A Special Feature Showcasing Words and Images by Inweekly Readers
Independent News | July 22, 2021 | Volume 22 | Number 29 | Photo by Jimmy Warr
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Ballpoint drawing by Val Webb
A Special Feature Showcasing Words and Images by Inweekly Readers
July 22, 2021
When we started accepting submissions in June for our second By You issue, we very quickly noticed a pattern—creativity. Last summer, we got a lot of politically charged op-eds and essays. But this time around, most of the submissions were poetry, short stories and photography. And we honestly really loved it. Most of these pieces are so different from anything we normally write, publish or read even here at Inweekly, that working on this issue kind of felt like a vacation for us. We hope that vibe translates for you, too, and that you enjoy this little break—and maybe even feel inspired to do something creative yourself after reading it. {in}
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Flying Model Airplanes By Eric St. Pierre
It was 1987. Some of 1986 and '88. Sundays. They had to be midday Sundays because most of the men who gathered at the old airfield in Pensacola were churchgoers. It was summer, sometimes spring. Swarms of gnats haloed my tender head every so often. Forehead sweat dampened my eyebrows. I chased crickets through freshly trimmed grass. I wore short shorts that I wasn't yet old enough to be embarrassed by. My shirt was thin and blue with an airplane on it. Sometimes it was green with a faded dinosaur print. The men were of all ages. Some of them younger than I am now as I write this. Some of them were old enough to have dark spots on their arms and white hair on their heads; the breeze always kind in the heat of a cloudless day jostled their whiteness about. Bushy eyebrows raised. Coffee all day. Men slapping each other on the backs and laughing about things that evaded my understanding. I was quiet most of those days and simply took things in, mostly smiling behind closed, plump, lollipop-red lips. The men who gathered at the airfield were remote control model airplane hobbyists. Some of them had been fighter pilots like my grandfather. Some of them had never left the ground but enjoyed the acrobatics and camaraderie of the hobby. I always wanted to fly the models myself but was not allowed. Some of them cost hundreds of dollars and took dozens of hours to build. Both time and dollars seemed to have much more value back then. Since I was not allowed to fly, I entertained myself with my imagination. I thought I had superpowers. I would gaze for hours into the sky as winged machines loop de looped and did dogfighting. During long looks at the aerial dancing machines, always eventually my eyes would pulsate to the beat of my heart, resulting in a moving distortion of my field of vision. I thought I was shooting lasers out of my eyes like Cyclops from the X-Men. In reality, my tiny eyes were being damaged. I wear corrective lenses to this day. I didn't have superpowers, but my grandfather did. Those days were spent with Papa watching him fly the model airplanes he built by hand. I didn't know it at the time, but he was quite a craftsman and built machines that the other men in his hobbyist group peered over with wonder and sometimes a tinge of envy. His superpowers didn't simply manifest in his skills as a radio control pilot or craftsman. He had an uncanny power to make me feel okay, to make me feel accepted. This power was fully charged in his ability to notice when I was down or dejected and to speak to me like a person instead of a problem. It was one spring Sunday in particular. I chased no crickets and smiled no smiles. Some destabilizing domestic event had 212 1
kept my parents up all night fighting. That meant I stayed up all night, too. I held my urine until morning for fear of becoming a target of my father's anger. There I sat in freshly trimmed grass as it poked my thighs, a pain in my belly. I was afraid still and that fear had immobilized me. It had shut me up further inside my body. I had turned down a hamburger and coke. I turned down offers to go back to the van and listen to my Ray Stevens comedy tape, which was one of my favorite things. Nothing nudged me. Despair had crippled my skinny legs and muted my little boy voice. With a shake of my head, I told Papa I did not want to watch the planes take off. "You're going to miss out on flying for the first time." Papa had two radio controls in his hands and offered one to me. My teeth shone brightly from my face. My legs sprung up and sent me into the air. I squinted and looked up at the beautiful silver box with all its joysticks and buttons for controlling mysterious things like ailerons and fuselages. Shortly thereafter, I was shooting at his plane with my eye lasers and loop de looping my own plane to escape his. Viciously, I mashed the buttons and flicked the switches of the magic silver box. (In reality, my radio did not work, and one of Papa's buddies flew the model airplane from behind.) That day was one of the happiest days of my life. On Monday, February 15th, 2021, I got a call from my sobbing sister telling me she had awful news—our Papa was in a coma in a hospital in New York and was not coming home. He died the next morning. A few months ago, he and I spoke on the phone. He said that things did not turn out okay; there were too many things to worry about and he didn't have enough time left in this life to fix his problems. His son and daughter, my uncle and mother respectively, were not on speaking terms with each other nor with him. Their lives had turned chaotic. I assured him that things would not be as bad as they might be now. I assured him that my siblings and I would take care of our mother. He confessed that he never worried about me and always knew I would be okay. His tears brought a speedy end to the conversation. Last December, not long after that conversation, my mother decided to leave her abusive husband. A couple of weeks after returning to Florida, she made amends with her brother and my Papa. The last time I spoke with my grandfather, he was happy and at ease. Tears ended the conversation for a different reason that time. Ralph Pellizzeri was by anyone's definition a good man. While I did not inherit his passion for flight, I do hope that his abilities to love fully and to lighten a person's load have rubbed off on me.
The House on Blossom Street is Haunted By Ryan Holtzen
Springtime spirits stomp around upstairs celebrating Christmas Eve all year. From time to time, they clog the bathtub drain with hair or walk through the living room with mascara stamped against their cheeks. They are cold forever, so they wrestle themselves to sleep every night, expecting Santa to crawl through the chimney, deliver a death certificate, and bury them in the front yard—in the sunken plot of earth. The State Office of Vital Statistics plants seeds everywhere it goes. Blossom
house will be taken by dandelions in no time. The scratches in the walls will turn to lilac, and the shadows will leave bergamot instead of candy wrappers. Come Easter, kudzu claims the fence and clovers take the patio. Everyone alive looks for the lucky ones, makes wishes with the weeds and tea with the fruity bloom of warmer weather. The house will turn green, and everyone inside will learn to drink sunlight like orange juice, rocking away forever in the wooden chair on the back porch.
