“thanks for fucking our shit up.” “thanks for understanding.”
sometimes they come back
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A bad idea1 that turned into a good idea (& then turned back into a bad idea for a while before we fixed2 it) about inviting all that invisible weird stuff that’s floating around into your body,3 & then learning how to un-make friends before it turns into a mean poison that hurts
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your heart &4 makes you dizzy. You have to do this over & over again for the rest of your life,5 otherwise you will die.6 Invite it in & throw it back out; air is the worst houseguest.7 Draw it in & then let your body change it. You are almost8 mother nature when you breathe.9
WHALES ARE WISDOM. IF YOU HAVE A QUESTION, ASK A WHALE.
Z O S I A W I AT R ] 4 / D E R E K R YA N H A I N x 5 / N I C K I E M C B O O N t 9 / O T I S P I G [ 11 / A M E L I A R O B E RT S O N G 15 / V I C TO R -A N TO N I O A L I D 16 / A R I S A N O G L E R M 17 / J A C O B PECK
b
19 / E M I LY K R E S K Y 22 / L I Z M I G L I O R E L L I p
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29 / J O H N W O L F - 31 / A L E X K I L G O R E W 39 / L E W I S P E T E R S O N L 41 / C A L E B G O O DA K E R-C R A I G S 43 / L I A N N A S A M U E L S 44 / J O S E P H W E L L S 9
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46 / R O B I N A T WO O D
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50 /N I C K Y T I S O ; 52 / A N A S TA S I A K I L A N I 1 56 / C E C I L I A CAREY
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58 / T R AV I S W I L L I A M S 61 / A DA M J E S S U P J
'
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IT MIGHT KNOW THE ANSWER, OR IT MIGHT KNOW NOT TO TELL YOU.
T H E E V E RG R E E N S TAT E C O L L E G E W R I T E R S ’ G U I L D p r e s e n t s :
#2
ISSUE
AUTUMN,
2008
.
writersguildevergreen@gmail.com
EDITORIAL BOARD Grant E. McGee, Mara Beckman, Zoe Hosmer-Dillard, Zosia Wiatr, Nickie McBoon, Otis Pig, Amelia Robertson, Victor Antonio-Ali, Arisa Nogler, Jacob Peck, Emily Kresky & Adam Jessup
PAGE DESIGN Otis Pig & Adam Jessup
COPY EDITING Grant E. McGee, Zosia Wiatr, Amelia Robertson, Jacob Peck, Otis Pig & Adam Jessup
COVER DESIGN Otis Pig & Adam Jessup THIS ISSUE WAS PRINTED IN AN EDITION OF
100
BY GORHAM PRINTING
IN CENTRALIA, WASHINGTON. THIS IS COPY
#
WHALES CAN’T SEE WHAT’S IN FRONT OF THEM, SINCE THEIR EYES ON ON THEIR SIDES. 1 When we told God that we’d be putting together a mostly quarterly literary publication, God said, “don’t hold your breath, suckers,” but we held our breath anyway, & it turned our faces blue. Neither the Smurfs nor the Blue Man Group let us hang out with them, because we were acting
so weird, being so incapable of communication from holding our breaths at God for so long. • 2As it turns out, when our mouths finally burst, out poured an oeuvre in miles of grandiose paintstrokes. It was like the guts of rainbows splattered across the sky after a belly bomb. • 3That place
where you keep everything. You know, that place where stuff goes. • 4We really like this particular ampersand. It’s baskerville italic. We’re seriously considering it for a tattoo, in intimate places in our body. (see 3) What do you think? Is that a good idea? • 5You’re not in life unless you breathe.
It’s really like, the most basic thing you have to do. • 6 The direct & indefatigable result of failing to respect the wisdom offered in footnote #5(see 5) • 7Even worse than Sinbad in that movie, Houseguest. Did you see that? Pretty good, huh? That dude’s hilarious. Where did he go? • 8Nearly,
(see 9)
just about, more or less, practically, virtually, all but, not quite, roughly, not far from, for all intents & purposes, bordering on, well-nigh. • 9Just do it. Don’t get all postmodern on us & only consider the posthumous consequences of breathing, or whatever. Life needs you as much as you need life.(see 5)
THAT’S THE DOWNSIDE TO BEING A WHALE. THE OTHER DOWNSIDE IS THAT THEY HAVE TO THE EVERGREEN STATE COLLEGE WRITERS’ GUILD. ©2008 The Writers’ Guild: The Evergreen State College All rights revert to individual authors and artists. PRINTED IN OLYMPIA, WASHINGTON
KNOW SO MUCH.
PRINT FOR BREATHING IS A PUBLICATION OF
THIS ISSUE (in
alphabetical order) pCLOUDLESS MIST / ]COASTAL TRACKS / MCRACKERS
/ yTHE DAUGHTER / uEXTRA! EXTRA! RECENT NOTHING THAN THE USUAL / JEQUAL & OPPOSITE ATTRACTION / oTHE FALL OF MY BROTHERS & SISTERS / [THE FIRST THING I REMEMBER FROM LIFE / LGO HOME / SHAHA / DI HAVE A A SECRET / 9IN A PERFECT WORLD / tJUNGLE FEVER / xLIVES CONTINUE IN THE FOOTNOTES / 1[PROFESSION] / \“SAY A PRAYER FOR ME – PLOWED INTO THE GROUND!” / ;THE WATCHER / 'WHALES IN THE LANTERN ROOM / -WHEN THE CROWS COME CALLING / WWHITMAN IN MY CUP / b~~~
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COASTAL TRACKS by
Z o s i a W i at r
Autumn, 2008
The passing pictures don’t retain their form, but slide from trees to brush to stream and back, a blur of light as rain begins to storm— the train is leaking noises: tack-uh-tack. A pair of women play checkers, their heads of white and thinning hair are bobbing with the motion of the train; their pieces, red and black, are carved with pictures of a myth. A farm where chickens peck dry grass then estuaries specked with cormorants who scream at the sky, a child’s cries pass the length of the train; a mother grasps his hand. No passenger will reach their destination faster than the train slows in the station. ]
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D e r e k R ya n H a i n remainder of the pot into a thermos, and stepped outside, yelling as he did, “Pick up
Daniel detached the removable container,
your fucking pictures already, Stannie!”1
shook it up a little, grabbed a filter with his
Stanley was browsing online news coverage
free hand and poured. Some coffee grounds
in his room. He shut his laptop and walked
spilled over onto a utilities bill left on the
out to the television room. Photographs of
counter. He brushed them into the palm of
he and his girlfriend, Annie, were scattered
his hand and tossed them into the trash. He
around the coffee table. He rifled through
went to the bathroom, pissed, returned, and
them, then sat down on the sofa and sighed.
filled a mug as the machine dripped on.
He looked at the closed window blinds for a
Shoving aside magazines and plastic bags, he sat down on the couch. From underneath, he pulled a pad of graph paper. He flipped
moment, stood, opened them, sat back down, and sighed again. Taking on a determined, concentrated
some dozen pages in, to a page marked with
expression,
the day’s date, and began writing numbers in
photographs on the table. Some were
the squares. He wrote the numbers here and
Polaroids, some digital prints, some black and
there all over the page. Occasionally, he flipped
white; some showed Stanley clean-shaven,
to the previous page. This page was full, with
1. On the bus, Daniel listened to headphones and picked between his teeth with a disposable floss toothpick. He tapped his foot, watching the other passengers. He kept his headphones on for the entirety of his work day—while scanning intake forms and entering computer data from those forms, on his two fifteen-minute coffee breaks, at Wendy’s on his hour lunch break, and four times in the restroom, pissing. He only removed the headphones once, when a female coworker asked him a question. He removed the headphones and said, “Huh?” She pointed at her computer screen and asked, “The code for this is five nine eight one one?”
some of the sequences highlighted, some circled. Daniel looked at the page a moment, tapping his pencil idly in the air, then flipped back and continued writing. The coffee went cold as he worked. Noticing the clock, he closed his pad, picked up his coffee cup, poured it and the
he
began
arranging
the
5
Derek Ryan Hain
Daniel poured the beans into the cylinder and pressed the button. The coffee grinded.
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some bearded; some showed Annie with long hair, some short. He put the photographs in a series of lines across the table. He selected seven of the photographs and placed them on
Autumn, 2008
a nearby footstool.
Lance, in a bathrobe, scratching his head, entered the room and sat on a recliner. He watched curiously as Stanley lined up the seven selected photographs, beginning with the first and last photos, then arranging the center ones. He hesitated for a minute, considering the order of the middle photos. Glancing quickly at Lance, then looking back at the coffee table, he began to speak, “I took all of my photographs of us. I put them on this coffee table and arranged them in chronological order.” Lance looked at the photos. Stanley continued, “Here we are at Sea World. Here we are at Annie’s mother’s house on Christmas. Here‘s my birthday, the mall. This is the shirt I gave her. This was her friend’s wedding. And here’s when we met, at that party. “But these seven,“ Stanley waved a hand over the photos, as if conjuring a ghost, “are a special set. Look closely. We look happy in all of them, don’t we?” “Uh… Well, yeah. Pretty much.” “Look closer.”
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“You look happy.” “Yep. That’s what I thought.” Stanley stood up, grabbed the first of the seven photos, stuck it into his pocket, snorted, and walked to the door. Lance spotted himself in the background of the last photograph and picked it up. He scratched his head, trying to recall where the photograph was taken. In it, he was walking some paces behind Stanley and Annie; they were all coming down a sandy hill. Stanley and Annie were wrapped together in a beach blanket. He remembered: the photo was taken at the beach about two years ago. “Hey, I remember this one.” He held it up to Stanley, who stood in the doorway. “Oh yeah. That’s the one I want to keep. You can throw the rest away.”2 2. Stanley left to see Annie in her single bedroom apartment. Businesslike, he sat down next to her on her sofa and showed her the photograph from his pocket. “Remember this?” he asked. “Yes.” “Were we happy then?” “Yes. Sometimes. I think.” “Three months ago, on Mother’s Day, when you told me you were pregnant? When I went to that party and got drunk and you kept on bugging me about not having a job and I called you a bitch? We were happy then?” “I don’t remember all that. I just remember being with you.” “Well, remember. Because we weren’t happy in this photograph. We look it, but we weren’t.” She was silent.
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Rachel looked around. Lance pointed out a painting. The painting showed a dozen women—all realistically depicted, some in armor, some naked, some elegantly dressed, some heavily mascaraed and lipsticked—sitting around a torture rack. The artist, drawn in sketchy caricature, was stretched out on it. Lance told Rachel he thought the artist had modeled one of the women on his friend Carol. She was the one in armor. “Does she wear armor?” joked Rachel. “Nah. She’s got a nose piercing though.”3 Across the room, the artist laughed freely, tilting back his head, then lowering his eyes again to the girl with whom he was talking. “Nope, never…” “Really?” “Really.” She rubbed her hands on her pants. He shifted his around his coffee cup. “I always get my coffee at Starbucks. 3 Carol was Lance’s friend through Daniel. Lance had always thought she and Daniel were peculiarly matched as friends. Daniel could be such a dick sometimes. Carol was always friendly. He didn’t mention this to Rachel. The two of them left with their coffees and walked to a park. There, they watched a dog circle and paw at a tree in which, presumably, he had trapped a squirrel.
