El Portal – El Portal Literary Journal

A Love Affair with Death

March 2024 Web Feature by Brandon Ligon

Brandon Ligon is an Arizona-based writer and composer with passions in soundscapes and the surreal. Dreams, night, and nonhuman narrators are major inspirations for his work, constantly blurring the boundary of accepted reality. His art strives to reveal the hidden nuances to our daily lives.

This piece was originally featured in our Fall 2023 issue and chosen as a web feature for March 2024.

A Love Affair with Death by Brandon Ligon

Death was a Frenchman when he came to me. He wore a thick black cloak that rained down the entirety of his body, and a dark hood covered his head and shrouded his face.

He was gorgeous when I saw him, despite the enigma of his heavy dress weighing under the summer sun. Never did a word leave his mouth, but his shadowed lips curled and smiled politely at my embrace. Occasionally, a flash of unrecognition would sweep across his face, but the familiar geniality and tenebrous love would resurface as Death repossessed the man’s body.

Truth be told, I was in love with the Frenchman. We met in that quiet part of Phoenix where we could sit and watch the mountains. A cool winter night was descending on the valley, but neither of us had any obligations (or at least ones we cared about), and there was no point in leaving our cozy spot on the bench. Once the red twinkles appeared in the sky, glittering off the tips of the mountain’s radio towers, I leaned in to kiss him. At that moment, he seemed cold, put on his cloak, and Death became him—we kissed anyway.

There is a grave misconception about Death: I’ll be the first to say that Death is not dead. He is a living, breathing, loving being who doesn’t have to harm or kill. I’ve been asked how I knew it was Death and not the Frenchman, but I just knew it was. I felt it in the way he leaned in, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, yet remained ever so careful to keep his cloak clutched tightly across his body.

Another reason, I would tell my friends, is that Death is inhumanly polite. The Frenchman would peel back the cloak and say a few words in French. I’d tell him to speak kindly or to speak not at all, but he would say français est la langue d’amour, n’est-ce pas?, and my ears would hear “French is the language of mort,” to which he would shake his head and avoid me until Death repossessed him.

And when that happened, oh, such a glorious moment! He would pardon his French, turn cold, and with such care and delicacy, bring his finger to his mouth and grin. Once, I slapped him because I didn’t believe Death was truly taking over at that moment, but he didn’t budge. I think he wanted to say how he would never betray me like that, but he remained silent, as Death always does. Perhaps he was afraid of killing me, that the sacred breath of life could be stolen merely through the word of Death. I even asked the Frenchman whenever he stole back his body if he remembered what he had been doing. He’d say, “Oh, I was at the marché,” not acknowledging that he had returned home days before.

Yet, Death was becoming concerned. We were in bed together, his body cloaked as usual, and I felt him falter in his embrace, the first time he had ever rejected my love. It had been difficult for us to be together because the Frenchman was fighting back, and his vigor had taken a toll on Death’s health. There was perpetually that bit of him focused elsewhere, keeping himself in the Frenchman’s body, keeping my ex-love out of his own body. I could no longer restrain myself—I vowed to Death that I would keep the Frenchman at bay, and we could be together, just me and him.

“You’re hallucinating. Qui est Death?” The Frenchman had returned, curling his fingers beneath the cloak’s thick fabric, threatening to tear it off his head and body.

I hurled my fists into his face and knocked him out cold. I thought that maybe Death would resurface, that we could finally be free of the Frenchman’s reign, but he did not reappear.

I panicked and shoved myself into his cloak so I could be closer to him, determine if he was alive and well. A large number of feathery, puffy things tickled my chest and prickled my chin, but I didn’t want to let him go, not yet. I tried reaching for his belly, but Death pulled me out, and yes, it was Death himself! I was overwhelmed in my delight, but I could not have foreseen a sadder expression on his face. I helped him stand up and, wearily, he motioned me toward the balcony.

I must at least credit the Frenchman with having a tranquil, second-floor balcony overlooking the mountains. And such a beauty, only a murmur of traffic far in the distance, the whispering of breezy grass.

If not for this, I would have never loved him.

Before I knew Death, François and I would listen to the desert and gently suck in the muggy air, bringing our lips close together and exhaling into the others’ nostrils. I’d say the few words of French I knew. He would smile, remain quiet for a time, then compliment my attempt at speaking his language before teaching me a new word by saying it into my mouth. That was before he fell completely silent, and in his amorous expression, there was Death.

Now, at the balcony, I thought he was going to speak. He began to peel away at his cloak, with a calm and gentleness inherent only to him. At the precipice of dropping the heavy shroud entirely, he opened his mouth, and began to speak.

The cloak fell. Yellow and orange puffy birds whizzed out his throat, and they all said, “I love you.” Each cry was another punch to his gut. Once the last small bird sang its shrill proclamation of love, there was no one left in front of me, and Death, his cloak, had fallen onto the dusty landscape below.

This is West – Grimble’s Curiosities

Curiosity Shop

“I know exactly what will interest you,” Mr. Grimble said to the young couple browsing his wares to furnish their new home. He led them to his furniture aisle, briefly glancing out his shop window at the men hanging a sign on the store across the street.

“We’re not looking for anything too fancy,” the young woman said as they passed the china sets and rare coins.

Mr. Grimble turned from the window back to his customers before he could read the sign. “I don’t consider my items fancy, per se,” he said. “I prefer to think of them as special. Each of my wares is completely unique, with its own special history and meaning. You want your home to be special, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course,” the young woman said.

