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Yellow Mama Archives
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William Falo
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| Art by John and Flo Stanton |
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Broken Streets
William Falo
Zoya looked out the shattered window of the abandoned
building and watched the night spread over St. Petersburg. Then she walked out into the Russian night and tried to stop the
dark memories of her past from awakening
“This
way,” Masha yelled. Two eleven-year-old girls ran by.
Zoya asked, “Where are
they going?”
“They’re making a movie.”
“What kind of movie?”
Lena just looked at her. Zoya knew
that meant pornography. “Wait!” she yelled but the other two girls had already disappeared. “Damn it,”
she said.
They walked to the Internet cafe.
Inside, someone passed her a bag
filled with karat. Still in a black mood, she breathed in the shoe polish and fell back onto a couch. With the sound of Counter-Strike
blasting on the computers, her head began to pound. Her arms felt like they were covered with spiders, and she rubbed them
vigorously.
Then hands held her until she stopped
shaking, and she looked into the clear blue eyes of Yuriy, an eighteen-year-old who many of the street children looked up
to. As he held her, he smiled, and she relaxed into his arms.
What
am I doing? she thought. I can’t get involved.
A scraggly dog approached and they
all yelled, “Magic!” When it’d appeared, they’d viewed the dog as a good omen. The day she came here,
the dog appeared and they’d accepted her.
“Want to come to the highway
with me?” Anastasia said.
Zoya knew she was going to sell
herself. “Please don’t go there.”
“I have to.” She ran
down the street.
Zoya followed the others to the
metro station to beg for money. She caught up toYuriy. “Do you miss your family?”
He said, “I do miss my grandmother.”
“Where is she?”
“Vyborg.”
“Vyborg,” she repeated.
If only I had money to get bus tickets. If Yuriy went home others might too, she thought.
Shouts echoed through the station,
“Get away from me! You’re disgusting! You stink like glue!”
Through the screeching of the trains
and clatter of passengers, Zoya heard someone call out to her, “Hey, pretty girl!”
A black sedan stopped. “Want to
make some money?” A man held a handful of rubles.
Dazed from the karat and needing money,
she walked toward the car and got in. He drove to a dark street and did his thing to her.
She felt sick after she realized what
she did. Was she helping the street children or returning to one herself? Reality became blurred.
She tried to focus on her purpose and
went to the bus station, buying two tickets to Vyburg.
Then she returned to the abandoned building in Nevsky Prospekt.
On the top floor, Lena leaned
against a wall smoking a cigarette, and said, “You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” Zoya
said. “Lena, do you miss your family?”
“Are you kidding? My brother
hit me with a stick so hard I couldn’t walk for days and my parents did nothing. They were too drunk. They told me to
find my own money if I wanted anything. Would you miss that?”
“I’m sorry.” Lena was only twelve years old, she thought,
“What about you?”
“My parents died when I was
a baby. My uncle raised me and he drank a lot. When he was drunk, he did things to me. I left when I was ten and lived out
here until . . . ” Zoya slumped down on a blanket and then Magic curled up against her. Lena joined them and they faded
into sleep as the sun rose over St. Petersburg.
Later, Zoya found Yuriy near the
Church on Spilled Blood and showed him the bus tickets.
In Vyborg, they found the
cottage but a lady said his grandmother moved away. Yuriy whispered, “Grandma, I miss you.”
He remained silent on the way home.
Night crept across the city streets as they went into the Internet cafe and passed the polish. Someone yelled, “They’re
here again!”
Zoya stood up as Masha and Anastasia ran
for the door. The lure of easy money enticed them.
One yelled, “I want money for rollerblades.”
“Wait,” Zoya yelled
and ran after them.
“Do you want to be in the
movie?” a man asked her.
“Too old,” another man
said.
“These are just children!”
She took out her knife and charged the men.
One grabbed her and the other pulled out
a handgun. “Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
The noise made passersby stop, and
the man put the gun away. They drove away with the two girls.
Zoya worried about Lena. “Will
you come with me when I leave?”
“Yes.” Lena lit a cigarette
Zoya walked back to the internet
cafe. Yuriy asked, “Why did you do that?”
