EarlGrey, Issue 1 by Tea Literary & Arts Magazine

EARLGREY Art - Poetry - Prose

EarlGrey A Tea Literary & Arts Zine

Issue 1

© 2023 by Tea Literary & Arts Magazine www.tealitmag.com EarlGrey is published on an annual basis in both physical and virtual formats, and it is accessible on the website above. The zine serves as an extension of Tea Literary & Arts Magazine and features a diverse collection of fiction, poetry, art, and photography pieces. The opinions expressed in these works are those of our contributors and do not necessarily represent those of EarlGrey editors, staff, or members. The rights to all content featured in the zine are retained by the writers and artists. For further details and information, visit our website.

Layout and design by Ian Jackson

Contents of the Table 1.) peggy with fish

Sarah Stander

2.) In the Midst of Tragedy

James Ivey

3.) Sin cesar. Sin César

Emiliana Quiceno

5.) Roadside Furniture

Nikki Kershner

7.) Inner Mechanics

Alex Fanaro

8.) D.E.A.D EP Cover Art 9.) Hood Music

Frst Gyuni

Rayaan Ali

10.) 20-Something Existentialism 11.) Moved

Julia Cooper

Ash Joseph

12.) Unhome

D. Forest Gamble

17.) Movement

Shauna Clifton

18.) Children at the Castle 19.) life/death

Sarah Stander

21.) The Mudroom 22.) It Looks Raw, But I‘d Still Eat It 28.) Stranded

Lydia Mayhood

Alejandro Aguirre Alec Kissoondyal PD Roberts

EarlGrey (2023) Cherry Hybrid

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR In answer to the war cry of the starving artist, In the beginning there was nothing, then.... BOOM! With a great flash of light echoing throughout the vast reaches of what would be time and space, the universe was born. Similarly more than a year ago, with a mumbled thought of a zine (possibly named after a brand of tea) sparks and flashes slowly expanded into the form of EarlGrey. If you're reading this, it means that this idea came to fruition, that our creative BOOM! has sounded and something unique and strangely beautiful became real. The idea of this zine came when we started noticing that many of UF’s most creative and influential artists had graduated, immediately cut off from our organization Tea Literary & Arts Magazine. We created this as a way to reach artists who aren’t students, giving their work a home away from home. Now, noticing that I'm running out of room for this letter, I'll say this: As Tea’s spunky, wild-child of a little sister, we collected the best vaguely sociopathic, Dead-Poet-Society enriched, mildly dark, Krishna-lunch-tasting, stories, poems, and art. And we thank everyone who submitted, making this crazy thing we call EarlGrey possible.

Yours, Ian Jackson Editor-in-Chief

peggy with fish

Sarah Stander

In the Midst of Tragedy James Ivey

Walking near Washington Square, I noticed a puff of smoke from a building, as though my grandfather were blowing rings from a pipe. I heard the sound—that dreadful thud, thud, thud. I saw mangled women, or maybe children, their faces caked in soot, bodies splayed out for the city to see. I looked up to the sixth floor, where windows were lined with screaming girls. The brave ones jumped to join the corpses below. A young man helped a girl to the window sill. He held her out, deliberately away from the building, and let her fall. He was cool, as though opening a door for the woman to enter a streetcar. He grabbed another; and she went willingly, surely it would be worse to be consumed in flame. Then came love amid the tragedy. He reached once more into the flames and pulled a woman onto the ledge. They kissed. He picked her up by the waist, holding her over eternity, and jumped. They fell together, his coattails aflame. Street dogs tried to get at the fresh meat.

