Paperfinger
The Coffee Shop Issue: R evisited September 2014
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Paperfinger
The Coffee Shop Issue: R evisited September 2014
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Get Featured! Think you’ve got what it takes? We’re always looking for more artists to feature and more writers. Email us at PaperfingerArts@yahoo.com to submit your poem, short story or to tell us about an artist you think deserves to be featured. Like us on facebook and follow us on twitter for updates and to be alerted the first friday of every month so you don’t miss an issue!
Looking for advertising space? Email us at jessicafrickdesigns@gmail.com for pricing information.
facebook.com/paperfingermagazine @paperfingermag paperfingermag.tumblr.com/
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10 Featured Artists 36 C Feature W P 2682Poetry
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reative riting 38 Writer Bios Megan Kovak
oetry
84 Pauline Thier Stephanie Erdman 88 Michelle Clark 44 Whitewashed Memory by Michelle 94 Courtney Clark Kristiane Weeks Clark 98 Lois Goh 48 Transmissive by Courtney Clark 100Goh Caroline Hoadley Lois 54 The Holed Outs by Tyler Fieldhouse 102 Kristiane Weeks Michelle Clark 56 Coffee and Pie by Kristiane Weeks 104 Yanping Soong 60 Hot Coffee (Part 2) by Brandi David 106 Brooke Plummer Chasing Storms 70 Living Without by Kari Clancy 108 Carly Zervis Stephanie Erdman 76 The Mechanical Coffee Shoppe by 110 Dimitri McCloghry Tyler Fieldhouse 114 Sam Arguinzoni 80 In Search of Fragments of Time 118 Sam Hunsberger When it Had Stopped by Brooke Plummer
28 30 34 Short 36 stories
by Kristiane 40 I’d Miss It by Greg Madden Weeks
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A word from the Creators All I want to say is wow. Our first year with Paperfinger Magazine has been a scramble and a learning process for us, but it’s been a great process. I’ve learned personally our magazine and the world would be nothing without creative individuals. Our writers and artists have all brought such incomparable beauty to our magazine. So before I go any further, I need to thank all of our featured artists and our writers for sharing with us your art. It’s really an honor!
I can remember when I had the idea for Paperfinger, I was sitting in a beach house in Florida working on yet another creative writing piece that I knew would probably never get finished. As a full time Web Developer and Graphic Artist it felt really silly. Then the thought occured to me, what if I had a purpose to write? What if there were a place to put all this stuff? I immediately contacted Kriatiane who to my disbelief was thrilled with the idea.
Being a part of Paperfinger has really made us want to reach for and explore the upcoming individuals who have something to share in a creative way, whether it’s artwork or words. I can’t wait to see who else is out there and ready to share with the world that they are a force to be reckoned with! Long live art!
To my further disbelief Kristiane was able to find all the incredible writers who take time out of their lives to contribute to this project. Their passion for this surprises me everyday. I am so happy and shocked we have made it a year, maybe one of these days I’ll actually publish one of my own pieces!
-Kristiane Weeks -Jessica Frick 9
featured artists 10
Coffee Tree Photography
· amber.hoadley@yahoo.com · coffeetree-photography.com · (904).221.3557
Brianna Angelakis
· briannaangelakis.com · brianna.angelakis@yahoo.com
Jenna Robinson
· hello.jrob@gmail.com · jenna-robinson.com
Amelia Alcock-White
· ameliawhite.net · info@ameliawhite.net
Rebecca Hoadley
· rebeccahoadley.com · hello@rebeccahoadley.com
Danielle Harris
· Dhur91@gmail.com
Megan Kovak
· MeganKovak.Wordpress.com · MegKovak@gmail.com
Audrey Bernhardt · audreymae.us
Zipporah Sky
· estarloca@gmail.com
Meaghan Potter
· meaghanpotter.com · meaghan.potter03@gmail.com
Cooper Neil
· cneil@flagler.edu
Jeremy Jones · Jerejone@gmail.com · bluecanvas.com/jjones 11
Hello from Riverside, FL! It feels good to be home again after months of traveling. My little photography business has continued to grow since the last time I appeared on your digital pages. In May, I traveled across the west coast in a tiny car with my roommate and our tent. I shot 35mm film and we camped in state parks along the way. We ate granola and met new people and had the time of our lives. It was amazing! In June I photographed a wedding and raced a local triathlon, coming in second place in my age group. In July, another few races and I also flew first class for the first time in my life to Austin, Texas to photograph a friend’s wedding. Most recently, i rebranded, updated, and launched my website; www.coffeetree-photography.com along with a matching blog. It has been a remarkable summer. Thank you so much for taking the time to read! I am off to East Tennessee as I type this, I look forward to new adventures, and capturing people and places along the way. Bon Voyage!
-Amber
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Coffee Tree Ph
hotography
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Brianna Angela 14
akis 15
Jen
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nna Robinson
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Amelia Alcock 18
k-White 19
Rebecca Hoad 20
dley 21
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Danielle Harri
is
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Megan Kovak 24
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Audrey Mae 26
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Zipporah Sky Presently I am experiencing painting as meditation and have commissions from people who have very endearing requests and visions. I am honored to collaborate and see how my work is enjoyed. I also have been working with wire wrapping crystals and am learning about the healing essences with them. Art is an authentic way to connect, it is sacred, forever in existence~ I believe we need more artistic expression and less culture. 28
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Meaghan Potte 30
er 31
Cooper Neil 32
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Jeremy Jones 34
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creative writing 36
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bios
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writer bios
Dimitri McCloghry
Dimitri McCloghry is a mystery. We all are.
Kristiane Weeks
I’m Kristiane Weeks, an aesthete, poet, writer, and explorer. When I’m not exploring the creative artistry in 60s foreign horror films and swooning over the bright red of my favorite films Suspiria and Santa Sangre, I’m reading classic novels and contemporary poets. I’m most inspired by poetry and creative nonfiction. I’m in love with Joan Didion, Michael Dickman, and Eula Biss and I’m not afraid to say Ezra Pound’s famous quote “make it new!” is always in my mind. I believe coffee and tea flows through my veins, and I also believe the non-issue policy on life is the way to live. Being a part of Paperfinger has made me realize how much I love to explore what other people see, and how other people can use language to convey the aspects of living that plague/arouse us all. I look forward to seeing more artists show us their worlds through words, art, and community!
Tyler Fieldhouse
Tyler Fieldhouse graduated from Flagler College in 2013 with a BFA. He’s a cartoonist, flash fiction enthusiast, and is in several different bands with only himself. One such band, The Holed-Outs, is releasing a record this September. He has also been self publishing his sad children’s books since he was 21 and will continue to do so until he is penniless, which shouldn’t be too far in the future. His website is thetwostoryhouse.com
Courtney Clark
I’m Courtney Clark, writer and lover of literary magic. There aren’t many things I’m as passionate about as literature. Animals have a special place in my heart - a heart fueled by daily doses of coffee and the beauty of the world. I graduated in 2014 with a BA in English and Creative Writing from Flagler College. I never tire of the smell of books, and the power of words never ceases to amaze me.
Lois Goh
Growing up as the only Singaporean in a classroom filled with beautiful Australian girls made me turn to a sordid life of vegetarian baked beans and frozen beef lasagnes at age 4. Now a graduate student, that’s all I have time to eat.
