CCLaP Weekender, October 9th 2015

CCLaP Weekender

From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

October 9, 2015

New Fiction by Joseph G. Peterson Photography by Daniel Osorio Chicago Literary Events Calendar October 9, 2015 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10 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, OCTOBER 11 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.

2 | CCLaP Weekender

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

Firecat 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, OCTOBER 12 7:30pm Litmash

Haymarket Pub & Brewery / 737 West 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.

October 9, 2015 | 3

8:30pm Kafein Espresso Bar

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com

Open mic with hosts Chris and Kirill.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13 7pm Wit Rabbit Reads

Quenchers Saloon / 2401 North Western / Free, 21+ witrabbitreads.com

An inter-genre reading series showcasing poetry, prose (narrative or otherwise), drama, and other “text-creations,” particularly the earnest kind.

7pm Write Now

Cafe Lutz / 2458 W Montrose / FREE chicago-bakery.com

An open mic for comedians and live lit storytellers. Hosted by Danny Black and Anne Victoria LaMonte.

7:30pm Homolatte

Tweet Let's Eat / 5020 N. Sheridan tweet.biz

With Scott Free, featuring gay and lesbian spoken-word artists.

7:30pm Tuesday Funk

Hopleaf / 5148 N. Clark / Free, 21+ tuesdayfunk.org

Chicago’s eclectic monthly reading series, presented by the Gothic Funk Nation, and featuring a variety of fiction, poetry, essays, and other works in all genres. Hosted by Andrew Huff and Eden Robins.

9pm Two Cookie Minimum

Hungry Brain / 2319 West Belmont / Free, 21+ twocookieminimum.blogspot.com

Stories and cookies. Both are free, the latter vegan, too. The goal is to highlight new writers and the Chicago zine community.

Hosted by John Wawrzaszek, A.K.A. Johnny Misfit.

4 | CCLaP Weekender

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14 6pm Lyricist Loft

Harold Washington Library / 400 South State / Free youmediachicago.org

“Open mic for open minds,” presented by Remix Spoken Word.

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

7pm

Reading Under the Influence Sheffield's / 3258 North Sheffield / $3, 21+ readingundertheinfluence.com

“Because everyone needs a literary hangover.” Original short stories plus short-short excerpts of published work related to the theme of the month, such as “Well Done,” with trivia contests that award books and other prizes. Rotating hosts.

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.

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

October 9, 2015 | 5

w “It’s six in one, half-dozen in the other—what the hell do you want to do with your life, Charlie? You’ve got to live it, not me.”

It was long after dark. Thunder was rumbling on the horizon, threatening rain. Charlie and his father were standing elbow to elbow, staring down at the ground near the dogwood bushes that ran along the north side of their brick house.

A CERTAIN

IN THE LAND 6 | CCLaP Weekender

ORIGINAL FICTION

“Earthworms!” by Yun Huang Yong [flickr.com/goosmurf]. Used under the terms of her Creative Commons license.

N MONSTER

D OF WORMS

BY JOSEPH G. PETERSON October 9, 2015 | 7

They were digging for earthworms. It was his father’s hunch that these sorts of weather conditions, dark just before a storm, provided the best conditions for hunting worms. Never mind that he never hunted worms before—however, what could be simpler? Worms. Rain. His father preferred to operate by intuition.

Charlie had a Folgers can in one hand and a brand new shovel in the other. A miner’s lamp was strapped to his head. It was partly because Charlie’s father needed an excuse to use both the miner’s lamp and the new shovel that they were out there now, in the dark, near midnight. It was long after Charlie’s bedtime, yet a beacon of light streamed beatifically from between Charlie’s eyes, slashing the ground wherever he turned his head.

“What are you talking about, Dad?” Charlie asked innocently enough.

“Worms?”

Charlie was exhausted and wished he could just go to bed. What’s worse, he had an exam tomorrow in geometry and Charlie, who liked to be over-prepared for school exams, hadn’t had a chance to look over his notes.

When Charlie had earlier objected that he didn’t have time to be outdoors, on account of his impending exam, his father had said, “Nonsense, Charlie.

First, you learn worms. Then, you learn geometry.”

A mosquito buzzed up the stream of light and planted itself on Charlie’s nose. His father looked at Charlie like he was crazy.

