Affinity CoLab Presents: The Onomatopoeia

A F F I N I T Y

C O L A B

P R E S E N T S

THE ONOMATOPOEIA 2019 | ISSUE 3

Copyright © 2019 by Affinity CoLab Presents All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Affinity CoLab 20 E. Bridge St., Ste 103 Spring City, PA 19475 affinitycolabpresents.org

Page 2 of 52

ART WORK Word Cloud / Katy Comber / Cover Art Body of Water / Josh Sorenson / pg. 5 Corrugated Metal / Andi Ravsanjani / pg. 13 Black and White / Asif Pav / pg. 17 Surrounded by Trees / Emre Kuzu / pg. 20 Metronome Ticking / Pixabay / pg. 22 Spitting Fire / Donald Tong / pg. 26 Cicada on Twig / Egor Kamelev / pg. 30 Wildflowers / Bruno Abdiel / pg. 34 Buzz / Harrison Comber / pg. 36 Top Shelf Vinyl / Alina Vilchenko / pg. 38 More Time / Jon Tyson / pg. 40

POETRY There’s a Party in My Head and Nobody is Invited / Dylan Sidoriak / pg. 6-7 Bangers and Mash / Dylan Sidoriak /pg. 8 Fingers that Bleed / Dylan Sidoriak /pg. 9 The Optometrist Office / Dylan Sidoriak /pg. 10-11 Daisy / Dylan Sidoriak /pg. 12-13 Tin Roof / Isaac Sauer / pg. 15 Sounds of Rainfall in City II / Isaac Sauer / pg. 16 Low Music / Faith Paulsen / pg. 18-19 When the Fall Arrives / Debbie Carrier / pg. 21 Metronome / Frederick W. Feldman / pg. 23-24 Devil in the Details / Sara Chodak / pg. 25 Monday / Sara Chodak / pg. 27-28 Quake / Vivian Wagner / pg. 29 Elderly Cicadas / Vivian Wagner / pg. 31 Cat Talk / Vivian Wagner / pg. 33 The Disquieting / Katy Comber / pg. 35

Short Story/Memoir Buzz / Abby Cohen / pg. 37 Genesis of an Audiophile / Donna Wilhelm / pg. 39 Lost in Time / Sharon Hajj / pg. 41-47

Page 3 of 52

Page 4 of 52




Body of Water Josh Sorenson

Page 5 of 52

There’s a Party in My Head and Nobody is Invited.

Melt into thee Abyss of the sea Everything-is-so Tender, to me The breeze, a caress All the green, a bless Sand between the toes Oh, the wind blows Kaleidoscopic delicacy of the rippling sea Hold me Hold me Hold me Life is what my parents never told me How sweet it can be Like the shimmering sea And the caressing ocean breeze Sun on skin Solitude is bliss I think of my barefoot gypsy And her kiss Blue forever sky Cumulus clouds Drift and drift

Page 6 of 52

As I lay down And melt into all-of-this I perform my longest ever headstand Facing the sea On a cliff of Tynemouth, England green Green, green Oh, I-do-believe In-dreams. -Dylan Sidoriak

Page 7 of 52

Bangers and Mash My first Bangers and Mash A microwavable dinner Eaten with the handle Of a disposable razor.

I had no spoons, What-could-I-do!

-Dylan Sidoriak

Page 8 of 52

Fingers that Bleed.

Ragged old homeless man Hunched over a grand piano On venice beach.

People walk by all day With nothing to say.

Forlorn beat piano player Fingers go down on the keys Behind him The sea goes on As far as the eyes can see Holy creature, Keep going please!

-Dylan Sidoriak

Page 9 of 52

The Optometrist Office Optometrist machine Rest your chin here See a hot air balloon Red light Green light Puff of air Poom!

Two eyes in my skull One in my mind Fiction and reality sometimes intertwine.

Oh, this can be beautiful Life a dream Called waking reality Only is it in the mind Oh, I'm doing fine Sun-shine!

Please sit here as you wait in line here , now Through this door Sit here A mirror reflects on the TV behind me “Tell me what letters you can read” “O-M-Y-Z Ummm I can’t get the last one, Q or O?” A vertical line of yellow light Glides left to right.