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Derek Ryan Hain
Lance looked thoughtfully at the photograph, set it down, gathered up the rest, and threw them into a nearby trashcan. He sat down on the couch, dug underneath it to find Daniel’s pad of graph paper, flipped through the pages idly, then yawning, began to highlight and circle various sequences. As he was highlighting, he heard a knock on the door. He stopped immediately, replaced the pad and pens, and walked to answer it. The girl at the door had greasy dreadlocks, wore a ripped t-shirt, and twirled a twig in her mouth. Lance stepped outside and closed the door behind him. They walked several blocks, chatting. Rachel, the girl, told Lance about her neighbor’s tomatoes. Lance told her about playing chess against Marcus and losing. She told him about class Monday. He told her about what happened on the bus. They both stopped to feel the wet leaves of a tree and gave some change to a man outside a coffee shop and then walked inside. The café was crowded. An art opening was underway. The artist, a thinmoustached student, wandered around the café with a cup of coffee, talking amiably. While waiting in line, Lance and
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Always. The little places bother me. Not enough room, not enough space between people. I get nervous.” He swiveled his head around, watching everyone. “I need to feel a little distance. And, actually, I like the impersonal feel of the corporate joints. I find it comforting. But I really appreciate that these small places show local art. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.” “Would you still paint if you had nowhere to show your stuff ?” Inside the artist’s mind, in some deep corner he would never see, he was still
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playing racquetball against his father, always losing. His father kept telling him that he wouldn’t take it easy on him, that someday he’d grow up and be able to win in earnest, and that someday he—his father—would grow old and be able to lose in earnest. The artist was still wearing his boyhood racquetball shorts, too, and wanting to feel the quick and precise movements that he executed there on the court. “Well, there’s always some place to show your stuff, unfortunately.” ]
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J UNGLE F EVER by
Nickie McBoon N ickie McBoon
secrets wrapped in white cotton sheets, skin soaked through like tissue paper. trickling spines and dark heavy breath above the city traffic, beyondthe humdrum of yesterday, and today there are no clocks but our hearts beat through into our stomachs and loins where blood rushes into open capillaries, flow like rivers in dense jungles, sweaty and rich, below and engulfed in swollen leaves of the canopy. covers twist and tangle, rhythm with our turning bodies, rolling in fabric tides, and coming up for air again. salty extracts can stream from pores or eyes, and do
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and you’d never know the difference. in surreal depths, maybe there’s no light, but reflections in whites and irises. and maybe there’s no sound, but the uneven intakes of breathe, too soft to break the silence or noise of flesh in friction or rusty springs. and maybe there’s no expellation or final shivers or melody. but beneath the jungle awning there are no conclusions, but circulation. and these sheets drip warm with honey. ]
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F IRST THING I REMEMBER a n e xc e p rt f ro m
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LI FE
YOU ARE PERFECT ENOUGH
by
Otis Pig the bed & pulled my blanket up to my chin.
much I grew in life, I’d never get tall enough to
He patted out all the creases in the fabric.
bump my head on that ceiling. It was so high
“Get some rest, Sebastian,” he said, “we’ll be
up–an impossible distance, really. Nobody
here in the morning.” I nodded, & he ruffled
got that big anyway, except for my mother &
my hair with his hand. His hand was as big as
father. But they were a completely different
my whole head.
species. They had to duck their heads under
They walked to the doorway together,
the archway of my door whenever they came
then turned back around. My father waved &
into my room.
my mother blew me a kiss. My father shut off
These strange giants. They let me touch
the light, then left through the lit hallway. My
their faces for as long as I wanted. Love
mother followed, shutting the door behind
poured out of their mouths when they spoke.
her.
When they said things like, “Sweet dreams,”
When lit, the walls of my room were
or, “Good morning, Sebastian” or, “I love
painted a bright, primary red. When the lights
you.”
went out, that red sank into the walls, & the
I remember thinking, “These strange giants. This strange love.”
gray that lives behind everything was left in its place. The ceiling fan stopped turning, too.
“Be careful this time,” my mother
I was very aware of my limitations as
whispered into my ear. I wasn’t sure what
a new person of the world. I knew that all
she meant by that, except that maybe I was a
these things I didn’t understand would make
reckless sleeper. She kissed my forehead while
themselves clear to me over time. I was
I felt her face with my hand. Her skin seemed
humble, & eager to learn.
even younger than mine.
Sleeping alone, in the dark, for one thing.
She pulled away, & my hand fell limp
It didn’t make any sense to me at all. Besides,
against my chest. My father knelt down beside
who wants to be alone? Who wants to be
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O tis Pig
I wasn’t worried because no matter how
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alone in the dark? I didn’t understand it, but
nice color” I thought, “maybe it will be my
eventually I would. Some people do it every
favorite.”
single night. They must choose to do so for a reason. Because I was so new, I didn’t know the
supposed to do?” I expected sleep to react
mechanics of sleeping. I didn’t know the
the way my hands do when I want them to
commands. For example, what words did I
move in a certain way. When I want my hands
have to say? What buttons did I have to push?
to do something, they just do it. I listened to
I spent hours every night agonizing over it.
the sound of wind rustling against unknown
When I finally fell asleep, it was always by
surfaces in my room. It was a boring, daunting
accident. I stopped paying attention & failed
sound.
to document the moment between life & dreaming.
“Come on, sleep” I thought. “I’m doing everything I can to meet you,” which was true.
A soft chill blew over me. At first I mistook
“I want the two of us to be friends.” No reply.
it for sleep–as a vessel that would carry me
My legs started twitching. My heart started
someplace–but it was just the wind coming in
talking, in words that mutated into other
from my open window.
words. I did not understand sleep. I did not
Outside my window were thousands of
Autumn, 2008
I shut my eyes to attempt sleeping. I thought thoughts like, “Now what?” & “What am I
understand anything.
other windows of varying shapes & heights &
I tried holding my breath. It didn’t work;
distances. Most of them were illuminated by
I scratched that off the list. I tried counting
a deep, yellow glow. Some had silhouettes of
sheep. That didn’t work either. I tried to
different people reading newspapers, eating
empty myself of every possible thought, but I
dinner, or reaching for boxes hidden in the
couldn’t think of a way to make that possible.
backs of their closets. All of these figures
I threw my blanket off of my body. I tossed
living out their lives on the other sides of their
& turned. I rolled to the edge of my bed, then
windows, they each knew more about life than
back to the middle. I rolled the other direction,
I did. They had studied it. They had touched
so restlessly. By accident I rolled too far. Before
its face with their hands. Life didn’t puzzle
I knew it I was out the window.
them anymore.
My body sailed through the still air, creating
Bits of the purple, twilit sky hung behind
the sensation of a great wind blowing up at
the other apartment buildings. “That’s a
me. If that soft chill that came in through my
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window before was sleep, than this wind was
know they’re supposed to be at life, but they
reckless sleep.
can’t move so they learn how to crawl? Do infants learn to walk so they can see over the obstacles that stand between them & life? Do
sometimes by choice, sometimes by accident. I
children learn to run so they can get to life
wasn’t keen on how or why the death occurred,
as quickly as possible? Do teenagers learn to
but I knew that it factored in somewhere. This
drive cars because they realize that life is not
much seemed instinctual: as much as it can be
a walkable distance? Do adults fly in airplanes
prevented, don’t fall. But realistically, I knew I
so they can study the topography of the world
wasn’t going to die. After all, I just got here.
& draw up maps that lead them to life?
I watched lit windows of the apartment
Do old people walk so slow & look down at
buildings shoot past as I plummeted. All
the ground all day long because they’ve given
of those windows, with all their silhouettes.
up looking for life? Or have they already found
Each one represented a person. I wondered
it–almost by accident some quiet morning
how many people there were out there, in the
when nobody was around to bear witness–
world, & how long it would be before I got to
leaving them with nothing left to find?
meet them all. My body hit the sidewalk. It was no big deal at all.
I was so new to the world; you couldn’t blame me for not knowing. Nobody knows right away.
I lay headfirst on the concrete. I wasn’t
Around this time, my perspective left from
cold or bruised or anything. Nobody was
my body. It scaled my apartment building &
passing by.
settled on my open window. Inside, my mother
I didn’t feel like crawling up all the stairs back up to my room, so I tried to fall asleep
& father were scratching their heads, peering down at me on the sidewalk.
again. Maybe if I pretended to be dead, that’d
My perspective watched them leave my
do the trick. Only, it occurred to me that I
room in a rush. It panned over to the stairwell
wasn’t sure what death was yet. Someone told
windows, where the silhouettes of my parents
me that it was the opposite of life. But what
appeared. They zipped comically fast down
was life, exactly?
the stairs, weaving back & fourth in a zigzag
Like, is life some place that everyone’s trying to get to? Do babies cry because they
pattern. I wasn’t the body reaching for sleep on the
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O tis Pig
I was familiar with the concept of falling. People had been known to die from it,
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sidewalk; I wasn’t the perspective following the silhouettes of my mother & father down
They walked to the the doorway together,
the stairwell. I existed outside of both, like I
then turned back around. My father waved &
was watching a filmed program for & about
my mother blew me a kiss. My father shut off
me, within my own imagination. What was
the light, then left through the lit hallway. My
this thing called?
mother followed, shutting the door behind
My mother & father rushed through the
her.
double-doors of the apartment building &
I stirred in bed. I imagined myself sleeping,
hovered over me. My perspective returned to
but it never became real. That was another
my body.
thing I’d have to figure out eventually.
My mother moaned, “O, Sebastian... We told you to be careful!” She rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s go back to bed” my father offered. I nodded in agreement. He slung me over his shoulder, & we
I threw my blanket off of my body. I tossed & turned. I rolled to the edge of my bed, then back to the middle. I rolled the other direction, so restlessly. By accident I rolled too far. Before I knew it I was out the window.
scaled the stairs in the same manner that
I sailed through the air. Don’t worry–I’ve
they descended: comical & quick. Again,
done this a hundred times before. Of course
my perspective separated & followed us up
I’d be alright.
from outside the window. We were silhouettes against a yellow glow, ascending upwards. Autumn, 2008
he ruffled my hair with his hand.
Back in my room, my father set me back
“O, Sebastian... We told you to be careful.” “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
in bed. I made myself comfortable by slipping
Back in bed, I couldn’t sleep a wink. After
my legs under the blanket. “be careful this
all, I was just too new to life. These things
time,” My mother said, then she kissed my
would come to me in time.
forehead.
I threw my blanket off of my body. I tossed
My father pulled the blanket up to my
& turned. I rolled to the edge of my bed, then
chin, & then patted out the creases in the
back to the middle. I rolled the other direction,
fabric. “Get some rest, Sebastian,” he said.
so restlessly. By accident I rolled too far. Before
“we’ll be here in the morning.” I nodded, &
I knew it I was out the window. ]
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REMEMBER
by
A m e l i a R o b e rt s o n Amelia Robertson
Remember when we wrote poetry and grass was the idea of grass, not astro-turf beneath our shoulders while we ringed around in the night. Looking down on the stars, we drew words up in draughts between mason jar mimosas and christened the ephemeral child-of-the-moment with shining eyes and urgent understandings. remember? ]
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I HAVE a
by
SECRET
V i c t o r -A n t o n i o A l i
There, is no one here but me. Odd feeling, Nice feeling. There is no one here, But me. And so the ocean breezes To the lack thereof, bestowed once sorrow, once, bestowed once grief To joy to joy once grief, to joy to joy relief And so and so Relief I have a secret. There is no one here but me.
Autumn, 2008
I have a secret. Peculiar is it not, when one admires from a far Often… Often, they’re at a loss for words … a loss of words At a loss for words Lost words, when it arises When opportunity arises They’re at a loss of words I met you once, this I know. ]
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CRACKERS
by
Arisa Nogler
corner, on Harrison and Division, across
the middle of my shadowy rebellion, that I will never forget.
from the Texaco that I frequent several
It’s late and I wake up to the heat that
times a day because they let you use their
has already made itself comfortable inside
bathroom, even if you don’t buy anything.
the back of the van where I sleep. It’s spread
I am living in a van behind a bowling alley,
itself out, yawning and steaming, put its feet
with a discount foods store for a kitchen and
on my tiny mattress, and curled itself under
a gas station for a bathroom. He has cats,
the blankets and all over my sticky body.
tons of them, a bicycle and a cardboard
The windows around me are blackened with
sign hand painted, saying, Please, Anything
duct tape to keep the sun out, and the van
Helps.
is unnecessarily insulated with sheets and
I see him every day. I don’t think I have anything to give him.
blankets taped to the walls. Sweat already saturates my skin and the heat laughs at me,
I duck my head in pretended anonymity,
breathing fire into the air all around me. I
just like everyone else. I live behind the
hurl myself at the back doors, pull the latch
bowling alley and no one notices me,
and throw them open, tumbling head first
either.
into the after noon.
I am a teenage girl throwing the biggest
Three packages of crackers are neatly
tantrum of my adolescence, living in a van
piled on the fender of the van, waiting
for the summer because I believe in middle-
for me. Six white gas station crackers
class rebellion and I’m in love. A high
sandwiching fake orange cheese, their
school girl with a wayward boyfriend and
wrappers undisturbed.
his Econoline van. Tom has a painted sign and a bicycle and who knows what else. There’s one day, in the middle of July, in
An offering made gracefully, quietly, with no note, no explanation. I turn my head, and there is Tom, the
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His name is Tom. He stands on the
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homeless man who stands on the corner of
that we all needed to work for change.
Harrison and Division, walking in his slow
Articles in newspapers, magazines, voices
shuffle back across the parking lot. He turns
on the radio, all talked about social justice
around briefly to smile and wave at me before
meetings, homeless collectives, erecting
continuing, back to his worn out bike and his
tents on public land in the name of protest,
card board sign. I stand on the gravel, toes
decrying embargos because isn’t it our job,
burning where they graze the hot asphalt of
as a prosperous nation, to feed the world’s
the bowling alley’s parking lot, and watch
hungry? Take everyone in, they said.
him go. He disappears around the corner,
Prevent thousands of Iraqi deaths. Save the
and I pick up the crackers. Tom walked
children, for God’s sake. Save the world. Feed
all the way across the asphalt while I slept,
the hungry.
weaving through the cars and abandoning
But somehow, amid all of
these
his post for a precious few minutes, to give
horrifying images and incessant urging, it’s
me some crackers.
the picture of Tom that stands out, with his
Just months before, the U.S. had
crackers, smiling and waving at me. Giving
declared war on Iraq. I stood in the street
me a simple, profound gift. Camaraderie.
with millions of other citizens worldwide,
One person, staring another directly in the
adding my two cents to the vending
eye, neighbor to neighbor, saying, I see you.
machine marked “Social Justice.” They
]
Autumn, 2008
told me, with microphones and spray paint,
18
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~~~
by
Jacob Peck Jacob Peck
and then… the dream drifts into this the great waking slumber of souls set to a time in Time mechanized produced carted out from the tube’s sullying jacket brought up to serve the great farce and then… i awaken to the wander of “i gotta wake up” dreams to the false reality of “so it seems” to books, barefoot being, silent sitting “am i seeing?” where does the wanderer wish to be, other than Home, in Truth as one’s Infini T? Where I Is… Always and then… the hollows of the heart… bursting, bubbling, beckoning with Life… awaiting recognition !?! what echoes within the heart cave? Does one dare listen and acknowledge one’s self ?
