Beacon No. 16 — Wall Flower

BEACON

LUKASZ WIERZBOWSKI / JIAHUAN WANG / CHIRON DUONG / SONYA KORSHENBOYM / KERR IVAN CIRILO / JESSICA GRATIGNY / LUCAS WAKAMATSU / ALEJANDRO GUTIERREZ / JUSTIN ANANTAWAN / CRAIG DUNCAN / KIERNAN O’CONNOR / DUJIE TAHAT / SELMA MEERBAUM-EISINGER / AMELIA ALVAREZ / ANNELISE HATJAKES / M.K. FOSTER / SARAH VAN DE KAMP / RYAN DZELZKALNS / CARLIE HOFFMAN / KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA

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Kristina Panchkovskaya — Show of The South / Fatima Elmusbahi — Know of Death... / Wolfgang Schildmey — Untitled / Alejandro Gutierrez — Wallflower / Ryan Dzelzkalns — Ode To Emotive Prison / Sonya Korshenboym — Untitled / Jiahuan Wang — Leaking Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger Ca Haijakes — Perennial / Chiron Duon — Daddy’s Little Wallflower / M.K. Foster — Savvy Sandy — Exclusive Content / Ker

Contents Kristina Panchkovskaya — Show Yourself Cover Justin Anantawan — King of The South Inside Cover Fatima Elmusbahi — Foreword 04 Dujie Tahat — Despite What I know of Death...

06 Justin Anantawan — Portrait of Kahadija Omar 08 Wolfgang Schildmeyer — Untitled 10

Alejandro Gutierrez — Untitled Amelia Alvarez — Not a Wallflower Ryan Dzelzkalns — Ode To Silver Fish Sarah Van De Kamp — Emotive Prison Sonya Korshenboym — 365 Day Challenge Craig Duncan — Untitled

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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w Yourself / Justin Anantawan — King Foreword / Dujie Tahat — Despite What I yer — Untitled / Lucas Wakamatsu — Untitled / Amelia Alvarez — Not a To Silver Fish / Sarah Van De Kamp — m — 365 Day Challenge / Craig Duncan g / Jessica Gratigny — Please Recycle / arlie Hoffman — Evening / AnnElise ng — Untitled / Kiernan O’ Connor — An Excerpt From Butcher’s Tale XVII: Pool Days / rr Ivan Cirilo — Thank You : Labor/Authority

Jiahuan Wang — Leaking Jessica Gratigny — Please Recycle Kristina Panchkovskaya — Show Yourself Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger /Carlie Hoffman — Evening/Silence AnnElise Haijakes — Perennial

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Chiron Duong — Untitled 68 Kiernan O’ Connor — Daddy’s Little Wallflower 74 M.K. Foster — Pool Days 79 Savvy Sandy — Exclusive Content 80 Kerr Ivan Cirilo — Thank You : Labor/Authority Back Cover

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FATIMA ELMUSBAHI

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WALLFLOWER

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FORWARD

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1.“It’s strange because sometimes, I read a book, and I think I am the people in the book.”

Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

FOREWORD

We are introverted and happy in doing so. Supposedly we all have moments where we want to just coil up within ourselves and tell the world to have a breather. But it is in those moments that we are just being ourselves. We don’t always need to sit in a crowd and feel like the need to belong, by mimicking what everyone else is doing. The process of being alone gets addictive, because you are not expected to do anything, or be anyone-just relish in your own satisfaction and self-fulfillment. Sure, when someone asks you ‘hey how was your day?’, to them it may not seem like a productive spent day, but to you it was perfect. Who needs a dance partner, when you are as sure as hell cracking a dance or two from the ballroom within the spaces of your mind? Who needs to catch a point of a conversation, when you are summarizing the existence of time and space, all before your lunch-time coffee? Sure, to some you are just spaced out, socially awkward, and only occasionally fit in. You are a very misunderstood creature to the extroverts of society, that is true. But as history has always foretold, it is from those that were not generally ‘with the crowd’, that often, manifested greatness. To yourself, you are the exception, the hidden gem of a painting that hangs on the wall, the discoverer of things that are often overlooked. What are you? A Wall Flower.

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DUJIE TAHAT

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DESPITE WHAT I KNOW OF DEATH AND ITS GRIP ON WHAT GROWS I FILL THIS BALIKBAYAN WITH FLOWERS ANYWAY -DUJIE TAHAT

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DESPITE WHAT I KNOW OF DEATH...

