CCLaP Weekender, September 9th 2015

CCLaP Weekender

From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

September 4, 2015

New Fiction by Joseph G. Peterson Photography by Natalia Shlyakhovaya Chicago Literary Events Calendar September 4, 2015 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5 3pm Paper Machete

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / Free, 21+ thepapermacheteshow.com A “live magazine” covering pop culture, current events, and American manners—part spoken-word show, part vaudeville review—featuring comedians, journalists, storytellers, and musical guests. Hosted by Christopher Piatt.

8pm Blackout Diaries

High Hat Club / 1920 East Irving Park / $10, 21+ blackoutdiaries.info A comedy show about drinking stories, a “critic’s pick” at Red Eye, MetroMix, and Time Out Chicago. Comedians share the mic with “regular” people, such as cops, firefighters, and teachers, all recounting real-life tales about getting wasted. Hosted by Sean Flannery.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6 10am

Sunday Morning Stories Donny's Skybox Studio Theatre / 1608 North Wells / Free We performers are pre-booked. We feature novice as well as seasoned storytellers. On or off paper.

7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $6, 21+ greenmilljazz.com Featuring open mike, special guests, and end-of-the-night competition.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar]

7pm Asylum

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

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

7:30pm Truth or Lie

Firecats Projects / 2124 N. Damen / Free Five to six storytellers spinning true or fictive tales and leaving the audience to wonder, truth or lie? Hosted by Sarah Terez Rosenblum.

7:30pm Here, Chicago

Stage 773 / 1225 W. Belmont / $8 or Dish to Share, 13+ herechicago.org The potluck reading series. Formerly Here’s the Story, each installment starts with dinner at 7:30pm, then continues with readings at 8pm—five featured storytellers and five sign-up storytellers. No pages, no stage, just “the kind of old-timey storytelling that is practiced under porch-lights and on street corners by people who have a truth to tell, whether through fact or fiction.” Everyone is encouraged, but not required, to bring a dish for the potluck. Hosted by Janna Sobel.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 7 7:30pm Litmash

Haymarket Pub & Brewery / 737 W. Randolph / $8, 21+ chicagoslamworks.com/litmash

Combining poetry slam, story slam, and live lit, Chicago Slam

Works brings together the city’s “literary elite” for a battle unlike

any other.

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8:30pm Kafein Espresso Bar

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

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9 6pm Lyricist Loft

Harold Washington Library / 400 S. State / Free youmediachicago.org “Open mic for open minds,� presented by Remix Spoken Word.

Hosted by Dimi D, Mr. Diversity, and Fatimah.

9pm

In One Ear Heartland Cafe / 7000 N Glenwood https://www.facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear/210844945622380

Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

10pm

Elizabeth's Crazy Little Thing Phyllis' Musical Inn / 1800 W. Division An open mike for poetry, music, comedy, performance, and whatever else.

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

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CCLaP Publishing

A darkly surreal yet absurdly funny short-fiction writer, Matt Rowan has been a Chicago local secret for years; but now this latest collection of pieces, all of which originally appeared in the pages of the CCLaP Weekender in 2014 and ‘15, is set to garner him the national recognition his stories deserve, a Millennial George Saunders who is one of the most popular authors in the city’s notorious late-night literary performance community. Shocking? Thought-provoking? Strangely humorous? Uncomfortable yet insightful on a regular basis?

YES PLEASE.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/bigvenerable

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A natural bog is the designated water trap of the thirteenth hole at British Hills Country Club in Wheeling, Illinois.

It’s a deep, mysterious body of water, and besides a few thousand golf balls that disappear annually in its muddy depths, nobody quite knows what the bog contains.

Perhaps the bodies of dead golfers who’ve been known to disappear around these parts. Perhaps even something tantamount to the Loch Ness Monster.

GOLFER 6 | CCLaP Weekender

ORIGINAL FICTION

“A_Carrot_for_every_Peripheral” by Tim Suess [flickr.com/lord_yo]. Used under the terms of her Creative Commons license.

