12. Bohemia -- May 2013

A Central Texas Art and Literary Journal

May 2013

Jesus Rivera Seeds of creativity at Waco’s Art Forum Gallery.

Zack

Almond

Interview & article on a Central Texas folksinger. Also,

Zombie Western & Mikey Ohlin.

DearTeen Me Letters from writers to their teen selves offering words of advice.

Fashion - Music - Art - Photography - Poetry & Short Stories May 2013• Bohemia • 1

Elementary Lesson

by Janet Smith Post

(Principal’s Memo to First Grade: One of your students has sustained a sharp blow to the face. Note the black eye. The father is suspect. Be advised.)

I pledge allegiance to the flag, with liberty and justice for all.

The sticks are crooked, seven, eight.

How can we lay them straight?

A long “a” sound is found in face.

The “a” in sad is short.

The deepest “a” sinks in the throat, as a cry, and sounds like, “Fäther.”

Childhood contains two syllables, There’s only one in life.

Trust means to feel safe, and safe ends with a silent “e,” as does the word, hope, which also ends silently.

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Illustrations by Aubrey Carroll

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Texting, Texting

by Carie Krajca-Hopkins

Texting, Texting 1234, can you hear it?

Your phone vibrates on the floor.

You’re sleeping right through it how can you dare.

I cry and cry as I stare, at the screen Waiting for the phone to Jinga ling Letting me know that you still care Texting, Texting 1234, are you still there?

My life is put on hold, why are you so cold?

Don’t you know it’s only you I hold?

In my heart and in my soul, it’s only you And I can’t let go. Please text me soon All I can do is cry, Please text me soon or I may die.

Texting, Texting 1234 was everything you said a lie? Wait a minute I hear a noise from under my bed, It’s something vibrating right under my head.

I reach for it and pull it out; oh man it’s your phone How could I have doubt, I knew you loved me I knew you cared, please ignore my texts Why was I so scared? I’m so embarrassed And I feel a fool; I hope you have a good night.

I’ll see you tomorrow at school.

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youthful A clip

by Morgan O’Connor

The only barber in town was a hair-dresser.

D.ShavingI.Y.

by Jeremiah Walton

Youth with grimy stubbles of black hair DIY tailored chins bristles propping up, words sentenced to death Pin back layers of onion eyes bleeding, but never crying.

Mantle jaw churning, needles piercing the pulled back flesh to the dissection table pouring soul into the core where it’s sentenced to death.

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Actually a self-proclaimed stylish, Dave The Shepherd had been gifted an article for a middle name.

Once at the local Playhouse a converted pigbarn for summer frolic seated behind him I watched sweat drip, through his fleshy blouse onto the clasp of his bra, not the play.

Over ice cream at intermission I asked my father about Dave’s bra, “Mr. Shepherd is eccentric.

Lick up son. The lights are flashing.”

The next time our clip was due Dave The Shepherd was reading a book called “Authentic Happiness”.

The parlor smelt of tuna, he called my father ‘darling’ which proved too much for our small town.

The drive to the city, with the hairy Italians and Greeks cussing at european football on TV, bikini posters taped to the mirror, was long in the snow.

At that age I just assumed barbers were cheaper.

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‘88

Leaving Home

by Laura Taylor

A borrowed wheelbarrow ferried 18 years of gear to an empty space of freedom with a right to occupy without permission

Pre-empting an eviction: staircase absentee Didn’t matter, loaned a ladder Climbed the rungs to liberty Admission free for all Soap washed clothes and monthly skin, clothes as aroma would rise On ubiquitous hi-fi, vinyl so vital revolved in the days of our week Home-brew and hash, living on chips, egg-white for hair gel, and forking the toast on two bars of filament heat No oven, no phone, no washing machine No TV, no freezer, no fridge No legoland Barratt, mortgage, deposit Autonomy

She Has

Learned

by Anne McCrady

(appeared in the Round Top Poetry Festival Anthology) Driving the road to her mother’s house, she remembers her first visit home from college and how she carried in the satchel of her rusty sedan the shiny new lessons she learned out on her own: rent money is due before a single night is spent in a musty, repainted apartment an envelope forgotten to be mailed cannot turn the heat back on love and jobs are like Christmas gifts they can be taken back or given to someone else even a dash of accusation can over-salt a point it took all day to make in families and fairy tales there are kind crones who are mistaken for witches meals eaten alone taste like an empty spoon on your tongue home is where the heart returns for repairs when no one knows how to fix it

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and in my love

I cage him

by Josch Beres

sweet wonder is the song of the cardinal when ensnared. how it seeks to draw me in and free it.

restless he flutters. his wild song enchants. for towering pines and open skies he yearns.

I move his cage near an open window.

and this one – a juvenile, brown overall. dusky bill. his struggle becomes a dance.

I am enthralled: and in my love I cage him.

I know he seeks freedom but the wires restrict. one day he will understand that it is in my love I cage him.

raw are my fingers. one day he will be as red as the blood I’m washing away. a thorny rose is his passion. with my own hands I tried to feed him. and still I know he knows… I hope that it is in my love I cage him.

Trees

a new day with a sad song.

I pull him out. in my hands he sits. quiet. staring.

Trusting, I am pressed to name him.

I tell him that it is in my love I cage him. a flurry now as feathers clatter like laughter to the floor my hands and cage hold empty.

I guess love can be no respite when it cages.

by Joel Haesecke

I wish Christians were like trees.

They stand tall proudly claiming their contribution by the fruit they bear.

They do not paint their lemons for want of limes.

They do not convince nor question.

In fact, they do not speak.

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First

Beer

Bonfire at sixteen.

Not a bonfire a campout.

Friends on a sliding scale of popularity.

Me in the middle.

Mark - Beer?

Me - Sure.

I taste. Bitter.

A memory from childhood.

The neighborhood football game with one of the older Renfro boys.

Beer on his breath, he calls a play.

Catch made, beer sipped.

Eight years old and a real man.

Stop daydreaming. Back to bonfire.

I mean campout.

Another sip.

Brian sits higher on the social spectrum.

He holds Dr. Pepper aloft from the nearby log.

Good enough for him.

Another sip.

Good enough for me.

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by Pete Able

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What happens when you put

crayons, markers, pencils even rocks & sticks in a

C

child’s hands?

by Katie Croft

hildren are programmed to create, from the moment their tiny fingers learn to manipulate items they begin to draw. Many early masterpieces are made on highchair trays with spaghetti sauce and noodles. These moments are opportunities for children to learn fine motor skills, cause and effect and they are also an opportunity for children to see they have an effect on the world. Spaghetti sauce and peanut butter are great but markers and crayons and pencils are synonymous with magic. They are tools that allow them to draw in color and rarely does a child need to be encouraged to draw or paint or even be taught how. There is something instinctual in them, inherent in their being that drives them to make pictures, to translate their world around them and best of all they aren’t afraid. They don’t yet fear rejection or judgment for their thoughts of the world and what they make in it. Their artwork can be movingly simple or masterfully wild and fanciful. I often wonder if creating is a way for them to begin to make sense of the world as they develop in it. No matter the why or the how children are fantastic artists and their creations are worth a second look.

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Davis Age 11

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My Life as an Existentialist

by Megan Miller

I

remember where I was standing when I first encountered Existentialism. It was in a line at the main office in high school, waiting to turn in the latest in a series of fabricated excuses as to why I had missed school recently. I had stood in this line many times before, for I was Queen of the Excuse. I had perfected a very parental handwriting, and knew just how to crumple and fold a note so that it looked like it had resided for some time disregarded in my backpack rather than having been written moments before. I once killed off my grandmother for three days of freedom (sorry, Gammie!). I occasionally put my talents to use for friends, and might have started a business had I kept a more consistent school schedule. In this respect and in my own small way, I was Ferris Bueller.

I don’t remember exactly how Existentialism came to me as I waited in that line. Most likely it came out of a conversation with a friend who was looking for my services and knew where to find me. I probably asked him what that Sartre book he was reading was about.

He probably tried to explain, to the best of his limited understanding. This promptly got assimilated in my own limited understanding (the blind leading the blind) into a new personal philosophy. Of course! How could I have not known? I was an Existentialist!

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It might be useful to stop here and review the definition of Existentialism: ex·is·ten·tial·ism m, k s -)

n. ( g z -st n sh -l z

A philosophy that emphasizes the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience in a hostile or indifferent universe, regards human existence as unexplainable, and stresses freedom of choice and responsibility for the consequences of one’s acts.

A Hostile or Indifferent Universe Among other things that made me certain at that moment that I was an Existentialist was my attitude toward higher education. I had somehow grown up largely feral in regard to school, which often felt like a large hand (Newport Harbor High School) picking up a small kitten (me) and placing it anywhere it felt like (such as hour-long lectures on obscure battles in the Revolutionary War, or Math.

Hours in the golden daylight of my youth that I would never get back again). I resisted covertly (and sometimes overtly) the overarching authority school manifested in my life.

Responsibility for the Consequences of One’s Acts I looked at the forgery in my hand. I had ditched classes. I was responsible for that, responsible in the face of a cold and hostile institution. I crumpled it up and threw it away. A black mark was appended to my name somewhere in the dark recesses of the permanent records. What I didn’t know (and oh, there was somuch I didn’t know then, despite my cocksureness that I knew almost everything, or at least everything worth knowing) was that there were already two black marks next to my name from previous offenses.

Three strikes, you’re out. My homeroom teacher genially informed me that my detention reservation had been confirmed.

But that was ok. That was responsibility. I had done the crime, I would do the time. The institution would detain me, but it would never break my spirit. The good thing was that this would wipe the slate clean.

