20. Bohemia -- February 2014

Bohemia February 2014

Our Staffer: Sex Detective!

Writing With Character Singer Paul Weinfield of Tam Lin

March Issue

White Lies and Confessions

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February 2014

Bohemia White Lies and Confessions

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Bohemians,

Bohemia is a place for artists and poets, photographers and writers to submit work and follow themes. Our issues are posted live once a month (mid-month). You can see our issues at www.bohemia-journal.com. Check the site every month to see the new issue and like us on facebook. We also have a twitter and an instagram. Currently our issues are recieving about 60,000 unique views a month by people all over the world. And we are getting 2 to 3 submissions a day. Artists, photographers, and writers alike rave about how beautiful the publication is, that we have a presense and a strong heart. We’ve been called joyous, and many have commented that the magazine is the most beautiful literary journal they have ever seen. Copies of the magazine are available to purchase; please go to www. bohemia-journal. com to see links to magcloud where our back issues may be purchased. The issues are always available to browse for free online and soon we will be offering a free PDF of the issues to each person whose work is accepted into our publication. Thank you so much for all the love. The theme for this issue is Confessions and Little White Lies. Bohemia’s confession is that we do this and make this publication for the love of art and the joy of creation.

Amanda

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Contents

Poetry found on pgs 8, 13, 14, 30, 34, 56, 59 & 60 Secrets Fiction by Janet Garber

9 11 12 17 22 29 38 44 51 53 56 62 66 76 79 82 86

Lilath Offering Adam The Veil of a Woman The Seven Veils Heartbreaker Flower Crowns

Photography Sherman

Fiction by Gary Lee Webb

by Gary Lee Webb Photography by Bonnie Neagle

One Night in Paris Bloomers

Fiction by Ruth Rosenthal

Fiction by Pete Able

Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

Keeping Secrets

Fiction by William Blackrose

Meet Paul Weinfield What’s Your Secret

Photography by Amanda Hixson

The Professor’s Plan When We Ran Off

by Caleb Farmer

Fiction by John Mauk

Photography by Aubrey Carroll

The Least Kosher Way

Fiction by Ty Hall

My Secret Occupation

by Jessica Purser

Rewriting Reality

by William Blackrose

Contributors february 2014• bohemia • 5

Bohemia White Lies and Confessions

Staff

February 2014 Volume 4, Number 2 ISSN No. 2162- 8653

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced Editor In Chief: Amanda Hixson magazine. Contributors, please follow Assistant: Stephanie Rystrom our submission guidelines. More inforAcquisitions: Gary Lee Webb mation can be found at www.bohemiajournal.com Writers: Photographers: Pete Able, William Blackrose, Bonnie Neagle, Caleb Farmer, Ty Hall, Cynthia Wheeler Jessica Purser, Gary Lee Webb & friends

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Cover credits: Photographer: Cynthia Wheeler Model: Abby Eades Hair: Shannan White Make-up: Alex Williams HMU: Shannan White Alex Williams

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Confessions

by Elissa Gordan

You know how in that Vermont poem, I mentioned Golden Grimes?

My family got it wrong early on, the name of the apple variety is actually Grimes Golden, but it’s hard to change the melody of childhood.

And remember how I rhapsodized icy limbs tower over me?

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but apple tree branches grow more horizontally, but if you are six, or seven or eight, they could tower.

Or, if you only ever make it Ro five feet tall, like me, those apple trees could still tower.

And you know how in that deer poem, I split the apples and lobbed them deftly across?

I never lobbed anything deftly across in my entire life.

Except that time when I was 17, walking on the beach in North Carolina, a Frisbee zoomed straight at me, on pure reflex, I threw out my left arm, caught it just above my ear, flung it back in one smooth motion directly to the thrower, even though I am right-handed, declined invitations to a game, let them think I had the skill, glided on, The Girl from Ipanema, a mystery.

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Secrets

by Janet Garber

M

om stood at the second floor window of our garden apartment and tossed me down some coins, wrapped in a piece of newspaper. My older sister, Suzie, 12, waited for me at the street corner, stamping her foot, crying,

“C’mon already!”

We were on our way to the comic book store, highlight of my week, to get the new Superman, and then on to the movies for the Cowboys and Indians show, followed by the usual Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie (which I usually slept through).

I happened to look up to wave bye to Mom and there was

this bearded guy standing right behind her. He had his arms around her waist! I rubbed my eyes and looked up again – he was nibbling on her ear. Mom had her eyes closed. She turned around then and retreated into the room. I couldn’t see anymore. I ran to tell my sister.

“Suzie, guess what I just saw?” I told her.

“Shut up, Charlie!” she said. She was so mad at me. I didn’t know why, but she was like that.

“It’s ok. That’s just Daddy’s friend, right? From work . . . what’s the matter?”

“If you tell Daddy, I’ll. . .

I’ll twist the head off your G.I. Joe doll!”

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“No o o. Don’t do it.

I’ll tell Mom!”

Many years later, on Mom’s deathbed, I learned “Daddy’s friend” was my real father. And I only got that one glimpse of him, ever. He died shortly after that glimpse and my “Daddy” went to jail.

Daddy! (He’s on death row... still.)

I didn’t tell. I swear.

Though I do have a G.I. Joe action figure with a head half twisted off?

Suzie was never nice to me, even before this. She hated having me traipsing behind her when she just wanted to hang out with her friends at the corner candy store or go “parking” with her boyfriend in the back booth. She bought me lots of Pez and button candies to shut me up – that’s how I wound up with 10 cavities by the time I was 10.

One thing we did do together – we worked well as a team – was stealing. Yep. While Suzie flirted with the pimply boy behind the drug store counter, asking whether

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he had read the latest issue of True Confessions and what he thought of it, I grabbed everything I could and stuffed it into my jacket pockets: pens, scotch tape, Band-Aids, even condoms. It was something we did about once a week, when we ran out of other things to do. Suzie said Mrs. Chin would never miss these items, her store was too crowded as it was.

Somehow I never felt bad about doing any of this stuff. I had learned my lessons early.

When I was 16 though, my best friend Jake’s brother, who was about 20, barged into Jake’s room where we were lying on his bed looking at girly magazines and asked me to hold something for him.

“Don’t tell!”

“Of course not.”

I stuffed the little package in my jacket pocket and that’s how I wound up in Juvie for 6 months before I had even smoked 1 joint!

I was beginning to be tired of keeping all these se-

crets, especially after Suzie ran over Miss Flaherty’s Siamese cat and made me take the rap. I liked cats and that one, Maxie, in particular.

Just last week I was going to go straight when something happened to change my whole outlook. I’m in college now, you know, prelaw. Well, I was in the dorm, “studying,” when my roommate, Jake, came back early from football practice. There I was doing my Fashion Week runway imitation, dressed in a red bustier and black lace panty set, black mesh stockings, garter belt and 4 inch heels – the whole nine yards all of which I found in Suzie’s trunk last time I borrowed the car. Her work clothes? Well, anyway:

“Holy Toledo!” Jake screamed, backing out the door.

He didn’t get far.

Jake!

I will miss him. Hope I can give a nice eulogy on Saturday.

Lilith Offering Adam a Long-Awaited Explanation

by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

H

ere it is in a nutshell: It hit me harder than I'd ever believed could hurt, when I figured out you'd been a die-hard prick from the get-go. Never allowing me to flower atop your stem, you reduced me to a shrunken violet, my roots twisting and spreading beyond measure. Still, I stayed -- all the while swallowing bile, biting my tongue, bearing yousons.

Yet, not once, did you soften your manner or change your position. That I was dutiful wife as long as I'd been, still boggles my mind. Jackass that you were, and getting in some kicks to boot, got me siding up to a snake who'd wormed his way into me by declaring he loved women on top (riding him like the stud he was!).

The downside -- he said kids

were not fit to live with. I agreed, and began planning leaving you and the boys; that put in peril by three angels descending on me, threatening, if I left you, they'd kill off the hundreds and hundreds of newborns they claimed I was fated to bear in the coming years. I countered with a diabiblical twist on their threat: I'd do the killing myself -- the angels conceding only after making me swear to spare infant males wearing a talisman bearing the angels' names.

And, feeling rather ballsy after making that deal, I hatched a second scheme: I'd demonize men in their deep of sleep, by turning the bulk of them into licentious prigs lusting to distraction, and the rest, further, to perversion. With score upon score of babies expected

from these liaisons, I'll be carrying out my campaign for eons to come. And, lest you doubt, know that women figure perfectly in the equation: Whispering in their ears daily, I encourage each to cease acting beneath men in any manner or form. As for you and your dream of "a fit wife," which I remember unmercifully ribbing you about, upon leaving, never in my wildest conjurings did I think she'd actually materialize, and, right beside you as you slept. And, be honest, Adam, did you really believe you'd seen the last of me? Think about this: When Eve bit into the now infamous apple, she revealed herself as the apt pupil I'd envisioned she could be.

