01
april 2020
spoken word
scratch night
SPOKEN WORD SCRATCH NIGHT vol 01 april 2020
editors Kaitlyn Kelly and Claudia Scott
cover Mel Kadel
contributors Virginie Bégaudeau, Liam Boath, Stefani Bonanno, Finola Cahill, Rebecca Cameron, Katherine Chacon, Eileen W. Cho, Brenagh Conway, A.Creature, Will Mountain Cox, Lily Cross, Matthew D'Abate, Moe Delaitre, Rebecca-Jade Dion, Emma Downes, Harry Garlick, Julia Hall, Sophie Hallé, Shannon Hargraves, Helen Ho, Ira, 7ilo K, Mel Kadel, Kaitlyn Kelly, Sophia Lucia, C MacLeòd, Greg Manis, Talia Masse, Greg Maxwell, Dorottya Horvath May, Jessica Millikan, Oana Moisil, Christine Moore, Marina Moreira, Angela Moreno, Edward Murden, Thibaut Narme, Olivia, Mehdi Ouahes, Andrea Paterson, Rufo Quintavalle, Hailey S., Louis Schofield, Claudia Scott, Sable Strub, Sweet Edge Illustration, Sydney Taub, Elitsa Vlazarova, Emilia Wharfe, Skye Wilson
copyyright statement Spoken Word Scratch Night Vol 01, April 2020. The views and opinions expressed herein are solely the views of and expressions of the authors, artists and/or contributors to Spoken Word Scratch Night and do not necessarily represent the views of Spoken Word Scratch Night or its editors. All work herein has been acquired with permission from the artist.
spokenwordscratchnight@gmail.com @spokenwordscratchnight
Places everyone!
Lights up!
A LETTER FROM YOUR HOST Dearest friends and wanderers of the Internet ether, To say I am not quite sure how we all got here would be a bold exaggeration. We all know why
we
are
here.
Why
I
am
not
bellowing
an
enthusiastic
"WILLKOMMEN!
BIENVENUE! WELCOME!" over a microphone in that cavernous hole in the ground we occasionally called a bar and more often called a den of iniquity. By this point in the show I imagine I would be half way through the first of many tap numbers, howling Sylvia
Plath
while
other
company
members
chant
melodically
from
each
of
the
four
corners of the room and our lone Ghost mascot simultaneously torpedos fortune cookie slips from a recently purchased (and totally necessary) confetti cannon. What can I say... we planned on having a tame show this month. Mais alors, we are not cramped in that cave negotiating chairs, elbows, pints and words. We are here.
We all know why we are here. I am not going to bother to say its name because it has become the all too familiar elephant in the room; in our grocery stores; on the streets where we look for an hour of peace in nature, but rather, find ourselves habitually looking over our shoulders lock-jawed in fear. I am not here to comment on whose to blame; to chide us on how our foolishness has led us to tragedy and destruction. We all wield the power both to intensify our suffering and to relieve it. And the truth is we have always had this power. Perhaps we are coming to realise this now more than ever.
I know why we are all here. And by we I mean us: The Spoken Word Scratch Night crew. Why
we
are
all
here
digitally
bound
in
pixelated
arrangements
of
words
and
images
instead of hiding out until we are liberated from solitude. We are here because I, selfishly, could not be without you. We are here because the community of artists that we have built in that dingy basement pub in Paris has flowered in awe-inspiring ways and I am eager to continue nurturing its growth.
We are all here because I was not ready to give you up just because it took away our ability to physically be in a room together. Frankly, the jokes on it. Here on this digital platform we have found a new room. It has inspired new words and images within us. It has invited new artists into our community. We can still be touched without contact.
I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to each and every one of you who submitted. I am astounded at what a remarkable group of artists we were able to compile in our first Spoken Word Scratch Night digital zine. Some of you are familiar faces from our events; some, friends abroad who had yet to join us; and others, absolute strangers who have become new comrades in our determination to spread the wonders of what art can be. Of what art can do to inspire change, particularly in this time of crisis. My wish for this zine is that it provides you with something: be it respite, rhapsody, rage, rebellion. Or at the very least, that it feeds your insatiable hunger to pass the time.
Now, it is my time to give over the microphone. But, before you embark on the work ahead in this zine, and in your daily lives, I wish to leave you all with a fond phrase from my youth (ah YOUTH!). Some soothing words that were etched into the wall behind the DJ booth of my long-gone favourite discotheque back home. Words that, for me, feel more relevant now than ever:
TAKE CARE OF
EACH OTHER DANCE HARDER!
Stay safe, stay insane
Kaitlyn Kelly
erti al e d e o m @ E R IT AL E D E O M
ACT ONE Feeling low? Here's a toad wearing a rose hat. JULIA HALL @dooublevision
Collective grief and growth in end times.
lyrics by SOPHIA LUCIA @freakshowcabaret
CORONAVIRUS (No Test Kits) My idea of America is hanging on by the thread
On March 14th the bars closed in Gay Paris, and
of my Social Studies textbook that I read when I
the men came with their guns and told us to leave.
was eleven. Toilet Paper and Tylenol are like 50
The idea’s to keep people apart but the next day,
bucks on Amazon… Middle of a pandemic and
‘le lendemain’ les Parisiens were having picnics
we’re still bleeding the people dry, no surprises.
in the park. So now you need an attestation to go
South Korea had their first case the very same day
out and get supplies, and if you’re caught without,
as America, we’ve caught up to the mass hysteria
it’s a fine, and possibly jail time… The Italians
but they’re already “flattening the curve,” as they
are singing from their windows in solidarity, and
say. And day by day, America is running out of
the French are applauding from their windows for
supplies, reusing masks and gowns, seeing who
the working peoples’ bravery, and me, I just
lives or dies, just like in wartime…
wanna rip this hangnail right off with my teeth! But this Covid-19 could be in any nook or crevice
Because we don’t have test kits! So we cannot
on my body, and I would never know-
test this! How we gonna test it if we don’t have test kits? I want to get tested! To see if I’m
Because I can’t get tested! Cuz we don’t have test
infected! But I cannot test it! Cuz we don’t have
kits! How we gonna test it if we don’t have test
test kits!
