Credits
He thinks he is getting sicker, that the diagnosis is in fact wrong. Good, he thinks, goodbye.
It hurts to walk. Larissa makes him do it anyway. You just concentrate on your pain level, she says. If it’s not high enough, you have to walk harder.
He hates her for it, but she is right.
We’ll walk the bridge this afternoon, she says. It’s nice out. Let’s go.
They’re not getting any writing done, anyhow. Larissa waits by the front door with her eyes closed. The bottom of her shoe scrapes the umbrella stand.
Sometimes when Larissa closes her eyes he wants to eat them. They’re not particularly big eyes, it wouldn’t be that hard. They’re right there.
He and Larissa will walk the Hind Street Bridge for years, the houses blowing up all around them. He will find Larissa’s hands and cup one around his elbow, splinting his funny bone to her index finger, one often fingers he claims only he will be able to see when they are dead and buried together, unless their skulls have been made into mixing bowls or microwave egg poachers for ghoulish talk show hosts chattering up the ossuary, famous people sandbagging the mausoleum. In that case his eyes will be elsewhere and Larissa will look away.
They write, but not for an audience. He always writes for her. He wants to. He wants always to look after her, but now they are both sick. We have our choices, he will tell her, but it isn’t all true. They have few choices, because he and Larissa are dying of Credits.
They read from drug dictionary paperbacks: Credits is a slow, painful, and fatal disease.
They are diagnosed within months of each other, make calls to their friends, send emails to the agent they’ve shared for years. It takes time for him and Larissa to process the news. Then.
They go through the normal litany of emotions that other couples in their position experience: They think about suing the doctor for misinterpretation. He had suspected a trilogy problem at first. Larissa is mad at herself for not reporting her first symptoms sooner. He makes a list
of all the unpasteurized cheese he’s ever eaten and where; she draws a picture-list of his ex-girlfriends, some of whom have telltale under-eye bags. There is a days-long interlude in the house when nobody writes down what they want, and no food is bought at the grocery store. She
gets depressed and stops feeding the cat; he blames his father.
Maybe there’s some undiscovered genetic component to Credits, he says. Larissa lists her tidal and ethnic background: her mother was Scandinavian and she never knew her father. He may have been Dutch. People look at her forehead and cheeks and tell her she is probably part Gumshoe. She once read that there are diseases only coastal people get.
Insanity runs in his family: his father was widowed and had cancers; piles of diapers were on his bedroom floor, he slept on a soiled mattress that gave him bedsores. His father sold his mother’s jewelry and bought proof-like Indian Head coins from a dealer in Texas. He displayed them
in sets. He voted Republican even after the NRA charged his card hundreds of dollars for a promotional video they first claimed was free. More videos arrived after that in his mailbox, and he never watched any of them. He drove his car to the liquor store on tires with air pressure
in the teens. The more he thought about his father, the more unusual things about himself he was able to name.
Wait, Larissa says, what does all this sound like to you?
Complaining, he says.
What else?
A list? He asks.
Exactly, she says. What are lists a lot like?
Credits, he says, not believing he didn’t think of it first. It’s no use, he thinks.
He can barely walk now. He can keep his feet on the ground. They keep on writing, without reading each other’s work. The living room is a cluster bomb of important papers. She holds her breath when finishing a sentence she particularly likes. Often he won’t say a word until late
afternoon. They end up writing the same novel, at least almost.
Their novels are serious things. Despite this, a robot appears in each: a stolid robot shot down on a date for the first time and growing up. Evolving (so they say), arriving somehow at the shopworn: “What is this thing called love? Does not compute. Does not compute!” The robot solves criminal mysteries despite this emotional shortcoming, and Larissa uses more exclamation in her story. This robot makes them laugh. It reminds Larissa of a boy she had gone to college with. Now her head itches if she laughs. Give it another few months, he thinks, and her fingernails will thicken with eggplant-colored bruises.
They check the newspapers every day.
“Common Cold Cured,” she says. What gives?
