CCLaP Weekender: July 25, 2014

CCLaP Weekender

From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

July 25, 2014

New fiction by Rachel Litchman Photography by RobotsOnFilm Chicago literary events calendar July 25, 2014 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce FRIDAY, JULY 25

7pm Corinne Mucha

Quimby's Bookstore / 1854 W. North / Free quimbys.com The author performs from her new graphic novel, Get Over It! 7pm Catherine Fitzpatrick

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The author performs from her new YA novel, Going On Nine.

SATURDAY, JULY 26 6:30pm Brian Benson

City Lit Books / 2523 N. Kedzie / Free citylitbooks.com The author reads from his newest novel, Going Somewhere.

7pm Andrea Rexilius and Eric Baus

Myopic Books / 1564 N. Milwaukee / Free myopicbookstore.com The writers perform as part of the monthly Myopic Poetry Series.

10pm Delphic Open Mic

Delphic Arts Center / 5340 W. Lawrence / $10 facebook.com/delphicarts Music, poetry, comedy, monologues, and more are welcome at this weekly late-night open mic.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar] SUNDAY, JULY 27

12pm Word Weekend

Museum of Contemporary Art / 220 E. Chicago / $12 mcachicago.org A day of celebrations of the written and spoken word, including showcases of authors, hiphop artists, performance poets and songwriters, plus a small-press book fair and a full reading of the Steppenwolf commission "This Is Modern Art" by Idris Goodwin and Kevin Coval.

7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $7, 21+ slampapi.com International birthplace of the poetry slam. Hosted by Marc Smith.

7pm Asylum

Le Fleur de Lis / 301 E. 43rd / $10

lefleurdelischicago.com A weekly poetry showcase with live accompaniment by the band Verzatile.

MONDAY, JULY 28 8:30pm Open Mic

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com Open mic with hosts Chris and Kirill.

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TUESDAY, JULY 29 6:30pm Leesa Cross-Smith

City Lit Books / 2523 N. Kedzie / Free citylitbooks.com The author reads from her debut story collection, Every Kiss a War. Also reading from the book that night will be Megan Stielstra, Ben Tanzer, Paul Luikart, James Yates, and Steve Karas.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 30 9pm In One Ear

Heartland Cafe / 7000 N. Glenwood / $3, 18+ facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

THURSDAY, JULY 31 6:30pm Matthew Gavin Frank

City Lit Books / 2523 N. Kedzie / Free citylitbooks.com The author reads from his new nonfiction book, Preparing the Ghost: An Essay Concerning the Giant Squid and Its First Photographer.

7pm Stoop Style Stories

Rosa's Lounge / 3420 W. Armitage / Free facebook.com/StoopStyleStories A theme-based reading series with no notes or pages, plus an open mic to start things off. Hosted by Lily Be and Badass Clarence Browley.

7pm Edan Lepucki

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The author performs from her post-apocalyptic novel, California.

To submit your own literary event, or to correct the information on anything you see here, please drop us a line at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

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Featuring

Amber Hargroder plus six open-mic features

The CCLaP Showcase A new reading series and open mic

Tuesday, August 26th, 6:30 pm City Lit Books | 2523 N. Kedzie cclapcenter.com/events

To sign up in advance for an open mic slot, write cclapcenter@gmail.com July 25, 2014 | 5

ORIGINAL FICTION

Photo: “Dollhouse and Books,” by Jedediah Laub-Klein [flickr.com/laubklein].

Used under the terms of his Creative Commons license.

THE DOL 6 | CCLaP Weekender

The house rested in the quiet tranquility of early morning that day, with barely a sound save for the occasional shiver of the air-conditioning and the whisper of small, dry feet brushing over the cold, stone surface of the playroom floor.

In the white light of morning, I sat quietly on the cold tile before a white wooden dollhouse given to me for my birthday in years prior. It had five rooms in it: one wide attic, and two floor levels beneath it, each level cleanly divided into two by one monotone-colored wall. Over the course of five laborious days, I’d transformed the house. It had once been a plain, bulky thing, but after hours of hard work, it was now an elegant mansion.

LLHOUSE

BY RACHEL LITCHMAN July 25, 2014 | 7

One of my favorite additions to the house was the rock-climbing wall I’d added onto the exterior. Each tiny rock was made of a mixture of blue, green, and purple modeling clay, and I’d stuck them to the side of the house in a series of tiny abstract forms. The plastic mini figurines that occupied the house could slide their legs into a harness made of paper that, in turn, attached to string belays that dangled from the roof and actually worked.