kits? I want to get tested! To see if I’m infected! But we cannot test this! Cuz we don’t have test
Experts say that Coronavirus can last on surfaces
kits!
between one and one million days and it can stay in your body between now and forever. And if
On March 16th I snuck out of Paris and I met a
you hold your breath for ten seconds and you
kid on the plane and we chatted to quell our
don’t cough that means you don’t have ‘The
anxiety. He had on gloves and a face mask and I
Rona.’ But if you hold your breath for ten seconds
had a lot of hand sanitizer and we sat one seat
and you do cough that means you do have ‘The
apart and we were very very very very very very
Rona.’ And if you don’t copy and paste this text
very careful. And then we got kind of relaxed,
and send it to ten of your closest friends, then you
and he pulled out a snack, and he said, ‘you can
and your whole family are absolutely going to get
have some if you’d like!’ and I really wanted to
‘The Rona.’ Also,
connect in that little way, I wanted to take the peace pipe, but I refrained! And eventually he
wash your hands don’t touch your face wash your
said, “oh you don’t want any?” and I said,
hands don’t touch your face wash your hands don’t touch your face wash your
“I really appreciate the offer and I would love to
hands don’t touch your face
try it. But I just don’t want to run any risks of
wash your hands don’t touch your face wash your
contracting this Donald Trump Virus.”
hands please don’t touch your face
My doctor told me I had to be unable to breathe to possibly see if I could maybe get tested. I asked why I had to be practically dying and they told me, “ma’am, I’m sorry, we are trying…”But we don’t have test kits! So we cannot test this! How we gonna test it if we don’t have test kits? I want to get tested! To see if I’m infected! If we do not test this, we all get infected!
collages by BRENAGH CONWAY @brenaghconway
words by SKYE WILSON @skyegabrielle photographs by STEFANI BONANNO @sbnno
THE WORLD IS ENDING. IT IS STILL SPRINGTIME. Despite it all, the warming skies have us too hot to really cuddle. Still, we lie together, lazy hands on skin, our leg hair barely touching. From my window, I almost see a town still in the distance, hollow now. I imagine flower boxes bursting, showing off only for each other.
I brush my hair still, smile, shave my legs. The razor slips, peels my ankle like a grape for an emperor. I bleed. Just beyond the town, the breathless sea still beats the sand, still tastes of salt, still forms each twist of scummy foam and still the world is ending.
Still, I start a long new book. Still, I worry both for my eyebrows and my grandparents. Still, the rain, still birdsong. Still my leg hair grows. Still your salty hand rests on my cheek.
words by REBECCA-JADE DION photographs by HARRY GARLICK @food_spots_n_cool_shots
ISOLATION Hours tick , Chime through untouched brains , Hollowing out the ghost streets , where people once joyfully scattered their hearts, Boxes of emotions , Clock into four walls, Which separate us from the world which seemed so foreign, The outside , Where grass is always greener, Where hope lingers amongst blooming flowers , Bleached windows , Cast our prosperity, As days and minutes of isolation, Dawn upon me , dawn upon you, Yearning in corners , A switch to turn back the irreversible time , Cries whisper into themselves , As fear echoes , Through every cell , every connective tissue , Bouncing between 4 walls which will fall, Lies painted in the news , Which we climb into with droplets of hope, Nodding to everything as if there was no other way , Hearts palpitating at trigger words of closure and isolation ,
Isolate from the world , Isolate from life , Become a hidden object , Amongst the nothingness which is left , Shadowing into the distance of untouched pages ,
Leave roads, Washed with its black paint , Looking fresh , no one would know any different ,
Trapped within our own thoughts, Making Barbies float as we did as children ,
Knock knock, Who is there ?, Coronavirus, Who creeps isolation within us , Creating questions within the heads of the people,
Knock knock , Wake my fragile body up , When life is no longer in a parallel universe , Where food gets swept off shelves like prey from its predator , Seven letters engulf you,
Knock knock , Who is there ? It’s COVID-19
Disappear and leave no trace within yourself, So us as humans can continue with that life we were living.
words and illustrations by CHRISTINE MOORE @hairstudy
We're always surrounded by nature but living in a city makes it difficult to recognize the impact that all living things on our planet have on all living things on our planet. We are quick to focus on concrete but not on what grows through the cracks. Trees on our streets feel insignificant. We hear birds but remember the disruption of trains passing, cars honking, airplanes flying overhead. Construction makes us forget the sounds of the wind and the rain. Our thoughts are consumed with the inorganic physical world. The objects that we introduce into our lives are often treated with more importance than those created by a force more powerful than humankind. Do we tend to ignore these things because we never asked for them to exist?

The
sun
rises and sets everywhere, the ground is alive no matter how much it is abused, water and air continue to flow, everything is alive in the same atmosphere.
words by MATTHEW D'ABATE
WHAT YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT now the music hits like little stems pushing useless against your legs spiders weaving myths in your ears rain talking like an old friend playing droplet piano notes on your window pane building walls around your heart like a general starving a seiged city drunk on his trap it's a two-fold path taking this pens advice far enough away to be touched close enough to hear words and get dirty
on rain days and on dry days and dark and grey days they cannot touch you you figured out how to be beyond color and light
and it makes more sense out here doesn’t it? all alone riding on word waves hiding under the coral spinning silk letting out your bubbles sound familiar? cause if you’re with me than it does and if it don’t then you’re not.
illustrations by EMILIA WARFE @emilia.nw
My lovely girl,
We're untouchable.
‘Cause us adults are the present of our nation, and you, you’re the future. Even if the future is different from the one we planned before all of this. I watched you run through parks and castles; I watched you skim the benches of theatres; laugh with your dolls, and play with fire trucks. Except now the fire trucks are real. When we hear them it's like they’re saying, "One more!" It could be one of us. But it can't.
We're untouchable.