More: “Paper Cuts Ameliorated,” “Toe Stubs Retreating,” “Razor Burn and Jock Itch Gone,” “Car Sickness and Newspaper Blotch Retreating in 70% of Reporting Districts,” “Bulletproof Breakfast Sandwiches Appear on ‘Coming Soon’ Menus in Drive-throughs;” no cure predicted for Credits, their disease.
Not enough people have it yet, he says. That’s why.
I’m thinking about going off my meds, says Larissa.
If left untreated, the doctors remind them, Credits can spread fast, faster.
The books they’ve written about the lovelorn robot are bought, snapped up, and then they receive news that their own love story, predating all their other stories, is being made into a movie. Our story? She asks, incredulous.
The previews come out, attached to a remastered re-release of Singin’ in the Rain. The tale of two writers, the movie trailer voice says, who made a pledge, and kept it, never to read each other’s writing dot, dot, dot, for forty long years. What they discovered, the voice says, will
change their lives forever. This spring, the voice says.
They know better than to go. A Light-Hearted Musical Comedy is, in fact, something that kills legions people every year in coastal areas. It brings crowds. Thirty years ago, it was a dance, The Electric Slide. It took the lives of hundreds of girls who did it.
She holds him now and sleeps. He waits for her to wake up again. She’s breathing funny. Breaths taken disappear sometimes and wait inside her longer, like they’re hiding. Some mornings Larissa doesn’t recognize him.
They try to walk.
It’s good for both of us, she says.
It’s good for both of us, he says, returning her words like a gentle serve.
They walk back over the Hind Street Bridge, the way they came.
When they first met Larissa called it the Hind Sight Bridge. For now, they save their receipts.
In capital cities there are not even the first, most innocuous signs of Credits. But already, he has to stop walking at moments to take breaks. There is life in both of them, not leaving.
G.C. Waldrep
Precise Feeling (When Rendered Impossible)
The skin gloats,
& a jury of red presence
speaks unhappy grain futures
to music by Bach.
I was born
as a petrified forest,
everyone running through the hemline
a lightning bug made
of my handlebar mustache.
Far up in the hills,
it’s still spring.
The flowers are opening their wallets.
The sun prepares
new meat
for the ghost of the supermarkets.
Winter is like this:
What men do to women.
Your pocket is an oak tree
at a funeral, all
Merovingian & royal.
Where are your wooden underthings.
This movie is too loud.
The skin gloats,
& a jury of red presence
speaks unhappy grain futures
to music by Bach.
I was born
as a petrified forest,
everyone running through the hemline
a lightning bug made
of my handlebar mustache.
Far up in the hills,
it’s still spring.
The flowers are opening their wallets.
The sun prepares
new meat
for the ghost of the supermarkets.
Winter is like this:
What men do to women.
Your pocket is an oak tree
at a funeral, all
Merovingian & royal.
Where are your wooden underthings.
This movie is too loud.
Jason Bredle
The Champion
Put me in a room with anything and I’ll win. This
includes chimps. If the room is empty I’ll be more
empty. A square of sunlight rises west and sets east of
my heart. I have to drink so much Orangina by 11:30.
The neighbor’s cat likes to nap in the sunlight square.
The cat is the solution to most of my issues. I’m trying
to be somebody. Have you heard the new music? You
could probably snap my shins in half right now. There
are a lot of white towels covered with blood. I’m
prepared to hold a revolver to the cat’s head, hold the
cat to the window and yell “I’ll fucking do it, man!” at
any moment. There are a million things I have to tell
you. When my heart darkens, I lie in a corner and the
cat crawls into my arms. I have to make a choice
between good and evil. I’m the most talented raw
superstar there is.
includes chimps. If the room is empty I’ll be more
empty. A square of sunlight rises west and sets east of
my heart. I have to drink so much Orangina by 11:30.
The neighbor’s cat likes to nap in the sunlight square.
