next door
the lovemaking
stars fall
from other worlds

Micheal Windsor McClintock

THERE was the time I found that old laptop in the attic and I asked and I asked but no one knew where it came from. It was dusty and slow — Windows 95 and all that — and inside were stories written by a sixteen-year-old girl called Elizabeth.

The stories were about heartache.
The stories were about young love.
The stories were about moving to New York and being an artist and living in a small apartment that looks over Central Park, watching the sun set on another day and you; you that much closer to the truth.

It was the sort of stuff young girls called Elizabeth write about.

They were not particularly well written.
They weren’t Hemingway.
They weren’t Márquez.
They certainly weren’t Jack Gilbert.
But they were unfinished.

I spent long summer nights dreaming about those stories. And I searched and I searched but I never could find her — there are a lot of Elizabeths in the world.

So I did what anyone else would do: I began to write.

I wrote to fill the emptiness left by those long forgotten stories written by a young girl in a small town called Babylon; waiting to grow up, waiting to find home.

Processed with VSCOcam with p5 preset



I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

James Wright, Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

“FULL moon tonight?”


“Ozzy, you didn’t even look up!”

“I did!”

“No, you didn’t!”

Aurangzeb put down the cigarette and lay back with his hands behind his neck.

“It’s a fucking moon,” he laughed. “It’s a fucking moon! It’s fucking stars! It’s a fucking bee-u-tiful night! And here I am,” he said, passing the paper bag to Shahreyar. “Here I am, stuck with fucking you!”

Shahreyar shook his head and smiled as he opened the paper bag. Inside were three glass bottles. They clinked as he took them out and placed them on the cold concrete floor of the roof. Carefully, he opened one, sniffed it and took a long, long swig. The warmth did much to fortify him against the cold.

“Hey, Sherry?”


“We’re gonna be kings, right?”

“We’re gonna be kings, jaani.”

A plane flew past, sleepy lights blinking into the night. They watched it until they couldn’t.

“And if we aren’t?”

“We will be.”

“How do you know? I mean, school was—”

Fuck school! This is college, Ozzy! It’s gonna be different.”


“Yeah! It’s gonna be what we make it. It’s gonna be whatever we make it.”

Aurangzeb sat up with a start. He stood and mouthed the words to himself as he paced back and forth in a tight pattern.

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

They laughed and wrestled for a bit until someone kicked a bottle over and spilt the whiskey onto the roof.

“Aw, shit!”

“Damn it!”

“We better clean that shit up before someone comes up here!”

“No one comes up here,” said Shahreyar. But he went down to fetch some water.

Aurangzeb stood up and walked to the stone railing and leaned against it. He lit another cigarette. He heard Shahreyar come up the old stairs, push open the rusted door and pour a pitcher of water over the spilt whiskey.

Shahreyar put down the pitcher, picked up another bottle and walked towards Aurangzeb.

They leaned against the railing and took long swigs from the bottles and watched the lights of the old amusement park flicker in the distance. The Ferris wheel stood out against the star-washed sky.

Chai ka mood hai? Wanna grab some tea?”

“As long as it’s on you, jaani.”

They picked up the bottles and wrapped them in the paper bag and carefully shut the roof’s door.

Behind them, the lights of the Ferris wheel blinked out for the night.