Ninth Street || Issue I by 9th Street Magazine

MAGAZINE

ISSUE I

To Our Origins . . . Starting something is easy. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that every artist and writer you’ll ever meet has at one point in their life sat down, scrawled a first chapter or penned a sketch and thought, “This can be great!” Then, almost inevitably, they take a step back. Suddenly the flame flickers out -- the story is just hastily strung together words, and the image is just a blurred set of pencil lines. Yes, starting something is easy. Finishing is the hard part. That’s the difference between aspiring artists and, well, artists. Apsiring artists wield their pencils and brushes tentitavely, waiting for a story to come along, questioning their every move and always wondering if they are good enough. Artists do much the same thing -- only they push through. They continue to write and express themselves, even when they think the liklihood of someone actually wanting to see their work past the first glance or sentence is zero to none. Everyone featured in this issue of 9th Street is an artist. We have vastly different people in this issue -- from high schoolers, to National Scholastic Medalists, to published authors -- all with vastly different origins. And yet they all have something very important in common: They all finished what they started. I guess this foreward isn’t so much an ode to our origins as it is an ode to those who are far from where they started. Origins, after all, can only be considered origins when you look back at them from where you stand now.

S TA F F Grace Pursel Elizabeth Bunting Maye McPhail Emily Kontos Miyah Powe Sumariaa Kazi

Editor-in-Chief Assisting Editor Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Cover Image

instagram @9thstreetmag twitter @9thstreetmag email 9thstreetmag@gmail.com

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inside 6

Miyah Powe

David Baker

Elizabeth Bunting

Maye McPhail

Common Deer Press

George Richardson

Emily Kontos

Playlist

Andrea Dolz

Erin & Deek Rhew

Sumairaa Kazi

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derrick by Miyah Powe

moke rises in evaporating spirals from the mouths of aging city men, who refuse to admit that they will ever die, especially not from their vices. Sal wheezes after every drag and coughs in the opposite direction. He sits there, even when those men have left, on his peeling balcony. He watches his white smoke blow into the sky, until it melts into the few stars that can be seen. The sun begins to show itself and he remains there. Sometimes, I watch from my window because I don’t sleep.

The little ants that scutter below us aren’t real during the night. I cannot see their faces, just their hazy black silhouettes pressed against brick walls and the dismembered asphalt. Cars rush by, in haste to beat the sun before morning rises, not realizing that there is no reason to rush. You see, it’s always nighttime here, even when its not. They can do their night work in the day, and no part of the universe will be affected. The city’s like that, I suppose. The distinctions between good and bad or right and wrong

sometimes blur. Beggars on the street are businessmen also. “What you doing out here? This time of night.” I could ask him the same thing. What...here...night....honk....tick....ring

The city was his symphony.

“Can’t sleep.” I watched his smoke melt. “Sounds keepin’ you up?” “What sounds, sir? “Tha sounds of the city, boy” Then, I listened to the city’s sounds. A soundtrack to the daily happenings of everyone that lives here. “These sounds used to bother me too.” “Yea?” “When I was a boy. ’Bout your age, maybe.” He pointed his cigar in my direction. “Then I realized it’s just a part of it.” He shook his cigar, the grey ash falling. “Been heya all my life” The smoke traveled through the metal bars and past Mrs. Simmons’ window. “Nothing like it.” I bet she was asleep. “You never thought about leaving?” His cigar dangled between his sausage fingers. “Nah, boy. I’m never leaving.” He shifted in his seat. I thought for a moment, as he sat forward, that he was in fact leaving. “Not me, Sal. First chance I get, I’m gone.” He laughed at me then. “Where you gon’ go? College?” I looked back inside, where the carpet was tearing up. “I was hoping so. The Ivy Leagues

maybe.” “Harvard, maybe.” He laughed again. “No one on this side of the bridge goes anywhere, son.” He looked into the sky’s eyes. “‘Specially not anyone like us.” I’m not like you. “Even with that ambition you got.” “It’s my dream, Sal.” “That’s all it is boy.” My tearing carpet agreed. “I need to get out of here.” “What you need to do is look out for your mama and your Pops.” “I can do that from Massachusetts.” “Massa...Massachusetts? What’s for you there?” “Harvard, suh.” His white shirt was stained with beer. “That’s what wrong wit’ you young people these days.” He took a swig of his drink with the same hand he held the cigar. “They too focused on theyselves.” “It’s called investing...in my future. That’s what they called it.” “Who?” “The teachers at my school.” “What they know?” “Well, you see. If I go to a good college, then I can get a good job - ” “Hold on.” He looked down, between the poles of the railing. Took a long look at me. “What you mean? You got a job now. In your pop’s shop downstairs.” “But that’s not a good job, sir. We can barely pay for this place.” “Don’t let your Pop hear you say that, boy. He built that place from the ground up.” “Yea, but it’s not enough. It’s barely anything.” “It’s enough to put food on your table.” I thought about my dinner. “But you see if I get a real good job

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I can put all the food in the world on the table.” “Mama and Pop will never have to work again.” He shook his head and took a long drag. “Working is a part of life. Builds character.” “But...you don’t work.” His eyes turned to the sky. “I worked for straight fifty years, boy. Broke my back. I deserve to rest.” He looked away from me. “I put all my good years into the city. Least it can do is pay me back.” His cigar dangled between his fingers. He took a drag. “This is the best place on earth.” I looked down over the railing into the street. A block down a taxi comes to stop. The back door swung open and seconds later the limbs of an incapacitated body fall out. Dead? Possible. A figure in a short skirt and messy curls crawls to the curb on hands and knees. Her knees slid across the pavement, ripping. “It has these beautiful lights.” She uses a lamppost to steady her wobbling legs “And honest, hardworking people from everywhere.” A hand is out, asking for payment

