The Fertilizer Issue
April 2015
What’s
?
Paperfinger (n.) one or two movable clamps on some typewriters that are used in place of or in addition to the bail to hold paper firmly against the planten. Paperfinger is a digital publication bringing the love of art and writing together and putting them on display. Each issue features short fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction together with art by our featured artist. Paperfinger’s purpose is to promote how creativity and higher education can join hands to accomplish beautiful and meaningful pieces in a professional world.
Kristiane Weeks
Jessica Frick
Editor / Co-Creator
Designer / Developer / Co-Creator
Currently studying creative writing at Indiana University, Kristiane enjoys listening to vinyl and reading a good book, even if that’s a cliche.
Working as a Developer in Olde City Philadelphia Jessica is a graphic artist, writer, nutrition aficionado, runner, avid podcast listener and singer who loves iced coffee.
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What’s Inside? 6 Creative Writing 8 Hot Coffee (part 6) by Brandi David 17 Perhaps by Brandy Bohm
19 Poetry 20 Brandy Bohm 22 Brooke Plummer 26 Caroline Hoadley 30 Kristiane Weeks 34 Jessica Frick
creative writing
Hot Coffee Brandi David
(Part 6)
44 EXT. CITY STREETS - NIGHT
the back.
Sydney is walking home, pushing his bike with him and listening to his I-pod. He is wearing a backpack full of recipe books. He turns around a corner. THREE THUGS, young-ish, follow him around the corner. Sydney doesn’t hear them coming. Thug One tackles Sydney from behind, surprising him. Thug Two grabs the bike, Thug Three whips out a switchblade and leans into Sydney’s face, flashing the blade in the light.
RAENA: It’s not like you to forget your keys. What’s wrong, long night?
THUG THREE : Listen here, faggot. You don’t deserve this shit. Just do what we say, and your boyfriend will still recognize you. Sydney attempts to struggle, but the thugs beat him up rather viciously before grabbing his stuff and running off, leaving Sydney lying on the sidewalk.
Sydney doesn’t respond, but returns to the dining room of the restaurant with the hoodie off. His face and arms are covered in bruises. He is carrying a collection of tattered notebooks and sets them on the table. RAENA: (exclaiming, worried) What the fuck happened?! Are you okay? Sydney looks at her. Smeared recipes written in pencil are in the notebooks; random photographs of sandwiches poke out the sides. He turns his attention back to the notebooks. Raena sits down next to him and watches him work.
45 INT. GRILL’D - MORNING
46 INT. PERSONAL ESPRESSIONS MORNING
Raena is in the shop when Sydney, wearing a hoodie, knocks meekly on the front window. His face is mostly hidden by a hood. She lets him in and he walks to
Several CUSTOMERS are lined up in Personal Espressions. Both Cindy and Emily are busier than normal, bustling around trying to make all the drinks. Michael is standing in line, waiting.
CINDY: Michael, quad-shot caramel macchiato sans creme. Cindy holds up his drink, he steps forward, confused, but takes it. CINDY: We saw you come in so we took care of it for you already. No time to talk though, love. EMILY: Morning Michael! Michael places a five dollar bill in the tip jar and sits down at his normal table with a copy of Brokeback Mountain. 47 INT. GRILL’D MORNING Raena is washing the windows clean, getting rid of her small painting quips. Sydney is still sitting at the table, working on recipes. She begins cutting vegetables behind the counter, then stops and continues to watch Sydney.Jeremy walks by outside and glances in at her, waves. She gives a small wave back before walking over to Sydney with a large purse-like bag in her hands. She drops the bag on the table, hard, and pulls out a compact. She is poised to put it on Sydney’s face. RAENA: (forcefully) Look up. Sydney looks at her, inquisitively. RAENA: Come on, look up. You’re not in any shape to be here today. You won’t tell me what happened, I’m sure you didn’t go to the hospital, and there’s no way you called the cops for whatever happened. I’m not going to be able to change your mind or get the story out of you, and I’m not going to be able
to convince you to go home. But I can convince you to let me put you in drag so you don’t scare off all the customers. He looks up at her and she begins painting his face over with make-up in an attempt to cover the bruises. 48 INT. PERSONAL ESPRESSIONS MORNING The cafe has cleared down. Michael is engrossed in his book. Emily walks over with a newspaper in hand and stands behind him, scaring him as she asks: EMILY: Have you seen this article in the paper? The one about Mater Dei? Michael slips the book into his lap under the table before Emily notices what he was reading. She gently sits the paper in front of him, sliding into the chair across from him as she does so. The article is titled “Mater Dei GSA Cause for Controversy” and includes a large picture of MARCI SCHMIDT standing, holding a rainbow flag. EMILY: Not that I have any problem with the gays or anything, but it seems like a lot is going on right now, doesn’t it? It’s crazy. (beat) And a club like that in a high school just seems so bizarre. They’re kids! They have no idea what they want or what they like. They could be gay one day and straight the next, just like that. (beat) I mean, I’m all for equal rights, but it’d be nice if I could find someone too, you know? Shouldn’t I have a chance to be happy too?
