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BOHEMIA March 2014

Adam Howard: The Duke of Norfolk Media Slander: Richard Jewell Writing Tools: Character Sketches

genx The 90s Issue rave, grunge, goth, the berlin wall

art, fashion, photography, music, fiction & poetry

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BOHEMIA March 2014

Volume 4, Number 3

Poetry Selections 7,10,22,24,26,40,47

6 Generation Print/photography by Jon Goddi 12 The Partial Information Age/Pete Able 16 Decade of Change/Gary Lee Webb 21 Concrete Jungle/photography by Bonnie Neagle & Marcel van Es 28 I Fell in Love/Michael Gill 31 Katy/Fiction by Thomas Kearnes 34 The Duke of Norfolk/Caleb Farmer 39 Bus Stop/photography by Jon Goddi 42 John/Mona Zutshi Opubur 44 The First Time/Fiction by William Blackrose 46 Ravin/photography by Cheri Schaffer 56 Writing Tools/William Blackrose

genx The 90s Issue rave, grunge, goth, the berlin wall

Read our submission guidelines at to find out how to place your poem, art, short fiction, essay, or photograph in Bohemia. Cover shot by Bonnie Neagle and Marcel van Es. Featuring Aoife Gorey with hair by Kimmarch Merryweather and • 3 2014• bohemia makeup by Kimberly Cutler.

BOHEMIA March 2014 Volume 4, Number 3 ISSN No. 2162- 8653 Editor: Amanda Hixson Writers: Pete Able, William Blackrose, Michael A. Gill, Caleb Farmer, Gary Lee Webb Photographers: Jon Goddi, Bonnie Neagle, Cynthia Wheeler, Cheri Schaffer Ad sales Charis Dillon HMU: Alex Williams with contributions from Kimberly Cutler and Kim Merryweather. Thank you Boho Models Crew. Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines. More information can be found at Pgs 2 - 13 Photography by Jon Goddi Makeup by Alex Williams Featuring Auggie Del Rey Brenda Flores & Stella Jane. This page, Stella Jane.

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Photography by Jon Goddi Makeup by Alex williams Featuring Auggie Del Rey Brenda Flores & Stella Jane

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Why I Cried That Day At School by Kaspar M. Wilder

Frieda, on the cobblestone, letting her arms swing free. Frieda, head tilted back, savoring the waves of sky. Frieda, young, lithe and pretty, her eyes dark and soft. Frieda, stepping into the street, eyes shining, Frieda, blind to the black car hurtling towards her. Frieda, where are you? Frieda, look out! Which will be faster: Will death wrap his boa-constrictor arms Around her dreams, Or will she sprout wings and fly through the sky Like it was made of paper, An arrow led by dark eyes. Frieda, look out! Frieda…falling…

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Dawn Dreams at Night by Susana Hernandez

Awake in my dark room Blurred darkness began to settle City lights illuminating the dark Deep colors reflected the walls Emery lights began to dance Flowers drew from the ground Ginger colored grass followed in Haze lingered in the crisp air Insect’s song resounded in darkness Jewels scattered about the sky Knowing not what happened suddenly Lights began to creep out Mornings sun’s arrival is near Night starts to fade away Out came the interrupted silence Parted colors split the sky Quiet lay upon my surroundings Realized my presence never moved Sitting up, I think back The time where I saw the Unmoved stars in the sky Viewing the clear night alone Where life used to be Xyst, the path long gone Years passed and the morning Zeals towards a new beginning

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The Partial Information Age by Pete Able



saw it on the Internet, so it must be true. Skeptical? So is the typical consumer of news by pixel ratio. But perhaps there’s a truth within this axiom. Barring Nostradamus, all news by definition is a retelling of history. At times, the retelling shapes our perceptions of people and ideas based on who is actually proclaiming the news, and what biases they bring with them to the “story at this hour.” This idea isn’t new to the Internet, however. It’s been around awhile. The Internet brings speed and content at rates unfathomable even 15 years ago. And that doesn’t make it less reliable. It makes it more trustworthy than ever. Just ask Richard Jewell.

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uly 27th, 1996. Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta. The nation was buzzing about hosting the Summer Olympics, and here in Atlanta, thousands of spectators had gathered for a late night concert by the band Jack Mack and the Heart Attack. What none of them realized, was a pipe bomb was set for detonation inside a green military-style backpack laying at the base of one of the concert’s sound towers. Richard Jewell, a security officer on site, spotted the backpack and alerted other authorities, all while encouraging folks to move away. Before a bomb-squad arrived, the bomb exploded, killing one person and wounding 111 others. Richard Jewell was hailed as a hero for three days. On the fourth day, he became the prime suspect.



