capulet mag
Capulet Mag Volume 5 January 2020
Editors
Isabelle Rodriguez Samantha Tetrault
Cover Art
“Eve” Fineliner and Gouache, A4 Natalia Bennett
Print Design
Samantha Tetrault
Social Coordinator Isabelle Rodriguez
CapuletMag.com © Copyright Capulet Mag 2020
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apulet Mag is over two years old! It’s hard to imagine life before Capulet Mag. For every new edition, we wonder: What new writer will move us? What new artist will catch our breath? Like children before Christmas, we desperately wish we could sneak a glimpse at what we will receive. Our faithful contributors have always given us better and better work, and we are delirious with the luck we’ve had. We’re not crying, you’re crying. With a new decade ahead of us, we’re proud to cultivate a new canon of women’s literature. If Capulet Mag stands for anything, it’s that young writers deserve to be heard despite their age or inexperience. While womanhood may sound like a narrow definition, our contributors and readers show the multitudes it defines. Thank you for trusting us with your creativity, your vulnerability, and your honesty. Love always,
Isabelle & Sam
contents
The Extraordinary Power of Soap Aurora Biggers My Chamber of Venus Aura Martin Orange Lips Natalia Bennet Landlocked Kylie Ayn Yockey The Home Exorcist Kit Laura Burnes The Mania Is Drunk Abi Pearson Pre-Past Time Zarnab Tufail Contour Natalia Bennet Leftover Smash Cake Felicity Landa Self-Portrait Mary McGing An Ode to the Water Kelsey Wartelle SĂŠance Katlyn Minard Deliver Natalia Bennet
2 12 13 14 15 33 35 38 39 45 46 49 56
January 2020 2
The Extraordinary Power of Soap
I
Nonfiction Aurora Biggers
stepped under the green O’Reilly Auto Parts sign—a physical manifestation of my apprehension to enter the building. “Step in, take a right, go down the first aisle, should be on my right,” I repeated to myself. I peered in and waited until there weren’t any employees hovering near the door. Straight in and to the right, I followed my directions, allowing my brain to be preoccupied with my directional prayer. Hopefully, he wasn’t working today, or maybe I would get lucky and he’d be on a cigarette break. With a jug of Peak 100% full strength coolant in my hands, I made my way up to the counter. Right, left, right, left— every step with confidence. I saw a woman in a green polo behind the counter. Thank God. As I turned the last aisle, she turned back into the rows of metal shelves with various parts and catalogs. Damn it. I placed myself firmly in front of her station, determined to wait for her to come back. He was too eager—a slight and rotund man in a green O’Reilly Auto Parts polo with a balding dome, thin-framed glasses, and a mole askew on his chin. Grease stains ran up his arms and on his face like he’d had a skin transplant with shoe leather. I put the jug onto the counter, already wrestling with my wallet. “Did you need help finding something today?” he asked. I wanted to punch his grinning teeth in right then and there. “Nope. I have what I need, thank you,” I said.
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“Well, what were you looking for?” He was insistent. I stared at him blankly. “Coolant.” I pushed in his direction the two very large and very obvious jugs. “I have it right here. It’s $15.99.” I pointed at the fat yellow sign spying on us from the top of the last aisle. “Here’s my card.” “What kind of car do you have? You want to make sure you have the correct coolant.” He was breathing heavily, every word seemed to increase his energy. “I have the correct coolant, thank you though.” Why is this taking so long? Just take my damn card. I placed it on the counter expectantly. “Is that your Volvo out there?” he asked pointing towards my car. “Yep. Am I set to pay?” “Oh, well let’s double-check with the catalog and make sure you have the right stuff.” “No, really, I know what kind of coolant my car uses. That’s not necessary.” I responded. “Sweetheart, you don’t seem like someone who knows much about cars. It would be a real shame if you used the wrong coolant and messed up your engine. Your car needs 50/50, not 100.” This guy wasn’t worth taking the time to explain my plan. “I know what I’m doing. I think I would know what kind of coolant my car takes, so please ring me up or get that other employee.” Where was the damn lady employee? I’d reached the end of my charity. “Fine, fine. Don’t get upset if I told you so and your car has issues, though.” My cheeks stung, but I bit my tongue. I envisioned myself lunging across the counter—going “postal.” I thought of the female lion who wouldn’t hesitate to kill the male lion if he threatened her. One step out of line, and she’d rip his throat out. Bam. No more male lion. Except in my vision, it was Bam. No more male human.
January 2020 4 … And then there was Dondo. When I was a senior in high school I took an AP Psychology course. Our final project was conducting our own psychological social experiments and presenting them at a class project fair. My teacher was very strict about not influencing the results. Her Ms. Frizzle hair and bright purple ascot float in my head sometimes, reminding me to “be gritty” and telling me “that’s not very AP behavior.” I don’t remember my group’s experiment, but I remember participating in my classmates’ projects. Two girls in my class did an experiment where they fed you food while you were blindfolded and had your nose plugged. You had to guess what food it was. It was an awkward experiment, having other people feed you while you’re blindfolded. Our teacher said it was mandatory for us all to participate in each others’ projects, and the girls promised they had normal foods and nothing gross or weird. I sat down in the chair and was blindfolded. The first food was crunchy, but kind of sweet—definitely apple. The next food had a similar texture, but I couldn’t discern any specific flavor, styrofoam? No; that’s not a food. I guessed potato. Then there was cheese. I could tell because of the creamy texture; it was definitely cheddar, a sharp yellow. My family was always big on cheese; cheese and potatoes—those were sacred foods in my home. We raised our noses at American cheese and perused the charcuterie aisle, neglecting the average deli section. I knew my cheese. One after the other, my peers tested my ability to guess the food. They took careful notes on my answers and descriptions. I wasn’t exactly sure what the test was proving; it certainly wasn’t anything revelatory, but we were high school students in a sub-basic psych course. It’s not like we could run our own Milgram experiment.
