FEMINAL
THE OPEN EDITION
FEMINAL
THE OPEN EDITION
4
the creatives behind FEMINAL
5 the writers
7editor's note poetry . . .
8
My Soul's Journey 10 Vivian August
Contusion (n). 11 Proprietor (n). 12 Brittle (adj). 13 Tabernacle (n). 14 Jess Janz
A person of circumstance 15 Hana Ayaat
Millennials 16 Brown is not a burden 17 5 stages of self love 19 Loveleen Saini
Hidden Star 21 Heala Maudoodi
The Wait 22 Annie Wilson
Mother 23 Company 24 My Feminism 25 Bliss Clairmont
Excerpt from "All these things" Lauren Elizabeth
26
Whiskey Soaked Dreams 27 Jennifer Schwartz
It Flows 29 Savannah Lee-Thomas
Prick 30 Mountain Girl 31 Mount Saint Helens 32 Burnt after steak 33 L. Ausman
short stories . . . 36 When they sit like this Alicia Long
38
Her Light Still Dances 40 Danielle Pike
reviews . . . 42
Crazy Is My Superpower by AJ Mendez Brooks: a review 44 Kyle Sharp
female friday features . . . 47
the creatives behind
FEMINAL Nastasia Delmedico
Editor-in-Chief / Publisher
Cayla Ramey editor
Gabriella Iamundo editor
Jessica Laurenza editor
Special thanks to: Stefan Delmedico Joe Delmedico Silvana Delmedico Stephanie Criminisi Alexandra Muia Alyssa Vinci
EDITORIAL NOTE
4
NO PORTION OF THIS MAGAZINE MAY BE REPRINTED, DUPLICATED OR TRANSMITTED WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER. SUBMISSIONS ARE MADE AT THE RISK OF THE SENDER; FEMINAL MAGAZINE WILL ASSUME NO LIABILITY FOR LOSS OR DAMAGE. OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN FEMINAL MAGAZINE ARE THOSE OF THE AUTHORS AND DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE PUBLISHER. FEMINAL MAGAZINE DOES NOT ASSUME LIABILITY FOR CONTENT.
the writers of the open edition Vivian August
Jess Janz
ig: @poetrybyvivian
ig: @visitjessjanz
Hana Ayaat
Jennifer Schwartz
ig: @hana_ayaat blog: hanaayaat.blogspot.co.za
L. Ausman
ig: luce.a_ twitter: @lucileausman
Bliss Clairmont
ig: @blissilluminated
Lauren Elizabeth
ig: @blueflowerprose twitter: @BlueFlowerProse facebook: BlueFlowerProse
ig: @jennifer.schwartz_poet facebook: Jenlschwartz
Annie Wilson
ig: @awilson0218
Savannah Lee-Thomas ig: @savannahrach twitter: @theRealRachel facebook: Savannah LeeThomas
Loveleen Saini
Alicia Long
ig: @Loveleeelf twitter: @LoveleeElf
Danielle Pike
Kyle Sharp
twitter: @aliciacl6 ig: @thedarlingmoon
twitter: @KyleSharp19
Heala Maudoodi
facebook: h.maudoodi 5
#feminalmagazine
6
the editor's note the open edition
Seven months ago, I hit a road block. I was unemployed, tirelessly searching for jobs, writing poetry that could never get published, and voluntarily writing for whoever gave me the opportunity to fluff up my resume. I was a little lost and extremely restless. Several months prior, I remember drumming up the idea of Feminal but never pursued it—admittedly, starting a literary magazine felt daunting and I barely found the time to wash my hair during the week (of which, of course, I always manage to accomplish at some point). I then realized that thinking about starting Feminal was exactly what was holding me back. All I had to do was start, but I was paralyzed with the fear of failing. I was afraid of starting something that I would never finish. I was afraid of putting myself out there and realizing that nobody really cared about women's writing. But, I'm glad that fears are harmless, empty thought bubbles. The reality of what has flourished has motivated not only myself, but the support of so many others who believe in making a difference through fearless initiatives no matter how big or small. For me, Feminal was an important outlet to enable a space of unhindered expression that women could take control of; an outlet for women writers to feel awknowledged, elevated, and rewarded; a place where creativity could flourish and a community could be built on encouraging the female written word. I want to personally thank the writers who fearlessly took the time to start writing and submitting their pieces to Feminal, and to those who have kindly offered up their time to put this issue together—the process has been nothing short of inspiring in so many ways. Here's to women and reading their stories.