“They’re just little
girls.”
“They have no choice.”
“I want to help,” she
whispered.
They found out Masha was dead. Someone
said the men did it and Zoya cried for a long time.
She found Yuriy, wet-eyed, under
a streetlight outside the Church on Spilled Blood. “I’m sorry about Masha,” he said. “There’s
too much death and sadness.” He stopped and sobbed. “I do know you’re
a social worker.”
“How?”
“When I first lived on the
streets someone tried to kill me, but a crazy girl with a knife saved my life. I recognized you.”
Zoya was speechless. Then, “It
may be best if I leave. I made mistakes.”
“You cared about us. Nobody
else does.”
Suddenly, a black cat appeared,
started rubbing against Zoya.
“I wonder how you would look
with black hair,” Yuriy said.
“It’s an idea. I’ll
look for you under this streetlight.”
Yuriy smiled and said, “That
cat’s name is Hope. It’s a good omen when it rubs against you.” He picked up the cat and held it out to
her.
With
crowds of people walking into the church looking for something to believe in, Zoya slowly reached out and embraced hope.

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| Art by Kevin Duncan |
Overgrown Paths
William Falo
Jelena heard the orphanage doors close behind her, then walked into the streets
filled with pain. The day after her seventeenth birthday, the Belarus government that forced her to stay here told her to
leave.
She saw an old nail in the street and used it to pierce her skin, then grimaced while she slowly cut a word into her
arm. It helped release the pain that built up inside her as she walked deeper into the city until she heard the metal sounds
of the Chausy train station. It sent chills through her and caused a violent cough to erupt from her lungs. She spit out mucus
and became dismayed when she saw it was speckled with red spots of blood. She wanted to go home but was homeless.
The orphanage director told her to call a distant relative in America because she could get better medical care there,
but it seemed hopeless to her. She hurried away from the train tracks toward a desolate, litter-filled street.
Night came quickly, and she found a spot on the sidewalk to rest. She rubbed her arm often where the words “No
hope” were cut into her skin. A little brown dog limped toward her and she tried to shoo it away but it wouldn’t
leave. There were other people here and she became scared. Stories of rape and kidnappings reached the orphanage and she kept
a wary eye out.
“Hello,” said a scraggly-looking boy with dirty blonde hair. “What’s the dog’s name?”
She hesitated, then answered, “ ‘Dreamer.’” She looked up into pale blue eyes. “What’s
your name?”
“Petya.”
“I’m Jelena. How long have you been here?”
“A few months,” he said. “But I’m leaving soon.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going south.” He petted the dog as it curled up near Jelena.
“Toward Chernobyl? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“I don’t care. Can it be any worse than this?” He pointed
around him.
She looked around and noticed some people lurked in the shadows while others seemed to be in a trance. She felt afraid
and shivered. “My grandmother lived in Bartolomeyevka and I would like to find her,” she said.
“Do you want to come with me? I know a way to get some money for
food.”
Jelena imagined him robbing someone or something worse. A harsh cough
caused her to cover her mouth while Petya watched. Her sleeve pulled up and he saw her scars.
“Did you carve a word on your arm? What did it say?”
“Don’t worry about it.” She quickly pulled her sleeve
down to cover it. “I’ll come with you.”
The dog limped and whined when she touched his leg. She slowly reached into her pocket and took out some tissues and
money. If she took it to the veterinary office, her chance to call her aunt in America would be lost.
“We’ll follow the tracks south,” Petya said. “The
woods are dangerous, and checkpoints block the roads.”
“No,” Jelena said. “I can’t go near the train tracks.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Why can’t you?” Petya insisted.
Jelena looked down. “I was told my mother jumped in front of a train
when I was young. She had cancer from Chernobyl and my father drank a lot. They had a fight and my father tried to save her
but both of them disappeared. I was put in the orphanage.” She sobbed and looked into Petya’s eyes. “I can’t
go near the trains.”
“I’m sorry, but no trains go south now and there’s no other way.”
Jelena tucked her dirty blonde hair behind her ear. “I’ll try,” she said hoarsely, as her voice often
became when she was upset or from the sickness inside of her. “How did you end up here?”
