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2 • bohemia • July 2012
Letter from the editor Dear friends, family, fans, and Bohemians around the world— hello again from Waco, Texas. We’re still doing it. I can’t help but notice that the themes we pick out for each issue somehow coincide with our current state of affairs. We did our “Launch” issue last summer when we were eager, wet behind the ears, and raring to go. A lovely rocket graced the cover and we were excited for it to take off. We deemed our second issue, released in October, “Raven” because we were raving mad and maybe just a little scared about what we had actually gotten ourselves into. “Out of the Woods” (or was it “Into the Woods;” I don’t think we ever officially decided) was our third installment of Bohemia with a fairy tale theme. We decided not to hold back, let our imaginations run wild, not worry about it, and just do our thing. Then came “Winter Valentine” when we realized why we were doing this. It was for love. Love of poetry, art, photo shoots, spoken word, fantastical stories, and everything Bohemian. We love Bohemia and everything it stands for. Then sometime during the process of creating our April issue, “Dreams,“ I think we started to feel really grateful because we realized our dreams were coming true. Finally, it’s July again and we land on “Superheroes.” Just who are the superheroes? Peel back the masks of the people behind Bohemia and you will find their identity— who are they? They are your neighbors, your kids, your co-workers, that quiet guy in the back of the bookstore. They are all the people that have hidden talents that they want to let shine. I think the artists who pour their souls into their work and fight for their rights of artistic expression are heroes. These artists, whether they be rockers, filmmakers, comic book makers, painters, poets, short story writers, photographers, models or muses are doing their thing to keep the arts alive and well, vibrant and indestructible. Thanks for saving the day. You’re my heroes.
OPPORTUNITIES For Exciting Educational and Entertainment Experiences
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Find more Bohemia news at: www.bohemia-journal.com Follow our blogs at: www.bohojo.wordpress.com Like us on Facebook www.facebook.com/bohemiajournal Concerts Submissions should be sent to submission editors or submissions@bohemia-journal.com. Amanda Hixson Art & Photography Acquisition amanda@bohemia-journal.com Eric Doyle Fiction Acquisition Editor eric@bohmemia-journal.com Mandy Bray Poetry Acquisition Editor mandy@bohemia-journal.com
Register Now for Fall 2012
www.mclennan.edu July 2012• bohemia • 3
Colleagues
Editor In Chief
Assistant Editor Managing Editor Poetry Acquisition Editor Layout & Ad Design Ad Sales Writing Team Photography Team Illustrators Hair & Makeup Fashion Bohemian Bloggers:
Amanda Hixson Jim McKeown Eric Doyle Mandy Bray Megan Barnett Rachel Pate
Mandy Bray, Brett Case, Dominik Young Dwight Battle II, Able Cisneros, Steven Ruud, Cynthia Wheeler Steffany Bankenbusch, Renny Quintero Amy Cook Serena Teakell Kris Ann, Erica Photiades, Albert Rodriguez, Whitney Van Laningham, Gary Lee Webb
Our Bohemian Bloggers maintain an active blog at bohojo.wordpress.com
Art Photography Stories Poetry
Models Cover credit
Contributors
Courtney Woodliff Balko, LaLa Bohang, Autumn Rose Northcraft, Kerry Harris, Robbi Rodriguez, Shay Scranton, Devin Stroud Eleanor Bennett, Pat Jones, Jessica Randazzo, Erin Shephard, Michelle Wachsmann William Akin, A.K. Amberg, Robin Chavarria, April Henley, Isis Lee, Jim McKeown, T.R. Smith, Amanda Rebholz, Joel Swanson, Gary Lee Webb, Jake Young Jeffrey Alfier, Cynthia Barrios, Joschua Beres, Mike Berger, Kelly Digh, C.S. Fuqua, Jesse Jefferis, Jennifer Johnson, Michael Lee Johnson, Bruce Lader, Anne McCrady, Stanley Morris Noah, Erica Photiades, Devin Stroud, Laura Walton Jordan Colyer, Lindsey Ebert, Charles Sydney Lee Jr., Savannah Loftin, Amy Neese, Keke Noir, Trent Wolff, Brent Stech, Devin Stroud The heroes are Renny Quintero (front) and Steffany Bankenbusch. Our villians are (left to right) Devin Stroud, Brent Stech, Trent Wolff Photography by Steven Ruud with Balance Imagery Hair & Make-Up by Amy Cook
Bohemia: Waco’s Art & Literary Journal (Waco, TX) Volume 2, Number 3 July, 2012 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Printed by Waco Printing Company Design by Just Like That Design Studio (www.JustLikeThatDesign.com)
Contact Bohemia through www.bohemia-journal.com Subscribe to Bohemia by sending cash, check, or money order in the amount of $20 to: Bohemia PO Box 5097 Waco, TX 76708
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Illustration by Robbi Rodriguez
____________________
Table ofContents 6 8 10 12 14 15 16 18 20
We Are Superheroes: Thematic Poetry Under The Orange Tree by Joshua Beres Superman by April Henley Flying Lessons by Joel Swanson Hero by A.K. Amberg Generations by T.R. Smith Come Crashing Down by Amanda Rebholz
39 Crash by Jake Young 40 Fat Kid Rules the World: Filmmaker Matthew Lillard 42 Boho Beats: Well Behaved Young Men and Cordial Roy 44 The Hero Inside by Robin Chavarria
46 Contributors’ Pages
Shay Scranton : Evolution of an Artist
16
Warp Holes, Double Parallels, and Superheroes: Robbi Rodriguez 22 Toxy by Isis Lee 24 Superman Is Dead?: Thematic Poetry
26 34 36 38
26
BoHo Noir: Poetry From The Other Side Doctor Meson’s Quantum Rifle by William Akin Oddy and Manny’s Adventure by Jim McKeown A Dish Served Cold by Gary Lee Webb
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(254) 624-1979 or (254)-947-0339 July 2012• bohemia • 5
We Are Superheros
The Hero Wild Goose is Here by Mike Berger
Icarus was my hero until he got tangled in the power lines. The frogs that answered his woeful cries for help, stood and laughed at the tangled mess. What drove noble Icarus to fly? No good could ever come of it. He like me yearned to be free. Poor Icarus was tethered to the earth by Newton’s immutable laws; me by tradition.
by Kelly Digh
Not alien, not mutant Not bitten by a bug The simplest beginning Creates the strongest ones No flight, no tights No sticky webs or metal claws Just hope and strength and love for all Carrying us all to a place of joy No more pain and no more sorrow The hero is here to save the world.
The yearning to be free cankers my soul. Looking to the sky, I see a goose, wild and free. Falling to my knees, I cry.
Ref lection The courageous life is not of me peering in my eyes I think, But what constitutes the lionhearted? Maybe it’s not outside I seek. It takes bravery to feel outside the flock of sheep. It takes audacity to voice my heart and mind I keep. It takes gallantry to hear I am beautiful and free. It takes nobility to see I was meant to be. It takes tenacity to understand I am who I am for no one else. It only takes my thoughts to unveil the hero that abides in me.
6 • bohemia • July 2012
Photos by Steven Ruud
by Jennifer Johnson
by Anne McCrady
Before they feel it, she can see it in their eyes – that impulse of men towards fight or flight. When they shout proud assurances, she hears the wheeze of fear; knows their need for a living, breathing hero. Able to leap tall orders, fly past assumptions, dance until dawn, she can feel the future, step in and out of closets, conflicts, quagmires
to quell the male rush to judgment, the lust for winning, the thrill of pain. Though it is a gift, this ability to answer trouble with trust, she resists gifted. Dressed in the street clothes of a mother, a sister, a friend, she is happy, having to tend and defend. Healer and helper, peace person, miracle maker, her heroic powers are super, natural, feminine, divine.
by Jesse Kurt Jefferis
My youth Filled with broken teeth And eff you smiles. The trailer park Is a part of me As I stand toe to toe With meth junkies. I show no fear In the depths of Darkness.
Heaven seems So far From these Dirt roads I will ride out With the punk rock Rhythms And stand face to face With the forsaken To say, “My words matter, And Jah is floating Within this dark jungle.”
Photos by Steven Ruud
Super Woman
Battle
July 2012• bohemia • 7
under the orange tree by Joschua Beres
her eyes were once the dance of quasars and nebulae as they always are for the young and in love. the enchanting wonder that telescopes the hearts of men. but they have become frigid today. the scene of an ugly plane crash in the Andes— the kind where people eat each other.
she would lean against the sink edge and stare down the drain and tears would crack her face wide open.
I ask her how she is doing. she fumbles and in that brief lacuna of words her answer is a lifetime long because she is the fall of the Berlin Wall; and the end of the Cold War; and the rise of the Internet; and the summer day when the towers fell.
the same orange tree that has kept me small forever and weighed us down with oranges every summer and drowned the house in the perfume of orange blossoms.
and she is still in love. when she talked about dad her lips would quiver like a dam about to burst.
when I was ten she took me out to the garage and we pulled out all the boxes labeled “Philip” and brought them underneath the orange tree.
mom sat with me under the tree and told me the story of her and dad in a voice like a pulsar wind she said: I was eleven and he was twelve. we were both in love. we would meet by the beach and go swimming
and I taught him to dance awkwardly to Madonna and TLC. when I was eighteen and he was nineteen he read Dylan Thomas to me and we made love, and it hurt. but the towers fell and the War called him as it called many young men and he became lost in the maze of the Afghan mountains for a year. she handed me a letter she had written to dad but never sent. it read: on the day you left, as I held you, I tried to keep my tears behind my eyelids. but I felt like the moon and you were the oceans of the earth and I ached to break my orbit and come crashing down into you and freeze under your churning. and, if you wanted I would drown and I think I would be OK with that. but such a goodbye would have proved as selfish as the storm that tried to steal Galveston’s beauty from the sun. our talking was interrupted by the megaphone voice: “departing.” your plane was boarding for the other side of the world. departing Killeen for Dallas for Atlanta for Ireland for the War.
Photo by Jessica Randazzo
I paused from reading to look up at her but her eyes were silent. I read on:
8 • bohemia • July 2012
five hours later I was back home on the bay. I fell asleep but when I woke up I was listening to the mad hurricanes in my chest breaking their hearts against my ribs over and over, every few seconds—
Illustrations by Steffany Bankenbusch
as if I were the Cape of Good Hope. I ached to let the hurricanes out of my chest and let them roll inland so they could wash both of us away. over the warm golden streetlight fuzz of Austin to the tall grasses of Oklahoma. to bring the swells of the Gulf to the silent Midwest. but instead, they just broke against my bones and I spit my worries over the cliffs. why am I always where you aren’t? when I put the letter down she continued: the War went on. expanded. stories of the young and dead flooded the paper. but when I was nineteen he came home for R&R and I drove to the airport in Houston to see him. I told him I was in love with him. that night we danced awkwardly and made love and you blossomed like this orange tree inside me. one month home and six months back before they sent him back to me. we married. I moved to Fort Hood
and we rented an apartment. nothing more than a dusty room. we slept on a tiny bed and he would sing to you as you slept in my belly. not long after you were born, we drove down to our sun-kissed Galveston and bought this house and it was not long after that that he got called back. back to the mountains and the mortar fire. to the nameless villages and IEDs. but it was one phone call that informed me he would never come back to us. and that is when the lightbulbs in my heart shattered to sand. she sighed and leaned on the tree as she stood up. patting it once she slowly walked inside. I kept sifting through her journals and brittle Polaroids that I dug out of taped up boxes. letters written in high school between her and dad that she saved to feel close to him. all buried in the safety of his old shirts. they were the deepest boxes in the world.
they had to be— to fit their kind of love. a lifetime of loving someone. a lifetime of being loved becomes boxes and tape to be remembered on rainy days or discovered under an orange tree. there were hundreds of letters so many, that all the messenger pigeons in the world would have been filling the skies. so many letters that mom was still lost in them in the years since he died. sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, mom and I would take walks. long walks, to nowhere in particular, like her and dad used to do. it was the only time when her eyes would go supernova and somewhere inside, a room full of lightbulbs would flit on and off for a few seconds. and it was then, that my dad would stop being words on a page, a folded flag in a wooden case and pictures... it was then that I would see him and a thousand stars would light my eyes.
July 2012• bohemia • 9
S
UPERMAN by April Henley
Wonderwoman is in the hospital? “Did you hear me, Sam? Sam? Suzzie is in the hospital. I got the call from her mother an hour ago. The doctors say she has Leukemia, but they caught it early and they have her undergoing treatment now.” Sam did not look at his mom. His eyes focused on his shoes, stained by the mud of the rainy day. How could he look at his mom? She delivered a blow that sapped the life out of him, like a shard of kryptonite thrust in his side. He felt completely vulnerable. “Sam? Mrs. Leopold said you can go with her to visit Suzzie, if you want to. Would you like to go see Suzzie?” Her voice was soft and she placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
opened with a sigh and a ring of dust crept out. Sam’s eyes trailed over his superhero comic books, his action figures, and his genuine Superman cape, till they fell on the package. It was a special package, wrapped in decorative paper featuring the American flag. Sam took the package and carefully placed it safely in his backpack. He put on his Superman cape and then pushed the trunk back under the bed. Sam stopped in front of the mirror by his door, stared at his reflection looking back at him. The image appeared small, no bigger
Sam’s shoulder dropped at the weight of his mother’s hand. His body felt loose, like a noodle, no muscle mass left. His mind wrapped around one thought: “Sam? Do you want to go see Suzzie?”
When they reached the hospital, Sam felt suffocated by the smell of the place. Multiple smells of medicine and cleaning supplies cloistered together into a toxic nauseating air. The white fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and the intercom with the crooked lady’s voice bothered his ears.
She needs me. Sam struggled to lift his head to meet his mother’s eyes. He attempted to look brave, forced back his tears, and sucked in a big breath of air to make himself look bigger, stronger. He opened his mouth to say yes, but found his throat dry, so he firmly nodded instead.
Sam leapt from the bed and reached underneath for his secret trunk. It was a big trunk, with locks and latches, so that the bad guys could never steal Sam’s valuables. He threw open the latches and pretended the last lock scanned his eye and thumbprints to open. The trunk
10 • bohemia • July 2012
The ride to the hospital was pretty quiet. Mrs. Leopold tried to make conversation, with a few words, such as, “It’s very nice of you to go with me, Sam. Suzzie will be thrilled to see you.” Later she said, “I also wanted to ask you if you could collect her school work for her? And maybe you could teach her the lessons; she seems to do better on her school work when she studies with you.” Sam only nodded to the things Mrs. Leopold said. He focused his eyes out the windshield, at the rain falling over the street and the town, washing away the muck of the day.
Wonderwoman is in trouble?