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I’d
Miss It
Greg Madden
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t’s like being stuck in a room with ten televisions—all on different channels—all with the volume set to full blast— and every channel is showing something I might be interested in, maybe.”
“ It’s like a constant sense of frustration that stems from the fear that I’m somehow annoying someone or attracting too much attention to myself. My 6th grade history teacher used to get so frustrated by my clicking pens—and the fact that I had to stretch roughly every two minutes—that he’d make me sit in the hall during class. He petitioned to get me a studycoach; my study coach told me that I “can’t pay attention or abstain from interrupting.”
activities, and inability to wait— symptoms that are excessive for age or development level. (DSM-V) *** My therapist called it “Combined-Type Adult Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder.” He encouraged me to attend training sessions and begin stimulant therapy. Stimulant therapy, he explained, is really only effective if you combine it with those training sessions: “None of these drugs will give you motivation—they’ll just help you focus.”
***
While unmedicated, it’s like the past and future don’t exist. With ADHD, everything is always in the present— memories, what I said yesterday during lunch; plans, needing to make sure I buy cigarettes before work; desires, wondering if my brother will feel like getting a beer and some wings with me later; corrections, wait, I can’t get a beer with my brother, he just moved to Chicago—everything is constantly happening. Thoughts get stuck in traffic jams as other thoughts, on motorcycles, speed between the cars and off the lanes.
According to the DSM-V: ADHD is a neurodevelopment disorder defined by impairing levels of inattention, disorganization, and/or hyperactivity-impulsivity. Inattention and disorganization entail inability to stay on task, seeming not to listen, and losing materials, at levels that are inconsistent with age or developmental level. Hyper-activity-impulsivity entails overactivity, fidgeting, inability to stay seated, intruding into other people’s
The ADHD coach that my therapist assigned me explained the differences between ADHD thinkers and neurotypical thinkers. The brain is constantly sending messages from one part of itself to another—in a neurotypical brain this is usually a smooth process; interruptions to the process are usually easily explained. On the other hand, in an ADHD mind, these messages get lost, confused, and disorganized.
It’s like not having the agency to define myself. My high school biology teacher once tried to define me when he said, “Well, Greg, you’re pretty much the bottom of the barrel.” But he didn’t really know what he was defining. Years later my psychiatrist diagnosed me with a learning disorder.
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The brain sends a message but it gets lost and the brain doesn’t receive the message. As this keeps happening, the brain thinks that it isn’t doing enough—it’s been working but doesn’t realize it; it feels lazy. So it kicks itself into high-gear and screams: “I NEED STIMULATION! GIVE ME SOMETHING NEW TO DO! I’M BORED!” *** I learned a lot from my ADHD coach and I try to pass that on to many of the students I tutor—many of them have ADHD, dyslexia, autism, or a slew of conditions classified as learning disabilities. Talking to them about learning disabilities is always a difficult discourse to mitigate. Many are concerned about stigmas that come along with having a documented learning disability—being medicated adds a sense of reality to their fears. It’s always difficult to explain: “Yes, you think differently than the other students. You are different, but that doesn’t make you less.”
just about ADHD, but about myself. In a lot of ways they teach me more about how to navigate my learning disability more than any therapist, selfhelp book, or medical dictionary ever could. *** Sitting down with the 14-year-old I tutor every Sunday, who also has ADHD, I tell him: “It’s like being stuck in a room with ten televisions... but, here’s the trick: if you practice, you can think in a straight line—just like the rest of them—it’s hard work; it’s really hard to get there. But them? They can’t think like you. No matter how hard they try, they can’t think about four seemingly disconnected ideas at once and see how they all make sense once you put them in the right order.” He responds, “And they call this a disability?” I laugh, “Yeah. But if I woke up one day without it—I’d miss it.”
Being medicated for ADHD is like moving from disorder to order. After medication with breakfast—a small, innocuous pill, sometimes just an oxygen molecule away from “meth”— the world becomes linear. The traffic of the mind is directed neatly. But the medicine is like cruise-control; it keeps me going at the right pace, but doesn’t steer. It’s terrifically miserably easy to sit down and inadvertently concentrate on Tetris for four hours. I learn a lot from my students— particularly those with ADHD; not 43
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Whitewashed Memory. Michelle Clark
Kitchen. Forest street house. Yes, of course you remember. Indulge me then would you, let baby sister play? You know how I like to play games. So, the kitchen then is where we are this time. You and I, and Michael came home to nothing baking, nothing frying or stewing. Table. Booth seating, covered in sticky green man made fabric, staring at the mac n cheese I was not eating, which is odd because it is my favorite food, don’t you think that’s odd Jen? I wasn’t able to get up til I ate. Coaxing me to eat one more bite. Indignation coming out in my blank stares. You, dutifully pushing a portion to one side, simulating things you thought mothers should do, I only had to eat that little bit. Stubborn? Ah, I might still be Jen. Baby sister never had lack of will. But who can find will in a bottle of bourbon? Don’t start what? Floor. Cream. Wasn’t it? You probably rather I call it white. So white, yellowing with natural wear. Paisley designs about them. Laminate.
Because it was thin and not too hard, soon it would chip in certain places. A relic of 70s home life. Yellow and green. Sunflowers. The ruffled curtain top printed of sunflowers, our mother’s favorite. Tea pots and cups and flower arrangements our mother made all from the brightest, cheeriest, and heartiest of flowers. You know Sunflowers grow without any attention. I’ve had a lot of time to read here. Remember when I used to read to you. You never wanted to be in the bathroom alone, you’d beg me to come with you. I’d put the cover down and sit on the toilet. I was five and couldn’t read yet, but you would hand me a golden rule and I would make up tales. And you were safe. I made a good buffer, huh? Resilient. Sunflowers are resilient. I think that flower represents the character of our family, Jenny June, of momma. And also it doesn’t. It symbolizes the qualities she needed and aimed for. Don’t you think that Jen? Of course she wasn’t a sunflower 45
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Jen, not like you. But she wanted the same thing you did. Out. I remember the big double window that always shone light in, it was at the front of the house, the front door directly to its left. The table situated just underneath the window framed in the browns, blacks, yellows, and greens. It made it warm and bright, while the rest of the house was dim. Being dim made it good for hiding. The neighbor kids would set up a man hunt base at our house, ideal because it was often parentless and dark. Remember that one time John Garrett hid up in the basement, for a whole hour? It amazed me that anyone could disappeared like that, that they could leave. We knew the nooks and crannies of that place didn’t we? The dim was good for cover. When the yelling started you took my hand and we sought it out together. We played games. You told me to close my eyes and told me to imagine a distant place. Then tell you what I saw, detail by detail. When things got louder, you told me to look harder. I’ve been looking Jen. The fridge, brown. What a color for a fridge. Inside is a giant jar of pickles, the whole ones I can hold in my hand. And cranberry juice. For the bladder infections. The cabinets were press wood. Yellowy, chalky, beige lined in green. They held Disney collectible cups, with scenes of Pocahontas and Beauty and The Beast. Sitting at the table the fridge was to the left, stove to the right, sink, straight back and the garage door to the right of that. And you Jen, you were always beside me.
you and your husband took the house over. I was allowed to visit few times in the beginning. I watched the black and white tiles get strategically placed. I would hop from black to black like a human checker piece. The oval table with bench seating built for bulk was replaced with one in a 1950’s diner style, set for two. The cabinets were white washed.
