The Scotch & Chocolate Issue by Paperfinger

Paperfinger November 2014

The Scotch & Chocolate Issue 1

Paperfinger November 2014

The Scotch & Chocolate Issue

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10 8C

WRITING Feature

REATIVE

Megan Kovak

30 Poetry 26 POETRY

Stephanie Erdman 20 Marykate Usina 28 Kristiane Weeks 24 Kristiane Weeks 30 30 Sam Arguinzoni 34 Lois Goh Short 36 Michelle Clark stories

Kristiane 22 Hot Coffeeby (part 4) Weeks by Brandi David

20 22

Chasing Storms

Stephanie Erdman

All Imagery supplied by

JENNA ROBINSON PHOTOGRAPHY

EMAIL Hello.JRob@gmail.com WEBSITE jenna-robinson.com

creative writing 8

Hot Coffee

(Part 4)

Brandi David

27 EXT. CITY STREETS - NIGHT Raena is laughing very loudly about Cindy, Sydney is shaking his head and laughing quietly. They are walking towards Sydney’s apartment and drinking their coffee.

RAENA: (cont.) Chop off my ear. Brainwash me. Kill me. Raena takes another sip. RAENA: (cont.) Just don’t let me be that.. brain dead.

RAENA: I can’t even imagine the girl that has to put up with that woman. Did you see her?

SYDNEY: Don’t you think that if I could brainwash you, you’d be working with me for free by now?

SYDNEY: Thirty years old with the mentality of a fifteen year old. (beat) At least she was friendly.

RAENA: Or gay.

RAENA: That wasn’t exactly friendly, it was a defensive-offensive. The bubbly personalities of baristas have been waning since the days of percolators. SYDNEY: So... RAENA: But this is real--if I’m ever that fake, that attention hungry, or that blond-Raena takes a sip of her coffee.

SYDNEY:Oh yes, I’m definitely looking for a gay woman to be by my side. She can be my butch, I’ll be her bitch--and together, we’ll never have sex. 28 INT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT They enter the building and wait for the elevator. Random familial noises of television and children echo faintly from behind closed doors. SYDNEY: I’ll bet Mrs. Kravnitz is sending out a newsletter that I’m finally bringing 11

home a woman. RAENA: I wouldn’t worry about it; we’ll go get some studs from Hunk-mania and fix your reputation as resident gay. Sydney laughs as they step onto the elevator. 29 INT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT BUILDING ELEVATOR - NIGHT

uncrinkled, underneath the empty bottle. Michael is flipping through his inbox on Passionate Professionals; there are several unread messages waiting for him. Indiscriminately, he chooses one and starts typing a message. 31 INT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT NIGHT

SYDNEY: So.. Are you going to tell me what happened with the ex?

A clock shows 12:35. Raena is sprawled out on the couch, asleep while Sydney uses the laptop to view the dating website but doesn’t find anything. Muttering about the stupidity of it all, he closes the laptop and checks on Raena on the couch. Satisfied, he lays out on his bed but appears wide awake.

RAENA: We broke up because of artistic differences.

32 INT. MICHAEL’S APARTMENT NIGHT

SYDNEY: Not to stereotype myself, but isn’t that a tad Chicago?

Michael has typed out a long response and continues to hit the keyboard. He stops just long enough to pour himself another glass of wine and drink some. He types a bit more then leans back in his chair to inspect the work. Silence for a moment. Unsatisfied and annoyed, he deletes it, slams the laptop shut and stumbles drunkenly into bed.

The beeping of the elevator rings loudly as they pass each floor. They stand separate from one another.

RAENA: He said I’m an impressionist with invisible strokes, distant like Monet; he’s the expressionist bursting with individuality and emotion. The elevator stops with a loud clanging; they step off and walk towards Sydney’s door. As he unlocks the door: SYDNEY: At least you made it out with both ears. 30 INT. MICHAEL’S APARTMENT NIGHT Michael is halfway through his second bottle of red wine; the first lay tipped over on the coffee table. A clock shows 12:25. The television is muted, old sitcoms play in the background. The GSA flier sits,

33 INT. GRILL’D - NIGHT/EARLY MORNING Sydney leans intently over his recipe books in the dimly lit restaurant. A clock shows 2:11. His phone starts ringing-it’s Marty. He sets it down on the table, letting it go to voice mail. After a few moments, it rings again. After silencing the ring-tone, he turns his phone off and sets it aside.

