| Letter From the Editor |
Dear Reader, This is the second issue of this literary magazine. Like the issue before it was compiled as the final project for my Editing and Publishing class. I had so much success with the first issue that I just had to continue. This second issue received even more submissions than the first did. I hope to continue this magazine even though I am now finished with the class. Hopefully I will still have time and people will continue to submit their work. If you have something that you wish to have published in the magazine go ahead and submit it to thechippedcupsubmissions@aol.com. I will be checking this periodically and if enough submissions are sent in I will put out another issue. Happy Reading! Molly Miller Editor
| The Chipped Cup | Edited and Compiled by: Molly Miller
| Table of Contents | | Poetry | Forever Young Lora Mathis
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I’ll Consume the Moon to Glow for You Lora Mathis
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Joséangel Alexis Molina
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Perfect Sense Jace Harlow
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My Lover Never Came Back Hannah Yarnell
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6 Word Poems Various Authors
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| Prose | The Stupidity of a Clock Jansen Imron Rosilla
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Something Caged Boy Sings
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June, June, June Rachael Heffner
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Lonely Micheala Torneden
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Scared Micheala Torneden
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Cover Art by: Rachael Heffner
| Art / Photography / Comics | Paper Napkin Stories Sade Andria Zabala
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Hatchling CBM
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R#1 Rachna Ravi
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Paper Napkin Stories Sade Andria Zabala
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Hip-Hip-A-Hippo Leah Miller
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Retrospect Rachna Ravi
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Writer Problems Susan Mesler-Evans
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Itty Bitty Benny Leah Miller
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She Loves Me Drew Larson
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| Contributor’s Notes |
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| The Stupidity of a Clock | | Jansen Imron Rosilla | “If a clock could count down to the moment you meet your soul mate, would you want to know?”
Pushing through the crowded people in front of the mall, Jason made his way inside. He let out an exasperated sigh. Never mind the people shoving each other to take a good look of the parade, the noise and the humidity outside was enough to drive him insane. He glanced at his wrist, where the clock flashed him the time it’ll take for him to find his supposed Soul Mate. 5 minutes, 37 seconds. Jason scowled. This is stupid. Stupid parade. Stupid clock. Jason thought it was pathetic that he had to rely on a clock on his wrist to tell him when he’ll meet his Soul Mate. He thought: shouldn’t that moment come naturally? Spontaneous? Not measured by some device on your wrist? This is stupid. He thought bitterly. All through his life, it had been a commonplace belief that the clock timer on one’s wrist was the clearest indication when one would meet his/her Soul Mate. Nobody knew how the clocks worked their magic – in fact, neither did the manufacturers when they first discovered a huge inventory of this peculiar device layered with dust in the storeroom – they just accepted the fact that when the clock winds down to zero, one would finally be with their intended Soul Mate. Jason saw a lot of people undergoing this; sometimes it was between friends, and sometimes, even between those that butt heads on a not-so-good start. The thing was, Jason was used to it, and it never occurred to him that one day, his own clock would wind down to zero and he’ll meet his Soul Mate. And Jason’s thoughts? That’s right. He thought the entire thing was stupid and an utter waste of time. But though he’ll never admit it out loud, he was secretly excited and nervous about meeting his supposed Soul Mate. Jason kept wandering inside the mall, looking for something to distract him, and secretly hoping he’d get the Soul Mate thing over with. He noticed a few people in white and pastel colored dresses walking around. Jason recognized them as the people from the float that belonged to the bridal shop nearby. He circled the mall once, spotting more parade people milling around. There were people from the post office, the local diner, a toy store, and even the tattoo parlor beside the beauty salon on the business row. Suddenly, he heard a beep. He took a look at his wrist. 0 minutes, 0 seconds. He stopped. 2
1 second. 2 seconds. 3 seconds. Nothing. Nobody stood out. Nobody bumped into him. No happy scene where the guy runs and laughs merrily and embraces the girl of his dreams as she meets him halfway and declares her his Soul Mate. Jason scowls once more. This is really stupid. He thought bitterly. He sharply turned on his heel to walk out and go home, when he bumped into someone. It was a girl in a white dress; one of the models participating from the bridal shop’s float. “Sorry,” Jason said. The girl only threw her hands up in the air and let out a tired sigh. Jason took a look at the girl’s wrist clock. 0 minutes, 0 seconds. “Ugh! The clock is pretty stupid. I’m supposed to meet my Soul Mate in like, right about now, but nobody seems to even see me. Look at you bumping into me like I wasn’t even here!” she huffed, letting out an irritated rant about she is ignored, and how her feet hurt from the walking and the parade, and another long tirade of the clock’s apparent ‘stupidity’. She was obviously tired from the parade and exasperated at the clock on her wrist. Jason felt himself smile as he showed her the clock on his wrist. “Yeah. The clock is pretty stupid."