Nastasia Delmedico Editor-in-Chief / Publisher
#feminalmagazine
7
p o e poe
e t r y etry
#feminalmagazine My Soul's Journey I went to see a psychic many, many years ago The woman told me my old soul has lived many lives before In my former lives, she said, I lived and breathed as a man And this life as a woman is part of my soul’s plan. She explained I had been a nasty man and I needed to learn some lessons That I will experience the plight of a woman plagued by mans transgressions Initially I found this woman and her psychic assessment quite bizarre Though reflecting upon her words I compiled a list of lessons learnt thus far. Lesson one: I experienced my childhood with an absent father To be abandoned as a young girl, to feel worthless of his bother. Lesson two: I married a boy who as a man became very controlling To be verbally abused, manipulated, and reduced to his property. Lesson three: I fell in love with an addict who put his fists on me To be beaten, lied to, stolen from, and blamed for everything. Lesson four: I became a single mother to the sweetest baby boy To be blessed with such a bright light, love overflowing my every void Lesson five: I finally found my true love, my mate—the best man I’ve ever known But suddenly and unexpectedly he passed away leaving me alone. Lesson six: I stood up to a man professionally who demanded I bend my ethics To face public scrutiny, and defamation while maintaining my outward aesthetic. This brings us to the present where I know not what’s in store Have I learned my lessons or is there more for me to endure I’ve tried to find that woman, the psychic who read my past, But it’s as if she’s vanished—perhaps what’s in store is peace at last.
Vivian August
10
poetry / the open edition
Contusion (n). I treat your heart like a bruise— I run my thumb over it softly, like it is purple and black, like you somehow dropped it when not looking where you were landing your steps. Of your heart, like a bruise, I ask, "how did this come to be?" And, "does it still hurt, does it hurt you, when I press you, even softly, when I bring my arm to your arm and ask you to stand?"
Jess Janz
11
#feminalmagazine Proprietor (n). it is a serious thing to carry a body through this world to keep a heart beating to shield it from the elements and the dangers of man to tend to open wounds and achy joints and muscles to keep it strong and nourished. it is not too much to call it a miracle that these lungs keep filling up with air and pushing out what is no longer needed, a pulse that, if nothing else, is a reminder that time is passing and life is still arriving to me. it is too much a tragedy that I have spent much of my life at war with my body’s softness, I have grimaced at features masked myself in makeup and clothing I have worked hard to try and take up less space. it is a very radical thing to be at home in ourselves and I have spent much of my life pushing myself away pressing myself onward, too far out, plummeting myself into too much striving preparing myself to be presentable puncturing myself with words that stain. it is a serious thing to carry a body through this world and there is too much work to be done there is too much beauty to fight for to continue this daily renouncing of the grams that make me up and carry me through softly surviving. 12
Jess Janz
poetry / the open edition
Brittle (adj). hope is made of sand, the way it slips through my fingers and also sticks to the folds in my ears, it falls from my hair for days after, it stays dust on the floor, the grit, I feel it on the bottoms of each foot, even when you think it could no longer still be here, it is. hope is made from glass, the way it shatters just so, into a million and more pieces, the way something so beautiful can draw stinging blood, the way it cuts deep into the skin when you didn't see its edge. hope is made of glass the way it glistens and hums when you run your finger just so, and patiently, on its lip. hope is made of all of the delicate and difficult things, like secrets and giving, it is made of a baby's helplessness and evening whispers between lovers, it is made of the kind of light that helps you make out an outline and doubt your line of sight, it is made of all of the things that you can only offer up to the gods, hope is all of the things that are unbearable to think of losing, and that's why we can't give it up, this hope.
Jess Janz 13
#feminalmagazine Tabernacle (n). I didn't trust your love for me because you loved me before you knew me. I could tell you loved my drastic hand gestures and took joy in the rambling stories, late as we laid before sleep. I could tell you loved how I carried myself while ordering coffee or talking to a stranger. You loved me before you knew the days that I can fold into myself so far away that it will hurt you the days I will need to be gone from myself the days I need stillness and silence. I could feel you writing a character for me and filling in the blanks (blank spots and blank stares) I could feel you loving me without knowing my innermost parts. I will know he loves me when I retreat into myself in the tavern of my loneliness and he is there making the bed and putting the kettle on.
