FTM#4 by Free the Marquee

image credit: sadie sutphin

Free the Marquee was realized by observing an absence of a strong sense of community in the local art culture. Free the Marquee will make the undiscovered accessible in the hopes of tapping into the vein of San Diego. This goal will manifest itself through a blend of music, stories, paintings, photography, poetry, and any other form of art you can imagine... All broadcasted through the convenience of magazines, social media, video broadcasting, and organized events. We are always accepting submissions. Please contact us at: freethemarquee@gmail.com -Facebook/Instagram & all that stuff-

What’s Inside? A tribute to the one and only Che Cafe. Thanks to Lora Mathis & AJ Peacox.

Thanks to Frank Rittenhouse, Alex Packard, Katie“Pretty” Howard, Joe Mousey, Chad Deal & Matthew Shankula.

Thanks to AJ Romero, Erica Miday, Lundon Attisha & Gary Winters.

Color your own Monster Mash Party! Thanks to Katie Howard.

Thanks to Yvette Dibos.

Paper Doll Fun! Thanks to Kaitlin Trataris.

MEDIA ADVISORY SAN DIEGO – On Tuesday, October 21, 2014, at approximately 10:00 a.m., San Diego Superior Court Judge Katherine Bacal issued a ruling in favor of UCSD in the eviction lawsuit filed by the Regents of the University of California/UCSD at the behest of a select core of administrators (“Administration”) against the C.H.E. Café Collective over the use of the iconic 34-year old, vegan, student-controlled venue and creative space, the C.H.E. Café. The C.H.E. Café (originally “Cheap Healthy Eats”), founded in 1980, is a student-run, cooperative, vegan café, venue, and creative space, hosting hundreds of independent artists and musicians over its 34-year history. It is one of 4 student cooperatives on the campus of UCSD. UCSD’s Administration, ignoring the rights of students to control student fee-funded spaces, filed a lawsuit in court to evict the Café. The Administration’s bias against cooperatives, misunderstanding of the C.H.E. Café, and failure/refusal to work with students underlies its legal actions to force the Collective out of the student fee-funded space, despite years of good faith efforts by the Collective to comply with every directive of the Administration. The Collective has requested dispute resolution and negotiations with the Administration but has been rebuffed. The Collective requests the help of the public at large and the San Diego art and music community to save the space and ensure that it is recognized and appreciated for the place it has in San Diego and UCSD history. To read comments from supporters, show your support, and/or donate to the C.H.E., please visit: http://checafe.ucsd.edu/?page_id=58#HowToHelp http://checafe.ucsd.edu/ http://thechecafe.blogspot.com/ http://www.gofundme.com/b4hda8 All the information on this page was taken from the Che Cafe website at: http://thechecafe.blogspot.com

image credit: lora mathis

by AJ Peacox

hen I was first asked to join blink-182, it was a day or two before Blink Fest. I’d been an avid attendee of blink-182’s shows since the first house show near Meadowbrook Middle School. I must’ve been about 15 because I had to be dropped off. 15 was also the age I experienced my favorite band in the world breaking up. The real blink-182 had been my first concert at the age of 13 at Coors Amphitheater in Chula Vista, and I was sure I would never see the band play live again. I was thirsty for anything resembling a performance from my favorite band. Behold blink-182, the cover band. The guitar playing was sloppy, the

bass was inaudible, and the drums were fantastic. I screamed along to every word, punk-finger raised in the air. I remember my face hurting from smiling so much. I attended two more blink-182 house shows before being asked to join. I had real Blink to blame for everything in my life - my clothes, my outlook, and my bass and guitar skills. I was a lost SoCal kid who found a direction in their songs amidst torturous bullies and alienation in adolescence. It rang true in my heart, the line “well, I guess this is growing up.” When Erich asked me to join the band a few days before the first Che Cafe performance, I didn’t need much prep work. He sent me a set

list and I already knew every song by heart. I tuned up my Tom Delonge signature Fender Stratocaster and looked out across a crowd of familiar strangers. When we played our first song, “Pathetic” from blink-182’s third album, every body in the packed room erupted into a frenzy. The room sang louder than our PA could project. The glass walls of the Che condensed with sweat and the rafters bent from the unhindered riot of Southern California’s greatest past-time: the unabashed appreciation of blink-182. In the days when Soma no longer acts as an arbiter of the local music scene, as they were in the baby-band days of Blink, the anthem of adolescent struggle has moved to a new location: The Che Cafe. 2013 marked the 6th annual blink-182 fest. Bands like Green Day, Sum 41, Weezer, Screeching Weasel, The Descendents, and Against Me! are among the many opening acts that routinely play sets to rile up the crowd at Blink Fest. These bands are made up of kids from dozens of local bands, and are a true testament to the loyalties each member of this crazy scene maintains for their biggest influences. It’s no mistake that this swirling mesh of music and adolescent ca-

