Restless: An Arts Anthology - Issue Zero

Issue Zero — February 2010

Restless

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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: Thyromanes by Herman Miller Sloppy Ink by Mortal Turtle Foundry Fonts from Dafont.com All images found in this issue are under creative commons, and were taken from wikicommons, unless otherwise noted.

Cover: One Pass. Oil. David Wiersch

Restless: An Arts Anthology Set in Downtown Mesa, Restless is an arts anthology with the expressed goal of expanding and connecting the Arts community in and around Mesa. The anthology encourages submissions of exceptional new material from the world over, with a strong emphasis on those located near Downtown Mesa and in 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 restlessanthology@gmail.com.

Restless: Issue Zero 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

Table of Contents •

Hor D’oeuvres

•

A Special Kind of Double

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Hum Drum

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Restless

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Sympathetic Resonance

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Local Focus: Evermore Nevermore

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Like Preaching Religion To An Atheist

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Bacon Raincheck

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Don’t Judge A Book

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Fire Bug

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Fall

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And I Would Have Been The Shadow Of Your Shadow

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Deirdre Except for where otherwise noted, these works are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution / Share Alike License.

Hor D’oeuvres Bam! in the words of Lord Admiral Crummey.

Welcome to Issue Zero of Restless: An Arts Anthology.

This issue is, of course, issue zero because it's only the shape of things to come. Issue zero was really just an intellectual game of chicken which forced us to get off our duffs; we created for ourselves a ridiculously short deadline so that we could, once again, anger our ancestors and bring dishonor to our families.

We gathered the brightest minds we could get our hands on and berated them until they gave into our will and submitted. Sadly, we don't really have any friends left after this. The dog doesn't really like us either. There are a few new faces in the crowd, and we hope to keep them around for at least another issue before frightening them away.

After that, we'll be pulling people into alleyways and forcing them to write at spork-point.

We tried to sit down and write this together as a production team, but really, when a production team consists of two over-analytical, anal-retentive nerd boys and one tired, short-tempered, obsessive-minded bejeweled blitz wiz, achieving a consistent and logical introduction is like the quest for the mcguffin. You can follow the map, but it's not really going anywhere.

Really, this whole thing, like many other things, started as a tiny little idea that grew to proportions we never could have imagined. Thank you for joining us on our proverbial Mr. Toad's Wild Ride as we try to tilt against the windmill that is mixing metaphors.

Chicken and Waffles, Amber (With David and Owen complaining loudly in the background)

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A Special Kind of Double

By Sonia Singh “A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves - a special kind of double.�

- Toni Morrison

M

ore and more often, I've been having moments where it suddenly strikes me that I'm an adult.

Placing bets on who will be married or a mom first. Having a salaried job. Being able to refer to someone as an ex-fiancĂŠ.

(That makes me feel older than just about anything else.) This is when I start to realize what people meant when they said to really enjoy childhood/high school/college, whatever has passed them by.

But when you're in it, especially the younger stages I think, you never really appreciate it. Especially childhood . . .good lord. As a child, you can't fathom how good you have it; you just wait for that magical moment when life "starts."

Counting down to 13, when you can call yourself a teenager and not just a little kid. 16, when you can finally drive. 18, when you can move out and get that piercing you've been eyeing. One big milestone for me was going to high school. I hated being the oldest. I was excited to have someplace to go where my brother and sister weren't. By the time I was a senior and my brother was a freshman, though, that changed.

That's been one of my favorite parts about growing up, and oddly enough not one I ever remember hearing about. I love how my relationships with my brother and sister have changed in just the last

few years. We're actually friends now!

What a concept. I always loved them, but I'm not sure I ever knew you could love siblings for a reason other than "because I have to." It's not like we just get along and can deal with family dinners either.

My sister is one of my best friends; something happens during the day and I can't wait to get home and tell her about it. She'll go off and do something, and I can't wait for her to get home and tell me about it. Or I just can't wait for her to get home, period. Even when she's just spending a week at the other house, I miss her. She has such an amazing spirit; she's got such brains and beauty and wit and passion and a thousand other things going for her. I remember her waddling around a Tokyo hotel room in a diaper, yet here she is, all of a sudden an amazing young woman who's just so incredibly cool.

She knows a ton of indie music.

She's funny. She's funny drunk. She's thoughtful - she stayed up late the night before my birthday to leave me notes on the bathroom mirror. She lets me borrow any of her chic clothes - without asking!

She's brilliant - you never know if the next words out of her mouth will be English, Hindi, French, Japanese, Spanish or something of her own creation. She's completely random and sometimes nonsensical; other times, she's a rational sounding board who asks all the right questions about something ridiculous I'm planning to do. (Or did.)

I'm sitting at the keyboard, listening to a CD she let me copy and looking around the den. She's completely taken it

over with movies, clothes, shoes, toiletries, tons of other junk. For the last few days, the room has been such a mess that the dog has had to stop and plot her way from one corner of the room to the next, meandering over and around Pug's stuff.

(Actually, it's at the point where the dog only makes it halfway in before stopping to lay down.) But by tomorrow morning the mess will be gone, as will Pugsley.

She'll be home for Thanksgiving, and the weekend after that for Derek and Aundrea's wedding. And yes, I'll be going down to visit her. But it's just not the same as coming home to her beautiful smile and twinkling eyes every evening.

That's something nobody ever told me to enjoy when I was little.

This work is licensed under then Creative Commons License- Attribution/No-Derivative

She's leaving for Tucson tomorrow morning....

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Hum Drum

By Velma Craig I don't have hum drum poems of yellow-flowered wallpaper or opera whistling trains. Just hum drum stories of my grandmother spin spin spinning wool into yarn, tap tap tapping strands into hum drum stories of her own. I don't have hum drum stories of alcoholic uncles hitchhiking to the State Finals. I don't have hum drum prayers to Mother Earth and Father Sky. Only hum drum tales of yellow-dusted pools of hum drum lifeblood hum drum blood hum drum uranium-contaminated water. Oases, formed overnight, hum drum God-sent, tucked away so only hum drum Navajo sheep can drink hum drum Navajo crops can quench hum drum Navajo unborn can choke.