“What?” his father said. Charlie swatted the mosquito from his nose, then held his hand, palm up, close to the beam of light so that he could examine the crushed insect. “What do you mean worms? Are you trying to make fun of me? Is this some sort of joke?”

His father’s tone grew savage.

“What I’m talking about, kid, for chrissakes, is life. Life! Don’t you understand me?” His father was exasperated with Charlie. One of the things that drove him nuts was the fact that the boy knew next to nothing about life.

“When I was your age, Charlie—,” his father went on, then he went suddenly silent. “The thing I can’t understand about you, Charlie—,” his father said, but went suddenly silent again. “Charlie, do you ever hear what I’m telling you? Do you pay attention to what people are saying to you? Or does everything go in one ear and out the other?”

“About what?” Charlie asked. He brushed the mosquito from his palm, then turned his head to look at his father. The beam of light that shone from between Charlie’s eyes zoomed in on his father’s face. A swarm of mosquitoes buzzed up the tube of light and attacked his father’s sweaty jowls.

“Kid, get that thing away from me!” his father screamed.

Charlie threw his shovel off to the side.

“Not the shovel. The light! Get the light away from my face, goddamn 8 | CCLaP Weekender

it.” Charlie’s father swatted his own face and Charlie watched, not knowing exactly what his father wanted him to do.

“Turn off the light,” his father screamed. “Get it away from me. Don’t you understand?”

Charlie turned his head away, terrified that his father was going to slap him across the ear. His father had developed a bad habit as of late: he liked to slap Charlie across the ear. It had become his way of knocking sense into his kid.

“Thank you,” his father said. “Jesus Christ. For a second there, I thought I was going to have to knock some sense into you.”

Charlie quickly lifted his hands to his ears in defense. For a second, he looked so silly, standing there with the miner’s lamp strapped to his head, his hands to his ears, and a blotch of mud where he killed the mosquito on his nose, that his father almost started to laugh.

“Charlie, I don’t know what it takes to talk to you sometimes. I mean, you’re worse than your mother.”

His father reached for Charlie’s shoulder. He threatened to hurt him, causing Charlie to cringe, but he softened and gave his son a gentle stroke.

“You’re a good boy, Charlie,” his father said. “I only wish, sometimes, that you had more of my blood in you and less of your mother’s. I mean, I think you inherited the crazy side of her family. I mean, I love your mother to death, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t love her family. A bunch of nuts.

You know that as well as I do. But what your problem is, is you remind me of your uncle Louis. You look just like him, with those big ears of yours and your flat head. I see it in your bug eyes, as well. And you know what I think about your uncle? He gets me sick, is what. He gets me so sick that I want to puke. Especially what he did with that hundred thousand dollars of his that was supposed to be your windfall. I mean, why your grandfather ever put money into his hands if it was supposed to end up in yours is a mystery that’s beyond me. But more evidence that irrationality was endemic.”

Charlie smiled at the ground while his father talked. It seemed, for a moment, as if his father’s tone were growing kinder, and this made Charlie chuckle under his breath. This, in turn, provoked his father to chuckle.

“But I’ll tell you why your uncle Louis wasted all the money. Not because he’s crazy. I mean, he’s crazy, but that isn’t why he wasted all his money. But I’ll tell you. I suppose you’re old enough to know. You are how old?”

“Twelve.”

“But don’t, under any condition, ever tell your mother that I told you this. But your uncle Louis—.”

“Who’s Uncle Louis?” Charlie asked.

“What do you mean who’s Uncle Louis?” his father screamed. “Are you October 9, 2015 | 9

trying to make fun of me?”

“No,” Charlie said.

“Good, because I’m tired of some of the games you like to play with me.”

Charlie, who had probably never played a game with his father in his life, didn’t understand what he meant by that last statement. Nevertheless, he apologized. “I’m sorry, Dad.” “Forget it,” his father said.

“Tell me about Uncle Louis.”

“Tell you about Uncle Louis! I just told you to forget it.”

“But I said I was sorry.”

“And I said forget it,” his father said. “Now pick up your shovel and shine your light over there. I think I see something crawling.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said again. He picked up his shovel and shone his light where his father had pointed. “‘Atta boy,” his father said. “There’s a worm over there. See it?”

“Where?” Charlie asked. He was suddenly concerned that if he didn’t see the worm that his father was pointing to, then he might get his ears boxed.

“Over there,” his father pointed. “Under the rhododendron bush. Hurry, boy. Grab your shovel before it escapes.”

