nigger.’ Not even a ‘negro.’ Did hear one ‘niggardly;’ perked my ears till I looked it up in my pocket dictionary. Don’t got nothing to do with the nigger-word.

Just when I turn to leave, I see James, my old buddy from high school. He greets me with a broad smile and we shake hands and hug.

“What’s up, my nigger,” I say, matching his smile. But now I can see I’ve offended him. His grin takes a sharp downturn.

“Excuse me, but we don’t say that anymore.”

“Say what?”

“Nigger.”

“We don’t?”

“No,” he says. “Ever since NewSouth put out that new Huck Finn we’ve said good riddance to that word. Whenever we get the urge to say ‘nigger’, we replace it with ‘slave.’ Where have you been? Everyone’s doing it.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone, my slave. Think about it, slave, have you heard it in, say, the last month?”

I think about it and astonished, I can’t recall a single instance. Walking down the street’s like discovering a new world. All the people refer to each other as ‘slaves.’ “What’s up, my slave.” “This slave here….” “That’s the problem with slaves today…” “Slave, please.”

We walk to James’s car and he starts blasting his radio. Even the music’s changed. Here is the rapper DMX chanting: “All my slaves get down like what/ Get down like what/ Get down like what…” Method Man expressing devotion to his significant other by stating: “I got mad love to give/ you my slave…” The chorus to a popular Jay-Z song becomes: “Ain’t no slave like the one I got….” DMX again: “Just cause I loves my slaves/ I shed blood for my slaves/ Let a slave holler/ Where my slaves?/ All I’ma hear is ‘Right here, my slave.’”

There was apparently a whole world that evolved while I was looking the other way. James, already smiling, chuckles and claps to his music. Then he jumps up and down and becomes even more animated.

“Aww man, slave, I didn’t even tell you the best part,” James says. “Remember how White folks would try to use ‘nigger’ as a term of endearment and it would be awkward at best, or cause a fight at worst? Well, that’s no more.”

“Really?”

“Of course. ‘Slave’ is multicultural. Anyone can be a ‘slave.’ Just the other day, my best friend, a white guy, was like, ‘You’re like a brother to me, man; I love you, my slave.’ I didn’t get offended. He sounded just like Thomas Jefferson.”

Rion Amilcar Scott writes fiction all over the damn place, tweets @reeamilcarscott and blogs at datsun flambe.

The first erotic story I ever wrote published was in 1995. I called it “Private Investigation” and had Fox Mulder and Dana Scully in mind when I wrote it. They fucked on a mattress at a crime scene. Playgirl Magazine published it. My stepmom bought a copy from a bookstore on Main Street. I told my grandmother. Somebody probably told my father.

The first erotic story I wrote was in 1985. I wrote it as gift for my best friend.

In high school, I started reading Harold Robbins novels. The bisexuals turned me on, especially that guy in Dreams Die First.

My father never censored my books.

I had a lover once who told me he’d suck dick but then told me never to tell anyone.

Ambiguity is cool. The world remains so black-and-white.

I sold six stories to Playgirl Magazine.

My goal was to sell a story to Penthouse Magazine because Penthouse used to buy fiction by women like Carol Queen, Jolie Graham, Greta Christina, and Kim Addonizio and paid like $1,000.00 a story. By the time I got in contact with the fiction editor though, she informed me Penthouse no longer bought fiction. Men didn’t read the stories.

No shit, Sherlock. I did.

I was working on my B.A. in English when a male professor told me I should either stop publishing erotica or use a pen name. He said, “Nobody in academia will take you seriously if you publish erotica.”  I used a pen name about a year. Lana Gail Taylor. I regret it. First of all, I’m not ashamed of my stories. Second of all, that particular professor was fired for sexual harassment.

Let’s speculate a minute.

This particular professor read one of my stories and got turned on. As a result, he no longer respected me.

I don’t know.

If you’re a woman and write anything sexually provocative people feel entitled to either fuck or judge you. That’s why so many women who write erotica use pen names. It can turn into a fucking nightmare, other people’s sexual dysfunctions.

Not  to mention the hypocrisies of the world.