The cat is the solution to most of my issues. I’m trying
to be somebody. Have you heard the new music? You
could probably snap my shins in half right now. There
are a lot of white towels covered with blood. I’m
prepared to hold a revolver to the cat’s head, hold the
cat to the window and yell “I’ll fucking do it, man!” at
any moment. There are a million things I have to tell
you. When my heart darkens, I lie in a corner and the
cat crawls into my arms. I have to make a choice
between good and evil. I’m the most talented raw
superstar there is.
Laura Solomon
This Is the Thread by Which to Reach Me Should Anything Go Wrong
you said and it did
for some time the powerlines were down
and I was glad you had thought of the thread
fishing line to be more precise I knew
I would find you if only I abided by every assertion
whithersoever and even if
several caves were in store
but what with the downpour I entered the first as if it were a raincoat
later the forest with the same good faith
finally upon a clearing I came
and as if I had tied a flashlight to my finger
a little halo flew up the hill
what I saw there at the top was inverted and as if held still
by a hand that was almost mine
you said and it did
for some time the powerlines were down
and I was glad you had thought of the thread
fishing line to be more precise I knew
I would find you if only I abided by every assertion
whithersoever and even if
several caves were in store
but what with the downpour I entered the first as if it were a raincoat
later the forest with the same good faith
finally upon a clearing I came
and as if I had tied a flashlight to my finger
a little halo flew up the hill
what I saw there at the top was inverted and as if held still
by a hand that was almost mine
Contributors
Anne Boyer is the author of The Romance of Happy Workers, Art is War, Selected Dreams with a note on phrenology, Anne Boyer’s Good Apocalypse, and the forthcoming novel, Joan. She lives in Kansas.
Jason Bredle is the author of two books and three chapbooks of poetry: A Twelve Step Guide (New Michigan Press, 2004); Standing in Line for the Beast (New Issues, 2007); Pain Fantasy (Red Morning Press, 2007); American Sex Machine (Scantily Clad Press, 2009); and Class Project (Publishing Genius, 2009). He lives in Chicago, where he works in the patient reported outcomes translation field.
Lisa Ciccarello is the author of two chapbooks: At night (Scantily Clad Press) and At night, the dead: (Blood Pudding Press). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming from Glitterpony, elimae, Otoliths, Anti-, Word Riot, and Sawbuck, among others. She received her MFA from the University of Arizona where she was a poetry editor at the Sonora Review; she currently lives in Portland, Oregon and is coeditor at Scantily Clad Press. She keeps a sometimes literary blog at punchinglittlebirdsintheface.blogspot.com.
Claire Hero is the author of Sing, Mongrel (Noemi Press, 2009) and two chapbooks, Cabinet (dancing girl press, 2008) and afterpastures, winner of the 2007 Caketrain Chapbook competition. She lives in upstate New York.
Cecily Iddings’ poems have appeared in jubilat, Meridian, Octopus, Spinning Jenny, and Verse Daily. With Chris Hosea, she edits The Blue Letter, a free direct-mail poetry newsletter (theblueletter@gmail.com).
Karla Kelsey is the author of Knowledge, Forms, the Aviary (Ahsahta Press), Little Dividing Doors in the Mind (Noemi Press), Three Movements (Pilot Press), and Iteration Nets (Ahsahta Press, forthcoming).
Ish Klein’s book, Union! came out in April 2009 through the Canarium Press. Her poems have been published in The Canary, Gare du Nord, The Hat, X-connect, Bridge, Spork and are online. She also makes movies and lives in Philadelphia.
Hugh Merwin is working on a novel about the Russian saints Boris and Gleb.
Ben Mirov lives in Brooklyn. He has poems in or forthcoming from Opium Magazine, Fou, elimae, Forklift, Ohio, Washington Square, and Lamination Colony. His chapbook, I is to Vorticism, recently won the Diagram/New Michigan Press 2009 chapbook contest. Sometimes, he blogs (isaghost.blogspot.com).
Daniele Pafunda is the author of My Zorba (Bloof Books, 2008), Pretty Young Thing (Soft Skull, 2005), and Iatrogenic: Their Testimonies (Noemi Press, forthcoming). She curates poetics forums at the blog journal Delirious Hem, and teaches at the University of Wyoming.