Paper Napkin Stories—Sade Andria Zabala 3
| Forever Young | Lora Mathis | I am kissing you in countries that have not been named yet. I slide between the dips of your navel and swoops of your collarbone to stay dizzy all day long. We are using each other to avoid growing old. So I ask you, be young with me forever. We can call each others’ wrinkles ‘love lines’ and count them like rungs on a tree to figure out how many years we’ve been avoiding dying together. We can stay in bed until our white hair is a wispy reminder of who we used to be. You’ll live forever with your eyes wide and a child's smile because I’ll never see you any other way.
Hatchling—CBM 4
| I’ll Consume the Moon to Glow for You | | Lora Mathis | I do not regret every painful night I spent shaking out tears and thoughts of suicide because they helped me understand yours. I have let go of all my aches, burden me with yours. I'll consume the moon to glow for you.
R#1—Rachna Ravi 5
| Something | Caged Boy Sings | Say something honest. Say something that matters and say something that people will remember. Say that thing that everyone’s feeling but is too afraid to talk about. Talk candidly about how you feel like an outsider, and a loser. Let everyone know that you don’t feel good enough, too. Let them know that you feel the same things. Because you’re fucking sick of all the bars and the boys and the same old fucking people. You’re tired of having to feel like you’re cool enough and you’re over pretending to be you. Because you’re not you when you’re out there. You’re drunk and you’re pretending to be something you’re not. You’re playing the game and you just want to fit in. Because we’re all so cruel. We’re judgmental and we’re unforgiving. We’re fucking ass holes. We all talk shit like it’s our job and high school doesn’t stop. We all want to be top dog. The prettiest, with the best tits and biggest dick. We want everyone to know that we’re the best in the sack, and that should be enough but it’s not. We just want to be loved. We just want to feel like it’s not just us out here. We want to hear someone say it. We just want to know that we’re not alone, and we are. We’d never admit that thought. At least not to each other. But we know. It follows us everywhere. It sits on our shoulders and reminds us all day long. And if we could just find that one fucking person. That one fucking thing that’s like us. And if we find it we’ll be lucky. If we actually find that thing we’re all looking for, then we’ll be blessed and hopefully we won’t take it for granted. Hopefully we’ll know that we’ve won and we’ll hold it close and we’ll treat each other how we deserve to be treated and we will know how to love. Say something raw. Say something that blows the lid off of everything and cuts straight through the bull shit. Something that digs to the core and throw backs the curtains and burns down all the walls. Say something that forces all the demons and the monsters into the spotlight. Make them fucking dance. Say something that makes them know that you’re not scared of them and that you’re stronger than they are. Say something that throws everything off its axis and say something that makes people think. Say something that matters. Slog through the shit with pride. Put your fake eyelashes on and wear something with a neckline that plunges too deeply and a skirt that barely clears your beaver. Wear your jeans so tight that they can see the outline of your