Issue 6.3

The Border

By Mark Belair


as if scraped off

a sky of ice, fluttered

past my window, my flu

to the point of healing where

I could have gone back to school

but my mother kept me home for one

more day, a Friday, which gave me through

the weekend to regain my strength; so I was idle

yet alert, my fever evaporated, the lordly lion once

snarling in my chest become a kitten mewling now and then,

the school bus I could have been riding departed with my friends,

my mother no longer hovering, worried, her ironing board back in gear,

the cartoons on TV oddly vivid, the pratfalls painfully real, my receding illness

having delivered me to a strange, tender place in which I was not sorry my

friends were gone, or my mother preoccupied, or my rough-and-tumble

humor put on hold, for through my window—which I could feel

bordering inside and out as I bordered sickness and health—

I saw, as if for the first time in all my seven years,

the solemn presence

of snow.


Mark Belair is a drummer and percussionist based in New York City. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Atlanta Review, Fulcrum, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poet Lore, Slipstream, The South Carolina Review, The Texas Review, Sanskrit, and The Sun. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and his chapbook collection, Walk With Me, has recently been published by Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. For further information, visit


The Dinosaur

By Mark Belair

There will come a time

when a miniature dinosaur will hold

no joy for this little boy, the turning of it in his hands


no longer turning his mind

to its own possibilities as it does now—

his eyebrows darting as he talks to himself—


for that job will have been done

by the dinosaur and a zillion toys more

and when the boy becomes a man there will come a time


when he idly hands

his own boy a miniature dinosaur

and hears something distant stomping near


then arriving with a gut-thrilling roar: the thought

that of every possibility he’s had a mind

to explore none has brought him,


as has this little boy, such

seemingly impossible




Mark Belair is a drummer and percussionist based in New York City. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Atlanta Review, Fulcrum, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poet Lore, Slipstream, The South Carolina Review, The Texas Review, Sanskrit, and The Sun. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and his chapbook collection, Walk With Me, has recently been published by Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. For further information, visit


By Anders M. Svenning

The Abacus, 2400 BC

SMOOTHENED stones on the sands, laid in parallel lines, he uses logic to deduce numbers. It is citrine magic, the notions he’s been having, numerals not having been developed yet, and the people think he may be mad, shifting rocks around on the sand alone and listening to the ocean breathe in its shallow rapture; his eyes are wild, he moves quickly, surefire calculations by the second, by the hundreds and thousands of units—rocks—so simple, this untapped energy seems perpetual and ever-living. He feels a conduit into nature, the sun skipping along the waters and onto his skin and pecking kisses at his forehead, he has found something in this instance, my light having been shed and him having conceived in it.

The First Fully Mechanical Clock, 724 AD

Cogs and wheels, the ultimate machine, the engineer sweats, his fingers dexterous performing surgery. Hovering over him with the ticks of trinkets, his brain activated, is I, the hermit genius, toying with the essence of time with the twist of a dial; he is humbled as I watch and listen to his creation—an intricate layout of brass and quartz—he feels as though he has indeed understood for a long time the intonations of past ages, how they’ve passed unchecked, unabsorbed, and ill-regarded. In his machine will the day be granted life. And it is endearing how he has come to this present moment, potential fully deployed like wind under a bird; and, ah, yes, here, he does now feel a presence, as if someone is standing beside him.

Eyeglasses, 1280 AD

Pristine edges are cutting precise divisions between matter. There is focus within the eye, the eye clean, and a man feels in this outlandish headpiece sharp, as he holds the contraption to his face with his fingers, it is marvelous how we’ve constructed such tools. He will show the nobles, they will gape. Vibrant colors defined and hyperemotional when the world had once been ambiguous; he can look everywhere and see with exquisite joy the texture of threads and written language and constellations and the facial features of his family, exactly, which have grown foreign in a once-blurred lifetime, now astute; and look, he says, I’ve even tinted the glass, so we can look at the sun.

