issue one//april 2014
insert lit mag here
work that bares its teeth
welcome to the FIRST isssue of insert lit mag here.
We sent out a call for submissions. We said that we were looking for work that bares its teeth. Our contributors did not fail us. We’ve put together all the work that left us screaming, crying, and begging for more. These pieces burrowed themselves into our skin, and we couldn’t get them out of our heads even if we tried. We’re hoping they spend some time in your brain too. I’d also like to use this space to say thank you to everyone who helped make this first issue a success. Creating a space for artists to share their work has been a dream of mine for some time now. I am grateful that this dream is becoming a reality. I’m grateful to know and love so many artists. I am grateful to be meeting new artists through this project. I am grateful you wanted to share your work with this mag. I am grateful for the relationships we are forging. I want to keep growing, evolving, and articulating together. You all fill me love, creativity, and positivity, and I hope all three radiate from this endeavor. I proudly present Work That Bares Its Teeth -Julia Alexander The cover of this issue is a photo by Maddi Montero Amezaga.
duende peter lusher A poem in one word. A universe of creative thought encapsulated in six letters. Three syllables, three rolling and lyrical sounds. All of this is true and yet still does not quite capture the concept. To begin with the concept is old, older than the words for art. It is the beginning of art. It is the beginning of creative thought perhaps. And how not? The word has been defined as a feeling beyond passion, of deep heartfelt something in the soul of the artist. An ecstasy. Duende lives at the very edge of love and pain. It lives deep within all of us, where the laughter and the tears touch. It is that feeling where you “just have to...”. For the artists out there, from the visual to the cerebral to the aural, you know precisely
what I mean when I say “just have to”. Those of you who do not define yourself as such, maybe this will help: Ever been in your car after a break-up? Dumper or dumpee, it makes no difference. You throw a song on your mp3 player, or a CD in, you are driving a little fast, a little lost in your own world, and suddenly this music comes out of your throat. suddenly this music comes out of your throat. You are belting the song out at the top of your lungs. And you mean every word. It is coming from that place. It is duende. It is pure art. It is ecstasy. An ecstasy of pain. Turn it around: you just got the job of your dreams; or that person you crushed on just told you they are madly in love with you; or you graduated; or you just
got finished rebuilding that to the world. When those mojunker into the beautiful clasments occur, those are the sic it was always meant to be... brief seconds that I will take -you get the point. At that mo- with me when the reaper drags ment there is a rush, a shout, me kicking and screaming from a song comes rushing through this mortal coil. Those moyou. Your body tingles, you feel ments, that split second, that more alive than you ever have, insanely glorious millisecond, that is duende. Could it not those will be my memories of be that the people that did the earth. And those moments cave paintings, from the first to of ecstasy, the “memories of the last, I’d argue experienced earth”, that is how I define this intense feeling? Duende. How will you define it? Isn’t it something that we all want to feel all the time? Or is it more important to feel this only every once in a while? These are questions that I leave as an exercise for the reader, because I know the truth of that as it regards my own life. I know it is a feeling that I live for. And lets deconstruct that statement. When I say I live for those moments, that means that those moments are when I remember that I am alive. I feel connected
Peter Lusher is a writer and poet from Cincinnati. An academic but also artistic, his voice finds that place between seriousness and humor, converstion and lecture, surreal to real. It is likely that he is still a starving artist in that city.
bleeding wild strawberries Jesse Gebel She thought she knew her ways, and soon good days had flashed in her. She sat there eating wild strawberries that were bleeding on her tongue. A red cold sweet tongue touches my tongue, you don’t watch my eyes wide, my eyes go the way of Sartre, and you tell me I finally look crazy.
Jesse Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks a deadly publsiher that will publish his demented knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.
Todd Behrendt
Todd Behrendt lives in the Adirondacks with his wife and daughter. is quiet; sometimes it is loud.
Sometimes it
Muse Dex Mason I could write About you all Day and if You think I can’t, I dare you: Put me to the test. I promise you I’ll find poetry in The curve of your spine And in the way You speak.
brshy brshy Maxwell Bland If I brsh my teeth, I brsh away tnse moments; I flss out stcky dsagreements. I use mouthwsh on never tlking to your sistrs. I rnse with humn cnnection, and spt into my luv.
