ISSUE TWO
fisayo adeyeye, editor-in-chief amanda oliver, prose editor shawn quintero, audiovisual editor molly silverstein, poetry editor rachel nicholls, event coordinator ruben delgadillo, visual editor/illustrator
prose contributors: hannah seelman, tj reynolds, anne reynolds smith, cailin doty art contributors: benjamin varosky, ruben delgadillo poetry contributors: mayelle nisperos, paul tomes, dalton day, sarah warren, stephanie campisi, andrew wells, maitane romagosa, emily matthews
front cover ruben delgadillo issue art ruben delgadillo
STEPHANIE CAMPISI
8 Gone Visiting 9 The House That Became an Orchestra
PAUL TOMES
10 Fireworks
TJ REYNOLDS
12 I Sit Zazen
ANNE REYNOLDS SMITH
14 The Seat 54 The Farm
MAITANE ROMAGOSA
20 A Season’s End
BENJAMIN VAROSKY
23 Image
EMILY MATTHEWS
24 Untitled
DALTON DAY
26 Bellying Close 27 A Moment There & Then Gone
ANDREW WELLS
28 From “Nocturnes”
MAYELLE NISPERSOS
42 Pureza
SARAH WARREN
46 Insight
CAILIN DOTY
48 The Memory Keeper
HANNAH SEELMAN
51 Drunk Barn Man
GONE VISITING Stephanie Campisi
Campisi 8
It is an unwritten rule that shoes be removed at your door that your guests tread lightly as ghosts set a part of themselves aside for later collection so I stepped out of my boots stepped out of myself left my body neatly folded in the laundry stepped out of orbit left it all behind to claim at a later point but it is pleasantly calm up here always vacuumed always quiet unearthly so and I might stay awhile.
THE HOUSE THAT BECAME AN ORCHESTRA
The house eschewed itself staked a sign out in front for sale, it said, this title for I am leaving I am no longer a house I am not a structure I am an idea I am an orchestra and I have been playing to the wind-whipped applause of the washing on the line and it is time to move on to seek greener pastures and try my luck amongst the concert halls where the wind turbines tilt and waltz.
Campisi 9
FIREWORKS Paul Tomes look around you we are watching here at the end of a long staircase we are watching a world being born in bright scars that burn and heal and burn again and across the water you are watching rocking your daughter in half-sleep same as the child who is half-dreaming beside me where we are watching a sky opening and tossing ribbons of light like flying stars across the mirrors of tall buildings where from an office the late husband is watching strange flowers like fireflies flicker in their fine brightness and pop silently like baby language against the lake water where the thrown reflection of the boatman’s neck and chin is upheld by the same vision of heaven drenched in sulfur Tomes 10
midnight ghosted over with the smoke and awe of the whole city
watching and waiting with each breath for the next seam of fire to burst in the pocket of our interplanetary evening and flutter like bird glitter back down toward the tiny earth where we, all of us, are watching
Tomes 11
I SIT ZAZEN TJ Reynolds Will you sit zazen with me? Will you sit with open palms and closed eyes while the city lights blare and the cars horns wake the sleeping street lamps, one by one, denying the night’s gentle flow. I sit zazen, the Japanese meditation of “no-mind,” and hope to be a poet. I will push at the seams, press my fingers into the fissures that outline and mark this from that. I sit zazen and dip a hand through my sternum, probing for some piece of me that is loose, easy to remove and inspect. I need to see that piece under light. Where did I put my match? Every writer is a suicide. By committing a life to the imitation of life, the artist perishes. The Art becomes the vessel. The man turns dumbly into a shovel, a knife, a rifle, a billowing sheet of unending
Reynolds 12
parchment. Perhaps the artist is only the woman who fell headlong into the Chasm of Despair, but instead of perishing, she found her
clutching hand wrapped round an unexpected root of purpose. She is reborn with transparent skin, just wax over water. Maybe the artist is only the boy who was called in the dark, someone too frightened to live forever after. I sit zazen and beg audience of you. Rub the coarse tar of my nightsong into your eyes and mouth. Please taste me in these words. Let at least some of them melt and stay there. Let the taste of me explain my faults away; forgive yourself the things you must do as you continue to climb the broken stairs.