Jess Janz 14
poetry / the open edition
A person of circumstance My mind ablaze with strange images Molten anger racing through my body, I have become a person of circumstances Molded by my environment. We women are small beads in the tapestries of our clans Woven cleverly by the male members. I am hanging perilously by a fragile thread between two worlds Like a fish out of water.
Hana Ayaat
13
15
#feminalmagazine Millennials We are a string of contradictions From a yarn of rough resilience Made with the best of intentions. Yet here we are, Trying to sew together The tattered tapestry they left behind. They complain we have everything; What they don’t consider is The needle they passed on Is broken.
Loveleen Saini
16
poetry / the open edition
Brown is not a burden My 6-year-old cousin Grabs my phone for a selfie Immediately using white Paint all over her skin, “I wanna be white, Look am I pretty?” Her face is scratched out, Arms carved white into her, Painting her doe Brown eyes electric blue To match digitally painted skin. My 13-year-old cousin Takes too long Showering, her mother laughs, “I hope she isn’t Rubbing her skin until She bleeds. I nagged her To use Fair and Lovely, Or maybe rub it away. Something should work.” 16-year-old me Would have given her soul To be any less brown, For the pigment of skin To lighten just a shade, She rubbed her brown skin Again and again until It burned bright red But it wasn’t quite enough. Never white enough.
17
#feminalmagazine 21-year-old me is fed up with Eurocentric beauty standards That have us desperately digging For the antidote to what we are Forced to believe is a rabid disease When our brown skin is a reminder Of our cultural past ridden with What white people crave to have; Just as they try to mimic our allure, For we are not burdens We are blessings to behold.
Loveleen Saini
18
poetry / the open edition
5 stages of self love The first time they spat venom at you, you were merely 10 as they carelessly pointed out your crooked toothed smile with a disapproving grimace and spoke of your weight in such a grave manner that your tender heart itself began to harden into stone. So, you slowly resent yourself. On the edge of adolescence, they spit razor blade insults about the colour of your skin and then the flesh you always knew as your home became what you could not stand— this is not beauty, this is not ideal, this is not acceptable, and this is not your home but your own personal hell that they fucking created. So, you loathe your skin. On the verge of a legal adult, every glaring flaw they picked at felt like vultures pecking away at your rotting soul, for your dull acne scars, dark skin, revolting body hair, were all the equivalent of being Medusa— hideous to the very core you then punish yourself for not being nearly enough. So, you hate your existence.
19
#feminalmagazine As a young adult, their stinging slander sprinkles salt on open wounds except now you have thicker skin, gorgeous skin, some say and the gentle whispers of a lover highlight your beauty, genuine compliments from strangers weasel into your exhausted aching heart you are still afraid to believe in the syrup sweet flattery when all you’ve known is bitter burning scotch coated derogatory slurs. But, you cautiously adore yourself. Bearing the burden of adulthood came with renewed dignity, for you realized that the cracks within are not broken mirrors of who you are, but rather reflections of those with serpent tongues you will draw claws if another ignorant beast would leave you in searing pain in order to fit their societal perception of pure beauty because you have always fucking been more Than enough, after all: You are an ethereal Goddess Who has graced this Earth, Be sure to obliterate Those who hurt you Without a trace of mercy. This, my darling, is how You learn to love yourself.
Loveleen Saini 20
poetry / the open ediiton
Hidden Star The stars cease to exist only because of the darkness that bears for them to shine; Otherwise they're hidden, bewitched by my naked eye; You were the only one among the many stars I couldn't reach, So I closed my eyes, and waited for night's blanket to cover me in a dream
Heala Maudoodi
21
#feminalmagazine The wait Sometimes I feel like a string of Christmas lights that have been left hanging long after the season has passed. Draped in silent anticipation. Lying in wait for what is to come.