Charlie leaped for the worm, but instead of grabbing a worm, he grabbed a twig and pulled it out of the dirt. He held it aloft. “I’ve got it!”

His father scoffed. “You don’t got shit!”

Charlie grew quiet and lowered his head to the ground.

“Now drop that stick before you get your hands dirty.”

Charlie dropped the stick.

“Always causing trouble.”

Charlie stared at the stick, catching it in the cone of light from his miner’s lamp, and he could swear that he saw the stick move.

“Come on, Charlie. We don’t have all night, especially with this rain coming on. Let’s move down along these bushes. I think it’s going to be a big storm.”

Charlie, still thinking the twig was a worm, picked it up and covertly dropped it into the red Folgers can.

“The thing about your uncle Louis—. Now remember, never let this get back to your mother. Do you understand me?” His father’s tone grew mild.

Charlie shook his head.

“The thing about your uncle Louis,” his father continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “was that he couldn’t control himself.”

His father stopped there, hoping Charlie would catch his drift. When Charlie looked up, perplexed, his father grew angry.

“What I’m saying is—. I mean, do I have to spell everything out to you?

10 | CCLaP Weekender

Is that going to be the way it is? Or are you ever going to be able to understand me?”

“I understand you,” Charlie said quietly, trying to look preoccupied.

“Then what was I saying?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “You were saying about Uncle Louis?”

“I know what I was saying! The issue is—. Do you know what I was saying?”

“He couldn’t control himself.”

“Yes!” his father said victoriously. “So maybe your brain isn’t a complete sieve after all. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Charlie smiled, then chuckled quietly under his breath.

“Anyway, your uncle Louis had a weakness, and you know what it was?”

Charlie didn’t answer.

“Well?” his father said. “What do you think it was?”

Charlie took a stab. “Ice cream?”

“No. Guess again.”

“I can’t.”

“He couldn’t get enough—.”

“Ice cream?”

“No, not ice cream. You know what he couldn’t get enough of?”

“Oh yeah,” Charlie said, smiling. “That.”

Charlie thought that, maybe, it wasn’t ice cream, but something else.

What else, he couldn’t possibly conceive.

“Yes, that!” his father said. “He couldn’t get enough of that. The crazy sonofabitch couldn’t get enough of that. And the things he did—I mean, besides the fact that he didn’t adequately distribute the windfall.”

His father pulled a half-pint of whiskey from his front pocket, broke the seal, and took a quick sip. It started to rain.

“What windfall?”

“The hundred grand that was to be your inheritance. Don’t you understand? Look, there’s that worm.”

Charlie looked, and near one of the rhododendron bushes was a huge night crawler curled in recumbent position.

“Grab it, Charlie. While it sleeps.”

Charlie reached down, grabbed the worm, and felt it stir between his fingers. “‘Atta boy,” his father said. “A half-dozen more of these and we’ll be able to go fishing tomorrow. Here, pick up the shovel. Let’s move down.”

Charlie shone his lamp on the worm, which squirmed muscularly around

“I understand you,” Charlie said quietly, trying to look preoccupied.

October 9, 2015 | 11

in his hand. Charlie was surprised at the worm’s strength.

“Come on, Charlie. Put that thing in the can and let’s move down, before it starts to pour.”

Charlie followed his father and listened to him ramble on. Charlie, whose fingers were dirty with worm slime, obsessively rubbed them against his pant leg.

“Your uncle Louis loved naked women. He’d go to the clubs to see them gyrate around on poles. He was addicted to them. When he started out with your inheritance, I mean, with a hundred grand, it pretty much let him follow his passion to the end, you see?”

“Mm-hmm,” Charlie said, not paying attention, though he looked around with his light to show he was trying to see.

“He spent all that money on strippers and whores and lost causes who ran him for all he was worth, but after a few years, he wasn’t worth much because the money he was spending was yours and it was all gone. Why the old man ever put your inheritance in that nutcase’s care is something I never understood. That being said, Uncle Louis was your godfather and he was your uncle, and your grandfather probably put one and one together and figured Uncle Louis’d be the responsible one, since he was also the oldest and the only male in the family. Of course, the old man didn’t trust me for some reason, even though I’m your father.

“So let me ask you this. You’re a math whiz, see if you can figure this one out. With a hundred grand at his disposal and all those whores clamoring to get at his sex-addled mind, how long do you think it was before they parted the lech from your inheritance?”