o one has an exact start date for the Internet. The backbone for such an achievement was formed in the 1960’s as a US government sponsored project. During the 1980’s the National Science Foundation issued grants to increase the network infrastructure. This led to additional Internet exposure in some academic areas, particularly those focused on research, though even by 1994 only 3 percent of American classrooms had access. In 1995, the National Science Foundation Network, or NSFNET, was de-commissioned, removing the final barrier to using the Internet for commercial business. Since that time, the Internet universe expanded much like the Big Bang. Today, roughly 40 percent of the world’s 7 billion people can be considered users of the Internet. Of the developed world, that number jumps to nearly 80 percent, or as most system administrators would say, “a hell of a lot of people.” Point being, it is now the driving force for promoting news, culture, commerce, and to use a modern turn of phrase, social networking. Images courtesy of stock.exchng

ichard Jewell lived in an apartment with his mother. Richard also owned a number of weapons, and he frequented a cabin in the backwoods of Georgia to go hunting. Richard was a lone wolf, and after a phone call to the FBI from a previous employer, Richard was suddenly labeled as a person of interest to the investigators. When word of this reached the Atlanta Journal-Constitution newspaper, they ran the story. What followed the next few weeks is one of the best recorded cases of “trial by media.” Other major news sources from CNN to the New York Post ran stories profiling Richard Jewell. While these stories never officially accused Richard of committing the crime, they all but solidified his standing as the perpetrator in the public’s mind. With only a handful of major news channels and papers to choose from, Joe Public joined into the warning cry that Richard Jewell may have only been trying to set himself up as the “hero” all along. A jaded, failed police officer, fed up with the system that keeps him down, plants a bomb that only he can find. Only none of it was true. Kurt Cobain, search engine term.


oday I can start up my computer or tablet, open an Internet browser, search for the term “Nirvana”, and literally spend the rest of my life reading articles about Kurt Cobain. Some of these articles may be highly opinionated. Some may be complete fabrications. Many of them will be utterly fascinating, and there is no question I would end up learning something I didn’t know about this legendary grunge band and its infamous lead singer. Who knows? After a few pages of scrolling I might even learn a thing or two about Buddhism, since the term also represents that religion’s version of Heaven. Either way, the point remains the same. The news today is still a reflection of history, and the pool that bears that reflection is wider than it has ever been. But that doesn’t mean it is shallower. It is as deep and vast and wondrous as the diver chooses to go. march 2014• bohemia • 15


ichard Jewell was never arrested or named as more than a person of interest in the 1996 Olympic bombing. And yet, between August and October of that same year, his background was exhaustively investigated as media hounds pursued him relentlessly on every casual errand. Two of the bombing victims actually filed lawsuits against Richard during this time. As the evidence of his involvement led to more and more dead ends, Richard was finally exonerated. His life returned to normal, if normal means answering “yes” to the wondering stares of strangers. “Yes, I’m that Richard Jewell. No, I am not a nutcase.” The following year, two more bombings took place at an abortion clinic and a lesbian night club, both in Atlanta. Details about the bombs and a partial license plate led the FBI to identify Eric Rudolph as the suspect for the Olympic bomb as well. He became 16 • bohemia • march 2014

a fugitive until his arrest five years later in May, 2003. Rudolph eventually pled guilty in April, 2005, nearly nine years after Richard Jewell was named as the prime candidate by the media. Before his death of natural causes in 2007, Richard Jewell successfully sued a number of major news outlets for libel. He appeared on Saturday Night Live in a mock skit with Will Ferrell where he fended off suggestions that he was responsible for the deaths of Mother Teresa and Princess Diana. In 2006, the governor of Georgia publicly thanked Richard for his role in helping to save lives at the Olympics. Perhaps these accolades were worth the few weeks of infamy he endured. Then again…


ome truths about the Internet are certain. The Web has enabled individuals and organizations to publish ideas and in-

formation to a potentially large audience online. They do so at a greatly diminished time and expense when compared to printed media. A traditional library is a wonderful place filled with information ready to be absorbed by the next generation of news readers and history lovers, but do not make the mistake of elevating its stature over that of the great digital encyclopedia in the sky. Decentralization is the key to this new age of reason. The sum of our knowledge does not increase by paper and ink, or by confining the source to entities with a New York publishing house stamp of approval. Neither the location or promoter of content matters. It is the people’s desire for the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and their willingness to seek it out. The more information to seek, the merrier. If we could ask Richard Jewell, I bet he’d agree.

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Decade of Change by Gary Lee Webb


o you remember the 90s ? Many of you do not. If you are less than 24, the fall of the Berlin Wall was before you were born. Yet it was one of the most significant events in modern history, just two months before the nineties, the decade of change. And the 90s truly were a decade of change that began with the collapse of the Iron Curtain. The decade saw a flowering of democracy across Eastern Europe. But it was also the beginnings of the Muslim jihad: 9/11 was less than two years after! For much of the Twentieth Century, the two most powerful countries in the world were the United

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States of America and the Soviet Union. The latter was established December 1922 after the four-year Russian Civil War, stretching from the middle of Europe across the whole of Asia, the largest country in the world. After World War II, it was surrounded by occupied countries, limned by a tightly patrolled border known as the Iron Curtain. The Berlin Wall was the most conspicuous feature of the Iron Curtain. The Berlin Wall was built in the 1960s to stem the flow of emigration from communist controlled East Germany to the west. During the 1950s, twenty percent of the East German population had

fled the Soviet client state, 3.5 millon people. The communist leadership decided they needed to do something, and for three decades, a 96-mile-long barrier surrounded West Berlin. It was largely successful: during the thirty years of its existence, only 5000 attempted to escape across the wall. Anyone trying to escape had to survive multiple fences, concrete barriers, barbed wire, and a 300’-wide freefire killing zone. Over 100 did not survive, and very few succeeded in escaping. But in November 1989, less than two months from the new decade, the wall started to fall, and on 3 October 1990 the two halves