She picks up her purse, which has fallen. Sifting through its contents. “There are jobs here for everyone.” Is she trying to find herself in there? Sifting through her wallet. Dollars scatter the air. Her dark, bony figure finds its way to the front entrance of her building. “This is the city of opportunity.” He fell asleep there in his folding chair, staring at the stars where all his fantasies about New York lie. His arm hung over the side of his chair, his cigar just inches from the balcony floor. I went back to bed when I saw that his eyelids were closed. His head titled towards the sky, his mouth hanging open. The sky had already begun to pink, and the normal people emerged from their homes. I, maybe not as normal, retreated back into my own apartment. I opened my bedroom door as quietly as I could, trying not to wake my brother. From my adjacent bed, I watched his chest rise and fall in rhythm with the sounds that swirled outside our window. A light shone over our room, illuminating flecks of dust floating over our beds. I smelled smoke outside my window. My brother begins to stir.

David Baker

started art because of the strong artistic influence my mom had on me, an artist herself, she was constantly introducing me to new forms of art and taking me to famous museums all over the world. While in school I started getting interested in the punk rock culture. This vastly changed my style and the work I was producing. The closer I got to graduating high school the more I realized I was destined to a creative career, I chose to go into graphic design and fine arts. This led to my current work which mixes fine art and design.

instagram @black_sweaters_n_stuff

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david baker Beauty ink & gouache on paper

I Miss Where We Were Friend digital

Untitled paint on electric guitar

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stone·wall ri·ots | stōn-wÔl rī- ts |

noun

A disturbance that grew out of a police raid on the Stonewall Inn, a popular hang-out for gays in Manhattan â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s Greenwich Village in 1969. Such raids long had been routine, but this one provoked a riot as the crowd fought back. The riot led to the formation of the Gay Liberation Front and to a new level of solidarity among homosexuals. (dictionary.com)

Elizabeth Bunting

started telling stories before I could speak, walking around in high heels and feather boas, babbling and moving my hands as if my clueless parents could understand. I never stopped telling stories, and when it came time to tell this one -- the story of being repressed by the weight of societyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s standards, the story of human suffering and love, the story of waging war and making sacrifices for what you hold most dear -- a girl living in 1960â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Indiana was formed. The Stonewall Riots were a major catalyst for the gay rights movement, and the people who were throwing rocks and setting fires were changed in those moments, but what about the people who watched on their television sets? What about the people who needed hope, because everything they had ever learned told them they were wrong? This story has been building inside me for years, gaining momentum the more I changed and let the world change me. These words were begging to be released from a place deep down, and when I took a class at writing camp that focused on Stonewall, I was finally given the key to release them. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t write these words, or this story: it wrote me. Every letter that I ink onto a page builds me into who I am, and as my stories grow and change, so do I. Storytelling and writing are the things I hold most dear, because the words that make me who I am demand to be written, and my stories will never stop needing to be told.

by Elizabeth Bunting

Stonewall

met her in March. It was a March like no other, the poppies had sprung early and their scent was almost as potent as her perfume. We went to the diner almost every night, sipping strawberry milkshakes while Neil Diamond played in the background. We tapped our feet on the black and white tile and chatted about how Sister Helen had scolded me for my socks not quite reaching my knees. During the days we rode our bikes down my flat street, wisps of her curly brown hair escaping their braid. Her musical laughter rang louder than church bells, disrupting the eerie silence of the neighborhood. Indiana was no longer dull. She was new and vibrant and bright and she made my life about more than just God, which I wasn’t so sure was good, but I couldn’t be bothered to care. When summer came, she inspired me to push my limits, to rebel against my parents. I still went to church every Sunday, but I began to see what I had missed for sixteen years. On one drunken night, under the canopy of trees and darkness, I kissed her for the first time. I had heard that it didn’t count if you were drunk. And I don’t remember the kiss itself, I just remember thinking there was something wrong with me because everything I felt in that moment was sinful, so I hoped that what I’d heard was true. I hoped it really didn’t count. Daddy turns on the television at nine o’clock. “We have to keep up with the times,” is what he tells Mom when she questions why he watches the news every night. He winks at me and smiles as I settle in on the floor and he claims his spot on the worndown couch. The images that appear are similar to ones we’ve been seeing for a while now. Something burning, people running, police, bystanders, lights and darkness. It’s nothing new, but we inhale it the same way we

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inhaled Mom’s potatoes at supper. Then I hear “homosexual.” The news anchor mentions that one word and my stomach is in my throat. “Margaret do you see this?” Daddy says to me, his voice equal parts excited and disappointed. “It’s disgraceful. The gays have gone crazy.” I manage to chuckle, my throat closing up and my eyes filling with unwelcome tears. I don’t know why I suddenly need to cry, but there’s something more significant about this particular news story. This isn’t just another race riot, or something that has nothing to do with me. I’m connected to the people in the grainy image I see flashing too quickly before my eyes. “Yeah,” I reply after the station switches to a different news story, “they have.” The congregation at Our Lady of Conservation is disgusted. One woman is crying, repeating the phrase “Oh Lord, save them,” under her breath. Mom leans over to Daddy and says, “Those policemen are heroes.” Our pastor is preaching the Word of God, creating a thick tension between me and the other church members. I’m praying for my own soul because I know what God thinks of people who love wrongly. On the way home, Mom and Daddy talk about the sins that were committed last night. The venom they spit makes me slink lower in my seat, wishing the metal of our Ford Falcon was stripped away and I could be free of the poisonous environment that they create with their words. My hands are sticking to the seat. I can feel a drop of sweat sliding from my hairline, down my neck, into the collar of my dress. Because there are people who are worlds away and my parents are condemning them. My parents are condemning those people for who they love and I’m confused because they say nothing about me, and yet I think I am one of those people.