‘Cause for us, this disease doesn't really exist. That's a rumour magnified by the news that you can’t read. We wanted to have tea outside, to kiss our friends, our grandparents. But, now parents have to find new ways to keep you safe. And in this home you don't realise how lucky you are. But neither do I.
We're untouchable.
‘Cause we haven’t seen anyone die. We aren’t among the families that just lost the one they thought was untouchable, too. They went out and said “hello” to the neighbour. Like us, they didn’t believe everything that was said. We pretended that everything was normal.
We’re no longer untouchable.
‘Cause tomorrow, when we go out, who will be left? I want to say that we will all be there. That we will go back to our simple life. That we will cherish freedom once more. But I can’t. Life is so precious. We haven't forgotten, we're learning. My lovely girl, tomorrow, before we go out and look at the sun like an ordinary spring or summer day, let's think about it.
We’ll say thank you.
We’ll say I love you.
But for now, we’ll stay at home.
Mum.
words by VIRGINIE BÉGAUDEAU illustration by SOPHIE HALLÉ soha.artworks
words by EMMA DOWNES @emma_ni_dhubhain
You've
never
denied
altogether,
your
considered
apartment
you
like
yourself
miss
a
much
them
caged
of
a
hugger,
ferociously.
animal.
You
You
but
now
prowl
watch
too
that
hugs
restlessly
much
are
around
Netflix.
The
characters on screen give you a strange feeling, seeing the blatant casualness with
which
screaming
they
at
touch
them.
each
You
other.
don't,
in
"You case
have
the
NO
IDEA!"
neighbours
you
think
feel
you've
like gone
insane. They're probably going a little insane though, too, being shut in from the
outside
world.
It's
odd
to
be
so
close
and
so
far
away
from
people
at
the
leaving
the
same time.Â
At
night
you
apartment 1pm,
lie
has
in
bed
made
sometimes
and
your
later.
hold
onto
body-clock
You
lie
memories
go
awake
of
haywire,
and
alone
before.
so
with
you your
Not
sleep
from
restless
4am
brain.
to
You
shut your eyes and think about the last time someone touched you, which was several
weeks
ago
sitting
on
his
couch,
breathless
and
wrapped
up
in
each
other. He told you how attractive you were, saying it very matter-of-factly as though it was obvious. You didn't realise he had ever looked at you that way. It gave you the sensation that your bones were floating away from each other. Having someone whose opinion you cared about talk about your body like this made you feel more valuable somehow, and you loved this thought though you recognised struck
how
you
idiotic
again
and
it
was.
again:
In as
the
days
soon
as
that you
followed longed
to
the
deep
irony
be
held
it
of
it
literally
became forbidden.Â
Now,
weeks
fingertips pick
up
days,
as
later,
over
the
cat
though
you're
your for
skin, a
obsessed marvel
cuddle,
saving
them
but up,
with
at she
and
the
the
thought
shape
stalks then
of
your
away.
have
of
one
touch. own
You
body.
don't
long
You
run
You
shower
glorious
your try
for
one;
to
four
letting
the scalding water caress your skin until you turn the colour of a boiled baby lobster. precious
You
carefully
thing.
You
wrap
bask
in
your the
arms
feeling
around of
your
missing
body,
and
treating
being
it
missed.
like
a
After
a
few days you realise that you have begun to create slightly different versions of people in your head, and it is these versions that you miss, rather than your actual
friends.
But
you
miss
your
real
people
as
well;
the
warmth
of
their
breath and the gentle animation of their faces when they talk. You'll make do with memories of touch until the world finds its way back to the real thing.
Claudia Scott | day 16
I'LL KISS YOU ONCE I WASH MY HANDS
words by 7ILO K illustrations by @melkadel
Outside my window. I am indeed far from home! But the sea I see.
PUT SOME GLITTER, POUR SOME WINE
Put some glitter, Pour some wine, Now let’s play everything’s fine.
One two three four five six The world is beautiful The world is not sick. Seven eight I wonder if you still have faith or bottles of wine. Nine ten Listen to Tom Waits. Eleven twelve I wonder how many selves Will break tonight In how many rooms Near how many windows.
words by OANA MOISIL illustration by @sweetedgeillustration
Thirteen Fun has left this reality. Fourteen On the fifteen channel on the TV They say that a girl who was 16 has died Of Covid-19.
31st of March On the fifteen channel on the TV They say that a girl who was 12 has died Of Covid-19.
First of April. I would like to say a funny one But isn’t it funny enough How life has changed faster than the green light How the red light didn’t turn off since then How the orange waits for us there, In the future, Blinking on rhythms never played.
But put some glitter, Pour some wine, Now let’s play Everything’s fine.
words and photograph by EILEEN W. CHO @yo_cho
Spring has now arrived, Everything is so quiet. Hello, from lockdown.
words by IRA @rude.salt
YESTER-HERE We cannot take the temperature of what has commenced only each their own What was distraction is now work And what was work is recent past There’s new kinds of garbage on the street White and blue rubber gloves, and those other ones that are transparent but not elastic There’s folded haphazardly, crumpled attestations Single-use paper confessions
Where can I see a used condom, a pizza box? Where can I hear the noises of yester-here?
An unfamiliar residue The perspirations of this sickly city, of this sickly year
ADJUST YOUR GOALS
words by LILY CROSS
Adjust your goals, Lower the standards to which you hold yourself, Give yourself a break. You had all these plans for this year: you were going to move, it was finally time for that adventure, it was the time you'd finally got back into swimming (but hey don't know if anyone's noticed the swimming opportunities on lockdown in an 8m² room on the 7th floor? Pretty thin on the ground.). This was your time, you were going to finally do the thing. For you maybe doing the thing meant staying the course. Not a change, but a constant. A consistency that you've previously never achieved. That was the longest you'd ever had one job and you had finally settled and felt right. Then you found out that your shift would be ending 5 months and 2 hours earlier than anticipated because all restaurants and bars are closing at midnight, sorry, you must understand we're doing all we can. Obviously you'll stay at home, you'll help flatten the curve. But you can't help but think that right now is not where you had hoped to be this year and that this is so classic you with all these big ideas that you can't see through. But you're wrong, you cannot be held accountable for it becoming April and you not being anywhere near where you had hoped to be. Nobody planned for this. Lower the standards to which you hold yourself, Adjust your goals.
words by FINOLA CAHILL @fifinolala illustration by ELITSA VLAZAROVA @eltisavaleri
ISLANDS shape
Life is a dignity of before and afters. We are punctuated, we like to
timelines ready for the retelling. I have a clear black line drawn around my silhouette, but in the past tense.