Big Padre By Tricia Kruse Jorge's girlfriend knew he cherished his job working with the animalitos, but taking the job to feed Big Padre … now, that went too far. Big Padre was a 13-foot American Alligator who was relocated to the sanctuary from Port Arthur because he got "too friendly" with a fisherman. She begged Jorge not to take the job and just be happy to stay inside with the snakes and the turtles. He wouldn't listen. "They don't pay you enough to lose a hand!" she yelled. "I'll get a promotion!" he argued. "I'll get to work with Havier," he pleaded. Havier being the Naturalist Educator and all-around cool guy who everyone loved there at the San Padre Island Bird and Nature Center. "Let Havier do it! He can afford to lose a hand! He gets paid for his brains." He took offense to that and she apologized. Still, it was the truth. Havier was second generation here in San Padre. And rich. Jorge had just come over the border. No degree, papers, nothing. He needed all the appendages he could hold on to. Throwing scraps of pork chops and chicken to that dinosaur didn't seem like a dream job to her, but he was happy and enjoyed his work. He was even filmed one day during the 11:00 a.m. feeding. The city was doing a commercial to
entice more visitors. She wondered, why would they want to come to see an alligator? The beaches, yes. Turtles, OK. But an alligator? She came early that day to pick him up. The one car situation was getting old, but she would be done with her classes in the fall and then go to work full-time. Then, maybe, things would be different. It was a Friday and they were going to sit on the beach after work with their bucket of fried chicken and two beers. If they wanted to add a little more spice, they would sneak onto the deck of the Hilton and dance to the live band that played every Friday. On other nights, the dunes provided a romantic hideaway. She saw Jorge first. He was scrubbing Big Padre with a boat brush. Supposedly, the monster liked it, but his hissing made her think otherwise. Big Padre opened his mouth and just as Jorge threw in the chicken, Big Padre lunged toward Jorge. She screamed. The tourists reflexively gasped and startled backwards. Jorge just looked up and smiled as Big Padre slammed his mouth shut with a thunderous pop and backed away. It was in that moment that she knew she loved Jorge. I wonder if I can get him to make a sound when I feed him chicken tonight, she thought?
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Eternally and Invariably By Sarah Jane Brock As though I've been blindly searching my whole life For a place in the sky to return to Seemingly divine in its design Drawing me deeper into the thrilling pursuit As though my soul has burst into flames Ignited by a spark out of the blue From the void came one of the same vein Now so tangled up in the infinite new As though I've always known this truth The timeline distortion so desperately sought By the lightning strike scars of youth Suddenly healed, with false lessons untaught As though I've found the way to grow Past the fluorescent sunrise and into the light Angel flesh and feathers grow, as above so below My whole world suddenly takes flight
Photo of D’Angelo Hoy by Hunter Morrison
As though it's eternally and invariably you I'm finally ready to see this journey through Leaping like a fool into what is undeniably true Resistance falls away to love renewed
A box of Stamps By Andrew Corbit K I picture her riding the subway, listening to our songs She's in a cafe, ordering coffee and water I see her in her room, talking to her cat I see her everyday, behind a desk with a box of stamps I see her everyday, walking towards the front door with the mail in her hand I see her everyday, behind my closed eyes smiling No matter what I've done, I see her everyday She loves me still, I don't know how I see her everyday, she is the rising moon The setting sun My only wish, for the rest of my life Is to see her everyday
Photo of Alex Burns by Nelly Arnett
ambassador By Ja'Qaylin Harrison
they needed to see things so they nominated me to be their binoculars. they needed to feel things. so they made me the endings on the nerves of their skin. they needed to taste things. so they gave me a fork and a plate and sent me out into the world. they needed to hear things. so they erased their own ears and glued me to their auditory cortex. they needed to sense and know things, big things. so they attached me, with caution, to their glabella. and that's how i came to be the ambassador of my family. July 22, 2021
Photo By Charles Houston 13
By Kandace Lee
Yet to Rot
the house burned down to ashes my brother's razor blade left gashes I don't know how to access the part of my brain that gives me happiness broken now, upside down lungs deep beneath the ground new born, legs weak stopped growing now futures bleak tell me when it's time to speak like a dog, you kicked around domestic now with no love found lonely and cold is how you left me, no sense of self or what there could be around the bend if I were to just stay but staying warns a weary heart of all that shit that has yet to rot
Photo by Jacob Warye
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America Answers, January 6, 2021 By Patricia Taylor Edmisten Wounded, my vision, that imagined goodness and abundance for my people. Wounded, my mouth, that spoke the truth and treated all people with respect. Wounded, my arms, that embraced the poor, the infirm, the sidelined. Wounded, my hands, that offered comfort, solace, blessings. Wounded, my spine, that stood tall, strong and proud among nations. Wounded, my legs, the firmament upon which I have stood in the face of betrayal, evil and defilement. Wounded, my feet, that have carried me victorious through wars and mayhem. Wounded, my soul, the spirit of America, its promise and hope for the future. But my eyes will open again; my vision will return. My mouth will speak the truth on behalf of justice. My arms and hands will enfold our poor and those who long to "breathe free." * My spine will be erect, a match for any marauder. My legs will win this race and my soul will swell again as democracy prevails. *Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus"
Photo by Sean Mullins / Pensacola Vibes
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