Amendment 2012

2012

AMENDMENT Virginia Commonwealth University

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2012

2012

AMENDMENT

social progression through artistic expression

AMENDMENT

A

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MISSION

AMENDMENT

\ -men(d)-m nt\ noun e

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1. an annual literary journal that seeks to promote discussion on issues of equality, class, race, gender, sexuality, ability and identity.

2. a socilly progressive student-run organization that advocates for social change through artistic expression, as well as provides a platform for marginalized voices in the artistic & literary community.

3. what you’re holding in your hands.

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STAFF

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Mari Pack

MANAGING EDITORS

Maya White-Lurie Kaylin Kaupish

ART EDITOR

Jasmine Thompson

EDITORIAL STAFF

Catherine Cozzi Christine Skelly Christinia Epperson Edwina Barthelemy Greg Alexander Jee Yun Park Kitty Meader Lashelle Johnson Michael Bell Swarna Chowdhuri Tereza McZnnes Tyler Walker

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PRODUCTION MANAGERS

Mark Jeffries Ying Jun Cheng

STUDENT MEDIA DIRECTOR

Greg Weatherford

BUSINESS MANAGER

Lauren Katchuk

COVER ARTIST

Robalū Gibsun

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When Amendment published its first Zine this Spring, we wrote “Special thanks to the staff at the Student Media Center” on the back inside cover with thick purple sharpie. And though I wish I could do the same on the jacket of our journal, this is a classy publication and we have to exercise discretion. Still, we would like to give a big purple sharpied thanks to the SMC, Amendment’s home base.

Among the very talented people who work to make Amendment possible is Student Media Director Greg Weatherford, who not only allows us the creative freedom to publish pictures of naked people and poems about vaginas, but whose wisdom and experience helps us navigate the publication process. Lauren Katchuk, the SMC Business Manager, is a budgeting master whose financial knowhow continues to amaze us liberal artsy types. Production Manager Mark Jeffries, no matter how many times we sort of dump projects onto his desk, fields our desires for zines and t-shirts and posters with incredible creativity and good will. Accompanying Mark through the process of designing our journal is the hardworking Ying Cheng, who came full of ideas and inventive solutions.

Thanks, as always, to Liz Canfield, Amendment’s Den Mother, without whom our journal wouldn’t exist. With the help of her Feminist Literary Theory Class, Liz saw the need to create a platform that could publish on issues affecting marginalized voices.

Thanks also to David Osnoe, Amendment’s 2011-2012 executive editor, whose humor and exuberance rallied many to our cause. Maya White-Lurie and Kaylin Kaupish, this year’s assistant editors, were not only competent editors, but also brilliant scholars. The nature of our journal requires a certain level of research into intersectional gender and sexuality studies, which Kay and Maya not only maintained but really cultivated.

Moreover, I am very excited to announce Greg Alexander and Lashelle Johnson as executive editors for the 2012-2013 year. Greg is a master editor with a knack for finding grammatical errors that the rest of us breeze over. I also have a hunch that his brain is, in fact, powered by Wikipedia. Lashelle is an organizer of epic proportions. I am confident that her warmth and affability will draw many a new face to our meetings. I so am thrilled to be leaving Amendment in their care.

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EDITORIAL NOTE

We at Amendment are often asked to justify the existence of two VCU literary journals. As the ‘themed’ literary journal, Amendment seems to strike some readers as excessive or exclusive. Poictesme, which under the editorial mastery of Amy Sailer continues to showcase undergraduate talent, is an exceptional literary journal—why publish another?

To which I answer, Amendment exists to push the boundaries of literary scope. The “literary” is often, though not always, equated with the universal. Literary works teach us about ourselves and our society and the connectedness of human existence. Yet due to injustices inherit in our systems of thought, the voice of the universal has often come to represent the voice of white, middle-class, heterosexual, cis-gendered men. Not that they don’t have very good insights, but women’s writing, queer writing and the writing of people of color, though sometimes held up as examples of tolerance, are rarely hailed as literature.

Amendment, by publishing works related issues of gender, sexuality, race, class, ability and identity, opposes the injustices that would deem such work unliterary. Perhaps they are bold, radical and experimental, but the works published in our journal are also literary. I dare anyone to argue that Robalu Gibsun’s “Flash” or Janel Holmes’s “COEXIST” are not literary because they speak directly to the issues of people of color. I welcome anyone to dispute the literary value of Amy Sailer’s “Venus” or Sara Bailey’s “Jane Doe Speaks” by writing them off as ‘women’s issues.’

We accomplished quite a lot this past year. Not only did our staff grow considerably, but our Flash Fiction contest yielded impressive results; we published a Zine; we solidified our connections with various Richmond and VCU communities. I could not be prouder of what Amendment has accomplished and what it continues to accomplish.