Page 10 of 52

Okay, now sit in this line and someone will be right with you Hear the eyes through the machine Bzzzzzzzztt! (robotic voice) Human synthesiser scanning- Complete. -Dylan Sidoriak

Page 11 of 52

Daisy Dazey Dazey Dazey Do! Dud-umm.

Crickets, Cascadas, Green aligata’s Field of wheat and green Summer serene scene.

Airplane: VrooooooooOoooooOooOmmmm.

Monolithic existence Pillars of the sky Listen: The wheat will tell you why Oh my Oh my Butterfly in my green mind Golden yellow and true Summer sunset Full bloom A yellow balloon.

Car ride John Coltrane blowin Valley Forge Park Freezing winter Tender summertime bop Kisses from the air Page 12 of 52

Yellow dandelions Here, for you to share.

Candlelight so I can read Great Mother bee “Alright, Alright” It's time for dinner.

-Dylan Sidoriak

Page 13 of 52

 

Corrugated Metal Andi Ravsanjani Page 14 of 52

Tin Roof rain falls clinking on the broken bottles tapping on the tin roof other decay of iron remains on the land in broken down cars in plastic toys and used sinks falls quietly on the sodden grass where the smell of whiskey pass and one small child sits on the lap his head laid against the heavy chest listening to the thumping heart and the tap of rain -Isaac Sauer

Page 15 of 52

Sounds of Rainfall in City II Â Clumpy fall of cold; pitter-patter on stone.

Whine of distant car swishing over large pool.

Dim lamp becomes dimmer. Â One step squelches with damp sock.

One smokey piece of paper sizzle, dying in water.

Faint sounds fall heavy from trees, trickling down the grooved water-ways.

-Isaac Sauer

Page 16 of 52




Black and White Asif Pav Page 17 of 52

Low Music1 According to Katy Payne, Acoustic Biologist, elephants communicate with each other by means of sounds too low and deep for humans to hear. “The whole herd… will sometimes be still, completely still. And it’s not just a stillness of voice; it’s a stillness of body… They’re listening.”

The air around her throbs, shudders, a thunder felt in the bones and tusks, a bass aria deep in the earth.

She leads, the matriarch, her body a hull sailing forests of orchids, between years of walking.

Her steps swim the landscape. She hears, infrasound, the youngest calf calling to his mother, hears her sister comforting him, thrum, thrum, thrum. To her, vibrato means morning, shudder means night, rumble the exuberance of abundant water.

Last season, far from the swamp, a yearling died. Too thin, his song feeble, he slowed. One knee, then the other buckled, 1 previously published Published, Earth’s Daughters #88,

EARTH'S DAUGHTERS P.O. BOX 41 CENTRAL PARK STATION BUFFALO, NY 14215

Page 18 of 52

went down.

All that day and the next, the others hauled the body, trunks scrabbling to grasp.

Finally he fell, a thud that rang as the herd continued.

This season’s migration, they found the spot, came upon the staves of the yearling’s carcass.

They halted, throbbing.

Then one by one, nuzzled the bones, scent and touch reaching to full length, lightly fingering the desert skin, the skull bowl, the tuft of hair.

This morning, the herd moves under rubber tree and kapok, strangler fig and tulip tree.

She hears a note— Movement stops.

A common vibration stills all throats, holds hooves in place.

Her ears unfold.

She bores down, down into deep sound.

-Faith Paulsen

Page 19 of 52




Surrounded by Trees Emre Kuzu

Page 20 of 52

When The Fall Arrives Beep beep Hush hush Coat on Rush rush Swish swish Side to side Rain drops Slip slide Car wheels Squirrel nuts Football Punt punt Party on Play play Children in the Leaves Say Crush crush Flip flop Rake rake Off off we spray Mosquitoes today Beep beep Hush hush Coat on Rush rush It's almost Christmas.

-debbie carrier Page 21 of 52




Metronome Ticking Pixabay

Page 22 of 52

Metronome pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

Often I spend hours at the keyboard pik

pik

pik

pik

picking out a half-melody, roving pik

pik

pik

pik

from tone cluster to mellifluous chord, pik

pik

pik

pik

and the flesh and bone that are my fingers pik

pik

pik

pik

with the hammers and strings a machine form; pik

pik

pik

pik

of ivory, wood, and spidered levers, pik

pik

pik

pikÂ

biology, of living vibrations, pik

pik

pik

pik

o’er time and space drawing telestrations. pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

