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Woven Tale Publishing Š copyright 2013 ISSN: 2333-2387
The Woven Tale Press
Vol. II #10
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Sandra Tyler Author of Blue Glass, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and After Lydia, both published by Harcourt Brace; awarded BA from Amherst College and MFA in Writing from Columbia University; professor of creative writing on both the undergraduate and graduate levels, including at Columbia University, (NY), Wesleyan University (CT), and Manhattanvill College, (NY); served as assistant editor at Ploughshares and The Paris Review literary magazines, and production freelancer for Glamour, Self, and Vogue magazines; freelance editor; Stony Brook University’s national annual fiction contest judge; a 2013 BlogHer.com Voices of the Year. http://www.awriterweavesatale.com
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS: Michael Dickel, Ph.D. A poet, fiction writer, essayist, photographer and digital artist, Dr. Dickel holds degrees in psychology, creative writing, and English literature. He has taught college, university writing and literature courses for nearly 25 years; served as the director of the Student Writing Center at the University of Minnesota and the Macalester Academic Excellence Center at Macalester College (St. Paul, MN). He co-edited Voices Israel Volume 36 (2010). His work has appeared in literary journals, anthologies, art books, and online for over 20 years, including in:THIS Literary Magazine, Eclectic Flash, Cartier Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Sketchbook, Emerging Visions Visionary Art eZine, and Poetry Midwest. His latest book of poems is Midwest / Mid-East: March 2012 Poetry Tour. http://michaeldickel.info Kelly Garriott Waite Her work has appeared in The Globe and Mail, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Christian Science Monitor, Thunderbird Stories Project, Volume One, Valley Living, The Center for a New American Dream and in the on-line magazine, Tales From a Small Planet. Her fiction has been published in The Rose and Thorn Journal (Memory, Misplaced), in Front Row Lit (The Fullness of the Moon) and in Idea Gems Magazine (No Map and No Directions). Her works in progress have been included in the Third Sunday Blog Carnival: The Contours of a Man’s Heart and Wheezy Hart. She is the author of Downriver and The Loneliness Stories, both available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble. http://kellygarriottwaite.com
ASSISTANT EDITORS: Dyane Forde Author of forthcoming Rise of the Papilion Trilogy: The Purple Morrow (Book 1) http://droppedpebbles.wordpress.com Lisa A. Kramer, Ph.D Freelance writer, editor, theatre director, and arts educator. She has published non-fiction articles in theater journals, as well articles aimed at young people for Listen Magazine. Her fiction is included in Theme-Thology: Invasion published by HDWPBooks. com. She is the director of a writers’ workshop From Stage to Page: Using Creative Dramatics to Inspire Writing. http://www.lisaakramer.com LeoNard Thompson Has published opinion editorials, weekly columns and essays, and interviewed performers, practitioners, writers, politicians and personalities. http://leeyonard.com ARTS: Seth Apter Mixed-media artist, instructor, author and designer. His artwork has been widely exhibited, and represented in numerous books, independent zines, and national magazines. He is the voice behind The Pulse, a series of international, collaborative projects, the basis of his two books The Pulse of Mixed Media: Secrets and Passions of 100 Artists Revealed and The Mixed-Media Artist: Art Tips, Tricks, Secrets and Dreams From Over 40 Amazing Artists, both published by North Light Books. He is the artist behind two workshop DVDs: Easy Mixed Media Surface Techniques and Easy Mixed Media Techniques for the Art Journal. http://www.sethapter.com PHOTOGRAPHY: Lynn Wohlers Awarded BFA from School of Visual Arts, NY, NY; writer for Daily Post’s Photography 101 series. http://lynn-wohlers.artistwebsites.com
Our staff is an eclectic mix of editors with keen eyes for the striking. So beware–they may be culling your own site for those gems deserving to be unearthed and spotlit in The Woven Tale Press.
Editor’s Note: The Woven Tale Press is a monthly culling of the creative web, exhibiting the artful and innovative. So enjoy here an eclectic mix of the literary, visual arts, photography, humorous, and offbeat. The Woven Tale Press mission is to grow Web traffic to noteworthy writers and artists–contributors are credited with interactive Urls rather than names. Click on an Url to learn more about a contributor. If there is a “Featured!” button, it will link you back to a special feature by the same artist or writer on The Woven Tale Press site. To submit go to: http://thewoventalepress.net
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TOYS!
The base for ou nyl figures–wh dismember. In Knu
We broke the figure up Knucklebear’s arms ea helmet, and the torso a was used to
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ur toys are existing vihich we may go on to this case, it was a 18” ucklebear:
p into three different figures: The ach became a clown, the head a a cannon. Polymer clay and wiring o recreate each figure. We didn’t use the Knucklebear’s feet or ears. And a 7” Munny was used for the boy.