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CONTENTS

WRITING

The Message / Poem by Greg Alexander A Telegram to George Zimmerman from Mother Earth / Poem by Robalū Gibsun Fall 72, With Betty Stinson / Poem by Jordan Chu Rattle / Prose-Poem by Ashley Groth men are from venus or something / Flash Fiction by Frank Masalo Mold / Poem by Alysha Newton COEXIST / Poem by Janel Holmes You=Girl / Flash Fiction by Edwina Barthelemy The Bond / Flash Fiction by Michael Bell Unhurried Seeks the Pauper / Poem by Steve Wagner Sirens / Poem by Edwina Barthelemy FLASH! / Poem by Robalū Gibsun Hijab / Poem by Mari Pack

ART

Personal Painting by James D. Patterson Body by Jasmine Thompson Charles the 1st by Robalū Gibsun Cracked by Miles Freyberger Saved by Aliens by Templeton Kelley Blue Nightfall by Jasmine Thompson Artificial by Asia Reynolds American Ghost Dance by Templeton Kelley Bonded by James D. Patterson Last Resort by Mary Wood

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WRITING

Icarus / Poem by Alysha Newton Sita / Poem by Karthika Solai Slumber Party / Flash Fiction by Kitty Meader Concrete Tree / Poem by Steve Wagner The Role of a Father / Flash Fiction by Michael Bell The Dark Side of the Moon / Flash Fiction by Edwina Barthelemy Jane Doe Speaks / Poem by Sara Bailey Ochre Plumes / Poem by Allie Ayers Phone in Hand / Nonfiction by Alex Carrigan Relativism / Poem by Greg Alexander Run, Blackboy, Run! / Poem by Robalū Gibsun Sons of my Father / Poem by Mari Pack Venus / Short Fiction by Amy Sailer Watermelon / Poem by Robalū Gibsun

FLASH FICTION WINNERS

overcompensating / First Place by matt grundy Father and Son—The Journey / Second Place by Hannah Lickey A Letter to Someone Important / Third Place by Kitty Meader Mirror, Mirror / Honorable Mention by Tereza McZnnes Be a Man / Honorable Mention by Jake Ziemba Masturbation / Honorable Mention by Amy Sailer

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WRITING

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The Message

by Greg Alexander

I sang the body electric all over a Composition notebook.

I deftly braided centuries of allusions and perfect metaphors all together in endless verse on endless topics, all colliding against each other in perfect dissonance.

I wove a tapestry made up of the canon of literary and artistic achievement and synthesized it in a form so natural that you did not realize it was happening.

It all worked perfectly, with deft timing and due aplomb.

I made you believe I was the champion of a thousand causes, the cure of a thousand ills, and the lamb of one thousand gods of equal beauty and vision.

I descended upon your mind like a benevolent infection, caressing your opinion of my poem in a way that neither of us fully understood.

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I spat out line after line of profundity, unleashing my bold new ideas of style and cowing ink to do my bidding.

I murdered trees, black carbon, and varnish, expelling a cool breeze upon every page in the hopes that you would believe every stone cold truth that shattered conventions and brought you to your knees.

But you couldn’t figure out the title.

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A Telegram To George Zimmerman From Mother Earth

by Robalū Gibsun

Son, if it were up to me, I wouldn't bend you over my knee— I’d express mail you an earthquake to crack open the doors beneath your feet and give you a tour of the hells the Black community often toils.

Rivers of blood boil. Tears sting as well.

Do the names Emmett Till, Oscar Grant or Sean, ring a Bell?

For 28 years, I taught you how to dress for the seasons, but you wore too much pride to change.

They gave you too many times to change the dead battery in your neighbor/HOOD/watch.

It was sad to watch you move from Manassas to Sanford only to be a self-appointed anchor to the cops.

“Forecast: Mostly cloudy, chance of discrimination: 100%” And even if my hurricanes erased race, the squeaky-clean recordings don’t lie: From the second you false-started (after the dispatcher said stop following) your ass should’ve been disqualified.

I’m curious, George, when Trayvon screamed for help did the 9mm sway you to satisfy its sweet tooth?

When your finger licked the trigger, did his flesh tear as easily as a bag of Skittles?

When only the red ones poured out, could you taste the rainbow?

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Did the guilt ache like a cavity?

Did the pain grow? When he died, did the criminal injustice on your tongue taste like 23 ounces of Arizona?

Did your White-half wrap barbwire around the country of your heart and deport your Peruvian-half out of its borders?

No, this ain’t a race thang; people gotta stay civil, right?

Change the channel or play the game— Your Father says “Forget race; this is more of an NBA thang” And in this court, we cannot defend your offense: You took a foul-shot at Trayvon with your Miami Heat, rode the bench to the beach and laid up under your shell.

Quote: “These assholes always get away" End quote.

It's ironic, you did; stop talking about yourself.

You ought to be prayin’ you ought to be reading your King James, ought to join Dwyane and wade in the water.

Because a rock can’t hide you in its shade if the Devil’s got your name in his order.

You ought to be prayin’ ‘cause Trayvon made it to heaven, met Nina Simone, rewrote her song and started sangin’ together “Oh, Zimmerman, where you ‘gon run to?”

And where ever you choose, you can’t escape my gravity— so we’ll always be in touch.

I told you to keep your hands to yourself 4

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‘cause the world was sick of swallowing Darkness but you stole Tracey and Sabrina’s son.

But the Day will come, when Father Sky pulls out his loaded Sun and shoots light to tear the flesh of each cloud as easily as a bag of Skittles.

Only then would justice and righteousness roll down like a mighty stream of Arizona Iced tea.

Sincerely, a mother who gave you the ground to stand on and loves you enough to take it back.

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Fall 72, With Betty Stinson

(on the campaign trail with our fathers)

by Jordan Chu November—dad’s 67 Ford Fairlane you were there we all were dragged along killin’ ankles campaigning slogans for Nixon and our fathers.