Reynolds 13
THE SEAT anne reynolds smith
Dorothy clutched her son’s arm as they led her to her seat, facing the silver casket at the front of the small chapel. There weren’t enough of Maurice’s friends left alive to fill the big sanctuary down the hall, but this smaller space made it look like a crowd had shown up to pay their last respects. It was the same trick she used to use when she fed Maury on a small dinner plate, so he felt like he was getting a full meal when she had to cut back on his portions. But that was so many years ago, before he turned into a tiny, old man. She wasn’t sure why they needed such a big coffin to carry what was left of him. Ninetythree years of good living had used him up, and by the time he died on Friday, he couldn’t have been taller than five and a half feet, even if they dangled him so his toes pointed down to add to the length. While she waited for the organist to finish the processional, and the preacher to take his place, Dorothy looked over at the honorary pall bearers. They didn’t have to do anything but have their names printed Smith 15
in the announcement, which was good. Freddie Golightly and Tom
Parker were the only ones of Maury’s closest friends left alive who could make it, and neither of them could have lifted a casket anymore, even with all those younger men sharing the load. Elmer’s son Jude stood in for his daddy in that group, since Elmer hadn’t left Rolling Meadows in six years, once the Alzheimer’s got him. It was a good run, Dot. But the world is done with folks like us. I’m ready to go. She remembered his words, from days before he died. They weren’t his last, but close to it. The last day in the hospital was rough, but in the end, the nurses had respected his DNR as they had promised, and Dorothy had watched him go. She missed him already, but she was glad to have made it all the way with him. The service was nice, for all that it came from the new preacher who had only been here – Dorothy stopped to think, I guess it has been five years now. Not enough time to get to know someone like Maury. Their middle son got up to talk, and two of the great-granddaughters sang his favorite song, Roses of Picardy, while their piano teacher played the accompaniment. When it was over, and Mason helped her
Smith 16
rise to leave, she pulled on his arm to turn to the right. She put her soft, spotted hand on the curve of the casket lid, and made a promise
in her heart. I’ll see you soon, Maury. Save me a seat. They all gathered at Richard and Margaret’s house for the postfuneral buffet, since Margaret was Dorothy’s only child who still lived in town. Several ladies from the church brought casseroles and chicken, and someone brought banana pudding, remembering that it was Maury’s favorite. Dorothy picked at a plate, but she hadn’t had much of an appetite lately, even before Maury got sick the last time. Margaret’s house was full of family from out of town, and Mason and his wife were staying with Dorothy through tonight. His wife had to go back to Sioux Falls tomorrow, but Mason would be staying on as the executor of Maury’s will. Dorothy was relieved when they finally helped her into the back of his rental car, to go back to the house for the night. The climb up the stairs to her bedroom was an effort, as it had been for almost a year since she found out about the cancer. She never told the kids about it, and she never agreed to the treatment the doctor recommended. He wasn’t even as old as her grandsons. What did he know about quality of life? There wasn’t any reason to fight it now anyway. She did what she had been determined to do. She stayed with Maury until the very end. Smith 17
Dorothy put on her very best nightgown, the mint green one that showed off the last bits of red in her white hair, and climbed into bed. It was a good run, indeed. She looked at the bottles of pain pills that the young doctor had given her as a palliative when she refused the chemotherapy, and the tall glass of water she had brought with her from downstairs. The kids are already in town. Tonight would be a
Smith 18
good night. Save me a seat, Maury.
A SEASON’S END Maitane Romagosa i At parties Cora steals the weed Peyton steals the liquor and I steal the hand soap. Once we walked out with two rolls of paper towels because we ran out at home. Nobody asked.
Romagosa 20
Kanye’s “Bound 2” was on. ii You can only hear mermaid tails from the coast of Stuart Beach where children with platinum hair and plump lips grow up under the not-so watchful eye of Bizarre-o Magic Dads.
iii. A wife, barefoot in pajamas, takes a fat hand and pushes her husband back closes the door and sighs. The neighbor goes into to his garage sits in his lawn chair with a cat on his lap and smokes a cigarette.
