The Fur Issue by Paperfinger

Paperfinger

December 2013

The Fur Issue

Paperfinger

December 2013

The Fur Issue

FEATURE

Jessica Frick

he irritating buzzing of my alarm interupts my dream and I suddenly have to remove myself from my warm, cozy bed and step onto the frigid hardwood floor to stop the incessent buzz. Goosebumps fill my skin and I shiver, why can’t my mom turn the heat to a reasonable number? It’s not my fault she thinks 60 degrees is hot.

I find my mother sitting at the dinner table on her laptop, she looks chipper, as she does every morning. I don’t know how she does that at 5:25 but she always does. “You ready?” she asks, I nod. “Okay, lets go.”

hurrying to get inside, out of the cold. I walk into the locker room and strip down to the bathing suit I smartly wore under my sweats, grab my cap and goggles and head to the pool.

There is a trail of other, sleepy girls, no talking like in the afternoon, We get in the car, my frosty breathe when our coach can barely get two lingers in front of me, mocking words in, no, in the morning we are me. I look out the window at the quiet. tall spooky, leafless trees, the water I turn my sleepy eyes and there below us when we cross the bridge, “500 warm-up girls!” he bellows. it is, my bag, all ready to go with the few cars on the road, and I look “Lets go!” He yells. Slowly we put my clothes folded neatly on top. at my mom who is happily singing on our caps and goggles and hop Getting up early is terrible enough along to the radio. We pull up to in the water one by one, our sick and this way I can get an extra ten school. ritual. Our frigid bodies enter the minutes of sleep and I don’t have to warm water and we begin our 20 think much, I just follow the same “Katie will give me a ride home lap warm up. steps I take every morning. after practice tonight.” I say. The water warms us, the movement After getting changed I walk out “Okay, have a great day!” of our arms and legs, slow at first, of my room, good, the lights are awakens our bodies and minds and already on downstairs. “You too” I tell her as I step out we get a little bit faster. of the car with all the other kids 13

Perhaps it is this past that draws me to Amelia Alcock-White’s artwork. I love the water, I always have. I have no idea what kept me going to 11 swim practices a week, I don’t know why I didn’t quit. Although its been years since I swam in high school I still think about it often. Amelia’s work, reminds me of my beloved water. Her work has an incredible quality that is hard to describe. It is realistic while also being abstract. She uses the water to abstract the way that people, animals and objects look. Her ability to paint the water is indescribably impeccable. Amelia is from Vancouver Island and studied art at Vancouver Island University and then went on to Emily Carr Institute and later pursued painting full-time. Amelia has received awards for her work and has held exhibitions in the United States and Canada from vancouver and Toronto to New York and Los Angelos. From looking at her work it is not hard to see why. “Art’s mission is beyond being decorative or merely pleasing; it has potential to awaken, arouse; provoke thought and discussion. My paintings are inspired by life’s harmonies and contradictions.” To me, this is something all true artists have been trying to say for centuries and she is able to say it so clearly and concisely, Amelia is so much more than a painter, she is a is a storyteller and a gifted communicator. She believes an artist is a conversationalist and that art is the medium for which an artist expresses their emotions.

she makes somethig she has a very clear motive to why she does what she does. Of everything Amelia says to describe herself I have to say I was most struck by her description of what fascinates her, “I’m fascinated with things that cannot be understood but perhaps only appreciated.” This is something that is obvious yet that I had never considered before. This is the root of truly good, thought provoking art. It is about pointing out subtlties in life that most wouldn’t notice. Amelia feels that her art is personal and depicts private feelings but that “It seems to me the journey of self-discovery is made even more valuable by sharing it with others.” Another true, obvious statement that, again, I hadn’t really considered. Of course this is another root of good art, we want to know about other people, the details of their lives, what makes them tick, and although being so revealing can be scary and potentially embarrassing it is truly liberating. You can find more art my Amelia Alcock-White at ameilawhite.net facebook.com/ameliaalcockwhite and on twitter @alcockwhite

“In my paintings I attempt to transcend the limitations of self and the illusions of the threedimensional world in order to depict a universal, archetypal, objective, reality. In short, is is the magic of reducing feelings to a twodimensional surface of color, shape and light.” The way she describes her meathods is fascinating. When 19

KANNE

here were a few weeks I’d say I was in a strange limbo between questioning the validity of acting honestly, as I’ve always done, or utilizing opportunities to lie in order to keep maintain order in my life. I thought a long time about this idea after I read about a German baron named Munchausen. He served in the military and after he was through he returned home and told tall tales about his experiences.

are just perfect in my book! Love, mama T.