Sin cesar. Sin César Emiliana Quiceno

Roadside Furniture

Nikki Kershner

There is a wend of road in my parents’ neighborhood that runs parallel to the St. John’s River where the houses become McMansions; their detached cobblestone garages alone are large enough to comfortably house a family of five. Driveways stretch for infinity – if I dared venture up one, I would surely be caught in some sort of malevolent time loop, trudging forward forever with the three-story house shimmering in the distance like a desert mirage. I generally try to avoid malevolent time loops (as well as territorial members of the upper-class), so instead I explore the things they leave on the curb, usually cardboard box carcasses of new golf carts, mile-wide televisions, or video game consoles. It was here that I discovered a beautiful dark-wood dresser left for dead beneath the Florida elements. It was handsome, heavy, gnomic, inspiring the impression it may begin reciting pithy wisdoms should the moon turn just so. It had nine drawers with wrought-iron handles curling with botanical carvings. The drawers were empty except for a couple spare rubber bands and a dirty Ziplock bag of birthday cards scrawled with suggestive messages. I recruited my little brother to help me drag it home, and by the time we returned the Ziplock had vanished (probably an embarrassed neighbor saw us from his McMansion watchtower and ran to save his dignity). With my prize in tow, the stretch of road which typically took five minutes to traverse took nearly an hour. Halfway, my brother ran back to the house and retrieved a little trolley. We heaved the dresser backward and rolled it to salvation like a scene from Free Willy.

At home, the autopsy began. All the drawers stuck; I pulled them out and vacuumed the nooks and crannies, evicting a family of spiders. Three of the drawers were fuzzy with mold at the corners, evidence of time spent under summer downpours. My dad and I painted over the mold with layers of primer, like plastering over a wound. In a month, I was moving out to an unfurnished apartment, and every free piece of furniture nipped from a stranger’s curb or generously donated by an ex-boyfriend’s mother felt like victory. This dresser felt like the greatest victory of all; it took three people to load it into the back of the U-Haul, its dark stain shining in the sun – a purebred horse off to the races. I wonder how I looked that day, from above those steaming June lawns kept green by money. I couldn’t help but feel that I’d tricked the wealthy out of their prized possession, that I’d won and by extension someone else had lost. Life was made sweet by spite. Probably, they thought the same. Look – the garbage man came early this week. Scrappy indeed.

Inner Mechanics

Alex Fanaro

D.E.A.D EP Cover Art

Frst Gyuni

D.E.A.D (Destroy Every Acid Dealer) Is the cover art for upcoming artist, Cheeze’s, first EP, modeled by the musican himself.

Hood Music Rayaan Ali

The girl with the blue-beaded dreads keeps her head down in a journal full of poetry. She spends recess inside with her tutor as they trudge through the muck of past-due homework. The flick of a wrist on the downbeat of a rap song interrupts the girls outside, gathered around a cell phone, giggling at a boy’s shirtless photo. Gucci bellows out the speaker, Rags to Riches muffling the crunch of Hot Cheetos, a gulp of sweet tea, and the squawking of a flustered child in a cornered game of tag. The woman with the walkie-talkie by the screeching set of swings hawks over the copper-toned boys on the basketball court. She hums a song from her childhood and can’t recall its name, but it sounds like Chopin’s Funeral March.

20-Something Existentialism

Julia Cooper

Why do we sing about the River? Her ebb and flow remind us we’re not alone. What’s making the Cyclops cry? We sacrificed his herd for Haber-Bosch’s wet dream. Where have all the Cowbirds gone? They flew away with the last remnants of a world unbothered by us. What’s a Quahog? A family-guy who shushes the porch-screen for giving away his smoking habit. What is mercurial? Me and the university bus system on any given day.

Moved

Ash Joseph

Movement

Shauna Clifton Grey and white roses on bushes— the photograph objectifies each color outside the glass windowpane. Behind French doors, one woman with silver strands of hair staring down diagonally. Her lips are parted, motionless. Her eyes are watching the rain.