R'S BOG

BY JOSEPH G. PETERSON September 4, 2015 | 7

In any event, this bog, also known as Golfer’s Bog, is something of a tourist trap. It’s a golfer’s trap too, of course, which is part of the reason that hole thirteen is a par six, but every now and then you can see people—visitors to the country club who have no interest in golf whatsoever—standing on the muddy banks of the bog, peering into its murky depths. They like to stand there and watch the huge, mammoth-sized resident carp roil to the surface in the afternoon sun, their small mouths making sucking sounds until evening, when they sink back down to the fathomless depths like old rotted logs.

These carp, it’s alleged, can swallow whole children, but they prefer the wayward golf balls that arrive daily from the sky. There are also mosquitoes and gnats and biting flies, and these pests keep the tourists busy slapping themselves. I know, because I live in the bottom of that bog, or rather, I reside with the rest of the decaying muck way down deep, in the dark, dark bog. I’m no longer alive though. This is the story about how I died several years ago.

Back then, I remember hearing the bog referred to by country club members as the “G-Spot.” I remember, too, that the country club itself was in dilapidated condition, due not, as I was told by various club members, to a lack of funds, but rather to a misappropriation of those funds. I remember how entrenched Jack Taylor, the president of the country club, was back then.

He’d held his office for nearly a quarter of a century, and according to some, would probably hold it until either he literally bankrupted the club or just plain died. I’d often see him in the locker room, half-naked, or in the sauna, completely naked. He never seemed to notice me, or if he did, he never let on that he did. I was just small fry to him. I was an insect, a mosquito. I was too petty for him to consider and I was glad for it, because if the truth be told, he scared the daylights out of me.

He was usually surrounded by a small group of influential friends. Two men in particular may as well have been permanently attached to him: Ed Rodgers and Burt Jones. Ed Rodgers was noted for not only for openly carrying a gun—a nickel-plated .38 Special snubnose—but also for the fact that, as rich as he was, he remained a chronic bachelor. This didn’t draw suspicion in the locker room so much as curiosity. But when he spoke on something like his golf game or tried to carry off a joke, he grew so stiff and self-conscious that his bachelorhood, or at least the reasons for it, became selfevident.

Burt Jones, on the other hand, was a natural force, and like all natural forces, he was something to fear, to stand in awe of, and in a small way, to envy.

I’d see him in the country club dining room, cutting into steaks, mopping his face with a napkin, laughing absurdly like a hyena, and I couldn’t help but imagine the day when it was me underneath his knife and fork.

Each evening after the locker room emptied out, Taylor, Rodgers, and 8 | CCLaP Weekender

Jones would meet in the shower or the sauna to discuss misplaced funds, large investments, and meetings taking place here or there. Occasionally, a club member’s name would be mentioned in anger. Then there’d be long, conspiratorial silences, broken only by more talk of money, women, and golf.

I’d been caught more than once listening in on these locker room conferences.

Frowning, Jack Taylor would tell me to get lost.

“Get out of here kid and don’t come back,” he’d scream, his voice booming in the steamy locker room. I’d flee the country club as fast as I could, worried that Burt Jones would grab and molest me or that Rodgers, at Jack Taylor’s command, would shoot me with that .38 Special.

I was a caddie then. I’d been a caddie for nearly two years. Actually, I was a pretty good caddie, or so I was told. More than anything, I was reliable—that is, I knew how to do two very basic caddie things well: 1) I knew how to drive and park the golf cart so it never became an issue, and 2) I knew how to mix drinks. At the time, I was too young to legally mix drinks, but the country club, like all country clubs, wasn’t part of this world. It was its own makebelieve kingdom and quite a bit of effort had been put into maintaining this illusion. From the hills of British Hills that had been bulldozed by landscape artists to the club house modeled on a Louisiana-style plantation home and built entirely from antebellum bricks, not a detail was missing.

The club had its own rules and regulations, its internal politics and committees, and even its own holidays. It also had its twelve-year-old caddies who mixed drinks: Harvey Wallbangers, whiskey sours, martinis, and gin gimlets were the call of the day. I knew how to mix them and I mixed them well. I had a talent, an instinct for booze. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a talent for staying out of trouble.

