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8 Iss. 8 Aug 2017

Vol. bitchin’ kitsch



The Talent

Cover: “Dreaming” by Fabrice Poussin. Michelle Brooks 13 Giada Cattaneo 5, 23 Miles Ryan Fisher 6-10 TS Hidalgo 28 Clara B. Jones 3 Meg Kelting 14 Sara McClory 12 Conor O’Sullivan 18-22 Fabrice Poussin cover Emily Rose Schanowski 15 Olivier Schopfer 27 Rebecka Skogg 11, 17, 30 David Thompson 4 Jordan Upshaw 16 Dr. Mel Waldman 24-25 Jim Zola 26

clara B. jones | /empowerment/ | poetry You wear designer clothes and use food stamps, but The Bronx is more than the sum of its parts. Every week you walk to the zoo to watch lemurs and spider monkeys and plan to study math when your disability comes through. When you take the #5 train to Manhattan, you always sit next to a Westchester housewife. You like to see them flinch. The Hilfiger’s® you find at Goodwill® look just as fine as Gucci®, but fashion never sells until the customer buys. When you get your degree you want to work in Scarsdale where colored teachers are in high demand. It’s not every day that a homey from the ‘hood works their way up from Medicaid to Bloomingdale’s®—though money is not important in the midst of urban blight. By 2024 you’ll graduate, leaving the system to the truly needy. How bad could it be to support yourself since your kids won’t live on a fixed income unless the city refuses to give them back. Your social worker can prove that you are a good parent, but guardians have all the power. Sometimes it’s better not to complain. You have supervised visits every two weeks which don’t interfere with your SAT prep or your trans empowerment yoga classes, and you really want the nightmares to stop because things are getting out of hand.


David Thompson | just like elvis | Poetry My new girlfriend attends a church where they believe Jesus had a twin brother who died during childbirth. Just like Elvis, she says. When I ask her what evidence they have for this, she tells me that their pastor wears a jumpsuit, and the hymnal’s full of Elvis songs, so at least it’s never boring, like real church always is.

Giada Cattaneo

giada Cattaneo | untitled | illustration


Miles Ryan Fisher | Making Frank A Ringtone | Fiction I should never have assigned him a ringtone. And to choose a popular one—that one from the Fetty Wap song that goes “Hey What’s Up Hello”—what was I thinking. I know what I was thinking. I was thinking about how funny it would be to give him such a ridiculous ringtone. Hey What’s Up Hello. Then I ended up falling in love with it. Loved hearing it around D.C. on the phones of strangers sitting outside of those trendy Pho restaurants or waiting for the ever-delayed Metro train. I loved those reminders of him, like they were little post-it notes stuck all over the outside world. I loved them until I didn’t. Until he found someone new. Not new. That’s not the right word. He found someone better. No, that’s not the right word either. There’s no right word for what he found. Just a description. He found someone that he wanted to be with more than me. Which made me his placeholder. That’s the right word for me. He reduced me to a single word, and that’s all I was to him. I was his placeholder. How long are placeholders supposed to stay on hold? A couple weeks? A couple months? I was held in place for four months. Four fucking months. From summer into fall. Now it was the beginning of December, and you know what that means: Christmas parties. Excuse me, holiday parties. Whatever you’re supposed to call them, I didn’t want to go. I wanted to sit at home and gorge takeout and guzzle wine and listen to my old record collection. Musicians like Ella and Billie and Frank. Musicians who were real musicians. Musicians who weren’t fucking ringtones. But of course I couldn’t do that. Friends were all like, “Michaela, don’t let Will stop you from going to these parties just because he might show up. Don’t let him have that type of control.” So I went to the parties—ones in Columbia Heights and Petworth and Shaw—and I didn’t see him at the first couple ones. Maybe he had others to go to. Ones her friends’ hosted. I showed up to the next party completely sober. The moment I walked down the stairs to the English basement and raised my fist to knock on the door, I realized I wasn’t ready for that kind of move. That’s when the door opened without me knocking and a McKay! followed. It was my friend, Ashley, stepping outside for a cigarette. So I stood out there with her, shivering beneath the sequins on my little black dress (I know … how predictable). “He’s not here,” Ashley said, exhaling a cloud of smoke and cold air. Still, I scanned the party for Will once I went in, peering through a dimness lit only by a couple lamps in opposite corners of the room and strands of white Christmas lights strung along the walls and around a six-foot pine tree. When I was sure he wasn’t there,

