Restless: Issue 3 by David Crummey

Restless

Issue Three â&#x20AC;&#x201D; February 2011

An Arts Anthology passion. writing. art. inspiration. reviews. east valley.

RESTLESS: An Arts Anthology info@restlessanthology.com — Fan us on Facebook!

www.RestlessAnthology.com RESTLESS is purely a work of love . If you liked this issue and would like to see it continue, please consider contributing, purchasing advertising space or making a donation. If you’re done with this issue, pass it along or leave it on a park bench or in a coffee shop somewhere—anywhere awesome people can be found. Maybe even a rest stop bathroom. Awesome people have functions too. Fonts Used by RESTLESS:

Titles Sloppy Ink by Mortal Turtle Foundry Text Thyromanes by Herman Miller

Cover: blow your time - David Wiersch

RESTLESS: An Arts Anthology RESTLESS is an arts anthology with the expressed goal of expanding and connecting the Arts community in and around the East Valley. The anthology encourages submissions of exceptional new material from the East Valley. Original artwork, fiction, experimental fiction, non-fiction, reviews of artsy-doings, events, comics, well-written opinion, and other creative works that translate well to the printed form are welcome. Submissions can be sent to submissions@restlessanthology.com.

www.RestlessAnthology.com RESTLESS: Issue Three was produced by: Her Majesty the Pirate Queen, Amber Brosovich, Duchess of Pretty Things Lord Admiral David Crummey, Vizier of Asking Awkward Questions Special Agent Owen Stupka, Assistant to the Assistant Devil’s Advocate

In This Issue: The Goods Bon Anniversaire! The Restless Team Jumping Off A Cliff (I Quit) Sonia Singh Untitled Kathy Mohr-Almedia, Ph.D. NaNoWrimo 2010 Mandy McClanahan

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Shaman (Shame on) Me Velma Craig

How I Turned to EVal. Matt Mesnard

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Always Ourselves We Amber Brosovich Find In The Sea

Waiting Judy Wood

Official Business Index of Images

Contributors

Micro Fiction Contest

Request For Submissions

Individual works remain the sole-property of the author and are used by permission. This issue is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution / Share Alike License. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

Bon Anniversaire! A long time ago, people decided that the gifts a new couple should receive on their wedding anniversary should have a cohesive themes. There are lists compiled to help instruct potential gift-buyers in these themes so as to avoid the faux paux of showing up with a fantastic bronze gift when everyone else has luxurious copper or something. This begets the important questions: who were these ‘people?’ and why was it so important that all the gifts matched? The answers, obviously, are probably lost in the distant mists of time, and probably really boring. Regardless, the traditional gift for a couple on their first wedding anniversary is a paper item. While this is terribly appropriate for a publication closing it’s first year in circulation, it does strike us here at the Restless Team as being kind of a rip off. How much paper are these newlyweds going through? Outside of stationary, toilet, and tissue, what options are there? Happy anniversary, here’s 500 boxes of Kleenex brand tissues! However, we have fashioned for you a sort of a paper gift, in the form of a new issue. We hope you enjoy celebrating with us. The last year has been a crazy roller coaster ride of awesomeness. While we are legally prevented from guaranteeing that this year is going to be “better” or “more exciting,” we can assure all of you that it will certainly be “different.” Thanks again to everyone who has contributed, cheered, or encouraged us along the way. We hope to be going just as strong for next year’s anniversary, which is, less appropriately, cotton. Maybe we’ll package the issue with some underwear? At least the second year isn’t SPAM. because frankly we’re not equipped for the processing or distribution on that. Cheers! In closing, Amber has written a poem to celebrate this fantastic occasion: Too sick To write anything decent Just pretend this is Witty And Charming Lots –O- Love, The Restless Team

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Jumping Off A Cliff (I QUIT!) By Sonia Singh

came home from work, put my keys down, and promptly poured myself a glass of wine. The job didn’t pan out the way I thought it would, and though I wasn’t working in my field I’d managed to stick it out for over a year and was rolling along nicely. But that afternoon, everything changed. Taking notes in a board meeting about our nonprofit’s new project, I discovered what my role in the venture would be: “… and Sonia will be answering phones.” I paid for college by answering phones –after a couple director-level positions elsewhere, I refused to go back to it. Quitting your job is a very scary prospect. But at that moment, it felt like my only option. My wine was soured each time my head replayed “and Sonia will be answering phones.” I had money saved up and a business idea I’d been sitting on. I would do whatever work I had to for my own company but I would not be anyone’s receptionist. (That was my very first job back in high school. Oh God, I can’t go back that far.) “And Sonia will be answering phones.” Oh no, she won’t! It was the push I’d been needing. That business idea was a viable one, but I would never get around to 1 it as long as I was pouring my