Emily is looking at Michael seductively, who meets her gaze and immediately begins blushing. CINDY: You are one of those kids, Emily. You’ve barely been out of the kiddie corral yourself.
Raena leaves as Ellie is walking in. Ellie takes off her coat and places it on the back of her chair. Sydney immediately starts making her regular sandwich, a chicken BLT melt with asiago. ELLIE: I’m not looking forward to this colder weather.
Emily shoots Cindy, who is making an order, a dirty look. Michael uses this time to pull his phone out and pretend to answer it.
Ellie notices the bruises as she walks up to the counter.
MICHAEL: Hey, Ellie. (beat) No, I’m on my way in now. (beat) Yeah, uh-huh.
Sydney shrugs, still reluctant to talk as he makes the sandwich and places it on the grill.
As he pretends to be on the phone, Michael grabs his coffee cup and pushes his way out the door, waving to the ladies as he leaves. 49 INT. GRILL’D - EVENING Raena is pulling on a coat while Sydney mills around behind the counter, the make-up only somewhat successfully covering his bruises. It has been a slow day; the dining area is clean. The clock reads around 7pm. RAENA: Are you sure you’ll be alright with me leaving? It’s been a slow day and all, but I’m concerned about leaving you here. Sydney nods. RAENA: Make sure you call me when you get home. If you don’t, I’ll show up on your doorstep. And Mrs. Kravnitz doesn’t need anymore fuel for ruining your social career.
ELLIE: Oh! Are you alright?
ELLIE: It’s been a long week for both of us then. I think my boss tried coming out, but when I asked him about it he stormed out of the office. It still smells like coffee underneath my desk. SYDNEY: What happened? ELLIE: He was asking about the kids, then mentioned how he hoped he’d have kids one day and when I tried to reassure him that thirty is nothing anymore it just degenerated until I started to tell him that I’d still love Jerry if he was gay, and then he threw the coffee and stormed out. Ellie sighs. Sydney listens to her story intently before responding. SYDNEY: (beat) You know, I’m gay. ELLIE: Oh! I didn’t realize, I’m sorry if-Sydney laughs.
SYDNEY: No, it’s nothing. I actually came out back when I was in high school. I was a junior. It was-(beat) --A tough time to put it lightly.
SYDNEY: If you think it’ll help, he can always message me to talk. It’s a tough thing to do alone.
ELLIE: Is that what...?
Ellie smiles warmly at him before sitting down at a table to enjoy her dinner. Sydney remains on the other side of the counter, working on scraping down the grills, now smiling slightly to himself.
Ellie gestures to her face, referring the bruises on Sydney’s face. He smiles and takes the sandwich off the grill to cut and wrap it.
ELLIE: Thanks, Sydney.