It’s nine o’clock, and I know what happens at nine o’clock. I find my spot on the floor, switching on the television as I pass it. Daddy is already on the couch, reading yesterday’s newspaper and shaking his head. It’s the same reporter from last night. He says that people are doing it again. They’re resisting the police. They’re getting hurt. Daddy is grunting angrily, whispering something about how “they should just give in.” But I don’t see it that way. These people know what they want and who they want. They know that love is the answer, even if the people they love are unconventional. I know who I love and I know that she is a girl and I am, too, but I think that might not be as bad as I thought yesterday or this morning or five minutes ago. I’m starting to understand what they have understood for years. I’m a hundred miles away, watching them through a little screen, but I have never felt so close to a group of people in my life. As I listen to the reporter’s voice, I feel what they feel. This riot is one that has been building up for too long, not just within them but within me. My eyes are spilling tears now and I want to show the world but I can’t. I still have to hide the fact that I love who I love and I still have to go to church and I still have to hear my family talk about the people at the Stonewall Inn like they are the enemy and I still have to play my role. But some day, when I find the bravery to go to a mafia-owned bar where the gay community gathers, someday when I gain the courage to stand up for what and whom I love, someday, I will not have to play that role. And I wish that day was today, but for now, I silently wipe my tears and say, “I think we need to fix the antennas on the television again.”

Maye McPhail

hen I was four years old, I decided that I was a fairy. I renamed myself Lawezee and spent the next several years running through my neighborhood with a pair of purple wings strapped to my back, the line between fantasy and reality growing ever-blurred under the purview of my magic wand. I grew up on a steady diet of fairytales, both pre-existing and of my own creation, whispered to my grandmother like state secrets or relayed to my little sister as she drifted off to sleep. I’ve been trying to capture the world on paper for almost as long as I’ve been imagining, but writing for me has always been a struggle between the world I see and the words I have. Like all writers, I try day after day to accurately capture something of the universe I inhabit, but my vocabulary fails me when I’m confronted with something as vast as the human experience. So I talk about people instead. Despite the fact that I spent my formative years as a fairy, I know what it’s like to be painfully, too painfully, human. When I set out to write about the Stonewall Riots, I didn’t think of the scope of the entire movement; I focused on lending authenticity to the story of one woman’s fight. I didn’t dwell on the sixty years of history between us; I focused on our shared desperation, love, loss, hope. In a way, whenever I write, I strap a new pair of wings to my back, be it those of a high school girl or a four-year old fairy or a fiery lesbian throwing the first punch outside a nightclub. I hope you like the stories I tell. instagram @middlenamemag

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by Maye McPhail

Stormé

am dancing. I am dancing and I am made of sweat and colored lights and the pulse of an unfamiliar beat, darkness chased away by alcohol and a familiar stranger’s fingers curled around mine. I have danced through this city of neon and smoke for two days now, never having felt quite this far away from the Louisiana of my childhood and the darkened theaters of my youth. I am running. I am back in New Orleans and the air is damp and thick, a gang of white kids at my tail – or are they black kids this time, it doesn’t even matter. The child of a wealthy white man and his dark-skinned maid; in New Orleans, I am always running. The hand I am holding tugs me towards the bar. Sit down, Stormé. Have another drink with me, Stormé. She’s an aerialist, she says, have I ever seen a trapeze? I am nineteen and standing in front of a tall man with at top hat and a goatee. He pulls the hat from his head and wipes the oil off his forehead, shaking his palm as beads of sweat fall onto the grass. Excuse me, I say again, I was wondering if you have any work I can do. His eyes burn into me, burn into my men’s dress shirt and chopped-off hair, burn into my soul and the sickness within, the dark afflictions I cannot disguise any more than my neither-here-nor-there skin tone. The ringmaster laughs. Honey, have you tried contacting a drag revue? I tell the aerialist I think I’ve had enough for the night and push my way to the front of the club, not caring if she follows. But she does, slipping her hand into mine again as we break out into the New York City air. Noise leaks out of the other bars along Christopher Street, laughter and fragmented music and 1:30 a.m. drunken laughter. The cacophony seeps into my mind, filling my thoughts with an incessant buzzing as the aerialist leads me past trembling bar after dilapidated storefront. The idiocy of it all! People like me laughing in Greenwich Village, drinking in Greenwich Village, running away to Greenwich Village

and ignoring that we are only here because no one else will take us. Unemployed teachers in Greenwich Village, homeless children in Greenwich Village, twenty-five drag queens and one drag king in Greenwich Village! The aerialist tugs on my arm, coos my name, and suddenly I decide that I am done thinking. I grab both her shoulders and push her into a brick wall, leaning my body into hers as our lips meet. She reaches up, running a hand through my hair, and I kiss her harder, driving away the pounding persistency of my thoughts as her skin quivers against mine. After a moment, she pulls away. “We can’t… we shouldn’t… do this… here,” she says, her eyes darting up and down the half-deserted street. So I thread my arm under her elbow and around her waist, whispering things into her ear, making her giggle – the two of us nothing more than laughing fools in Greenwich Village as we walk back towards the safety of the Stonewall Inn. She hears the singing first, when it is nothing more than a whisper on the wind. I fall silent as we approach, suddenly conscious of the way the air has stilled. The sound comes from outside the Stonewall, its refrains familiar to me but somehow filled with a persistent dread. We shall overcome. We shall overcome. We shall overcome some day. A crowd has gathered outside. I push my way through it, elbowing past wellcoiffed men and disheveled street kids until I reach someone I recognize vaguely from the bar. “What’s going on?” I ask, my tone high-pitched and frantic. “Raid. The cops are taking the place.” I catch sight of the two paddy wagons parked on the street, their blue and red flashing lights bouncing off store windows,