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The Veil of a Woman Model Tasha Sunday Hair and makeup Artist is Amie Yoder Photographer is Sherman Orendorf Dress is vintage Oscar De La Renta

More Vulnerable Than Me

by Laurie Higi

The conjugation of soft, comfortable love Into hunger for old times past.

Where there use to be this incandescent Glow of everything I ever wanted, I replace it with this flame And the peculiar way it wraps Itself around my neck.

Not choke, But some other verb.

As I proudly sang of love I knew Nothing about, The present extinguisher made this fire More vulnerable than me And this verb changed to smoking.

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Behind the Veil

by Brandon Babic

Innocence lost.

Yet reborn through shadows and dust, masked by fractures unseen.

Pale skin, bright as moonlight, shines like diamond in the sky.

Bleak minds seeing true beauty, not masking what is real.

Darkness only wishes to find light, captured thunder in a bottle.

Strength apparent, stoic soul, eyes steady, piercing deep.

Smoked filled churches, trumpets screaming.

Beauty can’t hide... behind the veil.

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The Seven Veils

by Gary Lee Webb

Y

es, it was me, for I was foolish.

I meant no harm, yet ‘twas I who brought this doom upon us.

Hear my tale, and try to forgive me.

You know me. It was I who planted the first tree, splitting the ground with my feet to plant the first willow in my garden where the two great rivers joined. The garden is now under the sea, but I am still the Goddess of Fertility, and from me new life flows.

But you also know my sister, Eresh-kigal, she who rules Irkalla.

She is as dark as I am light, and from her death flows.

I had taken a new husband in the spring, Dumazi the shepherd, and all summer the Earth rejoiced.

My sister could not abide that. In the fall, she stole him from me, and took him to Irkalla. I became angrier and angrier all winter, and asked Anu, the Lord of Constellations, King of the Gods, to intercede for me, but he would not. By spring I was furious and vowed to get my husband back. So I collected my symbols of office, garbed myself with seven veils of illusion, and headed for the entrance to the underworld.

Reaching the Gates of Irkalla, I confronted the head gatekeeper: “Open the door, Neti! I alone

would enter. If thou openest not the gate to let me enter, I will break the door, I will wrench the lock. I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors. I will bring up the dead to eat the living, and the dead will outnumber the living.”

Neti did not want to face my wrath, but cautioned me to obey the guardians at each portal. For the ways through the underworld are long and treacherous, and it is easy to get lost and wander forever.

“But if you obey them, each guardian will escort you to the next, for a small fee.” Fool that I was, I promised.

So it was. Neti took me to the first portal, and made the guardian promise to escort me on. Each of the guardians was a hero, slain by Ninurta, God of War. At the first portal, it was the Warrior Dragon, three headed: he wanted my splendid Shugurra, the crown of the steppe, to open the way. When he had escorted me to the second portal, I removed a veil in a dance, as his fee for escorting me. Having kept my promise, he kept his, and made the new guardian promise to escort me on.

The guardian of the second portal was the Palm Tree King. To open the way, he demanded my necklace

with the eight-pointed star, for I am both evening star and morning star.

Then he escorted me on, watched me dance as I gave him my second veil, and made the third guardian promise.

The guardian of the third portal was Lord Saman-ana. He demanded my bracers of gold and lapis lazuli from around my wrists to open the way. Then he escorted me on, watched me dance as I gave him my third veil, and made the fourth guardian promise.

The guardian of the fourth portal was the Bison-beast. He demanded the shoes from my feet to open the way. Then he escorted me on, watched me dance as I gave him my fourth veil, and made the fifth guardian promise.

The guardian of the fifth portal was the Seven-headed Snake. To open the way, he demanded my double strand of lapis beads adorning my chest. Then he escorted me on, watched me dance as I gave him my fifth veil, and made the sixth guardian promise.

The guardian of the sixth portal was the Six-headed Wild Ram. He demanded my golden rings to open the way. Then he escorted me on, watched me dance as I gave him my sixth veil, and made the last guardian promise.

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Guarding the palace of Eresh-kigal was not a portal, but the stygian river of death. So powerful are the black waters, that one drop will turn a mortal to stone, or cause an immortal to fall into forgetful sleep.

The waters are as deep as the tallest tree; the river cannot be poled. Urshanabi ferries the dead across that river, taking from them a coin of silver and one of copper, placed on their eyes during the funeral. But I had none, so he demanded my measuring rod and line, with which I can take the measure of any man.

Then he let me enter Magilum, the boat of the dead, and on his command, sixty giants of stone pushed the boat from one giant to the next giant, until we crossed. On the far shore, Urshanabi watched me dance as I gave him my last veil.

Wearing nothing but my anger, I strode in and confronted my sister, demanding she return my husband.

But I was powerless: naked Lust is not a pretty sight, and I had lost all of my veils of illusion. Her servants took me captive, stared at me with the gaze of death, and hung my corpse on a hook.

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For a year and a day, I hung there, dead. Without my presence, nothing grew on Earth. Without lust, the animals bore no young.

And only one man in sixty knew his wives, for lust not love drives most men. By summer the gods knew something was very wrong and searched for me. Eventually they realized where I was, and Anu sent Asu-shu-namir to demand my corpse. Erish-kigal had to yield, but first, she cursed me with sixty gifts. The gods sprinkled me with the waters of life, and I revived.

However, every winter I cry in loneliness, for Dumazi is not with me. And the Earth cries with me and is barren. But being lonely is not the worst doom.

This I say with a heavy heart, for it is not in my nature. You know I believe in spreading joy and pleasure, and my priestesses will always spread for you.

But accept the pleasure of my priestesses not. For their joy comes with a heavy price: the Sixty Gifts of Inanna. .These “Gifts” are not gifts of love and joy, but rather, they are deadly curses. For they

come not from me, but from my sister, Eresh-kigel … and do you really want to take the Gifts of Death home to your wives and family?

The least of the Gifts will ruin your health, and in a few years your scrota will be hanging low under your kilt. All will hear you coming, as they bang together, clap, clap, clap...

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Heartbreaker

by Gary Lee Webb

H

er name was Alma, the Spanish word for soul, but it was the hearts she stole from Europe’s most creative men during the early 20th Century. She was a musical composer before she married her first husband and later; she eventually became a patron of the arts.

Why not? She knew them intimately!

Alma Maria Schindler’s early conquests included artist Gustav Klimt, a sculptor and worldfamous painter, the leader of the “Vienna Secession” art movement.

His works have been auctioned for over $100,000,000; although, in his time he was deprecated as “pornographic” since dozens of his paintings showed his love of the female form. Another early romance was Max Burckhard, director of the Vienna civic theatre (Burgtheater).

Her third conquest came from her love of music. Alma had wanted to be a composer, writing songs since age 9. From age 14, she studied composition with Bohemian composer/pianist Josef Labor, who had been the royal pianist and organist for the King of Hanover. After six years of lessons, she started studying under and fell in love with

composer Alexander von Zemlinsky, but her family pressured her to break off the relationship: he was not famous enough. Probably a mistake: von Zemlinsky composed over two dozen operas, over five dozen other musical works. And it was probably under his tutelage that she wrote her first dozen songs.

In 1900, Bohemia’s most famous composer, Gustav Mahler, had conducted the premier of von Zemlinsky’s opera, “Es war einmal…” [“Once Upon a Time …”] in 1900.

Mahler was better known as a conductor, not as a composer, since the 40-year old Mahler had earned his living conducting and only composed part time. But that was about to change. Late in 1901, he conducted the premier of his Fourth Symphony. From 1901 – 1911, he wrote his fifth through ninth (and started on his tenth). And in March 1902, he married Alma Maria Schindler, three months pregnant with their first child. However, he was 19 years her elder and dismissive of her musical talents. He insisted that there could only be one composer in the family: her duty was to raise their two children (the second was born in 1904). Unfor-

tunately, they fell ill with scarlet fever and diphtheria during 1907, and only the younger survived.

Mahler followed his child’s death by writing his Eighth Symphony, Das Leid von der Erde [The Song of the Earth], and his Ninth Symphony. Alma followed her child’s death by having an affair with Walter Gropius. After counselling with Sigmund Freud, the couple did stay together until Mahler’s death in 1911.

After Mahler’s death, Alma won the heart of Oskar Kokoschka, now considered to be one of the top two German Expressionist painters.

Their three year affair was stormy; she thought him overly possessive.

He dedicated his masterpiece, The Bride in the Wind (1913), to her and continued to dedicate his work to her the rest of his life, both painting and poetry. Besides 45 paintings, he also wrote memoirs, plays, and an opera.