Several times during the process of its making, I had wanted to go running up to Mommy’s room and bounce up and down on my toes and beg her to come see my ingenious creation. But I never did. I knew better than to do that. I was proud of my work, but I knew Mommy would punish me for it instead of praise my creativity. Those toys aren’t yours. Those toys belong to your brother.

How dare you take his things.

These all too familiar words hung in the air and I bit down anxiously on my lip. Cautiously, I turned around to make sure Mommy was still in her room and thus unable to see me use the dollhouse. For a moment, I let everything in my body go silent, straining my ears for just the slightest of sounds. Any sound could be a warning. Any sound could be Mommy…Mommy opening her door, Mommy pounding down the stairs, Mommy coming to punish me, Mommy coming to tell me I was a selfish little girl for using toys that weren’t mine.

But I heard nothing, and I turned back toward the dollhouse with relief, scooting my body toward it so that I could reach inside. On the first floor, I arranged the bodies of the toy figurines so that they all sat at the dining room table for breakfast. They were going to eat pancakes today, I decided, so I moved the father figurine over to the stove and pretended he was flipping pancakes on the pan made out of tinfoil. When he finished with his first batch, I maneuvered him over to the table so he could dole out one clay pancake to each family member. Then he hobbled back over to the stovetop to boil water for oatmeal. The boiling water was by far my favorite addition: I’d used the caps of miniature glue sticks as bowls and I’d created a mixture of soap and water to make the liquid inside look like it bubbled and boiled with heat.

I’d also created a series of small paper books that the doll people could read, and I moved the little girl figurine over to the bookshelf so that she could choose her favorite one. Each of these books had taken quite some time to make; I’d had to cut printer paper into tiny squares, write tiny words inside, design the cover, and then staple one side to make the book “bound.”

They were all given titles of books I’d read in the past: War Horse, A Wrinkle in Time, Island of the Blue Dolphins, and now that I thought of it, I had just finished reading Number the Stars, and that book certainly needed a spot on the bookshelf as well.

Resolutely, I picked myself up from the cold playroom floor to go make another book, but before I had time to rise completely, a charging figure came barreling toward me, screaming and wailing war cries. I screamed out in shock, and ducked as my brother swung his toy plane over my head.

“Jzzzz,” my little brother cried out wildly, twisting the plane in frantic 8 | CCLaP Weekender

swerving motions, up and down, side to side. “Pew-pew-pew-pew-pew,” he mimicked, pressing a button on the plane to start up a series of blinking red lights and wailing sirens. “Bombs Ahoy!” He cried out joyously, bounding forward, leaping in my direction.

Before I could help it, I suddenly forgot all about being quiet, and my attachment to my tiny world overrode my fear of my mother. Suddenly, I didn’t care if Mommy came down here and told me to let my brother play with his toys; I would not let my work be destroyed again. I would not let Jay touch it this time.

“Stop it!” I cried out to him as he barreled toward me. He didn’t stop though. Desperately, I thrust my hands forward in defense. “Jay, stop it! Stop it!”

He wailed out another war cry, and before I had time to protest against him again, he came plunging into my outstretched hands, the force of his charging body making me stumble backwards, dangerously close to the dollhouse. Frantically, I pushed him off of me, watching as he stumbled dramatically backward and intentionally fell onto his bottom. He stared up at me, nose wrinkled, mouth opened in exaggerated disbelief.

“Jay!” I cried out exasperated, making a desperate gesture with my hands for him to just leave me alone. “Don’t destroy it this time. Please! That’s all I ask!” I tried to shoe him away with hand gestures, but he just sat there stubbornly, a devilish grin crossing his face.

“They’re my toys,” he said knowingly, still sitting defiantly on the ground.

“I get to do whatever I want with them.”

They were not his toys. They were for sharing. “Jay—” I started, attempting to bargain for peace. He didn’t even wait to listen to what I had to say. Before I could finish my sentence, he pushed himself up from the ground and went in a mad retreat toward the staircase.

“Mommy! Mommy!” he shrieked, arms flailing as he ran. “Jenna’s taking my toys! She’s not letting me play with my toys! I want to play with them!

She’s always taking my things!” He leapt up the stairs, frantically heading toward Mommy’s room.

I opened my mouth to tell Jay to stop it, but I knew it was worthless.