Romagosa 21
IMAGE Benjamin Varosky
Varosky 23
UNTITLED Emily Matthews abrasive lunar glare you, the opulent twilight cosmos smear of white disease on sky mute in flame of Basilisk in chilling tendrils of panic heady Inevitable leans in whispers already-deafening winter breath crawling from symbiotic flush from sour, steaming laughter alight in pastel fascination separate: shorn from mortal stigmata
Matthews 24
blood-drop, grainy in reeling air dying, shrined in collapsing shadow taste of rain, for the last time
Bellying Close
BELLYING CLOSE Dalton Day
Day 26
I sometimes need a mountain to squeeze into & through Because like dogs my memory is the most important sense To lose I smell the trees I think about them calling out before they die The sky looks so capably today I may not be under it still I wag my tail under the dirt & eat the sun How’s that for revenge
A MOMENT THERE & THEN GONE
A Moment There & Then Gone I could leave this business of sweetness Take a new name like Monday or WashedOut I’ll collect pearls because they belonged to water & I didn’t & if I had a sister She’d teach me about explosions & say I am not made of bees I am made of either teeth or tangerine If I don’t do anything I’ll be Þne But not an eagle
Day 27
from ‘nocturnes’ andrew wells
’
I I do not look at the stars or the moon, though I have left the blind two inches up, and the window half-open for moth-air. First night of many night scenes and a something perfectly round, hard ball of air or hollowed pebble, hangs between my lungs... V Anonymous laughter outside, it isn’t fully dark, but the light Wells 29
forgot to come this afternoon,
stuck in cloud-traffic perhaps; if it eases up, I expect the sun straight away turns back with somewhere else to be. VI Cataract-boy, stooped beyond his years with both hands on the long beech desk by the window he cannot see through. Winter delayed for the shortest time, fingers shrivel like leaves, curl up to die; brittle-boned and thin, nails chipped like bark. A splutter; final words caught underneath the chin. VII
Wells 30
Evening and everything is grey,
stuck-lipped, lead-limbed in mid-September; silent night spreads now, poisoned cloud-veins corrupting old skin, it blackens and peels, and then death is dark water, and I am pebble-shodden. VIII Long after dark, and I am outside in the cool of the night to write my eighth scene. There is a distant music-pulse, faint stars, and unfurling breath, and the cold of the patio, scratched, naked shins; they sting. The garden light goes out. IX Wells 31
I dream of a boy on the great lake in his little fishing boat, feet numbed by the pool of water already inside, his fishing rod loose-held between two fingers and the harvest moon illuming a ripped reflection. How many nights will he sit here? Where the lake soft-swells, and mud invites him to the quiet under the tide. X How many days have passed since my last ‘Nocturne’ you ask. Too many, but that’s a good thing, you see, for these are just to pass the hours those insomniac hours, and, lately, I’ve been sleeping again. But tonight, I am dead-awake, I push my head out the window Wells 32
and let water-drops hit my back to make me shiver alive.
XI This is a detox of the brain. I have spoken of death; sometimes I long for it in spite of all my fear. I have spoken of it, though all I really know is that death is a fact, it is a wall with no windows to look in, no windows to look out. XII Rumble over me of a plane. I will be leaving soon, maybe someone’s sad. It rains. XIII Babysitting, three minutes and then they should be home. Wells 33
TV off now, nothing’s on at midnight, so I turn a tired mind to Baudelaire. I feel blind to the page, visions start to roam. Her dark hair, that touch. Do I make these illusions so my heart’s alive? XIV It’s those chimes again, they sound almost once a month. First time I’ve written of them. I think they come from outside. XV Wide-eyed stagger toward the red light. I tripped where roots ripped the path Wells 34
and branches tried to grab me,
one took a fistful of my shirt and another loomed above. Unsteady downhill, I come to five dark houses. No keys. XVI Where are the wind-chimes? I keep hearing them. XVII Less than a week, three times I’ve dropped from rock to jagged rock under an orange-tinted sky with no stars or moons. I might fall twice more this month, yet to decide. For now I will sit, here on the mountain ridge, reading again the long jail letter. Wells 35
XVIII Somewhere a leaf drops, lonely, cold at the month’s close. I am leaving for Rome. Below the cars’ gold river through night-fields going. I listen to Pathétique, first time in months. I take nothing with me more than bone and flesh. XIX That ball of air, mere absence, it has returned this morning. O for an absence of absence... XX What I wanted to say last night: Wells 36
I am afraid of losing fear, because
perhaps there are certain things I should be scared of. Not love, or getting drunk on Saturday, or dropping school because grades<heart, but knowing how to lose fear, might let knife or the dark-to-no-start in. XXI It has been over a week now, since last I wrote a nocturne. I took the bins out this cold evening, bonfire smoke hung on the air, and a single gold light was on in a window of a cottage â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I saw it down the street, wondered if they were watching TV... XXII Wells 37
Is this what everything comes to? a few words, scribbles on envelopes and notepads, and the back of my hand. All of these are fading as we speak, this too is just my feeble mark on time that weakens by the second, to make my life less cold. A cul-de-sac, is that what everything comes to? Envoi Wind chimes once again, ephemeral the moment.