Brett Price serves as poetry editor of Forklift, Ohio and is finishing his MFA at Bard College. His chapbook, Trouble with Mapping, was released from Flying Guillotine Press. He lives in Rosendale, New York.
Ron Rash is the author of the 2009 PEN/Faulkner Finalist and New York Times bestselling novel, Serena, in addition to three other prizewinning novels, One Foot in Eden, Saints at the River, and The World Made Straight; three collections of poems; and four collections of stories, among them Chemistry and Other Stories, which was a finalist for the 2007 PEN/Faulkner Award, and Burning Bright, which will be published in 2010. Twice the recipient of the O. Henry Prize, he teaches at Western Carolina University.
Laura Solomon was born in 1976 in Birmingham, Alabama. Her first book of poetry, Bivouac, was published by Slope Editions in 2002, and her second, Blue and Red Things, by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2007. Other publications include Letters by which Sisters Will Know Brothers (Katalanché Press, 2005), and Haiku des Pierres / Haiku of Stones by Jacques Poullaouec, a translation from the French with Sika Fakambi (Apogée Press, 2006 Paris). Currently she is finishing a third manuscript, The Hermit, and living in Verona, Italy.
Maureen Thorson lives in Washington, D.C., where she co-curates the In Your Ear reading series at the D.C. Arts Center and publishes Big Game Books, an itty-bitty press. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Hotel Amerika, LIT, The Hat, and Exquisite Corpse. Chapbooks are available from flynpyntar/dusie press, the Poetry Society of America, and Ugly Duckling Presse.
Genya Turovskaya was born in Kiev, Ukraine and grew up in New York City. She is the author of two chapbooks, Calendar (Ugly Duckling Presse) and The Tides (Octopus Books). She is the primary translator of Aleksandr Skidan’s Red Shifting, and co-translator (with Stephanie Sandler) of Elena Fanailova’s The Russian Version, both published by Ugly Duckling Presse. Her poetry and translations from Russian have appeared in numerous publications including A Public Space, Aufgabe, Chicago Review, Conjunctions, Gulf Coast, and jubilat. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
G.C. Waldrep's most recent collection of poems is Archicembalo (2009), which won the Dorset Prize from Tupelo Press. He lives in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.
Cover art by Kate Aspinall: www.kateaspinall.com
Many thanks to our designer, Greg Mortimer.
Jason Bredle is the author of two books and three chapbooks of poetry: A Twelve Step Guide (New Michigan Press, 2004); Standing in Line for the Beast (New Issues, 2007); Pain Fantasy (Red Morning Press, 2007); American Sex Machine (Scantily Clad Press, 2009); and Class Project (Publishing Genius, 2009). He lives in Chicago, where he works in the patient reported outcomes translation field.
Lisa Ciccarello is the author of two chapbooks: At night (Scantily Clad Press) and At night, the dead: (Blood Pudding Press). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming from Glitterpony, elimae, Otoliths, Anti-, Word Riot, and Sawbuck, among others. She received her MFA from the University of Arizona where she was a poetry editor at the Sonora Review; she currently lives in Portland, Oregon and is coeditor at Scantily Clad Press. She keeps a sometimes literary blog at punchinglittlebirdsintheface.blogspot.com.
Claire Hero is the author of Sing, Mongrel (Noemi Press, 2009) and two chapbooks, Cabinet (dancing girl press, 2008) and afterpastures, winner of the 2007 Caketrain Chapbook competition. She lives in upstate New York.
Cecily Iddings’ poems have appeared in jubilat, Meridian, Octopus, Spinning Jenny, and Verse Daily. With Chris Hosea, she edits The Blue Letter, a free direct-mail poetry newsletter (theblueletter@gmail.com).
Karla Kelsey is the author of Knowledge, Forms, the Aviary (Ahsahta Press), Little Dividing Doors in the Mind (Noemi Press), Three Movements (Pilot Press), and Iteration Nets (Ahsahta Press, forthcoming).
