Ethan Swage

Ethan Swage
Ethan Swage dares hurricanes to show him their "real stuff", even if just in his imagination. Recently, he has taken to late-night rooftop lounging, peering down on humanity in its most vulnerable state—drunk and staggering home from local bars—and taking toll of the things people would refrain from doing if only they knew they were being watched. His work has appeared in Flashshot and The Legendary.
Fiction: EVALUATION #9 (Issue 15) REDELIVERED (Issue 13) Art: (Issue 13)
EVALUATION #9 (March 20, 2010. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.) The second Dr. Fothergill uttered that filthy, repulsive word—childhood—Brenda, the outer girl, fell silent, mirror–black eyes allowing sight, but not insight. Shrinks! She savored the acrid smack of contempt on her tongue, swirling it slowly, purposefully on the roof of her mouth as if she were stirring witches' brew. He might have the job, the title, and even the right to barge into the outer girl's room unannounced and incessantly rehash the same played–out issues—sex! sex! sex!—until he runs out of breath. But he doesn't have the key, not yet. Not to a mind this armor–plated and mobile. Only the inner girl has the key. Childhood? Name, rank, and serial number protocol could, theoretically, allow Brenda the opportunity to tap out an anonymous Morse–Code confession that, yes, she had spit in her nine–year–old sister Aubrey's mouth simply to test her subservience. Boys Number One and Two rate no confession. White underpants, gym socks, and premature dribbling—not enough jiz to paint a thumbnail mural—don't count. She flicked her cigarette onto the floor, and considered stamping it out slowly under her pretty bare foot—the same foot Boy Number Three had slid into his mouth in exchange for sliding something into hers. But she decided that movie tricks belong in theaters, on wide screens, above first–row, cell–phone–glow handjobs. That girl, the skinny one, had already done the cigarette/foot thing onscreen, laughing, showing no pain. Showing Brenda, the inner girl, nothing at all. Scars are what earn you your bars. Boy Number One bore the outer scars of his impatience. The inner girl bore the scars of his anger— inner scars, still fresh, deep and jagged, unforgivable. Boy Number Four, yesterday's surprise—now that bears some looking into. But not now, not today, because the outer girl has a few checkmarks to earn on Dr. Fothergill's list. She's the one shivering in her tighty–whities and gym socks, dribbling counterfeit jiz into his mouth so he can digest it, hack it back up, and use it to paint Brenda a new face, a new existence. But the inner girl still has the key. Brenda twisted the heels of both hands into her eyebrows. The migraines were becoming unbearable. She grabbed Dr. Fothergill's tie and pulled, as if she might be able to draw the shade on today's repetition. Maybe someday he'll learn that simply painting a rotted house won't keep it from collapsing, she thought. Hopefully, soon. Table of Contents REDELIVERED (January 20, 2010. Issue 13.) Yesterday, post–heart–attack, I died. Today, post–purgatorial–suspension, I began my second life. Throughout the tumult, all I have retained is straight reporting—the Five W’s and an H—roughing out a black–and–white timeline of my passage from light to dark. But I never would have pictured my journey back into light as being so . . . dreadful. After being inexplicably expelled, peanut–sized, from the suprasternal notch at the base of my neighbor Mary Bry's neck (which, I suppose, qualifies her throat as a makeshift womb), I tumbled down her torso, slapped painfully off the front edge of her toilet seat, and then landed between big toes Right and Left on her bathroom rug. I breathed, shallow and harsh, sputtering out umbilical threads of my pre–birth existence. Suddenly aware of toes clenching and unclenching around me in menacing waves, I clambered up Mary’s quivering left leg, hell–bent on reversing the rebirthing process. Her husband, Chet, had once compared Mary to a rusted hunk of steel: cold and unyielding, something you dare not touch when it's iced over unless you want to remain stuck to it forever. Could she function as a mother, I thought, aware that one slip, one momentary weakening of my resolve, in which time the Mom tattoo would begin etching itself indelibly into my skin, might bond me to her forever like a mouse cemented to a glue trap. No, I would not allow her to be my mother—not today, not ever. Especially not after Chet had planted such an ominous image in my head. As I ascended her stomach, a familiar, briny whiff trailed a miniature shadow that passed by from above. Again the toilet seat slapped, and another unfortunate rebirther landed on the rug between Mary’s toes: sibling number one—perhaps an Irish twin, considering my newly–condensed timeline. Sibling number two followed with its own abrupt slap, and I realized that I should hurry back in before Mary’s notch closed for business. No telling when it might reopen, if ever. Her middle finger was still there, still coaxing, swirling in tight, gentle circles she had synched with the cadenced clenching of her thighs and toes. As soon as sibling number three appeared, I quickly disappeared, sliding past her finger, through the warm, accepting pool, and back into her throat. Her salty mother’s milk instantly flooded my lungs—but somehow breathing no longer mattered. My senses, as well as my bodily functions, had fused into an all–encompassing sensory guide that transmitted changes in maternal tide and temperature instead of passing slivers of time. I felt warm. I felt secure. Then I felt the surge. Mary leaned forward, dropping to her knees on the same rug that had padded my fall. Her throat ratcheted, aided by a repeatedly–thrust finger, and once again I found myself on her bathroom rug. A self–induced C-section, of sorts, I imagined, thankful to have avoided a headlong tumble into the toilet seat this time around. She gazed down at me and, smiling wryly, swallowed hard. I thought I heard a muffled squeal (so much for sibling number four!). Wide–eyed, I plunged both feet solidly into the Mom Glue Trap, swallowing my heart back down into my chest. I quivered uncontrollably as I gazed up at Chet's rusted hunk of steel, suddenly gripped by the thought: What if I was just a fur ball she need to rid herself of to clear the way? If so, then number four was just an hors d'oeuvre to whet her appetite before— Table of Contents Art January 20, 2010. Issue 13. Timepiece Daylight Carved in Pain Table of Contents

