by Neil Majeski

For a few days the low fog kept the sun undistinguished from the sky, and the great lake met its color. Along the docks were barb wires that rounded withered factories. These were the local storage houses which kept cars and machines that owners had once promised to fix in their spare time. But they were forgotten, withered. The yards cradled the autos in their vines. They snaked into the hoods covered in soot; a natural incarnate of the car’s black spark plugs. In the winter these vines hardened and snow bleached the dust. But this month was between seasons, thus the snow was dissipating into the dust, producing a tainted sleet all around the machines. And on this particular day the vines were hard.

The photographer held a photo before the eyeglasses. The eyes behind them were strained by the photographer’s concentration on the photo –though nothing was striking in the frame. The film was ill exposed in a dark room years ago, which had ruined the admired image. It had been blown-up several times, but nonetheless developed its horrid white contrast. In its center was a black monolith-of-a doorway that housed a figure in the focal point. Around this were smaller, horizontal rectangles –bricks to the photographer’s knowledge. Black graffiti was written across the right side of the wall, and was illegible. It had such a strange definition of “adventure” The photographer reminisced, days after the thirtieth development. This was the reason for return.

The photograph was removed from the lenses, the eyes now concentrating before the photo’s imitation. A white, natural light had ruined the brick wall just as the photograph. The monolith was boarded-in by a single piece of flat-wood and shoe prints mudded its center. The photographer looked to the right of the wall –“PLACES LEAD TO ADVENTURES”

“Places… lead to adventures. What places are these? “

The police car pulled up around the factory’s bend, the officer spotted the girl first. “You know this isn’t a place to fool around in.” he said as the auto parked next to her. “Where’re your friends? I got a call about three people here.” The girl did not respond. He looked to her neck. “Taking photos for class I assume?” she nodded. “You MIAD kids can’t be roaming around here. Why just last week-“

“Please! It isn’t even my camera!” she yelled.

“Then,” he leaned his shoulder over the window “whose is it?”

“They’ve disappeared.”

The officer removed his sunglasses to reveal the winced eyes. He got out of the car.

“Ok miss, then tell me, are they one of the two or is there a fourth?”

“A fourth”

“…And could you tell me where the two are?”

“They’ve found an open furnace room between the buildings. I’m just modeling here.”

The officer looked to the building, and made his way around the bend. He looked back to the girl. “Are they models too?!” he yelled.

“Yes!” she answered.

The photographer’s head turned right, the eyes saw no officer but remembered his question. “’Excuse me, are you taking photos here?’’… ‘Is there anybody in that furnace room?’” The photographer looked to the photo, but the figure was still undistinguished. “’Can you tell me why you’re here?’…’ ‘Why you would be in such a place?’” The photographer looked to the closed doorway. “’Is there anybody in there?’”

“They’ve disappeared,” echoed the photographer, nostalgic of the open door “but what of these adventures?”

On the left side of the wall an addition was made to the sentence.

“UN-”  “PLACES LEAD TO ADVENTURES’”

by Blain Bursch

Before the bus emerged from rain, a woman spoke to me.  With childlike voices, she unfolded rapid paragraphs, the oral history of an errand:  “It was raining afterward, so I stayed in the store.  It stopped raining and I walked outside to wait for the bus.  The rain’s starting again so I hope the bus shows up soon . . .” I backstepped, noticing mouth-foam, twitches.

She seemed friendly, so I offered the best compliment I could imagine:  “That’s logical.”

When everyone boarded the bus, her monologue targeted “Joe,” the driver she called by a first name.  Joe eventually stopped responding and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“I lost my sunglasses today, Joe, and my eyes got wet.  What do you think of that?”

Joe dodged the question, droning an upcoming stop over the intercom:  “Sunshine Grocery.”

After minutes of declarations, she asked, “Are you my friend anymore, Joe?”  The other passengers had already begun to scowl, to tighten holds on grocery bags and backpacks.

This time Joe answered, quiet even over the intercom:  “Yeah.”

At the end of paragraphs, she returned to lost sunglasses and wet eyes.  “What do you think of that?”  Her inquiry soared to hysteria.  “What do you think of that idea?”

Joe picked up the radio, perhaps to report an escalation of tension, perhaps to look occupied.  The lady turned around, toward me in the back row.

“Joe’s not my friend anymore,” in perhaps the most tragic statement ever uttered on a city bus.  The lady actually sobbed.  Another woman withdrew to the safe distance of front rows.

“Lady,” I said, reaching for some kind of rationale, “he’s still your friend.”  I entered child psychology mode.  “It’s a rule.  You can’t talk to the driver while the bus is in motion.”  I indicated the sign that in fact said that.

“I’m sorry.”  Wiping eyelids, she began another paragraph.

As the crosshairs of her conversation zeroed on me, I lied:  “No one’s supposed to talk while the bus is in motion.”

Not silence, for traffic swished down rivers of rainy concrete, but vocal void filled the bus, the kind customary on stoic Midwestern transit routes.  After blocks, the woman pulled the stopline.

Before exiting, as if their “friendship” had never ceased, she told Joe goodbyes, perhaps noting in her mind that the bus was not in motion.  Joe again resumed his stiff grip on the steering wheel, muttering “Okay” between her paragraphs as traffic halted behind us.  When finally the pneumatic door sealed and the bus drove on, the woman and I waved to each other through windows.  Perhaps she never spoke on another moving bus, like the rest of us.