artist opportunities calendar. Awards/Competitions
Deadline: August 25 New Creative Markets. SPACE. www. spacestudios.org.uk/whats-on/ news-stories/call-for-applicationsnew-creative-markets Deadline: August 31 2013 Benjamin Saltman Poetry Award. $3,000 award. redhen.org/ awards-2/bsa/ Conferences/Courses
August 2-4 Shut Up and Write: A Ragdale Retreat. Illinois. www. storystudiochicago.com August 8-15 Get Away to Write - Scotland. Dundee, Scotland. www. murphywriting.com August 22-25 Killer Nashville - A conference for thriller, suspense, mystery writers and readers. Nashville, TN. www. killernashville.com Events
August 2-5 7th Annual Welcome to Boog City Poetry, Music, and Theater Festival. Unnameable Books, Brooklyn, NY. http://boogcity.com/flyer.wbc7. pdf#sthash.2dilhAZt.dpuf August 3 this is a ZINE awareness public announcement. Smith’s Alternative Bookshop, Canberra, Australian Capital Territory. www.facebook. com/CanberraZineEmporium August 7 Sunken Garden Poetry Festival. The Hill-Stead Museum, Farmington, CT. http://sunkengardenpoetry. org#sthash.ajYHkWhY.dpuf 2
August 10-11 13th Annual Portland Zine Symposium. Ambridge Event Center, Portland, OR. www. portlandzinesymposium.org August 25 From the Back Room film screening + ABQ Zine Fest Benefit. The Tannex, Albuquerque, NM. abqzinefest.com/punk-filmzine-festbenefit/ Residencies
Deadline: August 1 Frans Msereel Centre (Printmaking, Visual Arts). Belgium. www. fransmasereelcentrum.be Deadline: August 1 Largo das Artes. (Drawing and Painting, Film, Media Arts, Multi Media, Photography). Brazil. www. largodasartes.com.br Deadline: August 1 The Corporation of Yaddo (Drawing and Painting, Glass, Media Art, Lit, Multi Media, Music and Sound, Photography, Printmaking, Sculpture). NY, USA. www.yaddo.org Deadline: August 1 Tokyo Wond Site. (Media Art, Multi Media, Music and Sound, Photography, Performing Arts, Printmaking, Sculpture). Japan. www.tokyo-ws.org Deadline: August 3 Atlantic Center for the Arts. (Ceramics, Drawing and Painting, Media Art, Lit, Multi Media, Music and Sound, Woodcraft). FL, USA. www.atlanticcenterforthearts.org Deadline: August 6 Snehta Residency. (Drawing and Painting, Media Art, Lit, Multi Media, Photography, Sculpture). Greece. www.snehtaresidency.org
Deadline: August 9 The Lock-Up Cultural Center (All). Australia. www.thelockup.info Deadline: August 11 Culturia. (All). Germany. http:// culturia.de/concept Deadline: August 12 Cannonball. (All). FL, USA. http:// cannonballmiami.org Deadline: August 14 Atelier Hotel Pro Forma. (Media Art, Multi Media, Music and Sound, Performing Arts). Denmark. www. hotelproforma.dk Deadline: August 15 Aalto University School of Arts. (Design, Fashion, Drawing and Painting, Graphic Design, Film, Media Art, Multi Media, Photography, Printmaking, Scuplture, Visual Arts). Finland. http://arts.aalto.fi Deadline: August 16 Eastern Bloc’ Media Lab. (Media Art, Multi Media, Music and Sound). Quebec, Canada. www.easternbloc. ca Deadline: August 16 The Telfer Gallery. (All). Scotland. www.the-telfer.com Deadline: August 18 Palais de Tokyo. (Media Art, Multi Media, Music and Sound, Performing Arts, Visual Arts). France. www.palaisdetokyo.com Deadline: August 18 Proyecto ‘ace. (Media Art, Multi Media, Photography, Performing Arts, Printmaking, Visual Arts). Argentina. www.proyectoace.org
artist opportunities calendar (con’t). Deadline: August 19 International Center of Art and Landscape. (Drawing and Painting, Media Art, Lit, Multi Media, Music and Sound, Photography, Sculpture, Visual Arts, Woodcraft). France. www.ciapiledevassiviere.com
Anytime Filling Station. (Art, Writing). www. fillingstation.ca/submit
Deadline: August 30 Artists Studio Rondo. (Music and Sound, Performing Arts, Visual Arts). Austria. www.kulturservice. steiemark.at/cms/ziel/13915518/EN
Anytime FRiGG. (Writing). www. friggmagazine.com/editors/ editors39.htm
Deadline: August 30 Turps Art School. (Drawing and Painting). UK. http://turpsbanana. com Submissions
Anytime 491 Magazine. (Art, poetry). www.491magazine.com/ submission-guidelines/ Anytime Anobium. (Writing). anobiumlit. com/submit/ Anytime The Bad Version. (Writing). thebadversion.com/submit-to-thebad-version Anytime Barrelhouse: The Comedy Issue. (Writing). www.barrelhousemag. com/submissions/the-comedyissue/ Anytime Diabolique Magazine. (Writing). diaboliquemagazine.com/contact/ submissions/ Anytime Élan Magazine. (Art, Writing). elanlitmag.com/?page_id=6
Anytime Fjords Review. (Art, writing). www. fjordsreview.com/
Anytime Retort. (Art, music, writing, video). retortmagazine.com/live/ submission-guidelines/ Anytime Roadside Fiction. (Writing). roadsidefiction.com. Anytime Silent Things. (Art, Writing). silentthings.com/about/
Anytime Jiggered. (Art, writing). www. jiggered.co.za/submit
Anytime Slings and Arrows. (Writing). submissions@saamagazine.com.