Soon, my hard work would turn into a wasteland of broken creativity, and there was nothing I could do about it, nothing I could say to prevent it from happening. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that he could… that he could just destroy things like that. In a matter of seconds, Jay would win and the house would be gone, shattered, bombed by his stupid toy plane. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Just because he was younger than me didn’t mean he should be allowed to rip up my creativity and diminish it into a wasteland of broken shards of wood. Maybe Mommy would finally listen to my reason for once. Maybe she would be so impressed with my hours of tedious work that she would spare the house this time and tell Jay that it wasn’t fair for him to destroy it again.

I heard the sound of footsteps pounding furiously down the stairs, and July 25, 2014 | 9

I didn’t dare turn around. I didn’t want to look at my mother until she came right up to me, her angry breath hot on my face, her narrow eyes fastened upon my own.

“Jenna,” I heard her holler from behind me, her voice bitter and harsh.

Then her footsteps, rapid and angry, came pounding in my direction, and I heard the dancing feet of my eager brother following giddily behind her. Even without looking, I could see the overjoyed expression plastered onto Jay’s face—the expression of his own victory and my sorry defeat.

Mommy approached me, and she stood like a monster over my kneeling frame. There was no one in the world I was more afraid of than my mother, no one in the world who I feared more. I didn’t dare look her in the eyes.

“Look at me, now,” she snapped.

But I did not. I kept my eyes fastened on the ground in a deep squint, making my field of view focus on a mere sliver of tile floor and my mom’s five silky toes. Squinting like that was the only way I knew how to hold in my tears. I knew that if I stared up at her the tears would boil over.

“Look at me,” she said again.

I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I only saw her feet, her toes, the red nail polish beaming back at me, smiling at me, laughing at me, screaming. I bit down hard on my lip. I would not let Mommy win this time. I would be strong. I would not let her words work through me.

“I told you to look at me. Now look at me NOW!” she screeched. She threw her finger forward in accusation.

Obediently, my head snapped up in fear, but my eyes stayed fastened in a defensive gaze, squinted into a narrow glare in order to keep the tears in.

“Oh,” she hissed bitterly, her voice a hoarse croak of angry laughter. The hideous lines of anger in her forehead deepened into dark black lines and her eyes narrowed. Her lips trembled and hollow cheeks sucked inward. My hatred for her worked into me like the slithering of a snake. There was no one in the world I hated more than my mother at that moment. “Oh no you didn’t,” she trembled again. “How dare you. How dare you look at me like that.”

How dare I. How dare I. How dare I do what? All I was doing was trying to keep myself from crying. All I was doing was fighting back the tears that she had caused. How dare I. How dare I cry. How dare I do anything but be the perfect little girl she wanted; the perfect little girl who had no rights to anything in this family; the perfect little girl who was supposed to live her life in this house as an invisible shadow while her brother grew and thrived into a being of full depth and color. How dare I. How dare I be me. How dare I do the things that made me the person I was.

I stared up at Mommy and bit back my fear of her, forcing words out of my lips. “I worked hard on it. Jay will destroy it,” I croaked weakly, my fists in tight balls. Unable to help myself, I took a sideways glance at the house I had constructed. “I spent…hours,” I finally said, my voice turning softer.

Behind Mommy, Jay grimaced. He bounced on the balls of his feet, 10 | CCLaP Weekender

madly shaking his toy plane around and imitating its noises. It was as if he were trying to cheer Mommy on, evoke more of her yelling and screaming.

Eventually, he squatted down low to the ground and stuck his tongue out at me, smirking. I’d had enough.

“Just quit it, okay,” I cried out at him, tears threatening to roar out of my eyes. “Just stop already!”

Mommy’s eyes grew wide with anger. She shook her head in disbelief. She trembled with rage. “Oh no you didn’t,” she hissed at me. “You did not just tell your brother that.” Her figure quavered, and her face grew red with anger—an anger etched so deep inside of her that I feared it would dig its sharp edges into her heart, puncture the fragile surface of tissue, make it burst in a single grand explosion, like a balloon; turn it into something tangible.

It would become something that I could feel on my own body, something painful, something biting, something harsh.

Instinctually, I backed away.

She rarely touched me, but her anger was enough to make me afraid that she would, and without even realizing it, I had backed into the playroom table.

She continued to move forward.

I started to cry. In the background, I heard Jay laughing and zipping his plane around, heard the sound of him running, crashing into walls, creating—no, destroying—a world of his own…so far away from reality, so far away from the present.

“You…” Mommy hissed, stepping toward me. My heart pounded frantically in my chest. Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, I begged inside.

Desperately, I looked behind me for somewhere to go, somewhere to escape.

