The Dumpster Issue

Paperfinger

November 2013

The Dumpster Issue

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Paperfinger

November 2013

The Dumpster Issue

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Meet Jenna

Robinson

What can I say about the new addition to our Paperfinger family, photographer starlet Jenna Robinson? Jenna recently graduated from Purdue University with a Bachelors in Computer Graphics Technology and a minor in Art & Design and says her studies were “the perfect fusion between computers and art” and now works for the university as a web and graphics designer.

Naturally, I had to snag her for our magazine as an amazing example of someone who turned her love of art into her focus of study and her career.

So while going through some of her work, it dawned on me her photography was truly as gripping as the written works we share. Without trying to sound like a persuasive piece, I truly believe Jenna Robinson’s photography shows a little bit of who she is as a person: a

little eccentric, a little raw, but extremely charming.

I think she senses something different in her work too, because when asked to talk about her work she said, “I love patterns and nature, but I also love things that are ridiculous, excessive, minimal, or outlandish. An unusual view of a common scene is something that happens a lot in my photography.” Jenna is such a sweet, creative, and completely quirky person. It’s what makes being around her so wonderful.

When I think about Jenna, I can’t help but to think about an “End of the World Party” we both attended, back when the Mayan calendar was ending and no one knew for sure if it meant anything. Luckily, it was around Christmas so we had a little gift exchange as well. I ended up with what ever gift Jenna

decided to bring to the table. I opened the little wrapped box, and the gift was perfect: sticky plastic googley eyes. Options unlimited. The rest of the night (which didn’t end the world) was spent putting a hundred googley eyes on everything in the house.

Her own personal memory describes her and her art perfectly, “A funny story combining travel, my attraction to arbitrary circumstances, and photography would be the time my travel buddies and I were wandering around Rome past midnight. We didn’t realize the subway would shut down at midnight in Rome, but it did, and we were stuck walking miles back to our hostel. We were all dead tired and kind of grumpy, and then I saw this funny sight. On these scummy, ancient sidewalks lay a single 11

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“An unusual view of a common scene is something that happens a lot in my photography�

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wadded up piece of paper trash, sitting perfectly illuminated on its own in the center of a small ray of light coming from an overhead light. I had to stop and take a picture.

Everyone was dashing ahead as my dear boyfriend noticed me stopping and said, ‘ARE YOU SERIOUSLY TAKING A PICTURE OF TRASH RIGHT NOW?!’ Yes, I was. I died laughing then, and we all still do, because now it’s published.”

two of my best friends as well, I’m not a purist.”

interview-like questions I asked Jenna if she recalled an early art-related experience, and she It’s apparent Jenna’s photos aptly responded, “In 3rd grade, revolve around the world my art teacher asked us to around her, yet Jenna notes, “I replicate Picasso’s Don Quixote. wouldn’t say I have a conscious She gave everyone a sheet of inspiration for my work, but watercolor paper and a black my lithography teacher helped sharpie. While everyone else me realize that my art is always groaned and rolled their eyes, connected to my family and I replicated the sketch almost friends in one way or another.” to a T. She then had us paint in a watercolor sky. Everyone Lithography? Jenna says did blue skies, but mine was she took Lithography class orange and yellow. That’s the Did she say Rome? Yes. Jenna on a whim. “Lithography first time I remember enjoying is a roamer. “I don’t know if in a nutshell is a ridiculous, art and probably the first time travelling can be considered a antiquated way of printing I realized I saw things a little hobby, but it’s a big part of my involving exotic chemicals, differently than the other kids.” life. Everything is interesting to precious stones, and way too I had to appreciate the notion me. I appreciate every culture much time. You cannot achieve that Jenna wasn’t thrown off and all the customs and art I see similar results without going by this experience. I would in other countries are beautiful through the insane process, think that at such a young in a different way.” The fact though. What I didn’t realize is age, a child would want to that everything interests Jenna that I would spend the entire conform with the other kids, is no surprise at all, and her semester inhaling bizarre fumes to fit in. But even now, Jenna intrigue with the world shows and consistently working in the is a woman who is on her own in her photos, completely. print studio until 4:00am, but path. Though I’m sure even in Jenna’s attention to her work the results were astounding. third grade Jenna was aware, also shows how she’s learned to I don’t regret taking the class as she told me, “I get my crafty master her preferred medium of because it was interesting and skills from my mother and my digital photography. Jenna says challenged me.” photography skills from my she loves digital photography father” and thank goodness for because “it’s so instant and Her love for all things doesn’t that, because we are psyched forgiving. I love snapping shots stop with subject matter. Jenna to have her and look forward of things people don’t usually also loves different forms of to showing all of her whimsy, notice or think are particularly art painting, drawing, and quirky, and worldly photos! interesting. I crave photo ops. printmaking and believes There have been times where “every medium serves a I’ve been sick to my stomach separate purpose and emotes www.jenna-robinson.com because I didn’t have a camera differently, which is why I like with me in a moment that to learn them all.” Maybe it’s needed to be recorded.” Jenna just me, but Jenna seems like doesn’t leave out the fact that she was born to be an artist.

