Enhance No 5 - Anniversary Issue - July 2011

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A n n i v e r s a ry I s s u e — J u ly 2 01 1

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This issue is a symbol of our promise to you: our readers and artists. There will be many issues to Enhance and each issue will have great works hand selected by the Editor In Chief. Enhance is an online quarterly literary and art magazine that explores the human’s perception of life through literature and art. Enhance is interested in publishing new and emerging artists as well as the seasonal artist in all genres. Did you miss past issues of Enhance? Read them for free at www.onimpression.com

MEMBER OF THE

N IMPRESSION NETWORK


TA B LE O F C O N T EN T S 6. M y L i tt l e D r e am —M a r i 7. Im pat i e n c e —A l l e ya 8 . It ’ s M e —R o o b a n D e va d o s s 9. C herry P ic k er —A n dr e w K n i g h t 11 . Not e — C e d e r i ck G i b b s 12 . L e s s Po p u l a r D i n o s a u r s —B r i a n G a rr i s o n 13 . G l a s s —J e s s y E . G r i f f i n 14 . S i l e n t W h i s p e r s —Ger ald Ruiz 15 . S p i d e r —V i c t o r P a r l at t o 16. Ro s s M ac D o n a l d a n d J o h n at h a n K e l l e r ma n —A l l e n S ta r b u ck 18 . D o n ’ t J u dg e T h i s Po e m —N at h a n A l a n S c h wa r t z


LE T T ER F R O M T HE E D I T O R Editing is a beautiful challenge. I’ve come to realize that in the past year of editing Enhance. There were some times when my editing attempts were smiled upon other

times when the suggestions were turned away. Either way nothing compares to the joy seeing the final piece.

This issue marks Enhance’s second year. I have great memories as well as some

interesting memories from past issues. My favorite memory has to do with the

submission and review period. I read each email, look over each submission, then look

over all the submissions again. It’s always exciting to find the piece that makes me want to visit it again and again.

I collect all these wonderful pieces, organize them into a magazine issue after issue, and love every second of it. This issue has a special mix of artistic renderings of life dreams, decisions, identity realizations, dates with baristas, dinosaurs, and other worldly characters.

I have yet to see a submission I dislike, but I can’t always fit every submission in

the magazine. I’m extremely thankful for all the submitters past, present, and most

definitely future. I want to especially thank all my close friends and family who have supported me since the inception of Enhance. Stay tuned, this is only the beginning. —Sopphey Vance, Editor in Chief

Special T hanks Contributing Artwork Design Arti Jotwani

Contributing Editor Victoria R Oviedo

Nathan Alan Schwartz


M y L i tt l e D r e am —M a r i

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Im pat i e n c e —A l l e ya I could set free that which I see, Past, Future and Present inside

all things that have lost its meaning

in the sea of words which has no home In places, we call our own.

Though we are tired and we break and Crumble to soot and ash, Let us remember that notion

Of feeling a void that will pass and leave someday. Let us transcend above society’s limitations And find peace within the world.

Even though it is unfair and unjust, it does not mean we have to be.

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It ’ s M e —R o o b a n D e va d o s s Things I want to say now May not make sense

The thoughts they rumble

Against my lifeless fragments Convoluted is my mind Intoxicated is my soul

Free me now undulating

Eternal spring of warmth It ain’t me,

It ain’t this fermented liquid It’s me,

The semi-solid being

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Cherry Picker —A n dr e w K n i g h t Jack stood outside, waiting for the girl from the coffee bar to open her apartment door, and the only thing he could think to do was stare at his own damn shoes. They were just a beat up old pair of black Chuck Taylors with an X duct-taped across the left toe. But see, this girl always stared at them whenever she served his coffee, and likewise the peculiar bastard would stare at her feet, among other anatomies, wondering what color toenail polish she used. Moreover, Jack wanted to know why that X captivated her so much. Jack had exactly seventeen seconds after knocking to figure it out, which he never did, before she would open that door and tell him herself, very anticlimactically I might add. And he counted each second as it passed, X-ing them off like the X on his shoe, not that he knew how many seconds he’d have. Oh, and she’d tell him that was why. You see, Jack was an accountant; “was” being the key word. He now spent his days pinching pennies, trading penny stocks from his laptop at Cherry Picker’s Coffee. Rather than wonder what dimwit would name a coffee bar “Cherry Picker,” he’d just roll up his sleeves, order a double shot of expresso, and skim the cream off the top like the day trader he was. He taped the X to his shoe on his first day at the Cherry Picker, which the barista noticed right away, to remind himself that treasure was always under foot in any market. On a good day, he’d trade three pennies for five. On a bad day, he’d lose nine