“Alright then, I’ll call Mrs. Leopold back. Be downstairs in five minutes, hun. And do not worry, baby. I am sure Suzzie will turn out just fine. The important thing is that the doctors caught it early.” She kissed Sam on the head and left the room.
picked up the ends of Sam’s cape, making it dance behind him as if he were flying. The air felt a little chilly and Sam could see his breath circle in a fog before his face, but the cold did not bother him.
than four-foot-seven, wore baggy khaki pants with big pockets and a plaid shirt, had brown eyes staring through scratched lenses of blackrimmed glasses, a carrot top of hair, and freckles all over its face. The red cape outlined the figure’s body. Sam blinked a few times, then he flexed, and then he stood proud with his hands on his hips, head tipped high. This looks like a job for Superman! It was still raining when Sam stepped out onto the porch to wait for Mrs. Leopold. The wind
He followed behind Mrs. Leopold with big stepping strides. His ears honed on the echoes of their footsteps along the cold marble floor; her clipping heels and his squeaking tennis shoes. He heard other noises too, voices floating out of the patients’ rooms. Doctors and nurses’ voices ejected into the hall discussing matters of cutting, injecting, and lubricating. The words made Sam cringe because they sounded sinister.
He heard the patients too, some crying, others moaning, one complaining of his itchy fanny. The whole scene made Sam uneasy. He nearly ran into the back of Mrs. Leopold when she stopped at room number 302. “Here we are,” she said in a low voice, “I’ll go in first to see if she’s awake. Then I’ll come get you, ok?” Sam nodded. He watched Mrs. Leopold disappear through the door and then he pressed his ear to hear. “How are you feeling, baby?” “Fine, mama.” Sam’s heart ached at the Wonderwoman’s weak voice.
sound
of
“That’s good to hear. You have a visitor waiting outside the door.” “Who is it?”
“Would you like some ice cream, baby?” asked Mrs. Leopold, breaking the awkward silence.
tightly to his chest. “What do you have in your bag?” she asked curiously.
Sam gave a slight jump, having forgotten the woman was still standing behind him.
Sam was surprised with himself. He had completely forgotten what he had brought with him. “Oh, I have a gift for you.”
“Chocolate, please,” answered Wonderwoman. “And for you, Sam?” “Chocolate is fine,” mumbled Sam, not really hungry, but neither wanting to be rude. When Mrs. Leopold left the room, Wonderwoman patted the bed. “Come sit by me.” Sam did. The bed barely sank with his additional weight. He starred at Wonderwoman. She was so pale, like she had been pulled from a frozen lake, except her lips were not blue. Her clothes were gone and she had on a white sheet with ties that went around her neck. Sam looked down at her hand. Her Wonderwoman insignia ring was gone, and in its place a pulse monitor. Sam’s eyes found the needle again, snugged into his friend’s arm. He cringed again.
Sam stepped away from the door when he heard Mrs. Leopold turning the lock. She quickly ushered Sam in and led him to the bed. “Does it hurt?” he asked. He stopped three feet “Not anymore. I can’t short of the frame, even feel it.” stunned at the sight “You’ll get better. I know in front of him. “It looks bad.”
you will. Superheroes
Sitting in this over“It is. I don’t like it. sized bed was a little But Mama said it will always get better.” girl no bigger than make me feel better.” him. She looked Sam clutched tight thin, tired, and there were dark circles under to his backpack. “You’ll get better. I know her pretty peaceful blue eyes. Her blond hair you will. Superheroes always get better.” His seemed lighter and less than before, thinning words fell out like rolling stones, stumbling in fact. In one hand she held tightly to a toy over one another as he tried not to sound weak action figure of Wonderwoman. The sheets or frightened. draped over her were a dun color, very nauseating, especially against her pale skin. “I feel better now that you’re here. This place Next to the bed was an IV stand, with a hose is scary. The doctors and nurses like to poke leading down to a needle in the girl’s arm. Sam and stick me with things. The first day I was felt goosebumps at the sight of the needle. He here, I hit the doctor.” She giggled at the felt uneasy about the sight of this girl. It was memory. his friend. It was Wonderwoman, but she did Sam laughed too, imagining her slugging out not look as super as she usually did, as super the doctor and knocking him to the floor with a as she did three days ago when the two of them POW! “Really? That’s so cool. Did you break were jumping from the swings and soaring his jaw?” through the air. “No, but he does have a bruise where I hit Sam’s eyes found hers. Wonderwoman’s face him.” lit up at the sight of him, exposing the hole “They did not know they were treating where her two front teeth should have been. Wonderwoman.” She leaned forward to sit up, but it proved too much of a struggle, and she laid back again on “Well, now they know.” her pillow. The two of them exchanged conversation “Hi, Superman,” she said, her voice filling with delight. She was happy to see him.
Sam did not know what to say or do. He had never been in a hospital before, let alone seen someone in this sort of condition.
and the more they laughed, the more they felt better, despite the knowledge of where they were.
Wonderwoman’s eyes beamed. “A gift? What is it?” Sam reached in his backpack and pulled out the nicely wrapped gift. The paper colors reflected in the sunlight, shining red, white, and blue on Wonderwoman’s face. She looked pretty like that. “I meant to get a card,” said Sam guiltily, “but I did not have enough money. I wish I had made one.” He shyly handed Wonderwoman the package. She happily took it, her pale cheeks blooming red with excitement, and ripped off the paper, fragments of stars and stripes twirling and falling to cover the bed and the floor. She stopped when she saw what she held in her hands. Her lips parted, and then her jaw dropped agape. It was a first edition of the very first Wonderwoman comic book, in mint condition, bagged and everything. A single tear of joy trailed down Wonderwoman’s cheek as her eyes scanned the cover. “Sam, this is so cool.” Her eyes shot up at him, filled with more joy and happiness then Sam had ever seen before. “Where did you get it?” “From Ernie’s Comic Book Store.” His eyes flitted to the book then back to her. “Do you like it?” “Of course I like it. This is the most awesome gift ever.” Sam smiled. He was glad he decided not to wait till her birthday, which would have been next week, but that seemed like too long a wait. And for some reason, he felt an uneasy fear that she may not be here next week. Sam never noticed her moving forward, that she was using all the strength she had to sit up and lean in towards him. When her lips pressed on his cheek, he felt himself go stiff and his face turned bright red and hot. Her lips were soft and sweet on his cheek, and after she fell back on her pillow in exhaustion, he wriggled his toes and felt like soaring through the roof. “Sam?” Suzzie looked at him with gentle satisfied eyes. Sam swallowed to wet his dry throat. “Yes?” “You really are Superman.”
It was not long before Wonderwoman noticed Sam’s bag and the way he was clutching it
July 2012• bohemia • 11
Lessons Flying { } by Joel Swanson
I
n a hundred years, everyone will be able to fly. Or so says my mother, anyway. Scientists will invent synthetic wings that can be attached to a person’s back, or something else that we can’t even fathom now. She says that at that time, no one will care about Superman anymore.
herself. “Didn’t you ever get jealous of him?” She cocks her head and pauses before responding. I ask, twirling whipped cream thoughtfully “I guess, when I was little, I did think about it. around my plate. “Didn’t you ever want to see Now that you mention it, I guess I did once ask if you had inherited any of his special talents?” him to take me with him atop a building. But your grandmother quickly disabused me of that She looks at me sharply, her eyebrows arched. notion. Before your grandfather could even “Women didn’t do things like that, in those days, reply, Mother took me back into the kitchen and you know. My job was to stay at home and look asked me to help her to clean. It was just what pretty and help my mom make sure that he had was done, you know?” a nice, clean home to come back to in between
Every so often, my mother takes out the dusty leather photo album from its perch on the shelf in the back of the basement. She flips through adventures. He was the one who had to go out it distractedly while sipping her earl grey tea, and fly. That wasn’t our job.” her eyes settling on some old faded picture of I frown, letting her statement settle on my lips. Superman leaping from the top of a skyscraper “You can’t be serious, can you? You’re telling in New York, or diving into the middle of a fire me that it never once occurred to you to try to to rescue a child or a kitten. Sometimes she’ll fly? Didn’t you ever ask Grandpa how he did it? look at the old news clippings, the endless Didn’t you ever ask him to show you?” editorials from the New York Post speculating on Superman’s true identity. She particularly enjoys the column arguing that Superman just has to be Dwight Eisenhower. Who else has that sense of justice, that level of superhuman daring, the columnist asks. My mother chuckles every time she reads it.
“So didn’t you ever resent him for that?” I ask immediately.
She shakes her head slowly. “He wasn’t any different from any other father in those days. Better than some, I imagine. We were always provided for, at least. He was just my father. Not anything more or less.”
Sometimes, when we’re eating dinner and we’ve finished discussing our days, I ask her to tell me stories about her childhood. I ask her how often she actually saw her father, whether it was hard to have to conceal her father’s identity from all of her friends, whether she or my grandmother ever resented him for overshadowing all of their accomplishments. Usually she just smiles wearily and rubs her creased forehead, murmuring something about how women in that day all had to make sacrifices for their families. She says she didn’t see herself as that different from her friends at school, who also had fathers who traveled overseas for business meetings or who stayed out late at night sleeping with prostitutes or living double lives as closeted gay men. Everyone kept secrets in those days, she said. Why should she see herself as any different? One night, over coffee and peach pie, I ask her if she ever wondered if she, too, could fly. I ask her if she thought it was genetic, if she was ever tempted to leap from the top of a skyscraper
12 • bohemia • July 2012
Illustration by Kerry Harris
She’s long since stopped wearing the S-shaped charm that my grandmother gave her, to remind her of her upbringing. Once upon a time, it brought her some attention, she said, but now it just weighs down her neck. No one even recognizes it anymore. She keeps it in a box on her night table, where it has sat for years. Occasionally she offers to give it to me, but I always decline. I would have nothing to do with it. So it sits, collecting dust, no one quite able to throw it away.
Photos by Eleanor Bennett
So I take her at her word, and we go back to eating our slices of pie. In time, I forget about the conversation. I go off to college, then get a job as a magazine copywriter. I stop thinking much about Superman. I call my mother a few times a month, but we never talk about her family. The subject hovers between us like raindrops, something beautiful and fragile that we can’t quite grasp. It comes a shock when I get the news. It probably shouldn’t, but it does. They’ve discovered my mother’s body, splayed out on the sidewalk in New York, dead by leaping from the top of a nondescript Midtown office building. The police
close off the scene and investigate, of course, but I know the outcome before they even begin. Suicide by jumping. Self-inflicted leap to her death. She may not have left a note, but I have no doubt.
intact. I finger it in my hands and wonder what sort of material it must be made from, to withstand such a fall. Maybe it was designed with this in mind.
For a second, I think about slipping it off what’s left of her neck, pocketing it, maybe taking it home with me. But then I think better of it. I bend down and rub the charm once more. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, letting the words settle on the cold tile floor. “I’m glad you finally got your chance to fly.” And then I notice it. The S-shaped charm, hanging around her neck. While the rest of her is barely recognizable, shattered and bloodied by the impact of the fall, the charm is remarkably I go and see her body immediately, of course. I bend down to look her over, one last time. I’m not quite sure what to feel, what to say, so I stand around in the morgue awkwardly, shuffling my feet.
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July 2012• bohemia • 13
HERO
by AK Amberg Shakespeare said, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” But Shakespeare died. See, it doesn’t take a devil to make hell. It just takes time. Lots and lots of time.
My name is Jackson Coy. I think I had a different name once and I think I’m from somewhere, but I don’t rightly remember either. Sure I had a mom and pop, but I’ve forgotten them as well. Lately, all I’ve been able to remember is the comic books I been reading. But I’ll forget those too. It’s the old ones I like best. The ones where Superman ain’t a real person. I mean he’s real and all, just not like everyone else. He shows up and saves the day. All the pretty ladies put their arms over their forehead like it’s hot out and they – what’s the word? – they swoon, right? But what I love is that his face never changes. He’s always got the same little smirk on. Like some kinda boyscout with his underwear in the front and a car lifted above his head. Those’re the good comic books, you know. Them new ones, all about how Supe’s got this big ole’ sadness. Cause he don’t fit in, you know. Don’t like them. They’re too real. It’s funny how being too good hurts. But then again, being too bad hurts just as much. I tried being Catholic once. Thought I could say a Hail Mary, a few All Fathers, and get out with a clear conscience. Problem was, prayers prayed over and over, they just become words said over and over. And when that happens, they just become noises made over and over. Over and over. That’s been a theme in my life. You’ve got a lovely little town here, really. But I don’t think you know half its worth. Trust me. I’ve seen a lot of towns. Seen about all there is to see. This little spot in the middle of a Texas atlas may not seem too big and fancy, but the only reason for that is because you folks don’t believe in it enough. See, I prefer to keep to the streets when I come through a place. Spent a lot around town here. Met some fine folks. Man named
14 • bohemia • July 2012
Jeremiah at the Sal gave me a place to sleep the first few nights I was here. He was the one who introduced me to the young lady my story’s about. Now I can’t tell you her name. That wouldn’t be safe for her. So I have the pleasure of giving her a new name. From now on, let it be Anastasia. Anastasia was a mighty fine beauty, and she was in the line of work that capitalizes on that sort of thing. First time I saw her after the initial introduction, I was coming from the Sal. I saw Anastasia on the street corner, barely visible in the glow of them flickering street lights all over town. She offered me her services. I declined. “So, what do you want from me?” she asked. “Oh, you know. Everything and nothing, really,” says I. “I don’t understand.” “It’s alright ma’am. Let’s just sit a spell. Have a talk.” But I could tell she looked worried. I asked her why. “Nothing.” she said. As she shrugged her shoulders, the strap of her blouse fell to the side. I reached over and picked it back up. Put back over her shoulder. Beautiful woman like that deserves some dignity. “It’s your boss,” says I. “You done owe him some money, so he’s been watching you.” “Is it that obvious?” “No’m,” I laughed. “But don’t you worry none about him. Let’s sit a spell. You look tired.” “I really can’t.” She blushed, like a lady charmed for the first time in her life, but I didn’t want to charm her. “I really can’t. That’s what you said to your little boy when he asked if you could stay in tonight. Also what you said to the man who’s putting you up, isn’t it? He asked for some bill money. You said you can’t.” Then came a long silence. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she had. Well I can tell you for sure that her and I sat down and had a talk that night. I reckon she went home feeling a little different. But she hadn’t been changed yet, see. Few nights later. Last night, actually, I done found her. Dumped all the money in my wallet in her shivering little hands. She looked at me, eyes all wild like a spooked horse. “Who are you?”
Photo by Eleanor Bennett
And I woulda told her, but that’s when the man who fancies himself her owner showed up. Name’s Marco. “The hell you doing talkin to my woman?” He shouted. “Just helpin her with the bills,” says I. “You mean helpin me with the bills,” says he. And then he says that Anastasia ought to give him the money cause she owes him. Calls her a name I didn’t take kindly to. “Excuse me, friend,” says I, “But the lady owes you nothin.” And it got worse from then out. Things get a little hazy, then. I remember more shouting about her owing money. More dirty names. I remember Marco pulling a knife. I remember Anastasia screaming. I remember the cold steel sinking into my gut. I remember reaching my hands out to Marco and holding his face. “This payment enough, friend?” says I, smiling and bleeding out my mouth. I remember Marco with fear in his eyes telling Anastasia she can keep the money for all he cares. I remember Marco running. Then I remember dying. Remember my heart stopping. Remember taking my last breath. Anastasia’s screams drowned out in cold death. I keep thinking about all them old Superman comics. He seems pretty happy, doesn’t he? Like it’s good to have superpowers. My superpower is that I don’t stay dead. Last night I bled to death. Saw it in the paper this morning, just after I woke up in my bed. Like I said, I don’t remember much. Been around as long as me, you start forgetting. All I can keep track of anymore is Superman. Superman and the folks who need saving. How happy he is to do it. That’s why I reckon it’s time to find another town. Reckon I showed up here. I’ll show up next wherever I show up. Don’t know if I’m far away or close to that next step. Reckon someone’s waiting, though.
