The Web Issue by Paperfinger

Paperfinger October 2013

The Web Issue

Paperfinger October 2013

The Web Issue

Think youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got what it takes to write something for us? Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail

Jessica Frick

Kristiane Weeks

Designer / Co-founder

Editor / Co-founder

Originally from the suburbs of Philadelphia Jessica is a Graphic Designer who loves typography and a good iced coffee.

Currently studying creative writing at Indiana University, Kristiane enjoys listening to vinyl and reading a good book, even if its a cliche.

FEATURE

“I once had a high school art teacher tell me I couldn’t paint.” “

once had a high school art teacher tell me (in front of the entire class) I couldn’t paint. Every time I begin a new painting, I think of her and prove her wrong.” That’s right. The incredible works of art filling these pages was done by someone who can’t paint. It is incredible that Brianna was able to take a moment in her life that could have stopped her from ever pursuing art and turn it around to be what actually drives her to be better.

forget? Of course when I saw her breathtaking work I understood why she was so heavily awarded, there is without a single doubt in my mind that no one else in the art department (and probably the entire school) was as deserving.

from one classroom to another. Despite the noise Brianna’s work stood out to me. I was rushing out the door most and I ran down the spiral staircase leading to the first floor. Sitting at the bottom was a painting with a girl who was falling, or floating in front of I remember the first time I saw her an incredibly realistic imaginary work, it was on the first floor of the landscape with detail and beauty art building. that made it more beautiful and real to me than looking out a The art building is littered with window. art and artistic stimulation. There are paintings and posters covering Unlike the vast majority of work After hearing from Brianna what every inch of the walls. Sculptures I’ve seen around the art building or her work ethic is like (40-60 hours crowding the floor, the bathroom in museums, it made me stop. in the studio a week on top of a signs are usually covered so you full course load!) I can’t say I am can’t tell if you’re walking into the It took my breath away. surprised that she has risen to mens room or womens and on the such a high level. Brianna and I bathroom mirror more likely than The work of Brianna Angelakis is graduated together, unfortunately not there is a strange, confusing, absolutely incredible. She finds a I did not know her while at school inspirational and philosophical way to blend a believable world however when I heard her name quote that will leave you reeling – with a fantastic one. It is hard to (when I was told I HAD to feature long story short – the art building believe that she has only recently her!) I recognized it instantly. is a mess. graduated college. Her skill and Brianna Angelakis, the one who technique is on caliber with work stood so frequently to accept award At some point you have to learn to made by artists many years her at graduation that she should’ve cancel a certain amount of the noise senior and yet, she didn’t start just stayed standing, how could I out or you will never find your way out college as an art major. “I just 11

FEATURE

graduated from Flagler College in April, and while I did graduate with a Bachelor’s in Fine Arts, I also graduated with a Bachelor’s in English. English was actually my first and only major during college until the end of my junior year when I decided to double major in both English and Fine Arts.”

feminist novel The Awakening as well as acting as a commentary on the idea of the ‘fallen woman’ which has existed throughout the course of written history. The vast majority of my papers during my college career centered around feminism, so feminism quickly made it’s way into my paintings as well. Currently I’m working on a series of paintings inspired by traditional fairytales which again links back to literature.”

artist I probably frequent the most is John William Waterhouse. I’m drawn to his work because most of his paintings are inspired by works of literature, like myself.”

Don’t worry, it’s not all work for Angelakis, when she first became interested in art she drew Sailor Moon inspired work and still Her passion for literature fueled enjoys watching the popular her art by giving her inspiration. cartoon “I’ve been interested in “Because of my love for English art since I could physically hold a literature and poetry, my works crayon. I started watching Sailor from all three series of paintings Drawing inspiration from literature Moon when I was five years old, (Bronte, Wonders of the Invisible is not unusual for artists, in fact and for the next decade I would World, and Enchantments Angelakis is inspired by other continue to draw Sailor Moon Encountered) are directly inspired artists who draw inspiration from inspired work. Disney (particularly by literature. My Bronte series, for literature as well, although she the Disney Renaissance years) example, contains four portraits decidedly does not have just one always inspired me from a very directly inspired by Charlotte favorite artist “I have dozens of young age as well. Even now, my Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Emily favorite artists, and I constantly love for Sailor Moon and Disney is Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. My surround myself with work via stronger than ever!” Wonders of the Invisible World social media so it’s kind of difficult series are inspired by Kate Chopin’s to just pick one! The deceased 12