“Then this is the thing for you,” Mr. Grimble said, stopping in front of an antique European office chair. “These were manufactured during the height of the post World War I industrial boom. Very popular amongst businessmen. They oversaw many great operations while lounging in these chairs. This particular piece I know was owned by a Belgian clock factory owner. Most were destroyed in bombings and fires over the next few decades, but the clock maker loved his chair so much he had it sent overseas to keep it safe.” Mr. Grimble walked around the antique admiringly. “This isn’t just an office chair, it’s a throne.”

The young couple seemed unimpressed. They looked at the price tag and shook their heads.

“I’m not sure it’s really us, you know,” the young woman said.

“Of course,” Mr. Grimble said. “Let me show you some other items I know would be perfect for you.”

The young man looked around the shop and said, “Um, I don’t think you have what we’re looking for. Thanks.”

Mr. Grimble thanked the young couple for visiting and smiled as they walked out. After they were gone he sighed and sunk into the clock maker’s chair. He tightened his grip on armrests and looked back out the window. The sign across the street was up now. It read, Coming Soon. Francesca’s Trivialities. Mr. Grimble wondered what the hell a triviality shop was.

–

For days Mr. Grimble watched from his counter as customer after customer exited the triviality shop with useless crap and smiles on their faces. They left with cheap Chinese toys, common thrift store clothing, and mediocre knick-knacks. And barely a soul had bothered to pop inside his curiosity shop, let alone buy anything. So when he heard the bell attached to his door jingle, he greeted the schoolteacher over-excitedly.

She was looking for anything related to astronomy, as she was an amateur enthusiast. Mr. Grimble’s heart leapt. For some time he had been trying to unload a vintage 50’s telescope, used by the team that discovered the first binary pulsar.

“Oh my, how interesting,” the schoolteacher said. She asked many questions about the piece, growing more excited as he told its history.

This is how it’s done, Mr. Grimble thought to himself. You don’t just heap a bunch of garbage on as many customers as you can. You find the right item for the right person and that’s the sale that counts.

“And what is its magnification?” The schoolteacher asked.

“It had a magnification of 150X,” Mr. Grimble said. “Not as powerful as others at the time, but ideal for minimizing brightness glares.”

“What do you mean had?” the schoolteacher asked.

“Well, the telescope is no longer functional. Its worth comes strictly from its historical value,” Mr. Grimble told her.

The schoolteacher’s face soured. “Ah, I see.”

She quickly browsed the rest of the shop, finding nothing to her liking. Mr. Grimble returned to his counter and watched the schoolteacher cross the street to the triviality shop. After much longer than she had spent in his store, the schoolteacher reappeared with two large bags looking very satisfied. Mr. Grimble wondered what on earth she found over there instead of here. He spent the rest of the day watching the store across the street, gripping his hands together tightly, until a lanky woman with a bandana tied over her hair flipped the open sign to closed.

–

In the back office, Mr. Grimble poured over his record books. It was clear sales had flatlined since the opening of the triviality shop. Curiosities could not compete with trivialities, it seemed. Mr. Grimble scratched his head aggressively, unsure what he should do.

The front door bells jingled and a woman’s voice called out, “Hello! Hello!”

Mr. Grimble returned to the display floor to find the lanky woman with the bandana checking out his selection of mirrors.

Mr. Grimble tightened his fists. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, hi, yes, are you Mr. Grimble?” she asked. “I’m Francesca, from across the street. I just wanted to come by and say hello and introduce myself.” She extended her hand to Mr. Grimble, who reciprocated with one stiff shake. “I’ve wanted to stop by and see your store for a long time,” Francesca continued, “but I’ve just been so busy with the opening and all. You know how it is.”

“Sure,” Mr. Grimble said.

“So, wow, you got a lot of neat stuff here,” Francesca said, strolling through the aisles.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Mr. Grimble asked.

“Oh, I’m never looking for anything in particular,” she said and picked up a porcelain dove off a shelf. “Hey, I like this.”

“That’s not right for you,” Mr. Grimble said. “Its part of the Kaolin Collection. You’re not a collector, are you?”

“No. I’ve never heard of Kaolin,” Francesca said.

“Well, it belongs in a collection,” Mr. Grimble said, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Oh, OK,” Francesca set the dove back on the shelf.

Mr. Grimble relaxed his hands and took a deep breath. “Here, I have the perfect thing for you,” he said and ushered her to a display of wall mounts. In between a taxidermied antelope head and a framed ticket to the Brisbane World’s Fair hung an eighteenth century battle axe. Its handle short and engraved with a spiral pattern, the head almost as long as the handle, the back of the head bore a faded crest.

“My god, you can’t be serious?” Francesca gawked.

“It’s Spanish. Made sometime around 1780. A common weapon of the royal army. The stamp on the hilt suggests it was owned by a sergeant. It was recovered from a sunken ship off the coast of Florida. I have the papers to prove its authenticity.”

“Mr. Grimble,” Francesca said, shrugging her arms. “What would I possibly do with a battle axe?”

Mr. Grimble grabbed the axe with both hands and removed it from its display hook. He held it upright in front of him, admiring it, then offered it to Francesca.

“Hold it,” he said.

“No, really,” Francesca waved her hands at the piece.

“Please,” Mr. Grimble said and stepped closer to her. “See how it feels.”