We knew every man. but; with no sympathy for the times they didn’t get far.

I see my father now—in a dimly lit room mumbling in his brown chair getting mad when there’s nothin’ to watch, or when he misses the evening news or when the Orioles lose.

When we were younger—it was easy to be so taken with the times, at 16—as nervous young.

But that fall, whenever we stopped at gas stations in the morning in Denver or Grand Island or Evansville or Twin Falls I felt stirred, a stomach ache, 6

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like I knew something our fathers didn’t.

An upper-hand that was crucial to surviving that fall of gruesome caricatures of McGovern and Nixon.

I tell my wife now I grew up that fall with two fathers not my own—watching burnt out copies of Peter Fonda, Dylans on every corner, locks of yellow hair scenting the ground, 7:50 am

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Rattle

by Ashley Groth Her bones rattle against each other, clinking like glass, they bump and rub at the joints and wear themselves down, and now little of them remain.

Marrow leaks from the cracks, pooling in the interstitial space between muscle and skin. It mixes with the blood, replaces the blood, the cells die and nothing replaces them. Hollow, she floats, her bones are those of a birds and flight is no longer reserved for them.

Transparent is a pale beyond illness and her pallid skin aches for moisture.

It blisters in the sun, bubbles red and angry, but she refuses to aid it and it weeps pus from the sores. The first God before all Gods, the origin of energy and light, the Sun that gives life has been rejected by her and she takes great pains to ignore it, something that gets harder the higher she flies, the closer she gets to the thing she craves recklessly to abandon.

There are demons inside her, demons that sleep, that cannot be exorcised.

They are tangled in the threads of her, the thick roped chords of her and the thinnest fibers that hold her together—tangled like a kite knot, unsure if it can ever fly right again—these demons are ruthless and when they wake they drown the Sun, blocking its light. A different light bathes her now.

Without the Sun, she can be unstoppable.

Weak with malnourishment, mind over matter is her mantra and she settles into a restless sleep that leaves her aching: In which her muscles twitch in uncontrollable, violent spasms.

In which nausea makes her nauseous makes her more nauseous still.

In which an emptiness that includes life is not empty enough.

Sleep has become a dangerous thing, a thing she cannot get enough of, yet at the same time makes her wonder how far she can press her mind beyond the limits of the body. Pushing and pulling and movement fails, she wonders if this is what a lucid dream is like until she does not wake up.

Clothes drape from skin that hangs, her stomach turns and she is reminded of the present: a time she fights in vein to forget. The future and the past, this “now” has no place here, she buries it and grips herself: a broken thing she created years ago.

Her nails are brittle and scratch at hardened f lesh. She pulls at her hair and wonders how she’d look bald as clumps fall into her hands. She drinks cup after cup after cup of cheap black coffee, it burns her tongue and she revels in it: how many cups before there’s nothing left to taste? How long before taste flees like the rest of her senses? She is consumed by hunger; food devours her from the outside in. She paints a picture of her body with a pallet of numbers: calories complement a measuring tape secondary to a 8

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lump sum scale that demands reverence with it’s bright blue scripture that blinks beneath her naked body.

Sitting and drinking, she’s covered in bruises: large and purple and spotted sick yellow. They cover her legs, hips and back where bones bump through her flesh. She wonders how long she has left before she is released from the physical body that she damns with every passing thought.

From the vital signs, she’s already dead.

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men are from venus or something

by Frank Masalo

vagina, from a dick, i really gotta say, you aren't missing much, except for maybe peeing standing up, and all those things that make feminism a necessity.

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Mold

by Alysha Newton In the room of the Motel Five, the mold grows in brown & black & blue, in fractured circles sticking out against a white ceiling stained yellow from stale air and cigarette smoke His breath warm and damp against your neck; sweat falling from his brow into his half shut eyes and your open ones, blurring your vision except for the mold over his head, in circles that match the muted blue & yellow of the peeling wallpaper if you don’t look too hard.

When it’s over he’ll ask if you will call and if you can see each other again and if this could mean anything and you’ll just nod because He’ll eventually see the mold that grows in the room of the Motel Five in brown & black & blue, in fractured circles and how it matches the hues of skin.

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COEXIST

by Janel Holmes Embrace the creamy crack, flaunt those bone-straight tresses.

Make them feel comfortable, write about the Spring weather the bipolar heir of Old Lady Nature.

Crystal-fresh water and streets lined in gold.

Lotus flower bomb blooms and ghostly sea creatures.

Discuss what is said and not felt, what is our imagination not our reality.

Make up stories, chuckle at misogyny write yet another poem for Mona and Lisa.

Brag about blurred street lights and ungodly Sunday morning hangovers.

Reap the repercussions of your decayed past or tread lightly.

Don’t make the enemy dressed in their black hoodie with “COEXIST” etched on the pocket uneasy.

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You=Girl

by Edwina Barthelemy

It is unexplored territory, until you turn 12.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Every month or so, the inhabitants of your uterus decide to amend their constitution, and the citizens of ovaryland get pissed.

Soon, they are collecting gunpowder and throwing tea, and all you want to do is eat some damn cake.

Then it happens. WAR. The citizens of ovaryland charge through the dark and twisted fallopian woods, leaving behind a bloody trail as the weak ones die off. Guns blazing and swords raised, they burst through the capital city of Uterus, and in approximately 3 to 5 days, destroy everything in sight.

