After Stories by Dylan Mohr art by Adam Parry And when he was twenty, the old man from Palermo began to cover his throat when he spoke. He continues to do this because when he was nineteen he tried to kill himself by sliding a Swiss Army Knife across the base of his neck. What remains is a lumped scar that flushes in the sun. He did not know to slice higher where his pubescent muscles were not growing thicker by the day. Nor did he realize that the knife was so sharp. He had applied almost no pressure and it was with genuine surprise when he watched his neck open. Perhaps it cannot be called a suicide attempt at all. Now, on a beach in Cala Gonone, Sardinia, an Austrian boy runs past him and into the sea. And only after the boy's fun has been had does he notice the old man's snake-neck, coiled purple against the very white hills behind the city. And then the man from Palermo watches as the mother gathers her petrified son under her arms, purses her lips and coos. Or, he imagines this to be her sound. She smoothes the little one's hair and her lies begin. This is always the beginning. The old man watches as his life is told to another young boy who, with each word, begins to breathe normally again. The old man listens to the cadences of a story that is certainly finer than his own. When in the hands of others it will always be episodic and end with redemptive love. And, after so many years on the beach, he wants to believe—even if in himself. And when the boy returns to the sea, slowly this time, he stops in front of the old man. His small voice speaks cautiously, haltingly at first, as if he has forgotten rehearsed lines. And he begins to shake across his shoulders. He starts with the same words three, four, even five times, before stopping, breathing heavily, and looking back toward his mother. But the boy remains. After a silence, he opens, warbling a full-throated German, rambling off what the old man understands only as questions. And the man has questions of his own, a desire to speak like a child, to open. But, after so many years on the beach, he knows only to allow children to touch his skin when they reach; to remain quiet because his story has already been told; to hold his aged hand to his neck. Read the interview. Dylan Mohr recently moved from Missoula, Montana to Minneapolis. Adam Parry is an artist and designer living and working in Jamaica Plain, MA. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors. Issue Thirty-Two (June 27, 2011): Bible Camp by Wyatt Bonikowski «» Instead of the Glass by Randall Brown «» Sum of Her Parts by Katie Cortese «» Cotton Fever by Brandon Courtney «» Three Girls by Trent England «» Pebble in a Pool by Frances Gonzalez «» Elephants by James Greer «» All My Friends Are a Lot Like Me by Kyle Hemmings «» Marbles Loosed by Jac Jemc «» Twining by Donna Laemmlen «» On Becoming Women by Cynthia Larsen «» Belly of a Fish by Rachel Mangini «» After Stories by Dylan Mohr «» People Go to Jail for This by Dave Newman «» Gradius by Brian Oliu «» Last Sight of Land by Heather Peterson «» You Alone Are Privy to This Vision by Eliezra Schaffzin «» The Tycoon by Curtis Smith «» An 8mm Clip of Violence by Peter Stenson «» A Morning Routine by Weike Wang «» Interviews: Wyatt Bonikowski «» Randall Brown «» Katie Cortese «» Brandon Courtney «» Trent England «» Frances Gonzalez «» James Greer «» Kyle Hemmings «» Jac Jemc «» Donna Laemmlen «» Cynthia Larsen «» Rachel Mangini «» Dylan Mohr «» Dave Newman «» Brian Oliu «» Heather Peterson «» Eliezra Schaffzin «» Curtis Smith «» Peter Stenson «» Weike Wang «» Cover Art "Doll Parts" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editors Interested in subscribing to SmokeLong's weekly newsletter? Click here. An email should be created. Send it as is, and you'll be subscribed. If the link does not work for you, send an email to imailsrv@smokelong.com with Subscribe slq-info in the body of the email (no subject is necessary). You'll receive updates detailing the release of new issues, new reading periods, contests, etc. We do not make our mail list available to anyone else.