I Am a Camera magazine 2, Fall 2013 by Adam Shemper

I AM A CAMERA IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE created and taught by Adam Shemper

SONOMA ACADEMY • SANTA ROSA, CA • FALL 2013 Julia Adams, Alyssa Goody, Samantha Hoppe, Lucca McKay, Jess O’Connor & Perry Parsons

I AM A CAMERA IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE created and taught by Adam Shemper

SONOMA ACADEMY • SANTA ROSA, CA • FALL 2013 Julia Adams, Alyssa Goody, Samantha Hoppe, Lucca McKay, Jess O’Connor & Perry Parsons

The views in this book are the writers’ and do not reflect those of Sonoma Academy. This is a not-for-profit, educational publication of student work.

Cover photo credit: Arthur Tress

CONTENTS Where I May Be by Perry Parsons!!

2-4

Lead Rain by Lucca McKay!

5-8

Bitter Paradise by Lucca McKay ! !

Mirror, Mirror by Jess O’Connor! !

10-13

Stranger by Sam Hoppe!

14-17

Becoming by Julia Adams

18-19

Another Day by Sam Hoppe

Shadow on the Corner by Jess O’Connor!

20-21 22-23

You are Left Alone by Lucca McKay!

24-25

Patchwork of Grey by Alyssa Goody! ! ! Death is a Mistress by Julia Adams

26-27

Georgia’s Soliloquy by Jess O’Connor! !

!! !

28-29 !

I AM A CAMERA: IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE FALL 2013

I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! --Christopher Isherwood In this exploratory course, students wrote creatively about the lives of people and places in photographs. To inspire them to write, students chose from a variety of images from art photography to documentary to photojournalism. Through the process of working with words and pictures, students began to discover the similarities and differences between the way people are represented in images and the way characters come to life in a story. As well as the way images give us an immediate visual sense of place and the way stories use verbal description to slowly reveal a setting. The ultimate aim was to teach students to trust the unique shape of their individual lives and voices and to trust the raw process of writing. In the end, six students wrote in a variety of unique forms, including vignettes, short stories and poems that were suspenseful, mysterious, and deeply-felt in their descriptions of character, mood and setting.

photo credit: Sally Mann

WHERE I MAY BE by Perry Parsons ! It’s like the feeling you get early, early in the morning, right before the sun peeks its head over the edge of the world, when the fog has settled itself over the land like a sheet of pale chiffon. Before the rooster crows, and before lights flick on and light up the landscape. Wherever I may be, a lonely beach, a sleeping hamlet, a park in a bustling city still sleeping, I can feel like a spectator of that lonely scene. It is a feeling within, like a storm blazing across the screen of a muted television. It’s that feeling of being here, the fog hanging low at my feet, clinging to my arms and legs like early morning dew on grass. ! ! There are shapes in the distance, just beyond my sight, scents and smells just beyond my ability to reach them, a feeling I know is waiting for me, on the other side of the mist. My feet are itching to move. What’s stopping me? The uncertainty, just beyond my sight, not where I can see it, know what it looks, sounds, smells and feels like. ! But, if I wait to know what it is, in order to run and see what it is, then how will I run? How will I know? I will walk. One foot, the other, again, again, on and on I go. Still I am looking for the end, or the other side of the fog, as if it is a wall, which, once passed, will no longer block my view. Yet, blurry shapes surround me. How long have I been walking? ! And how long have I stood in this endless, ringing silence? In my head I am speaking to my self, but suddenly with the silence, I cannot tell if I am speaking aloud or if the words are simply all in my head. To think of letting even a whisper shatter the perfect silence seems a crime. The urge to open my mouth and speak is building, building until, like the breaking of a dam, “Hello!”, the peace and silence shatter. ! Suddenly, I can feel the silence. A presence awakened by the disturbance of the ringing in my ears, the beat of my heart, the rustling of leaves. Each sound is more dramatic. Dripping water like the crashing of boulders. The soft crunch of leaves beneath my feet like the crush of bones beneath a giant’s foot. Every shape I see, appearing to be a person, someone, anyone, reveals itself as no more than a rock or tree, shrouded in mist. ! Where am I going? What am I reaching for? With every step I take, I feel I am moving further and further away from my destination. My limbs fail me as they grow weary with endless wandering. I take a seat on the soft, dewy grass. Does this landscape have an end? Is it the end that I am searching for? No. There can be no end. ! The earth goes in an endless circle. The day turns dark, disguises its self as night. Life gives life, and life goes on. Upon the soft, wet grass I let my head fall back to stare up at the thick blank, white fog. But, it is blank? Or is there something else now? I sit up to see fog changing color. It goes from white to blue to purple to pink. Every color