SYDNEY: Not quite, I just ran into some trouble on my way home. But I’m okay. As for your boss.. Sydney hands her a plate with her sandwich on it and a cup for a drink. SYDNEY: (cont.)When I came out, it was stressful. My mom didn’t believe it, my dad got really depressed. It was really fucking hard to do, to watch them both be so miserable about it. And I wish I could say that they got better about it with age. But mom still cries about how she’ll never have a granddaughter, and dad hardly speaks to me anymore. It’s rough. It’s easier if you know someone will be there, but even so, you can’t force him. If he tried talking to you, that’s already progress. The best you can do is let him know you’re there. Don’t try to force it, but just..be around. ELLIE: He just seems so lost. Normally, he’s confident and bold; it’s hard to see him like this. Sydney grabs Ellie’s receipt from the cash register and writes down his e-mail address.
.....to be continued
Perhaps Brandy Bohm
A
rriving home from a late night at the bar, I assume the regular “after bar” position. Stacks of CD’s encircle me as I try to convey how I am feeling through the music we are listening to. You never pay attention. I imagine you’re thinking about being with someone else. Perhaps you felt nothing at all. Perhaps you just needed somewhere to sleep it off. I’ll always wonder. Why were feelings so hard to talk about then? Why did we ignore it like there was nothing to say? Perhaps the music said it all.
“Learning loving somebody don’t make them love you”
“Don’t you think we oughta know by now? Don’t you think we shoulda learned somehow?”
“So many questions I need an answer Two years later, you’re still on my mind”
Song after song, lyric after lyric, why didn’t you get it? Why didn’t you understand what I was trying to tell you? Perhaps you did understand. Perhaps you felt the same way. There I sit in my circle of CD’s wanting you to understand. Perhaps you do, but I’m terrified. Terrified of what it would mean if you did know what I felt and what you would say. Those songs still remind me of you, of us. I feel differently now, I have moved on, but those lyrics still put me in a time where everything I felt was total confusion. Perhaps you wanted me to never know how you felt. Perhaps you were just as scared as I was. Perhaps the music did tell you everything you needed to know. Perhaps I should have paid more attention.
poetry
Brandy Bohm
Hindsight Blankets over the windows. We hung them there so no one could see inside, or so we couldn’t see out. No concept of time. That purple dot you put on my tongue was tasteless. But you promised it would be spectacular, that taste didn’t matter. The pitter patter of the people running above us. Incredible waves that pulsed through my body. Fogginess that felt so right and the vibrant rainbows all around us. Looking at you for hours, Your face morphed so many times. Different versions of you before the horns protruded. I should have known then. That purple dot clouded my thoughts. We talked of being together forever and of the music that was just for us. The music faded. Blankets fell. You eventually left. I regret nothing.
Brooke Plummer
Autumn-Marked Consolidation. What we invented between us, a rapid-force through vessels under the skin, like a teenage fever, boiling under tritium-lit stars and a bed of blood-crimson leaves. . . . we picked at what makes us tick as the hours bled together, and striped down to the point of danger, and my heart was under the weight of a new direction! Shadow against shadow, lurking amorphous for an autumn marked consolidation, to forgive ourselves, to pass through our entries in the hands of a flimsy fate fate, nonetheless; its time could be ours, quiet survivor, body of briskness, your mastery of closing in on the tremors rolling through me softens their harm, but you stay hidden away in places I’ve never found Instead, lure me into the lair of your knuckle-whitening secrets. . . . . I’ll hold you harder, and tell you all about how you’re the echo in my daydreams, because I believe in us, like nausea while I put myself in a bind when confidence is denied, so clench my life and bite the bitter by my side
The End of Growing Up One Way. You, I, and all, under twinkling pearls of the universe the minutes elapse the inches towards caskets As children are filled with too much etcetera through the millenia, aging to buckle themselves into personified pace and deafen televised haste, they snap out of forever with diaristic outpourings and hormone-spun rebellion in collective But the familiar scent of pinewood and chlorine never fades, inhaling thickened air from dewdrops tipped on the grass is like a morphine flight without consequence like weathered ramparts around an ecstasy unbreakable, around sketches of a dreamscape overlapping with shifts in the scene...aging, Do you remember when “fuck� became a favorite for the phonic sweetness? The sweetness, like a stream of stolen wine down your hot-hashed throat, while milking the vitals from the sky with a pastel gaze?
