Wash Away, by Emily Jo Scalzo

The storm moved in shortly after Patrick fell asleep. He briefly woke once when a gust of wind whistled through one of the broken windows in the abandoned Klein Shoe Factory, then again to a loud clap of thunder. It was a powerful storm, the kind that sometimes produced tornadoes, but the locals liked to brag that Confidential, Indiana hadn’t seen a tornado in nearly fifty years.

Patrick woke a third time to an explosion that shook the building, the sound of gun fire, and a scream he later realized was his own. He was briefly aware that he was in the factory and that he had pissed himself in terror, before the smell of burning wood and the feeling of falling debris took over and transported him to Viet Nam. The VC were attacking the bunker. They had launched a rocket at his home.

He looked for his weapon and couldn’t find it. It wasn’t beside him. Instead he stumbled across the factory, seized the bucket that served as his latrine, and ran outside into the rain. A small corner of his mind told him that he was in Confidential, Indiana, lightning had struck the building, and the gunfire was actually old pine-wood snapping in the flames, but he couldn’t comprehend it. He was too busy wondering where the rest of the platoon was and wishing he had his gun.

The building was burning, flames leaping from a corner of the roof, sending tendrils of inferno into the sky. He had to put it out. If he didn’t have a weapon and couldn’t fight the Viet Cong, he had to be useful in other ways. He had to save the bunker. Patrick ran to the river, hauling the bucket. He filled it and ran back, slipping in the wet grass and cursing the monsoons. He threw the water upward, but it didn’t reach the flames on the roof. It slapped uselessly against the brick wall.

Patrick ran back to the river, filling the bucket again. By the time he reached the building the entire roof was on fire, and it was spreading. He got closer and threw the water harder, and this time the crest barely touched the flames with a sizzling scream. On the third trip, the building was nearly completely engulfed and the bucket of water was worthless, but Patrick refused to give up. His sleeves caught flame from the heat and he tore his shirt off on his way back to the river. He could feel the plastic of the bucket melting in the heat, the bit of plastic on the handle leaving half-liquid bits on his palms or taking bits of burned skin away, sticking, tearing.

A wail came from the distance, and flashing lights appeared down Veteran Memorial Way soon afterward, but they were peripheral to Patrick, and he continued to drag the bucket back and forth between the river and the factory until one of the firemen finally caught him. He struggled and the man held him until Patrick realized that he wasn’t the enemy.

His hands and face hurt. His face had minor burns, but he didn’t even need to look at his hands to know they were bad. 

“I need a medic. Where’s Perkins?” 

Patrick couldn’t stop trembling. Perkins always carried the smack, and he needed some now.

“Perkins isn’t here. We got it, sir.” 

The man sat him down, wrapped his scorched form in a blanket, and bandaged his burnt hands. Then he walked away. Patrick sat still, bathed in red from the truck light, wondering if Perkins was KIA.

A man in another uniform, a cop, approached him, followed by a couple more. 

“Sir, we’re going to take you to the hospital, get those burns looked at.”

Patrick refused to move until they finally carried him away with the help of a firefighter, putting him into a police car. He couldn’t stop babbling, about Charlie, the mortar rounds and gunfire, and the fire. He watched everything through a clouded pane of glass. The flames faded in the distance as the police car drove him away from the burning building that had been his home for nearly two decades.

* * *

Even at the hospital, he couldn’t stop shaking, and he whimpered while the nurses in the ER bandaged his burns. After they gave him a painkiller, one of the nurses took him up to the fourth floor in a wheelchair and put him in a padded room. She was Viet Cong—she had the almond eyes. He was a POW, to be tortured and interrogated. He crouched in a corner, rocking back and forth until an older doctor came in and ordered him to give his name, rank, serial number, and date of birth, then asked him where he was stationed. That was what brought Patrick back, the calm recitation of his old military information. Suddenly it wasn’t Viet Nam or 1969 anymore. By the time the medic got around to asking if he knew what year it was, Patrick was firmly grounded in Confidential, Indiana in 2006. They made him sit in a wheelchair again and took him to a regular hospital room. They gave him morphine to ease the burn pain.