Anytime litbomb. (Writing). www.litbomb. co.uk/#/submissions/4572988060
Anytime smoking glue gun. (Art, writing). smokinggluegun.com/contact/.
Anytime Literati Magazine. (Art, writing). literatimag.com/?page_id=11
Anytime The Speculative Edge (Sci fi, horror, fantasy). sites.google.com/site/ thespeculativeedge/submissions
Anytime Moonshot. (Art, writing). moonshotmagazine.org/ submissions/ Anytime Nostrovia! www.nostroviatowriting. com/publishing-opportunities.html Anytime OVS. (Art, writing). ovsmag.com Anytime Passages North. (Writing). passagesnorth.com/submissions/ Anytime Pithead Chapel. (Writing). pitheadchapel.com/submissionguidelines/ Anytime Poydras Review. (Art, writing). poydrasreview.submittable.com/ submit
Anytime Spilt Magazine. (Writing, video). lukemuyskens@gmail.com. Anytime Sword and Saga Press. (Writing). www.swordandsagapress.com/ Submissions.php Anytime The View From Here. (Fiction). www.viewfromheremagazinesubmissions.com/ Anytime Word Riot. (Writing). www.wordriot. org/submissions
If you would like to see your opportunity in The Bitchin’ Kitsch next month, please email the details to chris@talbot-heindl.com. 3
the bitchin’ kitsch content august 2013 Elegant Little Pelican - Laine Jewell Calendar of Events
cover
Monster 2, 6/5/13 - Chris TalbotHeindl Girls and pictures - Pradeep Chaswal Every beautiful thing - Sarah Gawricki
Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 14
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My Madness, Me... - Afzal Moolla
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Life, Part 2 - Jan Haskell
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Weltiliteratur: Its Conception and Permeation - Tyler Furo
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Time Answered - Buzz Burinski
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The mirage - Dawnell Harrison
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On Landing a Windfall - A.g. Synclair Day of Love - Anthony Arnott
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Monsters, 7/3/13 - Chris Talbot14 Heindl SENSIBLESHOESDOMINATRIX. 15-16 COM - Cindy Small 17
Bar Code - Anthony Ward
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19 Prescott Firefighters Kenneth Abraham
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Abandoned Steps - Mike Cluff
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Sunday - Wayne Burke
Flower: The Price of Life - Mandal Bijoy Beg
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Untitled - Laine Jewell
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flying monkey - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Donors and Index
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Fear and Trembling - Howie Good
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Raiden - Freedom Heindl
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Poem from the Chinese - George Freek
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Waiting for Sands to Gather - Sy Roth Trapped in Heavy Haze - Danielle Dragona
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on the front cover: Elegant Little Pelican
Laine Jewell Ink and color on paper
on the inside back cover: Raiden
Freedom Heindl Graphite, watercolor, and sumi ink on paper
the bitchin’ kitsch video and music issue:
Check out this month’s “issue” link of video and music at www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch.html or www.youtube.comTheBitchinKitsch
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Remember Those Flames on the Western Horizon - Andy L. Kubai Weddings - Clyde Borg
A Country Store and Bait Shop Louis Marvin and XY
Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE - pg. 20
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The Poet...(Referencing Moonglow) - Thom Douglas Carlisle (Irish Tommy Moran)
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chris talbot-heindl. about b’k:
the bitchin’ kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. it exists for the purpose of open creativity. if you have something you want to share, please email it to chris@talbot-heindl.com. are you a video or music artist? submit your youtube link or original file to dana@talbot-heindl.com. all submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue.
ideas:
have a seriously bitchin’ idea that could make the bitchin’ kitsch that much better? we want to hear from you. email chris@talbot-heindl.com with your ideas.
community copies:
sit down and read the bitchin’ kitsch at our community locations: zest, the smith scarabocchio art museum, epic studios tattooing and piercing, the coffee studio, and noel fine arts center. want to house a community copy? email chris@ talbot-heindl.com.
advertising:
the bitchin’ kitsch is offering crazy low rates of $5 for a fourth-page ad, $10 for a half-page ad, and $20 for a full page ad. book yours today by emailing chris@talbot-heindl.com.
donation:
we love our donors. If you would like to become a donor, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge.