tharsis found it’s home at the Che. It’s the Che where thousands of San Diegan youths cut their teeth on punk music, music meant to cure the woes of the maligned, alienated, lost and confused. 2014 marks the first year that the Che Cafe might not be able to host Blink Fest. The mere thought of spending a December (the usual time of year for the annual fest) without my buddies Mark and Travis, sweating and screaming amongst a crowd of best friends and complete strangers united by the reckless abandon of our favorite band’s music, causes my heart to shiver. We must remember that the multi-million dollar international musical geniuses known as Mark, Tom, and Travis of blink-182 were once a few kids raised right here in Southern California. They went to the same schools we went to, ate at the same local burrito places we do, and found the same answers in the sweaty, noisy music scene that we have. If we lose our safe space in the Che Cafe, we lose a historic building that marks the birth place of this all. When the real blink-182 outgrew our stages in San Diego and moved on to the arenas and amphitheaters of the world, they passed the torch to us. We can’t let it go out. -Tom*

I remember the desert Middle of somewhere I circled you from above And sang songs as loud as I could I swooped in so fast my wings tore to pieces Something Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve learned about flying You said your bones set you on fire from the inside So I tried to put them out the only way I know how But you got caught on the lyric and turned to stone Love can be so many thingsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a garden, a song, a burn a desert, a whisper, a loss - Frank Rittenhouse

I drew pictures in my head— They didn’t look like anything Then I yelled at the mountain And it threw rocks at me I laughed hard from the gut I’d never seen that before - Frank Rittenhouse

With your head on my shoulder, you asked why I love you so much Well there’s a hawk that circles my yard every day and She melts my heart when I get to sit and watch her - Frank Rittenhouse

Swollen clouds Swiftly moving over A slow bubbling red Rock, hollow and hard Slow ground Silent whispering wind Blowing birds Homeward-bound Golden circles A smooth subconscious sound Like a drum beat Like a constant pounding - Frank Rittenhouse

“ What if the war is over And now begins the long walk As stiffened scars fade Under a sun finally come? What if the desert’s clover And the beat breaks the clock That kept us away From our song yet unsung? What if we sidestep our fear And tread not the hollow ground And carry each other So that neither could fall? What if we opened our ears And drank the simple sound Of the heartbeat that covered And answered our call? What if this day we chose to believe That we could love so hard and deep We’d shake the earth beneath our feet And show the world how strong and sweet A touch or word or gift can be And change the laws of love as we Rewrite the rules on what it means Defy the lines that once decreed The borders between you and me As we laugh and live and love for free And shun the nightmares of the needs That plague the ones we used to be We’ll bring the world up from its knees With open arms we’ll plant the seeds And a revolution we shall see Of hearts joined indivisibly And poets and playwrights all take heed It starts with just a word: believe” - Alex Dial

I’d be a fool To let you back in, Into these arms again. I’d be a fool To speak your name, To invite those games, Ever again. I’d be a fool To love you. No longer pain of pictures of you. I’d be a fool To answer you call. To rescue your pains. Or problems at all. I’d be a fool Not to see, Motives against me And my well being.

- Pretty Howard

When Pangea converges, we practice sonar beneath the sheets depleting moans with sterile pillow bites. Your femoral arteries muffle my hearing as your thighs gently squeeze my skull. And our bodies bounce in a rhythm jinxed to usurp the logos of the tidal sync; our marrow shakes like dust in a gold pan. Por fin! We encapsulate stars in mason jars and shelter them on forgotten shelves where theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll harvest dust and mothballs like drought-stricken agrarians. - Joe Mousey

By Order of the Ocelot: covet the illusory but abjure the mirage mere mirrors merely murmur mirrored mire - Joe Mousey

You breathe life into the vacuums of everything you touch Even inspire the stoics with your freckled blush Greater battles by better men over far less have been fought He loves her so, she loves him not? Or do vertigo whispers blur the echoes the sought? - Joe Mousey

I only half believed in the ghosts you saw that night in Panama, but I followed you through the jungle anyways - terrified for my life of snakes. The elaborate lies we told in Spanish and made-up German forged a giggle which turned strange towns and bars to cartoons. Our view from the water tower made us immortal (maybe it was the rum). You will always be barefoot in the rain, narrowly avoiding bolts of lightning. - Chad Deal

