Litro #128 teaser

short stories

128

Youth Featuring

Gianna De Persiis Vona Tara Campbell C Haigh MacNeil David Mohan Nick Kocz Tom Weller Shaun McMichael

Mystery Issue, March 2013 | 44

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128

Litro Magazine Youth

EDITORIAL Dear Reader, I have a two-year-old nephew, and he’s already somewhat disappointed with the world. He stands in front of televisions and microwaves and ovens, jabbing at the screens and doors with his little fingers, expecting something to happen. And there’s a good reason for that. It’s because he has grown up in a world with iPads and smart phones and VTech Learning Tablets, so to him, touchscreen technology is just a given. I’d actually feel sorry for him if it wasn’t so funny to watch.

The stories in this month’s Litro all, in some respects, deal with the adjustments we make when we’re growing up. They are filled on the one hand with excitement and hope and dreams, but on the other, doubt, disappointment, and the realisation that the world is a relatively mundane place. The characters in these stories are between two spaces—in a liminal world of change, some just entering that stage, some closer to the edge.

The young narrator of Gianna De Persiis Vona’s Disco Dave is literally speechless as she attempts to make sense of the adult world she’s fast growing up in; and while on the face of it, Tara Campbell’s How to Eat a Hot Dog is a witty take on childhood habits, its humor masks something darker—a sense of helpless inevitability. C Haigh MacNeil’s story, How To Be, is a beautifully quiet portrait of a young girl on the cusp of adulthood—whilst on holiday with her parents she finds herself pulled between two lives, only comfortable when she’s somewhere in between, floating between the waves.

By way of contrast, in The Gypsum Paths, by David Mohan, a young man is driven to create his own space, free from the confines of the bike trails he finds himself stuck on, as though a physical escape will somehow help him discover himself. Nick Kocz’s Golem Dust sees a young couple apparently creating something fantastic in the playground, though there is the suggestion that a far less magical future lies ahead; while in Faith and Flight, by Tom Weller, an altar boy tries to convince his parents that he has witnessed a miracle, finding it a harder task than he had imagined. Finally, we bring you Shaun McMichael’s The Deepest Lake in All the World, the story of a young woman who finds herself lost in all senses of the word while on a road trip. And it’s this story that offers more in the way of light at the end of the tunnel—the knowledge that for all the expectations and limitations of this world, you are always your own person, that there is always more to discover.

So I hope my nephew isn’t too disappointed when he grows up. Because there will be countless other experiences and people and discoveries to surprise and delight him. If I could just stop laughing, I’d tell him that.

Andrew Lloyd-Jones Editor September 2013

CONTENTS

Events

06

Gianna De Persiis Vona

09

DISCO DAVE

Tara Campbell HOW TO EAT A HOT DOG

C Haigh MacNeil HOW TO BE

David Mohan THE GYPSUM PATHS

Nick Kocz GOLEM DUST

Tom Weller FAITH AND FLIGHT

Shaun McMichael THE DEEPEST LAKE IN ALL THE WORLD

13 14 17 18 21 28

COVER ARTIST Willem Weismann Willem Weismann (1977) is a Dutch artist who has been living and working in London since graduating from the Goldsmiths MA Fine Art in 2004. www.willemweismann.com

EVENTS THIS MONTH THEATRE The Ritual Slaughter of Gorge Mastromas Royal Court Theatre Sep 5-Oct 19 This production marks two Royal Court firsts: Vicky Featherstone's first full play as Artistic Director, and the first work for that theatre

by Dennis Kelly. Tickets £12-£32; all tickets £10 on Mondays. www.royalcourttheatre.com

New Plays from Chile Royal Court Theatre Sep 10-14 A series of five plays marking the 40th anniversary of the 1973 overthrow of Salvador Allende. Tickets £8, or £6 for more than one reading. www.royalcourttheatre.com