Generations by Trevor Russell Smith
“One scoop of vanilla on a regular cone,” asked the man in the grey suit. He carefully took the treat in his hand along with some extra tissues. He began to stroll through the park. He really should’ve been at home, tending to his elderly father, but he needed some air after their fight. His father still resented him for joining “the force,” as he scornfully called it, but loathed him even more for quitting eight years in. He still wasn’t sure why his father was like this. Was it really that different growing up in the ‘50s? Was life back then really so simple, like all the comicbook superheroes, fighting against their archvillains? He shrugged and licked at the dripping cone.
as he moved away from the window. He lived with his son, although he preferred to call him by his given name to others. The boy consistently disappointed him. First he joined the police for thrills, not out of any sense of duty, and then quit, just when his career was taking shape. He reared his ungrateful wretch in the wake of the country’s best years. He had all the opportunities in the world and squandered them. For what? So he could shoot a gun and devour doughnuts? The boy should have gone to college. Such a wasted life. The old man shuffled into his room and stood in front of the dresser. He looked at a picture of himself when he was a teenager on the farm. He
His relatively brief experience with “the force” in the early ‘80s had shown him that things weren’t always as black and white as his father thought them to be. It was like something out of a film – a colorful career involving shifting allegiances on both sides, with no clear results except that crime continued on, as always. On his final day, during a sting, he shot a man who appeared to be pulling a gun on him. It was actually a badge. He turned out to be an undercover agent from another bureau. He died in the ambulance. Things were never simple. He envied his father for living in those days of obvious right and wrong. Had it been like that during his service, everything would’ve been much simpler. He began to shake his head but noticed a sticky white drop on his lapel. Panic washed over his face. He maniacally daubed tissue after tissue as he scrubbed at the offending smirch on his clothes. The man touched the small of his back to ensure the gun remained secure in his waistband, a crass habit from undercover work. When satisfied he forced himself, reluctantly, to look at the clouds and smile. He continued walking. Everything was in order, as it should be. His thoughts again turned to those memories, threatening a paralyzing fear, but with an effort learned from years of therapy, he turned them away. But what the hell, right? He was able to retire early with a decent pension and start enjoying life. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he had ice cream while walking in the park. The clouds were lifting. He noticed his neighbor helping his son fly a kite on the grassy hill in front of him. This man was new to the area, constantly exploring. If everybody had that same sense of wonderment in everything they did then perhaps more people would get along. The man seemed a bit overly affectionate with his adopted son, but maybe that was how their culture worked. He envied him for taking on and succeeding with such a great responsibility. ----“Damn foreigners,” said the old man to himself
would have gone to college himself, had he the opportunity. He was raised in a county where all the children from miles around were schooled in one large room. Between all the schoolwork, farm duties and being tormented from his older brothers, he’d hardly had any time to himself. His comic book collection was the only good company he had. He opened the top-left drawer and looked through his well read but preserved comics. He envied super-heroes and yearned to have that same sense of justice as they did against their villains. He gently touched his favorite comic. There were many lonely nights in his youth when nothing existed but a candle’s flame and his heroes. There were rows of old photographs atop the dresser, but none of his father. He had avoided duty and fled the draft during the war. This thought brought on a heavy frown and a furrow
to the old man’s brows. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as the one memory of his father’s weathered face stole into his mind’s eye. He desperately tried to evict him without opening his eyes. When the next war began, he was barely eighteen but knew he needed to fight for his country. He had to make up for his father’s weakness. He’d tried to enlist but was told he had a weak heart. What did those quacks know? He knew he could fight. He sighed, opened his eyes, and felt a serious migraine coming on. Because he could not fight for his country he was denied a formal education. He compensated by reading every book he could, with little outside direction. He started his own business, thanks in no small part to his brilliant self-education; married, and had his child. He gazed at the wedding photo of his wife. She died bringing that boy into the world; all for nothing. The kid lacked the courage to follow in his footsteps when he graciously offered to pass the business to him. He was instead forced to sell it for mere pennies. He had wanted to give it away, if only he could have found some good, honest Americans to give it to. His vision passed over a photo of his son and turned to one of his house when it was first built. Things had changed. Since retirement, he’d watched the community change from his front porch. Foreigners were invading and brought crime, poverty and destroyed the community. Nobody talked to each other anymore. He scowled as he remembered his new Chinese neighbor. This man adopted a young boy outside his race to encourage his own perversion. He often saw him kissing and hugging his adopted child. It was worse than anything that pervert Nabokov could have fantasized about. The old man was never treated that way during his upbringing, nor had he subjected his own son to such torturous affections. Why were the police not sorting this out? He tensed his fingers and ran them through his thinning, slicked back hair. The foreigners had probably infiltrated the police. The Chinaman needed to be dealt with, if only for the sake of that child. He again looked at his comics but lifted them aside and took out an aged steel case. The neighbor’s front door squeaked. The old man quickly moved to the window. The Chinaman was carrying a kite and his child with him to the car. He squinted through the blinds to have a look, grimacing. He went back to the drawer and opened the case, once more looking at his favorite comic. He extended his hand to touch it but hesitated. His face moved to resolution. The man took the loaded gun and got in his truck. While driving to the park he tucked his gun into his trousers in the small of his back and ensured it was secure. The weight of it felt good. Illustration by Shay Scranton
July 2012• bohemia • 15
Come Crashing Down by Amanda Rebholz
I.
We used to tie towels around our shoulders and jump on the mattress pretending we could fly; I was convinced that we could save the world from the bad guys and we would run faster than speeding bullets around the backyard, the dog yapping at our heels and our arms outstretched. You were Superman and I was Wonder Woman and the old neighbor man with the rake was a supervillain and we only had until dinner to foil his evil scheme. Our parents laughed that we’d get married someday once we got over our fear of cooties.
II.
When the world ended, it wasn’t with a virus or zombie apocalypse or a nuclear bomb. It was a phone call from the police, a cold room with a table and a small lump in a vinyl bag, a few signatures on a clipboard. I sat there numb and you cried so hard I thought they’d broken you.
III.
“She wouldn’t want this for us,” I try to say as I hold your plate over the trash can, dinner untouched, the scraping of the fork accusatory. You sit there stoic and quiet, your eyes glassy and distracted, your fingers worrying the edge of the tablecloth. A stack of unpaid bills next to the pepper shaker. A casserole in the fridge because people know you can’t think about cooking at Times Like These.
IV.
I can’t stand the silence in the house anymore, so I open the window and kneel on the sill. In scuffed Doc Martens and eyeliner running down my face I crouch there, listening to the city, car horns blaring, dogs barking, sirens wail. There is life out here, not the time-lapse agony of your stares. I don’t have a utility belt but there are ways around it. I step off the ledge and into the night. It’s clobberin’ time.
V.
I rescue cats from trees at first because I believe in starting small, although I guess to the cat it’s pretty monumental. After that I start setting fires so that I have an excuse to put them out. I string fishing line across pedestrian ramps so that I can swoop in and catch them before they hit the pavement. My plan to become immortal is working.
16 • bohemia • July 2012
VI.
They think I am a hero; the headlines spell out my accomplishments and I cut them out into a scrapbook that we can show our friends someday. They will insist that it can’t be me, that I am no girl wonder, and I will hold my hand up across my face hiding the upper half of my features and they will gasp in shock and awe as they realize that yes, I’ve been here the whole time. A modern miracle eating their Chex mix and drinking the last beer in their cooler. Saving the world is thirsty work. With great power comes great responsibility.
VII.
The day I talk the criminal down off that ledge the news crew announces that someone has come forward with my real identity. The live feed has a crawl at the bottom, my high school yearbook picture. Slowly the crowd below me begins to trickle away, their interest fading with my mystery. I sit down on the ledge and cry, makeup running behind my mask. After awhile I come down and walk home. No one looks at me anymore unless there’s pity in their eyes.
VIII.
“You told them, didn’t you?” I ask, standing in the doorway. You are hunched over my scrapbook, black and white pixels of my lifesaving abilities, wondergirl strikes again, is there nothing she won’t do to save the world? You look up, turn the page in the book. “You have to deal with this,” you say quietly, calmly. When did you become the voice of reason? “No,” I argue angrily, “you ruined everything. I save people. People are alive because of me!” You stare at me until I begin to shake and then my hands come up and remove the mask, set it to the side so that you can see my makeup-smeared eyes. My fingers untie the edges of the baby blanket around my shoulders, the hem embroidered with ducklings and the color the perfect match for the paint in our spare bedroom. “I was going to save the world,” I say, shaking and sobbing as I slide down until the floor is the only thing that separates me from my personal Hell. I can still see her, wobbly unsteady legs, wide smile, your eyes.
IX.
“It wasn’t your fault,” you say, turning off the news where they are replaying my stricken face, the newscaster. “It wasn’t either of ours.” I turn away from you, away from the window. Outside the night beckons. People out there don’t need me anymore though. They know that there is no magic here. I mouth her name like a mantra, touch my mask. I couldn’t even save my own world. How could I save theirs?
X.
I lay in the bed, unmoving. No food, nothing. My eyes fixed on the wall, the distant memory of her laugh, of the dreams we had for her. No one prepares you for this. There’s a soft thud on the mattress and my mask lays there, empty eyeholes gazing up at me from where you tossed it. I look up and see you, eyes obscured in black, a towel tied around your shoulders. You hold out her baby blanket to me in offering. I hesitate, then sit up, knot it around my neck. The mask hides our faces from the people who look at us wondering what it feels like to go through this. “Are you ready?” you ask, crouching on the windowsill of the nursery like a natural. Every superhero needs a sidekick. We launch into the night, arms outstretched, pretending that you are Superman and I am Wonder Woman and she is still alive.
Illustration by Courtney Woodliff Balko
Photos by Jessica Randazzo
July 2012• bohemia • 17
Shay Scranton by Dominik Young
O
ne common theme presented in superhero fiction is evolution. From the astonishing mutants in the X-Men franchise to the ordinary people with extraordinary powers in NBC’s Heroes, evolution is a theme that shows how something simple can gradually become complex. While they might not have superpowers, artists in general go through their own personal changes. Such as the case with Shay Scranton.
EVOLUTION
OF AN ARTIST
called “Shay Scantron”. He was annoyed at first with this new name, but would later embrace it as it became synonymous with his style of DJing electronic music. For Shay, “it just made sense at the time. When you think of Scantron, you think of something electronic.” His beginning with electronic music happened in seventh grade, when a friend recommended listening to “Fat of the Land” by Prodigy in his sister’s car. At the time, Shay was a grunge music fan and still a punk-rocker at heart. Once he got hooked into Prodigy, Shay started studying other innovators of the growing ‘90s Electronica/Trip-Hop scene
For Scranton, his evolution started in the field of art. This “first stage” was ignited the moment he looked at a childhood drawing on his grandmother’s refrigerator. Scranton saw a deeper meaning within his simple drawing – an insight that caused his grandmother to encourage him to learn more about art. As Shay began to look through his grandmother’s art books, it was the classical artists that caught his attention. He says he felt something of a spiritual bond with one in particular: Pablo Picasso. Shay loved how the Spanish artist interpreted things in his own way. During the Photo by Steven Ruud heyday of the comic book industry, Shay felt such as The Chemical Brothers, The Crystal that same connection to Mark Bagley, Spawn Method, and especially Fatboy Slim. It was creator Todd McFarlane, and Tank Girl’s Jamie the punk rock aesthetic and the sampling that Hewlett (who would later create the animated attracted him. band Gorillaz). Like Picasso, these artists were groundbreaking to Shay because they pushed As he began to experiment with this type of creative boundaries and interpreted the world music, Shay found that he had a talent for through a unique lens. In time, Shay came to creating new sounds. “DJing isn’t about mixing appreciate a number of other artistic mediums – music. It’s about creating something out of the especially graffiti art. However, this was not the parts you can find.” In essence, he was building “musical sculptures.” In order to progress, though, last of Shay’s evolution. he needed more than his own creativity. “I want Remember that evolution is a process with to get my style infused with some other people’s steps involved. Thus, we have the “second style,” he lamented. In time, Shay helped form stage.” This time it’s in the field of music – more the Waco City DJs – a trio whose purpose specifically, DJing. Shay would also get a new was exposing Waco to the electronic scene. identity to go along with this change. In third Performing under the name DJ Scantron, Shay grade, when schools started using scantron joined Justin “DJ Decent” Horrell and Brian tests, a classmate of Shay pointed out that his “DJ Rocksteady” Fillmore to make the Waco last name was an anagram. After that, Shay was
18 • bohemia • July 2012
City DJs a pillar of the town’s electronic scene. Baylor-area coffeehouse Common Grounds and downtown Waco’s Treff’s Bar & Grill were mainstays of the trio. After the Waco City DJs disbanded, Shay decided that he wanted other artists to build their own musical sculptures with his original music. “I want to be the one who made the tracks that other DJs are playing.” So he’s been working on a hip-hop project called the Disregardians, in which he creates beats to be sampled. While Shay still makes music, he’s also made a return to his first passion, art, as a commercial artist. You can see his art at Common Grounds, and more recently at the Waco Downtown Farmer’s Market. It is his most ambitious project to date that leads to the third stage of his evolution: Dead Horse. Dead Horse is a webcomic that Shay is doing with Jeremy Mercer, former manager of Baylor’s own Dancing Bear Pub. It is a post-apocalyptic zombie comedy that breaks the “Z-word Rule,” a trend made popular by the genre savvy movie Shaun of the Dead. The webcomic can be described as “Mad Max meets The Walking Dead meets the Gorillaz.” (You can find it online at www.supportyourlocalvigilantes.com.) In all of his projects, Shay strives to create art and music that forces people to reinterpret the rules and boundaries of each – and, hopefully, themselves. In the near future, Shay would love to see his art brought to life. Therefore, he’s going into the next stage in his evolution: filmmaking. “I would love to see my characters in motion, moving across the screen, interacting with each other and their environment; but above everything, I just want to tell my stories on film or in animation.” How far will this artist evolve? Only time will tell.
July 2012• bohemia • 19
Warp Holes, Double Parallels, and Superheroes by Mandy Bray
Photos by Steven Rudd
Rodriguez’s career path as a cartoonist, however, was lined with obstacles. One year, he lived on only $3,000 while trying to get by with comic book gigs. “I lost 50 pounds that year,” he says. “That was just me struggling to get to the point where I wanted to be.