streaking across the sky. All around me the world becomes clearer. It is that brilliant feeling of a new beginning. The moment when anything is possible. The fog is gone and all around me gold light illuminates the grassy moor. ! It was a picture of lonely beauty, and now a warm glowing picture I cannot describe and no camera can capture. It is a beauty so great it would give the most devoted atheist reason to believe in a divine power. Life gives life, and life goes on.

LEAD RAIN by Lucca McKay

photo credit: W. Eugene Smith

Joseph was alone.

! Forsaken by his family, friends, he was left alone to die. No, that was not his mission, his future. No. He knew what had to be done. He knew how to do it. ! The wind brushed through the thickets and the white-washed fence to his left. There was a storm brewing. Joseph knew he would be caught in the midst of it. This would not be an ordinary storm Joseph decided. No, this was a storm he planned, that the world deserved. A drop slid down his cheek to rest in a split in Joseph’s chapped lips. He licked his lips, making a soft crackling sound. Salt water. Joseph reached up to touch his cheek to feel where the drop of water had caressed his hardened face. No, it was too late to be getting soft, as things were already in motion. Even he couldn’t stop before his hard work had come to fruition. ! Resolved, his grip hardened against the cold leather case of his doctor’s bag. It was laden with the tools of his trade. He lay down the heavy bag on the wet grass. He took one hand to remove his brown dripping fedora, and with the other wiped the moisture from his face. He replaced the cap atop his head, picked up his bag, slightly muddied, and continued moving. 5

! He moved slowly down the hill of an abandoned farm. Joseph didn’t know where he was, only where he was going. Cows grazed lazily nearby, their hides starting to drip wet from the rain as well. They slowly looked up as the lone stranger crossed their fields, then slowly returned to their eating. ! Joseph reached the top of the next hill, from which he could see the storm pouring onto the rolling mountains and the sparkling lights of the village beyond. The village, the town. He set down his bag and kneeled. His dark brown pants soaked with mud, as he unclasped his bag. The rain poured from the sky above, as his cold, wet hands went into the bag. He gripped the adorned metal of his weapon of choice, a pistol with the safety turned off. He got out a silencer from the bag and screwed the two unforgiving pieces together. The world had hit him down, and he was determined to hit back. ! He coughed, sending out a tiny cloud of fog that hovered in front of his face. He looked down at his watch to check the time. Joseph couldn’t tell where he was, but knew he had to be here at this time, it was part of his job. With a sudden crack of thunder in the distance the wind started to pick up. Joseph watched as rain fell harder around him. Stinging his face as it whipped through his clothes down the mountain. ! With a sudden change in wind, the wind was whipping around him, as the wind screamed in his ears. Joseph fell to his knees gasping, the air sucked out of his lungs. He struggled to look up through the sheets of rain now just circling him. He was in an empty tunnel of air that rose into the clouds. Flashes of lightning glanced and shook the tunnel of air that encompassed him. Water stinging his eyes, Joseph saw flashes of light on the outside, realizing that each one was a memory, a recollection, a sorrow. His childhood, his high school, the pains, the memories all whipping around him in bright flashes, teasing him, taunting. All the things that Joseph couldn’t do, he couldn’t save. Joseph threw his head back, water flinging off his body as his body ached to the stormy sky, and screamed. A crack of lightning arced through the tunnel of rain to strike Joseph with a loud boom. ! Joseph looked up and slowly rose to his feet. He glanced at the shoulder of his jacket now singed. “That was my favorite overcoat,” Joseph muttered to himself, breaking the silence. ! “What did you say, dear?” came a voice. ! Joseph eyes flashed upward, becoming aware of his surroundings, now a kitchen. His boots cracked against the linoleum floor. There was a tablecloth the same black and white pattern as the floor. Unfortunately, for Joseph, he recognized the scenery. ! He lifted the corner of the tablecloth to glance underneath. In the center of the floor there was a small boy quietly rocking back and forth, tears falling down his cheeks. Joseph sighed when the boy didn’t notice him. He would’ve remembered if he did. He quietly let the tablecloth fall back down again. ! “I said, Get…me…another…beer!” said a gruff voice as a loud crash came through the house. ! Joseph eyes flickered with hatred, as he stepped into the other room. It was a smoke-filled room with the T.V. blaring, casting flickering lights across the room. There was a pungent odor that caused his nose to wrinkle and cause bile to build up in the back of his mouth. Joseph looked over at the man in a leather recliner. He’s not wearing 6