energy into another job and had the safety of a paycheck. I wrote my resignation letter, made an appointment with my CEO, and told her I was putting in my two weeks’ notice. She was shocked and I could see the wheels turning in her head as she realized her only on-staff fundraiser was walking away. I, on the other hand, could not stop smiling. I had no idea how good it would feel to say I was leaving to become my own boss. So powerful, so liberating – a little like I imagine jumping off a cliff feels like. Simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. The business idea had come to me a couple months earlier, when I found my 6-month-old puppy was too big for the extra large Halloween costumes at the major pet stores. There wasn’t much big enough for her online either. I decided to fix the shortage of large dog products. I bought the domain PawPosse.com dreamed up with help from a dictionary for alliteration and GoDaddy’s “is it available?” domain checker – and waited out my two weeks. The evening of my last day, I walked out of the office for the last time and went to a friend’s birthday celebration. As it turns out, his roommate is a kick-butt web developer who could provide everything I wanted. Perfect!

I hired a graphic designer, got working with my web developer and found a supplier. A few months, a few hurdles, and many late nights later, PawPosse.com went live. That night, my fiancé and I emailed everyone we knew to announce the launch. The next morning, I woke up and checked my BlackBerry. We’d made a sale! Money was deposited into my account while I slept! Sleep money… I liked that. Fast-forward to today. Next month will mark one year since the site went live. And while it hasn’t

always been easy and there were plenty of days I woke up without sleep money, it’s been an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything. I can’t imagine going back to work for someone else. I once got to judge a cutest puppy contest and called it work – seriously? This is my work? I love it. Yes, it’s long hours. Yes, it’s stressful and it’s scary. And yes, I wonder if I’ll need new glasses more and more often as the time I spend on my laptop nears the 24/7 mark. But jumping off that cliff has been the best thing I’ve ever done.

Untitled By Kathy MohrMohr-Almedia, Ph.D. Darkness yields to dawn daylight lingers, blooms into night

You blush so prettily from your face to your toes

sometimes tempestuously

at the moment of your breaking

perhaps reluctantly

Te quiero, te amo, te adoro

ever greedy

a drenching liquid symphony

Entwined luminosity

the unpublished words between them

impossible to discern who is who

Open

in the ethereal embrace

and drink deeply moist, dank Earth

The coupling inevitable predictable, even

en un intercambio del amor profundo

yet no single event less spectacular

a cycle so perfect

than any previous

so complete surrendering into Eternity

NaNoWrimo 2010 By Mandy McClanahan

am not a writer. Stories don’t bubble and flow from my mind. I’m not inspired by things and people to drift off into a world filled with what ifs. That’s just not who I am. But once a year I open a blank document and do my best to create my own world. National Novel Writing Month rolls around every November and writers around the world do their best to write a novel (50,000 words or more) in one month. This is especially frustrating for people like me. I am a reader. I proclaim it loud. I insert myself and my imagination into other people’s stories, not create my own. However, I am surrounded by writers. My husband writes and publishes novels like water. Several of my friends are involved in year round writing projects and have pages and pages of ideas floating around their homes. That is not me, but once a year I let it become me. I have participated in NaNoWriMo twice in the last three years. The first time was exciting in that I’m-trying-something-new sort of way. The result of that experience was a mixture of fun and disappointment. I succeeded at the challenge. I wrote 50,000 words. Sadly, those words will never see the light of day as they were a horrid conglomeration of ideas from books I had read in the

month before. It was not a flattering imitation. This year I tried again. I decided to try again but as the start date approached I was without the slightest hint of an idea. There can’t be a novel if you don’t have something…a character, a line…something. Under pressure I attended an official NaNo idea generating meet up. Among chatter with friends old and new I ripped pictures from magazines and created a collage. The result surprised me. Not only did the images go together extremely well, but they seemed to tell a story I

was interested in. This was the starting point of my novel. Once I started writing the story seemed to come from somewhere unknown. I had to continually check my collage to make sure I was adding the things that had brought me inspiration.

I completed my 50,000 words just a few days before the end of the month. To my surprise, my novel isn’t finished yet. The characters haven’t had their biggest adventures yet. They aren’t out of trouble and I’m not done writing.

Only a few days into the month I realized that my story wasn’t what I thought it was. I was telling a completely different story than I had first thought I would. This must be what those writer’s talk about; ideas springing up out of nowhere.

I’m not about to give up reading, but I’m going to milk this writing thing for all it is worth. It gives my mind a chance to churn in a new way. I’ll be participating in next year’s challenge and if I have to create another collage before I have any viable ideas, so be it. That’s not going to stop me.

I wrote nearly every day in November. Success!

Shaman (Shame on) Me By Velma Craig She wants to tally the inside cover of her Testament. Old or New, whichever one the tallies go into, god of Wrath or god of Love. Hey, this might sound a little weird. It isn't weird that your church is having an event. A bit weird that you wanted to invite me seeing as how I didn't start judging you until after the third time. It must've made you angry, the tallies stayed at zero. I take that back. Your soul counts, I suppose. Rebirth, unlike birth or prebirth,

rebirthing myself. / It'd be blood red. / Signifying denial of flesh. / Acceptance of suffering for my downfall. // I might even scratch it in more than once. Just in case I slipped a little, and had to be re- rebirthed. So, it must've made her angry that I led her on.

is voluntary.