‘He told people that he’d travelled to the moon. Ridden cannonballs. I wondered what the point of making up stories was. Could Baron Munchausen just be liked for being himself? For being honest? Could anyone?

Tracey, “Mama T”, was my ex-fiancé, Charlie’s, mother. She gave me the cook book for my birthday two years ago.

The scribbling looked foreign, like a coded passage from a world I wasn’t a part of, so I flipped over numerous pages past the scribbles. I thought of Munchausen telling stories about eating live bulls in Africa.

The foreignness of the note stuck with me as I passed over entrée titles.

Later that day, I picked the Perfect Mexican recipe book off my built-in wall bookshelf, needing comfort food desperately. I flipped open the cover.

I held the Perfect Mexican book, and it looks too big, and it feels too heavy for the weight of my small hands, and I think about I’m not exactly sure how her On the bright tangerine page a note was scribbled and I got to this point. I flip pages and try to imagine Happy Birthday to our “Adorable Mexican Chef.” You her saying I was perfect now. Page two-hundred 23

and fourteen: “To finish: chocolate chip and chili ice cream.”

I receive a phone call from the naval base in Connecticut, and I’m sitting at my black, rusted coffee Place an egg and sugar in a heatproof bowl set over table out on my screened-in porch in Florida. I can a pan of simmering water; beat the egg and sugar pinpoint the unusual clarity I notice in Charlie’s voice, mixture to get a light and fluffy consistency, slowly although the conversation mushes into one giant mass adding chopped chocolate, milk, dried red ancho chili, in my mind, but a few things stick in my brain like and vanilla bean until the chocolate has dissolved and left-over residue that lingers on the back of envelope the milk is almost boiling, stirring occasionally. seals. “Well, maybe you’ll level him out,” Momma Tracey said once.

His voice holds defiance and surety. It holds a curveball strongly in its thin, white, angry fingers. The wind up:

The two of us were lying on the beach, sweating under the white sun. Charlie had already left for the Navy. “We’re not on the same level, and if we keep going it’s just going to get worse.” “I mean, one could only hope.” I shrugged and smiled at her. I held my hand over the spot in the sky where the sun was whitening my vision. She rummaged in a His mouth releases the curveball from ninety miles per cooler then offered me an apple. hour. Fast and hard and coming right for me. “No, you’re doing just fine.”

“I’m not happy. I can’t be who you want me to be.”

I thought of Munchausen traveling to an island of cheese surrounded by a sea of milk.

After the hour has passed, transfer the partially-frozen mixture from the freezerproof bowl into a mixing bowl and beat the mixture to break down the formed My vision whitened again as I took the apple from her ice crystals. hand. Munchausen is telling me, “I escaped from the murky, Place aside to let cool. thick depths of swamps using my own hair as a rope!” One day she told Charlie that she was heart-broken that Charlie loved his “new family” more than he loved her. Lightly whip heavy cream in a separate bowl and fold into the cooled mixture. I saw the Baron dancing in the belly of a whale. The adventures were lovely, challenging, mystifying, but they weren’t real. I knew that, and Munchausen did, too. Why did the Baron lie to all those people? What could anyone gain from telling lovely, untrue tales? I read that there were even psychological disorder names after Munchausen: Munchausen Syndromes. A person with this disorder lies to get attention and sympathy for “being ill.” These are the people you expect hypochondriacs to be, but hypochondriacs are completely convinced by this false sense of illness.

Charlie is telling me I’ll get over him. Telling me this isn’t working. Telling me he rode on a horse that was cut in half, and shortly after the back part of the horse ran away into a meadow. The Baron and the front half of the horse continues on their adventures. Charlie hangs up the phone. Yes, these stories are lovely. Shiny, enticing, alluring. I fall out of the limbo I’m stuck in. But those stories aren’t fulfilling the reality: none of it is real. Place ice cream in freezer until ready to serve.