If a leaf falls early, my mother propagates it, green thumbs the thing into a new pot, so the whole windowsill jadejadejadejadejadejadej-adejadejade.

We moved into a house fenced in with lilaclaclaclaclaclaclilaclaclacs pushed up against the roseoseoseoseoseohiphips.

We planned a garden. The rhododendendronon-ononondron overgrew. An empty plot rots. No friends. We’re the wildest. I cut villains out of dogogogogogwood, I mistook hyahya-hyahyahyacinth for honeyneyneyneysucsuc-kle. What I know about flowers fills a starter home.

Across, over: a verve, aberrant life—

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A N TI IN ST

A NA N N A ANNTA N I TAWWAN JUST A N A AN JUSTIN

A ST IN JU ST N JU A N A

AN JUSTIN AN W A T NAN WAN JUSTIN AN AN AN TA TA N A TA W W

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WOLFGANG SCHILDMEYER

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WOLFGANG SCHILDMEYER

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LUCAS WAKAMATSU

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Lucas W akamatsu

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ALEJANDRO

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GUTIERREZ

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AMELIA ALVAREZ

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Not A Wallflower

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Amelia Alvarez

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AMELIA ALVAREZ

The party also needed an area to “make out” in as “making out” was the point of the event.

The week before my graduation from eighth grade, I decided to have a make-out party. I had attended many parties throughout my middle school career but I had always avoided hosting one myself.

I was nervous to throw a party for fear that no one would come. Also, our basement was unfinished. I couldn’t very well host a makeout party in the living room while my mom and little brother and sister watched “Friends.” I had to make do with the basement which looked like a dungeon and smelled of mildew. Probably from the piles of dirty laundry laying on the concrete floor that my single mother never got around to washing. There was also an outhouse situation: a toilet with a wooden box built around it for “privacy” but with walls that did not reach the ceiling.

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The party also needed an area to “make out” in as “making out” was the point of the event. At my Catholic middle school, having make-out parties on a regular basis made us the “bad class.”

Later I would attend a performing arts high school in Baltimore and discover that while I was rebelling by kissing in closets, my highschool classmates had spent the last year of middle school dropping acid. Which is why I will send my daughter to a Catholic school!

In addition to not having a bathroom sink there was also no closet in our basement so we made do by hanging a bed sheet over a piece of rope held up in the corner with a couple of nails.

I had been developing a flirtation with a boy a year younger than me. He was smart and we had been cast opposite one another in that year’s Christmas play as two elves in Santa’s workshop.

The embers of desire had been burning since then.

The embers of desire had been burning since then.

My best-friend Johanna and I got to work cleaning out the basement. We hid the piles of laundry. We set up a card table for the snacks and soda and plugged in a boom box.

If someone had to use the bathroom – well, that was their problem.

Of course, there was another boy – one who had callously dumped me for another girl at the end of year mixer the summer before eighth grade. It was my first heartbreak. I remember waking up the next morning feeling like my normal self and then the crushing feeling when I remembered my mascara stained cheeks from the night before.

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NOT A WALLFLOWER

His romance with the other girl was short lived but not before I had to spend two excruciating weeks volunteering with them at a vacation Bible camp. My ex and I had both signed up to work in the athletic department during happier times.

I quickly adopted the attitude of a woman who didn’t care even though it would kill me to watch my ex and his new flavor of the month make googly eyes at one another as I picked at my government issued bologna sandwich.

At the end of the summer camp, a girl a year older than me drew a poster adorned with her personal mantra “Survival Of The Fittest.”

I remember thinking it an odd slogan for a thirteen year old girl but I was also inspired by it.

I would survive this nightmare! Of course I would!

And I did… until the following year, right before my “make-out” party when he decided he wanted to get back together with me.

I had spent months tending the garden of my romance with my fellow Christmas elf (a nice guy who now owns a CrossFit gym in my hometown). At the last moment the bad boy who broke my heart swooped in and had his friend cross the invisible divide between the boy and girl camps at the party. The friend relayed a message: the bad boy wanted to make-out with me. I wish I could say that I weighed my suitors for a least a few moments before making a decision but I barely gave it a second thought. I dutifully went into the closet with the bad boy.