Annie Wilson
22
poetry / the open edition
Mother I am a small girl again my mother is there resting my head on her shoulder she is singing the sound echoes to my ear releasing all tension from my body all fears disappear I am warm I am safe I am loved I am a toddler again playing with grass in a sun-filled garden my mother is there her hair is resting against both shoulders she is kneeling to pull weeds she is humming she smiles at me the sun shines on her youthful face she is my angel protecting me from all harm I am an infant again being rocked gently in a chair on a porch as the sun rests atop verdant hills my mother is there singing a lullaby my eyes drift closed I rest in her warmth her softness her caress Dear Earth, please mother my grown soul caress my skin with wind hum me happy with bird songs smile at me with shine of the sun kiss my face with rain drops bathe my body in ocean waves bring my heart back alive with each sunset and sunrise
Bliss Clairmont
23
#feminalmagazine Company a dove lands on my window sill feathers smooth as milk I give her some grain to eat a raven swoops to her side charcoal coloured eyes he nibbles her grain with his beak angrily I shoo him away the dove departs ever so sensitive I think raven remains as a statue staring hungry I feed him more whatever it's just nice to have some company
Bliss Clairmont 24
poetry / the open edition
My Feminism I may not be marching through the rain to show I'm a feminist my feminism is stooping awkwardly in the rain to buckle my child's car seat I may not be donating to women's causes to show I'm a feminist my feminism is giving half my paycheque to childcare so I can work I may not be advocating on Capitol Hill to show I'm a feminist my feminism is advocating in the corner office for a promotion I am not Cinderella there is no prince my feminism is recognizing we're all only human even men
Bliss Clairmont 25
#feminalmagazine Excerpt from "All These Things" Our connection has been severed. All we do now is crawl on our hands and knees, scrambling to recover the shattered pieces of our once unsinkable love. Tears pour down our cheeks, hitting the very ground we made love on as we try and try and try to continue holding on to an already lost love.
Lauren Elizabeth
26
poetry / the open edition
Whiskey Soaked Dreams The spark of love choking Like your cigarette that faded Leaving an ash crowned hole On the armrest of the couch Where you sleep in the glow Of the muted tv with the latest Motor trends open on your lap Time for a fresh, new start You whispered one morning While holding your stained, Chipped car lover’s mug Like I was the black soot Under your rough fingernails So easily scrubbed away You discard and reuse me Like the crinkled grocery ads Where your muddy boots rest Leaving permanent footprints Loudly mapping the territory Yet I face boyish, silly tantrums Placing wildflowers on the table Our amber-tainted memories Left glowing embers of regret Since you set fire to the photos While drowning your loneliness In golden waves of whiskey Cursing the bed you made The day you let me slip away The sleekly curved, exotic cars In your shop are your true love The beauty of the female figure With an engine that speaks to you Soft music no one else can hear The gears, humming synchronicity Are the sanctuary that calms you 27
#feminalmagazine Yet the desires of a woman’s heart Bewilder and frighten your naïveté like hearing a foreign language It speeds past your sheltered soul Unable to capture the rare gift Of living for someone else You remain in whiskey dreams I love myself too much to stay Closing the door to the lies You never really saw me Just a maid, a seamstress A 24-hour short order cook Who fetches the newspaper Like a loyal and obedient dog You chose to gain “freedom” Your survival time has begun Living off of burnt toast And cheap instant coffee I’ll never return to the facade That we needed each other
Jennifer Schwartz
28
poetry / the open edition
It Flows I was forced into a shell of myself but I learned to make pearls, When I told my parents that I’m a girl who likes girls. I trusted them, but their insides furled And they pushed me back in, Like I shattered their world. “How could she do this?” and “We’ve lost our little girl!” Prayers that were Whispered into pillow cases in the wee Hours of the morning. Questions asked in the dark— hollow questions, no compassion. It’s a phase. Life will be difficult. Are you sure? Make up your mind. Choose. Silenced.
Savannah Lee-Thomas
29
Prick
#feminalmagazine
You are driving around the country in your van like it's something romantic Just passing through You wanna go out west and find some rocks and cacti and shit You told me all about it while we ate burritos and walked back to campus in the Massachusetts snow Why did you tell me that cacti are your favorite plants? You said it jokingly when we were standing close in the steamy greenhouse I touched a cactus like you dared but my hands aren't callous and strong like yours The cactus hurt but not enough to steop me from touching it twice I watched you pet the gentle flowers in the warm, quiet greenhouse until they wilted away from the warmth of your touch —and I let out a nervous sweat that froze and gave me chills on our winter walk back to my dorm room in the heavy snow You held me as we ran up the stairs to my bed—wet, warm, excited But then my fingers and face felt prickly in the cold when you said goodbye at your van This kiss from your beard reminded me of the cactus I jumped when the wind from the slam of your car door slapped me in the face Suddenly this felt like a hit and run And you and your van are still running Somewhere out there amongst the cacti
L. Ausman
30
Mountain Girl
poetry / the open edition
"You're a mountain girl," said a boy who saw me naked once. He saw my drawings of peaks and ridges hanging on the walls behind me and he blurted it out haphazardly He wound his fingers through mine and pressed his meaty muscly body against mine.