The only option, it seemed, was under the table… So I shrunk onto my knees and crawled beneath it, pushing my back against the side farthest away from Mommy’s reach.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Why are you under the table?!

“Look at me,” she said again. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t. I only saw her feet, her toes, the red nail polish beaming back at me, smiling at me, laughing at me, screaming. I bit down hard on my lip. I would not let Mommy win this time. I would be strong. I would not let her words work through me.

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What are you doing down there?! Get up! GET UP THIS INSTANT!” She roared. My heart leapt with fear. In an instant, I was out from under the table, standing before her, paralyzed, willing to succumb to whatever punishment she pleased. She pointed at me angrily, and then she swept her hand madly in the direction of my room. “Room. Now,” she commanded with narrow eyes, her authoritative words stifling the small defiance inside of me. Immediately, I obeyed her, dashing to the basement, tripping down the stairs, falling onto the carpeted floor.

I shut the door and waited in silence. Silence. But I knew full well that the silence never lasted forever, that in a matter of minutes, Mommy would come through the door, Mommy would accuse me, Mommy would dig her words into me until they buried deep into my heart and changed me, made me the child she wanted me to be.

The door opened. I closed my eyes and didn’t dare look at the women I knew was entering. Just by the sound of her footsteps, the rhythm in which she walked, the silent way that she glided into a room, I could tell it was her.

My mother. Mom. Mommy.

“I’m waiting,” Mommy said coldly, standing in front of my immobile body, “For you to say something.”

“Say what?”

“Look at me, Jenna,” She commanded.

“Why?” I said through gritted teeth.

“Because I need your apology to be sincere.”

“Apologize!” I wheeled. “For what? What did I do?!” I cried out, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Jenna,” she growled lowly, “You were rude to your brother, and you know it. You acted selfishly, and then—” she snorted, “and then you told him to quit it. That’s rude, Jenna. Those are his toys. You were selfish by not letting him play.”

I stared at her, my tongue dry with disbelief. My mom pointed at my face and a broad grin spread across her own countenance. She hollered with laughter. I stared at her, frozen, unable to alter the look of horror painted over my expression.

“Just look at you,” she laughed. “You should see your face.” Determination crumbled inside of me, but somehow, my expression stayed firm. Mommy roared with laughter, gleefully slapping her hand on the countertop beside me.

I flinched as she did this, and before I could help it, words escaped my lips.

“Stop,” I said hoarsely. “Just stop.”

She froze suddenly, and her eyes narrowed. “Stop. Stop what? Stop touching your things?” She laughed.

I opened my mouth to say something back to her, but nothing escaped my lips, and she hollered wildly with laughter before I could will myself to speak more.

“Well, guess what, I CAN TOUCH ANYTHING I WANT!” she laughed merrily.

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“What?” I breathed quietly, confused, bewildered. “Wha—” Wildly, she swung her arms around the room. “Look at me!” she cried out, angrily slapping her hand on my desk. “Touch,” she hissed. I took a step backward. She banged on a stack of books. “Touch,” she continued. My pride crumbled inside. She kicked at my furniture. “Touch,” she said with a glare. I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from crying. “Touch!” she wailed again, her hand furiously banging something more. She angrily circuited around the room, slamming at just about everything she could get her hands on, and when she finished with the circuit, she came right in front of me and smirked.

I stared at her, unblinking, a mask of deadness overwhelming my face. I would show no emotion. I would not show my hatred, my fear, my sorrow.

She stood before me, her arms crossed. Then she raised her finger and brought it up to my forehead. I never flinched. I didn’t dare. “Touch,” she leered, pressing her hot finger firmly down onto my flesh. I didn’t breathe.

“Touch,” she laughed, lifting the same finger from my forehead and pressing it down onto my nose. I kept my eyes wide open. “Touch,” she sneered. I closed my eyes. My body moved. My feet stumbled backward. My heart shattered.

My mind swam. Touch. Touch. Touch. The word wove through my head, my body, my soul. It became a part of me, inside of me, a rhythm that I followed, swayed to, obeyed. Touch. Touch. Touch. I was a machine suddenly, a monster, a plaything. A child’s toy: malleable. Bendable. Breakable. Then broken.