The Telescope, 1608 AD

How the sky turns!—the circular momentum of the stars, he can predict where the lights will shift and where they will drop into divine circuit around Earth, where the others will emerge. He is projecting out into the void, where the Moon stands; there he finds in the dashing pin-dots sprawled, a face, peace indefinitely, and silence, the celestial masses gliding along the planes of the Gods. Boundlessly, he is looking and perceives a weightless gift, something which he has been searching for, for ages; he is visualizing, wholly and wonderfully, through the crystal lenses he has sculpted, the face of limitless inspiration. It seems suspended, he thinks—the Moon and the stars—and he is anchored here, though he feels he is in fact with me. He feels he is that much closer, being lifted into the atmosphere.

The Revolver, 1835 AD

Six shots, he spins the chamber. The day is warm and I am not quite sure how I feel about this. This weapon will fit in his belt, be hidden from the world lest he flaunts and wields its power. The chests of men will cave in and blow ragged with lead, many times over; there will be blood, I see, but I am helpless, a mere infatuation. The crafted metal will save lives; it will be the cause of relief as well as pain, and the people watching this demonstration—for he now aims down range, his index finger touching snugly the trigger—are riveted; and seen by all the men, as well as myself, is the intensity of their intrigue.

Antibiotics, 1928 AD

Our bodies are smart, as are the viruses, which sicken it; they will mutate, he knows, floundering, into consequential beings, so small they are not seen, but murderers. He fights them with knowledge and without, with ingenuity; he wishes to save lives with this concoction. It is liquid, and he will direct it into the mouths of men, women, and children, a saint. He will take hands into his own to make sure the sicknesses do not gain ground, because he is the barrier between life and death, the apex of understanding, the first to recognize that things may turn bad, that things may end; perhaps these children will live a complete life, perhaps not; he can only imagine what will happen tomorrow, when he brings the medicine to the first of the families, who are waiting in ill-tempered homes, waiting for tomorrow as well.

REM-T, 20— AD

The night falls, as it has many times before. She is upstairs, weeping into her pillow. The white cotton has turned gray because of her tears and her cheeks will wet when she rolls in her sleep. And there I will be waiting for her. Where the times can turn and where she may cast spectral colors into herself, a rainbow upheld by her own consciousness. The dream she will have tonight will change her; I have administered three droplets of my solution into a glass of water, which she has drunk. She will be asleep shortly. I hope to all that the solution will affect her; I have tried it on no one but myself. And it had worked! It had worked, I tell you, and I met the very thing that has driven me to this completeness I feel now: hope, dreams, and color. We will wake tomorrow beside each other in the same bed and she will remark, What an incredible dream, what an incredible morning! And I will lie quietly, smiling, listening to her song and listening to the water in which she bathes dripping and listening to my muscles vibrate, listening to hers do the same, pretending I am still asleep, musing that she, through her bright path of a sleep, has merely discovered all that there ever was to know—


Anders M. Svenning is studying creative writing at the Florida State University and is currently working on his first short story collection, potentially called On His Way to Elysia.  “Ingenuity” is his first published story, of which many are to come, God be willing.


By Heather Haskins

ON the cement step in front of Grandma and Grandpa’s house sits a glass jar. It’s the kind of jar you don’t even have to lift to know that it is heavy, its glass thick and cloudy, its neck little more than a wide opening at the top of its square body. On damp summer mornings, its two gallons of water absorb the grayish color of the foundation underneath. But by early afternoon, the water has turned several shades of brown—darker at the top and gradually fading into dirty transparency near a mound of swollen lemon slices at the bottom—until the muddy looking insides have stained the jar a deep, sun-baked mahogany.

“The agony of the leaves,” my grandmother explained the first time I asked her how sun tea happened. Several hours before, while I rolled a lemon up and down Grandma’s drop leaf kitchen table, I had watched her pluck loose tea leaves from an old wooden box, pinching them between thumb and forefinger, then packing them gently, lovingly, into a tiny metal ball filled with pin-sized holes. The ball, attached to a tiny chain, looked like a tiny shackle that a tiny captive might wear around a tiny ankle to prevent an escape.