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of Germany formally reunified. The collapse of East Germany was preceded by a decade of economic collapse and resulting unrest. It took years of strikes (organized by the Solidarity labor union), but eventually Poland elected a noncommunist government in June 1989. During 1990, 26 formerly communist nations followed suit. But not all of the transitions were pacific. Roumania erupted in violent revolution during the last two weeks of 1989 after a popular minister was arrested 16 December. It took 1104 deaths, but the government was overthrown, and a new government was elected in May 1990. Czechoslovakia did transition peacefully. The communist government fell during the bloodless “Velvet Revolution” of NovemberDecember 1989, and a new government was elected June 1990. Unity was not in their future, however: the two halves of the country split into The Czech Republic and Slovakia on 1 January 1993. The Soviet Union itself also dissolved, formally breaking up on 26 December 1991. Before that point, three of the nations it had

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absorbed after World War II broke away first: Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, leaving 12 “republics” still in the Soviet Union. And then a year later, it disintegrated entirely, becoming Russia and eleven smaller nations. But the most notable feature of the 90s was the break-up of Yugoslavia. Far from peaceful, it was the biggest conflict to hit Europe in 45 years, killing 140,000 people and ending over seven decades of somewhat turbulent union. The Yugoslav wars began with the declaration of independence by Slovenia and Croatia, and eventually wound down during the early 21st century, resulting in the complete break-up of the country into six separate nations, possibly seven. Kosovo (the Muslim region in south-eastern Serbia) has been recognized as an independent nation by 108 of the UN’s 193 members. Thus the 90s resulted in the break-up of three nations into 24, at the cost of almost 1/7 of a million people. However, recent events indicate that the process which began in the 90s still continues. While the fighting over Kosovo ended in 1999, only the presence of peacekeeping troops kept Serbia from

invading during the next decade. And while the majority of the UN (including the USA) supports their independence, Serbia claims Kosovo as a province. And this past year has seen violent upheaval in the Ukraine. Protests against the pro-Russian President, Viktor Yanukovych, began in November 2013, escalating each month. In February 2014, the government cracked down violently, killing more than 80. The backlash resulted in a widespread loss of support for Yanukovych. The situation remains in flux: the president has fled to Russia, as the Ukrainian parliament declared him a war criminal and threatened to send him to the Hague for trial. Russian forces first occupied the Crimean peninsula despite international protests, then watched as Crimea declared independence from the Ukraine, and then annexed the peninsula outright. Will Russia carve off more parts of the Ukraine? Only time will tell. The 90s were a decade of change, but apparently the Decade of Change is still not done winding down.

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n the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tasting room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco). Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.

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Kim Merryweather

un crete gle J con The 90s were a time of cliques, but cliques of variations that didn’t mix or matter. My friend Crystal was a prep, but listened to the grungiest bands on vinyl, first in our group to get pierced, right across her midriff. There was an almost fatal way we clung to each other Photography by Bonnie Neagle & Marcel van Es Assisted by Cheri Schaffer Hair by Kim Merryweather Makeup by Kimberly Cutler

like we needed “us” in order to stay sane, to exist even. If nothing lasts forever, then we would do nothing for forever. We ran the streets. We ran with style. We ran with flavor. And no one could beat us because we already knew we were losers. And losers stick together.


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Cardinal Pumps by Pete Lankarge

We were all your eager young interns that summer, Big Mac. We were all happily blowing you under the desk and you just let it fly, didn’t you? Your secret sauce stained our soft, pretty dress.

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90s Movies Matter

by Matthew Wilson

The 90s were a time of bland music, with friends around the TV, and on it. The 80s had bad hair and rock videos, but the last decade of the millenium killed Star Wars, but better, Quentin Tarantino killed some Reservoir Dogs. Before the wars of the second millenia, there were skirmishes in the 90s. But Maculay was Home Alone and James Bond was reborn as Brosnan. South Park made children laugh at things they shouldn’t, and X-Files chilled them with it’s secrets. Titanic sank the box office and Bryan Adams raised the music charts, setting the record past wet wet wet. Matrix started with a bang before it went downhill and Austin Powers became our man of mystery.

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Losers by Trier Ward

We’ll cut a stunning pair on the black carpet as you promenade me in my eight-inch patent leather stilettos, gown made of daggers; I can neither sit nor bend. Blow kisses to our fans. This fine evening, the award show of Death. Worst Overdose, Worst Suicide, Most Tragic Accident, what honors! Immortalized in black and gold statuettes, hell’s gala affair. The ghastliest people will be there.

Yes, we’re popular in hell, you can tell by the yell. I know we’ll win tonight. Or look good losing.

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None so doomed as us, my darling, none so bold and pale. I, the pretty poet, who let my blood for fun, uh huh. You, the rock star, the Gen X overdose kingWe never could stop fucking in the streets, singing songs, giving people a peek, a thrill.

