SHAKEN TO THE CORE by insertlitmaghere

issue fIve//october 2014

insert lit mag here

shaken to the core

chipped tooth press presents

shaken to the core

this issue is full of work that moved us. it's work that left such a lasting impression on us that we couldn't let it go. it is work that left us shaken to our core. Do you love this magazine? help keep us going and listen to us speak by downloading our compilation album at chippedtoothpress.bandcamp.com

the cover art of this issue is by garrett brickell. Our Literary editor is Julia Alexander Our Art Editor is Kayla Savage

4 thoughts 4 freshman year louis venditti 1. i want to slow dance to smooth jazz i want to hold hands, drive too fast i had to double take when you walked past i want to kiss you again but i can’t and i’m mad 2. i liked slow dancing to elvis records even if your room was cluttered while i just stumbled and stuttered my words could’t escape, what a bummer 3. i only love you when i’m high but i started thinking about you when i’m sober and i wish you could be mine but i don’t have the guts to win you over 4. i want to stay up with you all night whether it be on facetime or in real life or lay around until the morning sun light maybe then, something will feel right

Louis Venditti just started his freshman year at Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. He has been writing poetry for 5 years. He likes hockey and baseball

in Praise Of wayne F. Burke the beautiful Shelia O’Ryan 10th grade English teacher who was from somewhere else and was flown in with her long lovely legs dangling and praised my writing and read it out-loud to the class; she was graduated from Bryn Mawr or Smith, summa cum laude, and could speak Old English, she said and did we want to hear some? Sure we did. All the guys sat up front and Schlonski an offensive tackle kept dropping his pencil to try and look up her dress which I hated him for because to me she was special like a solar eclipse and her praise something I needed something I did not get from anyone else except coach who gave it only when I knocked someone’s head off. Wayne F Burke’s book of poems WORDS THAT BURN (2013) is available from Bareback Press and amazon.com.

from a memory of being happy I think joseph andrew bruscini I put five bucks into the booze fund and told Jordan “I like shitty liquor.” Renee’s Mead, viking drink of the gods, in the car ride hadn’t really cut it and at that point I wanted to be fucked up and not have to care about her or them or Jordan or anyone’s safety or well-being. The five bucks got me the majority of a bottle of knock-off mango vodka which steadily became an overindulgence over the night. So me, shoeless Joe, drunk on a Westerly beach on a Wednesday, just stood at the stars and kind of burned for a cigarette, if only just to match them. Beach patrol hit us at about 10:30, which was only thirty minutes of being there, and thirty minutes of waiting for the other half of us to even show up; blame Erica for being car-less. In a haste, everything that could be capped was and thrown onto the blanket, slung around someone’s shoulder. We hovered around the car, Adam threw everything incriminating over the fence. Ten minutes went by and the flashlight coming our way this time was our second half. Turns out patrol didn’t really care as long as we were gone by midnight so in a quick clumsy move we were back at it and the sea breeze was back to forming the party on the beach and binging for the first time of the summer with real, worthwhile people. That’s when I discovered in the rush that wasn’t worth rushing, the misplacement of one of my beige socks, not both, but just the singular. It was the sock that really tied my outfit together, and matched my shoes, my wonderful new shoes that are probably made from leather but I don’t feel I have to apologize for – I never have nice shoes, for once I deserved it.

Now all that was ruined in a sense, because I could have the 99% perfect outfit but if I lifted my pants leg to show off how excellent the combo was, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be the single-socked laughing stock. So I tipsily wandered to and from the beach with my cracked, dying phone screen for a flashlight, searching around the prior blanket spot, the life guard chair, the lots of sand and the parking lot of sand for this one fleeting, two-dollar, beautiful, complementary, existence-confirming sock. In a drunken laugh I mourned and fell into the vodka bottle, pouring more than one out for: five bucks, vikings, cigarettes and stars, beach patrol, my shoes and the sock I never got back. Joseph Andrew Bruscini is a 19 year old genderqueer kid from Rhode Island. Joseph writes sad queer folk/lo-fi songs as organs & the weight we carry. You can listen to some of those songs at http://organstheweightwecarry.bandcamp.com/