In the drugged haze that followed, he didn’t remember much. There were the medics, but he also recalled a clean-cut guy who’d filled out some paperwork for him, said to call when he got out so they could take care of him, and gave him a card that read ‘U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.’ Patrick told him that the military could go fuck itself and die and threw the card back in the man’s face, then upped his morphine drip. Then there was a kid with a notepad named Derek, whose breath smelled like alcohol, coffee, and breathmints. He looked like Murphy, though Murphy had died in some hell-hole rice paddy in ‘Nam. Patrick was completely lost in the morphine by the time the guy came in, and he didn’t remember much of what they’d talked about.

The next day they moved him in an ambulance to another hospital, where they took him off the morphine and started giving him little white pills called Vicodin. When he was thinking clearly enough, he realized that he was at a VA hospital. It took weeks for the burns on his left knuckles to heal and even longer for the physical therapy to help bring movement back to them, but time didn’t register to Patrick; he kept a pad of paper by his bedside and clumsily added a hash mark every day until a sympathetic nurse gave him a calendar. Even then it was hazy. They gave him a psych evaluation after the first time he screamed in his sleep, but he wouldn’t take the pills he gave him for that; they made him feel slow. After he could make a fist and use a fork and knife, they weaned him off the Vicodin, gave him a bus ticket from Indianapolis to Confidential, and sent him on his way.

Patrick walked across Veteran Memorial Bridge, thankful that it wasn’t raining but cursing the late afternoon humidity. Derek, he remembered, had asked him what he was going to do, now that the factory was gone. He didn’t know, though the hospital had reminded him of the Big House, even if his stay after the convenience store robbery hadn’t been so great.

But that had also been over twenty years ago, and a lot had changed since then. He didn’t know what he was going to do right away. There wasn’t much he could do, except hope that the burnt-out factory still offered some sort of shelter from the elements.

* * *

Patrick couldn’t see anything except for the occasional glimpse in an explosion and was forced to rely on his other senses. He could hear shuffling, the sound of people moving around him, moving against leaves that whispered against the cloth, the constant drumming of heavy rain against his metal helmet, the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire, explosions of mortar shells, and occasional screams that were sometimes cut off in the middle.

The smells were worse: a combination of acrid smoke laced with gunpowder, wet vegetation and mud, piss and blood. He could taste the death those smells contained. He could feel the leaves and the rain against his skin, his sodden uniform clinging to him, and an intense, burning pain that he was afraid to identify for fear that realizing its origin would reveal that he was already dead.

A mortar exploded nearby, illuminating the area just enough for him to see the VC headed right for him, silent and stealthy. In the dark, the enemy knew they were bewildered and blind. Patrick raised his weapon, lost in the terror that had gripped him since he’d arrived, and fired off several rounds. There was a gasp and a leafy, muddy thud. Patrick waited a minute before he cautiously moved forward; he wanted to be sure the threat was removed. As he kicked the body, surprisingly light, another blast illuminated the area. And he was suddenly staring into his mother’s face.

* * *

Patrick woke with a sharp yell, the hot, wet jungle fading around him to be replaced by what was left of the Klein Shoe Factory. The machine guns and explosions faded into rain that pounded in the mud around his shelter, punctuated by thunder, and the smoke was replaced by the smell of burnt wood and wet ashes. He was wet, victim of a leak in the partially-collapsed brick wall, his sweat, and, judging from the smell that hadn’t faded, his own urine. He sat still for a minute, allowing his surroundings to assert themselves.

He felt a temporary desire to shoot up, to feel the cool fire in his veins that took his emotions away. The need for the heroin hadn’t faded in the twenty-some years since his last hit, and the desire for the drug left an ache in the embarrassing scars on his arms and a yawning emptiness inside him. The morphine had just brought back the desire for something that would kill him. Patrick left the factory, not caring about the pouring rain, and stood between the north wall of the building and the river. He allowed the rain to soak through his clothing, wishing it could seep through his skin in the same way to fill the hole in him.

* * *

The muddy grass was cold and wet, and Patrick didn’t even have the rain to keep him company. The early morning sun was just starting to rise on the horizon, and he lay there as it climbed from its bed upside-down. When it was sufficiently high and threatening to blind him, he removed himself from the imprint he had made in the ground and staggered to the river, easing himself over the bank into shallow water where he washed the mud from his clothing and hair. By the time he made his way back to the burnt-out factory, the sun was already baking the earth and he could practically see the steam rising from the mud.