“Photoshop and Lightroom are While asking her the usual

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Steven hovered over the woman’s face, as close as his hockey-like helmet with the plastic mask would allow without bumping into her nose, his glasses slid down as his golden brown eyes steadied. He held his breath as his gloved left hand pressed the tongs open steadily between her eyelids. He hummed his father’s favorite hymn while his right hand placed the smooth contactlike eye cap over her milky motionless eye. The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want… The tongs were gently closed, her eyelids followed suit.

he needed to complete his work for the day: locking the jaw closed. He makes me down to lie in pastures green; he leadeth me… Steven’s long fingers clamped the trigger while he stabilized the woman’s limp head. He held the barrel just below her left ear. Dong. Dong.

Clunk Clunk Clunk.

“Shit!” He startled and lost his positioning on her chin.

He wasn’t expecting any live motion to interrupt his work.

He set the gun down and listened to the rash, quick rappings at the door to the funeral parlor. Why had his Steven smiled and lifted his father installed that horrible protective plastic face mask. gong of a doorbell, anyway? It He stood up straight, pressing sounded like the low bells in a his arms against his sore back. catholic church. The repetitious Although he was only twenty sound of it made him sick. He seven, he felt his father’s age hesitated a moment. It wasn’t right before he passed through a calm knocking, but a furious, the pearly gates of heaven. loud banging on the front Looking around the florescent door. Loud enough to hear white room, he read the clock through the closed door of the that hung next to the crucifix on embalming room, and twice as the opposing white brick wall, loud once Steven opened the and then gazed down over the door. tray where the tools rested. The cleaned scalpel. The cleaned He stepped quickly down the aneurysm hooks. Shiny cannula hall and pulled the heavy oak forceps. Rinsed adjustable drain door open, annoyed at such a tubes and hose. rude noise in a peaceful place of the deceased.

He lifted the loaded needle gun

“Can I help you?” he asked quickly. His annoyance stopped short at the sight of the ash that was falling from the sky behind the man. Steven coughed as he breathed the dry air, the soft slow flakes of ash falling from the watery gray sky. Typical June weather for St. Augustine.

There must have been a fire blowing down from Nassau County. Or maybe it was the man on the other side of the threshold.

The man was covered in soot from his face to his off-white, wrinkled shirt to his over-sized muddied jean shorts. A trucker’s hat hung lop-sided over his matted, black hair that stuck to his forehead. He had small dark eyes that squinted as he sank, his back curled from putting all his weight on a wooden cane clutched under a blackened, dirty hand. His right foot didn’t have a shoe, but hung loosely, lightly on the cement step, like a piece of spoiled meat, red and purple and swollen. He looked like he could have just escaped from the fires that were blazing from the North. And he was looking at Steven in a queer way. Steven adjusted the collar on his shirt. He noticed he was still wearing his mint-green gown and black latex gloves.

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“I needa see a man ‘bout my brother,” he man said, a little uneasy. His voice was gruff, carrying a Southern accent that Steven could easily identify, being a Northerner. Steven thought of how his father had moved the family business South. He must have thought the Rogers and Son Funeral Home would thrive in the country’s oldest city, in the midst of the comfort of Bible belt. Steven had talked to a large family about buying and taking over the business for him last week.

them both he wouldn’t be taking anymore clients until the place was sold. There were no bodies resting in the fridge or the caskets in the building.

There was only the woman, supine on the draining table in the back room.

Steven scratched his dark scruffed beard. He’d hardly shaven in weeks. Who kept their deceased relative with them, let alone in their car? If he moved back North last winter after his father died, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

“He’s dead.” The man shuffled his shoed foot a little, scrunching his face.

“Well, are you going to have a service for him here? At Rogers?” He cleared his voice.

The ash was clogging his nasal cavity, making it harder to breathe.

“Well--”

“I needa know whadda do with him. I have him in the car.”

The man shifted again and squinted more. Sneered, even.