Charlie’s father paused, turned around, took another sip of whiskey, and looked significantly at his son. His face was wet with rain.

“Well? Are you figuring it out, boy?”

“Am I figuring what out?”

“How long it took Uncle Louis to burn through your money on all those naked girls he was addicted to?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said gently, trying to avoid angering his father.

“What’s a lech?”

“What’s a lech? Well, I s’pose you’ll have to ask your uncle Louis that one, but you can’t right now because he’s dead.”

His father took another sip of whiskey and stared up at the sky. Lightning was bouncing around inside of a mushrooming thunderhead, and what little rain was falling threatened to break out into an all-out thunderstorm. “In any event, he ran through the money when he was forty-eight. Fifteen years older than Jesus H. Christ himself was, when he was hammered to the cross.

That stipend was to help get you through your life’s troubles, but it ended up 12 | CCLaP Weekender

disappearing quicker than anyone thought because of your uncle’s lechery and because of something else. It turns out, at some point, your uncle couldn’t get it up anymore.”

Charlie’s father paused and chuckled. He unloosened the cap on his whiskey, took another sip, and replaced it in his pocket. “The upshot is, instead of leaving well enough alone, Uncle Louis went out and had an operation to fix the problem. It turns out that there were two operations. One to fix it one time and another one, two years later, to fix it again, after it had broke.

“It wasn’t long after the second operation. He had some young girl—he picked her up in a strip club. But it wasn’t long after he had her, when he got arrested on account of her being a minor, and that’s why you’ve never heard of your uncle Louis. Because he went to prison before you were three years old, and he wasn’t in prison but three years when he kicked off because of a heart attack or something, even though I think it was probably suicide that killed him.

“It wasn’t until that point, when we looked into his finances to straighten everything out, when we discovered that instead of this large windfall bequeathed to him by your grandfather—a windfall, by the way, which was to be your rightful inheritance—but we discovered that instead of a hundred thousand, all that was left was a huge debt owed to the hospital on account of two operations he had in order to get his pecker to stand and salute. Look, there’s a worm. Get it!”

Charlie had been ignoring his father, but the words “get it” made him leap to attention.

“Where?”

“There.” His father pointed with the tip of his shoe. A worm, chased out of its hole by the rain, writhed on the open sod. Charlie leaped to get it, but he missed, tried again, missed again, tried a third time, and finally, he snatched it. Charlie was relieved, lest he miss completely and get punished for his ineptitude.

“Hey! Did you hear what I said?”

“About what?” Charlie said. He snatched another worm from the soil and dropped it in the red Folgers can. Huge raindrops were pattering the neighbor’s driveway. Charlie held his hands, palms up, to collect water and wash away the worm slime.

“Let’s move along before the rain drowns us.”

Charlie’s father pulled the whiskey from his shirt pocket and had another sip. He capped the bottle, thought twice of it, removed the cap, and took another long pull.

“The truth of the matter is, Charlie, your uncle Louis was a lech. And I’m afraid that you may be just like him. I mean, you’re not that way now, October 9, 2015 | 13

but look out. You’re the spitting image of him. You probably don’t even know what a skirt is. But enough of that. You’ll know in time. The thing about your uncle was he couldn’t get enough.”

Charlie thought of ice cream again and suddenly he had a taste for some.

“Sex-crazed is what he was. Though I’d give anything to know what it was he experienced with all those whores.”

Charlie tried to imagine what on earth could be wrong with desiring ice cream.

“Let me tell you, Charlie—,” his father went on. Thunder interrupted him and Charlie looked up, surveying the heavens. Rain started streaming down, tearing through the trees, and shredding their leaves. “Jesus Christ!

What a storm, and what did I tell you about shining that light in my face?

There are biting bugs out here, for chrissakes. Biting! Do you hear me? I can’t afford to have welts from bug bites. I’m an actuary!”

His father whacked him hard against the ear. Charlie yelped in pain. He thought he was going to start crying, but he tried to hold it in. It was late and he wanted to go to bed. He didn’t care for worms. He didn’t care for rain. He thought he saw another worm stirring in the mud. His father, oblivious to the rain, removed the half-pint and had another pull.

“Come on. Let’s walk a ways over here. We have more worms to catch.”

His father clasped Charlie’s shoulder and Charlie yelped in pain.