a shirt, Joseph thought. But he has enough hair on his chest to knit enough sweaters for a large family. ! Grunting and gasping, the burly man struggled to get out of his chair. Standing, looking over his beer belly, he hobbled over to the thin wisp of a woman folding the mass of dirty clothes in the corner. ! Joseph knew what came next. The yelling, the crying. Not this time. As Joseph slowly raised his gun level with his father’s head, the whole scene disappeared. Smack! And then tears. . ! “Asshole,” Joseph muttered as he lowered his gun. A storm whipped up overhead suddenly, and then there were lights, and then he was in the halls of his high school, the long corridors stretching on forever in either direction. The smallest sound echoed and reverberated through the entire building. Joseph turned to look at the endless rows of lockers lining the walls. A voice could be heard from one of them. ! “Help! Somebody please!” A small boy’s voice could be heard from inside. Joseph locked on it and as he opened the door the small boy tumbled out. His eyes were on Joseph’s feet, then he scanned the length of his body up to his face. He quickly scrambled back. Joseph tried to give him a compassionate smile, when he heard a voice behind him. ! “Look at little baby Joseph, all alone in a locker,” the familiar voice said. It was the high school bully sneering at him. ! “Look Billy, I wasn’t trapped, I was just, uh––,” he said. ! “Just what? Admiring the inside, like you’ll be admiring my fist!?” His cronies appeared and laughed as he turned to them. “Hold him down, I’ll take care of him,” he said as he brushed off his fist on his shirt. ! Joseph raised the gun again, when suddenly he was forcibly pulled into the locker. It extended outward into dark space to show the scene of Billy and his cronies advancing on poor young Joseph as a tiny blip in the distance. ! Another flash and he was at home again in the early morning. A car door slammed. He turned to see his mom putting several bags into a car. “I'm sorry Joseph,” she whispered as she threw her last bag into the car, “I have to leave before he wakes up, and even then I don’t have enough money to take you too.” ! A now grown older teen Joseph had tears rolling down his cheeks as he watched his mom pack up and get into the drivers seat. “But mom?” ! “But nothing,” she said. “I’ll try and come back for you later.” She forced smile. ! From behind them older Joseph heard several panes of glass break, followed by cursing. Fear raced into his mom’s eyes as she started the car, then peeled out just as his dad burst through the door yelling. ! Older Joseph smiled as he could remember this scene from his past. Slowly he crossed the street leveling the gun with his dad’s head. ! “The hell are you––,” he said. The silence was shattered with the loud bang of the gun. Younger Joseph gasped as he looked at his father--bastard--with his eyes crossed towards the bullet wound in his head. Slowly he slumped forward. ! Teenage Joseph slowly looked up at his older counterpart. ! “Who… who… are…?” he stuttered.