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The last food was lemon, as I would later find out. I never had a chance to test my perceptive abilities because right as the citrus produce approached my mouth, the lemon wedge was intercepted by the two sausage fingers of Hunter Arredondo, “Dondo,” as affectionately called by his friends. I had never spoken to him, other than sarcastic quips in response to his sexist comments, but I was familiar with the roll of “Dondo” on my tongue. I thought it was a dumb name. I used it caustically behind his back. Dondo was a 6’4” bulky guy, always distinguished by his slicked-back mullet covered by a baseball cap, Carhartt pants wadded around fat romeo boots, and his grease and chew stained hands. When everyone returned to school in the fall, the halls were filled with the rumor he raped his unconscious girlfriend at a house party over the summer. I believed it. … On the concrete patio under my house’s carport, I poured half my 100% coolant into an empty coolant jug. I mixed the other half with water, so each jug was 50/50 coolant. Now I had two coolant jugs for my car, for about half the price of buying two actual 50/50 jugs. The green polo-ed idiot probably couldn’t fathom the level of ingenuity I had just pulled off. I always knew my car took 50/50 coolant, but this was a trick I had been using for a while. The stores always priced the jugs so the 100% was technically more expensive, but buying two 50/50 was still grossly more expensive than buying one 100%. I figured, why not make my own 50/50 at half the price. I considered writing the O’Reilly corporation a letter complaining about the shoe leather man, but I was tired. I bent under the driver’s seat and popped the hood. Lifting the jug over the coolant meter, I filled my car up with the toxic green Gatorade and lugged the jugs back into the garage. I
January 2020 6 begged my father to go pick up the coolant that day instead, but he told me I was fully capable of maintaining my own car. My father was a rare male feminist, but this didn’t always bend in my favor. He didn’t know about what happened last time I went to O’Reilly’s. That was when I first met the cashier. My friend Chloe and I stopped at O’Reilly’s on a Friday night, so I could pick up a tail light or something. We were going to bake cookies and watch Psych, our favorite comedy crime show. I understand why he assumed we were going partying; pretty much everyone else our age was. I just didn’t like the way he assumed we were partying. We collected the taillights and made our way up to the counter to pay. “So you girls going out partying tonight?” he asked. “Oh, no. We’re not.” Chloe responded, always so friendly and prompt to assume the best in people. “Really? It’s Friday night. C’mon, you girls must know where the best parties are at. You don’t have to pretend.” I stared fixedly at the askew mole on his chin and the “O’Reilly Auto Parts” stitched on his polo. Moles, in my opinion, are great features. Funny how in the right context a facial mole could be a beauty mark, but you have to have the personality for it. He just didn’t win the lottery on that one. “No, really. We’re not partying, just a quiet night in.” I said. “Girls like you? I can’t believe that.” I didn’t like the way he eyed Chloe’s breasts through her t-shirt. “Can I pay, please?” I asked. “I know you girls know all the good spots. Old guys like me gotta have young things like you to keep us up on all the hip spots.” Why on earth would he be going to a high school party? Pervert. Chloe kept diverting the questions, while I impatiently shoved my chip into the reader. Why could he hold me hostage in this conversation while I had to wait for him to press the right
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button so the reader would consent to taking my card’s chip? Now, standing in my driveway, I washed the dripped coolant off my hands with the hose. My hands would still hold the acrid scent for a while afterward. My right hand shook a little. It does that sometimes. Especially after a trip to O’Reilly’s. … I spat Dondo’s fingers out of my mouth and ripped the blindfold off. The girls were shrieking. He was laughing his ass off. Before I got the blindfold off, I heard him say, “She opened right up, wasn’t even shy about it. She didn’t even choke!” The girls were furious but not as furious as I was. If I had thought quickly enough, I would have chomped down as hard I could. It takes the same amount of pressure to bite through fingers as it does carrots. I could have left him with two stumps. I’m sure he would come up with some fantastic story that made him look manly, but he would know what really happened. I would know. But I didn’t think quickly. Instead, I shouted, “What the hell, Dondo?” He grinned. I don’t remember what happened next; the whole class was in pandemonium. I know he never got in trouble, and I know I will never forget what his greased fingers taste like in the back of my throat. While showering later that night, I sprayed the water from the nozzle directly into my mouth. I squeezed my blue bottled floral shampoo straight down my throat. I gargled soap and water, coughing relentlessly until I was sure the grease was gone. The grease was never really gone. When I was little, my mother made me wash my mouth out with soap when I lied. As I choked and gagged, snot and tears mixing, I felt like I was punishing myself. I wish I was lying. I wish it hadn’t really happened.
January 2020 8 … My dad is really big on self-defense. He bought me pepper spray, a baton, and threatened to make me wear a utility belt with those two items strapped on, in addition to a taser-flashlight combo and bear spray. He made me take a self-defense course with my uncle who has three black belts. How can you prepare for the non-physical attack? How can you defend yourself when you’re blindfolded and your attacker wields only two grease-stained fingers and his status as the most popular idiot in school? I still carry my bright blue pepper spray in my purse, a cat-shaped key-chain with sharpened ears, and sometimes my baton. I always walk fast, check my reflection in passing windows, and look under my car before I get in, but I’ve been attacked more times by people authorized to do so—by people in green polos, by people with social immunity, by people who can’t actually attack me. I’ve been attacked by the people who all the self-defense tricks in the world won’t stop. How do you prepare for them? A few weeks later, I saw Dondo’s girlfriend. At the beginning of the school year, they seemed distant. I figured it was because he raped her. It probably was. It probably didn’t help that everyone was talking about it. Now, they walked side-byside, fingers interlaced, jostling back and forth with big, dumb grins. I wondered if she knew he stuck his fingers down my throat? Probably not. I wondered if he stuck his fingers down her throat? Probably. Maybe he was compensating. I read an article about that. A lot of people were sexually assaulted in high school. I don’t have to define “a lot,” because honestly, any people getting assaulted is “a lot.” A guy in my class allegedly raped his girlfriend while she was drugged after her wisdom teeth removal. She was a virgin. I saw her crying in the hall and telling her friends about it. They told her to report him and end the relationship but she knew “he loved her so much and would never really hurt her.”
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He was best friends with all the police officers in the area and stood in a good position to be a future sheriff. This didn’t make it any easier for her to consider reporting the rape. They’re married now. … I moved a few hours away from all those people, but the O’Reilly Auto Parts next to my new house always reminds me. Two years and two coolant jugs later, I found myself standing under the green O’Reilly’s Auto Parts sign—different city, same sign. I employed my memorized directional prayer but quickly found this O’Reilly’s was organized differently. I was lost. “What can I help you find?” a green polo-ed male employee asked. Shit. “Coolant,” I said. “Right down that aisle!” He motioned to the right. “Do you know what kind you need?” Great; here we go. “Yeah, I always get the Peak 100 strength,” I replied. “Okay. Let me know if you need any more help!” That was it? No, “what kind of car do you have? Are you sure that’s the kind of coolant you need?” He didn’t even stare at my breasts, ask me where I lived, or call me “sweetheart.” I went back to town recently for a high school friend’s wedding. While standing in the food line, I made a joke about the time Dondo stuck his fingers down my throat. Admittedly, it was in poor taste. My friend was horrified. I guess she forgot about Dondo sticking his fingers down my throat. Maybe I should too. Her outrage at his behavior reminded me of soap. Forgiveness is like soap washing off grease. The more life you’ve lived, the more layers of grease lacquer your soul. After years of ingrained grease, soap won’t remove the stains. You can toss all your bitterness into a soapy sudsy power wash and let it tumble dry at maximum heat, but the grease won’t come out. The
January 2020 10 soap of forgiveness can’t remove the grease, but it can remove the smell. Bitterness is an acrid smell we carry around, and the more grease we lacquer on, the heavier the odor. Standing in the food line at my friend’s wedding, I discovered the extraordinary power of soap. I felt the soap of forgiveness remove a layer of greasy stench I had been carrying around for years.
Forgiveness is like soap washing off grease.
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I’m a virgin with golden hair in a renaissance painting where only a thin sheet of fabric separated me from happiness.
January 2020 12
My Chamber of Venus
S
Poetry Aura Martin
he looked at me up and down. You are wearing a dress. Good, this will be easier. Take off your bra and panties. I never removed them for anyone. I’m a virgin with golden hair in a renaissance painting where only a thin sheet of fabric separated me from happiness. Except this is a sterile office, and I’m quivering from anxiety. The nurse practitioner wore a Gloria Blues shirt. Lie down on the chair. Spread your legs, and cover this across your body like a blanket. It felt like a dryer sheet between my fingers. I’ll bet you have more testosterone in your body than you’re supposed to, and that’s throwing off your cycle. I hopped onto the bench and shifted my legs. More testosterone but no man. She laughed as I laid back. The smack of latex gloves. Time for the pap smear. You might experience some discomfort, she said. I’ll be slow. Something hard and cold was being pushed into a place that has never experienced a sensation like that before. I threw my head back and breathed hard. You’re cramping up. I need you to relax your buttocks. She was penetrating, and I wanted to scream. I looked up at the ceiling. How long have I waited for this? But there were no hands on my hips, thighs, stomach, back, breasts. No kisses, no smiles, nothing. I’m just pressed against a cold green bench getting fucked by a metal rod. My hands aren’t curled against someone’s back. Procedural, painful, pitiful. Am I still a virgin? I shut my eyes. When I came home, I bled as I would after having sex for the first time. Virgin blood, but there was no one beside me. Someone who watches me and wants me close by. I climbed into bed, pressed my back against the bedroom wall, and closed my eyes.
