Defenestration

“The Reluctant Eulogist,” by Alexei Kalinchuk

At the funeral, few spoke in honor of my uncle. The shame! After all the man had done for everyone present! When all those tender spoken anecdotes added up to so little, such a mite in a man’s eye, I decided to liven up things in the dead man’s name. Having died almost childless, half-friendless, a loner in a small town far from the bustling metropolis he’d been born into, the thought of him going into oblivion without a proper sendoff, haunted me. So I stood up unsteadily.

A Man Can Dream…

Don’t you hate it when you have a dream, a really great dream, and it ends too soon? Your alarm goes off, your children jump on top of you, your cat starts licking your face… someone or something wakes you up, ruining everything.

Defenestration: August 2011

Welcome to the August 2011 issue of Defenestration.

An interesting (and true!) story about editing this issue*. After I stitched all the stories, poems, photos, and biographies together into the standard layout, I printed out a copy. Apparently my wife had accidentally loaded up the printer with a bunch of discarded drafts of old Ben & Winslow strips**. So as I’m editing the issue, these light pencil sketches keep showing up behind the content, like the ghosts of cartoon characters. The first page of Lawrence Barker’s “A Stinking Rose by Any Other Name,” for example, contains a half-drawn Apsara Williams in a tank top, which I found fitting because the first paragraph uses the word “attention-whores.” Several other pages have faceless proto-Bens and proto-Winslows cavorting on them. One of the proto-Winslows was fondling his breasts.

“Xujaa, Guerrera, T’Qnna,” by Autumn Hayes

I want an X in my name
or a Q with no U, followed by Z
or maybe K

Not a snaggle-toothed-stepsister name, though,
simply smiling, six warts on its nose
a chipped, rusty ax behind its back

“Appendicitis,” by Mason Johnson

We walk down the street
hand in hand
on our mediocre date
when you explain that
not one, not two, but three!
of your friends have recently had appendicitis,
their organ bursting inside of them.

“Riddled,” by Marit Ericson

Jan and I went to a masque as each other.
We swapped interiorities, bandied psyches
about. Hell has indeed frozen over: I’m nice
for once, said Jan-as-me. I grinned, Janly.

“Huck Elvis,” by John S. Fields

Huck—Huck Elvis, I’s reck’n you jis tip the raf o’ve wit dat shak’n.
Hang it all, Jim.

Two Poems by Kyle Hemmings

I would never compare
you to a cookie
falling from the sky
a pure Oreo
or a virgin Lorna Doone,
unbitten, only flaky at the edges,
me, running to catch you
before you crumble.

“Baby Dedication,” by Boyd Garriott

When Jonathan was born, I knew that something inevitable was coming. It was something that I dreaded more than anything else. It was something so sinister, so evil, so clearly designed to oblige a parent to act against their will just to fit in. It was the baby dedication.

I wanted my baby to walk this earth with Jesus by his side; don’t get me wrong. But I didn’t want to have to tell everyone in the church because quite frankly, it gets boring hearing all of these people wish the same thing for their kids. However, I wrote the dedication, and I gave it in front of the congregation with the pastor standing by my side. It was all for the sake of baby Jonathan.

“House Arrest,” by Elizabeth Alexander

Although Alison eventually made her debut at the Idlewild Ball, she was not to the castle born; moreover, when Dr. Grum called Alison his “little princess,” we thought of Elinor Donahue on Father Knows Best, who made us gag. We were not particularly rebellious, but we were savagely curious, and curiosity killed the cat.