‘Another Shot’

Daniel Wood Adams: Based in Austin, Texas, Daniel Wood Adams is a multifaceted creative with a passion for blending visual aesthetics and craftsmanship. As a graphic designer, illustrator, and woodworker, Daniel’s work reflects a unique intersection of artistry and skill. Daniel’s creative journey began with degrees in Illustration and Graphic Design from Pratt Institute in 2012.

Another Shot

Angel looked at the bric-a-brac that hung on the restaurant walls. Rickie examined the label on his beer bottle. Mary folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. Todd shrugged.

“A woman cannot be a feminist and work in a corporation,” Todd said.

“It’s that simple,” Mary said.

“It’s that simple.”

Angel shook Rickie’s arm.

“Look,” she said. “They’ve got a picture of Abraham Lincoln wearing sunglasses. That’s funny.”

Rickie squinted at the wall.

“I just see dogs that look like rappers playing poker.”

Angel pointed.

“See?”

“I do now.”

Rickie and Angel rubbed shoulders as they laughed.

“You know so much about feminism.” Mary leaned towards Todd. Her elbows rested on the tabletop.

“I took a few courses in Women’s and Gender Studies as an undergrad.”

“Women’s Studies?”

“Women’s and Gender Studies.”

Rickie and Angel paused their inventory of kitsch.

“And now you know all about feminism?” Mary spoke in a neutral, almost maternal, voice. “That’s good. I mean it. That’s really good.”

“Bet it helped you get laid in collage,” Angel said. She stuttered a half-laugh then pursed her lips.

“Sweetie.” Rickie raised his eyebrows. Angel shrugged and mouthed, “What am I supposed to do?” Rickie mimed, “Nothing.”

Even though he was sitting, Todd hitched up his pants as if he were getting ready for manual labor.

“There is a difference between feminism and women’s rights,” he said.

“You mean, you see a difference,” Mary said.

“It’s all about the view of the system. Whether the system is good or bad. Feminism is Marxist. The system is rotten and has to change. Women’s rights is like the current labor moment in the US. The system needs tweaking, but in general is OK. Women simply need a chance to participate. In a corrupt system.”

“Fascinating,” Mary said.

“Take Hillary Clinton. Not a feminist. She is all for the system, the neo-liberalism of 90s. She actually sat on the board of Wal-Mart and never spoke out about Wal-Mart’s anti-union activities. Very aggressive activities, I’ll add.”

“I can’t stand the Clintons.” Mary flinched.

Angel sat up straight in her chair.

“You know what I’d like do to?” she said.

“But the Clinton’s views on the world still represent both parties, pretty much.” Todd raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Rickie said.

“The Clintons are irrelevant.” Mary shared a knowing glance with Todd.

“They have deep fried deviled eggs here.” Mary made eye contact with everyone at the table. “I want some.”

“The Clinton’s neo-liberalism is the shadow behind both parties.” Todd waved his hand in dismissal.

“I’ll order some,” Rickie said. “The fried pickles, too?”

“They’ll die out.” Mary sighed, almost post-coital. “Like the rest of them.”

“Why not?” Angel threw her arms into the air.

“And then what?” Todd took a long drink from his beer bottle. “You think young people will simply end war, poverty, and environmental catastrophe?”

“They can’t make it much worse.” Mary raised her bottle in cheers.

Rickie and Angel looked towards the bar. Their server, the bartender, another server, and a guy at the bar were throwing back a whiskey shot. Rickie smiled weakly. Angel waved. Their server nodded and came to the table.

“We’re out of the eggs,” he said after Angel pointed to the menu as she ordered.

“Pickles?” Rickie said.

“We’ve got the fried pickles.”

“Then the pickles,” Rickie said.

“And fries,” Angel said.

The server slumped away.

“Let’s look at the fries,” Todd said. “As an example of how the system works.”

“Let’s not.” Rickey smirked at his friend.

“Sure,” Mary said. “Let’s look at the fries.”

“More than likely, they are not from around here. We can agree on that. More than likely, the potatoes for the fries come from hundreds of miles away. So then there’s the transportation costs. Also, they don’t cut their own fries here. They buy them precut.”

“You know this how?” Mary said.

 “I assume.”

“When you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” Angel said.

“So these fries come from a factory. Then there’s the oil the kitchen uses. And so on and so on.”

“And so on,” Rickie said.

“And so on,” Mary and Angel said together. They laughed.

Rickie signed to the server to bring a round of shots.

“What kind?” the server said.

“What kind of what?” Angel said.

“Rail bourbon,” Rickie said.

“Ouch.” The other three said at the same time.

“OK, you are making some good points.” Mary gave Todd a half-smile. He half-smiled back.

“I’m buying a round of shots.”

“Not for me,” Todd said. “I’ve got court in the morning.”

“And I’ve got a big presentation in front of one of our biggest clients.” Mary squinched her face.

“Well, tomorrow’s my day off,” Angel said.

“And I’ve decided to be a writer,” Rickie said.

The four tapped their shot glasses on the table and drank.

“Those deviled eggs do look good,” Mary said.

“I’m vegan,” Todd said.

“You can have the pickles.” Rickie lifted the plate of pickles.

“What’s in the sauce?” Tood sniffed at the sauce.

“Chemicals.” Mary stuck her finger in the sauce. She sucked on her finger like a pacifier. “Tasty, fatty, high sodium, and sugar, and chemicals.”

“I’ll just have a plain pickle.”

“Fried in lard,” Mary said.

“Really?” Todd held a pickle mid-air.

“Better put it back,” Rickie said. “It touched your fingers.”