Dex Mason gets herself in trouble by excessively wearing her heart on her sleeve, and she just never seems to learn. All she’s hoping for is that her words will mean something to someone other than herself. Maxwell Bland is is an American poet and one of the background figures of the alt lit movement. An aspiring writer of postmodern and new sincerity literature, he is considered by his friends to be “lacking in social skills.”
Anthony Bailey Anthony Bailey is a photographer from Ontario, Canada. Born and raised in the Greater Toronto Area, he’s been photographing his surroundings since late 2011. Anthony took initial interest in wandering around his hometown, capturing places where nobody ever was, like alleyways and forest trails.
MADDI MONTERO AMEZAGA MADDI MONTERO AMEZAGA is a photographer from Donostia. She doesn’t know why, but she makes photographs.
i love you Aria Daryadel
I’ll miss you while away, even if it’s just one room, tug you while awake and asleep too.
I’ll never take for granted a single thing we do. My heart is yours to break, keep or remove. And I hope that you die first so it’s me who’s dealt the pain of waking up each day without you. But if we could remain two lost souls missplaced forgotten, left to live, well that’be great cause one lifetime with you is too short for me to prove how far I would go
to see you smile. So let us both grow gray with these feeling most mistake for an awful fear they must escape from. And I will write for you just like I tend to do words that fit the feelings that you make. Don’t you dare forget that I would die for you and every other cliche that there is…. But I hope that you die first so it’s me who’s dealt the pain of waking up each day alone, confused. I love you.
Aria Daryadel’s writing chronicles every bit of happiness, depression, and empathy he’s felt over the years as specific to his feelings as possible. In his twenty four years of being here he’s had every sort of feeling and anxiety imaginable and there is nothing he’d love more than to be a relating guide to anyone who may be struggling or feeling alone or lost in this gigantic, tiny world.
Anthony Bailey Anthony Bailey is a photographer from Ontario, Canada. Born and raised in the Greater Toronto Area, he’s been photographing his surroundings since late 2011. Anthony took initial interest in wandering around his hometown, capturing places where nobody ever was, like alleyways and forest trails.
On buying her fLowers Rene Pellissier Pretty flowers belong in your hair, not over your grave. I still have trouble thinking of people, over your grave. Over you, like I wouldn't be but am now. Pretty flowers belong in your hair, not over your grave. I never want to be over your grave.
Rene Pellissier is a Student at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. She is in her sophomore year, and writes both poetry and prose. She was raised in Connecticut, on sarcasm, and alcoholic cherries.
Kayla Savage
Kayla Savage is a photographer and artist from Connecticut. She likes surf punk. She thinks eyebrows are important.
Rest In Peace You Big Dumb Idiot Daniel Wright
I’ll ache your head I’ll send a nail through a board I’ll turn the radio dial and I’ll crash the car Allow me to be explicit I don’t have a hero Every day I fight with listlessness if you’re feeling pathetic you are not alone if I put that feeling there then I guess I’ll go the values that count to me are also the ones I know are wrong is anybody on this Earth doing it right? there is no right there is some light follow that shit until the day you die or else you’ll die on a day much sooner that you didn’t plan or think about. so say your goodbyes because everybody has their goodbyes as if each person is entitled to the phrase why do I do what I do Why Do I Do It Answer Me what did the people before me do Should I seek them out? Am I supposed to fear the future or regret the past? Which is it? Neither? Fine. I’ll live in the now, right? Then I’ll feel great, I’ll just live and do and act and play and work and sing and kill and release and swim and play again and work again and play again and work again and play again and work again and play again and work again and play again and work
again and one day my heart will have a complication and if I’m lucky it’ll be short and uneventful because everybody wants to die in a state furthest from regular life, like in their sleep or being celebrated and forgiven. He, the champion, the one who grasped so much about the world around him that he spoke to it, and he was wise and educated us all, he improved the quality of life around him and considered the well-being of those that mattered most to him. He didn’t even mind all those times that he felt bad. When he passed he considered his impact and smiled. Farewell. Rest In Peace you big dumb idiot. You died like everybody else ever.
