The Savannahian Zine, Vol. 1

ZINE

editor's note

At the beginning of the year, I approached The Savannahian about a small idea. Maybe a little art and culture… “thing.” I wasn’t sure what exactly it should be, but for the first time in a long time, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to create a space where artists and writers of all disciplines can submit their work and get it seen. With time and thought and many (many, many) cups of coffee, The Zine was realized. Why a zine? Zines have always been a medium to spread ideas and art in a small and scrappy way. What better representation of Savannah and its creatives?

If you grew up like me introverted, but with a deep and sometimes scarily ambitious desire to change and experience the world through art then you probably have lots of zine experience. You and your friends cutting and gluing your mother’s Better Home & Gardens magazines together, scribbling playlists on the back, white out-ing all the wonderful little mistakes. And in the fluorescent halls of school, you passed them around. A raw, physical treasure of your budding self, crawling out of the adolescent shell and blinking in the blinding lights of the adult world. Not a child anymore, not an adult yet. The perfect, unbridled conduit for rebellious and unforgiving truth in collage form.

And here is an ode to the cheerleaders. They too were in our high school hallways and are with us everyday still. They just don’t wear pleated skirts. They come to coffee shops to bounce ideas off each other. Tell you that they love hearing you talk about your passions (even when they get bored). And they remind you that playing the game, even on the days you lose, is worth celebrating. Thank you to all the cheerleaders who helped this zine come to life. So, welcome to our first zine and thank you for being here.

Rosie Kiely Editor

You who come to the bakery

You slouching pairs of sweatpants curling stringly bedhead behind your ears scratching buzzled truffle-kissed beards, you look hard at layers of dough

you careful, tepid fawns (indecisive) too undiscovered to eat together uncarefully, you are bashful in periphery of others who might sense your morning secret

Unlike you finger-waffler back-stocker peck-you-while-I-fold-you pokers murring & tenderishly pulling smelshing & gazingly swaying; you don't think about the onlookers in line as you mouth and mutter in plain sight

You! You eager brimming yuppies licking life away until marriage you sprint to the door through the rain; one pulls the other's waist into a snickering embrace

Then, you who hum softly in expectancy proud to show your belly pleased to hunger for another inside you, you take no shame waddling in the warmth of it

You who shine in newborn infant glaze extending family in tow you boast your cargo visiting simply because you have delivered

You wranglers of the terrible twos ordering coffee black for stamina, croissants to butter your souls & a brownie (as the little one melts down) you mount the register in checkmate for peace merely in half-lives to follow

Its scene so laughable to you dwindling complementary birds nesting empty; you respect the other and take the beat, fake smiles & converse interchangeably like a worn recipe

Yet everyone watches you scone-dry lovers, crumbling over change: One passes the bills while the other has made for the door with the treats

All who come to the bakery, living one step ahead of another: here you nibble just the cookies

-mary margaret cozart // @mmcozy

by Kody Salzburn @kodysalzburn

IF I THINK ABOUT IT, MY PRIVILEGE MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE

When I take a walk downtown, my privilege makes it so that I feel comfortable with the rising restaurants, the coffee shops and storefronts unfolding like flowers. It’s supposed to add to the aesthetic, spruce up the neighborhood, right? Create culture and quality of life? Clean up the streets, we are making it better, As I walk further down the sidewalk, the stores and restaurants go before me to create a path that I feel safe to stroll on. Before streetlights and street machines to fix the cracked cement that the root of the large oak broke through, the art store and record shop has to be there first. Before improvements the old, abandoned school building has to be converted to a college history department. And then, when the new students complain about their commute and how they don’t feel safe, then we will revitalize the neighborhood. It makes it so I can walk deeper through town without feeling threatened. I can walk to the local dive bar I like without the homeless leering at me from across the street where a shelter is. And I’m the one who wants to close my eyes and make them go away, red round eyes asking more than I can possibly give—not from me. The bouncer shoos him off. I wish to never see that ghost of a man again. I don’t verbalize it but I wish they would do something with them to help them, I add, to make myself feel better. These homeless who could have attended the old school building left to decay. I want the city to help them, but I see them every day. I see him and he doesn’t see me, just another person to beg and serenade to, to offer a rose twisted from stripped palm leaves. How much is this worth to me? A couple of dollars just to go away. Truly, a percentage of my income. If I keep to where the developers go, I will never have to see another forlorn face staring from a dilapidated porch again. And when I suddenly do not see them anymore–the poor–I will feel a tightening in my chest, then I’ll relax and loosen I will not feel so guilty anymore. I will not be reminded. They are not there, and in my brain, I think they are taken care of.