Those with Munchausen syndrome know there is no illness. They know it’s not real. They know there’s nothing actually wrong. Transfer the entire mixture into a freezerproof container and freeze for one hour. 25

Lexy Evans

he top of the campus chapel clock tower didn’t seem as high as Charles remembered. Years of retelling his heroic climb was making the ground seem closer than it ought to be. But the tower was at least four stories up and that should do it, right? He was a poetry professor, not a physics instructor. Former poetry professor. Dr. Charles Pool, PhD in Creative Writing. Divorced. Stripped of parental rights.... and recently fired. All because Tammy, some trust fund undergraduate, didn’t like her final grade and cried “rape”. Charles had never touched any of his students. His wife, Georgiana, had been his everything. Or so he believed until she gave him little Emily, and then Anne two years later. He’d had it all, what every man dreams of and more. But Tammy had ruined it with one word. No more job. No more wife. No more daughters. He had laughed when the chair approached him about the accusation. Surely Stacie was joking, he thought. But there was no humor on her face that day. Tammy Higgin’s father was a senator. The chair, sympathetically and chokingly told Charles his career was over. No matter the

outcome of the trial, it was a senator’s word against a poor man from Brooklyn, NY. A poor, black man. She had been right. The institution fired him, Stacie stuck by his side and argued for him to stay on, but the board of trustees had made up their minds. Charles leaves, or the money leaves.

facade. Security detained him the minute he was back on the ground. Charles handed her the rescued page of her paper as they marched him past. Something about the way she looked at him that day made Charles know that was the woman he was going to marry. And he did, at this very chapel.

Georgiana had stuck by him in the beginning, but when a social worker showed up to remove the girls from their home, she lost it. He didn’t blame her for picking the kids over him. He didn’t fault her for moving in with her wellto-do aunts. What he did blame Georgiana for was forgetting. It was no secret her family disapproved of her marrying “a man of color” but she’d never seen him that way. He was her gallant knight for over ten years. Now she spoke of him as a street thug who could do unspeakable things to their children.

He looked back down at the quad. This was where he thought his life had truly begun. Charles never thought he’d ever entertain the idea. He was a good, moral, Christian man. But no support was left. Not even the church, who believed the worst. He’d done nothing wrong except treat everyone fairly, no matter of family name. But he’d learned his lesson. Good breeding always wins. The accusations were made. Actions were taken. He was finished.

Charles managed to crouch awkwardly on the ledge. Taking out his pocket watch he received This clock tower was where he first last Father’s Day, he stared at the met Georgiana. Her term paper etched globe with a ribbon reading for Dr. Claymore had been carried “World’s Best Dad”. He opened out of her hands by a gust of wind. it and looked at the picture of his She had managed to collect most wife and kids. Smiling. Happy. He of the pages but Georgiana was looked back to the quad. How long insistent one page was on the clock would the fall be? tower. Young and stupid, Charles had two of his buddies help boost One Mississippi... him onto the low roof of the hall Two Mississippi... attached to the structure. He then Three Mississippi... scaled the side of the tower. She Four Mississippi.... had been right; page three was pinned by the wind to the brick 27

Pic of Lois

MEET

LOIS GOH Growing up as the only Singaporean in a classroom filled with beautiful Australian girls made me turn to a life of vegetarian baked beans and beef lasagnes at age 4. Writing helped distract me from my addictions and I grew to love it. Nodding along convincingly during college poetry classes helped me blend in with the other poets even though I knew next to nothing about analyzing them. I just write, because. -Lois Goh

Atrophy Filling out forms can be such a chore. Especially those online ones with the drop down menus. It isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the act of filling out the form. It is a chore for the heart to go through such blatant uncertainty. I scroll down to select Singapore as my country of citizenship but my track pad is enthusiastic. It scrolls down one option too many. Slovakia, it selects. The cursor hovers and blinks, innocently. Atrophy. It plagues me. Our countries are sadly nothing more than a clichĂŠ. A literary device. For they are so near yet so far. How have you been? Who do you think of?

For Fur’s Sake Dear Nicole, where are you? Oh. That’s rather far off. I’m not sure that our friendship will work if you don’t make the effort to come visit me every now and then. Don’t blame it on me, I’ve checked the ticket prices. I wish I could visit but they’re so pricey. Plus the journey is pretty long. JAX-HEA for the cost of my life? No thanks. For now, I’ll just stay here on earth and whine about how you died before giving me that cute denim dress. You know, that one with the strange fur trim? 34

Peace The stories that I hear from other girls are really rather interesting. There’s that one girl who realized that she was over a boy only when she was under him. It was a rather strange feeling but nothing that his taut body could salvage. His smooth skin, a disguise for his slowly dissolving heart. Acidic. Corrosive. Unlovable. So she went through the motions until she came up on top. Then, she laughed. It started out as a chuckle but then just a little bit more. A giggle, a laugh and she can’t quite contain it anymore. She’s laughing and her tummy hurts. She’s crying and maybe her heart hurts. The peace of love, it just could not be. 35

“

Ft Pulaski I am learning that, silly as it may sound, palm trees don’t care much for state lines. Mosquitos don’t hold allegiance to a Florida/Georgia game-as long as they get their ounce of flesh in the end. The fish that swim near the surface of the sea don’t worry about state taxes While the crabs that crawl, slowly, across the low-tide don’t fret when it disappears under salty waves. The marsh mud under their miniature herds smells the same between their toes as it does mine; even after bringing it all the way back home and watching it swirl around the shower drain.