“Agony?” I echoed, watching grandma’s delicate fingertips move expertly from wooden box to metal ball, box to ball, box to ball, like a pulse. Her smooth, delicate hands never betrayed her life of scouring and baking and canning and scrubbing. People would never know, just from looking at her, that she had dedicated herself to serving my grandfather and raising her children—my father, his four sisters, and the other sister, the half-sister, from the first marriage Grandma barely acknowledged. The marriage she described as having “happened” to her, like a tornado or diabetes or some other force beyond her control. Never one to indulge in self-pity or hyperbole, Grandma never lied about pre-Grandpa life either. She would only confirm that the marriage to her first husband had both existed and dissolved in the time it took to get pregnant with my half-aunt Linda. Nothing more needed to be said about an unchanging, unchangeable story.

“True stories are usually short,” my grandmother always insisted when I asked her to entertain me with tales of her first marriage. But I knew that her kitchen was her territory, the place where she was most willing to talk about herself. So I went there often. And I waited.

“My first husband, he was a drinker,” she would eventually begin. “A heavy drinker. And he hit me now and then. But he liked the women too, and back then you could have a man thrown in jail for that kinda nonsense. So I was patient. I knew before long he’d end up bringing one of them women home with him when I wasn’t there. It wasn’t long ‘fore I peeked in through the back window and caught him. I didn’t even know her name. He probably didn’t, neither. Well, I took one look at the two of ‘em before I walked back down the driveway and headed to the police station with a belly full of baby. I told ‘em to come get him. And sure enough, they dragged him off to jail. It don’t matter none how I felt about it. How I felt about him. I did what I had to do. And then I got a job. And then I met your grandfather.”

Grandma often joked that she met Grandpa by accident, while he was dating her older sister Jean. “Oh, he got along with Jean, I guess,” she admitted. “But Jean, she was a wild one. Liked the gin and liked the men. You know your grandfather don’t tolerate none of that. I guess I was more his type. I guess maybe Jean and me, we just ended up with the wrong men the first time around.”

I wasn’t so sure that a teenage girl working in a factory and raising a baby by herself was my conventional, Jehovah-worshipping grandfather’s type. What’s more, as the years passed and my grandfather’s increasing demands and short temper became more and more pronounced, I was surprised that he had ever been my grandmother’s type, either. Sure, he didn’t seem as bad as the violent, drunken ex-husband she’d had thrown in jail, but he didn’t seem to appreciate my grandmother. Not like I thought a husband should appreciate his wife. He never thanked her. Or hugged her. Or laughed with her. At least not that I saw.

“So how does the tea happen?” I had asked, trying to pull myself out of the sadness I always felt when I pictured anyone hurting this gentle, soft-spoken woman. Grandma snapped the tiny leaf-filled ball shut and looked directly into my eyes.

“Patience, my dear,” she whispered, wiping her damp hands on the faded gingham apron cinched around her waist. Grandma was what she referred to as “top heavy,” a condition that turned her apron waistband into an equator, separating her round body into northern breasts and southern belly. She was soft and sturdy at the same time, as if her purpose in life was to give birth and feed mouths and bandage bruises. And make sun tea. “Nothing worth anything happens quickly,” she announced as she headed to the giant green cooler in the kitchen corner and filled the jar with fresh spring water.

Nothing worth anything happens quickly. I rarely understood these Grandma-isms, but I loved how they sounded as they fell out of her mouth. They reminded me of the fortunes my cousins and I used to collect from the insides of Bazooka bubblegum wrappers:

“What you think will happen, will.”

“No one knows what you can do until you try.”

“Sometimes what you want is just within your reach.”