and my heart falls into my stomach. That’s when I see Michael, shoved out the door of the Stonewall, one cop holding each of their arms and a third pushing them from behind. A strangled, guttural sound escapes my throat. Michael. I am standing on stage, the spotlight encircling me, the rough fabric of a tuxedo gripping my skin. I flash the audience a thousand-watt smile and bow to the sound of polite applause before fleeing into the stage wings where Michael waits, the silk fabric of a blue dress pooling around their feet, looking more comfortable than I have seen them in days. They squeeze my shoulder as I brush past and blow a kiss over my shoulder. One of the cops shoves Michael to the ground. I hear a crack as their chin strikes the pavement and turn away from the scene. Bile rises in the back of my throat. I retch, watching as the other cop drives his heel into Michael’s side and a third stands with his fist cocked, ready to strike my beautiful Michael in the back of the head. I barrel through the crowd. Michael, Michael, Michael, I’m screaming, and then I reach them, pushing back my shoulders and lifting my chin until I stand level with the cop. “Out of my way,” he growls from between bared teeth. I blink, and the cop is sprawled on the ground clutching his nose and I am standing above him, my fist raised and shaking. Blood pushes against the veins of my temples. Two cops seize me from behind, and I lash out again, but my adrenaline is spent and they force my hands behind my back and into a pair of steel handcuffs that cut into my skin. I feel a kick in the back of my legs, and my knees buckle under me as I stumble towards the patrol wagon. “They’re too tight!” I scream. “My handcuffs are too tight!” I turn and run, fighting my way back into the growing mob until rough hands lift

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me into the air. I kick and scream then twist my neck so that I can bite one of the hands gripping my shoulders, imagining the taste of his blood on my tongue. I feel the icy metal of the patrol wagon pressed against my back as one of the cops fumbles to open the door. The other drives my chin into my neck with his right hand while he attempts to grab my still flailing feet with his left. The crowd is beginning to boo now. There must be two hundred of them, frightened into submission by a couple of cops, content to applaud and boo as if this were only a stage show. I can hear the aerialist calling my name. The cop is opening the wagon door, and I transform into a swearing, spitting mess of missed opportunities and perverted sexual desires. I think of homosexuals in Greenwich Village, mafia-owned bars in Greenwich Village, dancing in Greenwich Village, kissing in Greenwich Village, paddy wagons in Greenwich Village, police in Greenwich Village, and then I realize that I am in Greenwich Village, too. Michael catches my eye, bowing their head in compliance as their wrists are forced in shackles and they are kicked once more in the groin. I turn to the mob and scream. “Why don’t you guys do something?” Then I feel myself lifted in the air, my body fighting against gravity for a moment before I am shoved into darkness and the patrol wagon door slams shut. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you when you are being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish one.” The aerialist stands outside the police station the next morning when I step out into the sun, hair tousled, clothes reeking of sweat and anxiety.

She runs to me, a familiar half-skip in her movements that seems entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. Wrapping her arms around my body and squeezing, she allows the hug to extend past the territory of friendship for only a moment before she pulls away. “The Stonewall is gone,” she whispers, her lips curled into a half-smile that I do not understand. “Charred, burnt, a couple of cops locked inside. Christopher Street, taken over. Mobs of… mobs of… us!… on every sidewalk. Signs, chanting, paddy wagon windows smashed, fires.” I shake my head; still, I do not understand. Protests are for wars and music festivals, not clubs of homeless kids and transvestites. “What about Michael? Who the police were beating when we got there?” “Stormé.” The aerialist leans close to me, and I can smell the fading sweetness of last night’s drinks on her breath. “After you screamed, the crowd went berserk. Michael never got put in a paddy wagon. More has happened in one night than in the entire century before it.” She sounds so naïve with that lilt in her voice and faraway look in her eyes. Things like this never stick. Soon, yet another group demanding polite conversation and respect for law enforcement will drown out our angry cries. “Come with me, Stormé,” the aerialist says, her voice rising out of its low whisper like she suddenly doesn’t care if passersby overhear. “There’s still a crowd on Christopher Street. Come with me to join them.” Something in her tone is contagious, the sort of thing that makes me want to buy in to her naivety and wonder if what happened last night might be the start of the future. I’ve already spent a night in jail, I lost my family years ago, and I probably lost the only job I could get. What more do I have to lose? “Okay,” I whisper, my mouth twisting upwards in spite of myself. Then, I take her hand.

Common Deer Press

ommon Deer Press is an independant publisher that believes in the awesomeness of books. We are looking for talented authors with strong visions, extraordinary imagination, awesome “voice”, and a stoy to tell. We are interested in everything as long as the content hasn’t been done a zillion times before. That means we’d like to see unique graphic novels, interconnected short story collections, fiction that thinks it’s nonfiction, nonfiction that thinks it’s fiction, and so on. Don’t be shy about getting your weird on with us. “Weird” is our second middle name.

twitter @AHerdOfDeer wesite www.commondeerpress.com facebook www.facebook.com/commondeerpress

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the Birds the Bees T

he thing about natural progression is that it just kinda . . . happens. You do a thing and that thing leads to another thing and another and another until you find yourself in a completely new yet somehow still related place doing things you never dreamed you’d actually end up doing. That’s how it is for me, Ellie Sipila, the founder and publisher of Common Deer Press. It may not be a huge stretch for those who know me to guess that I’d end up here. I’ve always been a writer; I’ve always loved books. I was raised to believe in the magical power of a good story. My grandmother was a librarian, and she did some crazy things to my brain. She expanded it, taught me that time travel is possible with the help of a good book. She also taught me that all books are sacred and ought to be treated with respect (seriously, if I DARED to do something as evil as eat a sandwich while reading . .