I remember the absolute of learning to use scissors,
a wracking joy of knowing that it was perfect and human to cut.
But it is a rare thing to stand between,
most of it happens so quickly you have but breathed and everything has changed.
The rest drips grain by aching grain from clutching palm to floor
and when you are out the other end you are white blind, empty handed and blinking with the how of it.
We are on the bridge and admiring the view.
Here we are spread out, lovely islands, full eyelids, invalids of time. Such privilege! To stand here in the comma, clapping, to be allowed to sing into the relief of knowing
that the world is revising and we are all caught up in the swinging pendulum of maybe. We are already testing the narratives, repeating headlines, drawing sentences to stitch us, snip,
and asking each other this, over and over; “Were you there?” “We were all there?” “But, were you there?”
words by OLIVIA photographs by SYDNEY TAUB
words by REBECCA CAMERON @becslouisee illustration by @sweetedgeillustration
COVID-ICECREAM I remember a time when I could cough up a sputter Watch that dude hack up spit and shoot it straight into the gutter The nice lady wouldn’t stare as I wiped my snotty nose Or judge the sweat patches that seeped right through my clothes
I could squeeze every avocado; I could wipe my hands on my jeans Yes, these ones that now burst so sadly at their seams I ate more than just pasta; drank less liquor, beer and wine Didn’t build friendships with inanimate objects or come home with a fine
But here we are today in 2000-and-fucked I’ve downloaded Tik Tok and the world is stuck I’ve cleaned every square metre of my goddamn flat I’ve watched every Netflix series and I’m getting fat Where there’s silence a plenty and toilet paper is sparse I’m left with my own hand to wipe my big arse
My office attire consists of leggings and a sweater And I realised that yoghurts from the freezer taste better I considered purchasing a Nintendo Switch Until my girlfriend said no, and I dubbed her quarantine witch I set myself a challenge to touch my toes And with a tiny bend in the knees, low and behold, down she goes!
In lock-down they tell us to not lose the plot And in between my weird moments, I’m learning a lot I don’t need social media every hour of every day I can spend time with just me, escape to my courtyard and play
Along with the quarantine witch ordeal I’ve learnt that it’s people that must help people to heal Global air high-five, let’s come together as a team And when this shit show’s over, let’s all grab an ice-cream.
INTER MISSION
Take 10 seconds, 10 minutes, 10 years what do I care I'm only the voice inside your head.
Breathe.
ACT TWO On the first of every month, I wake up and say WHITE RABBIT three times. JULIA HALL @dooublevision
Words for moments.
words by MARINA MOREIRA @__marrrr photographs by STEFANI BONANNO @sbnno
OH, IT'S NOTHING
there's a sound that is like glass breaking the tinkering of a ceramic spoon ceramic plate ceramic chew that you just can't get the fuck away from that: plink plink, plink, plink, plink, plinkplinkplinkplinkplinkplink
it is reminiscent of how inside of you there is a glass castle on a glass hill that stood where all the castles around it have fallen been pelted with the biggest boulders found on your tiny island not to be penetrated not even a crack has weathered the deadliest meanest angriest of storms but came tumbling down with one small kind pebble thrown by a tiny unsuspecting crab.
Cité To maintain our reputation we’ll state it bluntly Whilst we welcome you in this residence universitare we encourage you return to your country we'll look out for your creepy colocataire (she lives under your bed for months doesnt need to be fed) if you stay you will be alone (minus the opportunistic obtruder or drunk) sometimes we'll remain reachable by phone don’t forget you were privileged to stay in this institution and don’t forget we still expect your monthly contribution
words by C MACLEÃ’D photographs by GREG MANIS @beechnutz
words by SHANNON HARGRAVES
FALL Leaves burning in antiquity Gut churning with ambiguity Sky red like fire like end Desire stabbing like blades like dead Love saddened by truth Inconspicuous Color dampened by photosynthesis Chlorophyll starved and Deteriorating Rain washes remnants Resonance Emanating Pure white mitosis Left behind true shade: Raw Symbiosis
words and photograph by LIAM BOATH @elbowphotography_
HOME SUITE HOME.
I just want to scream at everyone like, There is a whole world out there of new foods and wine and people and culture and movies and scripts and poets and artists and sex and sexuality and gender and colour and exploration and adventure and love and lust and heartbreak and experiences and dreams
and
things
that
would
just
open
your
eyes
beyond
the
6
streets
you
know
around you. And show everyone art from the post impression era and explain it and how we came to be who we are and how we speak how we speak. But no one cares here. They just want to make their money. Buy their house. Then die. Quietly. Having made no real impact on the world around them. Like a pair of beige chinos that just sits in a wardrobe until one day it’s thrown out. It does just feel like a movie set that just never changed from when I left it. I don’t want to die and on my grave stone it says, “Here lies Liam...he had a rather wonderful sofa” I just don’t want to be that person. Like every person I’ve met since I’m back is trapped in this rat race of making money and just being better than everyone. And
I’m
like,
has
anyone
here
created
anything
beautiful!
Has
anyone
here
experienced a new culture and learned things about themselves? Has anyone had an experience that was truly unique? Is anyone actually doing what it is they want to wake up and do every day. Has anyone had an original thought recently? Has
anyone
here
actually
bought
a
quarter
of
a
million
pound
house
or
have
you
simply borrowed a quarter of a million pounds from a bank and inheritance money which will now cripple you for the next 30 years? Insular people hell bent on coupling up and being better than the couple next door. I want to find someone who hates this all as much as me and buy a farm house and raise
beautiful
creative
volunteering in Romania.
kids
who
speak
lots
of
languages
and
for
holidays
we
go
And at the weekends we do cocaine and waltz about the garden naked in and out of the hot tub and take photos in the studio. And have chickens, 3 of ‘em. Named Beyoncé, Michelle and the other one.And I just. I just feel this isn’t too much to ask for. I don’t want to get to 85 and wilt away having really gone no where, heard no new stories from faces around the globe. And on my gravestone reads.
