The Sky Is a Well by Claudia Smith art by Marty D. Ison It is the night before Christmas. My brother has his stocking on his head. He thinks that is what a stocking cap is. I show him the picture from our little Golden Book. A stocking cap, I tell him, is what old men wore in the days of yore. They also wore nightgowns. Our own father sleeps in the nude. Friends' fathers wear pajamas, or boxers. Only ladies wear nightgowns, my brother says. But he knows that if I tell him something, it is probably true. There are pudding pops in the freezer. We each take one, then tiptoe outside in our bare feet. Or, as my brother calls it, berry feet. It's too warm for Christmas. Too cold, really, for bare feet. The pudding pop sends icicles through my teeth and pierces the top of my skull. Brain freeze, my brother says. Every Christmas I pray for snow, but I'm beginning to think that is unrealistic. God probably doesn't bring snow to the desert unless you are say, a prophet spreading his Word. Or at least a saint. Or a beautiful, innocent child. I am not innocent, and I'm cute, at best. Under a gnarled mesquite tree is our sin. I've buried our sins for us in little scraps of paper. There is also a small puppy there, one we found on the side of the road after a hard cold night. He'd probably frozen to death, I explained. My brother is too little to write his sins for himself so I wrote them for him. But he is too good, he's never done anything really bad. Here is what I write for him: I used a pop gun in the house. I passed some gas at the table and said it was my sister. Sometimes I get so mad and I want to hit someone. I had a frog and I didn't feed him, and then he ran away. My sins are folded into doves and stars. I won't tell him what they are. I hope, buried beneath the earth, they tangle up with the roots of the tree. I want them to stay down there, get strangled by the roots and eaten by worms. One night, I dreamt the doves came alive, tried to chirp, then suffocated. Evil, dark, dank thoughts. I'm cold, my brother tells me. Wave to the moon, I tell him. And make a wish. We look up at the moon. She's shivering in between branches of our little tree. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors.
	Claudia Smith lives and writes in Austin, Texas. Her short story, "How To Catch A Good Girl" was listed as one of StorySouth's Top Ten Online Stories of 2003. Her work has appeared online and in print; she currently has stories forthcoming in Night Train, Opium, Flash!Point , and Ink Pot. You can find more of her work at claudiaweb http://home.swbell.net/nhinson/. Read the interview.
	Issue Eleven (December 15, 2005): Forks in the Road by Eve Abrams «» Retirement Home by Greg Ames «» A Drop of Dew by Edgar Omar Avilés, translated by Toshiya Kamei «» No One Left to Care About the Fat Man by Rusty Barnes «» The Mother's Guide to Flight Patterns by Theresa Boyar «» It's All True by Nadine Darling «» What She Gave to the Sea by Katrina Denza «» It by Patry Francis «» Cemetery Day by Laurie Frankel «» Cityscape by Judd Hampton «» The Black Squirrels of Ottawa by Niranjana Iyer «» Diagnosis by Beverly A. Jackson «» Green Monster by Erica Plouffe Lazure «» Sophie, Now by Mary McCluskey «» A Blind Dog Named Killer and a Colony of Bees by Mary Miller «» The Sky Is a Well by Claudia Smith «» You Only Get One Chance to Be El Latigo by Elizabeth Smith «» Flights by Jim Tomlinson «» Song of Giants by Girija Tropp «» Ice by Joseph Young «» Interviews: Eve Abrams «» Greg Ames «» Rusty Barnes «» Theresa Boyar «» Myfanwy Collins «» Nadine Darling «» Katrina Denza «» Patry Francis «» Laurie Frankel «» Judd Hampton «» Marty D. Ison «» Niranjana Iyer «» Beverly A. Jackson «» Toshiya Kamei «» Erica Plouffe Lazure «» Mary McCluskey «» Mary Miller «» Claudia Smith «» Elizabeth Smith «» Jim Tomlinson «» Girija Tropp «» Joseph Young «» Cover Art "Detail of The Death of Susan" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor