by Rebecca Camarda

My beloved New Jersey,

Jersey, I love you, but I’m not in love with you, not anymore.  I’m too comfortable within your borders, and I have to face the unknown that you made attractive.  From the moment we met you’ve been my home.  I’m a product of your experience, I thank you for that.  Like a guy in an old leather jacket with a bad reputation and a heart of gold, you’ve shown me that you’re more than fake tans, big hair, and oil refineries.   You’re so much more than that, from your mountains and beaches to your farm lands and ghettos.  You’re beautiful and gritty, elegant and raw.  I wish you’d never change.

New Jersey, I love you.  During the summer, you guided us along the Turnpike, six stupid teenagers in a rusty Jeep Wrangler headed towards Six Flags.  Each of us, even the driver, the rebel of my adolescent fantasies, chugged a can of Coke to see who wouldn’t have to pay full price.   And then you’d send us careening down Route 18 to the shore that brought us fame.  Long before MTV’s boorish Situation there was Bruce Springsteen, serenading disenchanted youth at the Stone Pony.  I’ve never made my offering to the Boss personally, but I’ve memorized his gospel.  You gave me religion in the form of music, because it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.

Later, cool summer nights on your shore taught me to drink beer and smoke weed, and to let the waves consume my body.  You were hospitable to all that made the pilgrimage to your beaches, even the wayfarers I brought to you from Massachusetts, allowing them to float freely in the darkness while keeping them safe between the jetties.  We thought we were on a disk resting on the backs of elephants, perched on a turtle, flying through space.  You didn’t care about our intoxicated ramblings; you embraced us with wet sand and caressed us with warm breezes.  Days were spent baking in the sun, not caring if your sand clung to my toes and underneath my fingernails.  I wouldn’t wash my hair for days at a time to let the smell of your ocean linger.  The aroma of your Atlantic is a lover’s sweat shirt; it envelops me and offers me comfort.  Your beaches to me were not the herpes infested waters of Seaside Heights, but the abandoned concert halls of Asbury Park, where the wind blew rock and roll through our brains.

New Jersey, I love you, for the decrepit boardwalks of Atlantic City where casino marquees made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.  Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty and meet me tonight in Atlantic City, Bruce and my rascally first love sang to me, and I took the invitation.  In stride with the homeless and more than a few prostitutes, he squeezed my hand and asked, “Can I keep you?”  We were naïve children yearning for the night when we’d become adults, unaware of the conditions of the world.  We had dreams of making it big no matter what, and although we weren’t old enough to gamble, we thought the atmosphere would somehow bring us luck and good fortune.  We developed a hunger for gambling any way we could.  You made us crave risk, whether it meant nights filled with the opposite of abstinence or our plans to leave the bosom of suburbia to seize our dreams, we wanted danger.

We’d speed away from Atlantic City, driving much later than the designated curfew on our provisional licenses. Riding in cars with boys along your highways and back roads taught me to be comfortable as I am.  When you’re in a car with nothing but open road and a mixed-tape you can’t help but appreciate the company you keep and those that keep you.  You taught us to fall in love, not only with each other, but with you.

New Jersey, I love you.  North Jersey guys would come down to Rutgers parties from Hoboken or Newark, with their pseudo-Brooklyn accents, and bitch about the absence of a Quick Check on every corner.  Veiled by sweatshirts reading JERSEY STRONG on the back they possess a more aggressive, localized pride.  They love you of course, but not all of you.  They hate South Jersey, where everything seems to slow down, and kids hang out in the Wawa parking lot because they have nothing better to do.  South Jersey kids would show up at the same sloppy Rutgers parties with their Phillies caps and Eagles jerseys, and inevitably got into fist fights with Yankees and Giants fans from North Jersey. Where North and South Jersey meet in the middle though, that’s where your spirit is the strongest.

The elusive Central Jersey: the fuckers in the North and South deny it exists.  Central Jersey is what I know and love, for the presence of Quick Check, Wawa, and 7-11, for the proud yet open attitude, and the ideal location.  With Rutgers in our backyard, equidistant from New York, Philadelphia, the beach and the mountains, the heart of Central Jersey pulsates from the multitude of influences.  It seems to never sleep because somebody is always going to or coming from somewhere not so far away.