Where The Shot Rabbits Lay White Bear Theatre Sep 10-29 New play by hotly-tipped young playwright Brad Birch, previously given a rehearsed reading as part of last year's Royal Court Young Writers Festival. The play explores a father-and-son bonding trip in the wake of a fractious divorce. Tickets £12 (£10 concessions). www.offwestend.com

The Empty Quarter Hampstead Theatre Downstairs Sep 26-Oct 26 A searing new play by up-and-coming Alexandra Wood about a British ex-pat couple in Dubai. Tickets £5-£12. www.hampsteadtheatre.com

Handbagged Tricycle Theatre Sep 29-Nov 9 A new play by Moira Buffini imagining the relationship between Margaret Thatcher and the Queen. Tickets £9-£17. www.tricycle.co.uk

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ART At The Moment of Being Heard South London Gallery until Sep 8 An inventive display of sound art from some of the world's most imaginative practitioners. Free entry. southlondongallery.org

Once Upon A Time: Kyung Woo Han & Vittorio Corsini Gazelli Art House, Mayfair until Sep 20 An exhibition of works unpacking the concept of storytelling and exploring the porous boundaries between reality and imagination.

Free entry.

A Crisis of Brilliance Dulwich Picture Gallery until Sep 22 Last chance to catch this exceptional exhibition about the Slade generation that included John Nash, Stanley Spencer and Dora Carrington. Tickets £6; seniors £5; children free. tickets.dulwichpicturegallery.org.uk

Sky Arts Ignition: Memory Palace Porter Gallery, Victoria & Albert until Oct 20 An immersive exhibition containing a walk-in story by Hari Kunzru set in a post-apocalyptic London. Tickets £4-£7. www.vam.ac.uk

Bob Dylan: Face Value National Portrait Gallery until Jan 5 A small and unorthodox free exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, consisting of 12 pastel portraits by Bob Dylan. www.npg.org.uk

Youth Issue, September 2013 | 7

MUSIC Leonard Cohen O2 Sep 15 Leonard Cohen at the O2 (Sep 15). The illustrious Canadian continues to blur the line between music and poetry. See him in action at the O2, rescheduled due to a clash with Yom Kippur. Tickets £30.25-£85.75 www.axs.com

The Pharcyde KOKO Sep 25 The veteran US alternative hip hop act's world tour finally comes to Britain. 7pm. 14+. Tickets £22. www.ticketweb.co.uk

TALKS AND LECTURES Juan Pablo Villalobos in conversation with Stefan Tobler London Review Bookshop Sep 6 Part of the LRB's World Literature Series 2012-13, this is an event bringing together Mexican author Juan Pablo Villalobos, formerly shortlisted for the Guardian First Book Award. Tickets £10. www.lrbshop.co.uk

Multiples London Review Bookshop Sep 11 A forum about the art of translation with a stellar line-up including A.S. Byatt, Adam Thirlwell, Joe Dunthorne and Adam Foulds.

Tickets £10. www.lrbshop.co.uk

10 LitroMagazine Magazine 88 |||Litro Litro Magazine

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DISCO DAVE A young girl investigates the disappearance of a family member— when no one else will.

by Gianna De Persiis Vona The last time I saw Disco Dave he was face down, passed out on the sidewalk in front of our house. My little sister, Brie, was standing about ten feet away, posing for her “first day of school” picture, in her little patent leather red shoes that she cried so hard about the manager of The Shoe Palace sold them to my mother for twenty percent off, just to get us out of the store. My sister could throw a tantrum the likes of which could be heard for blocks around, and our mother was no stranger to using this to her advantage. I’ve seen Mom get more discounts and free goods off Brie’s tantrums than I would care to think about, and Brie—she was always willing to do her part.

Mom was pissed when she got those pictures back. “Damn that asshole,” she said, referring to Dave, of course, not Brie, who, despite her nasty temperament, was my mother’s little angel who could do no wrong. “Leave it to that no-good drunk to ruin my baby’s first day of school picture.”