2 pigeons allie Lahn

We stood, hand in hand, two pigeons on a live wire when time edged in, under the door like a folded rug. The neighborhood cats circling, tails twining below they stopped at once, to lie on their backs and open their jaws wide as whales. Our skin prickled with fright under our feathers, and we twisted our heads all the way around and looked down at them(their pink-ribbed mouths reminded us of our bubblegum-thin lungs.) Age came to us, grayed us and curled around us on the wireIt was some time into the future before the cats left us alone.

Allie Lahn is an emerging writer/poet based in British Columbia. She adores you and is very serious about making an excellent impression at your next dinner party

maddi montero Maddi Montero is a 26 year old photographer, based in Barcelona. Founder of Chien Lunatique Editions, a small zine printer

dizzy

garrett brickell Garrett Brickell is an 18-year-old wannabe artist from Montana. He dabbles in drawing, collage, writing, photography and music whenever he can get out of bed. He smokes too much, stays up too late, and needs more boxes for his record collection.

The Cultists

Charles P. Newton Charles P. Newton's (pen name of Garrett Gillaspie) art is mainly inspired by the works of Edward Gorey, Tim Burton, and Victorian era illustrations. He is based in Texas and works strictly in pen and ink.

elevator Doug Hawley You probably read about it or saw it on television, but let me refresh your memory. I know quite a bit about it because I reported on the incident for Associated Press. The continuing mystery knocked the twentieth anniversary of Kennedy Jr’s supposed tragedy, and the civil war in the reconsolidated Soviet Union, out of the news for awhile. My reporting really made my career. Fortunately I had been AP’s obituary guy, with a special interest in suicides. I had done think pieces about causes and frequency and high profile analyses of celebrity cases. I’d like to think that I know more about suicides than the so-called “experts”. My biggest year before the elevator case was the year when both Sean Penn and Penn Jillette did it. I consider that my Penn-ultimate accomplishment ha-ha. I think that I even got people to cry over Dennis Rodman when he did himself in. I had my own talk show for two years. I didn’t last too long, but my initial ratings were at least enough to get one of the talk show hacks off the air. The country should be grateful to me for that if nothing else. Even now I’ve got several offers for syndicated radio programs and I may make it back to TV. By the way, thanks for the drink. I’ve got awhile to kill before flying to CBS headquarters. Five hundred people committed suicide in elevators in 50 countries on 5 continents at 5PM local time. Initially there was no common thread even though most had some sort of statement on his or her person. Some stats: 283 male / 217 female. Of the 156 American suicides there were 106 Caucasians, 21 Hispanics, 18 Blacks 9 Asian Americans and 2 Native Americans - in other words the demographics roughly match America.

88 Non Russian Europeans, 20 Russians, 103 Asians, 25 Australians, 65 Africans and 43 Non US North or South Americans. The age distribution skewed both young and old - 182 were under 19 and 153 were over 64. The middle aged only contributed 165 many fewer than would be expected in a random draw. As might be expected the suicides had a high incidence of physical and mental illness. 128 had been diagnosed as mentally ill - schizoid, bipolar or depressed and 165 had less than a year to live. As would be unexpected the economic status of the victims was pretty high. There were no homeless. It is difficult to calculate an average income for those outside America given the different currencies and income reporting, but the overall victim income seems consistent with the American average of $57,562. The individual cases were all over the place: The 18 year old Algerian Ahmed Ali who died for a secular government. The 19 year old Oregonian Doug Ivy with acne. The 65 year old Quebecer who urged French to be adopted as the universal language. 54 year old Republican senator from South Carolina Grant Holmes married three times who didn’t want to be outed. 15 year old Caucasian Australian Jimmy Sanders who died to promote ousting Euro Australians from Australia. Prominent 75 year old Chinese Communist Wen Wang who admitted to living a lie all his life - he entered politics to get a good car. 33 year old Frenchwoman Marie Simone with ovarian cancer. Their notes ranged from the short and direct “I hurt” to the rambling “I die for my country, I die for Islam, I die for the future. No one knows the anger I have. No one outside of Samolar [an extreme religious group with less than a thousand adherents] knows what I feel.

