The Coffee Shop Issue by Paperfinger

Paperfinger September 2013

The Coffee Shop Issue

Paperfinger September 2013

The Coffee Shop Issue

Jessica Frick Designer / Co-founder

Kristiane Weeks

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

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

Editor / Co-founder

What’s Inside? Coffeehouse Comforts By Lois Goh

What’s Paperfinger?

FEATURE

POETRY

Coffee Tree Photography

Marcia Vojcsik 35 Some Nights 36 Taco Shop 37 Make Up 37 Dementophobia

SHORT STORIES

The Thing By Meredith Stevenson

Kristiane Weeks 39 A Sonnet for you, Your Smoke Breaks

by Kristiane Weeks

Turns out, she’s kind of a jack of all trades.

mber Hoadley, of Jacksonville, Florida, loves photography. Amber was recently able to turn her love of the camera into a beautiful business in the form of Coffee Tree Photography, launching website in the beginning of 2013: www.CoffeeTreePhotography.com. Getting to catch up with her a personal pleasure of mine, and a great opportunity to get to know the history and the inner-workings of a great up-coming photographer. I love all of her personal stories she told which explain her journey into photography, and how she’s recently been thinking she’s got what it takes to thrive in the world through a lens: “When I first purchased my digital camera (A Nikon D40)

I was just about to leave and go to Colorado on vacation. I read the owners manual on the plane. We visited a rodeo while in Vail, and I shot a photo of one of the horseback riders. The shot was perfect, and I randomly entered it in a college wide contest. I won 4th (honorable mention) out of hundreds of entries. My picture got published, and after that I thought to myself, ‘I might actually have a bit of talent at this…’ ”

try again. I have mad respect for people who carve wood blocks, for sure”), Amber has another love: “believe it or not... triathlon!” Amber says the sport “actually fits in perfectly with my schedule as a photographer. I have the ability to easily fit my training in around shoots so it works out really well. I love and enjoy the variety in a single race!” And what’s better is how her love of triathalon seems to improve her abilities as a photographer. She recalls, “one time I was photographing a With a photography business surprise engagement at the fort blooming, I had to know if (Castillo De San Marco) in St. there was any other art on her Augustine. The guy proposing mind. Turns out, she’s kind of had told me what time to be a jack of all trades. Not only there, but I guess his speech was does she dive head-first into a little shorter than he planned many artistic mediums, such as because I ended up having to oil painting, and dabbling in sprint from the parking lot all print-making (she says it turned the way to the bayfront on the out “okay… I have found ways other side to catch him on one to improve and would love to knee! That was a time where 11

“I have mad respect for people who carve wood blocks” I was super thankful to be a related events, and families runner! Whew, almost missed it as subject-matter. Amber says for sure!” she draws inspiration from the people closest to her, and, Amber’s interest in art didn’t as she charmingly says, “in begin with her gorgeous, and the normal, candid moments very personal photography. of life.” She explains how she She told me, “I have always kept this theme of family going been interested in art. I spent when she first came in contact my entire childhood drawing with a professional camera: primarily horses and unicorns.” “I got more into photography Then she adds, “hilariously in 2001 when my grandfather enough- always facing to passed away and left me his the left (because I’m right professional grade Nikon handed?)” I personally think film camera. I then taught this explains many of her myself how to shoot film and nature-related subjects and her completely fell in love with feel-good connections with the capturing portraits at events earth that her photographs such as family birthday parties. evoke. However, Amber When I started college in 2006 doesn’t strictly focus on the I started taking photography outdoors, but many familycourses in black and white film 12

developing. I finally purchased my first digital camera in 2008. I haven’t stopped since.” Currently, Amber also draws inspiration from her role model, Justin Demutiis. She explains how strives to be the best at what she does, and being able to develop her own personal style, as Justin does in Tampa, Florida. However, she mentions, “Oil painting is a very close second though. I truly enjoy the process of mixing and creating things on canvas that are impossible with the camera. Its a fun balance.” Amber also sets a high standard, and a great role model herself for any artist,

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I might actually have a bit of talent at thisâ&#x20AC;?

when she notes, “I always carry a moleskine and a fine-point pen in my bag for doodling, and sketching,” and as a sidenote, she states, “I also really enjoy different handwriting and print.” A photographer, a painter, a sketch-artist, and a typographer? This list of different mediums didn’t surprise me a bit, because of Amber’s sisters. I have to admit I found Amber through one of her sisters, who happened to be a fantastic prose and poetry writer, Caroline Hoadley.