To tame the callous wilderness; to claim it as his own. Maybe it was this adventure that drew him here in the first place— it's romantic in a twisted and crooked kind of way. She's untouchable, unconquerable by man, she's new territory, the final frontier, Fierce, but worth the trek.
My breasts and my hips protrude from my body like intimate and complex features of a But even if you manage to get me to warm topographical map. up to you I will send out my revenge in an avalanche of fury, He was right; drowning out your shouts and efforts. my body is angular and weathered and hard but most of all cold as ice. You can pick-axe your way towards me, cling to my side, I might be nice to gaze at from afar—a cut honour my strength and my conditions pretty view from a warm cabin or window—but no part of me is warm or turn back now boys. gentle. Because I am harsher than you think. My harshness sends most packing. They can lay gently in plenty of flowery valleys who welcome them softly. Not like here.
"Yah, I guess I am a mountain girl or something." I shrug and look at the wild, wide-eyed, bearded boy who disappeared into me. And was never seen again.
He looks in my ice blue eyes to find his reflection for some clue his presence can be recognized, but feels only cold winds pushing him farther away. He moves forward. Things move at a glacial pace. It gets lonely on the trail.
L. Ausman
Dark clouds push through and the sun beats down mercilessly as he wanders alone through cliffs and crags trying to understand my geography, to figure out all I am made of 31
#feminalmagazine Mount Saint Helens There was an explosion here. It changed the landscape forever. The view was widened. The old growth patterns forever altered. Something from within had been brooding and stirring for some time. And then it burst out into the world. A big, hot, beautiful and terrifying mess. It soared up into the sky. and shadows and remnants of it floated out into the air circling the globe. It hurt some and it changed a lot. It happened all at once and then again and again in parts My parents told me about the June explosion— It happened while the Grateful Dead played 'Fire on the Mountain' during their Portland show that night. They left the concert that night and the ash had covered the city already. Young lovers caught in the natural disaster. Dancing into the night. The white dust of the aftermath lighting their way. The people felt like it was a sign that she blew during the music. They thought she blew because of the band so they tried to follow them north to Seattle. But she laughed and choked their car engines with her dust. She would never perform because a band of men asked her too. Her rumblings would be on her terms. It really opened up the area.
32
The crater draws thousands, maybe millions of people West to see it — To see what is left of her. She was once so much. She stood so proud and tall. She was so quiet and beautiful. And when she finally let loose and exposed the fire inside her She gave the whole world a show. But now she is a grey crater. Hollowed, empty and on display. She isn't the majestic statue she used to be. But she's there for all to see. Honest. Open. Vulnerable. There is a beauty in her disaster. On that day in May everything changed. There is a void now. But without the void there couldn't ever have been a glow. She will explode again. She is still stirring. Give her time.
L. Ausman
poetry / the open edition
Burnt after steak My mom lays in bed Face to the ceiling "I have poison in me" she says The doctor asks if she has body aches "No just poison. I just have poison in my body" He nods and takes note "I know they will say it is hormonal" she tells me I fidget and listen and wonder why she tells me this. My mom is first my friend, my confidant, my cheerleader And she is second, my mom Sometimes I forget she made me Sometimes I forget our flesh is the same She is not my Sunday brunch date She's responsible for my existence Her poisonous body molded me and spat me out into the world
But the women are sweating and making mental to do lists and their heads can hear only when their bodies aren't talking And vise versa I guess She gets stressed She eats She gains the weight back She is mad she can't fit into the dress She is stuck in the dress Pulling and writhing to get out She almost breaks the zipper She is stuck in the dress She is stuck in her mind too It's The way she should be The way she should look The way the dress should fit The way she used to be The way it used to fit
I always think I am so separate from her though so independent and strong