19
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
would one care to see the Soul of Humanity, its toils and pangs, loves and virtues, its mystery, agony, beauty and depth? ~ will we Listen? will we See? will we Dance the Dance of Mystery? Harmony Is and then… we are all lost in hiding suffocating in the shaped psyche’s house-of-cards reality the objectification of perception projection delusion distraction and such horror runs rampant as all eyes are clouded in the glam of incessant pollution Autumn, 2008
we are all lost in hiding with hearts contorted, Mystery distorted, “life” being but a fragment of a broken dream we’d rather not awaken from…the great weight of the unreal binds…such sorrow throbs… and strides of eternity ripple amidst it all as filters dissolve, realities waver, and the tragedy tries to teach Look See Be forget notions of the known and truly Be… for all Is and must return to Reality ~ the great Formless Truth… unto which every thing dissolves, yet
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I Is Eternally Here Now Jacob Peck
and then… we are all lost in hiding…seeking…searching for the Same ~ when there is only This the unknowable the The both before and beyond thought the Womb of wombs birthing destruction, coalescence, systematic structures of innate Harmony ~ ethereal Essence… and then… with the cries of our brothers and sorrows of our sisters the horrors of our forefathers and agonies of our mothers with the great weight of humanity’s tragedy… we are beckoned… ~ Abide as Is and Birth the Creation of illusions dissolution ~ ~ herein resides Healing ~
21
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
CLOUDLESS MIST
Autumn, 2008
by
E m i ly K r e s k y
My face, cool and exhausted, right up
owner explained to us why he uses these
against the tall, midnight blue coffee mug,
old, creepy, dirty children’s toys to decorate
with my wild sweet orange tea screaming,
the café, but I couldn’t understand him,
inside. I watch the steam collectively rise
speaking in Spanish, which I did not know
up off the surface of the light sweet tea,
enough of. My mother, on the other hand,
moving and flowing around my cheeks, as if
roared with laughter as the man charmed
to whisper a secret to me. The steam spreads
her and Javier, her lover. They absolutely
out around my nose and evaporates in to
loved living in this tropical, dreamland city.
the colorful, strangely awake coffee shop in
I just kept thinking how strangely awake this
Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I then realize how
café was, everyone chattering and laughing
hot I am, and that I am drinking hot tea
with each other and walking around.
in the already deathly humid, ninety-five
How were they so awake this early in the
degree weather.
morning? Maybe it was because I hadn’t
“Mist! Are you even listening to us?”
slept more then an hour a night for days. I
My mind takes a halt and I blink suddenly,
never sleep anymore. I just can’t bring my
realizing that I had completely forgotten for
body to drift and settle down. My brain is
a moment that my mother and her young,
starting to struggle to keep focused. The
Hawaiian-shirt lover are lecturing me. I feel
street lamps and sidewalks and the world tip
like I’m in a toy house. This ocean-blue
around my body and me as I am the only
coffee shop with the totem poles holding it
one standing in the middle of the street.
up makes everything look ancient. There
Slanting. Surreal.
are small, palm-sized toys and stuffed
“Moon, forget it, she can’t even keep her
animals perched on all the totem pole limbs
attention on us for five minutes.” Javier says
and the corners of the tables. Action figures,
to my mother. I want to tell him to shut up.
ducks, elephants, Mickey Mouse. The
My mother sighs. “Mist, won’t you eat
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something? Your tea is going cold, and
them up more. I had to just hold in my
that’s all you ever put into your body. You
anger and walk right past them, not even
don’t even look like a sixteen-year-old, you
acknowledging their presence.
are so skinny. You need to eat something.” I am so comfortable stretched out on the
down on his Huevos Chorizo, so thick and
soft grass up against the bay. It feels like it is
heavy with melting cheese and beans. My
the only soft grass in the whole city. Life slips
mother with her egg-whites sandwich. I can’t
away in this spot. All the pain slithers out
bear to think of how I would feel with that
of me and rolls down the hills from all sides
smoldering food sitting inside my stomach,
of me and I am left with nothing but the
weighing me down onto the earth so it
beautiful sound of the waves crashing up
shakes every time I take a step in this heat.
against the rocks with tiny clams gripping
I love, absolutely love feeling so light on my
onto them. Beauty, my kitten, creeps up on
feet that I could prance around anywhere I
me by rubbing her face against my hair. I
please, with no restraints. It is what makes
am not startled though. She purrs so loud it
my body peaceful. Not with the burden of
reminds me of a baby lion, I am the mother
food which makes my insides violent.
of the baby lion. Right now she is the only
I walk out of the coffee shop into the
thing that makes sense. I want to take her in
Mexican streets, in my shorts, with my hair
my arms and bury my face in her soft, soft
tied back to keep away from my sweating
fur. Beauty gently walks across my body, as
face. I walk past the old Hispanic ladies
if I am more fragile then she is. I pet her,
sitting in chairs having their little children
feel her fur comforting me. She can sense
run up to people walking by and trying to
something wrong inside of me more then I
sway them to buy their necklaces and beads
can. I pet her, thinking about the night at the
and dresses. I always felt bad for those
party downtown when I wore the heels that
kids. I walked past a beautiful old woman
I couldn’t run in. I think about the stone-
sitting cross-legged on a rock wall reading
faced men staring at me in my skirt and wild
a book, her hair blowing across her in the
hair, looking me up and down. I think about
wind. I want to paint her. I walked past the
the one man with the fire eyes who took me
older men yelling comments at me. I had
in the empty taxi after I had Melonball after
learned not to curse them off, that just riled
Melonball constantly the whole night, and
23
Emily K resky
But I won’t. I stare at Javier chomping
Autumn, 2008
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
the room swung back and fourth in front of
and I had crazy eye makeup on, sparkling.
my eyes. The firm grip he had on my arm,
I walked right past myself sitting on the
locking me in there, unzipping his pants. I
couch. I was so surprised, but not scared.
heard the zip. I saw the long, dark, slime he
I walked over to me, or her, and tapped
pulled out over me. “Do you like what you
her on the shoulder. She looked at me in
see?”
amazement. We both touched our stomachs.
“Beauty, if you can sense something
Then we went in the kitchen to talk. She
wrong inside of me, can you heal me too?”
was small and innocent, but dangerous and
I wished she would use her soft lion roars
glamorous. I was going to tell her it all. I was
and gentle paws to heal me.
going to tell her what would happen to her
As the sun is beating down on my
if she went downtown. I was going to tell
forehead, warming me from the inside out, I
her how she would end up, like me. I was
start to drift. I get the feeling of drowsiness,
going to warn her about the fire eyes and
like after a long day at work, and it is the
about the soreness she would have the next
most relaxing, reassuring feeling in the
day. But before I could spill out my soul to
world. I close my eyes and my mind falls
her, I awake.
into a half dream. The state where you are
Beauty is gone when I wake up, and I
still somewhat awake, but the sounds of the
am delirious and sweating. With the sun
earth somehow connect with your mind to
beginning to set I jump up and run back
form one long thought and it causes strange
across the luscious, grassy, forsythia field
visions to flash like a dream is about to start.
to my house to get ready for the service
I see Beauty wearing a bow tie dancing with
wedding of Moon and Javier. I feel open
a baby lion. I see the man in the taxi and his
and free and young running through the
eyes are staring at me, connecting us with
grass, having the village rush past me. I am
fire.
running through the breeze, breaking it in
Then I fall into a dream. I dream of me
an ever so thin line with my glass body. I
sitting on a couch in my house. And then I
feel like I did when I was a little girl and
walked down the stairs, not me now, but me
the world was a castle; when my mother
four years ago when I was thirteen. It was
and I would race through the sidewalks on
me the night I went downtown. I walked
rollerblades. When I used to bake cakes out
down the stairs wearing my skirt and heels,
of blocks and sticks and they would always
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eyes. My stomach bites me and cries and I
I lock my bathroom door and undress
lean outside the shower into the toilet and
myself, dropping my clothes on the floor
throw up anything inside there that could
and staring at my boney arms and legs in
try to scare me. Anything that reminds me
the mirror, feeling free. I close my eyes and
of the fire.
turn my head back so I am facing the ceiling,
After my shower I put on my bathrobe and sit down. I feel weak
with cool floor. When I open my eyes I see
doesn’t feel the thin that it usually feels,
the fire alarm battery blinking bright red.
empty and natural, now it feels like someone
The blood stops flowing inside my body for
took a twisty fist and punched in as hard as
a moment and I throw on my towel and rush
they could.
My stomach
to the kitchen to grab new batteries for the alarm. I check that alarm every day to make
The wedding is held at the edge of the
sure it is working. To make sure my house
white sand on the bay. There are rocks leading
will not catch on fire and burn down like I
out in the water and grass surrounding the
hear can happen like the little girl who was
sand. There is a large canopy set up right
sleeping. Her house was burning down and
next to where the waves crash. The sun
her fire alarm was broken. She didn’t wake
is setting and it is beautiful. It looks like a
up and she burned slowly with her house.
painting done by an artist full of happiness
When I secure the fire alarm I feel
and desire. Maya and I sit in the front row as
calmer and I climb into the shower. I stand
my mother stands under the canopy on the
in the pelting droplets of water, feeling them
soft sand with her Hawaiian shirt lover, who
hit my skin. Closing my eyes, I let the water
is now dressed in a blue tuxedo with his hair
fill my hair, my eyes, my mouth. I take the
slicked back. She is beautiful. She is wearing
pale white lufa and scrub and scrub all over
a long white dress that is simple and flows
my body and keep scrubbing, but I still can’t
around her body in the breeze. Her hair is
seem to get the dirty feeling out of my skin.
very long, down her back, and it is soft and
The dirty feeling has buried deep beneath
straight. She reminds me of a goddess. A
my pores, in the deepest levels of my soul.
delicate flower that was splashed with the
The dirty feeling that I have felt ever since
purest of milk. Everyone truly does love her
the night with the fire make up and the fire
in this city. Anyone she meets is drawn to
25
Emily K resky
feeling the weight of my body connecting
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
her inner-beauty. But I cannot connect with
of cake. My mother watches me as I run
her. If I had one wish in the world it would
away from her and her wedding.
be to be on top of a purple mountain with
We run all the way downtown in our
only her. We would wear the skins of deer
dresses. There is a show going on at the
and bird feathers in our hair. We would live
green field in downtown, with the palm
on top of the mountain, telling stories every
trees around it. The sun is setting. The sky
night about when she was little or how she
is roaring with oranges and purples and a
met her first love. We would eat wild berries
bright, glowing yellow where the sky meets
and read each other’s tarot cards using
the water. This is the only place the sky looks
the sun and the moon and the trees. Our
like that. Maya and I stopped running when
minds would be connected then and I could
we hear the drums and the tambourines
tell her anything like I could when I was
coming from the stage. We dance over to the
younger and always looked for her face in
stage where four Guatemalan men called
a crowd or in the paintings on the walls or
the Los Bambinos throw themselves into
in the mirror.
the evening by bringing their wild music
“I don’t know how much longer I can sit
Autumn, 2008
here, Maya,” I whisper to my friend.
to life. Beautiful women in colorful dresses and barefoot and men with dreadlocks and
“Lets get out of here; go swimming, be
no shirts danced all over the field. They are
in water or something. You look pale. You
throwing their arms and legs into the air,
need sun and vitamins and excitement.”
not even noticing the other people around
Javier
kissed
Moon
while
the
them. There are children dancing in and
photographers flashed pictures of them
out of the taller peoples legs. Maya and I
standing in the waves with the wind blowing
run into the crowd and kick our feet and
in their hair. Everyone in my family kept
throw our arms up in the air. Maya takes my
coming up to me, touching my face, my
hands and we dance with each other, flying
hair. “Mist you are so skinny, don’t you eat?”
back and fourth, laughing hysterically. My
“Smile Mist, you are hiding your pretty
long satin dress flows all around my legs and
face!”
jump into the air. I close my eyes and feel the
Maya and I slip out before it can get
music penetrating inside me. The thumping
any worse, before one of my aunts actually
of the drums and the playful screaming of
makes me eat a disgusting, fattening piece
the children.