“Get over here kid,” I heard Jack Taylor say. The three men had been alone in the shower for nearly half an hour when Jack Taylor stepped unexpectedly into the locker room and caught me again, listening in on them.

“Well, boy,” he said, dripping wet. “What are we going to do about this snooping around problem you seem to have?”

Rodgers and Burt Jones quickly flanked him. All three men were naked, pink, and slick as seals, and I was caught. They were above embarrassment, but I was not. I stood shocked by their fat, naked bodies and I worried what they might do to me.

“Well,” Jack Taylor asked. “Do you have an answer for me or do I have to wrangle one out of you?”

The word ‘wrangle’ sent Burt Jones into a fit of laughter. The world, or at least the world comprised of these six rows of red-painted lockers and the dozen wood-worn benches smelling of Bengay, came to a halt. Ed Rodgers, Jack Taylor, and I turned and watched in astonishment as Burt Jones shook September 4, 2015 | 9

uncontrollably. There was something fundamentally shocking about his laughter. It reverberated at such a low register that it didn’t seem capable of expressing any emotion other than a sort of hellish distaste for things. When it subsided, the three men turned to face me. I think they were as intent as I was scared. It was like a standoff in the wild west. I found a towel lying on the floor, picked it up, and tried to hide behind it.

“That’s my towel, Adam,” Jack Taylor said. “Why don’t you give it back?”

I was so terrified that I couldn’t let go. He reached out and snatched it from me, then he dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Well,” he said when he was through.

“I was just mopping up, sir,” I said as calmly as my fear would let me.

“He was just mopping up, sir,” I heard Rodgers say mockingly under his breadth.

“If he was just mopping up like he said he was, then let him go,” Burt Jones said. “Otherwise, let’s kill him and be done with it.”

“All right, kid,” Jack Taylor said. “Go ahead, get out of here.”

I stood transfixed and couldn’t take my eyes from Rodgers and Jones who, naked as shaved lambs and veiled in the hot steam of the showers, stood smirking at me. Finally, Jack Taylor pursed his lips, and quite matter-of-factly, said, “You are dismissed.”

The word ‘dismissed’ shot through me like a bullet cutting through soft-tissue. It occurred to me then and there that they might come after me, and if they came after me, they might even try to kill me. I don’t know why I thought they might kill me, but I sensed distinctly that they might. And if they did kill me, that meant I had only a few moments of life left in my twelve-year-old existence. I let the doors of the country club slam behind me and I ran home in blind fear, as fast as I could. I began to see my future cast into a series of negatives: no more joy, no more motherly love, no more happiness, nor life, nor nothing. I ran past some friends of mine who were playing ball in the street. They got to play ball, but I was running for my life. It made me sad to know that soon, very soon, these ball playing sounds sent riding upon the air by children just like me might, at any moment, cease to be sounds to me.

Then I started to wonder about Jack Taylor. Was he going to shoot me, stab me, strangle me, suffocate me, burn me, or beat me for doing nothing more than overhearing things that I, a twelve-year-old boy, couldn’t possibly use against him?

I let the doors of the country club slam behind me and I ran home in blind fear, as fast as I could.

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I was running fast when a long, black ‘69 Cadillac limo with a big hood ornament caught up with me. I was only three blocks from home.

“Hey, kid,” Jack Taylor said, pulling upside of me. “How about letting us drive you home?”

“How about it, li’l fella?” Burt Jones said from the back seat of the limo.

“We know where you live.”

“It’s only three blocks,” I said.

“Hey, kid,” Rodgers said. “Come on in the car. Bet you ain’t never been in a car like this one before.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But—.”

“Listen, Adam,” Jack Taylor said. “You don’t have to be scared of us. We ain’t goin’ to bite you.”

“Heck,” Burt Jones said. “Why don’t you show those boys back there what a big shot you are and hop in?”

He opened the back door and I felt the heat from the interior of the car rush out and grab hold of me like an old, comfortable embrace filled with threat. Without saying another word, I turned and ran. To my surprise, they didn’t come chasing after me. Instead, the three men let me run, keeping me in the glare of their headlight beams, watching while I bounded away like a scared rabbit. As I was making my escape, I heard a noise—the noise of my own doom. It was the low reverb of the old Cadillac muffler. I turned to see what sort of hellhound they sent panting after me, breathing down my neck.