Mom was so upset she got up from the kitchen table and mixed herself a rum and coke even though it was only 9:30 in the morning and this was going to ruin our whole Saturday. As she tossed the ice cubes into her glass and doused them with rum, I tried to mask my disappointment. Going to the beach would obviously be out of the question, and I already had my suit packed. “What?” Mom snapped at me, as if reading my mind, “What are you getting pissy about?”

After that picture was taken, and before Mom picked her film up from Rite Aid, a week went by without anyone commenting about Disco Dave’s disappearance. I noticed, because how could I not? Disco Dave had rented our basement for as long as I could remember, and even though he didn’t show himself much, it was hard to miss the musical notes wafting out of Dave’s open window as he spun track after track of 70s madness. I think Disco Dave was related to us somehow, a cousin’s cousin’s cousin—something vague and distant enough to be beyond my understanding but real enough that when my father would show up for his occasional weekend and bitch about the state of our house, and that damn drunk in the basement, Mom would growl, “Disco Dave is family, Frank, so you can take a flying fuck.” And then Dad would say, “That’s nice, Lisa, real nice way to talk in front of the girls.”

After Dad came by was usually when Mom started drinking her rum straight.

No ice, no coke, just the Captain’s finest. Mom wasn’t an alcoholic, she told us, not like Disco Dave, or grandpa, who had to drive off the road five times before they finally took his license away for good. Mom drank because if she didn’t, she said, she would have a full-blown panic attack. “Have you ever seen a full-blown panic attack, Darcy?” Mom said, “Well, trust me. It ain’t pretty.

They’ve got medication for it, sure, but that’s not natural. The Captain’s finest works just as good, and it’s plant-based.” Mom made money selling her own line of beauty care products—lotions and skin balms, crafted from herbs she grew in the back yard—so she considered herself to be a real aficionado when it came to what was natural, and what was not.

Every day that Disco Dave was gone did not go unnoticed by me. I was the only one in the house who really dug Dave’s tunes. Mom liked listening to 80s stuff—Prince, Depeche Mode, and Huey Lew and the News. Brie was too little

Youth Issue, September 2013 | 9

HOW TO BE How are you meant to know what to be when you don’t know who you are?

by C Haigh MacNeil Abigail removed her headphones, propped herself up on her elbows and surveyed the beach. The sun, lapsing low in the sky, stretched the surfers’ shadows into leering shapes on the pitted sand and the smell of sunscreen, beer and vanilla ice-cream lay in the air. On this holiday, Abigail had adopted the habit of taking a last swim every evening, before going back up to the cottage. She thought, somehow, that a boy was more likely to speak to her at this time of day, his confidence swelled by a whole afternoon of heat. But, so far, that hadn’t happened.

They were leaving tomorrow. The days had arrived one after another and now the summer was ending and her sixteenth year with it. Abigail felt frightened that decades would flit past in this way, before she’d had a chance to think.

She stood and walked to the water, trying to look carefree and happy to be on her own. Resisting the urge to turn and see whether the boys were looking, Abigail strode in, anxious not to hesitate even at the shock of the cold water smacking against her flesh. When it reached her waist, she sunk in and scooped down below the surface, her long hair spreading around her head in fronds, taking on the sea’s motion.

She remembered what her friend Jason, troubled and probably gay, had told her about drowning one evening when they’d shared a joint up on the golf course. ‘It’s a beautiful death,’ he’d said. ‘The lack of oxygen to your brain makes you hallucinate mermaids.’

Abigail burst up through the surface and flipped onto her back, letting the sea rock her body. Something strange and beautiful happened then. There was a space between the waves and Abigail found herself lying in a murmuring stillness. The ocean muffled her ears, the fading sky pressed in on her eyes and the water held her. There, suspended, she had the sense that the world shifted physically, as though trying to show her what really lay beyond. Abigail held her breath, watching herself exist in that moment. And then it was as though the sun winked at the sea to resume its usual motion. A wave cracked on the shore and Abigail became aware of the distant tinny blast of music and the smell of a barbecue starting on the beach. She somersaulted down into the water and dived for the seabed, trying to find the feeling she’d just had.

