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issue no. 3 | dec. 2016
effervescent magazine this is a publication dedicated to new growth while never letting go of the inner child. it is a paradox, it is juvenescence, it is the eternal struggle between letting go and holding on. so dear reader, let your inner wilderness roam free, let it float between trees like haunting morning fogs or let it light up the sunset sky.
issue 2 - winter 2016 Abeyance: noun; temporary cessation, or suspension
inactivity,
A sweet grey dream of downy feathers that embraces your heart even as golden warmth urges your eyelids open, the honeyed moment before lips touch, a ballerina’s tutu slowly following her movements as she leaps into the air. Abeyance is found in the ocean’s caress as saliferous, sunlit waters lift you above glittering depths, in the moments that transcend time and space. It’s found in the memories that never fade, in the songs that carry you back to first times, in the enchanting nightmares that hold you in a trance in the nights to come.
letter from the editor Dear Readers, The world refuses to stand still. The earth spins and the moon whirls around it. The oceans brawl and the continents tremble while the trees inch upwards and skyscrapers dream of new heights. Men and women rush to their offices, then back home. The headlights of cars on highways, gold and crimson, stream by in trails. Work builds up in stacks of papers and books and ebbs slowly down again. Even sleep is rushed, too scarce to build up into vibrant dreams and all too often interrupted by the screech of alarms in the morning. Amidst all the movement, hardly is there ever a moment of stillness, a pause, a time to breathe and recollect one’s mind. However, such interludes still exist where one chooses to find them. Abeyance is found when one wanders aisles of bookstores aimlessly, when one pours a fresh cup of coffee and waits for it to cool, when one beats the alarm to bleary eyed wakefulness and sits amongst blankets to watch the pale winter sun rise, when the world still spins, and yet, pauses in its path. The holidays are a time for abeyance, a time for one to sit down and relax for a moment, to enjoy the beauty which abounds once one stays still. So, in the spirit of giving, I give you you the gift of this magazine - steal a little while from the demands of life, grab a blanket and a drink, cozy up, and read. I’m also glad to say that from now on, each issue of Effervescent Magazine will be available as a hard copy! Welcome to the Abeyance Issue, Helen Li, Editor in Chief
Table of Contents The Flight - Nadia Gerassimenko Untitled - David Atchkinson Empire Stars - Nadia Gerassimenko The Space Between Boxes - RJ Richardson Aphorism 55 - Rose Knapp Untitled - Chris Santi Familia Crest - Rose Knapp ~Snake Eye Cis - Rose Knapp Metamorphosis - ZsĂłfia Jakab +Sunedai+ - Dean Rhetoric Effulgence - Nadia Gerassimenko Blind SĂŠance Sears - Rose Knapp Untitled - Andrew Smith Office Work & Nihilism - B.T. Schweitzer Untitled - Andrew Smith Adrenaline & Sassafras - Kate Garrett Untitled - Andrew Smith Three Kisses - Anita Oswald Wondrous Innocence - Nadia Gerassimenko Untitled - Andrew Smith Late Sweetness - Paul Brookes After Curfew - Jordan Hoxsie
The Flight - Nadia Gerassimenko
Untitled
DAVID ATCHKINSON i don’t sleep anymore, i never dream. I close my eyes only to be awoken by a scream, a scream so familiar yet so distant that i feel it rushing through my bones and crawling through my fucking skin. maybe, just maybe, things would be okay if i ever loved myself. If I were ever okay with the way i laughed or the way i smiled or the way I walked, but instead my life revolved around those heavenly moments when you talked. as unhealthy as it seemed, it was all about you, and for the first time in my fucking life I felt as if I knew what to do. It is all gone now, disarray and cluttered, but as my heart remains shattered I drip my blood for no one but her.
The Space Between Boxes RJ RICHARDSON
i. discovering the space There are things that define us. Appearance, personality, social status. There are things we chose to define us. Labels, boxes. Everyone fits in somewhere. Or do they? What about the people who are unable to fit into the boxes that are presented before them? What about the people who don’t know what label they want? Or if they even want a label at all? The struggles of living outside of societies boxes are some that very few people see to understand, or even bother to understand. What is a person like that to do? What am
to
do? The first space I discovered was the space between the heterosexual and homosexual boxes. You are either one or the other, right? That’s how nature works, right? So why is it that no matter which box I place myself in, it is not what I want? Men have their appealing qualities. Their hands are bigger than mine, and fun to hold. Their baritone voices. The safety of their warm, large bodies when the night is cold. But the appeals of a woman’s touch are just as enticing. Their softness. Their gentle curves. Their fluttery laughter. Their friendship even in the most romantic of senses.