2020, edited

Satirical piece by Lindsey Gee @growingstein

Textiles by McKenzie Smith

by Scott Grove

Sneak preview from Phil Musen, @cutetomatoes

HellHathNoFurylikeaBlackBodyUnfree writtenbyJusticevonMaurtofundraiseforPlannedParenthood

Southeast

Irememberwhen

Ibeganmyfreedompractice

Mylungswereburning

Iwasatthetailendofanaddictionthatmomwarnedmeaboutfromthe beginning

I,awaterybeing,felt

Fireinmychest

Mytwolungslunging,purgingupandout black-theconsolidationoftherainbow

Didyouknowthatatrulyblendedrainbowmakesblack?

Thecrabsskitteraway

TheysensemebeforeIarriveandthatistimetravel IsensediscomfortsoIstand andmyfeet:

inthemushedgroundofmarshthatheldthefeetofmydirectlineage

Myveryownlifeisthereasonwhy

Ibelieveinmagic

Iknowtherearebillionsofthemaround-althoughIcannotseeorhear them

Andthatishowcrabsteachme

Thatmagicisreal

IfIknewnothing

Iwouldfindsanctuaryhere

Asafeplaceforsmallthingstobecomebig

Smallthingsthatcongregatemake

Athingbig

Anxietyhaslivedatmyfingertips

ForaslongasIhadnailstochewbloodytheytried Nailpolish-pretty

Hotsauce-painful

TheytriedtohumiliatemebutIhaveneverevereverevercaredabout that

Ithaslivedinmychildchest

forthatwetriedmedication

AndtheyalldecidedtoforgetaboutthatsoIdidtoo

Butithasalwaysbeeninmybelly,theknowing Knowingtoomuch,knowingthings

Frompasts

thatinfiltratemypresent

Abellyfeelingpasseddown

Fromanovercrowdedshipbelly

Anoutdoorshelter

Amarshland

Afreezingimmigrationtofactory

Allfindingitswaytomybelly:onasandybeach,beneaththesun,besidea palmtree,sometimesupto75feetbelowwhatyoucouldimaginefrom sealevel

Iknowtherearebillionsofenergiesaroundme

ThatIcannotseeorhear

ButIfeelthemandthatishowtheocean

Taughtmethatmagicisreal

think about her at night and In private daylight and the Grief is consuming

How can this belly and chest miss so much in the midst of joyous joyous abundance?

It’s called lineage.

I wrote this today

For you, and you, and you, and you, and you I wrote this today

Because my hunch is that you too Might feel billions of things that you cannot see That you too find yourself on the knees of the body you came up in Afraid to dirty them in the mud Because this world has robbed you of time to cleanse

It is for you I choose to put myself In the mud, sand, clay, and shit

So I can demonstrate that the creatures you don’t know only want to hold you

Not you personally, but you because YOU are a part of US

Can you believe that some of us Navigate twisted freedoms day in and out In order to uphold the systems that protect yours? The ease of your freedoms

The idea that you might only Believe in things you can see, hear, and touch because For you some of you, that is truly enough?