3:21 If you wake up alone, remember that the ocean is 6 miles deep. Remember the names of the clouds you learned in school (cumulus, cirrus, stratus) and try and picture the last mountain you stood on. There is a forest somewhere that no one has set foot inIt doesn’t matter what the trees sound like when they fall. Think of the cosmos (of the ones you never knew existed) and the song that was playing as you watched the sun rise. It’s not the middle of the night, it’s the middle of your favorite poem (your favorite song) story memory spring summer or winter fall back in love with the bottom of the sea and it’s inky wonder, with brick streets you wandered under scattered stars as the moon shining through the curtains turns the tides. 39

Fir The house always smelled like cookies and stale fir needles this time of year but the smells talking and relatives stifled warm air. The decorated captured tree dominated attention, demanded sacrificial gifts and left ground we could not walk on with bare feet. Cool outside solitude refreshed her chapped lips. Winter solstice â&#x20AC;&#x201C; new beginnings she would think. Would stomp her feet. Would kick at the frozen ground with the tip of her boot. Uproot the snow. Prepare the earth for new green shoots of Spring.

Service with a Smile Sit wherever you’d like. Yes, that is what the sign says. Please, take a menu. Anyone else joining you today? Please don’t sit at the big table when there are only two of you. My name is [insert name here] and I will be your server today. Let me know if you have any questions. Of course you have questions. What would I recommend? How the hell should I know? Well what are you in the mood for? A sandwich? Fries? A slap in the face? Can I start you off with something to drink today?

I’ll give you a few minutes. Yes, we can put that on the side. No, sorry, that doesn’t come with fries. It should be out in fifteen minutes. Sorry, I know you said you wanted it on the side. Yes, I did put in on the ticket. Cooks make mistakes, but I know you think I was the careless one. Yes, I can take it back off the check and dump it on your head. Here’s the check whenever you’re ready. Please remember I make $4 an hour and tips are part of my salary. Five percent? Just for me? How generous of you. 42

Fur There is a tiny bit on my back. He sits and spins the golden hairs around his finger. Once.Twice. Release. I like it. I like you and your unconventional beauty standards â&#x20AC;&#x201C; your delicate fingers drumming my spine. Feeling wild around you. I am your wolf girl hunting howling home. 43

In My Black Coat In my black coat I’m Zelda on the town, voice, warm and loud. I’m Greta from the silver screen, your jazz age beauty Queen. I am Ms. Parker, writing limericks til I think of something darker. In my black coat I don’t fear the rain in it’s persistence, nor the chill chasing me in from the bay. I slip it on and set out. Up to my ears in fur, Up to my fill of February nights. down to the pub I go, In my big black coat.

Keep The Warmth Keep those sweaty palms in your pockets. I want the hard feeling of cool tile on my flesh. Know that I will never hog the covers. Keep those hot blooded assumptions of where I’ve been. I want to be sopping wet in the may rain. know where heat oppresses, cold collects on claims. Keep those furnace feet to yourself. let me shake, rattle, and shiver out of your reach. Do you know how to you manage an Indian burned heart? You scold the bad child, and apply the ice 45

Furry Place I wanna feel your skin on mine. Warm with a touch of foreign. A foreign I do not know. Have never seen. But experienced many times. Just not there. Not that location. With every touch you take me thereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;to your foreign place. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what it is. How you do it. But you make me want to go back. Again. And again. And again. I wanna feel your skin on mine. Warm with a touch of foreign.... * * With every time I become a little foreign myself. Dispatched from our physical location you take me elsewhere. Perhaps there. I thought I had forgotten how to get there, but you showed me the road. With every delicate touch being a clue on how to get there. My body is a road map and you know exactly how to read it. You go in and make me feel what has been there all along and I am very much willing to give it all to you. To share it with you. Seeking new adventures. Discover new things. You had me taste the foreign. A taste so odd. Distant. A distance bringing us closer together. I never thought I would go back, let alone go there. To your foreign. 47

Thank you to all my incredible writers! Think youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got what it takes to write something for us? Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail Photo Credit: All images from Amelia AlcockWhite except page 30