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I open my eyes to see the most beautiful
disintegrated inside of me because of the
little girl. She is dancing in circles by herself
lack of food. There probably isn’t a speck
wearing a long blue skirt. She had the
of her left. “Mist, we have to get out of here!” Maya
lips. Her hair has flower petals scattered
tugs on my arm so hard I almost fall over.
everywhere, as if she put the flowers in her
I look up and I see Maya’s face, terrified
hair and they flew everywhere as she danced
but strong; but it doesn’t cause me to say
but still looked amazingly beautiful as petals
anything. People are running away from the
settled in her hair. She didn’t have a care in
stage. A roaring collision of reds and oranges
the world.
spreads on the stage and travel out onto the
An older woman, I’m guessing her mother, walks up to her. “Cloud!” she exclaims, and picks her up in her arms and spins her around. She
trees, coming right towards me. My body is frozen. My blood stops again and now fear is coursing through my veins. I remember Cloud. I quickly look up but she is gone.
hands her a wooden bowl full of macaroni
My worse nightmare, the fire coming
and cheese and walks away again. Cloud
back, the man in the taxi, trapping me in
sits on the grass in the middle of all these
the hot sweatiness, the hot fumes coming
dancing people and starts munching
towards me and burning my hair and skin
away on her cheesy snack, enjoying every
and what is left of me until I am nothing.
spoonful. She is so perfect, sitting Indian
I stand there frozen with all these thoughts
style on the grass eating her food. Her eyes
racing through my head. I am going to burn
catch mine for just a moment and I felt a
slowly like the girl in her bed. I see the huge
thick ball of glass drop into my stomach. I
flames rising up above my head, reaching
look down at and touch my stomach, almost
their fiery arms out to grab me and never
concaving inwards from the lack of food I
let me go even when I am screaming to
let myself eat. How is it that I once was just
please stop and please let me go. They send
like Cloud? How is that even possible that
sparks flying out towards me like wild make-
I once was an innocent, precious, beautiful
up that I usually put on my eyes. Tears are
girl who danced and was free and ate food
streaming down my face uncontrollably and
and smiled at everything? Where did that
I cannot break through from this strong
girl inside of me go? She must have just
grasp of fire that won’t let me go.
27
Emily K resky
lightest, most innocent face with the pinkest
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
Before I can even realize what I am doing,
Autumn, 2008
my feet are darting across the field, down
of deep red flowers, the same flowers that I think were in Cloud’s hair.
the hill, past the palm trees, away from the
I run out onto the rocks that lead out in
nightmarish fire. I am sprinting and I don’t
the water, already barefoot. I can feel the
know where anyone is. I can’t find Maya,
cool rocks below my feet. I stop on those
I can’t find Cloud. I don’t know where my
rocks and look out all around me, blue bay
feet are taking me. They are not part of my
water stretching out from all directions, and
body right now. My mind is swarming with
a long trail of rocks that I don’t remember
beehive thoughts and I can’t do anything
running out on. I stare out into the meshing
but run. It feels like I am burning and I am
sunset and catapult myself into the water.
trying to put the fire out.
The sweat leaves my skin and is mixed in
I don’t know what I’m looking for; I
with the bay as I toss and turn my body all
don’t know what I desire. I just know that
around in the refreshing water. I can feel
my body needs something, something. And
my body soaking the water into my pores,
I see it. I look ahead of me and I see the
hydrating me. I kick my legs and arms like
bright yellow sunset right above the calm
a little child and get all tangled in my long
bay. The purplish-blue rippling water that
dress, which I am still wearing from the
looks so peaceful. It is rippling so much that
wedding. The satin rips and my dress rips
it looks like a rug being whipped for dusting.
clean off of me. Still underwater, I grip
Deep, deep red flowers lead from the bay to
myself. I wrap my arms around my body
where I am and it is all calling me. I suddenly
so tightly underwater that I form a pretzel.
feel thirstier than I ever have in my entire
Then I rush to the top, gasping for air. I am
life. My body needs water. I need to put out
just here, my little body bobbing up and
this roaring fire inside of me. I need to be
down in the rippling water, my soft, naked
peaceful. My mind needs to stop turning for
skin. I stretch out as far as I can and float
just five minutes. I need that water. I look
there in the beautiful sunset, soaking in the
around me and realize that I am all alone
colors, my bare nudeness above the water,
still. Not thinking twice, I sprint as fast as
and waves softly sliding over my stomach.
I can down to the water, through the maze
]
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the
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DAUGHTER
Liz Migliorelli Liz Migliorelli
i have been dreaming of my daughter she is brilliant, four or five, plain white dress and during the day, i move through the house like a storm, my hands hiding and blushing and holding themselves together. i will wait. i will wait like a beggar, holding a gift, holding myself still in that quiet act of giving. i cry to my daughter and take my hair down with her i have questions for her about the fast night and her open mouth like a jewel or a fruit and I Love Her does she know yet what it feels like to be consumed by someone so her skin feels new again so the electricity swells ripe between her hips, hollows her bones, stores such a great force
29
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
Autumn, 2008
within the earth’s belly. does she know yet what it feels like to miss and wait with an aching body, as if there were no motion in the universe. loving him made a woman of me. what a woman i have become, what a terrific and sad creature. i tried to get rid of it, but i can still feel his hands on my legs, his hands in my hair, does she feel this on her skin too, i have questions about what makes her heart stop where do the mountains stop i have to ask her why she is in that body with those blue bones with those steady organs with those dark animal eyes those eyes that know more about her mother, why somehow she is not her lonely mother. ]
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WHEN
CROWS
come
by
the
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CALLING
John Wolf The Hurley house. So close, yet Beeman
Beeman had been witness to many
couldn’t even bring the car into the gravel
strange things. He’d seen an old woman
drive. The deal, so close yet so far and
die sitting perfectly still inside a burning
only a few pounds of beaks and feathers
tenement building.
He’d seen a man
blocked his way. He clenched his fists and
walk a tightrope three stories above the
walked back to the car, determined to scare
street. He’d once even seen a Negro at
the crows out of the way. Before he could
an expensive eatery. But what lay before
climb back into the front seat the crows
Beeman he considered stranger than all
shuffled to the side of the road without
three incidents rolled together. The crows
letting out a single caw. The way to the
sat in the middle of the dirt track known
driveway opened up but the black birds
as Carr Road. Hardly a feather ruffled
held Beeman’s attention. The sole sound
as they stared unblinking at the Hurley
of the crows’ scraggly black feet scrapping
house, Beeman’s destination. Most birds
against the ground was so odd, almost like
Beeman saw in Chicago would scatter at
a phonographs needle scratching on a
the sight of any moving object but not
record before the music begins.
these crows. They stood oblivious to the
The queer feeling soon dissolved
grill of the Model T Ford idling in front
however when the dragging of the crows’
of them.
feet became replaced by the sound of Mr.
He thought about getting back into
Hart back in the Chicago headquarters
the car and inching closer to the birds,
explaining very carefully what would
but Beeman didn’t own it. He knew the
happen if Beeman could not close the
family that loaned him the car for ten
deal.
whole dollars would not be happy if it
“I don’t know what you did, or even if
returned covered in blood and feathers.
you were the one who made our deal with
31
John Wolf
Growing up in Chicago Talbert
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
Mr. Hurley go south,” Mr. Hart had said
summer humidity.
from behind his enormous desk. Beeman
through his brown hair, heavily coated
always found himself envying that desk. It
with tonic. Beeman practiced this routine
certainly helped conceal Mr. Hart’s rotund
daily. Appearances were meant to be kept
body. “The money to be gained from this
up, especially when it came to the Hurley
sale I’m sure isn’t lost on you Beeman.
land deal.
Our firm stands to make a fortune, and I
After the death of their brother Francis,
put my trust in you to secure that fortune.
Beau and Lyle Hurley came to Hart Real
Was my judgment in error?”
Estate Firm. They came looking to sell
“Not at all, Mr. Hart,” Beeman knew what any other answer would bring.
their deceased brother’s farmland, their own two forty acre parcels, and all the
“Then close the deal, Beeman,” Hart
land rented out under Francis to various
cut in through clenched teeth. Beeman
farmers in the area. Every bit of the land
noticed
was estimated for thousands of dollars in
Mr.
Hart’s
pudgy
thumbs
twitching, twitching with the anticipation.
Autumn, 2008
He ran thin fingers
re-sale value. The thumbs had twitched.
There was money to be made. He recalled
The deal progressed slowly but surely.
that moment in Mr. Hart’s office, where
Then, two weeks after Beau and Lyle came
it seemed like the weight of Mr. Hart
to Hart real estate firm, Lyle died when
himself was crushing him down. Then
he fell into the blades of a thresher. Then
Beeman saw Hart’s desk, and then he
things really began to speed up. Beeman,
thought of the money.
Hart, and all the other sales representatives
“Yes sir, Mr. Hart.”
knew how sweet and simple a large land
Beeman rolled the Model T past the
deal like the Hurley case could become
wooden fence surrounding the bright
with the involvement of only one party.
green lawn of the Hurley house and up
The feeling of happiness within the firm
rocky drive leading to the door. The lone
diminished as fast as it had come when
gable of the property hovered above.
Beau Hurley halted replies to telegrams,
Beeman stepped out of the car, red
became a recluse, and refused to withdraw
suitcase in hand, and lifted his pressed suit
from inside his farmhouse. Now, several
coat from the passenger seat. He set it
days and a few dollars later, Beeman stood
upon his shoulders despite the oppressive
in front of that house.
32
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Slumped in the doorway lay a confused
down the walkway his nervous hands
clutter of telegrams, letters, bills, and
checking his hair another time, still feeling
parcels. Beeman approached the pile and
the stare of crows upon his back. Beeman
found a layer of sand upon every item.
walked back up to the car and looked
Not the dust of age which Beeman grew
around. There was no sign of Hurley. “Mr. Hurley! It’s Tal-“
the estate office, but an incredibly thick
“I know who ya are Beeman. Ya the
layer of sand. Beeman turned to look
one whose been sending me all them
at the lush, green corn fields waving in
telegrams.” Beeman looked around again
the breeze, the silk upon the stalk heads
in puzzlement. “Up here ya damned fool,”
glistening like gold in the sun.
Hurley’s voice called from the window
It was
hardly the Sahara. Beeman’s gaze wandered to the stare of the crows.
Their unwavering black
eyes still remained focused on the door of the house.
above Beeman and his car. There on the third story windowsill stooped Hurley, his eyes black and beady like those of the crows.
Beeman found himself
“Mr. Hurley, if I may come in for a
wondering just what a group of crows
moment there is an important matter to
were called.
discuss.”
That eerie wave washed
back over Beeman when he recalled the
“I know ya ‘important matter’ and I
sound of their feet advancing across the
don’t feel too keen on letting you in with
dirt road. He suddenly very much wanted
them back there.” Hurley jerked his head
inside the house.
towards the crows.
“Mr. Hurley,” Beeman called rapping on the door.
An unseen thick coat of
“Yes, rather strange aren’t they Mr. Hurley?”
sand fell from atop the door and spilled
Hurley’s frail body stirred upon the
onto Beeman’s hands. He stepped back
sill. “What? They been looking at ya
fearing a blemish upon his dress coat.
too?”
“Mr. Hurley!”
fear in Hurley’s voice found much more
Beeman found the urgency and
“Who’s there? Lyle?” Hurley’s voice
unsettling than the crows. With the skittish
sounded from down the drive, where
tone in his voice, and the way he perched
Beeman parked his car. Beemam stepped
upon that sill Hurley seemed waiting for
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John Wolf
accustomed to working in the bowels of
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
some advancing army.
were stacks upon stacks of empty canning
“Well yes,” Beeman said, turning to
jars. Mostly empty. The scattered bits of
gaze at the crows, “they’ve been there for
dried canned produce clung to the jars’
quite some time. Strange things, they don’t
insides. Some were full of a yellow liquid
make a sound do they?” Beeman looked
which Beeman hoped was moonshine.
back up to find the sill empty. He heard
“Um, Mr. Hurley,” Beeman sat across
the clumping of boots down wooden stairs
from him. “If I may clear some of this
and a few moments later Hurley shoved
away so we can discuss business.”
open the front door scattering packages and sand to the steadily increasing wind. “Get in here boy, they lookin’ at ya, we’re both in the same boat.”