“Well,” Francesca said, tapping a finger to her chin. “I never have held an antique Spanish weapon before, and who knows if I’ll get another chance.”

She took the axe from him.

“Wow, its heavy,” she said, awkwardly handling axe, holding the blade as far from herself as possible. “Is this thing sharp?”

“I keep all my wares in pristine condition.”

“Uh-huh,” Francesca said. “You know, I think I’ll pass on the battle axe.” She handed it back to Mr. Grimble. “But I’ll take that dove, though.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Grimble said.

Francesca walked back down the aisle to grab the porcelain dove.

Mr. Grimble tightened his grip on the axe.

(Fiction and Photography by Wesley Martin)

Call for Submissions

Time is running out! El Portal is currently accepting submissions for its Fall 2017 issue, but there’s only three days left! Fiction, nonfiction, flash fiction, poetry, photography, and art are all welcome internationally. Simultaneous submissions are welcome. Deadline 11:59pm, March 31st.

For Terms of Submission: Click Here

For Submission Guidelines: Click Here

The Spring 2017 issue is well on its way. Additionally, we recently released our Fall 2016 issue, which we’re proud to say is our best yet and includes a very talented array of writers, poets, photographers, and artists.

To check it out: Click Here

To check out previous issues of El Portal: Click Here

If you have any further questions about El Portal or the submission process, please feel free to email the editor at el.portal@enmu.edu.

This is West – Fetching Apples

Apples

Mary Louise stole Uncle Romeo’s lion tooth necklace off the table and ran out the back door. Uncle Romeo always said that the tooth would bring courage to the wearer, and he would know, being a stuntman for the circus and all. Mary Louise knew stealing was wrong, that Mother and God would be angry with her, but she was the only one who needed courage right now. She was really just borrowing it. God would understand. And if she was quick enough, Mother would never find out.

Besides, it was Mother who sent her out anyway, even though she knew Mary Louise didn’t like walking the farm alone. She had told her to fetch some apples so she could make dumplings for everyone during Uncle Romeo’s visit. Everyone else got to stay inside and listen to Uncle Romeo’s stories, but she had to fetch apples from all across the farm. Fetching things for Mother always fell onto Mary Louise. She wanted to protest when Mother had told her to get the apples, but didn’t want appear childlike in front of Uncle Romeo.

She slipped the lion tooth necklace over her head as she crossed through the gardens towards the apple tree. This farm was so much bigger than the one back in Ohio where they barely had room for Father to grow his wheat. But here they had gardens and chickens and even a pond, all surrounded by a great big wheat field. Mary Louise hadn’t gotten used to it yet. She didn’t like being alone in such open space.

She plucked an onion stalk to chew on as she cut through the gardens. And she circled around the chicken coop because she hated the way the chickens would rush at the cage and startle her. Past the chicken coop and over a hill by the pond stood the apple tree. Mother was so excited about having an apple tree, even though this one was rather small and not the greatest producer of fruit. Still, Mother loved the tree so much she insisted father put a fence around it to protect it from any greedy creatures wanting her apples.

At the top of the hill Mary Louise froze, dropping the onion stalk from her mouth. She grabbed the lion tooth hanging over her chest and felt her heart pounding. The biggest, most monstrous boar Mary Louise had ever seen thrashed about in a hole carved out under the fence. It was easily twice as big as any boar she had seen in Ohio, and it didn’t just have nubs for tusks: these tusks could stab straight through a grown man’s hand. Blood ran down its bristly haired body where it was cutting itself under the fence posts. Apparently the beast had been working its way to the apple tree and unwittingly pinned itself. It grunted and kicked futilely.

Mary Louise rubbed her thumb over the lion tooth and fought the urge to run back to the house. The boar struggled below her, seemingly unaware of her presence. She picked up a dirt clod and tossed it at the animal’s backside and ducked behind the hill. She peeked back at the boar, which only grunted and squirmed as it had before.

Mother had said to fetch seven apples, one for everybody to have their own dumpling. Inside the fence, Mary Louise spotted some scattered apples. With one hand clutching the lion tooth and the other holding the burlap sack, Mary Louise started down the hill. The boar had dug his hole near the gate, so she climbed over on the opposite side, trembling as she did so. Halfway over the fence her eyes met the hollow yellow eyes of the boar. The fence wobbled and Mary Louise tumbled towards the tree, only a few feet from the beast’s enormous snout. She scrambled upward and backed up into the fence. Despite the boar’s wild flailing, he remained stuck in place. Mary Louise opened the burlap sack and scrambled around the tree, picking up apples, always keeping an eye on the boar.

She gathered six; just one short. The tree had already dropped most of its fruit. She saw a ripe apple she could reach if she climbed the trunk a short way, but she would have to take her eye off the boar. She stuffed her foot into a knot in the trunk and reach for the nearest limb. Then she saw the entire fence was shaking violently. She turned around just as the posts pinning the creature snapped in half. The boar broke free and the fence collapsed. Without thinking, Mary Louise heaved herself into the tree, narrowly avoiding being gored.

She clamped herself to the branch while the boar rammed itself repeatedly into the trunk. She dropped the sack of apples and the boar mindlessly trampled them. Apple bits and pieces of bark flew into her face. The lion tooth whip-lashed around her neck until Mary Louise snatched it, but the shaking caused the necklace to snap and she lost her grip of the branch. Mary Louise plummeted downward. However, instead of hitting the ground to be trampled like the apples, she landed on top the boar’s back. This surprised the boar as much as it did her, and for an instant it halted its assault. Mary Louise realized she still held the lion tooth. She latched herself around the beast’s neck before it started bucking, and she stabbed the tooth repeatedly into its eyes.