We moved away one day. Just Michael and I. But not far. Only a six lane highway away. But when you married, 47
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Transmissive Courtney Clark
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eing certified is unnecessary to surgically assist in the field of oral and maxillofacial surgery. Brooklyn did not know this until she was hired to work as a surgical assistant. A friend of a friend passed on the job opening for the desperately short-staffed office. Brooklyn was fresh out of college (psychology major) and was willing to accept any job that paid above minimum wage. Her experience in the field was limited to knowing that people had teeth, peopled needed to take care of their teeth, and sometimes people had teeth removed. But she was also able to wash the surgical instruments because 1) she washed dishes at home and 2) there was a machine used to sterilize the instruments and thus relieve from her the pressure of risking infection.
In the years leading up to her college graduation, Brooklyn was convinced that she was prepared for post-
graduate difficulties. Questions Brooklyn had never considered when thinking of the dental field: When blood and saliva are suctioned from a patient’s mouth, where do the fluids travel? Who is responsible for disposing of the fluids, and where are they disposed? Who disposes of the teeth that are extracted? Fluids travel to a jar, which is poured down a drain. Brooklyn was responsible for this disposal. Teeth are disposed of in a biohazard can. Brooklyn was responsible for picking up the teeth (and teeth bits for when the extraction is not a simple pull). Brooklyn was also responsible for not vomiting on the patient, the floor, or her co-workers. She quickly learned about implant processes, teeth impactions, and splash hazards. She was challenged mentally and physically, for she also learned that when a patient is under sedation, a surgical assistant is needed to hold 49
the patient’s head in place for the surgery to occur. Because of her lack of experience, this was Brooklyn’s main job in surgeries. She had also never considered how much upper body strength this required with heavyheaded patients, as well as how hot one may become when one’s breath is trapped behind a surgical mask and glasses (splash hazard), as well as how physical exertion and being trapped in heat can cause an increase in nausea. In summers during high school, and even twice after she had a bonafide Bachelor of Science degree, Brooklyn babysat her niece for extra cash. Faith had just turned one and her words and sentences were completely incomprehensible. She would stare at her aunt with such conviction while she pointed to a doll or stuffed animal, but Brooklyn would only smile. Faith would continue in her own little 50
world, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her aunt was left behind. One elderly patient, Rosalyn, was scheduled for surgery on a Thursday afternoon. Rosalyn was in hospice and given six months to live. Her husband, Carl, decided to bring Rosalyn in because of a surgery she’d had decades before. Prior to modern implant technology, implants were screwed into a metal bar that was installed along the length of the jaw. This bar (the technical name of which Brooklyn would never be able to supply) was causing Rosalyn great discomfort and pain. In an attempt to improve her quality of life, a surgery was planned to extract this bar. Rosalyn was wheelchair-bound, covered with a blanket, and quiet. With her, in the small patient lobby,
were her son, daughter-in-law, and Carl. When Brooklyn arrived to bring the woman back to the operating room, her family was all smiles. “Pick up your feet, Mom,” her son said, and Rosalyn would lift her feet so they wouldn’t drag the ground in the wheelchair. Every few seconds she would raise the blanket to blot her dry, cracked lips. She looked up a Brooklyn, and her lips moved, and small sounds escaped, but Brooklyn could not hear. She nodded, saying “yeah” in response. When they reached the room, she and the surgeon helped the woman to the operating chair. Every now and then she would mumble a “yes” or “no” in answer to an inquiry, but that was the limit in communication. Brooklyn and the second surgical assistant began connecting Rosalyn to a machine with wires: blood pressure, oximeter, EKG
leads, stethoscope. The surgeon took the blanket from her and placed it on a bench out of reach. The oximeter on her finger never captured an accurate reading. Rosalyn’s skin was not warm enough. The EKG pulse monitor began, and never ceased, beeping loudly to alert the team of her aboveaverage heart beat. Since beginning her new job, Brooklyn’s oral hygiene, which had never been poor and was in fact most likely average, had greatly improved. Rosalyn’s head was sagging. Brooklyn righted it. She would reach up to dab at her mouth, sans blanket, and the surgical assistants would guide her stiff and crooked fingers back to the arm rests. They told her what they were doing: 51
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“Rosalyn, I’m going to put a blood pressure cuff on you, okay?” “Rosalyn, I’m going to hook you up to some wires, okay?” And: “Rosalyn, keep your arms down for me.” Brooklyn’s job was to hold her head and monitor her breathing through the stethoscope. The ear pieces attached to the stethoscope were, perhaps, the most pain she’d experienced in her ears. “Take a deep breath for me, Rosalyn,” the surgeon said loudly, looking at Brooklyn. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. “I can’t hear her breathing over her heart beat.” A nod. “I’m going to take out your top denture, okay? Open your mouth for me.” The woman’s head was captured gently between Brooklyn’s palms. The doctor reached a thumb and forefinger into Rosalyn’s mouth and touched the denture. Rosalyn’s entire body jerked.
removed his hand from the woman’s mouth. He pounded the counter in frustration. “Rosalyn, I’m trying to help you. I’m just going to take out the denture.” He reached in her mouth again. Brooklyn was afraid to counteract the woman’s strength. Though frail, there was a surprising amount of resistance in her. Rosalyn’s heart echoed angrily in Brooklyn’s ears as the woman moaned again, loudly, frighteningly, her heart almost louder than the doctor’s words. Brooklyn and the second assistant exchanged glances. The surgeon retracted his hands and paced. The third attempt resulted in louder moaning, more aggressive resistance, and the surgeon declared the procedure impossible before walking out to speak to the family. Brooklyn retrieved Rosalyn’s blanket and covered her, tucking the edges around her frigid arms. Rosalyn’s eyes were closed, her lips moving. Brooklyn and the assistant patted Rosalyn’s head, arm. “It’s okay, Rosalyn. Just try to relax.” Rosalyn’s head was sagging.
“Hold her still,” the surgeon said. Brooklyn tightened her grip. Bumbum-bum-bum. The woman moaned; from a younger person, the sound would have been almost a scream. The EKG monitor sounded a frenzied reminder.
When Brooklyn was sixteen, her dog (a young golden retriever) was hit by a car. Lyla wasn’t badly injured but did suffer a broken back leg. The first week was the worst. Brooklyn would sit next to her and Lyla would gaze up at her owner. There was no understanding in her gaze. Only pain.