Which brought me to my final question: “Have you ever attempted to collaborate with your (also artsy!) sisters?” She seemed hopeful of the prospect, replying, “My sisters and I have not had the opportunity to collaborate (yet) mainly because of the timing. I have photographed their personal events and achievements, but since they just recently graduated [college, Flagler 2013!], we haven’t gotten a chance to plan

anything out just yet. It has been talked about though!” I can’t wait for this collab to happen (perhaps some poems to accompany Amber’s photos?), so we can feature this great artist and her sisters in Paperfinger magazine!

remember that my password is still the name of my dead cat when my brother tells me the thing about LinkedIn. He has something to say about most anything. He makes statements like, The thing about Russia is. Or the thing about terrorists is. 9/11 wasn’t a real event. That Internet cat is probably photo shopped. Twitter is no longer a complete self-love affair. And so I ask, What’s the thing about LinkedIn. I have been thinking about getting an account instead of trying to promote myself on Twitter, and I want to know. The thing about LinkedIn! he says, throwing up his hands. Yes, I say. What about LinkedIn? It’s the new Facebook, isn’t it? I say. Facebook is the new Myspace, Twitter is the new Facebook, Pinterest is the new Something or

other, when does it end? Does any of it end? I don’t think it does, I say. But I’m not sure. My brother’s wife, Terry, walks in with weights on her ankles and a backpack full of cans of beans, holding a ferret. She says something like, Hey Boys, but she’s walking in the opposite direction and back. Terry works out for exactly thirty minutes a day, every day, beginning at 5 PM before she starts reading the newspaper. The thing about Terry is, she obsesses over coupons. She saw this kind of lifestyle on a television show about Moms with Problems and says it changed her life. It’s seems like a smart way to live, she said. She immediately began clipping coupons and mounting them on thick paper so as not to lose a single one. She weighs in on this.

Who needs LinkedIn when you have coupons? she asks us, one can in each hand, curling her biceps in the kitchen. What’s LinkedIn all about anyway? Connections, my brother says. Progressing in the world! Livelihood! Money, Terry says. The ferret hops onto a chair. Who needs it when you have coupons? she says. The ferret hops up, trying to cling to the table, its claws scratching. But who needs coupons when you have LinkedIn? My brother says. I don’t have coupons, I say, sipping the Corona my brother gave me. One day, Terry says, lifting a can of Green Giant over her head, You will. I shrug. I never thought I would 23

move back to Indiana, but I just arrived back in town for free rent in my brother’s backyard in their renovated garage apartment. He and Terry fixed it up years ago for our uncle when he lost all his money gambling in a casino in Vicksburg, Michigan. He had to pay for his dog, which no one liked. It made disgusting sounds with its mouth and barked every morning while people tried to watch the Today Show. No one knew anything about the world with that dog around. Anyway, our uncle had to pay for him and his new karaoke addiction---part of his 12 step program to heal. It was step eight. Step nine was buying a Cadillac, and step ten was driving it. Asshole! he shouted out the window. This is hearsay. I also heard that he threw shoes out the window at neighbor kids for step eleven. I’m as good as dead anyway, he’d say. This was two years ago when the neighbors rose up against him. They were worried for their children’s safety. What are we teaching them, they wondered. They all invited Terry over for a barbeque to clear the air, as they said. They made her a plate of pulled pork and barbecue chips and sat around her in plastic lawn chairs. This is when Terry started with the coupons. My brother didn’t say anything about the neighbors to our uncle, but he knew. He saw the mob in the evening and just took off. Terry looked everywhere for him---she called a detective even, she said. The phone call cost her twenty bucks, and then she turned to coupons. It’s the winter, my brother said to me on the phone. It makes people crazy. It’s only the winter, that’s all. It’s probably just too cold, I agreed. Terry is not the kind of woman to withstand extreme temperatures. She splashes her face with cold water, and her mascara runs down her face. I watch. After putting 24