34 INT. GRILL’D - MORNING Sydney’s head is lying down on a table on top of the recipe books. Raena taps on the window glass, waking Sydney up slowly. Sydney stretches and lets Raena in. RAENA: Evidently I’m such a terrible house guest you came to work to sleep. Was it the snoring? Raena picks up a broom and sets to work sweeping. Sydney yawns and sits back down at his table. SYDNEY: Nah, I just couldn’t sleep. (beat) I did get a call from Marty, though. A lot of calls from Marty. Raena laughs as she sweeps. RAENA: So what about that dating site? SYDNEY: Eh. I’m not finding anything 14

too interesting. What made you register me at a site called “Passionate Professionals” anyway? I don’t know anyone less professional. RAENA: It’s one of the few sites I know. I’m not big on the online dating scene. SYDNEY: Or the dating scene. RAENA: Pretty much. My sister in LA used it to meet her second husband. SYDNEY: I don’t know how I feel about it if she’s on her third already. Raena sets the broom aside and walks to the back. She returns with paints and begins painting “Everyday Promise: No Bubbly Baristas!” on the window as she says: RAENA: (o.s.) Car accident, so it’s not her fault. Or at least, they think it was an accident--her third husband died

suddenly, too. Mom and I have bets running about suicide, homicide and accident. I vote suicide, she votes homicide. SYDNEY: That’s reassuring. Good thing I can’t get married here anymore. RAENA: There’s always Canada. (beat) Have you put any effort into it? It won’t help you out any if you don’t try. And listing three movies isn’t exactly trying.

these truffles. Michael sits down at his normal table and reads a newspaper. Cindy and Ellie look at one another. Cindy nods and Emily sets to work making Michael’s drink. Michael continues to read the paper until the two baristas sit down with him at his table, bringing his drink and a plate of cookies. CINDY: We were expecting you yesterday, it was weird without you stopping in.

SYDNEY: I added music--

EMILY: But it was nice to meet Ellie, too.

RAENA: Underground noise doesn’t mean much to a lot of people.

MICHAEL: Kara kept me up all night and I slept in late.

SYDNEY: No, but it’s something to me. Isn’t that what matters, finding someone with common interests?

The two women stare at him, eyes wide. He laughs and they relax.

Raena shakes her head solemnly and finishes her painting: a coffee mug with steam rising from it, crossed out with a red X. 35 INT. PERSONAL ESPRESSIONS MORNING Michael enters, carrying a medium-sized tin with him in addition to his briefcase. Cindy and Emily pretend to ignore him as he walks up to the counter. MICHAEL: Hello, ladies. CINDY: Hello. EMILY: We’re not talking to you. CINDY: Indeed. MICHAEL: Okay. I’ll have to give Ellie

MICHAEL: (cont.) I went in early; I was having trouble sleeping and I’ve been working on a large project. You’re both naive. (to Emily) How are you feeling about your boyfriend? EMILY: It’s over. I deserve better than that, right Cindy? But it still sucks. I’m stuck at home until I can find an apartment I can afford on my own. Cindy nods. Michael opens the tin and displays chocolate chip cookie dough truffles tucked away neatly. MICHAEL: Hopefully these will help. The two women look excited and help themselves. Both are surprised at how delicious they are. 15

EMILY: These are really great; they put the cookies I made last night to shame. CINDY: Non-sense, they’re both delicious. Emily eats another, popping the entire piece in her mouth at once. EMILY: I don’t know, these are a lot better. Cooked cookies are never as great as uncooked cookies. CINDY: Michael, have one of her cookies. Cindy offers the small plate of cookies to Michael who puts his hand up to decline. MICHAEL: I really shouldn’t, I’m-CINDY: Non-sense! A man never has to watch his weight; especially a man as handsome as you.

is labored and difficult and he starts swooning in his chair, looking like he is about to pass out. The women panic and he whips an EpiPen out and inserts it into his upper thigh. He begins breathing easier, but lays down on the ground. MICHAEL: Call Ellie. Tell her allergic reaction. She’ll call Dr. Smith. The two women freak out and scour the area for Michael’s cell phone. Emily is crying and grabs the cookies to throw them out. Cindy finds the cell phone, looks through the address book for Ellie and dials. CINDY: Ellie? Michael had an allergic reaction, he’s at the coffee shop and needs you to call Dr. Smith, he used something in his leg, but please call the doctor and come down!

MICHAEL: It’s not that-CINDY: Then try one; it’ll make Emily feel better, right, Em? Emily looks at Michael innocently. He picks up a cookie and smells it before taking a small bite out of it. He chews slowly, but seems to enjoy it. EMILY: Do you like it? Michael nods. CINDY: Of course he does! Michael suddenly spits out the cookie and begins digging hurriedly through his bag. Both women are shocked and confused and can only watch. Michael begins throwing items out of his bag and becomes increasingly pale. His breathing 16

to be continued.....