A female professor once told me academics wouldn’t take me seriously if I stayed a blond. She also told me to wear my glasses often as possible. At least she didn’t tell me to strap down my tits.

*Note to self: academics aren’t sexy.

This brings me to that whole erotica isn’t literature bullshit. Erotica is fluff. Literature is a long term relationship.

Fuck that divide.

It’s as tired and lazy as the Madonna/Whore divide.

How lazy and unimaginative.

Also, you’re not very well read.

The first story I sent through the MFA workshop was later published in Best Gay Erotica 2004.  Then Susie Bright selected it for Best American Erotica 2005.  What does this all mean? Something ironic.

One day the editor at Playgirl Magazine sent me a handwritten note.  “Less narrative. More sex.”  I write about people. Why is more important than how.  Does that make sense?  I have an agenda.

Sexuality is human. Erotica is literature. Madonna is a whore.

I’ll kill myself proving it.

Let’s face it: there’s only one thing worse than having “that feeling” and that, of course, is not knowing exactly what the feeling means (besides excruciating pain! Help!). Many doctors rush to the diagnosis of urinary tract infection (UTI), but is it an infection? Could it be something else? Well, if you’re in advertising, there’s a 98.2% chance that the pain is not from a UTI, but rather from doing your timesheets (Source: WebMD). A timesheet—for those unfamiliar with it—is basically a spreadsheet in which an employee inputs how much time he or she worked on each particular job that day. And while this may sound simple, it’s actually quite painful and irritating. In fact, it causes symptoms similar to a urinary tract infection. So here are some guidelines that will help you determine which condition you have.

……….

Many doctors will ask if you feel pain or burning when you urinate, but one thing they always fail to ask is, Where were you when you were urinating in the first place? The movie theater? Your desk? If you were at your desk, what were you doing? You might have been doing your timesheets.

Here’s a question you’ll hear doctors ask a lot: “Do you feel like you have to urinate often, but not much urine comes out when you do?” It’s a good question, but rarely followed up with the more pertinent question: How much water were you drinking while feeling that constant need to urinate? If you were drinking a lot, it probably means you were doing your timesheets. After all, when completing timesheets you should drink four to six glasses of water every 30 minutes, to stay hydrated. Timesheets can not only suck the life out of you, but also  water. Like, a bunch of water. It’s reported that, while our bodies are typically 60% water, that number can drop to as low as 33% when doing timesheets. Also, just because not much urine is coming out when you do go doesn’t mean you have a urinary tract infection. Perhaps your prostate has suddenly enlarged (men only) or perhaps you’ve grown a prostate (women only)—both are common symptoms of doing your timesheets.

An account executive urinating while doing his timesheets.

I don’t want to get too personal here, but cloudy or foul-smelling urine could mean you have a UTI. You know what else it could mean? You’re doing timesheets. Timesheets can cause sour stomach and, as any doctor will tell you, sour stomach can cause odoriferous urine. And, really, is it your urine giving off that odor, or is it the sweaty office manager standing over your shoulder making sure you’re doing your timesheets? Something to think about.

Do you have pain on one side of your back, under your ribs? This is where your kidneys are. It’s also where you might be punching yourself so that the physical pain replaces the mental burden of timesheets. To help determine the cause, try this: the next time you feel the pain under your ribs, locate your fists.

If you have fever and chills, you could have a UTI. Or you could have about a million other things. I mean, come on.

If you have nausea and vomiting, there’s a good chance this is because your doing timesheets. Did you ever vomit on your keyboard in such a way that your keyboard no longer worked? That’s your body rejecting timesheets.

……….

I hope these guidelines serve as an integral resource when attempting to diagnose your condition. If you are suffering pain from doing your timesheets, there’s good news: along with water, drink plenty of cranberry juice. It’s been documented that doing so will help alleviate the pain.

The March issue of PANK is ready for your literary delectation and this one is a doozy. Check out work from Libby Cudmore, Sandra Simonds, Kerrin McCadden, Kristina Born, Joseph Michael Owens, James O’Brien, Robert Swartwood, Kyle Beachy, Megan Williams, Eliza Tudor, Richard Thomas, Eric Nguyen, Marie-Elizabeth Mali, Hilary King, Christina Kapp, Tim Kahl, Jamison Crabtree, Michelle Cheever, Amber Sparks, Lydia Ship and Tania Hershman.