away her canned vegetables on the stacks in the kitchen, organized by brand, Terry sits at the table with me and pulls up more images of coupons on the Internet. I watch her stare at her laptop, counting the number of times she blinks. Terry has the supernatural ability not to blink at all. I tap my bottle on the table. Terry closed her eyes tightly, recharging. She opens them wide. You know, coupons changed my life, she says. You’ll see. I’ll take you on a shopping trip with me, and you may just catch the coupon bug! That sounds terrifying, I say. But okay. I think I’m ready. The printer goes off upstairs. I could have stayed in Colorado, but I have been there for six years. I’m not really an outdoor enthusiast either. I was just working in a restaurant as a dish washer, and I thought being in Colorado would make it better. But eventually I realized it didn’t. My brother and Terry said they needed some help in going through our uncle’s stuff and getting rid of it, so I headed back. Terry says it’s because I’m a generous person. Isn’t he? she asks her son. He says yes, so I suppose I am. Every day, Terry offers me Pop Chips while I work, as she is storing about fifty bags of them in her pantry in neat rows. She likes the light crunch and the twelve different flavors. Really keeps things exciting, she says, and they’re so light that, if I eat a whole bag, it’s not the end of the world. Right, I say. The end of the world isn’t until 2012. But we’ll be ready, she says, munching on Jalepeno Cheddar Pop Chips. All the Pop Chips taste like something else to her. The barbeque ones taste like chicken, the ranch ones like salad, and the garlic parmesan ones like pizza. But healthier! She says. And there’s a coupon for that!

What’s the Original Pop Chip remind you of? I want to know. Well what does it remind you of, she says. A Pop Chip, I say. Terry shrugs. Most nights, I cook for myself in the microwave, but, on a Saturday night, Terry invites me in for dinner. She made a mixture of eternal vegetables that taste like vinegar. My brother pushes them around on his plate, and Terry stares at him. I tap my fork on the table and eat slowly. Terry’s son keeps his eyes glued on his iPad, moving his hand up and down over it. His other hand he uses to eat the casserole without once taking his eyes off the screen. He laughs. He gasps. My brother drinks milk like a champion and slams his glass on the table. The boys says, Ahhh! Terry looks at him just above his head as if she were watching a television, but there’s nothing there. Do you know how much this meal costs? says Terry. No one responds. Terry takes a bite of baby corn. She chews it, sitting across the table from the three of us. One million dollars, says my brother. Terry looks over at him. No, she says, Nothing. Wow, I say. And I suppose, if anything, the one thing I’ve learned from Terry is that there is a coupon for everything. Everything you need, that is, and most of these things last forever. She is convinced of this and talks about it to us as if it’s a new religion. She tells us how she does it, calling it her Life Philosophy. You don’t need much, she says, holding up the large spoon from the salad. And whatever you do need, you can get with a coupon.