. RULER TO THE BACK OF THE HAND!!!). This is something I’ve carried with me throughout my life. Now, reading is as natural to me as showering and eating. (Okay, so there may have been brief hiatuses from all of the above during my teenage years, but we won’t talk about that. The point is, I dig books.) It seems old habits really do die hard. After high school I enrolled in an arts program at my local community college where I took English lit, creative writing, and history. Sure, I tried other things too (a brief stint in anthropology, women’s studies — the liberal arts and other stuff) but never really found my calling. Then I met my future husband, did some travelling, got married, and bought a farm on which we raised chickens and horses and . . . babies. I continued writing, sold some short fiction and poetry to various literary magazines and anthologies, had my first novel traditionally published then my second, and figured out

that . . . though books were my past, they could also be my future. It was then that I decided to go back to school, for real this time. I enrolled in Ryerson University’s Publishing Certificate Program with the plan of becoming an editor. I took copyediting first, then substantive and stylistic editing, and then, because I’ve always had an affinity for children’s literature, I took a specialization course in editing books intended for young readers. And, well, having never been the type to go at something halfway, I decided to continue on and complete my certificate. I rounded out my education with book design, and digital and physical book production. Shortly thereafter, I opened my own business, Move to the Write, where I offered my services in editing, design, and production on a freelance basis. About a week after launching that business I was contacted by the owner of a small American outfit, BookFish Books

according to Ellie Sipila of Common Deer Press LLC, who was in the market for a new editor — would I be interested in joining the team. And just like that, I was working in-house. Shortly thereafter it was discovered that my education might also be useful in the production department, and I was promoted to the position of Senior Editor, Book Designer, and Production Manager. That meant I got to do what I love to do best — make books — while still bossing around the editorial department like a snob (my second favourite thing to do). I gained loads of experience, made some really great friends, and knew that finally, I had found my place in the world. I was officially a professional nerd, about which I couldn’t be happier. In the summer of 2015, I took a temporary in-house position in the editorial department of children’s books at Fitzhenry & Whiteside—a large, Canadian publishing house. It was

an absolutely wonderful, life-changing experience, but something weird happened while I was there. Shortly after starting at Fitzhenry, I came to know that at some point in the not so distant future, I would become their competition. It was those few gems I discovered in the slush pile that did it. I mean the manuscripts that wouldn’t pigeonhole genrewise and were therefore passed over. You, crazy authors who just write whatever you want like you own the place, you are responsible for all of this. I knew during my time at Fitzhenry that I needed to open a house for those slightly warped but highly imaginative submissions that were being rejected by the houses only interested in mass market trade fiction. I just needed to work out the logistics. Now, a year later, it’s happening. Common Deer Press has arisen. Our goal

is to find the unique—books with unusual formats, interesting artistic features, stories that are just plain unputdownable. I love to make books, especially if they’re cleverly written and have the possibility of becoming something really cool in the visual department. I am interested in graphic novels, illustrated books, great genre fiction, literary fiction, unique nonfiction, and always, always beautiful writing. I love to push the bounds, test the limits, see what’s new and edgy. I do love children’s books, they will forever by my weakness, but they are not all I want to see. I am interested in anything that’s creative and different, no matter the genre. That’s the force behind Common Deer Press.

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George Richardson

or me, photography is a lot more than just taking an image and adding a nice filter. The key focus of my photography stems from the concept of impermanence. Everything in the physical world is subject to decay and change, including humans. This affects how I view the world dramatically as you will never truly see the same thing twice with the human eye. However, with photography this is not the case. By pressing the shutter, you are documenting a moment in time, which will never change. My interest in photography really began when I took a trip to Venice in 2013. I had never seen an area of such perfection, such purity, and such magnificence. Whilst I think thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a lot to say about seeing places with your eyes not through a lens, Venice was somewhat of an exception. I felt a desire to take photos of every road, every alley and every person I saw there and this feeling has been in my gut ever since. As a result, now I find beauty in areas which most people would ignore. I have a fascination for the areas which are out of sight and mind. In London, the tube is an area which is hidden from public eye and I believe this influences the behavior of people. People are fantastic subjects to photograph purely because of the amount of variation in terms of appearance and behavior that is so easily observable. Street art started as a wave against the messages media and advertising force upon us on a daily basis and this rebellion still remains strong. I find this approach to creating art very appealing and during my projects I often find myself at some point can-in-hand adding to a concrete canvas. My ultimate aim is to become a wildlife photographer. This is as Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a huge animal lover and am determined to travel the world, taking photos as I do so. I would love for my images to be used to help campaigns for endangered species such as the tiger or gorilla. instagram @george_richardson

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george richardson

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Emily Kontos

started writing poetry because of Duke Young Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Camp. Before I went as a rising 8th grader, I wrote prose, but after listening to these phenomenal teen poets, I began writing poetry and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just taken off from there. I started writing poetry because I wanted to do what those other campers did; I wanted to move people, I wanted them to feel what I felt, wanted them to feel like someone understood. At first I copied the older kids but eventually began to find my own voice and to progress from there. I have a lot of hopes as a writer; I want to get published for sure, and become one of the greats like Dickinson, Angelou, Neruda. I want my work to be read all across the globe and to become a professional poet. Mostly, I just want to write and have people feel what Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m feeling and know that someone else feels how they feel or can relate.