A new story from Michelle Reale appears at the Eunoia Review.

At Metazen, words by JA Tyler. There’s also a poem by Rose Hunter.

The house is on fire at House Fire with fiction by Brial Oliu.

Gary Moshimer has fiction in the Other Room journal.

Used Furniture Review features Aubrey Hirsch.

There’s a poem by  Elizabeth Wade up at Booth.

Graveside, by Tania Hershman appears at Necessary Fiction.

New Northville Review: Donna Vitucci, Meg Pokrass, Thomas Kearnes, and others.

Elisa Gabbert has new poems featured on The Awl.

At Annalemma, In a Name by Erik Smetana.

In other Eric news, a story by Eric Beeny is featured at Metazen.

A new poem from Helen Vitoria is live at Commonline.

Hexagon, by Blake Butler, is online at the Center for Fiction’s magazine, The Literarian.

Connotation Press features poetry by J. Bradley and he is interviewed by J. Bradley. You’ll also find fiction from David Cotrone and Len Kuntz.

The March issue of Word Riot includes Nicolle Elizabeth, Thomas Kearnes, and many others.

Garrett Socol’s comic novel, “Fame & Madness in America,” will be published by Casperian Books at the end of 2011.

There’s also a new issue of The Collagist with a wonder by Sarah Rose Etter and equally fine work by Blake Butler, James O’Brien, and more.

–by Tracy Lucas

I’m tired of worrying. Life is hopeless.

I draw enjoyment out of the little things I’m supposed to (my son’s laugh, the fact that I woke up breathing again today, the taste of warm cookies and cold milk), but I have this choking sense of mortality lately.

My body is getting older and starting to betray me.

I’ve treated it like shit. It should.

But the lack of surprise doesn’t change the fact that my visible decay scares the hell out of me. There are random grey hairs. Wrinkles like leather on my knuckles. Carefully-guarded cellulite spots. Stabbing joint pain where there didn’t used to be, stress headaches brought on by even happy sounds and good music, floaters in my eyes, and favorite foods I suddenly can’t stomach.

I’m fucking aging.

And I don’t want to.

I know most folks here probably don’t listen to country music (and I don’t ALWAYS, so don’t look at me like that), but there’s a song to tell you about. It’s a fairly old one, mid-90s, I think. “Back When We Were Beautiful“, by Matraca Berg.

Lyric snippet:

“I don’t feel very different,” she said, “I know it’s strange.
 I guess I’ve gotten used to these little aches and pains
 But I still love to dance;

 You know, we used to dance the night away
 Back when we were beautiful, beautiful, yes.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

“I hate it when they say I’m aging gracefully
 I fight it everyday. I guess they never see.
 I don’t like this at all,
 What’s happening to me…”

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This is what time is.

There is no coming back. No waiting.

It’s all now, and it isn’t promised.

I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Lightning could strike; it does that sometimes. Maybe there’s cancer in my veins and I don’t know it yet.

I’ve always thought I would die young, in fact. I’ve long dreamed it. I think I even know how.

But now I have a son. And who’s going to tell him shit if I’m not around? Who will tell him my grandfather’s secrets or what he said every night at bedtime or why I make carrot bread at Thanksgiving, and where the recipe really came from? How will he know the games we played and the dozens of etched anecdotes that came before his cognitive capabilities, if I’m gone?

And I will be. We all will be.

Our bodies are each disposable, and there’s no avoiding it. It could be now, it could be later, or we could all go together in some massive disaster-moviesque blitzkrieg extravaganza.

I don’t know where the time goes. I’ve been desperately grasping the holes where it used to be, clawing to save bits of burnt straw.

I wish I could leave myself behind in notebooks, which has been the goal, but really, who will care? There are notebooks the world over we’ve never read, and never will. We’re too worried about our own selves. We don’t have time to learn each other fully on only one trip through.

Everyone wants to be remembered.

Everyone we’ve forgotten wanted that, too.

But time is so, so limited. And we break.

There’s nothing to do with our time but share it.

Ever.