I can’t imagine

I have spent a long time wanting that for myself

And that is a story that has caused harm

Someone who shared blood with me stood in this marsh and in the midst Of their captivity

Felt a sense of freedom

Freedom to stand in a sun that Refuses to burn through melanin

Free to posture feet that don’t appear dirtied by clay

To converse with small, busy, soulful beings that sense human and therefore threat

The body freedom feels hot, sweaty

The body freedom that liberates from structure from thinking man

If I stay still enough they

Don’t perceive me as threat

And what a freedom it is to be still in the marsh

I picture this land as refuge

A place where one might dirty the brim of a church hat the white woman’s polka dot dress the hips of a best friend kissed in secret

I know how the crabs dance when they believe no one is around You are designed to do as they do

And how dare we build such a world

That dismantles such a design

What can crabs teach us about freedom?

Illustration by Calder Robinson @calder.robinson

Poetry by Megan Alyse @megsalyse

this is an untitled poem by

java

Lately I've been talking to your reflection, what a sin.

you are your own sin entirely. not like you can't take it, but like your mom made all your lunches from scratch.

I was looking around the corner when the party was already there. yellow house, chipped paint, handing out windows. your hair is cut just above your collar bone, outside is a bleak gray. the only light is on a pale amber bulb, and the house still smells of cumin and grease. I'm in between you and the couch like salt on ice. you wipe the sweat from my brow you sop my blood up with a paper towel. you bathe me you block my number.

sometimes things are good till they're not and then never again. sometimes you want what was yours to roll over and say, you're soft enough to forgive

photo by Zach Machado

HE WHO MADE THE LAMB

by Joseph Schwartzburt // @jschwartstory84

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

- from “The Tyger” by

William Blake

A white X appeared on my garage door last week Significant enough event to note in my journal “Got you, did they?” Jordan, my neighbor, said as he shoveled pine needles into lawn bags. His house had been tagged last week. He had painted a tic tac toe board around his X mark The next night another white X had been painted in the square next to the first “Kids just being punks, that’s all,” Jordan said, scooping from the endless mound of pine needles on his driveway. He had relocated from Jersey a few months back. His daughter went to the art college. He meant well. Most yankees do, though calling these riffraff punks downplayed the ding-dong dashing and TP-ing that had been going on in the neighborhood Precursor to gang activity, if you ask me Back in ‘Nam, charlies hid among the civies and many a marine survived by not discriminating among the two. Punks. Gang members. Maybe not one in the same, but not that big a leap.

I mean, the morning after Jordan got his second X, he left for work and the thugs tried to break in the back door except his daughter had been home. She triggered the alarm and they scattered. She saw nothing worth reporting to police because she had hidden in their tub. I didn’t know what to say to him or to people in general, so I said, “Yeah, punks” Then I waved from my side of the chainlinks and headed into the house for my Ka-Bar

Before Jordan, Patty Orville had been X’ed She had painted over hers, and two days later an O replaced it, which is where Jordan must have gotten the tic tac toe idea. The day after Patty got tagged, the punks ransacked her place while she was at work and her son was at school They swiped her TV and her Chanel perfumes Cops dusted but couldn't obtain any viable prints They did note that the Xs had been brush painted, not sprayed, and took samples to the lab. Never did get any update on that, so I nicked off a chip from my garage with the Ka-Bar. An associate at Home Depot determined the paint to be an interior water-based latex Took but a minute to match the color Lamb I purchased a quart of Black Shadow, then headed home My drippy O stood out like a charred asshole alongside the X on my garage.

The next morning, a beat-up Buick and a spotless Charger sat out front of my house Never seen such cars in twenty years of living there When I drove off, the Buick tailed me to the lumber yard Once at my locker, I called the cops and said I suspected a robbery at my house, disclosing that I owned multiple, properly licensed firearms.