Page 23 of 52

Making marks on the punch-tape of tempo, pik

pik

pik

pik

notes stick themselves into papery mind; pik

pik

pik

pik

a sonata like giftwrap is unrolled. pik

pik

pik

pik

Tell old Zeno that we know: there can be pik

pik

pik

pik

no reel of points which subdivides the world. pik

pik

pik

pik

But—even so— such illusion yet need pik

pik

pik

pik

be presupposed: to fasten fast the air pik

pik

pik

pik

and keep the floor connected with the chair. pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

pik

-Frederick W. Feldman 

Page 24 of 52

Devil in the Details

Been living in poetry, arms wrapped in flames. Line after line, all the words look the same. My body shivers, dripping in gasoline. It's a small world I hear, the whisper crawls in and inside the fear. The devil in the details takes hold of the wheel, while I relax and look at the spaces in between the stars, the ones I can feel. It's time for bed, the bugs have had enough, so tell them it's time to go, say their goodbyes and pack up their stuff.

-Sara Chodak

Page 25 of 52




Spitting Fire Donald Tong

Page 26 of 52

Monday I’m always on fire.

With you, it goes until I can finally resist the urge And laying in bed with my trauma, it’s a slow burn.

Slow enough my eyes will somehow turn again until they reach the back of my head and I think that maybe if I put the withering thoughts back I can survive another year until I learn again what each setback means. The ending will be even better this time, another eight months and then reach a new prime.

But there’s no new boy at the finish line, I somehow already have him, somehow in the midst of my tugs to find a synonym for suicide he let me into his bubble of the sweetest rhymes. It smells like peaches and tastes like August, all I have to do is say yes.

But I’m stuck in the middle, eternally flaming with doubt of even feeling anything at all.

Is there even a sky to look up at? Everything is great already, my earth is flat.

But I’m scared of heights, and from here I can just see rock bottom has a doormat that invites me to hell where I search for pills and sweat through my clothes as my boyfriend says he doesn’t love me but swears next time he will.

Everything inside me feels cold.

With you, it’s the twisting of the lies you never told.

And with my forgotten mold, it’s all the good I sever until it’s rust, not gold.

It’s the spinning and spinning of things that will never happen, it’s a cycle of consistency, you constantly find me in places I can turn myself into a monstrosity.

I can’t tell her the things I think, she’ll find the missing link that steals me out of my bubble of the profound jurisdiction I’ve realized is all a mumble of shit that hides how much I hate myself.

And so this is getting manic on a monday.

Page 27 of 52

I will let myself settle into the unsettling answers I will never chase away.

The dreams that will never live up to the regret of only ever getting halfway. Cause this is a good day. One where I only think about the knife in the drawer, and pray. I’ve talked to God you know? He said he doesn't listen to people that don’t wanna stay, and the void follows me into my dreams I’ll never escape anyway.

But I can make sweet rhymes, and so can you. But my body still sometimes thinks I’m in middle school and the things we do are sickly crimes. That’s how I’ve been spending my nights, but I’ll just open my eyes real big and shine a light down the whites of my eyes and burn everything in my stomach until my thighs get so tight all the energy is just gone. Everything inside me feels gone. I could ask to come over but I gotta learn to be alone, while I lets 5 year old me learn about the supposed syndrome of flipping burgers just to stay afloat.

And so that’s getting casually suicidal on a Monday. Life and it’s god damn fight with jobs and having a dream will prey on me live vultures until I give way And I give up.

-Sara Chodak

Page 28 of 52

Quake The earth shifts, giving way in all the ways it must, releasing pressure however it can.

Dust rises in the valley.

Heat builds.

And still the ground shakes, as lizards hide under precarious boulders and crows survey cracks, the planet rethinking everything, reconsidering stability, rearranging its notso-precious china.

-Vivian Wagner 

Page 29 of 52




Cicada on Twig Egor Kamelev

Page 30 of 52

Elderly Cicadas They’ve finished everything – molted, mated, laid their eggs.

All that’s left is this: a long, slow summer evening, and one last scratchy song.

-Vivian Wagner

Page 31 of 52

Disco Nap Katy Comber




Page 32 of 52

Cat Talk The cat meows when he’s hungry, when he’s full, when he’s bored.

He talks about all the things any of us talk about— loss and gain, fear and pride— and, when he’s tired of making himself heard, curls up at the end of the bed for a quiet ride.