She also had a brief affair with biologist Paul Kammerer, in whose laboratory she worked.

This proved so intense, that the biologist threatened to shoot himself on Mahler’s grave, if she did not marry him. Kammerer went on to Alma Mahler with children.

Image (right) is circa 1905.

Photographer is unknown.

Children are Maria and Anna Mahler.

Public Domain

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Bride of the Wind (1913) by Oskar Kokoschka: a self-portrait showing the painter and Anna Mahler.

“prove” the theory of Lamarckian inheritance, which states that artificially acquired qualities are inheritable (Darwinism is the theory that naturally acquired qualities are inheritable). Kammerer was discredited in 1926 and committed suicide, despite which, his theories were advanced by Trofim Lysenko and became the “official biology” in the Soviet Union under Stalin.

World War I provided an opportunity to leave the tumultuous Kokoschka. He enlisted in the Austro-Hungarian army, as had

Walter Gropius. But it was Gropius that she married during one of his leaves home. Their daughter was born October 1916. After the war Gropius founded the Staatliches Bauhaus [State House of Construction] school in Weimar, Germany.

Gropius was the director for nine years, putting together an institution in which all arts (including architecture) would be brought together. In the process, he was one of the guiding lights of the Modernist Architecture movement, designing structures in harmony with hu-

manity and its environment, simple in design, combining functionality and beauty.

But once again, Alma had broken a man’s heart, and in 1920, he allowed her to sue him for divorce, using infidelity on his part as grounds.

Ironically, it was her infidelity, that made him want the divorce. In 1917 while Gropius was still fighting on the Western front of World War I, she began an affair with Bohemian author and poet Franz Werfel. August 1918, her fourth child february 2014• bohemia • 25

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was born; Werfel was the father.

While she refused to marry Werfel until 1929, she did set some of his poems to music and helped him with his plays and fiction. Franz Werfel is best known for novels, “The Fourty Days of Musa Dagh”, “The Song of Bernadette”, and “Star of the Unborn”. The last was a major science fiction novel of its time; this author remembers reading it as a teenager. She had truly won Werfel’s heart: he once wrote that “[Alma] is one of the very few magical women who exist”.

In 1932, she is also said to have had an affair with theology professor and priest, Johannes Hollinsteiner. Hollinsteiner was expected by some to succeed Theodor Innitzer to become the Archbishop of Vienna. We can only speculate why that did not happen, but Hollinsteiner did publically say Mass for the magical lady.

In 1938, fleeing the growing Third Reich, Alma and Werfel moved to France. When Germany invaded France, they walked across the border into Spain (avoiding the border guards). They then traveled to Portugal, then New York City, and finally Los Angeles. Werfel died of a heart attack in 1945.

During her last 18 years, Alma Mahler Gropius Werfel was a wellknown patron of the arts. After all, she knew intimately music, architecture, painting, and literature.

Her 17 surviving songs are on a CD available from Amazon. Her detractors called her “la Grande

Veuve” [the great widow] of the four arts, and accused her of having an affair with Bruno Walter, an old friend, composer, pianist, and conductor, also living in Los Angeles. But for her 70th birthday, 77 of her friends wrote tributes to her, including the still-living Gropius and Kokoschka, as well as newer friends Igor Stravinsky, Eugene Ormandy, and Leopold Stokowski.

And von Zemlimsky’s brother-inlaw, Arnold Schoenberg (yet another composer who emigrated to Los Angeles), wrote of her: “Centre of gravitation of your own solar system, orbited by radiant satellites, this is how your life appears to the admirer.” Loved or hated, she definitely had her impact on the creative world.

Caricature of Gustav Mahler conducting.

Author Hans Schliessman.

Published March 1901 in the Fliegende Blaetter (German humorous mag).

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Flower crowns Model Stephanie Rystrom Hair is Shannan White, Make-up is Alex Williams Photographer is Bonnie Neagle Flower Crowns provided by Wolfe Wholesale

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Unclaimed Treasure

by Amy Bebergal

Akimbo under the oaks at recess, unworried by the roots poking into our backs, the game was to attract just one acorn as it fell, to be chosen - by placement or Providence who could tell? Not to be hit was to lose, to be missed, destined like the aunts Moms called ‘unclaimed treasure.’ As for me, it would have been you who climbed stealthily into the branches, to rattle them hard so I would be pelted nuts thudding my trunk before even seen falling. Cheating! they’d declare, demand a repeat. While in the form of a steeple I'd laced my fingers over my face and spreading grin, demurring pleasure. But it never What happened was that each acorn on the ground rose up in a time-stopping, gravityless hover; not to return to each's own bloom but summoned by one-sided love’s will to surround you, contemplative in the fork of the trunk, unfairly staring out past the group, and like a swarm or a storm cloud released a perfect unstoppable rain of nuts on and around you.

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Chocolate for Pomegranate

by Steve Bertolino

In summers now Persephone lives in a penthouse suite after spending the springtime touring the world’s capital cities.

She entertains her guests the way all trophy wives do, with stories of how Madrid is perfect this time of year, and the layover in Nice was wonderful before continuing to the Amalfi Coast, Cyprus, and on to Antalya.

The blanc de noirs champagne is brought out in long-stemmed flutes which look like rare Dutch tulips; guests are offered rich, dark chocolate instead of pomegranate.

And as you’d expect, the parties last well into the night.

But also as you’d expect, the parties end and the penthouse high on top of the world empties, grows chill and then cold.

Demeter, long since dead, doesn’t search for her anymore.

In fact, no one weeps bitter tears when she packs up and leaves at the end of each fall; fewer sporting men than you’d think want to fool around with an aging starlet prone to restlessness, especially one with such a jealous husband, so powerful and so well-connected to the titans of industry.

While she’s gone, high society simply doesn’t speak of her, all of them pretending to discover her charms anew when the horses start to run for the Triple Crown on that first Saturday in May, and the tulips bloom.

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I waltzed around you Seven times, only to become A melody you never sang I’m not the one “Not the One” – Ed Roland, Collective Soul

T

rammel, hands bound behind his back, squinted beneath the burlap sack pulled over his head. A few threadbare patches revealed a very large man standing about six feet from where Trammel knelt in the mud and urine, or so he guessed by the smell. Wearing khaki shorts ripped at the thigh and an old black Metallica shirt, “The Turk”, as he was introduced, apparently catered more to the liberal side of whatever terrorist organization he belonged.

“I am not a terrorist,” The Turk announced. “I am just a businessman. Like you.”

Trammel’s three credit cards, including one of his exwife’s department store cards, were lined up on a small makeshift table with a kerosene lantern glowing ominously from one corner. Next to the credit cards, his phone blinked green with a waiting email. Or text. Or possibly voicemail. He couldn’t recall what each type of light represented.

Of most concern, his debit card, pressed face down on a computerized machine of unknown origin. Numbers and letters played across a small black screen, paring down one by one. An elaborate method to obtain a pin that was simply the last four digits of his phone number. How he wished he had already moved his daughters’ money to that education fund. These guys were in for a real treat.

Two other men, both armed with 9 mm pistols, stood next to the table on either side. Next to Tram38 • bohemia • february 2014

mel stood Naomi, the devilishly clever gypsy girl who recognized his puppy-dog flirtations as an easy mark. Glancing sideways at her through the sack, he could see the fish-net stockings and scrawny legs that he had just hours before followed through every corner of Paris.

One night of freedom. One night to do anything he chose to do. One night to stay up and cash in his bad luck, just like that dude in Fun says. He hadn’t picked this girl on a whim. More likely, she had picked him. Even now, with his life’s work on the brink of destruction, he had to admit he’d follow her anywhere. Some nights are worth the risk. Some girls, too.

“I am not supposed to be here.”

S

eriously, Trammel was supposed to be in London, but a summer storm diverted his plane to an unseasonably warm version of Paris. Temperatures that afternoon had crossed over 90 degrees, but the ensuing storm clouds that spooked his pilots had brought rain and a sudden drop in mercury.

Anyway, it provided a convenient excuse for Trammel’s supervisor, who as usual had a major bug up his ass, and wanted hourly status updates for a small-timer project that had little appeal to up and comers like Trammel.

“We can find work in any city, Trammel” he had said. “I’ll call you in an hour.”

So Trammel held a newspaper over his head, hailed a cab, and rested his eyes while the bumpy road to the hotel serenaded him into a blissful nap, a rare occurrence these days.

He met Naomi at a pastry shop down the street from his hotel. Admittedly, she did not make conversation easy at first. At four feet eleven inches and probably a hundred pounds when soaking wet, he half imagined a dragon tattoo on her back. Small pixie-like sprigs of black hair sprouted over her ears, while black lipstick, mascara, and blue-jean shorts over fish-net stockings completed the ensemble.