Caroline Hoadley
Mane and Tale Let’s swap war stories and see who’s is worse. Let’s go hunting and figure out who balks when it comes to the kill-shot. We can make plans to spend the Holiday’s together before you cancel, knowing that our parents have nothing more in common than we do. Or we could go to Gatlinburg, and I can spend the entire time wondering why I ever decided to leave the farm. Let’s see who is happier at happy hour or in the hallway of a barn with no lights, watching the storm roll in over the mountains. I’d rather polish tack with a stray dog and a barn cat for company, with a horse who knows when to look to the horizon and move on to greener pasture.
Monarch I have a friend who faithfully reads my words, but tries to pin down the person, place, incident they hint at Like a collector filling a case with insects fragile wings frozen mid-flight. He does not understand that these writings are mere attempts at reaching, holding in my hand that feeling before it slips through my fingers and returns to sand, water, stardust. I want to tell him that you cannot grasp those memories in one hand. You cannot capture them and pin them down, to spread their wings and lay them behind glass for collectors to admire. I write about the last grains in the hourglass, the feeling of water that drips between cupped fingers. I want to tell him you cannot capture the things that rightfully belong to the air to the spaces in-between breaths. There are stories that never make it to the front page, and songs with melodies that never leave our minds. There are smiles after the picture is taken, there will be smiles that we miss. I will keep putting them down on paper and He will keep growing his collection under the desk lamp, glasses perched on the end of his nose, reflecting golden light.
Kristiane Weeks
Siren Sawdust, raw. Paisley or a blur of frames, heroes blind-folded in front of everyone–who’s untouchable now? In the summer, chance of a nickel-and-dime win. We weren’t controlling wires threading between our spines, snapshot beaming the best way for me… Sultry extortionist, these are monsters: everybody wants something.
Kinesis Whoever started saying “nothing lasts forever” never learned the rules of revision: it doesn’t end. There’s always room, nothing is perfect– What word better clarifies our truth? What glows?… When troubles turn into ribs (twigs?), don’t let the world make you hard… so easy to start suffering when everyone else has. Can’t stop the chrysalis from binding, shellshocked to contras forgiving (or forgetting) then letting the bravest sail away, knocking cliffs from the coast. Hunt-underthe-moon mode, along with the monsters built from Romantics who fell to the limestone side– once humming a hibiscus tune, now humdrum succulent with sharp mandala leaves, stuck to a desert floor, no power to move toward the sun like Orchidaceae, blue cacti juice.
Hazards Quicksand to lay down softly, but with enough distance to let hands fall easily. Hazards of love, or some slow drone of a tune: banjo string twang, his father telling me it was a simple instrument to play– but heavy pull of accordion, I can’t make it sing or breathe… Was there a pattern to the stars that night? The reel I last saw you in is a blur, choppy: only murmurs of cicada warning, fan whirring at the mothership, some string of lights falling behind your dark face…How do you say goodbye to a spirit you never knew was there in the first place?
Jessica Frick
The Coffeeshop Community We stand in line together. We make eye contact. We think about speaking or not speaking, we avoid eyes or hope someone will notice us. the old couple discusses their grandsons affinity for security blankets, their concern, the weather people shoveling their sidewalks that man ordered too much he held the line up he asked too many questions now he holds up two dollars putting them in the tip jar so everyone sees. The music shuffles between obscure 80’s rock ballads and new age Appalachian songs the two baristas covered in tattoos scurry behind the counter. one discusses the Oscars with a guest, the other hums along to the music making espresso Across the room two men sit in silence in front of a woman on the phone shuffling papers a look of concern The man two tables down from me is doing that thing. Starved for attention, he holds his work at a distance rubs his chin, if he’s lucky someone will show some interest ask a question probably not. They’re only interested in themselves.
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