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I Fell In Love at the Age of Seven by Michael Gill

The tan, leather seats in my family’s 1996 G-Series made a dull squeaking sound as I squirmed in excitement.


here were rays of light growing out of a fluorescent sign; they dazzled my 7 year-old eyes. I pressed my face against the dirty glass on the van-window; my dad pulled into the parking lot slowly. It was summer, 1999, and my family had spent the past 4 hours driving away from our Southern California vacation spot— we had been visiting my Grandmother. By this time, I had already finished reading a “Hank, The Cow Dog” book, and didn’t have any way of keeping myself entertained for the rest of the trip. Then, we pulled into the first comic-book store I’d ever seen. My dad firmly held my hand as we approached the glass store front; there was a poster of Wonder Woman in one of the windows that caught my attention. Through the glass, I could see a man in a cream colored golf shirt. Though barely-visible-- black, horizontal pinstripes drew attention to his slight gut. The man, who was around my dad’s age, sat in the middle of a ring of glass cases; he sat on a wooden stool and was reading a paper-back novel. A bell rang as my dad pulled the door open. The man ignored it. When we entered, I was distracted by a dull, buzzing sound from above; it came from the fluorescent lighting that lit the rows of book shelves and displays, which my eyes now fixed on. Each shelf had rows upon rows of comics. My eyes attempted to lite on every last one while my dad pulled me to the glass cases.

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I had never seen anything more exciting. My dad loosened his grip, which I was pulling against; I was hoping to follow the circle and stare at the small statues, cards, comics, and other novelties that were behind the glass. My eyes were dazzled by statues of “The Hulk”, and a Spider-Man bust that sat on the counter. My dad asked the clerk a series of questions—he was looking for a birthday gift for a friend, and he didn’t know what he was doing. Without lifting his head from the book, the man told my dad everything he needed to know. I barely paid attention to the questions. My dad walked off, right after giving me permission to look around the small store. Before we left her house, my grandmother had filled my hands with loose one-dollar bills and spare quarters, all totaling around $6.00— the apparent toll for assaulting a child’s face with elderly saliva. I pulled the now crumbled wad of money and spread it on the counter in front of the man. “How many comics can I get for this much?” I asked. The man looked up and smirked. He pointed to one of the bookshelves. “On the bottom two shelves, there’s a few cardboard boxes. There are some numbers…wait, kid, can you read?” “I’m seven.” I said. “So, that’s a yes?” “Yes sir.” “Good. There’s numbers written on the sides of the boxes that’ll tell you how much they cost. Do not touch anything else without asking your dad.” I walked over to the shelves and pulled down a box that had “$3.00” crudely written on it in Sharpie. There was no organization whatsoever, so I started sifting

through the stacks. I scanned several of the colorful images with little interest, growing more and more angered at the lack of Batman comics as my fingers flipped through the long row. Then, something happened: for the first time in my life, I saw something which I thought was truly beautiful. The blood drained out of my face. My young fingers trembled at the sight of the most saddening thing I had ever laid eyes on. The first thing my eyes caught was splattered red blood on a man’s chest—an obviously mortal wound. The lifeless man was dressed like a boxer; he was being carried by a man in red spandex—the obvious hero. The character was Daredevil, and the Comic was The Man Without Fear: #164. What struck me at first was, of course, the interestingly depressing cover. I was pulled in by the title, “…And He Cries Father”. I leaned back against the bookshelf and started reading it immediately. The first few pages of the story show Daredevil lying in a hospital

bed, kissing a super-heroine and, later, being interrogated by a reporter who claims to know his secret identity: a man named Ben Urich. The beginning was, at times, confusing, and the end left me, at seven, very upset. The pages contained the first proper origin story I had ever read, and Matt Murdock’s was particularly depressing. In the days that followed, I read the comic until it was destroyed beyond recognition. I remember reading the story over and over—it must have been 50 times. After I lost my sensitivity to Daredevil’s plight, I started pouring over the details of every panel. When that lost its entertainment value, I read the ads—some of which I can still remember. But, in that moment—leaning against the book-shelf in that small, poorly lit comic store— the first seeds of passion and love for details and story were sown in my mind; seeds which developed a strong root system in my thoughts and still affect the way I think about the world to this day.

Comic hero Daredevil. Graphic provided courtesy of Wikipedia Media.

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Katy by Thomas Kearnes

“I’ve been meaning to do himself there was once great happi- nothing but pleasant and affectionness in Henry’s home. Perhaps, he ate announces itself as a sudden, something,” Henry says.


e reaches over to kiss Corbin on the cheek then slips out from the covers. Corbin watches, baffled, as Henry comes around the bed. When he reaches the nightstand, he picks up the photograph of Katy. Strangely hurt, Corbin sits up in bed and stares at Henry as he crosses the bedroom and sets the photograph on a bureau. Henry offers him a brief, helpless smile that Corbin almost misses in the dark. “I guess that must have been awkward for you.” “What?” “Having to look at her every weekend.” Corbin always comes to Henry’s apartment for the weekend. Dallas is by far the bigger city, it makes sense. They’ve toured all the restaurants Henry recommended. They held hands as they strolled through downtown long past midnight, gazed up at the slick towers with their grids of hollow bright eyes. In bed each night, they talk about no real subject, the hushed conversation careening from lust to confession to silence. Corbin always sleeps on the right side of the king-sized bed. On the nightstand rests a framed photograph of Katy. She appears to be perhaps five. Her front teeth reveal goofy gaps as she smiles. Some weekends, Corbin gazes at the photo until sleep finally comes. He tells