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Orange Lips
Ink and marker on paper Natalia Bennet
January 2020 14
landlocked
Poetry Kylie Ayn Yockey there are sirens in the pipes I hear them sing only sometimes as I wash my hair a wet opera only when no one else is home I wonder if they’re local performers naiads testing shower venue acoustics the ocean lives so far from here midcontinent if they’re belting all the way from the sea why do their voices fill the grout-space of my tiles and tempt me when I cannot swim how do I tell them I haven’t the talent to harmonize back that I cannot join them in the sea me and my voice are both utterly landlocked no matter how loud I belt or off-pitch I scream
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The Home Exorcist Kit Fiction Laura Burnes
L
ucy couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for Max’s death. Maybe things would’ve been different if she hadn’t lost it and called him a pompous, pretentious douchebag and then screamed that they were over and stormed out of the restaurant when he suggested they order the red wine since it would go better with their Gouda salad appetizer. Maybe, if none of that happened, he wouldn’t have been so upset and distracted that he toppled off the rooftop patio of the restaurant. It definitely was an accident since the waiter definitely tripped, and Max definitely shouldn’t have been sitting on the ledge, and definitely shouldn’t have had that many whiskey Cokes in his system. But he wouldn’t have been drinking alone on the railing if she hadn’t acted like such a sensitive freak, as Max was reminding her while she applied eyeliner beneath her mascara-coated lashes. “That stuff makes you look like one of the Mob Wives,” he said. “Who wears that much eye paint to a funeral? It’s all going to bleed off anyway once you work up your tears.” He eyed her up and down. She could see him standing behind her in the mirror. “And your dress. You aren’t sixteen anymore. Who are you really trying to fool?” Lucy looked down at the awkward lumps popping out over her stretchy black mall clearance dress she bought four years ago. He was right. As a ghost, he was always right. The afterlife seemed to have given him an insight into Lucy’s brain, a brutal one. She didn’t much care for it. “Shouldn’t you be walking towards the light or something?” she asked, going to her bedroom to pull the shaping nylons from her underwear drawer.
January 2020 16
As a ghost, he was always right.
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“Nah,” Max said, appearing against the doorframe. “This is more fun.” His family didn’t know anything about their argument. No one knew he died an hour after they broke up, so his family and all his friends were doing their best to be exceptionally sweet to her. They sent her flowers, brought her cookies, and called her every half hour. It was awkward. Lucy didn’t know what she was supposed to say. “You’re supposed to tell them,” Max would say to her, leaning against her dresser as she tried to sleep. “You’re supposed to tell them we broke up, apologize, change your phone number, and get the hell out of their lives.” This was a smart idea, Lucy thought as she pulled into the funeral home parking lot with Max stretched across the backseat, whistling the theme to Peter Gunn. Unfortunately, she didn’t want to get the hell out of Max’s family’s lives. This was mostly because Max’s family included his older brother Jeremy, who now was in the family waiting area behind the viewing room. He perched on a tastefully suburban couch and eating one of his aunt’s brownie bars. When he saw Lucy, he looked up and smiled. Lucy’s mouth went dry and her knees started clacking together. She met Jeremy three months earlier at Max’s birthday party. She liked him immediately and thought he was amazing after five minutes. After twenty she felt like she’d known him forever. By the end of the hour, she was completely in love with him. He wasn’t as attractive as Max, and he wasn’t as articulate and sophisticated. If she was honest, he had a bit of a beer gut and a protruding chin. Still, the unfortunate emotions remained. He was a dentist, but she couldn’t even hold that against him since he founded the Smile Mobile and traveled around on a converted school bus to give children free dental care. He complimented all the old ladies, listened intently, genuinely cared about what everyone was saying, played the banjo, and told stupid jokes that made her laugh so hard she peed a lit-
January 2020 18 tle bit. Whenever Jeremy came into the room, she couldn’t stop smiling. She was smiling now. “Hi, Lucy,” he said. “I’m glad to see you.” “I’m glad to see you too,” she said. “I’m so sorry about—” “Me?” Max said, sitting in the chair across from Jeremy. Jeremy stood up and stepped towards her. “He loved you a lot—” “Did I?” Max asked. “—and I know you loved him too—” “Ha!” Max laughed. “—but you’re still loved.” Jeremy took Lucy’s hand. He had to have felt how fast her heart was beating. She could practically see her veins bobbing up and down from the increased blood flow. He seemed to understand anyway because he kissed her hand like Mr. Darcy, and Lucy was the happiest she’d ever been in her entire life. In this blissful state, she forgot about Max, but it didn’t last long. “Whoa, now!” Max was at her side, and Lucy jerked away from Jeremy in surprise. He recoiled, mumbled an apology, and bolted from the room. “No, wait, Jeremy! Jeremy!” Lucy yelled after him. “Well, I guess we know who you’re trying to fool with that dress!” Max said. “Trying to score at my funeral! And they all thought you were such a sweetheart! My grandma knitted you a sweater for Christmas, you ungrateful slut!” Lucy fell down on the couch and covered her head with her hands. He continued, “This explains a lot! You dumped me because you wanted to do the nasty with my brother! You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you? As I’m lying in an urn in the next room!” “Shut up shut up shut up!” Lucy screamed, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. “What’s up?” Lucy opened her eyes and saw Max and Jeremy’s seventeen-year-old, “alternative” cousin standing there, the one with purple hair, ear gauges and a replication of one of
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the more inventive Kama Sutra positions tattooed on her neck. The cousin (Margaret or something) looked at her with what Lucy perceived as an eyebrow of judgment. Lucy couldn’t stand it, so she sprinted to the bathroom, locking the door and collapsing in tears next to the toilet. Max stood over, clicking his tongue. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you. What kind of person fantasizes about their dead boyfriend’s brother in the funeral home?” “I’m not!” Lucy sobbed. “I’m in your head, I know you’re lying,” he said. It was true. Jeremy was everything she knew she wanted. She’d cried on her way back to her apartment after she first met him because she knew she could never have him. Not as long as Max was around. She couldn’t be responsible for breaking up a family. She didn’t want to have to go to those Christmas dinners. Now, though. Everything was different. And she felt even worse about it. After a while, Karen, Max and Jeremy’s mother, knocked on the door. “Lucy, sweetheart, you in there?” she said, softly. “It’s time for the viewing. People are coming. It’d be so nice if you could come out.” “Yeah, to eye bang your other son!” Max yelled. Lucy sighed, stood up, brushed herself off, and turned on Max. “I need you to stop.” He snorted. “Keep dreaming.” Lucy gave him the finger and walked out, joining the receiving line next to the urn, trying her hardest not to look at Jeremy or at Max, who was now making rude gestures at the line of mourners. They all kept coming up to her, telling her how much she’d meant to Max, how tragic it was, how they were sure they would’ve had such beautiful babies together. Jeremy heard it all too. She knew it.
January 2020 20 By the end of the night, her lip was bleeding from trying not to cry. Max’s family hugged her in the parking lot after it was all over. “This was so hard. But at least we could all be together,” cried Karen, clutching the remains of Max close to her chest while son’s ghost rolled his eyes behind her. “Look at her,” he said. “I can’t believe she thinks I want to be spread over a beach. I hate sand. Why would I want to be a part of sand for all eternity?” Lucy gripped her keys tightly and looked towards Jeremy, but he’d already gotten in his sensibly sized crossover. The perfect car for shuttling children around on Saturday mornings to the library or to soccer practice. He’d make a great father. “Hey!” yelled Max. “Stop checking him out.” Lucy jerked out of her trance, turned to get into her car, and noticed Jeremy and Max’s weird cousin smoking, half-concealed behind a bush next to the funeral home. She didn’t look out of place since she dressed in black all the time anyway. “Talk about black sheep of the family,” Max said, suddenly appearing next to her in the passenger seat, sticking his legs up on the dashboard. “You know she once tried to pierce her own ears with a safety pin?” Lucy’s eyes narrowed, fixed on the girl as she bent over, picked up a prayer card off the sidewalk, and lit it with her lighter. “She also once begged Aunt Jane to get her a crow,” Max continued. “She was five and when Jane said no, she threatened to run into traffic. Hey, what’re you doing?” Lucy abandoned her car door and made her way over to the girl, who was extinguishing her cigarette beneath one of her black vegan leather boots. “Hi!” Lucy yelled. The girl jumped and turned around. She frowned when she saw Lucy. “Can I help you?”