Worth the Time by Emily Kontos | Scholastic 2016 Regional Gold Key | | Scholastic 2016 National Gold Medal |

I have always wanted to be worth the time it takes to pen my quivering thoughts to scratched paper, always wanted my scrambled similes and molting metaphors to be worth the breath it takes to expel them into the electric air of this highlighted stage, to be heard and to resonate. Words and melodies have saved me from the monsters hiding beneath my ridged skin as I lay against unforgiving marble tiles and questioned why I spent so many moments trying to articulate ineffable fervor to an audience of discolored pages and dusty notebooks.

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I wanted it to be worth the time it took to string broken words together in cohesive pieces of poetry, to be worth the time it took you to untangle these smeared stanzas and unravel the muddled motifs. God knows your time was finite and precious as you spent it on patio constructions and the production of fantastical images of a girl you could never confess to. But these lines were carved from chipped nights spent wondering if his and my implosion was worth the carnage and wreckage that devastated my sense of reality, from days racing around corroded trails with your foot beats beside me, from moments thinking you could honestly care for something more than the mirage you turned her into. Shared on illuminated screens with clicking keys pressed by shaking fingertips, these words found you and were accompanied by the enigmas lining my rattling rib cage. I wanted them to be worth the time it took you to see how contorted and twisted this has made me, how my bones have been bent into splinters of a fleeting sanity and warped mentality. But their meaning was lost in the maze of your logical brains as always. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never been one for creative conceptions or emotional transactions. Analyzed and processed like calculus equations, these were simply more pixels producing yet another translation of raw emotion into pieces of an algorithm that you could comprehend. You saw depression and pessimism packaged into irregular quotations, just another piece of literary composition you resented reading.

But these lines were worth the time it took me to confess the sadness that lingered around me like a funeral shroud to a friend I thought I could rely on. They were worth the time it took to release this sensation of drowning in asymmetrical melodies, to forget that my nights were once spent dreaming of someone other than the one I used to conceive love poems with. Maybe they were black holes consuming crucial seconds of your diminishing time, but I needed someone to see the split seams traversing my being, and the way that I felt at home in an endless oblivion. Cracks coated my exterior, but to you I was twenty three minutes of disassociated particles and dissolved quantities, a vacuum for definite moments, but I was worth the time it took to pen these inked rhymes and to present them to an audience of breathing poems. I was worth the time it took to realize you were a figment of my imagination, and an entity I would never be able to comprehend. I was always worth the time it took to create pieces of poetry I could rely on, always worth the time it took you to listen to me spreading these similes in an audience of people I may never see again. I was always worth the time.

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an origins playlist brand new day kodaline bros wolf alice 123hope tom rosenthal hummingbird born ruffians early in the morning, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll come calling james vincent mcmorrow trip fox jeremy loops go solo tom rosenthal wonderful world lost lander

Andrea Dolz

t all really started when I was in junior high and I took a picture of tree branches and I thought that image was the pinnacle of photography. I begged my parents for a point-and-shoot camera and they gave me one for my birthday. I took every cliché picture you could ever imagine and I kept doing that until I discovered the works of Marilyn Minter and she honestly changed my life forever. I started making a different type of photography and started getting very experimental with my portraits. I don’t think that I have a specific style of photography yet because I’m still working on finding out what my art really is and what stands for, but I do think that I have found and aesthetic that I like and that I’ll stick to. instagram @andreadolzphoto

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2013 -2015

2016 andrea dolz

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The Origins of

Erin & Deek

RHEW 36

Deek Rhew twitter @DeekRhewBooks www.deekrhewbooks.com

Erin Rhew twitter @ErinRhewBooks www.erinrhewbooks.com

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The Origins of

Erin Rhew

was fortunate to be born into a big, Southern family. Nearly all my relatives live in the same state, within a three-hour drive from one another. Each year, we spend Easter and Thanksgiving together, but we see one another quite often during the rest of the year too. As I child, I don’t think I realized other people didn’t have such a special family structure, such a huge group of supporters. But I’m incredibly blessed that I do. Through thick and thin, we stand together. A good number of people in my family are entrepreneurs and small business owners. From these folks, I learned the value of hard work and pursuing your dreams. So, I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid to try new things and pursue my passions. I’m thankful to have had such wonderful examples. My writing interest emerged when I was just four. While visiting my grandparents at their car

dealership, I wrote a small, rhyming poem about the cars. My family made such a huge deal about it that I kept on writing. I wrote in middle school, high school, and college, and I got involved with acting as well. After college, I ran a theater company where I acted, directed, and wrote many of the plays. But I eventually returned to my first love, novel writing. I started a historical fiction novel, which is still being revised and revised and may end up being my magnum opus. But while I ruminated on that, I started a young adult fantasy series and completed it in just three months. The editing, however, took much longer. I started sending out query letters, and many rejections later, I received an offer of publication. Little did I know, that fateful offer would lead me on the greatest adventure of my life—a non-writing related one! I signed up for Twitter to start promoting

my upcoming books and found an online critique partner group. The leader, Mary, discovered I’m a grammar nerd and assigned me to work with someone who needed grammar assistance. I helped my fellow author with a short story, and he liked my work so much that he asked me to edit his full-length novel, 122 Rules. We began a conversation in the margins of that manuscript that led to a friendship, a long-distance relationship, and eventually our marriage. From the moment I first read Deek’s words, I knew he was special. I recognized in him a unique writer voice I’d never read before. And since I work for a small press, I read a lot of submissions and have read many a writer voice. But nothing like his, ever. And as we talked in the margins of his manuscript, I found a charming, witty, brilliant man lived behind that exceptional writing. We eventually moved from writing