The doctor, to Brooklyn’s relief, 53
Some comic relief Tyler Fieldhouse
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Kristiane Weeks
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he walks through the open doors: long arms akimbo, blue eyes so round, and unusually watery and red. These eyes are already telling me how this “catching up” over pie and coffee is going to go. Holly and I give each other big smiles, and the hug we share doesn’t involve the usual manic clinging people associate with two girls seeing each other after a period of time. There is no highpitched screaming and running and clucking like turkeys. Her arms are long soft ribbons around me, with the essence of a dead fish. I pat her shoulder blades and we part. We make it to a table and the catching up begins, which is a lot of her talking, and a lot of me keeping my mouth to myself. An Air-Pot of coffee is placed on our table, along with strawberry rhubarb pie. I pour, sip the depths of the earth while I listen to her confirm everything I had thought about her, about us: “I’ve been day drinking all day at the pool,” the red eyes explained. Do you ever feel like you have a friendship
where living is a competition? Where upstaging is the name of the game? “I like your necklace,” she says to me. I hold it out, the little crystals and flicker in the diner light, “I got it when we were hiking in North Carolina. They were selling them at the top of the mountain.” She responds, “I got so high and went to the pirate museum, got this ring,” she flashes a plastic jolly roger ring. Wasn’t there a popular phrase recently, cool story, bro? Is there a “cool story, bro-ette?” I pour another cup of coffee from the pot and gulp the words back. “I’m gonna apply again to be a Disney cruise-member. I think they didn’t accept me because my attendance history during my Disney internship. But whatever, I’ll apply like seven more times and hopefully by then they’ll know I’m serious and pick me.” I stop listening, and focus solely on the thick, graying mug nestled between my palms. The rich, brown liquid lolls slowly in the container. I think of coffee’s facets the acidity, the depth, the body. Holly is a French roast, fullbodied and abrasive, smoky, stands 57
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alone. “You should go to $6 pitchers tonight, I usually go but I lost my license when I was out in Maryland before coming back here to school for the semester, and the bouncer I know isn’t working, so I can’t go.” “Beer? No, thanks.” Holly doesn’t seem to remember or care that I hate beer, that the only bar I’ll ever be sitting at is an espresso bar. It’s apparent. She is a blend from Africa, I, a blend from South America—we are not of the same earthy glow at all. The light curls of steam rising from her cup hold up drinking stories like trophies. As if nothing in life could ever be complete without being drunk or high. As if this is all the world has to be prideful of. “Oh, you’re only here for two days? I’m going to Orlando tomorrow... Or Tampa... dang.” “Tampa?” I ask, making my first move to keep the conversation going, to get her to talk more about him. “That’s where Will lives now.” Will. A boy she met after I had graduated and had never heard her speak of until now. Even though we were good friends in college, when she left for her internship with Disney World, we communicated less and less. After I graduated and moved, a texting conversation once every couple of months seemed good enough. Distance is a tool that can be used to isolate. But although she never speaks to me about Will, I know all about him. I know he’s a pool hall hustler and a
piece of shit. I know he’s pushed her before. But I also know Holly. I’ve sat with her hundreds of times, giving her all the gems of advice that my brain can produce from life experience and hardships, because when it comes to life and love, I’m a master of disasters. I should have been telling my advice to a wall—at least I know my words aren’t ever going to get through it, there’s no hope for a wall. I take a last sip of my mug before we get up to say our goodbyes, noting how it only takes a minute for the coffee to go from hot to cold. Just as the coffee cools, so do friendships. We walk outside; say it’s been good catching up. But it’s a lie. And as she drives away, the miles take us farther and farther apart again. This time, I will let it stretch us out, let her do her own thing, since she will anyway. This time, I know there’s no hope for Holly, she’s a concrete wall. I don’t say you shouldn’t trust a man who says he’s faithful and betrays your body and personal space. I don’t say trying out for Disney cruises instead of educator positions is a waste of time and money. Instead, I see her as she’s falling, like a leaf flittering down to the ground you notice out of the corner of your eye. When you look down you see a weightless white moth, wings stretched out in perfect symmetry with gray designs matching its concrete grave. You want to pick it up, but you just look at it, knowing it’s too late. It’s dead and there’s nothing that can change this fact. 59
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Hot Coffee part 2 Brandi David
9 INT. MICHAEL’S APARTMENT NIGHT
to view pornography and begin masturbating.
A large studio apartment, but sparsely decorated. He faces a large window with many lattices, moonlight shines in to the apartment. Homo-erotica is piled neatly on the coffee table next to a mostly empty bottle of dry red wine and a glass. The TV is playing, muted, in the background. He is browsing an PASSIONATE PROFESSIONALS, but seems disappointed.
12 INT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
10 EXT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT NIGHT Sydney pushes his bike, exhausted, to his apartment building. It is dark outside and the streets are empty. 11 INT. MICHAEL’S APARTMENT NIGHT Michael pours himself the last of the bottle of wine. He checks facebook but doesn’t see anything useful. He navigates away and uses his laptop
A clock on the wall on the first floor shows 2 AM as he waits for the elevator. The loud CLANG of the elevator reaching his floor echoes. He enters it and rides to the fifth floor. Each CLANG is loud. The doors open and deposit him. He fumbles with his keys outside his door. 13 INT. MICHAEL’S APARTMENT NIGHT Michael is finished and getting a glass of water, naked, in his kitchen. He turns out the light and walks to his bed. He sits down, the bed CREAKS. He lets out a DEPRESSED SIGH. 14 INT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT NIGHT Sydney props his bike up on the 61
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kickstand and takes the notebooks out. He notices a message on his old answering machine and listens to it while he relieves himself in the bathroom.
the large window, where Michael is walking past with his briefcase and an unopened umbrella in his hand. Emily looks up, sees him and runs to the back, just barely avoiding him as he enters.
MARTY:(v.o. on answering machine) Hey, it’s uh, me. Marty. I just wanted to see if you would maybe like to go with me for dinner sometime soon. I thought the uh, other night went-(clears throat) --well. I’d like to hear back from you, just.. give me a call. (slightly extended beat) Okay, well, then.. I’ll talk to you later. (beat) Bye.
CINDY:(loudly, mockingly) Well, hello Michael. How nice to see you again.
Sydney deletes it before climbing in to bed. 15 INT. PERSONAL ESPRESSIONS MORNING Outside the window the sky is gray and gloomy. Emily looks disheveled, like she has not slept and regularly takes large gulps of coffee. She is filling vases with water for the tables while Cindy GRINDS coffee. The shop is neat and orderly. After the coffee is ground: CINDY: You know, if you want I could egg his car. I’m not too old for that sort of fun yet. Emily has no response, but keeps working silently.
Michael looks at her questioningly and sets his items on his normal table. He looks around, noticing Emily’s absence. Cindy begins making his drink. CINDY: She’s in the back. She’s had a really rough morning. Apparently that guy she’s been seeing has been a regular customer over at the pastry shop on Fourth, if you know what I mean. Cindy hands him the coffee. CINDY: (cont.) But you’re too nice a guy for that, I’d guess. Michael takes a sip of his coffee, nodding but in a confused manner. Emily walks meekly out of the back, wearing fresh eye-makeup. EMILY: The jerk’s been doing her on the side. Michael suddenly understands and gives her a disappointed look with a gentle pat on the shoulder. MICHAEL: I wouldn’t worry about it, he’s just--
CINDY: I’ll bet Michael would take him in a fight.
CINDY:That’s what I’ve been telling her all morning! She just won’t listen to us old folks.
Cindy gestures with her head outside
Cindy winks at Michael with a smile. 63
Emily glares at her for a moment. Michael doesn’t notice either.
(shouting) I don’t like you Marty!
CINDY: (cont.) I’ve been telling her to come out with me tonight and we’ll grab drinks and a movie, but she says she-(melodramatically) --just wants to be alone!
Sydney finishes cutting the bread in silence and moves to a table covered with the recipe books. Raena finishes sweeping and washes her hands.
Cindy pretends to faint and Michael smiles.
Sydney doesn’t respond. Raena walks to the back and comes back out with a laptop.
MICHAEL: Actually, Umbrellas of Cherbourg is playing tonight and I was thinking-EMILY: (to Michael) Oh, I love that movie! (to Cindy) Let’s go see that! CINDY: You’re going through a breakup and you want to see a depressing love movie? Michael’s phone RINGS over Cindy’s speech. He gives the two a small wave as he answers it and turns to leave.
