NAP 2.1
Edited by Chad Redden
Copyright 2011 NAP Literary Magazine and Books
naplitmag.com
Smashwords Edition
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DREAM SEQUENCE
OLIVER BATEMAN
GETTING OLD IS WHAT WE’RE HERE TO DO
Brian Powell sat in the back of the room with his best friends Pillowface Jones and Petunia Chaser while the rest of Mrs. Camden’s third grade class engaged in age-appropriate games and social activities. He loved these two girls because they didn’t tease him about his slicked-back hair, which would remain his pride and joy until it fell out during his early twenties. In exchange, he never mentioned Pillowface’s pillow-for-a-face deformity or the nimbus of chapped skin that circumscribed Petunia’s lips.
“Stupid Christmas party,” Powell said. “I hate it. I hate Christmas.”
Pillowface put her pillow-face down on a desk and started to cry. “It’s just awful. Why won’t they ever talk to us?”
Petunia Chaser nodded at Pillowface’s remark, then made the sign of the cross five times before beginning to lick her knuckles. If she succeeded in running her tongue over each knuckle in less than twelve seconds, she knew that she wasn’t going to die. “My daddy says that you can’t trust anybody. They’re all out to get you.”
“Even Santa Claus?” asked Pillowface Jones, who refused to stop believing in mythical creatures like angels, teddy bears, and Santa Clauses.
Powell ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out. He enjoyed feeling the stickiness of the gel almost as much as he enjoyed feeling superior to these two. Not that the latter was all that hard, given that Pillowface was a gullible moron and Petunia was insane. “There isn’t a Santa Claus, Pillowface. Don’t you know anything?”
“I don’t believe it,” Pillowface said, still sobbing into the desk. “Who puts the presents under my tree, smarty-pants?
“Your dad does,” Powell said.
“My daddy is never home.”
“Your mom, then.”
“My mom can’t even get up off the couch to cook dinner.”
“Maybe it’s aliens,” Petunia offered helpfully between instances of biting her fingernails and muttering short prayers.
“There’s a Santa and one day he’ll bring me a new face,” Pillowface insisted.
Powell sneered. “Yeah, yeah. Pillowface, you need to learn a thing or two.”
Mrs. Camden approached the three children, a concerned look on her round, guileless face. “Why aren’t you playing with your classmates? You can dunk for apples, pin the tail on the donkey—there are so many wonderful games for you to do.”
“I don’t want to do any of that,” Powell said. “It’s stupid.”
“Why is it stupid?” Mrs. Camden asked. “I don’t think it’s stupid.”
Brian Powell didn’t know what this frumpy, middle-aged woman needed from him. Did she aspire to love him as if he were her own? That couldn’t be it. No, she just wanted him to fit in and disappear. If he wouldn’t stand out so much—if the three of them could somehow find a way to be less of who they were—her job wouldn’t be as painful and difficult. “It’s stupid and you’re stupid,” he said.
“Brian, that’s no way to talk to anyone,” Mrs. Camden said.
Maybe words like this wounded Mrs. Camden; maybe they didn’t. Why should that matter to him? “It’s a way to talk to you,” he said, wanting desperately to remind her that he was still here.
Oliver Lee Bateman is one of the co-founders of the Moustache Club of America, a literary collective (or "beehive," as the kids like to say) that specializes in postmodern flash fiction, schoolgirl diary entries, navel-gazing coming-of-age stories set at prestigious New England preparatory academies, and good clean fun. He is also a Ph.D. candidate and Andrew Mellon Fellow at the University of Pittsburgh.
moustacheclubofamerica.com
MARIT ERICSON
ORIGINAL SONG WITH UNORIGINAL INTENTIONS
Sure, I believe in fate.
Want to. The Mets are
doing okay. Health’s
health. Weather, a
drizzling so. Odd to
be your own middle
distance. Most songs
weren’t made for that
guy on the bridge but
for pocket-monied
dreamers, the not-yet-
giving-up. Rain drops
pat my jacket. It’s
almost an identity,
and these paper boats
scattering across a