Monster 2, 6/5/13 Chris Talbot-Heindl Sumi ink and gouache on paper www.talbot-heindl.com
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pradeep chaswal. Girls and pictures
By: Pradeep Chaswal www.themuse.webs.com themusepoetry.wordpress.com A morning in village A young girl getting scolded for being talkative Her sisters washing cloths Wife in ghunghat following the husband Vultures hovering over girls Bathing in the pond In afternoon... A secluded road Schoolgirls passing by The group of hooligans whistling People worshipping a goddess idol In a nearby temple
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Evening in town A news flashed on TV “Rape victim’s father committed suicide” A lecture on women emancipation in a university A porn film’s poster On the wall of a widow’s house The midnight in Metropolitan city wolfs roaming on the roads a group of old men reading an old book two teen-age girls have taken shelter beneath a wall on which is written “Yatra Naryastu Pujyante, Ramante Tatra Devata” (Women Are Honoured Where, Divinity Blossoms There)
sarah gawricki. Every beautiful thing By: Sarah Gawricki
winged beauties celebration of life living memorial to the cocoon that birthed the airborne butterfly rapid flutter race reproduce a thousand tiny incubators neon green crawlers will crawl in & shoot out of with sudden grace & appreciation for the sky knock into screen doors & lamps that power human flight buried among the detritus of dehydrated flowers in binding pots bees that couldn’t find their hive worms dried out after a rainstorm cricket legs; crickets were the cat’s lunch slugs salted on the patio baby bird tumbles atop a fire ant hill squawking mercilessly for her nest skin chafes with millions of tiny nips dozens of legs distraught that their stomach is right side up. work boot getting closer crunch of the exoskeleton drowned out by a distant twig snap when the fox finally get his rabbit cicada shells clinging to the picnic bench hundreds of unclaimed Easter eggs rotting under rusty swing sets
culling the excess, the unwanted fleet weaponless, useless nature vs. nature, nature vs. man everything vs. God gawping eyes watch fawns die half inside their mother’s backside bloody baby’s head knocked up and down as the deer prances off in despair shamed, she is next to falter colored wings spread toward the sun triumphant for a moment never noticing the oncoming car grasshopper never notices the magnifying glass or pesticide truck we never notice God just bomb shelters & spray painted art telling us how not to think spring is just a construct manufacturing a certain inevitable sleep we are but mercenaries blindfolded, cigarettes in pouting mouth spouting insults at our assassins cocked & they say any last regrets? given a chance to gracefully wilt like retiring plants fuck you & wasting the chance
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tyler furo, buzz burinski, dawnell harrison. Weltliteratur: Its Conception and Permeation
Time Answered
“World literature” is a catch-all term, encompassing the sum and history of the written word, which can be further divided into subcategories of nation and language. In 21st century America, world literature is also the standard breadth for educators and lay readers alike, rendering American conception of “literature” synonymous to “world literature.” English translations of Camus, Kafka and Dante are high school staples. On best-seller lists, American authors compete with phenomena of foreign origin—The Bible and Stieg Larsson, for example. This is a trend globally, but was that always the case? Some scholars contend the first epoch of cross-culturally shared literature existed in the ancient world. This is likely, as peoples were generally grouped by small nation states actively engaged in conquer and trade with each other, including trade of knowledge. After all, the Greeks’ writing system derived from a borrowed Phoenician alphabet (Longman, 10).
Time unanswered Conquests unconquered Loveless life of lies
By: Tyler Furo
By the 1800s, due to industrialization, colonization and the printing press, the world was again becoming a smaller place. German writer Johann Wolfgang Goethe (1749-1832), via quotation in the 1836 publication Conversations with Goethe in the Last Years of His Life by Johann Eckermann, coined the contemporary concept of “Weltliteratur,” declaring its essentiality, universality of feeling and the commencement of its era. Twelve years later, writing in The Communist Manifesto, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels expanded on Goethe’s observation by locating written work as “intellectual production” within a globalizing age. In this world of increasing “intercourse in every direction [and] universal interdependence of nations” buoyed by bourgeoisie consumption, intellectual property became shared information and, echoing Goethe, ignoring its expansion and potential enrichments fostered narrow pomposity. In 1929, Herman Hesse (1877-1962), a German-Swiss writer, completely embraced myriad national works as self-evidently important. In the essay “A Library of World Literature,” Hesse acknowledges the effects of material culture and capitalism on printing and owning of literature, specifically regarding translations and multiple editions, but overall defines world literature’s prime efficacy as conduit of purposeful self-edification. Ostensibly an instructive on book collection, Hesse’s essay is also a treatise on the importance of learning for learning’s sake. Reading, he insists, must incorporate examples of foreign vision, thought and beauty, lest one risk the perspicacious isolation forewarned of by Goethe, Marx and Engels. Those Germans’ prediction of Weltliteratur’s inevitable pervasion, institutionalization and intellectual validity is today actualized by everyday use and enjoyment of world literature as, simply, only, literature.