Human Existence is Unexplainable The promise of a clean slate made me strangely light-hearted as the day progressed. In third-period Gym, we were given our mid-quarter grade standings, something done as a courtesy so we could know where we stood before final grades for the quarter went in. I had a D. (My mom would be stunned. How does anyone get a D in Gym? I could tell her it was by not showing up, but that would open a conversational lane for which I didn’t want to put on track shoes.) It was my D, though, and my responsibility. Coach Davis suggested that there was still time to raise my grade if I put in some extra-credit. “How do I get extra-credit in Gym?,” I asked, visualizing running laps that would go on until I was voting age. “Aqua-Stars”, she replied.

No. No, no, no no, no.

Given that I swim like a brick, and an uncoordinated brick at that, she couldn’t mean that she wanted me to cavort and smile like an idiot in the pool, could she?

No, she knew my limitations as well as I did. What she needed was another surrey wheel.

Had I been attending class regularly, I would have known that one of the numbers in that evening’s “Aqua-Stars” show was “Surrey With The Fringe On Top”, a show-stopper from the musical “Oklahoma!”. The idea was non-swimming students on the pool deck would twirl umbrellas in formation at the start of the song, then fold them and use them to direct attention to the swimmers in the pool. Davis was one wheel short of a surrey.

The Uniqueness and Isolation of the Individual Experience I spent the hour in detention mulling over my situation. I had had freedom of choice. I had taken responsibility for my choices. I was now faced with the absurd. What made it bearable was that we were to dress uniformly in brown, so the spotlight would highlight our brightly colored parasols rather than us. All the audience would see is the twirling.

When show time came, the four of us Wheels (one girl in a cast which had prevented her from swimming all quarter, one girl on her period, and one gym recalcitrant like me) assembled nervously in the wings. We had been given the plan, but the plan had come together quickly, and there had not been time to practice. We shuffled out like a pike square in a medieval battle and discovered we were too close to each other to twirl without putting out each others’ eyes. Edging away from each other we all started twirling, but at different speeds and directions. The moment came – take it away Aqua-Stars! – and we were mercifully done.

When the final grades came in, I had a B, the highest grade I ever achieved in Gym. I’d like to say that being an Existentialist made it possible for me to live within the totalitarianism of my high school, but the truth is it wasn’t long until I found myself in line at the main office again. My friend had moved on to Nietzsche. Years later, I would list “Surrey Wheel” as part of my theatrical experience when auditioning for roles in Community Theatre.

A quote from Ferris himself in the immortal movie “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” sums it up best: “Hey, Cameron – you realize that if we played by the rules, right now we’d be in gym?”

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Story by Lorelei Lee

O

nce upon a time three rough & tumble boys were chugging along in their VW van. School was out, the weekend was here and they were on their way to town to hang out and, hopefully, meet chicks. About half of their first weeks pay from their part-time summer job at the plant had been spent on new clothes.

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Models (l-r): Ethan Smith, Mason McLain, Paul Mabbitt

T

he van reeked of the cheap after shave cologne they had liberally doused themselves with. Their spirits were high as they looked forward to the adventures the night would bring. Then disaster struck.

The van came to a complete stop and black smoke came billowing out of the backend of their beloved bus.

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Ethan knew just what to do. He steered the van gracefully to the side of the road like a pro. And when the boys jumped out to access the situation, they were super duper aware and careful not to dirty up their slick boho threads.

Luck was with the crew that day, because a fix-it-up shop just happened to be within a block of the their disastrous & misfortunate event.

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“Well boys”, he finally said, “You’re in luck. I happen to not have any other customers this afternoon and I can fix this baby for $500.” The boys choked. “We only have about $300 between the three of us.”, Ethan explained. “Your oil pan is broken.

New one costs $400. You know, there’s a junkyard just 2 blocks west of here. Might be worth your time to walk over there and see if you can find a good used one.” The

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boys brightened and took off on foot immediately. Little did they know that the repair shop mechanic-Gus, had lied to them. The real reason the van had stopped

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was simply that it was out of gas. When Ethan, Paul, and Mason walked into the junkyard they couldn’t resist clowning around a bit, but soon they found what they were looking for. “By the time we pay Gus for his labor we’ll have less than $200. We should have just enough for our night out on the town and to get us back home”, commented Mason. “If we meet some chicks...” he continued but here Paul interrupted,

“You mean when we meet some chicks!” He brushed off his jacket and straightened his belt. “Okay, WHEN we meet some chicks, I hope they won’t expect us to spend a lot of money on them”, Richard finished.

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he trio found Gus in back working. Gus lowered his head to conceal a sneer when he saw them, “Well, I’m afraid while you were gone I found a few more little problems. That will bring your total bill, after I’m through, to $500”. The boys’ eyes grew as big as saucers and their jaws dropped!. “We don’t have that much money!”, they exclaimed together. “Now dudes, don’t get too excited”, Gus responded eyeing their expensive clothes. “I’m willing to make you a deal”.

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I

n another hour Ethan, Paul and Mason slowly walked to the van together, ready to leave at last. They were all missing several items of clothing such as shoes, shirts, etc. They realized they had been had but Ethan, the eternal optimist, blurted out, “Hey dudes, we can still go hang out in town. I bet no one will notice..”

“Shut up!” Paul and Mason yelled at him. They all got inside and Ethan put his hand in his pocket to get the key. Along with it, he accidently pulled a $20 bill out as well.

“I forgot to stop at the gas station on our way out this morning. The tank was almost empty and I was gonna use this.” They all stared at each other and then burst into laughter. Ethan started the van and turned it toward home.

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Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

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Zack Almond

Hometown: Robinson, TX Age: 24

Story by Ethan Smith - Photos by Katherine Ramirez

Zach Almond began his music career at the age of 14, playing “Sweet Home Alabama” for his mom. Almond soon got involved in his church worship band. After four years, he was kicked out of the band for introducing the punk genre to a popular gospel song “I’ll Fly Away.” As time progressed, Almond wrestled with substance and alcohol abuse. However, he describes a night in Houston on a binge-drinking drinking bought as when he finally decided that he needed to change. He attended rehab to sober up and clear his mind of the past. Zach Almond’s music began to become more Rhythmic with a heartwarming Blues tone. He now works to spread a positive message to the world. Almond has strong focus on helping bring funds and awareness to Mission Waco and The Emanuel Children’s Home in Juarez, Mexico.

Where did you play your first show and what were you expecting out of it?

“It was at a coffee shop in Hewitt. The crowd literally consisted of three people; Mom, my youth pastor, and a random lady... I was honestly looking to impress the ladies.”

What is your most favorite moment in Madison Avenue Studios?

“Man, singing my song “My City’s On Fire” had to be the best of all. The song was written in Juarez, Mexico, and every time I sing it, I can relive the memories of that tour. Madison Avenue Studios has been a huge help in my music.”

Where all have you toured and what was the purpose in it?

“Texas, almost all of Texas! I’ve toured Australia and Mexico as well. My trip to Australia was to promote my album at the time. When I traveled to Mexico, I was raising awareness for The Emanuel Children’s Home in Juarez.”

When in Waco, where do you prefer to play?

“I really enjoy Legacy Café. The atmosphere there is just awesome. I always feel comfortable when I walk in and the crowd gives a great response.”

Tell a little bit about your plans for your future music career.

“Right now my goals are to bring more awareness for mission Waco and The Emanuel Children’s Home in Juarez, Mexico. I am all about the awareness never about the money.”

Zach Almond is open to talk to anyone that struggles with addiction. He knows your pain and can help in any way he is able.

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Reach Zach at: Risendrummer@yahoo.com

ack Z Almond May 2013• Bohemia • 33

y e ik

M H

is posture shifts into a pose that is at once, relaxed, yet menacing.

“Pffff, don’t ask me that! I hate these. I thought you wanted to talk music. Isn’t that why you’re here? You’ve met me now, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about me!?” Clearly, Mikey Ohlin does not like talking about Mikey Ohlin.

“Have you even listened to the record?” He finishes lighting a cigarette and picks up a mandolin. His bohemian mess of dark wavy hair, stubble and pair of oversized sunglasses effectively shut out the world as he begins tuning. “I like to connect with people. All I want the listener to do - is to go there...To bask in that shit together.”

He pulls a quick drag from the cigarette. “It feels good to let go, ya know?

That’s the moment I want to surrender to, shared by me and a room full of strangers in hopes that for a few minutes, they will get to see through different eyes, goggles, whatever. Different shoes to walk in.” He raises one boot up and drops it on the porch again as if to illustrate.

Mikey’s career is taking off like a steam locomotive; slow and deliberate, but once in motion, unstoppable. Born and raised in Texas, you get a sense that the years of big sky, and dust blown plains of the Southwest have lent some of Mikey’s songs their sunburned grit and lonesome voice. Unapologetically eccentric, his interests at home vary from poetry to punk rock, motorcycles

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n i l h O

to The Crocodile Hunter. For his craft, he counts among the tools of his trade an old acoustic guitar with a crack across its top; a turn of the century saloon piano; a small collection of harmonicas; a banjo that appears to have been a victim of vandalism and more. For weird measure, he employs hammers, a bucket of heavy chains, lumber, some hand built oddities and a beer bottle full of coins.

“For now, I play the part of the band, but it’s cool, as I’m still bonding with the process and with the instruments.

Sometimes, you have to play them as they were meant, and sometimes, you just want to hear them break.” With as many roles that he’s cast himself for, Mikey is a hatter gone mad.

When asked to describe his style of music, he is quick to fire back, “Experimental.” And while his first ever full length album, Gypsy Witch Jeweler, was just officially released Oct. 22nd to the public as a “Folk/Rock” record, you hear his distinct experimental style throughout the album’s 9 tracks. In the stone-crushing, chaingang opener, “Crushed: Buried Between The Pages”, Mikey wastes no time introducing you to his brand of storytelling. Lumbering along the line, he shackles you to his side as he curses his maker (who is, again, Mikey) for seemingly taking a certain pleasure in penning his character’s precarious role. If honkytonk is your bag, grab a stool and belly up to the bar in “Empty Hearts”, a cheeky ride through a night of drinking with your future ex girlfriend. There are

whiskey soaked, sun cooked tales like “Old Mexico”, sexy blues rockers like “Wrapped Around Her Finger”, and even a few stripped down tracks like “Now That You’re Lost”, leaving you feeling like he has just treated your heart like a washcloth, wringing out every last drop.