I die that millions should live. I die for the hungry. I die for the oppressed. All should die or no one should die. History will record this day as important as the messenger’s birth. From this date all will change.” The methods used for death were diverse. Most used guns, but some took fast acting poisons such as cyanide. The elevators varied from rickety antiques to glassy wonders outside beautiful resort and hotel buildings. There was no attempt to kill any bystanders. One man in Morocco died of a heart attack during the excitement. Several people were injured in trying to get out of the elevators. In short there is no immediate, obvious central theme to the suicides. They were obviously organized since the common circumstances were beyond coincidence. One may infer that they were willing to kill themselves and wanted publicity. An ordinary solitary suicide gets noticed only locally unless someone famous is involved. These people should have known that 500 people committing suicide under identical circumstances would get world wide press and the individuals involved could all be famous or notorious. No connection could be made between most of the victims. At most a connection to one other party could be made in the case of a couple of Right to Life crusaders. No correspondence between suiciders could be found. I have a theory that I was not allowed to report on. I think that the group was organized by email. My problem is that I could not establish any evidence other than that all of them had access to computers. Without evidence - and I think because of the fear that there would be copycat situations - my editor would not let me put my theory in writing. I don’t think this group came together on their own. Someone got them started and told them the rules. Two things that I wonder about the organizer. Did he / she kill himself / herself? I don’t think

so, since none of the dead claimed credit and each one wanted either notoriety or maximum publicity for his or her purpose. Second, what did the organizer have to gain? Thanks for listening. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never seen someone so interested in my work on this story before.I guess weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never know some of the answers, but I have my suspicions. Thanks for the drinks, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got a plane to catch. Doug Hawley is a retired actuary who has lived in the Portland OR area most of his life, but has held jobs around the country. Besides writing, he hikes, snowshoes and has a couple of volunteer jobs.

The family we decided to get chickenpox with so we could still play together Jenna Rodrigues Then I’m four years old, slipping on kitchen tiles and wood flooring as the neighborhood moms sip tea, knit their lives together. Scott, Thomas, Joe, and I aerial assault the family’s beagle, Lola with guns we’ve fashioned out of red Lego blocks, our fingers on fake triggers. The next moment we toss them aside, become cowboys that lasso Lola with string the moms were using to make sweaters for their husbands. The next second Mom’s hands are on my shoulders. She says “go outside if you want to run like that” so we do. We commandeer the hammock as pirates, the backyard our ocean, sail through the neighbors tomato plants, between pine tree stands, Lola at the helm, howling for land. That dog must have hated us. We loved her, loved every new adventure, every frog we caught in the creek, every lawn we biked over, every shell

that spilled from our pockets after visiting the beach, every scab we earned, every blister we popped, every fight we had, every night we didn’t sleep, every battleship we sank until the year Lola died and Scott and Thomas moved to Vermont. We didn’t follow them. The loggers chopped down the pine trees so they wouldn’t fall on the neighbor’s house and we stopped being wild, started worrying about the differences between boys and girls and nothing was the same, not ever. Jenna Rodrigues is a storyteller from Westbrook, Maine. Her poems appear in The Blue Route, Oddball Magazine, Insert Lit Mag Here, and Word of Mouth, Hartwick College’s Literary Magazine. Follow her work at jennarodrigues.tumblr.com.

photos

maddi montero

Maddi Montero is a 26 year old photographer, based in Barcelona. Founder of Chien Lunatique Editions, a small zine printer

a visitor patricia p.