pennies for eight. On days he’d break even, he’d smoke a cigar outside the coffee bar while he’d stare at his shoes and wonder why the barista was so captivated by them. He’d stomp out the smoldering stump with his X foot and spit on the ground for good measure. The black-haired barista’s name was Janice. “Jill” would’ve been a more appropriate name, but she changed it to “Janice” when she was fourteen. She’d worked at the Cherry Picker since before Jack got laid off, watching the world pass her by for another cup of mocha and a cheap shot at her nose ring, while she would tap her black fingertips hollowly on the counter with a jaded sigh. Actually, her ring fingers were painted blood red. Jack would shoot probabilities each day for the chance that her toenails were painted in reverse, but you already knew about that speculation. Janice’s unfortunate dream was to own a similar place and name it anything but Cherry Picker. Most times, when Jack would order his expresso, she’d walk it out to his table when it was ready. Janice was cool like that for regulars. And, of course, she’d sneak a glance at his shoes, or, rather, his X. As she’d walk away, Jack would also catch a glimpse of the black bow at the bottom of her corset piercing, peeking through her shirt. He could see that Janice had at least three rows of rings in her lower back, but he couldn’t help but wonder how far up they went. Every row was ten points sexier by his calculations, and the

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anatomies were choice. Anyway, a Wednesday note from Jack to Janice led to a Thursday note back with address and directions to her apartment, because he just had to count the number of rows of piercings in her back and the probabilities of her toenail polish and the reasons why she stared at his shoes, which brought us all to this Friday evening. For the final two seconds, he wished he wore a different pair just to spite her. Then the door opened, and, lo and behold, she immediately started staring at his shoes, but this time it was okay, because he was staring at hers again, too. Janice wore stiletto heels with open toes, and, just like Jack predicted, her toenails were all red except for the fourth one which was black. They looked up at each other and smirked, which must’ve been a fluke or some miracle. Janice pulled her keys out of her purse to lock the door behind her, and that’s when Jack noticed the huge X duct taped to the bottom of her purse protecting it from total disembowelment. Along it, Janice had drawn an X for each day closer to her escape from the Cherry Picker, for each penny she pinched along the way, and for each penny the Jacks of the world left in her tip jar. Janice fumbled for words to relate, but Jack couldn’t care less because so far he was happy to get two out of three; anticlimactically, as promised. On the way to the car, the suave chelloveck put his hand on her back to cop a feel for the rows in her

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corset piercing: ten rows times ten points equals a perfect one hundred. Janice stepped on Jack’s X accidentally on purpose when she felt his sticky fingers touch the cold metal in her back; she knew he was just another sleaze totaling her up like a check and leaving her behind on the table with a big X for a tip. At least this time she’d get dinner out of the deal.

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Not e — C e d e r i ck G i b b s

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L e s s Po p u l a r D i n o s a u r s —B r i a n G a rr i s o n itsybitsysaurus noceratops

styroforaptor

achillesheelosaurus phthaladactyl someosaurus newtodon

inflatablosaurus sucralosesuchus

highfructyloceropteryx quebecosaurus

pockycelophaneosaurus meningococcal rex aldentesaurus

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Glass —J e s s y E . G r i f f i n The way he walks on broken glass, Reminds me of what I used to do.

But as I’d lay there, barely sleeping,

I’d have thoughts of seeing him again. Daylight shows where darkness fades, I just want to see you again.

I’d help you cross those glass-paved streets, Just to see you one more time...

To hear you laugh and hear you sigh, To see that twinkle in your eye...

To feel your warmth and feel your smile To know you’ll be here for a while... So walk with me on broken glass, Just like we always used to do.

And when we’re at home, barely sleeping, We won’t have to imagine it again.

Daylight will show where darkness will fade, And I’ll get to see you again.

Together we’ll walk the glass-paved streets, And see each other all the time. And everyone will be able

To hear us laugh and hear us sigh,

To see those twinkles in our eyes...

To feel our warmth and feel our smiles

To know we’ll be together for quite a while.

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Silent Whispers —Ger ald Ruiz Solitude speaks silently if you listen close— the drain cries

wind howls, and

the stars mate in the sky; and the art of

becoming one

is the best part

becoming one with

silence, as your hands blend with the table, and

your feet to the floor. It’s the chore, the self-deprecating love of becoming nothing more; what more can you ask for

when silence knocks silently at your door,

when it whispers a poem into your ear, for fear

of you not remembering it evermore...