Marykate Usina 20

BOYHOD BRAVERY PT. 3 You mapped out the world on my body, the rhythm of your march follows the outline of my curves: the tips of the dunes where your feet tread, the indentions of my collarbones you dig your trenches, under the arc of my back where you find your rest and where your fingers trace my natural constellations. Waiting, but when you wait Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m waiting too.

BOYHOD BRAVERY PT. 6 I try to remember the feeling. Lying in bed with you, soft spoken sentiments exchanged in warmth. The candles casting geometric shadows against my wall. Splattered shapes, with each flicker your face comes and goes like the tide we used to dance in, it rises and falls like your chest when you needed breath and like the waves that push the memories farther between us.

Kristiane Weeks

Guilty Women There are corn crop circles hiding behind the backs of everyone in town, bent ovals, “I don’t need all the details,” he says. That’s what they always say when a woman has to explain why she doesn’t want to bare a child, tosses a cob in the middle of the symbolic field. I thought I was ready, able to take on the slaughtering lambs, no rotting seeds, but the stars make me feel guilty, blue with burning hypotheticals like if your partner died, and you married someone new, would you possibly want a child then? Would I possibly want to strangle the light out of my eye sockets instead? Would I possibly move to Puerto Escondido and only wear azul? Possibilities. They’re all fucked up. I want tarot cards to tell me the meaning on the carefully-laid stalks, I want the stalks to tell me the way into laxblack sky, and when I reach to tie a thread around a white-hot star, there’s suffering for it, too. My blood drop, it’s so innocent, such a pieperfect dab against the sterile floor, or something that once was, reaching deep into your stomach and put a clamp on your cervix. Goya knows it is eternal, the pressure, the grasp from a heavy hand that won’t let its grip go. It’s always deep, deep in the center of the crop maze, deep in a woman where the silver wrenches, the hunched over boulder beside the abortion clinics. Today, the angry mothers who didn’t have the idea

first and representatives of wooden crosses aren’t throwing pebbles and condoms at the women who walk through the doors, the snow is good for that relief, it keeps all the bears buried, although if you crunch gently in the silent woods after the first few inches have fallen and listen through the glittering wetness, you can tune in to the low growling. And if you crouch into the tightest ball, you can fall like the heavy clumps of flakes rolling off a blackened bough at the lightest breath, separate into moth

Reversal It wasn’t like a moonbeam, or a scythe cutting through leathery stalks--learning to forget questions inch-worming along cobwebs in the back of the mind. The process is a silent one, car cruise-controlling on US-31, Northward into flatscapes and bleached cornfields, craving cool ghosts of the mountains. The bereft badlands of the Midwest can only dream of jagged altitudes, the movement in a body of water as it shines, slithers down striped limestone and calcium from ground antlers and Cherokees. His teeth are like stars, they only come out at night There is no proper way of asking him if he is going to forget the loneliness of sitting on blue sand, delicate shell-crabs skitter by under the white moon, I just pray he remembers the chain-smoking that night, his fingertips shaking like graves, the way nicotine wandered endlessly like a lost ghost along the hazy shore.

Sam Arguinzoni 30

December Dreams You’ve become stone Which means I need a hair cut Kill the snakes at their head Then after the stone around your mouth turns to flesh Press it against mine. Mia y tuyo Más bonito como “mine and yours” How do you say, the wind is cold and the sun must return? How do you warm stone besides killing snakes That are hair curls. I’m sorry that my island-descended curls might turn my @ into a. Non-binary hair cuts equate fiction in a structuralist society. But we hate postmodernism. This pretense in this poem: I miss the warmth of you, and am too afraid to say it.

Daddyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Girl Puppy dog eyes thought he was the Fisher King Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why a Puerto Rican would have GreenEyes He only hit me once, threw me around but he thought I liked it threw my head into a wall Instantaneous apology because without the chemicals in your head to make him see reality like living with a tiny gorilla. I believe in him like how I say the rosary before I go to bed and not in the fast licked say it in two breaths that my non-Catholic mother found so sacrilegious. She never could understand our games. Her chemical factions were too different. He is my Darby who always save me from banshees.

He introduced me to fox

magic as a young child.

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Photo Credit: All photography courtesy of Jenna Robinson, to get in touch with Jenna you can send her an email at hello. jrob@gmail.com, to see more of her work check out her website, jennarobinson.com and remember to like her on facebook!