It was the last thing I ever saw, the grill-work of that ‘69 Limo. My very last vision was of that gold Cadillac hood ornament, blazing like a torch and thrusting ahead into a future I would no longer take part in. I saw the limo disappear, its red taillights fading to black as I got crunched beneath the wheels and was left lying for dead with a broken skull.

When it was all over, I remember thinking, I don’t know, it just seems like I shouldn’t have been so easy to kill.

Against the white light, I saw the silhouette of my mom in the doorway of our house calling my name.

“Adam! Adam!” I heard her call. She called without knowing that her baby boy had just been killed.

It pained me to think of her calling my name like that while not knowing the true and unhappy fate of her son. It pained me, too, that I no longer belonged to my mom, to myself, or to anyone else for that matter. Now I was just a corpse.

The three strange men jumped out of the car, picked me up, and cussing about all the blood, threw me in the trunk of the limo.

“How am I going to get this blood out of here?” Jack Taylor screamed.

“Bleach,” Burt Jones blurted.

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“Bleach,” Jack Taylor repeated. “This is the last goddamned time we’re going to do something stupid like this, do you hear?”

They slammed the trunk shut, got back in the car, and turned the car around to go back to the country club. We drove past my friends who were hanging out beneath a streetlight, talking about God-knows-what but probably girls and baseball. Unlike them, I was dead, a corpse, bleeding into the trunk of the limo, but they were still very much alive.

“Nice car!” somebody yelled out.

“Damn,” my friend, Steve, said. “How’d you like a ride in a car like that?”

“The rich fucking bastards!”

On the way back, I remember stopping at least once at a liquor store or service station. The car doors opened, then slammed shut. The heels of the men smacked the pavement. I heard Burt Jones crack a joke, and the other two laughed. Then the sounds of the men disappeared for a while as they stepped into the store. The sort of small talk they enjoyed outside the car seemed to confirm to me that they’d most certainly done this kind of thing before. They were expert killers. A while later, there was the sound of their voices again and the trunk opened. A bag of ice was tossed next to me. Burt Jones took out a baseball bat that he had in the trunk and clubbed me for good measure. He slammed the trunk shut, and we drove off. There I lie for quite some time. The bag of ice melted, and I grew cold, colder than ice.

When we pulled up to the golf course, the full, yellow moon was just above the horizon. The three men were drunk and stumbling. They struggled to pull me out of the trunk. My foot got caught on something, and they dropped me to the ground.

“He’s so goddamned dead,” Jack Taylor said. “He’s stiff.”

They picked me up, and with their feet shuffling on the asphalt, they carried me to one of their golf carts. They sat me up in the front passenger’s seat, folded my hands across my lap, and put a golf cap on my head, trying to make it fit on my broken skull. Rodgers went back to the car and grabbed the bag of ice, but it had already been completely melted.

“He’s stiff,” Rodgers said. “Because we had him on ice.”

Jack Taylor and Burt Jones laughed.

“Just bring the schnapps, would you? And let’s get going.” That’s when they started talking to me as if I were still alive.

“You comfortable?” Jack Taylor asked, sitting down next to me in the driver’s seat. “Give him a glass, would you, Rodgers?”

Rodgers opened my hand, which was starting to clench up in rigor mortis, and placed a glass there. Then Burt Jones came over, carrying a burlap bag, a stone, and the baseball bat.

“Move over, fellas,” he said. “Let me try something here. Yoo-hoo!”

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He swung the baseball bat with terrific force and clobbered me in the jaw so hard that fluid and chunks of my brain matter flew off into the green.

“You’re not still alive, little fella, are you?” He clobbered me again for good measure, sending me tumbling out of the cart.

“He forgot to wear his seat belt.” Burt Jones laughed. “Here, help me pick him up.”

Rodgers came to help. “Jesus, he’s heavy.”

“That’s cause he’s dead,” Burt Jones said. “I thought you said you’ve done this kind of thing before.”

They put me back in the golf cart, sat me up straight, placed the glass back in my hand, and delicately put the golf cap back on my broken head.