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Spider —V i c t o r P a r l at t o the four walls are making me

there’s a spider on my desk

lazy.

waiting for that fly on my wall

Isabelle is making omelet again;

to come down.

my favorite.

I have my friends in mind

and as I got up to leave

for a little longer.

I noticed the fly caught in on the web

my room,

and I let them in my head

of the spider.

one of them knows how to cook and

I guess two of us are getting dinner

while I am sick to my stomach

eat up. drinks are on me.

this morning, buddy.

keep good care of me from the cigarettes

and drunk on Absolut Vodka. the best. we’re all just waiting

we’re all just waiting. but the spider has yet to get the fly on the wall

and I have yet to find my way out of this room.

all this waiting is making me crazy

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Ro s s M ac D o n a l d a n d J o h n at h a n K e l l e r ma n —A l l e n S ta r b u ck Ross MacDonald used to write mysteries set in California, And very well, too.

He didn’t tell you a lot about his main character, But he had a lot of insight into consequences, And how they can reverberate

Even unto the third generation.

He always wrote about human beings, If strange and flawed ones.

Jonathan Kellerman’s doing the same thing, a couple of generations later. He’s good too, his stories are set in Southern California, But he doesn’t write about humans so much. He writes about monsters.

Maybe California has devolved that much in the last few decades or so.

In MacDonald’s books you could almost see yourself doing what the bad guy did, If you were caught in that situation. But Kellerman’s bad guys are alien.

Not unrealistic, but definitely abnormal.

Monsters, with any human likeness distorted to the max. Of course there are people like that out there, And maybe there always were,

But either there are more of them now,

Or we’re hearing a lot more about them.

There were serial killers before the last century, But there seem to be a lot more now.

It’s not like ordinary human beings can’t act like monsters too, If the stressors are extreme,

But ordinary humans don’t kill for fun.

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Ordinary humans usually have some empathy and conscience, But that’s become unfashionable.

So maybe the mirrors haven’t changed-What they’re reflecting has.

America’s always had its faults,

But in the last 60 years or so, America’s gotten fat, Or at least some Americans have,

And they don’t want to hear about anything that says they can’t do what they want. If killing individuals is fun, Why not start wars?

Quantity is quality, in this case,

And people can say what they want,

But who’s going to do anything about it? Sinners used to feel guilty when they did something wrong-Visions of an angry God, hellfire, and all that. Most people don’t believe that stuff anymore, And those that do have excuses all ready:

Patriotism, self-defense, national security, etc, etc. Those will excuse anything.

So maybe freelance monsters aren’t such a surprise. They have plenty of role models to choose from.

True crime and politics are just entertainment genres now.

You can find websites for serial killers and criminal heads of state, And where would hundreds of TV channels be without them? But of course we don’t recognize our faces in the mirror. We’re in a funhouse that’s too much fun, If that’s the kind of fun you like.

And just wait until more people get really desperate. That’s when the fun-loving will really have fun, Laughing a whole lot of people to death.

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D o n ’ t J u dg e T h i s Po e m —N at h a n A l a n S c h wa r t z Do not judge this poem

For it will not judge you

It will not judge you based upon The color of your skin

The gender that you are

Or your sexual orientation

It will not judge your religion

It will not judge your individuality It will not judge your appearance Don’t judge this poem Because it has feelings

Feelings that only poems feel

Don’t make it feel less important Don’t make it feel unloved

Do not judge this part of the poem For it will not judge a part of you

I wish that being judgmental wasn’t part of a daily routine In this world

Judging people for what they look like or what they do

Seems to be one of the many problems that we as a human race Come upon

Stereotypes that come from being judgmental This poem will never know the difference Between readers that reads it It will not hate anybody

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For it cannot tell the difference Do not judge the end of the poem

For it will not judge the end of you Why is it that we as people always find somebody to pick on? The homeless The gays

The blacks The Jews

The Asians The Arabs

The Indians

And then we judge them based on their race And think that they do different things So it makes them less human

Why is that that we can’t be colorblind? Not saying that all people are like this

But there have been times in which I thought so

During the 1940s Germany blamed the Jews for their problems

During the 1960s Americans blamed the African Americans for our problems During the 1200s the Chinese blamed the Mongols for their problems And now days we blame the Arabs

And our fearless leader likes to install hate into our systems Likes to make us believe what he believes

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH US??? Do not judge this poem

For it will not judge you

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All Original Works Belong to the Authors —Magazine Design ŠCopyright Sarai Oviedo 2011


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