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I know why I did it. He was the “hot guy” in my class; a close enough facsimile of Leonardo Dicaprio for all the girls to have crushes on him. While he sloshed his tongue around in my mouth I remembered how underwhelming his kissing skills still were.

The party was a success and I went on to host many get togethers in high school. The bad boy eventually became my boyfriend. I spent a lot of time at his house and grew close to his family.

I remained underwhelmed by his “boyfriend skills” - not just his kissing but also the fact that as we got older our dates consisted of me watching him chug a six pack of beer. I had the last laugh when I broke up with him before moving to Paris to study abroad my junior year of college.

I wish I could say it was nice guys from there on out but it would be a long time before I learned the lesson that if a boy breaks your heart once it should be a prompt “sayonara sucker” and move along.

While he sloshed his tongue around in my mouth I remembered how underwhelming his kissing skills still were.

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RYAN DZELZKALNS

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ODE TO SILVER FISH

Ode To Silver Fish Ryan Dzelzkalns

On the lacework of grout in the bathroom, you would spin circles, loop-de-loops, arabesques. Whether I was shaking the last flicks of piss or sopping a sloop of cum, you made me feel most welcome with your little skeetchy tile-skitter.

In this strange apartment with windows that opened on closed shafts of air, you were the only thing I recognized.

But here, everyone wanted you gone.

The man I’d been fucking picked up the magazines from the floor.

The roommates hung the bath mat on the rim of the tub.

Soon there would be nothing left for either of us.

But this was a broken kind of love, one that valorized our dependence on the casual detritus of others.

And yet somehow we escaped—only a little worse for wear— you, deeper into the walls and I, out from that desperate childhood of the alone. When I think of that summer, I think of your patience, returning night after night to show me the miracle of joy, one unreliant on the attention of men. In your shimmer, I washed my feet of naiveté, a necessary ablution.

I have come to affect a fluency in the low trade of men, but then, I was still a receptacle of shame, sweat slicked and swaying.

And yet, there is an untoward beauty in becoming. It’s humbling to admit that this might be the loveliest I have ever been.

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JUSTIN ANANTAWAN SSO

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“Leon Tsai (she/her), a Taiwanese transgender femme settler-immigrant (un)learning in Tkaronto (Toronto), Turtle Island. She is a blossoming flower giving birth to herself, a student/poet/storyteller searching for where the light pours in… Journeying to heal from a past of bullying, self-harm, domestic violence, and survival sex work to the present reality of institutional marginalization, economic instability, as well as continuous social unsafety: Leon meditates on the compassionate politics of transformative justice while striving to manifest for community reparations/healing.

Coming to Canada at the age of 12 and coming out as trans-feminine around 16, her survival lies through the intersections of visibility and violence… ‘Blossom’ not ‘Bloom’: as blos-

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soming refers to the whole glory of blooming and not just its peak.” She still sleeps on a mattress where she was rap*d on, embracing pain for salvation as sanity becomes a privilege… Leon weeps/wilts but her loneliness gets her through, she was told not just to embody life but to be the embodiment of love instead. While surviving/navigating through a colonial-capitalist society in a postmodern era, what becomes the most illegal is one’s radical self-love. Especially as marginalized people experiencing intergenerational traumas/oppression, Leon believes that the key towards healing is of our strength through vulnerability and staying soft against systems of assimilation.”

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SARAH VAN DE KAMP

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Emotive prison SARAH VAN DE KAMP

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EMOTIVE PRISON

she sits in the corner ridden and sulked she is overcome the electricity in the air zaps the ceiling zap zap zap an insect in a trap the man is glued his knees buckled the rain is a sheet barring him to unseat you can tell him what to do but he will not move he will not move

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CRAIG DUNCAN

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CRAIG DUNCAN

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UNTITLED

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JUSTIN ANANTAWAN

MODEL

Majok Deng

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PRINCE OF SUBURBIA

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PRINCE OF SUBURBIA

STYLIST

JUSTIN ANANTAWAN

Andy Alborger

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Jiahuan Wang

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JIAHUAN WANG

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LOVE ME/SEND YOU A FLOWER

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KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA

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KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA

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PANCHKOVSKAYA ALL DRESSED UP THEY WERE LOOKING AT ME. THEY SEEMED TO HAVE DAYS-OFF ONLY. I WAS ATTRACTED TO EACH OF THEM AS SIMILAR TO MYSELF. DAY AFTER DAY THEY SUCCEEDED TO IMPRESS ME BY THEIR SENSUAL FRAGILITY AND ORIGINALITY. SEARCHING TO KEEP MYSTERY IN OUR RELATIONSHIP, I REFUSED TO LEARN THEIR NAMES FOR A LONG TIME, I ENJOYED THEIR ANONYMITY. IS THE NAME ABLE TO ADD COLOR ON THE PETALS OF THESE WONDERFUL CREATURES, WILL THEIR AROMA BE MORE EXCITING? SOMETIMES LEAVING MY PRESSING MATTERS I SPENT LONG TIME GAZING AT THEM, WE CONSUMED EACH OTHER AND TOLD EACH OTHER A LOT WITHOUT WORDS. "SOME TIME, - THEY TOLD ME,- ALL THESE WILL BECOME UNIMPORTANT. SOME TIME,- I RESPONDED,- THERE WILL ONLY BE FLOWERS"...

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SHOW YOURSELF

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KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA

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SHOW YOURSELF

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SELMA MEERBAUM -EISINGER

TRANSLATED

BY CARLIE HOFFMAN

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Abend Der Himmel ist vom hellsten Blau und weiße Wolken lächeln mit ihm.

Und schlanke Bäume, dunkel oder grün, sehen dich an und sagen lautlos: schau!

Alles ist eingehüllt in weiche Luft, die still ist, so als ob sie einem Märchen lausche.

Und alle Vögel horchen wie im Rausche man hört nur Duft.

Die weißen Wolken blinken wie der Schnee, der auf Vergißmeinnicht gefallen ist.

Und ganz so blau liegt auch das weiche Weh, das sich über die Bäume gießt.

Und - sind die Bäume dunkel oder grün?

Sie wissen es wohl selber nicht genau.

In einem Fenster zittert aus dem Blau ein Tropfen Rot. Sie blühn.

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Evening The sky’s the brightest blue and in it, cream-colored clouds smile.

Slender trees, dark or green, gaze toward you, their silence saying: Look!

Everything wrapped in soft air, silent, listening to a fairy tale-All the birds entrancedYou only hear the scent.

Cream-colored clouds blink like snow falling on forget-me-nots.

A silken, blue grief pours over the trees.

And - the trees are dark, or are they green?

Even they don’t quite know.

Out of the blue a drop of red tremors in the window. They are blooming.

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Stille Im Zimmer schwebt die Stille und die Wärme, ganz wie ein Vogel in durchglühter Luft und auf dem schwarzen kleinen Tische liegt still das Deckchen, dünn und zart wie Duft.

Das Glas mit klarem Wasser, wie ein Traum, wacht, daß das Glöckchen neben ihm nicht lärme und wartet scheinbar auf die kleinen Fische.

Die rote Nelke dämmert in den Raum, als wäre sie dort Königin.

Das Die ganze Stille scheint für sie zu sein, und nur die Flasche mit dem süßen Wein blinkt still und wie befehlend zu ihr hin.

Sie aber schwebt auf ihrem grünen Stengel, dünn wie im Kindertraum das Kleid der Engel und ihr betäubend süßer Duft lullt ein, als wollt' er aus dem Märchenschlaf Dornröschen rauben.

Die Fenster blicken auf die Straße und sie glauben, daß dort sei alles nur für sie getan.

Der Spiegel glänzt und in ihm tickt die Uhr, ganz weit im fernen Dorfe kräht ein Hahn, und die Gardinen bändigt eine blaue Schnur.

Die Nelke mit den zarten roten Spitzen harret des Sonnenstrahls, der durch die Ritzen ihr heut ein Kleid aus Goldstaub angetan.

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Silence A warm silence floats in the room, bright bird burning through air, and on the little black table the linen lies still, a wispy, delicate scent.

A glass of water shimmers, dreamlike, watches the bell’s potential ringing, on stand-by for the swarm of small fish.

The red carnation flares— the room’s queen.

All this silence seems only for her.

Nothing but the jug of sweet wine glimmers, muted, commanding her.

But she floats on her green stalk, a thin angel’s dress in a child’s dream.

Her fragrance entrances, calms, as if meant to summon Sleeping Beauty from a fairytale sleep.

The windows look down at the street and believe everything that happens here is made for them.

The mirror shines and in it the clock ticks, deep in the distant village a rooster crows, blue cord bridles the curtains.