While the cooler released a stream of burbling water from the spigot under grandma’s thumb, I thought about how easy she made things seem. In her presence, everything was possible. Everything just happened without effort, like a mysterious, magical force that fed mouths and bandaged bruises. And turned water into tea.

After she filled the jar almost to the top and set it in front of me on the table, Grandma slid her sharpest paring knife from her utensil drawer. With loud, dramatic chops, she sliced three lemons into twelve quarters, stuffing each juicy wedge into the jar, one at a time. Then she plunked the tiny metal ball into the water and positioned the jar’s metal cap. And with a single turn to the right, the cap clicked and locked the ingredients inside.

I sat silently for a moment, memorizing the bright yellow bottom, the ball and chain’s rounded top half floating on the surface while its leaf-filled body dangled below.

“But how does this start out as water and become tea?” I repeated, not sure whether Grandma was misunderstanding my question or I was misunderstanding her answer.

“Well, the sun heats the water. And the hot water opens the tea leaves inside that little ball called an infuser. And when the heat opens the leaves and they swell with water, their color and flavor leaks out into the jar and fills it with tea.”

Even though Grandma had quit high school at age fifteen to help her parents work the family farm, she suddenly sounded as smart as my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Brush.

“That sounds just like one of my Science lessons. How do you know so much about tea, Gram?”

“Oh honey,” she chuckled, “I started making tea when I was big enough to raise the well bucket. And when the day came I could finally buy it from the store, turns out Grandpa and the kids always liked my homemade tea better. So I ain’t never stopped. I guess I been making sun tea for . . .” she paused, closing her eyes and tilting her head back as if her answer hung from the ceiling, “oh . . . about fifty years now. Well, since I was just about your age.”

“But I never see you drink it,” I persisted. “Do you even like sun tea?”

“Oh, it’s ok. I like making if for people who like it,” she winked at me. “So I guess I’d say I like it alright.” She hauled the jar into the crook of her elbow and headed toward the front door. I followed her to the spot on the step I had come to know as the Tea Spot, that little square of grey, gravelly cement just outside the door. In the mornings, before the sun climbed over the house, the chilly step hid in the shade of the rickety wooden roof above. But by early afternoon, it became the perfect place for lazy tea leaves to awaken and unfurl their essence. And as long as that step held a jar in some stage of brewing, everything felt the same. Everything seemed okay.

“Now, we wait,” Grandma sighed as she set the jar down with a grunt while glass and stone scraped against one another.

Time seemed both endless and stalled while the sun and the tea had their familiar conversation: Heat. Brew. Infuse. Release. Darken.

The agony of the leaves.

The agony of the waiting.

When the tea was finally ready—a judgment my grandmother based on a particular shade of brown—my initial excitement always faded behind the unquenchable longing to leave the jar where it stood. Untouched. Its seal unbroken. Its flavor an untasted promise. But eventually, Grandma disappeared into the house and returned with two perfectly frosted mugs whose massive handles she placed in my tiny grip. In the moment it took to turn-click-pop the metal cap, I realized that the sadness I suddenly felt came from my belief that nothing could ever be as rewarding as the first taste of a new batch of sun tea.

As if she could hear my feelings, Grandma wrapped her arm around my shoulders and held the jar in pouring position. “This is our reward,” she smiled, “for patience.” Then she knelt beside me on the cement step and filled the mugs between us with the perfect shade of brown. And together, we swallowed the moment forever.


Heather Haskins is currently completing her Masters of Fine Arts in creative nonfiction at Lesley University in Cambridge, MA. Primarily a nonfiction writer, Heather is writing her first full length memoir while continuing to produce shorter personal essays, humor writing, and flash fiction. As a member of the Hudson Valley Writers Guild, she participates in several local writing groups and is developing her latest project, a work-in-progress blog called “Lighten Up,” as a way of “peeking through the darkness and metaphors” once in awhile.” In her day job, she writes and manages state and federal grants, policies, and documents on domestic violence.