RAENA: You’re not even into him.
RAENA: (cont.) It’s officially time. Online dating. She logs on to PASSIONATE PROFESSIONALS. RAENA: Name? Sydney.. Magruder. Birth date? Raena looks at him with one eye closed. RAENA: (cont.) Better not mention that. Raena types away for a few moments. RAENA: Favorite movie? Fight Club. SYDNEY: Fuck no.
16 INT. GRILL’D - MORNING Raena is sweeping the floor, Sydney is hand-slicing bread. SYDNEY: He was pretty nervous on the answering machine. RAENA: Sounds like you should just cut him loose. (beat) Even if he is the only guy you’ve seen since Marc. Time to put it out there. Tell him-64
RAENA: You have to work with me, or a bunch of questioning high schoolers will be after you. SYDNEY: (sighing) I Am Curious. (beat) Punch Drunk Love. Don’t look at me like that! Raena gives him a blank, disgusted look. RAENA: Why don’t I just take care of
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this for you? SYDNEY: Les parapluies de Cherbourg. Raena finally begins typing. Without looking up: RAENA: The State Theater, 8pm. Raena looks out the window. RAENA: (beat) It looks like rain, anyway. 17 INT. MOVIE THEATER - NIGHT Both groups are at the sparsely crowded theater, sitting only a few rows apart from one another. Michael is between Emily and Cindy. Raena and Sydney are sharing popcorn. EDITED BETWEEN THE FOLLOWING TWO SHOTS: The film is passed with Emily and Cindy periodically looking towards Michael, who is intently watching the film. Cindy 66
tries the arm around the shoulder move, while Emily rests her head on his shoulder. As Cindy attempts the wraparound, Michael pulls his cell-phone out of his pocket and pretends he has a call to leave the theater. Raena and Sydney watch in relative peace, no sexual tension apparent between them. The popcorn bucket is empty. Sydney takes it, shakes it, and points towards the door before leaving to refill it. 18 INT. STATE THEATER LOBBY NIGHT Michael sits on a bench, staring distractedly, Sydney is in line to fill the pop-corn bucket. Michael sneakily checks out Sydney. Sydney rocks back and forth on his heels in line. He notices Michael, and waves. Michael waves back shyly. Sydney gets his popcorn refill and returns to the theater; Michael sighs and leaves the theater, walking home in the rain.
19 EXT. CITY STREETS - EARLY MORNING
(to Emily) I need your help on the counter.
A clean-shaven, well-dressed Michael carries his briefcase on the way to work. He walks past Personal Espressions, which is still closed. A sidewalk clock shows the time at 6:00.
ELLIE: Whatever a venti is.
20 INT. PERSONAL ESPRESSIONS MORNING
Emily reluctantly walks behind the counter. Ellie walks over to the window and looks out. The two baristas work on the drinks. EMILY: That’s Michael’s drink.
The shop is devoid of customers. Cindy stands behind the counter while Emily wipes tables. Neither woman appears particularly perky but both seem angry with the other. Ellie enters and confidently walks up to the counter.
CINDY: Do you think they slept together?
ELLIE: I’ll have a large green tea and--
EMILY: I’m younger than both of you. And look at those hips!
Ellie checks the order on a small piece of paper.’:
EMILY: Probably. CINDY: I’m more attractive than she is.
ELLIE: (cont.) An iced caramel macchiato without whipped cream?
Cindy places the two drinks calmly on the counter as Ellie’s phone rings. She digs through her pockets to find it, the baristas watch her judgmentally.
CINDY:(to Ellie) What size?
ELLIE:(on phone) 67
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Hello? (beat) Hello, Kate. I’ve got the drinks you and Michael--
ELLIE: (laughing) Yes, it is nice of him. He’s been at work since early this morning working on a project so he sent me.
Ellie leaves the shop and stands outside on the phone.
EMILY: I thought you normally got a frappe, or else we would have realized who you were.
Emily and Cindy watch her intently. EMILY: So who do you think Kate is? CINDY: I still want to know who that woman out there is. EMILY: It’s got to be Ellie. (beat) You don’t think they’re...? CINDY: Well, I’m going to find out. Ellie hangs up her phone and comes back in. Cindy places the drinks in a carrier on the counter. CINDY: Venti quad-macchiato sans cream and a green tea. ELLIE: Thanks. Ellie drops some change in the “Tips” jar and goes to pick up the carrier.
ELLIE: I’m not getting anything today. The tea is for one of the women working with him today. Ellie’s phone rings again. ELLIE: (cont.) Oh, I need to get going. It was nice meeting you both! Ellie picks up the carrier and takes off, clumsily trying to work her cell phone out of her pocket without dropping the drinks. CINDY: Well, it looks like we still have a chance. EMILY: I still have a chance, you old bag.
to be continued
CINDY: There’s a man that comes here almost everyday and he normally gets that same drink. ELLIE: Yes, that’s probably my boss Michael Kohler. You must be Cindy and Emily? I’m his secretary Ellie. The two girls look surprised but nod. CINDY: It’s nice of him to pick something up for you, too. 69
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Living Without Kari Clancy
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t began with a thought; I was always struggling with bills, I never had time, and I was always living in a filthy house. How can I increase my quality of life? I would be cut off from multiple news forums, communication options, social media, television, and I would be utterly lost in conversation about the latest fads, trends, and world happenings. But is that really so bad? Being up to date on world issues is socially acceptable. Everyone knew about Robin Williams within the first four hours after his death, and everyone has a favorite “ice bucket challenge” Youtube video on standby. Knowledge is power and both are attractive. We are addicted to social and informational medias. We update our statuses then refresh the browser and wait with hopeful impatience for a ‘like’ or a comment, maybe a retweet of something we wrote with masturbatory intentions. The power we find in a simple ‘like,’ as though what we’ve said has influenced the world in that moment, is addicting. We like those things, we like the power and the thought behind it. But, it’s making us powerless. Our faces are in our phones. We no
longer look up and out at the world, but in and down. We once filled our homes with photographs of family and friends, but now fill our homes with ‘stuff’ because all of our photos are online. Where we once were surrounded by the people we love, we’re now surrounded by stereo systems, gaming consoles, and the latest updated apple product. Not to mention the lack of social life we’ve created for ourselves; how many of your social media friends do you have lunch with at least once a month? How many dates have you been on where the person sitting across from you wasn’t found online, and neither one of you looked at your phones the entire date? We fight the system with hashtags and Facebook posts, but we don’t actually get out there and protest and hold signs against the loud and unintelligent. We don’t actually accomplish anything politically. We are not taken seriously as a generation due to our incapability of looking up and physically doing something with our world. So, I called Comcast, spent a good 4 hours with customer service representatives cancelling my services, and explained to them, “I have two boxes of books I need to read. When 71
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I’m done with those I’ll get internet, again.” Their laughter and incredulous responses to me were anything but ‘customer service’ but then again, anyone not wanting internet these days is probably crazy. I might be. I don’t care. I didn’t notice the lack of communications and knowledge of world events in my first month without internet service. I had moved, so I was busy. I had things to paint and hang, I had books to put away and decorations to display. I noticed that I also had an excuse for not knowing what was going on in the world. “Hey, have you heard about...” was asked often, and I said, “No, I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with my move.” The excuse also eased my peace of mind. I told myself I would be missing the goingson anyway; it was socially, and self, acceptable. As previously mentioned, I had quite a number of books I wanted to get through, and eliminating internet afforded me the time to read. I read, and read, and read, and read, and read. That was all I had to do. But I was bored, so I played board games, by myself. I actually pulled monopoly down from my game shelf, opened it up, and played four characters by myself. I even went so far as to lock my cat in my room because I was
upset she was trying to lay on the board. At one point I realized this was not normal behavior, so I put the game away, let the cat out, and decided it was acceptable to play video games that did not require internet. I loaded up my computer andplayed about five hours of The Sims in the first go. Before the internet we would go outside, we would have groups of friends that would do outdoor activities with us, or we could go bowling, or ice skating, roller skating, play laser tag, go camping, etc. But now, I realized, I don’t have those groups. I have one friend that lives within a 20 mile proximity to me, and she hates being outside. Her porcelain skin tone and her face in her phone was a sheer giveaway that she would not be willing to go hiking with me, or go camping, or even rent a canoe for half a day.When I asked my friend about doing something she said, “no.” She did not want to spend any time with me, at all. I suggested shopping, or lunch, going to a bar and getting a drink, but all she said was, “no, I have a new videogame I want to play this weekend.” It was on this day, in my second month without internet, I realized I had no friends. Don’t get me wrong, I have friends. I have a friend in Orlando whom I’ve known since
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Elementary School, I have a friend in Puerto Rico whom I’ve known since Middle School, I have College friends in Tampa, Saint Augustine, and Ohio, all of which would drop what they were doing on the turn of a dime to go out and do something, but I have no friends within a twenty mile radius of me willing to take themselves away from tech for one day to be a person. It hurt.