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“Hi,” Lucy said again, trying to buy time to think of a response. “Um…your name is Margaret, right?” The girl frowned. “Margaret is the name foisted upon me by two people who had no business naming a child without first understanding her spirit. My true name is Magpie.” “Right,” Lucy said. “Well…you’re into occult stuff, right?” Magpie shrugged. “I guess. I controlled a chipmunk once with my mind. He dug a hole where I told him to.” Max snorted. “Right, whatever,” Lucy said. “Look, the thing is...” She glanced over at Max who gestured for her to continue, saying, “I’m as curious as you to see how this whole thing turns out.” “The thing is...” She decided to just say it. “I can see Max.” Magpie nodded gravely. “Me too.” Both Max and Lucy said, “What?” “Yes,” Magpie said, and then she pointed on the ground where Max’s face was smiling up at them from the photo on the funeral program. Lucy sighed. “No, I mean, I can see him. Right now. He’s standing right over there. I mean—” he jumped away as soon as she pointed his way. “There, no — there! Stop moving, god damn it!” “It’s rude to point,” Max said, hopping in circles around Lucy and Magpie. Magpie didn’t say anything, she just began playing with her gage, pushing it in and out of her ever-expanding earhole. Max snickered, leaning against the side of the funeral home. Lucy stared at Magpie, trying to make the earnestness come across on her face. Magpie bit her lip and closed her eyes. She breathed in deeply and exhaled with a whistle. Max frowned. “What’s she doing?” “Max,” Magpie said, eyes still clamped shut. “Max Goodrie. Max.” “Yo, Margaret,” Max said, tauntingly, and waving his hand
January 2020 22 in front of closed eyes. “Hey, Margaret! I’m here? I’m here? Can you feel me, Margaret? Or Magpie, or whatever the hell it is you’re calling yourself these days?” “Magpie?” Lucy whispered. Magpie opened her eyes. “Feel.” Max rolled his eyes. Magpie continued, “Feel. I feel. I feel the presence. There is something here. A shadow.” Lucy instinctively looked down to make sure that Magpie wasn’t talking about her shadow, which she couldn’t have been since there wasn’t one. “I see it. I feel it,” Magpie continued. “You feel what?” Lucy asked. “Your aura,” she said. “You are definitely being haunted.” Lucy gasped a sigh of relief, but Max rolled his eyes. “Of course, she would say something like that. She’s crazy, look at her shoes.” “I feel it,” Magpie said. “I feel the other’s presence. I feel another voice that’s not of this realm.” “Right, because she’s got other voices talking to her,” Max said, making his hands go in a snapping motion. “Just because she’s alternative doesn’t mean she’s insane,” Lucy snapped at him. “You just want someone to believe you.” “So what if I do?” Lucy shouted. Magpie just starred. “Are you ok? Are you talking to Max? Can you actually see him?” “Look,” Lucy turned to her fully now. “How can I remove a spirit? Like an exorcism?” Magpie shrugged. “I don’t know. Pretty easy, I should think. Like, just Google it.” She considered Lucy further. “But why would Max be bothering you? Weren’t you two in love?” Max howled with laughter. Lucy felt the tears begin to well and said, “Listen, Marg — I mean, Magpie. I really could use a friend right now. And I could really use some help.” Magpie nodded solemnly. “Of course. I’ll figure out what
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to do. I’ve always wanted to try speaking to a spirit.” “I bet you have,” mumbled Max. “Meet me tomorrow morning at my house,” Magpie continued. “In the back. In the shed. Wear waterproof shoes and a fireproof shirt.” Max rolled his eyes, but Lucy nodded. “Okay.” … As Lucy drove up to Magpie’s house the next morning, she was horrified to discover that the driveway and half the cul de sac was filled with cars. Cars she recognized. Max’s mother’s obnoxiously orange Subaru, a cousin’s gas-guzzling Hummer, and most horrifyingly, Jeremy’s dark blue Honda CRV. “What the…?” Lucy muttered. “Well, isn’t this just wonderful!” Max said, gleefully rubbing his hands together in the passenger’s seat. “A family reunion!” Lucy was fully prepared to gun it around the cul de sac and make a break for the freeway, but Magpie’s mother, Jane, was standing in the doorway, signing for a package from a UPS delivery man, and spotted her immediately. “Lucy?” she called out before Lucy could duck beneath the steering wheel to hide. “Is that you?” “Nothing doing, now!” Max laughed. Lucy looked over at Jane and forced a smile and waved. “What a surprise!” Jane yelled. Lucy could see her smile was equally forced. “Shit,” Lucy muttered. Jane stood watching her, expectantly. She was soon joined by Magpie’s father, Marcus, in the doorway. She heard him ask, “Is that Lucy?” Lucy noticed a few other relatives gazing out, curiously, from the bay window at her. “No choice now,” Max laughed. “It looks like you’re crashing a private family breakfast that you weren’t invited to!”
January 2020 24 “Shit,” Lucy said again. There was no going back now. She parked in front of a neighbor’s house and walked up to the house. It was awkward as Lucy stepped over the threshold. It was all of Goodries, gathered together for a nice family breakfast that no one had invited her to. Jeremy sat on the couch facing the door. He jumped up when he saw Lucy, knocking over a plate of pancakes that balanced precariously on the armrest. Max snickered. No one else seemed to notice. They were all too busy staring at Lucy. “What a surprise,” Max and Jeremy’s mother, Karen said, with a tight smile. “See? She didn’t invite you. She always knew you sucked,” Max said. Max’s urn was sitting on a small end table surrounded by flowers from the funeral home. Next to it was a huge, framed picture of Max propped up on an easel. He smiled at the room. Ghost Max approached the photo. “A young life lost too soon,” he said. Then he started mugging next to it. “What a young and handsome son of a bitch.” “Sorry,” Lucy said to the room, trying hard not to look at Jeremy. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” A chorus of voices teeming with forced cheerfulness and enthusiasm rose up among the Goodries. “Don’t be silly!” “Of course not!” “You’re welcome!” “You’re not intruding,” Jeremy said, staring at Lucy. Lucy felt the back of her neck growing hot. “Magpie — I mean, Margaret, invited me,” she said. “That’s not suspicious,” Max muttered. The Goodries looked confused. A low murmur erupted. “Margaret?” Jane asked, frowning. “She’s out in the shed,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “God only knows what she’s doing in there.”
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“Thank you,” Lucy said, and she started to walk towards the back door to the yard. “Wait,” Jane said. She held out the package to Lucy. “If you’re going out there, could you take this too? It just came for her.” Lucy took the package. It was heavier than she expected, and she could hear the content clinking as she shifted the box in her hands. “It’s probably a bomb,” Max said. Lucy walked out of the door. As it slammed shut, she heard voices erupt behind her, no doubt all discussing what she was doing and why in the hell Margaret would have invited her. “Oh yeah, they are definitely wondering what the hell you’re doing,” Max said, skipping along next to her as she made her way towards the shed. The shed was in the corner of the yard. Lucy could hear the screams of heavy metal guitars as she approached. She banged loudly on the door, and yelled, “MAGPIE?” The music stopped and Magpie’s muffled voice called, “IDENTIFY YOURSELF!” “It’s Lucy!” Lucy called. The door swung open. Magpie was dressed in her characteristic black attire, though today she added a red cross necklace. Her face lit up when she noticed the package in Lucy’s arms. “It’s here! I didn’t think it would ship out so fast!” She grabbed the package from Lucy and retreated into the shed. Lucy followed her in. “Cozy!” Max exclaimed, looking around. The shed was bigger than it seemed from the outside. It was dingy, with some garden tools pushed up in the opposite corner and bags of fertilizer stacked near the door. Amongst and propped up against the junk on the shelves were lit candles. Suspended by strings from the ceiling were some more pentagrams made out of construction paper, like paper snowflakes a
January 2020 26 child would make in kindergarten. “You know,” Lucy said, looking around, “you might have told me that your whole family was here this morning.” Magpie pulled a hunting knife out of her boot and stabbed the package’s tape. “I thought you knew. Didn’t Karen invite you? It’s Max’s Memorial Brunch.” Max started howling, spread out across the bags of fertilizer. “Guess you’re not as big a part of the family as you thought, girl!” “Yes!” Magpie exclaimed, throwing packing peanuts on the floor and pulling out a huge silver crucifix. Lucy stared. “What the hell did you order?” “A home exorcist kit!” Magpie said, brightly, removing two small vials of clear liquid in bottles marked with a cross. “Holy water, perfect…surprised it traveled so well.” Max had started laughing again. “Oh, this is too good. This is amazing.” “And…where do you order a home exorcist kit?” Magpie shrugged, extracting a long black candle, an innocuous-looking piece of wood, and a pocket-sized Bible. “Amazon.” Lucy let out an involuntary cackle. “So,” Magpie said, spreading the contents of the packages out on a small workbench between the two of them. “Are we going to do this or what?” Max stretched his arms out. “Well, this is going to be interesting.” Lucy hesitated. Then, she glanced out of one of the windows of the shed towards the house, where she knew Jeremy was sitting. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.” “Desperate,” yawned Max. Magpie cracked her knuckles and pulled out her phone and started typing. “Are you texting right now?” Lucy asked.