Today, from a brightness through the cracks, styled in a gold-dust gown, red-tipped and tender, the carnation awaits more sun.

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BY ANNELISE HATJAKES

Deidre joined an urban coven the day before her thirtieth birthday. She didn’t know what to expect at the first meeting. When she arrived, a collage of images distilled from pop culture—pointy black hats, broomsticks, and magic wands—clouded the actual image before her—mason jars filled with kombucha, an elaborate charcuterie plate, and three young women sitting on two velvet sofas. There was an ease to the women’s conversations; their silences registered as serenity rather than absence.

Despite the warm feeling in the apartment, Deidre chose to stand rather than wedge herself into one of the narrow gaps between the women on the loveseats. After five grueling minutes, Phoenix, the group’s leader, patted the gap next to her in invitation.

“Everyone, can we welcome our newest member, Deidre?” Phoenix said. The two other women simultaneously said “welcome,” and one woman’s lower voice acted as the bass note to their treble clef chorus. The bright sun, filtered only slightly by smog, streamed through the window, bathing plants atop a reclaimed wooden shelf in light. The other two women, Jesse and Xandra, introduced themselves. Jesse looked similar to Deidre, both with soft bodies that were complemented by their billowy tops and linen pants, while Xandra and Phoenix were all sharp angles.

Deidre thanked them as she stared at the vase of calla lilies springing

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up from the coffee table’s center. Her mother hated calla lilies, which she believed looked too cleanly structured and delicate compared to the wildflowers that grew in their backyard without being watered. The day Deidre’s father left them, her mother threw out all of their plants, replacing them with synthetic ones that couldn’t die.

“Thanks for letting me come. I’m new to L.A., and it’s been really hard to meet people.

People who aren’t fake,” Deidre said. The women nodded, but they were not flattered by her implied compliment. It was true that Deidre was new to L.A. and that she wanted to meet new people, but those weren’t the only reasons she was there. The group was recommended to her by a college student in her sexual assault survivors group.

According to Deidre’s initial online exchanges with Phoenix via her Etsy jewelry shop, joining a coven was a way to take ownership of her femininity, find empowerment through female companionship. She sipped her kombucha and tried not to let its bitterness pucker her lips. * They drove in one car to the Angeles National Forest for the moon ceremony. Jesse, the woman with the velvety voice, asked if they’d like to listen to the song she’d recently recorded.

“Jesse is going to be a vocalist. She just moved here, what, two months ago and has already landed a gig recording covers.” Jesse sang along to her song as it played on the speakers so that Deidre felt as if she were hearing her in surround sound. Deidre wanted to become a singer too, and by the end of the song, she was mouthing what felt like the shape of the lyrics since she didn’t know the exact words.

Deidre hadn’t been out of the city in a long time. When she got out of the car, she inhaled deeply. She was disappointed when the air there didn’t feel any different from breathing the air in the five foot by five foot patch of grass her apartment complex had marketed as a dog park. There was a staleness to it, as if the wind hadn’t blown through that forest in weeks.

The smell of campfire smoke wafted by, and Deidre felt nostalgic for the one camping trip she took with her parents when they were

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still together. She had been told the story of how her father banged pots together to scare off a bear so many times that she almost believed that she also remembered the event, could recall the threatening look of the bear’s beady eyes and her father’s white-knuckled grip on a saucepan’s handle. But of course she didn’t actually remember it. Deidre was only three years old then.

“Can you see where that’s coming from?

I reserved three different campsites so that we’d have plenty of room tonight.” Xandra investigated and said that she couldn’t see anyone in the surrounding sites. She posited that the smell could be from a shift in the wind that carried ashes of one of the many other fires scorching the West Coast.

Phoenix spritzed something that smelled like lavender onto her arms. The women passed around the bottle, which Phoenix said was her own mosquito repellent recipe.

Deidre sprayed generously and felt like she was now standing in a life-sized bouquet.

Xandra applied lotion to her arms, which made them glitter in the setting sun. Deidre complimented her shimmering forearms.

“Have you been part of this group long?”

Deidre asked.

“For like six months,” she said. “But I just come to the moon rituals. I have three kids at home and coming out here to howl and dance around naked is the only thing that keeps me sane.”

“Seems like a good release,” Deidre said, though the description of what was to come made her feel uneasy.

Once the sun set, Phoenix built a fire.