My brother says, what about Radiohead? Terry says what about it. Well I need it, he says. You’d die without it? She says, sawing at the remainder of the casserole with a pizza cutter. Well not physically, says my brother. You’re so dramatic, says Terry. She turns her head abruptly to look at me. Tomorrow’s the day, she says. Really, I say. Tomorrow? Yes, she says. I’ve been saving up coupons for one big trip for the past three months. It’ll be a good break for you, all cooped up in there putting stuff into crates all day. It’s not so bad, I say. Well, even so, she says. Tomorrow. 9 AM. Before all the people get there. Sounds good, I say. But in the morning, I forget to wake up. This sounds like a problem more concerning than it actually is. I may have slept forever if Terry didn’t have a key to the garage apartment. She throws open the door and flickers the lights. It’s time, she says. She drives us there in her mini-van, holding a large to-go cup of coffee, with a big smile on her face. My brother and his son ride in the back seat, silent, probably trying to listen to the Radiohead album blasting on the CD-player. At every stop light, Terry turns to smile at me, and I smile back. I don’t know what to think. When we get there, Terry’s son won’t get out of the car. Terry opens the passenger door and reaches in, tying a blindfold over his eyes. I don’t ask why, but I glance around the parking lot. No one is around. The boy stands up and Terry wraps

her arm around his waist as if he were injured. She walks him across the parking lot, slowly. Don’t trip, she says to him before turning to me. It’s not the pavement itself that terrifies him, she says, as if her son can’t hear. It’s the cracks. We don’t know why. Scary, isn’t it? my brother says, trailing behind us. Terry turns her head sharply, her arm around her son. We’re almost there. I watch him step on crack after crack, wondering if he can feel it. I sure can. That’s it, says Terry, pulling her son closer as we tiptoe across the parking lot. Do one thing a day that scares you. That’s how the saying goes. No, says my brother. It goes, Do one thing a day that scares other people. Ha ha, says Terry. Terry is an experienced shopper. She knows exactly where everything is, even strange items like hummus, which we have never even heard of, but apparently there’s a coupon for that. So we just follow her around, in a line, each of us pushing a cart and watching her go. She flips through the pages of her coupon book, double checking each item on her list. She seems to forget we’re there, following her, speaking out loud to herself. Cheetos, Cheerios, Cheese. She demands that my brother go get her a different cart that doesn’t make a screeching sound. Why do we need thirty bottles of baby formula? Asks my brother. We don’t have a baby. It’s for the food bank, says Terry, removing an armful of bottles from the shelf. We never donate to the food bank, says my brother. We do now, she says, dropping them in the cart. It’s good karma.

There’s a coupon for that, she says. And it lasts forever, I say. Wow, says my brother. Their son laughs at his smart phone. My brother turns to me. There’s a coupon for that, he says. I knew it, I say. Oh no! says their son. With five full carts, we head to the front. Terry has the amazing ability to push two carts at once, and we follow behind. Two cashiers are waiting for us, but Terry stops abruptly. She doesn’t look at us; she scans the checkout line. She pulls out her smartphone. What are you looking at, says my brother. She scans the options again. The time, she says. Why? says my brother. The store doesn’t close for five more hours. We can wait, she says. For five hours, says my brother. As long as it takes, she says. For what? he says. For what? she says. You know for what. For the right cashier, she says. My brother nods. He looks at me. She wants to check out with a cashier that is young and excited about her savings, he says. You’re goddamned right, I do, she says. The old ones are no good. They don’t know what kind of work goes into doing what I do. Most people don’t, says my brother. And so we wait in a long line for a pretty, young cashier to go on shift even through three other old cashiers are open. They motion for us to come over, but we don’t. They shrug. We wait. Terry puts her phone in her front pocket. 25

Does this make me look fat? She asks my brother. You shouldn’t put it in your pocket, he says. It gives you cancer, he says. Ha! She says. I’m doing laps. You stay here. She takes her son, leaving my brother and me with the carts as they power walk around the store. My brother seems to squint in the fluorescent light. He leans on the cart, and it moves. I wish there were brakes on this thing, he says. And I wish that too. Terry and her son return after a half hour, just when I don’t think my legs could ache any more, and finally it’s our turn. The young cashier has a smiley face on her name tag and laughs. Oh! She says, as Terry explains the situation. Wow! She says, smiling. Terry beams. The rest of us wander 26