! Older Joseph looked at him, and looked at the black unmarked car slowly rolling towards them. He knew who was in the car, he could still smell the cold leather of the seats as two men asked him questions. ! “Do you know anything about guns?” “Are you by yourself now?” “Are you interested in a proposition?” Older Joseph knew that they would take him in, but he would be anything but safe. They would train him to hunt, live in the shadows, to kill, to look for the gaps in time and space, close them. Joseph smiled as he turned around and started to walk away. ! “Wait! Who… are you?” Younger Joseph managed to get out. ! His older counterpart turned slightly, and tipped his fedora, as the sun had begun to set stretching shadows across the street, the evening becoming ablaze in an orange glow. “Call me…,” Joseph said. He pondered a moment what to tell his younger self. “Call me, the Weather Man.” He turned away. His overcoat flapped open behind him, as his shadow stretched into the darkness. He reached the shadows of the buildings across the street and slipped into the inky darkness. It enveloped him as he disappeared and sunk into the inky murkiness of it all. Then suddenly he was back. Rain continued to fall around him. He grimaced as his clothes became drenched once again. He had changed his past to protect his present, but now he had to make sure that the future remained intact. So he trudged on through the storm, becoming a blip on the green hillside, as the storm continued to rage on.

BITTER PARADISE by Lucca McKay

photo credit: Wright Morris

I stand in the snow alone, the wind whistling through my ears and hair. It sends a cold chill up my spine. I enjoy the chill, as it feels refreshing in the early morning hours. The clouds hang heavy, gray in the sky above. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. As the snow crunches and squeaks beneath my soles, the snow slowly seeps into my boots. I feel the cold seep in, absorbed in the damp leather against my calves and ankles. The fur of my jacket lays heavily against my undershirts, also slightly wet with snow. I shiver and blink as the cold morning air dries my eyes. I put my attention on the small cabin ahead of me, little more than a shed. The snow of the roof shifts slightly as flakes of snow drift off. Icicles melt and patter in a gentle rain onto the ground below. A single window lies in the wall, dark, yet comforting. Firewood lies next to the house, welcoming me to warm myself on the interior of this cottage. This is not my cottage. So, I remain outside. The wind clatters slightly, as it blows through a wooden fence on my right. Â A dead tree stands on the other side and blades of dried grass poke through the snow. On my left is a field with more dead grass poking out from its icy prison. Like me, the house is alone out here. I stand and shiver. 9

MIRROR, MIRROR by Jess O’Connor

photo credit: Library of Congress

Mirrors chased me. The station stretched on endlessly, and every beam, bulb, balcony, and brick was banal, identical. Overhead, the slats of the roof let in the white light of the overcast morning outside. There was a smaller than usual crowd, passers-by in suits and skirts, rushing to make the train. The shop windows that occupied those who waited just intensified my mirror theory, were like a wall of mirrors as you walked down the large marble hall. On the balcony, there was only me. Those, too, stretched on, with carpets that hadn’t yet felt the touch of polished shoe prints on their surface, save for mine. But mine were actually rather dusty. ! The reason I’d escaped to the balcony––and yes, I was escaping––was just to get away from those shop windows, those accidental mirrors. In every reflection, I saw myself. My stupid, fluttery collared shirt. My braces, which glinted every time I smiled, and really just made my mouth look dirtier in general. My mother always said my hair made my head look ginormous, and I saw for the first time that morning that she was 10

right. This was also the first time that I didn’t see my eyes as a redeeming feature. That was something she always said too. In those mirrors, their hazel glow just reminded me of something no one seemed to want. Except my mother. But when has that ever reassured anyone. ! As I stared down gloomily at an even gloomier crowd, I saw the policeman from yesterday standing by a shop window. He was surveying the scene, as well as other things I suppose. That’s another reason I avoided the mirrors. I seemed to have naive written all over my face lately. Every time I tried to scrub it off it just got worse. ! So that was where he worked. I nodded to myself. I know where you work now. How would you feel if I called you out? I was really disgusted with him in that moment. I was also shocked.

photo credit: Danny Lyon

! ! Shocked because for the first time, again, I realized that everyone is so normal after everything. Your girlfriend becomes a stoner, but nothing changes. Your best friend becomes attractive, but nothing changes. A fire catches across the street, but everyone always expects you to “calm down.” or “get over it.” What if you’re my age? How do you “get over” a first? I really hate that term. I just don’t understand. Especially when awful things happen, like say you find out your mom’s been screwing the policeman, who’s now having his first cigarette, with his hand on his hip, square jaw, brutal eyes, eyebrows raised, down in the station. In three weeks, was I supposed to forget that? In that moment, it was as if something was ripped away from me. I couldn’t take it back. I can’t take it back now. I sure as hell can’t take it back in three weeks. !