dick. Make yourself known. Make them see you. Be broken in public and clammer for attention. Post stupid shit on your Instagram that doesn’t matter and tell everyone where you are on Facebook. Do what you want. Fuck everyone. Fuck what they say and fuck what they heard. Let them talk. Start rumors about yourself. Take naked pictures with your cell phone and send them to your ex. Throw a drink on that bitch like you’re Paris Hilton in 2007 and check that dude from behind when he’s not looking. Do coke, you stupid bitch. Fuck shit up. Life’s fucking boring. Give them something to talk about. Say something stupid. Say something pointless and say something that everyone else has said before. Say something trashy and salacious and say something that will make everyone think that you’re ratchet. Say something that lets everyone know that you’re not special. Something that 6
tells them that you’re just like everyone else and that you have nothing going for you. Say something wrong. Say something that can’t be proven right. Think about how you would off yourself. How you would get the hell out of here and how good it will feel to not have to do this anymore. To no longer have to always be waiting for an appropriate time where you don’t have to be sober so you can start pretending. Pretending to be that thing that they’ll accept. That they’ll invite into the bathroom with them. Dance alone. Dance by yourself and try to be that thing that they wouldn’t like. Be yourself as often as you can. Try and be brave. You’ll be alone but you’ll be you. Let it make you uncomfortable. It’s the only way you’ll ever grow. Say something that everyone is feeling and thinking. Say something that helps you find the place where you can be who you were meant to be. Say something that helps you be brave enough to leave it all behind. Say something honest, and true. Because if you do your words will carry you through the darkness and guide you down all those winding roads that don’t have any light. Say something real, and you will eventually find your way home.
Paper Napkin Stories—Sade Andria Zabala 7
| Joséangel | Alexis Molina | I’ve never thought about the innocence you had Because I always thought about the feelings In your legs. Scrawny and motionless You cover them up, Emotions. There’s always the look of Curiosity. Maybe your thoughts are as restrained as your legs, A factor called reality That makes them dead: Running. Temptation. Imagination. Dreams. All got shot by Curiosity. I never though about why it was So crucial for you to care about kids, Like Holden Caufield standing on the cliff. I’ve always wonderedWill you catch me before I die? Or will you prevent me to fly? Don’t be like what you know 1 window, 2 doors And everything in between the constricting walls. Even though you can’t leave, You still soar. Capturing moments of time with 1 lens, 2 eyes. You see the beauty That others can’t see. While sitting in the chair, Observing. The gun may have left you to Bleed and die. But your heart kept Beating and moving, Pumping and wanting, Pleading and needing A second chance at life. Your imagination is dead Just like your legs When they said, “No hope to walk again.” You only go as fast as they can push. 8
You only go over the scene again. Went by too fast, The trigger you pulled. You said, “never have I had the will.” But what you don’t realize Joséangel Is that in the moment your legs were paralyzed Your hear ran for its life.