Here rests the remains of Liam Perciville Boath the third Who, amongst very little else Owned a wonderful corner sofa. May he Rest, as he lived. In Peace.
Home suite home.
VANCOUVER POEM
From a cloud
My parents bicker
From a plane
The cats prowl
From the eye of a bird
My
friends
laugh
at
my
anecdotes It’s just patches of greens
Now
A lush, jagged chess board
away
made
richer
for
being
Criss crossed by concrete grid Glass towers rise, glistening
Pulled
to
the
enormous
picture
window in the living room I descend between
Like
The snow dusted mountains
glass
Alice
through
the
looking
And the translucent ocean
My
eyes
trace
the
backyard,
The city is the same but different
registering the familiar
Time stands still
And what is new
My old home smells of All the memories that came before
I
always
wanted
to
climb
that
cherry tree in my parents yard Its limbs outstretched, inviting But
my
Mom
said
it
was
too
said
it
was
too
dangerous And
my
Dad
challenging
Growing
up,
I
watched
it
change from naked to budding To pink blossomed to petal-less and naked again
words by JESSICA MILLIKAN @jessicouver photographs by @msultraviolet
When I was a teenager, my parents went out of town, I had a party and climbed the branches as high as I could go And I got stuck up there
From my perch I saw my friends below Laughing and talking with ease: The lights, my house, my past, my present, my future And I laughed under the stars This was never for me The points of light above reflected the Constellations of my life
Now it’s dark outside and the tree is smaller than I remembered Its graceful branches gnarled by time Or is my memory smoothing the details?
I walk down the backstairs while my Mom and Dad snore I find a foothold and I push upward And I keep pushing upward
From
my
vantage
point
the
dark
gives
way
to
familiar shapes My
Dad’s
carefully
tended
garden,
the
kiwi
plants that never bore fruit, The fence my Dad would pay me to paint when I was unemployed, The fire pit where my friends and I would have back to school wiener roasts, My memories paint a picture flickering around the backyard Like
a
zoetrope
spinning
around
producing
a
haphazard motion picture
The
“For
Sale”
sign
now
hammered
into
lawn Could very well be a steak through my heart And I still refuse to climb down
Even as I live in Paris And winter slowly warms into spring The trees bud into flowers Mesmerising The cherry tree still holds me
the
SET The night is hot with the reflection kicking off the moon and the night kicking off. I put my fingers in wet cement and learn how to spell. Your name is like summer buildings with the purple blue pink gold embossed and the moon even further. I like to dance, and so do you apparently, so all there’s left to do is proving. But more about the moon, and how it reflects your smile up, onto my lips. And more about your lips, your lips, your lips. Your hair is a lot more. You asked me once, to eat off of it. Yes is of course what I said back. You’re made of something, and I’m made of something, and I don’t wanna know what. Smoke from your cigarette is getting in the way of the moon, of the moon, of the moon, and I can hear the music and see what it’s doing to your muscles; the flex they’ll press into me. But back to the moon, and your hair, and those werewolves. I am an American in Paris in my own little movie with dancing to prove and your hair, and your lips,
words by WILL MOUNTAIN COX @willmountaincox photograph by EILEEN W. CHO @yo_cho
and the moon.
words by MEHDI OUAHES
THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN What
happened
to
our
kind?
Sometimes,
I
wonder…
All
was
would
not
peaceful,
sometimes
of
steal
course.Scavengers
our
reserves
and
we
had our fair share of enemies. But, above all Long
ago,
struck
the
fear
power
and
mere
into
mention
the
might
of
hearts
were
our
of
name
else,
Our
kind
men.
formidable.
Though,
we
stood
never
united.
walked
Outcasts alone.
aside,
We
our
hunted,
feasted, and died in groups.
nowadays we are but a shadow of our former selves.
I
like
to
reminisce
over
these
Now look at us.
forgotten times.
Scattered We
are
an
customs
and
ancient
breed
traditions,
with
passed
age-old
down
from
weak. pride
generation to generation. Our ancestors were
with
proud
the
kings
absolute was
rule
on
as
soon
ours
matter
and
how
queens their as
imposing
kingdom.
we
set
large.Anyone
their
Any
foot
on
who
land it,
no
dared
to
to
distance would
meant
take
a
our
that
golden the
miracle
cloaks
end
for
was
them
in
the
near.
to
It
tribal
cells. our
of
start
fighting
to
so
learn that
the
art
they
of
younglings hunting
became
are
now
pathetic Now,
other
that gone,
we
the
replaced
bodies. barely
before
and
were
going
Gone
is
share
a
our
own
They
put
collars
and
on
give
us
Sometimes,
us
to
just
they
symbolise
enough lift
us
food
up
in
will
be
escape
the
would
our
each
survive.
How
three,
spirit.
at
dependent
their arms and try to suffocate us.
warriors.
age
breed
servitude
alive, let alone unharmed.We were a race of By
our
globe, statures
ways. Heartless giants keep us imprisoned in
Just
sight
of
the
muscular
under-grown,
glance
oppose us was to be hunted down and killed. the
around
The
and
capable
the
hero
mighty
have
capable
of
fallen!
Who
reigniting
our
fighting
spirits? Who will save us? Well…I believe I am the chosen one.
warriors by adulthood.
Indeed, Each
tribe
had
its
own
ruler;
a
fierce
within
I
feel
me!
I
the
am
spirit
a
proud
eminence who commanded respect among his
warrior
peers. The hunters gave him a good share of
longer!
their
his
my
for
NOW!!…ow…Meow!
loot
position
as
was
a
tribute.
highly
Naturally,
coveted.The
battles
Where
again,
door!
than
may
alive
defeat
and
would
have
been
wounded,
result
in
better
for
eternal
a
off
dead
humiliating shame
and
a
life of exile.