Off-stage he is somewhat reclusive, with only his eyes piercing through his hair. Onstage, the intensity only resonates further as he fixes his gaze upon the crowd. A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth as he plucks at his guitar, and at the first reedy notes of the harmonica, a veil of silence descends on the crowd.

There’s a quiet creaking of chairs and barstools as the patrons at the bar find themselves leaning in with curiosity.

Sixteen counts into the song and you feel yourself dropping into the moment with him. It’s then that he changes before your eyes, somehow becoming both a lion and a lamb.

He scans the crowd and takes his time, allowing both the song and the audience moments to collectively breathe.

Expertly alternating the melodies of trembling, vulnerable verses with vehement choruses that swell into a howl, he breaks to drop and fade into the outro with a crumbling falsetto. It is as effortless as it is blatantly on display for all to bear witness - the violence of his conviction that you will not soon forget. www.mikeyohlin.com

y e k i M hlin O

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W Z

by Caleb Farmer

Z

ombie

estern

ombie Western states on their Facebook page: “our lead singer is mute”. Being a local band that is exclusively instrumental creates some challenges for the Waco band, but being an instrumental group is only one component of their musical equation. Playing music in Waco since 2009, in time they have built up quite a fan base. Thier enjoy the intensity that the group brings during every show. They have endeared an audience by a style that can be described as brushstrokes of instrumentation layered on top of itself to create soundscapes that enduce a visceral experience.

Zombie Western didn’t start out with a plan to be an instrumental band, “The songs we were writing just didn’t have verse chorus verse chorus structure and we gradually found ourselves writing these types of songs” says Zombie’s guitarist Aaron Youngblood. Usually when asked about their style, people mention band Explosions in the Sky for lack of any other context for instrumental music, but in the same way that there are hosts of styles in lyrical bands, so there is also a number of styles for instrumental bands. To describe Zombie Western, one might say they are a band with big guitar washes and some more immediate rifts that are sill heavy driven. “Our music just gets to the point faster than a lot of other instrumental bands” says Youngblood.

The way Zombie Western’s music is set up, it creates a situation which leaves the narration up to the listener. Nothing is spoon fed while listening to their music. One has to be willing to be fully present in the songs to grasp everything that is happening. Hearing the band’s music entices the listener to focus and take in the whole experience, letting the music be the soundtrack to the story one is constructing while the song plays. “The listener has a

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much more participatory role” says Youngblood. The music does create soundscapes and perhaps by the suggestion of “western” in their band name, one can’t help at moments but feel like they are in a modern version of an old school showdown.

I was listening to a song at a friend’s house with the headphones on when his roommate asked to take a light bulb from his bathroom because his last one went out.

As Zombie Western provided the backdrop, I began filling in a dramatic dialogue between the two discussing the consequences of taking the light bulb, what might happen if his light went out while in the shower or on the john, etc. The soundtrack created the dramatics, it created words in their mouths. Once I took my headphones out, they were easily solving the issue, but with the music in-- the scene seemed like an animated silent film. This is what Zombie Western’s music does though, it lets you fill in your story and there are so many great ways to fill in that story. Whatever the listener may bring or may be struggling with… Zombie Western gives you a canvas to paint your plight on. They really do invite the listener to either enjoy the complex instrumentation and perhaps go deeper. It is like opening a Choose Your Own Adventure book, where Zombie Western writes the words, but the listener must decide which direction they really are going to take the narrative. zombiewestern.bandcamp.com

Z W ombie

estern

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&

Honey

Wine Photography by David Irvin

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

- Amy Lowell

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Models (l-r): Aoife Gorey, Stephanie Rystrom, Brent Phillips, & Mason McLain

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summer will fade, hairs will turn grey, This all means nothing unless you stay - Meagan Smith

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Art

Forum Jesus and

N

estled in the 1800 block of Morrow Avenues here in Waco, sits a former physician’s office which has been transformed into an exciting and eclectic space for local artists. The prime mover behind this effort, which opened this past April, is Jesus Rivera. He also has a partner and financial backer, Arthur Huron. Rivera’s stated goal is to “promote diversity of art in all mediums in Waco.” Jesus solicits artists form the area and allows them to display their art free of charge.

Jesus hails from Monclova, Mexico. He moved to the US and became a citizen. He has an extensive art education background. He received an early high school diploma at the age of 15, a BA in Art and Drama from the State School of San Luis Potosi (S.L.P.). He then came to the U.S. and completed an M.F.A. at the University of New Mexico with a concentration in painting, sculpture, and ceramics. However, he still has an avid interest in his original passion – dance and theater.

Rivera has moved around quite a bit while in the U.S., for the purpose of gathering new ideas and techniques.

In 1997, he attended the University of Dallas and took classes in painting, sculpture, and drawing. Still not finished, he then spent 6 months at Glass Hall School of Art in Houston repeating classes he took in Dallas. He even squeezed in the same three classes at McLennan Community College.

“I need to stay in touch with contemporary ideas and techniques.” In 2013, he plans to travel to Spain for some courses there.

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by Jim McKeown - Photos by Margarita Seeley

One of his favorite techniques is free-hand painting to quickly capture the human body in motion. One of his influences in this area is Rodolfo Raza, whose work is prominently displayed in the gallery.

Jesus had to repeat 1st grade twice, because of his predilection for working alone. “I tried to take tests home and work on them there instead of in class.”

He also carries his art materials with him. “I never know when an object, a person, or a scene might capture my interest.”

Rivera received a prestigious award from his home state of Aquilla in Mexico. He says, “It is really unusual for them to recognize a Mexican artist living in the U.S. I am humbled by this award.” Humility and quiet reserve are two of the characteristics most evident during a conversation with this talented artist. In addition, he received the Consul of Mexico Award in 2007, and an Outstanding Student in Art Painting in 2011 from MCC. His first love is painting with oils, and he started his career at the age of 18 because of his vanity when he received accolades from the public.

“However, now I want to spend my time, energy, and money to promote young artists in Waco.”

The Art Forum on Morrow is “exactly the right local for our goal of displaying more art and also a venue which can support classes for aspiring artists. I want my main mission these days is to help others and especially to promote young artists.”

This altruism has not been easy.

“At first, some local artists objected to

the name. Some even called it ‘pretentious.’” Then some neighbors started coming to watch art being made. “The Sanger Avenues Neighborhood Association recognized us for helping to improve the community.”

Despite some minor obstacles, Jesus maintains a positive attitude.

“Waco is ready for more art venues.

He believes “Art Forum is not up to its full potential, yet, but we have to educate the community of the importance of art for Waco.”

Jesus Rivera “lives his art,” and to further that aim, “we want to tell the world: We do art here in Waco!” He added that “Bohemia also helps by spreading the word and promoting new artists. Waco is more than The Texas Ranger Museum, the Dr. Pepper Museum, and the Sports Hall of Fame.”

He believes there is not only a need – but also a great desire – for more art in Waco.

On this last point, Jesus becomes animated. “Our gallery is important because we provide a venue to showcase the incredible talent already here.”

He believes “this exposure is key to the development of an artist’s career.

He would also like to expand to included artists outside Waco and the surrounding area. “I am always on the lookout for museum quality paintings, drawings, and sculpture. Art is universal. It is positive and not stressful. It has wings and represents freedom.”

Stop by the Art Forum at 1825 Morrow Avenue in Waco and support Jesus and Arthur and local, budding and established artists.

s

May 2013• Bohemia • 51

DearTeen Me

Dear Teen Me is a book availble through Zest Book which includes advice from over 70 YA authors to their teenage selves. The letters cover a wide range of topics, including physical abuse, body issues, bullying, friendship, love, and enough insecurities to fill an auditorium. Some authors write diary entries, some write letters, and a few graphic novelists turn their stories into visual art. And whether you hang out with the theater kids, the band geeks, the bad boys, the loners, the class presidents, the delinquents, the jocks, or the nerds, you’ll find friends--and a lot of familiar faces--in the course of Dear Teen Me. Publisher: http://zestbooks.net/ Website: http://dearteenme.com/ Models (l-r): Paul Mabbitt, Taylor Rhodes, Brenda Flores, Mason McLain, Devin Stroud Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

52 • Bohemia • May 2013

There’s No Such Thing As Impossible

by Riley Carney

Dear Teen Me, You know that dream you’ve always had? The one about becoming an author? I’ll let you in on a secret: It does happen. You make it happen.

you provided and easy boost to her self-esteem. She never really cared about you, though. Once, she even handed out Christmas presents in front of you and conveniently forgot to give you one.

And I also remember what it was like on that school trip where you had to sleep in the top bunk above feuding friends who were crying hysterically. The drama is everywhere, and no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you can’t seem to get away.

But it’s not going to be easy.

You’re still stuck in high school right now. I remember what it was like, and I know exactly how you feel-- it seems like the whole thing is a big game; that you’ll never find your place; that you’ll never get away from the drama.

You’re getting tired of eating lunch alone in the library just so Like with your “best” friend. you don’t have to wander through You helped her with her home- rows of tables at the cafeteria until work, you were nice to her, and you find a place to sit. You’re tired of people who just want to use you for homework help. You’re tired of the box that has been built up around you, tired of the walls that keep you trapped, that keep you from becoming the person who you really are inside, rather than the person who everyone thinks you are.

But in less than a year, everything will change. You’ll find a way to break free of that box by doing something you’ve always loved. Writing will be your outlet. You’re going to write a book-- a book that you’ve been

dreaming about for years. You are going to pour your heart and soul into that book, and it’s going to be published. Over the next three years, you’ll speak at schools all over the country, something you never thought you would have the courage to do.

But there’s something you have to realize before you can break free: The box that you’re in is only as real as you believe it to be.