Sounds good, but not right now.

If it were me, I'd certainly take credit for saving, submitting,

Thanks, but I'm not interested. means convert me in three days.

Ballpoint, anxious,

You've asked me already. blink.

pressed to paper. More prayer necessary.

Purely Whites,

Ink, thirsty, weeps. Bleeds

smiles put away.

half tally onto parchment, skin of lamb.

Saved strictly for the salvageable.

How I Turned to EVal. By Matt Mesnard

or most, the writing marathon known as NaNoWriMo [aka Nano, aka Wrimo] starts as a lark or a goal wrapped in a mixture of fun, excitement, and good ol' whimsy. These feelings can evolve into frustration, determination, euphoria, or even the dreaded creative roadblock. Ending this endeavor can result in a sense of accomplishment, failure, or even loathing oneself as the creator of a story which started with the best of intentions. All of this, mind you, takes place during the month of November for thousands. The presumption is most writing is a single person alone in a room. In the mad thirty day dash of Nano, it's much easier to get by with a little figurative help from some friends. This is spoken from experience. When I finally got around to attempting a Wrimo, it was is 2005. I did it like I thought it was supposed to be: head down; all alone; updating my word count nightly. This was a personal challenge I insisted to make good on. Through the striving and the loneliness of my first attempt at writing a novel, it practically ended at the buzzer - verifying my word count in the last couple minutes of NaNoWriMo. The most interactive it got that year was the salesperson at Borders helping me find the second to

last copy of No Plot? No Problem! as my only preparation for writing my aforementioned novel. I participated the following year; little to no preparation, and I won yet again (winning in Nano is very similar to a marathon...one either crosses the 50,000 word finish line or not) on the last day possible; though I was finished a few hours earlier than before. Once again, I went it alone and participated very little in regard to the site. I did skim my home region's forum a couple times, which was Phoenix. I wasn't living in Phoenix, but it was the closest â&#x20AC;&#x153;homeâ&#x20AC;? I could find at nanowrimo.org so I went with it. Rock bottom in the company of Nano was the year of 2007. Maybe I could say I failed since there was a lack of preparation just as before. Maybe I could say it was because I started while out of state and using a computer which wasn't mine. Actually, I place all blame upon myself. I started at the crack of midnight where I was at the time, and I wrote a bit over two thousand words; coming via extraordinarily difficult means. Once again I was alone- and felt pretty much a failure even though I was ahead of my word count before I went to bed early

into November first. Morning came, and I looked at my work. It was absolutely dreadful â&#x20AC;&#x201C; in details I won't care to pay more words towards. Certainly I've written some dread in the past...but this opening chapter took the idiom-prone cake. I was upset with myself, and so I tossed the towel in for the first and only time during NaNoWriMo â&#x20AC;&#x201C; all before the day changed. Grand opening, grand closing. That November and the next year slid by, and then I started the big October dread. Another dose of Nano was on its way and I was coming off a resounding, albeit self-imposed, defeat. This was the point where my Wrimo and writing took a distinct turn. In addition to the previous Arizona regions, I had a new option: East Valley. I was from Mesa, and I figured this was more fitting. I made a decision to attend a regional kickoff, and it was one of the best decisions I made. For the first time I realized NaNoWriMo was one part writing and a built-in community aspect rather than the 'lonely writer' stereotype. Who else better to have as your cheering section than a group of people just as insane as yourself- trying to also write a novel in one month? No naysayers or questioning; just people who are collectively work-

ing towards the same race of quantity as everyone else in the room. I attended the weekly write-ins and participated in some word wars; where people healthily compete to get the most quantity written in a timed attempt. My words came much easier that year; winning at least a week earlier than previously, and sharing the feeling of accomplishment with the rest of the wrimos (or consoling those who didn't cross the finish line) at the TGIO [Thank Goodness It's Over] party capping off the grueling November event. Needless to say, it was one of the best times I ever had writing. Everyone enjoyed this newly-established region, and we told each other we'd meet up again and not let the moment end. Why wait until next Nano to get together? The vow was made with the best intentions...but looking back, it was as poorly executed as a promise not to forget each other after summer camp - or be friends forever after graduating high school: meant from the but lackluster in execution. Despite the lack of activity in our region, the NaNoWriMo East Valley region returned with a friendly vengeance. Wrimos from the previous year reconnected, and new-to-Nano friendships also formed. Numbers increased, and I enjoyed myself much more due to the fact I felt a bit more

veteran since it was my second year being part of the region. November passed and it was another fantastic experience. I met my word count quite easily, and much of

the fun was hearing other people's stories as well as just having other writers around to help assure each other nobody is as crazy as so many non-wrimos who naysay the general principle.