Warp holes, double parallels, superheroes— this is the world Robbi Rodriguez inhabits. Lots of kids start out doodling in the back of a classroom, but not many grow up to do it for a living. One of those few is Waco-native Robbi Rodriguez. Rodriguez is a cartoonist for Vertigo Comics, a subsidiary of DC Comics with a knack for giving the fantastic and the offbeat an accessible feel. Rodriguez, a University High School graduate, grew up in the heart of the Waco projects. “It’s a small, blue-collar type of town, you know,” Rodriguez remembers. “It’s, you know, just trying to be a kid around drug dealers and drive-bys. A lot of these gang members, they’re like really hard into comics, and hanging out in the comic book store, you can be really engulfed in their culture for a bit. Then they’d say, ‘ok, you go do you’re thing, we’re going to go smoke crack for a while.’” Rodriguez spent much of his youth at house parties on Waco’s North Side and perusing Golden’s Books comic section. “I would just keep my head down, and keep working on my books to bring those life experiences into my work.” After high school, Rodriguez studied Commercial Art at TSTC, but found that he wasn’t challenged enough. He began corresponding with another cartoonist originally from Waco, and in 2003 made the move to Los Angeles to “have a broader view of the world,” he explains.
20 • bohemia • July 2012
Recently relocated to Portland, Rodriguez is legally blind, so he has to use a special digital device to draw on to alleviate stress on his eyes. Even as a more established cartoonist, Rodriguez draws for 18 hours a day and only sleeps four hours per night. “You sacrifice a real life for your work,” he says. “I have a vision, and I really want to go for it. It’s a very long, excruciating process to get to that point. You sacrifice a lot of sleep and time… If you really want to draw comics, you absolutely have to love it.” And love it, he does. Some of Rodriguez’s earlier work includes Oni Comic’s Maintenance series, Stephen Colbert’s Tek Jansen, and Hero Camp. In addition to his latest project, a new series called Colliders, with Vertigo Comics, he has his own webcomic called Frankie, Get Your Gun. Unlike Colliders, where he works with a writer and publisher to create a final product, with Frankie, Get Your Gun, Rodriguez handles aspect of the comic, from conception to writing to self-publishing. Frankie, Get Your Gun is an “acid western,” a black-andwhite comic with a pulp novel feel. In his own words, it’s a “70s revenge tale set in a Cormac McCarthy book on a distant planet in a alternate universe.” Collider is a sci-fi series, full of crazy scientific theories including time loops, gravity failures, and quantum tornadoes. “I try to bring the common man into these characters I draw,” explains Rodriguez. “It’s kind of like I’m telling these extraordinary stories but in a Bruce Springsteen type of mentality, with every man’s trial and tribulation they go through with something like X-Force.”
Rodriguez finds himself applying different aspects of his personality and background into different characters. “Frankie, it’s my own violent sin and revenge. With Colliders, it’s looking at the physics of the world, and seeing that there’s a lot greater aspects of the world than what we see. It’s literally taking layers of your own psyche and your own personality and literally, on paper, analyzing it. You’re going to understand yourself better as a whole, because you put so much of yourself on that paper.” Ultimately, Rodriguez would like to focus exclusively on his own comics, such as Frankie, Get Your Gun. “I’m at the point right know where I draw because I have to for a living, but I would love to be at the point where I can draw what I want to, and not just to get a paycheck,” he says. Film animation may also be on his horizon. Rodriguez has also taken on some smaller projects with a Waco connection. Local band Married with Sea Monsters has just finished a concept EP album based on his comics, for which he designed the cover art. “I grew up around comics, and I’ve always wanted to do storytelling and with the layout of comics, it’s the best way to do it,” he emphasizes, “All you need is a pen and a piece of paper, and you’re set to go.”
July 2012• bohemia • 21
Toxy by Isis Lee
R
unning faster than I ever ran in my life, I began feeling the effects of the toxic sludge that fell on my skin. It began to cause a reaction, a reaction that had me running. I suddenly felt more alive than ever. As the cold breeze hit me, the burns on my flesh received a refreshing sensation. My only thought was to to escape and make it home before someone had the chance to report anything to the police. I had to avoid the blame for the mistake I made back at the laboratory. With darkness hiding me, I made it to my home and somehow managed to do so without drawing attention to myself. I closed the blinds and curtains to my twobedroom home. On the outskirts of town, it had always seemed inconveniently located. Now, I found comfort in knowing that I had privacy. My life as a chemical engineer and nuclear researcher for the U.S. military was a quiet one. The thick chemical sludge was starting to have some kind of effect on me. My body 22 • bohemia • July 2012
temperature was rising, and my breathing became more erratic. The muscles in my body burned, and it took all my strength to push through the sense of panic I was feeling. I was alone, the emotion rising in me. The living room was broken and smashed by my own hands. I slammed the door to my bedroom. The reverberation of my own screams seemed to shatter the sound barrier. I awoke the next morning to find the clothes ripped from my body. Bits of fabric clung to me by sweat alone. I couldn’t recall the night, but I knew I was lucky to have survived it. As I walked down the hallway, I was shocked by the disheveled state of my most precious belongings and the splintered pieces of what I had done the night before. There was a faint hint of light beginning to shine through the thick living room curtains, and I began to walk slowly to my window. I was curious to see what, or who, was waiting for me outside. Perhaps, by this time, the U.S.
Government had time to surround my home and was now positioned, waiting for me to emerge, ready to obtain my capture. I could just imagine them lined up with tanks and dozens of military men ordered to capture the contaminated specimen. I pulled the curtains back. The image before my eyes can only be described as the most peaceful day I had ever seen, with a clear sky beyond the window pane of my cozy little house. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No militia waited to escort me to some underground fortress. I decided to take a shower and plan my next move. I would go back to the lab, and blood work would be the first order of business. The shower was exactly what my body needed. I hadn’t felt that refreshed in a long time. I had never been the kind of person who took the time to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. I passed my hand along the surface of my bathroom mirror to clear away some of the steam that had obscured
my reflection. There I stood, staring at the person I should have recognized. Instead, I saw someone who appeared to be unfamiliar, yet new. The texture of my skin seemed softer and smoother. My complexion had a rare delicacy different than my typical dry and neglected skin. Despite the fact that it was wet, my hair retained a level of volume that was unnatural. Other parts of my body seemed more pronounced as well. My breasts seemed firmer and slightly fuller. The muscle definition and tone in my body was that of someone who spends hours on end in the aerobic circuit. Even my eyes showed a new level of confidence and appeal. I felt as alive and vibrant as a woman should feel, and now fully satisfied with what my reflection was revealing. Could it be possible that yesterday I was a shy, overlooked, nuclear waste researcher who could not even get a guy to notice me, and too often referred to as a nerd? Is the mirror an illusion or am I dreaming? Is it possible that today I am this creature exuding confidence and femininity like only I had seen in Botticelli’s Birth of Venus? I strolled nonchalantly up to the main entrance of my laboratory, trying to avoid suspicion The knot in my stomach was growing. I had to cover up the evidence. I went in and proceeded to examine a sample of my blood for abnormalities. There was nothing out of the ordinary on a cellular level. In fact, as far as I could tell, my blood work was normal. Unexpectedly, a door
swung open behind me. “Hey Sheila, you’re up early, although that doesn’t surprise me.” Brent was the new intern who was finishing up the final hours towards his degree in chemical engineering. He was looking to build his resume by working in our lab through the summer. “Hi Brent, how are you today? I was just finishing up looking at some tissue samples. Don’t worry I was actually heading out soon.” Would he notice that I am no longer the nerd I used to be? I smiled and laughed in a new way. I had newfound courage to flirt with Brent, even though I hadn’t spoken more than a few words to him these past few weeks. Brent seemed taken aback, yet we delved into light conversation. After a few moments, Brent cocked his head and said, “You know, Sheila, when we were first introduced -- you definitely seemed, uh, shy? I don’t mean to offend you, but I thought for sure you were the kind of woman who definitely needed to get out of the office and hit the happy-hour. Every time I saw you, it was all business. I thought you needed to relax.” I shrugged coyly and went back to cleaning my station. Brent had a point. I felt Brent staring at me, even with my back turned. I could sense that he wanted me. Instead of panicking and feeling inadequate, I felt myself swell with contentment and confidence. This power I had was somehow grabbing his attention. I smiled inwardly
and turned to face him again. I slowly walked up to him and stared directly into his eyes. I said words that would make the old Sheila recoil in embarrassment. I said, “You know what Brent, you’re right. Maybe I do spend too much time working. Maybe it’s time you get to know me better. So when is the next happy hour?” He smiled at me and I took a step closer to him, but I didn’t say a word. I began to lean in towards his ear to whisper something. Instead, I decided to give his earlobe a little nibble. I got home late that night, and it wasn’t until I was back at my place that I realized how out of the ordinary the evening had been. Yet, I allowed this newfound sense of self to engulf me and my mind wandered back to the moments of pleasure. I had discovered another side of my womanhood, a provocativeness that could captivate a man’s interest with one look, one solitary movement. I had spent the last few hours making love to Brent. I could not deny that what had changed was my confidence as I became aware of my powers to draw in a man. I was a woman, and I was in complete control. Photos courtesy of Lone star Pin-Up. Blood and Glitter Make-up did hair and make-up on Erin Shephard as Wonder Woman and model Lady Scarlett as Poison Ivy and Leeloo. Wonder Woman costume courtesy of Sew She Said. Laura Marley models as Black Widow and Erin Shephard models as Cat Woman.
July 2012• bohemia • 23
Death of Superman by Devin Stroud All of my superpowers are useless and do not bring me love. I am a ghost that died. Penned in spirit onto ether are my thoughts. I was buried in the air and share heaven with the birds. My funeral procession was traffic. I scream from the grave and the wind says my name. My fortress of solitude gets a bit lonely at times. Illustrations by Devin Stroud
Combing my spectral hair seems unimportant. Dawning my mirage cape just makes me sad. But i do it anyway, for you.
Graying in My Life by Michael Lee Johnson Graying in my life Illustration by Autumn Northcraft
growing old
24 • bohemia • July 2012
like a stagnant bucket of rain water with moss floating on the topOh, it’s not such a bad deal, except when loneliness
catches you chilled in the middle of a sentence by yourselfticking away like an old grandfather clock, hands stretched straight in the air striking midnight like a final prayer.
The Grace Of What Comes After by Laura F. Walton And when there are no villains left to explain away the pop! and wow! of all that endless loss, another night will close on you as usual. The day’s deeds will be already growing stale as you fold your cape and put your gloves away and the cat is snoring from his end of the sofa, dreaming of, what, flying squirrels? Tuna? Your bare hand on his flank? There’s nothing you’ll be able to trade for it, this night and its small reminders: you are not now what you once were. A kind of light will slide into place, a shadow heavy like transmuted gold. Your body’s your own for a little while, see, and your heart will beat steady as heroes: thank you, thank you, thank you.
Illustration by Steffany Bankenbusch
Siren Song by Cynthia Barrios
Fear me I am the eater of souls, devourer of dreams I will rip the aching dullness from your mind I will heal you, fulfill you Destroy you Bring you the happiness of opium and ether Breathe life into the sallow red dawn But the price for everything is everything For creation, annihilation Do you dare? I asked if you dared, mother fucker That is my power. I am sorry. I will save you, end you Oh my darling, listen to my song We’ll see how brave you are
Illustration by Lala Bohang
July 2012• bohemia • 25
BoHo Noir
26 • bohemia • July 2012
Models: (clockwise from left) Savannah, Brett, Serena, Amy, Jordan, and Lindsey. All makeup and hair by Amy Cook except Lindsey Ebert styled by Belladonna Treason.
A Re-Creation of Everything in memory of W. Eugene Smith by Bruce Lader 821 6th Ave NYC, aroma of marijuana floats the stairway next to Gene’s graffiti mural where anyone anytime from anyplace can step up into the universe of this 4th floor firetrap loft he’s miked, boards creak, cats caterwaul, as he photographs pedestrians from the window, umbrellas like drum high hats, tapes Art Taylor & Ron Free tapping like rain, then Dalí and Mailer drop by, time bridges ghosted notes to 4 a.m. in stroll Sam Jones & Bill Takas who lay down bass beats, Monk noodles piano with Hall Overton & Zoot swings the cool tones of Konitz, Roland plays a lick on three saxes one solo, then they really get into something— Gene fast forwards to Long John Nebel’s flying saucer radio program, telephone & street talk, baseball game, he snaps Swallow in a mirror, Wingy wailing trumpet, Dickenson taking five with Pee Wee, rewinds to Tennessee’s Camino Real, Millay reciting, ferried back and forth all night with her lover.
Fashion planning by Serena Teakell courtesy of clothes by B. Joy Bijoux Couture Style Vintage Boutique Photography by Cynthia Wheeler.
July 2012• bohemia • 27
The attic diary in the house of the missing
By Stanley Morris Noah I was told Edna St Vincent Millay once lived here. Yeah, thinking maybe, maybe not as I walked inside, pink painted walls still clinging but fading. Must had been her special room for lovers, many lovers. Is her life summed up as just lovers and poems like so many digits? Yes. And it’s all in that one little space of pages, now turning like a slow fan, turning on and off. The window light is yellow, a strong breeze through her red hair, wet blue bold ink, moving words, her voice, voices written down, hot and bothered, slanted, erotic and awkward. Then suddenly she’s gone. No ghost here, only memories touching like eloquent curves without angles like rooms connected with open doors; like a poem still searching for its next line, never knowing how it shall end, but always does on the far page, too close. Even the desk dust smells like fresh grains of coffee like cigarettes burning, burning their lipstick smoke, coming, going, rising. Her thin golden waist chain, hidden
28 • bohemia • July 2012
Model: Serena. Makeup and hair by Amy Cook. Fashion planning by Serena Teakell courtesy of clothes by B. Joy Bijoux Couture Style Vintage Boutique. Photography by Cynthia Wheeler.
Choshi by C.S. Fuqua
I dreamt of Choshi, of late-season cherry blossoms, but woke to find neighborhood trees bare, cars hissing past, faces shielded behind tinted glass, the world gray, winds whispering toward spring, a bottle of wine, petals of white drifting to settle in the hair of friends and lovers and children.
Model: Amy. Makeup and hair by Amy Cook. Fashion planning by Serena Teakell courtesy of clothes by B. Joy Bijoux Couture Style Vintage Boutique. Photography by Cynthia Wheeler.
July 2012• bohemia • 29
Intimate Attitude 508 Lake Air Dr. Waco, TX 76710 254-235-2295 Corsets and Lingerie Party Supplies Adult Novelties Specializing in Plus Sizes
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916 S. Valley Mills Dr. Waco, TX 76711 254-732-4868 30 • bohemia • July 2012
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Drifter Pushing a Cart Past Long Beach Plating Company
By Jeffrey Alfier Who could swear that we, like him, will not fade into the machinery of another’s scheming. What, if anything, will survive us any longer than the spent smokes we fling each day into windblown corners of closed and rundown businesses? Through the scratched lens of glasses he looks toward the harbor, mindless streets off, where ships churn rudders of commerce beyond docks and refineries crowded against the chasmal Pacific. From an open door in a café he hears waitresses and truckers share laughter within, listens to rain begin to splatter on windshields of passing trucks, tilts an ear toward the glissando notes of a rescue mission choir, a hymn ascending roofs of machine shops, tool cribs, and a waitress pulling shut the café’s entry door, so tightly not a single word can escape.