(Fiction and Photography by Wesley Martin)

Call for Submissions

IMG_0306 (1) — Photo by Dr. Linda Sumption

Time is running out! El Portal is currently accepting submissions for its Fall 2017 issue, but there’s only a week left! Fiction, nonfiction, flash fiction, poetry, photography, and art are all welcome internationally. Simultaneous submissions are welcome. Deadline 11:59pm, March 31st.

For Terms of Submission: Click Here

For Submission Guidelines: Click Here

To check it out: Click Here

To check out previous issues of El Portal: Click Here

If you have any further questions about El Portal or the submission process, please feel free to email the editor at el.portal@enmu.edu.

This Is West – Things Lost

100_1264

The diner was a little sweaty this time of year. The heat in the kitchen was unbearable, the parking lot burned hot as a frying pan, and flies clung to the outside of the windows in small swarms, delicate legs in the dozens crawling around in what little shade the sills had to offer, granting the illusion of grime. Customers complained sometimes—they always did—but there was nothing to be done about it. The smell of greasy food and sugary drinks drew them in. The pesticides didn’t keep them out.

Ella covertly wiped the sweat from her brow before stepping out of the kitchen and back onto the floor. The AC kept the main room cool most days. When the temperature vaulted up over 95 degrees it got a little tepid. At 100 degrees most started to complain. It was 104.

The floor was more or less empty. A few people sat along the wall in booths, drinking tall, cool glasses of soda and tea and water with lemon. A young man chatted up one of the waitresses and a couple Ella had seen a time or two sat silently on opposite sides of the booth, looking in different directions. Ella had seen a dozen lives change over supper. She wondered if they’d still be wearing rings next time they came in.

Hal—an older man and a regular—sat in his favorite booth in the back, tapping his fork against the side of his glass not out of rudeness to get her attention, but as a tick he couldn’t control. She’d hated him at first. Now he was one of her favorites. But today he seemed disquiet, staring out the window at the clouds gathering on the horizon.

It was supposed to rain that night. An end to the drought at last.

“Over in Arizona we used to get these real big thunderstorms,” he said when she made her way over to his table to check on him. They were pals by now. She knew exactly what he’d order because it was always the same. In turn, he asked after her kids. “Always worried it might be the big one. The ground gets too hard and dry; the water just stays on top. Floods the place out. My house got flooded three or four times that way.”

Ella remembered dancing in ankle-deep water outside her own house as a child—a little shack tucked back and down from a street without a curb. Any time it rained more than a little, all the water from the entire street would pool in her front yard. As she got older, it scared her more and more. Sometimes the steps disappeared. Sometimes the water went up to-mid calf, only stinted from flooding her home by the high foundation it sat on and the slow drain of water into hard earth.

Brown water, sprinkled with floating patches of dry grass. When she pulled her feet out to step back up onto the porch, her legs would be plastered with debris. The air was electric. The air was alive. She was so, so young.

“It doesn’t happen much here,” she said and stared out at the clouds now, too. Giant, white, fluffy. But tonight they would bring lightning and thunder. The radio had been screeching shrill flash flood warnings all afternoon. “We get a little flooding, but nothing like you see on TV.”

She patted him on the shoulder in a comforting gesture, but he kept staring out at the sky, where the street seemed to shimmer in waves of thick, exhausting heat.

(Fiction and Photography by Kayleen Burdine)

Call for Submissions

Untitled

It’s that time again! El Portal is currently accepting submissions for its Fall 2017 issue. Fiction, nonfiction, flash fiction, poetry, photography, and art are all welcome internationally. Simultaneous submissions are welcome. Deadline 11:59pm, March 31st.

For Terms of Submission: Click Here

For Submission Guidelines: Click Here

To check it out: Click Here

To check out previous issues of El Portal: Click Here

If you have any further questions about El Portal or the submission process, please feel free to email the editor at el.portal@enmu.edu.

This is West – “The Masterpiece”

deli

I had never heard of this man, this bewildering artist simply called Mikey as his nametag declared. Nevertheless, his exhibit garnered more attention than any other piece at the gallery. His space, nay, his stage, had a perpetual line of visitors awaiting their chance to experience his artistry. The curators of the event must have had the foresight to know his performance art would attract the largest crowd, for his stainless steel cart from which he created his masterpieces was located in the back, somewhat distanced from the other exhibits.

As not to appear too eager, I browsed the other pieces, half-heartedly admiring the portraits and landscapes and sculptures, occasionally commenting to a fellow fan of the arts, but it was the line to Mikey that had my true attention. After spending only a fraction of the time with the other artworks than I normally would have, I took my place amongst the other guests in line hungering for their turn with the splash out artist.

“Next,” he called, and the line moved forward slightly.

Mikey had bound his dreads into a pinned up ponytail, capped with a visor. He wore a matching apron with his nametag in the corner. He wore latex gloves and, never missing a detail, had a splotch of mustard on his forearm.

After watching many satisfied patrons leave his cart with their own original creations crafted right before their eyes, Mikey finally called “Next,” and approached the glass window separating the performer from the audience.