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After firing the clay onto the new figures, we sanded the clay smooth. We added a primer which makes more visible any imperfections in the clay for final sculpting tweaks.We then taped off sections of each figure to add base color layers, using an airbrush to achieve smooth gradients. After the base layer, we hand painted the small details with a brush. A protective matte clear coat was applied.
Pause was a finalist in the Custom O Resin, and Break-Through Artist cate
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To make the clothes and accessories, we used painter’s tape to section off areas that needed patterns for the fabric. The fabric pieces were sewn onto the figures by hand. The cannon base was made from wood.
Of The Year, Best Collaboration, Best egories at The Designer Toy Awards.
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http://www.leanneradojkovich.com
I’ve been framing my photos and pasting flash fiction stories on their backs – then posting the frames around town in public loo’s and phone booths, on shop walls and park benches. Each PinUp is tagged “Pls take me home–I’ll look good on your wall.” Passersby can take it or leave it. But if they take one, I hope they enjoy the story.
P
A PinUp travelled to the USA after an American tourist liked one enough Kingsland’s Atomic Cafe’s window. Later, he sent me a photo of the PinU wall in Wisconsin. He even kept the Pls take me home sticker – “in the ho day it will disappear, late one dinner-party evening, to look good on anoth the story of the mysterious, clean Doreen into another imagination.” I particularly like not asking permission to have stories out in the world, and that I’m giving them away for free. It’s slightly mad, random street-art–and heaps of fun slinking about at night finding places to post them. New York’s literary zine Awkword Paper Cut recently featured my PinUps here, and as a result two things happened: Amsterdam’s street art ArTicks Gallery featured it on their website’s front page–right next to a piece on Banksy. I sent a PinUp to a reader in the USA who posted it in the New York Public Library. They’ve also appeared here in Flash Frontier’s April issue. It’s been such fun releasing the PinUps into the world; and having them pop up in unexpected places.
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s p U Pin
to take it from Up on his lounge ope that someher wall and carry
Fea
tur
ed!
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http://www.leanneradojkovich.com
http://www.veryshortfiction.com
Popcorn
Ten crabs crawling sideways to the tune of “Marker’s Melody.” They each have little top hats on, little canes…. Do they have those little tap shoes? Yes, they do. In fact they’re tapping away as they crawl. The curtains are starting to close. But then they open again and the little crab pops out and takes a bow. Are the crabs at least a different color from the curtains? Otherwise it’s red on red. Yes, the crabs are blue-green. Oh. Is the audience applauding? They are barking away and clapping their fins. The audience is all porpoises. Porpoises don’t bark! They’re not seals! These ones bark. They’re dripping wet all over the theater seats, curled in uncomfortable positions. They bark like mad at this little crab, who is quite the ham. Finally the curtains close for good and the lights come back on. The porpoises slither up the aisles and slip out the front door back into the ocean. What happened to the crabs? They’re back on their tour bus heading to another city. Why don’t they just go back into the ocean too? They don’t have time. Now the theater is empty except for a skinny cuscus janitor with a broom. A cuscus? It’s like a possum. They have them in Australia. He sweeps up the place and then his sister picks him up. She shares a takeaway falafel and then they drive home.
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Where does he live? Oxford. His father works in the science department. So the theater is empty now except for the ants. Ants? Yes, they eat the popcorn. But there’s one bad ant who’s a pyromaniac. Oh, no! Yeah, and he burns the whole theater down. Sorry. *** Did the whole ant family die? Yeah, pretty much. They either died or got severely burned. Leave the poor ants alone! They should have done something about the bad ant before it was too late! What should they have done? Sent him on his way. Which is what the survivors did after the fire. Where did they send him? Catalina Island. He went on a long journey where eventually he learned to care for others. Is that how it ends? Yup.
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The
You won’t remember this but you used to love watching the travelers come through the rye field in their dark suits, dragging the big rubber sacks. You’d crouch just inside your little princess tent cradling your stuffed animal dog. I’d lie on my stomach beside your tent with the binoculars pressed against my face, elbows in the dirt, waiting for the white crane to show up.