Our
women
were could
the
were
pillars
not
noble of
function
and
our
beautiful.
societies
without
them.
They
and Not
we
only
caring mothers and wives, but also fearsome huntresses.
I
are I’m
I
have
freedom
supremacy were bloody and often fatal. Then you
and
refuse had
and
you?
I
hungry,
Meoooooow!
of
to
and be
enough I
want
my
ancestors
independent
enslaved
masters! it
now!
Meoow!!
know give
you’re me
I
any want
NOW! Human?
behind
food!
that
Please!
words and photographs by HAILEY S.
“This is Alfonso Acquapazza. He owns a sausage shop in THIS Queens. He is happily married and in good health. His wife’s name is Lidia Acquapazza.” IS ALFONSO ACQUAPAZZA One of the secrets of the longevity of the Acquapazza marriage was an ability to say things without saying them in as many words. So when Alfonso’s friend, Ernie, invited him to become a silent partner in his
rapidly expanding pet care business Lidia made it obliquely yet clearly understood that she thought this was a bad idea.
words and photograph by RUFO QUINTAVALLE @anemic_opus
“Ozone Park today is not the Ozone Park you and I grew up in,” said Lidia while frotting that evening’s fennel on her graceful mandoline. “You’re not wrong,” said Alfonso. “I remember when every household had a diabetic husky or a weak-kneed borzoi with a gastric ring. Now you can drive for blocks without seeing a rapidly expanding pet.” “It’s the Asians,” said Alfonso. “Started with the Poles.” “You’re not wrong,” said Alfonso, and walked up behind her and touched the small of her back. * They never discussed the topic again until the day Ernie’s wife, Margaret, passed away. She was only 57 and Ernie was distraught. “You do what you’ve got to do,” said Lidia. So, after taking care of the flowers and posting a comment in cursive script in the online book of condolence, Alfonso asked his lawyer to draw up documents that would give him a minority stake with full voting privileges and a priority dividend in E. P. Palazzo LLC. * “You’re a good man,” said Ernie as he poured them both a slug of Branca Menta. “And she was a good woman.” “There’s good and bad in all of us, Ernie,” said Alfonso. “Why don’t you bring the kids round this weekend and we can grill some salsiccia?” “I’d like that,” said Ernie, and the two men hugged then drank their drinks in silence. * Ernie had the appearance of a man who had never learnt how to dress himself.
The mess of checks and
stripes made Alfonso think of a weather map. The kids were fleshier than the last time he had seen them. Nobody looked like they had slept much.
Lidia fixed everyone drinks and handed round the olives, and
Alfonso and Ernie drifted over to the grill. “There’s kids in Gowanus giving facials to their Maine coons,” said Ernie. “Two hundred dollars a pop.” Alfonso laughed. “I’m serious.
Think about it.
We take our brand and bring it to the other boroughs.
We know oversized
domestic animals better than anyone. We’d be crazy to stay in Queens.” “I don’t know, Ernie. It works. You’ve got a good business. Why change things?” “You grow or you perish, Al. And it’s ‘we’ now not ‘you’.” “Or else you grow and perish,” thought Alfonso but bit his tongue.
“Pork or veal?” he said.
And Ernie
said pork. * “How did you think he looked?” Alfonso asked Lidia that evening. “They were such a beautiful couple,” said Lidia. “The children seemed lost.” “He’s thinking of taking the business to Brooklyn,” said Alfonso. “Go West!” said Lidia and laughed. “Why not?” * It was all going fine until he fell, and when he fell he fell very bad indeed.
Some people said that a man
of Ernie Palazzo’s experience should never have allowed himself to be taken in like that. inclined to cut him a little slack. experience.
The wrong person comes along at the right time and you allow yourself to fall.
works or it doesn’t but if we aren’t all a little foolish from time to time well then what? nothing, no happy Acquapazzas.
Others were
My take on the whole story was that it had nothing to do with So what?
It
No love, no
ODE TO A COWBOY Las Vegas
So far away,
In the desert it lives,
Why won’t you back me up? Back up my argument Back me into you.
Tambourine love they call it,
The smell of flowers in the backseat A red light, pair of green eyes Two purple tongues.
Your tongue, inside of me
strawberry toast, and
While I gush over you. Peaches and Jam, jam on On my belly
Mopped up with a flower,
Rare glimpses into the souls of Swans, oh what a terrific cock.
Your cock is no match for my hen So save yourself the loss
A petal, a peach colored petal, Blue velvet... that is, you are
And so am I. A ribbon of silk circles us, Our corpses; died together after Your tenderness faded, Like the dryness I feel for you. Witches perishing are not songs They are not poems, Not works of greatness, but Oddities, tragedies.
And tell me how bad you want to fuck... Spare my panties.
You wore me in, wore yourself out,
Though I can still feel your arms Tightened, tensed;
Like roses about to bloom,
Tore free from flesh in the cold air, Naked.
Indeed the sun held them close But they died. In
every
breath
memory of us.
you
breathe
Well guess what, I faked it.
out
the
words by SYDNEY TAUB @nightgownstoner illustration by GREG MAXWELL @uglyvision
words by ANGELA MORENO @damnright14
ELLA
illustrations by LOUIS SCHOFIELD @louistouki
-“Some nights are long, longer than any other. You need to be really active, but sometimes it’s hard because you’re hella tired.” -“Have you ever fallen asleep?” -“No, not really. When you feel you’re not gonna be able to do it, you just take caffeine pills or cocaine.” -“Cocaine?” -“Some do.” -“Do you?” -“Nope, promised mom I was gonna take care of myself. Plus, I’ve never been a fan. The pills already make me act awkward enough, can’t imagine what that shit’d do.” -“What do you mean?” -“Well, last time I took them, I hadn’t slept at all for 2 days because I had to reach a goal, you know, and thought 2 would keep me up, but all they did was making me sit down on the bed, shaking and anxious, feeling like I could faint anytime; awful night.” -“Did you call someone?” -“Nah, had to stay there, interacting, you know, you can’t let them see through. They can’t know the truth; well, not like they care anyway.” -“What’s the longest you’ve stayed without sleeping?” -“Mmm, maybe a week?” -“Maybe?” -“I mean, you sleep like an hour or 2 every other day.” -“You take breaks?” -“If you see there’s the chance, if not, someone might help you, like, they pay.” -“I see.” -“Yeah.” -“Why would someone help you if they don’t care about you?” -“Ah, well, I don’t know, because they see how exhausted you are? Sometimes they see you falling asleep, they see you can’t keep your eyes open and maybe some corner you forgot to hide full of empty cans of energy drinks so they kinda feel bad for you, and they decide to help.” -“Didn’t you say they don’t care about you?” -“They don’t, and if some do they’re not willing to do much about it. Most of them just feel bad for you, like... condescending.” -“Better than nothing, I guess?”