Colin Hassett Dan Wright is a person living in Massachusetts. He will occasionally sit down with a fine point Sharpie pen and write about things he wish he had. Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.
Inspection emma hannan
i. it’s true that i am afraid for you to love me, that i can’t write poems with you around, with “it’s okay. it’s okay. we’re okay,” leaking from your mouth like sap, sticky and sweet and vital. the foundations i had laid for myself are old, are cracked, dangerous. floorboards in a second story where termites have made a home. you have fallen through me before. ii. it’s true that i am a house you have built again, that my triyng it alone was not nearly good enough. you have reconstructed shattered glass and shattered frames and shattered hearts; an architech with not only an eye for potential, but a hunger for it. you sank your teeth into mine recklessly.
iii. it’s true that you have made a home from me, within me, a place welcome and warm and full of light. my heart is a bay window that looks on to only you and a world that we will conquer together. it took loving you to realize that i was not a one-man job, that i was not a project, that i was a story needing reviving. i allowed you to fill the cracks beneath me and it was much more beautiful than me trying to lift myself and crumbling.
Emma Hannan began writing in 2009 and became a contributor and editor of her high school’s literary magazine, Scriptura. Post-graduation, she has dabbled in everything from short story to journalism, but her heart will always beat in poetry. Her goal is to inspire art, create art, and to ultimately become art.
one more tuna! paul alexander
The summer afternoon air hangs thick, hot, humid. It’s going to be a long day. Scratch my name on a timecard, punch in. Click Boil water. See what’s left in my section from last night. I need pasta, garlic, sausages, broccoli. Pull the door to the walk-in, handle worn smooth from years of abuse. Embrace the cold air I know I won’t have time to savor later tonight. It’s quiet in here, the sound of the phone and fans muffled by piles of produce. The parade of employees entering begins, “Hey Courtney, what’s up?” Click “Hey Chris, what’s up?” Click The bartender shows up, makes the usual ridiculous requests, and goes to wait for customers. The first table gets seated, Read the orders scratched on the pad, “Anna! No chicken Milanese! I could do veal?!” “I’ll go see…” Click The dishwashers must be here. The chorus of cooks, voices gravely from too many years of cheap cigarettes and yelling orders, “Hey guys, I’ve got pans for you!” “Can someone get me some medium boxes?”
“Whoever’s not doing anything, I need parsley cut. 2 bunches!” Brrrrring! The phone. I’m busy, someone will get it. Brrrring! “PHONE!” Brrrring! Can’t they get the phone, what are the waitresses doing? Brrrring! Gotta get that, wipe my hands, pick up the receiver. “Thank you for calling, how can I help you? No sir, we don’t have pineapple, we can’t make a Hawaiian pizza. No sir, our only gluten free pasta is penne. And what dressing would you like with your salad? We have Italian, Ranch, and Bleu Cheese. Alright, can I have a name for this order? Great, it’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.” Back to the veal. The familiar sound of a meat mallet whacking against the cutting board echoes. Bread the veal, grill the vegetables, drop the pasta. The veal sizzles, more tickets come in. And so it goes. “I need more clams opened.” “Can someone get me some mozzarella?” “Two more tuna!” “Hey guys! Can one of you bring some ice to the bar!”