Children at the Castle

Lydia Mayhood

life/death Sarah Stander

The Mudroom Alejandro Aguirre

Like book ends, my father’s work boots kept my mom’s high heels upright. My brother and I were not as tidy, tossing our sneakers on the bench. In that damp room, I would read Night, imagining the Jews as they festered in boxcars. One twilight, as punishment, we walked barefoot in the snow. “Your shoes got to be in rows,” my father yelled. He sent us through the pines to pick a switch for the beating. My brother returned with twigs, fearful. Guided by the sky’s faded silver, I trudged on. From afar, I saw dogs herding downers out of the barn. The pack rushed back, barking, doors shutting behind them. A tango rang. Having huddled for warmth, the dead cows lay in a heap by the wall, like shoes, German made.

It Looks Raw, But I’d Still Eat It

Alec Kissoondyal

Isabelle and I approach the plastic folding table on the corner of the campus lawn where the Hare Krishnas serve lunch. We both drop five bucks into a mason jar on the table’s edge, and a tall woman in a green sari scoops salad and chickpea curry from metal bins onto two paper plates. She hands us the plates, along with napkins and plastic forks. I thank her and follow Isabelle down the sidewalk that slices through the middle of the lawn. We pass a trio of orange-robed devotees sitting cross-legged in the grass, chanting while beating drums and clashing hand cymbals. A fourth devotee, an old man with a horseshoe hairline, stands beside them, brandishing the Bhagavad Gita As It Is. He sees us coming and scowls. The last time he approached us, Isabelle asked if Krishna’s blue skin had anything to do with autoerotic asphyxiation. “Hey!” Isabelle shouts as I step off the sidewalk and head for a magnolia tree on the lawn. I unshoulder my backpack and slump down under the tree. Isabelle looms over me, frowning. I pat the ground beside me, and she rolls her eyes and sits down. “Asshole,” she says, eyeing the Hare Krishnas. “Now we’ll have to listen to them chant.” “You can’t beat live music with lunch.” “All they do is repeat the same thing over and over again.”

“Sometimes they get creative with it,” I say. “One time they chanted to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive.”” “Oh, come on,” “I swear to God,” I say. “Ha-ah-ah-re Krish-na, Krish-na,” Isabelle cackles through a mouthful of curry. Across the street, the redbrick bell tower strikes noon, and students pour onto the lawn as classes end. A line forms in front of the Krishna lunch table and stretches down the sidewalk. The horseshoe-haired devotee starts talking to a dreadlocked kid in a tie-dye t-shirt who nods awkwardly and inches forward in line. “Check it out,” Isabelle says, pointing to six people who file onto the lawn carrying cardboard signs with wooden handles. They stand awkwardly on the grass, talk among themselves for a few minutes, and split up, each heading to different parts of the lawn. One of the sign carriers, a thin girl with thick glasses, approaches the Hare Krishnas and stands beside their table. The students standing in line grimace at Glasses’ sign, and a few of them leave. Horseshoe holds the Gita close to his chest and says something to Glasses, who shrugs and continues down the sidewalk, her head swiveling, trying to make eye contact with anyone she comes across. Most people keep their heads down; I feign interest in a nearby anthill. But Isabelle doesn’t look away. Glasses locks eyes with her, veers off the sidewalk, and heads straight for us.

“Excuse me,” Glasses says, crouching in front of us. “What do you think of this?” She points to her sign, which displays a bloody fetus on a metal table, fish-eyed and alien, with shrunken arms and legs and wavy blue veins that sprawl through the pink, translucent flesh like Tesla coil discharges. “It looks raw, but I’d still eat it,” says Isabelle. Glasses frowns and says, “You realize you’re talking about a human being, right?” “It doesn’t look like any human I’ve seen,” I say. “Regardless,” Glasses says, “it still has a soul.” “Let me guess,” Isabelle says. “Jesus doesn’t want us killing babies, right?” “The Bible says God knows you before you enter your mother’s womb,” Glasses says. “But if you haven’t accepted the Lord into your heart, we can still discuss this from a moral standpoint. Soul or no soul, do you think it’s morally justified to kill someone?” “I think you’re killing my appetite,” I say. “It’s just a question,” Glasses says. “It’s just a clump of cells,” Isabelle says, stabbing at her salad.