Ethan Swage dares hurricanes to show him their "real stuff", even if just in his imagination. Recently, he has taken to late-night rooftop lounging, peering down on humanity in its most vulnerable state—drunk and staggering home from local bars—and taking toll of the things people would refrain from doing if only they knew they were being watched. His work has appeared in Flashshot and The Legendary.

Fiction:

EVALUATION #9 (Issue 15)

REDELIVERED (Issue 13)

Art:

(Issue 13)

EVALUATION #9 (March 20, 2010. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)

The second Dr. Fothergill uttered that filthy, repulsive word—childhood—Brenda, the outer girl, fell silent, mirror–black eyes allowing sight, but not insight. Shrinks! She savored the acrid smack of contempt on her tongue, swirling it slowly, purposefully on the roof of her mouth as if she were stirring witches' brew. He might have the job, the title, and even the right to barge into the outer girl's room unannounced and incessantly rehash the same played–out issues—sex! sex! sex!—until he runs out of breath. But he doesn't have the key, not yet. Not to a mind this armor–plated and mobile. Only the inner girl has the key.

Childhood? Name, rank, and serial number protocol could, theoretically, allow Brenda the opportunity to tap out an anonymous Morse–Code confession that, yes, she had spit in her nine–year–old sister Aubrey's mouth simply to test her subservience. Boys Number One and Two rate no confession. White underpants, gym socks, and premature dribbling—not enough jiz to paint a thumbnail mural—don't count.

She flicked her cigarette onto the floor, and considered stamping it out slowly under her pretty bare foot—the same foot Boy Number Three had slid into his mouth in exchange for sliding something into hers. But she decided that movie tricks belong in theaters, on wide screens, above first–row, cell–phone–glow handjobs. That girl, the skinny one, had already done the cigarette/foot thing onscreen, laughing, showing no pain. Showing Brenda, the inner girl, nothing at all. Scars are what earn you your bars. Boy Number One bore the outer scars of his impatience. The inner girl bore the scars of his anger— inner scars, still fresh, deep and jagged, unforgivable.