Crane
There came a day when you were finally ready to go up and meet the crane yourself. You’d outgrown your princess tent and the stuffed animals. Now you lay on your stomach beside me with your own binoculars. I think I see him, you told me. You’re right, I said. That’s the crane. Are you ready to meet him? Yes. I looked at your bright face, your mouth very serious. Take this, I said and handed you my scythe. You rose up from the ground and pulled your hood over your head. You pushed through the rye, your black cloak flowing. It almost looked like you were floating. You brushed past all the travelers who still dragged their lumpy bags across the dirt. The crane stood very still on its stick legs, feathers ruffled by the wind. He turned as you moved closer, your cloak flowing. Through my binoculars I could see your hand reaching out to him with your long fingernails. It looked like you were asking him something. Then he opened his sharp beak and spread his wings wide. He shrieked, sounding almost human, and in seconds the travelers surrounded you. But you swept the scythe like I taught you, parallel to the ground, and took them out two at a time, cutting through their dark suits. I watched as they piled up. The crane took to the purple sky, still screaming. This time I knew he wouldn’t be coming back. Before long his wail was replaced by the noise of a police fanboat coming up through the swamp. I was proud of you but sad too. This is what I told your mother: She’s become an expert reaper. When she comes back she’ll do much better than we ever did. And your mother agreed. http://www.veryshortfiction.com
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http://www.ericadamajournal.blogspot.com
M i x e d M e d i a o n P a p e r
“White”and “Blue.” The piece on left wa 11
as originally the backside of the piece on right. 12
In “Homework with Black Square� (above) is a calculation my father once made for me long ago.
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In “Homework I�, I added a small piece of rag from an old fitted sheet.
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http://distorts.blogspot.ca
Found Object (Potato Masher) Crocheted Twine, Wool
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Wood, Crocheted Wool, Twine
Crocheted
Sculptures
Wood, Crocheted Wool
Wood Rings, Rubber Balls, Netting Twine
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251 Crochet
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ted
Sculptures
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http://www.flashfictionblog.com
Breaking Orbit
I breathe the sweet autumn air at my windowsill and read about the stars I used to watch while hiding on your rooftop when I couldn’t find any other escape. Billions of them swirl through the charcoal sky, forming and glowing and dying and carrying their satellites to whatever end the universe desires. I am taking general education classes at community college because you told me so repeatedly that I was stupid. I am learning Composition and Statistics along with Astronomy. I know now what white bread and diapers and ramen and bus fare costs, that I get more tips when I smile and look my tables’ customers in their eyes, that sometimes I still miss your sour mash breath against my neck and hate myself. It’s good I’ve gone so far, but I’d prefer to go farther still. Four hundred years from my bare floor and little folding chair, there is a planet orbiting so close to its sun that it exists as pure lava. A yellow call-out box on my textbook’s page tells me that eventually the planet will slip irrevocably into its star’s grasp and gravity will tear what remains of the satellite’s soul to atoms. It is pure terror to see an ending in front of you and be unable to stop it. Like looking into a night where there is too much sky and too much air and too many jets streaking everywhere, you can’t go from a rooftop that is the right height for jumping. Kepler 78b, if anyone even remembers the planet’s nearly anonymous designation after it’s gone, will live as a footnote in a remaindered textbook. Except that maybe this won’t happen. Because Kepler 78b shouldn’t exist. In the light of my second-hand lamp I learn that planets accrete in brilliant clouds of gas and dust far from their anchoring sun. They can’t form inside a star’s material. They can’t migrate inward and then just stop. Scientists don’t know how Kepler 78b arrived where it is, or how it stays in its fatal orbit. But they’re looking, and when they have the answer they’ll teach it to the next generation. This is how we grow smarter, how we change. We look into the night and ask a question and then we step outside ourselves. I think of this strange planet, with the apartment lights darkened and Malia asleep in the next room. I lever the ancient window sash open, feeling strength returned to arms no longer blackened with bruises. The stars now hang closer than the memory of your too-long arms fumbling with the spice rack, the angry sweat that glossed your reddened face, the spittle that showered the air between us. And I think less and less of your tearstained collar, your windmilling fists battering anything that fell in your circle, and more and more of this thing called the future. I find that with time to think my mind runs in all kinds of ways, and I know now that there is no light or heat that will destroy me. 19
http://winharms.wordpress.com
Stow Away
you are stored in my attic with stuffed bears and dr. seuss her essence is there, too sometimes i think i can smell her drugstore perfume i stay though i ache to run a reminder of the old time but the rumble of a greyhound bus can no longer comfort me those days when i ran from my mother, a lover, the law, myself i want to leave you up near
the eaves to be rustled through like old poems and a high school year book when i am wrinkled and grey i want this to fade like a photograph
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http://rebecatrevino.blogspot.com
Chair
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People
This group of assemblage pieces are lovingly called “Chair People� because the image above is part of the chair leg I used to make these dolls.
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“Armando” has a tequila bottle stopper head, silver bead eyes, and a silver chain neck. His arms are vintage bottle /can openers, and the metal lid of a ‘Copenhagen’ (snuff) tin front. His foot is a vintage wooden furniture wheel.
“Lacy” wears a lace hat with a pink bottle cap top. Green bead eyes, red bead lips. Her arms are tinker toy parts and her hands are tiny vintage keys. Her legs are soft metal livestock ear markers and her feet are vintage keys.
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“Dottie” is made with a wooden drawer pull for herhead, glass bead eyes, red acrylic dots, and silk flowers for bodice and hat.