“Can you do a shrimp fra diavolo over spinach instead of pasta?” Again? Why are you the only one who brings me these tickets? “Yeah, but it’s going to be three bucks more.” I see flames in the corner of my eye. Vodka sauce? Too busy, doesn’t matter. Okay, chicken francese. Butter, parsley, lemon, wine, stock; is it a small? No, three pieces chicken. Low heat, don’t burn it. “One more tuna!” Look at the clock, 9:00, it should be about done by now, let’s shut it down. Wrap up the cheese, wipe down the board, “Guys, I’ve got pans and casseroles for you!” Dump pasta water, turn off ovens. Okay, I need a spray bottle, not that one, Wipe down board again, put knives away, Clean burners, lifting each one, wiping away the carbonized remains of mushrooms and capers Lift the rubber mats, knocking pieces of peppers and cheese onto the floor. Sweep. Drag mop bucket outside to dump in the street, The familiar sound of mops splashing back on the floor, rhythmic and wet. The cold, metallic clanging of silverware being sent through the dish machine. Click
The waitresses leave, stuffing their tips in their wallets and pockets Click Click The pizza cooks leave, “See you tomorrow guys” It’s just me and the dishwashers now, The clangs of tools returning to their bins, the sounds of stacking plates echo through the kitchen I’ll leave them to sweep and mop their section, they know how. Okay, is everything off? Grill, fryer, my burners, my oven, grinder oven, pizza oven, yes. Open the door outside, kick empty boxes of cheese and lettuce away from the door, Drag the trash cans outside, Punch out. Click “Good night guys, see you tomorrow” “Same time tomorrow boss? We still have one more tuna.” Walk through the dimly lit parking lot to my car, breath the cool night air. Get in, sit down, key in the ignition, close the door. Click
Paul Alexander, according to legend, once cooked a piece of wolly mammoth, just to check it off the list of animals he hadn’t eaten yet. Now if only he could get his hands on some narwhal meat.
virtues sonia lopez
Habits are symptoms Unless you want them to be virtues. People are painful Unless you want to be in love with them.
We are wedged between the rhythm and the rhyme That wills us, and wounds us Into the crypt and out of the cradle. But what beat, or pulse baits Us into hanging around for more? The question is not What do you need, when you need to be Hung, or Hurt, or Handled badly? But rather, who needs you?
Sonia Lopez was born and raised in Houston, Texas and lives with her two rescue dogs Reefer and Buddy. Sonia is inspired by the works of Allen Ginsburg and Charles Bukowski.
jj kuya JJ Kuya is an illustrator and writer from north Texas
Colin Hassett
Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.
commotion within Zaf kassam
Conscience had his hands in his pockets as he stood there watching the woman examining the unbreakable glass barrier. Ego was sitting on his self-created throne, observing Conscience. Within was silent. The woman ran her fingers along the smooth invisible surface as if searching for a crack or an incongruence; something to help her get past this insurmountable obstacle. A deep furrow formed on her high forehead and determination set firm amid her proud features. She curled her delicate hands into fists and started pounding incessantly on the glass wall. The shock waves knocked Ego off his throne, but the earthquake of echoes left Conscience untouched. He stood there calmly, still watching her, assessing her. Ego got angrier by the second and stormed forward to dispel with the nuisance. Conscience was propelled into action and grabbed
Ego by the arm. “Thy dare!” Ego demanded as he spun around. “Calm down,” Conscience said, his voice silken. Ego growled. But Conscience was undeterred. The sightly beauty kept banging; kept hurting as she hurled her weight against the glass wall. Conscience saw this, and winced. Ego was simply adamant to get rid of the discomfort all felt; especially him. There was a low moan from the deep recesses of Within. The other residents of Within crept out soundlessly, knowing all too well that the stage belonged to the two at the forefront, at least for the time being. They simply took their positions on the bleachers, forming sombre files and sitting up straight. “Let not thee be drowned by the forces of Rage I endeavour to ignite,” Ego threatened. Rage, on the back bench,
glowed at the mention of its name. “Calm yourself, and just look at her. Look at how She is willing to put herself through so much trouble to get Within.” Ego glared at Conscience. “Be not a fool like thine lord,” he spat. “Thine lord who gaveth I thine power of attorney.” “Yes, very foolish indeed is the Heart,” Conscience said in a low tone, “But your lord is no better.” “Speak no evil of him!” Ego bellowed. Conscience went on as if uninterrupted, “Mind suffers a persecution complex that has tainted my dear soulful lord. Your lord is but a fool and nothing more.” Ego bristled, “Thee is in contempt! Unhand me!” Conscience let go of the ridiculous monster. “There is no point in reasoning with you; beyond your inflated belly nothing can be seen.” “Thy dare!” Ego spluttered, ballooning out even more.
