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“Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love ­ that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." ― George Eliot, Letter to Miss Lewis, October 1, 1841

"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” ― Anne Shirley, Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery

From the Editor

I think of a flying clubhouse as a mind­place where you can escape and see the world from another perspective. You can sit down on an old easy chair with a cup of tea or hot cider and look out the window at the orange foliage down below. A crisp breeze comes through the open window and the checkered curtains flutter in the wind as the clubhouse sails above the forest. I'd like to thank all the contributors ­ you made this zine possible. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and perspectives through your poetry, art, and photography. Another big thank you goes to Steven, my husband, for proof­reading this zine and providing valuble feed­back. All photos with no credits were taken my myself. ­ Anna F.

After class, driving home against the violet crown. Stevie Nicks and fireplace smoke, velvet and corduroy, dried leaves under old car tires. The chill of evening wraps around me like a scarf.

足 Catherine Harper

Meditation on Fear Leah Wise Observe the browning leaves: do they worry as they die, and fall and fall to graying earth? Do they fight and struggle and scratch against the muscled fingers of gravity? No. They willingly go to decay, to shrink, to crunch under foot and Not return. They green in strong winds and spackled springtime light alike. Then, knowing it would be so all along, They die. Give their pigment up, fearless, joyful, willing us, Hope.

To Ashes PJ Carmichael The perfume of Autumn's arrival arouses my airways, soothes my senses, touches me slowly. It is the beginning 余 the Season is coming. Silent leaves in absent heat, the shadow of Heaven, golden tongue of Aphrodite: ' hear my prayers. Envelop me in unworldly wind, shatter the smoothness of skin, bring me to tears and make love to me. Before the world grows truly cold

Wolf Autumn each day carried acorns, bay leaves, cardamom it was the cadmium stroke of yellow mulberry leaves, the ochre sycamores peeling our oaken forests done with fire preparing for the child in silver and burnt umber we mirrored ourselves to the moon and the foxtail hills, gold when the rains came we caught the scent of the damp earth first

足 Amber von Nagel

Chaparral the sound of a finger crossing herringbone your gentle shoulders painted with the last blackberries and finished with drought’s clay our bodies, the hinterland peeling madrone somewhere between the burned northern spies and gasping oak hills, the sun imposed we try to find our equinox draw out its rainy voice offering acorns and spice rosemary hands pressing our mottled heirloom chests

—Amber von Nagel

Two Post­It Notes Leah Wise

Someday, when the world begins to darken, I’ll walk in the silence of early morning, peering into empty shops with cataract gray eyes And I’ll remember being young, moving fast, skin smooth like a new bar of soap, and wondering when I would make it. I’ll know then, there is no making it. Child, you’re already home. At 4:00, I’ll eat my dinner, just the basics ­ salad, potato, tea. And I’ll look out the window near the garden and watch the early robins feast until my eyelids flicker, slowly, closed. The final act, not a drama but a lullaby.

Coming Soon Patricia P.

I am hidden beneath the swirling descent of a pale orange leaf I am sitting behind the cool shade of trees that have felt the wind of my ancestors I tip­toe down the path, flooded with the reminders of this season— Autumn is all around me and I do not think that there can be anything more beautiful than this But as the sun rises and the moon hides, I am slowly becoming undone from this dimension, ripped off, torn away like yesterday’s news The door swings open and the wind gushes out My palms are always wide open, as if hoping that it can take with it a little piece of this earthly heaven; for Autumn, to me, is a mystery A wonder I have yet to experience, bound and limited to the land I have been rooted in— Autumn, wait for me do not let your last leaf fall and do not let the winds rattle your insides; I am coming and I am coming soon.

A Nuanced Exit PJ Carmichael

"Rough night for a tough kid." 足 Sammy Winston _______________________ Will the angels continue to dance even as frost approaches? Or will the heavens require their presence, forcing the few to leave New England? A fallen leaf signals their departure as the cool wind breathes life into the virgin landscape. Not a soul before mine has seen her hills in such a way that they become promises of eternal bliss, unconditional love. Clouds of forest air speak through me余 frigid flesh commands an empire of experience. These dreams are getting more and more vivid.

Walnuts, Chestnuts By Kayla Bashe

When I was a child, a walnut tree grew in our front yard, its hard fruit the size of my five­year­old fist. I learned to associate witch­ crisp air with projectiles that split from their branches and pounded like gunshots on the dying grass. Every October I'd strap on my bicycle helmet and go outside with a shopping bag and gardening gloves; one cent for every walnut I picked up, my parents said. I usually made at least twelve dollars. A hurricane split it right down the middle, half­tree banging our roof in one last great crash. I wept over the woodchips. I missed that tree, even the constant risk of squirrel­thrown death. Now I go to college and there are four chestnut trees on the lawn. Its fruit feels smooth and polished like snail shells, like stones. Bouncing hard off picnic tables and plunging into our drinks. We've had four minor concussions and one serious bruise. My youth's reflexes serve me well.

Mansion on a Hill Anna F

We were finally free from school And ready for adventure. My friend and I embarked upon A lengthy road trip venture. Just a week into our trip We were driving late at night. The road was pretty lonely ­ There was not a town in sight. A nasty storm was brewing ­ We were hit by wind and rain. Then lighting struck a pine tree And it fell across the lane. We turned around the vehicle, But much to our dismay Discovered that the bridge we crossed Had just been washed away. The rain beat down with such a force; The road was getting muddy. We thought we better leave our car 'Cause things were looking floody. There wasn't anything in sight But a mansion on a hill, And from it shone a ghostly light That gave us both a chill. But lightning flashed so up we dashed And banged upon the door. A butler grinned and let us in. We dripped across the floor. There seemed to be a party on; The place was full of guests ­ The grimmest lot you’ve ever seen In formal dinner dress.