A few hours later with five cop cars outside my house, I heard the officers’ account of what likely went down Two, maybe three, individuals used a brick that lined my garden bed to smash my backdoor window They reached through the shattered glass and unlocked the dead bolt. They rummaged, as these types of twerps tend to do. (As I figured they would.) They yanked my three TVs off the walls and had a trash bag full of my guns, which they left behind after one went off “Likely by accident,” said a cop close to my age He was Black and spoke as if he’d seen it all before Not the gang stuff, but an old white guy with too many guns. “Your Colt went off and probably spooked the others.”

After the crime scene tape came down a few hours later, the cops let me back inside. They'd left the blood stains on my home office's carpet The Colt, they said, would be withheld as evidence The boy who had been shot in the leg was named Kerij They said the shooter, who remained at large, left no viable prints Kerij, according to Patty, was a good kid. Four months from graduating high school. “Recently, he’d been hanging with the wrong crowd,” she said. “His cousin’s crowd”

A shame for him to have been abandoned by a fellow thug The Vietcong were ruthless, but they took care of their own. Patty informed me that Kerij had signed himself over to the army a month before. He will likely be ineligible to enlist due to his leg wound, to say nothing of the charges he would face “He has plans,” Patty said, weeping onto my shoulder at the hospital I didn't have the heart to remind her that I'd come for my journal The hospital had bagged it with Kerij's belongings on account he'd been clutching it when they wheeled him into the ambulance of all the things to pick up in the middle of a smash and grab At the very moment, too, that your supposed friend teasingly points a gun at you I had inked my bucket list in that journal over the decades Put in a few entries about my life Had even penned another one the morning of the break-in.

“So many plans,” Patty said “Oh my baby boy! He had been painting his bedroom for when he left A nice calm white He wanted his Mama to have a meditation room”

I didn’t have the heart to remind her that I was an army vet. I also didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d left every single gun I owned loaded and in plain sight that morning. Something I noted in that journal, which I couldn’t ask for then Maybe I didn’t deserve it Maybe the police needed to read it I said, “We all make plans, Patty,” instead of saying what was really on my mind. Maybe having a son uncorrupted by war might be better than a mediation room, so long as he could survive the neighborhood.

by St. Shaffer, @stshaffer

Some Lessons on Sober Dating

Dear neighbor,

I spent my first three years of sobriety blissfully single. During that time, dating sounded about as fun as sitting through literally any sporting event (I hate sports). Perhaps it was the aftermath of the Trump presidency, and the angry men who crept from the shadows as a result, or perhaps it was the untreated wounds of boyfriends past, or perhaps it was simply because I had never dated sober, but the entire affair sounded wildly unappealing

So I did literally anything else. I ended a toxic relationship, got a new job, prioritized my friendships, made art, danced in my apartment, danced in bars, read books about alcohol and technology, read books about feminism and witches, met authors I admire, saw legends perform live, questioned my sexuality, adopted a second cat, spent too much money on tattoos, learned about astrology and tarot, grew flowers and vegetables, broke ground in therapy, moved to Savannah, made new friends, got a new job again, started running again, started writing again.

I had never felt so good in my life Why risk it? Because, despite the fact that dating would challenge the very foundation I’d so cheerfully placed forth, I love connection and I love Love. Blame it on my Venus in Cancer In fact, my latest foray in the world of romance involved catching very real feelings for a man

We’ll call him Jerry

After our first confab, Jerry rated our date a 9.5/10. On our second date, he told me that he thought I could be “good for him,” which was simultaneously flattering and concerning A Georgia native, Jerry was effortlessly funny and a talented musician. Unlike myself, he had a seemingly normal relationship with alcohol and was deep into metal He thought it was cool that I was sober, which made me feel cool to be sober Despite my internal battle to take things slow, I saw him four times in the first week

Once I got past the nerves, I melted in his easy company. I opened up about my experience with alcohol abuse, and he opened up about the collapse of his last relationship While our first few dates consisted of long walks through the squares with ice cream, a trip to the bowling alley, and a night at the movies, the remainder of our affair mostly involved pizza on his couch It started out strong and quickly devolved into Netflix-and-chill. His availability became less frequent, his infatuation with me less pronounced. Tale as old as time