The dream still troubled him. He hadn’t had that dream in years, and it had changed since he’d last had it. It wasn’t really a dream, either, but a twisted memory that floated to the surface of his muddled brain when he needed it the least. His mother had died in childbirth at his birth; his memories of her consisted of Polaroid scenes. In the dream her long brown hair had spilled across the ferns like it never had in photos. In reality it was an NLF soldier he’d shot and killed in the jungle firefight. A goddamned kid, maybe fourteen, but VC nonetheless. He’d only ever shot the Rock Apes, those menacing monkeys that set off the trip wires and threw things from the trees and made them hate Viet Nam even more. The kid was his first real confirmed kill, and he’d been sick near the body.

He’d gotten a hunk of metal with the fancy name “Purple Heart” in exchange for the hunk of metal they took out of his shrapnel wound. The guys in his platoon had congratulated him on all three: the kill, the award, and the war scar on his side. They’d smoked junk that night with Patrick, initiating the rookie, and he’d felt whole for a while, but that feeling hadn’t lasted. He’d lost himself in the insanity after that, not counting the bodies behind him, not looking at their faces, not feeling ill at the killing. He’d eventually stopped looking at the faces of his comrades, too, not wanting to collect snapshots of the future dead.

He didn’t even have a Vicodin to chase the dreams away.

Patrick’s stomach quietly started its empty muttering. There were plenty of places in Confidential where he could find food, though they were rather limited due to the previous night’s rain. When it came to dumpster diving, very few places bothered to wrap their edible trash up, so it was likely to be inedible today, but Patrick had no money to spend on food. His cash had burned in the fire. The only place he could think of that kept their throw-outs wrapped was Breadwinners Bakery on Veteran Memorial Way.

He put on the shoes that had been given to him and left the factory remains, turning north on Main Street. No one was out except a jogger. Patrick continued to the alley past Reynolds Street that ran behind Breadwinners, which was already open. There was nothing edible in the dumpster behind the bakery, but as he walked past the back door he noticed a paper Lori’s Grocery sack with “PATRICK” written on it in bold marker. Inside, he found not only the bread he had been planning to get from the dumpster, but several pastries and what looked like a pumpkin pie. There was also a note that read, “I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for you. Good luck. –Rita Andrews.” Patrick placed the letter back in the bag and closed his eyes, overcome by a feeling of vertigo.

There had been a time, a long time ago, when he had been too proud to take charity, but after twenty years of homelessness and the struggle to stay sane, he didn’t have much pride left. Maybe he’d only been pretending to have it in the first place; maybe he’d lost it in the war. Grateful to this Rita Andrews, Patrick took the bag, walking back to Main Street, past Veteran Memorial Way to Reynolds Park. He sat near the river and ate a couple pieces of bread and part of the pie. Both were freshly baked, and reminded him of times long past, before the war.

On his way back down Main Street to hide his stash of food in what was left of the factory, he saw the jogger again. This time the jogger hesitated, then stopped—or, really, jogged in place to talk to him.

“Hey, you cut lawns sometimes, right?” 

The man was graying, and he wore glasses, but Patrick couldn’t concentrate on his face. He was tall and lanky, wearing a pair of loose running shorts and a sleeveless cotton undershirt. Patrick’s father had worn those.

Patrick just nodded in response. He didn’t know the man, but something like that was pretty simple to do and he’d probably get paid. If it was enough, maybe he could get some pot. He hated himself for wanting something he hadn’t needed in over five years.

“I live over on Quirk Street, number 229. It’s supposed to dry up later today. I’ll pay you to cut my lawn.”

“When?” 

Patrick didn’t care when, really, since the hours of the day had a tendency to run into each other.

“After five. I’ll be off work then. Good for you?”

Patrick just nodded again.

The man continued to jog in silence for a moment. 

“Damn shame about the factory, man. Good luck. See you later, Patrick.” 

He jogged off, crossing Main and disappearing down Veteran.

Patrick stared after him, then turned around and walked to the Square. How did someone he’d never heard of know his name? He could probably get a copy of the Confidential Informer at Buzz. They generally had a few months of back issues since the paper only came out three times a week, and it was worth dealing with the nosy coffee addicts to find out what the paper had said about the factory.