Gloomily they sat around Like stiff and listless mummies. They, like us, were stranded there Which didn’t make them chummy. The place was cold ­ it smelled like mold And we began to wonder If we should leave this creepy house And chance the rain and thunder. Then suddenly the lights went out (A house was never so dim) And from above us came a shout That threw us into mayhem! The hostess screamed and hit the maid, The butler tripped and fell. An organ from the tower played As someone tolled a bell. The music swelled, somebody yelled (I think they said “Great Scot!”) Evil laughter filled the place, And someone fired a shot. We all were pretty scared by this, We couldn’t see a thing. The stranded guests were running ‘Round the mansion hollering. In the dark we stumbled Looking for a way to flee When someone grabbed us from behind (We stuggled to get free). They threw us in a closet And they locked the sturdy door. We hammered and we hollared 'Till our fists and lungs were sore.

Then from below we heard a creak The floorboards all gave 'way. My friend and I let out a shriek As we were swept away. We fell in what the thrillers call “A secret laboratory,” With chemicals and strange what­nots In every category. Before us stood a man in white With scalpels in his pocket. His hair was wild as if he touched An electrical socket. He laughed at us with chilling glee. He said “I want your brains!” And from that moment on We knew this fellow was insane. The madman held a club and said “You’ll want an anesthetic.” We begged the chap to let us go But he was apathetic. He chased us 'round the secret lab ­ In terror we did shout ­ Knowing we’d have surgery If we did not get out. The madman put a large­ish mask On his twisted face. He pulled a lever on the wall And then began to pace. A gas began to cloud the room ­ He gave an evil chuckle. A nauseous odor filled my lungs, My knees began to buckle…

* * *

We woke up in the morning, We were both inside our car. Rain was gently tapping on The roof, and from afar We could see that scary mansion But the place looked quite deserted As if everyone inside Had somehow been alerted. But something else was bugging me That something was bizarre, I turned to look at my friend Beside me in the car, And too my great astonishment My pal I did not see, Instead there was a very striking Effigy of – ME! My double looked surprised as well We screamed and screamed again. I looked into the mirror – The reflection was – MY FRIEND! I don’t know how he did it For we never felt a pain, But that rascally mad scientist Had somehow swapped our brains! Now our lives are difficult For nobody believes us. They call our tale ‘a grand old joke,’ Though they know it grieves us. They all think that I’m my friend And that my friend is me And they can’t seem to understand Why we act differently. So if you’re stranded in a storm Just stay inside your car. Don’t try that mansion on the hill; You’re safer where you are.

Untitled Simona Koteva Polaroid 600 film

Untitled Simona Koteva Kodak "Gold" 200

Photography | Beatrice Maria Rosalia

I don't like winter very much because I suffer from SAD so I really try to enjoy fall while it lasts.

I have a sort of melancholic love for autumn, I love the light in this season (I'm very sensible to it!) and a lot of things happened to me during fall: they say that usually people fall in love during summer, but for me, it's autumn the season of love!

But also the season of nostalgic memories, some of them are very sweet, others so bitter that my heart hurts.

I try to put those sappy feelings in my art, which is now majorly made of digital lo足fi pictures: I take and edit them all with my phone because I want to show the world how you can make art and express yourself with every medium you have, not only with the expensive ones! I took them all with my Sony Xperia Miro and Iphone 3. 足 Beatrice Maria Rosalia

Contributors Amber von Nagel is a writer, blogger, and artist from the San Francisco Bay Area. When she's not writing poetry or blogging about personal style and art at Un Petit Fauve, she likes drawing, painting, and spending time with her husband and corgi. She has had her work published in numerous literary magazines and has independently self足published two collections of poetry. Her most recent book, Alexandria, can be found at You can follow her on Twitter or Instagram @unpetitfauve. Blog:

Anna F. is a freelancer in North Carolina. She loves hiking, cartoons, photography, and making Halloween costumes for herself and her husband Steven. She drinks lots of black tea.

Beatrice Maria Rosalia is an Italian digital artist. Instagram: Tumblr:

Catherine Harper lives in Texas, just outside Austin. She's married to her high school sweetheart and she's a mom to two little boys who keep her busy 24 hours a day. She earned a B.A. in English, an M.A. in Literature, and has taught students of all ages. Blog:

Kayla Bashe is currently a student at Sarah Lawrence College, where she studies theater, creative writing, and history. She's a graduate of the Alpha Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Workshop for Young Writers. Additionally, several of her plays have been produced by local theater companies. Her lesbian mystery novel Graveyard Sparrow is available from Torquere Press, and her story A Muse Afire was featured in the first issue of Vitality Magazine. Twitter is @kaylabashe

Leah Wise started writing poetry in middle school and still writes when inspiration strikes. She lives in Charlottesville, VA, where she manages a charity shop, and blogs on fair trade and sustainable style at Read more of her poetry here:

Patricia hails from the Philippines, so she has never experienced autumn, winter and spring. (What a shame, indeed.) You can contact her and find more of her work at

PJ Carmichael is a writer, artist, philosopher, and visionary from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He edits the literary/arts zine High Tension and frequently enjoys the exploration of the natural world. He enjoys hiking, biking, skateboarding, and record stores. Contact/links to work:

Simona Koteva is a musician and artist from Brooklyn, NY. Much of her photography focuses on creating a dreamlike, cinematic, or otherworldly atmosphere, sometimes with an element of bizarre humor. Koteva is currently recording ethereal/punk demos in English and Russian under the name "Voyaka," and has started work on a mixed media art project that involves textiles. Photography Tumblr: Flickr: Listen to Voyaka:

Copyright © 2015

Flying Clubhouse Zine  

Photography, poetry, musings on Autumn.

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