Hum drum stillborn hum drum still hum drum good little babies who never cry. I only have hum drum fiction of a Navajo auntie and her hum drum standoff against a hum drum Sithe Global tractor. Hum drum wars waged only on hum drum faith. An entire people armed only with hum drum certainty that people, even 24-room duplex Park Avenue people, are hum drum good hum drum love hum drum feel something other than hum drum money.

Sympathetic Resonance

By Garret Brennan Stewart When an impasse is reached, And the right choice is not made, The law of the Cosmos is sacrifice One can refute such a claim as ontological delusion But I have a feeling that we are each a melody, Placed in measures of varying time signatures, And tuned to a particular key We are each a word, Spoken in spite or adoration Separately, We ring out as a single note, Shimmering to forestall silence Together, We are as a chord pulsing, Declaring our presence thusly

As individuals, We are but a single letter (Oncemore) Shimmering to forestall silence Together, We are as a word Seeking to be placed along side other words, To form the perfect stanza, sentence, or slogan Not only to be read as one reads a formula, Or to be followed as one follows a recipe But to know, in your heart of hearts; That where you are is where you’re supposed to be And to know that your words, Set in motion by the brilliance of your voice Will lead you to where you are destined to be.

Local Focus: Evermore Nevermore

By David Crummey

W

alking down Main Street a few months ago, I happened upon a group of people setting up a new shop – and based on the things they were putting up in the window, a shop unlike any other in Mesa. That day I spoke briefly with proprietors Debbie and Bob about their plans for their little corner on Main Street. Every few weeks I would check in on their progress, impressed with their growth and hardwork. Their store blossomed from a few items in the store’s windows to rows and rows of eclectic goods. Located right in line with Queen’s Pizza, Mystic Paper and History by George, Evermore Nevermore adds an extra bit of pizzazz and energy, not to mention a different demographic, to that nascent corner of Main Street. They were also doing it a little bit differently than I had seen in the valley. Part comic book store, book store, art gallery and alt-fashion boutique: I had never seen a mix quite like it before.

Evermore Nevermore is husband and wife Debbie and Bob Leeper, and Amanda Tucker, Debbie’s daughter.

Amanda and her brother had been selling collectibles on E-bay for the past ten years and Bob and Debbie learned from them. While it was interesting, they really only worked on it as a side project. Eventually economic forces forced their hand -- Bob and Amanda had lost their jobs and they were tired of working for other people. Bob, Debbie and Amanda decided they were going into business.

Bob has always been a collector and reader of comics – Bob partially attributes this to sharing a birthday with Spiderman (both premiered in August of 1962). Bob grew up with the great comics of the 60s, a big fan of underdog characters and Spiderman. He spent twelve years in the Navy as a photographer and then went on to work at TRW and the Apollo Group. His favorite comics now include the Walking Dead series, Y: The Last Man and Preacher, classics he missed when they were new, but is able to get now as graphic novels.

Amanda found herself having a hard time in school as a child -- always excelling in artsy pursuits – winning art contests, but falling behind academically. Her favorite movies as a kid were Edward Scissorhands and Batman.

In high school, in an effort to deal with it all, Amanda front-loaded all of her general education classes to get them over quickly. By her senior year she had completed her credits and took all art classes. In high school she began by modifying her own clothing – and then the clothes of her friends. She liked it more and more and found modest success in selling her clothes under the brand Modified Minds to local outlets like Name Brand Exchange and Buffalo Exchange, as well as on E-bay, where she has found her work more popular in the UK, Australia and Scandinavia than here in the US. She has had success with her Zombie Girls and alternative fashion shows.

Debbie is the anchor of the establishment -- she's the only one with previous customer service skills, works hard on the displays and keeps the books. She also works her primary job at Mesa Public Schools, keeping the store in the black as they try to get a foothold in the marketplace.

Originally conceived as a comic book store in Apache Junction, the economics and business plan of the location and concept didn’t inspire enough confidence to move beyond advanced planning --- breaking into the comics business had a very high minimum entrance fee – the main comics distributor had high order minimums and stores had to purchase all their stock, unlike bookstores which can return unsold merchandise if it doesn’t sell. After reading a chance article on consignment shops, they thought they heard the bell ringing – forget the primary focus on comics, get local artists and designers to come sell their stuff to a little different clientele.

After working out the concept a bit more, the family had all but decided on a location in downtown Chandler, when they took a chance drive through the Mesa Town Center. There they saw the store and met the owner where they were amazed by the size of the store.

This new location and size opened up a plethora of opportunities for their business – they now had space for a small fabrication spot for Amanda’s clothing, as well as space for events and classes – but Downtown Mesa brought more questions for the family. While they had no questions about their content – it’s all fairly tame, nothing obscene or too risqué– the concept and presentation was sufficiently outside of the mainstream of Main Street that they worried about preconceptions others might have in the establish culture

of the area – including the numerous religious denominations that call the Town Center home.

Their prospective landlord suggested they meet with the Downtown Mesa Association (DMA) to discuss their ideas.

That night they put together a website that showcased their most extreme and outrageous ideas they could possibly put into the business, thinking that if they were ok with that idea, the calmer reality of the store would be a-ok. Skittishly, they presented their business proposal to the staff at the DMA, who turned out to be quite excited about the prospect, saying they’re quite interested in destination stores in the area. With the support of the DMA and others with whom they spoke with, they started to go full force.

Today they are selling novels, DVDs, games, action figures, custom clothing and corsets, as well as an excellent selection of limited edition shirts -- and they price all of their products at or below the best prices they find online, so you know you're getting a fair deal. They feature over fifty items on consignment.