FEATURE

Although Angelakis started out drawing and coloring as a small child it is hard to believe she ever did anything besides paint in oils, other mediums she experiments in include “graphite, ink, colored pencil, marker, watercolor, acrylic, scratchboard, printmaking, etc.” However she admits that she has gotten a thirst for oils which simply can’t be quenched “For the past two years, I’ve barely touched any media besides oils. This past month I began working in graphite and printmaking again. I was a little rusty at first (since I haven’t really drawn anything since 2012), but I’m very much back into the swing of things. Oil painting is undoubtedly my most preferred medium. There’s really nothing like the feeling of having a brush in my hand and mixing colors on my palette.” She even admits to being intimidated by oils when she first started using them “I had painted with acrylics a few times prior; however, painting with acrylics and painting with oils are entirely different processes. My Painting 1 class introduced me to oils, and I literally had to learn how to paint all over again. I hated it. I hated oil painting. The first few weeks of class, I complained about it. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the best in my art class. I was average. I hated being average. I started spending more time after hours in the studio. All of those extra hours paid off, but they didn’t stop there. Since the beginning of 2012, I have spent about 40-60 hours in the studio per week. That was on top of my 18+ hour credit hour class schedule during the semester and my full-time job in the fast-food industry during the summer. Now I work full-time as a professional artist. I absolutely hated oil painting when I started, but here I am now two years later, and I’ve shown my oil paintings in museums and in galleries nationally ranging from San Francisco to Minneapolis to Baton Rouge. I have upcoming shows in Los Angeles to Portland to Chicago. My first solo exhibition opens in May of 2014 in San Francisco. I’m still learning how to paint. Every new painting I produce, I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone. I constantly test myself through composition, perspective, distortion, color, light, shadow, texture, etc. You will never grow as an artist unless you challenge yourself. It also makes things more interesting!”

I think really separates her from everyone else. Art is not something you’re just inherently born with. Of course, just like everything else, you have to work to be good at it. There are those people who are born with talent but no matter how much talent one possesses talent is nothing without drive, ambition and hard work. Brianna proves she has what it takes not only from the caliber of work she produces but through the hours she puts in at the studio and her eternal drive to prove her high school teacher wrong. I am sure I am no alone when I saw I can not wait to see what she does next!

To Contact Brianna you can view her work on: http:// www.briannaangelakis.com She’s also on most social media websites: Facebook fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/ BriannaAngelakisArt Instagram: http://instagram.com/brianna_angelakis Tumblr: http://briannaangelakis.tumblr.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/BAngelakis Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/shop/BriannaAngelakis

Despite her recent succcess (which I am sure is just the beginning) Brianna can recount one of the first pictures she drew “In my first grade art class, I had to draw a self-portrait by referencing a photo of myself. I decided to use a photograph of myself with Goofy at Disney World. I can remember sitting in class with everyone telling me it looked just like the photo. Of course, it didn’t look anything like the photo, but it was pretty spectacular for a seven year old. My mom still says from the day I brought that self-portrait home, she knew I was going to be an artist.” What’s even more impressive is Brianna’s drive which is what 19

n the summer when I was twelve, I could still feel myself growing and changing along with the growth of the cornfields. I felt it especially during late July, when green stalks rose tightly together, I felt strong and lean and full of life, too. I remember how instead of watching my older brother play baseball, I would find myself sitting in the tree line, looking out across the railroad tracks to gaze at the long lush fronds that appeared to be holding hands, forming a chain that would remain untainted until the harvest in September. Except, of course, by worms and lightning bugs and stray cats. All the kids who weren’t playing in the baseball tournaments, including who I thought was my best friend at the time, Clara, would occupy the space just outside the field among greenery, the railroad tracks, and the cornfield. But that summer was also the last year my older brother would play a baseball tournament in our hometown of Caster, Iowa. The last day of the tournament meant the end of summer was near, and school would soon begin. It must have been at least five innings into the game before I went to the tree line, and I knew my light skin would fry if I kept sitting in the bleachers with my mom. My younger brother, Trey, was getting anxious, too. Mom wouldn’t let him play in the trees if I wasn’t with him, even with all the other kids bobbing in and out of the trees. Finally, after Trey had lugged a metal bat from a rack near the dusty wooden dug-out and pounded enough dirt around the bleachers for a sandstorm to appear he asked, “Don’t you want to get out of the sun, Holly?” Tink! Parents roared and jumped on the bleachers as another grounder made it to the outfield. The teenagers leaped around puffy bases and one slapped his foot on home plate.