By: Buzz Burinski
Borrowed image Portrayed Hyper chameleon Delusion Betray You are the illusion Your question answered Invalid Insipid Redundant Hollow Cognate Demonstrate You hallucinate Your mirror lies You can’t hide Everyone knows You are the void Time answered
The mirage
By: Dawnell Harrison I am married to a mirage. The moon rises under The meat of your tongue. Forty five years now I have Worked to pull the muck From your mouth. Still it is all exit signs Leading nowhere. It is unbearable out here In the desert having To endure this intolerable Heat while you dream up Your next big mistake.
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louis marvin and xy. A Country Store and Bait Shop By: Louis Marvin and XY
There is a country store and bait shop that acts like a parent to Prescott, Arizona. It feeds you when you are hungry. They teach you how to fish and how to bait a hook and row a boat safely. When you are young, they tell you stories of talking roadrunners and bullfrogs that eat bubblegum on the front porch. When you grow up and the dirty work has to get done, you retire to the back porch. It seems that the locals and new folks all end up coming to Peabody Winston and Sons Country Store and Bait Shop. They got Safeway and Wal-Mart in town, but you’ll take that dirt road to Peabody’s sooner or later. Peabody was sitting on the front porch with a vanilla cream soda, signing something for his son. Jack Veenum pulled up in the University of Arizona truck. The dust was heading off into the wind when Jack jumped out and his boots made their first tracks at the store.
“Howdy son, you a long way from Tucson.”
“Howdy. Are you Peabody Winston?”
“Somebody told a story on me?”
Jack walked onto the front porch of the store and Peabody got up out of the rocking chair. They shook hands.
“How about them snakes Mr. Peabody?”
“Jack, work like that gets done on the back porch. You got maps?”
“Yes sir, some real good maps of the area.”
Come on out back and let’s trade this soda pop for some Schlitz. You smoke or dip there Jack?”
“No sir.”
They went inside the store and Jack met his two sons. Peabody explained that mother used to be down here too, but she had recently passed and it was just the three of them and sometimes their wives and kids. The boys had taken over the major duties of running the store, but Peabody liked to let them know it was his name on the sign. They popped the lids off the beers and headed out to the back porch, where the view of the lake was spectacular. The sun shines off of it like light diamonds. There were old wooden and kitchen chairs that had rips and shreds of stuffing hanging out. The wood of the porch had burn marks from thousands of cigarettes, and there were dark stains where dip was spit and chew had spilled. It was just missing some good ‘ol boys and some Merle Haggard. Peabody and Jack were the good ‘ol boys.
“Folks said that if I wanted to get directions to some remote snake country, I ought to head to your place. So here I am.”
They had those big, wooden electric cable spools as a couple of tables. They spread the map on one and put their beers on the other. Peabody lit a cigar and looked over Jack’s map.
“You a herpetologist?”
“I like reptile scientist better.”
“You ain’t dumbing it down for me are you?”
“No sir.”
“I’m here to get some venom from the various snakes you got up here so we can make a lot more antivenom. Prescott has grown so much with the seniors coming in. Between them being slow and their pets being curious, there is some real problems with folks getting bit.”
“I was the one that suggested Dandy Wharton go nationwide and sell his syrup on that internet.”
“I haven’t heard of it.”
“Anyway, we are doing quite well and the Arizona flavored kind of syrups he makes have made us rich. I sold it here first. Not that fuckin’ Wal-Mart.”
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“Well, there we are.”
“Yea, old friend of mine was out hunting, and he got bit. He didn’t make it back and the rangers found him out there. Bugs and animals were at him.” “I am sorry to hear that. We want to make some kits that folks can take with them for emergencies until they can get to the doctors.”
louis marvin and xy (con’t), sy roth, danielle dragona. “We got an excellent snake trauma group at the hospital.”
“That’s some of the folks I am doing this for.”
Peabody and Jack studied the map and started to become friends over Schlitz and snakes. Looking down on the scene, with men laughing and talking, the lake shining in the distance, the boats bobbing to the little waves and pines blowing in the breeze, one knew it was a place to drink coffee and rock in a rocking chair. Southwest heaven.
Waiting for Sands to Gather By: Sy Roth
A selected stone blinks, shimmering in a monotonous sea of sand, volcanic sun melting it into reflective glass. It rests in the swell of dunes where nomadic travelers circumvent it, camels dragged round it, and separating moats are dug, filled with ravenous creatures. Bedoins dream of existential cabals. The stone controls imaginations, a zillion grains of sand in thrall. Sand gathers round the minute stone, a wailing city of dreams and sacrifices, a granular ziggurat forms, lush hurdle that bars the desert winds for a moment. Eras jerkily pass. Siroccos, in intervals, seize the supporting grains, drag them to places beyond in granular diasporas, the tower dissolves, evanescent spirits surround the stone, the ancient relic remains. Camels’ spit and curse its existence, padded feet plod sweeping sandy stretches around it, interminably. Mesmer guards the unending dunes, one ziggurat heaves in its death throes, while the stone waits for sands to gather.