The women disrobed in silence, and Deidre wished she weren’t wearing the ill-fitting beige bra that she only wore when she was at the bottom of her clean laundry supply. She could smell smoke again, but this time from the fire in front of her rather than the ones burning miles away.

Deidre winced when she felt a cold hand on her now bare shoulder. “Only do what you’re comfortable with,” Jesse said. They all danced in a circle, creating their own beat with the rhythmic steps of their feet. At first, Deidre held her forearms across her stomach, but soon, she was dancing with her arms extended upward toward the sky, moonlight and firelight reflecting off of her skin.

CHIRON DUONG

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CHIRON DUONG

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KIERNAN O’ CONNOR

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Daddy’s Little Wallflower Kiernan O’ Connor

A question I ponder is, suppose when I was 15, I knew a girl just like my own 15 year old daughter, would I be friends with her? Would I be friends with a wallflower?

At 15, I was too selfish and arrogant to have risked it. If I gave it much thought, that is. I never questioned my use of popularity to gauge my choice of friends. I was popular, and that made me feel good about myself.

At 51, I get to learn from my own wallflower. What she teaches me is, it’s more likely the wallflower I couldn’t see when I was 15 probably wouldn’t have wanted me for a friend, anyway. It turns out I was the one who missed out, not the other way around. Wallflowers make the best friends.

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While I was a poseur at weirdness and rebellion, which my insecure 15 year old self did for attention, my own wallflower is the real deal, an authentic embodiment in glorious weirdness.

Her domain is a tiny loft on the top floor of our townhouse, accessible only through the master bathroom. There she spends many a happy hour honing her eccentricities: cataloguing used pens and nail clippings, filling up journal after journal with God knows what (she never lets me read a thing), painting murals on her furniture in her colorful, playful style. From her perch, she can listen to us in the living room below her, while we forget her presence above us.

Wallflowers struggle with social anxiety of one form or another. But social anxiety is a two-way street. In a healthy environment, it’s a grindstone. More often we well-intentioned loved ones make it a millstone instead. Either way, the codependent in all of us has something to contribute. We choose.

My daughter’s pre-adolescence was fraught with as much anxiety on our part, as hers. What should we do? Her social awkwardness morphed into what looked from the outside to be debilitating. She did not want to be around other people, with very few exceptions. She would not say a word to anyone except a select inner circle. Dress and appearance followed a similar pattern.

But I kept wondering, what’s really wrong with her? Trees beside a river don’t grow erect. They lean over the water, precarious, off-kilter. We want to straighten them out, correct what isn’t a flaw.

A couple of years ago I planned a trip to Austin to see a concert. An alternative rock band from England my son introduced to us was playing at the Scoot Inn. I booked an AirBnB, made plans with a niece and nephew in college there, and checked out places to see. The capital city’s motto is “Keep Austin Weird.” I dreamt of lifelong memories for us.

The day of the concert, the whole family—Mom, Dad, and four kids—were on the go. We hit 6th Street, toured UT, picked

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up our nephew from St. Edward’s, had Tex-Mex for dinner. After dinner, we returned to our AirBnB to freshen up, before heading out for the show.

But once we got home, my daughter lost it. She froze in agony. The only thing she wanted was to see Nothing But Thieves live, and Mom and Dad had tapped all her reserves. She was spent, and spent the night vegging out with Mom while I went to the concert with her siblings. We’d never bothered to check her frequency, while we flew along at ours.

Museums and art galleries, libraries and coffee shops, these are natural habitats for the wallflower species. They can people watch in safety. Nobody’s going to approach them and strike up a conversation. That doesn’t mean wallflowers are anti-social. Wallflowers love people. We feed their souls, just so long as we leave them alone.

My wallflower and I love to haunt her natural habitat. I learn to connect without two-way banter. I adjust my frequency to hers. We tend to judge the wallflowers in our life based on environments that take them out of their comfort zone, when we’re the ones who ought to get out of ours, if we really want to understand their perspective.

Silence is not required. I offer a running commentary and made up stories on our shared environment...a couple across from us sipping coffee, an indifferent receptionist at the art gallery, a vulgar work of art. My wallflower giggles, or gasps in

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mock scandal, or purses her lips and frowns in contemplation.

We’re in sync, like the buzz in your mouth when you sing in harmony. Then, miraculously, insights and observations venture forth, like a furry animal emerging from hibernation. I discover my daughter is the master of other people’s blind spots.