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“No, I’m Googling, ‘how to perform an exorcism,’” Magpie said, her brow furrowed in concentration as she began to scroll. “This sure is promising,” Max said. “Here we go,” Magpie said. “Okay. Sit or lay down on the floor.” Lucy looked down at the dirty shed floor. “I would rather stand if that’s okay.” Magpie shrugged. “Whatever. It also says that you should be in a relaxed state of mind, free of stress and anger. Are you free of stress and anger?” “I mean…not really.” Magpie took out a lighter and lit the long black candle. “I’m supposed to start burning this holy wood,” she held up the stick, “and then smudge you with it and start calling the demon.” “Oooh, am I the demon?” Max asked, waving his arms dramatically. Magpie closed her eyes as she put the wood over the small candle flame. “Max, we are here to help. It is time to go. It is time to leave. Max! It is time to GO!” She gestured wildly with the piece of wood, a few small sparks shooting out. “Careful with that!” Lucy said, nervously glancing around. Magpie frowned at her, and then continued, “I call upon you, Max Goodrie. Obey my commands and leave Lucy. I command you to return to the infernal realm and leave this person alone. Max Goodrie, it is time to GO!” Max frowned. “That’s weird.” He looked down at his hands. “These are tingly.” Lucy’s heart started racing. Maybe it was working after all! Then, she got hit in the face with water. “Hey!” she coughed, wiping her eyes. “Sorry,” Magpie said, setting down a now-empty vial of holy water. “I thought it might be better to surprise him. MAX GOODRIE! Obey my command!” “What’s this? I’m getting weaker, weaker,” Max said, and
January 2020 28 he started shivering. “Oh my god, Magpie, I think it might be working!” Lucy squealed. “Of course it is,” Magpie said, and she picked up the cross with her left hand, her right hand still waving the piece of wood that was on fire. “MAX GOODRIE! By the power of Christ and all that is holy, I call upon you to return to the gates of hell, where you will find Lucifer waiting for you with open arms!” “No,” Max said, shaking his head, “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.” “Keep going!” Lucy screamed. “RETURN TO HELL, DEMON!” Magpie screamed, gesturing wildly. So wildly, that the flaming piece of wood flew out of her hand, landed on a bag of fertilizer, and promptly burst into flames. Lucy and Magpie both screamed. “Oh my god, put it out!” Magpie shrieked. In a panic, Lucy seized the tiny vial of holy water and dumped it on the bag of fertilizer, but the flames were already starting to climb up the walls. A dangling pentagram caught on fire, dropping sparks down on them. Lucy grabbed Magpie’s arm, and then with all her force, slammed her shoulder against the shed door. It burst open as flames erupted out of the roof of the shed. Magpie and Lucy rolled out of the shed, coughing, the horrible smell of smoke and burning shit filling the air. All the Goodries were, at this point, running out of the house towards them. Lucy was on her knees, coughing, while Magpie started screaming wildly. “What the hell is going one?” Jane shrieked. “Call the fire department!” Marcus screamed as sparks started flying. Someone showed up with a fire extinguisher, but it was pointless. Jeremy ran forward, grabbed Lucy, and pulled her farther away from the shed. Marcus grabbed Magpie, shouting,
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“What the hell? What is this?” “Oh my god,” Max’s mother sobbed. The Goodries stood in silence, watching the shed burn. Magpie’s screams turned into whimpers, and Lucy sat, frozen and petrified, in the grass, staring ahead. Finally, the whooping of sirens could be heard, and a gaggle of firemen came running. “Good thing you were wearing a fireproof shirt and waterproof shoes!” Max said, sitting on the grass next to Lucy. Her heart sank. It hadn’t even worked. Max was still haunting her. Finally, as the firemen got the fire under control, the captain approached the family. “What happened here?” he asked. “Margaret, what the hell were you doing in there?” Jane said, suddenly furious, now that it was apparent everyone was fine, and that she would have to buy a new shed. Magpie looked over at Lucy and croaked, “Did it work?” Max started laughing. Lucy, feeling the tears coming, shook her head. “Did what work?” shouted Marcus. “Margaret, what the HELL were you two doing in there?” Everyone turned their stares toward Lucy. She began shaking. “Lucy?” asked Jeremy, gently. He was now sitting on the grass beside her, and he put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re toast,” Max said, now standing in front of her, dancing a weird little jig out of glee. “He knows you’re insane now. You’re finished! He’s never going to get within ten feet of you again! Ha! How could you think he’d ever want you after me? He is too good for that! Ha! You are finished!” Lucy felt the warmth of Jeremy’s arm on her back. She took a deep breath. “It’s Max,” she said, so quietly that only Jeremy could hear her.
January 2020 30 Jeremy’s hand remained on her back. “What about Max?” “Yeah, what does Max have to do with you burning down my shed?” yelled Jane. “This is going to be good,” Max laughed. Lucy sighed. Clearly, she was done with this family anyway. What did it matter now? “I’ve been seeing him.” She pointed at Max, who had folded his arms. “He’s right there.” “What is this nonsense?” screamed Karen Goodrie. The rest of the relatives started calling out their shock and disbelief as well. Jeremy was the only one who didn’t say a word. “Margaret, did you talk her into this?” shouted Jane. “I was trying to help!” yelled Margaret. “It wasn’t her fault,” Lucy said. “She was the one who threw the burning piece of wood, to be fair,” Max said. “It’s me,” Lucy said. “So…” the fire captain said, looking around. “Uh…are you admitting to arson?” “No!” Lucy said. “No, it was an accident. It’s just—Max has been haunting me.” “What the hell is this?” screamed Karen. “Why would Max be haunting you?” asked Jeremy, softly. Lucy took a deep shuddering breath. “Don’t do it,” Max said, suddenly. “Don’t do it. You don’t want to do it. Don’t do it!” Lucy whispered, “Because of you.” There was silence, broken by Jeremy, who after a beat, asked, confused, “Me? Why would Max be haunting you because of me?” “Don’t do it!” Max screamed. “Because,” Lucy took another deep breath, and shut her eyes. “I’m in love with you.” She heard Max scream, and then there was a deafening silence. She felt Jeremy remove his arm. She felt all the eyes of
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the rest of the Goodries on her. She felt the horror. “Well,” the fire captain said, clearing his throat, “I’m just going to go…uh…check on how things are going. I’ll come back over once you’ve uh…figured this out.” “You’re in love with Jeremy?” Karen shrieked. “Wait, that’s why you wanted me to exorcise Max?” Magpie said. “That’s freaking crazy!” Lucy opened her eyes. Jeremy was staring at her, searching. “Max was right about you,” Karen said, and she started to sob. “The day he died, he said that he thought there was something going on with you. He knew you weren’t trustworthy!” “Mom!” Jeremy snapped, turning around the glare at her. A sob caught in her throat. “What?” “I’m in love with her too.” Lucy gasped. Karen gasped. Everyone gasped. Magpie shouted, “Oh hell yes!” “Jeremy!” Max’s mom said, stunned. “How…how could you? Your dead brother’s girlfriend?” Lucy braced for Max to comment. But he didn’t. In fact, Lucy looked around, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t see him. “Wait…wait…” Lucy jumped up, spinning around. “What?” Jeremy said, jumping up too. “What’s wrong?” “MAX!” Lucy shouted. “What about Max?” Jeremy asked. “Magpie!” Lucy turned to Magpie, who looked alarmed. “What?” she asked. “Max is gone!” Lucy screamed. “He’s gone!” And she started to sob. “Woo!” Magpie screamed, and she started clapping. It was her mother who said, “Are you seriously applauding the death of your cousin?” “Jeremy! He’s gone! Max is gone!” Lucy cried. “He’s gone finally!”