Almost. There was also the tight T-shirt with a picture of two Rottweiler puppies.

One Night

“Those your puppies?” he asked, pointing to her chest. It wasn’t the best opening line in hindsight.

After chasing her for three storefronts, Trammel caught up, apologized, made a second introduction, and trusted his natural charm and charisma would work to their usual effect.

He chased her past another restaurant and two lanes of traffic before his persistence finally won her over.

“One night. Show me your version of Paris.”

“Why me?”

“Because I’m a straightlaced guy, and you seem…interesting. I’ll pay for everything.”

Trammel’s last statement would end up holding more than its fair share of irony.

P

aris, the capital of France, home to more than 2 million citizens in its urban sprawl, sits majestically along the River Seine. Twenty administrative districts divide the area into uneven segments, both cultural and economic. Include its metropolitan suburbs and all-told, 12 million plus Parisians call the City of Love home.

Most remember the French revolution and Marie Antoinette.

Commoners rising up against the Royals, beheadings, instability, and finally the coup d’etat by Napoleon. Most don’t recall the Viking raids hundreds of years prior, or the religious wars between Protestants and Catholics during the Middle Ages, and the subsequent “Age of Enlightenment” when philosophers like Voltaire were first giving voice to the idea of separation of church and state before being censored.

Throughout history, both ideas and bodies were buried in Paris. In fact, the remains of some six million people rest underneath the streets and foundations, limiting the size of buildings in many areas. Many of these underground catacombs remain unexplored.

Naomi asked. Her French accent so entranced him that Trammel had to fight an overwhelming urge to kiss her lips.

“Joan of Arc.”

“And she did what?”

“Talked to God. Fought some battles against the English.

Burned at the stake if I remember right.”

“She is a saint.”

“If you say so.”

Naomi flicked her cigarette into Trammel’s face and hailed a cab. The cab driver’s license tag indicated his name was Hector.

Trammel handed him a clip so full of cash it would have paid for all of tomorrow’s fares as well.

“Hector, take us to the Louvre.”

T

wo hours later they stopped at the Bastille opera house in the twelfth district to catch the first two acts of Lucia Di Lammermoor.

“So Lucia wanted to marry Edgardo, but was forced to marry Arturo instead. And then when Edgardo learns of the marriage, he’s furious at her betrayal. Is that about right?”

“Pretty much,” Naomi rehey started near his hotel - Ho- plied. tel Regina – in the first district, “I don’t think the third act is stopping for a smoke at the obvious going to end well for Lucia.” statue in front.

“Maybe.” Naomi placed

“Do you know who this is?” her hand on Trammel’s knee and stroked softly, each finger adorned with silver rings engraved with some indecipherable script.

“And maybe not.”

Trammel began to ponder the third act even more.

T

In Paris

by Pete Able

R

outine stops at the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral and Napoleon’s tomb ate into another two hours of the evening despite Naomi’s protests that these did not february 2014• bohemia • 39

are you from?”

“I spent my childhood in central Texas. Moved to North Carolina when I was sixteen. I travel a lot on business. That’s why it would never work between you and me.”

She laughed, and it sent his heart racing.

“What do you do?” he asked, searching her hazel eyes earnestly for a glimmer of truth.

“I’m an artist.”

N

represent her version of “One Night in Paris.”

“At least let us hit a couple of the major tourist spots,” complained Trammel. “It’s my dime after all.”

“You can afford it,” Naomi answered softly.

“And you know this how?”

“You just paid our taxi driver half his annual salary to drive us around, when we could take the metro for free.”

“You could have mentioned that earlier. Where to now, fair maiden?”

“South. I need a drink.”

They stopped after entering the fourteenth district just outside the massive windows of an art studio.

Stepping out of the cab, Naomi leaned her head through the passenger window.

“We’re finished, Hector.”

Hector stepped on the gas, tires spinning from the recent rains.

“Not heading back to the hotel?” Trammel asked.

Naomi, already setting a quick pace ahead of him on the sidewalk, turned her head and 40 • bohemia • february 2014

winked, then smiled with obvious pleasure. Trammel trotted after her like a faithful Rottweiler.

I

t was 1:00 in the morning. After half an hour of night club dancing, Trammel had to admit defeat to her restless energy. Passionate and exhilarating, she tested his willpower like no woman in his memory. They sat like lovers at a small round table curbside, enjoying a drink from one of the many cafes that populated the trendy district.

Trammel couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that Naomi’s affections for him were genuinely growing.

“I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Here? In the city?”

“Just southwest of here, in fact. I love it. I would never leave.

That is why it could never work out between you and me.” She gave him another wink and took a sip from her vodka tonic.

“I’m gone tomorrow anyway.” Trammel lamented that fact more and more with each passing hour.

“What about you?” she asked. “What do you do? Where

aomi stopped and stared through the doors of the art studio. It was dark inside, obviously closed, but she pulled out a set of keys, unlocked the door, and pushed her way in. She flipped on a spotlight near the back of the room and pulled Trammel along by the arm. He brushed past an easel and upset the partially-completed painting, sending the canvas to the floor.

“Be careful,” she chided.

He righted his mistake, then followed her toward the light.

A row of impressionist paintings lined a wall nearly thirty feet long.

“Are these Monet?” he asked. She laughed gently, then reached over and took his hand in hers.

“They’re mine.”

Trammel studied one particular painting of people milling about one of the many Parisian squares that covered the city. He could almost perceive the movement of arms and legs, the wheels of an ice cream cart, the shaking tail of a kite held tightly by a young boy.

“These are fantastic. Great job with the angles. I feel like I’m on a perch looking down at the park.”

“My last boyfriend was a

february 2014• bohemia • 41

mounted policeman. He took me on some of his routes.”

Trammel raised his eyebrows.

“It didn’t last long,” she quipped.

“You are very talented.”

He took his time analyzing each canvas, offering glowing opinions on several occasions, and meaning every word of it. When they were finished, they went outside where it had started to rain softly again.

“You want to see the Catacombs?”

“Sure.

Naomi, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Naomi checked her phone and hesitated a moment.

“Time to go.”

there might be something more.

But here in the catacombs of Paris with ancient corpses all around and The Turk and his goons three quick strides from being able to snap her neck, she needed to keep her composure. It’s just business, as The Turk had said.

The Turk ripped the debit card from the machine and dropped it into a portable shredder. He nodded to each of the guards. “We’re finished here.”

Trammel dropped his head to his left shoulder and mumbled something inaudible. Then he stood up.

Guns raised, aimed at his torso. “Sit down! Sit down! I said get down!” The Turk maneuvered his sizable girth from behind the makeshift desk. “Mr. Trammel I do ou have a lot of money in your not want to hurt you but I will.” checking account,” The Turk Trammel turned toward Naomi. “I declared. “That is very bad. You didn’t want to hurt you either.” should invest more.”

A second later, a spotlight

His words turned Tram- shone down on the scene and half mel’s eyes away from Naomi’s a dozen men poured into the dank legs. He didn’t know what to say. corridor from behind a rusty gate,

“Most people worry about one of dozens that led to hidden their plastic,” continued the Turk. cemeteries unexplored for hun “But you should be covered dreds of years. by your financial institution. The “Guns down! Hands bereal enemy is this right here.” He hind your head!” They swarmed held up Trammel’s phone. “Do you the three men and Naomi, disarmknow what I can do with this?” ing them and shoving them face

The Turk clucked his first into the muck and grime. tongue. “My oh my oh my. You “Nice work, Walter,” said and I will be blood brothers after a balding gentleman who followed this, my friend.” behind the procession in a pristine

Trammel found some cour- suit. He untied Trammel’s hands age. He turned his masked head to- and pulled off the burlap sack. ward Naomi.

Naomi looked up at Trammel from

“There’s still time. You can the ground. A knee was shoved still get out of this.” painfully in her back while hand He couldn’t see her face. If cuffs zipped shut around her slenhe had, he would only have seen der wrists. her smirk and shake her head. In- “Walter?” side, perhaps, she wondered if “Naomi Dumont, meet Of-

Y

42 • bohemia • february 2014

ficer Walter Trammel, of Interpol.

You are under arrest for aiding and abetting international money laundering and identity theft operations.”

Trammel took a deep breath. “She wasn’t involved.”

The balding man shot Trammel a look. The look didn’t say “You’re joking, right?” It said, “This is your last chance. You cannot continually defy me and expect to advance, even if my superiors like you better than me.” At least, that’s the way Trammel read it. He trusted his instincts.

“She wasn’t involved,” he repeated.

“Have it your way.” The bald man motioned to the officer on top of Naomi. He cut off the handcuffs and roughly lifted her to her feet. In moments The Turk, his henchmen, and the remaining Interpol officers were gone, leaving Trammel and Naomi to stare at each other in the kerosene light.