I use my phone for Facebook, Twitter, and Reddit. I look at these sites for maybe an hour, total, every day. But then I put the phone away and look up. I make myself busy. I make plans with people, and I keep them. When I go out I don’t look at my phone, I don’t go on the internet and browse while they’re speaking to me. I look at the person in front of me and engage in being a person.
I realized I kept up with worldly information quite well without internet. I was often late to the party, or I received one side of the story, formed the wrong opinion, then received the other side of the story after making an ass of myself quite often, but I learned from that mistake and questioned everything I heard from then on. Everyone else around me was involved in social media, so keeping up with news was not a difficult task. I had to make an effort and ask people what was going on in the world.
We are so preoccupied with ourselves we’ve forgotten how to be part of a group, a collaborative. We think we matter, and we don’t. We are just people, and we are just trying to live and survive. Perhaps we can do that well with less looking down, less looking at ourselves for importance and knowledge, and more looking up at the people we surround ourselves with, and the activities in which we are involved. Don’t look at yourself, your texts, your tweets, your statuses and smirk with unchecked smugness; look around you, put the ego away, and learn who you want to be away from all of that. When you die it won’t matter that you once had 1,347 ‘likes’ on a status, it won’t matter that a celebrity once retweeted something you wrote, it won’t matter that you once received ten Reddit gold for a post.
I am now in my third month without internet. I applied to a hiking group, received a handbook with a list of all of their hikes for the next year, and plan on attending at least one hike a month. I went to a coworker’s bonfire and found out one of my coworkers wants to date me. I am going on a couple’s canoe trip this weekend with coworkers. I was asked out to the movies by an old coworker. I signed up for classes at a community college so I can finish my second degree. I went to brunch with someone I’ve wanted to befriend since March. Lastly, I realized life needs balance.
It does matter that you not live your life alone.
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The
Mechanical Coffee Shoppe Tyler Fieldhouse
O
ne day, having a bit of spare change, I decided to treat myself to a fresh cup of that delightful dark elixir that keeps the civilized world running. I wandered mostly aimlessly for a few hours because I was still thick-headed about maps and my compatriot The Talking Anomolous was, as I said, basically just a sheep. But I eventually came to an extravagant cafĂŠ at the outskirts of a quaint industrial town. The shoppe, seeming to have no actual interior, had a delightful rose tint and smelled strongly of fresh ground beans and machine oil. Inside, several robotic arms could be seen performing all the actions one might expect of a normal
cafĂŠ, including feeding a central furnace that kept the entire machine running. Unsurprisingly, coffee seemed to be the fuel of choice. I made my order at the window and handed over my coin and, to my pleasant surprise, the drink was very agreeable. The shoppe forgot that I asked for heavy cream, but some was provided on a side table and I made little fuss over it. Finding myself very invigorated by both this delightful experience and the sizable dose of caffeine I had just ingested, I decided to take a closer look at the workings of such a fantastic contraption.
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Around back, I saw several supplies being loaded and unloaded out of a central portal, beside which was a chalk board with a dedicated arm all its own. By the looks of things, this was how the shoppe ordered its supplies when necessary. As I moved to take a closer look, the arm jerked to attention and began quickly scrawling a repeating phrase. “Shut me off,” it said. Over and over.
not in fact shut the mechanical coffee shoppee off. I collected The Talking Anomolous from the nearby grass and went on my way without so much as a second look. And I’ll tell you something else. I did not even leave a tip. If anything, machine or man, wants my gratuity or assistance in suicidal endeavors, they should at least appeal to me with some manners.
Slightly confused, I took a step back and said, “I beg your pardon?” “Shut me off,” it wrote again. “I’ve been awake for so long.” I thought for a moment about what it must be like to exist solely on caffeine, to actually survive on that ever-fading rush, but then I thought that the machine really had no room to complain. It could make itself different kinds of coffee. There are so many delightful combinations of java in this world, it really was a spoiled thing. My old wood furnace would have probably killed for anything besides the flimsy and forgettable twigs I would collect outside my house. And what’s more, I thought, was that the machine really seemed to have no manners. Never was there a “please” or any sort of diplomatic enticement for my assistance. And after I had been so kind as to overlook that fiasco with the cream earlier. Well, I think it can be assumed without me getting any more riled up about that unpleasant memory, that I did 79
In Search of Fragments of Time When It Had Stopped Brooke Plummer
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T
he soporific stretch of onehundred miles, with the same Midwestern fields blurring on the windows, always struck a familiar chord with me. Whenever I drove passed Lisa’s pie shop, I considered stopping by out of interest in roadside desserts, but home was a straight shot away and I kept on. Every visit to-and-from the heart of the state evoked memories of lawbending naivety and diary-stuffing dilemmas. My friends and I channeled between lovesickness and transgression while polluting our lungs with cheap cigarettes. In the classroom, we were upright students. After the bell rang, we were sovereigns of the hallway. During pep rallies, we chewed bubble gum into pink balls and tossed them onto the heads of the cheerleaders sitting several bleachers below us. At a distance, the teeth-imprinted wads appeared like stuck pigs in slick mudwater.
crowded cafeteria to meet up with the woman I became crazed for, after making out in a bathtub and picking at her mind, at the biggest house party this insipid county has ever seen. We patched stories with healthy carelessness before being released into the jungle of responsibility. We were coming-to-terms with adulthood, equally terrified and seemingly prepared, but nonetheless, together. Patricia Meyer Spacks wrote, “if conflict is the essence of fiction, adolescence provides rich material.” Any form of story-telling is eagerly inviting to this truth. It is powerfully bittersweet and unavoidably shifting. We are the living examples of consistent movement, all narrowing down to an alteration of self. From faded band-tee’s to ironed long-sleeves. From playfully dodging situations that result in mugshots to carefully budgeting for a mortgage. As the wheels continued to bump over cracks in the pavement, I was consumed by dreamy contemplation, remembering all that was simple. ...simple.