around the front of the store while Terry checks out. Their son, giggles, sitting on a bench. My brother stands by the door, his hands in his pockets. We all sit down on the bench. My brother watches Terry, then stares at the lights on the scratch lottery card machine. Thanks for coming, he says. Anytime, I say. It’s terrible, isn’t it, he says, being in a store like this for more than an hour. It’s not so bad, I say. It is, he says. It’s okay. And we sit, waiting, staring at the lottery machine. Terry walks over to us, slowly, her face expressionless. Come here, she says to my brother, and he follows her back to the check-out station. I don’t watch them; I fix my eyes on the lights. I wonder if I could win something for a buck or two. I hear her voice, exclaiming, What do you mean expired? I listen their son laugh. The ice machine roars. Someone’s phone plays the chorus of, “My

Heart Will Go On.” Terry and my brother come walking towards me without carts. Terry adjusts her purse on her shoulder and ties a blindfold over her son’s eyes. It’s not that far, I hear her whisper. It’s just…maybe fifty steps. We drive home. We bought nothing. I can’t stand that music, says Terry, and she turns off the radio. Their son sighs deeply. Stop breathing! She orders. She honks. What the hell! When we pull into the driveway, Terry immediately gets out of the car, slams the door, and walks inside, and my brother follows. I watch them struggle with the key in the front door. I get out, waiting for their son to follow, but he doesn’t move. I look in at him through the window then open the passenger door. You coming in? I ask. He shakes his head. No, he says. Come on, I say. It’s freezing out here. No, he says. I can’t.

And then I remember the pavement. I take the blindfold and put it over his eyes, and he gets out. I put my arm around him, and I lead him inside where we hear Terry crying in her room and my brother knocking on her door. He hears us come in. Thanks, he says to me. No problem, I say, removing the blindfold. Can we go out to the garage, he says. It’s cold out there, so we bundle up. We put on our scarves and gloves and leather jackets and walk out through a thin layer of crunchy snow. I just don’t know what to do when she’s like that, he says. I just don’t understand it. Well what happened? I say. We sit down on the leather couch. The coupons, he says. Some of them were expired. She didn’t get as much as she thought she would. So she just decided to get nothing.

Yeah, I say. I figured it was something like that. He nods, rubbing his gloved hands together. She had it all planned out, he says. She loves getting something with nothing, I guess. But they expire so quickly, he says, it’s hard to save them up. Yeah, I say. They don’t last very long, do they? She’s really upset, he says. She’ll be okay, I say. We gaze at the shelf in front of us. Our uncle was really into collecting wooden ducks, and his collection is the only thing left in the apartment that I haven’t put into a crate. There are just too many. A whole flock. Dim light from the cloudy winter day comes in the window behind us, illuminating their white painted eyes. Some of them even have wings raised, as if they were about to take off and fly into a large body of water, while others just sit, waiting on the shore. Do you think he’s dead yet? My brother asks.

I don’t know, I say. Do you think we would know? I’d know, he says. How? I say. The Internet? My brother shakes his head. No, he says. The Internet doesn’t recognize death, he says. You keep getting notifications on LinkedIn for years after your death. I close my eyes and open them. I think about the cracks in the pavement and where they lead to, where they go. I imagine Terry leading her blindfolded son through life, saying there’s a coupon for that over and over again into his ear through the blackness. She’ll raise him with the notions that coupons can buy everything. And that’s the thing, I say. That’s the thing. Yeah, he says. That’s it. That’s the thing.

place a packet of Kleenex on the table as I head to the front of the coffeehouse to place my order. I am unsure of the seat reservation practices that Americans adhere to. Cough on people and kick them out of their seats? I guess the Singaporean way of reserving a seat would have to do for now until further forms of education. I wait in line and try to decide on a beverage that I want. It is rather hot out and the iced pomegranate peach tea is being featured. Pomegranates. They’ve become too popular these past six years. Lobbyists. Pretty sure there’s a pomegranate lobby lurking around. Avocados too probably- I know this because my close friend, (well, just classmate really but I’d like to think we’re close) has been talking about guacamole more than usual. She’s a nice girl; Impressionable, but nice nonetheless. Long strawberry blonde hair and uses a special keratin shampoo- it smells nice. She has good hygiene.