Their first few months have been hard -- the store seems to be every expanding in content and scope, but they are definitely having fun. They've had their property investigated for ghosts by Wailing Bansidhe Investigations, monster making classes, classic film showings, steampunk jewelry classes, figure drawing -- they've done it all in the past four months of being open -- and have a full slate of events to come. Evermore Nevermore is always looking for new artists to showcase, as well as free or inexpensive, fun events to host in their meeting room.

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Like Preaching Religion To An Atheist

By Amber Brosovich You took to this love like a bad Catholic takes communion, every few months you would be there, hands outstretched, palms like a blank canvas.

This is my blood (my tears) shed for you.

This is my body, (my heart) broken for you.

Smiling, taking that dripping wafer between those lips that I...

That I would kill to pry apart, crowbar and elbow grease, to crawl inside and build myself a nice little home between your ribs.

Eve returned to Adam.

Emily clinging to that skeleton.

So that the next time you run away, I could run with you.

Bacon Raincheck

by Matt Mesnard

I

can't believe it. I canceled out on seeing her. Really I stood her up. Again. This was supposed to be breakfast and I'm ever so hungry, but I made the conscious decision to be a no -show without warning or explanation. Some cultures can ostracize a member for deliberately avoiding a breakfast appointment. Even knowing this, I still stick to my guns. This sort of scenario was far from the first time, and it was usually my fault. What is it with dealing with an ex?

The bright side about the death of a loved one or friend is the fact it's over and permanent.

It can be sad, granted.

The shock, disbelief, and mourning process. But death is a done deal. An ex is the walking dead. The zombie of a deceased relationship which can permeate and consume a person. Just like the health films of junior high warned, it's something that can strike anyone at any time. There are grief counselors and pamphlets in funeral homes to help guide a person through a devastating loss as death can be, but no pocket guide is truly out there to overcome a lost or failed relat i o ns h ip .

B u t o n t o h a pp i e r things. This is not meant to be morose, but the quandary of ex-girlfriends.

Family can push buttons. Most families somehow have a mechanic to keep from killing one another off. The difference may also be the fact of being hardwired to always love one's family. Not liking necessarily, but loving. The conundrum of the ex cannot be explained so simply. This wasn't the only ex. And this wasn't the first time.

She wanted to meet up and have coffee. There are two forms of having coffee; each with a different dynamic. At the onset of a relationship, or for a first date, having coffee is slang: launching an exploratory committee to see what course of action to take next. There is a goal in sight– or insert sports metaphor here to entice a Fox studio audience to whoop and holler. Things can sour from coffee or move on to sweeter things...at least for that encounter's worth. The second form of having coffee is basically Latin for platonic. A safe environment, oftentimes in public or broad daylight. A visual cue of “no means no” for lack of better phrasing. When an ex, the latter is the most practical, and wisest assumption to make.

The ex wanted coffee. She was in town and wanted to meet up, or spring whatever surprise or trap which I feared was in store. I had to say yes. Not forced, but compelled to agree in order to keep up with my nice guy image. I didn't show. At least not in her eyes. I breezed by; half late hour late to pass by from afar and scope out the situation. There was a guy with her and I knew she had no brothers. I rounded the corner and called her cell. The movie was later than I thought, and I was trying to find my car- far as she knew. She said she was running late and waved off the meeting; scrambling to save face.

Another time and another female. Another place. It wasn't coffee. It was too benign to mention. She wanted a favor for someone she knew. I

discovered I wasn't tagged as an ex, but was a friend instead. A friend to one who didn't call unless a minor favor was needed which she selfishly veiled as dire. I didn't care to deal with her or see what the dilly even was. I stayed home. Somehow I felt this infomercial was more important than whatever she wanted me to do.

Not important enough of an hour long commercial to buy said product, but at least for the sake of watching.

There had been others, but why go into detail.

The point has been made. I'm not known to be a serial stand-up with people in general. I don't take pleasure by it. Far from. I love to be punctual as a rule, but there's no little brochure yet to help me get over some of that breakup fallout. Not the sense of drama– more similar to an atomic blast from science fiction. Tiny particles of radiation floating through the air which reorder the atoms inside of a person. Altering the chemistry of any living thing when passing through the subject. A former relationship is akin to the red kryptonite. It won't kill, but can sure mess me up in an inexplicable way.

I suppose maybe a person from a past relationship can be explained best as a tuning fork. Not as a metaphor for love, but as a more tangible example. Meeting and connecting is like striking a tuning fork. It's a tone or vibration which somehow I'm drawn to. People rarely change their spots, meaning the person in that dissolved relationship can still strike the same note from that proverbial tuning fork. Being in the right proximity can cause the same feelings all over again from the first time; no matter how “over it” I thought I was.

That tuning fork of love, or whatever mystery emotion, can still rattle through me. Sometimes I am able to keep the effects diminished, but it's on a case-by-case basis. Would I ever confide this in an ex, or any female I had a feeling for? Heck no. I'd rather chalk it up to being petty or a guy that can't get past certain truths. I thought jerks were known to have better luck with the ladies anyway.

So here I sit.

Laying really.

Contemplating while on my back. Hands over my eyes in fists with my elbows out. Searching for the hows and why. How I let things get to me and why I refute this encounter. Now on the cusp of reconsidering. All I have to do is keep my head down and keep focus on my eggs, that little glass of orange juice, and whatever variety of pork product I decide on scarfing down with delayed (and yummy) greasy guilt.

Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe she'll even understand. Who am I kidding?

I'll take a rain check on that bacon.

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Restless I

feel the rain running down my shoulders, sticking my shirt to my back. It was sprinkling lightly when I left my house, but it picked up slowly, building from a thin drizzle to a full on storm, blanketing the world in cold and wet. The ball cap that is perpetually on my head parts the downpour, keeping the water out of my eyes, but there isn't much to see outside of the occasional set of headlights reflecting through the precipitation. My sandals drum on the pavement in a familiar rhythm. I keep moving forward, feeling the rhythm of my feet, feeling the rhythm of the rain, trying to match the beat, keeping in tune with the natural song of the rain on the pavement, the rain on the rooftops, drumming, never ceasing. I'm not walking towards any particular destination, just OUT. I do this most nights, unless I'm literally walking dead from work or some random physical endeavor.