January 2020 32 “You are unbelievable!” Karen screamed. Jeremy grabbed Lucy’s arm, “Come on, let’s go.” He pulled her, past his opened mouth relatives, past the growing gathering of neighbors by the fence, around the front yard, towards his car. He opened the passenger door for her. She glanced in, just to check that Max wasn’t there. He wasn’t. She got in. Jeremy came around and sat in the driver’s seat. He turned to her, eyes searching. “So…that was strange.” Lucy started laughing. Jeremy started laughing too. “Do you believe me?” Lucy asked, waves of relief washing over her. Jeremy smiled. “I do. I’ve been seeing Max too.” “What?” “Yes. He kept popping up every time I saw you. Kept telling me I was a dirtbag brother. What kind of man wants his dead brother’s girlfriend? What an asshole. That kind of thing.” Jeremy smiled. “I never thought an exorcism was the only solution. I should’ve asked Magpie for help.” Lucy snorted. “So, what next?” he asked, taking her hand. Lucy looked around one last time and smiled. “Everything.”
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The Mania Is Drunk Poetry
Abi Pearson
i do not feel like sleeping i do not feel like waking i do not feel like talking i feel like falling down the stairs i feel like crying my eyes out eyes out eyes on the floor i feel like hanging and swinging and drinking drip drip dropping i do not feel like i love you i do not feel like having you round i do not like the sound of your crunch crunch crunching those horrible carrots please stop making mouse noises making hand motions making pretend love to me please stop i can not bare your face right now i fear... i fear the eyes i claw out will not be my own
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down below the gate is closing i hear the slam outside the hall people are talking they don’t care that i can hear them in the laundry room someone else has touched my clothes has placed them on the washer i pass him in the hall his sweat still lingers in the laundry room and now my clothes are unclean please pass me by no don’t stop i think i will scream at you if you try to talk i do not feel like sleeping i do not feel like waking i do not feel like telling you what’s wrong with me this time.
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pre-past time, past time & present Poetry
Zarnab Tufail
i want to be loved again. i have felt in the eyes of a faraway lover but i cannot recall what became of him. sorrow in words always found their way through thorny roads into my heart. ‘i will make wonders with my powdered heart.’ my baby nails are painted black; the color of darkness. they have just discovered the art of carving skin. i am afraid mother might see my art. i roll up my sleeve, take father’s sharp cutter blood rushes out hugs me muscles run away from each other. my head spins like i am high on marijuana i find you a few nights later, after i abandon my wound with drying spray medicine you tell me, ‘you are crazy’ crazy was yet to come, i had not yet begged god to keep you safe. *
January 2020 36 i heard frank ocean for the first time by the ocean, a few days after you. our love changed its course the same as yesterday’s clouds. you appear as an angel in front of me, i have to touch your hand to believe i am not dreaming. i have not held hands with a man before or after. frankly, i believed i was special when your mother hugged me. i am scared of cats. i write letters to you daily. will you read them and keep them safe? even if your woman is another one? let’s cook together so i know i will always be the first to make dinner with you. come, let’s hunt movies. have you been to the cinema before? i haven’t. i am drunken in your love. god, take care of him. no, i will not stop pacing my room with flowing tears until you spare his life. my love, are you okay? it will not take long. i still cannot find words to describe your forehead kiss or your presence bliss. let’s stay here a while longer. we are lovers, ex-lovers, friends, ex-friends, enemies, best friends, and strangers. visit me again, whatever my mouth tells you is a lie. i am waiting for you to come see me again. * they say everything leaves your body in seven years but i carry love for you in my genes and genes don’t go away. they replicate into remorseless islands into even smaller remorseless islands until they are all over my space. even if i tried, i would never get away from the leg tingling, stomach tightening, and heart-crushing that you left me in.
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i still can not understand what made you replace me. finding the answer, it is like fetching water in a desert and in an ocean at the same time; i find no flaws and all flaws in me. i find everything in me, contentment for living my dreams, depression from childhood traumas and love for you. the only thing missing is your heart. i woke up to a hasten robbery and i begged to have my property returned. i still hope. i hope it stops soon because now tears are flowing and i may not be able to put them back to sleep again.
Contour
Ink on paper Natalia Bennet
January 2020 38
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Eating My One-Year-Old’s Leftover Smash Cake Nonfiction
Felicity Landa
I
imagined my daughter’s first birthday party with a Pinterest-worthy smash cake, the first cake I would bake since I became a mother. Fluffed pastry with pockets of air, surrounded by thick buttercream frosting piped into blooming swirls that would float like pale pink clouds. Instead, I decided to go the healthy route: a banana and oatmeal cake that baked into a brick, with coconut cream frosting that disintegrated while I layered it on with a spatula, matted and wet. A smash cake is exactly what it sounds like—a cake meant to be ripped apart by a delighted one-year-old for a first birthday photo op. Their opportunity to indulge the impulse to mash and burrow themselves into their food. A truly wonderful gift for a toddler, something thick, sweet, and completely their own. My daughter dug her hands into the slick, perpetually melting coconut cream from her healthy cake and licked it from her fingers. She tried one piece and pushed it out of her mouth with her tongue. One year and nine months before, I would never have thought that I’d be terrified to feed my daughter the frosted vanilla cake I baked for her party guests. … “Your test was positive,” the nurse said. “You have Gestational Diabetes.” It was the phone call I dreaded.
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My daughter dug her hands into the slick, perpetually melting coconut cream from her healthy cake
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“What now?” I was crushed. From the moment they’d taken my weight at my first OB appointment twenty weeks prior, it was all I heard: You are overweight, and therefore you’re at risk for gestational diabetes. Cut down on carbs. Don’t gain any more weight. Everything I consumed during my pregnancy I threw up. Still, I ate less and exercised more, moving my tired bones up flights of stairs for hours. “Cut down on sweets. Stop eating things like cookies and cake.” Cake. They kept repeating it—don’t eat cake—as if I had been shoveling it down my throat after every meal. I will never forget the OB who said, before I had even been diagnosed, “If you don’t stop eating cookies and cake you will develop Gestational Diabetes. Do you want to hurt your baby?” “I don’t eat those things,” I replied. She raised her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe me, turning her chair and snapping her folder shut in a brusque, dismissive gesture. She wouldn’t meet my eyes as she rattled off a list of potential health threats that could come from a diagnosis. My placenta might deteriorate faster, and I would be at risk for type 2 diabetes. My baby could have weight problems, she might be too big, leading to a C-section. She might have low blood sugar when I delivered or shoulder dystocia. Her message was clear and I absorbed it. If I didn’t lose weight, I would develop GD. I would hurt my baby. Months later, the same OB delivered my perfectly healthy daughter after 57 hours of labor. She threatened to cut me open 3 hours into pushing if it took me much longer. She called in the NICU, whispered to the attending nurses “probably shoulder dystocia,” and used a vacuum that planted a purple and black bruise on my daughter’s head like an open, dying flower. After my diagnosis, I was handed a pamphlet with a meal plan, a package of needles, and a glucose meter. I was told that diet control was crucial, and that insulin would only be given as a last resort. This is common among women with Gestational
January 2020 42 Diabetes. There is no extra help for your body to fight the inevitable rise of blood sugar. The meter was inconsistent and difficult to use. The first time I took my blood sugar I pricked my finger 16 times before I found a test strip that didn’t give me an error screen. My husband came home to find me frustrated and crying, bent needles littering the floor around me as I cursed myself and the pulsing pain in my bleeding fingers. I remember the frustration, the fear. The instinct to set the needle down and rest was overcome by my manic need to know the number, to be certain that I had done everything right. I began to deteriorate, my spirit and body heavy and crumbling. I measured food by the ounce and counted grains of rice. When my glucose numbers climbed I pared down my carbs even more until I was dangerously hungry. Needle scars wormed their way down the tips of my fingers, and my skin became calloused and numb. I was obsessed with my blood sugar so I could offer proof in my glucose numbers that I was doing everything possible, and the stress ate into my sleep. I feared a large baby who would struggle with weight problems just like I had. I feared that it would be my fault. The joyful moments of tracking my child’s developments were chiseled away by the gnawing question that had been planted in my mind: Had I hurt my baby? No one bothered to correct me. … Gestational Diabetes is a genetic disorder. Hormones from the placenta create an insulin deficiency, causing blood sugar levels to rise to dangerous heights without receding fast enough. Its origin is unknown to medical professionals, but this fact was not relayed to me as I stood on the scale during those early visits. Instead, GD became a scare tactic used by doctors unable to look me in the eyes while they threw vague and nonspecific threats into the air.