Then Burt Jones jumped in, and we were off, the other two trailing behind us in their golf cart, moving fast towards the thirteenth hole.

As we tooled up and down the fairways, the men became festive. They passed the bottle of peppermint schnapps and cracked jokes. Burt Jones, who seemed to sense in that remote, reptilian brain of his the uncomfortable situation that I was in, raised the bottle of schnapps on my behalf and toasted me.

“To Adam,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.

“To Adam,” the others said, passing the bottle around.

“Deader’n poop, but he’s reliable!”

“That reminds me. I’ll take a gin gimlet.”

“Hey, kid. Make mine a Harvey Wallbanger!”

When we came to the water bog, Jack Taylor pulled over.

“Fellas,” he said, turning to Rodgers and Burt Jones. “Whatd’ya say we go down to the bog and throw the boy in?”

“Whatd’ya say,” Rodgers said.

“Sound like a good idea to you?” Jack Taylor said, laughing like a child.

“It’s either that, or throw him in a ditch somewhere,” Burt Jones said.

“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s go check it out.”

I watched the three men pull me out of the golf cart and force my body into the burlap sack, which soaked up my blood. Jack Taylor and Rodgers folded me up. Burt Jones snapped my back, breaking it, and pushed me until I was completely in the sack.

They threw the stone in for good measure and cinched up the sack real nice so it wouldn’t open, not until the end of time. Then they carried me to the banks of that foul-smelling, fly-infested bog. I suddenly remembered every rumor and fact that I heard about it and I didn’t forget that it was the trap of the thirteenth hole. Then I hoped, in one brief act of wishing, that both rumor and fact would come alive and lash out at those three men—that every hell-sent nightmare that I ever had about that six-acre body of water September 4, 2015 | 13

would rise from the mud and gobble them up. But when I saw the drunken men stumbling around in the moonlight, when I came to see these fat, drunk, ungainly men for what they were, when I saw, most particularly, Jack Taylor, who probably pushed the scales to 350 lbs plus, waddle down to the smelly bog bank, I grew dejected, for then I realized that he, drunken he, he and his two other friends, was the nightmare, they were the monsters—they were the gobblers and would probably always be the gobblers, whereas people like me, young dead me, with or without an instinct for self-preservation, would almost always probably be the gobbled.

“These flies,” I heard Rodgers say, swatting a swarm of flies that rose up like an armed battalion, attacking him at the flanks. At that point, they set me down, and from the edge of the bog, I watched the three men meet the muck—which like some strange progenitor, seemed to have been the one that gave birth to them. It was almost a homecoming for Jack Taylor. There was nothing timid nor uncomfortable about the way he approached it. He quite simply jumped right into the soft, smelly mud.

Rodgers followed, albeit a little more gingerly. When he stepped into the mud, I heard some shrill complaint about how this was going to ruin his golf cleats. Then I heard Burt Jones say, “I’ll buy you another pair if we survive this.”

Then everybody started laughing.

Burt Jones was the last to go in. He threw the burlap bag over his shoulders, and with me riding on his back, attempted to step into the bog. I think he was a little scared of the quicksand mud, intimidated by the mosquitoes that swarmed him. In the end, however, he must have been drunk enough to ignore all this, for after a little urging from Jack Taylor, the President of British Hills Country Club, he too waddled ankle-deep into the mud.

“All right, give me a little room, fellas,” Burt Jones said, swinging the sack with me in it off his shoulders. “Now, let’s see how far I can throw him. I used to be a shot-putter, you know. Now, how to do this, Burt. Put one hand here, like this. Put the other hand here, like this. All right, I’m ready. Now on the count of three, fellas. One, two—.”

Almost in slow motion, Burt Jones swung me like a pendulum: once, twice, and with an inarticulate cry, he hurled my dead body into the moonlit sky. I seemed to have flown quite a distance. I flew through the dark and beautiful starry sky and landed with a proverbial splash, where I was, at once, swallowed up by the dark and gloomy bog.

“Hole in one,” fat Burt cried, seeing me splash in the distance.