For so many years your peers have tried to label you, to tell you what you can and cannot do. As you believed them. You accepted what they said. You stopped believing in yourself.

You stopped believing in your dreams.

But little by little, you’ll realize that the box doesn’t have to exist. Once you start writing seriously, you’ll discover yourself, and you’ll realize that no one else has the power to dictate your own choices and your dreams.

You’re the only one who can decide your future. You’re the only one who can choose the person you want to be.

So, Teen Me, it’s up to you. It only takes a little confidence, a little daring, and a willingness to risk failure to tear down those walls.

Don’t be afraid to reach for that impossible goal. Embrace it instead.

You never know where the impos2013• Bohemia • 53 sible might takeMay you.

First Kiss... Ish

by Joseph Bruchac

Dear Teen Me,

It’s senior year after a big game.

You’re eating pizza at DeGregoYou didn’t believe that what ry’s Restaurant with your football your grandmother kept telling buddies. Someone comes in and you would ever come true. You says in an excited whisper: “Linda couldn’t. But when you hit your S. is in a car out back. She’s drunk growth spurt you really hit it. Sud- and willing to make out with anydenly, you were bigger and stron- body.” ger that all of the guys who used to bully you. You’d been fired af- Linda S. is a pretty blonde girl ter your first day as a caddy be- two years younger than you, a shy cause you couldn’t lug a golf bag, country kid who lives only a mile but now you’re the right tackle on from you. You don’t remember the football team, and a varsity getting up or going through the heavyweight wrestler. door, but the next thing you know you’re in the alley beside that car.

However, I’m sad to say that de- You push past two other guys, spite the growth spurt that trans- grab skinny Sammy Carson by formed you from a bullied brai- his belt and toss him to the side. niac into a major jock, you’re still But then, instead of climbing into not about to get the girl anytime the back of that wide-seated ‘58 soon. Partly, yes, because you lack Buick, you take Linda S. by the smoothitude, but also because arm and lead her, her on unsteady you’re not willing to settle for just legs to your car. Other guys step anybody. Your grandmother was aside when they see that look in one of the first women to pass the your eye. bar in New YOrk, and even though she never worked as an attorney, She’s crying now. You give her she definitely knew how to “lay your handkerchief. As she leans down the law” on your behavior. against the car door you remember what she looked like five In the eternal meantime, you’re on years agao when she was playing your own, and you are not getting hopscotch, alll skinny-legged and it on. gangly, on the sidewalk outside School Two.

54 • Bohemia • May 2013

You drive her home. The light outside the old farmhouse reveals the fact that her mother’s been waiting up for her. You walk her to her door, and she kisses your cheek and whispers, “Thank you,” before she goes in. It’s your first kiss-- although you won’t realize that or even value what it means until a lot later.

What I like about you in that memory is not just what you did, but the way you did it. You didn’t think of yourself as a hero. You didn’t do it to prove anything. In fact, for many years afterward you wonder what was really going on in your head back then: Did you have the urge to climb in that car with Louise yourself?

(You didn’t.) Did you do the right thing? (You did.)

If you had to define what you were feeling at that moment, it was probably sadness, more than anything else. Until this letter you’ve never mentioned what happened that night to anyone-- not to the guys who avoided you as you walked down the hall on Monday morning, not to Linda S., not even to your grandmother (even though you know she’d have been proud of the way you followed the path she put you on). But you didn’t do it for her approval. You did it for the person you wanted to become.

May 2013• Bohemia • 55

Want. Take.

Have.

by E. Kristen Anderson

Dear Teen Me,

We spend most mornings writing in our diary. Not the fun diary that you share with friends. Not the one where you draw pictures of Hanson and Foo Fighters and analyze the Grammys. I’m talking about the one where you write how scared you are that we’ll never find THE ONE, and about how fighting with your mom is wearing you out, and how you’re grossed out by sex, and how desperately, how insanely you want to date John O’Bleary.

You barely know John O’Bleary. He transferred to your school during sophomore year, and now he’s the goalie for the hockey team. The team your brother plays for.

The team your dad coaches. And, yes, your dad actually told his players that if they tried to date you they’d be “riding the pine pony” indefinitely.

But Dad would have made an exception for John. He’s different from the other hockey guys. And sometimes he and Dad talk about you on the team bus. So now you’re convinced that you and John O’Bleary are going to ride off into the sunset in whatever car he drives (like I said, you barely know him) and get married and have adorable O’Bleary babies.

56 • Bohemia • May 2013

So just about every entry in your journal is about John O’Bleary. I mean, you’re probably writing about him now, as the sun finishes coming up. I bet there’s a cup of Raspberry Zinger herbal tea cooling on your nightstand next to a half-eaten bagel slathered in cream cheese. You have a whole routine: wake up, shower, make breakfast, crawl back into bed (with your breakfast), and write in your diary. Don’t even try to deny it. You’re about to start another entry about how today is the day you’re going to talk to John.

In fact, there are eleventy billion entries of pure O’Bleary pining. I could transcribe a page word for word, but I’d hate to betray your confidence.

After all, we swore to ourselves we would never share THAT journal with anyone; we fear the damage its publication could wreak upon our impending fame. (We don’t want our adoring public to know that we’re so shallow we only ever write about boys.) Anyway, that’s what the other journal’s for: sharing fun stuff with your friends and illustrating, on a frame-by-frame basis, our delusions of grandeur.

You have a bedtime diary ritual, too. At night you crawl under the covers, pull out one of your metallic Gelly Roll pens, and woefully scribble into the same pages that you filled with hope that very morning. It goes like this: I didn’t talk to John today. [Insert explanation here.] I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just know that there’s something between us. There’s a reason he transferred into school when he did. And he told Dad [insert anecdote here]. Why can’t I just talk to him?

I’m going to regret it if I don’t. This shouldn’t be so hard. But it is.

Tomorrow I’m going to talk to John O’Bleary.

And so it goes, time and time again... until: You know that dance that’s coming up? The Sadie Hawkins dance,

where girls are supposed to ask the boys? (As if you haven’t asked your date to every other dance, you inadvertent feminist, you.) Well, you’re going to go up to John and ask him to the dance with you. Flat out. And he’s going to say that someone else just asked him-- it’s a girl you’re kind of friends with, and one of the only popular girls who’s never picked on you. So you can’t even hate her. Worse still, John is so freaking nice that he asks you to save him a dance.

You never do get that dance. But here’s the thing: you weren’t supposed to.

I was home for Christmas in 2010, sitting on the sofa at Nini’s house (yes, we still call our grandmother Nini), when she announced that John O’Bleary was marrying that very same girl who asked him to the dance not half and house before you did. And in that moment, I couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like to be Mrs. O’Bleary.

Teen Me, don’t let this crush you. As I write this today, I can’t help but feel lucky that I’m not Mrs. O’Bleary. I’m in love right now with someone else entirely, hundreds of miles from chez O’Bleary.

But even knowing that, I still want you to ask John to that dance. You wrote in your secret journal that you didn’t want to be thirty and look back with regrets.

You were sure that if you didn’t ask John out, you would always wonder, “What if?” I’m almost thirty now, and thanks to you, I have no what-ifs. So, asking John out? Yeah, I think we can say with certainty that it was a good idea. (Even though the journal entry from that evening says something like: Well, stamp an R on my forehead and throw me in the Reject bin!)

You’re not a reject, Teen Me. You’re brave. When you think back on that moment later on, you’ll feel pride, more than anything else: pride, be-

cause you’re the kind of girl who has the cojones to ask for what she wants.

You’re setting a high standard for yourself as an adult. For me. You already know what you want and you ask for it without hesitation. Okay, maybe with a little hesitation-- the journal proves that-- but I live that your dare not only to dream, but to believe in those dreams, whatever the cost. I mean, it will be about three years before you realize that you’re not going to be afraid to (poorly) sing karaoke. And sure, you’re not poet laureate (yet), but you’re going to publish a lot of great poems in actual magazines because you will actually put those poems in the mail and send them out into the world. And no matter how many time you get your heart broken, you’ll keep believing in love.

Asking John O’Bleary to the Sadie Hawkins dance was about so much more than getting rejected by the boy of your dreams; it was about setting the pace for the rest of your life. You already believe in something Faith will say on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: “Want, take, have!” And while you’re not going to use this for evil quite the way she did, you’re going to wear your heart on your sleeve and pursue impossible goals and take inadvisable risks.

Because it’s the only way you know how to be you.

But I think you’ve already got a sense of this-- even on bad days, when you feel like you have eighty R’s on your forehead (like the day when you realize that, whoa, there’s no cure for bipolar disorder; or all the times when you want ide until school, and your parents, and the mean girls disappear).

Pretty soon you’re going to realize that “It works if you work it” is more than a Taylor Hawkins quote (from the new magazine Nylon). “It works if you work it” are words to live by, and you’re already on top of it. So don’t change a damn thing. s May 2013• Bohemia • 57

Photography by Margarita Seeley

S

ervers

G

r

e l p o e P

II

oing out for coffee or tea is part of your daily routine. When you stop in at the shop to order your favorite drink, isn’t there always that smiling face server who takes your order and makes you feel special? You always feel like you must be their number one customer. Sometimes they compliment your clothes or remember to follow-up on a tidbit of small talk from the previous week, “So how did your mom’s birthday go?” You grab your regular booth, open up your newspaper, and zone out. The barista goes on to the next customer, never realizing how much a part of people’s lives they are. Bohemia would like to do a feature about servers around Waco every month in order to say thanks for brightening our day.

M

eet Jessie Harris who manages the Outdoor Waco coffee bar.

He graduated from Texas A&M, majored in History, minored in English. His best college memory is the time he spent in Morocco. While traveling, he decided to be a vagabond. For five days, he went around asking people to sponsor him. One night he got kicked out of a chapel for sleeping on a pew. At 4 AM, the cops showed up with a flashlight, shining it on his face, and kicking him out. In the end though, he raised $3500. He became more confident in God’s faithfulness.