She used to like dresses She used to like heels She used to like baggy pants too And baseball caps And jean shorts And summer days
But my body is her body And it's full of poison
She doesn't really like any of that now But especially not the dress
She changes her diet She joins hot yoga and some Pilates class t oo with the other women her age with their own poisonous bodies
The style was chosen by her own mother The cut: classic, modern, modest and sexy Everything she's supposed to be Everything I already thought she was
"They will only find peace when they find peace in their minds" the teacher says 33
I can imagine being stuck like her Stuck in the womb Emerging to wear a tiny pink dress
#feminalmagazine
"The blood work is normal ma'am. It's all in your head" he says
I let my sweat stain and seep into the dress Proof my body was there Proof my body was burning
But it isn't she says. It is stuck in her body which is stuck in a dress Her hospital gown of course looks nothing like a dress to me Not until the poison leaked in And my mother became dark and distant She grew grey and green and she decayed into her bed Her body brewed like poison She was no longer my friend and confidant but a sorceress of secrets The fortune teller of my fate Her body the crystal ball The poison is in her like it is in me My mother is my mother My mother is me and I am her And we have the same body and we squeeze through the same dress that was picked out by her mother and her mother's mother And the poison lives in our minds And the yoga and Pilates do no good until we burn the dress or burn our bodies And so we do burn them We burn calories and time To fit into a Sweat factory dress To go to Sweat factory Pilates
I am trying to learn if this is crazy or this is womanhood It's hysterical I've heard, it's hormonal for sure I was in the hall outside her hospital room pacing Checking the time Adjusting my dress
L. Ausman
35
s h o r t s short st
t o r i e s tories
#feminalmagazine
When they sit like this By Alicia Long
Sometimes, when they sit like this, she thinks to herself, I could love him. Sometimes, when they sit like this, she thinks that she could get used to it—that she could be content with a life like this. Yet, when she sits like that, doubt overcomes her. Thought overtakes feeling, and she’s left with nothing but the uncertainty that plagues her. Her eyes become glazed, as they do sometimes. She starts to stroke his hair, as she does sometimes. Everyone I’ve ever loved, I’ve loved because I’ve had to. She thinks back to all the movies, books, and stories she’s seen and read and heard. She thinks of all the advice she got from her parents, the things her professors tell her. She thinks of fireworks. No one prepared me for this. She thinks of the fireworks that don’t blow up; the ones that freeze in the face of what they’ve waited for, the purpose of their whole creation. She thinks of that shitty firework that she always hated—the one that just lights on fire with no explosion—the burning schoolhouse in an empty lot. This can’t be it, she thinks to herself, when they sit like this. It feels like failure. Suddenly she gets up, out of his lap—away from his embrace, and the things she’s supposed to feel. She walks to the kitchen, with disappointment clawing at her insides. He gets up and follows her, and she feels the panic, like paint dripping and pooling until it seeps through the cracks of her consciousness. I can’t handle the talking. Not right now. She turns around and smiles at him, to settle his doubts – to make him happy. She can feel his uncertainty and his need to understand. “Everything alright?” She wants to scream. Her mind is torturing her with all the half-formed thoughts that she doesn’t want to think about. She can feel him there, and she feels responsible. She takes a deep breath. She smiles at him, because that’s all she can give him. “Just getting a snack,” she finally answers. He smiles back and his love shines through, burning her. 38
short stories / the open edition He leaves the kitchen and she exhales. Standing there alone by the sink, she feels the relief in her gut. It spreads outward, it washes over her. She walks to the fridge, busies herself before her thoughts invade her once more. She grabs something and walks back to him. She feels almost good again. “That’s it?” He smiles at her, gestures to her stomach. She freezes. She looks down. “You do love your pickles.” She smiles and offers him the jar. He opens his arms for her instead. She sits again, as they were before. He strokes her hair. She cradles her pickles. “I love it, when we sit like this.” She smiles up at him, and she gives him all that she can.