A little boy laying in the slums Caught stealing and now has two broken thumbs His stomach growled with hunger This boy couldn’t get any younger No parent in sight Always in a middle of a fight How could this be right What was the cause of these actions Yet it happens A little boy too young to understand Yet forced to be a man Rummages for food like a rat Eats from the trash, sometimes lucky a chicken bone and fat Hasn’t showered for years The only dirt washed away were his tears A stick has always been his toy You question, he’s just a little boy Who’s responsible for these actions Yet it happens - Matthew Shankula

by Aj Romero

he silence that fell just then, the same contemplative silence that had fallen time and again when, out of habit, the two sat parallel each other on a bench somewhere, or maybe the edge of a bed—the same silence that could be described as falling somewhere between fatalistic comfort and corrosive dread—had fallen again just now on the most incidental of days, his mother’s birthday. Neither party, boy nor girl, was eager to break the silence, though they both implicitly understood that it could not last forever, or even very long. She spoke finally, “do you think people in other countries name their pets like we do? not counting England of course.” He reached for his coffee with a conscious effort

before replying: “I haven’t been to many countries but I don’t think that the Asian ones do.” “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Also I think that like, all the dogs in Mexico are communally shared, so they must each have several different names. Don’t you think?” “That’s a nice thought” he hummed. The silence that followed this short bit was of an entirely different nature; a silence not self-indulgent but the casual result of two independent minds. He thought of what have you and she thought of something entirely different for all we know. “These are the truly transcendent silences” was an idea that neither entertained, as he sipped his coffee (unconsciously this time) and she thought about whatever it was she thought about. It could have been anything. … It could have been anything was a theme not common to the boy, whose relatively painless upbringing imbedded him with certain convictions. Guilt and thoughts of suicide were luxuries that he could afford, the Holy Scripture was venerable above everything but not to be taken seriously or even necessarily understood, and sex is the most important thing in a man’s life, though personally he would have preferred love. What grew from these convictions was a languid sense of fatalism. When he reluctantly accepted Fernanda, the girl, he did so with romantic pageantry, shifting the core of his terrestrial energy one hundred and eighty degrees to inundate with love the wound in heart that formally pulsed with hate. Hatred for her, Fernanda, who stole his virginity along with his confidence and a sizable piece of mental equity. It was she who eventually wore him down with her stare, stealing his thoughts and carefully replacing them with her own until he was convinced that he spoke and thought not for himself but only for her. It was her who shared with him not only a birthday but that same hurried gait that was a source of consternation for many a friend and or acquaintance. “She wore me down” he often thought, denying his obvious complicity. So obvious was his complicity in fact, that even his own denial was eventually forced to accept it; though out of respect it continued to withhold opinion from its stubborn creator. But even his hatred for Fernanda was never entirely sure of itself, much like the love that replaced it. Was it hope-less? or hope-full? the love. Or what of the hate? Was it true hate? or did he not care enough about her to do her harm? At any rate, like most love, theirs was consummated before it would be realized years later: when she awoke one night in a fit of panic, having remembered that she accidentally (and regrettably) left her heart in his sock drawer.

… Their first sexual encounter was noncommittal when considering the weight of its impact. They had sex and did not make love and afterward she declared that she came twice and since he had only come once, he was proud. He played Sam Cooke’s “twisting the night away” through computer speakers and the post-sex banter was surprisingly fluid. “I believe those are mine” he sang, pointing to the floor where her panties lay asleep. She flung them at him and he caught them in his mouth with a wild grin remembering in that moment that time had stopped not once but twice during their intercourse. Because he was not yet in love with her he kept this fact to himself, changing a subject that wasn’t being discussed: “so how did I do?” “Oh god, you were great” she replied, with a sincerity that, if feigned, betrayed a lust for theater. She was a ballerina and he could not so much as touch his toes but in the muddy afterglow of post-sex he was remembered as being as tactful a lover as some fabled raja or even Wilt Chamberlin. “I don’t believe it was your first time” she sighed. In fact it was not his first time. He had done it several times before in dreams and in his waking imagination while masturbating, sometimes to the image of making love to her. He was amazed at how similar it was to the real thing; with one little caveat, of course: he never expected to see her anus. … She countenanced the silence the way she always had: with the stubborn reserve of a fresh widow. It was her story after all, and because they both implicitly understood this, they never talked about it. Years after their love would end in tragedy, the great poet Sisco Caston would muse that at the center of every great story, all stories, the story of all human life even, was a woman whose unfathomable stubbornness (selfishly) bore the weight of all suffering. Such was Fernanda’s disposition, and he understood this, Fernando, who not reluctantly accepted his role in her story: a satellite of enduring affection.