He was aware, upon entering the coffeehouse, of the stares of the patrons; they made him uncomfortable. He could feel the emotion behind the stares: pity, disgust, curiosity. Patrick grabbed a handful of Informers and sat at a corner table to leaf through them, setting his bag on the floor beside him. He had just unfolded the Saturday, August 5, 2006 paper from several weeks back when one of the coffee girls—he’d once heard someone call them baristas—came up to him.

“What can I get you?”

The gold cross hanging from a dainty chain around her neck momentarily fascinated him.

“Sir?”

He hadn’t been called sir by a pretty girl since probably before the war. He didn’t have anything but some loose change, certainly not what these places wanted for a cup of coffee. 

“Just here to read the paper,” he said softly.

“On the house, Mr. Neale. Don’t worry about money.”

“Oh. Coffee then, just black.”

He frowned. He hadn’t been addressed by his last name in twenty years, since joining the ranks of anonymous homeless, and he glanced down at the paper and realized the reason. There, staring at him on the front page, was his Class A photo from before ‘Nam; an eager face, filled with hope, intelligence, a future. The headline read, “Klein Shoe Factory Fire Leaves Local Man Truly Homeless.” The article was written by a Derek Laderer. It didn’t take much of a leap to realize what that meant.

The coffee came, and the barista smiled at him. He couldn’t see the face the smile rested in, but he smiled back at the floating mouth and thanked her for the coffee. 

He felt unsettled, like he was back in the war and none of the villagers could be trusted. She could be supporting the VC. He shook off the feeling and read the article, which outlined the history of the Klein Shoe Factory, talked about the Klein family, and also gave his full name and history. It even said why he’d been incarcerated—the armed robbery to get money for heroin—and it characterized him as a poor, abused, forgotten U.S. veteran, with poor attempts to make allusions to the War in Iraq. Patrick wasn’t exactly surprised; journalists had never held much of anything sacred, not even a man’s desire to leave his past behind. They’d cornered him while he was high and torn away the only thing he’d had left for himself.

Patrick stopped reading in the middle of a quotation from a fireman—“When we got there, he was trying to put out the fire. Kept talking about Charlie…”—glad that his coffee was in a to-go paper cup.

The gold-cross barista handed him a bag as he left. 

“Our day-olds.”

He hesitated briefly before taking it, hating her for knowing about him, but angrier at himself for needing the help that people only bothered to give when it was too late to matter. The charity wasn’t about him. It was always about them.

The walk back to the factory was automatic, and he was surprised when he found himself lying under the collapsed wall, already home. His brain was too hazy to deal with thoughts, and so it shut them out and he lay there in between asleep and awake for a long period of time before finally drifting to sleep.

* * *

The pattern of paddy and jungle was endless and calm, which made it all the more terrifying. They had already lost a man to a mine. Perkins just shook his head when he saw the injuries and gave him morphine. Patrick was ashamed at the relief he felt, that it hadn’t been him, that someone else had stepped on the mine. That feeling, the feeling everyone else had but no one talked about, was why they stayed—the silent agreement not to leave someone behind to die alone. He’d died crying for his mother. The gear had been divvied up before they continued.

It was terrifying, walking through the paddy, just as it was terrifying to walk through the jungle. There were traps and mines everywhere, and the Viet Cong were damned sneaky. Every step contained a life-and-death decision of exactly where to put that foot down, terribly weighted with dread and a preparation for pain. Every second was spent on high alert, looking for anything that might betray the presence of a booby trap or Charlie—a blade of grass bent the wrong way, a little too much mud, or even a stick slightly askew. The boondocks trapped them in their paranoid thoughts, miles of chest-high rice surrounding them, a suffocating pain in their chests throbbing with every step. In the zoo it was even worse, with both the VC and tigers stalking them in the night.

A rookie had told him once that he found this terror thrilling, that every time he took a step he felt a shiver of excitement. He’d died crying for his mother, too; Patrick had wanted to ask him if dying was exciting.

There was a point when the terror overloaded and became an artificial calm, when the fear that the next step would be the last became an expectation; when the expectation began to resemble hope, and the relief at not being the one to die became envy that the KIA’s nightmare was over.

* * *

It was, judging from the position of the sun, late afternoon. Possibly four, maybe five, and he could probably dumpster dive behind the Salvation Army on E-Z Corner behind St. Joseph’s to see if there was any salvageable clothing. He needed a blanket, but all he had in his pockets was the crumpled U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs card with a telephone number written on the back—no cash. He ate a lemon tart from the bag the barista had given him and tried not to look at the long grass in the field surrounding the remains of the factory.