He never starved; people always brought him lunch and dinner. He spent the last night of his trip in the park which was the scariest part of his adventure.

Harris came to Waco to work with a church youth group and

58 • Bohemia • May 2013

he has also been blessed to find a home at Outdoor Waco. He has lived in Waco for 7 years. He is married and his wife is pregnant.

Outside of work he likes to mountain bike, read, talk about Jesus, and spend time with his wife. He likes “old school” TV shows like 24 and Psych. Harris also enjoys cooking and says that he likes to make up recipes. Harris notes spending time with his family and friends as important as well. He says that growing up, he was an insecure kid. He says that his family and friends helped him overcome his insecurties and he has fun with them in a “cozy way not a crazy way that would ruin one’s life.” Other childhood memories include playing basketball with his dad and participating in acorn fights in the fall.

A little father down the road, Harris would like to get into real

estate. He would also like to be involved in our city council and he says he would like to evangelize Christianity, “Like John the Baptist.

As a server, Harris says that he wants all of his customers to feel loved, valued, and served. He also hopes for his customers to have a special experience. Harris notes that Yelp gives them a 100 percent “awesome” review. Harris’ favorite drink on the menu is iced coffee decaf Americano, decaf because he is sensitive to caffeine. “I would stay up until 3 AM. I would rather drink exquisite wine and beer.” Harris does recommend the iced coffee though, and he sites it as being robust and full.

Outdoor Waco is open Monday thru Saturday 9 AM to 7 PM and Sunday, 12 PM to 6 PM. 254-300-4448

May 2013• Bohemia • 59

by Pete Able

Daughters Be Warned

S

60 • Bohemia • May 2013

ee, here’s the thing. I’m sitting across from this girl, and she’s a looker make no mistake. A little marsh-mallowy around center-mass, possibly some extra Grade-A in the thighs (haven’t gotten the closer look yet if you know what I mean), but overall a solid eight on a ten scale.

Especially the face. Real nice face, kind of a combo-meal between Kate Beckinsale and Halle Berry. Kate Berrysale. Olive skin, impish smile. Maybe I’m being a little too generous. Those are some first class Sheilas. But you catch my drift. I could definitely do worse.

Look, I’m no vision of splendor. I’m not one to judge without some level of self-awareness. I’m not sporting a six-pack under here and I won’t be entering any Mr. Universe contests any time soon, but I take care of myself. The mirror smiles, as it were.

I’ve had my share of vixen and none filled out return to sender.

Satisfaction guaranteed, or some such B.S. What I’m saying is, in my admittedly brief seventeen years on God’s green earth, I’ve noticed more women smile when I walk past than turn away. And when I ask for a date, the answer is always, unequivocally, yes.

Which brings me back here, to this girl, this restaurant,

this table in the back corner under the soft yellow light. She’s pushing damned good food around her plate with her fork, running her mouth about how fractional reserve lending and forcibly low interest ultimately punishes the little guy, eating away at savings, and the whole time I’m watching her perfectly formed lips thinking how nice it would be to cover that pretty mouth with my own, and how her nonsensical financial ramblings prove only that she’s filled her head with a bunch of information that will prove inconsequential when she changes her major in a few years to home economics.

The only savings rate being impacted tonight, sweetheart, is my own. That’s kobe beef. The price wasn’t even listed on the menu.

God, I’m sweating that check already. And how was I supposed to know she’s a pescetarian? Fish but no meat? Fish is meat last I checked. Anyway, the lifestyle change has to be recent, what with the aforementioned love handles south of her ribcage.

Do I sound harsh? I apologize. But I recognize it in myself and that is the first step to repentance, though I suppose if we’re going to start talking all religious we should really begin with exhibit A sitting daintily across from me on the witness stand. Place

hand over bible. Do you solemnly swear to tell the whole truth nothing but the truth so help you God? You may be seated. Good. You’re ahead of the game already. Please explain to the jurors how a five foot four inch pescetarian could carry fifteen pounds of excess cargo and wax methodical on the statistical models of Goldman Sachs and assume, incorrectly (leading!), that their date would find this interesting. And don’t think that stretching your back like that in your chair will distract me from the task at hand, Miss Spaghetti Strap Clinging For Dear Life. No, I don’t mind if you use the restroom. Yes, I will finish your steak.

Every…last…bite.

Let me state very plainly that I do not believe all females should be stay at home moms.

Some should even consider college. Post-graduate work for a small percentage, mostly nurses.

I do watch women’s sports but mostly beach volleyball, and no it’s not for the reasons you suspect though could you blame me? I’m a red-blooded American for goshdog’s sake. I appreciate a good cook as much as anyone, and I’m fairly certain there is scientific evidence that girls change diapers more efficiently than boys.

Don’t blow a gasket over that one. I love a good heroine. I

loved all the Underworld movies and even watched an episode of The Bachelorette one evening. So I’m sensitive, the way women like it. They identify with me. They identify with me and feel drawn to me because I know how to take charge, take the proverbial bull by the horns and lead like a man should. And here’s a tip, leading is easier when you let me get a word in edge-wise. All this finance talk gave me a headache. Here I am, rubbing my temple, and her gallivanting off to the restroom to powder that tiny blemish on her cheek. Don’t think I didn’t notice.

And don’t think I didn’t notice my girl making eyes at the stranger three tables over. Said she knew him from school. I haven’t seen him. Name’s Charlie. Sounds made up. I only know girls named Charlie these days. Charlie. Charlie Brown probably.

I understand growing up can be real tough. Especially for girls. That’s why I’m a straight shooter. A plain talking, forthright teenage wasteland, coming at you without pretense or guile, ready to tell it like it is come hell or high water. Some guys, they’ve got a one-track mind. Bunch of Italian Stallions led from the waist down, firemen with hoses too full of pressure to handle alone. Not this hombre. I keep an open mind

and an open heart, ready for love to find its mark. Seventeen years may seem short to you, but I’ve got the wisdom of generations packed inside this cranium. My father, grandfather, great grandfather God rest his soul, all of ‘em found their soul mate in due time, a few divorces notwithstanding.

Yes ma’am, Kate Berrysale will do just fine, blemishes and fish and finance and all things in between. Even the baby fat.

Nothing a few hundred Pilates won’t fix.

Good steak, and it better be considering the coin I’m dropping on this girl. I’ve done everything right. Held the doors, held the chairs, feigned interest, stroked her hand, lathered the right cologne. It’s a magical night, save for the blabbering, the unfinished kobe beef, and this interminably long restroom break. Where the hell?

“Sir, your check.”

“I believe I’ll be splitting this one.” I laugh confidently.

“I believe not, sir. Your date just left with another young man. I believe she said his name was Charlie.”

May 2013• Bohemia • 61

by Sharon Webb

Frogs Away!

things to make fun of that teacher for. Like the bad black dye job on

“Eeww! What’s that her hair, and her frizzy perm …and smell?” of course, the fact that she was cer “Smells like formaldetifiably insane. hyde,” Tim observed.

Sashaying toward her

Ann reacted, “Who just desk, Colleen shook her long wavy came from Biology?” blonde locks and wrinkled her cute “I did,” Miranda responded, “I’m little nose with distaste as she bringing my frog home so my dad asked,” Who brought the frog?” can see it. He likes that stuff.”

Eager to please the head

I watched her cram the cheerleader, Buck blurted, “Miranstinky parcel beneath her desk. It da. She just came from Biology.” was wrapped in beige paper tow A blood-curdling scream els from the girls’ bathroom, which pierced my ears. “Kill it!” did nothing to block the odor. “You screeched Mrs. Jones. like dissecting?”

“…But it’s already dead,”

“Eh, it’s kind of fun,” MiColleen explained, “she dissected randa replied. it”.

“Me, too…” I stopped

The teacher ignored her. abruptly as Mrs. Jones appeared in “Miranda Tucker, go to the printhe doorway and began bulldozing cipal’s office immediately!” deher stocky body toward the teachmanded Mrs. Jones, “…And take er’s desk to drop her purse on it. that horrible creature with you!”

Classroom chatter died As she spoke, the woman’s voice out as Mrs. Jones began performwas increasingly shrill. ing that weird ritual. Stepping a

Dejected, poor Miranda bit behind the podium, she swung collected the paper towel bundle her useless forearm back and forth from beneath her desk and slunk like a gummy toy until she’d built toward the door, head hanging low. up enough momentum to shove It was probably the first time in her the elbow forward using her good life Miranda, an honor student, hand, then watched it land on the had ever been sent to the principal. podium with a loud “thwomp!”

She’d really catch it from her par Everyone made fun of ents when they came to pick her Mrs. Jones for the ‘thwomping’ up. thing, but I sort of felt bad for her.

I saw the devious grin flash Someone had told me she had poacross Buck Cooper’s face just lio when she was little. …And bebefore he yelled out: “The frog! sides, there were plenty of other

62 • Bohemia • May 2013

There it goes! I just saw it hop under Jesse’s desk! …Can I go catch it for you, Mrs. Jones?”

It took Mrs. Jones a moment to answer, because she was busy climbing up on top of her desk (Who knew a crazy old fat woman with a useless arm could be so agile?). Peering down at our classroom and apparently ‘locating’ the frog in question, she pointed at it and commanded Buck: “Get it!

Get it and take it out of here!”

Buck the Troublemaker was really having fun now. He scrabbled around on hands and knees, periodically clamping down with his muscular footballplayer arms, palm downward to shape a finger ‘cage’ for capturing the hallucinatory frog. Then he’d exclaim, “Darn, I missed!”

Buck’s skinny friend, Jesse, joined in. He too began chasing imaginary frogs around the classroom, sometimes calling out, “We’ll get it for you, Mrs. Jones!”

By this point, Mrs. Jones was hysterical. When she stopped screaming and dancing around on her desk for long enough, sometimes she caught her breath to order: “Catch it! Kill it! Get rid of it!”