I can't remember a time when I didn't feel the rhythm in my head. My mom said that I kept her up nights, kicking in the womb. I was rarely still as a child, drumming and fidgeting with anything I could get my hands on. These days they'd probably slap some label on me and medicate me into a coma, but my mother came from a more proactive upbringing. Instead, I was given musical toys as a child, and as soon as I was old enough, something productive. Snapping beans, husking corn, chopping kindling, anything to keep my hands moving. It didn't affect my ability to focus, but it was often perceived by authority figures as me disrespecting of ignoring them. I played with my calculator in math class, not because I didn't want to listen to the teacher, but because keeping my hands and eyes busy was the only way

By Owen Stupka I could listen to the teacher.

I see a car turn the corner onto the street I'm walking down. the headlights turning towards me. They probably think I'm a drunk or homeless, walking in the chill of a late September rain in this part of the country. The truth is, I got done with a hard day of work, and the only way I can rest, get some sleep, is to appease the part of my brain that needs the activity, needs the regularity, needs the rhythmic thrumming of my footsteps against the sidewalk. I know all of the night clerks of all of the convenience stores within a three mile radius of my house. I pop in, under some pretense, buy a drink, buy a candy bar, buy a pack of smokes. The truth of the matter is that if none of them existed I would still walk the same route, it's just more socially acceptable for me to be wandering the streets at odd hours of the night if it's under the pretense of an errand.

Living in a part of the country where it snows, I am forced to drive instead of walk some of the time, but it doesn't satisfy the same urges completely. It's enough usually, to drive in no particular direction, exploring the dead supermarket parking lots and ghostly lit gas stations with half-asleep employees. At least behind the wheel of an automobile you get to fiddle with the radio. You see the delivery truck drivers and the third shift mill workers, but otherwise you have the whole world to yourself. Often I'd pick a time limit and a road, and just drive that length of time and then find the closest stop.

Sometimes I'd luck out and find an all-night diner or a convenience store, but living in a rural area, often times it

was just a lonely intersection in the middle of nowhere. I'd stop if there was a place to stop, then turn the car around, and trundle back to where I was coming from. Despite the uselessness of my errand, I would get this wash of selfaccomplishment, and finally be released from my obsessions into sleep.

I expertly navigate the cracks in the sidewalk in front of the old Victorian house on third street. I tripped once here when I first moved into this town, but walking like I do, you get a feel for every crack, irregularity and blemish in the path. The rain makes little puddles inbetween the broken sidewalk stone pieces. I'm finally at my turnaround, a little gas station about a mile and a half from my house. I swing open the door and the wave of stale air brushes my nose.

The clerk behind the counter looks up at me from his magazine. Larry, is what it says on his nametag. He's got an odd scar on his neck that he tries to cover with a beard. I cant tell if it's from a fight, a gunshot wound or throat cancer, but guessing from the amount he smokes it's likely the latter. He's nice enough and never hassles me about my business. I try not to hassle him about his either. This is the kind of place that will sell you cigarettes and mark it as milk so you can put it on your food stamps card. I don't care what laws they're breaking, but the service gets bad if they think you're a narc or a pre-

tentious asshole.

My restless streak has always put strains on my relationships. My ex-wife was always goading me into coming to bed with her, like I was being dishonest or unfriendly if I stayed up or went out for a walk. Half the time I would lie down with her, staring at the ceiling until she went to sleep. Then I was free to putz around the house at my leisure, or take a stroll and ease my mind. Occasionally she would wake up and I'd be gone. The fact that she would never understand or trust where I was was probably a good indicator that we shouldn't have gotten married, but I didn't get on that ship until well after it had sailed. I'm resolute that my next relationship will be with someone more understanding of my rhythms.

I pause under an old maple tree to take stock and survey where I am.

The neighborhood looks like some gothic horror movie, all of the old houses framed by the downpour. I see a cat scuttle from a garage overhang under a porch, happy for some warmth and respite from the seemingly endless water. I step out from under the tree's sanctuary, and plod through the last 5 blocks to my house. I let my mind focus on the footsteps, I lose myself in the pattern, and finally when I reach my bedroom, I feel the edges of sleep embrace my mind.

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on the outside, i'm not the kind of girl you take home to mommy. i'm sexy and damn proud of it. there's no shame in the curve of my

don’t judge a book

By Rhia Hobkirk

hips, the swell of my breasts. i ooze sex, i use sex. i flaunt what i've got to get more. my body is my weapon, my tool, my instrument. but looks can be deceiving.

on the inside, i'm betty crocker, martha stewart, june cleaver. i want the little white house with green shutters and a red door. the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a minivan. i want the stepford life, the rockwell painting. but a girl's gotta eat.

By Summer Amber

Fire Bug

By Penelope Padmore

I

t wakes me in the middle of the night, whispering across my dreams again. It needs me to be free.

I've learned how not to wake Maggy, my wife as I slip out of bed. While she is asleep, her eyes aren't glittering at me in the light from the window. He mouth doesn't produce accusations like “Where have you been?” or “Why are you on probation at work again?”

Outside, the air closes around me with a warm, damp grip. My ears ring in the absence of the air conditioner's hum.

The night speaks to me, the quiet of those who lie sleeping, the cool, fresh lawns, and the smell of grease in the heavy summer air, from the places where arterial clogs are manufactured: donuts and fried chicken. I feel the heat on my skin, and I know the only way to make it leave me alone. I stand in the garage, and look at its tools. I am its tool as well, although I am stored in the house instead.