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As a woman who has struggled with weight for most of her life, healthy eating has always been important to me. I often wonder what kind of conversation I might have had with my OB if they had taken me seriously when I told them this. If maybe they would have told me the truth that would relieve me from my excessive self-blame and demoralization. You cannot prevent gestational diabetes. You can only decrease your chances of developing it. And I possessed uncontrollable factors that would increase my risk at an overwhelming percentage: overweight, a history of diabetes in the family, Hispanic. Do you want to hurt your baby? It has taken me a year of her life to forget the way those words sounded, a shrill ring around my head like a coin circling a metal bowl. She was born perfect, a tiny healthy thing. I breathed into her a wish, and I often fear it won’t come true. I never want someone else to make my child think she is unworthy or subject to something horrible simply because of the way she looks. … For her first birthday, I told myself I would let her have something sweet for the first time. I would make her a cake and let her eat as much as she wanted, I would try to be the mother who doesn’t push her children into irrational fears that prevent them from enjoying life. But my anxiety won. Instead, I baked her a healthy brick she refused to eat. So, while she napped in her pink birthday tutu, I scraped off the baby drool mixed frosting and ate her leftover smash cake myself. I met a sweet mother just a few months earlier, similar in size to me, with beautiful almond eyes and a peppering of freckles across her nose. She held her tiny six-week-old asleep on her breast and told me how she had been pushed to eat less while pregnant, without any question of whether or not there was a history of diabetes in her family, and without any inquiry into her diet and exercise routine. It was a scare tactic to shame her into losing weight, and she endured the already tumultu-
January 2020 44 ous journey navigating Gestational Diabetes with little to no help, believing that she did something horribly and irreversibly wrong to deserve the outcome. As mothers, we are so easily convinced to shoulder any blame, and so quickly shamed into never speaking about it. We are on display to a plethora of judgments and assumptions, and although we are far from perfect, we never believe we are enough. For the first year of my daughter’s life, I went to every pediatrician appointment ready to be scolded. I made a mental list of explanations for every choice I made and braced for accusations that never came. When she was small, I put her to sleep on her back like I was told, and somehow she always wiggled onto her side or her tummy. I would sit at the edge of the crib and watch her back rise and fall, I would check on her incessantly during the night, press my finger against her nose to feel her warm breath on my skin. … While eating her leftover smash cake, it suddenly seemed silly that such a thing could be so important to me. The instinct will fade. I’ll chip away at it slowly. I still carry calluses on my fingers from the needles, and I am cautious in situations where I used to be free. I try not to wonder if I’ve done something wrong, I try not to worry. I hope there will come a day when I no longer do. The leftover cake pooled in my mouth, soggy and thick, tasting of too-ripe bananas. I smiled and sent a silent apology to my sleeping daughter for expecting her to eat such a thing. Next year, I told myself, she’ll get her cake.
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Self-portrait
Acrylic on bristol board Mary McGing
January 2020 46
An Ode to the Water; a Meditation on Survival
Poetry Kelsey Wartelle
My parents taught me how to swim At an early age Out of fear that I would drown In our swimming pool. When the waters finally come for me My mother will thank herself For throwing an unsuspecting 3-year-old Into the shallow end Without floaties. My father, scoffing at me From higher ground, at sea-level Will think back on a decade of swim meets and practices And see them as the building blocks Of my survival They taught me that breathing With the water came naturally to our kind That our people have always thrived In a symbiotic nature With the essence of life
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Born under the opposing streams of fish They told me that my name means ‘One who dwells by the sea’ And the relief they felt known that water Will likely never be my demise. I consider it my obligation to survive The inevitable swell. I pray to the brackish Abyss that my return down the bayou Will carry me gentle like the Bath water gulf Like the stillness of the disappearing lake in Washington I hope that she embraces me as I Have embraced her all these years. I hope she sees me as her ally, her child Her neighbor, her kin. I hope she grants us grace despite abuse, poison The violent metal and the selfish harvests But when I look into the Mississippi I see in her what I see in the darkest sides of me: A ragid inability to forgive. Lily, Isaac, Katrina, Rita The storms we named that weaponized The rivers and lakes around the homes That have built me as I have built myself Among them.
January 2020 48 I think they were sent to taunt us No matter how much water besieges Our lungs, our hair, every fold of skin on our body We will never truly be able to harness, to enslave, to domesticate To predict. I remember my uncle playing his accordion In the forest green rocking chair on the porch Of my grandparent’s house in Opelousas While the magnolia branches fly past us he plays for Lily An old Cajun lullaby. I’ve been taking long walks around the bayou At night, and she reminds me that she has been here Longer than anyone with my late name. I silently thank her while selfishly lamenting that I cannot join her.
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Séance
Fiction Katlyn Minard
T
he first time I held your hand, we only did it to communicate with the dead. There we sat: five of us, up past curfew in the attic of the church, long after the outside street lamps blinked on and the tiny yellow squares of suburban window lights began to dim. Scavenged dinner table candles that dripped red wax onto the dusty hardwood floor provided our only light. We sat criss-cross applesauce, circled around the Ouija board one of the Sisters confiscated from Ruth earlier that day. Or so she thought. “Everyone hold hands,” Ruth said, as if we all didn’t know the rules to a séance, “the spirits won’t surface unless they feel our energy.” I’d never been a rule-breaker, body or soul. But I still did as she said and bowed my head, humoring the others as my eyes explored the space. It was not a cathedral, and barely even a church. I’d call it a glorified foursquare house, dressed with bargain-paint idolatry and stained glass windows from the hardware store up the street. The attic housed all of our once-a-year school stuff. Christmas-colored picnic tables folded against the wall. Chocolate order forms in damp cardboard boxes for our fundraisers. Thumb-sized unborn-baby dolls with sleek plastic bodies and tormented faces. Crafting supplies. This space didn’t see a lot of visitors, but the room twenty feet below it did. That’s where our priest—an ancient, pallid man who resembled a villain in a Stanley Kubrick movie—regularly lectured us about the importance of keeping our hands pocketed and our legs shut until marriage. Which, if you’re not into marriage, means forever—and, if you’re
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I’d never been a rule-breaker, body or soul.
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into girls, means forever forever. You’d think being gay at an allgirl high school would feel like paradise. But sometimes it’s a special kind of hell. I’ve never been a rule-breaker. Body or soul. Except for this one (big) little commandment. And I wouldn’t have broken the no-trespassing-after-hours rule, either…except that Ruth didn’t know another student with a spare key to the church. Nobody but me. The only time skeptics ever get invited anywhere is when somebody needs something from us. But I have to admit, once we settled in the attic, it felt worth the trouble just to sit next to you. “Spirits of the night,” Ruth whispered to the board, “I call upon you to awaken.” Ruth always had a flair for drama. She starred in all the plays. “Our minds are open. Let us receive you. Any soul here who wishes to be seen, reveal yourself this instant.” The five of us waited, silent and still, holding hands in a circle like a daisy chain. “I repeat,” whispered Ruth, “any soul here who wishes to be seen… reveal yourself, this instant.” Two tiny flames fluttered in the dark, and our group dissolved into girlish gasps and giggles. Everyone ignored the fact that the rear window of the attic was ajar, airing the room with a barely-there breeze. Instead, they all asked each other, hushed and breathless, “Did you see that? Did you feel anything?” It all felt a little too hot and silly. A few seconds longer and I would’ve ratted out the cracked window, suggested we all get out of this oven of a room. Then I felt you stroke my knuckle with the tip of your thumb. A soft stroke. One that’s way too measured to be any kind of accident. My spine exploded in shivers like a strand of Chinese firecrackers. I encountered a kindred spirit of my own—one I didn’t even know existed. One the others couldn’t even see.