the features of Washington’s face completely gone, flattened and smoothed by hot train wheels, not thinking of any consequence but excited to show the flattened silver. Then Clara couldn’t go to the movies, or out to ice cream, and she I huffed deeply and pushed red had to sit on the bleachers with the curls off my wet forehead, gazing adults the entire baseball game. to the only sliver of shade in Today she was off the hook, and I the ballpark. Trey knew I didn’t was afraid to approach her because want to sit and watch the game, I knew Clara had used her superior but I was avoiding the trees for a age to convince the kids that I was reason. Even back then I knew the a tattle-tail. She had done it last importance of keeping distance month to a boy who also got her from uncomfortable situations. I in trouble. He was sitting on the fought with myself over going to bleachers in front of me, he had the other kids to play. I watched stayed there all month, and with the girls and boys uninterested in school around the corner, I didn’t baseball championships run around want to be that kid. I didn’t want to tall pines and oaks that separated be alone all year, with no one to sit the ballpark from the railroad with. Clara’s power extended into tracks like a swaying green Wall of school groups as well, after all. China. My heart fluttered nervously when I caught a glimpse of Clara Finally, I found the courage to swinging on a low branch. She was accompany Trey to the trees with the real reason I was avoiding the the other kids. I had to talk to other kids. Clara, even apologize if I found it necessary. Sitting in the hot sun Clara had a kind of power over wasn’t worth a whole year of being the all the kids because she was known as a rat, if not longer. I kept older than all of us. She was only my eyes on Clara while Trey pushed a couple weeks older than I was, a branch back with his bat. but she always reminded me of her superior age. However, I was Comforting scents of earth and the only girl among the bunch of grass filled my lungs as the passed summer kids in town, and she took into shade. I sat on a bed of orange a liking to me last summer when pine needles, digging my fingers our brothers played ball together into the cold, soft dirt, thinking for the season. We spent long what I would say to Clara, to get summer nights camping out in tents back in her good graces. A few and ate bowls of vanilla ice cream boys ran past me with Clara hot on swimming in milk. That summer, all their heels, laughing with her arms of the kids found great joy with the reaching for the boys. discovery of coin-smashing on the tracks. Clara and I loved the luring “Clara!” I called. She swung beams that stretched to infinity, her head sharply in the opposite the giant boxes of trains that direction. She disappeared around zoomed by as we waited to find the trunk of the oak I leaned the coins we strategically placed on against. I guess it was going to take the beams. The rush of wind and a little more effort than that. heat we felt from standing near the passing trains made us giggle I watched Trey and some boys uncontrollably. slide down to the rock ditch sitting like a valley between the trees and But a week prior, I accidently got the tracks. They threw rocks at Clara grounded. Her parents were each other and at the tracks. Then, stricter than mine, and I showed a little blond boy ran up to the Clara’s mom a quarter that was group boys, shouting, “I found smoothed out by the train, with something!” He had come from the “As long as I can see you two, you can play with the others,” our mother noted through claps and whistles. “And stay off the tracks this time?”

tracks, a little ways down. Clara and the other kids gathered on the tracks. Everyone left the trees to hear what the boys had to say.

gravel with the others. A few kids walked on top of the thick beams, arms out like yellow crossing signs for balance.

Now was a chance to talk to Clara, since she wasn’t running around. I got up from my shaded area and went right behind Clara, tapping her on the shoulder just as she was saying, “Let’s go!” The boys and Clara headed to where the blond boy had come from.

I didn’t want to sit in the trees by myself. And I wasn’t going to go back to the stands, although I thought it was funny watching the pitcher’s knee rise like a flamingo’s as he wound up to release a curve ball. I still had to talk to Clara.

Trey trotted over to me, cascading rocks under his tiny feet. His green eyes sparkled up at me. “You wanna see?” he asked, tugging on me. He was used to me going everywhere with him.

As I caught up with the others, the railroad gleamed as white as the sun in hot straight lines. They looked like glowing parallel arrows that led straight to a crumpled black lump. I felt like we all had teleported at an instant to the thing. We crowded the thing and everyone whispered. Clara found a plank that had shaken loose from the tracks and pushed through the kids.

“You know we’re not supposed to play on the tracks, Trey.” I didn’t want to budge, I didn’t want to get anyone in more trouble. Trey’s I followed behind, then grabbed brow furrowed. His lips and cheeks Clara’s arm as I caught a glimpse puffed up. of a scraggly brown and muddy cat lying on its side in a puddle of “I’m gonna go.” His short legs brownish-red. Its fur was matted strained to climb up the rocks and and sticky in the hot afternoon. 24

One of its legs angled irregularly over the large track, and a small white bone jutting out. The cat seemed to be sleeping with its eyes were half-closed on a brown stain that had formed in the gravel. It didn’t even move as we all closed in. I guessed it barely escaped death by an oncoming train, but its leg got caught and hit. It couldn’t have been there long. It must have happened earlier in the morning, but I wasn’t sure. Clara pulled her arm out of my grasp and poked the thing gently with the plank. Fur moved in towards the stomach, but nothing else happened. A few boys let out short laughs and smiled. “Is it dead?” I whispered. The boys all murmured and deliberated. “We should just go back to the trees.” Clara scoffed and put her hands on her hips. At least I was getting her attention. Those with bats jabbed at the cat again. This time, the cat’s silver eyes

bulged open. Its hanging mouth unhinged from its jaw, letting out a loud screech, like metal train wheels squealing against rusty metal railroads. The screech rung in our ears. Sound stuck itself on our bones, sending chills through us, screeching into eternity with the distance of the tracks. The mangled foot on the other side of the beam twitched, and the red puddle grew over more rocks and wooden train track planks.