hopes, he can bring such a joy into Henry’s life again. “I hardly noticed.” Instantly, Corbin chides himself for that lie. Even after these months, he still feels obligated to convenience Henry in whatever way he can. This is his house, his city. He is the lover, but only as long as Henry lets him. “It’s ok. I was stupid not to take that side of the bed.” “We could switch. You could put it back where it was.” “No, no,” Henry says, sliding beneath the covers. He places his hand on Corbin’s bare arm. “I like us the way we are.” Corbin lies back on his pillow, stares up at the ceiling. The bed feels somehow emptier now. He steals a glance at Henry beside him, to assure himself that his lover still lies there. “You must miss her.” “Every day.” “If you wanted to talk about it, I’d love to--I’d like that.” Henry turns over on his side, runs his hand over Corbin’s chest. “I want this to be a happy time. All we have are the weekends.” “Still, anytime you want.” “You’re a sweet man.” Henry brushes his lips across Corbin’s forehead. Still, Corbin is not comforted. Something has shifted in their bedroom--Henry’s bedroom, he reminds himself. His desire to remain

sharp flutter in his chest. He takes in a deep breath. “I’ve never had someone taken from me like that,” he finally says. “You’re lucky,” Henry replies, toneless. Corbin pauses a moment, then whips around on his side to face Henry. The movement is swift and decisive. Henry blinks quickly, cuts his gaze to meet Corbin. “I’m sure it won’t last forever,” he tells Henry. Even as he speaks them, the words clank against the silence, leaden and dense. “What won’t last?” “Whatever you’re feeling.” Henry tightens his lips, shifts his head to gaze at the ceiling. Corbin waits in agony as the moments pass. Then Henry reaches out and takes Corbin’s hand, pulls their joined hands into the middle of the bed. “I’m sure it won’t,” Henry sighs. “Your heart never stays empty. Someone comes along.” “That’s true,” Corbin gushes, relieved. “I just have to keep waiting for that person,” Henry says, closing his eyes.

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The Duke of Norfolk’s Migration by Caleb Farmer


he Duke of Norfolk is the stage name Adam Howard deigned to use “after realizing there were 30,000 other Adam Howards in the world.” His debut album is titled “Birds…Fly South!” and as the titled implies there is a lot of imagery around migration and movement. Howard describes what attracts him to these themes: “Migration, as I see it, is the necessary reac-

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tion to specific conditions of moving from one more or less specific place to another. I started writing about migration and ideas derived from migration because I thought it was beautiful how birds have such a clear way of dealing with changing seasons and was comparing that to how I have no sense of what to do in regards to dealing with the changing ‘seasons of life’. I’ve

done a fair bit of rambling myself, but nothing so organized or purposeful as a migration.” Howard plays most of the instruments on his record; in particular, his banjo is a perfect match for his folk song sensibilities. He crafts his songs around stories with an importance on what is being said in the songs. Writing for Bohemia to many Waco readers, I feel the free-

dom to draw a comparison to one of Waco’s own folk troubadours, Ryan Pickop. The Duke of Norfolk finds the golden mean between Pickop and Mumford and sons. The opening track immediately places the listener in a story about angst with aging and the disrespect for the slower style of life that comes from living in the rural south. The song is easily relatable for those who have spent their lives in small country towns. The song was partially inspired by Adam’s teapot, which would sound a b-flat and f each morning alerting him his morning brew was ready. This song is a great juxtaposition to the rest of the album, which predominantly songs about traveling, moving to new places, and dealing with a constantly changing existence. Adam Howard is drawn to songs that tell stories, which is both evident in his lyrics as well as his

love for folk music. He has already mapped out an upcoming album full of covers of classic folk songs. When asked why he has chosen to write an album covering traditional folk music he says, “With folk songs the music is a flexible thing. You can alter melodies, change keys, and completely rearrange it but it will remain the same song because the important part is the thing the song says. There’s some complex simplicity about a good folk song that really sells it for me.” His love of folk songs is grounded in the nostalgic way he views at music, “With most folk songs you don’t know who wrote it, you just know the song. In that situation the song is more important than the author, which is the inverse of our popular culture. In our culture everything is about the author regardless of the work. That’s not a completely flawed system be-

cause someone who creates good work usually creates it consistently, but there’s still something nice to having a song that stand as a good song even completely disassociated from its creator.” He will be supporting “Birds…Fly South” with a string of house shows and a performance at SXSW. His decision to use these house shows over other venues was intentional, “It will be a solo tour and being on a stage by yourself, wholly separated from your audience, doesn’t quite feel right. So I like the idea of making it really casual and sitting around in a living room playing a few songs. More like a house party with live music. It’s more of a friendly atmosphere and feels less ‘professional’.” Adam can be seen at these shows playing his guitar and banjo while banging out a drum and bells with his feet. march 2014• bohemia • 37

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The Duke of Norfolk’s debut album can be heard at:

He can also be seen down the road in Austin during SXSW and various house shows around the US.