Ish Klein’s book, Union! came out in April 2009 through the Canarium Press. Her poems have been published in The Canary, Gare du Nord, The Hat, X-connect, Bridge, Spork and are online. She also makes movies and lives in Philadelphia.
Hugh Merwin is working on a novel about the Russian saints Boris and Gleb.
Ben Mirov lives in Brooklyn. He has poems in or forthcoming from Opium Magazine, Fou, elimae, Forklift, Ohio, Washington Square, and Lamination Colony. His chapbook, I is to Vorticism, recently won the Diagram/New Michigan Press 2009 chapbook contest. Sometimes, he blogs (isaghost.blogspot.com).
Daniele Pafunda is the author of My Zorba (Bloof Books, 2008), Pretty Young Thing (Soft Skull, 2005), and Iatrogenic: Their Testimonies (Noemi Press, forthcoming). She curates poetics forums at the blog journal Delirious Hem, and teaches at the University of Wyoming.
Brett Price serves as poetry editor of Forklift, Ohio and is finishing his MFA at Bard College. His chapbook, Trouble with Mapping, was released from Flying Guillotine Press. He lives in Rosendale, New York.
Ron Rash is the author of the 2009 PEN/Faulkner Finalist and New York Times bestselling novel, Serena, in addition to three other prizewinning novels, One Foot in Eden, Saints at the River, and The World Made Straight; three collections of poems; and four collections of stories, among them Chemistry and Other Stories, which was a finalist for the 2007 PEN/Faulkner Award, and Burning Bright, which will be published in 2010. Twice the recipient of the O. Henry Prize, he teaches at Western Carolina University.
Laura Solomon was born in 1976 in Birmingham, Alabama. Her first book of poetry, Bivouac, was published by Slope Editions in 2002, and her second, Blue and Red Things, by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2007. Other publications include Letters by which Sisters Will Know Brothers (Katalanché Press, 2005), and Haiku des Pierres / Haiku of Stones by Jacques Poullaouec, a translation from the French with Sika Fakambi (Apogée Press, 2006 Paris). Currently she is finishing a third manuscript, The Hermit, and living in Verona, Italy.
Maureen Thorson lives in Washington, D.C., where she co-curates the In Your Ear reading series at the D.C. Arts Center and publishes Big Game Books, an itty-bitty press. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Hotel Amerika, LIT, The Hat, and Exquisite Corpse. Chapbooks are available from flynpyntar/dusie press, the Poetry Society of America, and Ugly Duckling Presse.
Genya Turovskaya was born in Kiev, Ukraine and grew up in New York City. She is the author of two chapbooks, Calendar (Ugly Duckling Presse) and The Tides (Octopus Books). She is the primary translator of Aleksandr Skidan’s Red Shifting, and co-translator (with Stephanie Sandler) of Elena Fanailova’s The Russian Version, both published by Ugly Duckling Presse. Her poetry and translations from Russian have appeared in numerous publications including A Public Space, Aufgabe, Chicago Review, Conjunctions, Gulf Coast, and jubilat. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
G.C. Waldrep's most recent collection of poems is Archicembalo (2009), which won the Dorset Prize from Tupelo Press. He lives in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.
Cover art by Kate Aspinall: www.kateaspinall.com
Many thanks to our designer, Greg Mortimer.
Submission Guidelines
saltgrass.journal@gmail.com
Poetry: Submit no fewer than three previously unpublished poems in a single word document to the attention of Julia Cohen, Poetry Editor.
Fiction: Submit up to three stories to the attention of Abigail Holstein, Fiction Editor.
All submissions must arrive as an attachment with last name and genre specified in the subject line.
We suggest reading the sample poems/stories available online if you haven't already read the print issue.
Poetry: Submit no fewer than three previously unpublished poems in a single word document to the attention of Julia Cohen, Poetry Editor.
Fiction: Submit up to three stories to the attention of Abigail Holstein, Fiction Editor.
All submissions must arrive as an attachment with last name and genre specified in the subject line.
We suggest reading the sample poems/stories available online if you haven't already read the print issue.
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