soft roar of chants and cheers could the plank she had on top of the be heard from the ballpark. The flattened mess. kids stared at the cat. Heavy vibrations rattled up through “Well, we better make sure…” the the ground, and then through me. blond boy raised a bat over his A rumbling reverberated off tall head and pulled the trajectory of oaks, then a low gust of air came. the thick part of the bat down. It We turned and saw a ball of fire landed on the stomach of the cat. heading toward us through the A puff could be heard from the waves of heat rising off the train. cat, but the screeching didn’t begin Mechanical screeching ran through again. our ears. Three other boys joined, laughing. I “Train!” Trey yelled. We all slid One boy jumped at the sound and never told Trey how grateful I was down the ditch and up into the swung his metal bat down on the that he wasn’t one of those boys. safety of the dark trees. The wounded animal’s muzzle. The Clara and Trey and I watched the black train’s horn bleated three shrieking stopped. A few gasped in fur break away and catch in the times. Heavy boxes of red and gray surprise. breeze. A parade of thuds landed on swished through the green cornfield the cat. and trees, over the plank Clara left, “I didn’t mean to! It scared me!” splitting it into bloody, splintered the kid said, trying to justify his I couldn’t believe it, but I couldn’t shanks. actions. Black and red trickled from stop the boys from slamming their the cat’s mouth, clotted in its furry bats over and over like miners on I sat on the edge of the trees, chin. The silver eyes stared down the brink of striking gold. Pink watching the mangled animal lie the tracks. innards and red and black liquid as they left it. A bubble swelled covered the tracks, the bats. in my stomach. A few minutes “It’s dead now,” Clara snickered. passed along with the train. The None of the kids said anything as tracks were clear again. The heat “I’m surprised our parents didn’t the beating ended. The boys were and wind from the caboose carried hear the thing!” a boy chimed. A sticky with sweat. Clara threw the scent of stinking fur. The smell 25

made me want to lie back on the grass. I closed my eyes, inhaling deep through my mouth to avoid the smell.

bleachers. “Why don’t we just leave it here? I don’t think our parents are going to walk down the tracks any time soon,” I said. It was true. Our parents never went past the tree line.

Most of the boys went back to the cat, to see what the train had done in addition to the mess they made. Trey stood over me as one of the boys asked in the distance “Can we “You aren’t sorry at all,” Clara leave it here?” taunted.

Clara always made the plans. She always had the big ideas. “You aren’t mad at me anymore?” I asked. I didn’t take Clara’s extended hand.

“Mad?” Clara’s face assumed the role of an innocent girl. What I didn’t realize at the time was how her innocence was just a hoax to Clara’s voice squealed through the “But I am! I am sorry. Why can’t get me to follow her lead. Without air, “Not if Holly’s going to tell.” you just accept my apology? I my consent, Clara grabbed my didn’t know you’d get grounded!” hand anyway. “C’mon, we need I looked at the kids looking back to get a towel from the concession at me. Clara’s brown eyes were “You know how my parents are!” stand and get it off the tracks. squinted half-moons, surrounded I could tell she was really upset Unless you wanna use your hands.” by overzealous crinkles. Her smile about it. It seemed like every month Clara yanked hard and I felt like crinkled high into her cheeks. Clara was getting grounded for I was stuck, I had to obey her. She something. I would have been sick didn’t let go of me as she lead me “She should get rid of it!” a small of always being in trouble, too, I back to the ballpark. voice yelled from the group. The suppose. But I didn’t consider that boys all nodded in agreement, their maybe she was always grounded No one in the stands noticed us eyes never leaving me. because she was actually a kid who walk behind the fenced outfield was always misbehaving. to the snack stand. Clara stepped “Awe, leave her alone, guys! She behind me as we approached didn’t do anything!” Trey yelled “I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry.” the chipping white building. The back to them. A couple of the boys The other kids were silent as the screen was half torn-off in front threw rocks at Trey’s feet. two of us stood there, staring of the moustached man behind the at each other. Then, she walked window. He was one of the dads “She’s a tattle-tail!” A few boys toward me. who volunteered every season murmured. I was right, Clara had to run the snack bar. I took the said something. Now was my “You can prove you’re sorry by towel from the man and Clara chance to say something back. getting rid of this cat. Everyone immediately turned and began to might get in trouble if our parents walk back to the tracks. I followed “I didn’t mean to! I’ve been trying come back here, especially now that close behind, wadding up the towel to apologize since we got over my parents know we play on the in my hands, deliberating going here. I didn’t know showing your tracks.” back to the stands, fighting the urge mom the quarter would get you to back down. in trouble, Clara. I mean that. I’m It wasn’t what I was hoping to hear, sorry!” but I was on the way to getting “You gonna do it?” a boy yelled as back into Clara’s favor and getting Clara and I walked down the rail “You can prove how sorry you are out of being a tattle-tale. I looked road to the black and red mess. by hiding this cat.” at my younger brother. He was Neither of us said anything. looking up blankly at me. I knew I never forgot those words, just like he was always going to be a person It seemed like thousands of flies I never forgot the decision I made I could depend on. I wanted him were circling and tagging the after. to tell me that I didn’t need to do carcass. A few tiny gnats stuck anything, I didn’t need to prove themselves to a staring eye. Clara She didn’t even look at me, but anything to anyone but myself grabbed the larger half of the plank looked at all the kids agreeing with because those kids’ opinions meant she used earlier. “Put the towel her, smiling her usual deceptive, nothing in the long run. Instead, down.” crinkly smile. Such a young girl Trey runs down the hill to catch a shouldn’t have had so many creases frog the boys have noticed hopping I fluffed out the towel like we around her eyes, folds down her around. I’m left alone with Clara. were setting up a picnic blanket, nose as she snarled at me. It was smoothing out the corners as far as that moment I begun to question “I’ll help you,” she said. She opened the towel would stretch. Clara held our friendship. But I still wasn’t her hand to me. “We can bury it in out the plank to me. going to end up like that kid on the the cornfield, but you have to help.” 27