-Vivian Wagner

Page 33 of 52




Wildflowers Bruno Abdiel Page 34 of 52

The Disquieting Cattails sway; brush my crinkled knees.

Mother Earth’s gentle thrum: katydids' castanet clicks, tame currents ripple over its shallow; melodious trill of gray tree-frogs. evoke days when walks were kind and nature was kindred I try to force it. Still. Wait.

But, peace doesn’t come Doubt chaws, nettles; burrows in mental carousel of fine unspoken words muted by qualms and obligation.

Pebbles of gravel and dust seep between sole and foot.

Birds chatter shrill, impatient.

Thunder’s predecessor, sharp prickles inside my nose; crackling milieu.

Their brittle bones sing with it; I, in my fragile mind.

And Doubt establishes its residential burden behind Reason and gnaws -Katy Comber Page 35 of 52

 

Buzz Harrison Comber

Page 36 of 52

Buzz

By Abby Cohen When I was growing up, there was a family that lived down the street. They were a tribe all on their own. Thirteen kids.

Although, that statement makes their household seem a lot more chaotic than the reality of the situation. The first few kids were already grown and out of the house by the time we moved into the neighborhood. I was five. The last two were born when I was in high school.

There were a crop of girls in the middle of the sibling set, each in turn our babysitter; then a few boys--the bad boys of the neighborhood. They’d light up a fast smoke while making their way to the local Catholic school.

A couple of the girls were around my age. Then, the two little boys rounded out the family. So, there was something for everybody!

One time I was in their backyard playing tag with a subsection of their tribe. My best friend Franny lived next door to them, her kid sister Terry was there too, and I don’t know who else. During the game, I zigged when I should have zagged. This bee and I intersected, and it stung me.

It was my first bee sting, and still only one of the two times in my life that this has occurred. Even so, bees make me nervous.

Especially since the second time I was stung. Maybe fifteen years ago now, I was sitting behind my desk at work, minding my own business when a bee that must have flown in with a customer flew up to me.

I held very still, but the bee decided to land on my knee, and then sting me with no provocation whatsoever.

Clearly if bees can sting you for no good reason, they are as irrational as the rest of us. It is best if at all possible, to give them a very wide berth.

Page 37 of 52




Top Shelf Vinyl Alina Vilchenko Page 38 of 52

Genesis of an Audiophile

By Donna Wilhelm My earliest musical memory: I’m about four or five years old, and I’m in my bedroom. Across the hall from my brothers’ room floats the effortless harmony of the Everly Brothers’ Wake Up Little Susie. No matter that this was the late 60s/early 70s. My brothers, nine and ten years my senior, were audiophiles and budding record collectors, so it wasn’t unusual to hear something from nearly two decades before.

For as long as I can remember, music played in our house. Whether it was radio or stereo, big band, oldies, my siblings’ latest discoveries (T-Rex, Alice Cooper, The Fabulous Poodles), or my grandmother’s copy of Wayne Newton—Songs for a Merry Christmas, it’s always been there.

I still have my well-loved copy of Lynn Anderson’s Rose Garden single on the red Columbia label, scratches and pops embedded in every groove. It’s probably more suitable for skeet shooting now, but I can’t bring myself to part with it.

Why? Because there’s more than music there; there’s also the memories associated with it. When I hear that song, I remember my brother giving me the record and me playing it over and over on my kiddie record player.

I remember running an extension cord out of our house to bring a record player outside, so we could play records on the porch. (I also remember a few of those records being left out in the sun to warp. D’oh! Live and learn.)

As I got older, music became less of a shared experience and more of an escape. I would spend hours in my room after school wanting on any given day to be Pat Benatar or Chrissie Hynde, Lennon and McCartney, the sixth Go-Go. When I got to college it became a social thing again when I joined my college radio station. I met some of my best friends there, and because we bonded over our perpetual love of music, they are still some of my best friends. Back then it was pretty much all vinyl, with two turntables queued up at all times.

It took me a while to warm up to CDs, their only upside as far as I was concerned being their portability. You could play them in the car and not have to worry about flipping the cassette tape to the next side, or the tape getting caught in the player.

I don’t listen to MP3s much. I’m old school. I’d rather have the physical experience of records. The sound of the needle hitting the vinyl, the pops and hisses of songs that have been played a thousand times, that have been really and truly loved—there’s nothing else like it.