One by one, the rest of the class joined in with the fantasy frog hunt – except for me and my best friends, of course. Soon there were imaginary frogs hopping all

over the room while we remained quietly seated at our desks, watching, waiting, afraid of getting into any trouble.

Then Buck played his trump card. “Mrs. Jones, there it goes!” Pointing at the door, he exclaimed, “It just hopped out into the hall!”

Sure enough, Miranda had left the door ajar when she got sent to the principal’s office. I hadn’t even noticed – but apparently Buck had.

His co-conspirator Jesse added, “You won’t be able to leave class while it’s still out there. Want us to go catch it for you?”

“Yes! And someone go tell the principal about this infestation!”

Needless to say, the rest of the class soon began ‘seeing’ those frog vermin hopping out the door, and by ones and twos Mrs. Jones gave them all permission to leave.

Mrs. Jones was still standing on top of her desk, now looking somewhat confused. We three nerds – Ann, Tim, and myself – remained seated quietly at our desks.

I knew we’d never live it down if we just stayed there and waited for Mrs. Jones to finally start reading to us from her teacher’s manual.

I looked at my friends and they averted their eyes. We were all feeling stupid for still being there.

Mrs. Jones looked like she desper-

ately needed to go home and take her medication, but she didn’t dare dismiss what was left of her class.

I was the only one still there with even a little bit of backbone…

I understood where my friends were coming from. We were the ‘good’ kids, the ones who never lied or cheated or skipped class. We always did our homework and we always studied for tests and we always got good grades. We weren’t popular (like Colleen, who was also an honor student) – and that meant if we stopped being ‘good’ kids – nerds -- we wouldn’t have a niche, we wouldn’t have any way to fit into our desperately-important high school world.

So yes, it was a big deal. It was very big deal. We had a lot to lose. But what would we gain, if we pretended to see a frog?

I really couldn’t answer that. But suddenly, I realized that I wanted to find out.

I raised my hand. “Mrs. Jones? I just saw another one. He was hopping out the door…”

It may have just been my imagination, but I thought I saw relief on the teacher’s face. It had been a rough day for her. She answered,

“Go, all of you, and make sure you catch it!”

May 2013• Bohemia • 63

by Ty Hall

Becoming An Age 64 • Bohemia • May 2013

“Everything goes away. Nothing lasts. Mountains crumble. Love fades. People will always leave you. Even God abandoned His Son. Mine did. But then again, nothing really goes away. Nothing is created or destroyed. Ever since the universe came into existence, no new matter is made. Did you know that?

It’s the Law of Conservation of Mass. Antoine Lavoisier said that.

You could be made up of pieces of St. Thomas, or pieces of St. Thomas’s excrement. Holy shit! right?”

Marty’s father didn’t wait for a response. He merely laughed at his own joke and sipped his beer and coughed and continued to ramble. He had briefly studied mechanics in college and occasionally attended mass, so he was prone to drifting into these topics. This time he skillfully wove both into one sardonic punch line. It was another one of their late-night conversations, when Marty couldn’t sleep so he snuck downstairs, quiet as he could--because if he made it to the couch undetected he could stay-and his dad didn’t send him back to bed because he wanted company. This particular conversation had mutated from Marty’s original question: “Why is there snow on top of Mt. Everest when Mt. Everest is closer to the sun than we are?”

Marty was five and dressed like Batman and wanted to be an adult so he could actually help people instead of playing make believe.

He’d be able to buy a car and all the gadgets (he already had $5.37 saved up) and leap from rooftop to rooftop instead of using a ladder to climb up the garage to clean the gutters on Saturday mornings after cartoons; he thought it was good practice, though, so he enjoyed it.

At this particular moment, Marty was transfixed by the idea that nothing ever disappeared. He thought about the magician he’d seen a couple weeks ago performing in the mall. He made lots of things disappear. But then Marty learned how the tricks were done so he decided his father was right after all and nothing really did disappear.

Daddy will never go away, thought Marty. Neither will mommy.

Marty’s mother wore flower-print dresses that felt like paper and smelled nice because she was mommy and Marty was five. She’s the one who went out and bought the black cloth and Velcro, and hemmed up the ends into points so Marty’s bat-cape would look like the real thing. She’s the one who ironed the press-on bat-insignia that came with the sticker book to his little black t-shirt and worried about him falling out of a tree when he was feeling particularly heroic and daring. She used to teach, but quit when Marty was conceived.

She found time for all this amidst working around the house while her husband was at work, or said he was at work when he was really at a bar.

One day Marty’s father took him to work with him but then they ended up at a bar and Marty thought he was back in the old west.

He spent the better part of his time there kicking through the swinging saloon doors--bow-legged with his arms at the ready--then turning around and kicking his way back out; while his father got happier and happier, then sadder and sadder.

Marty never told his mom because he had been asked not to. Marty wanted to be a cowboy. But he had to grow up first. Only grownups can

have real guns, not the plastic ones he wore around his pants and knew how to spin around his fingers. He was dressed like Batman, now, and listening about how nothing really ever goes away.

Marty’s father left the next day. With no warning, for no discernible reason. He went out for a ride and never came back. Maybe because he heard it in a song. Maybe he thought he was God. Probably because he stayed up thinking long after Marty went to bed. Before he got in the car, he told Marty he’d be the man of the house, now, and to take good care of his mom: his responsibility. With that, Marty got what he’d always wanted. Like a Bar Mitzvah and walkabout rolled into one; a baptism from which there was no emergence. But Marty didn’t know it yet. He didn’t know a lot of things, really, except maybe the atomic weight of the elements and how to find the area of a triangle. His mom found a job teaching again after several months on the road. They had to sell the house because teachers don’t make that much. Marty knew that, too, which is why his mom found an anonymous envelope in her purse one day containing $5.12 and a yellow gumball because yellow was her favorite color. Marty didn’t make believe as much anymore after that. No time for anything but real life and ignoring the gravel in his stomach and trying to stop crying because adults don’t cry.

So, Marty grew up too soon and eventually did grow up and realized he never really had a childhood, because he was too busy being the man of the house when he was five. And he remembered the conversation he and his dad had

in the basement about how nothing goes away and everything goes away. And it made sense. People leave but their memories stay. The consequences of their actions stay.

And Marty was an adult now but wanted to be a kid again and resented this fact. So he pretended to be a cowboy. He went to a bar nearly every night and picked up women instead of his pen because that’s what cowboys do. Because he heard it in a song. And as far as everyone who used to know him was concerned, he went away, even though he was still around. Living in his mind. Maybe he thought he was God. He thought he was a cowboy. “The Kid,” he called himself when he was feeling particularly warm. “The Kid” has always been around. “The Kid” remains.

One night, Marty was playing cowboy in a bar downtown that had wood-panel walls and rusty street signs and swinging saloon doors. He was stand-sitting on a stool at the bar, leaning over with one hand on the bottle and his boots crossed at the ankle. He heard someone shout “Joe, stoppit! Cut that out!” and turned just in time to see an intoxicated woman slap an inebriated man. The man stepped back then proceeded to push forward, waddling up, calming her down, stroking her side. She subdued, and when everything seemed to be back to normal Marty saw the man try to slip his hand up her skirt again. She tried to fight him off but Joe just pulled her in tighter, and she got tired of fighting, and she eventually gave in. In that moment Marty forgot who he was making believe and thought he was Batman. Marty had a tenancy to slip in and out of character. So he cracked his neck and

walked up behind Joe, tapped him on the shoulder, and swung a fist hard into his left temple. Thwap!

Joe spun around and Marty squared up, but Joe thought they were still playing cowboys and pulled out the big-boy gun he kept hidden in his pants. Before Marty had time to react the shot fired and grazed Marty through the head. Joe left him lying there, took the girl by the wrist, and walked through the swinging saloon doors as the bartender called to police.

Marty bled out, but not enough to die. One of those “aninch-to-the-left-or-right-would’ve” kind of wounds. Marty woke up in the hospital a few days later under voices that sounded above water.

This must be how crickets hear things, he thought, because crickets have ears in their knees. He remembered that for some reason.

Not much else. He heard them say things like “hemorrhaging” and “TBI” and “stroke” and “mental faculties” and “special attention” and none of it made much sense. His face itched. He tried to scratch it but his arm didn’t move right. “You’re up!” he heard someone say. “We’re going to take you home.” The voice sounded familiar.

Marty’s room was virtually untouched. It’s where he spends most of his time now, trying to relearn how to write and speak properly; playing with old toys to improve motor function. He probably never will. Everyone got what they wanted, except those who take care of Marty. Those who stayed.

Because Marty’s gone, but the kid remains.

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by Janelle Finamore

The Girl Who Stuck Out

Like a Sore Thumb

henever Casey walked down the street, people would whisper or turn their heads quickly. See, Casey was quite an ugly girl. She had a long nose and straggly hair. She had warts on her face and a jutting chin.

Her eyes bulged out of her head and her ears were too big. All she wanted was to look normal and be less hideous. No man would ever want to be her husband if she looked like this.

One day, Casey was walking in town and stumbled upon a manhole in the cobblestone. Her little foot got stuck in it and she felt a tug. She screamed with fright because she thought something was trying to pull her down into the hole. But, then she heard a voice.

“Don’t worry! I am not trying to hurt you! I just need a leg to climb up so that I can reach the streets. I have been stuck in this hole for a long time and need a way out. I will help you if you help me”, said the voice. The little girl was frightened, but when she peered into the hole she saw a cute harmless gnome.

“I will help you, but how can you possibly help me?” Casey wondered.

The gnome looked up and when he caught a glimpse of Casey he gasped.

”Poor child!” he said, ”You are so ugly on the outside but I can tell that you have such inner beauty. I see into your heart and know that you are a wonderful person. I can help you by giving you some magic clay that I have. If you spread it all over your body and say pretty three times, you will be the most gorgeous girl in all the land.”

So, Casey helped the gnome up out of the manhole, took the clay, and ran off.

“Wait! There is something you must know about the clay!” shouted the gnome.