Trapped in Heavy Haze By: Danielle Dragona
Time speaks to me in a cyclone of churning madness, yet I can’t recollect what He revealed to me last month, yesterday, last year, this last minute. All I’m capable of doing is feeling the Now. He speaks seductively in my saturated ear, whispering slowly, softly, so faultless that it makes me almost disintegrate. I can’t listen to your exquisite voice much longer. Words sliding into my ear like serpents, then being capitulated into a satiated brain that’s in overdrive most times. It’s almost cruel to have You too close to me since I’ve wasted so much of You. You taste of sweet morning dew as you cling to my flesh, speaking to me in such simple language that it’s impossible to decipher what you’re saying. Simplicity scares me. I’ve always preferred things difficult. The solutions I seek cannot be this uncomplicated. I do struggle to comprehend your words. You must believe me I drown ruthlessly in a labyrinth of my own muddled imperfections as your sympathetic eyes gaze at my struggle within myself to find the answers that have always been present, just never discovered. Groping in the darkness for what is exposed in a light I’m blinded to. Time paces. Time passes me by. Waiting. Pacing. Waiting for me to finally embrace, instead of fight against. You reveal the roses and I clench at the thorns to taste my own blood to ensure that I’m still alive. I require a reminder of that sometimes, a memory of Time and how it moves so quickly. I want to swallow one more breath just so I can savor the dawn. Morning sunlight flanked with rainbow hues peeks languidly over a worn horizon, simulating the illumination I seek, but the sunbeams burn me alive, scathing skin that can’t cope with the truth sometimes. Lurking in the shadows, I construct a fabricated safety insulated by familiar fear. I want to see the daylight and live to tell about it And then, one day, morning came again, and I felt the sunlight warm on my face.
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mike cluff, mandal bijoy beg, laine jewell, howie good, george freek, thom douglas carlisle (irish tommy moran).
Abadoned Steps
Untitled
Poem from the Chinese
The play left unended in Act III the charity work during summer in either Zimbabwe or Tanzania the call to the friend in the Pacific Northwest who I have not contacted since nine weeks after 911. The pursuit of an ESL certificate to finally finish a sociology class taught by a good friend but boring yet well-dressed professor, the ending of the hurting relationship or to let the closeted parts completely and unashamedly out.
All callous and hair a barrier between him and everything else
It is December by the lake. I think it is December everywhere. Clouds rise in the chilly air as if awaiting an explanation for this new season. Icy waves batter the shore like some ancient incantation of a long-forgotten nation. But the blood moves slowly in my hardened veins. Those gulls are reminders of other days. They make me wonder how I lost my way. But what good is memory? And stars, what do you know? What wisdom can you give me? Chinese savants in purple robes wrote their erudite books, gazing at the sea, while seeking for answers in a cup of tea.
By: Mike Cluff
Flower: The Prince of Life
By: Laine Jewell
Fear and Trembling By: Howie Good
An old pair of sneakers dangles from the power line like a clue. Everything, as the first law of ecology states, is connected, the whoosh of cars and an involuntary hard-on and also the shadowy approximation of a halo. The worst problem isn’t the fear. It’s the trembling. If we begin to run, the neighborhood dogs object. I can’t remember now why I ever thought this was just another one of those movies about two damaged people who find each other.
By: George Freek
By: Mandal Bijoy Beg I’m now in an easy breath An April’s sunny morn. But a sun may come As a November’s pitchy night A time of heavy breath. O BODY ! O MIND ! Come out of your sheath And kiss the whetstone I am a PRINCE OF LIFE.
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The Poet . . . (Referencing Moonglow) By: Thom Douglas Carlisle (Irish Tommy Moran)
Novels, novellas, writers of documents and manuscripts, Bred of grace and order, What makes a ‘Fellow-of-Letters’ construct for the mind that which the eye Can never see? New passive resident in moments of ancient breathing, held down, bound tightly In this ethereal, far dimension, Forged in the common-ceremony of, ‘Feather and Parchment’, My nimble fingers probe each new unfolding leaf. And with more than subtle indifference I do now advance Myself In the Far Echos and the Long Art.
afzal moolla, jan haskell. My Madness, Me...
Life, Part 2
Confined by this straight-jacket, strapped in, numb and dumbed, a washed-out, has-been, also-ran,
I’ve held this pen to paper for five minutes, hoping my mind would find some way to inspire the hand. At first, the idea was this day—sunny, working its way to hot. And there was no motion. Then there was my walk home after the show last night. A cocked waning moon. And as I walked, I wonder if in two hours, if you were to look, would it still be smiling? Where in the sky would you find it?