photo credit: Robert Frank

! And can we just pretend for a moment that when I asked a girl out, she said, Yes? Let’s pretend that. We don’t have mirrors, it shouldn’t be too hard. Well, I think–– I thought––that something was absorbed in that moment. And you can’t dispel it. I couldn’t then. I can’t now, and I can’t in three weeks. That, before the morning in the train station, was my internal law. It allowed my personality to crystallize and harden and meld at the best of times. And the worst of times. Now I’m quoting Dickens. But after last night, that mirrored station mocked my law. Shattered it, as I shattered all of the reflective surfaces in my own home. And I felt like they were screaming, “Get over it!” and “live with it!” and “Well, now you’re screwed, but oh well!” ! I knew it wasn’t just me. That was reassuring. Because when the newspaper had landed on my stoop earlier that morning, and as the door slammed behind me, I smiled. I read the headline, “PRESIDENT SHOT DEAD,” and I smiled. Now the rest of the world would have to suffer with me. But as I later stood on that train station balcony I saw the crowd and was amazed. I was amazed they sobbed. I was amazed they screamed, that they were in anguish. But most of all, I knew that in three weeks, I 12

would be amazed at mankind’s capability to pretend. The mirrors whispered though. They told me I wouldn’t be amazed. They told me I would pretend too. They showed me myself, the self that was pretending as I escaped. That morning, I lost myself for the first time.

photo credit: Christopher Morris

STRANGER by Sam Hoppe

In a small town where everyone knows everyone, it was quite rare to see a new

customer enter the restaurant, especially on one of the slowest days of the year. It was a Saturday. The clear blue sky was cloudless, yet the day was not all that hot. It was late spring. The fair weather was a welcome break from the unbearable sweaty days of the previous week, even though it would continue to grow hotter as summer progressed. For now, the day was cool, with a slight breeze barely strong enough to tousle one’s hair after a walk through town. ! On slow, lazy days like this, the store owners did not expect a constant flow of people. Instead they ponder whether or not to close early and go home to their families. Shops that stayed open would be lucky to even have one customer. ! This was true for a particular diner located on the corner of Appletree Avenue and Skylark Lane. Being the only diner in town to proudly serve what most locals referred to as “quality junk food,” it was usually a busy place. But right then, at 12:39 in the afternoon, there was not a soul in the building, save for the unqualified cook and the waiter who was scrubbing the fire engine red tables for about the seventh time that day. ! The diner sported a glowing, neon blue sign out front that read “Larry’s,” despite the fact that no one who had ever worked there was named Larry. In addition to the sign, there was also a beat up blue Ford pick-up always parked on the side of the diner. Who the car belonged to had never been clear to anyone. After a while, customers had stopped asking employees what the abandoned truck was all about. ! As the waiter made his eighth pass with his sponge over the tables, the door to the diner opened, ringing the bell tied on the door handle. The gleeful jingle of the bell echoed through the silent room, and the waiter turned his gaze to face a mysterious man in his thirties. He had never seen him before. He sported a black, fitted t-shirt, a brown scarf and new blue jeans held up by a brown belt. An old leather jacket hung loosely over his muscular frame. On his shaved head sat a large straw hat pulled down over his eyes, almost covering them completely. ! The waiter approached the stranger cautiously as the man sat down at a table by the window. The waiter felt slightly wary of this new customer for reasons of which he was not aware. ! “Hello, my name is George and I’ll be your server today,” the waiter said, spouting well-practiced words. He placed a single menu in front of the burly man. ! The man looked up at him and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. “I’ll have the hash browns and a black coffee,” he said, and handed the menu back to George without even glancing at it. This surprised George. Unless they were regulars at the diner,