2009 was also the year the region did more than just say 'let's all stay friends' like before. The region became an amalgam of support group, cheering section, and a safe haven for writers. A name emerged; condensing the East Valley name to become the EVal Wrimos. Eleven months out of the year the East Valley Nano region is taken over by us “EVal Doers” as I like to refer to us as a whole; since the idea is to actually write beyond the scope of NaNoWriMo. There is a lot I have to be grateful about due to joining our region. Lots of friendly and non-judgmental people who I am happy to call friends and allies; an encouraging brochure to assist in the Nano endeavor; and even an autographed copy of Rogue Squadron. It's also the reason I learned about Restless Anthology – which enabled me to let my writing style blossom into...whatever it is now. The East Valley region is always open to new writers and prides itself on being inclusive and welcoming; rather than the clique-infested, egodriven writing groups which sadly inhabit all too many corners of society.

Many members seem tightly-knit or friendly towards each other, but don't be afraid to approach anyone. The circle is not closed off by any means. EVal can still be found where it started – via nanowrimo.org – as

well as various social media, and even a chatroom people pop into many weeknights. For those who crave the tangible, members can be found Wednesday evenings at Inside the Bungalow, Mesa's Bookmans one Friday a month, as well as the main meetup one Saturday a month. Aside from talking about writing and waiting for November to roll around again, EVal strives to stay proactive. Not only is there a plotting/planning session each year before the Nano kickoff, but there are various events to strengthen as a writer; and even talks of hosting a similar version of NaNo for those who have trouble staying productive in November, missed the boat in 2010, or those who just can't wait for another marathon writing month. To anyone curious about learning more, don't hesitate to send an email to evalwrimos@yahoo.com or feel free to look me up. Even if not in the East Valley, there are NaNoWriMo regions spanning the world; all of them have positive vibes and encouragement to help people through. The only way to know is to find out for yourself... Here's to wrimos in 2011 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; EVal or otherwise!

East Valley Reading Series Sunday, February 13 - 1~3pm Kiva Courtyard 5th Avenue Downtown Scottsdale, Arizona Kiva Courtyard and The Angel Store and More presents Award winning poet

Merle Nudelman Local poets

Melanie McCuin Brigid Maloney David Wood Judy Wood

Saturday, March 12 - 12~1pm The Elvis Chapel at the Superstition Mountain Museum, Apache Junction East Valley Reading Series Presents Poet and Playwright

Marco A. Dominguez Along with local poets

Sunday, April 10 - 1~3pm Kiva Courtyard 5th Avenue Downtown Scottsdale, Arizona Kiva Courtyard and The Angel Store and More presents Local Poet and Poetry Teacher

Josh Rathkamp Along with local poets Find us on Facebook: East Valley Reading Series Poetry books available for purchase

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Always Ourselves We Find In The Sea For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always ourselves we find in the seaâ&#x20AC;Ś

-ee cummings

t starts with a birth. It's an average everyday run-of-the -mill birth; the stereotypical screaming mother, clutching at hands and rails, anything to keep her tied down from the pain. The scurrying hospital staff with stoic faces hiding the boredom and routine. The pacing father, the anxious grandparents-to-be. But for Eva, her birth is the beginning of more than just what will become an average everyday run of the mill life. From the moment she leaves her mother's womb and enters the birthing tank, it is the start of a love affair; an on-again-off-again relationship with the most unmanageable and inescapable of lovers. -----As far as infants go, Eva is the kind that every parent has nightmares of. Her father rocks her back and forth for hours, sings lullabies to her in a deep husky baritone, but she wails on. Her mother rubs her back in figure eights for hours, making up stories of princes and damsels and dragons, but she wails on. When she sleeps, it is from the sheer ex-

By Amber Brosovich haustion from screaming so long, and the reprieve never lasts long. It takes seventeen long days of her parents swaddling her as tight as they can manage, reading every single parenting book they can get their hands on, and massaging every inch of her before her umbilical cord drops off and they can draw her first bath, easing her cautiously into the water, eyes clenched shut. They handle her as though handling a ticking bomb. The wailing ceases immediately. They soon learn that she can be comforted only by slipping her into the bath or rocking her next to an open window when the rains come, the rhythm of the drops against the glass turning into the most soothing of lullabies. Her mother sits in the bathtub with her until the water goes cold and her fingers look like raisins. Her father dances with her in the warm summer rains. Her first word sounds a lot like wah-wah. They mostly learn to manage life with one another. ----When she starts school, she is neither liked nor loathed by her peers; they would never be able to put a name to the feeling they get upon