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The Bond

by Michael Bell We have the strongest bond Even stronger than Harry's wand We have to disagree Even though we are family He's the head of the household And there's never a day when he's not bold While I'm the meek and quiet one And rarely show my true colors, especially violet But while we have our ups and downs We hang out and stick together like two circus clowns Because he's the big daddy father And I'm the son who's never a bother

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Unhurried Seeks the Pauper

by Steve Wagner

Unhurried seeks the Wombat He’s never known of pride He slugs a slow and sullen pace As once he was derived But still he has a twinkling face And brightness in his eyes And when asked about the night before He tells the simpl'st of lies Some state they’ve seen his beggared grin Unmasked from stress and scorn Detached beneath his lonely skin And plucked into the morn’ Still, his beam is doubtful; A fleeting bug of light And if you come to catch it, Watch it squirm into the night

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Sirens

Edwina Barthelemy It’s 2AM, and she sits silently at her desk, twisting the ring on her finger.

She bites her nails when she’s nervous— her nail polish, ruined.

It’s 3AM, but her eyes refuse to close.

Thoughts spin in her head, sewing themselves into ideas, like needle and thread.

Her screams are muted by the loud voice in her head, give in give in give in.

It’s 4 AM and desperation leaks from her pores.

The bottle of pain killers hides in her dresser drawer.

What’s a few too many?

It’s 5AM. 6AM. 7AM.

Her breathing is shallow.

The sirens get louder.

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FLASH!

by Robalū Gibsun Alright class, I’ll be giving a quick demo on how to rewrite history! How, you ask?

First, by reversing the hearses, then rehearsing the verses And last, by crafting a new zoom lens for the literary Canon—

FLASH! BACK to black and white history: Freeze the shutter speed and see we’ve been overexposed by our own photonegativity.

Though, I’m positive, if you juxtapose pyramids with plantations, you’ll see we all waded in water for salvation then caught a case of PTSD: Post-Triangular Slave Disorder—Whip/Lash/Back/FLASH! When Africans were planted in New England’s land and plowed so hard they could not stand— I rose rolling with Paul Robeson and Moses ninasimoaaaanin’ “Pharao, Let my people GROW! Let my people KNOW!” Instead, he said “NO.” So I borrowed a rod from my homie Yah, hitch-hiked a ride to the top the shrine, broke into the prism, whipped him with wisdom, stripped him naked and made it rain eyes on the blind YOU SEE—Once upon a time, our chains started breaking.

Then once upon a time, cocaine met Ron Regan: NEWS FLASH! Contra-crooks posing as Merry Men robbed the hood of all its good and sparked the fusefor the crack/baby/BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! Dear whomever, Remember, Remember!

I was born in 1990, precisely 3 months past the 5th of November.

You may call me V with a Vendetta. Nonetheless, Peace is my berretta and this Scarlet Letter is a medal reminder that in the name of audre, I flew the Black Unicorn to the Battle of Wall Street charging to withdraw my green from the PAY/TREE/ARCHY. And when they denied, I spit flames at its gasoline vines, dyin’ to set THE ROOTS, THE ROOTS, THE ROOTS ON FIRE! In the name of alliance, cents/less foes sell a nice game but they lyin’—I ain’t buyin’; I’m slyer than Icarus divin’ from Mount Olympus 17

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on a stealth mission to stab Poseidon with his trident—‘til silence!

FLASH! Gad-zukes! I said “My-my bad Zeus, ‘twas a terrible triumph but I’m but a Parable Pirate who seized the seas with unbearable riots; so that the seized would be freed from America’s bias.”

He opened my treasure chest, sighed and said “My God, your heart was touched by Midas—here’s a constellation prize!”

Behold, a Kodak smile!

FLASH! Dammit!

Class, according to the Mayans it’s half past 20:12 and we’re running out of time so let me fast-forward this flash-fictional poem into scripture: Mix the logical rhythms with mythological figures (not the narrow-minded convictions of misguided religions) divine rhyme intervention inhibits suspicion from inflicting sublime intuition, look inside and just listen to envision the wildest inventions this side of the Missis-sip on the finest elixir, no serving time in this sentence so graphite for your rights to write a timeless description!

FLASH! Whether his/story or her/story, this story is ours to edit. But check it— Beware of your futures; life is a class you might pass—tuh!

So you’ve got to be more than “PRESENT!” Any questions?

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Hijab

by Mari Pack The woman in the women’s restroom on the third floor of the humanities building is rearranging —or is it retying?— her scarf.

Animal print and nearly as shear as western fashion, she layers it fastidiously while I look at my feet out of respect because I am a good Westerner.

Still, I wonder to my dirty black boots if it is not more rude to avoid the slick black hair with the widow’s peak: hat hair, patted down.

Her eyes switch between the mirror and the door that swings open recklessly.

She presses her thin body against the filthy, wet sink shelf as the line of women stare at their feet and wait to piss.

We could, I think, meet her eyes in the mirror.

We are allowed to look at her hair in the women’s restroom because those are the rules.

But none of us are willing to risk it.