by Erica Miday

curious old man decided to move to Barrio Logan. He had stumbled upon a small one bedroom hidden within an alleyway with nothing but white tile floors and immediately signed the month to month lease. On the first day he awoke to la musica Mexicana which he soon discovered that the neighbors played every morning around six. After enjoying his coffee and morning bowel movement he walked up the street to the convenient store he worked at, leaving the front door behind him unlocked. When he returned home later that evening he found that his TV was missing along with his computer and a few pairs of socks. He sighed deeply upon realizing he had been robbed. “Ahhh, well,” said the old man. “They must need it more than I do” And with that he picked a book off of his shelf and began to read until he fell into a deep trance.

The next day he awoke again at six am to la musica Mexicana and smiled because he was still alive. Then he put on his trousers, made his morning coffee, and took a dump in his toilet which was so close to the wall that he had to sit on it sideways. But he didn’t mind. After his daily routine, he walked to work whistling all the way, once again leaving his door open wide behind him. When he returned home later his apartment appeared as it did when he first moved in: nothing but tile floors. His clothes were gone. His coffee maker was gone. All of his furniture including his bed was gone. Even his alarm clock was missing. All that remained were the few books on his bookshelf. Once again, the old man sighed deeply and said to himself, “Ahhh, well, they must need it more than I do.” And with that he curled up on the cold tile floor and fell into a deep trance. On the third day he awoke there was no la musica Mexicana and he felt nauseous with fret. He couldn’t make his coffee without a coffee maker and he couldn’t take his morning bowl movement without his coffee. So he went to work early, skipping his daily routine instead. When he returned home his place looked the same as he had left it that morning and `nothing else was missing. “Hmm…” Said the old man. “I suppose they got everything they needed.” Then he picked up another book off his shelf and began to read sitting indian style on the floor. About ten pages into it he heard a knock on his front door. “Come in,” said the old man, “it’s open.” In walked a boy holding one of those magnum guns. He pointed it at the old man who was smiling politely all the while. “Give me all your money,” said the boy with the gun. “Certainly, but are you sure it’s my money that you want? I only have five dollars” said the curious old man. “You’re right, old man. I didn’t come for your money,” said the child laughing. “I came for your soul.” And with that he shot the old man in the chest. The old man touched where he had just been shot before he began gargling blood on the white tile floor. In between the gargles he gasped for breath but found none. Instead all he could do was watch in awe as his soul left his body and headed for the door. I do.”

“Ahhh well,” thought the old man, “I guess he needs it more than

by Lundon Attisha

alveston, Texas. In the early morning, where the sea’s breeze had not yet been masked by the refineries along the path to Houston. Where the morning’s dawn, and eves set were never of certainty to the towns elderly. And cancer was simply God’s outreached palm calling out for the company of man. It was this type of early morning that she had woken to her mothers sobs and arms waving in all types of strange manners. Lord, oh God why! Why do you treat me this way and give me nothing, only ashes. Burn! Burn! Burn! And take me too then. Grandmother had taken her by the arms and rushed her outside on the porch. Miss Loretta your gonna have to be a real big girl from now on, you understand miss? Yes Ma’am And don’t go crying either in fronta your mother because that’s the last thing she wants to see. Your fathers gonna be gone now for a while, takin a vacation. To where? Somewhere way far away, where they speak languages we aint never heard of. Like the aliens on the moon? No, even further, you cant even see it with your eyes, in fact if you