By: Afzal Moolla
body, eyes, the equilibrium of mind, rattling like stones in an old tin-can. Still, I am, I am, and I am unchained, my dreams taking flight, soaring, above these claustrophobic walls, of synapses, and dungeons of stone, swooping through green valleys, taking a detour to savour the joys, soaked in torrential, evergreen memories, of a younger man, with passion in his bone. I am. My wings unclipped, unshackled, free, I am, and though I am unable to see, I am. At long last, me.
By: Jan Haskell
For wanderers, it is an age old thought: Moon, Sun, Wind, Wave, what news do you bring me from far away? Can you please...may I burden you to carry a thought, my heart, to those I miss? He had only walked two blocks when the rain had started to really come down. He threw his hood up for a little protection, and tried to put a little more determination in his step. A lifetime ago, he had found himself homeless in San Francisco. He had found shelter (if they had space) where he could stay for a week. He was three blocks from there when it started to rain. A warm winter rain. He knew the sender and the message: love. They were tears of joy, and he had found himself smiling and even laughing. This would be okay. There would be a bed and a warm hearth. Then, the sender had sent hope. A star to guide the lost. But this rain, the omen that was being sent didnt’ rest well in his heart. The goal at the moment was getting hot coffee, a dry place to sit, and to have that first cig. Hopefully, a dry place would make his day. “Come on legs, wake up a little more,” he thought.
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a.g. synclair, anthony arnott, chris talbot-heindl. On Landing a Windfall
By: A.g. Synclair
the last check arrived larger than expected must be a mistake I thought the men who count the beans will call and make me send it back it was stuffed into another envelope folded, sealed addressed to c/o without any sign of love like the women who flock like birds all smiles and words but I’m too smart for them too smart to fall for the attention all legs and teeth and bone and the days become darker because of it the world looks awful from down here but later she’ll call we’ll open a bottle and the night will beat softly.
Day of Love
By: Anthony Arnott Like before, the story follows the jest. A sudden blast of happiness, replaced by pure anger. A jumble of paranoid panic snuffs out a heart that’s beating too much.
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Monsters, 7/13/13 Chris Talbot-Heindl Sumi ink and gouache on paper www.talbot-heindl.com
cindy small. SENSIBLESHOESDOMINATRIX. COM By: Cindy Small
Queensie, resident manager of The Ruby Red Slipper Retirement home in New Orleans, hired live-in housekeepers on a continuous basis and the first one answering the classified ad normally got the job. The only criteria were that the person was breathing and not blind and could tolerate a houseful of bitching geriatric drag queens. It was never policy to check criminal and driving records; what counted was the ability to gossip and criticize with the residents. Queensie’s method of orientation for the job consisted of giving the maid a tour of the rooms in the house and then quickly driving away. Trial run? Forget it. The dysfunctional comings and goings of the resident drag queens would normally cause all future maids to flee within the first 24 hours. Except for Earline (birth name: Emile “Jazzy” Castiglione), the busty seventy-five-year-old drag queen who lived a secret life in the basement while all residents slept. Earline never mentioned upon employment that she had been a closet dominatrix drag queen for the past twenty-five-plus years. She wore sensible shiny white sneakers in the day, hated to cook, and was repulsed by a kitchen of any nature. It became apparent to Queensie when he dined alone one afternoon in his room and realized he had maggots with meatloaf on his plate. Noticing the wild little wiggly creatures upon opening the lid on his Styrofoam plate, he ran to the kitchen and on the countertop was a garlic seasoning bottle that had been slightly expired by just about three years. Those little critters were in paradise at four hundred degrees. During the Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays that she worked, Earline shared Queensie’s pink chenillecovered twin-bedroom set. He snored at about sixtynine decibels while Queensie (who couldn’t sleep worth a crap) conducted scientific experiments by placing Kleenex on Earline’s face in hopes it would soar into the air like clouds. His disk-shaped face morphed into a canvas as Queensie took multi-colored highlighters and produced extraordinary face paintings. He submerged brushes into toxic face paints and tinted Earline’s cheeks and forehead with images of a Wheel of Fortune, a KitKat Clock and even a Medusa, just for starters. Earline became his RuPaul diva work of art when insomnia hit.