with the pumpkin?” I ask the lady. I decide against the iced pomegranate peach tea only because it’s made me think about guacamole and I’m not sure that I can take pomegranates seriously now. I’m at the front of the line and the lady behind the counter has a hair on her sleeve. I want to reach over and dust her sleeve but my neighbor back in Florida tells me that that is rude so I think of excuses to give to my head about why I am not rectifying this girl’s hair situation. I am momentarily distracted when the lady behind the counter asks me, “What drink would you like today, pumpkin?” Perhaps her inflections and intonations didn’t translate into the appropriate sound waves but I immediately think of having a pumpkin and apple cider cocktail infused with ginger and vanilla. “Sweet pea?” “Eww no…” I think to myself, “Would the sweet pea not clash

“Huh? No sweet pea, what would you like to drink and can I get a name?” the lady ventures cautiously. I realize I actually do know of an answer to that question but the words do not belong to me (and probably not the answer she is looking for either). They belong to a good friend of mine, Sarah. Sometimes I think Sarah is a pretty awful cook. She has the worst ideas regarding consumables. I remember her calling once to ask me how I thought a cup of limejuice would taste when mixed with chlorine. I told her not to waste her time on silly recipes but invest her time in making beef quesadillas with oozy cheese instead. Yet she was unconvinced and remained bent on waking up brain dead. I snap my attention back to the lady behind the counter and I get rather excited because she is giving me a death stare. I believe this is 29

what my neighbor had been trying to describe to me when explaining the concept of death stares. I try to mask my excitement at being able to identify this concept in real life and quickly place my order. “One hot milk for Riley please,” I finally say after arbitrarily remembering my ritual of drinking hot milk whenever I am lost and need some direction in life. “That’s such a gay drink,” I hear a girl behind me whisper to her boyfriend as they dissolve into hushed giggles.

was certain of what he wanted, or didn’t want. He broke it off with the Finnish girl and ordered some hormone replacement therapy pills from India. They were cheap and he was broke. I would not have a chance to taste her Lusikkaleivät again. Christopher was an awful cook. Why hot milk was gay would remain a mystery.

need somewhere to process this information. I find a marble slab bench next to this huge corporate looking building by 18th and H street. I press my body down onto the cold marble. I let my nape feel abandoned, unsupported as my shoulder blades scream out in worthless agony. My elbows start to hurt a little as the marble digs into them but the cold unfeeling “I have one hot milk for a Riley!” surface continue to cleanse me of my feelings. I don’t know how to I take my milk and find a seat. process feelings, emotions are hard. Coffeehouses are a lot like buses. The marble seeks to rectify that and You have to put a lot of effort into I am grateful; the confusion and deciding on the perfect spot to sit in emotions ebbing away and seeping but I have years of experience. Fat into the marble. people on crowded buses almost don’t even faze me anymore. I After an eternity of two minutes, quickly locate a seat by the window I turn over and press down on and set my milk down. My phone the marble. My breasts are now rings and it is Sarah. squashed against the floor like a beluga to a glass wall. I can barely “Hi Sarah, you’re alive.” breathe and the choking gives me some release. The process is almost “I can’t lie on my bed anymore.” complete as I start to gain clarity.