looking at her but instinctively know, even then, that she is not quite the same. She presents a vague neutrality to them; no one they want in particular to invite to tea parties or sleep overs or pick for basketball, but no one they necessarily want to go out of their way to destroy in that naive way that only children can. She moves through their world in snippets; they see her from the corners of their eyes for a moment before turning away. -----When she is seven, Flipper, the class pet, turns suicidal and maneuvers himself out of his tank s she opens the lid to feed him. The girls run screaming; the boys try their best to push one another out of the way to get a glimpse, but Ev just stands there, watching Flipper flop back and forth against the grainy black and white linoleum. She knows that feeling. She recognizes that feeling as a struggle she has always felt in the bottom of her belly, a feeling that makes her long for hot summers days spent entirely in the pool, of cold winter snow up to her knees, of a bathtub full of spar-

kling bubbles. Her teacher struggles to make her way through the pack of boys to save the fish; Eva walks away. -----Her grandmother has soft hands and a perpetual smile, and Eva spends hours with her, sitting on the slippery plastic covers on the couches, leafing through album after album of photographs of her mother. Her mother in a polka dot raincoat and a big red umbrella. Her mother life-guarding at the local pool. Her mother at Halloween, dressed as a mermaid year after year. Her favorite, the one she has framed on her bedside table, is her mother with her arms outstretched, braids trailing behind her, running down a dock toward the bluest of blue lakes. Her father always laughs when he sees that picture. He tells her that she and her mother are something like kindred spirits, split souls. Her grandmother tells her she has her mother's eyes. Eva cannot help but look at her mother like she is looking into a mirror. She often times feels as though she ought to be grateful for the

fact that she comes by her obsessions honestly. Who doesn't want some sort of scaffolding beneath them, some explanation, some reason for the things within themselves that set them apart from others? -----When the time comes, she makes her school choice based on it's proximity to the ocean. Her parents give her an old beat-up mustang and she stuffs it the brim with her books and her dresses and her photographs. The drive to the coast is long, and there is no one on the other side to help her unpack, but she cannot help but feel as though something within her is unleashed the first time she slips off her shoes and feels the tiny grains of sand beneath her feet. Each one feels like it has its own story, it's own little journey that it has made to tell it's saga to her. Only her. She watches the people at the beaches washing the sand away, complaining when it gets in the folds of their skin, between their toes. She buries herself in it. When the tide comes in, she lets the waves remove the dress she's made herself of sand, and for a moment she knows the caress of a lover. She plans on majoring in Marine Biology, or maybe poetry. She spends hours immersed in books of poetry, reading whatever she can 15 get her hands on, lost in the way

the words flow through her mind. They remind her of the creek behind her grandmother's house, of the way her grandmother used to look out over it and tell her that water always finds a way. Her roommate avoids her; her classmates don't give her notes when she is sick. She feels an awful ache when she is away from the ocean. But she finds a way. -----The first time she goes through an automatic car wash, Eva pauses in the parking lot as the last beads of water fall off the sides of the mustang. She stares at the machine behind her through the rear view mirror, and she cannot help but look at it as though it contains some sort of magic within it. She is nineteen years old, and she feels as though she was just scrubbed inside and out, as though she were the object glistening in the sun, and not the car. Something about the music of it all; the brushes moving in tandem, like giant paintbrushes, the water raining down against the roof of the car. It's the calmest she has ever felt in her entire life; the ache in her belly disappears for a few blissful minutes. She immediately goes inside for a frequent washer's card. Nine more punches and she gets a free wash. As the month's fly by, she finds herself going through card after card, and that year, when her parents go on a cruise to bring in the New Year, she

finds herself with nowhere to go for the holidays. A loneliness sets in with each day that passes; the campus is nearly empty, and the people that are around only see her from the corners of their eyes. She has no one, and for the moment, she feels like no one. She spends the last day of the year at the beach; she builds herself a mermaid tail and the tide washes it away slowly. She still feels raw at the edges, like something is missing. The lull of the waves don't do anything to dull the ache.

mother not included. Her roommate is a new age hippie, always going on about water signs and energy and karma. Her classmates close their eyes and sway when she reads them her work. Sometimes they cry. Eva always feels awkward when someone is crying; her first instinct is to reach out and let the tiny droplet of water dissolve into her skin. Still, she wouldn't trade a single moment of this semi-acceptance for all the tears in the world. Her friends come with her to

She finds herself at the car wash, seeking solace, but the parking lot is abandoned; the attendant at some friend's house, drunk and hitting on his best friend's sister. She drives for an hour before she finds an automatic self-serve car wash. The poor soul working at the gas station gives her a funny look as she pulls her car around and idles, watching the clock, waiting. At 11:59, she guides the front tires of the mustang onto the tracks, and throws the car into neutral. At 12:01, she emerges- clean, shining and ready to face the year to come. -----At twenty, Eva feels as though she is starting to equalize. She is firmly majoring in poetry, and the friends she has made seem to understand her better than anyone has ever come close to understanding her, her