Models: Jordan and Brett. Fashion planning by Serena Teakell courtesy of clothes by B. Joy Bijoux Couture Style Vintage Boutique. Photography by Cynthia Wheeler.
July 2012• bohemia • 31
Mark Bailey Insurance & Financial Services 6515 Sanger Avenue Suite 17 Waco, TX 76710
254.772.0060 mboutdoor@aol.com
ArtForum
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Sew Fashions Confident & Alterations Sherry Collins, Owner 254.652.6724 3101-E Beale, Bellmead, Tx 76705 sewconfident.1128@yahoo.com Tue-Fri 10:30a-6:00p, Sat 11:00a-6p
2
Hippies Project
Custom Painting interior-exterior painting repairs venetian plaster antiquing and distressing
InSpiritry Putting Words to Work For a Better World
S
Anne McCrady
Mark Kieran Jr. 254-855-6612 mdkieran@att.net
www.2hippiesproject.com 32 • bohemia • July 2012
Select Art Studios Available
Poet, Storyteller, Speaker, Consultant www.InSpiritry.com Facebook/AnneMcCrady annemccrady@InSpiritry.com
waiting for
PAYDAY
in south
CHICAGO By Jeffrey Alfier
Sometimes a sole figure will tramp through the alley beyond her kitchen window, the face covered by sweatshirt hood, watched from disheveled table and chairs where she shifts between pantry and sink, one strap of her yellowing nightgown slipped down a shoulder, pinned-up auburn hair untamed, wiping a skillet, preparing breakfast for her unshaven lover nude under course blue sheets on a canted, pull-out bed, glow of a digital clock inches from his face as he reaches for his hash pipe, and taped above the bathroom light switch a drawing of Jesus, a corner of it lifted by a breeze through the kitchen window that carries the musk of damp roses growing wild on the broken pavement.
Photos by Cynthia Wheeler
July 2012• bohemia • 33
Doctor Meson's Quantum Rifle by William Akin
Fortunate Son: You finally have me right where you want me and this is what you have in mind? A rifle? I must say, it’s beneath you, Meson. Doctor Meson: Now, now, after all of these years doesn’t our rivalry deserve a bit more than just that, a bullet in your head? Oh, it will be more than one bullet of course. Still, you are right. Mere bullets would be too simple, too
Model Keke Noir
Photos by Pat Jones
much of a Newtonian torture for you to endure. I have something else in mind. It’s amazing what one can do these days with a few quarks and a willingness to spin the conventional wisdom. He takes aim at the Fortunate Son and the rifle clicks as if it were empty. mouth full of teeth and pennies sirens from the television baby crying in the family room
she likes it down here on the linoleum soothing, cool against her chipped eye socket blood on his wedding ring spitting drunk and sloppy angry shotgun in one hand beer bottle in the other then tossed at her head she would scream but no one hears, no one ever comes he is a straddling shadow in the harsh light above, looking down sweat and cologne, the scent of his anger the baby is still crying the barrel is warm against her temple Doctor Meson: My, my, that was a good one. I had never even thought of that one. Weren’t you pitiful? Fun, fun, fun! He is laughing and leaping up and down, excited as child. The Fortunate Son tries to clear the fog of confusion from his head, seeks a mental point of reference. He struggles to stand, but the world is a moving train beneath his feet. Meson cocks the gun and the trigger clicks again. the boy can see his shoe right there almost-can’t reach it a black boot kicks it aside his shoe, his foot, and most of his leg a stump he buries his fingers in the dirt and sand trying to crawl forward black boot grinding them even deeper bones snapping, he screams for god’s mercy
34 • bohemia • July 2012
chants a prayer as goes about alleviating what pain or danger he is able. A demon approaches and he ignores it, continues on with his labors. A stick is pointed at his face. The medicine man pushes it aside. The demon screams demon words that make no sense to the holy man. Once more, he pushes the stick from his head. The demon knocks him to the ground, atop the corpses of two other men. He continues his chanting until the stick is thrust into his mouth. 1) Right shoulder 2) Right Thigh 3) Left shoulder answered and stifled by a heel to the mouth a leather glove, a silver pistol the boy can see the truth right there almost-can’t reach it the muzzle flashes in silence 2 or 4 or when and where and who shoots? The Fortunate Son is tangled and unwoven, his mind and body disconnecting then coming back together only to separate again. He can see Meson and his rifle, a plume of smoke the color of spring lightning drifting from the barrel. His shoulder is numb and his hand is wet with blood from his own hip. Part of his mind lingers in the desert, part of his spirit still suffering beneath a soldier’s boot like a butterfly dreaming it is a man. He blinks it away in time to see Meson pulling the bolt back, squeezing the trigger once more and-click. There are many worlds, usually separate, but now and again they overlap and blur into one other like the autumn fog through the trees, the medicine man tells himself. From his cliff side aerie he watches as the demons, scaled and silver trout in the moonlight, swirl through the village below. Arrows fall from their flesh as if meeting with stone. The spirits and protectors ignore his rituals, turn away his requests and offerings. He looks at the drum and sage in his hands and makes a decision, casts them both into the fire before descending the old path from his retreat back down into the land of The People and walking through the melee, surrounded by the demons on grotesque steeds with nostrils steaming in the cold of a harvest night. They wield powerful magic, thunder and lightning, fire and death, but there is little fear left in his old bones. The bravest warriors are trampled and the heads of the children bashed against rocks. Only the women are spared. He
That is the score, the Fortunate Son thinks. He is back in his own head but still reeling from the sensation of bilocation. Meson’s laugh helps to anchor him to this reality. He tries to stand but falls, weak from loss of blood. Just a little space to maneuver, the tiniest moment to act, and perhaps he could find a way out, but Dr. Meson grants no quarter. Trigger click. First Man: This, this is just business, Frankie. Nothing personal, you know. Second Man: Always quick on the draw aren’t you Tommy, even with a cliché. It’s vindictive, that’s what it is. I just wanted out of this, a little peace and quiet in my life, is all. First Man: You know what you sound like, Frankie? You sound like that woman who took the snake home and got bit. Second Man: You’ve got a million of ‘em, don’t you Tommy? Let me see, black shirt, white tie, taking me to the pier. It’s gotta be cement shoes, right? First Man: And that’s just why it’s come down to this Frankie. You can’t keep your big mouth shut. Nobody likes a wise guy, if you will pardon the pun. We happen to be at the docks because I like the blended perfume of the ocean and diesel fuel. I find it comforting, as my father was a longshoreman. Second Man: What? For a minute, just think about it Tommy. Why are we doing this? How did we get here, to this point?
wasn’t even sure who was who, myself. This little experiment is turning out to be quite the game of dice after all, like shooting craps with God. I guess I should just get it over with. Not that I’m opposed to poking holes in your body and being all night long, mind you, but it’s just a matter of numbers before eventually the multiverse will come up with a world where our roles are completely reversed. Now, we can’t have that, can we? Besides, it’s nearing ten o’clock, well past tea time and my cat must be just famished by now, all alone and confused in his little box. I’ve been practicing my maniacal cackle for this sort of scenario. I hope it adds to the ambience of your final moments. He lowers the quantum rifle and squeezes the trigger. A radio plays in the kitchen, a transistor straining out nine-volt disco tunes. The kid paces the diner, dark now except for the blue and red flashing of cop cars outside. He stands over the unmoving waitress and shoots her once more, for safety’s sake, through the back of her head. His hand drags along the countertop, across coarse grains of salt and sugar as he crosses to the corpses of the two male patrons and sinks one more shot into the skull of each. The dishwasher’s body is slumped over the deep sink. A point blank shot sends it sliding to the tile. The floor around the cook’s still form is slippery with blood and grease and the kid slides, losing his footing for a second, maybe two. Sometimes, despite the randomness of it all, the world provides us with the conditions for success, for life and freedom and all that we need bring is our own careful thought and impeccable timing. The cook sweeps the kid’s stumbling legs from beneath him, is on top of him the moment his head strikes the ground. He struggles for control of the rifle barrel as the kid fumbles for the trigger. They both succeed. The cook pries the gun from the kid’s dead hands and the world swirls around them and fades away. Reality coalesces, like the settling dew, over the two rivals, Dr. Meson’s breath rattling and bubbling with blood and the Fortunate Son trying to retain consciousness long enough to tie his own tourniquets.
First Man: Always the philosopher, ain’t you Frankie? How about I give you little irony to ponder, then: I’m gonna shoot you with your own gun. Second Man: That’s not ironic at all, Tommy. Sure, maybe it’s contrived and stilted poetic justice, but hardly irony. First Man: (shoots Frankie) 4) Left hip, close to the profunda femoris, he supposes. Doctor Meson: Now that was a close one; I
Illustration by Steffany Bankenbusch
July 2012• bohemia • 35
Oddy and Manny’s Adventure Photos by Pat Jones
by Jim McKeown with apologies to Homer
Model Keke Noir
Oddy wakes up and tries desperately to remember what happened last night. He could only recall something about sleeping in a tree. Penny was there, and he remembers his calloused hand on her smooth belly as the baby kicked. His homecoming had been raucous. Oh, yes. The party. Fortunately he made it home before the baby arrived. A few days off would fix things nicely. He rummaged in the fridge and came up with some cold dish of one sort of helper or another with hardly a trace of refrigerator smell. Not his favorite breakfast, but it would do. He barely finished his first spoonful, when the phone rang. The Caller ID announced “Manny,” his best friend since, well since too long to remember. Oddy had become skillful at avoiding phone conversations, and this time, he was torn. A call from Manny so early could only mean one thing: Manny was in a jam. How can I not help him? “Yellow.” “It’s Manny.” Obviously Manny had not brought his phone system into the 21st century. Oddy had given up the response, “Yes, I know. I see your name and number.” “What’s up? And the answer is now, my eyes are too bloodshot for a vampire, and I am dead tired.” “Helen is stranded down in Troy.” “So let her call a cab” “She doesn’t have enough gold with her. Come on, Ody, my car won’t make the trip. I need your help.” “Last night I saw the Eagles beat the Cowboys up in Dallas. That’s the story. I am wiped out, and I ain’t goin’ nowheres today.” “Ah, man! I told you not to go to that stinkin’ game!” “I only get to see the Eagles once a year. I couldn’t pass it up.” “You gonna make me beg, Dude? I need your help. Helen needs your help. Some jerk in a rundown garage won’t take her check. He doesn’t take plastic, and he won’t give her the car until he sees some cold, shiny drachmas.” “You do know I can see when you call, so this is the last time I answer the phone for you.” Like I haven’t said that forty-four times before. “I guess I have to come pick you up, too?” “You be the best man! I won’t forget! Someday, you’ll need my help.” “Yadda, yadda, yadda! days.”
I’ll be there in three
“Great! I’m all ready. I’ll be outside by the curb.”
36 • bohemia • July 2012
*
*
*
With the muck from the fridge still roiling in his stomach, he backs 1968 Cadillac convertible out of the driveway and heads to “palace” as Manny calls it. Ody says “palatial dump,” but he is too smart not to let Manny have a few illusions. True to his word, Manny is at the curb, and he jumps into “The Boat” as they refer to the Caddy. “Don’t you ever use a car door? They do work.” “Yea, yea, let’s go. Helen is on the verge of tears.” So what else is new? Ody resisted getting married about as well as he resists Manny’s cries for help. But Helen. Phew! She was a first class, world class 10-1/2 beauty. What on earth does she see in Manny? *
*
*
“I can lend you the money? Also ain’t gonna happen. Hey, we’re getting close to Troy. Where is this place?” “I’m not sure. Get off here and we’ll ask.” They pull into a ramshackle diner for directions. Early in the morning, and already a cloud of smoke from the grill wafts all around them. Ody says, “Are they sacrificing a whole bull on that thing?” They go inside to get out of the smoke, and the diner is empty – except for an old timer sitting at the counter. “Hey fella, can you tell us how to get to Hector’s garage? The old man swivels on his seat and his eyes are clouded over with cataracts as white as his hair and beard.
They head south on I-35, and as they cross the Brazos River in Waco, Manny starts up with his idea for a boat trip on the river. He has been talking up this idea for ages. “That water reminds me…”
He snorts up some phlegm, and says, “Sure. You want the fast way, the easy way, the way sure to get you lost, or the best way?”
“Yea, I know, the boat trip. A wonderful idea… except for a few minor details.”
“Well, if I was y’all, I wouldn’t have left the inner state at this exit. But seein’ as how you did, you can’t go with easy. I’ll hafta give ya the best.” He snorted again and let out the weirdest laugh they had ever heard. “But why don’t you set a spell, and try some of the best barbycue in Texas, whilst I gather my thoughts and memories.”
“Oh yea? Like what?” “Well, let’s see. You don’t know diddly squat about boats, you don’t have any idea what is on the river, you ain’t got no money, and, oh, yeah, one more thing -- you do not have a boat, my friend!” “Ah, details, details. All easily fixed if…”
Ody looks at Manny and suppresses a laugh. “Let’s go with easy.”
They realized they were hungry, so they decided to grab a bite. The hamburger sludge was
all gone, and if this place didn’t kill them, they might just find this garage.
“Can I hep you?”
They listened to the blind man tell stories of the town of Troy.
“She’s ‘round back with my wife, Andro, waitin’ on y’all”
“You know a lot of people think we named this place for Aikman -- that quarterback for the Cowboys -- but no siree. Our first mayor was a English teacher, and he wanted something classy, so he named us after some damn town in some god forsaken place in who knows where. “But, we prospered, trading cotton and such like with other places, so the name stuck, and we grew to liken’ it. I was just a boy then. When I went to school that year, I learned to read, and some teacher give me a comic book about some city called Troy, ‘from long, long ago, and far, far away,’ as the man says. “Well, cotton’s done now, I spect you know that, so all we gots is this here diner, and Hector’s. A few houses, couple dozen people, more dogs than kids, and some wild, mean ole cats.” The barbeque was good, and they finished eating and pressed the old man for directions. “Okay, les see. Back on out to the road, turn right, then take the first right, and he be about three blocks down the road. Can’t miss it. Big old sign says ‘HECTOR’s GARAGE.’ Nice talkin’ to you boys.” He snorted again and spit into his coffee cup. *
*
*
Sure enough, barely a quarter of a mile away, they saw the garage. Helen’s car was partly inside. But she was nowhere to be seen. “This son of a bitch better have a damn good excuse for this.” Manny had a temper, so Ody kept close watch on his friend. “Hello! Hector? Helen? Anybody home?” A well-built young man came out of the garage with a wrench in one hand and a dirty cloth in the other. He proceeded to wipe his face smearing oil all over it.
“Where’s Helen?”