Matches snap and flower, like the tiny plants hidden in seeds. Seeds planted, gasoline to fertilize. Like a farmer, I have sweat rolling down on my face. I only stand long enough to make sure the fire has taken root. I hurry back to the garage, my heart and feet flying, like waiting for thrown firecrackers to snap. I peel off the gloves, do a smell check, no gasoline on me. I get upstairs, back in bed, and watch the ceiling for the first blush of light, like dawn. It's an elemental that I've let free.

I know it wants to breathe, and march straight up to the sky, unfurling its black clouds of smoke.

The first time, it was an accident, I didn’t mean to burn down the old shed behind our house. Cold waves of fear and shame broke over me as I watched it collapse, the flames easing the walls and roof to the ground, the ticker tape party of sparks winding up into the air.

But it was so exciting to watch them fight the fire. That’s when I decided that I, too, would be a fire fighter. I denied doing it, but the smell was all over me.

Of course, they knew it was me, and I was put into an intervention program.

We sat around and talked about feelings.

They pronounced me cured. I am a channel for fire, or maybe I'm a log in the channel of some burning river. A burn cleans, renews.

There's a cry outside. Maggy stirs, gets up and goes to the window, looking out. “Oh my God!!”

“What is it?” I ask in my best drowsy voice.

“The building across the street is on fire!” She calls 911. I run to the window.

“I'll go bang on doors!” I tell her. I race out again, retracing my steps.

Three years ago my elemental made the news. Maggy had left me to go back to her mother. I found solace in the forest. At night, I built a campfire, although it was against the rules. A campfire has a comforting smell. It was only meant to be a little fire, a meager cave-man-driving-back-the nightcomfort, but it was so hungry, and it

kept me company. So I kept feeding it.

Then the clearing became its temple, a palace of heat and light surrounded by the black of night, making the darkness darker whenever I looked away to cool my face. I was uplifted in its roaring glory. My heart got caught up in the leap frogging flames, twisting among each other, climbing up out of the clearing, roaring off into the night, like trains, like supermen. It was a carnival of colors and sounds. The flaming pines exploded, sending sparks out that birthed light from the darkness. The dark sky like the blank map of old, and I claimed it in the name of fire and light.

Like in Vietnam, the jungles laid bare, this was my jungle. In the early morning, a grey misty light bathed the newly seeded land. Fires are a natural part of the forest's cycle. Some trees can’t seed unless they are exposed to fire.

I watch from the window. The shiny trucks, the serious music of their horns singing, asphalt water mirrors shining like after a fresh summer rain, reflecting the towers of smoke in the sky. A great feeling of peace rolls over me as I watch them.

The chaos of fire trucks, the blaring horns, the lights rolling around the faces of the buildings on our block men bark orders and fight with water. They fight steadily until it calms down to order. Peace descends as they roll up hoses and subdue nests of smoldering in the walls. The black smoke turns to gray, then to white billowing clouds, benevolently rolling over the land.

You know, I am sorry for them, the people in the apartments, as they hug each other. They weep like the structure does, now running with blackened water. My heart goes out to them, the fear in their eyes, for themselves, their children, pets, and the drawers of clothes. Really, I am sorry for them. I go back to bed.

Fall

By Velma Craig She'd come to visit me afternoons, when I was all alone with my child, lounging under the apple tree, in my rusty fold-out chair (stolen from some chapter house, I just know it) next to that grey fence full of splinters.

She'd be walking slowly by, in her camp dress authentically mismatched and when she'd see me, greet me with that uncertain laugh, turn in, and sit.

She'd see my baby over there circling the tree, kicking at leaves and ask to be reminded of his name (because modern names are strange) before moving on to the usual stories of how she remembers his father playing just like that, on days just like this and that made me love her.

Some of these boys nowadays are just handsome.

She smoothes her delicate, thinning hair away from her sticky forehead and re-pins.

Nobody should be out walking on an afternoon like this.

But, it really wasn't hot and by the way her husband is on a rampage again. Today, he's pounding on doors non-stop and saying mean things.

I wish I was young again‌ then, I could chase boys. (but her laugh was uncertain)

And I Would Have Been The Shadow Of Your Shadow

By Amber Brosovich

T

here was once a day and a time and a place when he could wrap himself in the music like one wraps themselves in heavy furs to hide from the winter storms, lose himself in the notes and the tone and the harmony, in the words and the romance and the overwhelming love that Wagner had woven into his operas. The days of his youth had blended into a dull gray in the canvas of his mind, but the summers spent on the shores of the lake, the towers of Hohenschwangau standing guard like soldiers in the trees, stood out in a vivid array in his memories. He lived for the days free of protocol and lessons and the dull gray sheen of duty, the days of the eagle and the dove, of stallions and spoken word. He had long since heard the call of his master; he hid himself in the libretto's of a man who would haunt him till the end of his days.

But the music fell beneath the crushing voice of Bavaria and all the things he had hidden from; the death of a stranger had been the death of his dreams. When they had placed the crown on his head he had felt the sudden wave of something that had to have been tears, and he wondered at the possibility of the source being his lost father or his lost youth. And all those years of preparation, all those little nuances of royal protocol that had been driven into his brain fell to the side as

he realized that while the days of freedom, the days of folly, had been shoved into a coffin and absconded into the ivory walls of the Theatinerkirchesomething new had risen from the ashes, a phoenix of dreams he never could have fathomed in the time before he wore the crown.

"Bring him to me."

The words fell from his lips and onto the ears of his advisers, his servants over breakfast one early morning not long after he had sworn the oath, and the palpable silence that followed had borne in him an almost giddy euphoria. There had been days, weeks of arguments and protests. Months of searching. At the end of it, the request was sent, and he spent his time walking the cool corridors like a young boy who has found that he was woken on a July morning to find that it is Christmas.

The day that all his minor obsessions, his dreams of a Lohengrin-esque knight came to fruition, was a crisp May afternoon.

His life would never be the same.