Rage stood and descended the bleachers slowly, like a cloaked ghoul. Conscience paid no heed to either and stepped up to the glass barrier. The beautiful woman had weakened; her blows no longer strong. She slumped against the wall. Conscience raised his hand to the glass and splayed it there, a look of regret befalling his peaceful face. “I’m sorry, Love,” he whispered. She picked herself up again and threw herself bodily against the impenetrable glass. “You deserve to be Within and Within deserves to know your grace, tranquillity and worth.” Love began to bleed. Conscience burned. Within trembled. Ego pushed Conscience out of the way and stood before her and him like the pompous ass he was. Then pressing some trigger, he spoke, “You are not welcome. Go away. Or be off with your head.” “It is not fair,” Justice cried from his corner. “How am I to ever be of use if I
do not lay with Love?” Passion demanded from his position. “She seeks to destroy Within,” Fear shouted, quaking. “Heart is too fragile to be jerked around,” Rationale offered. “Mind is too chaotic to comprehend the affair that would ensue. Mind and Heart are at loggerheads already. We just want Peace to reign Within again.” “Love will bring her back,” Hope spoke out, his voice ringing strongly. “It is too big a risk,” Caution countered. “Love is not to be trusted.” “Let me be the judge of that,” Trust interjected. Conscience turned to him, as Faith stood beside him. “Are you strong enough to stay with Heart and support our lord as he embraces Her?” “Yes, Sir,” Trust and Faith chorused. “Pray tell, upon whose authority does thee command the Walls of Within Ego demanded when Conscience sidestepped him and raised his as if beseeching the Wall to part. “Upon mine.” The voice came
from the deep recesses, a voice of subtle power and authority, a voice calmer than Conscience’s and sweeter than Hope’s. Heart was breathtaking in his robes of Purity, delicate and fresh. Hope rushed forward and knelt at His feet. Trust and Faith flanked Him. “And Mine.” Mind’s voice was gruff and aristocratic and purposeful. He stood tall and proud, Intellect perched on his left shoulder and Emotion perched on his right, like exotic birds of paradise. Conscience smiled. Ego stepped away into the lurking shadows of Within. He knew his role would be reinforced sooner or later. “My Lords,” Conscience too stepped aside to reveal Love, exhausted and frail. Heart rushed forward, concerned. “By my rose, this is not done. She must be honored and nurtured.” Mind flicked his sinewy hand about and ordered the glass barrier to vanish. It did so instantaneously and Love fell into the arms of Heart and was fully consumed by Him.
Joyous celebrations broke out, the festivities enhanced as Invincibility and Glory appeared from thin air to decorate Within. And Within came alive with energy and festivity that had never graced this place ever before. Within called out Victory and all else was forgotten as reckless abandon took over. Mind and Heart danced around Love like little children at the park. And the partying continued until...
MADDI MONTERO AMEZAGA
Zaf Kassam spends her time creating parallel storylines out of reality. She is soft-spoken, has loud thoughts, is of a quiet demeanour and harvests a raging love for all things witty. She likes learning new things and is very, very grateful for Google.
MADDI MONTERO AMEZAGA is a photographer from Donostia. She doesn’t know why, but she makes photographs.
WILDFIRE DOMINIC DEFILIPI
You’re the fire The conflagaration That will taint my skies of blue Yet I’d burn the whole world over For another night with you Your facade is slowly melting but You’re not the one to blame Unless I cut the kindling I can only fan the flame But if love’s a fiery vortex With a burning heart and soul I know that ours could catch aflame And char us both to coal You’re the fire The conflagaration The soul the flames have kissed I love you I adore you But I’m not an arsonist Dominic Defilipi is a pharmacy student at the University of Rhode Island. He writes poetry and music for money, so he can sell drugs one day.
maybe if i tried jesse gebel
My friend tells me he gave up on his girl because she got lazy, and smoked crazy dope too much, and got slightly fat, got too much of a barrel of bombs that shouldn’t be around no more. Throw her over the bridge, he gets fit and I get drunk and get lost in the streets and this little belly on me from something is soft and mean. Good night I never hear in this house, crumbs on the table, crumbs and maybe mice- something will feed from my food crumbs in the black night. Dirty floor and the carpet in my bedroom stinks and it feels rough. I cook something and it tastes good, I’m a good cook, I should have been a cook. I should have been something, good coming forward in life but laziness takes over and ambition is nowhere to be found- how it felt good to have you around. Once not eating for two days and you gave me your food, your soul. It made me fall for you more in some room that we will never touch again.