the beach. They help bury one another in the sand and take turns telling the stories of the grains of sand. They hold her hands as they stand waist deep in the water, facing the shore, letting the waves crash over them. She swallows too much salt water from laughing when her mouth ought to be closed. She slowly stops being the girl in the corner of every one's eye. With one day left before the end of the year, her parents call her to tell her that her grandmother is gone. She ignores her friends as they try to lure her into their cars and down to the beach. She showers until the water is cold, cries until she has no tears left in her to cry. The next night, as her friends kiss and sign Auld Lang Syne, she is sobbing as the Mustang is slowly propelled through the brushes, doused in water. The windows shake as it moves through the blowers, and when she pulls through on the other side, she doesn't shed another tear. She takes the next flight home. -----There is a boy. Eva stares at him through the gaps of her hair during class, watches the way he chews on his fingernails and admires the way he has with words, how each poem he writes feels like a river bursting over the edge to become a waterfall for the first time. He's a transfer student, and every 17 word-minded girl in the school is

noticing him. He has the loveliest hand's she has ever seen. She cannot help but stare at them, at the way he holds his pen, the way he curves his fingers over his palm to inspect the damage he's done to his cuticles. He is soon the friend of a friend of a friend, but she doesn't fool herself for even a moment into thinking she will ever work up the courage to talk to him. He doesn't sway when she reads her poems; he listens intently, his eyes closed, and then he deconstructs each piece; raining praises on the good and condemning the bad. -----It's another day at the beach; she has an umbrella and a stack of books and the desire to slip back into her old familiar mermaid skin. She sinks into the familiar words, the familiar phrases, resting her hands on her sandy tail. When her eyes start to ache, she looks up to find him staring at her from the water, floating on a surfboard. He waves, smiles even, and in her haste to wave back, she drops her book. It falls into the sand, and dozens of little grains hide in the spine, forever joining their stories with those of Neruda. She feels a blush coming on, feels it in her skin, and she stands too quickly, breaking apart her tail, and flees to the car. He smiles at her again in class the next day.

-----It goes on like this for months. She watches him whenever he is near, memorizes his movements, his quirks. She begins to smile back at him. Her friends tease her relentlessly. She starts seeking out new beaches, but sometimes, just sometimes, they are somehow at the same beach at the same time, and he is waving from the water. She watches him surf over the top of her book, admires the way he weaves through the water, wonders whether or not she would be able to even balance herself on the board. He reminds her of a dancer. Still, she never utters a word to him, and despite being in several classes together, she isn't quite sure of his name, too afraid of it to even ask a friend. -----At the end of the year, her friends are piled in a flurry of converses and skinny jeans and black vests in her doorway, standing in a semi-circle. They're all clutching candles and bottles of champagne, their hips bumping against one another as they jockey for position in the door frame. She's heard whispers of a rooftop New Years for a week, and had fully intended to be long gone before they had converged on her, but as usual, she had lost herself in her books and hadn't emerged until it was too late.

She sets her book down, carefully placing her bookmark between the pages, and turns to look at their smiling and pleading faces. They take longer than usual to blow off; they seem very adamant about her going with them, pushy even. Still, they give up eventually and leave her to her ritual. She packs up as midnight draws closer, settling into her car. She pumps her gas, purchases her car wash, and idles at the entrance, waving to the poor soul working at the gas station. At 11:59, she puts the car in neutral and leans back as the water washes over the car. At 12:01, she emerges, and she almost hits the person who is standing on the other side. She slams on her brakes the moment she sees the shape that is distinctively a him, and it takes her a moment to recover. Her breath is coming hard, and she unbuckles her seat belt, staring at him. His face is covered by his gloved hands holding up a sign that reads 'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.' As she clambers out and slams the door shut, he pulls the sign down, and smiles an all too familiar smile. She can feel her heart beating out of her chest as she nears him, and a nervous laughter escapes her throat. They stare at each other for a minute before he sets the sign down at his feet and removes his gloves. She watches as he frees his hands from the cloth; stares at his fingers for 18

a moment before looking back at his face. "I don't even know your name." He smiles and offers her his hand. "Gabriel." "How did you know where to find me? "Friend of a friend of a friend." -----They spend every free minute together. He introduces her to new poets, dances with her in the rain, and brings flowers to her grandmother's grave with her. She takes up drawing, filling sketchbook after sketchbook with waves crashing against the shore, her old school pet Flipper, and she and Gabriel as merpeople, kissing beneath the surface of the water. He teaches her to surf, and they take long baths together, surrounded by candles, talking and not talking until the water grows cold. They burn bright, far too bright, but there is something in the way that they touch that grounds her, keeps her from feeling that ache. They never fight; only disagree. And they disagree for hours, debating and analyzing every little subject. They are each others editors; critics. Everyone agrees that they are perfect together, that their work is improving. They spend New Years Eve 19 on the rooftop, arm's intertwined,