“Your brother?” Steven was the Steven pushed his square frames “I’m here, ain’t I? Whaddo I do funeral director, the preacher, up his nose. then?” and the embalmer in the family business since his father passed, “In the car?”

“Well…” He wondered what his a living he never wanted to father would do. He wondered endure, let alone by himself.

“Right there,” he pointed a what he should do. They both He wondered if either of the blackened finger at a rusted believed in the goodness of two employees at the home gold Buik Le Sabre in the people, the grace God offered had spoken to the greasy man parking lot. It looked like a man as opportunities through others, earlier, even though he told was sitting in the passenger seat. even if the man was rude and 22

dirty and showed no respect for his deceased brother sitting in the car, like a cheap mannequin.

But while he was still in business, he wasn’t going to turn anyone away. For a chance for this man to say his final goodbye or for the money.

years, and easily pulled the cadaver over his shoulder and turned toward the funeral home. “We need to get him in the fridge, fast.”

“He ain’t some fuckin’ game turkey!”

Steven caught his breath but coughed again as the smoky air collected in his throat. He could only think about how he wanted to get out of smoky St. Augustine. He wanted to get out the business. And now he wanted to get away from this man as soon as possible.

Steven heard the man’s voice a distance behind him. He couldn’t see the man’s face. “If we don’t, the tissue in his body will keep decomposing. It’s already been decaying.”

“Let’s go get him, then,” Steven decided.

The man grunted, turned, and tottered down the stairs, first his good foot, then his right leg stiffly swung down, balancing on the cane and on his tender piece of meat. He limped to the car, yanked the passenger side door open.

Neither of the men said anything else until they entered the parlor past viewing rooms with the dirty man shuffling slowly behind.

him. Steven pushed the tray back into place and stepped out of the fridge. He felt refreshed after being out in the ashy atmosphere of the city.

“So you just gonna leave him there, eh? Like this lady?” The gruff man snickered.

“No, sir. Of course not. I’ll have him out of cooling in the morning, and I can get to work on him as soon as you please.”

He was trying his best not to lose his temper. He had enough for the day.

“Then I’ll seeya tomorra,” and with that, the man turned and Steven heard him shuffle away and out the door down the hall.

As Steven pushed through the embalming room’s door, he noticed the body of the woman he had been restoring. He cursed under his breath, but decided to ignore her. He had to get this body into preservation and get his brother out of his sight.

“The people that in darkness sat a glorious light have seen the light has shined on them who long in shades of death have been, ooooh, in shades of death have been.”

“You gonna handle this?” the Steven mindlessly sang along gruff man asked. Steven sighed. “Jesus Christ,” the gruff voice to the radio station his father It was a wonder how the man said behind Steven, “what had found years ago. He never got his brother in the car in the happened to this here lady?” changed the channel. It was first place. Or how long he’d early, four hours before the been there. Steven stepped in Steven’s jaw clenched. He hated other worker for the day would front of the man, gazing into when people used the Lord’s come in. Steven was washing his the car. name in vain. He was raised hands, having just placed the better than that. new man’s body on the draining “God bless him.” The scraggly table, mixed sixteen ounces of man’s brother was maybe a Steven ignored the man and formaldehyde with two gallons year younger than the man, walked over to the walk-in of water, and disinfecting the with his mouth slightly open, refrigerator. He slid the door man’s mouth, eyes, and nose. arms placed nicely across his open and stepped inside. He The warm water felt good on lap. He was wearing a dirty could feel the man staring into his palms after handling such a navy blue body suit, like some his back as he carefully pulled cold, dirty body. car repairman. Judging from out a metal tray and lifted the

the discoloration around his brother, placing him on the Steven put a new set of gloves temples and the sallowness of tray the most efficient way he on and lowered the plastic his cheeks, he’d been dead for could. He would worry about face mask. He picked up a about two days. Steven secretly removing the clothing and long silver scalpel and hovered thanked the Lord. He had taken cleaning him in a couple days, over the new body. He wasn’t care of and carried bodies for when it was time to embalm going to waste any time getting 23

this body restored and out of Rogers. His left hand found the body’s right clavicle and the scalpel slid easily through the skin and the tissue. A clean cut. He found the carotid artery and grabbed the formaldehyde solution to begin to push it through the body, pushing the man’s blood out.

“Wuts this music playin’?” the gruff voice behind him instantly brought a knot to his stomach.

Steven hadn’t forgotten that the man said he would return today.