“You can to do this.”

Around us was nothing but thick green leaves, shoots like bamboo I should have retorted, told her I with fountains of brown cob hairs wasn’t going to play her game. spouting from all sides. The weight of the towel and pushing with my Instead, I took the plank. I shoved arms through the stalks made me it as hard as I could under the shake with weakness. I dropped smashed cat, somehow still a single the towel between her and I, and it mass, except for the foot that had made a soft oof. Part of the towel been derailed by the train. I felt slid away, revealing a clump of my mouth quivering and my eyes black and brown. Clara handed closed as the cat’s imploded face me the plank and said, “Dig.” So I rolled to face me. I was holding my stuck the plank into the moist, dark breath as I pushed, scooped a heavy ground and churned a pile of soil mass of fur and guts and gravel loose. Ears of corn shook above us on the plank. Then I shook it all as I rolled the towel into the hole. I loose on the towel. The mess rolled was the only one to kick dirt over lethargically down the plank like the towel. A small glimpse of dirty giant uncooked ground beef onto cloth could still be seen through the the clean towel. A brown outline hole when I finished. of a shriveled cat had stained the rocks and railroad. There was I looked down at the dirt pile nothing to clean that up. Clara nestled between two rows of stalks. covered the tiny severed paw by My mouth felt glued shut. I wanted kicking a pile of big rocks on top to say something, anything. I had of it. followed her lead as I always had. It was at that moment I knew I would I folded up the corners of the towel never follow the lead of someone and lifted the package. I felt bones or something I didn’t agree with. and slimy insides shift around, Clara looked up into the blue sky, but I was determined not to have and let out a short breath through anything fall back to the ground. I her nose. looked at Clara’s squinted face, the familiar snarl she always seemed to “It’s hot. We should get some have. water,” Clara decided. She took my hand in hers again, like a mother “Let’s go.” holding a small child’s hand. We headed back the way we came. I obeyed, holding the towel in Clara didn’t look back at the front of me, my arms out at full pile, but I did. I watched the pile length. The bottom of the towel disappear into the fortress of the had begun to spread with a light corn. We emerged from the green shade of muddy brown. I continued and found the railroad was empty to hold my breath, my chest puffed and silent. A burst of claps were up as we tripped along the rocks heard from the field. to the opposite side of the tracks. The corn loomed above us, like Then I finally said, “I’m not a British soldiers that wouldn’t let us tattle-tale. You’re my friend.” Clara pass. The breeze swished the stalks gave me a big toothy smile, her lightly, and they rattled a hollow cheeks like small round plums and warning. Clara expertly dodged squeezed my hand. and dipped through the thin green shoots. The compactness of the “What are you talking about? I stalks made it hard for me to keep know that,” Clara said in a syrupy the wrapped towel at arm’s length. tone. We walked to the stands I lead with my arms stiff, weaving where a giant blue cooler had through the countless green shoots bottles of water submerged in an behind Clara’s path. Clara stopped ice bath. I saw the baseball players when the tracks were out of sight. were in lines like caterpillars, giving the other team high fives

and sputtering “good game” to one another. Clara grabbed one of the bottles from the cooler and took a big gulp. “We were just playing in the trees.” Clara was right, there’s nothing to worry about with our parents. Everyone gathered leftover snacks and blankets. No one paid attention to the train blurting its horn three times when it passed the field, as the trains always did, without a care or a notice to the tracks, the trees, the cornfields that contained more than nature reveals. I was the only one who looked back toward the trees waving their branches good-bye with a gust of wind. A rumbling was heard in the distance that filled my hollow cavity, then a long metal screech tore through the air. I watched little green flags of Kentucky blue grass wave to the train, signaling for it to stop, to look for everything lost to the field, or to the soft brown dirt that easily hides a secret. I heard an owl hoot quietly. Night was near. The owl screeched louder, knowing what I did under the influence of someone else. I watched the sliver of sun sink under the train tracks with the moon as white as a cat eye, watching me from the sky. At the time, I fully blamed Clara for disconnecting me from the magic of the fields. I felt as tainted as the soil I stuck the cat in. When school started up again, I had enough time to realize that I didn’t need to prove my loyalty to anyone. I especially didn’t need to prove it to Clara by hiding a poor innocent cat that I had nothing to do with. I didn’t feel the same connection with the fields surrounding our small community after that day. Sometimes even in my older age, I still watch the wind moving through fields, and can’t help wondering if ghost cats were slinking through the stalks, moaning the same moan as passing trains, all covered in muck and blood.