photo credit: Robert Frank

customers always spent at least ten minutes deciding on which menu item they would clog their arteries with that day. ! George nodded mutely in response to the strange man and scurried off to the kitchen to deliver the order. He watched as the strange man stared out the window, making no attempt to pass the time by reading one of the free newspapers or pulling out his phone, as was expected of customers at “Larry’s.” George, being the anxious, quirky guy he was, started to believe that the man’s sole purpose of being there was to make him feel uncomfortable. This was so obviously untrue that George had to scold himself for thinking that way, and force himself to be a little more open minded. Still, the man’s presence felt intimidating and worrisome. He mentally went through a list of serial killers and kidnappers that he had recently seen on the news (which he always paid close attention to), and tried to match the mystery man with the pictures and descriptions of the criminals. Maybe the reason he isn’t reading the news is because he’s afraid he’ll see himself, George thought with growing horror. This stranger could be a psychopath for all he knew. ! As he brought the hot plate of hash browns out to the man, his suspicions lessened. Again, he told himself to put away his judgmental thoughts and focus on his job. Weird people came in the diner all the time and he usually paid little attention. Yet as long as he had worked there, he had never felt so uneasy around a customer. Maybe that was because he knew just about everyone else who visited the diner, and this new guy, this stranger, seemed so different than everyone else. George started to panic again as he watched the man out of the corner of his eye, half-heartedly scrubbing the tables again. He scanned the area, running possible escape options through his brain, in case the stranger pulled out a gun or something. ! The most obvious option is through the back door in the kitchen, George thought to himself, but that might slow me down. He seems like he could overtake me in a few steps. As George started scooting toward the windows to see if they opened wide enough for a scrawny guy to fit through, the strange man suddenly stood up, finished with his meal. George whipped his head around suspiciously, watching his every move. The man just turned toward the waiter, dipped his head in a strange sort of a nod, and walked out the front door, as if saying thanks for his meal. He walked around to the side of the building, and did the strangest thing. ! He got in the car, the blue pick-up truck on the side of the road, pulled a key out of his pocket, and started it up. George watched, dumbfounded, as the man drove off in the ancient, rusted, vehicle like it was brand new. He didn’t even though that thing still worked. ! George was in shock. A strange man he had never seen before comes into the diner, orders without looking at the menu, and drives off in the truck that has not moved since the day he was hired. George was too shocked to move. He was too shocked to do anything but stare out the window where the truck had been parked moments before. He was too shocked, even, to realize that the man hadn’t left any money on the table before he disappeared.

photo credit: Sally Mann

BECOMING by Julia Adams

Fog veiled the scenery,

! ! ! !

bleeding along the distorted ribbon of bark. Seething fingers of mist draped atop the greenery, the muted impression of a tapestry blooming in an arc.

! ! ! !

The frail sapling, crippled before the breeze, lilting in the winds soft melody. Self embalmed amidst the decaying trees, like a cryptic statue of beauty.

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

The arch and bow of its frail silhouette, vomited a bouquet of withered leaves. Immuring the pond in a woven basket, like a corset of bark laced with reeds.

! ! ! !

A burnished sheen of fractured light mirroring the flush of dawn. Lurid imprints of sunlit hands rupturing the night, the shadowed obscurities subtly withdrawn.

Craving figures embedded within each slight surge, mangled, frothing limbs thrusted at the shore. Their foam ridden lips retaining a fervent urge, like a tongue extending from the ponds floor.

ANOTHER DAY by Sam Hoppe

photo credit: Adam Shemper

An alarm pierced the silent February morning in apartment number 296,

signaling that it was officially 6:00 am, time for Peter Jones to get up. He groaned and hit the top of the blue alarm clock located on the nightstand next to his bed. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too early, he thought, like he did every morning. He rolled out of bed, stood up, and instantly filled with regret. The extra hour of TV-watching the night before resulted in a headache. Head pounding, he took another step across his bedroom and opened the medicine cabinet to pull out a bottle of Advil. He swallowed it dry, accustomed to the feeling of the cold pill sliding down his throat. 20