“Sorry,” his dad said, trying to gain his balance.

“It’s okay,” Charlie said, his ear burning.

“Let’s go back to the bushes behind the house. I think we’ll have more luck there. Besides,” his father said, “I don’t like the idea of you shining your light here. You might wake the neighbor.”

Charlie’s dad looked malevolently across the bushes at the neighbor’s house. He opened the bottle of whiskey and took another long drink. Charlie watched him finish the bottle. He capped the empty bottle, took a little stagger step, and then pitched it. Charlie followed the bottle with the beam from his miner’s lamp. He watched it arc and land in the neighbor’s front bush.

“I never told you this,” his father went on, “but your neighbor next door, Mrs. Hathaway—. Don’t tell your mother this, but I’ve done her. That’s right.

Your uncle Louis isn’t the only one who knows how to get a little snatch. Not three weeks after her husband died, I did her. And I’ve done her since. And let me tell you another thing—I don’t have the same problem your uncle had.

No sir, no operations for me. What’s more, she’s not bad looking. Which is not, when you think about it, an insignificant fact under the conditions. So what do you have to say about that?”

Charlie didn’t know what to say. All he knew was that Mrs. Hathaway 14 | CCLaP Weekender

was kind to him. He spent winter mornings shoveling her driveway. In the summer, he swept it. She always paid him a dollar for his efforts, then told him he was a nice boy.

“I’m only telling you this, of course, because you’re probably too young to notice such things as feminine beauty yourself. You’ll understand one day though. Come on, let’s go to the back yard before she sees us mucking around out here.”

The rain started falling heavily. Lightning exploded like artillery fire. They were getting drenched enough that his father tore off his shirt and encouraged Charlie to do the same, but Charlie declined. His father started to hoot.

“Let it come down. Who cares what becomes of us?” he screamed. “Let it rain. I can take everything you have to give! Come!” he yelled, grabbing Charlie’s soaking shirt. “Follow me, boy, to the backyard.”

He slipped, writhed, and picked himself up out of the mud.

“Come,” he said, stumbling on. “One hundred grand gone on girls, and it was all to be your money. Your money, Charlie! Do you hear me? And it’s all gone on girls.”

Together, father and son twisted and thrashed their way through the downpour and sopped earth to the back of the house. Charlie’s father was singing an incoherent tune that seemed to drift over his shoulder and into the air stream that flowed just six inches above Charlie’s head. Charlie caught bits and pieces of what his dad sang, but not all of it. His ear was throbbing.

His face was being lashed with rain. What’s more, he wished he could just go inside where it was warm and snug and have some ice cream. 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.

October 9, 2015 | 15

Daniel

16 | CCLaP Weekender

Osorio

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE October 9, 2015 | 17

Lately I have been experimenting and playing a lot with close up flash photography, inspired by the works of Mark Cohen, Martin Parr and Bruce Gilden, but also by some contemporary street photographers which are constantly producing outstanding material available on the internet to see and admire. Someone recently asked me where was I going with my street photography and I told him that I was looking forward to explore more extreme close up flash photography, concentrating in details, colors and shapes. Giving an almost abstract look to my pictures where reality is altered. I like the rush I get when I get close to people and take pictures, of course having respect for them although is very close and intimate.

Usually a good energy and a occasional smile saves me from what some people would believe to be an evident trouble and an abuse of personal space in public space, which doesn’t make much sense if you think about it.

18 | CCLaP Weekender

I am Daniel Osorio (also known as Dani Oshi), a Photographer based in Brussels, Belgium. I specialize in portrait, editorial and documentary photography. I consider myself a life observer, street photographer and an urban explorer, documenting life in the streets as it happens, without altering the reality or the flow of it, totally candid. I blend in, observe, and take the shot.

October 9, 2015 | 19

20 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 21

22 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 23

24 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 25

26 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 27

28 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 29

30 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 31

32 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 33

34 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 35

36 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 37

38 | CCLaP Weekender

October 9, 2015 | 39

40 | CCLaP Weekender

www.daniosorio.com/ www.daniosoriov.tumblr.com/ www.daniblowup.tumblr.com/ http://facesandphotography.tumblr.com/ www.facebook.com/danioshiphotography/ October 9, 2015 | 41

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.

Did you like this? Pay us 99 cents and help us keep them coming! bit.ly/cclapweekender 42 | CCLaP Weekender