There is a woman, standing by your window She has brown teeth and white stringy hair— For some reason, she reminds you of your grandmother that died in a suicide bombing, but you’re pretty sure that Nana didn’t screech the shrieks of ancient demons, baring her teeth, veins striking against her crinkly skin, eyes bulging, with all her strength, all her being. There is a man, standing by your door He has arms that have touched Pluto and feet that have holes in them— You welcome him in, but all you can do now is sit and watch as he tears off the paint from your walls and replace them from the fluids running down the slashes on your skin. There is a person, standing on the ledge of your house They have shoulders broader than yours and calves that boast of scars and bite-marks-They’re muttering words you do not recognize, rhymes that are meshing into each other You tell them to step back, not forward, never forward, but back please please please you say, but now you are falling, hand clenched tight in their sweaty palms and feet not feeling the ground, only the air Your head is a pumpkin and it was split open.

The only thing you need to know about Patricia is that she cannot write without gallons of water by her side and listening to loud folk music. You can contact and find more of her poems at pennilesspoet.tumblr.com

the need sonia lopez

Recognize the need Face your motives Illuminate the darkest parts.

Things will begin to make sense soon Not the type of logic that looks good on paper But the type of clarity only the unclear can unearth And then bury again for the sake of polarity. What does one do after things make sense? What do you do with that type of erroneous information? Things might make sense, but you still might not, So you move forward confused, buried inside yourself with an even heavier question. What comes next?

Sonia Lopez is a middle school Teacher in Houston, Texas where she was born and raised. She lives with her two rescue dogs Little Peach and Charlie. Sonia Lopez enjoys art, good food, and creating on her free time.

a love poem Rebecca Brown i. this is not love. i am pretending i am not memorizing your face. i have not memorized your face. i am not dreaming. this does not feel like a dream. i could promise to love you. i could promise to be true. i could be true. i could be lying. ii. i’m trying to explain myself and i’m sorry i’m not making sense and i’m sorry i’m not crazy, i’m not drunk, it’s just been so long since anybody’s touched me, and i think i’d forgotten, it’s just been so long since i felt the glow and the room wasn’t spinning, it wasn’t spinning, not until your face was floating next to mine, it could have been easy.

iii. things that don’t matter: cold air/still sweating cracks in the sidewalk/avoiding your name/sewage mixed with clover/heavy in the air/always sorry/never sorry enough it’s not you/it is you/it is me it’s not enough. Rebecca Brown has previously published work in Jenny and the Penguin Review. She spends most of her time staring at the ceiling and sleeping on other people’s couches. More of her work can be seen at musingonnapkins.tumblr.com.

some recent releases from Chipped Tooth Press

emma hannan writes about commitment and longing here: http://issuu.com/chippedtoothpress/ docs/in_a_bed_that_barely_fits

Kevin Popovich writes about selFishness and self sabotage here: http://issuu.com/chippedtoothpress/ docs/vpfs

The Uses And Limits Of Physiognomy b.t. joy There are those unable to shake off the shade filming their bones until dying and decay lays the cathedral of their sternum on the open grass; the drunk, singing mead hall of their ribs; their skull’s basilica under a sun of soapstone. You can tell a lot about the man’s grief by the way he wears his facial hair. If long, small particles of the last thing he ate or lips he kissed can be collected, and studied under an electron microscope. Both shabby and clean shaven denote despair in different ways. Every woman’s chest is a soapstone room of various dimensions and utilities. Her essential self is always the one singing matins at the ledge of the open window; vaguely aware of dawn frisking like a hare on the spiny hills; of the new light that never stopped entering her bones. B.T. Joy is a free verse poet whose work has appeared in journals, magazines, e-zines and podcasts worldwide. He has also practiced as a haiga artist and has had work featured with World Haiku Association, Haiga Online and Daily Haiga. He currently works as a high school English teacher. He can be reached through his website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet or on tumblr: http://btj0005uk.tumblr.com/

remnants of the earthquake Ben Campbell walk through the rubble reach down, delve, pick up a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm and wonder how it used to fit together and realise that the methods are dead, the logic has fallen, and all our science cannot mend the tears that scar the ground. how can we go on when so much has been lost?

Ben is a 20 year-old poet and novelist from York, England. You can find more of his work at www.sketchythiings.tumblr.com.