He was dreading it since he walked in the door. He turned toward the strange man from yesterday, wishing he wouldn’t have let the man follow him all the way to the back of the building. Steven ignored the man’s comment and placed the scalpel on the body’s torso. He raised the protective mask.

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The scruffy man didn’t look like much different than the previous day. He had on the same hat, a similarly dirty shirt and jeans. His foot was still hanging loosely from the right ankle, slightly turned out and still swollen and meaty. The man shuffled barely into the room, gazing anywhere but at Steven or the table. He was freshly aware that his brother lay naked on the draining table.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get properly acquainted last night.

I’m Reverend Rogers and I’ll be overseeing all the preparations for your brother. You left before I could get your informa—”

“M’name’s Marlow. And you’re buryin’ my brother. Henry Davis.” Marlow lifted his hat and wiped his greasy forehead

with the back of the hand that wasn’t holding the wooden cane, motioning toward the body he wouldn’t look at on the table.

“Mr. Davis, thank you. I know this can be a difficult time for you and your family—”

“Don’ call me that, m’name’s Marlow. It’s jus’ me and Henry.

Ain’t no family.”

Now Steven understood the man’s rage. Now that his brother was gone, he was the only one left of the Davises. He would have to be even more careful to Marlow’s sensitivity, even if he did keep rudely cutting Steven off.

“I’m sorry. Marlow. I’m just getting started on restoring Henry, I can have him in a

casket and ready for a proper farewell by the end of the day.”

Marlow looked around the sterile white room, appearing a little annoyed and impatient.

Steven watched him linger on the crucifix on the wall. Then toward the radio that continued to praise on judgment and on justice based, His reign shall have no end…

“You quite a man of God, ain’t ya?”

“You aren’t a follower of the lord?” Steven couldn’t help but retort back. The way he said it just pushed the sentence out of him. He had no patience since his father wasn’t there to keep him grounded.

Marlow’s fist slammed against the white door, and a loud

rattle shook through the room and shook Henry on the table.

Steven’s muscles tightened and his glasses fell down his nose, almost off his face. Marlow clearly had no sense of respect, for the living or for the dead.

“Imma believer in the word, don’t get smart! You think you betteran the rest ov us, you think you so special ‘cuz you can handle bodies!”

Steven readjusted his glasses. He wasn’t going to get smart with this man. He figured the man was like all the scraggly redneck men that go postal in movies, and Marlow would shoot him at any instant for making him angry, shoot him even if he was looking anywhere but over at Steven.

Steven pushed his brown hair

to the right off his forehead.

He wasn’t sure what to say. He repeated the words he heard his father use so often for grieving families, “I prepare the vehicles we use on Earth to rest in restoration and preservation for the rest of eternity. Here at Rogers we pride ourselves in offering spiritual guidance at a time of great need and care for the living and the deceased—”

Marlow smacked the door again, a little harder.

“Sir, please. With all due respect, Mr.—er—Marlow, I’m only a kind of instrument of the lord—”

Marlow let out a phlegmy rumbled chuckle that unsteadied his balance. His meaty foot twitched. “Instrument of the lord?”

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Steven shuffled in his boots, feeling heavy and awkward on his own feet. He accidently kicked the draining table, and both men looked at Henry.

Steven’s heart stopped. He had forgotten to put the scalpel back on the shelf, and didn’t notice that he left it on Henry’s stomach.

“You son-ova-bitch!” Suddenly, Marlow hopped across the draining table with his fist raised. Before Steven could react, Marlow had already smashed into Steven’s nose.

Steven felt a surge of surprise that the crippled man had such a strong blow. Then he felt a surge of pain through his nose to the rest of his head. Without knowing the basic rules of embalming, Marlow apparently still knew how disrespectful it was to use the deceased as a table. Steven grabbed his nose with both hands as Marlow pressed his meaty foot too hard on the ground and lost balance, crashing into the table, pushing Henry a little off the table.

He jumped back at the touch.

Henry was still cool from being in the fridge overnight.

“Instrument of the lord, my ass!” Steven squinted through teary eyes and long heavy lashes as Marlow stumbled out of the room almost as quickly as he went at Steven. Steven grabbed a towel from a counter behind him and held it up to his nose.

He could feel the blood rushing from his hot face. He ran to the door, clutching the reddening towel to his face, but Marlow had dissipated like a spirit.

Steven returned to the embalming room, hastily pushing Henry back onto the 26

table. He had to get this body restored and out of his sight, now that Marlow was in a fury.

He plucked the scalpel off the body, throwing it in the sink behind him. He clenched the scissor-like cannula forceps on the exposed pinked artery.