“How may I help you?” Mikey asked me, friendly, inviting. This was a man whose whole purpose was to share his art with others.

“Help me?” I said. “Sir, by engaging in your work you would not only help me, you would honor me.”

“Uh, right, OK.” Mikey said. “Bread?”

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, then I noticed the placard listing multiple bread choices. My curiosity increased tenfold. Were we, the audience, to participate in the creation of these works? “Italian,” I replied, hoping it would be a choice Mikey would approve of.

He silently retrieved a loaf from beneath the counter and placed it on a sheet of parchment paper before cutting it open lengthwise. I awed at the mindfulness in which he executed the cut, clearly the hands of someone with hundreds of hours of experience.

“Meat?” Mikey said next.

I saw that placards existed for each step of the artwork’s creation. There were so many choices. I was suddenly perplexed.

“What do most people get?” I inquired, knowing I must seem amateurish to the man.

“Probably turkey,” Mikey said, with no air of judgment. “But hey man, this is for you. Not anyone else. Watchyu want?”

“I suppose I shall have the roast beef.” I replied, exalted with a rush of applying my own person onto the piece.

“Cheese?” Mikey continued.

“Oh,” I said, tapping my chin. “Pepperjack. No, American. No, pepperjack.”

I tugged at my shirt collar, uncertain with my choice. However, Mikey paid my indecisiveness no mind, and added the cheese slices.

“Veggies?” He said, sliding the parchment paper down the counter.

I leaned in closer to the glass window to examine my options, my many options. Truly, no two creations had to be the same. There was infinite potential within Mikey’s craft.

“How much can I get?” I asked.

“As much as you want,” Mikey said. “But personally, I think less is more when it comes to the toppings. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think I do.” I nodded, absorbing those sage words.

I reexamined my choices, carefully considering what veggies could say the most with the least embellishment.

“I’ll take black olive, red pepper, and,” feeling a bit bolder, “onion.”

Mikey assembled the last ingredients and folded the creation closed before cutting it in half at a diagonal. Then he wrapped up the piece and handed it to me.

“That will be four eighty-nine.” He said.

“Yes, of course,” I could hardly believe that such an incredible experience came at such a reasonable price. I withdrew my checkbook and wrote the artist the specified amount. Upon handing the artist his check, his eyes widened.

“Wow. Thanks, brother.”

I reveled in his usage of such familiar association. Indeed, there was a kinship between him and me. Both of us contributing to the artwork’s creation, neither knowing exactly how it would unfold.

“No, thank you,” I said. Then I looked for a place to sit, where I might further endeavor to appreciate the masterpiece in my hands.

(Fiction and Photography by Wesley Martin)

Call for Submissions

For Terms of Submission: Click Here

For Submission Guidelines: Click Here

To check it out: Click Here

To check out previous issues of El Portal: Click Here

If you have any further questions about El Portal or the submission process, please feel free to email the editor at el.portal@enmu.edu.

This is West – A Breath

lug_sunset — “Sunset in Lugansk” by Alex Chupryna, retrieved from Wikimedia Commons

Darren knew the moment he opened his eyes that it was too early to be awake. Pale light illuminated the dusty blinds, but did nothing to combat the morning darkness. The old radio beside the bed pronounced the time in blue: 5:47 a.m.

For a moment he stared up at the ceiling and took in the stillness. It’d been years since he last came home, years since he’d slept in this bedroom and woken up with his parents down the hall. They slept in separate bedrooms now; no sense in sharing at their age. In the room that’d once been his sister’s, his mother’s oxygen machine wheezed gently behind a closed door, pumping air into lungs that could no longer be trusted. He imagined his father was already awake downstairs, hunched over his coffee.

Darren sat up, pushed the old quilt aside, and placed his feet on the chilled wood floor. It was a motion he’d repeated every single day for nineteen years, yet now he marveled at the oddity. He knew this room inside and out; knew better than anyone that there were still probably stickers on the inside of the closet door and that he’d once hidden a dirty magazine behind the loose bit of wall paneling now hidden by a dresser. It was the newfound emptiness that skewed the space and made it unrecognizable. Nothing from the old days seemed to remain.

Careful to be quiet—though he imagined his mother couldn’t hear much over the machine strapped to her face—Darren snuck down the stairs, skipping the sixth step out of habit because it probably still creaked. The kitchen light wasn’t on. His father must still be sleeping.

He fumbled around the kitchen by what little light had begun to leak in through the window over the sink. The coffee dripped sluggishly into the pot as it brewed. He watched the dark liquid rise behind the glass and, when there seemed to be enough, he poured himself a cup that wasn’t quite two thirds full. The tendrils of steam rose like phantoms.

He unlocked the back door, wincing as it creaked, then slipped outside and took a seat at the ancient picnic table. The sky was pale blue, lingering on the edge of darkness. His arms and legs were uncomfortably chilled by the morning air. This, at least, stirred some memories.

The old tom cat that’d greeted him when he arrived the day before slunk up onto the patio and snaked its way between his legs.

“Are you taking care of them?” he asked.

The cat sat down under the table and stared back with big yellow eyes.

(Fiction by Kayleen Burdine)

Welcome Back!

Processed with VSCOcam with se2 preset — Photo by Jade Smith

Another winter break has passed and El Portal is finally back in business for the Spring 2017 semester. As of January 1, we are now accepting submissions for our Fall 2017 issue and are pleased to announce that our Spring 2017 issue is well on its way with an exciting new lineup of talented writers and artists. The submission deadline for the Fall 2017 issue is March 31, 2017. Please check out our submission guidelines and terms of submission for more details.