want to try your gonna have to close em. Now close em with me. Okay they closed. Your sure you aren’t peekin’? Im sure. Okay now whatchya seein Miss Loretta? I see streets with big buildings near em,’ but no one in em’. What about walking, you see em’ walking? No Ma’am not even walking, but I see something on topa one of them big buildings, and there’s a light flickerin on and off like a glow bug. What you seeing Ma’am? I can’t see nothing, only the inside of my eyelids, no lights or buildings or nothing. That’s still something, Loretta said. Dark’s still somethin. … The road whose incline faced the sea had been known by two names, Cherry Hill, and the Suicide Run. Both of whom had been deemed inappropriate by the town’s elite. Cherry hill was infamous around the town for the various forms of philandering that would occur, mostly, but not restricted to the youth. And the Suicide Run was there for the young girls whose escapades were uncovered. There was one primary way in which the Suicide Run had been utilized by the town’s youth. And most interestingly, what the city had found was ones bereavement can be classified, can be charted, according to their style of self-destruction. What used to happen was that women who suspected themselves to be pregnant with an undesirable would drive off of the road into the shallow water. Alas, this art had been abandoned when one drove to the edge of where water touched gravel and tossed her baby like a big bowling ball out to sea. So the city eventually put a cement barrier, no greater then 4 feet high, as a response to the public outcry. It is used as a spot for graffiti now and phrases like Fags die, niggers for life and White For-- are scribbled around its white. For a short while the wall did the town good and the amount of self -crimes dropped. But, ones desire to return to the crib can only be stopped for too long. And eventually the women of babies gone unborn accelerated to the cement leaving something distasteful for the town’s eyes. With many cases the girls would experience a last second change of thought, and these were the poorest of the bunch. For in their attempt to brake, to brake, to brake just prior to hitting the blockade they managed to save their heartbeat. But oftentimes this was at the expense of their limbs, sometimes, or mind. This was never a pretty

site, to see the mangled remainder of decision met at the very moment of mortality. And the town would oftentimes turn away from the misfortune of their new women. But, those who ended themselves in this fashion were only a portion of the women, a large portion yes, but there was an equally indecent group whose taking themselves disturbed even the strongest of the cities men, and pastors. Because on this street dubbed the Suicide Run, running is only one of the means of death, the other of course, being to walk. A walk, not in its most conventional sense as you will see. But where pleas were gulped alive by the long unflinching morose. A boy told me I had breasts like apples. In my 17th year alive, a boy told me this. He said that in a dream I came to him, sitting on his lap. I blushed and sat with my legs crossed. What should we do now, he said. I didn’t say anything. I wanted nothing more then to get away from contact of any kind. But he kept on and before long, I was naked, with my top off. In my dream I sat, holding you in my arms like you were a baby. Is that so? Yes, we were on a beach, one that me and you have never seen. It was like something out of a book. When I woke up, I felt horrible inside, so I needed to talk to you. Hasn’t this happened to you before? I remained silent. You had on a black bathing suit, and in that moment I knew me and you would be all right. Thank you. So you want to do it? She smiled and turned away. What’s wrong with fucking? Nothing. I was left with very few options. Given my position both circumstantially and physically, I’m sure that you would feel a little bit um, stuck. As much as you want to think you have a choice you don’t, you really don’t. So I did what it is you probably would’ve done too, and I let him give it too me. No, not because I loved him, or even liked him. I just wanted to know what it was supposed to be like. I kinda wanted to feel together for a little bit you know? And so what, I’ll admit that some of that stuff like me being his baby, that stuff I liked. Its kind of nice knowing someone out there’s taking care of you. So I let him take me and after he thanked me like a little school kid. But I wasn’t some whore, so I didn’t like that.

You want to do this again sometime, he said. Yeah maybe. Well was it okay? Yeah it was fine don’t you worry. He blushed for a bit, hows about keeping this between us two? And this is where I should’ve known that it sounded too good to be true. Because my grandmother told me that life’s never too good, and in this case I should’ve listened. Because I fell over when he said it. Yes, Yes please just between us two. Okay I’m glad we got a deal. And he kissed me on the lips. I don’t have much to say about the whole thing because it was my fault. But still, even now I cant help but think that life would be a whole lot better if I he never said anything about us two. But that’s boys, you know they do things like this. Because I found out what they want. Or actually I found out what they don’t want. What boys don’t want is to get fucked. They want to be the ones doing the fucking. And God forbid they aren’t the ones doing, they sure as hell won’t be receiving. It’s a machismo thing. And the ones that aren’t like that machismo type are the submissive ones, but that isn’t my type. I guess it should’ve been though because now I’m here, walking on cherry lane. Right where he gave it too me. But now that’s got me thinking. Because when you want to understand people you got to deconstruct a bit. Because people are a complicated business, but words aren’t. It doesn’t matter who you are, or what you done, words always got more to say then the man. And I like this whole linguistic business. I think that’s fun stuff. But here’s what I got to say about your boy giving the deed to you. You always have to think about how they saying it. Look, I know you can’t tell the difference between a good guy, or a bad guy sometimes, but little things as to how they say it will help you. And I should’ve known right after my boy said, What’s wrong with fucking? that we had a problem. Because other then the word sex, there’s two different phrases, that being “lets make love”, or ‘lets fuck”. And when you think about it the two are polar opposite, yet their used to describe the same thing. It’s the only phrases in the English language that works that way. Now lets take this one at a time. Say your boy says, lets make love that implies a process. You don’t say lets love. No you say lets make love. That means that it don’t just come from nowhere, it don’t just come from the blue. It comes from work, with a payoff just like any other job. That’s what you should want, you should want to make love. Because when you make something, it’s a lot harder to end. Okay, but now lets

take the latter, the lets fuck type. Now saying lets fuck, now that’s just total destruction. You know when people say lets fuck? People say that when they’re about to get in a fight with someone. So basically you got someone willing to end you. But without resistance, making it worse. No not a fight at all. It’s a rape. So hearing someone say that to you don’t have any foundation. You don’t build from fuck, you don’t grow from fuck, fuck just happened. When you’re fucking someone your ending them too. …