“I’m afraid you have to, Mr. Hurley, my firm has gone into contract with you
Beeman knew Hurley was insane. An insane man that wouldn’t be deemed fit to handle such a delicate and large land deal. The image of Mr. Hart’s big desk began dissolving in Beeman’s mind.
to sell the land you now own.” “It ain’t mine to give, and it ain’t ya’s to sell boy.” “Oh, yes it is sir. You now own over seventy acres of farmland which you and
“Yes, very well Mr. Hurley,” he called running up the walkway. Hurley grabbed Autumn, 2008
“We’re not discussing business of any kind a’ tall.”
your brother first sought to sell.” Hurley continued staring out the
him by the shoulder of his dress coat and
window.
hauled him inside.
discuss business; I brought ya in here to
Despite the rough
welcome, Beeman felt glad to be in the cool haven of the farm house rather than the oppressive heat of the Indiana summer. Beeman
“I didn’t bring ya in here to
unravel it.” “What are you saying; you don’t wish to sell the land now?” Hurley’s head snapped back to face
the
Beeman, a wild look flared up in his old
kitchen. Hurley without a word sat down
followed
Hurley
to
eyes. “Ya damn right I don’t wish to sell
at the small table by the stove and stared
the land! And ya don’t want to take it!
out the window. Beeman looked about
The mark will pass to you!”
the kitchen, his eyes becoming adjusted to
Beeman brought the briefcase up in
the dim light. Surrounding the two men
instinct to shield his face from a possible
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out of his chair, walked over to the stove
a begging look in his eyes. Something
and opened a jar of stewed tomatoes.
about those eyes made Beeman think for
He leaned against the stove and dug out
one ridiculous moment that Hurley made
the dripping red gobs of mush with his
sense. That selling the land was wrong.
stained fingers. “Francis was the nun of
Then Beeman thought of the desk, and
the group. Didn’t feel takin’ the land, his
how many his improved salary could buy.
own land, away from the squatters he let
He knew the land didn’t belong to the
move in was right. Wouldn’t sell, but Lyle
firm, and he knew they couldn’t just take
and I, well, we were always of the all or
it by force. For land to sell, someone had
nothin’ mindset.”
to put it on the market.
“My
God,
you
murdered
your
“Why don’t you wish to sell the land
brothers?” Beeman glanced over at the
Mr. Hurley?” A note of anger rose in
door which now seemed very far from the
Beeman’s voice. Hurley looked back out
table and the crazed looking Hurley, red
the window. Beeman continued, “Scared
juice dribbling over his chin.
of going it alone? I’m very sorry for your
“Nah, just Francis, but Lyle was
losses, but before Lyle’s accident both
no accident either. Oh no, very much
of you were of the same mind.
intentional.”
That
shouldn’t be any different now.” Beeman clicked open the case and slapped the deeds on the table. “Sign please.”
thresher? Guilt?” “More like escape I reckon, ever seen
“Lyle didn’t die in an accident, and Francis didn’t die in one either.”
“He… he threw himself on that
a mouse caught in a trap Beeman?”
Any
Beeman shook his head. “They’ll chew
sense of Beeman having authority over
off their own tail, paralyze themselves
the situation vanished.
just to get away. I found my brother Lyle
“What do you mean?”
the next day, but not after having broken
Hurley sighed. “Lyle and I wanted to
down the bull barn door, locked from the
sell the land for so long, we really did. The
inside.”
boom going on, we figured it was for the
“You said it wasn’t suicide–”
best. All of us could move to somewhere
“Something had been clawing that
better. But Francis-“ Hurley threw himself
door to pieces from the outside the night
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John Wolf
attack, but Hurley just stared at him with
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
Lyle went to the thresher.
The crows,
aren’t doesn’t make us evil. These are the
they came callin’ and he didn’t want to
1920’s Mr. Hurley, we’re in a boom and it
answer.”
would be a bigger crime to let it pass us
“Crows? Now come to your senses, crows couldn’t murder a man.”
thrives on business.”
“They wanted him,” Hurley whispered,
Hurley stepped up to Beeman’s face.
“for all his transgressions and now they
His breath, reeking of canned tomatoes
want us too. We both got blood on our
and pickled eggs, drifted into Beeman’s
hands.” Hurley sucked tomato juice off
nostrils making his eyes water. “Ya right
his chin stubble.
“Lyle told me about
Beeman, our country thrives on it, our
crows camped outside his place down the
country devours land for money and it’s
road. Always in the same strip of road,
gonna be put down real soon. You just
always sitting there watchin’ him. Course
watch and see. This area’s gonna suffer,
I told him he was a damn fool, then… well
the country’s gonna be put down like a
I already told you what happened.”
rabid dog.”
“Now the crows want you?”
Autumn, 2008
by. Our country thrives on our economy,
Beeman threw his hands up in the air,
“Not just me, they want you too, they
unease rapidly being replaced by sheer
want all who are getting’ rich off this while
anger. “Oh! And the crows are going to
the land’s raped and innocents go hungry.
punish us all, is that it!? They’re going to
The land’s fighting back too. You seen
corner me and peck my eyes out simply
how we sell off parcels, buy them back,
for doing my job!? What? Or are they
sell them again, over-farm them. It’s sick
going to make me go insane like in those
and tired of us Beeman, it’s letting famine
dime horror novels!?”
creep up on us, and on that sandy wind come the crows.
Crows always come
when there’s blood spilt, and damn it all to hell they smell it strong on us, Beeman. Make no mistake about that.”
“Take ya pick of either Beeman,” Hurley murmured, “ya gonna be punished either way just like me.” “Mr. Hurley, if you’re frightened of some birds on the road and a few wisps
Beeman gripped his hands into fists to
of dust on your farmland then you’re a
control the shaking and stood up. “Just
disgrace of a man, and you’re also a fool.
because we’re prospering while others
The deeds in my case, if signed, can give
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you enough money to go anywhere you
juice. He turned and made for the door,
please.
suitcase in hand. He stopped and looked
Miles upon miles away, out to
the Napa Valley where crows aren’t even allowed to roost.” Beeman let that notion sink in with Hurley.
back. “Just out of curiosity Mr. Hurley, you called Lyle when I arrived? Why did you
“Mr. Hurley, what you said just now.
call out his name?” Between gulps of food and gasps of
mind, forget all about it. What you did
teary air Hurley said, “I was hoping it
with your brothers is not my concern, my
was his crow, I’d rather have it be him
concern is that you sign these papers and
and Francis that kill me. Instead… you
make both of us very wealthy and very
did.” Beeman shook his head and walked
happy men. Can you do that?”
back outside, stepping over the jumble of
Hurley nodded his weary head.
“I
parcels and sand. Many thoughts raced
suppose I can sign those, it ain’t the worst
in his mind. Just what sort of illness had
that’ll happen to me.”
consumed Hurley? How would he be able
“Good,
excellent,”
Beeman
said,
to hide the fact that his client might be a
dropping his pen next to the deeds upon
murderer? Where had the crows gone?
the table.
The dirt road past the wooden fence
He watched Hurley like one of the
was empty. Beeman gripped his suitcase
crows, intently and purposefully as the
tighter and continued towards the car.
old man’s gnarled fingers etched his name
Behind him he heard the boot steps of
upon the signature line. Beeman quickly
Hurley ascending to his perch on the third
added his to the line next to it. Before
floor window.
Beeman could give Hurley the usual pat
Probably going to give me some morbid advice
on the back and laugh he gave all his
before I leave, Beeman’s thoughts shattered
clients, the man slumped back down into
when Hurley came screaming out of the
his chair. Hurley opened another jar of
third floor window and landed directly
tomatoes, chewed them up in his cragged
into the Model T crumpling the hood like
maw, and began to weep. Beeman watched
a tin can and sending glass shards flying to
in disgust as the man’s old face became
the ground. Beeman’s mouth opened up
encased in dribbling tears and tomato
in shock. He gazed upon the bloody and
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John Wolf
I am willing to let that pass through my
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
cut corpse of his newest business partner
saw the whole murder staring him down.
lying in a cloud of steam from the broken
Beeman backed away from the shattered
radiator. Then he heard the cawing.
and ruined car, away from Hurley’s body,
The crows swooped down through
and away from the crows. The crows,
the sky and landed upon the body. Their
silent again, leapt off the car and began
demented cawing and screeching filled the
their scratchy march towards Beeman.
still summer air. Without hesitation the
He backpedaled onto the road and turned
entire group of crows began pecking at
towards the way he had arrived. The sun
the body. The realization of what a group
still hung high in the sky but the walk to
of crows was called sprang into Beeman’s
town was more than an hour.
mind. A murder, the entire murder of crows feasted. Beeman screamed.
Beeman threw his red suitcase at the crows.
They soundlessly flapped their
At the sound of the scream two crows
wings and scattered out of the way. They
lifted their heads from Hurley’s mangled
parted like an oil slick but regrouped in an
corpse and resumed their blank, prophetic
instant. They stared. Clutching the deeds
stare at Beeman. His own eyes followed
Beeman marched down the dirt road
their gaze to the deeds still clutched in his
desperately trying to ignore the growing
hand. He could see his own name, Talbert
caws and cries of the crows following
Beeman, written clearly and legibly on the
close behind. ]
Autumn, 2008
surface. He turned his head back up and
38
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WHITMAN in my
by
CUP
Alex Kilgore Alex K ilgore
That day old age caught amongst the jewels of the creek bed, flashing after a trailing finger of the sun, I heard you whispering for an eternity breathless and so were my lungs with want of your lusting b’neath fallen maple leaves, I wish to join in your whims. Foam beads burst from crashing crests of eternal
motion
39
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
in a momentary gift I grasped upon a smooth sand-swept face You’re earthly grace.
Autumn, 2008
These constant frames, lockets ever open, images humanly finite enclosed, O’ upon these enduring seconds without want or need, simply a willing embrace, sun breath gems of far-sight carry on. ]
40
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GO HOME
by
Lewis Peterson side of town. How? What was I doing here? God, I can’t remember. Yesterday is
head as I get up. Where am I? My whole
just a blur in darkness.
body aches. I rise slowly and step painfully
Another woman comes up to me an
into the light. No one is around. It’s bright
says, “oh my god! Are you all right?” I must
and silent and still in the street. I shamble
look bad. I hear myself say, “I don’t know
around. Toward home. Where am I now?
what happened” in a whiny, unfamiliar
I don’t know this place. It hurts to walk,
voice. She leads me somewhere, cradling
my leg sticks. I look down and my hands
me like an invalid or an old person. She
are covered in blood. My own. A woman
leads me to her house.
walks up to me and says, “what happened
hey fucker
to you?” I try to answer but my mouth
what
won’t make words. Something is clacking
you heard me do you want to eat shit
around in my mouth so I spit it into my
what
hand. I guess that’s enough of an answer
dont you know that im talking to you
for her because she backs away slowly and
they surround me whats happening
then breaks into a run when there’s some
why dont you get the fuck out
distance between us. I look down at my
the first punch lands with a muted
hand and see one of my teeth. Where is this place? Conger Street.
squish it doesnt even hurt what im on the ground
I don’t know that street. How did I get
shit kill you die
here? The streets are still empty. It must
ah they kicked me
be early. I better keep walking. I’ll know
get out rich boy
someplace eventually.
why shit ow my head my ribs
Gilman Street. So I’m on the other
fuck man we fucked him up
41
Lew is Peterson
The morning light stings my eyes. The ground is hard and grinds against my
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
drag him over there that alley uhhh
is. Gilman. I pass by some teenagers. They say
“What happened to you?” she asks me
something to me. I don’t care. I keep
while bringing tea. She’s bandaged me. I
walking. They yell, “hey, man!” a few
guess I passed out. I’m lying on her couch.
times. I keep walking. I can hear them
I choke out, “They beat me up.”
muttering “whatever.” I keep walking.
“Who did?” “I don’t know... there were five or six of them.” “We have to call the police.” “No, no police. I’m fine”
People stare at me as I walk down the street. I just want to go home. That’s where I’m going. There are more people now. It must be later. I’m exhausted. My body aches and
She doesn’t say anything after that or
pains. I’m almost home. The stairs are
I passed out again because suddenly I’m
noisy because my leg still sticks. I dig for
opening my eyes and she’s gone. I have to
my keys. Thank God. They are still there.
get out of here. She’s in the other room
I janglle them toward the door, lurch it
and I quickly hobble out.
open and sit down. ]
Autumn, 2008
I have to get home. I know where this
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HAHA
by
Caleb Goodaker-Craig
cat walked its favorite path (which marked
the glue as her fresh skirt slipped across her
the floor with a faded, lighter brown) into
hips and under my feet. That small mound
the room, and leapt onto the ledge, taking
under her thin underpants inquired about
a jaded glance at the crowd of accumulat-
my notice. I caught the slick skirt between
ing passersby. In rehearsed unison, we an-
my toes, gently lifting it off the floor and
nounced that nothing of public delight
outside the loft window, releasing it into
would happen again tonight. Without time
the ironic air & onto the noble head of a
to adjust, a small palm arranged itself on
passerby. His delicate grin signaled my un-
the underside of my favorite place in the
derstading that a new mound manifested
middle.
underneath his knee-length shorts. Just as
that the other hand was pulling down black
this recognition began to no longer impress
underpants as I witnessed them fly out the
me, I felt two supple hands cross my shoul-
window onto the recently disappointed con-
der blades to my navel. As I reached back
gregation. Many mounds emerged. ]
I understood acutely the truth
to great the popular source, a middle-aged
43
C a l eb G o d a ker- C ra i g
I stammered to her desk, knocking over
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
in a
PERF ECT WORLD
by
Lianna Samuels
Bodies wouldn’t be so self-contained. We would all be empathic up to a
With or without euphemisms, I would be honest.
degree. No single person would suffer from Fibromyalgia or isolating trauma. No one would be disabled, crippled, or damaged more than any other person.