We are likewise pleased to announce that the new year heralds the return of some old faces, so be on the lookout for the continuation of the This is West series this Friday, written and photographed by Kayleen Burdine and Wesley Martin. You might even be seeing some special entries by guest writers, as well!

We look forward to fresh publications in the new year and we thank you, as always, for reading El Portal.

This is West – Guest Writer Steve Bellin-Oka

Still Life with the Plague of Darkness
— for my daughter

I woke this morning before dawn
to find the nation’s hearts had hardened.
Something stretched out its hand—a darkness
so thick it felt like gauze.
It seemed it would last for days.
Even the pavement cracks were wider:
more thick weeds forcing up
through the ridged concrete.
Overnight, someone stepped on them
and now we think our backs are broken.

But they’re not—I think of you
in another time zone, just turned thirteen,
the same sun rising from the far end
of the city. We’d wanted a land
less dangerous for you. To find
our questions answered. To wipe layers
away from the cocoon you struggle
to break free of. Forgive us.

But the November branches define
themselves against the slow sunrise.
Brown and red leaves still cling to them.
Inside the house now, I’ve pulled
the curtains back. Already so much
light pours in—nothing can keep it out.

An assistant professor of English at ENMU, Steve Bellin-Oka is the author of two chapbooks, The Frankenstein Poems (2014) and Dead Letter Office at North Atlantic Station (forthcoming in 2017). His work has appeared in Cream City Review, Mississippi Review, William and Mary Review and Yalobusha Review, among other journals, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets prize and fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center, the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, and the Hambidge Center for the Arts, and was recently shortlisted for the Key West Literary Seminar’s Scotti Merrill Memorial Award. He is currently finishing his first full-length book of poems.

Fall 2016 Launch Party

343

For our local readers, El Portal is very pleased to announce its Fall 2016 launch party will be happening at 4pm on Wednesday, November 9th in the Jack Williamson Liberal Arts Center lobby here at Eastern New Mexico University. Join us for a reading of student work and a presentation of student photography while helping us honor our student contributors and the Fall 2016 prize winners! It’s sure to be a great time.

Call for Submissions

el-portal-header

It’s time! Today’s the submission deadline for the Spring 2017 issue of El Portal, so make sure you get your potential publications sent to us by midnight. The next submission period won’t begin until January, so this is your last chance for awhile! Fiction, nonfiction, flash fiction, poetry, photography, and art are all welcome internationally. Simultaneous submissions are welcome. Deadline 11:59pm, October 31st.

For Terms of Submission: Click Here

For Submission Guidelines: Click Here

Additionally, we recently released our Fall 2016 issue, which we’re proud to say is our best yet and includes a very talented array of writers, poets, photographers, and artists.

To check it out: Click Here

To check out previous issues of El Portal: Click Here

If you have any further questions about El Portal or the submission process, please feel free to email the editor at el.portal@enmu.edu.

This is West – Fortunes

japancastle

“You gotta be shitting me,” Gulliver said for maybe the third time since striking up a conversation with the Asian guy whose car broke down along the freeway near the store. “You traveled all this way, halfway around the world, just because of some fortune teller? That’s one of the craziest damn things I ever heard.”

Edmond couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, or at least Gulliver’s half of it, while restocking the beef jerky on the opposite side of the shop. Fortune teller vaguely registered through Edmond’s zombie-like state, but over the years Edmond had come to tune out most of things Gulliver lauded over with the customers.

The Asian guy laughed and said something Edmond couldn’t make out, but he could tell the guy had an accent.

Edmond checked his watch. Only forty-two more minutes before he could go home and binge on some National Geographic.

“So what kind of treasure are you expecting to find out here?” Gulliver asked the man.

Fortune teller. Treasure. Edmond stopped hanging the jerky packages and listened.

“I don’t know for sure. Gold and jewels, maybe,” the man said. “But she also said I’d find treasures worth far more than anything I could imagine.”

Edmond jutted up from the aisle to face the foreign traveler. Mid-twenties, wearing a polo and khakis, grinning like he just got off an amusement park ride.

“And you believed that?” Gulliver gawked. “Sorry, buddy, but it sounds like a scam to me.”

“Maybe.” The traveler shrugged. “However, I paid the fortune teller nothing. She told where to find the treasure in exchange for ten percent of what I find. Why would she do that?”

Edmond glided out the jerky aisle, intently watching the two men chat at the counter.

“Well, you got me there.” Gulliver said. “But not everybody would just up and leave like you did.”

The traveler’s grin faltered momentarily. “Well, it wasn’t as easy as that,” he said.

Gulliver pointed out the front windows to a tow truck coming down the freeway. “Buddy, you’re ride is here.”

“Wonderful,” the traveler said. “Hopefully it won’t cost a fortune to get that thing fixed, cuz I haven’t found mine yet.”

The two men laughed. Edmond stared wide-eyed at them from the slushie machine. The traveler thanked Gulliver for the phone call and the company, then moved for the door.

“Hey,” Edmond called out. The man stopped and turned around.

“Where are you from?” Edmond asked as he walked towards him.

“Japan.”

“From Shinshiro?” Edmond said.

“I-yeah.” The traveler cocked his head at Edmond. “How did you know?”