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I encountered a kindred spirit of my own
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Ruth and the girls, still jittery over the candles, didn’t seem to notice us. So I got their attention and, with my hand still carelessly cupped in yours, I insisted that yes, I indeed felt something. We must come back tomorrow night. The second time I held your hand, I came with my mind open to spiritual connection and my wrists spritzed with perfume. “Awaken, spirits,” Ruth whispered that next night on the floor of the attic. “Let us receive you. Any soul here that wishes to be seen, reveal yourself. This instant.” I watched your face in secret while the others communed with the cosmos. Your head bowed as if in prayer, eyelashes resting on freckled cheeks, corn-yellow hair electric in the candlelight. My imagination ran wild in the pre-colonial lighting, and I pictured you as an exiled Puritan, holding a witches’ Sabbath, dancing around a bonfire in the woods, naked and ecstatic and yelling at the sky. The black-beaded rosary draped across your collarbone didn’t fit. It was too long. It snaked far beneath the neckline of your shirt, into uncharted territory. I wondered how easy it would snap off if yanked. “Spirits, are you with us?” Ruth seemed frustrated now. A minute or so had passed without event. “If you do not wish to be seen, we will obey your wishes and close our eyes. But please give us another sign. Reveal yourself. This instant.” The back window was closed this time. There was no wind. Any flicker of the flame could have been my breath. Any sound, my pounding heart. Were we flirting with spirits? Or just imagining things? Hard to say. But that’s what makes a séance so exciting—the whys and what-ifs. The sense of possibility. Maybe that’s what made me bold. While everyone else’s eyes were still shut, I slowly fanned out my fingers and moved them across your open palm. I thought maybe your hand would shrivel up, closed and frightened, like a hedgehog rolling into a ball—but no. Your fingers fanned, too.
January 2020 54 And without looking, we laced them together, filling each other’s spaces without effort or resistance, and for the first time in my short history of fake séances, the thrill was real. Otherworldly. Terrifying. The sound of Ruth knocking over her flashlight practically sent us all through the roof. After we all jumped and shrieked and dropped hands and laughed at ourselves, someone suggested, in a defeated voice, that maybe we should lay off the séances for a while. They reasoned if we all got too comfortable up here, we’d become lazy about our practices and then get caught—and if there’s one thing scarier than a run-in with a ghost, it’s retaliation from the Catholic Church. Nobody argued. We blew out the candles, packed our stuff, and crept out the attic, sneaking single file down the creaky hardwood staircase. I slowed my pace so I’d end up behind you. As we tiptoed down the stairs, past a small moonlit window, you whipped your head around and looked right at me. Two seconds. Three tops. But I saw it. The firelight in your eyes. That flash of recognition. That sniper-sharp stare on your face that all but screamed this means the attic will be empty tomorrow night. I nodded at you so subtly, so immediately, that for a whole 23 hours I didn’t know if you’d actually seen me do it. Until you showed up. It’s not nearly as noisy when just two people climb the stairs instead of five. Especially when neither one is laughing. The third time I held your hand, there were no candles and no ceremonies. There we sat: two witches, one fireless midnight Sabbath, eight hours before we’d have to be downstairs, hands folded, praying alongside the rest of the Puritans for straight spouses
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and deliverance from our demons. I’ve never been a rule-breaker. Body or soul. But I surrendered both to you the second your lips embraced mine. The kissing came easy. The shirts came off easier. My hands found a home in your sorceress-long hair, on the slope of your neck, the curves of your shoulders. They fumbled their way to the clasp of your bra, and I surprised myself when I struggled to undo the hook. Boys are expected to be clumsy with these things. As a girl, I had no excuse—just nervousness. But when you giggled, I felt relieved. It gave me permission to giggle too. And I was still laughing, just a little, when I pressed my lips against your neck, slipped the straps off your shoulders, and heard myself utter the words: “Reveal yourself. This instant.”
Deliver
A4 gouache and watercolor Natalia Bennet
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contributors
Abigail Pearson (She/They) is a 24-year-old queer writer of novels and poetry. Most recently they have published a poetry collection titled Maybe (Not) Her, which explores themes of bisexuality and polyamory. Other work by Abigail has been published in Pussy Magazine and Moonchild Magazine. Aura Martin graduated from Truman State University with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. She is the author of the micro-chapbook “Thumbprint Lizards� (Maverick Duck Press). Her recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Buddy, Obra/Artifact, and Tule Review, among others. Aurora Biggers is an English major and journalism student at George Fox University where she writes within the vein of feminism and cultural commentary. She is a published freelance writer, and her work can be found most notably in Ms. Magazine, The Crescent, and The Wineskin. Aurora has a newfound obsession for medical CNF books and thinks she might be a hypochondriac now. Felicity Landa holds an MFA from UC Riverside Palm Desert, and is a graduate of the Cal State Long Beach Creative Writing program where she earned the Horn Scholarship for her fiction. Her work has appeared in Raising Mothers and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in The Sunlight Press. She currently serves as fiction editor for the online literary magazine Literary Mama and nonfiction editor for The Coachella Review. Katlyn Minard is an aspiring young adult novelist whose short fiction has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Moon City Review, 101 Words, and LOGOS. She lives in Los Angeles.
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Kelsey Wartelle is a poet, actor, playwright, and podcast host born and raised in the heart of Acadiana and currently living in New Orleans. She is a member of the Southern Rep Theatre Acting Company and is the creator and host of the podcast ‘Le Pont: An Ongoing Exploration of Cultural Identity in Louisiana.’ This is the first time her poetry has received publication. Kylie Ayn Yockey’s work has been published in Glyph, Meow Meow Pow Pow, Night Music Journal, Gravitas, Ordinary Madness, Not Very Quiet, Prismatica, Gingerbread House, and honey & lime. She has edited for Glyph Magazine, The Louisville Review, Ink & Voices, and is poetry editor for Blood Tree Literature. Laura Burnes grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota and now lives in Minneapolis, making her a bona fide Twin Cities girl. She studied English at the University of Minnesota, where she developed an appreciation for Victorian literature and amaretto sours. Mary McGing is an artist and student based in Massachusetts. She works mainly in gouache and acrylics, focusing on portraits and still lives. She is a recipient of the 2019 Elizabeth Killian Roberts Prize for drawing. Natalia Bennett is a freelance artist and illustrator residing in Tasmania with big plans. She’s passionate about mental health awareness and swain to 70’s era of music. Zarnab Tufail is a 19-year-old Pakistani poet who enjoys writing even when nothing comes to mind and often pretends to be part of novels she takes months to finish. Her hobbies include writing letters and sending emails to people. She is an Editor for Siyaah Qalam Akhbar and her work has been published in sister-hood mag, Vagabond City Lit, The Bitchin Kitsch, and Women’s Republic.
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editors Isabelle Rodriguez is the poetry editor and social coordinator for Capulet Mag. She currently works as a Bookseller in New York City. When not working, she’s attempting to snag a publishing internship, reading Gillian Flynn novels, and enjoying her Harlem neighborhood. Samantha Tetrault is the nonfiction and fiction editor, as well as the print designer for Capulet Mag. She is a self-employed freelance writer, blogger, and podcaster. She loves working for herself, reading bad books, and spending too much time on Reddit. Her work has appeared in Goliad Press, The American Book Review, and Capulet Mag (it totally counts).
Capulet Mag is an inclusive literary magazine seeking the best in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and art by young women. Submit your work at CapuletMag.com
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Editors
Isabelle Rodriguez Samantha Tetrault
Contributors Abi Pearson Aura Martin Aurora Biggers Felicity Landa Katlyn Minard Kelsey Wartelle Kylie Ayn Yockey Laura Burnes Mary McGing Natalia Bennet Zarab Tufail
Cover Artist Natalia Bennet
CapuletMag.com