Wells 38
Gone.
PUREZA Mayelle Nisperos I was born at the height of the dead season, when monsoons dilute canes to shriveled, tasteless bark. You learn early on to stomach the bitter and spoiled. My mother taught my hands to braid tractor wires before they understood needle and thread. Observe proper posture when loading the trucks. Perfumed me with gasoline, powdered me in soot—
Nisperos 42
Understand this: by no means is sugar the lazy man’s crop. Not even the carabao feeds on hollow grass. Summer is an exercise in patience. Never be too eager to fertilize, lest you burn the canes prematurely.
I imagine if my mother had learned restraint the way you learn to fertilize, she would be raising her wine glass to a newly wed son and daughter -in-law. The church bells sing a wedding song for the haciendero’s daughter. The town gathers for merienda, but there is no time to spare. Milling is about to begin. I strike the last stalk with a rusted espading; it hangs on splinters. Listen to the parched fields guzzle the raw sugarcane juice, drunk and slurring, “Ferment it into liquor, you bastard!” Snap the cane by the roots, and then twice more.
“No one will notice.”
Nisperos 43
A toast! To the happy couple, to a bountiful harvest! My virgin tongue now saccharine drunk; burn my throat, curdle my liver—
Drinking is an exercise in patience, now
let the monsoon sober me.
__________________________________________
Nisperos 44
Pureza (spa.) â&#x20AC;&#x201C; adj. 1. a technical term in sugar agriculture referring to the sugar concentration of a sugarcane, â&#x20AC;&#x153;sweetnessâ&#x20AC;? 2. purity, chastity
INSIGHT Sarah Warren
Warren 46
the Blackest brain, encrusted with charCoal and Soot scabby gums these I trade My Life for i do not need to BREATHE or eat or sleep or drink i Not am wonder Woman but her icy corpse when they ask me What’s wRong i will tell them i didn’t sleep it Is true Such tedious questions the indeFineable, unimaginable Beetles in my Brain nibbling tissue, gNawing bone who am i to Evict them?
THE MEMORY KEEPER Cailin Doty The mountain town was as poor as it is old; the harvests barely keep them through the winter, the mountain monsters chased away any potential traders and the hunters could barely make their own weapons with what they have in the storage. Tough work put some muscle on the young adults, but would fade as quickly as it came and hunger pains would remind the rest that they were not like those above their ranks; those who always know when their next meal would arrive. In their town, there is only one such group that lived in that blessed stability; The Memory Keepers. Their cottage where they lived and worked and died in was in the center of town, in sight to remind the others of the privilege They had. A Memory Keeper was not created or taught, instead, they were born. And what they did, no one understood or knew. Anyone that asked was given the standard curt reply of, “Trust us, you don’t want to know”. They dressed in the darkest shade of black, their cloaks lined
Doty 48
with heavy fur, and their heads were crowned with the skulls of stags. They spoke in riddles and in unknown tongues. They read books
kept away from public. The villagers did not completely understand it all, but they did know one thing, and they knew The Memory Keepers had the best food. What else could explain those delicious smells coming out of their chimney or open kitchen window? And in this small village, food was the most valued thing of all and what determined a personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s status. Let them read their strange books and dress in silly ways, the outsiders would say, their food pays for all their eccentricities. Every husband and wife wished upon the stars for their unborn child to possess the unearthly grey eyes that signaled the arrival of another Memory Keeper. It was this hope, the only hope, which kept the village alive with children. More often than not, the prayers were not answered. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, hazel eyes, and black eyes, even, appeared. But when a grey eyed child was born, everyone rejoiced and their songs could be heard from the deepest valleys and the highest points. Today, a grey eyed girl of sixteen stood before the cottage door that separated her from the normal world and the world of The Memory Keepers. She held her old, patchwork, grey cloak tightly as the old oak door creaked open. Before her stood an elderly man, his shadow cast over her, his grey eyes cold and searching. He grinned, revealing the few teeth that were still intact. His cloak was black as night, the skull on his head bleached white from the sun. Doty 49
“We’ve been waiting for you child.” He crooned. He held out a shriveled hand for her to take, rings of every shape and metal adorned his wrinkly fingers. “Step into the warmth, you must be freezing. Once we’ve given you a hearty meal, you’ll begin your work.” She obeyed without a word. She took his hand and crossed the threshold, knowing, not knowing, and wanting to know all at the very same time. She did not notice that her old cloak had fallen from her shoulders. Nor did she not notice the velvet black one that was draped across her. And far away, the hunting birds screeched. A new
Doty 50
Memory Keeper had been brought into the fold.