During lunch, I skipped the overly81
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Pauline Thier
Mustard The seed planted in two-thousand and three, growing, flourishing, until the doctor cut it out. Then he flushed its roots out, polluting. Burning. But this little seed, stubborn. The seed nestled, again, in two-thousand and seven. It found a new spot—a high rise of a home located in the spine. It creeped up and down, left to right, and finally settled in the squishy liver, poisoning. The seed flourished and showed its true color. In the end, my mother was as yellow as the final product of that little mustard seed. 85
Cancer They are just bugs, I told my little brother. Creeping through the dark, unnoticed. In mama’s body. No sound, no smell, no sense. Rooted deeply in her foundation. When they are awake, they make mama sick. The bugs chew up her hair. Bones. But don’t worry. They won’t come out and hurt you. The bugs are with mama forever. They are asleep from time to time, but they will never leave. Mama will always have her little bugs. But we don’t like them. They slow mama down, chew her out. One day they will stop her. Do you understand? 86
March of death Surrounded by tubes, fluids, needles and tears. We’re just hanging out. Talking. I almost forget you are sick. All the other patients in this room are very much sick. You don’t look like the woman with the wig on. Or that man over there, who is already half dead. You definitely don’t look like him, that sourpuss in the corner. You look like you, talking to me like nothing is wrong. I wish our chemo date would never stop. All the while death is marching on, 87
Michelle Clark 88
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 follow through and suspension is hard to maintain, but we all come back to it, we die in (perfect) suspension. 89
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An Ode to Not Having a Penis one said there was there was something distant in my eyes another detailed the way he would have me face to the pillow I can not escape it the dearest joys of womanhood unaware of the writhing sexuality about my being It is clear I am subject to their wants refusal means cruelty so I refuse i’m playing hard to get i’m begging for it so I refuse and wear purple I just need to be laid, the bitch needs to get laid because what i’m really missing is a penis and freethought to be woman is to bear all grit and bear it strip and bare it to be woman is to fear not out of fear but necessity I cannot walk alone at night I cannot travel to europe I cannot have peace of mind I cannot have I cannot have just give to be woman is to brave the hardships others select for us being woman isn’t to choose but to make do and I do women we still just do
The Former Queen of Hearts I am a living rage under your feet, I am Jean Grey gone dark. I eat stars. Did I not say I wanted all? What is a femme fatale that was not first a damsel never rescued? Isn’t every realist a wounded romantic? I am because, in truth I was. For too long I’ve been playing my heart cards, I’m going for spades. I’m going for spades. Death to the Dark Lady. 91
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Contemplations on Personification If love was a person He’d be the world’s apothecary, Like if the English language was Fitted with a mouth of flesh, and eyes, And limbs alike He’d be the world’s last cannibal Reformed of course, to fit proper Society, but still lusting to bite into French’s foot and the fatty hip of Portuguese. As for love, it does not always consume us Though we wish it did.
Big Sister A lot of who we are is defined by what we know I know Albert Einstein was a neglectful husband I know carrots are a colorful root I know my sister will not eat them because they “taste like dirt” I know what they say About carrots and eyes And love and blindness And I wonder if she ate more carrots would she have less “Man troubles” but I know her Her will is my restraint Her folly is my wisdom I know these things because I am not her and I am not her so I know these things 93
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Coutrney Clark
Tendencies Consider this her apology. Contemplate the slow beat of her heart. Know that it was slowing long before she sat in this blue bathtub. Realize, sweet, that you had no chance of saving her. The next time you hear the cats in heat outside your window imagine that you are one of them. She is the screeching. Think that she did not know the taste of wanting. That she didn’t recognize its complexities like the structure of your freckled back. Recall your days at the beach. Imagine the ocean as her filthy bath water. Feel this water following the pills down her throat. Know this: she tasted many men and spirits. None settled on her tongue better than the last water she drank. None filled the waiting emptiness she nurtured like a sickly infant. Be certain that you are something. Yes. Consider this her apology. For not understanding how the two of you fit. For not knowing how to exist. 95
Prophet Teach him repentance. He wonders how many apologies will recreate. Her reply, poiein, speaks new worlds into existence. She, wise one, tells him how to repair shattered bones. Her word, the relentless pinpricks to his skull. When the prophesies whisper, she pinches the skin of his neck and lifts. Turns him kitten-like to her moon eyes. Recites his crimes. Tenses his muscles. His tongue on edge. She speaks clearly. She will not repeat herself. He yields to her breath, breathless. He, a stain of humanity. She, above. Untouchable. She will sentence him and he will be a stray no more. 96
all die twice but i much more first when you searched the skies looking for space —bodies while you ignored stars falling —from my mouth then when you said my body was extinguished when i reignited — when you said she had suns in her gaze when i found sunburn — on our sheets when i could not bring myself to change — them when you circled her then when i was a — lone a dead star— burned out in cursed dark– 97
Lois Goh 98
TCM There are rows of boxes with leaves in them. The sight of this commercial forest pleases me. I’ll get better, I tell myself you’ll get better, I tell my ma. Three cups a day of this murky goodness. Boil, brew, pour and so it continues. Bitterness fills my mouth, my heart. I want to water it down but ma says it’s only effective when bitter. These herbs are my mother’s daughter for they are bitter but effective. Consume if you want to get stronger but only if you can stomach the aftertaste.
Smithsonian As an intern, I saw Washington DC through tinted lenses. They were optical illusions fuelled by inebriation and summer carelessness. Returning to the capital as a resident for the next few years, I start to see the cracks in my delusion. It is the same. So old, so beautiful but now, so real. The stakes are much higher now and this is my last chance at staying in the U.S. Once I graduate and become a Master of Communication, I only have half a year to convince a company to pay for me to stay. It is hard to remain the person you are and fit into the order of DC. So with trepidation and reproach, I try to remain. I apply for a position with the Smithsonian with a cover letter detailing the differences between Hibachi and Teppanyaki. I get an offer. 99
Caroline Hoadley 100
Interstate 40 “You’re in love,” My mother glances over at me from the drivers seat, a knowing look in her eye I lift my book higher to cover my face and prop my feet against the dash “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I say casually from behind the paperback. She says nothing, but there is a smile playing around her eyes. I lay the opened book over my knee and sigh, surrendering to the conversation. “Why do you say that?” The smile reaches her mouth as she changes lanes “Because I know,” Now it’s my turn to say nothing, I stare out the window, waiting for her excitement to overcome her need for mystery. The highway rises and falls before us like some kind of cemented wavelength, stretching away from the mountains and beyond the horizon. Spring has turned every tree a different green, and the new leaves blur as we speed by, heading South. “You’re either in love or loathing, there is no in-between.” I stare down at my hands in my lap; dirt from the vegetable bed rests in the creases and under the nails. I close my eyes and imagine what I’ve left behind. Muscles under smooth skin, long legs and soft lips, those liquid brown eyesShaking my head I open my eyes, adjusting my feet on the dash “I can’t be in love, Mom. We have our life in Florida.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I left home when I was your age, and if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met your Father.” I try not to think of the fact that this means I would have never existed. “Well what am I supposed to do then?” “Do what you love,” she replies gently. I close my eyes again and think of the smell of sweat, spring grass, and mountain air. “What’s that your reading?” I’m grateful for the change in subject. Lifting the book I show her the cover - “A History of Cowgirls.” There’s another moment of silence before we both burst out laughing. I brush the horsehair from my pants and return to my book. “What was the Colt’s name again?” “Tug Boat,” I reply. “Well, that’s it then.” I glance back at my mother, her face now serene. “You’re in love with the farm.”