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ART

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Personal Painting

by James D. Patterson

Body

by Jasmine Thompson

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Charles the 1st

by Robalū Gibson

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Cracked

by Miles Freyberger

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Saved by Aliens

by Templeton Kelley

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Blue Nightfall

by Jasmine Thompson 28

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Artificial

by Asia Reynolds

American Ghost Dance

by Templeton Kelley

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Bonded

by James D. Patterson

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Last Resort

by Mary Wood

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WRITING

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Icarus

by Alysha Newton The difference between flying and falling is millimeters; however many it takes to turn blue tiles into sky or sea and how long you can flap your arms to look like wings to stay afloat in bottomless burning silver spoons eating your reflection and spitting it back outeach time, less distance, and each taste difference, until you’re twelve steps too late in one last attempt to touch and feel the sun.

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Sita

by Karthika Solai dragon hide girl, the last poem you wrote

was the first i ever read.

I Have Lived Enough Lives to Know your words were like fireflies,

turning the earth into the night sky.

I was Virtue, a shadow to Substance. you had ink curling all over you.

guerilla girl, the forest was your Exile and our Home. what was i supposed to do when

each day was a prayer and

i could only hope you would come back to me alive?

put butterflies in your hair? we would not leave this forsaken place,

not for a pleading brother, nor a promised Kingdom.

Yet- like a stray mutt you'd found in the rain,

clung too close to your heart.

it was noon and you said to me,

“now i don't mean any offense, but the golden deer was Desire, the Holy Beggar redemption, and i would rather die than live how some people do." so I crossed the line. you were looking at me like i was safety written with an arrow tip. some sort of answer.

i could not speakand the earth opened beneath my feet. what would you have had me say? the beggar was a war- my dreams were torn apart by a ten-headed demon who stole me from you. thoughts of wounds

under your skin. was it bedtime stories you wanted?

the Monkey Man who once swallowed the Mango sun was Comfort. the demon set his tail ablaze,

and the Man jumped and jumped. houses burned. a Country 37

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Burned. no? you understood the message. that wasn't what you needed.

you wanted to be a child again and you found mewith worries smaller than grains of sand. you fought for me. stolen away from the rest of the world we played hopscotch,

drew boxes in chalk neither of us could cross.

You won.

it was noon and you took risks like vitamins. not even play would make you change your habits. and for you, my Substance, I stood Strong. it was noon and all i could see were your

moldavite eyes fading, fading, fading

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Slumber Party

by Kitty Meader

Masturbation: the act of self-love. I do it on Sunday, I do it when I'm stressed.

How often do you love yourself? No one has to see; no one has to know. So, what's the big deal?

I went to this “slumber party.” It's a party for women to drink, eat and talk about sex, and to spend an obscene amount of money on things we're convinced we need. A $100 vibrator and a $20 nipple nibbler. The host puts coochie lube on and everyone wishes they could have a blast of cold and hot all at once. We try on lingerie that is hand crafted and the saleswoman convinces us that they try to design outfits that fit every body type.

After the buzz turns into drunk and your bank account is empty, the saleswoman leaves, and the real party begins...

These women started to joke about people they've dated or the state of their current relationship. As the third bottle of wine is finished, the conversation starts to move into questions: why is it that I can only get off with myself?

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Concrete Tree

by Steve Wagner

A new field is seeded, young and lively Last season, and turning, goes brown with the cold.

And such bastard, spurious roots are without my consideration.

But, latent and doubtful, the grass belongs to me.

The youth has a way, in cleaving against a concrete tree, To never corrupt my brain, old and canonical.

A mind like mine is scarcely hard to find, But still is inexorable and closed.

Speaking in converse, I address the grass: “My woody arm is uncaring for but the familiar breeze, And, with bending, can twist a flick of life Unto you, the lifeless grass, making the season grow with my leaves.”

And undoubted, the forest turns, awaiting wealth in a sea of branches.

Once more, the grass returns, green.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

The Role of A Father

by Michael Bell

In this world of runaway dads And single mothers living on welfare paper pads Guys need to step up and do their part and stop acting wild I hope I can fulfill a father's role when it comes to having a child I know I can't be a superdad Coming up with a solution whenever my child is mad But I got a blueprint to follow by looking at my father And yet I have to add my own style to that process that can be a bother But it ends up being worth it when you see your child following that dream I can't understand why fathers run in a steam Of fury saying they aren’t up to the role When all a child wants is love and encouragement from the one they console That’s something a father should be able to give despite his age And be able to do whether they are making good money or hustling on minimum wage

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

The Dark Side of the Moon

by Edwina Barthelemy

You carry yourself like a winner, but you're a wimp.

You cry as much as I do, and don't call me a liar because I was there when you couldn't help but let your tears fall for the dumbest things and I was there when you hit rock bottom and I was there when you needed a reason not to take your own life.

So don't you dare call me a liar.

And don't you dare call yourself a man.

You? A man? You're a boy! A child.

You're a six year old in a nineteen-and-a-half year old body. You're stuck making important decisions that could shape the rest of your life. But all the while you just wanna piss your pants.

You change your mind like a mom changes diapers.

And I'm done waiting for you to grow up.

You? A man?

You don't even know how to fight for me.

Force of a great typhoon my ass.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Jane Doe Speaks

by Sara Bailey

I am this body. If you want a part of me then please, take these eyes. I don't want to see a world I'm not part of.

While you are there with the knife that hovers— take my ears lips hands arms legs— all of them.