Maddalena Jade

Lincoln Highway Blues Kayla Pongrac Opposite side of the highway. Staring deer carcass. How strange an angle to view oncoming traffic. Kayla Pongrac is an avid writer, reader, tea drinker, and record spinner. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in theNewerYork, Split Lip Magazine, Oblong, The Bohemyth, DUM DUM Zine, and Mixtape Methodology, among others. When she's not writing creatively, she's writing professionallyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;for two newspapers and a few magazines in her hometown of Johnstown, PA. To read more of Kayla's work, visit www.kaylapongrac.com or follow her on Twitter @KP_the_Promisee.

ignition kevin popovich Fall came in fast this year to beat out the summer warmth. We brace our bones for the coming chill. Leaves snap like dry bones under heavy feet. Colors will fade from the streets like the sun is going out; But not before the trees burn in a furious light of orange and gold. Our bones will chill; But not before they ignite In solid glory.

Kevin Popovich is 21. He studies Nutrition in Providence. He plays music and writes poetry when he can.

gary ahmed Gary Ahmed is a 26 year old CT based filmmaker and photographer. Best known for his video work for bands like Eurisko and Pristina.

F o F F c

Finn Schult

Finn is 20 years old and currently in the process of obtaining a BFA from the Savannah College of Art and Design in Photography and Art History. Born in a coastal town on the Gulf side of Florida but spending a large chunk of time growing up in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains, Finn lives in a constant state of being neither here nor there and existing...elsewhere. Finn is currently working on trying to figure everything out.

I'm Going to Try To Write a List Poem Rene Pellissier 1. I don’t know what I’m doing, all of my poems with numbers usually have something to do with math. 2. Plus two equals four I’m sorry I couldn’t help myself. 3. I’m not sorry, Not about my need to pun, or about the scars on your wrists. 4. I did not cause them I just didn’t make them better, I did not know how. 5. They were symptoms of your mind that my kisses couldn’t cure, no matter how hard I tried. 6. I don’t know what to do now that this poem is about you, I have written to many poems about you. 7. You don’t read them anymore, you haven’t thought of my poetry in two years you haven’t thought of me in two years.

8. The moon still asks me about you, on the nights when it is bright and full it asks you why we aren’t kissing. 9. is divisible by three three times The first time I asked you out it was no big deal, The second time I spent weeks writing the perfect poem and the third time I was begging you to come back, but you were already gone. 10. You are in another man’s arms You are in another woman’s arms You are not in my arms. 11. I’m over it, not really but I’ll say I am I need to write poems about someone else. 12. Someone important Someone wonderful Someone who deserves it. 13. Me. I'm going to write about me, Probably not. 14. I don't always think I deserve it, but maybe someday I will and those days will be great.

15. I hope you’re okay, I hope his kisses cured you I hope her kisses cured you. 16. Is how old I was when we started, you were wonderful to love I don’t know how to end a list poem. 17. Is a prime number, have a good night. Rene Pellissier is in her junior year at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. She writes both poetry and prose. Rene was raised in small town Connecticut, on sarcasm, and alcoholic cherries.

i want to sit on a couch next to you for the rest of my life Rebecca Brown i promise i will love you forever i promise i will stop sitting in the middle of the road in the middle of the night i promise i will try to want something else i will stop wandering in the woods in the dark i will try to feel something other than fear for a change Rebecca Brown has previously published work in Jenny and the Penguin Review. She spends most of her time staring at the ceiling and sleeping on other people’s couches. More of her work can be seen at musingonnapkins.tumblr.com.

Old Orchard Jenna Rodrigues

The first cigarette I ever smoked was a Marlboro at midnight on the sidewalk down to Old Orchard Beach. Two boys, a best friend, me. The sand was silent, cooled from the day. The waves were loud, so Katherine and I shed our clothes, jumped in the sea, made the boys hold our shirts so they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get sandy. Later, we dipped under the boardwalk, feet coated in sugar, found the club blasting music overhead and danced. Even the policeman who pulled us over on the way home knew it was the best night of our lives.