Honestly. I don’t think The World will ever be perfect. Perfect is a scary, finite threshold.
We would all be vulnerable and a little
Autumn, 2008
weaker.
I would be a traveling art-therapist,
And humble. So humble.
mostly in countries where there’s a train.
We would be happy, or at least hopeful
Wherever there wasn’t a train, I would
about our concept of the future, of our
travel via hot-air balloon. On trains, I
purposes or lack thereof, of the continuum
would live with one huge trunk that I could
of memories and fears.
fit into and one smaller bag that I would carry around. I would talk philosophy with
I would stop having nightmares that
the conductor in the morning, wanting
make no sense and dreams that continue to
so badly for him to touch me and stop
hollow me out each time I wake up. I would
dreading disappointment and destinations.
stop having panic attacks and yelling my
There would be a resident dog. We would
passions when no one’s around, to empty
be together most of the time, hyper-
pillows. I would stop picking my scabs, the
affectionate as we usually are. Also, a cat.
ones on my skin and those of remorse in
We would hang out together more when
my memory.
I’m on my period, when we could relate
I would actually say what I want.
44
to each other more with bitchy, bi-polar-
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playgrounds. To water. Through the air.
We would bleed together. I would drink
Where there is beauty: everywhere. Where
tea over six times a day. I would smell like
there is hurt: everywhere. Where there is
blackberries and vanilla always. I would
hope: everywhere. We would read. We
travel on this train all over where trains can
would create. We would not erase at all, we
travel. In hot-air balloons, I would let the
would simply improvise and see the beauty
wind take me to where I was needed most.
and peace in knowing that there is hope.
I would know when it was time to leave, the wind would warn me that I may be trapped forever unless I left. Maybe I would stay up to a month in each orphanage or hospital. We would draw, I would ask questions and try to answer them. We would draw the hurt, we would try to heal the hurt. We
I would probably despair on a daily basis. Maybe sell my body, desecrate it in spite. Lose myself
in cities that won’t
remember me.
would laugh and cry and hug and color.
Because I remember too much.
All at the same time. We would remember
The world would be an idle snow globe
silly jokes and songs that sound odd. We
for a while.
would realize that we can feel colors, invert
I would die many deaths.
reality with imagination, and forgive. We
We would remember that there’s always
would go to museums. We would go to alley
hope where there is hurt. There is beauty
ways. We would go to the prisons. To the
where there is hope. And we are all of
pounds. To homeless shelters. To brothels.
this.
To rooftops. To the ends of rainbows, those prismatic ends. To cemeteries. To
Everything would be sacred. ]
45
Lianna Samuels
like mood swings and sporadic irritability.
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
“SAY a PRAYER f o r ME – – PLOWED i n to t h e GROUND !” by
J o s e ph W e l l s
Autumn, 2008
The car blares at me through cracking
the land, riots and bloodshed formed the
speakers and oxidized wires, piloting itself
buildings.
and plummeting down County Road 16,
driven music, head banging, screaming,
wobbling between lanes and dipping on
mangled lyrics are keeping me awake. I
to the gravel shoulder. Cows watch with
dread the inevitable return to the city where
indifferent stares. Too preoccupied with
dreams go to die. Eyes wandering, I shake
myself to drive, to care about the road with
to keep awake, unable to focus or stop for
its pick-em-up-trucks, I have to wipe myself
fear of spoiling the road side clover with
clean. The evidence of my sins must be
the smell of gasoline and blood. Swerving,
destroyed.
I keep from hitting another inbred fool in
The base for Sponge and its
I have just spent a weekend running in
his mechanical penile extension. This is
the woods, sitting around fires, drinking beer,
violently dangerous. I weep for the idea of
no sleep. It’s an escape from reality and the
home, a warm bed, safety.
only place where I feel normal. Within the
I nearly hit a Mini-van, family packed
woods I feel the refill of masculine power
in like sardines. How fitting the headline
all men crave. With my return to civilization
would be. “Family of Seven Killed by
I’m forced to confront my delusions. Drained
Lonely Driver who feels Little Remorse”
but surviving, sustained by burnt earthy
Assuming immortality in such a situation
coffee and gumption, I listen to Sponge,
is my prerogative. I am young, I am
that wonderfully trashy Detroit pop grunge.
immortal. But not them, they will all die.
Only from Detroit could the suburban
Fewer breeders mean a better world for me.
angst that fronts Sponge be conceived and
Last thing my life needs is more families
nourished. If you have never been there,
with abrasive offspring, pushy mothers,
don’t go. Bloody Neanderthals pissed upon,
and spineless males. They just clutter my
that’s Detroit. Genocide and lies stripped
highways. Fuck families, and fuck anybody
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who wants one. The American family idea
only some of us react like me. Her mind
is a disease that should be stomped out
should be comforted and fucked.
with impetus. I would start today, but farm
She shows up so undamaged, so clean
country car crashes can be a bitch on the
and sublime. Her purple hair twitters
budget.
about, calling anybody with testosterone in
Drastic actions must be taken.
their blood. “She’s cute” is whispered to
Keep awake…Mmm…think of her…
warning later I meet the masquerader. All seems mildly interesting but safe, little do I
That girl. You all know her. The one your
know. Before a month is over all available
friends tell you to stay away from. You have
time is spent crashing in her tiny dorm
said to yourself constantly “don’t fuck the
around bottles of Tennessee’s best bourbon
crazy girl” but you still think about her. She’s
whiskey. My body is a forlorn participant in
nuts, no question about that. Not just nuts,
this self destructive, masturbatory practice.
but belligerently bat shit crazy. The kind
Unable to turn away, I dig deeper. Nights
of crazy reserved for creepy Steven King
blur into days, classes are forgotten and left
movies, not the romantic comedies we strive
to people deserving success. Afternoons are
to replicate. She is going to school to be a
spent preventing suicide, nights chasing it.
psychiatrist, a profession reserved for those
Drink to satiate, that’s the mantra. In reality
determined to self diagnose their problems.
we drink to die, if only for a moment.
She drinks, often waking up in alleys or upon porches, and climbs into sobriety by
My earliest reoccurring dream hit around
cutting herself and releasing the pain. She
my thirteenth year. I had discovered porn
bears the scars, from wrist to wrist, shoulder
recently. The dream was stylized, black and
to shoulder, of a long self wrought life. Her
white, me and a woman in passionate sex.
pain is internal and unnecessary. She grew
Not fucking but making love in the best of
up normal, nice parents, good family, no
ways. I would always wake from the dream
abuse. She is chemically fucked. Serotonin,
out of breath and scared. I wasn’t turned
dopamine. Her problems dwell in her brain.
on by the dream but frightened by it. I was
Yet you cannot pull away. That girl. We all
paralyzed by fear, that is fear of being that
know her. The psycho. The crazy girl. But
close to somebody, fear of intimacy.
47
Joseph Wells
her close friend. A chortle and halfhearted
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
I have never had a healthy sexual relationship. Bump-and-run weekend shit,
She goes to the psyche ward. This time
or highly dysfunctional stints are my forte.
it was a bottle of mild opiates washed down
I cannot bear the notion of love and sex
with a bottle of Svedka. At least she has the
coexisting. And so I chase her and her
taste to buy decent vodka. How theatric,
manic brain.
vodka and pain killers.
American TV
relax, we got the message this is how you I wake up groin hard and swollen,
kill yourself. She calls me from the ward
disgusted by the vomit, blood, piss, all
requesting I let her date know she can’t bar
commingling across the institutional floor.
hop and fuck. I am blind to the signs. Too
Do I scream, banish her from my life? Do
few days later she calls, asks if I want to
I walk out, seek a doctor and a priest? No.
spot her a bottle, low funds. Hell yes. She
I think love is within her trite body. I can
will love me if I buy, my delusion screams.
rationalize this easily, but I know it’s wrong
An eager puppy, tail wagging waiting to be
and idiotic. This happens monthly, weekly,
beaten. Days pass. Nothing changes. Bottle
daily. Reality is displayed for me. I see the
by bottle our visceral cavities are whiskey
fallacies and why this is the proverbial “Bad
cooked while I smile and comfort her pained
Idea.” Refusing to believe it, I buy another
mind.
bottle of harsh brown life (charcoal filtering Autumn, 2008
is for pussies, barrel aging is a gift from the
Her crying gives me a hard-on.
gods, and chasers take out all the fun) and forget another day. I used to be normal, liked
Why would somebody be attracted
normal girls. I fit in the social structure as an
to this? Why does a perfectly balanced,
angered participant, not a blinded sideliner.
mentally stable, proverbial good guy go
A social drinker and social person. Now time
for the crazy bitch? What sick person gets
is split between comforting the diseased and
turned on by the idea of a damaged mind?
recovering from self administered poison.
My mother would not be proud.
Now dreams are filled with the harsh cry
Thinking of her, shamefully pulling
of hobo-quality alcohol instead of warm
myself out, doing my business. All the while
life. The violent chemicals strip my mind of
driving. I don’t stop while cars pass me,
rationality.
why should I give a fuck. Let them see the
48
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dysfunction, it’ll just show the strangers my
predicted. I have no excuse, the true fool.
heart. Imitation is the most sincere form
I deserve this shitty life. I deserve to be
of flattery right? I don’t make the right
treated like a lap dog. Unless I change my
decisions, I don’t do what’s right, I am an
ways, I will end up worse than her, a relic
animal underneath this facade. The radio
of a person with no excuse. She controls my
burns out the songs catch line-
chemistry. She is god. I dance to her drum,
“Say a prayer for me.”
atheist. Keep driving. The car steadies as I take the wheel and manage to keep it out of
Please don’t. I deserve this, all of it.
the damn ditch.
Visions of the next month trying to fuck her. I won’t. She even realizes that I should stay
At home I crawl into my plush bed,
away. For once the crazy bitch has better
ready to sleep until it hurts, sleep until I
judgment than me. Maybe that’s the truth
cry. Later, showering, reflecting, thinking,
all along, she has excuses for actions. While
I know what should happen. Sobriety can
she traverses life with problems I simply
be harsh like that. Stay away. Don’t fuck the
slide along. I indulge in idiotic behavior
crazy girl. Be normal.
with no excuse. She has reasons, chemical, physical, psychological reasons. Just being alive shows her doing better than medically
I don’t care. I don’t wait to dry before I call. ]
49
Joseph Wells
she quits playing it. A lot of prayer for an
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
EXTRA ! EXTRA! RECENT NOTHING t h a n t h e USUAL
Autumn, 2008
by
Robin Atwood
came into the invisible republic of new orleans at sunrise through the bayou. riding the snore of southern folk headed home or visiting family i envision what this winter will look like. the weekend of all hallows eve is a smashed bottle against the temple of my body taking me sleeping in a yard of tall grass on the property of a kind woman named butterfly - who enjoys my music. three, four days go by and i’m nursing every footstep of the day forward with the new premonition of leaving towards new york on the 7th. life is only busking and mass three hour a day journaling at the cafe with snobby stooping characters who wear snotched noses pointing towards the dark side of the moon in snobbyness. the police are about rounding up every dirt kid, young healthy lookin busker in pattywagons headed to the hole for days - they see you sitting on a park bench in jackson square they say keep walking till you’re out of new orleans parish. despicable, annoying as fuck coppers challenge thirty kids on the moon walk beside the mississippi river. six police versus thirty youth. the police take a group photo and collect a deck of I.D. cards letting us know how many there are in number. a few nights spent at the john our favorite local bar even if jerky the bartender smashed a bottle on burnouts head for beatin himself up.
50
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alot more. now i’m in pensacola, florida at a friend’s home who takes exceptionally good photos of trains and queer essence’ of the street life. headed towards new york, new york i’m ready to freeze and read a book and busk alone together among the great subways. ]
51
Robin Atw ood
oct 4th, 2008 very late at the john... my pool game with petey is interupted by the silence of electoral votes.... the juke box shut off, mouths dropped, as eyes were glued to the screening of electoral conclusion: obama versus mccain. obama wins by a large marking of voted blue democrats giving a tremendous speech touching by the tender poetics similar to that Martin Luther King’s assination speech made a very half century ago. obama is black and he is our president reminding a lot of folk of the late president kennedy who was assassinated early in his presidential routine for speaking to the people like they wanted to be spoken to. party at the nighthawk dive in the marigny district beside dauphine and ferdinand st. its a wild party of all folk - lookin like some sorta beat happening of celebration as obama is now the 44th president of the united states of america.