New Jersey, I love you.  You gave me Somerset County, where 4 miles from a 300 year old farm you’ll find public housing in one direction, and Princeton University 10 miles in the other.  You cultivated a breed of people that are truly genuine and unashamed, with thick skins and tender hearts, the street smart intellectuals.  We’d gratuitously call each other motherfuckers and mean it in the best way possible.  “Hey motherfucker, got any smokes?”  “Sure thing, motherfucker.”   Sons and daughters of beauty parlor owners mingled with children of immigrants, and families that established themselves before the colonies gained independence.  Black, white, Latino, or Asian, Muslim or Hindu, Jewish or Jain, you didn’t care as long as we were together.

You gave me an education in race relations, taught me that music was the universal language.  Above all, we loved Bruce.  Amateur rappers in our high school sampled “Born in the USA,” and we passed those tapes around like they contained the meaning of life. But it was more than just Bruce, our high school choir sang “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and the rhythm of the streets in Newark and Camden brought us Wyclef Jean, Whitney Houston, and Queen Latifah.  The plight of suburbia produced Gaslight Anthem, Bon Jovi, Patti Smith, and Pete Yorn.  Thursday emerged from the basement shows of New Brunswick, our generation’s pride and joy.

New Jersey, I love you.  Your proximity to New York gave us dreams of opportunity, of the great wide open and the people we’d meet.  There was bitter contempt though, for the assholes in New York.  They were in it, doing whatever they could and actually making it, or not, but being better for having tried.  We envied them, and memorized the transit route to make weekend trips to see concerts and plays, and once or twice just to order ribs at Spanky’s on West 43^rd Street.  We traveled there to feed our illusion, but every night we’d retreat from the chaos of Manhattan to you, New Jersey, our sanctuary, our home.

Midnight trains from Penn Station to New Brunswick always gave us enough time to stop by the Grease Trucks, where we would order Fat Darrells and Fat Sacks for our home town heroes.  If for some reason the Grease Trucks were closed, we’d drive off to one of the countless 24 hour diners and gorge ourselves on waffles with ice cream and disco fries.  Bloated and drunk on your sweet night air we’d lay down on someone’s lawn to gaze at the stars, and sometimes fall asleep only to be rudely awakened by an angry mother.  But more than our own parents, we were faithful to you, Jersey, because your love was far more unconditional.

New Jersey, I love you.  I hate what they’ve done to you though.  They’ve polluted your atmosphere with oil refineries and chemical plants.  I forgave them for that, because North Jersey might as well be New York anyway.  I didn’t say anything when The Sopranos made us all out to be mafia pawns, but no, I have to draw the line somewhere.  This Dirty Jerseylicious Real Housewives of the Jersey Shore horse shit would break Bruce’s heart: alcoholic, cocaine snorting, bar fighting, fake tanning moronic manure?  Rutgers University, the State University of New Jersey, paid $32,000 for Snooki to sit there for thirty minutes.  What happened?  Why have these plastic bags of trash been allowed to reappropriate your shoreline?  For the Boss’ sake, smother them all with your waves and bring back the muscle car driving, bandana wearing, heartbroken yet jubilant kids that made it out alive to spread your spirit.  Expect from yourself what you expect from your people.  New Jersey, I know you’re still beautiful, still seductively tragic, but you have to end this phase of delusion.  Don’t sell yourself short, we’ve all got too much faith.

New Jersey, I love you for so many reasons.  And most of all I love you because I know you understand that I need to leave you.  Pardon the cliché, but it’s not you, it’s me.  The personality you shaped is moving beyond your Turnpike and Parkway into uncharted territory.  I’m fulfilling your dreams for all of us dreamers that hail from the Garden State; I’m moving out and on to the great wide open full of ambition.  Without you, I wouldn’t have that sense of adventure or desire for more.  Our twenty one years together have been fantastic, provocative, even awe-inspiring, but if there’s anything your messiah has taught me, it’s that tramps like us, baby we were born to run.

Thanks, motherfucker.

Becky






REBECCA CAMARDA was born and raised in Somerset, NJ, and migrated north to Boston, where she is currently studying Writing and Literature at Emmanuel College. She readily anticipates earning her degree with a minor in Gender Studies in the Spring of 2012. Rebecca is also an editor of Emmanuel’s literary journal, BANG! magazine, and she enjoys sitting in her bath tub with a bottle of wine, even in the company of friends.

by Steven Gumeny



Ben set out for work again. It’s always hard delivering food for tips, and even harder when the majority of the population has disappeared underground. Well, the majority who hadn’t already been mutated, burnt to a crisp, or fled to one of the outer planets to escape the growing sun’s heat.