But, it was too late and Casey scurried home to use it right away.

When she arrived, she caked the clay all over her whole body and said pretty three times.

Sure enough, it worked. She was the most gorgeous girl there could ever be. With eyes of blue topaz,

golden blonde hair, and sparkly white teeth, she glimmered in the light. Whenever she walked around town, people would stare in awe. Heads turned so far that people fell down. Some people followed her around just to get a glimpse.

At first, this was all quite pleasurable and flattering for Casey. But it grew old quickly.

People started following her wherever she went. She always had a trail of men behind her trying to find out where she lived.

Sometimes they would sneak into her window at night and she would wake up to see a crazy man lying beside her. Casey became so frightened by the constant attention and danger that she wanted to become less gorgeous. She looked for the gnome but could not find him anywhere. So, she needed to come up a way to solve the problem on her own. So she tried to wear plain clothing, and stopped brushing her hair. Then, she stopped taking baths and washing up. She even tried to twist her face into sour forms so that people would think she is ugly. No mat-

ter what she did she was still more beautiful than anyone there ever was.

One day, Casey had an idea. “Maybe I will use the magic clay in reverse. I will say ugly three times instead of pretty!”

So, that is what she did. She pasted the clay on and said ugly three times. But, this time she was even more ugly than before. She was so ugly that she resembled a monster more than a human. Her nose was the size and shape of a large banana; there were oozing pimples on her cheeks, twice as many warts, and a chin the size of a face itself. Her hair was long and gray, her body fat and clumpy.

When people saw her they didn’t just gasp, they screamed and ran away! She was so hideous that when people looked directly at her, their eyes would sting and burn.

Casey needed to use her wits to come up with a solution.

Since, she had never been blessed with beauty, she always needed to compensate with brains. So, she put the clay on and said pretty only once. And, right before her

eyes she saw exactly what she wanted in the mirror. A regular girl! She was no longer grotesque and monstrous nor was she dropdead gorgeous. She was an average girl with average features.

And she liked it that way. From that day on, the townsfolk stopped ogling her and she no longer stuck out like a sore thumb.

Meanwhile, the gnome had been watching Casey all along from her backyard. He had crept into a bush and hid there for days. When he saw her coming up with a solution to her problems all on her own, he fell madly in love with her. Eventually, he revealed himself and asked for her hand in marriage. Casey consented right away because the gnome had always loved her for who she was on the inside.

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by Brenda Anderson

Ruby’s Onionskin Wings

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uby’s grandmother pointed to the ceiling hook and pushed a parcel into her hands. “You must.”

Her Baba’s voice was weak now.

“A pursuer comes. Already I hear his knock. He wants us for his collection. When he comes, hang this from the hook, climb inside and wait. Then he will go.”

Ruby blinked back tears.

Her grandmother’s gift of foresight had faded into unreliable dreams and visions. She picked at the cloth wrapping, and wept.

Neither had eaten in days. Why did it have to end like this? All her life her grandmother had protected her from starvation and despair. Now she was frail. Against her will, Ruby unwrapped the parcel. Dried, transparent onion skins spilled into her lap. She picked them up and saw tiny stitches connecting each skin, patchworkstyle. The smell of onions filled the air. They felt cool and waxy in her hands. So many layers, all folded neatly and stitched, a lifetime’s work. Her stomach growled. They would make good onion soup. She tried to smile.

“I only chose the transparent ones.” Baba’s voice faltered.

“I dreamed into them, and sealed them with tears. They’re strong.

They’ll protect you. Remember, our race always escapes. My darling,” the old woman spoke with

difficulty, “no more words now.

Hold me.”

Ruby held her until she stopped breathing. Only then did she reach out, close her Baba’s eyes and give herself up to misery. Sobbing, she drew the old woman’s shawl up over her head.

Next morning she dragged her body to the shallow ditch they’d chosen and laid her there. After smoothing soil over the body she stumbled back and fell asleep, exhausted.

Weak daylight and noise woke her the next morning.

Something banged on the door.

With an effort she rose, lifted the onion skins and hooked them to the top of the hut, as her Baba had instructed. With a swish they unfolded down into a tear-shaped sack. She grasped one side, swung herself up and scrambled inside.

The opening sealed itself. She curled up, exhausted.

“You inside,” a loud, rough voice called out. “I’ve come for you.”

Ruby closed her eyes. Baba had been right. This must be the pursuer.

“The old one would have made you a hiding place.” The voice sounded softer now. “I’ll wait.

I’ve spent my life tracking your species. You look human, but then the young always die, and

the old help them. Inhuman, see?

My thesis gives every proof, and at last I’ve found a body. I’ll wait for the exact moment, or I’ll spoil everything. Others have failed. I won’t.”

She heard a clink on the flagstone outside and smelled a mouth-wateringly rich stew. Ruby caught her breath. No. No, no, no. How could anyone be so cruel? He must know she was starving, but she wouldn’t give in. Ruby bit her lips and tasted blood. For a long time she heard nothing, and nibbled on her torn lip. Lightheaded, she plucked the nearest piece of onion, stuffed it into her mouth and chewed. The taste of her grandmother’s bean stew filled her mouth. Perhaps she was dreaming. Ruby chewed for the next half hour until her jaws hurt. Dizzy and weak, she felt her stomach fill with real food. Tired beyond belief, she dozed off.

The next morning the stranger again left delicioussmelling food. Again Ruby picked a piece of onion and chewed.

This time she found herself eating lamb, potatoes and carrots.

She savored each mouthful and dozed. Finally she slept, doubled up, hands clutching her legs. She hadn’t drunk water in a while, but somehow her body felt more comfortable. Next day, the smell of the food no longer made her raven-

ous. She ate onions, slept and felt better.

She woke with a start.

Through the gaps in the hut she saw long black threads. A net?

By now her shelter had so many holes it barely held together. She examined her hands, and caught her breath. Her arms had turned to bone and added delicate onionskin sleeves. Her knees flexed in a new, easy way. Her nails had grown, too. She fingered her new sleeves. How pretty. Tough, too.

Now she must get up. She ate the last of the onions and stood up. The floorboards beneath her feet felt smooth. She must have grown, too.

“Ready now?” This voice sounded familiar. She’d heard it before. “I’m waiting.”

Black threads hung down over the small window. Perhaps they covered the entire hut. A tingle of excitement went through her. Nothing could hold her now.

She ducked her head, folded her arms against her sides and took a step backwards. She would need as much room as possible. The door, or the window? Ruby flung herself at the window, and burst through both glass and net. Unharmed, she worked her new arms and shot up to the sky. She was flying!

Below her a two legged

creature stood looking up at her, shouting something in anger. Anger? She remembered emotions.

It didn’t matter now. She twisted and turned, riding the winds, her transparent wings strong and beautiful in the morning sunlight.

Below her the land stretched to the horizon, a patchwork of greenery, treetops, grassland and areas of blue. She practised moving her wings in different ways, varying her speed, resting on warm updrafts of air. Such freedom. A cloud drifted by, and she shouted with joy. The sun’s rays set her wings on fire. Her body broke into a million splinters, and Ruby raptured into light. * * *

Light fell to earth and warmed the soil. From Baba’s dried remains, a tiny shoot pushed its way up, grew, and in time peeled back clear waxy outer skin.

Climbing free of the soil the new Ruby did cartwheels and bent to select a single transparent onion skin. Next, she must find her own clothing. Sunlight touched her, warm as an embrace. The new Ruby glanced up, and smiled.

May 2013• Bohemia • 69

by Gary Lee Webb Illustration by Steffany Bankenbusch

he dictionary defines “Bildungsroman” to be “a novel about the moral and psychological growth of the main character.” As a German speaker, I recognize the words “die Bildung” (the Education) and “der Roman” (the novel). English is good at accepting foreign plurals: if you have two novels, are they “Bildungsromane” (the plural of “der Roman” is “die Romane”) ? The term was probably first applied almost 200 years ago to a book (Wihelm Meisters Lehrjahre) by J. W. Goethe, written in the late 18th century, but the genre has

T

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been with us ever since. In fact, the genre is an outgrowth of the many fables about a family’s youngest son going out into the world to seek his fortune and becoming an adult in the process.

Goethe’s book is about a young man seeking to escape what he sees as a boring future becoming a businessman. It follows his quest for a better future, with a sub-plot about the introduction of Shakespeare to the German stage during the mid1700s. The protagonist in fact plays the lead role in a new play, The Tragedy of Hamlet, a Prince of Denmark, before moving on to other things. As with any other genre, a Buildungsroman need not focus exclusively on the young person’s development.

Besides Goethe’s seminal work, Wikipedia lists 32 examples of Bildungsromane: one in the 12th century, three in the mid-18th, five in the 19th, and many more since.

Wikipedia says the protagonist must be a “sensitive person who is looking for answers and experience” and the goal is maturity, achieved “gradually and with difficulty”. Perhaps so. However you define the term, I enjoy reading a Bildungsroman; they hold my interest! I easily sympathize with the main character, and I find myself hoping for his success. For me, a Bildungsroman is a book very hard to put down: I want to find out what comes next!

One of the greatest new authors during my lifetime has been Orson Scott Card. I enjoy his Seventh Son fantasy heptology (it is an alternate America in which magic shaped the evolution of the colonies and our country), and I enjoy his science fiction. The latter includes a

great Bildungsroman, currently being translated to the silver screen by the author himself. Ender’s Game is about a future (circa AD 2170) in which the Earth is imperiled by a race of aggressive, intelligent insects – an implacable foe, the Formics. The world’s most talented children are taken at a very young age to a training center known as the Battle School. The young children include the novel’s protagonist, Ender Wiggin. Third child in a family with three genius children in a world in which a third child is almost never allowed: population pressure is too extreme. Third child in a world where third children are hated.

But at Battle School, genius children are a precious commodity, the hope for the human race. There, teachers train them in the arts of war through increasingly difficult “video” games including ones undertaken in zero gravity in the Battle Room, where Ender’s tactical genius is revealed. The teachers are thrilled; the children jealous.