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
the
Autumn, 2008
by
WATCHER Nicky Tiso
Art Valencio, a boisterous, unsym-
a chore. He prefers, instead, to go about
pathetic writer who clung mostly to the
fearing his monotony without taking steps
topic of women’s legs, grew very nervous
to reflect on his lifestyle in order to see if
whenever his shades were on display; not
the monotony is even there. Perhaps he is
because he had something to hide, but be-
not predictable and keeps odd hours, the
cause, rather, he could be seen wandering
watcher would think. He stays inside all
from room to room in a catatonic trance,
day and dashes out late at night, returning
perhaps staring at a wall, perhaps watch-
home hours later with the staggered pace
ing his tea boil, perhaps idly thumbing
of a man who’d had a few drinks: not
a book, or changing his boxers or t-shirt
enough to stumble but enough to tell it’d
from time to time, and then glancing at
been a good night. But would the paced
himself in the mirror. What worries him
temperament he allotted his drunkenness,
most, up in his loft bordering one side of a
neither indulgent enough to be belliger-
central avenue, is that an occupant across
ent nor disciplined enough to stay sober,
the street on an equally leveled floor could
show he was a man of hesitations? Would
have more information on his lifestyle
the watcher think this makes him apol-
than he; someone across the street with a
lonian or mediocre? Perhaps the watcher
decent and shrouded telescope could keep
would infer from such behavior that he is
logs on his routine, or set of routines, as
not enough of an adventurous man, and
they vary with his days and moods. Or do
go on to say this is why he swaggers home
they vary? It is his fear that one may find
alone: he is not enough of a thriller to
he does the same order of movements in
bring home a girl. But would the watcher
the same order each day; he fears he is too
know he does not bring home a girl be-
much a monotony, but he finds keeping
cause, rather, it is from a girl’s house that
logs himself, to substantiate the matter,
he returns? The watcher can’t know this!
52
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Surely the watcher does not follow him
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himself. I won’t even look out the window for the
would the watcher see that his routine en-
watcher, he thought, because that’s already
tail upon entering that foreign household?
enabling too much nonsense! He sat facing the
What conversations would he overhear?
wall perpendicular to the window and
Would the watcher find him too polite to
wondered how his profile would appear
be judgmental, or too sheltered to be pro-
from a distance. In this regard, he felt a
found, in his social relations?
sexual prowess as far as voyeurism was
It was a troubling suspicion indeed, to
concerned; maybe he should strip? He
be under surveillance at all times of the
began to take off articles of clothing with
day, but he could not rightly close the
cavalier attention paid to their smooth yet
blinds for stretched periods of time lest the
deliberate removal. I am worth watching,
reclusive nature of the act show him to be
indeed! He thought, in this regard, he was
a hermit. Yes, he could not close the blinds,
redeeming the shy behavior of earlier,
not now, for what would the watcher think
when the idea of strange eyes upon his
of the man then? He would call him a
body frightened him. Now he was in
coward, or worse, a paranoid case of self-
control and held the power of temptation
importance, for who thinks one is worthy
and lust. Any distant eye on him would
of being watched? Why spy on someone
have longed for the ability to touch, feel,
who is of no great threat to the general
and interact with his distant flesh. In
public? The watcher can’t exist!, he thought.
this stripping, he attempted to reverse
What a silly notion, to imagine all his
the effect of the gaze so his identity was
neuroses objectified through the lens of
less analyzed and instead pushed to the
a voyeur! The real problem, he deduced,
realm of attraction and carnal intrigue.
was to grant credence to the illusion of
The viewer had to reconcile their physical
the watcher, and to act as though he were
attraction
really being watched. The best thing to
satisfying such a desire. For the voyeur,
do would be to go about his life as he
it was strictly a masturbatory pleasure.
normally would, without submitting his
The writer imagined the watcher huddled
psyche to the fear of documentation. He
over a telescope with his pants around
walked to the stove and boiled tea to calm
his ankles, jerking rapidly, reducing his
with
the
impossibility
of
53
N icky Tiso
there. And if he did? Then what? What
Autumn, 2008
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
entire being to a fulfillment of a stranger’s
blemish of society who deserved not to
fantasy. At least, he thought, such a pervert’s
survive under Darwin’s Laws? Would the
world of fantasy in no way affects my reality,
watcher recognize depression as a cultural
but the idea of being used was enough to
phenomena, a kind of luxury, and declare
make him button up his shirt and put his
him spoiled? The writer wondered if he
pants back on, but also because he was
should submit to his emotion and lay
getting cold and decided that would be
sleepless in bed all day until the feeling
the best course of action regardless.
passed, under a thoughtless paradigm,
In the midst of his every move being
synapses dulled like a sheet of stars
violated by a third-party’s awareness,
extinguished behind the smoggy skyline,
he sank into a veritable depression. The
the head nothing more than a void of
writer, in a depression, finding himself
unnatural gases where even torment and
out of inspiration and unable to work,
sadness, his old muses, had been diluted
demanded pills. Pills would be the great
to the level of neutrality. No! I can’t be seen
savior to unsheathe the fog of his mind,
in such a rut. He began to laugh hysterically
so he thought, and remove the consistent
and
plague of weariness that caused him to
especially enthused. The sudden strain on
rummage from bed to kitchen to bathroom
his body caused a cramp in his calf and
and occasionally glance at the typewriter
sent him tumbling to the floor. Seizing his
but skip it all together, maybe churning
leg, he laughed again to cover up the pain.
out a word or two a day. But these words,
Tears streamed from his eyes. At least now
in their scarcity, held great importance
I am below his gaze. The writer debated
and he felt at this pace he could write
staying on the ground until the watcher
the perfect novel by the time he was
got bored staring at empty space, but
dead, for to him quality was always on
wondered if he could stand such a battle
an inverted axis with quantity, such that
of patience. He spent two hours laying on
the words palm tree or sarsaparilla, floating
the carpet and trying to brainstorm his
there in the middle of a white sheet,
next novel. Instead, he noticed a world of
somehow moved him deeply. Would the
particles; there is dust here, he would think,
watcher recognize his depression and
or Look! A fingernail! It gave him a surge
call him an embarrassment, a weakened
of electricity, but any detail, when written
54
perform
jumping-jacks
to
look
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down, became vapid. He gave up and
to finish, paid him duly, and headed to
stood. An idea struck.
one of those stores that specializes in shoddy gadgetry, like compasses with laser pointers, temperature reading forks,
could reflect the gaze. It was an elaborate
or pocket-sized lie-detectors. He bought a
process for the feeble-handed man,
mid-range telescope for a moderate price
who dealt poorly with mechanics. After
and headed home. Extending the tri-pod
taking basic measurements and buying
legs to a comfortable height, he squinted
the materials, he called a handy-man to
his eye and gazed. Across the street,
install the mirrors. The writer went with
through the breaks in a blind, he saw a
two-way mirrors, so he would not have to
nubile, vivacious woman undressing with
forfeit his view of the street on which he
great satisfaction. Nervous at the prospect
depended for inspiration, and so he would
of his two-way mirror in fact being wholly
not be subject to espionage. It was a day’s
transparent, he nevertheless unbuckled
labor and the writer was giddy. Now,
his shorts and, grabbing hold of himself,
to really finish the revenge he needed a
kept his eye glued to the lens. ]
telescope. He waited for the handy-man
55
N icky Tiso
Using fitted mirrors placed in the window frame, the writer decided he
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
[PROF ESSION ]
by
A n a s ta s i a K i l a n i
Autumn, 2008
I am absolutely certain you will die unhappy I happen to be knowledgeable in this field of existence you will die at 48 married, divorced, settling for separation watching television gets you rowdy drinking beer creates a hearty man out of you you crave molested cattle with the same passion you used to crave your mothers milk you have grown wicked now selling used cars to hard men and teenage pussy you want to cum on all of them until you cry for you to stop it has now become one disgusting reel of child pornography you wake up and wish to die you smile and wish to kill you have no limits no feeling
56
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Anastasia K ilani
and the only reason you don’t kill is from lack of motivation you have nothing the fast food hamburger begins to feel heavy on your heart your hand your left hand left side right brain left thought get up sit down can not stand slouch into the plastic benches feel it stop re start convince yourself you are yelling for help know you have been begging for death all along. ]
57
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
FALL o f m y BROTHERS & SISTERS the
by
Cecilia Carey
Autumn, 2008
I have stood at the night’s edge and
comfort, not my own.
watched the fall of my brothers and sisters.
Those hunters, they come from the
The smell of their blood lingered in the
sky and land upon feet hardened by the
bitter air as the darkness of the dying
skins of the innocent. They carry strange
moon washed over them. I have seen those
weapons that are loud and merciless, for
who would pursue them, stalking through
a moment is gone when one hears that
the wilds as if their heritage in the distant
sound in their final thoughts of pain and
forests of the past would preserve them in
anguish. The creatures they ride in the
this new world. The hunters have come
sky are equally loud and merciless as they
a long way from their dawn in a land of
swoop and dive like birds of prey made of
mystery and violence.
Now they have
ruthless steel. I know what those beasts
given up the hope of mystery for only
truly are, for I was once a part of that
the violence, for the smell of blood that
world from which the hunters emerged. I
lingered in the bitter air as the darkness of
once walked among them and as one of
the dying moon washed over them. I have
them, disguised by a lie which would end
heard the silence betray my brothers and
me if truth be discovered. I had kept to
sisters as they called to me. I have betrayed
my own silence in those last days. Fear
that silence to myself with the tears that
of my enemies surrounded me as much as
fall and become ice. I cannot act, or I
the enemies themselves sought to embrace
will become one of them again. I will be
me. If only they knew what horrors I
taken down by the hunters and dragged
wished on them for what they had done
to the inevitability of their materialism, to
and would do to my brothers and sisters.
the disregard of their race for those who
If only they knew that more like me
had come before. To the hunters, the skin
walked in silence and secrecy, waiting for
on my bones was for their warmth and
the time of retribution.
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That time would not be tonight, though, I didn’t think. be tonight.
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if not for the enduring hope that someday
It could not
I would also be a part of the retribution to befall them. I had to know what they thought and how they thought it. I had to
good. The young we cherished had to
know what they did to love one another
be hidden deep within the womb of the
and how that love might be used against
earth. If the last of the elders should fall-
them to cause great pain. If I was to be of
and they did still as I moved through the
any good to my brothers and sisters, then
masses of their butchers-then the oath
I must, for an agonizing time, become the
would be sworn to the winds and the
very thing which they loathed. I had to
punishment would be unleashed. Justice
imitate the hunters and learn how they
would be ours even as the blood of our
hunted, and then become sickeningly
elders stained the poisoned snow of the
comforted in the tools of destruction they
dying wilderness. This I knew and had to
wielded without care or honor.
honor in spite of my own hatred, my own
In my time in their midst, I learned
fear. I had to believe that we might still
of those who walked among them who
turn the tide of the endless slaughter of
were not hunters, but sorcerers and
my brothers and sisters. I had to believe as
keepers of the old ways. The difficulty
they believed that some good would come
of understanding the differences became
of this and that those tragic many would
clear when told of their presence in my
not have gone on in vain. Their cause was
youth, when our suffering had begun in
and is that of the entire world, stripped of
force and when hope was craved in every
its glorious rage by the submission forced
part of our world. Those few who could
upon it by the hunters.
be honorable were, themselves, cast out
I have stood at the night’s edge and
of the society of the hunters that my
watched the fall of my brothers and sisters,
brothers and sisters had tried to escape.
and I have seen the truth of their dying as
The hope in their eyes burned dimly, for
proof of the necessity for the cleansing of
they were as fearful of the hunters as I
the hunters. In my time in their midst,
was. Yet there was a strength that only
I have learned many horrid things which
someone with the wilderness in their
would have driven me out of my hiding,
blood could admire. Theirs was a strength
59
C ecilia C arey
It had been ordained that
sacrifices were necessary for the greater
Autumn, 2008
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
which spoke of justice and truth, of love
always been theirs but was in fact never
as it had never been known. They had
theirs and never would be theirs. To the
been hunted as my brothers and sisters
hunters, would I say ‌
had been hunted, and now they were as
You have taken what is not yours. You
eager to see the fall of the hunters as I was
have made this world into a tomb from
to dance victoriously in their skins. It was
which we cannot escape. Know that your
these allies that I must seek, before the
actions have brought you and all things to
last of the elders is found and taken up in
misery, that you are all as much in a prison
the great metal monsters that the hunters
of your own hell as we are the innocents
ride like dragons. I must seek the world
you’ve executed. You will see the glory of
of shadows and secrecy through which
your cities crumble before your eyes. You
these keepers of the old ways crawled.
will watch your children slowly smother
The secret of their magic was as rare and
in the toxic fumes of your industry. The
precious as a crystal underground. I had
machines that kept you alive will fall apart
to know what it was they could do that
to dust. The hope you thought you once
would harm the hunters.
had will not stand against the rushing
I stood at the night’s edge and listened
tide of vengeance soon to consume your
as the final howls rose up to the stars, as
fortresses of malice and greed, domination
the final calls for aid began to resound
and slavery. The time has come to collect
throughout world. The fall of my broth-
what is ours, to be finally rid of the disease
ers and sisters was the fall of the natural
that is the human race.
power of this home we had cared for, for the home that the hunters believed to have
60
The time for the revolution had begun. ]
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EQUAL & OPPOSITE ATTRACTION by
T r av i s W i l l i a m s Travis Williams
I never would have guessed that innuendo about a molecule or a vector Would have been able to affect her. See, we were cooling off on the porch while the music played inside And I found her awfully close to my right side. Somehow we got onto the subjects, her and me Of physics and organic chemistry. The snow was coming down and the temperature was a degree below cold When I told her that we were like a dipole, and here’s what did unfold: I found her attractively close to me When I told her that the gravitational constant between us was greater than capital G. Newton was right about equal and opposite reactions, But who knew that he would instigate an equal and opposite attraction? We could see our breath in that chilly winter air And I told her about friction; I said, “Are you aware “That the frictional coefficient between us is off the charts? “In other words, if we run into each other, they may never slide us apart.” I thought that she might swoon. The waves of music oscillated through us from inside the next room.