I went straight into the kitchen to get a drink. Or two. Or three. I walked in and there was this guy bent down with his head shoved in the fridge, the kind that has the freezer on top, the cooler below. He wore jeans and some old Boston University t-shirt. Real proper holiday attire. “Can I get you something?” he asked without looking out of the fridge. “Whatever you’re having is good.” He pulled out a couple Yuenglings. I rolled my eyes, but he didn’t notice. “How’s Yuengling?” he asked. “Nothing says yuletide like Yuengling,” I said. “That’s funny,” he said without laughing. He put one of the bottles on the counter. “I used to get these holes in all my shirts.” He lifted the bottom of his shirt to show me a couple tiny holes that looked as if moths had been snacking. “You know how they got there? It makes a lot of sense once you figure it out.” I didn’t care to guess. “You haven’t been using your mothballs?” “No … and why does that sound dirty?” “I don’t know. Why are you showing me the bottom of your shirt?” He laughed as if I were joking. “Let me show you.” He took the bottle in his hand and placed it under his shirt, using its fabric to twist the cap off. He tossed it on the wood counter, and it rattled. “It took me forever to figure out how they got there. Crazy, right?” “Insane, actually.” “Hold on.” He reached into the fridge, pulled out a can of light beer, and cracked it open. “Here.” “What’s wrong with the yuletide Yuengling?” “I just figured you could use something a little less bitter.” Asshole, I thought. All guys are such assholes. Then I flinched when some girl’s phone went Hey What’s Up Hello.

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Miles Ryan Fisher | Making Frank a Ringtone

“Relax,” he said, “it’s just a phone. With that god-awful lyric that doesn’t even make any sense. Who in the world actually says that? Hey What’s Up Hello? Only Sinatra could make something like that sound smooth.” “Don’t tell me that’s who you have as a ringtone.” “What’s wrong with Sinatra? Besides, I’d never do that to him. Make Frank a fucking ringtone.” He laughed, taking a sip of beer and shaking his head as if the idea were preposterous. “Besides, I don’t even have a ringtone.” “You rely on your telepathy to tell you when a call’s coming in?” He looked at me intently, like I’d just solved a riddle. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. He took a long, slow pull from of his beer while looking me directly in the eyes, which I thought was kind of creepy. Then he lowered the bottle, and leaned back against the counter. “I don’t have a ringtone cause I don’t have a phone.” “What do you mean you don’t have a phone?” He proceeded to tell me about how he’d just lost his phone while he was skiing in Colorado. Left his pocket open during a blizzard after taking out his ski mask. Took an end-over-end tumble and out went his phone. Now he was parlaying that into an excuse not to have one. “What if someone wants to call you?” I asked. “They can’t.” “What if you want to call someone?” “Then I’ll just have to remember their number.” “What if you forget it?” “I won’t.” “But what if you do?” “But I won’t.” “I doubt it.” “Try me.” So I gave him my number. Not necessarily because I wanted him to call me. I gave it to him because I was like, fuck you, you won’t remember it by the end of the night. Like,

fuck you, I’m gonna keep feeding you attitude. Like, fuck you, I’m gonna start smiling at how you shrug it off and shove it back. Like, fuck you, we’re gonna move a little closer after a few drinks. Like, fuck you, I’m getting tipsy and a kiss would feel good. Then, while we were kissing a bit, Will walked in. Alone. “Kay,” he said. He bit his bottom lip. “Making out with some random dude.” My throat hit the bottom of my stomach. I turned, but before I could see if any words would come out, Boston University jumped in. “Hey now, I’m not just some random dude,” he said. He shrugged at me. “Am I?” I shrugged back, then shook my head. “See?” Boston said, looking to Will. “I’m not just some random dude. Believe it or not, I even have a name. I’m—” “I don’t need to know what your name is.” He held a hand up to shush Boston. “But what if I want you to know what my name is?” “Look. Dude. I don’t give a shit what your name is or who you are. This has nothing to do with you so back the fuck off.” The party stopped, everyone halting their conversation to look at Will and Boston. Boston still wasn’t all that concerned. He just rolled his head back in annoyance, and I could see Will starting to become infuriated. Thing is, Will didn’t have any right to be infuriated. Not with anything that had to do with me, at least. “I wasn’t special to you,” I said. I didn’t shout it, either. Just spoke it. And it was enough for everybody to hear. Including Will. He turned around. “Excuse me?” I wanted to shout it. I wanted to scream it. I wasn’t fucking special to you! I wanted to tell him that I’d wanted to be. I tried to be. And that he didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind fucking me even though he knew I had feelings for him that he didn’t have for me. He just put me on hold like I was some insignificant number to him. And then when he found someone else, he hung up on me. Now that it was my turn, and all I managed to do was to say, “You probably don’t even know my fucking phone number.”