Hip-Hip-A-Hippo-—Leah Miller 9
| June, June, June | Rachael Heffner | You're 12 years old and all you can think about is if he likes you back. You think about the note that you sent him during your sixth grade class and how he pocketed the note for later. You think about the moment that he opens it and what he might say back. You think about this as your dad drives you through the city to the hospital where your mother is. They aren't together anymore. They haven't been for a while. You think about the time that your dad dropped you off and you went up the escalator, taking two of the steps at a time, desperate to see your mom. It'd been a week since you'd seen her. You crawled into the elevator and up to the floor that she was hidden on. You round the nurse's desk and remember how they looked at you with tired, sad eyes, but you didn't notice- and you won’t until much later in your life, when you think back to this moment. You remember how you walked into your mother's room- Gatorade in your hands since you know that the orange flavor is her favorite. "Mom?" you said, looking around the small room. The door to the bathroom is closed and the bed is empty. You called out to her again, hear nothing. That is until you hear the gagging. You put your ear to the door, hearing her puke up everything. With careful quiet, you slowly open the door to make sure she doesn't notice. Then there she is: the woman who played Memory with you until dawn, the woman who used to teach you the tango in the kitchen, and the woman who gave you life as you took hers. She's leaned over the porcelain toilet, puking out black and blood. She looks like she's choking, but you can't move. You can only see this. You can only see how bad it is. Only then did she notice that you were there, and only then did you decide to run. Ran as fast as you could back down to your dad's car and told him to "Step on it". He asked what was wrong, but the tears were making you choke just like your mother had been. "We're here," says your dad as you notice the hospital over your right shoulder. The building looks the same as it had a couple days ago. The brick stood strong just like your dad did as he walked you to the door. "Do you want me to stay?" He's been asking this same question since you ran out last time. "No," you murmur, head down, "I'm fine." You don't give him a chance to say anything else. You walk away. You walk into the downstairs, looking to the nurse's station to the right and then the waiting room to the left. It smells of death, though you have no idea what that smell is until later. You have no idea that death could have a stench that would cling to your clothes like the lives of those just lost. You just have no clue. You're too young for this. Instead of walking to the elevator and riding it up to the hidden floor with your mother's presence, you walk toward the chapel in the back of the hospital, for those who are lost. You've never believed in God, but for some reason, you think that he still listens. The chapel is empty and covered 10
in wood. There are pews that sit in front of you, calling for you to sit. But sitting involves moving and all you can do, now that you are alone, is lean against the wall. You don't understand why your body feels so heavy, but it does. Everything feels heavy. The walls, the pews, the shoes that encase your feet. Your head. Your heart. Finally, you walk to the pews and look toward the giant cross that hangs at the front, shadowed by a dim light. For some reason, you call out: "God? Hello? Are you here?" But no one answers. You stand up and head to the door, wiping the moisture from your eyes and heaviness from your heart. You hold your head up high because even at the age of 12, your family expects you to be strong. You have to be strong for your sister who has to be strong for her kids. You have to be strong for your lonely brother who's been away in Japan. Who hasn't been there enough to be strong. You have to be strong for your grandma and grandpa who are watching as their first daughter fades. You have to be strong for your father, who even though they are divorced, still feels an ache in his heart for the woman whom birthed his first girl. You have to be strong. You ride the elevator up to the floor and watch as the doors open. You see the nurse's station and you see the waiting room across from it. Your family, some of them, is huddled against one of the tables in the middle of the room. It smells like death again. You see your sister and brother, two aunts, and grandparents sitting in the room. You assume your brother is with your mother, considering he'd just come in from Japan a couple days ago. "Hey," you say. Your family looks at you and tries to smile, but you know that it's not real. None of this is real- it can't be. "What are you guys doing?" you ask as you hug your grandpa and grandma, even though your grandma hates you. She hates you more with each day. They say she doesn't, but even as you grow older and this day fades from your mind- you still remember the day she said it was your fault. "It's your fault, you know. It's all your fault," she says to you days earlier. "We're just figuring out some arrangements," they say to you, but you know what it is. Funeral details, what your mother's will says, what they're going to do with all of her stuff. You know what this is, though you play dumb as they ask what to say in the obituary that will be in the paper. You can't hear anymore. You leave and head toward your mother's room. At the beginning of her stay at the hospital, months ago, you had to wear a mask and clean your hands with every visit, but now. Now it's not worth it. You know she's gone. Just a matter of time, they whispered behind your back. The door to your mother's room is closed, so you peer through the small window and see your brother sitting at the bed with her. She doesn't look awake, but he's trying to speak to her. You pretend not to see the tears that run down 11