She rubbed her wrists.

“Was it real?”

Trammel nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.”

She smiled.

“What now?”

Trammel shrugged. “I don’t know. But no matter what happens, we’ll always have Paris.”

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february 2014• bohemia • 47 Model Stephanie Rystrom

48 • bohemia • february 2014

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february 2014• bohemia • 49

Keeping Secrets A

s they pulled away from the funeral, Natalie looked at Brian and couldn’t believe that she saw tears in his eyes. She had never seen him cry before today. She knew she should feel guilty for what she had done but she was not going to let Tobias come between them. Natalie had known that Brian and Tobias had been close for a long time. The only surprise was when she found out how close they were.

That was one secret her husband had throughout the entire marriage. A lot more made sense now that had kind of been puzzling before.

“I thought it was a beautiful ceremony, Brian, how about you?”

“I can’t believe he’s really gone. It just doesn’t seem real.”

“I’ve read that it’s never easy for those that knew the deceased for a long time. You’d known each other since childhood hadn’t you? I remember you telling me stories about when you guys were younger. I imagine there are a lot of stories you didn’t tell me about though.”

“I’m not really in the mood to talk about Tobias, Natalie. For God sakes we just buried him.”

Natalie fell silent as they drove down the highway. Her thoughts went to what happened last week. She hadn’t even thought about it when she picked up his cell phone, answering it; he was in the shower. She was just trying to be nice. When she heard Tobias on the other end and the graphics things he was whispering into the phone, there was little doubt of what was going on. The only thing she didn’t 50 • bohemia • february 2014

by William Blackrose

know was how long it had been happening. Probably most of their lives, but she knew that she could never let on that she had found out. Is that ever came to light, she would be the first suspect for Tobias’s death.

“I’m sorry Brian. That was insensitive of me.”

“Just drop it, Natalie.”

As they pulled up to the house, Brian shut the engine off and turned to her.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, Natalie. Once we get inside and relaxed, we need to have a talk.

There are some things that may come to light that I need to tell you about. I want you to hear them from me instead of from someone else.

Some of them may upset you, but I need you to listen.”

Natalie just nodded. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but it seemed that he too had secrets. Perhaps even some that she may not have discovered yet.

She just had the hope he never discovered hers. At least the facts of him keeping secrets made her feel a little bit better about keeping one from him. His secrets could never be as big as hers though. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the look on Tobias’s face when she pulled the trigger. It wasn’t fear though, and that it confused her. There was more like sadness and even pity.

That was the last thing she had expected to see on his face. He hadn’t even tried to deny that he and Brian had been having an affair behind her back. From what Tobias said, they had been together since long

before she met Brian. It almost made her feel guilty, as if she was the one that had the affair. Tobias had been there for him all his life, compared to the handful of years she had been at Brian’s side. She looked up to see Brian standing in front of the car, waiting on her. She gathered herself and headed into the house, not looking into his eyes.

She did no shiver could again.

Once they had relaxed, and changed into more comfortable clothing, they met up again the living room. He looked nervous. He looked as nervous as she felt inside. What could he have to say that would bring out this much fear in him?

“Nicole, what I’m about to tell you is going to upset you.

You’re not going to like it but please let me finish before you respond or react. You know that I’ve known Tobias most of my life and that he was more than family to me. That connection is let want to talk to you about. I have kept secret from you a long time. I didn’t want to keep a secret from you that I had no idea how to tell you. With Tobias gone it almost seems easier to tell you now, though it will probably be no less painful. I have there been times where you wondered about phone calls that I would leave the room for. About business trips that had nothing to do with work. I don’t know how to soften the blow, Nicole, some just going to come and say it. Tobias and I were lovers, Nicole, and had been for quite some time. I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but I have

to be honest with you. I kept that a secret to protect him and his political aspirations. If it had come out he could’ve kissed his dreams goodbye. His dreams are safe now.

I just hope that somehow you can forgive me for keeping such a big secret from you for all this time.”

Nicole was crying with relief, letting the tears fall as he confessed. It didn’t matter that she already knew this. It didn’t matter what she had done. He was telling her, and doing so because he wanted her to know. She looked up at him with tear filled eyes, wanting to tell him everything, but knowing she couldn’t. She just stood up quietly and walked to him. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. She kissed his cheek and rested her chin on his shoulder. She could see her own face in the mirror on the mantle, and was barely able to look herself in the eye. She

leaned close to his ear and simply whispered.

“I love you, Brian. You know that I love you. Nothing is going to keep us from living a happy life. I don’t care what we have to endure. I don’t care what we have to do. I am with you ‘until death do us part’ and I mean it. I don’t care that you kept this from me. You’re telling me now. I know it can’t have been easy to keep a secret like this for so long. I appreciate you being so honest with me and I promise I will never judge you for it. If that is part of who you are, then I will learn to accept that. Have there been others, Brian? Should I be concerned?”

He shook his head.

“It was always just Tobias.

Even before we met, it was always Tobias. There won’t be any others.

He and I actually stopped seeing each other for quite some time, but

what we felt for each other was always still there. We did go to great pains to keep it quiet so it would not embarrass you. I hope you can appreciate that, and I hope you can forgive me.”

“Brian, I already have.

Bury that concern in the past, with Tobias, and let it stay there. You told me the secret you have always kept. I forgive you, and I always will. That’s part of a love is.”

“At least now, Natalie, there will never be another secret between us. We will never have to worry about that again.”

Natalie just looked into her own eyes in the mirror as she felt her heart drop like a stone in her chest. She could already feel the guilt creeping into her soul. How long can she keep her secret? How long could she hide from herself?

february 2014• bohemia • 51

52 • bohemia • february 2014

Meet Paul Weinfield T

am Lin, led by front man Paul Weinfield, released their most recent album Medicine for a Ghost in November. It’s a record littered with lyrical images of emptiness, abandon, and illness, perspectives tied to the realities and hardships we all suffer as we grow and the inevitable loss of enchantment as we find ourselves older. As Paul reflected with me recently on the album and the future it became apparent he was writing about his experiences, thoughts, and dreams.

“I am trying to find music that is about what is happening in my life,” he said. The goal of Tam Lin is not to just write an album that will find its way onto as many play lists as possible, but to profoundly impact the people who do

by Caleb Farmer

listen. This is why Paul has decided to independently release his albums with full control of every aspect of being a musician. “I haven’t come across a label that is able to do something for me.”

Touring is also something that hasn’t been a huge piece of Tam Lin’s strategy. “Playing in random clubs with a 35 minute set doesn’t really give you the freedom to do something from the heart,” Paul said. He explains that playing shows close to home in New York at exactly the right venues is part of the method by which Tam Lin produces a great experience for the listener.

Medicine for a Ghost features a variety of instrumentation.

One hears strings layered over gui-

tars with synthesizers occasionally adding to the ambiance, everything keyed to match the story each song tells. But it’s the lyrical stories are the most immediate and distinct feature of Tam Lin. Each song tells a story, and the vocals are prominent in all these songs. It’s obvious that you should be listening to what Paul Weinfield is singing about during Tam Lin’s songs. The album isn’t one that is easy to just put on in the background while you work, since the songs invite the listener to engage with the musical experience. Many of the songs on this album have been connected to dreams Paul has had. He keeps a dream journal that is often tapped for inspiration. He is also inspired february 2014• bohemia • 53

from travels he has made around the world and seeing how different cultures approach the creation of music. The title track of the album Medicine for a Ghost delves into the reasons why we make decisions that seemingly hurt us. Paul writes the song as a narrator who is self-reflecting, thinking about but not necessarily wanting to kill his demons. Instead, he tolerates coexistence with them, realizing that part of life is acknowledging that we need help and can’t always be the ones administering the aid.

Medicine for a Ghost’s album art is striking and stands out immediately because of the couple in bed wearing zebra heads akin to the company Accoutrement’s horse heads. The photograph taken by Brittany Markert brings together the human tendency to find ourselves in intimate, sometimes awkward moments, covering up our true identity. Seeing the zebra could further emphasize this idea considering the animals camouflage makes them invisible within a group.

Far from being Tam Lin’s swan song, Paul is already thinking about what’s next. He sees mediation to be a possible centerpiece for his next work. He is aspiring to create an album which gives the listener the space to be more successful when trying to meditate and

54 • bohemia • february 2014

possibly help them engage with songs that can be sung along by the listener, in the same vein as a chant. “I want to do a project that helps people in some way. Something that isn’t just giving money to charity from album sales, but to really create a project that will assist people when they listen to it.

The future of Tam Lin also hinges on Paul’s fight with cancer over the last few years. His fight with doubt and uncertainty on Medicine for a Ghost is sprinkled through the disc, but you won’t find Paul crying through songs like the emo artist of yore. Certainly, his illness has slowed him down at different times, leaving him to feel like Bart Simpson wanting to go out and play with everyone instead of being stuck inside studying for his history test. But Paul is the type of person who truly wants to learn from the experiences in his life, whether they are good or bad.