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Bus stop Poetry and Fiction Photography by Jon Goddi Makeup by Alex Williams

Featuring Boho Models Auggie Del Ray, Brenda Flores, and Stella Jane

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Three by Quinn The Six Degrees of Inspiration


Warsan Shire, e. e. cummings, Climbing Poetree, Andrea Gibson, Gabriella Garcia Medina, and Shel Silverstein

Earnest, and pensive with wit like a bee sting and a smile that keeps you coming back for a little taste more of her mango sun; an orange with so much yellow it keeps an army of senselessness at bay and all you want to do is take that last hug and break it in half again and again so there will always be a bit of it to find in an old coat pocket or in between the couch cushions. And her sarcasm, her intelligence and her deeply quiet hope will laugh like a brother with you in the night.

by Quinn MaBelle

Your words fill me regenerate and multiply a marvelous bacteria of the soul. They kept me heaving into my life. So that now, though I am still me and this one life is still my one life, all else is new and raw. A tender defiance, an exquisite choice, the often emboldened and sometimes taxing march of again… ……and again…… ….and yet again.

by Quinn MaBelle


by Quinn MaBelle

I wonder about your hands. Do they feel like old tattoos? familiar, dry, faded, and warm. If I glanced my fingertips along the open hearts of your palms Would they oasis the sand weary caravans of my desire? When you come across my scars, each ruffled about my beauty Could your hands discern

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the needle of pain buried in my haystack of truth? Should we find ourselves live-wired from mutual embrace Will our conduit be a twenty fingered maze, knotted tightly together? And finally, What do your hands wonder about me?

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by Mona Zutshi Opubor

ver the summer, my mother and I walked through Kmart ticking off items from the collegegenerated list. We bought a plate, a bowl, and cutlery. We bought a plastic caddy to hold shower supplies. We bought a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and soap. I paid little attention to what my mother threw in the shopping cart. The linens were ugly but so what? At that point, it was inconceivable that I would leave. All the standardized tests and applications I’d filled out were pretend. I was the baby of the family. My home was with my parents in the house I’d lived in since I was three. Six months later, I sit on the twin extra long fitted sheet we bought that day. It is blue and flecked with black squares. The cotton is rough and has already started to pill. The bed squeaks underneath me on its rusty frame. It is late afternoon, January 11, 1992 and I am in my dorm on the third floor of McBain. It is the last room on the right as you approach the girl’s bathroom. I can hear the bathroom door banging shut from where I sit. 44 • bohemia • march 2014

The rooms are laid out in a square ringing the building. The poor unfortunates across the hall face a muggy, dirty airshaft. Eileen and I are luckier. We have a window overlooking the street. We can stick our heads out and see Broadway as it crosses 113th. We see students hurrying by, mothers with strollers, and homeless men panhandling. We hear sirens blaring day and night. There is a hospital around the corner. Eileen’s side is papered over with pretty celebrities like Johnny Depp and George Michael. Her tastes run to baby animals and Duran Duran. There is a crucifix on a thin gold chain around her neck. A larger one hangs above her desk. I have a Magritte print and a giant Public Enemy poster on my wall. I am an eighteen-year-old girl wearing flannel pajamas in the middle of the day but I have the foresight to see that the sun has set on the era of unicorn posters. We must strive to be women now. My skin tingles as John crawls onto the bed next to me. He is wearing a white tee shirt and faded blue jeans. His tan argyle socks

match his suede boots. Dreadlocks frame his beautiful face. John has had many girlfriends but says I am special. He says he loves me and has never felt this way before. Last week we had a spectacular fight. As we sat on College Walk staring at the clouds in the night sky, John said that one day he would marry me. John leans against the wall and puts his sinewy arms around my waist. My back presses against his chest. As I pull the elastic from my ponytail, my hair spills over my shoulders, releasing the scent of baby shampoo. John and I are magnets. When we are together, we have to touch. We need to kiss. We must take off our clothes and press our selves into each other. My first boyfriend has skin the color of dark chocolate. I wonder how my mother would feel if she knew. John pulls me closer and I smile so broadly, my eyes close. Eileen takes a photo and when the film is developed, we will have our first picture together.

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The First Time I Met Lord Chaz


by William Blackrose

ew Orleans was amazing. From the moment I stepped off the bus, I was enamored with the city. No matter where you walked, you could feel the history flowing down every street like a cool breeze. The vendors stood at the door to their shops, calling to people, hawking out what specials they had. I looked up at the horizon and saw that the sun was just above the towering buildings. I headed down the street and grabbed a trolley downtown to the Quarter. You could feel it when you crossed that invisible boundary into the French Quarter from the downtown area. It was not just the crowd and noise, but the actual feel in the air. I turned down Bourbon Street and walked slowly, taking everything in while I looked down the side streets for my hotel. I finally saw the sign for the St. Marie, and smiled. I checked in, dropping off my duffel bag and changing into clothing that would blend in a bit more. As I stepped back out of the hotel, I grabbed the flyers from the lobby, skimming through them before I stuffed them deep in my pocket. I walked back down the block to Bourbon Street and began wandering and taking things in. It was then that I first saw him. His commanding presence was amazing as he wrapped his words around the group with him, causing the rest of the Quarter to fade into the background as he spoke. He was in all black, his top hat and demeanor reminding me of something from the 46 • bohemia • march 2014

storybooks. As I watched, he led off his group like the ‘pied piper’ as they trailed behind him. I determined then that I would find out who he was. As the night went by, I wandered from the drunken streets to the quieter avenues that led me to Jackson Square. There I saw him again, his audience enraptured in his words as he spun a new tale. It was only as I stepped closer that I could see him more clearly, yet I was convinced that my eyes had to be playing tricks on me. This man had the charisma of the legends, and his elongated nails spoke to the images from film and storybook in a way I had never seen. Every detail of his costume and demeanor seemed spun from myth and magic as he hypnotized the crowd with his word. I pulled the flyers out, flipping through them until I found it. I had seen him on one, I knew it. Lord Chaz was a sight to behold and the image on the flyer in no way prepared you for the reality. As he finished his tour, I walked up quietly, waiting for him to finish his goodbyes and extended my hand, smiling as he greeted me. I had not even been on his tour yet I could feel the presence he generated and the glamour that was woven around him. He and I spoke for a while, until he needed to leave to meet his next group of ‘victims’. This was the first time I had ever met a vampire.