his rounded cheeks or the redness that clots under his eyes. Just like you pretended not to hear your grandma arguing with your sister last week. “What are we going to do with her? Where will she go?” asks your grandma, but your sister shakes her head, confused. Of course you will go to your dad’s. What kind of question is that? “She can’t go with her father. We have to take her-“ Your sister sounds annoyed, “Don’t you think taking one parent away is enough?” You pretend a lot of things lately. You step away from the door and give them a few more minutes. You find a nook to hide in, not wanting to face anyone that day. All your lies tend to bleed together. You decided to go back to the chapel, needing quiet. You tell no one. Hours later, you see staring at the cross that sits at the front of the chapel. You hear a noise and almost forget the world is around you until you see your brother and a girl walk in. You know that girl. She grew up down the road from you. You know her. Your brother says goodbye, that he's going out for the night. He's going on a date- one decision you know that he will regret for the rest of his life. You decide it's time to head upstairs and see your mom once more before you are made to leave, though you know that you will fight like Hell to stay. Your grandpa will say no. Once making it to her room, seeing everyone around, you look to your mom. She's awake, but not really there. She isn't your mom in that moment. She's just a body. She has yellowing eyes from the sickness that is slowly eating her whole. You stare into her yellow eyes and see the blue that use to be there, but you know that your mom isn't there. She is gone. You think, I'll see her tomorrow, but you won't. You'll never see her again. During the night, she will fade and in the early morning, your grandpa will leave a message for your dad saying that she is gone. And your dad knows that you will be gone too. A part of you will leave with her, one that he'll never get back. One you'll never get back. And you'll try for years to get that piece back. You'll try when you run that blade across your skin, watching the blood bubble to the surface. For a moment, you'll think you have it, but you won't. You'll try to get it back when you let boys use you and abuse you. You'll think it's okay because nothing could hurt as bad. You'll try to get it back when you drink a tad too much until you fall into a deep sleep where you dream of only her and if she would be proud of you in that moment. You try and get it back when you treat your father like shit because he was the one that left and not you and now all you have left is him. And you feel like he hates you. 12
You'll try for years, but one day you'll realize you'll never get it back. That she is gone. And so is that 12 year old girl. You'll spend years in therapy, but no matter how much you talk about it, the more and more it hurts. You're stuck. You're stuck in this Hell that you don't know how to get out of until one day. One day. You sit down to write about what happened to you. You cry as you write it. But afterwards, you feel a weight off of your shoulders that you didn't even know was there. And that is when you begin the rest of your life.
Retrospect—Rachna Ravi 13
| Perfect Sense | Jace Harlow | When derangement was crucified Sanity had to remain with the sane No rows for the depredation of humanity Produce gardens, industrialize personal income Reverse engineer self-worth of millions Until the lost remain lost indefinitely Then look over the shoulder Contemplate the insanity of being sane What point, the point, the objectification of reason Reincarnation, only to be reborn in a brothel Ah Reason, the combatant of spontaneous life Unequivocally, condemning weak hearts Only to barter for weaker Sanity addresses a shelf life Insanity undoubtedly challenges the eternal
Writer Problem Series— Susan Mesler Evans 14
| My Lover Never Came Back | Hannah Yarnell | I'm standing again, staring at that goddamned park bench. Four initials, one plus sign, and a heart etched into rotting wood. Me, pronoun. Definition: A shell of a person with snow white hair, wishing for the love that sucked the poison out of veins and replaced it with the oxygen needed to live. He left for the war, 1940. The feeling of our last kiss still lingers, but instead of being a reassurance, a promise that he would be home come winter, it’s a suckerpunch straight to the gut. I feel it in the same place he felt that bullet. “Baby, just one year. Only one.” Bitterness ruins you they say. Then let it ruin me. Let my contempt for the army murder me like his love for it murdered him. When the last bit of blood runs out of me, I’ll scream. There will be nothing but bone left where my fingernails once were. Scratched into the sidewalk beside me: four initials, one plus sign, and a heart.