61
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
Now, I need not say that the amplitude of allure increased exponentially. My heart was beating with an obviously magnified frequency, When I said, “You know, before this night is through, “Just like hydrogen, I’d like to bond with you.” She smiled and, as I thought hard about innuendo mathematical, She moved in like a regioselective free radical. If only Newton knew the sparks that would fly And Tesla understood what his theories might imply. I told her that I might have to conjugate her And that I felt like a proton in a particle accelerator. Next time I see her, I’ll speak of things biotic. If I hope for anything, I hope it’s periodic.
Autumn, 2008
Thank you, Galileo! Thanks, Markovnikov! If there’s a point to science, it’s that we might fall in love. Our potential energy turned rapidly kinetic. For just a little while, we were decidedly magnetic. Be careful when you tell a woman about a molecules or a vector. You never know how it might affect her. ]
62
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WHALES
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g u i l d
in the
LANTERN ROOM by
Adam Jessup sometimes pooling in the depression in my chest,
which was a lie because I looked at the
or swimming around to the nape of my neck and
ocean every day, and yet, every day it looked
raining down my vertebrae to the small of my back.
different, like someone had snuck up in the
But your departure comes nearly as quickly as you
night and rearranged everything. Down the
do. When will you pluck up the courage to come
shore the beach was huge; in the low tide
up here and make love to me properly, instead of
the ocean retreated obediently. The water
torturing me with your trifling taradiddles?
was frigid, but I stood outside of it, on the
How quickly you have forgotten me! My love
wet sand. I watched as the sun dried the
is slow. In the past I was once yours. I rushed over
footprints I left there. It took a really long
you hurriedly and stayed long, caressing every part
time, however time didn’t mean anything
of your body with my aqueous tendrils. Our affair
when you had as much of it on your hands
eclipsed the century and sounds of our lovemaking
as I did.
were euphonious; you shook violently beneath my
The sky was blue and clean and stretched
waters, forming mountains ranges and volcanoes
taught, like a bed sheet that ran the length
that rose high from my surface. Someday I shall
of the horizon. No matter how hard I tried
wash over you like an endless tidal wave and we
I couldn’t see the whole sky. I always had
will be reunited once again. Until then, my love, our
to turn my head this way or that with my
love must suffer the blight of impermanence.
body bent in half, which was OK. My back began to hurt anyhow, it was a terribly
When they first found out, they watched
uncomfortable angle at which to hold the
me like a terrorist. They would pop in just
human body for more than a few minutes.
to see how I was feeling and make sure I wasn’t killing myself. It was as if every time
Oh ocean! Hundreds of times a day your cool
they came into my room they expected to
waters trickle up the sandy legs of my shores;
find me hanging from the ceiling fan. They
63
Adam Jessup
It was like nothing else I had ever seen,
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
talked about it like it was something I caught
might even make you honorable first mate
from sleeping with someone else who was
out of gratitude.
depressed. “Robbie’s got that depression, you know,”
There is a girl who lives there. I would
they would say, when talking to friends
not have known this had I not climbed over
about why I moved back.
the chain link fence that surrounded the
Every day I go to the lighthouse. It’s only
lighthouse. I just wanted to know what it
three miles from here, and it’s a nice walk.
was like to look at the ocean from the top;
Watching the ocean makes me feel calm,
perhaps from the wrought iron balcony
like everything inside of me that’s usually
you could see a far greater distance than
racing just slows down. I like to think about
you could from the sand. Maybe there was
all the different things happening beneath
even a telescope so that you could see even
the surface. Small fish being eaten by big
further to those ships who were stranded
fish, big fish being caught and eaten by
miles from land and thought that they were
people. Everything having sex all the time.
doomed until you came to save them with
Even the plants have sex. Technically they
your telescope, big flashlight and two-way
just spore, but that could be a euphemism for
radio.
Autumn, 2008
having sex.
I never got that far. The girl came out
I always think what a perfect lighthouse
of the light house just as I landed on the
keeper I would be. The hours fit me perfectly.
other side. I knew that there were stairs to
You have to stay up all night and sleep all
the top of the structure that wound around
day. While you are at work your sole job is to
the interior walls, which would allow
shine a huge flashlight back and forth across
movement between the different levels,
the ocean, making sure that docking ships
but I also imagined there to be a fire pole
don’t crash into the rocks on their way in.
running floor to ceiling for incidents such
Sometimes it might even get really exciting
as these when one would need to make a
when there is a ship that has been lost at
hasty exit; perhaps to shoo away over eager
sea for months. And you shine your light
enthusiasts. We spoke briefly. She did not
upon it and the captain and crew know that
ask me to leave, as I thought she would, but
they are going to make it after all this time
rather surprisingly, asked my name.
because you have finally found them. They
64
“It’s Robbie,” I replied.
t h e
E
v e rg r e e n
“I’m Mariella,” she said.
S
tat e
C
o l l e g e
w r i t e r s
’
g u i l d
suffer?
A gap formed in our conversation; I
Do not be so self-seeking! I understand the
figured not too many people ventured up
ways in which you are hungry, dear Soil. However,
there so I understood how her social skills
it is not without loss that we must live. Life is
could be lack–
simply not sustained in solitude. Everything in
“There are whales in the lantern room!”
way that I cling to you for nutrients, you cling to
“There’s what in the lantern room?”
me so that you may not wash away with in great
Mariella was silent, as if she had become
wind and heavy rain. When the time comes, I turn
clear, like a fishbowl, and that I could see
loose my leaves for you; you are replenished with the
into the mess of her insides. The truth
atrophy of their bodies. Dear Soil, your well being
is that I wanted to see them. I wanted to
has been entrusted with me since the beginning, and
know all the things she kept in her heart, all
no matter how old I get, I am not likely to forget
the things she thought about when she was
that.
sitting in the watch room, staring through her looking glass. All the things that only the walls of the light house remembered.
Mariella could see my insides too; only, I did not have to say anything embarrassing
“Well, I guess you’d better go now, I
to reveal them, they were just always there,
have a lot of work to do,” she said abruptly,
on the outside. I knew this because she did
walking away as she spoke.
not look at me the way you would look at a
“Oh, alright, it was nice to–”
potential stranger. Her look was knowing,
“See you tomorrow,” she said and
as if she had mapped my intestines and
closed the light house door. I could hear her
knew where I carried everything already.
climbing the wooden steps quickly, as if she
That night when I slept I dreamt about
were running. Plick plock plick plock plick plock.
her. She was the lighthouse and I was the keeper. Her eyes were my lanterns;
Thief ! Iniquitous succubus! You have drained
they shone brighter and further than any
me of my nutrients once again. I am peckish
light in any other lighthouse in the whole
beneath you, yet, you continue to grow, ever
world. We set a record for saving the most
upwards, stretching and expanding your limbs,
ships in one year. Everyone loved us and
taking without giving. How dare you leave me to
we received fruit baskets almost every day
65
Adam Jessup
she blurted, interrupting my thought.
this world depends on something else. The same
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
from the people whose lives we saved.
“This is the lantern room,” Mariella
The next day her voice came from the bushes; she had been waiting for me. She emerged wearing the same white shirt
I looked around, turning a complete circle on the balcony.
from the day before. Her face was covered
“I understand,” I said.
in little, brown freckles, like it had been
“Understand what?”
dusted with chocolate powder. I liked the
“What you said yesterday, about the
way they made her face look tan from a distance and pixellated close up. It was like an optical illusion. wrinkling her nose. “You
asked
whales.” The walls, the ceilings, the floors were all covered with them.
“I knew you’d be back,” she said sweetly,
“Did you paint these?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied,
me
didn’t
you,”
I
responded. “Yeah, it’s just that sometimes people
I pointed to one of them. “That’s physeter catodon,” she exclaimed. I pointed to another.
think I’m weird, or strange because I live
“Megaptera novaeangliae.”
up here.”
And another.
“Not me. I think it’s wonderful,” I said, and Mariella grinned. Autumn, 2008
said, spreading her arms wide.
“Eubalaena glacialis, hyperoodon planifrons, mesoplodon peruvianus.”
She took me by the hand, pinky-ring
“But look,” she said finally, pointing to
finger combo, and pulled me towards the
the ceiling, “My favorite of all, balaenoptera
door, unlocking it with a key that hung
musculus.”
around her neck. Inside Mariella was older
It was a blue whale swimming with her
than I had imagined; in the soft light that
calf, stretched across the ceiling. There
bled from the windows her crows feet were
was an ocean of calm in her black eyes,
not hidden by the brown flecks of color
like she had seen all the bad things in the
that dotted her face.
world but had taken them in and stored
The staircase was just as I had imagined it, as was the fire pole. We walked up the stairs, our feet made the familiar plick plock noise as we climbed.
66
them somewhere deep within. She had swallowed them whole, like Jonah, but I knew that she wouldn’t let them emerge three days later. She kept them there.
t h e
E
v e rg r e e n
S
tat e
C
o l l e g e
w r i t e r s
’
g u i l d
the two-way radio, however, there were no emergencies. Just a few dolphins that
the sustainer of life on me, your light keeps my
we spotlighted for a while. We decided to
waters warm and my plants green. You hold me
give them nicknames. One was Somnolence
in place with your gravity so that I do not spin
because her dorsal fin did not stand up
away into nothingness. Yet, some of the creatures
straight, which made her look lazy. The
who inhabit my land masses say that there is this
other was named Lickety-Split because he
very important book that chronicles the end in great
zipped back and forth across the water.
detail.
I told her everything else that she
The end? The end of what?
did not already know. I told her about
The end of everything, the universe, time,
the depression and the conversations I
the end of ending. They say that your rays will
imagined between inanimate objects. She
grow angry, drying up my oceans and scorching
just listened, and understood; she even
the plants, that you will set fire to me and watch
cried once when I told her about how after
as I burn. They say you will carry my blood on
moving home I felt like I was falling apart,
your hands.
like all the seams that held me together
My child, those who giveth must also taketh
were weak from the beginning. She held
away. Everything in the universe is finite, and thus,
my hand when I told her how somedays
must end. Someday when I have grown too old I
when I woke up I could not get out of
will become swollen and red. I will erupt from the
the bed because there was no point. We
inside out. And you will be engulfed in my fury.
talked about how when I was a kid and
But why father sun?
had colic the only way my dad could get
You musn’t be scared. We simply cannot go on
me to stop crying was to bring me to the
living forever. Death was written into the design of
lighthouse.
the universe, and none of us can escape it. Take
Mariella said that she came from a
solace in the fact that we will all go together when
long line of lighthouse keepers and that
the time comes.
her father and her father’s father were the keepers before her. She told me how she
That night Mariella let me shine the
had grown up there, how it had always
light, which we referred to as the sun
been more of a home to her than her
because it was so bright. She manned
actual house. She said that for as long
67
Adam Jessup
Father Sun, father Sun I am worried! You are
P R I N T
for
B R E A T H I N G
as I had been coming to the lighthouse
speak. For a long time we just listened to
she had been watching me. There were
the dull roaring of the ocean, coming in
a few times when she said she thought
and out. As the sun rose we fell together
I was crazy because I was pointing and
in the watch room. I did not dream one
talking to myself but that the invented
dream, or make up one conversation; we
conversations bit explained it all. She told
slept like children sleeping for the first
me how beautiful she thought life could
time. ]
Autumn, 2008
be if I let it be that way. Finally we did not
68
presents 1
a coloring book about whales Meta-presented by The Writers’ Guild
1
otis pig
otis pig
amelia robertson
otis pig
otis pig
otis pig
otis pig
tasha glen
brancey mora & adam jessup
otis pig
♼
this is not the end