Earline happened to be a whip-wielding “domme” by night, only no one knew about it. Her private secret domain was the basement in the Ruby Red Slipper Retirement home. No one ever visited that area and as Queensie used to say, “Stay outta dere, it’s stanky!” During his six years of employment, Earline had his private torture chamber erected in the underground dirt basement adorned with riding crops, whips and chains all decorating the walls. Earline was a short, heavy-set matronly man with a fluffy cloud-like head of white hair. He had round protruding apple cheeks and eyeglasses perched upon a rotund nose, always looking above the eyeglasses with piercing blue eyes. His snow-white Keds along with a clean, starched white nurse’s uniform was his daytime attire, and, of course, white gloves for preserving those damn press-on nails. Fat, lumpy arms covered with liver spots were attached to his roly-poly torso resulting in the perfect vision of a housekeeper for drag queens. During the mornings, Earline smelled of Vicks VaporRub and was always high after sniffing Queensie’s jar of Noxzema. But at night, when everyone was sleeping, the air permeated shyly through the ductwork smelling of Evening in Paris. Daytime housekeeping chores bored Earline as he preferred not to exert much energy in cleaning, instead, spritzing the room with air-freshener. It was so much easier that way. Feeling the washing machine never got clothes clean, his preference was simply never to turn it on. He didn’t quite get the hang of bed making, knowing the old queens would do it themselves. Toilet needed scrubbing? Dream on. Lots of garbage build-up? Why not store it in the freezer. That was all Earline’s philosophy. Queensie had a habit of slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the dining room table so Earline could “make” groceries for the residents. She would head to the Piggly Wiggly in her Nineteen Sixty-Seven blue convertible Mustang with sounds like the car was having an abortion. Regarding the grocery shopping, Earline always acted like he won the lottery. Up in the air and into the basket flew sugarcoated doughnuts, potato chips and onion dip, red cola for the residents, and Jack Daniels for Earline. Earline’s diet consisted of Jack Daniels, beer, martini olives, roasted peanuts and Cheetos. Considering his daily diet of whipped-cream éclairs for breakfast washed down by a variety of carbonated sodas and 15
cindy small (con’t). then whatever high-sodium food group was available in a can, it was amazing he had the strength to have an additional life as a dominatrix. Queensie held many dinner parties for his old drag queens, wanting them to taste the slice of life they had in the past. Earline had no problem walking over passed-out bodies limply arranged on the floor following the parties, kind of like a murder scene, only without the blood. On occasion, Earline was called upon by Queensie to connect the snaps on his full-length girdle before an event. Earline held back a colossal laugh to the point of choking while he mustered up Olympian strength snapping at the bottom of the girdle while working his pudgy fingers to the top. When the highest layer of skin came cascading down over the restraint, interrupting circulation of bodily water and nutrients, Queensie yelled “Push it up, push, push! My ass must look incredible and not like a damn buffet table!” Once the snaps were aligned, Earline sat on the edge of the bed totally fascinated. He had no idea whalebones had such gargantuan force since his collection of bustiers certainly didn’t have that potency. Earline fantasized about recycling Queensie’s old girdles into his dominatrix collection. The exterior of the Ruby Red Slipper Retirement Home was made of stucco, while the mud-caked basement floor remained unknown to anyone except Queensie. That subterranean vault always felt ghoulish to Queensie, thus he never even considered it part of the home. One day while on his small office computer, he was on Google trying to locate a dominatrix drag queen to entertain at one of his parties. Instantly, he recognized his exterior bird’s-nest blue basement door surrounded by fat, round boxwoods that he had had planted many summers ago. As he scrolled down, he noticed his old chipped cement gargoyle parked near the door and the woodpecker doorknocker his grandmother brought back from Germany. It was his house, for God’s sakes!!! Hunched over the computer, he grabbed the mouse and clicked on the blue door. A full view of Earline’s face filled the screen, all smiling and smeared with red lipstick, blue eye shadow and a vixen twinkle in his eye. Underneath Earline’s face was Gothic-type lettering: “NO PAIN – NO GAIN.” Queensie was in shock! His hand quivered on the mouse. In the margins to the right were small letters in a column that read “Role play,” “Bondage,” “Corporal Punishment,” “Foot Worship,” “Cross Dressing” and “Fees between 16
$100 and $200.” The margins to the left on the web page were decorated with thumbnail photos of crops and corsets, nosebleed stilettos, leather, latex, and lamb cuffs. Queensie couldn’t stop clicking the mouse. There was Earline again, standing up in leather crop pants and bustier wielding a whip in his hand and pointing toward a chalkboard. He shared step-by-step e-instructions on setting the mood, decorating a room, picking a proper outfit, buying the best bonds, and how to tie the exact knot. This was Queensie’s housekeeper, Earline! His maid all gussied up with fishnets, a bustier, teased white hair and a fiendish smile. Inside the Ruby Red Retirement Home. Inside the basement. During Queensie’s tumultuous years of co-habiting with Earline, he experienced a fainting spell in the middle of an afternoon. He thought maybe it was the killer weed he purchased in the projects a few weeks ago. His world went spinning and into darkness. Time passed. He heard voices above his head and then realized he was in a reclining position in a hospital room with bright lights. “We should do an MRI immediately,” said the doctor nearby the bed. That scared the hell out of Queensie, thinking he was in trouble. Darkness again. Time passed. Earline stood before the hospital bed with her sensible snow-white Keds and a Coke in her hand. “Drink it slow. You’ll be fine. We’re going home in a few days.” The MRI came back normal and Queensie simply had a case of low potassium levels. At this moment, he realized maggots in meatloaf and whips and chains weren’t all that bad nor was that crypt in his basement. His live-in housekeeper was with him at the hospital and it was incredibly comforting. With or without her whip and bottle of Jack Daniels.