——–-—————————————At night, with the cool air pouring itself on him as it fell through the windows, he would relive that moment,

wrapping himself in it, diving headfirst into every minor detail he could possibly call to mind.

ness?"

Every bit of his body had been in tune with the walls around him, the floor beneath him. He had heard the rumble of the horse's hooves in his heart, felt every footstep that brought his idol closer to him in his own feet.

The entire residence seemed to be buzzing with the words he's here, he's here, as though the whole of history had been waiting, paused in anticipation, for this moment. He stood as the door to his study opened, and though he heard the sounds of voices making proper introductions, all he noticed was the man standing before him and the sound of his own steady heartbeat in his eardrums. He had imagined, in that moment, that their hearts where beating in time, two players in the greater opera of his life. Here was the father he had never before seen, here was the dark figure that he had long since dreamt of, kept after in the deepest places in his heart.

Wagner had paused then, stepping forward to stare into Ludwig's eyes, and after a moment that had felt like a lifetime to the young king, he replied, in something like a whisper, like a prayer.

"Then let us talk business."

"Not quite the entrance you had expected, your majesty?"

Wagner spoke with a coolness in his voice that he had not expected, and Ludwig had felt the flush of his cheeks as he stepped forward and bowed before the man he had idolized since he was a boy of fifteen listening to the magic of the opera for the first time.

"I would be lying if I said that I had not expected you to appear from the lake as Lohengrin appeared to Elsa."

Wagner's laughter filled the empty space of the large room. "Do you wish for me to be your Knight, your high-

"I wish to be your prince."

——–-—————————————Never had keener eyes been more aware of the invisible tensions that went largely unnoticed by the more ignorant members of society- from his seat, Ludwig could feel the waves of distrust and anger that weaved their way from the stage and through the seats of his country men, crashing against his side, where his idol sat. As Von Bülow took up his baton, the conductor turned to look at the box that was currently occupied by the King, his eyes ghosting over the hand of the composer, over the betrayal of his wife that Ludwig was ignoring and the rest of the country couldn't stop whispering about.

He could feel the eyes that were looking in their direction, but they were not pointed at him, and uncertainly, he glanced next to him to Wagner and to Cosima, who had her finger's snaked through those of her lover, her eyes upon her husband. His own fingers wrapped around the edge of his chair, eyes snapping forward as Von Bülow led the first note of the prelude, and he blanched at the foreign feeling that was taking hold of his innards, something that he had heard whispered of but never experienced himself, but recognized suddenly as jealousy.

"I never dreamt that this premiere,

your premiere, would be upstaged by the minor details of the heart, your majesty, and for that, I am terribly sorry."

"It is not my premiere, but yours, dear knight, and soon they will remember only the story, only Tristan and his Isolde."

The first time he watched Tristan and Isolde, he only remembered thisClutching his own hand and feeling something like hatred for a woman who had done no more than what he hadloved and wished and coveted. Closing notes. Applause. And his knight, his master...disappearing into the night with someone the King could never be, the woman who had torn his dreams apart.

——–-—————————————Wagner let himself into the study with an ease of familiarity that tore at the King, a guard not far behind him.

Here was the ghost of the moment he had long remembered with something akin to the devotion a man gives to his god, a perversion of the day that everything in his life had changed. The memory of their first meeting fresh in his mind, he rose unsteadily, his fingers nervously balling into fists at his side.

Wagner walked no further than was necessary and stood silent as he was announced, their eyes never meeting.

The door shut with a sound like a gunshot, and the King was the one who felt the sting of the bullet in his heart.

"I do not really have to tell you why I have called you here, do I?" Wagner was staring unabashedly at his own reflection in the mirror. "No, there is no need to put it into words."

"Look at me, dear knight."

"Yes, my prince?"

They have made this exchange before, many times before, more than Ludwig could ever count, could have ever dreamt of, yet there was a tone, a blade, in Wagner's words that had the King searching for his chair as he sank beneath the sudden ice in this moment that used to bring him nothing but joy.

His idol's eyes met his and there was something he had never seen there, something that looked like anger.

"What is this in your eyes?"

"This is the look of a man who is being thrown into exile again, your majesty, and it is the look of a man who is not pleased by it."

They sat in silence for longer than the King could stand; he felt as though he was losing his father, his idol, his god. He felt the Phoenix settling back down into the ash, the music that he had wrapped himself in for so long sinking into dead silence.

"I will go with you."

"I am not sure what you mean."

"I will leave this all behind- this wretched life, this existence, if only to be by your side."

"You cannot do that. Bavaria needs you, your people need you."

"I care not of the people or the country. I am your prince, not their king."

"But without their king....there

will be no more music. I cannot do this without you. I need you. I need my prince. And Bavaria, its king."

Later, left alone in the silence, he watched everything he had wrapped his happiness into leaving the castle, and he wept that night as he lay in bed and played every moment over and over again till sleep took him unwillingly, into dreams of a magic carpet and days spent on the shores of the lake with Wagner by his side.

never-ending prayer and worship. As the cold wrapped itself around him, he wondered what there was left for him nowa king without a kingdom, a prince without his knight. He remembered the look in his idol's eyes, heard the whisper of a ghost saying 'this is the look of a man being thrown into exile' and he knew that he had that look in his own eyes as he approached the lake. But to hear the works just one more, to surround himself in the temple he had made for himself, what more could he hope for, wish for, dream of?

——–-—————————————They had told him three times, yet the words would not find their way into his recognition- he saw only the movement of lips and heard only the sound of something inside him breaking, screaming.

"Let me be alone!"

Dazed, lost, he somehow found his way to his chambers, to his bed. There was no music to save him now, nothing to pull him out of this darkness, nothing to shelter him from the storm. He poured over every letter, every photograph, every libretto that had been left behind. And in the maze of his emotions he fell, headfirst, into the devotion that had been building inside him for so long that it felt like an organ in his body, pumping away with his heart. His idol was gone and in his place, a god had risen. And Vorderhohenschwangau would be his temple, his church.