“Technically, so are we,” says Glasses, “but you wouldn’t murder someone on the street, would you?” “Why not?” Isabelle says. “God gave me free will, right?” “Yes,” Glasses says, “and we’re free to choose whether to give into our sinful nature or act in accordance with God’s plan.” “Right,” Isabelle says, “and if some asshole uses his “free will” to rape a girl and she gets pregnant, she’s just expected to shut her mouth and deal with the consequences even if it puts her life at risk? Is that also part of God’s plan?” “I can’t presume to know that, but regardless—” “Let me ask you something,” Isabelle says. “Are there times you wish God’s plan for you included twenty-twenty vision?” Glasses’ eye twitches. “I’m simply hoping we can discuss this issue in good faith.” “Blind faith, you mean.” “If that’s what you call caring about human lives, then I’m guilty as charged.” “Stop with the bullshit,” Isabelle says, raising her voice. Passing students and a few Hare Krishnas glance in our direction. “If you actually cared about human lives, you wouldn’t be traumatizing everyone with that fucking sign!”

If you’re offended by the sign,” says Glasses through gritted teeth, “maybe that’s your guilty conscience telling you to abandon your sinful ways.” Isabelle flinches as though she’s been slapped. Glasses waits for a response, but when none comes, she opens her mouth again. “You should go,” I say. “I’m simply saying that—” “Shut up,” I say. “Just go.” “Wait,” Isabelle says. “One last thing.” She lunges forward and smashes her plate into Glasses’ face. Glasses yelps and falls backward, dropping her sign. Students stare, and the Hare Krishnas stop chanting. Glasses sits up and peels the plate off her face. Her lenses are splattered with yellow chickpea chunks; spinach bits and carrot slices cling to her cheeks. Her mouth hangs open in shock, then contorts into a grimace. She scrambles to her feet and runs away, sobbing. One of her fellow sign carriers rushes toward her, but she crashes into him, and they both topple onto the grass. A crowd gathers with their phones out, filming the spectacle. The four remaining sign carriers hurry toward the commotion. Two gather around Glasses and her friend, and the other two rush toward me and Isabelle. I drop my plate and say, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” We grab our bags and sprint past the gawking students and Hare Krishnas, ignoring the chorus of blaring horns and screeching

tires as we cut across the street. We keep running until we reach the bell tower. We collapse against it, huddled in its shadow. Isabelle holds out her hands, which shake from the adrenaline. “Christ, look at me go.” “That went well,” I say. “I think your level-headed arguments really paid off.” “I wonder if someone caught the whole thing on video,” Isabelle says. “Maybe we’ll go viral.” “Maybe.” Isabelle hugs her knees. Her shoulders start to heave as the tower chimes again, marking a quarter past the hour, and the chorus of booming bells drowns out the sob that escapes her.

Stranded

I just got off an 18-hour shift and

PD Roberts

all i want is

Newcastle, Wyoming

to read

some nice, smooth EarlGrey

At midday in a Pizza Hut, half-chewed crust still in your mouth, you stared into your cheese calzone. Two minutes earlier, we had bragged to our wide-eyed server Nausicaa of our college-freshman road trip. We made her jealous of the rich life we’d led in my parents’ van, borrowed without their knowledge:

night-swimming in Lake Michigan, conning motel night-clerks in Minnesota, nearly colliding head-on with a cattle truck somewhere in the badlands of South Dakota. Craving more adventure, we twins of Ulysses pushed on through the mountains and washed up in that dusty purgatory, broke.

THE END

Special thanks to: Alejandro Aguirre, Adrian Fernandez, Gregory Charlestin, Alanis Gonzalez, Brianna Bates, Campbell Johnson, Theresa Moore, Mom & Dad, Steven Universe, and all the Tea Alumni who helped along the way.

Prepare yourself for The Second Coming of EarlGrey. Destruction of the Art World expected in Summer 2024.