“So what’s up with her car?” “Oh problems, many problems. Head gasket. I gotta fix it. Two thousand, maybe more if there’s a crack in the block. Too, bad, it’s a nice car. Worth fixin’ don’t you think?” Manny took a step forward. Ody could see his muscles tighten. “I don’t think so. I change the oil and maintain that car myself. You’re a liar. You’re trying to cheat her.” Hector dropped the cloth and tightened his grip on the wrench. Ody stepped forward. “Now wait a minute guys, surely we can work this out. What have you done to the car?” Hector looked at Ody, then Manny, then back to Ody. You boys want trouble, I’ll give it to ya.” He stepped toward Manny, but Ody was quicker. He came down on Hector’s ankle with his boot. Nobody could tell what hit the ground first – the wrench or Hector. His body crumpled like a puppet that had lost its strings. He writhed in pain and screamed. Helen then came around the corner. “Manny! Ody! Thank God you’re here. I can’t stand this place another minute. Manny walked over to the car while Ody took the wrench back inside. The hood was still up, and it didn’t look like the engine had been touched. Manny got in and started it up. The gas gauge was dangerously low, but it sounded okay. Ody put a $20.00 bill on the bench under the wrench. Outside, Hector was struggling to get up. A woman, probably Andro his wife, was helping him. “What did you do to him?” His is the father of my son!” As if on cue, a baby started screaming somewhere behind the garage. Helen gets in with Manny, and they pull away. He shouts to Ody, “Meet you at the next gas station north of here!’ He spins out of the driveway, throwing dust and gravel every which way. A few minutes later, they pull into a gas station and fill up Helen’s car. Ody needs gas too. “I guess there’s no point in asking you to pay for my gas.” “Oh, man, I forgot my wallet. Left it in my car. Can you cover for us. I’ll give it to you as soon as we get home.” Ody slides his credit card into the slot and watch his gas money disappear into Helen’s tank for good. “What happened, Helen?” I was low on gas, and I stopped at that garage to get gas. He told me my engine sounded funny, and he looked under the hood and said the en-
gine was shot.” He wanted $2,000! I didn’t have that.” “That cheatin’ scumbag. Well he got what he deserved.” Ody added, “He’ll survive to cheat the next poor sucker that comes in there. I saw him limping back into the garage.” “Hey, thanks man for rescuing me and my woman. That was clever, blind-siding him like that.” Ody’s cell phone rang – it was Penny. He told her the brief version of the story, “I’ll give you the gory details later. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I don’t know. I’ll ask.” He turns to catch a glimpse of a kiss between Helen and Manny. Penny has some news, she wants us to come celebrate and tell her all about our adventure. Wadda ya say?” “A par-tay? Of course! Let’s saddle up these gas horses and git on home.” *
*
*
Ody pulls back onto the interstate. He is so lost in thought, he does not notice the sign which clearly says “I-35 South.” About a half hour later, his cell phone rings. It’s Penny. “Where are you? Helen and Manny are here, and we can’t get the grill going. Everybody’s drinking up all the beer, so you better stop and get some more. We are on the verge of chaos!” “Um. Uh-oh, I think I am headed the wrong way. I’ll turn around at the next exit and be there as soon as I can – straight as an arrow back to my bride. Love you!” “Love you, too,” she says as the phone goes dead.
July 2012• bohemia • 37
A Dish Served Cold by Gary Lee Webb
You may know what I, Pollonien the elf, look like now–5 foot 2, eyes of blue, arms like bronze cables. But remember: I was not always like this. Growing up in a human town is never easy for an elf, and Guardianby-the-Sea is a small human town, but I had a caring father as a constant friend. My mother had not survived the birth, so even as an infant I accompanied my father hunting: quiver of arrows on one side, me in a backpack on the other. I learned to love the outdoors: the sparkling white snows of Spring, the verdant green and riotous colors of the flowers of Summer, the glory of Autumn leaves swirling bronze and gold, even the drab grey blizzards of Winter. And my father taught me everything he knew: I became an expert woodsman and hunter. As I said, growing up in a human city was not easy, and that was our winter. There were predators, the two-legged variety, lurking in the winding streets and broad avenues. The broad avenues were the home of those who stole within the law and called it taxes. The narrow streets snaking between the tall buildings of three, four, even five stories were where you found those who stole outside the law. In either case, you lived by your wits, by avoiding their notice, or by running – these predators you could not simply kill. My father taught me these things too: how to appear to comply with their wishes; how to be hidden in plain sight; how to escape and hide when necessary. Eventually he taught me how to untie a rich man’s purse and palm his coin, without him ever noticing. Never a poor man’s coin, we did not want their starvation on our conscience, but the rich have plenty to share, even though they may think otherwise. And he taught me language and magic. First our own Elven and the language of our elders; then the various human languages; the languages of the Dwarves and the folk of the forest; and most importantly, he taught me the languages of our enemies, especially the orcs. For even though the orcs were far to the north, in the fens and icy swamps past the River Forked, someday I was sure to meet one in battle. The best defense is foreknowledge, and if you can listen to the enemy, the battle is half-won. There is language in magic and magic in language. Knowing the elder tongues, I could
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start learning the wizardly skills. He gave me a small wand and taught me the small spells he knew. Illusion is useful: a flurry of leaves can hide one. Clairvoyance – I was already so in tune with nature that I could see which trees had hollows and holes, but I learned how to detach my sight and send my vision to study from afar. I loved to watch the animals close up, in the spring and summer. I learned telekinesis and teleportation: no longer did I actually have to slip my fingers into the purse to get the rich man’s coin, and once I popped it into a tree’s hollow, there was no danger in being searched. I even learned the fireball; although, mine were always small. But that was my father’s limit, so he found me a school. I studied while he hunted to pay for my lessons. I was not with him when he died … My father had been hunting far to the east. I suppose it was my good fortune that I did not accompany him that time, but it did not seem that way. The people who brought me his body handled it very carefully, packing it in snow to keep it fresh and wrapping it in an oilskin after they cut him down. The evidence was clear … orcs … even though there should be no orcs in hundreds of miles. The capital would have to be notified, far to the north, but by the time the messages went north and any troops came back, it would be months. The crudely feathered quills piercing my father’s body bore mute testimony to who had tortured him to his death, and to their death I vowed I would torture them. Perhaps not as cruelly. We had not seen orcs near our city for centuries; current battles were north of the capital. The orcs needed to go, and go in such a way that they would not come back, bearing a message that would chill all that heard it to their bones. For revenge is a dish best served cold, and I would give them a dish of their own medicine, iced colder than a drake’s breath. I would be their messenger of doom. I studied the arrows that filled my father’s body, the crude heads, the woods that made the shaft, the fletching. The heads I reused, carefully cutting them out of my father’s body. The shafts were but common pine, not very good for arrows, but I went out and copsed trees until I had plenty of wood, then made thrice as many shafts as I had heads for. The fletching seemed to be random, using whatever bird the orc happened to kill, so I went out and hunted. My fletching appeared random, but was carefully balanced to fly true. And as I made my scores of “orcish arrows”, I listened to the tales of travelers and hunters. Orcs always pillage and despoil; they cannot help it. This was the only band around. So while they were probably trying to avoid attention, this deep in human territory, by the time I was ready, I knew where to hunt them.
I found their trail, and I found them. I studied them, and I studied the land. I moved around them and kept ahead, for I could move faster and quieter than a hundred orcs. Looting and pillaging takes time, after all. I learned the land they would be crossing. I found the good hiding places, the easy routes they would follow, the hollow trees. I watched their movements, listened to their leaders argue plans, and cached my arrows along their route. I took note of who hated whom … and I made more arrows. Then one day when a sentry was out alone, I shot him. Took his arrows and shot his known enemy as he slept, for orcs prefer the night. Filled the enemy with several arrows from the sentry. Took the enemy’s arrows, returned to the sentry, removed my arrow, and shot him with many of his enemy’s. And left them to be found. This I did for many days, and the accusations made the camp ring. Then I started shooting random orcs in the camp itself, with their enemy’s arrows. If anyone was watching, I cloaked the arrow in a flurry of leaves, or the illusion of a bird, which hit and then flew off. And the feuds began. Orcs began to shoot their enemies before their enemies could shoot them. It was not long till axe to axe combat broke out, all over the camp. When the leaders tried to intervene, I shot them. Soon the orc males were decimated, and then came my best illusion. A large image of a glowing giant orc, striding to the camp, yelling that the land was cursed, and not meant for orcs. The females panicked and the widows ran, hauling children, and screaming for their sisters to follow. The few males chased after and their families ran screaming after them, and it turned into a rout. I never shot a female: the orcish word for “wife” just means “female slave”. They had no part in my father’s death. They are probably still talking about how their god chased them into the mountains. The males are not talking at all … as the illusionary god reached each one with his axe, a real arrow pierced the male orc’s heart, and one-by-one they went down, coated in a spray of illusionary blood. I made sure that none of the males survived that panicked run. I hope the females and children kept running across the mountains, all the way to Loch Mare. I hope the male orcs enjoyed the dish I served them. I hope that it is still chilling them to their bones in the underworld. And I hope to never see another living orc, but if I do, may the Gods help me to send their spirit to join the ones I killed that day. May the Goddess of the Moon and the Lord of the Trees help you to do the same.
C RAS H
by Jake Young
M
y head kind of hurts because I’ve been awake for almost thirty hours straight. I’m sitting in the Saskatoon Airport waiting to fly to Prince George via Calgary and Vancouver. Once on PG, I’ll take the bus home to Smithers.
Yesterday started like any other work day in a bush camp. We got up, had a huge breakfast, prepped the chainsaw, and made our lunches. It was going to be another hot day cutting line through the forest of Northern Saskatchewan. The only thing that we did differently was to fly out on the third flight instead of the first. Pete and I had been on a roll for the last week, getting lots of work done, but on this morning we were feeling a little sluggish. Pete suggested that we go slow and drink another cup of coffee, and I agreed. We were planning on an easier day compared to the last four days, when we cut through fourteen kilometers of gnarly forest. When our turn came to fly out, we were mentally prepared for another day of bugs and chainsaw exhaust and noise and sweating. As we cruised along above the forest and interspersed lakes, our pilot, Yves, spotted what he thought was a caribou swimming across a lake right below us. Before I knew it we were banked into a steep, descending right hand turn with the intention of buzzing a loop around the lake, trying not to scare the caribou too much. Then we’d be on our way to our work site. Somewhere along the way, Yves became disoriented with his speed and rate of descent, and right at the low point of the arc of our turn, the helicopter’s skis caught the surface of the water. We went from about 200 miles per hour to zero in about half a second. Our Hues 500 helicopter was instantly submerged. My head was already under the water by the time I got unbuckled and out the door into the lake water. I could barely swim because I was wearing bucking pants and a coat. As I kicked those off I was thankful that I was now barefoot; my sandals were long gone. (We didn’t wear cork boots in the chopper because it damaged the floor and steps.) Yves popped up, and in another few seconds Pete surfaced, and we all started swimming to shore. I made it first, thankful to be alive. Looking back, though, I realized that Pete was having trouble. He was dipping under every few
seconds and lagging way behind. Maybe he can’t swim? I knew he was wearing steel toed boots; those must have been dragging him down. I stripped naked and swam most of the way back to the chopper, where I grabbed a floating seat cushion and gave it to Pete. I started pulling the cushion with Pete on it with all of my might. I was yelling at him with each breath: “Swim! Kick! Fucking Swim! Swim! Come on!” But he wouldn’t or couldn’t move very much. He wasn’t saying anything and he seemed dazed. I think he either hit his head or injured his back but either way, he was becoming heavier and heavier. By then Yves had made it to shore, stripped down and was at my side as we both pulled on Pete and I yelled at him to “Swim! Swim!” His head bobbed under again and again. I was becoming exhausted. He submerged again right between us and I reached down to grab the top of his head. Yves dove under and brought him to the surface once more, but he was motionless and we were beginning to drown with him. I had to let go. My muscles were burning, and I was coughing up water. I just couldn’t keep going. I yelled to Yves that I was going down too, and let go of Pete. I pulled to my back and looked at the sky as I kicked in to shore. Yves followed. By the time we got to shore we couldn’t see Pete anymore. We were kind of pacing and wailing naked in the mud for a while, but survival instinct kicked in, and we began to worry about ourselves alone in the forest. I retrieved my pants, shirt and gloves from the fuel-slicked water. Debris littered the whole area like the helicopter literally detonated on impact. We crunched barefoot through the lichen-covered forest floor and found a sunny spot to dry out and marvel at being alive. All of our gear was at the bottom of the lake. I saw the orange survival kit floating along the far shore so we moved around the lake, picking though debris as we went. The survival kit was well stocked, and we soon had a fire going and space blankets laid out so any passing pilot might see our position. By midmorning we had to assume two things: that the people at camp would be worried because Yves was supposed to be back by now, and that the emergency locater beacon had gone off and search and rescue was on the way. So we stoked the fire and contemplated the events so far.
We guessed our distance to camp to be about five kilometers, and wondered how long to wait before walking. We knew that it was a bad idea to move anywhere, so we sat until about early afternoon and listened for the sound of a plane engine. It’s hard to describe what we were feeling; we were exhausted and kind of numb. Sometimes we were sad, sometimes we were happy for having made it in one piece. Our minds were racing with rapid fire domino thoughts: ‘what if’ games to guilt to happiness to nothing at all. Then, from across a far clearing we heard a yell and saw the other cutting crew. They had heard the sound of the wreck and, by more luck then anything, managed to come over a hill and see our space blankets. We now had a radio and GPS to relay our coordinates to camp and the search planes. By late afternoon I was in camp, sitting by the lake, somewhat dazed and confused. I knew that I was going home, and Yves knew that he was no longer a pilot, and we knew that Pete was still in the lake. By evening I was in a float-plane, wearing a neck brace and flying to Buffalo Narrows to see the doctor. Once there, they decided to send us by ambulance to the hospital in Lacross to do x-rays and further assess Yves’s and my condition. They seemed concerned that my pupils were different sizes and kept changing size, so they called the medivac jet from Saskatoon. I was at the Royal University hospital just before dawn. I was in a C-spine collar the whole time just for precaution. They wanted to do a cat scan to see if my brain was swelling or damaged. The mechanism of injury was severe enough to require a thorough examination. I finished testing at the Saskatoon hospital and was at the airport by midday. I am about to read in the paper about the war in the Middle East and be thankful for breathing and walking and being alive. Once in Smithers I have to go meet Pete’s wife and mother of his four children and tell her that he was working hard to support them and that he loved them and that he loved what he was doing and that Yves and I tried our hardest to get him to shore. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Numb, I guess.”
This story chronicles real events. July 2012• bohemia • 39
Fat KID Rules the World by Amanda Rebholz
Photos courtesy of Fat Kid Rules the World production team
were bound to spring up, Matthew denies that this was intentional. Fat Kid is not designed to be an extension of SLC Punk!, a film which was laced with anger and bitterness. Fat Kid has a few darkly comic moments but largely comes from a happy place, a place of hope. It’s about how no matter how bleak life seems, it’s never worth killing yourself, and how the smallest moments in life can make all of the difference. Something as insignificant as learning to twirl a drumstick takes on an almost spiritual quality, a totem of self-confidence and acceptance; this is a movie about finding solace in the small things and never taking yourself for granted.