“Now that you touched it, you have to eat it,” Angel said.

“Go ahead,” Mary said. “Eat your lard-fried pickle.”

“You two should date,” Angel said.

“Angel.” Rickie gave his wife a look.

“Well, they did date in high school.”

“We never dated,” Mary said. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Todd said.

“Not unless you count a few hook-ups.”

“We dated our entire junior year. We went to prom.”

“You did,” Rickie said.

“It’s true. Rickie liked me since grade school.” Angel sat upright in her chair. She almost appeared regal.

“Angel!” Rickie sat back in his chair.

“I need another shot,” Mary and Angel said.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.

‘Dinner Party of Ex-Bosses’, ‘Requirements To Be A Pig’, ‘Manqué’, & ‘The Toilet and the Coffin’

Daniel Wood Adams is a multifaceted creative with a passion for blending visual aesthetics and craftsmanship. As a graphic designer, illustrator, and woodworker, Daniel’s work reflects a unique intersection of artistry and skill. Daniel’s creative journey began with degrees in Illustration and Graphic Design from Pratt Institute in 2012. Those formative years were a thrilling rollercoaster of art, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and caffeine-fueled all-nighters, setting the stage for what would become a dynamic career. Before moving to Austin, Daniel navigated the cold climates of Connecticut and New York City.

Dinner Party of Ex-Bosses

The heart rests on an oval plate atop the mahogany dining table. It beats still—over ice. Rosemary, sage, and thyme over the epicardium. Orange slices and cloves adorn the fibers. A voice comments about the freshness of the organ. Marlon, it’s you, he raises an eyebrow. And there’s Nicholas, Deanna, Becky, Matt, Amanda, and Tom too. The white wire tangled on the floor leads to my body, connected to the hole in my chest, it does something God-like and keeps me breathing on the surgical table away from the feast. A man wearing dark sunglasses and a tuxedo plays the piano nearby. My body is numb as the rest of the dinner party anxiously await with knife and fork in hand. Shimmery silverware and wine glasses click…click click click. The guests rise in unison over the heart. It is as though I watch them from within the chambers, feel their hungry eyes and their salivating glands. And then the cut—every slice on the muscle is felt through the taunting of their pleasure. Moans of ecstasy erupt, the guests come alive through “oohs” and “aahs,” euphorically intoxicated smiles, full mouths of fresh flesh, tightly indulging, revealing pieces of me scattered over the table, bones ripped of their muscle. I forgot how to scream, I forgot how to be a human. Tom burps, cleans his blood-stained mouth with a white napkin and leans back, his elbow hanging over the backrest of the chair. “Let’s touch base again next Monday.” He proposes a toast. The waitstaff clears the table and serve dessert.

Requirements To Be A Pig

The pig does not have time for fun. The pig is on the run. It must be bred of artificial insemination in a tight crate. It must be taken from its mother, it must grow up alone but surrounded by others—all wondering and questioning the same thing, cramped in the foul room where their tails are cut off, it will be castrated (that’s where the flavor is). It will grow into a fat one. Then there will come a day in which it will be stunned, slaughtered, its throat cut open, bleeding out for all of its delicious meat, it will be dipped in boiling water to rid of its disgusting hairs and any parts that make it living will be only matter. It will be dismembered and its parts will be packed beautifully and sold at different prices in different stores under names such as bacon, pancetta, prosciutto. It will be picked up by a random person, devoured within seconds between bread slices with mustard and mayonnaise, and it will be defecated and flushed down a toilet. The life of the pig is meaningless, it serves no purpose but to feed the starving bellies of humanity. The pig does not feel pain, it does not wail, it knows no love, it knows nothing more than what it knows. The pig knows its purpose; it is happy to die for you. The pig knows its life has no meaning; the pig knows its death is humane. The pig doesn’t know life. The pig with a heart is just food.

Manqué

I accept this failure;

the world needs more ordinary people.

I relinquish this losing battle,

I’ve been at war for too long,

time has run out and I am worn out.

I fought when I wasn’t whole,

and when I was falling apart,

I fought when I bled, when I cried, when I screamed,

but I no longer can withstand the beatings,

perhaps—perhaps—this wasn’t my battle to fight,

and how many beautiful singers

will the world never hear?

how many talented writers

will the world never read?

how many gifted dancers

will the world never see?

it’s a bitter pill to swallow that these dreams

will never prosper here, not in this lifetime

so I give up, I give up, I give up,

none of it was meant for me

but I tried, o how I tried, and you—

you should see!

they were great in my mind!

they were grand!

o, were they grand!

o, they were beautiful!

The Toilet and the Coffin

I watch them wither into wisps of smoke—

collecting ashes of what once was a desire for everything,

and a settlement for nothing, now I want none of it,

it is ok to be the same as everyone else,

it is ok to be…nothing, to be ‘no one,’

the television lies again and again

to tell us what they want us to hear,

and it is ok to not listen,

no one gets to dictate the truth

not the politician, the monk, the priest, the queen,

the ceo, the famous actor, the famous singer,

no human is worthy of worship, no human is almighty,

no flesh escapes the claw of death,

the toilet unites us, the coffin too

they are the true testaments of equality.

Lázaro Gutiérrez’s work can be found in several publications, such as Tint Journal, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Vermillion, Latino Literatures, Discretionary Love, Molecule - A Tiny Lit Mag, Somos en Escrito, Barzakh Magazine, Frontera Lit, Azahares Literary Magazine, SOMOS Latinx Literary Magazine, and is forthcoming in BarBar, and Blue Gaia..