These pieces, (when you’re done) I won’t need them.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Ochre Plumes

by Allie Ayers

Submerged beneath your clear, rippling skin lies tragedy, hemorrhaging from placed pipes, dilapidated, rusted and worn thin.

Your sunken, cavernous depth mutely gripes.

The spill spreads across your surface in blight, stretching into long strands of stratus cloud.

Your once shifting, reflective planes of light now lay, veiled beneath a thick, ochre shroud.

But alas, Ocean, you remain naïve to our thoughtless and destructive ways; it is only now that we think to grieve— once we cannot return to prior days.

The pain we have made cannot be undone; you silently sit, waiting, blaming none.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Phone in Hand

by Alex Carrigan

“I hate you! Let me go!”

Those words propelled me out of my delirium. I was in my dorm room, trying to fall asleep. I had spent an uneventful evening watching TV and had decided that it was time to go to sleep. I was wrapped up in my blanket and curled up in my double bed, trying to relax my brain and enter dreamworld.

I wouldn't be able to fall asleep anytime soon.

It was nearly midnight. I was in my bed when I heard the girl shout those words. My first instinct was to raise my blinds to see what was going on. It was hard to keep the blinds up from the angle I was at, but I saw an African American girl get pulled into a car parked in the small street next to my building.

I tried to watch the scene below. The glare from the streetlights made it hard to see into the car, but I could still see the girl, with her short hair and glasses visible through the windows. The man who pulled her in was in the driver's seat, so I had no idea what he looked like, but I could see his hands clutching the steering wheel.

I was still lying on my bed, stomach down, looking out the window. I had cracked my window open to try and hear what was going on. My dorm is near a noisy intersection, so it is hard to hear most things outside my window. That girl's scream was loud enough to penetrate the city sounds though.

My Blackberry was charging on the windowsill, so I picked it up. I had no idea what the man was going to do the girl, so for safety I pre-dialed 911 in case I saw any physical violence. However, I realized that it might be better to call campus police, who might be able to get to the scene before the regular police. However, I didn't have the campus police number on my phone, so I had to jump out of bed and hurry to my laptop. As I waited to log into my computer, I was worried about what I could miss. Was the girl being hit? Were they fighting?

I soon found the number and resumed my place on my bed, looking out the window at the car below. This must have been what it was like to be Kyle MacLachlan in Blue Velvet, a voyeur looking into the lives of others. There wasn't much going on outside. I could see the light from the girl's cell phone, but not much else.

The man suddenly honked the horn three times, then a clapping sound. I sincerely hoped he was hitting the dashboard.

She tried to get out of the car, but he kept her inside. They needed to air out whatever they were discussing. I remained vigilant, waiting for the right moment to call. What was the right moment though? They were creating a disturbance, but should I wait until there was physical violence? All I could do was sit and watch.

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I tried to think of what to say to the campus policeman or woman on the other end. Is it just a domestic disturbance? Am I meddling with a couple's personal issue? Will the police even do anything? All these thoughts entered and exited my mind as I waited patiently for something to happen.

I thought back to a scene from La Dolce Vita, where Marcello and Emma were sitting in his car as Marcello announced his desire to break up with her. Were the two people in that car like the characters in Fellini's movie? Violence seemed present, but would it reach the levels of that film where Emma began repeatedly hitting Marcello before he abandoned her?

All I could do was sit. There wasn't too much else going on below. They were still talking, and I still had my phone in hand, ready to call the campus police as soon as I had a justifiable reason. Nothing happened.

Soon, the girl got out of the car. She stormed down the street, away from the car. The man floored the gas pedal and drove the car onto the busy street, out of my range of sight. I sat there silent. I opened my window as far as I could and leaned out. I could vaguely see the girl walking down the street. Her head was hung low.

Nothing happened. Marcello had left Emma. I was left staring out the window into the noisy evening, clutching my Blackberry. I was shaking.

There was nothing for me to do.

I set my phone down on the windowsill and walked over to my desk.

Sitting in the chair, I looked at my laptop in disbelief. Why didn't I call the police? Could I have done anything? Would the police have actually done anything in the situation?

These thoughts meandered in my head as I sat there. With nothing else to do, I turned on my laptop, and began writing. Somehow, tapping away on the keyboard felt really nice. It cleared my head, helped translate what happened into text, and made me ponder everything that just happened to me.

With the document saved, I turned my computer off, turned the lights off, and got back into my bed. Wrapped under the covers, I closed my eyes, relaxed, and tried to drift into slumberland.

I still couldn't fall asleep.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Relativism

by Greg Alexander When I was younger I was quite the video gamer That was back when I had only dreamt of quests So how was I supposed to know what I was really up against?

Controller plugged in and I felt ready to go Console was warmed, I’d imagined this before I used my sword and shield to tear the flesh And hide the fact that I was really scared to death As I stabbed wildly into the belly of the beast I’d felt as if I’d already been long defeated Blood on my armor, guts and entrails With enough slashing I knew I’d prevail Thrust, thrust, thrust Then everything gets all sticky And the smell of pennies and sweat permeates the air I pull out my sword from the beast’s guts With the beast’s last grasp I know it’s enough At the end of it all there was quite a feast I don’t remember the food, I felt long deceased At the end of the journey we parted ways And all I knew of being a hero was how to slay So I spent my days rescuing maidens Dragons slayed, dungeons raided Never to build a home Or to stay in a castle for more than one night Just fighting across the countryside until I could no longer move Desperately hoping to feel something beyond the need to liberate princesses I turn off my game and I walk away Empty until the next time I play

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

RUN, BLACKBOY, RUN!

by Robalū Gibsun

When dads run away, black boys run crazy—before tying their shoes.