Alicia Long
39
#feminalmagazine
Her Light Still Dances By Danielle Pike
The only source of light in the otherwise dark and quiet room is coming from the television. The girl watches the picture flicker from light to dim and back again as it reassembles itself and dances across the room, forming geometric shapes on the walls. Pretty, she thinks, while taking notice of her delicate body sinking deeper into the bed, and of her breath ebbing and flowing in sync with the emerging light. She is fourteen. The man beside her, eighteen. With heavy lungs and chapped lips, her only recourse is to lie there still as water and quiet as time, observing deep within her belly that there is a great distance between her limbs and the act of movement. Her mouth opens, creating a small space for air to pass through. It wants to speak to the man beside her, form the word “no� She wants to tell him he is not welcome, but her vocal chords seem to be paralyzed, and her tongue is being devious. Keeping focus proves to be a daunting task. Did I really have that much to drink? She questions herself, unable to distinguish reality from this dream-like state, already feeling shame, guilt and blame immense enough to last a lifetime. Scattered thoughts paint horrific images in her mind. She wonders if they are being reflected onto her face, if he can see them, too. If he can feel the terror emanating off her skin, swelling up beneath the surface, making its way down her cheeks. If he even cares. Blurry, tired eyes wander now. Looking for something tangible to hold onto, they bounce from the ceiling to the TV to the dark space in the open closet as an attempt to avoid seeing the monster above the covers. Eye contact would only make it worse, utters the voice in her head. As he hovers over her, eyes sunken, sweat dripping from his forehead, his mouth whispers the words "fucking kiss me, damn it." She can feel the heat rising off of her cheeks as she tries to drown out the sound of his breath and swallow the brick forming in her throat. She turns her head, he pulls it back. His hands are large and clammy and strong, with a tight grip around her tiny face. The realization that she is defenseless overwhelms and consumes. Her insides cringe and curdle as he puts his lips to hers, over and over again—never asking for permission, always demanding. Her lips never give the attention he seeks, but he's persistent and his forcefulness increases, as if resistance is fueling his fire. A pit in the bottom of her stomach is growing, and tears are forming at the corners of her eyes. Saliva lays atop the surface of her lips, breasts and face. It takes up space on her small body, deciding to live there, sinking in forever. Any attempt to wash it off will be a waste of energy. The memory of his mouth on her body resides there now, in the depths of who she is and what she will become. The girl can feel the weight of the world, and his body, closing in on her now. His heaviness slides closer, as he lowers his hands to the parts of her body that belong to him in this moment. 40
short stories / the open edition Trapped. She's trapped. I'm trapped, thoughts whisper. Muscles defy, anxiety enters, numbness takes hold, panic sinks in. Trapped. I'm trapped, thoughts scream this time. Her legs want to run. Her voice wants to scream. Her hand wants to make a fist, but he has taken control of her fingers—making movements she has been unfamiliar with up to this point—his hand squeezing tightly around hers, her hands squeezing tightly around him. My fingers will break, her inner voice whispers softly as she squeezes her eyes shut with such force they may never open again, unsure if she even wants them to. Her body and identity have suddenly morphed into something else entirely, broken and unrecognizable. She lays there helpless, wondering where her friends are now. She asked herself if they saw him walk up the stairs, but decided they probably don't have a clue. She started wishing for him to be done, wanting to be alone. Moments pass, perhaps a lifetime, and her focus is on the wall again. He makes his way to the door, leaving her to clean up the sheets, and the pieces of herself that have lost the ability to laugh or smile or love. Her body sinks deeper into the bed as her eyes follow the dancing beams of geometric shapes. They look different now. Years in the future, perhaps even tomorrow, she'll tell herself that he didn't know any better. That society raised him to believe he could grab body parts without permission. That he was merely acting upon his primal instincts. That it was her own fault. She'll run her dainty, damaged fingers over the details, memorizing the pages so much so that her thoughts become nightmares, and her nightmares become a confusing reality. Her empty shell will crack open, denial will course through, loving will never be easy. All the while he will swallow the memory, leaving no space in his stomach for regret; leaving no space for sorrow or heartbreak or confusion. All because he can. But here in this moment, where light dances across the walls and the dark spaces of an open closet become comforting, sleep beckons. The girl’s eyes have grown heavy from carrying the weight of this new secret. The pillow beneath her—wet with tears and a shedding of her former self—draws her close, easing her racing thoughts and soothing the pain that has filled the air now. Rest is what her body craves, what it rightfully deserves. There will be plenty of time to think about this tomorrow, the inner voice whispers, and for the rest of your life. As she wraps herself into a gentle hug, knees bent and drawn in tightly, she allows the stillness of night to take her away—and the light keeps dancing.