The dumpster dive was a waste of time, so he browsed the Salvation Army thrift store for a while until the bank sign across the street read 5:30. Then he walked a block further to Quirk Street. Number 229 was a block east of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church.

It was a pretty little house, obviously old. The house was perfectly symmetrical, with an exact number of windows surrounding either side of the door, and the same slope in the roof on either side. It was the kind of house that had convinced him to stay in Confidential when he’d stumbled into town. The house had a pretty face that made him think about childhood, happiness, and stability. The factory, too, had been comforting.

The man he’d seen jogging was sitting on the front porch, eying him, and Patrick felt the urge to leave. He wanted the money, though. The man got up and opened the garage door, taking out a gas-powered push mower.

“Thanks for this, man. I’ve got a ton of shit to do.”

Patrick knew that the man was feeding him a line of bullshit; the guy felt sorry for him and was looking for an excuse to give him money without it seeming like charity. He just shrugged in response.

“I’m Harry Quibble, by the way.”

“Patrick Neale.” 

He bent down and pulled on the starter cord for the mower, bringing the machine roaring to life. He didn’t feel like talking. He just wanted to mow the lawn, get his money, buy some pot, and spend the rest of the night stoned out of his mind. The drugs, he hoped, would chase the nightmares away, and bring back the peace that sleep had once offered.

He loved to do mindless work when he could find it, something that allowed his brain to detach while his body tired itself out. Mowing lawns was perfect for this, since Patrick couldn’t hear anything over the snarling motor and whirling blades. He didn’t even mind the humid weather or the pain from his hands. When he finished the front yard, the man directed him to do the back as well. Dusk was falling by the time he finished.

Harry Quibble stepped off the porch and handed Patrick a beer. It was a cold beer, something Patrick rarely got to enjoy. He downed it quickly, then just held the bottle while the cool glass soothed the burns under the bandages.

“Thanks for cutting my lawn, Patrick.”

Patrick nodded. 

“No problem.”

“You’re a vet, aren’t you? ’Nam, right?”

The question made Patrick uncomfortable, and he wanted to leave, money or no money. Quibble knew damned well it was Viet Nam. He’d read the paper, just like everyone else in town. 

“Yeah.” 

He glanced at the road, wondering if he could find pot at this time of night on a Monday.

“Same here.” Patrick didn’t respond, not wanting to hear cliché garbage about Viet Nam and how this guy had survived it. The man—Harry, Patrick had to remind himself, a human being—handed him some bills. 

“Thanks again. I’ll look for you when I need it cut again.” 

He also handed him a newspaper clipping. 

“You might want to read that.”

Patrick nodded, relieved that the subject hadn’t been pushed, and left, not bothering to look at the bills until he was nearly at Veteran Memorial Way again. Harry had given him forty dollars—too much for cutting a lawn, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was more than enough to get pot, and he could even get some cheap alcohol and maybe a decent meal at the Bend in the River diner.

Then he looked at the clipping. He’d expected it to be an article about Harry Quibble and his tour in ‘Nam, some attempt to connect, but instead the headline made him feel ill. “Klein Factory Remains to be Razed for New Library.” A car honked and Patrick realized he had stopped cold in the middle of Bodwin Avenue. He crumpled the newsprint and shoved it into his pocket as he hurried to the far side of the street. He couldn’t think about it right now.

First, for him, was getting the pot. He hadn’t had any in nearly five years, but figured he would try the old Stop and Go, since he’d heard that teenagers smoked and drank there. It was a straight shot west down Quirk, passing right behind the police station. An officer waved to him, and he waved back, very conscious of the uniform and wondering if it was the same cop who’d driven him to the hospital. He didn’t stop to check. He was too agitated to deal with uncomfortable small talk.

The Stop and Go parking lot had a small group of teenagers hanging around, and Patrick watched them for a few minutes before cautiously approaching. 

“Know where I can get some weed?”

One of them looked him up and down and held out his fist, showing a black X. 

“Straight edge, man. I don’t do that shit.”

“But do you know where I can get some?” 

Patrick didn’t understand the meaning of the black X or “Straight Edge.”

“No, man. I’m not into that shit.”