I contemplate that statement for a little before my mind wanders off to the larger concept of sexuality but it is getting difficult for my brain to concentrate on a single concept. Key words start illuminating in different parts of my brain, coming forth to make an entrance and then retreating into the recesses of my psyche. Sexuality, gender binary, empowerment, “Why not?” feminism, Camille Paglia, 1995year of the penis? I try to remember “My breasts have been growing what Sarah had said. and now they hurt when I am prone on the bed. The hurt feels so Sarah had written to me about good though. I feel like a woman. I how depression and melancholy finally feel like a person.” consumed her being and in response, I had asked her to explore “Oh, are they itchy? I thought I had her sexuality. We spoke of phallic two mosquito bites on my chest worship and about the people we for the longest time. Then I had to would date. At that time, Sarah wear a bra and realized they were was dating this beautiful girl my breasts.” from Finland who baked the best cookies. They were these teaspoon “They just hurt, they don’t itch.” cookies or as the Finnish would call them, Lusikkaleivät and I thought “Oh.” they went pretty well with hot milk. Sarah didn’t think so, she didn’t like “Just wanted to share.” hot milk. “Okay, bye.” As good a cook as the fin was, Sarah would still have her one I put down my phone and quickly night stands with men on the leave the coffeehouse. I immediately side because what is fidelity? And realize I have left my hot milk on by extension, what is gender? It the table, leaving someone else was a time to explore but soon to clean up after me. That is bad it became a time to decide. You etiquette and I feel very guilty but I see, before her name was Sarah, am in a haste to leave. her name was Christopher. So one day Christopher decided that it I quickly try to locate a cold had been a long time coming and marble surface to lie down on. I 30

I do not like my breasts and for as long as I can remember, I’ve just wanted to be a genderless plant. I do not thoroughly understand why my friends say the things they say or act the way they do and I feel stupid. I feel very stupid all the time. They speak of love but I do not feel it and this makes me sad. I do not understand this anger people speak of and I do not understand hurt. I only understand confusion and if I were a plant, I would have a good enough excuse to tell people when they ask me about love. Most importantly though, I feel uncomfortable being myself and now that Sarah has found herself, I am alone now and it is a stupid feeling. I think they call this jealousy.

Some Nights I snore, twitch without conforming to another human body. My movements are freedoms. I take up the whole bed just because I can. Legs stretch and fill the spaces, smooth the creases left by your sleeping form â&#x20AC;&#x201C; magic fabric eraser. Some nights I sing myself to sleep, pace when stubborn eyes wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t close, refuse to send that SOS to your phone. I hug the pillow instead of your arm. Comfort myself.

Taco Shop They painted over the lines of poetry, songs, names, dates, hearts, penis doodles and motivational sayings with a thick unfriendly layer of black. I don’t know what this means, but it means something. I think as I fiddle with my phone in order to look important. Make no eye contact, no communal acknowledgement – ignore the strangers around me, ignore the empty black walls.

Make up He tells me I am beautiful without it as I wipe the remnants of the evening down the drain. The black swirls gurgle – vanish. Fresh faced grin. He tells me I am beautiful and that is all I hear.

Dementophobia No fear of storybook demons, but the demons in my mind clawing, fighting, breaking bread in my parietal lobe. Fear of that hopeless crushing in my chest and mind every day. How do I escape myself? I wake up expecting them to be gone but theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve already gotten comfortable. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been there all along between the seams of my smile, hanging from my family tree.

A Sonnet for You, Your Smoke Break Here we are again on the terrace and We can’t snuggle for warmth in his favorite rocking chair, so I pout, sit close by, watch snow-sparkles filling space between us. I can see your hand shake as you lift long fingers to lips and inhale--O, the chills we endure to smoke too-long cigarettes in winter. We hardly speak, focusing-gather nicotine on lungs, wet flakes on clothes. Our eyes meet, and you’re chapped mouth cracks with smoke you tell me I look frozen and lovely, like an antique you can admire only in a coffee shop... and I’m not sure what he means, but I know he will always keep me warm

Thank you to all my incredible writers and for the fantastic pictures from Coffee Tree Photography. Think youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got what it takes to write something for us? Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail Photo Credit: Coffee Tree Photography Pages: Cover, 2, 6, 7, 8-9, 10, 11, 12-13, 14-15, 17, 18, 28, 38, 40 Jessica Frick Designs Pages: 4, 2021, 22, 26-27, 31, 32-33, 34