“Jesus,” Jack Taylor said, scratching a bug bite just beneath his eye. “Looks like you clobbered that thing with your driver.”

“Hey, fellas,” Rodgers yelled as I bubbled deep down into the bottom of 14 | CCLaP Weekender

the swamp. “How long we goin’ to stay in this fly-infested pit?”

“Til were sure he’s sunk,” Jack Taylor said, itching his scalp where a horsefly was trying to nestle.

“He’s worried about the Loch Ness Monster,” Burt Jones said, swatting biting flies from the back of his neck.

“I’m worried about malaria,” Rodgers screamed, itching and scratching.

“Malaria?” Jack said. “How are we goin’ to get that?”

“From these mosquitoes.”

Burt Jones started shaking and scratching like he was having a fit.

“All right, fellas,” he said. “The kid’s sunk. I’m ready to go.”

“You think he’s sunk?” Jack Taylor asked.

“He’s sunk,” Rodgers said. “Now let’s go before we get malaria. I got vacation next week.”

The three men pulled themselves from the quicksand mud and stomped their feet on the grass of the golf green. I heard a little grunting and groaning, a little laughing, then the quiet hum of the golf carts as the three men drove slowly away, towards their homes, their wives, their futures.

I spent the rest of the evening sinking into the fathomless depths of British Hills’ by-now-famous thirteenth-hole trap. I sank like a sacrifice, atoning for sins I didn’t know I had. I sank into the zone of the forever dead, and there I lie, with one eye open, looking for you as you peer into the depths of Golfer’s Bog, looking for me. C

Joseph G. Peterson is the author the short story collection, Twilight of the Idiots, and three novels, Beautiful Piece, Wanted: Elevator Man, Gideon’s Confession and of the epic poem, Inside the Whale. He went to the University of Chicago where he received his BA in General Studies. He works in publishing and lives in Chicago with his wife and two daughters.

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CCLaP Publishing

Paul McCartney is not a celebrity himself, but works on the edges of that industry, unhappily toiling away at a tabloid devoted to famous deaths and the public’s ongoing fascination with them. But one day he discovers a mysterious red button on a back wall of his new house, which when pressed causes the immediate death of a celebrity sometimes half a world away. And what does this have to do with the eyeball in a glass jar that his biggest fan has recently mailed to him?

Find out the darkly hilarious answer in this full-length debut of British absurdist author Stephen Moles. A rousingly bizarro exploration of fame, identity and mortality, this novella will make you laugh and cringe in equal measure, a perfect read for existing fans of Will Self or Chuck Palahniuk. You might not think a book about death would begin with the word “life” written 27 times in a row, but then you have yet to enter the strange but compelling world of Paul is Dead. Best approached with caution and with tongue firmly in cheek!

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/paulisdead

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Natalia Shlyakhovaya

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE

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I’m Moscow/Russia based photographer, currently working as a freelance photographer and photo editor for websites and magazines, as well as launching my photobook.

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CCLaP Publishing

Orest Godwin is ruining his long legacy three fingers of rye at a time. His lectures have become bizarre. He’s smoking indoors. And he’s begun to carry a knife. When Orest nearly burns down the campus destroying memoirs in his attic, the College has no choice but to dismiss him. After 50 years, a prestigious career is ended in a humiliating act of senility. Or so The Provost thinks. Orest decides he is no longer satisfied to be a known historian; he wants to be historic. So he cashes his pension, draws a new will, and vanishes. With the help of a failing Spanish student whom he has promised a fictional scholarship, he embarks on an adventure from northern California to the lawless badlands of Mexico to join a true rebellion. Armed with Wyatt Earp replica pistols and a case of rye, Orest and Augie trespass through a thousand miles of brothels, cantinas, jungles, diners, and motels, threatening those they meet along the way. If Orest can just elude the pimps he’s crossed, the ranchers he’s sworn vengeance upon, and kidnapping charges, he might just join his peasant uprising. At least while he can still remember where he is going. And if no one gives him a drop of mescal.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/orestandaugust

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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 2015, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editorin-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Behnam Riahi. Photo Editor: Jennifer Yu. Layout Editor: Wyatt Robinette.

Calendar Editor: 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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