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Ravin Photography by Cheri Schaffer Assisted by Jon Goddi Makeup by Alex Williams

Model Alexia Reanea 48 • bohemia • march 2014

Peaks and Valleys by Vanessa Bronson

Tolerance abandon bliss Starving ego needs souls kiss Inhibitions detached Mind unwrapped The black turns white Bringing hate to light While we fiend for love, our choices turn to habit Down the hole Rolling Tumbling White Rabbit Fleeting enigma, overdose on desire When Jesus met Molly He couldn’t get much higher Harmonize, disconnect Lust or hate, but no regret Yin vs Yang Ecstasy seduce disdain Laugh and Cry Fear not why We travel the Peaks and Valleys The Lows and Highs

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Boho Models Toni DeRouen, Alexia Reanea, & Abby Eades

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makeup artist

Model Stella Jane with photography by Aoife Gorey

Waco, TX 254-813-8547 march 2014• bohemia • 57


Writing Tools: Character Sketch By William Blackrose


a previous article I went over the idea of making a well-rounded character to begin with. In this month’s article, I am going to show you how to take that a step further. If you have followed previously, you know how a name, the place they are from, and even elements of culture can bring depth to a character. This is good but for your main characters, you are going to want to know them far better. This is where a character sketch comes into play. The character sketch is a catalog of details about your character that may not even make it into your story but can affect how your character will react to various things. The following lists of details and questions will help you build that character to someone you know intimately.


Vital Statistics

Full Name: Even if they go by a nickname, this can be telling. Alias: Not all characters will have one, but for those who do... Age: Real? Claimed? Birthplace: You never know when this could be significant. Current Residence: Could be different in summer or winter, etc. Occupation: How do they make a living or spend their time? Species: Not every story has only humans as characters... Nickname: What do their friends call them? Their enemies? Sex: Male? Female? Eunuch? Hermaphrodite? Transgender? Birthday: Historical characters may not know the answer. Citizenship: Pretty straightforward, even if the implications aren’t Current Location: On vacation, a business trip, stationed abroad? Income: Or wealth, and how did they get it? Health: Any health problems, health history, etc.


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Color: What shades, what color combinations do they prefer? Song: And why? Type of Music: And why? Place(s): Be as specific as possible. Food(s): Try not to stick to the ones you like! Type of Cuisine: Be as detailed as necessary. Hobbies: List all that matter to the character (or once mattered). Pastime: How they’d spend most of their time, if they could. Environment: City, farm, forest? Nightclubs or street corners? Drink(s): Alcoholic? Non-alcoholic? Coffee, tea, herbal tea? Night out: Movies, dancing, talking, walking, drinking?



Ethnic Heritage: The culture of the family, regardless of biology. Accent: Region, class, etc. Family History: What happened long ago can shape the present... Highlights of Bio: The incidents in their life that shaped them. Relationship History: Past friendships, romances, flings, etc. Childhood Home: Country, region, type of dwelling... Education: Level: also, boarding school, home schooled, etc.? Skills: Learned at school, work, by private teacher, or self-taught. Religion: What they formally profess; is it sincere, for form, etc.?


Catchphrase: What are they always saying? Gesture(s): Scratch head, stroke chin, sniff armpits, tug earlobe... Other Habits / Tics: Bites nails, laughs when nervous, fidgets... Quirks: Really strange ingrained habits or tendencies. Eating Habits: Must salt everything, sets napkin in lap, etc. Drinking Habits: From container or glass, always buys a round... Sleeping Habits: Reads a while first, always tosses off covers, etc. Healthy / Unhealthy Habits: Smoker? Jogger? Binge eater? Superstitions: Whether cultural or personal, the ones they follow. Working Habits: Anything they must do to feel ready for work.

Personal Matters

Height: How tall, in their own terms. (Feet, meters...) Eyes: Color and shape. Glasses / Contacts: Describe if necessary. Complexion: Dark skin or light, smooth or pockmarked, etc. Right or Left Handed: Even this can make a difference... Scars: Correlate with life history or other relevant sections. Type of Dresser: Fashionable, sloppy, practical, Goth, etc. Mode of Transport: Horse, car, spaceship, bicycle; description. Build / Weight: Stocky, burly, or slender? Pounds, kilos, stone...? Hair: Color, and don’t forget thickness, common state, etc. Hairstyle: Describe as needed. Description: Shape of face and body, overall appearance, body modifications such as tattoos and piericings... Self-Image: Attractive, ugly, attractive only when in a relationship? Pets: Name(s), species, description

f E

ach of these little details can come into play and influence how your character reacts to any situation and how they cope with loss or gain

Core Issues

Dream Occupation: What would they most love to do? Dream Possession: What do they dream of someday owning? Life Goal(s) / Ambitions: The things they want most in life. Moral Beliefs: The things they believe are right or wrong. Ideals: Whether they embody them, or struggle towards them... Sense of Humor: Puns? Practical Jokes? Sarcastic? Satiric? Strengths: Traits that help them or make them a better person. Good Points: A good point can be a weakness, or neutral... Attitude to Romance / Love: And the person they love. Philosophy: How they believe life, and the world, works. Public Agenda: What they want everyone to think about them. Running From: Truths about themselves they’d rather avoid. Fears: Things that terrify or drive them, that shape their choices. Opposing Forces: Those beliefs that, in the context of the story, are likely to conflict or contradict each other and lead to tension. Worst Nightmare(s): What do they most hope to avoid in life?

from it. In truth, only be writing about them can we know our characters, but this article might help you understand them a bit better when you begin.