But Ben set out for work again. His boss, Jimbo, would be expecting him. Why disappoint a man who was on his last leg?

Prior to the heat wave, The Internet had declared itself a sovereign nation. As revenge for an overcooked shrimp cocktail, its leader posted half of Jimbo’s body for sale on an online auction. To avoid negative seller feedback, Jimbo reluctantly obliged the winner. The bidder was kind enough to ask Jimbo which half he chose to part with. Unsure which head he could live without, he opted to be split vertically down the center. A clever solution, he thought, as it let him keep half of his former functionality. But all the hopping around did get old.

So Ben set out for work again. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do. The ozone holes made sunbathing unpleasant, unless you missed the smell of fried chicken enough to take the pain. Such was the fate of Jimbo’s cousin, Ben heard.

Ben could have chosen an indoor activity, but McWalBucks had been closed for years. And besides, the survivors underground sucked anything useful from the surface, through a drill formerly used to suck dino-juice from oil wells.

Ben didn’t have many deliveries these days, but for those that stuck it out, he would dutifully deliver them some of Jimbo’s half-assed cooking. Even after the surface was declared inhospitable, some stayed. They each had their reasons, some better than others. Some just missed the last jet to Neptune, a tropical oasis spawned after the great solar warming. Neptune, it was said, was like an endless day in Aruba, only with much better cocktails. The smart ones had packed their bags the day Al Gore made his first movie.

So Ben set out for work again. He couldn’t leave old Miss Rose hanging. Jimbo had worked out a deal with the old lady to have a Liver & Onion Slider delivered daily until the end of the world. As his lawyer reminded him constantly, the world had not technically ended, only life on the surface. Although half the man he used to be, Jimbo was still a man of his word, and Ben had to deliver.

Ironically, liver & onions had come back en vogue just before things got out of hand. It was a trend many experts saw as a harbinger to the trouble ahead. But the true nail in Earth’s coffin did not take an expert to pinpoint. The Sovereign Nation of The Internet had formally declared war on the Sun and its invading rays, claiming it made their servers cranky. When the Sun pushed back, Earth’s surface became like the planet Mercury, before Mercury was burnt up. Ben thought it resembled a stale, well-toasted bagel, hold the butter.

Ben could have fled underground, but he had chosen to stay. What fun is sleeping late if you don’t have daylight to avoid? Besides, he had a job to do.

So Ben set out for work again. He emerged from his basement into the heat. On his way out, he noticed all his car tires had melted flat, again. He sighed, lit a cigarette off the pavement, and started walking. He hoped he would catch Jimbo’s good side today. At least the food wouldn’t get cold.






STEVEN GUMENY is a freelance writer, temporary employee, and believes insomniacs are simply living in the wrong time-zone. Born in the Garden State, he currently resides “somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.” He also has an affinity for a certain Boston Lager. “Dry Heat” marks his first attempt submitting work to be read by anyone other than himself.

by Carol Deminski



The town of Seaside Beach was in decay.  It was once a wholesome family destination with a Ferris wheel and salt water taffy stands.  Now its worn boardwalk was lined with tattoo parlors and bars where leather-clad bikers and their women danced to loud music and drank beer into the early hours.

Florence sat re-reading The Witches of Eastwick at her cramped bistro table in her booth on the boardwalk.  On the table she had a deck of oversized tarot cards, a piece of quartz, and an incense burner.

A young man approached the booth.  His black hair was in a ponytail.  He had green eyes framed by long lashes.  He was tall and rail thin.

“I’d like a reading,” he said.  He sat in one of the chairs and his bony knees barely fit beneath the table.

She picked up her cards and began to shuffle.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“My friends call me Luc.  I work at the Crab Shack down the boardwalk.”

“What kind of reading do you want?” she asked.

“Just tell me what you see,” he said.

“Alright.  Cut,” she said.

His left hand hovered over the cards, then he cut them.

She turned the first one over.  The Devil.  Violence.  She revealed the second card.  The Magician.  Sickness and pain.

She shifted in her seat; these were difficult cards to get in combination.  She hoped the third would be better.