andy l. kubai. Remember Those Flames on the Western Horizon By: Andy L. Kubai
Words fail when birds collide into Plexiglas billboards advertising forgotten slogans of post-apocalyptic films, their broken bodies a cemetery on the sidewalk outside the 70s diner where we sit, embraced by Naugahyde and lacquered tables, wishing for another dollar to tip the archetypal wait staff who placate our need for bland pleasantries after another quiet night spent enjoying each other’s company, satisfied knowing that each next word on our lips is I love you, knowing that every new wound will be healed by our saliva and every touch will tingle like electrons bouncing around inside a thunderstorm, lightning shredding black construction paper clouds, two jagged hands reaching across the night sky, two lonely creatures merging into one. And when skies grow calm on the western horizon, and the streetlight’s halogen buzz fills the dusk with a profusion of confused moths circling, searching blindly for candy hearts among the debris left behind by the storm, we stroll down the slick streets, stepping into new countries as we walk through each puddle marveling to ourselves as the birds step around their fallen companions outside the diner to feast on drowned worms as the clouds suck marrow from the moon, as the storms of the past nourish a future full of humidity and sun.
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clyde borg, anthony ward, kenneth abraham. Weddings
Bar Code
Alcohol and its inevitable consequences are clearly evident as people dance and sham dance. Ebullient young men shed their formal jackets and ties while women discard their shoes as the entire gathering becomes ablaze within a cacophony of sweating conviviality. It’s all a part of a wedding celebration that is far removed from the solemnity of a church ritual or a lackluster civil ceremony.
Does my genetic barcode keep me immured behind bars? Am I a psychopath in the right environment? Am I law unto myself? Does my interior make-up give me an unsavoury complexion? Turning people away as I vanish with vanity? Unable to relate to others due to lack of oxytocin, My serotonin quenched by excessive dopamine, Overwhelmed with neurons Delivering thoughts determined by hormones, My behaviour biological diagnosed from birth, That I cannot help myself, The toxoplasma driving me out of my mindAn accident waiting to happen?
By: Clyde Borg
Several rituals are performed at various stages of the party. The removal of the bride’s garter by the groom and the tossing of it invariably turn into a rugged contest among the most loutish inebriates, while the flinging of the bride’s bouquet can also develop into a female rendition of the garter fiasco. The cutting of the wedding cake while only involving the wedding couple can become rowdy as each of them attempts to shove cake down each other’s throats. Presently a new dimension has been added to the customs and activities cited above. The location of the wedding and its celebration has now been extended to include interesting locales and/or faraway places. There is a proclivity to have the wedding ceremony on a sandy beach with the waves hopefully coming in calmly to complement the serenity of the occasion. The beach might be located in some faraway place like Mexico or perhaps on some Caribbean island. Older people would certainly be at a distinct disadvantage in attending the blessed event. All of the above happenings culminate with the couple honeymooning in some expensive establishment to consummate their union. However, the event is really somewhat anticlimactic since they have usually engaged in conjugal activities well before the marriage ceremony, and it is especially unfortunate that all of the aforementioned activities embarked upon frequently end in divorce proceedings.
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By: Anthony Ward
19 Prescott Firefighters By: Kenneth Abraham
Nineteen Prescott firefighters died in a blaze of glory, Had they not perished, we probably would not know their story, For we assume they will simply do their jobs, and be unharmed, But nature’s fickle flames of fate have now left many alarmed, Travis, Sean, Billy, Scott, Dustin, Andrew; all will be dearly missed, As will Clayton, Grant, Joe, Garret, Anthony, “Turby” and Chris, We pray for, John, Jesse, Robert, Eric and Wade, Their friends and families all, what a terrible price they paid, Each one a dedicated, vibrant “service provider”, nay, HERO, just like their colleague Kevin, May they rest in peace, be remembered, and forever frolic in Heaven.
wayne burke. Sunday
By: Wayne Burke Sunday morning walking down O’Connell Street in Dublin a man beside me his face red pork pie hat on he vomits into the gutter as church-goers in their Sunday best, ties and suits and gingham dresses, all the shops closed the Liffey River flows, but barely, like a mud puddle, one that Joyce made such a song and dance about-dirty kids on the bridge say mister mister give us pence! Upheld hands like pigeons, ragged clothes I throw some crumbs and they scramble, run—
a swan spreads its wings over the river and I fly too though feeling disreputable in my jeans, lumberjack shirt and with my hangover: I walk the back streets and am followed by two mean-looking sons of Erin I lose in an alley sweating into my shirt until I come back out onto O’Connell and the wee freckle-faced red-haired folk parade in their suits on the Irish day of partial sanity.
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andrew peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE, donors, index. artists Abraham, Ken
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