He inserted the drain tube and pushed it toward Henry’s heart.

He kept thinking of Marlow’s laugh, the condescending way he said “instrument of the lord.” He tied ligature around the lower end of the tube and connected to the draining machine. He turned the machine on. A low hum and light sucking filled the room.

Steven sat on the counter as he waited for the formaldehyde to replace the blood in Henry’s body. Instrument of the lord?

Steven’s face was still hot as he thought of his father, the real instrument of God. His father was a saint, a man with a passion for connecting and mourning with families. Steven didn’t connect with mourners.

He connected with leaving the morbid South. Getting out of funeral home preaching.

Leaving the business to someone else. And he connected with Marlow’s fist.

He stood up to shut the machine off, now that there was only twenty percent of the solution left. After a soft click Steven headed for the phone in the connecting office. He needed to talk to the potential buyer of Rogers.

“Yes, Mr. Merkley? It’s Steven from Rogers and Son. Yes, how have you been, friend? I wanted to just che—” Steven heard slow thumps and a rustle. “Could you hold a minute, please, Mr.

Merkely? Thank you.”

Steven set the receiver down and looked into the embalming room. Marlow was there, swooping a sawed-off doublebarrel shotgun toward Steven.

“You ain’t no instrument. You jus’ some preachy arrogan’ son-ova-bitch!” Steven tried to jump back and slam the door to the office as Marlow pulled the trigger. He heard the terrifyingly loud pop, and felt painful pressure in his right forearm. Then the cabinet next to the office exploded. He managed to get the door closed, but looked down at the red spreading across his arm. It was the second time the man made him bleed. Under the door he saw a glow of orange, then red.

Shit. The formaldehyde cabinet.

“Fuck!”

There was a crash and a sliding sound. He leaned against the door, breathing hard. He fucking shot me. Steven’s head became hazy. He had to get away from the fire spreading on the other side of the door. To a hospital. To safety, away from the man.

When Steven opened the door, there were flames dancing up the wall, hot in Steven’s face.

The flames had already spread half-way across the room and over Henry’s body. When he tried to breathe, it was like breathing the smoky air outside.

Marlow was sprawled on the ground, limp and unmoving.

His eyes were closed and a puddle of red was creeping from under his head. The shotgun was near the corner of the room.

Smoke had already filled the

room. The flames grabbed at the ceiling, stretched toward Marlow. Steven jumped past the cabinet and ran to the back door, clutching his wounded arm. He didn’t whisper a prayer of forgiveness or strength or peace as an explosion burst through the rooms behind him. There goes the rest of the flammable solutions and embalming creams. The machine. Henry and Marlow.

Steven headed for the parking lot through another smoky

day in the city and fell into the driver’s seat in his car. The windows were down as he turned the ignition over. He didn’t bother to close them. He backed out, but didn’t drive to the hospital right away. He parked on the other side of the road, where nothing but tall, barren pines stood. In about an hour, Bryan would expect to come to work, to sit in the funeral parlor or the office, but would come to a pile of soot, instead.

He sat there panting and watched as the fire took over the building, breathing in a mixture of St. Augustine’s ash rain and the formaldehyde fire.

There goes the family business.

As the glow continued to swell along with the sun in the heated June morning, Steven could hardly differentiate the scents.

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had a moment when I first saw him, and I thought to myself, “did we have sex?”

At the Jefferson library, I blend in. Sitting at a table with a Macbook Pro, staring at the screen, amongst other students, who are equipped similarly.

There comes a time, occasionally this happens, when I am in a public space, whether it is on the streets of Philadelphia or in my own university library, where I notice a man who makes my heart stop.

He need not be wildly attractive or enticing. He needs to be someone who looks familiar to me. I’ve slept with almost 20 people in my short 21 years. Some of them are bound to look alike.

This one man in particular roused my memory bank of former partners. This man is tall, lightskinned and has a shaved head, and he is tattooed on one arm. He has on a black visor, which he removes and marks are imprinted around his shiny head. Sitting down 8 feet away from me, we made eye contact and that’s when my heart stopped.

If I truly did see a former partner, my nerves wouldn’t be shot because of fear or embarrassment. They’d be shot because of the tickingaway seconds I’d have to find a private space. Would someone at the library be willing to watch my

laptop and bookbag while I bone this visor-wearing bald man in one of the communal study rooms?

that so flawlessly covered his body. Baldy #2 was less thick, but one or two veins jutted out of his bicep, which caught my eye almost Baldy in particular is someone who instantly.