The Tower.  One of the worst in the deck.  Deception.  Misery and ruin.

“Well?  What do they mean?”

She detected his impatience.  “You’ve had severe difficulties in your past, perhaps with family.”

“I didn’t get along with my father.  I wound up on the street at a young age.”

She nodded.  “Yes, that makes sense.”  Rivulets of blood flashed through her mind.

“Violence has been a big part of your life.”

He crossed his arms over his chest.  “If someone gets in my way, they get hurt.”

She pointed to the second card, the Magician.

“This tells me that you are a skillful negotiator.”

“Many have said that,” he said with a smile, revealing a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

“What did you say you did at the Crab Shack?”

“I didn’t.  But I won’t be there much longer.”  His lip curled into a snarl.  “Those people treat me like dirt.”

She gestured to the last card.

“If you’re thinking of changing jobs, this would be a good time.”

She began to reshuffle the deck.

“Change jobs?  Isn’t there anything else?”

She shook her head.  “That’s all I see.”

He leaned over the table.

“What the hell kind of reading is that?”

“I can only tell what I see,” she added, “but perhaps you should meditate on it.”

His eyes narrowed and became bloodshot.  He got up and threw a crumpled twenty on the table.

“Respice post te, mortalem te esse memento, Madame,” he said and stormed off.



After he left she couldn’t shake off their encounter.  She wanted to see the Crab Shack for herself and find out more about this mysterious stranger.  She walked down the boardwalk and found a ramshackle hut with a broken screen door.  She stepped inside and called the waitress over.

“Is Luc here?” she asked.

“Who?” the waitress said, snapping her gum.

“Luc.  Tall, thin, dark pony-tail?”

The woman shook her head.

“We’ve got Jesus,” she pointed to the busboy, “and Joseph,” she pointed to the grill man who was busy cooking.  “I’m Maria and that’s everybody.”

“But he told me he worked here,” Florence said.

The waitress played with a gold cross around her neck.

“You know how some men are, honey,” she whispered.  “They’ll say anything.”  Maria rested her hand on Florence’s shoulder.  “C’mon in.  We’ve got an excellent special tonight.”

Florence took a seat at the counter and noticed Maria’s cross.

“Are you religious?”

“I go to church everyday, if that’s what you mean.”

“What does this mean?”  Florence handed her a piece of paper.  “The guy I mentioned said this to me.”

Maria’s smile disappeared.

“It’s Latin.  It means ‘Look around you and remember you are mortal.’”

Florence’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“That guy must be big trouble,” Maria said.  “I wouldn’t keep looking for him if I were you.”

Jesus came and pushed a plate of fish in front of Florence along with a basket overflowing with rolls. “You like.  Pescado.”  He made an eating gesture.

Florence smiled at Jesus, saying, “Gracias.”

The food smelled delicious.  She took a bite.  The flavors transported her to her childhood Friday night family dinners.  Feelings of love flooded through her along with the memories.  She looked back down at her plate and realized she had finished every morsel.

Florence caught Maria’s attention; the waitress sauntered over.

“What do I owe you?” Florence asked.

“It’s on the house; do something good for someone else,” Maria said.



Florence left the Crab Shack feeling content.  It wasn’t just the nourishment of the meal, but the experience had created a deeper satisfaction.  She walked along the boardwalk and looked out at the Atlantic.

He startled her when he appeared in front of her.

“What are you doing here?” Florence asked.

“It could have been so easy for you,” Luc said.  “You could have told me something nice, something… different than the others.”

Florence shook her head.

“You know you need to work this out with them.  Why don’t we go back to the Crab Shack?  Talk to them; they’ll listen.”

“No, they won’t,” Lucifer said.

“You won’t know unless you try.  They invited me in and fed me, I think they would do the same for you.”

“I don’t know…” he mumbled.

“Do you want to change jobs?” she said.

He shrugged.

They walked towards the Crab Shack together in silence.  Luc’s eyes bespoke his desire and apprehension about reuniting with his family.

They approached the broken screen door; Florence opened it for him.

“Go on,” she said, “they’re waiting for you.”






CAROL DEMINSKI was born and raised in New Jersey and currently resides in Jersey City, which is near Hoboken but much, much bigger. She published her first short story in the Summer 2010 issue of the Aroostook Review. She has never seen, and has definitely never dated, the Jersey Devil.