-“Yeah, here, mercy is the ultimate gift.” -“Do you experience any other type of exhaustion or is it just the lack of sleep?” -“The lack of sleep is the hardest to deal with, but of course there are more types of exhaustion. Like, when you can’t get up because your feet hurt so bad after having danced in high heels for so many hours. Or when your lower back hurts from having danced for so long as well; and obviously when your body can’t stand any other strange object being introduced.” There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at her and hated myself immediately for having felt the same mercy she so much condemned.
-“Too explicit?” -“No, not at all. Was just thinking.” -“About?” -“Is there anything good to it?” -“The money.” She said after a thick uprising smoke escaped her mouth ajar. She looked at me and smiled, as I imagine she smiles to thousands more.
words and photograph by DOROTTYA HORVATH MAY @dorihmay
My school yard was covered in gravel. I was
It was 6 pm and my mom walked around a
7, playing tag with my classmates. I looked
huge school yard covered in gravel for an
down
was
hour to look for my pebble. Even though she
round, pink and just absolutely beautiful. I
knew we would not find it, she wanted to
picked it up and put it in my pocket.
make sure that I knew, that she treasures my
and
saw
the
perfect
pebble.
It
treasures. I couldn’t wait to show my mom. I reached into my pocket. It wasn’t there. I lost it. I
I told this story once, to a person I’d just met.
started to cry. Again, I lost it.
We were high. (I might be high now. ) He said, if anyone ever asks “What’s your mom
And then my mom took my hand and looked
like?”... just tell them that story.
at me in the eyes and said “We’re gonna go look for it”. We walked back to my school
I know no one asked, but... that is what my
and she spoke to the groundskeeper and told
mom is like.
her the situation.
words by THIBAUT NARME
AND THAT IS GOOD Mid-morning, the wake-up in A bedroom is half lit in natural light She's already up, doing downstairs And that is good
Yellow and white scrambled eggs on my cream plate A kitchen is bright—her smile She says I hear And that is good
The water stopped rushing down my scalp I dry and dress slowly humming a song I get out, hair undone, so she laughs And that is good
The telly tells us but we forget in each other arms Laid back, lazying on the sofa, looking at the garden beyond French windows The sun hits noon, it shines reverberant and warm in the living room And that too is good
100 WORD STORY PROMPT Text in response to a @spokenwordscratchnight Instagram story prompt. We asked for a one hundred word story inspired by this image.
by EDWARD MURDEN @spookyelvis_
A PENNY DROPS
If
you
and
stand
drop
on
a
top
of
penny
a
tall
then
building
it
can
kill
someone but then again he’d heard that wasn’t true.
In
these
cold
as
touch,
past
few
years
the
concrete
to
his
predictively
spill.
calling
friend
could
his
stop
what
he’d
would
grown be
to
as his
blood
that
would
He’d
thought
about
again
had
but
already
nothing been
put
in motion.
His
wife
had
left
a
note,
she
didn’t
want anything, the money was no good. His
friend
would wind.
had
usually
said
scatter
that
the
the
penny
updraft to
the
by ELITSA VLAZAROVA @elitsavaleri
The
first
like
the
ready
first
to
would
day
day
meet
go
away
after
quarantine...
of
my
friends,
further
from
something
school.
than
home.
Not
weird...
My
It
felt
Excited
and
happy
one
I
kilometre
gonna eyes
that
lie,
were
I
felt
heavy,
I was too slow. I managed to walk a few hundred
meters
away
from
my
building
when I fell to the ground.
All
I
remember
swallowed
me,
tears.
People
street
kept
how
is
I
is woke
still
the
that
how
the
up
sweat
speak
outline
of
possible,
in
about my it
earth and
how
body.
was
the But
all
a
dream...?
by TALIA MASSE @pieceofpyro
Claude had
was
his
given
friend
an
Pierre
art
project
trace
his
so
he
shadow.
He was so thrilled when everyone moved to
not
wreck
pictures. fine. time.
He
He’s
it
and
people
received
not
even
an
F
were and
appreciated
taking a
â‚Ź300
in
his
oi d uts dri b n e v o @ N O S R ET A P A E R D N A
words by KATHERINE CHACON @kamchacon99 illustrations by ANDREA PATERSON @ovenbirdstudio
THE MAGE AND THE FIREFLY This is a story about magic and fire. In
a
village
by
the
ocean
lived
a
woman
who
stood
apart
from
the
other
women. There was something slight, yet distinctly different about her. She had a secret that she kept so that the villagers would not fear her. They
were
not
unkind
people,
but
to
keep
the
peace,
the
woman
kept
her
secret. The truth was, the woman was a mage.
As the sun set each evening, she would walk through a forest that ended on a cliff overlooking the ocean. As the moon rose, she would reach up and draw down a cloak of starlight. Throwing it over her shoulders, the woman became the Mage. She would spend the evenings mending the broken branches of trees with her magic, and settling quarrels among the animals. The forest life was grateful, but they were not her companions. Though her magic brought her joy, the Mage was lonely.
There was a Fire. It had burned so powerfully, it frightened everyone away. Fearing its own power, the Fire changed itself into a firefly. In
this
form,
its
true
power
was
hidden,
and
no
one
was
afraid of it.