In cold there is nothing else. There can be no flesh in cold.

Loretta sat with legs crossed, arms crossed. She wiped tears from her face, one at a time. Until makeup was smeared around her eyes, crawling down soft cheeks. Her mother sat a seat to the side. Her grandmother, another chair over. An old woman in a wheelchair across from them. The baby inside was uncomfortable. The door opened and all four looked up. Mrs. Colby, Colby, come with me. They left and Loretta sat quiet again with the two. Now hear this, don’t stand in front of that microwave when you cooking the food, that radiations gonna zap straight on to the babies testicles. How you even know it’s got some testicles? Loretta’s grandmother said. I could just tell these things, they boys, they carried low. And girls high. See her belly, that’s a low one. I can’t even see nothing, That’s because you got no foresight like me. I had enough foresight to know you were gonna be nothing but a pain when you getting older, and look, your nothing but a pain. Loretta sat plain faced, amusing the idea of a baby girl being within the hollowness of her hips. This would be a good baby, surely. Surely it would be good. Surely, Shirley, a name whose letters personify everything beyond the reach of women in room, waiting. This is what she would name it. The baby whose fortune could not be determined. Where the emptiness of soul was softly pronounced in the soft peddling of heart. Reason, in Loretta’s mind had been lost to the burdens of youth, and the scent of awful men. With the birth of a girl, reason it seems would not be

regained, but replaced. The nurse came in with feet prancing across spotted tile. She spoke with a smile. Loretta? Loretta? Loretta raised her hand, and her sister spoke saying, right here! She and her sister stood and walked towards the door, while grandmother waited. They walked to a small room that stunk of cleanliness. And sounds of crisp butchers paper were enhanced by the crunching of body and table. This was an unkind feeling. The doctor will meet with you shortly. Where’s this boy at? Not here. He coming? I think so. You love this boy? Yes. The sister sat picking at something to the side of her mouth. They shared in a mild disgust that always subsided. The kind that only sisters can share. Simultaneously they looked away while their minds focused on far off voodoo dolls. The likes of which dangled on a clothesline, hair plucked clean. The door opened to a young doctor with a small frame. A pair of glasses a size too large for his face hung off of his nose. He spoke briskly and without pause. Ms. Loretta? He looked at her older sister initially, only for Loretta too raise her small hand above her shoulder. Ms. Loretta, my names Doctor Wilson how are you today? I’m fine and you? How’s that belly of yours looking? She paused, as she had not yet given any consideration to the well being of her daughter. A thought that struck her deeply. She questioned her very motherhood, and now her intentions. And now she wished the baby would not come. All thoughts, mistakes, and actions cascaded to a pinnacle of what would eventually end in defeat. She had not yet conceptualized the simplest of questions, a question that all women of fertile age and being were faced with. A question that rattles the most inner fiber, once delicate and sweet, to its truest form. One of deflated indifference. I don’t know, she said. Well let’s find out. Doctor Wilson walked her and the sister to an adjoining room. It