He trips to school in the rain with an open back pack.

His mama yells, “You forgot your hat!” But Blackboy doesn't look back. Blackboy runs mad. Blackboy runs late. Every classmate knows Blackboy shows up mad late.

“Stop! No running in the hallway,” Ms. Whitelady says “What were you thinking? Use your head!” He says “Okaaaay” but does not understand. The rain rain goes away. Class goes out to play. Blackboy races the other boys on the steaming blacktop; a pack of Crayola girls watch from the shade, yelling “RUN, BLACKBOY RUN! YOU’RE AS BLACK AS THE BLACKTOP, STAY OUTTA THE SUN!” He screams “Shut up!” But their pointed fingers strike him down and their laughter becomes a suffocating thundercloud. Again, it pours; they go inside.

He cries ‘til his eyes go red yet his boys reply “Stop—being a cry baby.” He says “I’m not!” But they do not believe. He leaves. Not in his right mind, he proves them wrong.

Blackboy walks to the end of a rainbow and finds a colored girl with gold coins in her eyes, scares off the leprechauns and promises to never leave. He lies—her down in a bed of four-leaf clovers. Inside, she’s raining. But he forgot his hat. She opens the door; he runs through her hallway and makes her cry out “Baby” instead—her eyes roll back. He doesn’t look back. They make—a baby that cries out “ga-ga”s and “goo-goo”s; Ms. Whitelady didn’t specify which head to use.

Blackboy needs a new place to live ‘cause tough love is the only thing mama can afford to give. The baby stays at colored girl’s mama’s place. Blackboy runs by twice a week and jumps fences with child support nipping at his knees; he needs green.

His boys say, “It don’t grow on the trees, it grow on the streets” so Blackboy goes— out to play—when his baby cries rainstorms. Colored girl stares out the window, hoping for a rainbow ‘cause Blackboy forgot his goal; so the toilet is the only pot he fills with gold. Blackboy rolls—paper like a big kid now, but ain’t saving the money to buy baby’s Huggies. He stops coming. Colored girl starts—calling mad. He picks up: She cries “Baby, I love you. We need you. Come back!”

He replies “Sorry my Love, I can’t. Long as I keep running, I might run into my dad.”

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He doesn't look back. Blackboy runs—colored girl mad crazy. Herself, she pulls up by the shoe laces, walks over pothole puddles and sees her reflection in rainbows that committed suicide. And then pawns in her eyes for just enough gold coins to buy a month’s worth of food for the leprechaun-sized baby with a mouth like an open back pack who grows up to cry out, “Mama, where is my dad?”

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Sons of My Father and other tales

by Mari Pack

When did boys’ legs begin to resemble my father’s olive skinned and dark haired— two long parabolas meeting at the knotted ball of the knee locked there like that, just like that.

I was six when he taught me to meditate cross legged like an ancient brown Maharishi on our salmon colored Persian carpet, that he and my mother bought before I knew them.

He must have been thirty-eight, and already the fountain of wisdom telling me to focus on nothing to pretend I was Aladdin riding a magic carpet over sand dunes in the desert.

I remember his white ankle straps bound from tennis games, the sound of the Velcro rip like a shot of tiny callous particles and our white dog, seven years later drawn by the ritual to lick the salt from my father’s legs.

My brother, Andrew, the music maker is nineteen. He plays the drums without reverence but with skill and explosive need 50

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that same need that drove him to abandon our mother and become a man somewhere out there wherever men are made; I have not been there yet.

Sometimes in the white heat of high summer he leaves our house and the middle room with its glossy magazine clippings and ugly plaid chair with the wall that kisses my wall and he leaves us in the black sedan that our parents purchased as a gift and he leaves for days and days.

He drives to the Carolinas to walk across the sand dunes into the salty sea on his legs that are also my legs.

My father at twenty-two, how little he must have known.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Venus

by Amy Sailer

There are only ten seconds left until she has to undress. She knows that these are her only ten seconds—they are ticking by in her head, in her throbbing adrenal gland. She knows that once they’re gone she will reveal her everything to the twenty twenty-something’s circled around her. From her pedestal, she watches them, these student artists. Most are only half-awake, more absorbed in setting out their paints and drinking their lattes than in her.

But she is still intent on her modesty and folds her arms more tightly over the lapels of the robe the professor handed to her when she arrived half an hour ago. This robe is my castle, she thinks, my one true and constant friend.

And meanwhile the adrenaline surges higher in her throat, threatening vomit, refusing to plummet anywhere below her belt line— So she knows. This is not a Sex Thing. If any one thing, she would have to say this is about the ten minutes after sex, when she stands up to go to the bathroom and her husband picks up the remote to catch the last few minutes of Conan. God knows she’s undergone fifteen pounds and twelve years of the marital bed, but he’s her husband, dammit, and could withstand a few minutes more of afterglow.