“I lived in Pripyat and my father worked at Chernobyl. He died from the radiation and my mother started to drink
all the time. Then the government put me in the orphanage. About a year ago they told me that she died. I would like to find
her grave and put flowers on it. She loved yellow flowers.”
That night Jelena awoke on the hard cement and saw a shard of glass shimmering in the
moonlight. With a shaking hand she gripped it and slowly cut into her skin. A thin red line
followed the glass as she wrote the word “Missing” on her arm. She now knew she was one
of the missing.
The next morning she took the dog to a veterinary office and gave them all her money. They wrapped its leg and gave
it some medicine, but the chance to call her aunt was gone.
She saw Petya carrying fruit. “How did you get that?”
He just looked away.
The thought of him selling his body made her feel sick.
They started to walk out of the city and toward the tracks that horrified her. The dog limped behind them but Jelena
was leery of carrying it, afraid of becoming too attached to it. At night, Petya
tried to get close to her, but she tried to keep a distance between them.
Once an orphanage aide had crawled into her bed and his hands roamed freely over her until she bit him. Sleep never
came easy after that.
One night Petya said, “I was always looking for someone to travel with, and in that time I did many things that
I will be embarrassed about forever.” He sobbed.
It touched Jelena’s heart. She put her finger to her lips, shushing
him. “Don’t be sad. You had to survive,” she said and put her arm around him. They slept that way with Dreamer
flopped across their legs. Jelena felt content and when a gentle breeze blew through the trees, she dreamed she heard her
mother singing to her.
The next day they walked deeper into the radioactive zone. Jelena walked alongside the tracks but never on them.
They diverted into an abandoned village. It was silent and eerie, filled only with the memories of those who lived
here. She pictured children playing while adults danced with faces filled with smiles and sometimes tears. Jelena thought
she could almost hear them in the wind but the only thing they saw were small pieces of the past.
Among the vacant houses they saw a doll with no eyes, tattered clothes,
torn pictures, and other items that were left behind. She noticed a graveyard filled with crooked crosses and crumbling tombstones.
The path leading to the graves was overgrown and she knew it meant nobody came here in a long time.
She read the tombstones and noticed many children were buried here. Jelena held back tears and knew they were now among
the missing. For the first time she became afraid of loneliness in this life and beyond.
They reached Bartolomeyevka but her grandmother’s house was empty, and Jelena knew she must have died. They found
a curled-up picture of her father and mother holding her as a baby. She yearned to feel the serenity and comfort she must
have known at that precise moment.
She noticed Petya watching her and saw compassion and maybe something more in his eyes.
As darkness fell, they found her grandmother’s grave. Jelena scratched “Love” on the tombstone and
promised to never let this path become overgrown. She cried and desired to cut herself, but Petya grabbed her hand as they
walked away. She felt peace and comfort from his presence.
Later, he said, “We came all this way for nothing. What do we do
now?”
“It wasn’t for nothing.”
“Then what did we gain?”
“We became friends, and that is something special,” Jelena said. “Despite all the bad things that
happened we found a friendship that is better than any treasure. We’ll go to your mother’s grave, and then we’ll
live each day hoping the next one will be better than the one before.”
“Jelena, you can still go to America and get help. We’ll find
a way.”
“No, Petya. I found what I needed here.” She picked up Dreamer and gently rubbed Petya’s arm. She
thought, This is my family now.
Then Jelena took out the jagged piece of glass
tinted with her blood and threw it against the ground.
It shattered into hundreds of pieces that shimmered like diamonds in the darkness.
William Falo lives in southern New Jersey with his wife and two daughters. His fiction has appeared
in the Northwoods Journal, 55 words, Zapata, Pens on Fire, Brilliant, Bewildering Stories, Long Story Short,
The Greensilk Journal, Yellow Mama, Shalla Magazine, Skive Magazine, ShatterColors Literary Review, Sage of Consciousness,
Bartleby-Snopes, Delinquent,
Mississippi Crow, 34th Parallel, The Bottom of the World, Frame Lines, eMuse, and Shine and is forthcoming
in Delivered, and Conceit Magazine.
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