Upon realizing that Jerry wasn’t interested in a relationship with me, I panicked Being single felt good, but his affection felt better. Spending time with him gave me a new dopamine hit, made stronger by his inconsistent nature Since I couldn’t drink away my fear of losing that feeling, I had to sit with it This is when I started making regular trips to Lake Mayer to run off the jitters. Flying through laps around the track, I got lost in the steady sound of my breath As the coastal air got hotter and thicker, my pace got faster. Catching the sun sparkle and scatter across the lake, I forgot about Jerry and my dating woes. My attention scanned from the lake to the dense, green forest concealing Truman Parkway, as Taylor Swift sang, "I should not be left to my own devices/ They come with prices and vices/ I end up in crisis” I realized then that running through my angst was just another vice, and it would only get me so far. Time after time, the pavement led me back to the problem

Because this particular romance was so short lived, and because the thought of ending things in person made me want to vomit, I settled on a text message In college I tried to end a similar situationship in person but, somehow, sitting on an engineering student’s lumpy futon, I was sweet-talked out of it We proceeded to see each other sporadically until he tried to sleep with my best friend on my twenty-first birthday I would not make the same mistake with Jerry Instead, through the support of the loving network I cultivated in Savannah and beyond, and because of those three years spent exclusively consumed in art, books, and recovery, I was able to honor my worth And I immediately felt ten pounds lighter Sober dating continues to awe me. Showing up exactly as you are is an incredibly vulnerable feat. There’s no layer of liquid courage to hide behind, but I get to trust myself again And the best part? I’m not the one messing it up anymore I had a knack for ruining relationships with a drunk argument If it wasn’t a dumb fight that drove them away, I suspect it was my obvious inability to hang without alcohol. Movies at your place? I’ll bring wine Movies at the theater? I’ll bring wine in a travel mug

Ultimately, in running and in love, I’ve learned that pushing myself gets easier once I know what I’m capable of Now I know that I can average a nine-minute mile on a four-mile run, and that sobriety will always save me from the wrong guy and from myself. Which is to say, I get to be my own hero.

Lovingly,

The Sober Savannahian @thesobersavannahian

Poetry by Maddie Greer // @yourfancyaunt

A moment of ebullient merge before remembering the season. One I could carry with me in the dark. But your mouth remained a thin line- as it usually did- when you tried to anchor my flippancy.

I found you next to a pile of dead leaves in someone else's yard. One of the big houses. Washington Ave. Trespassed, you said you were oxidizing in solidarity. I laughed, as I usually did, hopeful we would float together in the golden hour surrounded by the smell of sharp exhale.

I swallowed, knowing You said I shouldn't come here Crossing picket lines. So I didn't

By Meagan English@goodmergan

Image by Kathleen O' Sullivan // @kathleenosullivan

My haunted Savannah apartment

By Enocha Edenfield // @eenieedenfield

“Do you believe in ghosts?” That’s what my neighbor across the hall asked me when I first moved to Savannah in 2010.

I had moved here from Florida to continue my journalism career. My moody, inner teenager would have been very disappointed in me if I hadn’t at least tried to find a creepy Victorian house to move into. After crawling through Craigslist, I got lucky and found a home that had been split into three apartments with the smallest being available. Since it would just be me and my two cats, the smallness wasn’t a problem.

The day I moved in, as my brother and I hauled piece after piece of bulky furniture up the precarious back stairs, my neighbor knocked on the front door While I planned to use the backdoor as my main access because of its closeness to my parking space, my front door led to a shared hallway with my neighbor that included our washer and dryer and stairs down to another door to the outside

My neighbor introduced himself We will call him Mike Mike explained that the vibe in the home was a chill one where everyone talked to each other That’s when he paused before asking my position on the paranormal

“I grew up in the South,” I told him “I’ve seen plenty of weird stuff, so I guess I believe in ghosts”

He visibly relaxed “Good! My apartment is haunted I wanted to give you a heads up in case the ghost ever wandered over, but he mostly stays in my apartment.”