A friend of my son was having her quinceanera, and her mother invited all of us. The question arose for my wife of what her girls (my daughter has two younger sisters) ought to wear.

Appropriate attire collided with refusal to wear a dress, and the potential awkwardness stressed out one and all. But I had recently observed my daughter wearing a perfectly fine cotton, white button down blouse for girls. What was wrong with that, with a pair of camo pants and black, hightop Chuck T’s?

It wasn’t what we would’ve picked for her, but compared to her normal get up, why couldn’t that be considered appropriate attire? My little wallflower grinned in disbelief when we told her she wouldn’t have to wear a dress.

I’ve noticed the few times she’s been mistaken for a boy, it’s almost always by a woman. This ruffles her feathers, but only slightly, as it also amuses her. How could they possibly mistake her for a boy, she wonders. It’s because they look at her without seeing her. And that’s too bad, because if they did, they’d see a lovely, unique embodiment of the feminine. She’s every bit as gorgeous as her mom and sisters.

She’s just packaged differently.

An excerpt from Butcher’s Tale XVII: Pool Days

By M.K. Foster So you see, there’s worse things in this world than loving some body out there. And besides, it could always get worse, which death also get.

Even makes him hella’ jealous of Areason for all the stuff that happens for her. So he eats a few ice cubes over the sink and keeps Sadness cool.

Then, goes down to have a sit by the pool at the Y, which is all death keep his membership for anymore, seeing as how he get his exercise from Richard Simmons on VCR— not that he didn’t try the gym a while: swim class with his Porky Pig shirt all sticky-wet against his cod-colored chest or chuggling along on the treadmill, making death feel like a bad hamster and feel bad about his hamsters all over again: a whole decade of trying to be a good dad, all for nothing. Poor Hammy 1, Hammy 2, and Hammys 3-17! All once buried by the playground jungle gym until the day the city heaved the under-earth with all their tiny bones into the street and built a car park. Can’t win for losing at loving these days, death think, feet flopped in the pool: twin pearly fish belly-up in a cerulean sea.

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EXCLUSIVE CONTENT:

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KRISTINA PANCHKOVSKAYA KING OF THE SOUTH; INSIDE COVER PORTRAIT OF KAHADIJA ORMAR; PG 8 BLOSSOM; PG 34 PRINCE OF SUBURBIA;PG 42

DUJIE

JUSTIN ANANTAWAN

TAHAT

UNTITLED; PG. 10

DESPITE WHAT I KNOW OF DEATH... PG. 06 @DUJIETAHAT

WOLFGANG SCHILDMEYER

LUCAS WAKAMATSU UNTITLED; PG. 16

SARAH VAN DE KAMP 365 DAY CHALLENGE; PG. 39

UNTITLED; PG. 14

ALEJANDRO GUTIERREZ

AMELIA ALVAREZ ODE TO SILVER FISH; PG 32 @RYANDZRYANDZ

SHOW YOURSELF; FRONT COVER, & PG. 55, 57 PANCHKOVSKAYA; PG. 56

NOT A WALL FLOWER; PG. 28 @AMELIA__ALVAREZ

RYAN DZELZKALNS EMOTIVE PRISON; PG. 36 @SARAHMARIEVANDEKAMP

SONYA KORSHENBOYM

CRAIG

DUNCAN

LEAKING; PG. 45 LOVE ME; PG 46 SEND YOU A FLOWER; PG. 47

UNTITLED; PG. 40

JIAHUAN WANG

JESSICA GRATIGNY SELMA MEERBAUMEISINGER CARLIE HOFFMAN ANNELISE HATJAKES CHIRON DUONG KIERNAN O’ CONNOR M.K. FOSTER KERR IVAN CIRILO SAVVY SANDY PLEASE RECYCLE; PG. 48

EVENING; PG. 63 SILENCE; PG. 65 @CARLIEELIANAHOFFMAN

PERENNIAL; PG. 66 @AHATJAKES

UNTITLED; 68

DADDY’S LITTLE WALLFOWER; PG. 74

AN EXCERPT FROM BUTCHER’S TALE XVLL: POOL DAYS; PG. 79 MARYKATHERINEFOSTER.COM

THANK YOU : LABOR/AUTHORITY; BACK COVER

EXCLUSIVE CONTENT

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