So what am I to do in this place where I feel too gay to be on one side yet too straight for the other? The second times I became away of the space was between male and female. This space was even darker and even more terrifying that the previous. People are frightened of those who leave the boxes they were born into. It is a witch-hunt for those who do not belong. The contrast between pink and blue is blinding and people are rarely open to gradients of colour, let alone a new hue entirely. Uncomfortable with the word “woman”. Uncomfortable with being seen as a “man”. When people immigrate to one of the two boxes, there is fear and loathing, but there is also more understanding. A woman born in the blue box is a concept that people are growing to understand. A man born in the pink box is also reaching that status. There is still ignorance and aggression, of course there is, but more so to the reasoning of why instead of the end result. But those between boxes are not understood. Neutral pronouns are considered grammatically incorrect. Those who openly change which box they fit into on a regular basis are questioned about being drag queens, or fakers, or worse. Not transgender enough to fit into the community, not cisgendered enough to warrant understanding. # To be confined to a box can be limiting, claustrophobic. But to not have a box at all can feel isolating. The need to
fit in is on par with the weight of the labels. It is like drowning. It is anxiety inducing. It is being unable to have the proper words to express yourself. This is what it is like to discover the space between the boxes of society. This is what it is like to feel as though you do not fit in with any of the norms. ii. a new box The dark of the Space Between can seem endless, disorienting, and disheartening. The more time spent in the dark, spent dwelling on self-doubt, the sillier the problem seems. It can feel like your brain is screaming, “Well you need to go
!” while also reminding you that you don’t
belong on a specific side of the dividing line that is the Space. But in truth, there is no dividing line. These things are a spectrum. A rainbow doesn’t go straight from red to purple. There is a gradient in the spaces where red becomes orange becomes yellow and so on. This gradient has a name in the Space Between. In fact, it has several.
These are more boxes that open themselves to us. Those who do not understand might picture a shuttle bus to carry people back and fourth from Gay to Straight, but this is not how it works. There is the Space because romance is not as black and white as many think. So there are, in fact, other
boxes, smaller boxes, hidden in the dark by those who don’t understand or choose not to. These boxes are full of love. These boxes are full of understanding. Those who are in the boxes are coming to know who they are and want to share the knowledge of their boxes with the world. The people who fill these boxes are not greedy, or selfish, or attention seekers. These girls are not sluts. These men are not fags. These people are not here to fodder a drunken threesome. They are not confused or attracted to cooking utensils. These boxes are vibrant and kind, just like the people who inhabit them. These people are valid. “Hearts over parts” is the motto they hold dear. Love is love is love. # Along with the Boxes of Love, there is the Box of Fluidity. It is here that the gender spectrum is taught, and how a world of hyper-sexualized women and hyper-masculine men, is a dehumanizing ideal that shames everyone for being what they see before them. A world that assigns gender to inanimate objects that insist on trying to define who we are. But they do not define who we are. A pair of pants doesn’t care what is between your legs any more than the grass cares that it is green. Andrew should be able to wear those floral patterns on the shirt that feels soft against his skin without being called a tranny. Charlotte should be able to proudly wear her snapback over her close-cut hair without being called a dyke. But sometimes people like
Andrew actually prefer to be called Andrea, but hide that about themselves in the back of the closet with that floral top. Sometimes people like Charlotte go by Charlie and are faced with the confusion and disrespect of, “Are you a boy or a girl?” In the end, does it really matter? Does it matter if Charlie is in a dress one day and a suit the next? Does it hurt anyone if Andrea come clean and wears that floral top? Or what if Rob, who used to be Kayla, still enjoys wearing lipstick? None of these things impact anyone. But the world disagrees. So we wait. People like me, and Charlie, and Andrea, and Rob. We wait in our boxes – sometimes in plain sight, and sometimes hidden in the corners – for the day when people who are wrongfully afraid of these lesser known boxes of transgender or genderfluid or non-binary people to take the time to know us before they lash out. Until the day comes where pink stops meaning “Girl” and blue stops meaning “Boy”, we need to do what is best for our personal wellbeing. Gender is no more terrifying a concept than the colours of the rainbow. Nothing is truly monochromatic.