In fact, she thinks, I signed up to pose, not for his half-wit appreciation, but for myself. For solidarity with the late great nudes of the past. With the Picassos, the Tintarettos, the Rubens so sensationally fat as to give rise to euphemism. Yes, for the fat, the thin, whether fauve or Romantic! For all those women descending their staircases or lounging among pillows and sheets, their eyelids heavily seductive in the opiate haze. She seeks them all. A seeker of beauty, of artistry, she stands here now, ready to join them in laying bare the ancient, canonical Truths. This may not be a sex thing, but she hopes it’s the teensiest bit erotic. Oh yes, yes, she thinks. I am epiphany in all its naked glory.

And now her time has come and the robe is slipping, slipping. It’s past her collar, and now her shoulders and now her hips. She is emerging from the terry cloth as some magnificent tree, some beautiful white birch growing, reaching up and out towards the sky in seconds. She wants to lift up her arms.

She wants to sing.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Watermelon

by Robalū Gibsun

Their WHITE teeth stand behind their mouths the way their pale bodies stand behind the wood table.

In front of the church they hand me a flyer, a Frisbee and offer me a slice—of watermelon.

As a young BLACK man, I want to take that juicy piece of watermelon AND SHOVE IT DOWN THEIR FUCKING THROATS!!! but I politely decline.

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FLASH FICTION WINNERS

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overcompensating first place by matt grundy

the path from girl to woman is marked with tiny drops of her own blood. the path from boy to man is drenched with the blood of others.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Father and Son—The Journey

second place

by Hannah Lickey

Cursed with the plight of the father The son finds the burden too great to bear He leaves.

Wanders the desert through Navajo land.

Follows the good vibes.

The father sits on the throne, The kingdom he has provided.

Built out of mountain's stones and half breeds.

“Let him wander.”

When the son returns, he is a man.

Old, tired eyes hardly recognized him.

They stare each other in the eye.

And the son sees past the old king.

Into time, and travels back indifferent.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

A Letter to Someone Important third place

by Kitty Meader

Dear Vagina, How are yo doing today? I'm asking because you seem a little off. I've been airing you out every night and I'm not sure what else to do. I can take you to the doctor, but I don't think that's the problem. Remember, the doctor said last time that you were perfectly fine. Are you depressed? I've tried to make you happy, but you know when I'm busy I can be distant. Is that what's gong on?

Do you feel like I've been ignoring you? I thought we worked everything out, but two weeks ago after Flo left you've been acting really different. Maybe we should have an open conversation again. The doctor can mediate. I'll be more assertive about asking this time. However, I asked A— about her and her vagina, so I think that this is just a rough patch. It's almost summer. I can start to wear dresses again. I know how you like dresses. I'll pick out a nice flowy one. How about blue? I know how much you like blue!

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Mirror, Mirror

honorable mention

by Tereza McZnnes So apparently I have your eyes your face your nose and your razor sharp tongue but we don't see eye to eye your 5 foot 9 self looks down on the world jaded, disenchanted, critical judging as I burst into the world the same way I burst from you working towards my dream living in hope you tell me why bother I tell you shut up But one day I'm afraid I'll look into the mirror and see your jaded eyes your disenchanted face and your critical tongue

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Be a Man

honorable mention

by Jake Ziemba They pulled me out of my six-foot test tube. “Be a man!” they shouted, slapping me. “Be a man!” I hit the floor with a wet sloppy sound. Somebody was standing on one of my tentacles. I recognized them from the videos they'd broadcast on the monitor permanently stationed in front of my tank. Humans in octagonal cages, striking, bludgeoning one another with fists and feet in a vacuum of context. Were they angry with each other? Somebody was kicking my brain sac. It hurt.

“I told you we should've upped its testosterone,” an angry voice said. I swiveled my largest eye stalk to focus on it. The voice belonged to a stooped elderly man, who was repeatedly kicking my brain sac at its squishiest point, where the neurons converged. I lashed out with a tentacle. The old man flew across the room, crashing into another tube, shattering it, sending amber liquid gushing onto the floor. An alarm went off. It sounded like the bell that signaled the ending of a cage fight, when one man could still stand but the other couldn't.

Now I understood.

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7/23/12 10:27 AM

Masturbation

honorable mention

by Amy Sailer What they don't tell you is that it feels really good—when you're two. Take my brother for instance. Right after the toilet training phase, when he would sit five hours a day at least on the ceramic portable toilet we'd set up in the tv room, right after he got out of the diapers and Boom, instant access, there was the humping phase. Lying on the couch in front of cartoons. In his bed. On a church pew. Then one day at Kroger, we were sitting on a bench, waiting for our mom in checkout, licking doughnut glaze off our fingers when he decides to lie down and start humping away at that bench with its plywood veneered oak and iron ribbing. Humping away on Senior Citizens Day no less, and so as they good folks of Roanoke bought their corn flakes, pasteurized American cheese, and prunes, they watched as a young blonde boy made time with him self, his sister confused beside him, and his mom running with horror to stop him.

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The Student Media Center, part of the Student Affairs and Enrollment Services division at Virginia Commonwealth University, is a resource center for recognized student media at VCU. Current recognized student media include Poictesme; Amendment; The Commonwealth Times newspaper; Ink, a quarterly magazine; and WVCW radio.

For more information, contact VCU Student Media Center, 817 W. Broad St., (804) 828-1058. Mailing address: P.O. Box 842010, Richmond, VA 23284-2010. E-mail: goweatherfor@vcu.edu.

Amendment accepts rolling submissions. Please send your name, contact information and submission to amendmentvcu@gmail.com 62

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