The Firefly would dance, bringing smiles to the faces of all who watched it. And the Firefly was happy. It forgot that it had ever been Fire.
One evening, as the sun was setting, on a cliff overlooking the ocean, the Firefly came across a woman. Because of her magic, the woman could sense the Firefly’s true form. She was overjoyed to find someone not unlike herself. “Firefly, behold!” She said as the moon rose and she drew down her cloak of starlight, transforming into the Mage. The Firefly landed on her palm and The Mage said, “Now Firefly, won’t you show me your true self?” And the Firefly danced. Its glow tracing streaks of orange and gold across the night sky, weaving beautiful patterns as it flew. Pleased with its show, the Firefly landed on the Mage’s palm. But the Firefly was shocked to see tears streaking the Mage’s face. The Firefly flew away as quickly as it could, unable to understand the Mage’s sorrow.
Days
passed,
but
the
Firefly
could
not
forget
her.
The Mage on the cliff overlooking the ocean. So the Firefly flew back to her. When
the
Firefly
returned,
it
found
the
Mage
frozen in place. The
sadness
in
her
heart
had
turned
the
Mage
to
ice.
The Firefly became Fire. As flames engulfed the Mage, the ice surrounding her vanished. She was beautiful in the Fire, the warm colors of the flames reflected in her cloak of starlight, and she smiled. Wreathed in flames the Mage said, “You are Fire, and you are beautiful. You are the Firefly, and you are beautiful.” The Fire, once more, turned back into a Firefly and landed on the Mage’s palm, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. And neither was lonely.
words by SABLE STRUB @sablestrub portraits by MOE DELAITRE @moedelaitre
YOU WAKE UP You wake up You wake up like any other day You stumble to the bathroom searching for the light that’s almost impossible to find even though this is your house and you know exactly where it is because you do this every day Lights on I brush my teeth Fuck Now my coffee is gonna taste like shit Why do I do this every morning Habit is a funny bitch I carry on with my morning routine everything seems as normal I start walking to work but something isn’t like every other day I have this odd feeling that something isn’t right. Something is off But I brush it off and chalk it up to stress or not enough sleep or maybe this is how your supposed to feel So I carry on like usual whilst pushing down this awful feeling of anxiety that something is just not right Then it happens The thing you somehow knew was coming The body is a strange thing. It tried to warn me but I was just not ready to listen. “Hey you this is gonna happen and you need to be ready” I’m sitting here thinking. No not me, This wouldn’t happen to me But it did so I’m standing at work and this feeling of complete and utter loss of control comes over me I go to the doctor I lost my baby, the baby I never even got the chance to meet. How the fuck did that happen All I could think about was what did I do Did I not sleep enough Not enough water Too much coffee Too much stress Are you ok? Is there someone here with you? No I’m fine thanks. Just tell me what I have to do now A few weeks later You wake up You wake up Like any other day But this time it’s a little more empty and you just can’t seem to fill that space. Two months go by You wake up You wake up like any other day and you say to yourself fuck it. Right? Shut up anxiety I’ll be fine. I am fine One day at a time Fuck I brushed my teeth before my coffee again
words by KAITLYN KELLY @msultraviolet illustration by @a.creature
TETHERED Sour grapes pressed between the pages Where you braved life Critically wounded the juice bleeds sticky Stinging the land owned by future scars There is a numbness to your voice A trickle of truth I think enough time has passed That we don’t have to pretend anymore I will hold you and you will resist We are leather bound books that wish to be cartons of fresh milk Drawing out the poison it slowly stings your lips You beat your chest in agony Tell me your secret yes that one
words by CLAUDIA SCOTT photographs by HELEN HO @helenhophotography
SMALL GRACES LIKE LIGHT, AND THE THINGS THAT MAKE YOU FEEL LIGHTER and
by
light
I
mean
mornings,
waking
up
to
the
sun
illuminating
a
white
walled space and in that space music swells in your heart a crescendo and by your heart I mean the delicate way your love nestles alongside your grief and still there is room for your joy to pull through. A small grace like joy
and by joy I mean sundown dance parties on river banks in July, drunk off each other and the abundant July-ness of it all. A small grace like time spent lying down with the night so that she can whisper how her darkness is her most profound feature, but still, a small grace like light, and by light I mean a thousand sunflowers sprouting from the ground, that persistent golden dew, claiming it on your skin, painting acres of wild with your brightness. A small grace like life and its lemons, soaking up that zest
and
by
zest
I
mean
you,
just
as
you
are,
a
small
grace,
basking
in
the
knowledge that you are the heat and heaving of the earth. A small grace like a glance gaze
at
of
the
you
submerging
stars doing
and
the
what
yourself
way
you
with
they
love.
sparkle
A
small
knowledge
of
and
by
grace
sparkle
like
numbness
I
salt,
and
mean like
desire
a
mirror-
ocean,
to
like
sometimes
feel it. A small grace like ripples and by ripples I mean the way the desire for kindness
pulses
out
from
your
heart
to
your
whole
being.
A
small
grace
like
dance
and
by
have
dance
never
casino.
A
I
mean
met
her,
small
your have
grace
like
body
and
its
never
let
her
touching,
movement fold
like
you
like like
touching
as
you a if
do
bad you
not
know
hand
in
have
a
only
fear, dingy ever
known kind hands. A small grace like coffee, coffee with friends, coffee with sugar and cream and every sweetness. A small grace like the blue in her eyes and
the
first
freckles
on
her
cheeks
in
spring.
A
small
grace
like
Sundays
in
bed or the theatre or a jazz bar at midnight, achingly alive. A small grace like being mean
alive, your
like
body
being taking
alive up
and
space,
moving
and
stretching
unapologetic,
making
and
by
stretching
more
of
yourself
I
for
the hands of your lovers or the sun and her kisses. A small grace like joy, and like love, blooming in the stadium of your heart
and by your heart I mean light, and by light I mean the ways it moves around your body, the small grace of your shape that exists, so, so bright.
'TIL SOON
photograph by @msultraviolet
Blackout.