Page 39 of 52

More Time Jon Tyson Page 40 of 52

Lost in Time

By Sharon Hajj Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The ticking sounded like music to Ruby Duhickle. She hummed along while she cleaned her breakfast dishes, taking extra care with her favorite porcelain teacup. After placing her cup in the dish drainer, she leaned forward putting her face in the warm sunlight streaming in through the window. “It’s a beautiful day.” She dried her hands and looked at her daily calendar. “Oh my, the neighborhood bake sale is tomorrow. I forgot,” she said aloud to the empty room. Her cat darted in and rubbed against her leg. “Oh Pebbles, thanks for paying attention to me.” She patted the cat’s head and moved to the pantry to grab her navy blue polka dotted apron from the hook behind the door.

Moving around the kitchen she grabbed the ingredients for the chocolate chip cookies. After putting everything on the counter, she turned on the oven and grabbed her mixing bowl and whisk. She tucked a loose strand of hair up into her clip before she opened the bag of flour. A loud bang at the front door almost made her knock the eggs onto the floor. It was her husband, Henry, bursting through the door of their rancher with his hands full of clocks. The pockets of his overalls bulged with even more. She grimaced seeing his work boots leaving dirt prints across the floor.

“Honey, where are you? Can you open the door to my office?” he asked.

Ruby rushed forward and held the door open. “Why on earth did you buy more clocks? You barely have room to sit in there as it is.”

“I don’t have these models. They’ll add something special to my collection. Just you wait and see.” He lowered the clocks onto his desk, loosening his grip one by one. Once he let go, he turned back to his wife and held out his arms wide for a hug. His wrinkled and spot riddled arms looked like a map with the marks left from the metal digging into his skin.

“Oh my word, you look like a mess,” Ruby said. She shook her head but accepted his embrace. He had the smell of furniture which had been stored in a shed for fifty years, a familiar aroma since he went to antique Page 41 of 52

stores on a regular basis. “Tell me what’s special about these new clocks.”

She ran her fingers through his salt and pepper hair and patted his cheeks.

“I’ve been looking for this type of pendulum clock for ages.” He pointed to the one on the edge of the desk. Its brass parts looked dull. “I just have to brighten it up a bit but then, oh, it’s going to add a lovely rhythm to the room.

Ruby laughed. She pointed past him to the clocks stacked up on the shelves and hanging on the walls. “Do you hear all that?” Second hands ticked in so many pitches vying for attention from all corners of the room.

A cuckoo clock opened and the bird emerged to announce the top of the hour. Cuckoo.

“Yes, yes, I do.” Henry moved to the next clock on his desk and lifted it up. “I got a clock radio! The numbers flip which will sound different, and I can listen to the news. I need to know what’s going on in the world.”

Ruby sighed. “You should spend some time outside.”

“Maybe later,” he said. He caressed a stopwatch before he carried it over and dangled it from the side finial of his grandfather clock. In a frame next to the tall case, a note adorned the wall. It was the lone spot on the wall with something other than a clock. Henry gazed at the writing.

“Your father was proud of you, Henry,” Ruby said, pressing her hand against her heart.

She remembered when Henry’s father, Martin, brought him the note. It had happened at their wedding right before they were ready to cut the cake. Martin had come and stood right in between the two of them. He had taken the knife out of Henry’s shaking hand and placed it on the table.

“May I have a moment, Ruby?” Martin asked, gripping Henry at the shoulders. Martin’s red cheeks looked especially bright peeking above his white beard.

“Sure,” Ruby said, unable to stop the interference even if she wanted. Leaning forward, she etched the words she heard into her mind.

“You must let this obsession with clocks go.” Martin looked around the room. “All these people are here to celebrate your new beginning and you mustn’t fail.”

Page 42 of 52

Henry shook his head. “I know you have more clocks than I do, but you already dared me to try to get more. Now you want me to give it up?”

Martin chuckled. “Because you simply won’t find as many valuable clocks as me. The rare ones have already been claimed.”

“Now really isn’t the time for this,” Ruby said, leaning around Martin’s shoulder.

“Listen, I’ve written down a list of the most valuable clocks I haven’t been able to find. If I can find these clocks, I’ll be done with my collection. We can both stop.” Martin dropped his hands. “I’ll make sure my will says you’re the one who gets all the clocks in my collection. You have other things to consider now, don’t you?” Martin asked.