Aphorism 55 ROSE KNAPP
Time is merely Perpetual finite Matter Sculpted By imperfection Death’s E Cricis
Familia Crest ROSE KNAPP
One Medieval value Papal Borges Loyalty Submit Two Prince Jon Pre printing press Brut Of course of coarse Finally fallacio is free From bastards &fallacy
~Snake Eye Cis ROSE KNAPP Tonight my lips Taste purely of Tightly rolled Native tobacco Bitter various White powders & Silk trufflebutter~
metamorphosis - zsรณfia jakab
+Sunedai+
DEAN RHETORIC I associate you with Sunday; domesticated and thematic through stained glass. I imagine you being clutched by weeping Men, slamming against you for answers. We needed a distraction and God was as good as any. When we hid under Chapple stairs, forehead on forehead. When your skin was itchy and too tight for your swelling chest. So close to your emerald green eyes that I hoped they'd cut me if you blinked. his ashtray.
You were God's mint filter, I was
My humble bloodied knee staining your Sunday dress as you slit your index finger over Corinthians, mixed us as one and in our blood wrote my name beside their saviour in your favourite passage. Not a night goes by that I don't check every hotel bible, hoping someday you'll write to me again.
effulgence - nadia gerassimenko
Blind Séance Sears ROSE KNAPP
Disordered blind seer’s sight: meaningless pen scribblings and cave scratchings shredding all material gains & guns to nothing, the bright sun rises & the black morningstar also sets, one occasionally forgets the equivalence of swords & vanishing Incan ink until it’s almost too late for time. Apocalyllipsis, singularities, glossolalia, catatonic Pizarnik whispers on poiesis’ OD. Logical atomism splits. Archetypical seers scatter away fear with her hallucinogenic visions & delusions of grandeur, channeling that novel piece of tribal psychosis inherent in the freed automaton’s compulsive need to create.
Office Work & Nihilism B.T. SCHWEITZER
I work as an intern at the hollow center of the earth. It’s my job to turn the crank on a small black box that operates time in my shared, but fuzzy, grey cubicle near the water cooler. Roughly the size of a cantaloupe and smooth on all but two sides it is a faceted obsidian octahedron with a hand crank. A lid on top. And a temper. Eight-thirty to six-thirty twice a week I make slightly above minimum wage gently turning the crank. It plays a sleepy dirge one way before I allow it to run under its own volition in the opposite. Then an exultant nocturne echoes throughout the space that does not actually exist but I can’t sleep. Moving counter clockwise the crank quite literally pries the fingers of grandfather time as he clutches to his deathbed and the EMTs prep the defibrillator for another go. In the times between winding this mechanical heart of the universe I try to live. But I have two fears. The first is what would happen if I found it deathly still having simply spun itself silent.
Assuming, naturally, that with time stopped I would be capable of such perceptions like a gecko in amber. To prevent that, and admittedly make my own day go faster, as I’m sure others do on my days off, all I would need to do is never stop turning the crank. But the sounds of sprockets spinning inside gave rise to my second fear. What would happen if the cylinder shaft I have been winding for all too long grows tight and the box finally goes pop? I wouldn’t know. Or want to. I put in my notice on Thursday.
Adrenaline & Sassafras KATE GARRETT
She tracked the paw print leaves, marks left by fairy beasts splayed across the green mittens and feathers dropped by pixies who fluttered past the yard, vanished into wheat whispers— she picked two of each shape, ripped them down the middle (a ritual, practising for love letters she’d one day be sorry she wrote) and inhaled the sweet-spice until fire hit her blood, sent her heartbeats tripping over her breath, racing the pixies through fields, into the trees, the sand on the shore of the lake.
andrew smith
Three Kisses
ANITA OSWALD She was feeling tipsy.
She decided to say her farewells –
the party was thinning out anyway, the last few hangers-on, former bandmates, were drunk and reminiscing about old times, times she hadn’t been a part of. member of the audience.
She was just a spectator, a
The hostess, wife of one of the band
members, and an old friend, was a short hitter of even shorter stature, and had thrown in the towel and had gone to bed hours ago.
She would probably never see any of them again.
She
wandered past the revelers through the kitchen, glad she wouldn’t have to wake up to that mess in the morning.
Time to
go home. Hearing voices from the backyard, she pushed open the frame screen door and a small gray tabby cat with big ears scooted past, carrying a relic of a mouse.
The sweet smell of honeysuckle on the fence anointed the night.
She walked through a narrow passage way to the
backyard.
Looking up to the top of the garage, she saw the
two friends sitting there, beers in hand.
Stepping through
the grass and remains of figs that the squirrels had plundered to the base of the walnut tree, she opened her mouth to call goodbye when he extended his hand and pulled her up the trunk of the tree to the top of the garage.