The Fullfillment Series

in the margins to emailing, texting, and then FaceTiming, and we spent hours and hours talking through those mediums. I’d never met someone as capable, self-assured, funny, loving, and kind as Deek, and I fell in love with him. However, we had a bit of a problem. He lived in the Pacific Northwest, and I lived in the South. Neither one of us had ever lived anywhere else. For a while, Deek flew back and forth and basically lived on two coasts, but that wasn’t going to work long term since we wanted to get married. So, we came up with a plan. I would move to the Pacific Northwest for two years, while he honored some

important commitments, and then we would move together back to the South. He flew across the country one last time to get me, and we drove for six days to reach our destination. Neither of us had ever seen the country by car, and it was an amazing experience. Now, here we are, almost at the end of our two years in the Pacific Northwest, and I’m actually sad to be leaving. I’ve grown to love the beauty of this part of the country, and I enjoy the culture, which is vastly different from the South. While I’m looking forward to reconnecting with my family as I’ve never been away from them for this long, I’ll also be leaving a piece of

my heart in the West. In the past few years, Deek and I have seen the publication of my whole trilogy as well as the two stories we worked on together all the way back when we met — Birth of an American Gigolo and 122 Rules. It’s kind of crazy to think this craft we both love led us to our soul mates and to a life that’s more wonderful than either of us could have imagined. Whether we live in the West or the South, our fans can expect more stories from Deek and Erin Rhew as well as more crazy adventures. But no matter where we go, we’ll keep our origins close to our hearts.

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The Origins of

Deek Rhew I

’ve spent most of my life in the Pacific Northwest. My father served in the military, and after I was born in California, we moved to Colorado and then to Montana. Finally, he was stationed in Portland. We’ve moved around a bit, but almost all of my memories are here. I was lucky to have a great group of friends that I grew up with. In elementary school we rode our bikes all over our little town and played in the forest behind my house. We built forts in the woods and caught snakes in the fields. In high school, that same group of friends would all pile into my 1961 Chevy Impala and drive all over kingdom come. That car was about as large as an aircraft carries — only with worse gas mileage — and we could fit just about everyone in it. I remember driving to school with about ten kids crammed onto the bench seats and the music cranked.

Originally, I’d planned to join the military like my father. He loaded bullets and missiles onto the planes, but I wanted to fly those same planes. I could be all Maverick and buzz the tower and all that. I was getting ready to go to ROTC when the Air Force informed me that they wouldn’t allow people who were colorblind into the cockpits of their planes. Something about the good guys were green and the bad guys were red on the radar screen. So instead, my friends and I formed a rock band. We were going to write songs and tour the world. I actually became a music major and started living the musician’s life. What I discovered was that a musician’s life blows chunks. Hard. Long hours, terrible pay, and drunk fans. Eventually I quit and changed my major to something geeky that, though not as glamorous, would put food on the table. After a few years

nerdvitude, a coworker told me about an article he’d read. Men who’d fought in WWII had been interviewed long after they’d retired and had been asked if they could go back and do anything different, what would they do. Almost universally, they said they would have done something creative. I’d already tried scratching a writing itch with a couple of books that I’d failed to complete, but that conversation motivated me to try again. On my hour-long commute to work one morning, a flash, a vision of a scene popped into my head. It was so strong and so vivid that I pulled my car into a dark alley and typed out — on my phone — the first scene in 122 Rules. After that I worked on my book every free minute that came available. One chapter flowed into the next, and within a few months, I’d finished the initial draft. Then the editing began. Fast forward a few years and I’d polished and

polished my manuscript. But I needed to start marketing, and I needed some grammar help. So I joined Twitter and found a critique group. The head of the group, Mary, connected me with a brilliant grammar ninja. She and I worked through my short story, Birth of an American Gigolo, and then we started working on 122 Rules. We started having long conversations in the margins of that manuscript. The margins were no longer capable of handling our conversations, so we changed to emails, then to phone calls, then to Face Time. 18 months ago, I married that beautiful, brilliant author and grammar ninja. I’ve never met anyone as smart as Erin. She’s got this unique blend of intelligence and vivid imagination. Her stories take you places and make you love — or hate, depending on who it is — her characters. But love or hate them, they are more than characters, they’re real people . . . at least in my mind they are. Her story voice is like nothing I’ve ever read before, and the way she says things, phrases things, takes your breath away. We joke that I loved her writing so much that I had to marry the author. LOL! Erin and I are best friends and soul mates. She’s my person and loves me like I always dreamed

love should be. We go adventuring, having fun doing simple things: exploring the city, going for walks, hanging out on the porch, or lying in bed chatting about everything and nothing for hours at a time. We’ve spent the last couple of years exploring the Pacific Northwest. I’ve gotten to show her places that I love. Together we’ve done things that I always wanted to do but never got around to doing. Soon, we’ll be pulling up stakes and moving to the South. She has a huge, wonderful family that I adore and can’t wait to get to know better . . . even if I can’t remember all of their names. There’s a ton on the East Coast Erin hasn’t seen yet, so even as she’s taking me to some of her favorite places, we’ll still be exploring new uncharted territories. In a few years, we plan to become professional vagabonds, living in one place for six months or so, then trying somewhere new on for size. I’m excited for our future and loving the present. Time to go adventuring!