“I want to go out and play, but I am sick. I have all these ideas, and it doesn’t work out and it is all of this waste. Life is like that. You spend all this time doing these things you don’t want to do. It’s the process of growing. It will change me while I am off, and it has the potential to be a gift.”

You can find Tam Lin’s album to stream or download with lyrics provided at Tamlin.bandcamp.com

february 2014• bohemia • 55

What’s Your Secret? assorted poetry with photograhy by Amanda Hixson and model Toni DeRouen

What’s Put Away

by Barbara Young

It isn't just drunk fools who howl at the moon, or blues-men and boys with their hearts between their legs. Women moan, and girls who don't know why. Tell you a secret: When I was young--eleven, or ten--I cut the dirty words out of my mother's dictionary.

Cut them out with big, black kitchen shears. It was hard: the paper was thin, and each page had two columns, like the Bible. Words, pronunciations, definitions, slivers, translucent below their ink; all things genital, secondary, scatalogical, I stuffed into a dimestore white envelope then I hid them in a hollow tree on Hogan Ro

56 • bohemia • february 2014

february 2014• bohemia • 57

58 • bohemia • february 2014

You Were Never Meant To Be

by Bekah Steimel

You were never meant to be anything but memories it can be difficult to claw your way into a heart too easy to yawn and slip out begin prowling again you made my body smile a thousand times in a hundred different ways now the simple question

GC (Good Catholic, Good Con)

by Diane Giardi

I said “bless me…” as I sunk to my knees before the powerful voice that would decide my fate.

“For I have sinned…” was my first lie of attrition.

The mandatory Friday 5:00 visit caught me sinless.

I quickly drafted out a balanced list… three “I hate yous”, four “shut ups”, one “white lie”, two “gods name in vain”.

My holy communion not long ago, I already turned pro.

Other sinners exited the dark cubicle, heads bowed, hands clasped, pale faces serious and sorry, seriously sorry, sorrowfully serious.

There was no sign of their carnal stomachs want for dinner and their lustful minds thoughts to Friday night out.

I lifted the heavy velvet curtain aside for a short faceless visit.

In one rapid pause-less phrase, I delivered my lines like grocery items.

The punishment of three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers and one Act of Contrition, was merciful.

I remember my college sister’s story of the harsh penance of two icy walks around the campus. What had she done I wondered?

“Thank you Father”. “Now go in peace”, said the cross-mesh screen.

In penance I went, atoning for my fabricated sins, enjoying my weekend and revisiting on Sunday for the holy prize wafer of bread.

“Excuse me”, a Catechism classmate tapped my arm, “I found this under the pew”.

In her hand lay the wrinkled paper, last weeks confessional script, complete with full name at top and subject heading, “This Weeks Sins”.

february 2014• bohemia • 59

Father/Daughter Moment

by Rebecca Noel

Coming up from behind, your arms snaked around my lower belly like a lover, and I froze.

At 28 I’d sought you out, wanting to know my real father.

Had you forgotten that I’m your daughter?

60 • bohemia • february 2014

When you saw that I was dopesick you gave me money, asked if you could watch me fix.

It was then that I realized, you didn’t love me.

You were simply curious.

february 2014• bohemia • 61

The Professor’s Plan

by John Mauk

T

he others talk of rescue. When they think no one is watching, they go to the hill and stare into the ocean. They yearn for home, iced cream, coffee, shampoo, gin and tonic. I’ve seen them all—except for her—silhouetted by the late day sun. She is the practical one. She’s unconcerned with the horizon and its fantasies. The other night, she cut me the biggest piece of pie.

Sliding it my way, she looked into my eyes—one and then the other— a confirmation, an agreement to take all these furtive moments into the jungle some night. Sooner or later, it doesn’t matter. I can wait.

The others will get jealous, espe-

62 • bohemia • february 2014

cially the winkled tycoon. He’s always watching. He comes off as a sniveling, urbane old goof. But he watches her—our perfect sparrow of a girl—with predacious fixation.

There was a time, before the storm and the wreck, when I would have laughed at myself. But now I am committed. I’ve written poems.

Mary Ann, Mary Ann… then useless rhymes and metaphors about time and sand. There’s elegance to passion. It’s formulaic, traceable.

I’ve come out of a dream ready to chop the millionaire in two. When the drums started up, when we knew the headhunters were coming, when we realized this wasn’t

our island but theirs—their world, their possibilities—I was ready to go first, to put myself between them and her. If the brain would allow the arm to cut through its own spinal cord, I would have hacked off my own head and let it thunk to the ground—to create a moment of awe, to pry open an opportunity for her escape.

I’ve made everyone comfortable. I’ve manufactured tools, chairs, exotic cups, a car made of bamboo for God’s sake—all to placate, to diffuse thoughts of home.

And with each rescue scheme, I always engineer one gap that allows for the certain accident: the skinny first mate. He is my constant. He trumps all variables.

Some days, I let the guilt well up. I could fix the ship and send us out to sea, to rescue, to our individual lives. But I haven’t and I won’t. I didn’t get us here. I didn’t bring the storm. As long as the planes keep passing over, as long as civilization stays deaf and blind and far away, I’ll live out the rest of this story. And if, by remote chance, a Navy vessel rolls toward shore in the morning, all of its engines humming and its radio chirping the news back to Honolulu that we’ve been found, I’ll wait here at the tree line. She’ll look back and see me. She’ll think of the sad open fields of Kansas and make the decision. We’ll stand together and wave as the others drift home and lose themselves on the enormity of an expansive and lonely continent.

Valley Mills

Winery

Irvin avid D y ey yb Gor aph togr Aoife o h g P turin Fea

www.valleymillsvineyards.com

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n the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tasting room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco).

Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.

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c when we

ran off to join the Circus

Photography by Aubrey Carroll for Aubrey Bird Photography, Assisted by John Hancock Make-up by Alex Williams, Models are Boho Model Crew Location is The Enchanted Cedar in Lorena, TX

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ubrey Carroll graduated from University of Mary Hardin Baylor with my BFA in Studio Art. Her focus was printmaking (primarily screen printing and wood cut relief) and painting, but she enjoys exploring other mediums as well. Photography is part of her art. She uses it in mixed media art pieces or uses the photos in screen printing. For the past three years, she has been traveling around the U.S. participating in various printmaking related events. She attended the Southern Graphics Conference every year, and has worked with Drive By Press, a shirt company that travels around the U.S. with a relief press. When she is not traveling, she illustrates children’s books for a local publishing company.

Aubrey was assisted at this shoot by John Hancock of The Amazing Hancock Bros.

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68 • bohemia • february 2014 Model Aoife Gorey

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70 • bohemia • february 2014 Model Ty Hall

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Model Lucidia Fera

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74 • bohemia • february 2014 Model Paul Mabbitt

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The Least Kosher Way to Break the Eighth Commandment:

A Confession

by Ty Hall

I

stole money from my girlfriend.

It wasn’t exactly stealing—more like borrowing. I always put it back. And it was kind of both of our money. You see, she was saving up for our honeymoon. She kept the money in an envelope labeled “Germany” on top of her dresser.

She had a thing about unicorns, I mean she really liked them, that’s why we were going to go to Germany. It was kind of cute, really.

There’s a cave in Germany called Unicorn Cave, Einhornhöhle, and the legend is there was a witch there or something that was protected by a unicorn. I don’t know. Anyway, that’s where she wanted to go, and I wouldn’t have minded seeing some of the more historic sites.

So about four months ago we celebrated our second Valentine’s Day. There’s this little restaurant just south of us in the German town off 35 that’s underground. It’s literally underground, not like they serve black market kangaroo meat or anything. It’s really expensive, the kind of place that doesn’t have a menu. You just sit down and they bring you whatever the meal of the day is. So I saved up for a month after I read about it. We each got a chicken and split a bottle of wine.

The whole thing came out to about a-hundred and twenty dollars after tip. We spent the rest of the after-

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noon walking around downtown New Braunfels and it was a really nice day.

This was February 12, a Sunday. I remember because it was the only day the both of us had off between work and school and whatever. Well two days later she was in a grumpy mood. She came home from work and I had a frozen pizza in the oven, and she came through the door and I said ‘Happy Valentine’s day!’ and we ate pizza and watched TV. But she wasn’t very talkative and I could tell something was wrong so I asked ‘What’s wrong?’ and she said nothing, of course, but after I pressed her a bit she said she was upset that I didn’t do anything for her for Valentine’s Day. I reminded her about Sunday and she said it was really nice, but it would’ve been nice if I did something today, too. I’d thought about sending flowers to her work, I really had, but I didn’t and that was the takeaway. I don’t know. Anyway, lesson learned: don’t forget holidays no matter what. Won’t make that mistake again.