Edmond stopped directly in front of the man, next to the sunglasses kiosk. Their reflections bounced back at them from the dozens of lenses.

“I saw a fortune teller once. She told me that if I traveled to Nagashino Castle in Shinshiro I would find a great treasure.”

“Oh,” the man nodded. “But you didn’t go.”

“No. I didn’t.”

The tow trucks horn honked.

The man looked Edmond in the eyes, then left the store.

“Holy Hell, Edmond,” Gulliver said. “What was that about?”

Edmond watched the traveler hop into the tow truck and vanish down the freeway.

“Gulliver,” Edmond said. “I quit.”

(Fiction by Wesley Martin)

El Portal – Fall 2016

Readers can now access the PDF version of El Portal’s Fall 2016 issue. Click on the image above to access the PDF file. If you have any questions about the Fall 2016 issue, please feel free to contact the editor at el.portal@enmu.edu.

Full List of Contributors:

An Interview with Joseph Somoza

Juan Carlos Pérez-Duthie “Certain Things Are Likely”

Gaylord Brewer “The Art of the Blackout”

Gaylord Brewer “Living Crèche”

Mary Murphy “The Last Guardian”

Nicole Ferraro “Burn Holes in My Favorite Sweater”

Tom Sheehan “Charlemagne Killabrew, Civil War Veteran”

Laura Coe Moore “The Hand

Jack Buck “Back in 2003 When Watching Four TV Shows in a Row Was Considered an Insane Amount of TV Watching by an Individual”

J. Tarwood “The Getaway”

Katelyn Ross “The Nothing You Left Behind”

Iris Esquivel “A Scream! Somewhere in the Nebula”

Robert Joe Stout “What Are They Saying?”

David White “Boots”

David White “Train Station”

Don Mitchell “Grulla I”

Kaitlyn Roberts “Arches National Park”

Kaitlyn Roberts “Into the Abyss”

Michaela Browder “Untitled”

Haley Madden “The Astronaut’s Rainbow”

Aaron Pappalardo “There is a Machine”

Carol Oberg “Dusting Life”

Glen Sorestad “We Are All Refugees”

Glen Sorestad “Please, Tyler, Please!”

Julia Simmons “Eyes Open”

D. Shawn Hunton “The Town and the City”

Dane Cobain “Don’t Forget the Lemmies”

Lonnie Berry “The Cost of a Mule”

Marc Cioffi “Another Poem of the American Road: A Song Against Forgetting”

Jay Frankston “The Logger”

Enzo Scavone “Someone I Know”

Emmy McCray “Substitutes in the Case of Necessity”

Emmy McCray “First Aid”

Wesley Martin “Grubber Ludwig”

This is West – No Tresspassers

14462925_1460940660588539_7071814968144432685_n

Cattle dotted the area like ink stains, the setting sun washing the desert landscape in the piercing glow of its final rays. The further Ian traveled onto the old man’s private property, the more reluctant he became. If he got caught it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The owner would probably just ask him to leave—maybe wave a shotgun around—and Ian would do so, gladly and without complaint. But getting caught meant never knowing for certain. And having already experienced what that uncertainty felt like for the better part of a month, he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue.

He passed a low rise in the land and a building came into view, painted black with shadow against the blazing orange horizon. His palms suddenly felt uncomfortably damp where they were wrapped around the steering wheel. His stomach rolled with a sudden wave of nausea. As he drew closer, its features grew more distinct and were eventually illuminated by the headlights of his truck. A low wooden fence roped off the area immediately next to the shack, a chicken coop built inside but long forgotten. The busted bulb secured above the door dimly reflected the dying light and a fresh black and orange ‘No Trespassing’ sign shone like a beacon from beneath it.

“Dammit.”

Ian pulled over, turned off the engine, and climbed out of the truck, greeted immediately by the scent of ozone and the light, chilly breeze the passing storm had left behind. He shut the door.

Approaching the shack felt akin to approaching a wild animal, haunches raised, teeth bared. The once-white walls were now weathered and peeling, its scaly exterior offset by the ancient plywood nailed over its windows. Choosing to forego trying the clearly locked door—a brand new one, looped through a fresh latch—he instead circled the area, finding nothing but a few more boarded windows and a fat, brown tarantula resting on a pile of rocks. There was no way to get inside. Not anymore.

Why choose here of all places? Ian paused once he’d completed his loop and touched the cold aluminum sign nailed to the door. There were thousands of other places John could have chosen. What was so special about an abandoned shack in the middle of a stranger’s ranch? Ian futilely tugged at the lock. It wouldn’t budge. He knocked a large fleck of ancient paint away in frustration, desperate to leave some sort of mark. He made another circuit around the perimeter.

In the back, a slender crack between the plywood and the glass-less window offered a cumbersome opportunity to glimpse inside, and Ian pressed his forehead against the ancient wood, closing one eye. Nothing much lay inside: only a small, dark, empty room with concrete floor, dusty and forgotten. Above, he knew, there were rafters. But nothing hung from them anymore. Surely not. He stepped back and breathed.

Against the dying light of the sun, the tarantula scuttled away.

(Fiction and Photography by Kayleen Burdine)

This is West – Lawrence of New Mexico

bikeroutesign

In 1855, the US Army created the United States Camel Corps in hopes the foreign animals would serve the country’s expansion westward. By 1863, the project disbanded and the camels were released into the wild of the American Southwest.

