Comfort/ Discomfort
Curated by Maddie Shea
Table of Contents: Cover Art by Lauren Bowers 2. Artwork- Rachel Klika, Text- Anonymous, Background- Maddie Shea 3. Photo 1- Arianna Mantas, Photo 2- Adrienne Quinter, Poem -Rachel Klika 4. Artwork- Sebastian Marquez 5. Artwork- Maddie Shea, Little Hands- Sarah Kennedy 6. Poem- Caroline Langley 7. Poem- Anonymous 8. Poem- Caroline Langley, Background- Arianna Mantas, Bottom Photo- Peyton Fulford 9. Photos- Adrienne Quinter 10. Photo- Adrienne Quinter, Drawing- Vivian Anderson, Poems- Jianna Justice 11. Artwork- Garrison Taylor 12. Artwork- Brian Huntress, Handwriting- Jianna Justice 13. Photo- Peyton Fulford, Poem- Meredith Brasher 14. Artwork- Marshall Moore, Collage Element- Sarah Kennedy 15. Artwork- Maddie Shea 16. Poem 1- Jianna Justice, Poem 2- Meredith Brasher, BackgroundMaddie Shea 17. Artwork- Marshall Moore Editor’s Letter: I began this project as a way to keep myself busy and focused on a single project. I’m really into the concept of being comfy and feeling safe, but wanted to contrast that with what bothers us as well. The results are in the following pages of my first digitally produced zine, Comfort/Discomfort. Thank you to all the wonderful and talented contributors for their beautiful, honest work. I am so happy to be able to compile all of this great stuff together into one piece. Also shoutout to my friends for all their encouragement with this project. Contributors: Vivian Anderson Meredith Brasher Lauren Bowers Brian Huntress Peyton Fulford Jianna Justice Sarah Kennedy
Rachel Klika Caroline Langley Arianna Mantas Sebastian Marquez Marshall Moore Garrison Taylor Adrienne Quinter
I walk in circles on my way home because I have the nagging sense that someone is following me. Sometimes I call out from work even though I’ve made it all the way to work because I’m too scared to go in. I hate my bed, but I haven’t left it today. I want to go outside but I’m afraid it would make me feel better. I’m not ready to feel better. I want to tell someone how I feel, but the thought of anyone reading this makes me nauseously nervous. I feel like I’m falling. I want to crash into whatever it is I am falling towards, but I am still not ready to feel better. I want to love but I don’t want to be loved, so I park my car on the top level of a garage and I look down at all the pretty people as they go about their day. I want to thank them for giving me something to live for, but I hate them for the same reason. I drive home and go to bed because I’m not ready to feel better. 2
Waverly Way NE My parents kept their condoms in a red tin from Target with white block letters that spelled SUGAR Our not-even-a-house was collapsing into itself. Once a month the water ran orange from buildup in the aging pipes. The foreign babies downstairs stomp their feet and scream and play in the parking lot and run into the street. The people at the thrift store look stuck in the 80s. The women on Boulevard are always crying. New cracks would appear in the ceilings before the plaster on the old ones even had time to dry.
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three. on the first day of class i was scared of you you sauntered in with the most confidence i’ve ever seen a person assume your youthful hair spilled in ringlets combatting the early wrinkles circling your eyes i sat in the front row not for you, but for me a private oasis away from distraction but you made me regret it you lay your eyes on me and i am ashamed my chin sinks and eyes fall to make sure that i am covered and my body rises and falls quickly at the pace of your clicking heel you undress me with those eyes as you introduce yourself to the class but it feels as if it’s only you and me i shiver and look at the clock as the poison of discomfort infects my body as months go by i feel more safe i grow flattered by you and your intellectual aura you say you think my writing is brilliant, but in the back of my mind i do not believe you (if only you knew what i was writing now) i hear the rumors and they excite me especially when i see you one night when you are drunk i feel superior for once, like you are the fool i hoped you felt ashamed it was a game until it wasn’t the moment when it became too real it is morning now and i feel stupid to have thought about a man my father’s age.
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five. hope is the worst of all feelings it clings to you and gnaws at your raw heart in the night it bites harder and leaves you in bed exposed bloody naked terrified in the darkness you wonder if this, this is the epitome of feeling in your life is this what it all adds up to? this very moment? this sensation that yes, yes someone out there is the person for you? this person who makes sense of out the senseless gives this meaningless diffusion a purpose the entropy swirls and dances like the dandelions i blew as a girl a girl who had not the faintest idea of what hope was for she had never lost it but now that girl is dead dead dead and in her place a woman with dark hair and freckles who knows and neglects the feelings inside her that beat at her chest tirelessly but on nights like tonight with the brush of a palm electricity and hope bring that girl back again to watch her dandelions descend into the horizon and find their home in the brush and grass planting their seeds and finding their purpose in the harmony of the earth.
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six. a plump drop of blood drips, drips, drips from my elbow leaking from a wound that will not heal. a wound that i treasure a perfect imperfection for every drop of blood and every tingle of pain returns me to your touch. the menagerie of mischief and kindness in your eyes makes me comfortable and safe. i yearn for you to lay upon me again, your long legs flopping over the side of your tiny bed as you nuzzle your curls into my collar bone. your laugh rings in my ears and i cling to the images of your smile and body replaying them over and over in my head every few minutes. scared that i will lose them forever if i let a moment pass by these precious moments cannot be drawn or sparked from external sources for you have made yourself seldom. the eighteen hours that i was yours make me feel whole and hopeful the eighteen hours that i was yours felt so vivid and real. but then the sun rose and all i am left with is this scar.
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ch. orange
you look down when you are holding something in or don’t want to be heard
piles
i folded your shirts as a metaphor for some thing bigger than us
moths
you like your neck kissed just before you stop thinking at the start of it
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the bed-sharer I want someone to sleep next to me To watch their chest rise and fall His pattern of breath will lull me to sleep Limbs outlining other limbs, heads tucked together I thought of putting an ad on Craigslist ‘Platonic bed-sharer, Cute, slightly toned, not creepy’ But I would not dream of the bed-sharer In the morning, our bodies separate and our minds further apart His eyes Small and puffy Like a newborn kitten But his body cold and rigid, closed
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breathless
today we’re happy tomorrow we are silent we are good at this
for the shade tree Your limbs were stretched out over my yard before I learned to hate myself. old, they watched the depressed grass fold under my open, stainless body encouraging the bitter ground to hold my shape. you reasoned with the sun You are to blame for roots of self-esteem pitted safe in my sunny gut. My eyes swell When I think about you dying my eyes swell my flesh burns when I think about your gray shriveled leaves I love you for what you’ve done for me My love for you is like the tree’s.
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