Jenna Rodrigues is a storyteller from Westbrook, Maine. Her poems appear in The Blue Route, Oddball Magazine, Insert Lit Mag Here, and Word of Mouth, Hartwick Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Literary Magazine. Follow her work at jennarodrigues.tumblr.com.

Chris Baird

comic

Chris Baird weaves comics from the ineffable soulthreads of dead wizards. He has a tumblr: chrisbairdisdead.tumblr.com

Finn Schult

gary ahmed

photo

Gary Ahmed is a 26 year old CT based filmmaker and photographer. Best known for his video work for bands like Eurisko and Pristina.

Autoimmune Eleni Aneziris Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always a race. I think I might break. Since when did internal bullets dent armor so well? Must be an alloy, must be impure, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve built up quite a fake shell, I suppose. Alarm bells tolling warnings meant to excite, fire, fire, ignite all the demons. But instead it sedates, it tames and it pacifies, autoimmunity relents. People help, saying things helps, no matter what is said. Getting out of your head helps, but please, do not let me psychoanalyze myself. Eleni Aneziris is a writer who wants to go into research and maybe someday become a doctor. She loves psychology, neuroscience, and poetry, and has an unhealthy obsession with Tumblr. She dislikes the supposed dichotomy between the sciences and humanities, and wishes more people would recognize the fact that both heavily depend on each other.

Looking For Home On Islands Parisa Thepmankorn brown eyed girls without any of their teeth, all of their pearls pulled out by their own hands, their own thumbs. bowling pin smiles knocked down, just pink and shaky breaths and telephone voices. these brown eyed girls, too scared to touch the pressing current, all lined up with their feet an inch from the copper mouth. they tried burn their teeth for warmth, tried to suckle the water to kill their thirst, tried anything that promised them something.

Parisa Thepmankorn is an ordinary high school junior who lives in an ordinary town in New Jersey. She expresses her unordinary thoughts through her writing, which has been recognized in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and published in The Apprentice Writer.

gary ahmed

photo

Gary Ahmed is a 26 year old CT based filmmaker and photographer. Best known for his video work for bands like Eurisko and Pristina.

If You'd Close the Door, You'll Never Have To See The Day Again brian Strauss I’m so fucking hungover. I’m falling out of bed languid and embalmed Scowling at post-modernism dropping deuces on the queen’s portrait Buy the liquor at the liquor store from my raghead friend Majib Who sells me cigarettes at cost I buy so much liquor from him Smiles yellow porcelain must comb his teeth with butter Smile at me flicking ash off end of cigarette Sidewalk clicks beneath shoe tramping down apartment roadway Stumble at the light for switch that tells go Honk of horns and angry fists Put your cock away Pissing on birds Birds don’t stay still long enough to piss on, But they did and I did Ass screaming pain Stinking hemorrhoids ought to burst Way my dreams burst all over her ugly face She’d kick me in the groin to tell me how ugly I am Kicks with her cunt My cock is drooling And she...the longtime cock smoker itching for her fix Is about to get it again, only maybe I’ll choke her this time I’m tired of merely ramming it into her I don’t even bother to come anymore

Boredom tolerates me Until my hands wrap around her neck Wildly thrusting, the blood beneath her lips quietly coagulating Pale blue, color of overcast skies and her skin Angular flesh the way hills roll over each other Time bleeding into itself indifferently Outside the bedroom window raindrops sing Complacency of cold weather is oddly attractive to me Awaken at night to pull her closer to me, stifled breath against my chest I am the cold weather waiting to embrace you. Brian Strauss is a poet interested in exploring the emotional spatiality of poetry through the use of aesthetic narrative and metamodernist tendencies. His poetry is steeped in sincerity and detachment, oscillating wildly between the notion of self and implied author.