In my 29 years, nothing had prepared me for a greeting like that, but I did appreciate the heads-up. Mike explained that he had lived there for years and had seen plenty of other residents come and go. One year, a medium, who had been displaced from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, moved downstairs. Mike said she brought plenty of her own spirits with her, but one night she asked him if he had noticed a strange tapping on his window. This window was on the second floor away from any trees. He said he had heard tapping before. She explained that was his resident ghost. We will call him Bob. The medium explained that Bob was totally fine being roommates, but he wanted something in the apartment he could call his own like maybe a blue candle

My neighbor said that he and his ghost roommate were cool with each other, but he still liked to warn new neighbors in case Bob ever decided to explore the other apartments I told him I appreciated it, and we went about our normal lives Mike and I would see each other around the house but I never heard anything from Bob

he shared e Bob nd stare at at business. Curiosity Victorian yers of nfidence did like

BySavannahValentine

Explosiveordnancepersonnelandbombasticdragqueens Strongprohibitionandstrongerwhisky Savannah,GAholdsenoughlifetoopenaclosedTaoTeChing andtogarden-pathitsguestsintoenlightenment Deeplyrootedinthepastwhileprogressingboldlyinto thefuture,tothecasualobserver,theHostessCityexistsseeminglyatoddswithitself.

Evergreenwintersandkaleidoscopicsprings

Founded in 1733 by General James Oglethorpe, Savannah is known as America’s first planned city. Designednotonlytobeaestheticallypleasingontheinterior,thelayoutwasalsooutwardlymilitaristic, organizedlesslikeanAmericancolonyandmorelikethebivouacofaRomanlegion Withaprominent Irishpopulationatitsinception,thepopulationboomandsubsequentfamineof19th-centuryIrelandsaw anevengreaterinfluxofIrishwhohelpedbuildmuchofthecityandwhosedescendentsnowmakeup muchofthelocalpopulace.InexaminingtheapparentlyparadoxicalrelationshipSavannahhaswithitself, myexperiencessawmeexaminingthatholidayhonoringourIrishheritage:St.Patrick’sDay.

Savannah’s St. Paddy’s Day celebrations and parade are estimated to draw upwards of half a million peopleeveryyear Withindividualsfromallwalksoflife,sometravellinghundredsofmilesfortheevent, visitors can connect across physical and social bounds in convivial abandon, entertaining notions otherwise unavailable in day-to-day life, before returning home with whatever they gain from such fantasticunions Thisauthorhasonlybeenluckyenoughtocatchtwoofthesefreneticfestivalsand cannothelpbutonceagainnotetheveryrealdifferencesbetweenthem.

TheeveningofSt.Paddy’sDay2022,mycohortandIfellintothecompanyofsomebeautifulpeople whosaidonlycoythingstooneanotherandonlylovelythingstous,markingourvisitwithfulllaughs andstolenwinksoverbubblydrinks Leavingthemongoodterms,ourmeanderingstrollveeredaway from the community of the City Market, skirted the loud merrymaking of River St, and landed us unknowingly at Emmet Park, named after Irish patriot Robert Emmet and home to an Irish memorial AccidentallyfindingandappreciatingtheIrishCelticCrossonadaycelebratingIrishheritageseemeda charmingcoincidencebornofthatSavannahmagicweallsaydoesn’texist.

The evening of St. Patrick’s Day 2023 was different. At one upscale bar, a man of military age and industrialbearingtooktocallingeveryblackpersoninthevicinityawordI’llnothererestateandsought physicalviolencewhentoldheshouldknowbetter Atthenextbar,agroupoffourvisitorsexpressed somevileintentionswhentheythoughtnoonewaslisteningandtriedtomakeveiledthreatswhenwe wouldn’tletthemstealawayastumble-drunkfriend.Ourgroup,byguileorluck,werefortunateenough tocurbbothconfrontations.