was much colder, and a small window shone out to grey-paved streets. He sat her onto a slanted table, where trepidation softly rattled the metallic carriage that held her. Is it cold in here? Loretta Said This is going to feel funny. And just as he said this, a cool blue gel made its way to the very top of Loretta’s naval. He rubbed it all over until a light blackness revealed itself onto a screen that only the doctor could see. Loretta sat awaiting a warm grip from someone, anyone, a grip that never came. The sister sat silent, while the doctor wrote that this baby would surely live. Behold the daughter whose father she will go without. Bless her with a rose that upon blossom will reveal daggers. This so that she may sleep easy. Knowing that all that could have been done, is done. All that would, will. The doctor made strange faces though. This alleviated nothing as Loretta’s neck began to strain from her peeking over the small hill that rose from her middle. He moved the screen so that it faced her. Finally Loretta was relieved a bit. She saw what looked to be a rounded animal inside of her. With a pure white outlining that gave way to hopeless cliffs inside. Loretta squinted her eyes so that she may so more closely. The sonogram revealed that this baby was not a girl. How could you tell? Said Loretta’s sister. Well, its penis is clearly visible. Here, you could see it. He pointed to it with his index finger, and while it was hard to distinguish it was clearly there. The sister was silenced, still holding tight to her superstitions. But I’m concerned about certain anomalies, that being the baby’s formation. It seems as though very serious issues of the nervous system are about and I… The doctor described the severity of the situation while Loretta listened with glazed eyes, whose focus had been lost. She attempted to let herself in to a self-trance that maneuvered its way from her freshly pink painted toenails, to the chapped lips of her doctor. Following this conversation she was taken to yet another room, where a specialist confirmed Loretta’s fears. The baby boy whose name is Shirley would be a damaged baby. A baby that would kill its mother, and become no greater then a dependent upon the breast it nuzzled. The infant may also lead to complications within the birthing process, serious complications, said Doctor Wilson. And if you are so lucky to have this baby without such complications, it will live a life that is simply bad. One that may not be worth living.

Well what is bad? Said Loretta’s sister. Bad means that this infant will not grow old like the others, that its very breath will remain a struggle to keep. Yes, it may be kept alive, but I don’t know if this baby will live. With that being said the compromise and stoicism that had once made life bearable now boiled over. The truest of colors made their way visible across a barren landscape. And Loretta could be seen for the defeatist she was, with not a bit of naivety to her. She looked aged, as though the misgivings of fertility had made themselves equal to the promise of new life. But she didn’t cry. Loretta does not cry. Now I know this may be difficult, but I will need you to make a choice. A choice, about what? Said Loretta. The fetus, is this something you’d like to do? She hesitated, while expired words rotted in her throat. This isn’t something that you need to decide on now. We have counselors readily available to assist you in whatever – No. No? Said the sister. No, I don’t want her. Quite hung around the room for a bit, and Loretta imagined punching the doctors fucking face in. Now there are certain steps that will be taking place now, before we perform the procedure. Now, this is going to include a couple of steps, including another sonogram. We’ll go over certain things, certain physical characteristics, and certain risks for the procedure. And regardless of when you want this done, you’ll have to wait for atleast 24 hours before we go ahead with the abortion. I don’t understand, why? This is all just state mandatory. You know, to make sure this is something you know you want to do. But it is something I want, I need this. Well think of it as informed consent in a way. Loretta nodded her chin downward, unable to speak. Voiceless she caught herself for the first time looking at the child inside of her. Not the lump, whose presence gives way to stares and smiles, but the infant connected to her very self. Who’s own sustainability remained caught in whatever it was Loretta chose to eat on the day. So lets plan on meeting tomorrow Loretta, and we’ll see how things go.

Mother, Sister and Loretta left the doctors office and went home. Loretta’s sister mourned all the while. Ever since the death of Elvis, tears have shed with no reservation at first sight of hearts stop. Once home, Loretta quietly went to her room. She called for the father of her unborn baby girl whose name was Shirley. But the telephone raps were answered by only machine. She tried again. A woman answered. Her voice, only slightly audible above the hail of cigarettes that had amounted themselves stack upon stack. She let out what sounded like a belch that called upon the father of her child. Ain’t here. I know he’s there, so give him the phone. You the whore, huh? I’m Loretta. Na you ain’t, you the whore, you the one who’s getting the baby. I’m telling you, my baby ain’t paying for it. I need a test, he ain’t paying for it. I’d just like to talk to him about something, not about paying or anything. Just about some stuff. Your little whore ass, you’re not getting a fucking dime. I’ll tell you what, that baby inside of you ain’t wanted, it aint wanted by no one. You’re wrong. I do want it. And I don’t want your money. You don’t want my money because you ain’t worth it, you ain’t worth a fucking dollar. I’ll tell you something you forget who you calling girl. Because we forgettin about you real quick. Oh, you’re forgetting about me! Well I wish I could forget about you. But I cant because that thing you got for a voice is horrible. It’s really horrible. She put the phone back on the receiver. She sat on her tiny bed, contemplating the amount of pain the baby were to feel if she filled a cup of bleach. But she wouldn’t want to kill herself as well. The baby whose name was Shirley probably does not feel pain. It does not feel pain, because pain is a prerequisite to good. Or maybe it works the opposite. Either way, one cannot be felt without the other. But the baby hasn’t felt anything at all. So this can be no baby. Instead its something else, something cleansed of good or bad. A being in a state of liminality, who’s shadow can only be seen once blood and water had broken. For when the mother cried her final tears of pain, her mouth would provide a clutch that an almond hand would grace. And only then can she say, this is God’s child. Loretta lay in her tiny bed. Exfoliating herself of maternal thoughts and wishes.