——–-—————————————They had stripped him of his crown, his title, but the worst crime they had committed against him was ripping him from his temple, from his

In his last moment, all he could think of was Gottfried rising from the waters, and he imagined himself a swan, a dove, Elsa reaching out for death and for her Lohengrin.

❷❸❹❺❻❼❽❾❿➀➁➂

Deirdre I

remember you, Deirdre. I remember everything about you.

Seven years ago, living in Cape Town -- your parents were rich, white and racist. You wanted nothing of their life, so you found a group of like-minded people - rich & white, possibly racists -who were ashamed of their richness, of their whiteness. And you lived with them.

Together you shared a house, three stories, seven bedrooms, two kitchens, four bathrooms, two entrances, and a table on the roof with four chairs. There was James and Melissa, who had lived together on the third floor for nearly ten years. James worked for a free-clinic that worked with AIDS patients -- mostly poor and black. Melissa, two years younger than James, worked for a nonprofit bank that offered small loans to the impoverished. Your bedroom was next to theirs. On good nights, when the street below is quiet and low clouds muffle the city, you can hear their sometimes-quietand-sometimes-loud lovemaking through the brick wall separating your rooms.

You, Deirdre, on those rare nights that you could hear them, would have a litany of responses. Sometimes you would take your book downstairs to the small kitchen, pour yourself some tea and read two chapters. Other times, you would play your music quietly and stare out the window, thinking about what you would write -- your great-unwritten novel. On bad nights you heard them argue and you went to the living room and watched TV. On the second floor lived a lanky young man who sat in his window and smoked cigarettes as Table Mountain cast its shadow as the afternoon turned to evening. His name was Frances and he worked in a variety of kitchens around town. He was rarely home except at off

By David Crummey hours to sleep, if he came home at all.

Kaitlyn and Ryan, in the room next door, had moved in less than a year ago and had started dating a few months before that. They were quiet, never argued, and, you were sure of it, made love without passion.

Marsessa, who rented the third bedroom on the second floor, was everything you wanted to be. Although she came from a rich family, she was not white, just light skinned. Her mother was third generation Indian and her father was descended from an Englishman. She was, in your mind, the epitome of physical and intellectual beauty. Her light olive skin, curly black hair, wide hips and soft curves were titillating to you -- if you could ever bring yourself to make love to another woman, it would be her. She worked at a bank, doing the business for NGOs. She had helped Melissa's nonprofit stay afloat for a few difficult years, though Melissa knew little about it. She worked in training, not administration.

Marsessa was soft-spoken, intelligent, high-spirited, and eloquent. You and she could talk for hours -- and often did, when you could find the time.

On the first floor lived Robert and Henry. The first floor was almost the bachelor pad of the place. Henry, the owner of the building, was in his sixties and looked it. His body was skinny and his skin hung off it -- for a man who looked very old, he was fairly attractive.

He was quiet, though. He drank tea and watched TV. His was the only private bathroom in the place. His egg sandwiches perfumed the big kitchen most days.

Robert was young and inexperienced. He worked for a small technology

company in the downtown. He was the only person at his work that lived close.

Most everyone else lived in a walled suburb and drove in.

Seven years ago I met you, and you me, Deirdre. I fell in love with your name seconds before I fell in love with you.

Deirdre. We met through an acquaintance of mine and a friend of yours, Tiffany, at a nightclub in the suburbs. When she said your name I immediately took it in and reveled in its sound as I looked into your eyes; I couldn't pull away. Tiffany needed to go somewhere and I immediately asked you if you'd like to get coffee with me.

You agreed, and instead of leaving with Tiffany, we met at an cafe up the street that was still open. We talked for hours. I drank a latte and you had some tea. We shared a packet of biscuits. The shop was closing and, instead of calling it a night, we walked through the safe, white, and middle-class neighborhood. The moon and stars were out and we talked and we walked. Late, you drove me home. Parked outside my apartment, we talked for another forty minutes. We hugged goodbye, with a kiss on the cheeks. I wanted to see you again. You smiled and said we would, but left no number. I watched as your car pulled away and then hurried through the security gate to my rented home.

I remember you Deirdre. I remember your touch, your ankle hooked over mine as we lay, naked, spread out on the bed, the window open and the summer wind breathing in and out of the room.

I haven't seen you in almost six years, but I have thought of you almost every day since I last saw you. I miss you, but I don't think I want to see you again . . . or maybe I do. It's been too long and I don't know how much we've changed in these few intervening years. Our sporadic emails have not tempered the beating of my heart, but split it in two -- one for the increasingly distant past, the other for the

hopeful future where I'll meet someone I love as deeply as I did love you.

It took another week and a half before we met again. This time it was at a restaurant that was having a Salsa dancing night. Again, Tiffany was the one to bring us together, or at least she invited her housemates and one of them, Julianne, invited you. You and she had gone to school together in college and become well acquainted. You liked her because she was black, rich, and didn't behave much different than you. Your childhoods were similar in that you did not want for anything and the political unrest that typified your childhood years was distant and, when democracy came, it seemed natural and expected. It was years later when you realized the depth and perversity of the struggle. The infighting, the depravity, the horrors on the many sides of "it."

We met again, talked and danced and drank cane & cola. We laughed and danced more, smoked and chatted with your friends, some of whom I'd met before. At the end of the night I waited for the kiss, hugged you tight, and you hugged and held me close. I brought myself close to you and waited for you to meet me halfway. We hugged again.

Kissed cheeks and bid farewell.

Soon enough we were seeing each other multiple times a week, laughing and taking strolls on the beach. We drove out in your tiny Toyota Taz to collect mussels or to drink a beer and watch the sun set from the Blouberg Strand. It was a lovely time. Slow. Deliberate. We kissed and kissed and kissed for weeks. That was it.

It was nearly painful, but equally beautiful. I remember it with fondness.