singing loudly. He is her first New Year's kiss. And her second. At twenty two, Eva stops going through the car wash all together. -----When he breaks her heart, her new age hippie roommate rubs her back, going on and on about water signs and fire signs and fate. She would kick her out if she had the capability of talking. Days pass and her friend's hover nearby, always there to worry, to be a shoulder to cry on. Eva doesn't need any shoulders. She spends hours at the beach again, looking for him, but he is never there. He's disappeared, transferred out of their classes, changed majors. Too good for each other, he had said. Too perfect. Maybe later, but not now. Graduation looms, and she feels with a fragile certainty that they will soon leave this place forever and will never come together again to disagree or dance in the rain or criticize each others poems. Still, she picks herself up a little bit at a time. Water always finds a way. She finds her way. She digs out her old frequent washer cards, gets to know the staff at the gas station again. She hears from a friend, who heard from a friend of a friend of his friend, that he is miserable without her, that he doesn't know how to rebuild the bridge he tore down with his bare hands. She tries not to go looking for wood for him

-----Deja vu washes over her as she sits at her desk reading. The end of the year has cycled up again, and her friends stand in a semi-circle in the doorway, champagne and candles in hand. It has been four months since Gabriel broke her, and she has never looked forward to her end of the year ritual more than she is looking forward to it tonight.

ishness and they will kiss and then perhaps go the beach, and she will make them both mermaid tails and they can make up stories about the grains of sand and it will all be like it was before. At 12:01, she emerges, but there is no one there. She parks the car, steps out, sign in hand. She looks around for a moment before stuffing the sign into the garbage, staring down at it as though it had betrayed her. Her own careful script stares back up at her as though she is a fool.

Her friends are easily dispensed of this time around, and she feels a nervousness buzzing inside her. It's a nervousness she doesn't want to allow herself, and yet....she cannot help but let herself think that if there were ever a time and a moment for him to show up, metaphorical hammer in hand.... The night is ripe for rebuilding.

She drives to the ocean, and she doesn't look back.

The poor soul working that night smiles at her as she buys poster board and a sharpie before pumping her gas. She carefully writes on the poster board as she idles in front of the car wash, waiting. The sharpie squeals as she moves it across the glossy poster board. At 11:59, she moves the Mustang onto the track, kicks it into neutral. She closes her eyes, listens to the rhythm of the brushes and the water. She listens to the sound of her own heartbeat. She imagines the moment to come; she will emerge and he will be there, sign in hand, and she will show him her sign and they will laugh at his fool-

It reads 'So I wait for you like a

lonely house, till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Waiting waiting with stone talons gripping his precarious perch the gargoyle observes the strange creatures below

By Judy Wood

Index of Images Owl love you forever - Jenny Fontana

iii

Barnaby - Jenny Fontana

Untitled - David Miller

Dance The Ghost With Me - Maynard Breese

Lollipop Death Cult- Jenny Fontana

Your Fortune Told - Jenny Fontana

Evil Queen - Jenny Fontana

Resuscitation Annie - Jenny Fontana

Untitled - Maynard Breese

Untitled Lithograph- David Miller

Untitled Lithograph - David Miller

blow your time = David Wiersch

Front Cover

Unexpected - El Vaquero Muerto

Back Cover

RESTLESS: Issue Three

aynard Breese

Maynard Breese is a Chandler based digital artist, with works showing throughout the Phoenix area, as well as Nevada & California. "I call my style realistic surrealism. I strive to create an immediate visceral response with my work. Creepy cool sexy is the feeling I am going for."

mber Brosovich

Amber Brosovich wears many hats, despite the fact that she looks terrible in them. If she isn’t arguing with her fellow RESTLESS founders, she can be found pretending to be a writer. She can be contacted via bat-signal in most metropolitan areas or at amber@restlessanthology.com if you are feeling feisty.

Vaquero E lMuerto

El Vaquero Muerto Leather Art is the rock n' roll brainchild of the artist El Vaquero Muerto. More work can be found at: www.elvaqueromuerto.com

J enny Fontana Jenny Fontana is inspired by all things dark, dreary and adorable. She was born in Phoenix, Arizona. In 2008 she received her BFA in painting from Arizona State University. She currently lives in Mesa with her beautiful family and many terrifying pets.

elma Kee Craig

Originally from Tonalea, Velma (Navajo) was raised in Fort Defiance, Arizona. She is the co-founder of BetterOnes Productions, which she runs with her husband. Velma is a graduate of Arizona State University with a BA in English Literature and a minor in American Indian studies. She enjoys writing poetry and screenplays. Velma is looking forward to finishing up her current project which is a short experimental animation titled, In This Manner I Am. She lives in Mesa with her family.

Mandy McClanahan Mandy intentionally did not submit a bio, thus tempting us. She reads books they way other people eat, sleep, or watch movies....voraciously, obsessively, and as often as possible. Mandy is available for consulting offers, business deals, reference requests and new ventures. This may just be our bias speaking, but she is pretty much the bee’s knee’s. She proclaims loudly on MySpace that “Wow, I’m never on here.” You and everyone else, Mandy. You and everyone else.