! Another day, another dollar, Peter thought to himself as he pulled on his work clothes. Some days it didn’t even feel like that. Some days it felt like he did all this work for nothing, for no appreciation, no money, no recognition. Another day, another day. Peter thought. That was really what life was for Peter, another day to push and grimace through. The only things to look forward to were his lunch break and quitting time. ! On top of Peter’s sour mood and gloomy thoughts, he had to deal with the fact that it was raining yet again. It had been raining for the past month and a half straight, with only small breaks in the weather. The sky was constantly covered with heavy, dark rainclouds, and the city hadn’t seen the sun since early January. Every time Peter saw the steady rain falling outside the window of his second story apartment he cringed inwardly and closed the drapes. ! “Another day,” Peter whispered to himself as he climbed into the taxi he had scheduled the previous evening. As he arrived at his work building, all Peter could think about was how much he didn’t want to sit in his cubicle surrounded by the dull, unimaginative gray of his workplace and count down the hours until lunch time. Unfortunately, he had to do his job. ! Another day, Peter thought as he paid the taxi driver and hurried to his building through the drizzle. He smiled at the receptionist as he entered through the main doors and turned the corner to the elevator. A small sheet of paper was taped to the gray elevator: Elevator broken. Please use stairs. Peter groaned loudly as he turned to face the six flights of stairs that stood to his left. They, like everything else in the building, were an ugly, boring shade of metallic day. ! “Another great day,” Peter said sarcastically through gritted teeth as he took the first step of many up the seemingly endless stairs.

SHADOW ON THE CORNER by Jess O’Connor

photo credit: Sally Mann

Her eyes are a warning

And they are Fragile as glass. They are A full storm, enrapturing to some They say KEEP OUT They’re ?illed with hurt a million memories made In the grit and dirt of an oppressed world Even before she offers You know where she’s been 22

Know she lives on the corner We’ve all been there At some point, some time We all have our corners Our rock bottom Our no hope Our endless tunnel Our nights spent crying With strangers, alone. But the baby He is that light The light one sees at the end of the tunnel His little eyes peering out from beneath his Cotton blanket He says, “Look what came of torment!” “Here I am! Look at me!” And for a moment You can ignore The fact that her plastic chair is broken And knocked over The fact that the steps behind her Are her beds With her heavily hooded eyes You know she’s a junkie The vampire complexion A connection To the way she feels About light Is it? Or is that how you see it? Oily hair Smeared makeup It all makes up Who she is Your eyes are back to the baby And the way she kisses his tiny forehead Her eyes say, “When you’re ready,” and “Fifty dollars.” But her lips say, “Just a moment longer with him” So you feel terrible As you hand her the money Around her little baby boy On the corner Because now it’s your corner too

photo credit: Jean Mohr

YOU ARE LEFT ALONE by Lucca McKay

You are left alone, silent and dark. You sit

in the grass, as you know not what else to do. Yet you happen across someone, a friend, left alone in the night, like you. You stay with it as you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to leave it, as you know that it wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave you, forsaken. The walls, the trees, the night merge into a smudge, a black smudge, that leaves you and your friend in the center. You are the apex of sorrow, not for yourself anymore, but for your friend, and her abandonment. You try to cry, but you cannot. You try to scream, but no sound comes out. You try to leave this place, the epitome of sorrow, but your limbs do not work. Paralyzed, you realize that you are not the girl, but the doll.

photo credit: Robert Frank

PATCHWORK OF GREY by Alyssa Goode

Through tattered lace drapes,

I stole a glimpse of the tired streets, houses and rooftops surrounding my apartment. Lacking in greenery and any sign of new life, this suburb was almost dead.. It was a grey collection of poorly-made steal tools and toys. The worn streets were a patchwork of grey, a quilt of crumbling cement created by a lack of money or, simply, a lack of care. This was the home of the poor and ill-fated. Like mindless livestock, each shuffled off to repetitive factory jobs. Each night they returned, lungs coated in a veil of filth, fingers raw. Each night their spirits were further broken, falling deeper into inevitable domestication. The life in this dreary place was unknowingly broken. With each passing day another shuttering breath of creativity and freedom was stolen, swept away by the monotonous future that awaited us all.