Onenightwassomethingnew,ofsomemagicalpower,whereinthebeautifulplumesandsincerefacesof ourcompanywereenoughtodropourguardandjointheirgamingtroupebeforeourjourneycalledus elsewhere Theotherwassomethingold,ofsomeevilforce,whereinthefakesmilesanddisingenuous intentsoftheuninvitedsoughttomakeobjectsoftheunaware Thatistosay,ifthefirstwasanightwas seeingwhatotherswanttogive,thesecondwasseeingwhatotherswanttotake Incomraderyandcontention,inloveandhunger,theenigmaticlineofsafetyanddangerblurinaflurry ofwould-befriendsandfoes.Withthesmallcitypackedtobursting,onecannot help but feel on edge. The entire affair grows exhausting, in truth, to the point of questioning one’s interestinattending

YetattendIdid,andwillcontinuetodo,nevercertainofforwhatIamlookingbutalwayssureitcanbe found The bored or uninformed have only learning available to them here where well-preserved cathedral naves can safeguard the spirit while well-manicured fronts bely their truest holiness. The paradoxicallessonsofourcitycanbegleanedinanyhappening,inanystory.Perhapsoneexperiences authenticityfromafalseReneRondolierandatrueLadyChablis.Orperhapsonelearnsbettersettledon abenchafterdark,watchingtall,surewomenleadflightyflockstoreadfromaprettyplaque,toobserve asternchurch,oronsomedeliberatescheduletoseedeadcharactersstrolllivelystreets

A playful city in a grave state it is, in whose dank air all our vulnerabilities meet, are reassured, and dressed in drag. Caught between the painful memories of the past, the necessary attentions of the present, and the hard-fought good of the future, the Hostess City lives a double life: one within the scrupulousandfussyantebellumarchitecturethatgripstheeyesofherguests,andonewithinthefurtive andaccommodatingactsofkindnessfromherdenizens Themystiqueofthecitylivesinthisduality, dazzlingattendeeswiththeplayfulknowledgethatamagician’sonlyrealtrickiskeepingasecret

ThatistherealSavannah

Celestial lovers

Let us make memories in our dreams

Floating above at a higher vibration.

See-through palms, touching Time, ticking away on melting clocks.

Whatever you do, Don't ask for the time.

Dance with me among the stars that misaligned. Let's run away from the sunrise & into the light we created.

But what ever you do dont wake up

-N.W (@purposeinprose)

Photo by Nikki Zuaro // @wasteland trash

Closing Time

By Liam Higgins

Last night I dreamed of water, slow and sputtering, like a shower puddle in a Super 8 Motel. I was halfway through a double when you told me you dreamed through the bathroom

You passed through the walls like a bug in a video game and you saw what leaned in the alley

You saw all of us, eight billion tadpoles flapping and flaking, digging for water, the world drowning beneath waves of hoppy IPA’s. You said we’ve lost certain cities to this already, and even Savannah is starting to turn into the kind of place that welcomes anyone except the people who were already here. You look like you could use one, I said She nodded in appreciation Hey. Yeah. Remember when we bought a six pack of these and sat by the pier and ate boiled peanuts? That was a good day, I agreed The bar chatter was rising like dust off the desert, the kind that blows in hot on the heels of gunshots. So anyway, I continued, about that dream

The pool games were growing sloppier, the strategy more brash, the contact less direct A regular pushed his stomach through the double doors and out into the aquatic night

She tapped her glass on the bartop When I wake up tomorrow, she said, I won’t wake up here. I will wake up somewhere else What do you mean?

She left with her hands in her pockets, rummaging for keys

An hour later, I was shutting up shop, molding dust into anthills with the fraying broom. A trail of water led me to the alley. The puddle from the dream was shrinking, slipping into the asphalt, straining to transcend air. And then there was silence, as if all water had been lost through a drain in the Earth

by Cecilia Trella

@ceciliatrella