So March came in like a lamb and then I had a chance for redemption. She went out of town on the 28th for her parent’s anniversary or something and said she’d be coming back April 1st.

April Fools’ Day. That’s a holiday,

right? Anyway, I wasn’t taking any chances. Only problem was, I was broke (Valentine’s had set me back a little and I still hadn’t caught up).

So I borrowed twenty dollars from the “Germany” envelope and went to Wal-Mart. I already had a plan.

The San Marcos Wal-Mart, if you didn’t know, sells whole pig heads (eyes and all). I don’t know why, but they do. Maybe we’re close enough to Mexico that they’re a viable foodstuff. Anyway, I bought one, and sixty pounds of ice.

My girlfriend had a routine whenever she got back from a road trip: she dropped her bags and went straight to the bathroom. I took off the cellophane and positioned the head on top of the mound of ice in the tub so that the shower curtain concealed it until right at the last second when you were sitting on the toilet. So with any luck, she wouldn’t notice it until it was too late. I situated the face so it would be staring right at her when she sat down. Now all I had to do was wait.

I named him Hamlet, at first because I thought it was funny, but then I saw the opportunity for what it was. I was halfway through walking around the living room, reciting my soliloquy—‘The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation…’—when she called to

tell me she was about ninety miles out. I almost dropped my little pork prop. I picked him up and put him back atop the ice mound.

I was giddy with excitement. I mean, I have a hard time sitting still anyway, but this was too much. I tried to put my energy to good use so I started cleaning up the apartment. I was putting the glasses away when I found a sleeve of paper cone party hats. I don’t know why we had party hats.

I don’t recall having thrown a party in which we needed party hats. But there they were. So I had situated the cone right in-between Hamlet’s ears and was just pulling the elastic over his snout when I heard the brake pads I kept telling her needed to checked squealing outside. I quickly plopped myself down on the toilet to make sure he was facing right at me, made the necessary adjustments, then sprinted out into the living room to look like nothing was going on.

She walked in, and with ice-water coursing through my veins I got up to hug her. ‘Hang on sweetie,’ she said as she set down her bags. ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’ Everything was going according to plan! I waited one minute. Two minutes. An eternity. And then the scream! I can honestly say I have never been more pleased with myself than I was at that very moment. I heard her flush (she actually took the time to flush—go figure) and stormed out. Yelling ensued and she slammed herself back into her room. I tried to explain my best of intentions through the door but to no avail. She was pretty upset.

So I guess I technically did steal that twenty dollars. I mean, I never got a chance to replace it.

And we’re not going to Germany anymore so I guess it’s not our money. But I never did get Hamlet back, so, I don’t know.

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My Occupation is Under Cover

by Jessica Purser Disease Control Disclaimer: Everything in this article is my own opinion and not necessarily that of the State of Tennesseee. In addition, while situations remain the same, anything possibly identifiable about a patient or location has been changed in the interest of privacy and HIPAA.

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ike most people, sometimes I spend time creeping on people’s Facebook pages at work; the difference is I actually get paid to do it. I also get paid to have people hang up on me, close the door in

my face, insist I’m lying, and call me names I can’t repeat. Welcome to the world of a disease intervention specialist: a mix of STD control and private investigating, with some tuberculosis thrown in for good measure.

My job encompasses everything from telling someone he or she has been in contact with an STD and need testing and treatment to telling someone they’ve tested positive for HIV to tracking down people who’ve been exposed to tuberculosis and driving them hours

to get a chest x-ray. In my spare time, I audit immunization records at daycares to make sure vaccinations are up-to-date for each child.

I work in a rural region and cover three counties, an area encompassing about 1,500 square miles and 83,000 people. Yes, I log a lot of mileage. Sometimes I spend nearly the whole work day in my car.

The absolute best part of the job is tracking down STD contacts. When people are positive for an STD, I have to interview them about the partners they’ve had over february 2014• bohemia • 79

the last several months (time-dependent on which STD they’re positive for). Sometimes I learn way too much about their sex life, like the woman who told me “oh, we just had sex a couple minutes ago.”

I only needed to know the date, lady, (for treatment and re-treatment purposes, not my own knowledge), not that you are currently post-coitus. Type of sex? Yes, that affects what samples we take for testing. Where in your house you had sex? No. And it’s not just really, really detailed, frank answers.

I’m talking to people as young as 14 and as old as 70. I do not want to be asking someone my parents’ age or older about their sex life. I do it’s my job - but it makes me cringe every single time.

(Word of advice: if you like to hook up randomly, get a full name, address, date of birth, actual phone number, and place of work.

If you end up positive for an STD, it’ll help out whoever has my job.

This is something I wish for but know will never actually happen.)

If some woman called me up out of the blue, even with details about a doctor visit and my identifying information, I’m not entirely sure I’d give them any information, let alone about sexual partners. I guess I’m too paranoid. Most of the time, people are willing to talk about their own risk factors and tell me at least one name. The problem is, sometimes it’s just a name.

Maybe an age. Maybe they know the last name or the area in which the person lives. Sometimes they know a person who could find out.

And then I get to track them down.

It’s easy at times; the partner is in our health department database, and I call them or leave a letter at their door, and they 80 • bohemia • february 2014

come right in. That happens once a month. Maybe. More often than not, the phone number I’m given is disconnected or out of minutes, or they plain don’t answer. I try a Google search; sometimes they show up under a mugshot online, and it’s a quick call to the jail to have them brought over. When I don’t find them on Google, I go for WhitePages, and if the patient’s not on there but I’ve got a parent’s name, I can usually find the parent or grandparents. They normally know where the patient lives. If we end up talking to the parents or grandparents at their home, we stress it’s a medical matter and extremely confidential and hand over a sealed confidential letter that’s to only go to and be opened by the patient. Once the letter is out of our hands though, it’s not in our control, and I am positive we’ve gotten people in by nosy grandmothers opening up the letters. No one gets mad quite like a grandmother. I do not advocate or condone this; the letter and information enclosed is confidential and only meant for the patient to see. Facebook is my next stop, and while I’m not allowed to send Facebook messages, it’s often easy to cluster a number of cases together just by tracking which people are friends with each other.

It’s surprising how many people don’t have any privacy settings on. Sometimes though, all of these tricks of the trade might not pan out, and this brings us to my favorite part of tracking down a person.

See, when I was little and thought about what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was a detective. Then I read Grisham and wanted to be a lawyer, and then it was ER, Noah Wyle, and becoming a doctor until I failed Organic

Chem. Throughout all of that, I was always fascinated with private investigators and detectives tracking down people. If I were in the FBI, I’d want to be in fugitive recovery. There’s something completely satisfying about tracking someone down through a scrap of information, making intuitive connections, solving a mystery. There was the time I’d hit a complete dead-end.

No response to letters at the address I’d been given. No answer to calls or texts. Out of frustration, I looked the patient up on Facebook. Her privacy settings were decent, but she’d listed her family members.

I found the mother in our database and left a letter for the patient at her mom’s house. That got a response.

Turns out she goes by her middle name, and that’s why I couldn’t find her.

Another time, a coworker and I were trying to track down a guy I’ll call Steve. He had one number in our database, another number under the state Medicaid system, and yet another given by the partner. We’d called and sent texts to one of the numbers we had. No response. One of the phone numbers belonged to someone else. One was disconnected.

We had two addresses, and letters to both had gone unanswered... so one afternoon, we set out to visit the addresses and try to find Steve.

The first address was a bust, a vacant lot. At the second address, we didn’t find Steve, but we did hit a gold mine: the new owners.

The new owners were loud and gregarious and not only told us all about Steve and his mother but gave us directions and landmarks to their new house. I’m pretty sure they thought the directions were excellent, but they mostly con-

sisted of go down that one road by the school, you know, that elementary school, the one with the thing? Yeah, that one. A couple roads down, you’ll make a right by the tree. Then it’s that wood house with a bay window, and there’s a red double-wide trailer next door.

My coworker and I hopped into the truck and headed over to the area of town Steve possibly lived in. To be honest, we weren’t really hopeful; we get dead ends a lot, and we were looking for a house by a red double-wide trailer. There are lots of those.

So there we were, rocking down the side streets of a small town. We found the school. We found the tree, and as we neared the end of the road the new owners had told us to be on the lookout for, I saw a flash of red out the side of my eye. I pointed out of the window, told my coworker to turn around, and there in front of us was the house.

We very nearly high-fived.

Steve wasn’t there, but his mom was; she verified it was his address, and bam, we were in.

It isn’t always fun like that.