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Miles Ryan Fisher | Making Frank a Ringtone

“What does that have to do with anything?” Will asked. “Everything,” I said and looked at Boston. “It has to do with everything.” I set my beer down on the counter and walked into the night without my jacket. I waited until I got down the sidewalk, around the corner, before to letting it all burst out. And I wondered if he understood me. I wondered if he’d understand that I wanted him to remember my number. That remembering my number would make me more than just a number. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and took my phone from my purse. I scrolled through it until I found one of the standard ringtones that comes free because nobody uses it anymore. Some people would remember it, though. Some people would still remember when you had a phone number memorized because it was important enough to know. So I set my phone to that old rotary sound, the kind that I would’ve heard had I lived in the days when Frank was singing. Singing maybe it’s late, but me. Call me and I’ll be around.

Rebecka skogg

Rebecka Skogg | Untitled | Illustration


Sara McClory | Rumors and all the things they say | Poetry We laugh, now, about the time we were almost murdered on Christmas Eve, the night the sky barely wept any snow as the T.V. soothed with the hum and glow of its moving parts, the sound of reruns drowning out tipsy but heavy steps moving into the room. The fuzzy colors illuminated his features, but were absent in deep forever running wrinkles hoarded on his untanned skin. And you, my mother, leapt from the tattered goodwill couch in a speed that defined science; your torso a mountain and pool-noodle arms flailing at the sight of a sharp dagger nestled tightly in his fist, eyes as vacant as a hole. All three of us careened to that place — face against face against face, spit sputtered in all directions like acid rain, heat radiating from skin as lips receded to show animal like teeth. It fizzled, and in the morning we sat, in the tepid leather seats of his Lincoln, engine warmed but didn’t move, as exchanged looks and apologies reflected in the mirrors. And then, as we pulled on the black road gifts tumbling against my shaken body, cold sores tingling on my lips, I knew the measurement of a rumor, untamed and raw and that what they say about parents is true: They brought you into this world. They can certainly take you out.

Michelle Brooks

michelle brooks | cleaner sign | photograph


Meg Kelting | Merak and Dubhe | Poetry Merak and Dubhe circle Polaris as centuries, guardians, swinging the bear’s tail to keep the scorpions and lions away. The heavens crawl with monsters, but among them is Polaris, the guiding star that leads lost home and sails hearts away. It shines North when others spin. One such star needs its protectors; Merak on the outside, watches all the dead bodies, waiting for one to rise in attack, while Dubhe watches Polaris, locked in the constant glow. But Merak will never see the light, never look up to the North Star to wander and wish for further paths Merak marches on with no dreams of a new way, only a path, eyes set on the untrusting void. And so Merak’s sky is dark. And Dubhe, poor Dubhe, who loves the star enough to never need another, whose faith holds an orbit, must one day watch the North Star flicker and fail, leaving nothing but the dark sky to stare into. On Polaris shines, unaware of floating chariots and chevaliers. As heaven revolves, even as it exists the center of the universe for one small terra world, Polaris gazes up into the great cosmos, for the North Star knows it is just another light in the sky.

emily rose schanowski

Emily rose Schanowski | Pseudoplants | Ink on paper


Jordan Upshaw | first day of spring | Poetry Today, I am beautiful and you are not I wore my favorite dress the one with the blue flowers I bought after you and my favorite lipstick the coral pink I bought before you I dressed up for spring not you or any other boy but I am glad I saw you You wore faded jeans I recognized and a Pokémon t-shirt I didn’t and that stupid green hoodie You’ve worn every day I’ve ever seen you You dressed too warm for the weather Ignoring spring the way you ignore what you did

And I walked past you on the sidewalk able to study you from the safety of my sunglasses Smiling when I noticed You still can’t look at me I will not apologize for feeling beautiful and unafraid Just like you will not apologize for taking that away from me I tell my friends I don’t care about you anymore But that’s a lie I care enough to still hate you a little every time we pass each other Pretending to be strangers Me, covered in flowers And you, too afraid to look