When Abigail let herself into the holiday cottage, she had the sense that her mother and new stepfather had sprung into animation purely for her benefit.

‘You’re back late, Abs,’ said her mum, a playful lilt to her voice. She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa. ‘Getting chatted up by the surfers?’ She sloshed wine around her glass and grinned at her daughter.

‘I don’t think I’m their type,’ Abigail said, with a spite she didn’t understand.

‘Oh, Abs.’ Ian, her stepfather, walked through from the kitchen. ‘All teenagers think like that. I promise you it’s not true. One day you’ll look back and wonder what you were worried about.’

‘That’s right. A lovely tall girl like you. They should be so lucky.’ Abigail’s mum drained her glass.

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THE GYPSUM PATHS Alone in the world, a young man dreams of forging his own path.

by David Mohan The bike trails made a show of tangling themselves in the forest, but they always led back to the same point.

Hervé wanted to break a new trail this time. He’d spent the whole of August following these gypsum-veined paths, their kid-crazy loops designed like play slides in summer camp. He wanted to skid some down a slope beyond the ones marked out in Geolithic swerves.

The Kevins, Lisa Patrocles, Tennis Janice, Zorb, Erik and Eric—they lacked nerve. They were bike-warriors from their mountain gear to their scuffs and scratches, but they were just doing it for the kicks. There was no sport-passion there, no desire to take a bad tumble for the sake of artfulness. Or in the name of a legacy.

Hervé hadn’t seen his parents for three years, and that made the not-comingback swings he drew with his wheels seem more serious.

Now, alone, because the others were out by Maplewood lake spinning underwater in imitation Indian kayaks, Hervé wanted to make a stand—a daredevil skid for those without a home to miss. Because the parents’ visit was looming— tomorrow or the next day. Soon they’d be swooping in. He was tired of hearing about what a drag they were, how lame-ass and stupid-mortifying.

Hervé never missed home. He felt better in motion—rolling the gypsum course in record speeds three times over. He did that as warm up, to practice the known paths before trying out deviations. He improvised short cuts between loops, noting how his bike broke open wet paths of grass, red flavours of mud. This was the opposite of a home—where the gypsum gives out, a place where there were no white streaks in the ground.

The woods took on the character of leaving-be.

Fourth time round, fifth, Hervé tried out speeds and shifts, pauses and turns.

For a while, off the ground entirely, he imagined travelling mid-air forever.

What a life that would be, never having to land, coming to light endlessly.

It wasn’t surprising when he hit underbrush, hard, when he scratched wildly through trees, scraping arms raised to shield his face, and when he came off the bike entirely at a spot never dreamt of before by those who laid out those snaky lanes.

David Mohan is based in Dublin, and received a PhD in English literature from Trinity College. He came second in the Sean O’Faolain International Short Story Award and won the Hennessy/Sunday Tribune New Irish Writer Award. He has been published in Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, Opium, SmokeLong Quarterly, FRiGG, Contrary, elimae, NANO, Flash International magazine, The Chattahoochee Review, New World Writing and Used Furniture Review. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Youth Issue, September 2013 | 17

GOLEM DUST The miracle of life begins in a playground

by Nick Kocz Jenny and I were in the playground after school. The blacktop basketball court across which we walked was so swollen with the bumps and craters of disintegrating asphalt that no one ever dribbled a ball on it for as long as I had lived.

She was the very first girl that I thought I had a chance of kissing, and I thought she sensed it too: this chance that maybe something miraculous would happen between us. Several times, she teetered into me, bumping shoulders.