There are “you’ve ruined my life” phone calls when, um, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t me. There are people who start crying in my office or on the phone, and I have absolutely no idea what to do. There are houses that are surrounded by mud pits, which leave my car filthy every week. I’ve been invited inside a house that looked and felt like it was about to fall down on me, stale with the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to me for the rest of the day. And the dogs... I met a Rottweiler/pit bull mix the other day.

I confront sexism and racism frequently - and my own inter-

nal prejudices. It’s not a job for the faint of heart, and it’s not technically what I went to grad school for, but I love my job. There are new challenges all the time. I go new places and meet different people nearly every day, and that dash of danger thrown in spices it up just enough. You are impacting people’s lives and their health directly.

There’s not much better than that.

And now for my PSA: nearly everyone has sex, so nearly everyone is at risk for an STD, no matter age, race, gender, income level, or sexuality. If you think you’re not at risk, but you’re having sex, you ARE at risk. Get tested twice a year; I beg you, at least once a year even if you’re in a long-term monogamous relationship. It doesn’t mean you don’t trust your partner.

It means you’re being smart about your health and your body. STDs

can seriously mess you up, and it’s better to know and be able to treat an infection than to suddenly have a miscarriage or ectopic pregnancy, become sterile, or have chronic pain for the rest of your life. Or, you know, end up really sick with AIDS when you could have started treatment a decade ago. One out of every two sexually active people ages 18 to 25 will get an STD, and 70% of those will not have any of the early symptoms. Be smart. If you think you’re mature enough to have sex, then you’re mature enough to talk to your health care provider about it and deal with the consequences. Otherwise, well, if you can’t be responsible or talk about sex without blushing or stammering, you probably shouldn’t be having sex.

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Writing Tools Rewriting Reality: Believable Characters

by William Blackrose

WHY ARE BELIEVABLE CHARACTERS SO IMPORTANT? An unbelievable character is not a likeable character Why is this important? For the simple fact that the reader cannot relate to or get along with an unbelievable character. Believable characters are a necessity for the weaving of a good story. But how does one go about creating a believable character?

KEEP IN MIND THAT YOU ARE WRITING PEOPLE. This seems like the simplest thing, I know, but when reading things others have written, this is the biggest turn off to a story. People are strange. People are emotional. People do weird things. You want characters that are your readers can relate to. You are creating people, not just a name in a story.

AVOID CLICHES AND OVER-EXAGGERATION. When you’re writing, a character needs to have balance in what is believable in a character; is he over the top evil? So evil that he does not seem to need reasons to be evil? No. He’s not. He is not pure evil. No one is pure evil. People are far more complex than that.

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PEOPLE ARE COMPLICATED. People in real life aren’t simple. Writers know this, because any good writer takes the time to observe people. They have motivations, fear, desires, relationships, hopes and dreams. This will get you a start but you need more than that.

ASK QUESTIONS OF YOUR CHARACTERS. It may sound silly at times, but carry on conversations with your characters. Learn what they enjoy in food, friends, even in what they enjoy reading. Knowing these things is good for detail, but the point of this little project is not to flesh out your story. This is to help you create a more rounded character. You need to know them inside and out. They must become real people. When you’re informed, you can write a more believable character and that makes for a more believable story.

SOMETIMES YOUR CHARACTERS HAVE THEIR OWN PLANS. LET THEM GUIDE YOU. When you are writing a new project, there will be times when the character takes control of the scene and goes in an entirely unplanned direction. At times they will change so much that the core story changes. Let it happen. That dynamic storytelling that is being created will be loved by your readers.

SOMETIMES IT IS GOOD TO TAKE THINGS FROM YOUR OWN LIFE INTO YOUR WRITING. The wonderful thing about living in these times is that you have millions of walking, talking examples for the characters in your stories. They are believable characters, because they actually do exist. One cardinal rule you must remember is that you never base a character solely off of one person, but taking bits and pieces of personalities and real people you know or have read about.

Take the time to go people watching. Think of people you know or even strangers you might have seen in passing. What about them caught your memory? These little details you gather can expand your character because they belong to real, breathing people will add credibility to your characters.

DO YOUR RESEARCH. When writing a character from a different race, country, with a disability, or anything that is a key component of how they interact with the world around them, do your research. This is one of my personal issues with a lot of writing I see these days. Research on locations is good, but research on character details is vital to making them believable. One resource I love is a text called the “Character Naming Sourcebook” by Writer’s Digest Books. You have to remember that something as simple as a name can tell you an amazing amount of information. Here are a few simple examples. If you mention the name Arthur, the first person that most people think of is King Arthur from the tales of the Round Table. If you mention the name Odin, people commonly think of Norse gods and Vikings. Alice will bring up visions of tea parties and playing cards. The same goes for any name. It will always conjure magic in the mind and craft an image the reader will hold onto throughout the book.

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makeup artist

Waco, TX 254-813-8547 84 • bohemia • february 2014

Where will you be singing

Home Sweet Home

Find a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie Morphew Natalie Morphew, Realtor nataliemorphew@gmail.com 254.229.0261 c | 254.399.7024 w www.nataliemorphew.com

Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some major attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions.

Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences.

With three college facilities including: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.

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Contributors’ Pages Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

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Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry since college, or almost 20 years. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University.

write. A lot. To stalk her or to read more of her published work, please visit www.digillette.com.

Brandon Babis I am a 30 year old college graduate with my BFA in graphic design. I graduated from the Savannah College of Art & Design in 2011. Since then I have spent my time freelancing on numerous jobs; ranging from tshirts, logos, websites, business cards, poster, etc.

Elissa Gordon’s poetry mines a childhood spent between New York and New England and a passion for travel.

A frequent open mic reader, she has appeared in print in NY Underscore, a New York City life themed magazine, Windmills (Australia), Edison Literary Review, and online in Short, Fast & Deadly.

Amy Bebergal’s poems have appeared in the Dudley Review, The Boston Poetry Magazine, Killing the Buddha, Blast Furnace, Melancholy Hyperbole, and Rabbit, among others. She has an MFA in short fiction from Sarah Lawrence College, and lives and works in Cambridge Massachusetts with her husband and son.

Steve Bertolino lives in Middlebury, Vermont, where he works as an academic librarian and serves on the executive committee for the New England Young Writers Conference. He has poems published or forthcoming in Brevity Poetry Review, Soul-Lit, Right Hand Pointing, Big River Poetry Review, and Red River Review.

William Blackrose is an Egyptian born writer and photographer that is dedicated to using unusual perspectives in all his projects. Constantly flipping gender as well as style to craft new perspectives, he is working on his novel. His current works include Twin Minds, Tears of Kharon, and his newest project Bloodfire.

Diane D. Gillette has an MFA from Emerson College and is currently back in grad school at the University of Chicago so she can eventually teach middle school students and make them

Janet Garber lives in Somers, NY, commutes to work in the Big Apple, is strait-laced and serious (on the surface), moonlights as a freelance journalist, author, book and movie reviewer, sometime poet.

Ty Hall lives in Texas, makes up stories, and tries to be good.

My name is Laurie Marqueling Higi.

I have a Bachelor of Arts from Indiana University, with a focus in creative writing and poetry. I am passionate about poetry, family, and chicken farming. I have a great fascination for nature and the universe and work to incorporate them into my creations.

John Mauk In 2010 my short collection, The Rest of Us, won Michigan Writer’s Cooperative Press chapbook contest, and one of the stories therein was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

My first full collection, Field Notes for the Earthbound, will be published by Black Lawrence Press in 2014. I currently teach writing at Miami University of Ohio.

Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog.

She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel Van Es. Rebecca Noel As a former outlaw, I write about my past, as well as the les-

sons I’m learning in an attempt to become a better person. In my quest to continue healing, I hope to reach others who may be struggling to define their pain.

Jessica Purser has been writing and traveling since she was a little girl.

Currently, she lives in Tennessee and spends most of her time talking to people about STDs. You can find her online usually under the name jesspurse.

Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is a New York poet, published in literary journals and poetry anthologies throughout the U.S. and also Canada, Greece, Israel, India, Romania, and the U.K. In 2006, one of her poems was nominated for a Pushcart prize. Ruth has 3 full-lenght books of poetry: “Facing Home and Beyond,” “little, but by no means small,” “Food: Nature vs Nurture,” and a chapbook “Facing Home.”

Bekah Steimel lives in St. Louis and is working on a collection of poetry, chronicling one lesbian’s struggles with addiction, fidelity, mental illness, and mortality. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Gloom Cupboard, Gutter Eloquence, Sinister Wisdom, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Verity La. Visit www. bekahsteimel.com.

Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 240 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, assisting the Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over two dozen publications. He is 58, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters.

Cynthia Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She volunteers at the Waco Center For Youth.

Barbara Young is native of Nashville, Tennessee, where she continues to age with no grace whatsoever. february 2014• bohemia • 87

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