Rebecka skogg

Rebecka Skogg | Untitled | Illustration


Conor O’Sullivan | Only the Fallen | Fiction Brendan first met her on a cold, Friday evening when late November winds swept across the East River. He exited the Bedford Avenue station and prepared for a gust of air channeling down the staircase, turning his head towards the banister. The Williamsburg streets were busy with people pouring into bars to secure tables for the night. He walked down Driggs Avenue towards Grand Street where he was due to meet his roommate, Peter, at a bar they frequented the previous summer. The air clung to his shaven face while he waited at pedestrian lights on Metropolitan Avenue. He dug his hands inside the duffel jacket’s pockets, bending his long legs. His navy slacks that were too light for such an evening. It was a friend of Peter’s birthday, a girl he studied drama with at Trinity. Peter convinced Brendan to attend after he first declined the invitation. “It might be good for you to have a night out, Bren. Don’t you ever miss the old days?” “The old days are a blur.” There were two couples walking out of O’Connell’s as he arrived. Blue steel bars covered the icy windows. The walls inside were covered with black and white photographs of Dublin. He ordered a pint, seeing Peter and the group sitting at a large table. The glass trembled in his pale hand as he approached them. Brendan tried to lock eyes with Peter who was talking with a rakish boy he recognized from parties. He hovered over the table for a minute before his friend, Hannah, saw him. “Hey, Bren. Great to see you,” she said, standing up and giving him a hug. ”Yes, it’s been ages,” he replied, nodding to them all. He ran a hand over his fringe, brushing back dark curls covering his forehead. Brendan took a seat beside Hannah as everyone continued with their conversations. He sipped his stout, looking around the group. They were the types he never knew in university, pretty drama students who held their own parties after performances. “Can you believe it’s been over ten years since Freshers’ week? We were all so awkward,” the birthday girl said, a party hat’s string denting her chin. Brendan heard water outside dripping from the gutter onto the ground, bored from this talk of old flings and lecturers. “That seems a long time ago,” Hannah said. “Sure, look at us now, we’re scattered in all corners of the globe.” Brendan turned his head towards the door, as if expecting to see one of his friends. “How’s work going?” she asked, taking a sip of her cocktail. “Oh, it’s fine, thanks. What about yourself?” “Manic as usual. Have you met my friend Sarah by the way?”

A girl with chestnut brown hair seated beside Hannah leaned forward. She struck him there with her brown eyes, sitting on the bench in a denim jacket. Her hair was tied in a short bow with a red bobbin. Clusters of freckles dotted her slim cheeks. “I don’t believe so. Nice to meet you.” “You too,” she said, smiling at him. “Who wants another drink?” Hannah asked. ”I’ll have the same,” Sarah said, her long fingers wrapped around the pink straw hanging from the glass rim. “Do you want a pint?” Hannah asked. “I’m fine for the moment, thanks,” he said. “So how long have you lived here?” “Three years, Sarah.” “You must love New York,” she said, leaning her slender frame against the wall. The collar of a white blouse protruded from her black jumper. “It’s okay, I miss Dublin sometimes.” Hannah returned carrying the drinks on a tray. Brendan smelt their vodka as it crackled against the ice, tempted to order a whiskey. “It’s time for dancing, they’re all waiting for us at Copa. Everyone finish your drinks,” the birthday girl announced. Brendan finished his pint, the head slivering to the bottom of the glass, and felt the cream settle on his stubble. She let out a short laugh that caused him to blush. “There was a lot of head on that,” he said, wiping his lips with a napkin. They stood up to leave, he waited outside for Peter who was sporting a new haircut and silk shirt beneath his quilted jacket. Cars advanced towards them, flanked between the redbrick houses and neon-lighted shopfronts. “Winter is here now,” Peter said. “Do you know Sarah well?” ”We did a few plays together in college.”