Jesse Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks a deadly publsiher that will publish his demented knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.
The Kite Into the distance the fields stretched forever Far more than my eyes could ever behold And there all above us on a back drop blue ocean the kite would rattle like the gib on a yacht Down below our gaze the horses did gather to stare at this bright light that buzzed through the air and over the brow on the spine of the South Downs the darkness rolled over and carried the rain
frofc
FROFC is a mystery to us. We believe that FROFC is a human who writes poetry. We can’t really be too sure.
The Memory remains Navin Enjeti
We were both seventeen. Lara’s theme played as she accepted my request to dance. She left her hair open and her mind, it seems. We danced, we spoke, we drank and we laughed. Married at twenty-five. It was simple as that. My hand held hers tightly; just as I had the night we danced eight years ago. She left her hair open. We danced, we spoke, we drank and we laughed. We shared the pleasure of being each other’s “firsts”; making love under the stars on the first day of summer. She grew from being a clumsy adolescent to a lady the town looked up to. We never spoke of us not being able to conceive; sharing our moments with one another was
our inability to conceive. So, when she left the car running one night, before our friendly neighbours alerted us; we were grateful. And yet, we laughed. Nineteenth of April 2009, was the day I turned forty seven and the first time in twenty-two years, I had woken up alone. “I went for a walk” she said. And, we laughed, as she handed me a daffodil. We had always shared our firsts. Remember? She was the same, on the outside. Yes, yes she was, or so I told myself, despite my inclination to believe the signs. She faded like ink; slowly at first, before rapidly deteriorating. I had become a stranger to her, much like the town itself.
me to leave, not knowing who I was. Soon after, we stopped. Twenty fourth of August 2011 and after thirty two years of sharing our firsts, it all came to an end. We would share firsts no longer. There was a time, I remembered for the both of us, as she failed to recall any details of our life together. The tighter I held, the more she lost. Today, in her absence, I remember the days we danced, we spoke, we drank and we laughed. I shall make do with this and for now only her memory remains.
Navin Enjeti is an author who writes about heartbreak and loss based on his own personal experiences from his childhood through to adult life. A firm believer in living life to its fullest, he draws inspiration from all that surrounds him.
Regret Poem #3 Maxwell Bland I made the 2nd joke, like, 12 times, and not 1 hit. Yet when the 2nd one made the 2nd joke, it hit, like, a ‌ lot.
Maxwell Bland is is an American poet and one of the background figures of the alt lit movement. An aspiring writer of postmodern and new sincerity literature, he is considered by his friends to be “lacking in social skills.�
Photosynthesis Sonia lopez You are not a holy man. You are a man of science, Who mends me, and tends to me organically, With the only means you know how. With your hands, with your mouth. At daybreak I rise, Limbs tangled around your creature contours Because I’m solar-powered, green, and deprived. My body bends towards you even when we are apart, Because I cannot function Without the salt that falls from your brow When you are over me, under me, inside me. At night, when I am sick with wanting, I hear you car keys finally hit the nightstand And your easy breath As you curl your forgiving body around mine, Methodically coaxing the warmth back into my thighs. Photosynthesis is clever, Leaving no room for Unnecessary expenditures of energy. Everything you are to me is vital.
SONIA LOPEZ was born and raised in Houston, Texas and lives with her two rescue dogs Reefer and Buddy. Sonia is inspired by the works of Allen Ginsburg and Charles Bukowski.
Untitled He had chewed on shards of future hopes and washed them away with smoke followed the rules with calloused hands and breathed in coal dust down his dried up throat The forecast was bleaker than youth had proposed His heart had shrank and with it his horizons but on the road he had learned hard the lessons that he was never on a free ticket His demons always there to dine whilst those in the magnolia towers looked down from high opinion but a mist below obscured the view
frofc
and all they could see was their own reflections Life is a non existent myth they said and they dined on themselves on the road to hell oblivious of the mans convictions
colin hassett
FROFC is a mystery to us. We believe that FROFC is a human who writes poetry. We can’t really be too sure.
Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.
haven cory Blair In 34 minutes, the car will be gets progressively harder and hit and both children will be killed instantly. Two years later, the mother will hang herself (she’s always been old-fashioned). Six years after that, the father, driven further into alcoholism, will leave this world at the ripe old age of 54. There will be nobody left to miss him when he is gone.
harder to prick his finger. One day he might not be able to check his blood sugar at all. I don’t know what he will do whenthat day comes. Maybe just curl up into a ball and wait. A blanket covers my legs. It has a picture of a smiling cat holding up a “peace” sign. I hate this blanket. I don’t know why I still have it. My aunt that nobody The suitcases piled up in the likes or keeps in touch with got trunk look it for me for like the Christmas skyline of an a few years empty city. ago. She My diabetic didn’t get brother sits next to me. He is anything for anybody else and checking his blood sugar levhasn’t sent anything since. els. He has a huge phobia of The blanket is wrinkled and needles, so when he pricks his makes the cat look more like a finger twice a day he always blue paraplegic man. The wrinturns his head, closes his eyes, kles remind me of old people, and grimaces, making sure he or my fingers after I stay in the doesn’t actually witness the bath for too long. Perhaps that’s needle penetrating the skin. why old people get all wrinkly. He says, contrary to what one They have spent too much time might expect, his fear of neebathing. I’m looking forward to getting old. I imagine old dles grows each day, and it
people sit around all day and just knitand tell stories to one another. Then one day they just curl up into a ball and wait. My mother and father get into the car. My father turns around and smiles. He doesn’t smell of alcohol. I shift because the bruise on my arm is hurting. “Everybody ready?” he says enthusiastically. I don’t think his over-emphasized smile is genuine but I can’t really tell. My mother isn’t crying for once. She cries a lot. Her only explanation is, “I’m tired.” Yesterday we couldn’t get her out of the bathtub. She was “very tired.” When my father and my brother finally lifted her out, she was all wrinkly.This is what she will look like when she is old. Tired and wrinkly. There’s no response to my father’s inquiry. He continues. “Look, I know things have been…I’m sorry. Let’s put it behind us and have a good time.” My brother looks up and gives him a half smile. His blood sugar was a little low so he eats a bag of fruit snacks. My father smiles back. This one is genuine. He awkwardly reaches
es behind his seat and pats my brother on the shoulder. A nice, manly pat. “Hey Joanne, how’s that cute boy in your class doing?” he asks me. “Dad, I’m a lesbian, remember?” I joke back, looking to avoid his mandatory parental teasing. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to beating the shit out of the boys you brought home over the years. Beat them off with a stick.” He waves his hand around like he is bashing in the skulls of overzealous, horny teenage boys. My brother begins to laugh and my father beings to laugh and I begin to laugh. It starts off slowly, like faux-chuckles you throw courteously at your friends after they make a bad joke, but begins to build and build, an energy flowing out of our mouths and dancing throughout the car. We make eye contact and continue, the car shaking, the deep baritones and high shrieks of our varied laughter harmonizing and feeding into to one another. The laughter of my family enters my mouth and travels to my stomach. I
the back window. I watch the am full. In my brother’s open sun rise over our hand-made mouth I see fruit snacks. It dies down and I see my moth- skyline. It makes the entire car glow in a soft golden tone. A er’s head buried into her arm. She is crying again. My father tree passes in front of the sun, filtering the light into delicate leans over and kisses her on strings the top of that her head. weave He whispers and form something in a tapher ear. She looks up. She is smiling. These estry that smothers me. It’s so beautiful it’s hard to breathe. I are a different kind of tears. stare directly into the sun and it “It’s just so good to hear all you guys laugh.” She begins to burns my eyes but I don’t look sob. She is still smiling. “Oh, I’m away. I can’t. We turn a corner just so glad we are finally doing and the sun is no longer visithis.” ble from the window. I close my “We’re finally doing it,” whispers eyes and look inwards. It’s my father. “We’re finally dostill there. Five hours until Caling it. It’s just what we need.” ifornia. I curl up into a ball and He looks back and smiles. We wait. beam back. We are finally doing it. What had just been words and promises for years has finally turned into a family vacation. We are finally doing it. As we pull out of the driveway and down our street, I stare out Cory Blair is a journalism major at the University of Maryland. He freelances for the American Journalism Review and does not think A1 steak sauce compliments the taste of meat very well. You can find Cory on tumblr by visiting http://a-sneaky-keyhole-view-of-hell.tumblr.com
Jan. 21, 2014- beautiful Dex Mason
You swore The most beautiful of flowers Couldn’t grow Even in the darkest parts Of your wretched heart. But I wonder If you’ve ever Heard yourself sing?