Vices: Things they or society believe are bad, that they can’t resist. Blind Spots: What they can’t see in themselves, others, or society. Prejudices: We all have them, including our characters. Propriety: Things they have no sense of humor about. Why? Weaknesses: Traits that hurt them or make them a worse person. Bad Points: The worst, least likeable things about them. Attitude to Revenge / Enemies: Vengeful or forgiving? Greatest Regret: One choice they most wish they could change. Greatest Secret: The thing they least want anyone else to know. Attitude Towards Life: How they approach life and its surprises. Hidden Agenda: Anything they’re trying to accomplish in secret. Trying to Ignore: Truths about family or friends they won’t face. Unexpected Omissions: Places your character has never been, and things they’ve never done, that you’d expect they would have from where they live and what they’re like.

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KaTRaJina Co

Black mid-calf platform boots (also on page 23) courtesy of Katrajina Co, a vintage Etsy shop. Katrajina Co can be found at . The shop offers young and edgy women affordable and on trend authentic 90’s dresses, separates, outerwear and footwear. 60 • bohemia • march 2014


Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry since college, or almost 20 years. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University. William Blackrose is an Egyptian born writer and photographer that is dedicated to using unusual perspectives in all his projects. Constantly flipping gender as well as style to craft new perspectives, he is working on his novel. His current works include Twin Minds, Tears of Kharon, and his newest project Bloodfire.

Vanessa Bronson is a student residing in Los Angeles, California. This year she has works published in The April Reader and The Mindful word.

Michael A. Gill hails from the small town of Rosebud, TX, where he lives with his family--his parents, a brother, a sister, and his grandparents. He is currently enrolled at Temple college and is working on his first novel, which is titled “All These Demons”. Jon Goddi says, “Photography is my calling, my profession, and the thing that will undoubtedly drive me insane someday. I don’t photograph subjects. I photograph the way they make me feel. I’m very raw, bold and edgy with my style. “ Susana Hernandez likes to play soccer, guitar, hang out on the weekend, watch movies with the family,and she loves Disneyland. Susana speaks English and Spanish, and is also learning Sign Language. She sends a special thanks to Ellen Wong.

Thomas Kearnes is a 37-year-old author originally from East Texas and now living in Houston. His fiction has appeared or will appear in PANK, Storyglossia, Spork, The Ampersand Review, Word Riot, Eclectica, JMWW Journal, Night Train, SmokeLong Quarterly, wigleaf, Johnny America, Digital Americana Magazine, Prime Number Magazine, The Northville Review and numerous LGBT venues. Pete Lankarge studied literature at Muhlenberg College in Allentown, PA. He is now a sales rep, a baseball coach, a bartender, a substitute teacher, and a student in the Grub Street program for creative writing in Boston, where he lives with his wife, Amy. Quinn MaBelle is a fat, queer, biracial, white passing, gender fluid individual who writes poetry to get through the day. They have enormous amounts of appreciation for anyone who decides to wake up in the morning and choose radical self love regardless of what society says. march 2014• bohemia • 61

ContRibutORs Bonnie Neagle is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel Van Es. Mona Zutshi Opubor is an IndianAmerican writer living with her family in Lagos, Nigeria. Her work has appeared in The Kalahari Review, Descant Magazine, and The Foreign Encounters Anthology. She blogs for Trier Ward is a mother, poet, and scientist. She lives in Dallas, Texas. Her poetry has appeared in Rolling Thunder Quarterly, The Nervous Breakdown, and Mad Swirl. Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 240 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, assisting the Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over 25 publications. He is 58, married 37 years, and has 4 daughters. 62 • bohemia • march 2014

Kasper Wilder is a poet in spirit, with blue eyes and a love of making up words. She writes about small everyday moments, connecting them to larger concepts. Armed with a frank sense of humor, a sunflower for everyone she meets, and laser eyes, she is happy, if often late.

Matthew Wilson, 30, has had over 100 stories accepted / appearances in such places as Horror Zine, Star*Line, Spellbound, Illumen, James Ward Kirk Press, Static Movement, Apokrupha Press, Hazardous Press, Gaslight Press Sorcerers Signal and many more. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on twitter @matthew94544267.

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Where will you be singing

Home Sweet Home

Find a forever home with Natalie Morphew

Natalie Morphew Natalie Morphew, Realtor 254.229.0261 c | 254.399.7024 w

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Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some major attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions. Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences. With three college facilities including: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.

22. Bohemia - March 2014  

Bohemia features art, photography, short stories, poetry, fashion, music, and more.

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