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conor o’sullivan | only the fallen

“She seems nice.” ”Why do you always fall for the prettiest girl in the room?” “I must be a masochist,” he said, taking a drag from Peter’s cigarette. The club was on a street corner beneath the Williamsburg Bridge. A tug boat drifted on the murky water, its city pennant flapping in the wind. People huddled underneath the streetlamps and blew into their cigarettes. There was a short queue with three girls in heavy make-up standing ahead of them. “I need a whiskey.” “I thought you were off the hard stuff, Bren.” “After tonight,” he replied, as the bouncer waved them forward. He produced his driving licence and waited for Peter inside the doorway. It was a narrow establishment with exotic music shaking the walls. Peter found the group by a set of tables, giving out hugs and pecks on the cheek. Brendan walked towards the bar, joining a crush of people crowded around the glossy countertop. Two men with slicked back hair wearing pressed shirts were whispering in each other’s ears and pointing at girls on the dance floor. He squeezed beside them and ordered a bottle of beer with a whiskey, handing over twenty dollars. “It’s another five,” the bartender shouted, sleeved tattoos on both his arms. He snatched a ten out of his hand and walked over to a pair of tall blond girls. Brendan decided to run after finishing his drinks, catch the M train at Marcy Avenue and delay his sorrow with a joint. He drank his whiskey and beer in a few sips, squirming through dancing couples back outside. The lights of the bridge rose and fell along the suspension cables, twinkling stars over the river. She was smoking a cigarette on the footpath. “Are you leaving?” “Not yet,” he said. “Can we share this? I can never finish a whole one.” “Okay,” he said, extending his fingers beneath her grip on the filter. “You looked like a man who was making an exit.” “I was just getting some air,” he said. “If you say so,” she said, blowing out a wisp of smoke and dropping her arm. “Peter said that you prefer staying in most nights.” “He’s making me sound reclusive.” ”You were just leaving though?”

“I’ve exhausted all my small talk for one evening.” “Same, but my cheeks are turning red out here,” she said, handing him back the cigarette. Her eyes glinted behind the tartan scarf. “They look fine from here,” he said, exhaling and tossing the butt. “Come on, they might be getting worried about us.” She tugged on the sleeve of his coat and pulled him towards the door. Brendan was flushed as she disappeared into the crowd, fearful of losing her to the night and its brazen boys. He ordered a whiskey to keep his tongue loose. She pushed off the bar, moving away from the group who were huddled together on the dance floor, and came back over to him. He stood against the wall, watching people sway and mouth the lyrics. “You’re not in the mood for dancing?” she asked, her flawless profile silhouetted against the dim lampshade. “I feel Peter does enough for both of us.” “Taller boys always look awkward dancing,” she said, staring into his blue eyes with strands of silky brown hair falling over her long eyelashes. He thought about reaching out and tucking them behind her ear, clasping his fingers around the bottle. “This place is so loud,” he shouted. “You should see Berlin, the nights don’t get started until around four.” “That sounds way too intense.” “Yes, I much prefer just going to the pub.” “Same,” he said, wishing he had the nerve to take her hand in his. The whiskey glazed Brendan’s vision as the night ran on and he fell deeper with each sip. “Are you going to ask me something?” she shouted over the music, her front teeth piercing cherry red lip gloss. “I might,” he whispered, dropping his head and leaning in towards her as the room brightened. “Everyone make your way to the exit,” the bouncers shouted. She walked ahead of him, turning back and smiling. Time slipped through the shadows as they

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conor o’sullivan | only the fallen

weaved around the tables. Outside, she faced him on the top step, shifting the weight from her heels onto her toes. He wanted to grab the back of her neck and feel those lips against his until the bridge’s lights faded at dawn. “Where to next then?” “There’s another club up the road.” Brendan’s throat was dry from whiskey and tobacco. He was destined to be a boy she had flirted with, forgotten once the sun rose over the flat rooftops. Peter and Hannah appeared and ushered them both into a taxi. “We’ll drop the lads off first,” Hannah said from the front seat. The car turned onto Broadway and drove under the rumbling rail tracks. There was a clamour about the night just gone and all the ones soon to come. “Do you have anything planned for your last day, Sarah?” Peter asked. “Oh, not much. My flight’s in the evening so I won’t be delaying.” “It’s a long journey to Berlin.” “Yes, ten hours from here.” Brendan was silent, watching the Brooklyn streets meld through his drunken regard. Their knees hovered inches apart, never to touch. The taxi stopped outside their complex and he unfastened the belt, handing a ten dollar note to Hannah. His knuckles trembled on the door handle. “Goodnight,” she said. “See you soon.” The driver shifted gears and the car pulled away, cruising through the traffic lights. “Bren, open the fucking door,” Peter bellowed. He walked between two parked cars and up the stoop, turning the key. They stumbled out of the elevator into the hallway. Peter went straight to bed, leaving his tobacco on the dining table. Brendan rolled a cigarette and walked into his cold, dusty bedroom. He leaned his forehead on the window frame and struck a match, blowing into the pane. The golden towers of downtown sparkled under dark clouds. He finished half the cigarette and went to bed. “Just let it go,” Peter said the following evening. He blended his regret with whiskey. The rest of the weekend passed with a frost coating the pavements, spent fighting the fading of her grace from his heart.