DEATH IS A MISTRESS by Julia Adams

photo credit: Arthur Tress

The stench encased me...that all too familiar festering, cloyingly sweet perfume that dives into your nose...into your ears...into your mouth––clinging to your skin like a clammy sheen of sweat...the smell of hopelessness. Life’s harsh reality submerged within his face. The grotesque, slumbering creatures in the contours of his eroding mind awoke with an immense hunger and begun to devour each decaying fold of flesh, greedily weaving coils of disease through the depths of his skull, a crippled cavity of calamity. Murmured syllables reverberated against hollow bone. A cavalry of words galloped throughout the distorted ribbons of his 28

mind and ground out the last remnants of sanity into absolute oblivion. Whispering. Whispering. Whispering. He was naked––barely distinguishable in a mask of his own skin––a distorted knot of limbs, his bones flared out like spokes on a wheel. My eyes devoured the shadowed contours of his withered, ashen complexion. Each particular hollow of his body brimmed with velvety shadows, the subtle impression of amber candlelight pooling amidst them. His spine extended up toward his neck like the rungs of an abused ladder... The shadowed contours of his cheeks bled along the warped corset of bone framing his face, pooling beneath each subtle ridge—caressing the gaping hollows of his perpetual grimace with a velvety embrace like the wistful memory of a ghost clutching at the breadth of its lover... The lurid imprints of hands infiltrated the mangled mat of curls poised atop his head—an array of wavering fingers subtly seething into the lid of his eye. Greedily, they clawed at the faint reminiscence of life embedded within his cheeks—two mirroring images of a lilac flushed dawn, saturated with a thin shadow of sweat. I swept the hair from his face, as gently as withered leaves float from a tree, and lightly caressed his neck. His frail silhouette arched and bowed, convulsed and writhed in a rhythmic chaos. I wished I’d been a gentle voice that could soothe his frail soul in life. I would’ve given anything to cure him of his torment, to free him from the cruel chains of insanity. But, then, I remember that I am merely the synthetic shadow of a woman, a woman with weak arms and a weak soul. I wasn’t strong enough to break those chains. I inhaled his musty, pungent breath from the air, the vibrant fume of decay––of death––surged into my mouth as a singular thought infiltrated the emptiness of my mind. Each frail syllable slithered through the folds of my brain, like the lethargic tale of a worm recently saturated in rainwater, plastered within the hollows of my mind, within its endless labyrinth of grass... I gradually entangled my limbs with his own, tentatively encircling his body. I smothered his crippled knot of limbs with a viscid, breathless warmth, a delicate whisper bleeding out as I exhaled: I will leave you now. For I know I am only postponing what you yearn for. I know I am merely plaguing you with an unnecessary pain, trapping you in the confines of life when you have already accepted death. I will leave. Yes, yes, I will leave, and I will let you die. Let you die in peace. ! And then I kissed his cheek, and slowly, gently, I let go of his life. Let it fade into blackness––let it sail higher and higher into the blanket of stars, until it was a mere shadow in the night...

GEORGIA’S SOLILOQUY by Jess O’Connor

photo credit: Sally Mann

! He’s a sweet boy. Simple and sweet. Like a chocolate bar. And a balloon, because it’s as if his head is full of helium. But I don’t mind much. Leaning against the doorpost, his glassy eyes gazing at me, enraptured, he reminds me of a baby. Not the dumb kind of baby. The open-minded, newborn kind. ! Every time he looks at me, I feel as if he’s looking at me for the first time. That’s what makes my heart soar. Other people think it’s funny, the way his lips hang slightly open like a dog’s, or the way he wears his woolen aviator’s cap every day, even in the summer. They tease him, because his mother still dresses him in button-down shirts and slacks. He isn’t wearing slacks now. I’ve caught him off-guard, and he stands there looking stupefied in his white boxer shorts. At least he has a shirt on. ! ! I don’t care what anyone says about my boy. He isn’t a dog; he’s a puppy. His cap is perfect for ripping off his head when I kiss him. His button-down shirt perfectly hangs off of his wiry frame. And I definitely don’t care what his father thinks of him, and the next time that man dares hurt him again, I will make him pay dearly. ! Lord, if that man had my boy’s heart. He would see the world does not exist in a bottle. The world is in his son. The world is in my boyfriend. That’s why I love him. Though he isn’t my world. I don’t mean that. He is his a world of his own, and every day that he crashes into me I feel like I’m falling up and out of my atmosphere. 30