The next day I called you from the airport to say goodbye. You never forgave me. I never forgave myself. I will never forgive myself. I remember you, Dierdre.

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Restless: Issue Zero Summer Amber

Velma Craig

i am a phoenix native.

Originally from Tonalea, Velma

i draw.

(Navajo) was raised in Fort Defiance,

and paint.

Arizona. She is the co-founder of Better-

though not as often as i should.

Ones Productions, which she runs with her husband. Velma is a graduate of

cartoons are a huge influence,

Arizona State University with a BA in

hence the thick, black line

English Literature and a minor in

and attempts at wit.

American Indian studies. She enjoys writing poetry and screenplays. Velma is

when i was younger,

looking forward to finishing up her cur-

i used to be more clever.

rent project which is a short experimen-

so now i just overcompensate

tal animation titled, In This Manner I

with sarcasm.

Am. She lives in Mesa with her family.

Amber Brosovich

David Crummey

Amber Brosovich is a office drone by

David Crummey is searching for the

day, an internet slave by night, a spo-

nexus of urbanism, culture, food and

radic writer by disposition, and would

justice, and exploring our human char-

rather be watching Bollywood than writ-

acter in terms of our physical geogra-

ing this gorram bio. She once killed a

phy. In sports, he always plays for the

man with the power of her snark. She

shirts team, shirtless or not. Someday,

does not like goats. To receive a portfo-

he will triumph over his girlfriend and

lio of her collected works, send a bag of

have a lawn that is neatly trimmed by

Peach-O's and a SASE by courier pi-

goats. And cheese. Goat cheese. And

geon. She can be contacted via bat-signal

fresh eggs. And freshly slaughtered

in most metropolitan areas, or at fever-

chicken. The latter two do not come

vignettes@gmail.com if you are feeling

from the goats. He wonders what came

feisty.

first– the chicken, the egg, or his girlfriend refusing him all of these things.

David Crummey only wrote half this

❷❸❹❺❻❼❽❾❿➀➁➂

bio. He has trusted his two co-

Contributors and Victims most of it. Or at least the good parts.

Penelope Padmore

See Amber or Owen for the good parts.

Penny's biography, as presented by

conspirators with the rest. But he didn’t really trust them, as he made them edit

Google. Penelope Padmore of Paradise,

Rhia Hobkirk

Nova Scotia, is a Kung Fu expert and

Rhia is a sometimes knitter, occasional

committee member for the 2nd Annual

writer and consistent procrastinator. she

Las Vegas GeoSymposium at UNLV.

enjoys cupcakes, lists and anything Joss

Her work there greatly influenced her

Whedon has touched.

research on bronze age farms and iron

contributor to Black Belt Magazine. She was the fund-raising and correspondence

age farm mounds of the Outer Hebrides,

Matt Mesnard

tute. We tend to think that like Chuck

Matt Mesnard did not supply a bio in

Penny on the internet, it must be true.

the ridiculously short amount of

Penny doesn’t sleep, she waits. Penny

time we gave him. We compiled this

doesn’t write bios. Her minions write

from Google: Sophomore running back.

them for her.

with the Chinese Wushu Research InstiNorris, if there is something about

Matt Mesnard completed a 6-yard TD

winning season since 1981. His favorite

Sonia Singh

novels are Addie Pray and Elmer Gantry.

This piece was originally published on

Mr. Mesnard was

Sonia Singh’s blog in 2006. Her profes-

embroiled in a lawsuit alleging a com-

sional writing gigs to date include grant

rade Teamster of the local 731

writing for nonprofits and reviewing

crossed a picket line. He is also the most

vegetarian restaurants. An avid entre-

recent winner of JabberMonkey's daily

preneur, Sonia’s creative streak mani-

Starbucks give-away!

fests itself in writing, decorating and

run against Immaculate Conception's Knights, clinching the Warriors first

new business ideas. Her 70-pound lapdog inspired her current project, PawPosse.com, which sells tough stuff for

❷❸❹❺❻❼❽❾❿➀➁➂

big dogs. More of Sonia’s musings can be found at twitter.com/soniawings.

Owen Stupka

David Wiersch

Owen Stupka is a freelancer writer, part

Art saves.

-time assassin, and is just happy to be

With the drone of the congregation, the

nominated. As one of the editors of

church went silent,

RESTLESS, Owen hopes to be able to

and my mind wondered to different

immanentize the eschaton, or at least

things.

rock it like it's never been rocked be-

My art is a distraction. A majority of

fore. Owen is neutral on the goat sub-

the work I produce is a direct response

ject, but he does like goat cheese. For

to my dreams.

contact, hate mail, or naked picture dis-

Since I was young I have had very vivid,

posal,

dark dreams.

you

can

contact

him

at seldonfound@gmail.com.

Generally, these images

are the ones that make it out.

I find that it’s easier to show people

❷❸❹❺❻❼❽❾❿➀➁➂

what I saw, rather then explain it.

Restless: Issue Zero Illustrations: Watermark Used on Page 4 by Flickr user Pareeerica Back Page: Restless Logo. Amber Brosovich and Owen Stupka Front Page: One Pass. Oil Painting. David Wiersch Various figures: Public Domain Patent Images. USPTO.

Coming Soon

Restless: Issue One 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. Each issue will be loosely based on a

theme.

The theme for Issue One: ZOMBIES!!?!eleven1! Content does not necessarily have to align with the expressed theme, but is encouraged.

Guidelines for Submissions: Fiction / Creative NonNon-fiction / Experimental Fiction / MicroMicro-fiction No word limit, though generally under 10,000 words. Please attach as a DOC, DOCX, RTF, PDF, TXT or ODT document.

Poetry Restless publishes a small amount of poetry per issue. Again, no word limit, but generally under 10,000 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. 50-150 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.

COMING TO A PAIR OF HANDS JUST LIKE YOURS SOMETIME IN APRIL

Restless: Issue One

Restless: An Arts Anthology restlessanthology@gmail.com