DRUNK BARN MAN Hannah Seelman I passed out drunk. Vision blurry/fuzzy, body marvelously so loose, tie falling from my neck. Oh yes, I was so drunk. Having spirit for once, of uncaring for the stress and darkness of this world. A moment of a high in a hearty heart. I passed out drunken in a farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stable, but before I danced in a field of wildflowers. The moon enlightening the petalsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; hues as petals of Easter. Perhaps it was the sweet juice but I swear I heard the angels sing will watching the faeries dance upon the ink stained sky. I passed out, suit forever soiled. Before my heart igniting as a spark for a smoker as I screamed and yelped to the smiling moon. The full moon creating a spotlight for my insane performance. I danced a dance of gratitude and lightness. The cold dew soaked grass staining my untamed feet. I passed out drunk. At last after I howled to the sky until I could no more, I saw a small light in the distance. Slightly bigger than a an old dirty lantern placed in a smudged antique window upon the
Seelman 51
firefly and for some reason it beckoned me. Upon closer view it was
wall of a barn. The barnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s red paint chipping as the wood underneath plays peekaboo. I go and open the doors. They burst open with a wave of warm air and this hits my body. A sweet sensation of a sweet welcome. I simply passed out. I passed out among the confused cows, pigs, horses, and God knows what else. The animalsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; eyes wide in wonder at this new encounter of such a strange beast. So many hearts in this place. Breathing together. A place with the distinct smell of hay and manure. I continued on stumbling and twirling with my shadow as the star dust streams in from the old window, a cold yet magical light. I passed out drunk. Simple as that. A free fall into the busy strings of hay. Head nodding off on the smooth and warm horseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stomach. Air breathing in and out of the massive creature soothing, as if I strangely in a womb once more. Eyes flickering and then was gone gone gone. I passed out and dreamed a great dream in which I can no longer remember, but as I slept I felt myself smile. I slept in a stable with a barn full of smelly animals yet despite the hangover the next bright morning, and a rather confused farmer, I regretted nothing. It was the
Seelman 52
greatest and most real moment of my entire life.
THE FARM Anne Reynolds Smith The sheet of blood slowly contracted into a ribbon, as it traveled down the slightly oily surface of the knife, until the bulbous base of red fell in fat drops to the dirt once, then twice. The womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s thin hand clutched it in an overhand grip, and her ropy forearm trembled slightly from the effort of holding it tightly, even now, when she no longer had to wield it in anger. You do what you have to do to survive. She stood over the body of the man, watching carefully to see whether he was going to move again. The pool of blood under him had stopped expanding, and she wondered whether that meant his heart was no longer pumping it out, or whether it was just soaking into the ground beneath him. The once-pretty sundress that she wore was now torn at the side seam from when the man had grabbed the fabric and pulled at her, and the front was spattered from the spray when the knife had sliced Smith 54
an artery in his arm, as she forced him to let her go. Her breathing was starting to slow back to normal, but she could still feel her heart
beating hard in her chest. The adrenaline had stopped pushing her forward, and now she was tired, barely able to move away from the man who was no longer fighting her. Nora moved quietly down the packed dirt drive between her house and her barn. She’d lived on this farm since she and Leonard married in ‘46, and she’d been alone on it a dozen years, ever since he died in ‘59. She had told him he needed to listen to that doctor up in Birmingham, but he never changed his ways, until the day she found him leaning against his tractor, coughing up blood, making that awful sound as his lungs took the choice away from him. A woman alone on a farm was a hard life, but Nora was a hard woman. She didn’t back down when a fight came to her. She slowed as she approached the barn. Someone else was definitely in there. She held her breath as she peered in, and saw the figure crouched behind Leonard’s old Oldsmobile. These goddamn teenagers. Why do they try to come out here? The girl turned and screamed as she saw Nora’s knife raised over her. You do what you have to do to survive.