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Kristiane Weeks
Blood Oranges I don’t know how to play guitar In eighth grade I tried, bought a big blue acoustic guitar the size of my torso, the neck longer than my arm, too wide for my tiny hands to plant a chord, too big for me. I must have quit shortly before college, when I quit everything that was me there were cornstalks replaced with palm trees veins couldn’t help but sizzle in the sun. I realized all the tourist propaganda was a shiny pot boiling with fizzy lies, but we can’t touch them, they will give us blisters. Look at my tiny hands browned flesh, oblong bubble pocks, they aren’t from burning my hands on the broiler, although I can’t get the naan out of the oven any other way, but there needs to be time to get the table set just right. You know the hummingbirds stop by for citrus this time of evening, this time of year, when the sun is casting lavender fields across the clouds. “We should get married in a lavender field” Ryan winks, with tiny birds strung all about. I’m thinking of humming birds, how they eat our citronella world, how they also love every smeared and sparkling shade of red. 103
Yanping Soong 104
dancing with Eternity so you compel me to dance at three in the morning. so I will with a spasm of legs, a whispering shriek. with wide, glassy eyes; arms rendered limp, a tightened chest heaving thirty breaths a minute — I call this dance Paralysis. at sunrise I’ll watch you move my arms and legs like ticking clockwork. how they feel, how they move! I’ll watch my mouth imbibe coffee; my hands I’ll watch, gliding my card through the subway gates; my feet, my feet, they shall twitch a walk along the platform edge hoping for liberation — I call this dance The Robot. at noon I shall dance with you, perhaps half-willingly. I itch. I am restless. Your hand to dance — it lies outstretched in front of me: looking at me. So I shall dance with reckless impulsivity. a coy smile. a whisper of, “your eyes are beautiful—” as I watch your surrogate press into me. this dance for a moment, makes me happy. but I must call this dance The Empty. 105
Brooke Plummer 106
Juicy J at the Juice Bar To cast light upon the insurmountable makes dreams of resurgence burn a hole in your mind — For resilience to strike like a gladius For passion to revive from impassivity and crush the idea of “forfeit” The use of fresh measures versus stale repetition I’m with my midnight fever and “neck-on-the-bottle” grip, wondering and wandering Close, with no contact, leading my own presence astray to seek cigarettes and transcendence Twenty-one years locking inwardly, a rejected product of hands on a clock If the wind whispered at the right moment for all to dress in metaphor and enable their fire, I’ll be listening in To think higher To fade with a glow 107
Carly Zervis 108
Hold Me Hold me, Charlotte Gilman, Edith Wharton, Flannery O’Connor hold me in your arms, latelate at night read me your litany tell me your endless stories while your smoke burns, hot through your eyes, hot through the air. I have had our people in my mouth and swirled them like water. They were delicious but vague, like that offer to own the Brooklyn Bridge, the Grand Canyon, a piece of my own heart. 109
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Dimitri McCloghry
Oneiromancy I love you comes out like rescue, and out of one eye, the moon is on a collision course with your throat. In the car, my tongue flickers for good measure over your body, and the leather coat you wear shrills in the same unvoiced frequency I’m accustomed to when I dream. Every time I come back to your body, the sequence remains the same: your legs dissolve, then your hands follow piece by piece, your ribcage, your face. Your mouth always goes last, laughing. Everybody is always leaving. But there’s something to the way you go, something so approximate, I lose meaning in what it means to remain. On the radio, someone croons, anything goes. I blanch from shock, hurry to search the seat, still warm from where you were, where I thought you were, scrambling to find you. 111
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Her Legion Working the mask of my mother in the patient’s ward, I help her look regal again like my grade school years when she’d starve herself to make room for ghosts. Every morning before work, they rushed in droves. Even now I’m convinced her life became stark from their company. Even now I trick myself to believe I’m an exorcist with good intentions. Father, forgive me. Her mouth’s tiny hurricane learn the frictions of how to hurt me. Each gasp paves me one step closer to her. As above, so below. Between moans, her clouded mask betrays in full disclosure: For we are many. Even her librettos give me false hope before her legion. When she sings, her lipstick opens hell with a howl that will not come. 113
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Sam Arguinzoni
Addiction A bottle of vodka and 52 cards. Mi padre y su primo. Booze and money go in both of Marlon Brando’s hands. Luck be a lady tonight, or just be a decent human being. I don’t drink in front of you. I don’t even play Uno in front of him. I hide in closets as being over 21. You can’t come visit me until I get rid of the empty beer bottles even though you aren’t a beer drinker. You always preferred wine, the blood of Christ. One of the four differences we have. The other being related to identity. But I’m still the son you always wanted Even if I have a vulva. 115
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Dance Parties They hated their hips. They made lines into curves—going from simple geometry to three-dimensional Eucledianisms. It was harder to bend gender although being queer was very much a part of being them. BUT They can dance, and this has freedom from lines and structure defying binary with anarchy smelling of coconuts. A breakfast of orange juice because they survived swing, indie, electronic, ska and 90s pop. (This only happened bacause the reality of floors and feet andrhythyms allowed them to breathe without thinking.) They gives shows away for free the person with the Cheshire Cat grin and his roommates. The whichever god does not hate or judge when every word slipping into songs and dialogues tastes like forbidden fruit circles. 117
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Sam Hunsberger
Camouflaged But let me ask you just one last time. Does this match? Do we match? Let’s blend in to keep ourselves hidden, protected, conformed with one another. I know what you are going to say now. Did I wear this dress for you? The answer is no. Or maybe it isn’t. Do I look like her? I could be exotic too. I can say words like cantina. And I know a place downtown that makes really good carnitas.I don’t smell anything like Colombiathough. And you can’t fall heavy in my midnight eyes. Mine are hazel. My mind is hazel. Muted now for the most part. I feel camouflaged. Falling apart into everything. Unnoticed. Can you see me? I lied. I did wear this for you. Who else would I wear it for? Him?He was just complimenting my legs. Really. It was just the one time. Can you forgive me? Can we forgive each other? The universe divides us with invisible lines. Lines crossed. Lines wrapping around you with gravitational pull. You have a choice. Here is the equator. Are you coming home? Do you even remember how to get here from there? I can give you the coordinates. What did you find in the jungle? Men growing money?Or yourself? It wasn’t me. I’m here. Disguised as a memory.Your memory. And you can’t find me. You’ve lost me somewhere in the landscape of your mind. Are you a sniper rifle? Will you heat seek missile me? Do you care? I’m over there. Between dream sequence and the part of your brain that registers pain. This system is making me nervous. Let’s get out of here. Lose our heads all together. Trade them with strangers. Go on with our lives unrecognized. Here put this hat on. Doesn’t that look better?
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You’re Not Here Maybe there is something about warm weather that melts us apart sweating, sliding, drifting colliding into foreign continents named after old lovers tectonics shaking our foundation for the better part of a year crumbling like fault lines into strangers until the earth spins and cools again holding us back in place 121
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