The theater is completely sold out and the crowd is an odd mix of bloggers, journalists, and older people; not the audience you’d expect for the directorial debut of Matthew Lillard, the actor best known for his work in counterculture roles like SLC Punk! and Scooby Doo. The film is highly anticipated, however, one of the most buzzedabout projects at South by Southwest this year— it’s called Fat Kid Rules the World and it’s based on a bestselling and award-winning young adult novel by K.L. Going. The movie stars Jacob Wysocki (Terri), Matt O’Leary (Brick, Havoc) and Billy Campbell (The Rocketeer) and focuses on the trials and tribulations of being a fish out of water and how to use something to find your true self. The movie is a heartwarming, amazing expedition into the psyche of two troubled teenage boys; one, Troy (Wysocki), is a three-hundred-pound high school student with no friends, no social skills, and the distinct desire to kill himself. The other, Marcus (O’Leary) , is a strung-out drug addict, a homeless dropout who also happens to be a brilliant guitarist. Together, the two form an unlikely friendship and save each other through the development of their new punk band, the Tectonics. By the end of the film, both boys have come light years from the opening scenes and have found a sort of peace, a safe place in their music. While connotations between Matthew Lillard’s involvement with SLC Punk!, which has taken on a cult status as the manifesto of all wouldbe anarchists and small-town rebels, and this project mired heavily into the punk rock scene
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ing against the wall, smirking and surveying the scene before her, shaking her head at the antics of the cast and the harried journalists trying to wrangle them into some semblance of order. And in the corner, lording over a platter of sandwiches, is Matthew Lillard, lanky and boyish and though obviously exhausted, grinning from ear to ear. Having realized early in the game that trying to wedge my way into an organized interview with this cast would be like herding cats, I instead find a seat near Katie and Robin, the two girls who run the fan sites. They are incredibly sweet and earnest in their love of both the project and their respective talents, and the three of us gush about how amazing the movie was. After several moments, Jacob Wysocki, Lilli Simmons and Dylan Arnold come over to us and flop down at the table. The six of us sit there joking and talking about pretty much anything besides the movie; they’ve been doing a nonstop press junket for the film for days and are exhausted. A bit later, Matt O’Leary joins us; he is high strung and jittery but articulate, effortlessly hilarious; Billy Campbell wanders over to find a seat too. Another journalist joins us and takes the initiative to start an interview, but I am just enjoying the interaction between castmates. They were friends or brothers in the film, and they interact like a real family unit--- a testament, O’Leary says, to working with Lillard.
The next day, I am standing outside the room in the historic Driskill Hotel in Austin that’s been designated as the press headquarters for the film; I’m sitting on a bench chatting with the husband of author K.L. Going, emphatically telling him how much I enjoyed the movie and can’t wait to read the book. I’m surprised by how much this film stuck with me. I was the outcast in high school, the weird overweight girl who went to the local punk shows and drew on my shoes and clothes with markers; I am twenty-five now and still dye my hair weird colors and wear pink leopard shoelaces in my sneakers. I’ve always been a stranger in a strangeland, but I found a home when I was in high school attending local punk shows. The movie hit home for me, because music and being a part of that scene did pull me out of some very dark places and I can only hope that “Oh, he’s the best,” O’Leary says emphatically, twisting the end of his cigarette paper. “He’d nevwhen other people see the film, they will have the er directed before so same reaction that I did. we didn’t know what to expect, but he was The film’s publicist, a so into it. He would tiny woman with a wild let us have a lot of say mane of beautiful curls, in how things went opens the door and beckons us inside; the room down too… ask me things like ‘When is chaotic and filled with would your character laughter the second I step inside. The film’s entire leave?’ and let me cast is here, along with make that kind of decision. He was really producers, managers, extras, an on-set artist, and hands-on, he’d demonstrate how he wanted something done instead even the girls who run Matthew Lillard and Matt O’Leary’s fan sites. This is not a film crew, this is of just telling us over and over. It was awesome.” a family; they are talking over each other, chattering, laughing, piling on each other as they strug- Campbell’s character, an ex-Marine who is surprisingly tender with his outcast son despite gle to all fit on the furniture for interviews. Lilli disagreeing with his lifestyle choices, is one of Simmons, who plays Isabelle, the love interest in the most multi-layered in the film. Of his perthe film, animatedly opens a conversation with formance, Campbell blamed the source material: me about my tattoos and how she wants one but is debating on placement. Matt O’Leary is bounc- “Mr. Billings is just written that way. He isn’t this hard-ass Marine, he isn’t what you’d expect ing off the walls with nervous energy, poking when you see him. He’s a human being, he’s a castmates and swigging soda, rolling cigarettes parent. He wants his kids to be happy. He wants out of fragrant tobacco he keeps in his pocket Troy to find peace. He’s upset about his wife dyfor something to do with his hands. The book’s author, whose real first name is Kelly, is lean- ing, and he’s sort of at a loss for how to connect with his kids… but he’s doing his best to raise
them right and make them into young men.”
this is different, this isn’t gushing over him and asking for an autograph. This is a man whose work helped form so much in my teenage years; I grew up with his films. I quoted SLC Punk! ad nauseum in high school and had a picture of him torn out of Twist magazine on one of my folders next to a handdrawn anarchy symbol. Yet here he is in the flesh, and he’s not a character from one of his films. He’s looking right at me and beginning to lose his voice from talking to so many reporters, and I can tell exactly how tired he is, but he’s smiling and joking as if we’ve been friends for years. I confess to being a huge fan, especially of SLC Punk!, and after a bit of discussion on the importance of individuality and rebellion, we talk about Fat Kid.
Simmons, a stunning ash-blonde with an earthy appeal, wasn’t even in the original source material; Troy had no love interest in the book, but the production team felt that it was important to enter a female into the mix. Thus Isabelle was “I got the audiobook first, you know?” he tells me when I ask how he chose this project to be his created, a beautiful and tough punk girl whose first directing effort. “Nine years ago, they came respect is something Troy endeavors desperately at me asking me to record the audiobook, to narto achieve. Isabelle is a character that everyone rate it. And I took the job and started reading the can relate to; who hasn’t seen that one beautiful book and just fell in love. Something clicked. I kid on the scene, light years out of your league, went outside, called my agent and said ‘I need to but you think that if you were just a little cooler make this movie. I need to make this happen.’ So they might give you the time of day? we got the rights, but then everything was crazy Speaking of female love interests, I’m curious as and it took nine years to get the movie made.” to why a woman, especially a diminutive, pretty Matthew starts to get emotional when he tells this young woman like Kelly Going, would write a part of the story, the part about how for nine years book about an obese teenage boy and where he struggled to secure funding and get people to she’d find the inspiration to give his character so back him on the project. “I knew it was important, much heart and life. “I always write male charac- and I knew that eventually someters, really… I identify with them more,” Going body would, but I just didn’t know replies when I ask her. “But as far as making him when,” he confides. “And then it a fat kid… we’ve all been the fat kid at one time happened… and we got rejected or another, even if that doesn’t mean literally be- from the first film festival we subing obese. Every one of us has felt insecure in our mitted to, and that’s the worst feelown skin for awhile, and wondered if there was ing in the world, knowing that you a place we fit in. This project is for those people, made something you’re so proud of it’s for everyone. We’re all Troy, or even Marcus, and there’s so much of your heart sometimes.” in it and they rejected it. But then we got picked for SXSW, and we At long last, as the lengthy press cycle begins to got to have our world premiere wind down, Matthew Lillard wraps up a video here, and you know… I think this interview he’s been conducting in the corner for was right. This was the right place.” the last half-hour and joins us at the table. The He stops for a moment to collect other cast members are called away for more himself, then smiles at me, glancround-tables elsewhere in the room, and for a few ing at my neon pink hair and the moments it’s just Matthew and I sitting a few feet tattoos visible on my arms. “You apart. I’ve been a fan of his since I saw him in liked it?” he guesses. Scream and I’ve followed his work for years, but “Loved it,” I gush, giving up pretense of trying to seem cool.
prisons to fraternize and go out into the daylight. Before I leave, Matthew insists that I take a pair of shoes; in keeping with the punk rock setting of the film, he had limited-edition pressings of the music from the film done on vinyl 45s as well as got custom leather low-topped Converse sneakers made up for those who participated in the film’s promotion. Blue and orange with the film title and ‘SXSW’ embroidered on the side, the shoes are definitely cool, but before I can even ask Matthew takes the shoes back out of my hand, along with my Sharpie. He passes them around to the cast, ensuring that everyone signs the sneakers, and when I get them back from Dylan Arnold I see that on the inside of the shoe, Matthew has drawn an anarchy symbol in black marker. It looks exactly like the one that was on my binder all those years ago, and before I can look up to thank him, he’s gone, out the door to get a few moments’ peace before his next round of interviews and photo ops. I’m left standing in a rapidly-emptying room, a room that only moments before was alive with the sounds of shouting and talking and laughter and camera directions but now feels like a small venue after the band breaks down the equipment and no one’s come in to sweep up the busted plastic cups and mop the spilled beer yet. I look down at the shoes in my hand to make sure it all really happened, and a smile crosses my face. Punk rock saves lives, and sometimes, every fat kid gets their moment to rule the world.
“Good. I’m really glad,” he says, smiling and closing his eyes for a second. “You’re the kind of person it’s made for. You get it.” There’s so much sincerity on his face that I think I might start tearing up again. It’s too soon when the conference is over, the actors finally released from their press-junket
July 2012• bohemia • 41
BoHo Beats:
Well-Behaved &
Doing What They Love by Brett Case It was a hot Memorial Day afternoon as I sat outside Beatnix, waiting to meet the members of Well Behaved Young Men. When we scheduled the interview, none of us knew Beatnix was closed that day. So, after the band and I had assembled, we decided to try the Mexican restaurant up the street, only to discover they do not accept debit cards. Hungry and sweating profusely, we decided to do the interview at my house and order a pizza. Unfortunately, Memorial Day seems to be a popular day for pizza, and we were told that we would be waiting over an hour for the delivery man. With three attempts at obtaining food a failure, we all decided to go ahead with the interview on empty stomachs. Well Behaved Young Men is a new Waco band that is currently in its early stages of development. The band consists of friends Eric Larson (guitar), Steven Calvillo (drums), Ross Russel (bass guitar), Tevin James (guitar), and Zach Almond (vocals & guitar). It’s a new project that has grown out of their collective desire to create positive and uplifting music. The band formed in the winter of 2008 after Zach’s Australian tour and short bout with addiction. Their musical influences range from softer acoustic lyricists like Bob Dylan and Bon Iver to heavier energetic bands like Against Me and the Foo Fighters. All of the band members are self-proclaimed responsible adults with obligations and have
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Photos by Able Cisneros
put their partying and wild times behind them. You could say that the Well Behaved Young Men are the counter culture to counter culture. A major theme in Zach’s lyrics is God, love, and frustration. Each member had their fair share of partying and getting into trouble and is ready to put it behind him. The selfdestructive rock star stereotype doesn’t quite apply to these guys. Ross is in law school, Eric just graduated college and is about to be a father, and Zach works on blowout converters. They seem to be more into creating music and working steady jobs these days. They’re not interested in following trends or conforming to what people think is cool or popular; they just want to make music. After the interview, we all went out for sushi and listened to Zach play a few songs on his guitar. While eating, we came up with
the brilliant idea to promote Well Behaved Young Men and Bohemia at the same time. We would do it by walking into random restaurants around Waco while playing songs and handing out stacks of Bohemia. We would revolutionize guerrilla marketing! Look for Well Behaved Young Men’s EP to drop sometime in early 2013. And if a bunch of guys interrupt your dining out experience to play you a song, please be nice.
Cordial Roy by Brett Case
Photos by Dwight Battle II
I sat down with Cordial Roy the other day to discuss their new EP, The Pink Sessions. Cordial Roy is a relatively new rock band from Waco, consisting of Josh Gonzales (vocals, guitar), Cody Brown (lead guitar), Taylor Devorsky (drums) and Kyle Ingram (bass, vocals). After a few minutes of discussing serious matters like the band’s history and the finer points of art and inspiration, the conversation drifted to who would win in a fight between The Hulk and Batman. If I had to describe the general attitude of Cordial Roy I would say they are “seriously not serious.”
Cordial Roy had its genesis as a metal band in January 2010, but soon grew bored. Last year they began throwing ideas around for a new rock project and, after plunging the depths of Craigslist, the band found their current vocalist and bassist, Kyle Ingram. They played their first official show as Cordial Roy in November of 2011 and have been working hard playing shows, practicing, and having a good time ever since. Cordial Roy describes their sound as classic and raw with catchy lyrics. Songs like “Count Rockula” and “Peach Dream” will echo in your mind and make you want to bob your head and tap your foot to the beat while questioning the significance of “Two Tacos to Paradise”. I was told not to look too deeply into the lyrics, as they were created out of collaborative free styling; however, I cannot deny the potential of their absurd lyrics to send me into spirals of intense pondering. While the band is still in its infancy, they already have a lot of experience playing live shows. They’ve played everything from the Punk Rock Picnic in Austin (which we dubbed the “thicket of sadness” ) to Christian cyber-cafés in Houston. At this time, Cordial Roy is looking forward to playing as many shows as they feasibly can and continuing their development as a band. Check out Cordial Roy online, and look for their live shows around the central Texas and Waco area.
Cordial Roy’s EP The Pink Sessions
July 2012• bohemia • 43
THE HERO
INSIDE
by Robin Chavarria
Photos by Michelle Wachsmann
There I was, standing against chaos, while attempting to be an agent of order. There I was trying to change things and solving problems that needed to be fixed.
borhoods, raiding tenements, extorting local businesses.
stincts in me were coming out of some sort of suppressed slumber.
When the violence started, I did the only rational thing-- I stayed indoors and only tried to make out to the store in lulls between people fighting over precious commodities. One such evening, I came upon a thug harassing an old man and his daughter.
The world seemed to be in some kind of death spasm. Storms were hitting every region of the Earth. Was it solar flares or something cosmic? Had the Mayans been right all along? Was this an apocalyptic wrath of God?
I was a block away, in the alley, and was well aware of the situation. I could tell it was about to get ugly. I wasn’t much of a fighter, though I felt the anger rising inside of me. I emerged from the shadows and shouted at the thug to back off of the elderly man and the girl. I told them to run for it.
Something just told me that he was going to stab me, go straight for a thrust in my stomach. I acted on my instinct as he carried through with this course of action. The first thing I did was deploy a forearm block while hooking my offhand around his wrist and twisting it inward. His wrist snapped from the pressure and I managed to make him drop the knife. The motion was instinctual, as if I knew how to do it in the first place.
The past year had been wild, like the flood gates of insanity had rolled open and let all the crazies run free. Every day I had noticed more and more people out than normal. Then, there were unchecked gangs roaming neigh-
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The assailant cursed and pulled a knife on me. I mustered a smile, not because of fear, but because I was showing aggression. Primal in-
Then, I focused beyond the adrenaline rush and listened to my surroundings. I heard his friends coming, screaming obscenities. I didn’t care. I wanted this gang’s reign of terror to be over. I wanted everyone else like them to stop.