e’d been fighting. I could feel the tension in your body as I sat next to you but continued to ignore you. I feigned an intense interest in the conversation of your friends at the dinner table with us. My stomach growled. Your jaw clenched. I knew you were wondering how long it had been since I’d eaten. I laughed at something someone said that wasn’t funny and picked a stray French fry from your best friend’s plate. He was less attractive than you, slightly heavier, but his muscles were more prominent. I’d noticed the way he stared at me, and how flustered he was when I was close. You seethed. I touched his arm.

“You’re not going to win,” you muttered, smacking my hand against the face of the stoic queen. I watched you gather the stack of cards between us and shuffled them into the rest of your hand. Somehow, the sun had gone down between our drive up to the lake and now. We sat on an old plaid blanket on the sandy dune and played Egyptian Rat Screw until we couldn’t see the patterns on the cards. When you lost, or let me win, I looked up and sighed. “We didn’t watch the sunset,” I whispered as you moved closer, wrapping your arms around me from behind.

We were the only two people awake in the world. The floor was rough and uncomfortable, but I refused to care. I was tangled in blankets and your arms, and we said nothing. There was no time; hours and minutes blended together, and we pretended it was true. Somewhere, playing softly and breaking the pact between silence and early morning, the song kept skipping. When we both felt my tear slide between our cheeks as you kissed me, I think you understood. You gathered me up in your arms, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, and you treated me like a figure of paper-thin glass. Never had I felt that small in front of you, so fragile. Outside, in the middle of the front lawn, you pulled me to the ground. The grass replaced the basement floor and the ceiling had been ripped back, exposing the sky. Somehow you knew I’d been begging to see the stars. If only my hand stretched just a little farther, maybe I could touch them, let them slip from my hand, and scatter overhead. It would be heaven’s rain. In this moment, the world seemed to end at my fingertips. And maybe it did.

I used to know the feel of the tattoo on your shoulder, its slightly raised lines scarred into your skin. We laughed at the drunken mistake. You’ve since covered it with a new design.

“We have plenty of time for that.” I used to know the way your red hair curled at the base of your skull, what it felt like to twist my fingers through it. You keep your hair shorter now. We were still kids when my mom died. You were as sweet as you knew how to be at fifteen. You sat next to me as I went through all the papers in her desk. Past due bills, blank birthday cards, an old spelling test from when I was in the first grade. I had misspelled orange. You held my hand when I found the yellowing manila folder, and I read the poems she’d written in college. I didn’t cry, but you rubbed my back anyway. I traced the curve of her words and realized she and I had never been that different.

I used to know the way your voice sounded when you smiled against the phone. Even miles away, your smile was contagious. You don’t call here anymore.

I don’t mean to think this much about you and your life, about the way we used to be. But you’re toxic to me. You creep into a little part of my head and spread like fire. You’re the arsonist of my body, dear fire boy.

When I first saw you, I couldn’t have been older than eight. There was a large Oak tree down by the river that I used to climb. Its branches fit perfectly against my body. I watched you skip rocks across the water. You were fire with sun kissed skin and hair as red as the sunset. Dear fire boy, I thought, I fell in love with you today. I whispered the lines of my love letter while I sat among the highest branches of the Oak tree grown for me.

October Floridian Autumns change the weather from hot and humid to rainy and humid. The Palm Trees remain green while the neighborhood lawns become lush jungles of growth that battle the lawn-mowers, plastering wet blades and damp insects upon bare shins that have to wait for a break in the clouds, leaving the jungle only half tamed until late evening. The streets soon flood and the standing water brings a second Spring for frogs and mosquitos, their renewed songs accompany young trick-or-treaters who stuff their costumes into rain boots, holding candy and capes far above the soggy ground.

Duvall My grandfather died a month before I was born; his name is stamped upon my birth certificate. When we visit the Farmhouse for Thanksgiving I picture him there, standing on the porch when the mountains cast long shadows under the fading sun and browning leaves. I see his strength through my Aunt, he is with her when she gardens the rows behind the house. He taught her to work long hours with calloused hands to meet natures deadlines, bending low to tend the squash vines as her breath plumes away into the cooling air. I want to farm with himput my fingers in the cold, orange clay and bring forth something it birthed. See him smile, because he knows he put it there, but neither one of us made it grow. 35

17 Months I was waiting for you in the kitchen when the clock said it was tomorrow already. Do you mind that I left the dishes? The green counters stretch out wrap around me, like the skin of the Wicked Witch, like something out of the Brady Bunch, which we never watched much because our rabbit ears didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pick up the channel. Dad was more important anyway, staying home Saturdays to pull weeds, bleaching the far corners of the shower while we swung from trees shaken by wind and ate cereal slowly. How it went so slowly. I miss that paceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; your dark brown eyes eyeing mine.