During seventh grade Earth Sciences, Jenny would catch me ogling her. Our teacher had heaped rocks on our desks for us to identify—igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic—and it was across this temporary landscape that I thought I could feel her blush—yet she was guilty of it too, staring at me, and it unnerved me how long she can hold her gaze. During lunch, guys at my table talked about the weekend football games we watched on TV but, so agonizingly conscious was I of her slightest glances, that I could barely concentrate on the peanut butter sandwiches I pulled from my brownbag lunch. Sometimes I thought I was imagining it: the shared stares and how we gravitated into each other between classes at least twice a day. She was the tallest girl in our class, taller than I was, and certainly she was capable of bouncing into people in the hallways without it meaning anything.

At one end of the court, near the free throw line, tree roots poked to the surface. Younger kids played tag by the swings, chasing each other across a belt of brown lawn to a busted-up picnic table that was “home base” to their game.

Despite their hollering, my concentration focused on Jenny, the small breaths she made which only I could hear. Wind ruffled her dusty brown hair. Usually, she wore it in a ponytail, but today she had worn it loose, and as a consequence of the wind, strands brushed against my face.

Suddenly, she pointed to a dried-up streak of mud on the blacktop. The two-foot-long skid was the same color as the sandstone that, earlier in school, I had misidentified as being an igneous rock. Because of my wrong answer, our teacher called me an “ignoramus,” and, for the rest of the class, I flinched whenever Jenny looked at me.

The mud was thin enough at places that you could see the blacktop beneath it. She cracked off a chunk of it, then crumbled it between her fingers. “See that? You know what this is, don’t you? It’s golem dust.”

We were crouching on our knees, facing each other. Through the knees of my jeans, heat seeped up from the blacktop, warming me. I stuck a forefinger into the dirt but it felt no different from any other kind of dirt. Behind me, by the picnic bench, a disagreement had broken out among the children: they were yelling at each other, stomping their feet, and arguing the rules to their game.

I looked up at Jenny, searching her smooth face that had begun to pinken from the sun. “Golem dust?”

“Yep. You know what a golem is, don’t you?”

I nodded, wary that if I admitted my ignorance, I’d blow my opportunity to kiss her.

Again, her hair gusted into my face.

18 | Litro Magazine

3rd June 2013 13th September 2013 ÂŁ2,000 (winner), ÂŁ200 (runners up)

FAITH AND FLIGHT Believing is seeing for a young altar boy

by Tom Weller Flight Father Al will not fly like Superman. He will not zip through the sky on his belly, hands extended as if stretching for something forever just out of reach.

Father Al will not spin and bank like a fighter jet. Father Al will not be faster than a speeding bullet.

When Father Al flies, it will be more like his blood has been replaced with helium, and he has no choice but to leave the ground, and no control over what happens after that.

The Miracle Man Father Al is the scariest priest Graham has ever met.

Father Al is old. Graham doesn’t know how old exactly, but does know Father Al’s head is completely bald and dotted with brown spots, and he has really pale skin, skin the color of milk, and it hangs in strange folds and flaps around his neck, almost like his skin is trying to slither off his face, Graham thinks. Father Al is tall, the tallest priest Graham has ever met, with long, thin arms and legs.

He mostly reminds Graham of a withered daddy longlegs.

And Graham hates being an alter boy for Father Al. Masses follow a script. There are always the readings, and then the homily, and then the communion, in that order. And the script is important for the alter boys because that is how they know the right time to hold the big red book so the priest can read from it or to bring the water for the priest to wash his hands before touching the Eucharist or to ring the bells. Knowing the script and following the script is what keeps Graham from making a mistake while up on the alter in front of St. Paul’s whole congregation.

But knowing the script isn’t much help for Graham when Father Al is saying mass. Father Al often forgets things. Sometimes he forgets little things.

Sometimes when it’s time to sing, he forgets to turn off the mike that he wears, so instead of hearing the whole church singing all Graham can hear is Father Al’s deep, gravelly voice, and it sounds to Graham more like Father Al is yelling at kids to keep off the lawn, rather than singing to praise God. Other times Father Al forgets big stuff, whole parts of the script, important parts, like the homily or the prayers of the faithful. Then it becomes really difficult for Graham to know what to do, and if he ends up not bringing the big red book or the water to wash when Father Al wants it, Father Al glares at Graham as if Graham is amazingly stupid, right up there on the alter, in front of the whole congregation, with the big plaster Jesus hanging on the cross behind Graham looking down on him, his eyes closed, his head drooping, as if Graham’s mistakes are wearing him out.