Danielle Pike 41
r e v i revi
i e w s iews
#feminalmagazine
Crazy Is My Superpower By AJ Mendez Brooks: a review By Kyle Sharp
W
hen pro wrestler AJ Lee, born AJ Mendez Brooks, debuted on WWE screens in May
of 2011, few could have predicted that she’d become the proverbial Mockingjay that would ignite a revolution in women’s wrestling. At 5’2” and a generous 110 pounds soaking wet, Lee was hardly the cookie cutter WWE Diva at a time when women’s wrestlers were known more for their cup sizes than they were their finishing moves. Her natural charisma, superior athleticism and scrappy fighting style that can be best described as a spider monkey on speed, not only made her one of the longest reigning Divas Champions and Pro Wrestling Illustrated’s three-time Woman of the Year, but ushered in a tectonic shift in the way women are portrayed that’s still being felt in professional wrestling today. However, long before she shattered records and glass ceilings, the three-time Women’s Champion would have to face her greatest opponent to date: her mental health. It’s a fight that Lee beautifully chronicles in her memoir, Crazy Is My Superpower, in which she details her rocky road from the New Jersey projects into a world of spandex and suplexes. It’s rare that a memoir grabs you from page one but then again, few contain such arresting and deeply poignant portrayals of what’s it like to grow up in extreme poverty in America while battling the daily roller coaster ride that is mental illness. The youngest of three kids, to say Lee grew up in a dysfunctional household would be putting it mildly. Her parents, who found themselves starting a family during their teen years without the help of their families or high school diplomas, would live like gypsies, constantly packing up and moving around whenever the bills stacked too high. Her father would work odd jobs during the day and her mother would try to keep their family together while secretly struggling with a deep depression. Drug dealers and other deplorables were a regular fixture in their home. Lee estimates her family was evicted about 20 times before her high school graduation, taking to living in places like motel rooms, their car, and a hoarder’s sun room. While all of this sounds like a recipe for melodrama, perhaps Lee’s greatest triumph is that she manages to describe all this without a hint of sensationalism or victimization. The last thing she’s looking for is pity; instead, merely retelling her chaotic upbringing with the same brutal honesty and whip smart humour she utilized in the wrestling promos she’s become famous for. 44
reviews / the open edition When she describes walking into her parents’ bedroom as a child, during a particularly nasty argument, to find her father standing over her mother ready to drop a television set on her, she focuses not on the drama of the harrowing scene but on the three of them moments later, cuddling in bed watching the same TV her father was about crush her mother with—like nothing happened. It’s this strong sense of self and confident voice that elevates Crazy Is My Superpower from a great story, to a truly immersive reading experience. It can be hard for a first time writer to capture their voice in their writing but Lee makes it look easy, every chapter dripping with her patented dark humour and sarcastic quips, making it feel like one long, deeply personal conversation with the wrestling trailblazer. Whether she’s talking about stabbing a drug dealer on Christmas Eve, being slut-shamed by her mother or being diagnosed with bipolar disorder after a drug overdose, Lee always manages to inject moments of levity without betraying the seriousness of the subject matter. Wrestling fans never fear, the “Geek Goddess of the WWE” does touch on her time in the world famous wrestling promotion as well, chronicling her rise from childhood wrestling fan to starting training after being kicked out of NYU and her inevitable career as a threetime Divas Champion. However, by the time she actually gets to signing with the WWE, it almost feels like the cherry on top of an already incredible journey rather than the meat of the story itself. Readers expecting a juicy tell-all, may be left disappointed as Lee leaves out many of the sordid details from her tumultuous uncoupling with the promotion. Her relationship with CM Punk is also largely absent, save for a glowing review of their first kiss—which happened on WWE television prior to their eventual romance. Instead, she focuses on her game-changing career as a women’s wrestler, from being told by producers she’d never succeed because she was “unfuckable” to defeating the entire women’s roster at WrestleMania. To call Crazy Is My Superpower a memoir almost feels like an insult to what Lee has written because it’s so much more than just some vanity project, committing her life story to paper under some misguided idea of immortality. It’s a love story about mental illness. It’s a story about recognizing what’s broken inside of you and prioritizing your health and happiness above all else. Part self-help guide, part inspirational underdog story, part badass TED talk, there’s a lot to be taken away from Lee’s triumphant literary debut, most notably the idea that few obstacles in life are too big to overcome. Maybe if we all followed Lee’s example, crazy could be our superpower, too.
Kyle Sharp 45
FEMINAL
NOSTALGIA
Submissions for Volume 2 are now open. For submission guidelines, visit www.feminalmagazine.com
female friday features @feminalmagazine
@awilson0128 @musings.of.a.she.wolf @jinansafko @cayrayray @mariarene_poetry @bhumikasingh__ @awomanwriting @feralpoetry @earth.my.soul @w0rdv0mit @poemsbyclou @srish_tyagi @sm_soul_speech @wairimu_das_schonste_madchen @samsheartwords
#feminalmagazine
47