2403 The Woods Drive East There is still a small bend in the window screen frame from the night we slipped out across the red red mulch and biked the concrete path by the canal, the white moonlight held high, running like a pale thread over a dark blue quilt. The field was our ocean of battles and pirates and loaded cannons raining pine cones, rain pooling before a dam of pine needles and mud and the pebbles sticking when you skinned your knee. We climbed the tallest tree, watching the sunset from the waving branches above waves of grass, wondering how could anything possibly change. The days stretched on, taking so long to grow short that we never even noticed. 37

Haiku #1 I fell in ear first Summertime lies are sweetest Winter truth, bone bitter

Haiku #2 Five months of mourning My thoughts buried me alive waiting for autumn

Haiku #3 Words are lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s compost Once spent emotions wither I will forgive you 39

Suspension The moment of held breath The burning anticipation before amity comes along to moves us before the fall when we were at our highest, the pirate boat ride at the county fair, my sister would drag me up to the bow, after a swig you would feel it there the longest, I hated it, little did I know it was love, the moment with all it’s perfection suspended, that’s what she was chasing, it thrilled her and terrified me, I knew the fall was waiting so I could never be present, fall catch and recover, a continuous motion that makes me Ill. It’s that moment before death, or in modern dance, when you are most alive. Alive with out breath, the furthest stretch of a sling shot, the first moment he held your hand, before there were plans, before you wrote him that poem and waited by the phone, life is fall catch recover. We search for the moments of suspension, we can’t control the velocity, some swings are short and we feel the rush, some take longer to fallow through and suspension is hard to maintain, but we all come back to it, we die in (perfect) suspension. 41

False Alarm Papa seems content. Mama looks divorced. All five of us standing in Omiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s yard posing. Papa looks disengaged. Mama smiles a painful smile, like a farmer with a toothache. Three siblings in order from youngest to oldest. Unaware of each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s facial expressions. I am wearing rain boots, prepared for the storm, but there is no rain yet. The rain would come. Replaced boots for high heels. Posing again. 43

Home Covered in stains. Tumbled over, dented. A lost wedded bliss. Our house looks old, smells old. Seems to be falling apart. Uprooted, drained and burnt. The windwill has stopped. Tulips died. The sun is stuck behind the clouds. With this part of land, life— we—kith and kin are done. So have father and mother decided. Our home is vanishing, like a cloud of loons, migrating south. The south, its warmth, scent and healing sunshine is where we babes want to go. Go together, with both the folks. We try to keep our little hands on mother’s maternal shoulder. Hoping to remain swaddled in her arms. Ignoring the cracks. A flock of pain, familial heartbreak, surfaces ever so often, steady. It will haunt us. Taunt us. Always separated. Two different families. Trying to blame each other. We will always wonder why and what if. 44

Surrogate My father I now favor over my darling mother. A caterpillar, hairy and doomed to change in a cocoon of love. A scent of Bergamot bitter oranges and Iris. A scent of nights on the town, happily married. I do not have to tell you caterpillars mutate into butterflies. Fleeting, fragile. You changed too, and flew away, and moved on. You used to turn up the volume and I would sing along, yet you are the one who sailed away. Doubtful like todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unsettling weather. Doubtful I have become about my fervor for you. 45

Paternal Mother A day so dark, my eyes seemed shut throughout. Beneath us in the dark blue depths lie irrevocable feelings that should be undone. Vanity mixed with pride, causes me to be unsure.. Are you missing the maternal love? Is there a lack of instinct or ethos? Each time I try and try with you, never reaching that peaceful sentiment. Together we have nothing. Laugh when we can, but only when we ignore the past. Our connection is on the surface, vacillating like waves. Even your illness cannot calm this sea. 46

Butterflies A sharpness never felt before. Is it grand or doomed? Somedays, it lands me on rose petals. Other days on rocks. They are pinches disguised in a softness. The butterfly has flown, back to nature. Leaving the child in civilization. No one has cautioned me, forwarned me about this trap. Their capriciousness, their fluttering. Motherly love is a bitch.

Writ Loudly spoken words, soft written text. Do you have a preference? I can no longer speak, give me a pen. I will dash it out. Mother, I hate you for divorcing dad. For picking your new lover over us. But mother, I still love you. I have to. Read between the lines, puzzle with the words. Solve the riddle here. Did you find the message expressed? Don’t come and ask, I can’t tell. I already have so many times. Can we just forgive and forget? Move on. Be a happy family again? No, because you keep saying it is our fault. We are obnoxious, unaccepting, teenagers. You deserve love, and we are in the way. But we cannot leave. You won’t let us. Formulate a response and await my calm reply. Stay! Don’t walk away and take my words. Screamed utterances hurt. Let’s love through belles-lettres and enjoy the turbulent silence.