With one firm hand he
guided her up, limb by limb, in spite of her high heeled platform shoes, safely to the roof. steadied her, both
Pulling her close, he
wondrous innocence - nadia gerassimenko
arms firmly around her waist. She felt his belt buckle press into her pelvis. Another party, another man – a boy, really, the memory of the pleasure of being with him came back to her in a rush. She was fascinated by him, even though she knew he was the wrong person for her, that nothing could ever come of it. the attraction was in knowing it was wrong. was full of shit.
But
She thought he
She felt drawn to him and, yet, repelled.
He wasn’t handsome, but his wild eyes and brows like Colin Farrell were magnets. Was he dangerous or shallow?
She knew
he was a snob and that the worlds they came from rarely intersected.
She was poor and he was nouveau riche.
And
though he had a song line for every occasion and quoted the radical philosophers, she knew he’d cut his hair, follow in his father’s footsteps and join the family business. She still wanted him. While she pondered their differences and whether she should even bother, suddenly he grabbed her, his mouth was on hers, rough, penetrating her soft mouth, teeth snagging her lip, tongue pressing deeper and deeper, invading her.
He’d
never gotten braces and his sharp teeth made her lip bleed a bit.
His facial hair scratched her cheek.
She felt a bit
faint, and, for the moment, relished this new feeling of not being the sexual aggressor.
She would summon the remembrance
of this kiss, their parting, and her young self many times throughout her life. Years later, another party – a birthday party – hers, and another kiss.
Her children had arranged a “surprise” party
for her 30th birthday and called her friends to bring food and celebrate.
It was no surprise but she would pretend to be
appropriately shocked.
The friends began to arrive at her
hilltop house overlooking the ocean. wine and gifts.
Friends bringing food,
They wanted to celebrate her freedom, too.
Freedom from ten years of a boring, sexless marriage. Her lovely friend was one of the first to arrive, bearing her fabulous stuffed mushrooms as per the children’s request, and a choker of semi-precious stones as a present.
Slim,
dressed in a retro silk chemise, her dark hair bobbed short, startling lapis eyes; her friend resembled a silent film star. Exotic, like an artist from another era – Colette, she thought. She started to greet her, mouth open, and her friend kissed her on the lips – thin lips and full meeting for a moment.
She wondered if this was how her friend’s mouth felt
to men she kissed, and thought probably not.
Her friend’s
lips were full, moist, tactile, and sensual.
Barely a cupid’s
bow, a prominent philtrum, and a deep natural red pigment made a delicious package.
She mused for a moment how many had been
lucky enough to kiss these lips. separated.
Then quickly, the friends
A jasmine scent remained.
She would think of this
kiss fondly many times and with wonder. The garage rooftop was fairly flat, so she found her footing and regained her balance.
The second man, a quirky,
but not unattractive, punk artist type, offered her a beer and a chair, both of which she accepted. stargazing.
He said the two were
She saw they were both drunk.
She took her place
next to the man who raised her up, with her arrival, he was now between two friends who loved him. She’d been drawn to him since she first saw him walk from the door of his parents’ home, years before when they were both teens.
She thought he looked like John Lennon.
She followed
him and his band, his music, never overtly letting on that she was interested, hoping he would notice.
He was quiet and shy.
She misinterpreted that as a sign of indifference. their distance.
They kept
And then, her friend (the hostess who had
passed out earlier) noticed him, too, made her move, and the pair was soon together.
She thought he was lost to her.
Now,
the couple was leaving LA and this was their farewell party. The three rooftop inhabitants talked about music, acid trips, road trips, sports cars, and motorcycles – of wild times. spun tales to match the men. on.
She
The tales of glory went on and
Then, unexpectedly, her love leaned over and planted a
kiss firmly on her mouth.
She didn’t resist. Their narrow
mouths, their straight teeth, their thin lips matched perfectly.
Tickling her palate, a taste of hops still
lingering, his tongue probed her mouth, dancing on her teeth – it tickled.
She laughed inside, but did not break the
contact. A cough behind them and the other friend excused himself – they never saw him climb down the tree.
They forgot
everything else except the stars, the night and this kiss.