“Sister Shay” practically made herself. Her dress is a patent leather belt, her arms vintage metal hairpins, her hands shell buttons. Coins (with hole) make up her shoulders. She wears a small rosary. Her ceramic head is the result of a broken music box with three singing nuns. 24
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“Ike� wears an alarm clock bell for a hat. He has brass washer eyes, and small ignition wrenches for arms and legs. His belly is a clock spring. He wears a silver star on his chest, and a single jeweled earring on his neck.
“Windsor” has a wooden drawer pull for his head, brass BB’s for eyes. His arms are chains, his hands are metal washers, and he is holding a tiny brass fish. He has a marble belly button, and tree-limb legs. He is wearing a silk ribbon bow tie, and a tiny leather hat.
“Stan” wears a read measuring spoon hat, and bicycle reflector vest. His right arm is a link of a bicycle chain, and his left arm is the metal pocket clip part from a ball point pen. His legs are two dull drill bits. His eyes are brass washers attached with brass screws. 26
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Mica Toenails brittle, jagged sheets of mica Skin picked at, flaking, valleys of cracked mud Hair falling, lacking luster, crisp October leaves Everything disease, teeth abscessed rotting trees Everything’s shed Everything’s dead Letting go On its way out Not long for this space Just a bundle of brilliance on a constant crash course of forward motion Demented momentum always Looking back Not meant for this place; everything is crumbs
Bugs
Mischief majestic a pocket full of match sticks Pre-teen burns shelled bugs not yet blackening his young lungs An angry child playing god a backyard monarch lifting up logs Unfairness unequaled release through used syringe Subjecting crustaceans to saline injections — hot salt of his tears Revenge misdirected prayers go unanswered Unfamiliar with ripples stones cast & effects The dying are dead and the living make amends
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http://nancystohlman.com At first it wasn’t so bad. She’d show up in her m eing talked pencil skirts and French manicures and support hose and I just thought it was good cusy he von ady tomer service. But soon I started noticing little extras inside the plastic bags, weird hearts drawn next to her phone number, and then one morning I caught her peeking in my front windows when I didn’t have to be at work early. When I said “What are you doing?” she blushed and tried to hand me this month’s Birthstone Bracelet. It was green—August. I’m sure I’d never told her my birthday.
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The next week she was back, delivering wrinkle creams in white paper bags. She rang my doorbell even though I hadn’t ordered anything. I stood on the other side of the screen suspiciously. I wanted to give you some samples of our new bath elixir bulbs, she said. Please. I cracked the door enough to grab one. You just put them in the bath and they are so fantastic. But her voice was shaky on the word fantastic and inside the bag was a note: Help me. I thought about calling Avon Customer Service but I decided to follow her instead. She unlocked a normal looking two story home and I saw a tiny basement window turn on. I got close enough to see the floor piled up with undelivered books and empty plastic baggies. I could hear muffled screaming and then a glass tube splattered against the wall, its contents oozing to the floor. I returned after dark and positioned myself again by the tiny window; I tapped softly on the glass and she came, wearing the latest shade of Sassy Tangerine lipstick. Take this she said, passing me a pair of 14k Metallic Sweetheart earrings on sale this month only. Hurry, they’ll be back soon she said, pushing the earrings through the bars. The next day I saw her in the neighborhood delivering Avon books out of a little red wagon in her faux leopard print pumps. She was wearing sunglasses, a dark spot on her chin that had been shabbily concealed with new Daywear Delight All Day Foundation. I To be published November 2014 found myself hating her, hating all her stupid lipstick samples and her childish gullibility. The next week there was a new lady, a bright smiled woman wearing a fuchsia two-piece suit and last season’s Whimsical Woods body fragrance. What happened to the other one? I asked. She didn’t work out, the new Avon lady answered. 28
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Still Among Lilacs 50x50cm Oil on Linen
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Ode to Molly (Forget-Me-Not) Oil on Canvas 30
Melt I Oil on Wood Panel
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Shift Oil on Canvas
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http://earthbound.io/blog/
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Digital O Abst
Oil Painting tract art
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Digita Abstr
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al Oil Painting raction 00013
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The Emperor’s Joy
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Abstract Digital Oil Painting
Dandelion (Impressionist; Stem and Seed Ball)
This is digital watercolor “lifted” (or color-traced) from a 3D render of a dandelion, which I worked up in 3D Studio Max from a plant-generating plugin called XFrog. I created the background with various brushes, repeated layer wetting and sponges, on custom watercolor paper canvas textures I’d made long ago. I mixed in some cloned pencil layers for darkening and detail. I then used some trickery, turning what had been watercolor/pencil into a bit of light cloned oil paint in places: if you flatten a digital watercolor painting to another file (e.g. a flattened .tiff image), you can reopen from that file and treat it like oil. http://earthbound.io/blog/
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ISSN: 2333-2387