What the children do not realize is that the more advanced games are not games. The children are actually controlling the Earth’s spacecraft in the war. The novel focuses on how Ender deals with his peers as he works his way through the school, and then how he deals with life as he learns he has just committed genocide. Sequels deal with his life as an adult. So Ender’s Game fits the description: it is the story of a shy genius learning to be a confident young man and then dealing with the fact that he just unknowingly did a horrible thing to save humanity.

The book won the 1985 Nebula Award for best novel and the 1986 Hugo Award for best novel – the two top honors for a Science Fic-

tion book. It has won accolades outside the genre as well. In 1999 it was put into the Modern Library 100 Best Novels, and later in the American Library Association’s “100 Best Books for Teens.” Finally, the US Marine Corps recommends the novel for reading by its enlisted men and lower grade officers (for some reason, it has not made the Admiral’s list). In fact, the officer training program claims that it offers “lessons in training methodology, leadership, and ethics as well.”

As I mentioned above, Ender’s Game should be a movie within a year. In 2011, Summit Entertainment agreed to finance and distribute the film, and is coordinating its development. Orson Scott Card wrote the first draft of the screenplay himself. Gavin Hood wrote the final draft and is directing. Filming began February 2012 in Louisiana. A British actor, Asa Butterfield, will be Ender Wiggin. Aramis Knight has the role of “Bean”, Ender,’ friend and fellow genius from the slums of Rotterdam. Jimmy Pinchak is Ender’s psychopathic brother, Peter. The cast also includes Harrison Ford and Ben Kingsley. Original release date was 1 November 2013. The special effects company (Digital Domain) has filed bankruptcy, and it is unknown whether that will affect the release date.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book, and I await the movie eagerly. If you have not read the novel, I suggest you grab copies of both Ender’s Game and Ender’s Shadow and read them. They are set in the same time frame, and apparently the film will use scenes from both.

And then, you, like me, will be hoping for a November release.

May 2013• Bohemia • 71

A Central Texas Art and Literary Journal Bohemia is a mix of photography, art, music, human interest, style, themes, fashion, poetry and flash fiction.

The submissions-based sections of the journal typically follow themes and genre studies. We consider a varied and eclectic mix of short stories, poetry, photography, and art from talented individuals.

Check out our submission guidelines to learn more.

Bohemians can be folky singers, compassionate world travelers, soul searching philosophers, or asphalt-banging bike messengers. We can be romantic, whimsical muses. We might be modern city dwellers or rural organic farmers at heart.

Come with us on our gypsy caravans. Listen to our seasonal musings. Explore our old Texas small towns.

See us showcase vintage fashion and pin-up rock-a-billy tattoos. Read our stories about our Bohemian literary heroes and our own artistic lifestyles. Look at our themes and let your imagination run wild!

Created in Central Texas, submissions-based literary journal and arts magazine. Known for being exceptionally well-produced and thought-provoking and for being one of the most beautiful literary journals in the world. We maintain an active blog site at www.bohojo.wordpress.com.

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May 2013• Bohemia • 73 bohemia-journal.com

ontributors C Pete Able has been writing fiction and poetry since high school. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University.

Brenda Anderson has appeared in 10Flash Quarterly, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Apocrypha & Abstractions and A cappella Zoo. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia.

E. Kristin Anderson is the co-creater of the blog Dear Teen Me. Published worldwide in literary journals, she is an assistant editor at Hunger Mountain/ YA and Children’s section. Anderson’s work is in the forthcoming anthology Coin Opera II, a collection of poems about video games from Sidekick Books.

Yooo! My nombre is Steffany [Bankenbusch] and I quite enjoy the arts. I’ve always been into drawing, even as a kid. The majority of my work contains colors of the vibrant nature, WHICH I LOVE (duh). Can’t live without color. Main reason why: I’m into 80s culture n junk. FLASHY.

Josch Beres spent the bulk of his childhood in Killeen, Texas. In the United States Air Force he served as a Russian Linguist. In the spring of 2011 Joschua enrolled at Texas State University - San Marcos where he is currently an undergraduate student majoring in International Studies with a Russian Focus.

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John Bruchac’s writing often reflects his Abenaki Indian heritage. That is even true of his new YA novel Wolf Mark (2011), a paranormal thriller with an American Indian take on shape-shifting.

Riley Carney is eighteen years old.

She is the author of the fantasy adventure series, The Reign of the elements. At fourteen, Riley founded a nonprofit children’s literacy organization, Breaking the Chain. RileyCarney.com Mixed media artist Aubrey Carroll is 22 years old and lives in Temple, Texas. She graduated with a BFA in Studio Art from the University of Mary Hardin Baylor. She has recently combined her drawing and photography skills to experiment with digital art.

Jessica Corra is the author of After You (currently set to publish in the spring of 2013), a magical realism novel about sisters and sacrifices.

You can find her online at JessicaCorra.Wordpress.com.

Katie Croft lives, loves, lies and cries in Waco TX with her partner in parenting, three kids, and a menagerie of animals. She graduated Baylor with a BFA and owns The Croft Art Gallery. She is a photographer, painter, and drawerer of things, a Nanowrimo winner and lover of literature.

Janelle Finamore is a poet, songwriter and fiction writer. Her poems cover topics ranging from opening up space shops to — per her book’s

title — the “Power of Silly Putty.”

Her poetry is heavily influenced by Beat poets like Allen Ginsberg and also by Leonard Cohen.

Ty Hall lives in Texas, makes up stories, and tries to be good.

Joel Haesecke is an author, comic, bartender, philosopher, father and husband. He eventually and accidentally graduated from the University of North Texas with an undergraduate degree in Psychology.

This qualified him for…nothing, but prepared him for everything. He enjoys questioning reality and physical altercations. He lives in Mclennan County.

My name is Carie Krajca- Hopkins. I live in Central Texas with my family; I enjoy writing stories and poems as well as shooting outdoor photography. I am currently working on my BA in Psychology.

David Irvin is a Waco-based freelance journalist, photographer and (nearly) Master Librarian. His writing has appeared in dozens of newspapers, magazines and blogs, including Flakmag, the Montgomery Advertiser, Arkansas DemocratGazette, USA Today, and Chicago Tribune.

Ramona Itule-Patigian lives in Berkeley, California with her boyfriend and cat. She enjoys fruit and live music. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Boston Literary Magazine, Triggerfish Critical Review and others.

Photography by Stephanie Rystrom

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Janet Smith Post, author of Cotton Rock, see www.JanetSmithPost. com. She writes short stories and co-authored two children’s books: Barnyard Boogie and Jungle Beat.

She also writes award-winning songs for children, see www.readingbyear.com. Post’s husband, Jim Post, sang 60s hit folk song “Reach Out of the Darkness.”

Amanda Hixson studied Journalism at Baylor University, wrote and performed poetry locally, sought a degree in Education, taught in highpoverty areas, and then decided to start Bohemia in Waco, TX.

Anne McCrady’s award-winning print and audio collections include Along Greathouse Road, Under a Blameless Moon and Letting Myself In. Councilor for the Poetry Society of Texas, storyteller, inspirational speaker, and workshop presenter.

Advocate for education, peace and social justice. Anne lives in East Texas. Visit her website, www.InSpiritry.com.

Central Texan Megan Miller gets older every day, but apparently no wiser. Having embraced the path of the Cosmic Fool and finishing up a tour of the country, she is intent to settle down and live a life of quiet obscurity in a small town with her husband.

After spending 15 years working as a professional actor, Morgan

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O’Connor taught English at The University Of Miami and Universitat Autónoma de Barcelona. Currently living in Rio de Janeiro, editing a novel. Previous writing has appeared in The Guardian, Barcelona Metropolitan Magazine, The Collective Exiles and The Write Practice.

Stephanie Rystrom is a photographer, model, fashionista, and momma in Central Texas. She’s a bohemian at heart, currently working on her BA in horticulture, and enjoying life day by day.

Ethan Smith is 19 years old and from the small town of West, Tx. His main interest is music. From sunrise to sundown, you can normally find him with a guitar in his hand, in his car, or chillin’ at home. He is out going and ready to bring smiles.

Award-winning poet Laura Taylor is a regular festival and open-mic night guest performer throughout the North West of England. She has been writing and performing for just over two years, and has been widely published.

Ruben Vera is a graphic designer ready to surround himself with energetic people to learn, increase character, laugh, and enjoy a unique perspective in life with design. With God by his side, Ruben has created inspirational designs including magazine layouts, brochures, website designs, signange, logos,

and even dabbled with video production. Feel free to vuew his work: rubenveragraphics.blogspot.com Jeremiah Walton resides attends high school in New England as is still in high school. He is the manager of Nostrovia! Poetry, a press that promotes poetry and writing to youth. Jeremiah is the author of To Your Health: Humanity’s Diagnosis and LSD Giggles. He blogs at Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.

Gary Lee Webb is a 15-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly.

His credits include over 180 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, and both nonfiction and fictional publications. He is 57, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters.

Sharon A. Webb grew up writing poetry and stories. She was a dedicated high school nerd, assistant editor of both her high school newspaper and the local ‘underground’ newspaper. The unbelievable story, “Frogs Away!” is actually true. Only the names have been changed (to protect the guilty).

Cyndi Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer for Waco Center For Youth for six years.

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BOHEMIA May 2013 Volume 3, Number 4 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Editor In Chief Amanda Hixson Layout Designer & Graphic Artist Ruben Vera Assistant Lay-out Gwendy Webb The BoHo crew also includes many talented bloggers & writers, regular contributors, copyeditors, acquistion managers, photographers, contract models, hair and make-up artists, illustrators and friends who lend their talents frequently. See their names in the magazine.

Cover credits: Model Paul Mabbitt Photographer Cynthia Wheeler Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX and represents a Central Texas perspective. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine.

Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines.

More information is available at www.bohemia-journal.com

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