I wonder, Have you ever heard the sound Of your own smile Before your laugh? The tone of your voice As you go into depth Of the things You are most passionate about? I’m almost certain If you weren’t yourself For only a moment You’d be enticed By your own nature. Maybe then, You’d begin to feel The water lilies sprout From even the coldest places
In your heart; You’d begin to feel The colors restore To your black dahlias And your calla lilies, And the roses emerge From your wrists And maybe then, You’ll understand How beautiful you are To me.
DEX MASON gets herself in trouble by excessively wearing her heart on her sleeve, and she just never seems to learn. All she’s hoping for is that her words will mean something to someone other than herself.
Doormat Colin Hassett
I used to be the mat But now I’m the door The lock is broken You cant come in anymore I thought I liked you But you proved me wrong I put so much effort Where I didn’t belong I wasted my time I wasted my energy I wasted my thoughts All on you
At least now I know the real you And it’s someone I’d never want to be with You’re a perfect example Of who I hate Now walk out that door I’ll lock it behind you You’re not coming in again Just go and never come back I don’t want you here anymore I’m locking you out Forever.
Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.
jj Kuya JJ Kuya is an illustrator and writer from north Texas
Hide and Burry Rene Pellissier The snow falls lightly,
melting into mud on the ground. I walk past every name carved in granite. I recognize the surnames of people I have known, but I can’t find the one that I have loved. I’ve tried walking in a grid but now I am following the wind. Scanning for the name I want to see. It was a snowy day in december and I couldn’t find your grave I’m sorry I wasn’t your favorite. I bet he leaves you flowers and tells you about his day. I just want to run my fingers across your name. The snow falls harder.
Rene Pellissier is a Student at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. She is in her sophomore year, and writes both poetry and prose. She was raised in Connecticut, on sarcasm, and alcoholic cherries.
Crying Fool Jesse Gebel I don’t know if women ever imagine a man crying; in his room while nothing plays and the quiet makes him sadder.
you see a woman break down easily and how a man stands there looking at his father or mother’s grave, and doesn’t cry ever. some men think if you cry, you are weaker than the dirt that sinks in your shoes. Hell I cried one night after seeing a young woman who I thought I loved, and all I did was pour that liquor down to the liver and make me smile again. you bastard. I saw my baby sister’s grave and held on steady, but we kept on going to
other known graves, and the steadiness of tears on me. flowed on out like the river rising and killing us all.
Jese Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks a deadly publsiher that will publish his demented knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.
Episodes
Emma Hannan there was a time when i would touch myself to the thought of you and hate myself for it, cursing my own name while screaming yours to the ceiling.
i am familiar with self-loathing; we’ve shared a bed almost every night and told no one. vulnerability is my mistress; we’ve fucked in the back seat of a car, she’s left bruises on the back of my thighs where her teeth resided. my affairs have turned me to stone, and you’ve sunk to the bottom from the weight of me too often. abuse and masochism became a niche, a comfort. i memorized the cracks in your voice like a language, each time translating them into a new reason to never speak again. the only air i ever learned how to breathe was toxic with my own pain, and i was never taught the basic exercises to survive without it - so i survived without you instead.
~ over three hundred moons have passed and i have fallen more in love with you than ever before. i am clean, clarified, complete. i am full like a moon. a year later and you bite into me every day like a plum and it is ecstasy, a fulfillment more satisfying than the kiss of a person you don’t know. this is permanent, the manifestation of pure consistency - more reliable than deprecation that has spent much of her time whoring herself out to me, and is finally moving her things out of my living space.
Emma Hannan began writing in 2009 and became a contributor and editor of her high school’s literary magazine, Scriptura. Post-graduation, she has dabbled in everything from short story to journalism, but her heart will always beat in poetry. Her goal is to inspire art, create art, and to ultimately become art.
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