Ruby peered past Martin’s broad shoulders at her new husband whose eyes spun like the gears of a clock.

“Henry, everyone is waiting,” Ruby said, feeling the stares from the guests.

“You don’t want me to be better than you!” Henry said. “I’ll prove to you I can do it!”

“It’s not that, Henry.”

Henry grabbed the note out of his father’s hand and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Henry, the people are waiting,” Ruby said.

Martin nodded and faded into the crowd.

Ruby took Henry’s hand, gripping the knife with him and sliced the cake. “It’s not a competition,” she had whispered between poses.

Wrapping her arm around her husband, the sounds of the crinkling paper had been like pushpins sticking tiny holes in their perfect moment.

Now, Henry pointed at the signature at the bottom of the page. A check marked each row except for the last one, a Seth Thomas mantle clock. “I don’t know why he included the mantle clock since he had a similar one. If only he had lived a little longer, I’m sure I could have found the clock. I could have proven once and for all I’m just as resourceful as him.”

“You’ve outdone him, Henry,” Ruby said. “You have even more than he ever did.”

Page 43 of 52

“He wanted me to stop though. Maybe it has been a waste after all,” Henry said, turning back to his desk.

“Don’t say that. The clocks bring you joy,” Ruby said, stepping closer to him.

Henry nodded. He grabbed a key ring out of his desk drawer. “It’s time to wind the clocks.”

“I’ll be baking cookies,” Ruby said. She left him there immersed in his time keeping.

A couple of hours later, Ruby wrapped cookies in plastic wrap and tied yellow ribbons at the top. She could hear Henry tinkering around with his clocks in between snippets of news. An ad, louder than the news, alerted listeners of an end of season sale. A moment later, Ruby felt Henry lean and kiss her on the cheek. “Beautiful as always,” he said. He pulled on his coat and tipped his hat to her before he headed to the door. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Where are you off to?” Ruby asked, jumping up from her seat.

“Old McArthur’s is having a sale. I won’t be long.” He lifted his collar and opened the door.

“Don’t bring back more clocks or you’ll be buried alive in there,” Ruby called after him.

“Not to worry,” Henry said. He waved back to her and grinned.

About half an hour later, Ruby heard his pickup truck pull into the driveway. She peeked through the window to see him get out and lower the back tailgate. He opened a case and then gripped the edges of a mantle clock. “My dream!” He carried it to the front of the house and banged the door with his foot. When Ruby answered, his face brightened.

“You won’t believe the deal I got on this.”

“Have mercy,” Ruby said. She stood back so he could pass through the doorway. She heard him fumbling in the hall and into his office. Ring.

Ding. Alarm bells clattered down. “What on earth are you doing in there?”

“Just making room,” Henry said. “Come see.”

Ruby approached his office and poked her head in only to see him kissing the clock, newly placed in between two less impressive digital clocks. He leaned and turned on the radio, instantly absorbed by the news.

She backed away without him noticing.

Page 44 of 52

“The mayor wants to help the thief. We have to do something to stop him!” Henry yelled.

Ruby rushed back to the door. “Come out of there. Take a break from the news.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to miss anything.” Henry said, rubbing his head. He ran to the mantle clock and stuck in the key to wind it. His eyes darted around the room checking on all his clocks.

Ruby left him in his obsession so she could return to her cookies. As she finished tying the last few ribbons, she took a deep breath and relaxed, only to be startled again.

“An accident happened! A car was hit by a train. Oh my word.

Horrible!” Henry called from his office.

Ruby jumped up. “That’s it.” She rushed to the office and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“I can’t,” Henry said. “I don’t have time!”

“You’re drowning in time!” Ruby said. Her cheeks flushed and she stomped her foot making some of the clock chains rattle. She rushed out of the room. She grabbed her phone and called her best friend. “Margaret, are you up for lunch?” Leaning toward Henry’s office, she hoped to get his attention but he didn’t budge. “Great. Let’s meet at the diner.” She threw her phone into her purse and grabbed her coat.

“Henry, I’m going out for lunch. I’m going to live my life!”

“Go on then. I’m waiting to hear if they certified yesterday’s election results.” Henry twisted the dial on his radio to clear some of the static.

When she returned, Ruby opened the front door and threw her keys down on the sideboard. “Henry, I’m home!” She loosened her coat belt and clicked her way into the kitchen. “I had a lovely lunch. Have you eaten? Do you want me to make you something?”