Up land navi swelp There are owls that lurk in the vowels of my dreams. Sweet hoots from the birds that loot all possibility Show me tones that I can hone to navigate my life by, Sing out invocation from the mights to the lights of maybes. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a growl beneath the cowl of the weary king of a blackened last winter still pinioned by ardor over the finite world that twirled and swirled for grace, or the salute of a moon that spun and then won the day The feathers that are tethered to their wings expand, Unleashing the bronzy coated glory they contained. Up they fly with a cry to remind me to try on new eyes, Umangite unanchored to the earth and untamed. Navi Swelp is a 25 year old man from Michigan. He does things for money but survives on the things he does for love. His dog, Daisy, is a constant source of inspiration.

Fire and Brimstone Sarah Kersey Fire and brimstone Wore holes in the priestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sleeves. Called to God for help. Sarah Kersey is a poet and musician from New Jersey. Catch & Release and Verse Magazine.

She has work published in

Crossover Flirting Allison Whittenberg Imagine your finance's hand up my thigh, Him telling me I looked like a Black Julia Roberts So innocent, so hot Something about my narrow face My steel belted radial lips... All right I liked it This being fed. Enormous is my head that your boyfriend's grossly blatant come ons Hit me with fuzzy caterpillar harmlessness, Of course, I know this ruins the echelon of things I interfere with your zip?locked dreams of marriage Normalcy A house in Linden Hills He said we were the same: Skinny and grinny Till then I had no idea that Hollywood's Highest paid actress Looked like a white version of me. Allison Whittenberg is a poet and novelist (LIFE IS FINE, SWEET THANG, HOLLYWOOD AND MAINE, TUTORED all from Random House and THE SANE ASYLUM from Beatdom). She lives in Philadelphia.

garrett brickell

Garrett Brickell is an 18-year-old wannabe artist from Montana. He dabbles in drawing, collage, writing, photography and music whenever he can get out of bed. He smokes too much, stays up too late, and needs more boxes for his record collection.

The Fountain Fire jevohn newsome

Soft but not fragile, blossoming but not yet bloomed, this is the hour you need to build the afternoon.

To set the foundation of what is yet to come. To find the motivation, incept from where you’re from, from a crawl to a run, from manifest to done, from a library’s dust to the wise you become. Then, real broken or soft spoken, you can present yourself as neither. You can be the fountain’s fragrant fire. & I can see that fountain too, I can see the power burning in the things that you are meant to do. Jevohn Newsome is an awkward and unafraid Los Angeles native. He is currently an amateur poet striving to build his craft, dedicating himself to his appreciation for the most subtle parts of the human experience. If you’re interested in the human experience as well, contact him at vohns.tumblr.com or jevohnnewsome95@gmail.com

THE SALT OF THE EARTH Vanessa Willoughby everyone wants to snatch their souvenirs before they abandon ship. this is an island of duplicates and life-size carbon copies oxygen traded in punches of hot air and moth-eaten imagination spinning for the feel of friendly dissonance and friendly fire. you were not the first curious arsonist and you will not be the last to turn twisted fictions into heroin high rapture oblivious to the way your image flickered even when i held you down, the gold in you could not stay. i find you again every time i peel back the stitches and open my mouth desire coated in bile, alcohol peppermint from your liar’s tongue. i followed you to the river bed laid down and let you fuck me like i was eve. baby you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, you make me feel so good, you chanted so i cut off my head as a promise of obedience when the parting of my thighs wasn’t enough. i keep wringing out hate to the sound of my mother’s borrowed choir of motley angels the mythical miracle workers i was forced to swallow

at seven for the promise of eternal salvation. my flag is still weeping red, callouses have fused with my skin and i clawed my eyes out before i stuck a finger down my throat. Feeding the silent violence of white beauty burns brighter than bombs, brighter than the fluorescence drooping in the parking lot where you fell asleep inside of me, curled up against me and wrapped me in your self-serving glow.

Vanessa Willoughby is a graduate of Emerson College and The New School. Her work has appeared on The Toast, The Nervous Breakdown, Thought Catalog, and Electric Cereal. She is a Prose Editor for Winter Tangerine Review.

insert lit mag here is looking for submissions for our november issue. our next deadline is October 20th. Keep Reading Keep Writing Keep Submitting.