Birth of an American Gigolo

122 Rules

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Sumairaa Kazi

y name is Sumairaa Kazi. I am seventeen, in my second-to-last year of high school and I live in London. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m an aspiring photographer/filmmaker and I truly hope that I can work towards making an impactful change in this crazy world we live in someday.

Who am I as an artist -- now that is something that I am trying to figure out too. I don’t want to pretend to be someone who I am not so I’ll be honest with you: I’m young and don’t have much experience (although I did spend last summer assisting this amazing photographer, I hope to do the same again this summer), but I do have passion, drive and ambition which I believe is just as important, especially as you begin to venture out into the creative world. I’m the type of person who would take up any opportunity that comes my way believing that it’s always worth a try; coming across 9th Street is another hopeful opportunity. Right now I’m experimenting as an artist; I’ve been interested in photography for many years now although haven’t always had the courage to pursue this ambition of mine. I find my inspiration comes from all over; currently I’m at school, I enjoy it but it doesn’t inspire me creatively. I love my friends and really enjoy learning but not necessarily in the conventional way -- I don’t enjoy the structure of school and the way we are thought to learn is just so limiting. We are programed to work hard to pass exams rather than to pursue something that we love and have a passion for. I dream of a

life which is impactful and adventurous. My inspiration comes from the world we live in and the people of this world; there are so many incredible people who have inspired me despite not knowing them personally, this is what I love about the internet and being able to have access to it during my teenage years has really impacted and influenced me as a person. I don’t think I would have been provided with alternative outlook and creative options without the use of social media. Everyone is so connected it’s easy to find people who you admire and communicate with them, you have access to the life lessons of those who have lived and learnt, advice as well as adventures of so many people around the world all doing what they love and are passionate about. Which encourages me to feel the same way; to trust my gut and dive into the unknown, which is a scary place, to pursue my passions and fulfil my hopes and dreams, you begin to have faith and believe in your own crazy ambitions when you realise others have done the same; taken that first scary step of trying something new and trusting your instincts. There are people who I follow that encourage me, motivates me and reassure me (not necessary directly but the way they positively

use their platform). The most motivational and inspiring thing I have seen is a video called The Gap by Ira Glass; basically explaining that first you develop taste for anything creative -- art, poetry, photography etc. -- and that is something he then goes to explain that you are never going to be as good as you want to be, there’s a gap between where you are and where you want to be when you start off, but you just have to keep creating until you get to a place where you’re proud of your work. Slowly the gap will get smaller and even then you keep pushing yourself. After listening to his words it was a realisation that everyone is always a little too harsh on themselves. I think anyone experiencing self-doubt in their ability to succeed should watch it. Another huge inspiration of mine is travel; when I went backpacking in Morocco for 2 week I came back feeling so inspired by the people I met, the culture, the connections and experiences; I felt so refreshed and recharged once I came back I just wanted to hop on another plane and absorbe the culture of another country. I made me realise that I have to take a gap year after year 13.

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oth these shoots were spontaneous, which I love. I was meeting up with my friend who I hadn’t seen for a while, we found a hidden tranquil escape amidst the craziness that is London. It was the first spring day we had in London and the sun fell beautifully though the Barbican conservatory; the light was gorgeous, so soft and clean. Our surroundings inspired me to shoot; I couldn’t leave without giving it a go, after all we were also surrounded by palm trees and beautiful light. The shoot basically summed up my friends deep love for palm trees and my love for peace, nature, and light. London is an inspiring city -- you’ll be walking the streets on a beautiful spring day and just fall in love with it all; there is always something hidden to explore and discover. That’s probably what I love the most about the city; although the weather may rarely be good, when it is, it is really appreciated. model Nora Attal instagram @noraattal

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We want to see your work. Poetry? Prose? Photography? Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re interested in anything you create and any suggestions you have for 9th Street. Get in touch! (We wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bite. Promise.) 9thstreetmag@gmail.com www.9thstreetmagazine.com

Letter from the Editor At the front of this issue is a note from the staff about origins. In it, I talked about the difference between aspiring artists and artists, the ones who wanted to do something and the ones who did. There were many times during the creation of this first issue when I worried that 9th Street was going to be another one of those projects that my inner creative fell in love with and then drifted away from. At first, I wondered who would ever submit their work to a magazine that had posted four times on Instagram begging for submissions, a magazine that had nothing to prove itself with but the bare skeleton of a website. I can’t tell you how many times during these first few weeks I’ve stumbled across other fledgling magazines striving to do the same things we are, and thought about the number of them who are going fail. I can’t tell you how discouraging it was. And then the submissions came -- a handful of artists who decided to take a chance and correspond with a girl who, in truth, didn’t really seem to know what she was doing. But they dealt with my constant queries and requests for photographers to write something, even when words are obviously not their chosen medium. Some of them even suggested ideas of their own, and some of them took to social media to sing the praises of a magazine that hadn’t even published its first issue. (Thank you, Erin!) These are the kinds of things that keep people going -- knowing that there are people all across the country, all across the globe who believed in our mission as much as, and sometimes more, than we did. The truth is, a magazine isn’t a novel or a photography series or a painting. It isn’t something you can do on your own, or push through with only your own willpower to feed off of, no matter how difficult. A magazine takes a lot of emails, a lot of late-night calls, a lot of technicalities that writer brains don’t like to deal with, and, above all, a lot of believers. So here I am, thanking the believers from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for having faith in us, and forgiving us your time, and for trusting us with your most beloved works. 9th Street is just beginning.