The next few moments felt like snapshots from a Polaroid. The first of the thugs to reach me tried to tackle me, but I remember centering myself in anticipation. They slammed into me and failed to move me. I managed to forcibly pry one of them off while the other tried to shiv me. I twirled his friend around and into the blade as his friend thrust at me. He panicked, leaving the knife embedded in his friend’s left side. The two were out of the fight and I was just barely injured. They weren’t professionals, neither was I. Anger was the dominating factor in my response. I stomped the poor bastard’s ankle right above his foot. Since he was in the process of already moving, he lost leverage and fell to the ground. I cut the gap between us and plunged my heel into his jaw. The force of the blow was powerful enough to dislocate it and knock him unconscious. The next wave of attackers moved in to attack me. There were five in all. The nearest one had an aluminum baseball bat. He moved in for a lunge. I sidestepped, allowing him to overcompensate and fall forward. He tumbled onto the pavement, muttering obscenities under his breath. The bat was loose from his grip. I had never before
attempted to grab something with my mind in a life or death situation. However, I was going to try. I imagined the weight of the bat in my hands and there it was, being there held tightly in my grip!
I could feel the fear welling up inside of him. He was poised to attack. He had managed to get the safety off of the gun prior to leveling it at me. Judging by the fact that he was small, I knew he had something to prove.
I could see them. They were broadcasting their attack through their body language and their eyes. I could see what they were going to do as they were processing the situation. They hadn’t noticed that had moved something with my mind. It was an edge, a new found weapon, and my sword.
I carefully dropped the bat while raising my hands to surrender. I could feel him. I could feel his nerves; he was shaking. All the muscles were tense and anxious to act. We were sharing breath and heart beats. He had me zeroed in his sights and was about to shoot me.
They came in, swinging and thrusting wildly. It was never my intention to kill though I told myself that I wasn’t above maiming or injuring others. My surge of adrenaline slowed things down and gave me time to think as they clumsily tried to attack me. Their lack of discipline allowed me to beat them all down. Soon, all were down but one. The fifth had kept his distance from me. We locked gazes. From the waistband of his sagging pants, he pulled a pistol on me. I had the bloodied aluminum baseball bat in my hands. We stood there having a silent stand off. Rational thought came back to the forefront of my cerebral functions. I lowered the bat.
I had to try. I had to fight since flight would only get me shot in the back. I wanted to live as much as he did. It was my mistake not thinking things through completely. I imagined the weight of the gun in my hands... There I was, standing against chaos, while attempting to be an agent of order. There I was trying to change things and solving problems that needed to be fixed. There I was finding...
THE HERO INSIDE. Spiderman logo appears with permission by Marvel Comics
July 2012• bohemia • 45
Boho Contributors JEFFREY ALFIER is a 2010 nominee for the UK Forward Prize in Poetry. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Emerson Review, New York Quarterly, and Red Wheelbarrow. His latest chapbook is The Gathering Light at San Cataldo (2012), and his first full-length book of poems, The Wolf Yearling, will be published in 2012 by Pecan Grove Press, San Antonio. He is founder and co-editor of San Pedro River Review. A.K. Amberg moved to Waco six years ago and hasn’t looked back since. Born in Nashville and raised in Houston, he finds the quirkiness of Central Texas far more poetic than any of his previous surroundings. He has published poems in both the UK and the US, including his own book of original poetry and prose, The Least of These. A wayward Hoosier, William Akin abides in the Pacific Northwest, perched on the edge of an extinct cinder cone along with his wife, two daughters, and a very bad dog. He hasn’t a strong grasp on the differences between prose and poetry, nor myth and truth, often confusing them hopelessly. Courtney Woodliff Balko graduated from the University of Mary-Hardin Baylor with a degree in Studio Art. Her woodblock prints have been published by Cannon Ball Press in Brooklyn, NY. Aside from printmaking, she also works with mixed media, oil paint, and photography. Her subject matter includes the female form, extreme perspectives, and futuristic decay. Most of her art narrates a story created from her imagination, with fictional characters in imaginary places. Courtney’s work has been shown in New York, Virginia, Michigan, Illinois, and all throughout Texas. www.courtneywoodliff.com Dwight Battle II Living abroad and lots of traveling has had a major influence on me and my work. My interests are graphic design, photography, and poetry. Any facet of art is an attraction. Experimenting with many art mediums is a must. To me, this is the only path to achieve true artistic zen. Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He lives in Utah, is retired, and writes poetry and short stories full time. He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appears in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and eight poetry chapbooks. Joschua Beres was born in El Paso, Texas in 1987. He spent the bulk of his childhood in
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Killeen, Texas and attended high school at Harker Heights High. In 2005 he moved with his mother and stepfather to Augusta, Georgia where he finished his senior year at The Academy of Richmond County. He briefly lived in Colorado Springs before enlisting in the United States Air Force where he served as a Russian Linguist. In the spring of 2011 Joschua enrolled at Texas State University - San Marcos where he is currently an undergraduate student majoring in International Studies with a Russian Focus. Lala Bohang lives in Indonesia. http://lalabohang.wordpress.com/ Hello! I am Robin Chavarria. I am 28 years old. I work retail at Games N Things in Waco, TX selling video games and the like to people. In my spare time, my hobbies are art, music and writing! Simply put, I enjoy the arts and like to share my thoughts! Kelly Digh A 35 year old writer from North Carolina. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, scary movies, making soap, and scrapbooking. She lives with her mother and two cats, and is currently preparing to survive the zombie apocalypse. C.S. Fuqua’s latest books include Big Daddy’s Gadgets (novel), Trust Walk (short-story collection), If I Were... (children’s poems), and Alabama Musicians: Musical Heritage from the Heart of Dixie. Please visit him on the web at http://csfuqua.comxa.com. My name is KERRY HARRIS and I reside in Waco, Texas as a graffiti artist/muralist. I started doing graffiti at age 12. I have many art pieces featured around Waco and I hope to further myself as an aerosol artist. April Henley God set two passions in my heart: A love of horses and a love for writing. The first inspired the second, and now, everything around me adds to my treasure trove of inspiration. My desire to write led me to Baylor University, to major in Professional Writing, and pursue my dream of writing fiction/fantasy novels. The most wonderful thing about writing, to me, is the feeling of release, like falling down the rabbit hole into your own perfect Wonderland. Jennifer Johnson is a full-time college student, writer, identical twin, and above all, a mother. Wacoan by birth and after traveling the North American continent for 10 years, she currently resides in her hometown. Jennifer enjoys continually searching for ways to heighten her attempts to paint a story through words that will entertain readers. Pat Jones I became interested in photography six years ago. Finding very little help when starting out led me to seek out photographers to work
with and later to start a forum for local photographers to get together and learn from each other. Today I photograph mostly people and hold photography workshops in my studio. I do wedding, pin-up, boudoir, fine art, and glamour. Pat lives in Robinson, TX. Bruce Lader’s fourth collection of poetry, Embrace, is about the need for love and intimacy. His first full-length book, Discovering Mortality, was a finalist for the Brockman-Campbell Award. His second full-length book, Landscapes of Longing, presents political, social, and personal perspectives on justice. He has published poems in over 100 international journals and anthologies, including Poetry, the New York Quarterly, the Humanist, CircleShow, International Poetry Review, Harpur Palate, and New Millennium Writings. Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Itasca, IL after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance writer and poet. He is heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Allen Ginsberg, and Leonard Cohen. He has published over 570 plus poems. He is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc; Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/directory/ Anne McCrady has poetry and prose that appear in literary journals, magazines, anthologies, online and in her own award-winning print and audio collections, Along Greathouse Road and Under a Blameless Moon. A councilor for the Poetry Society of Texas and past editor for Diverse-city and GinBender, in addition to her writing, Anne is a frequent storyteller, inspirational speaker and workshop presenter. The founder of InSpiritry -- Putting Words to Work for a Better World, Anne is an advocate for education, peace and social justice. Anne lives in East Texas with her husband, Mike, and welcomes visitors to her website, www.InSpiritry.com. Jim McKeown has an MA in Literature from Baylor University and an MFA in creative writing from National University. He teaches literature, creative writing, and composition at McLennan Community College. He lives in Waco with his wife, son, two cats, and their faithful Lab, Marcy. Stanley M. Noah has a BGS degree from the University of Texas at Dallas. He has been published in the following: Poesy, Old Red Kimono, Nexus Poetry Nottingham, Main Street Rag, Iota, The South Carolina Review, Art Times, Eclectica.org and other publications in the U.S.A. Britain, Canada, and New Zealand. Stanley spends much of his time watching old movies and visiting neon cafes late into the nights drinking gallons of coffee.
Keke Noir has always had an affinity for the 40’s and 50’s. She grew up listening to her grandmother, Roxanne, talk about her love of Elvis and always chose the classics of those eras on the jukebox. She loved car shows and spending time watching her uncles work on cars. Keke always admired the women of the era-- beautiful and seductive with a touch of class and a lot of wit. Those women represented true beauty to her. Keke loves Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, and Ingrid Bergman. When she was introduced to Bettie Page she knew that pinup needed to be a part of her life. For the last three years she has done numerous photoshoots and has created a name for herself within the pinup community. She’s been in numerous magazines, featured on websites, and had a book published in May 2012. Autumn Rose Northcraft One of the best discoveries in life is finding out who you are. For me, I have always known that I wanted to be an artist. Being a creative-a-holic, I have invested my time in photography, design, and mixed media here in Portland, OR. Education: BFA in Illustration, Pacific Northwest College of Art Center for Advanced Learning, graphic design. Clients: University of Chicago, Gawker Artists, Urban Outfitters, Threadless, and Tin House. Jessica Randazzo, 26, has been taking photos since she was 13, and all she had was a cheap 35mm camera. Her love and support of the local artists’ community has inspired much of her work. She has shot several series and you can view her work on facebook (via Honey Bee Photography). She also paints, draws, sews, and does other crafty things. Jessica’s greatest value is her relationship with Christ. She lives in Waco with her husband, daughter, their three dogs, and a rabbit. She also has an unhealthy obsession with owls. Amanda Rebholz has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pencil, and has been published with the Waco Tribune Herald, American Horrors, Bloody Disgusting, Fangirltastic.com, Pretty Scary, Morbid Curiosity, as well as worked as a photographer, music promoter, press liaison, screenwriter, voice actress, and an emcee for multiple horror film festivals. Erin Shephard is the owner and photographer for Central Texas’ only vintage pin-up photography studio, Lone Star Pin-up. She loves classic cheesecake and old Hollywood glamour imagery and strives to bring that to all her clients. She and Sew She Said have recently expanded the studio to include a retro boutique! In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her husband and their two Great Danes and performing at Vive Les Arts Theatre. Trevor Russell Smith lives near San Francisco, California, although he would rather live somewhere exciting, like Europe. When he isn’t paralyzed from post-graduation depression, Trevor enjoys photography, reading, travel, and writing exciting autobiographical statements
Joel Swanson is an aspiring writer currently living in Colorado Springs, where he works at a domestic violence shelter and conducts trainings on gender-based violence. A recent graduate of Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania, Joel writes fiction and poetry in a variety of genres, with a particular interest in magic realism. He still hasn’t learned how to fly, but he assures you he is working very hard on it. Contact him at joelhswanson@gmail.com. Devin Stroud I was carved from pine on a vacant Mississippi night. The eighties dance party carelessness breathed life into my husk. I was transplanted to Waco in about grade two. The nineties and its apathy made me a listless zombie with a desire for dull excess. The strangeness of this new millennia and the independent DIY attitude has ignited within me new possibility. I escaped adolescence without retaining any of the Nazi attitudes that inherently go along with it and apathy no longer has its vile stranglehold on me. I am wide open and I have and always will be a hopeless romantic. B. Treason April Hill is a native Texan who first picked up a camera at the age of nine, she soon knew that being a photographer was what she wanted to do. Not too long after, April found another niche in the makeup artistry. Thus began B.Treason Photography, and Treason Make-up Artist. She is well established in the Waco and Austin areas. April has been making people look and feel beautiful, whether through her makeup artistry or photos for seven years. Laura F. Walton is an artist and writer living in Central Texas. Her poetry has appeared in national publications such as Glitterpony, Bathtub Gin, and Kalliope, and she shows her artwork in Waco, Dallas, and elsewhere. She also does theatrical design and teaches creative writing classes for adults. Visit her website at www. lauraliveshere.com.
Gary Lee Webb is a 15-year resident of Waco. Previously he has lived on three continents and visited four: his parents believed in moving every year. As a result he speaks many languages, badly. He has published before, but this will be his first published fiction. His credits include film chairman for the 1982 West Coast Science Fiction Convention and he has helped with many conventions and contests over the years. He is an amateur astronomer, chess player, science fiction fan, mathematician, and for 5 years a Toastmaster. He is 56, married 35 years, and has 4 girls. Michelle Wachsmann, a photographer in the Hillsboro/Waco Texas area. Her story began with disposable cameras that “developed” into a love of capturing moments for others. Late 2010, she started her business. Themed and boudoir are her favorites to shoot. Michelle is happily married with two small children that inspire her every day. Dominik Young was born in Fort Hood, TX and has known Waco for most of his life. Dominik wrote for The Highland Herald at McLennan Community College. Dominik’s current passions are social networking, promoting, & blogging. He credits his older brother, DeMarcus F. Young, for making him the person he is today. And feels very blessed to have befriended the many talented and wonderful people he’s met at Common Grounds, Hemingway’s Watering Hole, Beatnix Burger Barn, and TRUE LOVE Bar. Jake Young I was born and raised in Alaska where I lived until age 24. I met and married a lovely Canadian girl and moved to British Columbia for 7 years where I worked in far off places for months at a time. Now reside in Girdwood, AK with wife Vesna and 3 year old daughter, Rosie.
Special thanks to these individuals for pledging in order to make this issue possible: Pete and Melissa Able Rick and Pam Allen Don Bolding C. Randall and Brenda Bradley William Paul and Jane Derrick Jeanne Hoff Mark Long for TSTC Press, Dystopia Press Bill and Vicki Matta John and Joyce Nobis Albert and Vivian Rodriguez Eric Schaefer Pete and Melissa Turner Bradley and Andrea Turner Donna Walker-Nixon Gary Lee Webb
July 2012• bohemia • 47
2 day
BOOK
BUFFET 9TH ANNUAL WORDFEST POETRY SLAM W/ MIKE GUINN SATURDAY, SEPTEMbER 22TH 7-9 PM
WACO CULTURAL ARTS FEST Indian Spring Park, University Parks Drive
FESTIVAL DATES + Friday, Sept. 21, 6 pm - 10 pm (*concert stage only) + Saturday, Sept. 22, 10 am - 11 pm + Sunday, Sept. 23, 11 am - 5 pm www.wacoartsfest.org
The 2012 Poetry Slam will feature local poets and spoken-word artists from all over including members of the DFW Brave New Voices Youth Poetry Slam. Nationally acclaimed poet, Michael Guinn, is the founder of Fort Worth Poetry Slams and the DFW National Youth Poetry Slam Team. Also, join us for WordFest - 2 days of authors round tables, readings, storytelling, book browsing, book making, and special events for kids ages 1-5+ with the caterpillar and fish!!! POETS HOW TO SIGN UP: Please send a sample of your work for review by Saturday, September 10, 2012. CONTACT INFO: Mike Guinn Poetry Coordinator (817) 412-3964 jordanmichaelg@yahoo.com www.facebook.com/mikeguinn
BOHEMIA