While putting her coat away, she felt the soft fabric of Henry’s tweed coat hanging next to hers. The suede elbows were worn on the edges from him leaning on the table while playing cards. Ruby tilted her head. “If you don’t want to go outside, do you want to play cards, like old times?”

Other than ticking, she didn’t hear any noise escaping Henry’s office. Her hand dropped and she pushed the closet door shut. Her breath Page 45 of 52

sped up and she gulped. She tip-toed over to Henry’s office and swung the door open. Click. Ring. Ring. Clocks tumbled down onto the floor around her feet. Alarm bells bumped into each other. Looking into the room, she saw clocks covering the floor. The grandfather clock fell face down, burying its face next to the clock radio which still spewed news.

The weather tomorrow would dip to 33 degrees.

“Henry! Where are you?” Ruby scanned the room. “Henry?”

Sticking up through the pile of alarm clocks under the desk, Ruby saw a hand, her husband’s hand reaching up for help. His fingers wiggled.

“Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Ruby shoved clocks to the side and pushed her way through the piles. Metal banged together and bells dinged. She stepped on an oval clock face and her foot slipped out from under her putting her face down on top of the pile. She opened her eyes to see Henry’s hand reaching out right in front of her. Her hands pressed on uneven metal and small finials poked at her sides. She lifted her head.

“Henry!”

Clocks rose from the floor like a mountain emerging from the sea.

When Henry sat up, the clocks toppled around him leaving behind a volcanic hole. He shook his head. “Ruby. What time is it?” When he pulled himself all the way up from the pile of clocks, he reached out to Ruby and took her hand, helping her lift herself out of the cacophony of bells and ticking.

“What time do you think it is, Henry?” Ruby asked, spitting the words out.

“Sorry,” Henry said, putting his head in his hands.

Ruby sighed and looked down when a small white paper caught her eye. “What’s that?” She leaned down and yanked on a folded paper stuck in a foot of the mantle clock.

“Careful! You don’t want to damage the wood!” Henry said, crouching down to take a closer look. He wiggled the foot until the paper slipped out. After carefully unfolding it, he gasped. “It’s my father’s writing. This must have been his clock at some point!”

Ruby’s eyes opened wide. “What does it say?”

“Things I regret.” Henry’s hands shook turning the words into a blur. “Can you read it?”

Page 46 of 52

Ruby took the note and stepped away from the spilled clocks. She wiped her eyes. Her voice cracked so she cleared her throat before she started again.

Things I regret. It is regrettable that I didn’t spend more time with my family. Instead of having fun playing baseball with my son, I selfishly pushed him into following my footsteps as a clock collector.

I regret not telling him his whole life to focus on his family instead of a meaningless hobby. I’ve lost time and love. I’ve lost the feeling of sunshine on my cheeks. I’ve lost the sound of my child’s laughter.

For what? I blocked myself off with constant maintenance and antique shopping. If anyone finds this note, I suggest freeing yourself now before your life is also filled with regret. Sincerely, Martin Duhickle.

“Unbelievable,” Henry said. He leaned and gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. “It’s destiny this clock and note came back to me.”

“What can I do?” Ruby asked.

Henry lifted himself and kicked an alarm clock back into his office before pushing the door shut. He wrapped his arms around Ruby and took a deep breath, the sweet scent of cookies reminding him of the innocent days of his childhood. “I think it’s time for us to go for a walk.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Ruby said, taking his hand and walking to the front door.

Page 47 of 52

Contributors DYLAN SIDORIAK is a poet, graphic artist, and filmmaker who is currently receiving a masters in filmmaker at Newcastle University in England. He was the literature magazine Editor in Chief for Rune Litmag at Robert Morris University in Moon, PA during his undergraduate degree.

DEBORAH CARRIER is a Southern-born poet, who now resides in Malvern, PA. Northeastern PA has been her home for the past 10 years.