Lawrence, of New England, peddled his bicycle across the empty desert road. Patches of fine red dirt swirled across the pavement, occasionally being sliced by the bike’s tires. In the east, behind him, a storm brewed. But where he rode now was as hot and dry as ever. He’d have been more thankful for the breeze if it wasn’t for the dirt pelting against his skin.

Why am I here? Lawrence thought for the thousandth time since departing on his biking tour, his supposed vacation. I don’t belong here. Biking in the desert was so different from biking in the forested hills back home. His body was performing the exact same motions, but his mind refused the peace that normally came with the peddling.

He’d too hastily accepted the new job out here in New Mexico. Months had passed without him ever really fitting in at work, or really making any friends. His new residence just wasn’t home. So he decided to do a three-day biking trip, an activity he had loved back north, but it just wasn’t the same in the desert.

Just keep pedaling, he told himself. Truthfully, he felt more like stopping and turning around. But he was already out here. Going back would be pointless. Just keep pedal- Oh, forget it.

He halted the bike and rehydrated. As he drank from his water bottle, he spotted a blur in the distance off the road. He shielded his eyes from the sun. The blur was a reddish brown and took on a horse-like shape as it drew closer, only it was larger than a horse and didn’t move like a horse.

Lawrence’s adrenaline spiked, realizing he was out here alone and defenseless. I don’t belong here. He readied the bike to speed off, but his curiosity demanded he stay. Steadily, the reddish brown beast drew closer revealing it had long spindly legs, a curved neck, and bushy mane around its collar. A hump protruded from its back.

Lawrence blinked in amazement as the camel continued its trot across the desert towards this lone isolated part of the bike route. Where did you come from? Why are you out here alone?

The camel stared back at him with glassy eyes, as if wondering the same thing about Lawrence. He and the camel maintained eye contact as its thick black hooves clacked onto the pavement, just ten feet in front of Lawrence.

How had this exotic creature come to be so far from where it belonged? Yet, the camel didn’t seem to question its location. It was here, therefore it belonged here.

The camel crossed the road and pressed onward through the desert. Lawrence watched the majestic mysterious animal hoof off into the distance until it was once again a blur on the horizon. After a moment, he resumed pedaling westward.

(Fiction and Photography by Wesley Martin)

This is West – Sediment

14249362_1108597362521457_1694516806_n — Fajada Butte (G.B. Cornucopia (National Park Service, United States – Chaco Canyon National Historical Park: Weather)

The details of the land are
boundless, rugged
Layers that shimmer, hide.
They call out to the depths
beneath and above
Creating beauty out of fire,
snow.
They crisscross forming
layers of sediment, evoking
caverns, mountain, streams
Adding to the story of the
land, the people.
Yet still hiding secrets
beneath the shimmering
sediment
Waiting for the surface to
frazzle
Waiting for their time to
shimmer in the sun again.

(Poetry by Fawn Hon)

This is West – A Withered Reflection

Vind_i_vand — “Marks of the Wind in a Puddle” by Malene Thyseen, retrieved from Wikimedia Commons

The lingering heat ruined the rain. There was no torrential downpour sweeping in on a cool wind. It didn’t cleave the sunbaked summer in two. It didn’t arrive with low, auspicious thunder and purple bolts of lightning. Instead, it fell in unsatisfying specks for days, exacerbating the already oppressive humidity, clogging every throat and drawing the sweat from every pore. It rushed down the street in brown torrents, pooling in the lowest intersections, and helped tires to grind asphalt into fresh potholes. The weeds had already begun to triple and the sodden, sucking earth didn’t yet allow for mowers to grind them back into stumps.

He woke up each morning with the sheets clinging to his body and showered only to sweat again within the hour. He suddenly favored juice over coffee, welcoming the cool slide of citrus down his throat each morning as the briefest possible reprieve. He dressed in shorts every day, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the sweat out from behind his knees, from beneath his arms, from sliding down the nape of his neck. His front door was sticking, suddenly, in a way it hadn’t before, bloated by warmth in its frame and he sighed when he realized the particularly large, ugly orb weaver that’d made its web between his porch light and the awning hadn’t yet been knocked away by the stuttering downpour.

He felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe in weeks.

The house on 14^th Street, the house that wasn’t his own, seemed to have taken the weather to heart. The trim running beneath the gutter looked more chipped than ever; he’d been meaning to repaint it for the last four years. He would mow the grass just as soon as the lawn dried out, but for now the Yellow Mustard was slowly creeping ever-higher, halfway to his knees and sure to be taller when he showed up again tomorrow. Rain’s phantom speckled the sidewalk and his skin in tandem.

A withered reflection behind the door groaned when he stepped inside, shifting in the old brown armchair with the worn-down and fraying arms, looking older than it had just hours ago. His father had recently begun to sleep there, when walking to his bed had become too grand an effort. The carpet beneath his father’s feet was stained with every substance imaginable. For half a decade it’d increasingly become the solitary site of his life’s every moment, spent wiled away in front of an ancient television sat atop a rickety end-table drawn close to account for failing eyes. The numbers on the controller had worn away completely months ago.

He took a seat on the sunken sofa, next to a toppling stack of old newspapers, and sucked in a lungful of dust. A piece of him wondered if he’d begun to visit too often. “You alright?”

His father grunted, pulled in a labored breath. “Been better.”

(Fiction by Kayleen Burdine)