Patrick glanced around at the others, noting that a few of them had the same black X on the back of their hands, then walked away toward the boarded-up Stop and Go building. He climbed inside through a small opening in the plywood, hearing a noise in the dark, and stumbled into a broken counter.

“Who’s there?”

A hand grabbed him and Patrick moved away from it. 

“I need some pot. You deal?”

A flashlight turned on, revealing a tall teenager. 

“Not pot. I got some smack, though, if you’re into that.”

Patrick froze, his withdrawal pain returning. His scarred arms ached and his veins throbbed with desire. He couldn’t do it. No way. He’d kill himself before he’d do heroin again. 

“No. Not smack. Just pot.” 

His voice was weak, barely a whisper.

The kid leered, and Patrick knew he’d read the article and was trying to take advantage and get him hooked again. 

“Sorry, man. Fresh out.” 

The kid reached into his pocket.

Patrick backed away before he could see the heroin, going out the way he came in. The teenagers that had been outside were gone now, and it was getting darker. He stumbled away from the building, wanting to be far away. He was running out of options. No pot, no factory, and God seemed to want him hooked back on heroin. He headed downtown, trying to stop shaking. In front of the American Legion on Veteran was a payphone, and Patrick stopped in front of it and dug the card from his pocket before he realized that he had no change.

The Legion was lit up, and Patrick entered. He felt as though each step was weighted, like he was back in a rice paddy. Several patrons looked up as he entered the pub area. The bartender was twirling a glass in his hand, wiping it down with a cloth as Patrick approached. He stopped a few feet from the bar, wanting to flee, but the man noticed him.

“What can I do for you, Patrick?”

Patrick could almost see his face for a moment. He had a hard time finding his voice. 

“I need change for a phone call.” 

He held one of the twenties he’d gotten from Harry Quibble out to the barkeep.

The man shook his head and pointed down the bar to a phone. 

“Use that. It’s free.”

“Long distance,” Patrick told him, placing the bill on the bar.

“Use the phone. Make your call.”

He pocketed the bill again and walked to the phone, then dialed the number on the back of the card. He’d wanted this to be outside, away from the scrutiny of others, especially the people here. He considered hanging up and leaving, but a voicemail picked up before he could. The number belonged to the office of Frank McNamara, the voice said, then told him to leave a message after the tone.

After the beep, Patrick steeled himself, taking a deep breath and waiting for ten seconds before speaking. 

“This is Patrick Neale in Confidential, Indiana. You came to the hospital. I think…” 

He wavered. 

“I think I need help.” 

He paused again, wondering what else to say, then finally ended the call with, “Please.”

Patrick didn’t know how he got out of the Legion, but he found himself in front of Hooch Liquors on Bodwin Avenue. He went in and bought two fifths of 100-proof vodka. The cashier was a bored-looking man with a nametag that identified him as Bob. Bob apparently didn’t read the paper, because he didn’t react to Patrick with anything but disgust. Patrick was relieved, for once, that someone was treating him like a dirty bum. It was nearly dark and Patrick was far too edgy to deal with the diner, so he headed back to the factory. He was nearly there when storm clouds began moving into the area in the twilight.

It began raining soon after he settled in, and he toasted the steady downpour with the first bottle of vodka, wishing in a perverse fashion that the rain was what it looked like—monsoon season in Viet Nam—and that he’d never actually left ’Nam. Maybe he’d die there this time, like the lucky ones. With the second bottle, he toasted nothing, just downing it mindlessly in an effort to forget the memories that the previous toast had dragged up.

Patrick settled in, enjoying the gentle, twisted, elated warmth that spread across his belly like the aftermath of an orgasm. The alcohol worked its magic and covered the ugly parts of his soul for a while, allowing him to just lay there in the dirt and exist as a human being. Consciousness and semi-consciousness mixed with unconsciousness, alternating in a domination game that ended in the peaceful victory of a dreamless sleep.

–

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Emily Jo Scalzo holds an MFA in fiction from California State University-Fresno and is currently an assistant teaching professor teaching research and creative writing at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. Their work has appeared in various magazines including Midwestern Gothic, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Blue Collar Review, New Verse News, and others. Their first chapbook, The Politics of Division, was published in 2017 and awarded honorable mention in the Eric Hoffer Book Awards in 2018.

© 2021, Emily Jo Scalzo