Can you read me? Over. Our words reach the ears, but never the mind. It wasn’t my fault. You kids need to give me a second chance. You guys are just frustrated teenagers.—No Mother, you chose him over us. How is that our fault? I speak Russian, you speak Arabic. No wonder we don’t understand each other. No wonder we have a miscommunication. I am right. You are right, but we’re both wrong. For some reason we don’t speak mother-daughter. That we should is not a given. It requires hard work and labor. But when you became silent everything became very clear. It’s all good. It’s okay. I love you anyway. 49

Re-Appreciation With death come memories. Memories buried in the past, long forgotten, brought back to the surface of the conscious mind.

and needle. You would prescribe to all the sewing magazines for more patterns and inspiration. Anything we saw in the store you could make. You talented copycat, you.

Now that you are gone I see your beautiful dresses. The dresses you wore when you went dancing with dad. Before you left you always came to kiss me goodnight, smelling of Shalimar. Rushing over you like a viscious tidal wave. Leaving a bittersweet, unwanted feeling of sadness Now that you are gone I smell your baking. The cakes. The buttercake. The ginger spiced cake. The birthday cake. Its heart warming smells penetrating my nose, making my mouth water. You always tortured us by making us wait until it was all the way cooled off. Slapping our wrists reaching for that high counter top. and longing. A longing to those wonderful days in the past. Wishing you had appreciated them as much then as you do now. Regretting you did not create more memories. Hoping you will never forget them. Now that you are gone I think of all the clothes. The clothes you made, the clothes You fixed. No hole or tear was safe from your healing thread 51

Strings. as the violins play on drawing note for note faster and disgruntled the marionette dances the dance of the marionette is forced and stiff lights fly across its face and her legs collapse beneath her fallen, the fallen marionette stands, stands with a whiff of shame. In her wooden head, a war rages, the forces batter the inside of her mind she waits for it to stop but it continues she tries to cry but her voice was locked up the key thrown away and, she has been looking for it ever since the strings bind her to the one who controls and she looked beyond and into eternity searching for the face of her captor but all she could see was a suspension no one was controlling her except herself 53

Title: My Daughter, the spider Charlotte. That would have been the name of my daughter. But marriage is now not part of the plan. Well. No. Not that marriage is necessarily a pre-requisite for child bearing. I thought about the perfect wedding when I was 17. When I was 13. When I was 10. Ah, 10. I was 10 when I first read Charlotte’s Web. Fern or Charlotte, the big name dilemma for the daughter.

Title: My great grandfather, the spider eater I would have named my daughter after a spider. Charlotte. Yet every Chinese New Year, I rethink spiders. Spiders. Pigs. Love. Visiting relatives every year, collecting red packets, eating “fat choy” and suckling pigs. Wilbur. I eat Wilbur every Chinese New Year. At least I only eat Wilbur. Great grandfather eats Charlotte too, dunked in wine and five years old. 55

Loom of Fate Under the web of stars, I see the weaverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand. Each constellation a pearl string so delicately placed on Nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s graceful neck. Tessellations of triangles and squares collect on the blackness and it is all so frighteningly wonderful. You are tiny. The stars sing and snicker as comets sashay past. I am tiny. Never before has that been more obvious. The behemoth sky could, if so inclined, swallow me in an instant. I am so very tiny, you see. But I am also so very old. I have aged a thousand night times on this blanket. The weight of time compresses relentlessly onward. 57

The Dream Catcher Four weeks of nightmares in a row my eighth year before my mother gave me the first dream catcher I ever owned. Small, purple, full of promise but not yet full of nightmares (that’s what they catch – not dreams) “Dream Strainer” a more accurate title, but who doesn’t like the thought of catching dreams? I fantasized emptying a whole week’s worth of strands of smoke-like conscious made tangible in the dream catcher’s hands into a jar to keep on my shelf. These will be nice to have once I’m older. I imagined in a few years’ time in my twilight years of thirteen, shaking free the contents and smiling at their frothing gleeful glow. The Dream Catcher is still there on my wall, a vigilant watcher of my night, and the dreams are safe in their jars. 59

CREDITS

Thank you to all my incredible writers and to Brianna Angelakis for being this monthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feature. Think youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got what it takes to write something for us? Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail Photo Credit: Brianna Angelakis Pages: Cover, 2, 7, 8-9, 10, 12, 13, 14-15, 16-17, 18, 22, 24-25, 26, 28 Jessica Frick Designs Pages: 4, 6, 20-21, 30, 32-33, 34, 36, 38, 40, 42, 46, 48, 50, 52, 54, 56 Lily Aireal Lynn McElroy Page: 58