I want to fuck again. Maybe this time I’d use a condom with him.

Moments go by and his phone But only if time permitted. rings. He jumps up to answer it, and I hear his voice. Oh god. It is MY TIME. so sexy. Masculine. I am even more aroused.

Time that I have before I explode.

My sex drive is a ticking bomb.

For most “normal” people, I need to satisfy my drive before attraction is an experience involving complete detonation ensues. a few senses. Sure, you like the way your partner smells or the way that Even when the drive satisfied, their skin feels. For me, all of my explosion is consequential. I am senses are engaged to the extreme. insatiable. I am an addict to the act If I detect similar pheromones to of sex and essence of sexuality. those of someone I’m attracted to, I lose all focus and need to satisfy my This is a look inside the mind of a drive through any available means. sex addict.

A deep, masculine voice tears at my insides and makes me utterly After we made eye contact, I was vulnerable to any whim. The most immersed in him. My focus had magnitudinal of them all is skin. It evaporated like steam. Pretending is a whole-body sensory experience to look at PowerPoint slides about that releases excessive chemicals in fall prevention in the elderly, I my brain that alters my perception tuned in all of my focus to my of reality and consciousness. peripherals to subtly observe his movement. He briefly looked at Baldy packs up his bag and leaves. me before taking out a magazine My heart is crusaded by the and earphones from his black detachment and I suddenly feel backpack. His posture was lousyvery lonely in this crowded library. he hunched over to read. I noticed I replay our movie together of our that he couldn’t have been the first sight in my mind, but it is original Baldy who I fucked in the interrupted by a broad, dark haired hot summer evenings in July. The man who sits 8 feet from me. And original Baldy was chiseled like a I thought to myself, “did we have statue with profuse, defined muscles sex?

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Nettles And if one should take nettles, placing them upon the ground.

Let them frolic, let them rest on the spindles of distress for what is hurt when pain is transitory. Transient you are, fading as you go. What will be left of you when the shrub has withered?

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Playing Dead I drive past cotton fields.

A dead opossum lays bloated on the highway-did you know opossums can carry leprosy?

My friends from France ask me “Where do you live? Where is Georgia?�

They ask me in their musical accents as I try and smother the Southern Drawl that coats my vocal chords.

I drive 500 miles by cotton fields and critters that Jesus cannot heal.

Living in Georgia is like living in a maze of crops and dirt roads, where high school football is a religion, and innovation is attaching a cup holder to your lawn mower so you can cut the grass with a Natty Light.

Living in Georgia feels like being the leper who never saw Jesus; but God, the fried chicken here is good.

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In Chinese Folklore, there is a Rabbit, not a Man, who resides on the moon. He is companion to the Moon Goddess and mixes for her The Elixir of Life.

When I was young, I would leave my warm bed and stare, transfixed, at the patterns reflected in the moons face.

I was comforted by the fact that if I dug to China, I would find someone staring at the night sky with the same longing that I did.

I would find someone different from me in every way, except for the stories we tell to explain things much greater than ourselves. Stories to pass the time as we grow into a yearning that can pull the tides.

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Vuilnisbakkenras Looking—no, staring at this broken off piece of hair my thoughts wander.

They wander to a place of blurriness, calm and peaceful. Everything here is one shade, one color, one shape. And in this place I feel strong. I feel peace. Love.

And happiness. I feel so strong for letting myself go since you didn’t. You don’t understand why. You never hurt me, you never treated me badly, you loved me so much and never wanted to let me go.

Yet I still dumped you in the trash can of singles.

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A brutally honest yet cliché love confession I was not in love with you.

I loved the idea of you.

I don’t miss you.

Period.

I miss 24/7 store hours and Panera’s Greek salad.

Maybe it was a case of cultural differences; a language barrier.

But it’s definitely no longer a case of you and me.

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Press the *…* button Gone like the broken hair was my broken heart. Swept away by my own hands.

Odd though. Many say a break up will cause the heart to be broken. Mine healed.

Mine regained strength and love. Unfortunately in this day and age I don’t get to trash any of our love notes, movie and concert tickets, or postcards. All I can do is hit the delete button. Oh wait— that is not because of this digital era, it is because you never gave me anything I can physically trash. Except for the jewelry you gave me. I guess I am too much of a material girl to throw that away. But then again, there is always craigslist.

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Thank you to all our incredible writers!

Think you’ve got what it takes to write for us or be a featured artist?

Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail Photo Credit: All photos from Jenna Robinson www.jenna-robinson.com