In
that moment, she saw their past, their present, their future. It was a kiss to last forever.
andrew smith
Late Sweetness Paul Brookes
Late in the season, I ask the tree, "Please can I take some of your fruit?", the easy pleasure my hand reaches out, amongst the almost naked, gnarled limbs, my fingers round the full luscious belly of a hard green pear, and gently twist to snap the umbilical cord, and place it in the basket. And say "Thankyou." On the ground gnawed and sucked broken skins rest on mown grass, sweetness oozes into cold air. Soon the aroma of apple and pear crumble inhabits the fresh rooms of our house, the heat in the pastry, the knife's blade cuts a portion. "Blow on the spoon, love. I need to know if the pears are soft enough." says my wife as she ushers bubbling fruit and crumble to my quivering tongue.
After Curfew
Jordan Hoxsie i fetishize history in my twin-sized bed with dreams in my teeth with tears drying as layers in the morning breeze, the ghosts that suspend from my eyelids dabble in arson i contemplate alternate realities where i am more than a werewolf attempting push-ups where phallic symbols appear as tanks and don’t lead to collateral damage the squad dogs tear into grey matter until their hearts sob away manifestos i roll spit into lavender mist thick with electricity i swallow the dead lightbulb while spilling my angst believing the ceiling fan can be a pentagram
contributors Cover Photo by Ula Rustamova Anita Solick Oswald grew up in the 3rd story apartment above her family’s Bohemian restaurant on Chicago’s West Side. She migrated from the Midwest to California in the late '60s and lived in Santa Monica for more than a decade before moving to Boulder, Colorado. She is a founding member of Boulder Writing Studio. She’s written a collection of essays, , which chronicle the colorful, diverse and oftentimes unpredictably eccentric characters and events that populated Chicago’s West Side neighborhood during the 50’s & 60’s. Dean Rhetoric is a Hereford born poet, currently living in London. He is a BBC Writer's Room finalist and has poetry published in Sea Foam Mag, Picaroon Poetry, Nauseated Drive and Bunbury. In November, Dean was named 'Independent Artist of the Month' by B*Star Kitty Press. Despite all of these accolades, he once got a Sugar Puff stuck in his ear trying to impress a girl. Paul Brookes was poetry performer with "Rats for Love" and his work included in "Rats for Love: The Book", Bristol Broadsides, 1990. His first chapbook was "The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley", Dearne Community Arts, 1993. He has read his work on BBC Radio Bristol and had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published by Picaroon Poetry, Clear Poetry, The Bees Are Dead and other magazines. Rose Knapp is a poet, producer, and multimedia artist. She has publications in , and others. She currently lives and works in Manhattan. Twitter Handle: @Rose_Siyaniye Jordan Hoxsie is a graysexual poet living in Burbank, CA. Jordan is the founder of the independent press Varsity Goth, the Social Media Editor for , and the author of the poetry mini-chapbooks (Ghost City Press, 2016) and (self-published, 2016). Their work has been featured in , , , and elsewhere. They tweet @jordanhoxsie. Kate Garrett grew up in southern Ohio, but has lived all of her adult life in England. She is the founding editor of Three Drops Press and Picaroon Poetry, and her own writing has been widely published online and in print. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her latest pamphlet (Indigo Dreams, 2016) was longlisted for a Saboteur Award. Kate lives in Sheffield with her husband, cat, three sons, and baby daughter.
Zsófia Jakab,an interdisciplinary artist, whose work mainly tries to capture the essence of the human mind and nature, the basic drives and forces that are contained in human shape. She is fascinated by "in-between" states; mythological transformations and gothic elements that move the subconscious and create uneasiness in the beholder. Nadia Gerassimenko is an Assistant Editor at Luna Luna Magazine by day, a moonchild and poet by night. Nadia self-published her first poetry collection "Moonchild Dreams" (2015) and hopes to republish it traditionally. She's currently working on her second chapbook, "a chair, a monologue." Visit her at tepidautumn.net or tweet her at @tepidautumn. RJ Richardson is an aspiring author from Ontario, Canada. They are an alumn of Sheridan College for film production but have been focusing primarily on writing fiction of various lengths. RJ has been previously published in the Sherlock Holmes collection, (writing as Rachel Richardson), and occasionally writes for . You can support RJ on Patreon at patreon.com/rjrichardson. Brett-Thomas Schweitzer is a 24 year-old aspiring American Horror, Science Fiction, and Fantasy author living in Denver, Co. He is currently completing an undergraduate degree in Creative Writing at Metropolitan State University. Specializing in very tiny works he writes Two Sentence and Six Word stories as well as Flash Fiction. Over 700 tiny works can be found on his website www.BTSchweitzer.com and his Flash Fiction has been published the Molotov Cocktail.
nadia gerassimenko - the crow
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