Matt Mesnard Chided for years by Chris Baty and National Public Radio, this Mesa writer broke away from his usual path of screenplays and movie production work to venture into the less structured and often uncivilized world of novels and short stories. Surviving as a writer of freelance: If you have a literary impasse, if nobody else will help; maybe you

Contributors and Victims can find Mesnard.

avid Miller

Originally from Omaha, NE, David moved to AZ initially for a sketchy arts college and later for an actual university. Photography moved from a hobby to a primary outlet of expression after viewing a museum show by Sebastio Salgado. Photography provided an avenue to travel the world, meet interesting people and gain a wife. In addition to photography, David teaches visual arts classes at Mesa Arts Center and for City of Chandler. He lives with his wife Vesna, 2 dogs, 1 cat, 1 bird, and 2 goblins posing as children, Patrick and Magdalena.

athy Mohr-Almedia,

Kathy Mohr-Almedia, Ph.D. earned undergraduate degrees in English and Journalism at Arizona State University, teaching credentials, a bilingual endorsement and a Master's degree at Prescott College, and a doctoral degree in Marriage and Family Transpersonal Psychology in Union Institute and University. Her current interests include traditional healing modalities, cultural anthropology, and quantum physics. Kathy has lived in the Valley for more than 2 decades. She shares her home with her beloved husband, John, her 8 year old daughter Anna Rose, two dogs, three cats and one guinea pig.

onia Singh

Sonia Singh is the founder of PawPosse.com, which specializes in large dog sup-

plies. Most of her writing is now focused on the big dog lifestyle, which thanks to that giant mutt, she’s very familiar with. She’s a native Arizonan and afraid of the cold.

J udy Wood Judy Wood is a mixed media artist and has recently discovered a new way to express herself through poetry. Her artwork can be seen on her blog http://creativeartsjwood.blogspot.com and at local shops and galleries including SunDust Gallery and Evermore Nevermore in Mesa, and The Angel Store in Scottsdale. Judy released her first chapbook in November, 2010. Two of her poems were recently published in The Gila River Review.

David Wiersch I used to think I didn’t get anything out of church as a kid But now I know that its where my need to be on stage developed From the choir that could barely sing To the child molester and his organ playing The man on the cross didn’t mean a thingwhen the beat rises and the melody swings I didn’t care what they where saying i only cared about the how and the what they where playing Music gave birth to my soul No devil, no angel Just rock and roll

150 Word Micro-Fiction Contest! Tell us your best story in 150 words (exactly)! All qualifying entries will be printed in an upcoming edition of RESTLESS. Each entry will be scored by popular vote (50%) and by our illustrious judgeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s panel (50%). Prizes for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place. Entries can be sent to

150words@restlessanthology.com. 25

Entries must be 150 words long. No shorter. No longer.

Coming Soon RESTLESS: Issue Four Request for Submissions RESTLESS, RESTLESS a new Arts Anthology, is calling all local writers and artists for submissions. RESTLESS is looking for all types of fiction and non-fiction written in experimental and traditional writing styles. RESTLESS is also accepting event suggestions, reviews, comics and visual-art that translates well into black and white print.

Guidelines for Submissions: Fiction / Creative NonNon-fiction / Experimental Fiction / MicroMicro-fiction No word limit, though generally under 6,000 words. Please attach as a DOC, DOCX, RTF, TXT, ODT or whatever. This really should go without saying, but it does need to be print ready– no spelling or grammar errors. And no rough drafts. Poetry RESTLESS publishes a small amount of poetry per issue. Again, no word limit, but generally under 3,000 words. Please send as an attachment. Local Restaurant Reviews - Alternatives to the Chain Review an awesome locally-owned restaurant with the view of giving us good alternatives to the standard chain restaurants. 50-400 words. Comics & Other Visual Art Must translate well into grayscale/black & white. Images must be of high enough quality for translation to print. Raster or Vector images acceptable. JPG, PNG, SVG or AI are acceptable formats. PNG or JPG are preferred. Unique Contributions Other contributions are considered as well. Stickers, Wood/linocut stamps, inserts of other kinds, etc. Please e-mail with a description / image of the proposed contribution for consideration. Recipes & Cooking Stories Unique, delicious recipes—stand-alone or with a story attached. Content: RESTLESS does not have specific content guidelines. In general, content should strive to be no more than a PG-13 or a soft-R. Explicit content is generally frowned upon, but is acceptable when appropriate within the story and handled maturely. We aim to include as many readers as possible, young and old. We are always accepting submissions of all types two--weeks before the launch date. of content. Deadlines for particular issues are generally two Submissions should be sent to submissions@restlessanthology.com. submissions@restlessanthology.com Please include the type of submission (fiction, non-fiction, review, event, etc...) in the subject line of the e-mail, as well as a short 50-150 word bio. If it’s not included, we’re making it up. Seriously. We will only respond to entries that are being used within Restless.

RESTLESS: An Arts Anthology i n f o @ r e s t l e s s a n t h o l o g y . c o m