Smith 55
Stephanie Campisi is an Australian-born, Portland-based poet and author whose work has been published in magazines and anthologies worldwide. She writes silly things at poetdeploriate. tumblr.com and tweets at @readinasitting. Dalton Day is a terrified dog person & Pushcart nominated poet. He is the author of Fake Knife, & an editor of FreezeRay Poetry. His poems have been featured in PANK, Hobart, & Jellyfish, among others. He can be found at myshoesuntied.tumblr.com & on Twitter @lilghosthands. Cailin Doty is a writer, an undergrad in Massachusetts, and majoring in English with a focus in Creative Writing. She loves hot cocoa, gel pens, and pondering over the mysteries of the world. You can read her works at thejinxedwriter.tumblr.com. Mayelle Nisperos is currently a student at the Ateneo de Manila University pursuing degrees in Legal Management and Creative Writing. She spent most of her childhood in the province, and now spends most of her time at the local coffee shops. Pureza is her first published work. You may find her other works at mayelle-nisperos. tumblr.com. TJ Reynolds is a graduate student at California State University Fullerton, working towards an MA in English. He writes fiction and poetry in an attempt to bring meaning to lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tragedies. He firmly believes in the potential for artforms to break boundaries, change perspectives and allow for a positive change in the world. He hopes to one day obtain a PhD and become a tenure track professor and lifelong writer.
Maitane Romagosa is a second year Graphic Design major at the University of Florida. She collects pinecones, seed packets, bookmarks, lisa frank memorabilia, and crayons. She wants to ride really really fast standing on her bike pedals for the rest of her life. Please write “scoff” on her tombstone. Hannah is a student at WMU in west Michigan. She loves dogs and wants to be an author and zoo keeper. Check out her blog at hannahseelman.weebly.com! Anne Reynolds Smith is a nomad who has followed her husband around the country for twenty years, every time his boss said move. She had to redefine herself every few years, and after being an ex-librarian, ex-counselor, and ex-stripper-costume-designer, she decided to ditch the “exes” and just be a writer from here on out. She writes a nightly blog called Scenes from Smith Park, and she wonders whether she will ever have a long enough attention span to have a “forever house” someday. Paul Tomes lives and works in Washington State. A student at Seattle Pacific University, he spends his inner-city days reading and writing, as well as volunteering at New Horizons, a shelter for homeless youth, where he helps cultivate a belief in the transformative power of poetry through a weekly writing group where youth have access to a safe space that welcomes creative expression.
Benjamin Varosky is a sometimes author, sometimes substitute teacher born and raised and currently living in Phoenix, Arizona. He prides himself on his social media presence and the fact that he can cook bacon without burning it - or himself. He once made a Frappuccino for Rick Ross. Sarah Warren is a lover and a fighter, with special skills in getting sunburned and talking too much. She has the occasional poetic brain child. Her other hobbies include drinking tea, reading, stalking publishers, and writing on her hands in permeant ink. When she is not writing poetry â&#x20AC;&#x201C; which is an unfortunately large period of time â&#x20AC;&#x201C; she can be found in the theater, either onstage acting or backstage running the makeup table. Soli Deo Gloria! Andrew Wells lives in Surrey and is a student of English Literature, English Language and Philosophy & Ethics at the Howard of Effingham Sixth Form. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in journals which include Dagda, Hark Magazine, Map Points, and Cyberhex Journal. He is an editor for Haverthorn Magazine.