Hours later, I rested deadly in my room, my arms and legs spread eagle on my bed, my back tense and stiff against the mattress below me, rigid like that of a toy. Maybe I was meant to be a toy, meant to be destroyed and controlled by something—someone—all powerful. And unless that someone came and plucked me right off of my bed and moved me upstairs, perhaps I would never move. Perhaps I would die here, rot in this bed, lie here forever, unable to do anything on my own. But where was my controller now? Where was Mommy? Where was she to reach her hand down into my bedroom and sit me down in front of the bookshelf ? Where was she to carefully make my body bend to fit into the chair at the dining room table? Where was she to control my traits, my words, my being itself ? Nowhere. Gone. She had had her share of the fun, and then she’d left to go tend to her own life. And she’d then forgotten about me.

I sat up in bed, disgusted by the thoughts, and swung my feet onto the floor. I felt like a puppet as I walked out of my room, as if there were strings from above controlling my every move. Mechanically, I ascended the stairs.

When I reached the top of them, I walked straight ahead to the playroom and stopped abruptly, like a machine, in front of the cold stone floor where my mother’s silky feet and polished red toes had stood only hours before.

I stared blankly, my face only capable of expressing a single, vacant emotion. In front of me, there sprawled the sad remains of a wooden world shattered to pieces. The inside of the house was demolished, the furniture July 25, 2014 | 13

scattered, the rock-climbing wall dismembered. I stumbled over to the house and picked up one of the broken pieces, attempting to reconstruct the mess.

But then I stopped myself. It wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter what I did to fix it because it would just be destroyed again before I could ever finish, be broken down before I could build it up, be a victim of my brother before it could ever become a toy of my own.

I spotted the small toy plane with its wide wings sprawled across the dollhouse dining room. Its red lights blinked feebly in the silence of broken life, and beneath its metal nose, the father figurine lay sprawled out upon the wooden floor, his two arms and legs reaching mechanically upward with toylike rigidity.

I bent down onto my hands and knees and reached forward to prop the hollow plastic body back up onto its feet, but before my hand could reach it, my eyes met the expression on the toy’s plastic face. I stared down at the halfmoon smile that tainted the smooth, faux surface of the tan flesh. I cried as I looked right into the false plastic grin that could never be broken. C

Rachel Litchman is a freshman in high school from the New Trier Township district near Chicago, Illinois. She currently attends a boarding school in New Hampshire where she continues to write and pursue her dream to be an author. Before she graduates high school, Rachel hopes to get her writing out into the world for others to read and take to heart.

As of now, she is working very hard looking for places to have her memoir published.

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Robots On Film

Panayot Savov Sabina Yordanova

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE July 25, 2014 | 15

Location: Sofia, Bulgaria We shoot on film (35 mm and medium but not large format) or directly on paper. Cameras are equipped with pinholes, most of them are handmade.

Sometimes the pinholes are laser drilled, in that case we buy them over the eBay. We also use a Noon Pinhole 6/6 camera from Poland, it is really great. In future we would like to experiment more in the curved projection, with anamorphic approach, focusing in that field is kind of magical. We do solargraphies as well, but they take a lot more time.

Speaking for myself [Panayot], I believe pinhole photography is a great tool to externalize ideas with the means of long exposures. I don’t like people on my photos, they make everything so ordinary in a way, and long exposures really erase their presence.

It’s like being in The Zone from Tarkovsky’s Stalker.

You are alone, space itself is alive. It all becomes a magical dreamland.

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robotsonfilm.com

flickr.com/robotsonfilm

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CCLaP Publishing

An official painter for the Lithuanian Communist Party, Martynas Kudirka enjoys a pleasant, unremarkable life with a beautiful wife and all the privileges that come with being a party member. Yet in the summer of 1989, his ordinary world suddenly turns upside down. Political revolt is breaking out across Eastern Europe, and Martynas comes home to find his wife dead on the kitchen floor with a knife in her back. Realizing the police will not investigate, he sets out to find his wife’s killer. Instead, he stumbles upon her secret life. Martynas finds himself drawn into the middle of an independence movement, on a quest to find confidential documents that could free a nation. Cold War betrayals echo down through the years as author Bronwyn Mauldin takes the reader along a modern-day path of discovery to find out Martynas’ true identity. Fans of historical fiction will travel back in time to 1989, the Baltic Way protest and Lithuania’s “singing revolution,” experiencing a nation’s determination for freedom and how far they would fight to regain it.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/lovesongs

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The CCLaP Weekender is published in electronic form only, every Friday for free download at the CCLaP website [cclapcenter.com]. Copyright 2014, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editorin-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Allegra Pusateri. Layout Editor: Wyatt Roediger-Robinette. Calendar Editors: Anna Thiakos and Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

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