… When time came for her to visit the doctors again she dressed quaintly. A light brown shirt that she tucked into a skirt. We’ll have to go through another ultrasound Loretta, this is just a matter of state procedure. He walked her to the room where once again soul would become visible. While she tried her best not to listen to the doctors words, she understood that this would be a practice in humility. To shame her of the life she’s lived, and the choices she’s made. To attach life to the being whose time would end before it start. Loretta, what we are going to have to do now is cover the physical attributes of the child. Just so you know that this is surely the choice you would like to make. Alright. He rubbed jelly over the mothers naval once more and said, well you know already of certain abnormalities within the baby. But, do you hear this Loretta? No. You don’t hear that sound? What sound? That little thumping is the heart. It’s the heart the heart heart It’s beating quite rapidly actually right now. He must know. The doctor chuckled. I can’t hear it. I can see four healthy chambers of the heart. You don’t need to look if you like. At this point the closest nurse grabbed an FM radio and turned the dial to whatever it was that played sound. She raised the volume up to its loudest setting. The doctor continued describing the sonogram but all that came out was The Archie’s 1969 hit Sugar, Sugar! Its steady popularity can be credited in large part due to CBS’s sampling of it during its run as a Saturday morning cartoon series. Not to mention impeccably placed handclaps on the part of Ray Stevens. Sadly, The Archie’s never toured for reasons unknown to Loretta, but its dominance upon the U.S billboard charts lasted for an astonishing 4 weeks! Not bad for a band without a face. Well, we’re finished here, the doctor said.

Gary Winters 8380 Lemon Avenue La Mesa, CA 91941-5251 619 589-1594 deerdancer@sdmensa.com

t started out as just another family discussion at the dinner table. Mom and Dad and four girls in a typical American family shouting match. It ended when they laughed at the eldest sister. Jessica picked up the crockery salad bowl and flung it down on the table. The tempered glass exploded causing dinner and discussion to be over. All over. Jessica had learned to get her own way by temperamental outbursts. If that didn’t work she could always fall back on her body. She went to the Miss New Mexico beauty contest as a sure thing, but came away as the runner-up. When the dust from the beauty-pageant whirlwind cleared, Jessica found herself out of the picture. An also ran. A nobody. She stewed in her own juice. “Even after I went to all the trouble to tint my hair with Miss Clairol Champagne,” she whined to her butch girlfriend. “Just look at

Miss New Mexico’s ass,” she said after they made love on the waterbed. “Can you imagine how many beans and tacos she had to cram down her throat to get her butt to jiggle like that?” They giggled and went back to what they were doing. Jessica was right. Miss New Mexico did like frijoles and tacos. She craved chili peppers. She was a hot-blooded Latina and proud of it. Jessica called Miss New Mexico on the phone. “Let’s get together for a drink.” She hunched her shoulders. “Don’t invite anyone else,” she cooed. “Just you and me.” “Sure, come on over. Bring a bottle of tequila. Make it Cuervo Gold. I’m out. Been partying, you know.” Jessica showed up at Miss New Mexico’s apartment with a bag of limes and a liter of Jose Cuervo. And a Mexicali switchblade in her purse. The place looked like a flower shop. Roses, red and white and yellow, everywhere--even on the floor. They got to drinking and talking, Jessica slicing limes with her switchblade. When the tequila was sloshing in the bottom of the bottle Miss Jiggle-Butt said, “I was born in Albuquerque, but I spent my teenage years in Guadalajara. It’s the second largest city in Mexico. Oh man, those years. “My boyfriend was a taxi driver. He taught me how to take care of myself in the big city. Guadalajara’s a tough town. Beautiful but tough.” She chuckled. “In those days my friends and I made fun of beauty queens. Funny how things change.” She had to laugh out loud. Right in the middle of Miss New Mexico’s stupid laugh Jessica clutched the switchblade and lunged at her. … A light drizzle gently misted the living-room windows. The dark wavy-haired Albuquerque homicide detective lifted the tousled hair with a ballpoint pen and looked at the face on the floor. His gaze moved to the knife stuck in the victim’s neck with GUADALAJARA emblazoned on the handle. He pried the switchblade from the dead woman’s cold hand and bagged it. Then he put his arm around Miss New Mexico’s shoulders and let her cry it out.

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