Giada Cattaneo

giada Cattaneo | untitled | illustration


Dr. Mel Waldman | Midnight rendezvous in inner space at the afterlife ballroom | poetry on reading Diane di Prima’s poem - For the Dead Lecturer

The blizzard opens up in the deep of my broken mind & the snow falls mercilessly the silence the silence the sinful silence falls seductively

& now, I sit on a holy rock at the center of my universe & the omphalos opens up, & I follow all into the abyss where my eerie emptiness engulfs me I follow & fall asleep & flow through a dream immersed in dazzling waves of sweet phantasmagoria & suddenly, faraway voices carry me to a midnight rendezvous in inner space at the Afterlife Ballroom & I enter the vastness & there, I hear the songs of the dead harrowing haunting songs & succulent songs of ecstasy, & I eat from the Tree of Afterlife & watch Mother & Father dance around the vastness to the Big Band music of long ago

& Mother sings celestial notes that soothe my void inside this strange beautiful vastness & Father grins wickedly while swinging her around & around,

his gold tooth glittering in the sprawling lights & all the dead I’ve loved sing my holy name holy holy holy me in all my nothingness & the Beat Poet Diane di Prima swirls around the eternal dance floor, smiles at me, & whispers in my ear, “The dead can sing and do.” & so it goes, here, at the Afterlife Ballroom in this eerie eternity that lasts forever & ends abruptly, when I return to the everlasting emptiness of the flesh & awaken to my unfathomable life on earth caressed by otherworldly waves of consciousness & I hear once more the songs of the dead inside a sultry Brooklyn dawn & all things living & the scent of the life force that surrounds me & the sweet taste of my wife’s lips & the omnipotent visions of mothers holding-caressing their children in all things the dead sing for I listen now, having traveled to the Afterlife Ballroom, I listen


Jim zola | train gone sorry | Poetry Some days his face gathers dark clouds behind his eyes, brow; right before he bursts, before he flings everything within his reach. Three teachers are needed to drag him down the hall into a room with a single purpose: to hold stormy children. They restrain him until his anger passes and all that is left is the small engine of his sobbing. Sometimes I forget he is only eight, deaf, living each week away from a family that never bothers to learn his language.

When it is my turn to hold him down, I feel the need to apologize. But standing in that room with nothing but four walls, a door, a deaf boy turning to stone, I know I am at the station, smoke from the engine gone, clouds lifting from his face onto mine.

Olivier Schopfer

Olivier Schopfer | He & Her | Photograph


TS Hidalgo | CafĂŠ de la Paix | Poetry

You should have seen yourself, barricaded (the violent August sun on the asphalt). First voltage, one of those that leave their mark: 100% Hitchcock. And I attended, in midplane, like seeing a painting for the first time, the ritual of beautifulcalmdelicate automations of your hands, picking your black hair (and this is something that TV ads do not explain). There, having coffee, you managed to stop time with infinite glamor, and, meanwhile, I, spellbound, scrutinized all my potential runaways.

History — The B’K

The Bitchin’ Kitsch (2010-present) or The B’K is a compzine edited and published by The TalbotHeindl Experience, LLC in Denver, Colorado. The Bitchin’ Kitsch was created as a monthly zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who had something to say. It was born out of a necessity to create an avenue for editor, Chris Talbot-Heindl, to remain artistic after school, with her subversive style, while continuing to live in Central Wisconsin. It exists for the purpose of open creativity and seeks to be an outlet for people who may not otherwise have an opportunity to show their work. Although the idea was created as a “what-if” brainstorm between the Talbot-Heindls’ whilst in bed and sort of groggy, it has since blossomed into a legitimate publication that has gone international Through the grace of the Internet, The B’K has had the opportunity to create a juried book and the opportunity to publish four juried chapbooks. Here’s to the past seven years, and hopefully many, many more.


Rebecka skogg

Rebecka Skogg | Untitled | Illustration

Profile for Chris Talbot-Heindl

The B'K August 2017 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch was created as a monthly zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say.

The B'K August 2017 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch was created as a monthly zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say.