So you can understand why Graham will be surprised when Father Al is the vessel for the miracle. You can understand why Graham will be so surprised when Father Al flies.

Youth Issue, September 2013 | 21

THE DEEPEST LAKE IN ALL THE WORLD A roadtrip through the landscape of desire

by Shaun McMichael From the passenger seat, Savannah watches the hairs on Allison’s arm go golden in the late afternoon sun as it hangs out of the driver’s side window. The sun has been moving across her arm for the last four hours as they’ve driven east, spreading a rash of redness across that thin strip of skin, from wrist to her elbow, while Allison herself, wearing her enormous Jackie O sunglasses, stares ahead unflinchingly as if the flaming star sending light to her through several months of black space were just some boy extending his hand to grope at her.

They’re driving across the state to Tom’s cabin on Lake Sidree, the third deepest lake in all the world so they’re told. Tom is Allison’s boyfriend of a few months.

Her parents don’t like him. But she says he’s the funniest boy she’s ever known.

Savannah wonders how many more times Allison will say how funny Tom is. They’ve got a border to cross and three hours of road to travel after that.

Allison tells her to not worry. There will be other boys there.

Boys. Hearing the word, Savannah remembers some dirty faced kids crawling out from under a car to throw eggs at her and her starchy, plaid skirt on her way to Eastside Christian.

She also thinks of her schoolmate’s brother. They’d been having a slumber party with several other girls and Savannah had walked in on him in the upstairs bathroom shaving. She looked at him through the white light and saw his naked chest with ribs showing. Noticed his crouched shoulders and the bare, flat landscape of his body. How he looked at her for a minute with a face of silence before slowly closing the door on her, leaving her outside the light, facing the dark wood.

Savannah thinks how she doesn’t want that. A boy. What she wants is less defined. She can’t picture it. Can’t even tell what gender it is. Like someone thumbing out on the highway half a mile ahead. Maybe a prison escapee. Or a convicted killer. Well, maybe not a killer. But someone on the lamb at least.

She doesn’t tell Allison any of this.

Allison’s the first friend she’s made in public school. A friend that ensured an end to all slumber parties by providing Savannah with new friends, which in turn allowed Savannah to delete all her slumber-party friends’ phone numbers.

They met on the tennis team. In fact both their parents think they’re finishing up a tennis camp in Fircrest—about a hundred miles west of their approximate location. An empty highway between rolling, yellow hills, copses of ponderosa pine and open sky.

Allison’s driving her dad’s old Golf. The white hatchback buzzes and snorts up the hills. When the hills rise, the buzzing gets louder. So Allison turns up the music.

“Mmm. I’m hungry,” Allison says.

28 | Litro Magazine

Gang violence workshop with the current tour of West Side Story, August 2013. Photo Tony Nandi

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Decisions like...

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We also publish regular features on literature, arts and culture online at www.litro.co.uk. Please keep this copy of Litro safe or pass it on to someone else to enjoy—we like to think of Litro as a small, free book.

LITRO | 128 Youth

Disco Dave told me that not everyone can be beautiful, and that it’s important to work on your other strengths, because beauty always betrays you in the end anyway, which is what my vow of silence was all about—working on my strengths. If I could do this, I figured I could do pretty much anything, and I couldn’t much see the point of talking in a world where no one listens to you anyway. from Disco Dave by Gianna De Persiis Vona Cover Art: Man Wearing Landscape

by Willem Weismann oil on canvas, 2009, 120 x 100 cm Courtesy of Galeria Quadrado Azul (www.quadradoazul.pt) Photo by Peter White www.litro.co.uk ISBN 978-0-9554245-5-7

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