She goes by the pen name 'Deep Blue River', and performs her spokenword art at Steel City Coffee House in Phoenixville, PA in conjunction with Affinity CoLab open mic dates. She has previously been published in High School and College publications, and was recognized with a Third Place award, for a Short Story about her Grandmother, at The Dallas Women's Museum in Dallas, TX. FAITH PAULSEN Over the years Faith has held day jobs as a technical writer, travel writer, freelance writer and in the insurance industry to support her family and her expensive and selfish writing habit. Most recently her work has appeared in the 2018 QuillsEdge Anthology 50/50: Poems & Translations by Womxn over 50, edited by Ann Davenport, Mantis, the upcoming Evansville Review and Terra Preta, as well as in a variety of venues ranging in alphabetical order from Apiary to Wild River Review. One poem was nominated for a Pushcart. Her chapbook A Color Called Harvest (Finishing Line Press) was published in 2016.

FREDRICK W. FELDMAN lives in Pennsylvania. He has published short stories and poetry with Affinity CoLab on-and-off since its inception, and two of his poems have been set to music by composer Audrey Rake.

Among other things, he currently works on the editorial staff at College Literature journal while completing his M.A. in English at West Chester University, and he has presented two conference papers on avant-garde Page 48 of 52

pop music. His current scholarly interests include literary criticism and the philosophy of aesthetics.

HARRISON COMBER lives in Phoenixville, PA with his family and two cats. He enjoys taking photos and paying attention to the things and details that are often overlooked. His work can be found on Instagram.

ISAAC WESTERLING SAUER is an emerging writer and poet currently working as a business analyst in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. He received his Bachelor’s degree from Eastern University in 2013 with studies in literature, politics, and philosophy. He has previously published in the Turk's Head Review and Belle Ombre.

KATY COMBER is the co-founder of Creative Light Factory Writers' Room. Her work appears in Dreamers Creative Writing, Paragon Press, Lagom Journal; Meat for Tea Literary Review; Studio B's Wabi Sabi anthology; Affinity CoLab Presents...; and a self published collection of poems, 40 Portraits of a Family.

SARA CHODAK is a 17 year old musician, poet, and all around creative student. Sara has a music project called Vassal. She's released the EP 'Matter' under that name, and plays many shows around the Philadelphia area.

SHARON HAJJ lives and writes in Douglassville, PA and is currently working on a young adult novel. Her work has been published in two anthologies, and online by Literary Heist, Affinity CoLab, and Down in the Dirt. She is a member of the Women's National Book Association Greater Philadelphia Chapter.

VIVAN WAGNER lives in New Concord, Ohio, where she’s an associate professor of English at Muskingum University. Her work has appeared in Slice Magazine, Muse/A Journal, Forage Poetry Journal, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Gone Lawn, The Atlantic, Page 49 of 52

Narratively, The Ilanot Review, Silk Road Review, Zone 3,Bending Genres, and other publications. She's the author of a memoir, Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music(Citadel-Kensington); a full-length poetry collection, Raising (Clare Songbirds Publishing House); and three poetry chapbooks: The Village(Aldrich Press-Kelsay Books), Making (Origami Poems Project), and Curiosities (Unsolicited Press).

Page 50 of 52

The following artists were found using the website pexels.com. We at Affinity CoLab encourage our readers to follow these talented contributors on Instagram and the Pexels website. All artists were thanked for their work and notified about how their work would be used for our Onomatopoeia Issue.

JOSH SORENSON lives in Southwest Florida. He is a graphic designer by day and a photographer by choice. You can find his work here: joshsorenson.com ANDI RAVSANJANI lives in Indonesia. His videos and photography can be found on Instagram @rangerdh/@andiravsanjani and YouTube.

ASIF PAV is a filmmaker, associate director, and solo traveller in Kochi, India. He’s crazy about meeting new people. You can find his most recent work on YouTube, youtu.be/aJxs8gtzDTQ, and Instagram, @asif_pav.

EGOR KAMELEV is a UX-designer and macro enthusiast in St. Petersburg, Russia. His work can be found on Instagram, @ekamelev.

EMRE KUZU is a photographer in Istanbul, Turkey. His work can be found on Instagram, @emrrekuzu.

BRUNO ABDIEL is a Brazilian photographer and filmmaker. His work can be found on Instagram, @abdielart.

DONALD TONG is a photographer in Malaysia. His work can be found on Instagram, @ngu.donaldtong.

ALINA VILCHENKO is a photographer in Serbia. You can follow her work on Instagram, @secretly_canadian and Vimeo, vimeo.com/ monsteravimeo.

JON TYSON is a New York City photographer. You can follow his work on Instagram, @jontyson.

Page 51 of 52

Page 52 of 52