Boy Number Four, yesterday's surprise—now that bears some looking into. But not now, not today, because the outer girl has a few checkmarks to earn on Dr. Fothergill's list. She's the one shivering in her tighty–whities and gym socks, dribbling counterfeit jiz into his mouth so he can digest it, hack it back up, and use it to paint Brenda a new face, a new existence.

But the inner girl still has the key. Brenda twisted the heels of both hands into her eyebrows. The migraines were becoming unbearable. She grabbed Dr. Fothergill's tie and pulled, as if she might be able to draw the shade on today's repetition. Maybe someday he'll learn that simply painting a rotted house won't keep it from collapsing, she thought. Hopefully, soon.

Table of Contents

REDELIVERED (January 20, 2010. Issue 13.)

Yesterday, post–heart–attack, I died. Today, post–purgatorial–suspension, I began my second life. Throughout the tumult, all I have retained is straight reporting—the Five W’s and an H—roughing out a black–and–white timeline of my passage from light to dark. But I never would have pictured my journey back into light as being so . . . dreadful.

After being inexplicably expelled, peanut–sized, from the suprasternal notch at the base of my neighbor Mary Bry's neck (which, I suppose, qualifies her throat as a makeshift womb), I tumbled down her torso, slapped painfully off the front edge of her toilet seat, and then landed between big toes Right and Left on her bathroom rug. I breathed, shallow and harsh, sputtering out umbilical threads of my pre–birth existence.

Suddenly aware of toes clenching and unclenching around me in menacing waves, I clambered up Mary’s quivering left leg, hell–bent on reversing the rebirthing process. Her husband, Chet, had once compared Mary to a rusted hunk of steel: cold and unyielding, something you dare not touch when it's iced over unless you want to remain stuck to it forever. Could she function as a mother, I thought, aware that one slip, one momentary weakening of my resolve, in which time the Mom tattoo would begin etching itself indelibly into my skin, might bond me to her forever like a mouse cemented to a glue trap. No, I would not allow her to be my mother—not today, not ever. Especially not after Chet had planted such an ominous image in my head.

As I ascended her stomach, a familiar, briny whiff trailed a miniature shadow that passed by from above. Again the toilet seat slapped, and another unfortunate rebirther landed on the rug between Mary’s toes: sibling number one—perhaps an Irish twin, considering my newly–condensed timeline.

Sibling number two followed with its own abrupt slap, and I realized that I should hurry back in before Mary’s notch closed for business. No telling when it might reopen, if ever. Her middle finger was still there, still coaxing, swirling in tight, gentle circles she had synched with the cadenced clenching of her thighs and toes.

As soon as sibling number three appeared, I quickly disappeared, sliding past her finger, through the warm, accepting pool, and back into her throat. Her salty mother’s milk instantly flooded my lungs—but somehow breathing no longer mattered. My senses, as well as my bodily functions, had fused into an all–encompassing sensory guide that transmitted changes in maternal tide and temperature instead of passing slivers of time. I felt warm. I felt secure.

Then I felt the surge.

Mary leaned forward, dropping to her knees on the same rug that had padded my fall. Her throat ratcheted, aided by a repeatedly–thrust finger, and once again I found myself on her bathroom rug. A self–induced C-section, of sorts, I imagined, thankful to have avoided a headlong tumble into the toilet seat this time around. She gazed down at me and, smiling wryly, swallowed hard.

I thought I heard a muffled squeal (so much for sibling number four!). Wide–eyed, I plunged both feet solidly into the Mom Glue Trap, swallowing my heart back down into my chest. I quivered uncontrollably as I gazed up at Chet's rusted hunk of steel, suddenly gripped by the thought: What if I was just a fur ball she need to rid herself of to clear the way? If so, then number four was just an hors d'oeuvre to whet her appetite before—

Table of Contents

Art

January 20, 2010. Issue 13.

Timepiece

Daylight

Carved in Pain

Table of Contents