Itty Bitty Benny—Leah Miller 15
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| A Solitary Flame | Gaele Vocal | cold palms, pale face lighters tucked away in their pockets smirks forming on their faces as they flip open that lighter trouble was all they were a bad influence, no good for you be cautious of them, they’re normal looking, as any other person in this room does unpredictable decisions they make as they set a fire burning away the pain they feel inside only to have left a scar in their minds, by the ones they loved the most, leave them for their dumb ass ways and one thing, if you fall, don’t. be aware that if they decide to burn down that bridge they know they should walk on, unexpectedly, just know, chances are you’re the one who gave them the lighter
| Lonely | Micheala Torneden | My bed's just as empty as your heart always has been .
| Scared | Micheala Torneden | I've started sleeping with my closet door open in hopes that the monsters will get to me before you do. 18
| 6 Word Poetry |
Your lips were my favorite ones.
Trips to Walmart, never the same. -Lauren Davis & Olivia Mello
- Jordan Martin
I Love Him. He Loves Me.
Love is only real at night. -MaLeah Mitchell
Real stories. Ghost stories. My story. -Rachael Heffner
-Annabelle Zimmowich
Mirror’s don’t tell the whole truth. -Lindsey Riley
We’ll make better mistakes next time. – Nya Anderson Like honey into tea, she breathes. -Brent Holden
Betty Crocker lives forever (in ovens).
Broken Lips. Broken Heart. Broken Mind. -Leah Miller
-Travis Campbell
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| Contributor’s Notes | CBM, lover of doodles and noodles. Gleek. Froufrou coffee addict. Pixar enthusiast. Caged Boy Sings is a writer, and that’s the only thing that he knows for sure. He can be found at http://cagedboysings.tumblr.com/.
Jace Harlow is currently 23 years old, and is from Wheatland, Indiana. He graduated from Ball State last year with a Bachelors Degree in Creative Writing, and now resides most of the time in Jackson, Wyoming.
Rachael Heffner is a graduate from Ball State University. She has her Bachelor's of the Arts in English with a minor in Professional Writing. She enjoys cooking, fitness, and an uncontrollable amount of puppies.
Drew Larson is a graphic artist and cartoonist from Wisconsin. His body of works includes magazines, children’s book, and comics. More of his work can be found at http://dyslexicdan.tumblr.com/.
Lora Mathis is a twenty year old college student studying Creative Writing and Human Sexuality in San Diego. Most likely to be found: on a plane, bleeding poetry in my bedroom, or at a concert.
Susan Mesler-Evans was born in Columbus, Ohio, and now currently resides in Merritt Island, Florida. She is stuck in the seemingly-endless hell that is high school, and gets through it by writing people into her novels and killing them. She is aware this may be a problem. You can find more of her at http://just-writerproblems.tumblr.com/.
Leah Miller is a senior at Carmel High School in Carmel, IN. She will be graduating in May and attending Purdue University in the Fall. She enjoys writing, drawing, and reading. 20
Alexis Molina currently attends Carmel High school in Carmel, IN, but is from Tuscon, AZ. She loves writing, music, and poetry. Some of her favorite poets include Sylvia Plath, Miranda July, and Langston Hughes.
Rachna Ravi is a 21 year old art student from College of Art, New Delhi, India. Her work's influenced by a lot of random things, she likes the internet and cats.
Jansen Imron Rosilla is an 18-year-old Filipino artist, writer, and book enthusiast. He likes warm coffee on rainy days and the color blue. He is currently living in Batangas City, studying BS Architecture at the Batangas State University.
Micheala Torneden is a sophomore in high school from Topeka, Kansas. She currently aspires to have work in a creative field (as an author, for example) when she completes her schooling.
Gaele Vocal was born and raised in California for fifteen years. She comes from a large urban high school up there in the Bay Area.
Hannah Yarnell is a 17 year old student at Erie High School in small-town Erie, Kansas. She hopes to eventually go to college and study for a job as a professional writer and editor.
Sade Andria Zabala is a twenty-two year old poet-slash-aspiring surfer from the Philippines. She is the proud published author of poetry book, "Coffee and Cigarettes." Discover her words at http://surfandwrite.tumblr.com.
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