A Journal of Arts & Letters

Month: March 2016 Page 1 of 8

The Scream by: Anika Boyd

Reciprocation

Reciprocation by: Douglas Vo, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.

The Scream
by: Anika Boyd

They say that once you have killed something, a part of yourself dies too. I wondered vaguely if and when it would happen or if I would be ready for it, as I stared out of my bedroom window waiting for Charlie to show. Then, I started to think about that. How my whole life had once revolved around waiting for Charlie and how now, for the first time, Charlie was now waiting on me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Part of me was a bit amused that now he was the one in nervous disarray, wondering what it was that “I” wanted, what “I” was going to do. The other part of me, shaken with nerves thought of the task ahead. My hands were starting to shake.

It reminded me of our first meeting. How full of expectation and nerves I had been, dressed in a white dress, that he would later whisper, his hand on the small of my back, how the dress reminded him of lilies and new beginnings. I remembered the way he had smiled then, at that exact moment, leaned in close enough so that I could feel his shallow breath against my ear as he whispered with an air of determination and finality, “and every beginning and end will be with me.” I remember how terrified I was then, as I am now, at how true that vow had become.

We humans are wretched, reckless things when it comes to love. And what we do in order to keep it. I fingered the pill bottle I held in my hand. The pills were so tiny. So white and pure, my mistake and my salvation so easily tucked into a plastic bottle.

But with that realization came the Scream, as if within the womb. It came as it always did, slow and steady, then wild and anguished, rising forward, creating its own pulse within me and waiting to be unlocked by tightly clenched teeth. It always came in the mornings as I was sitting down at breakfast to a bowl of Shredded Wheat; or, as I would run to the bathroom a few bites later with my breakfast climbing up my throat, it never failed to surprise. Sometimes I would endure its fury alone and at other times my mother would hold my hair back from my sweaty face while gently patting my back until I got my bearings.

I turned away from the window for a moment and watched my mother pass by my room for a third time. I knew I would not be alone in this, but I still felt loneliness. I stared back out of my window. I could see that the wind had picked up some because the leaves that had fallen from the trees were starting to rise and circle one another. The Scream was getting louder as the seconds ticked by and I clamped down on my teeth again. Be quiet you! It quieted some but I wanted it to go away. I started to put my hands over my ears, but I knew that even that would not stop it. I would only have to endure it for a little while longer and then it would silence.

I was staring so hard beyond, my eyes started to hurt. Where was Charlie? The road leading to my house lay empty and I was starting worry. Would he still come? Does he hate me? I thought about our last conversation.

It began a week ago, under a Sycamore that we had deemed ours, under a blazing sun. It was so hot that Charlie had taken off his jacket and made a blanket of it for me. We sat cross-legged with our knees barely touching in a deep silence. Charlie’s hair had flopped over his left eye as it always did and I was tempted to push it back but I hesitated, my hand suspended in the air. His face was unreadable so I stared at his hands for clues. They worked in a fast rhythm to tear out the grass in front of him. I put my hand down and tried working my mouth. I opened and closed it a few times.

“Charlie.”

I hesitated when he started to yank out the grass violently at the sound of my voice. I tried again.

“Charlie, I just… I Can’t.” he yanked even harder.

“Stupid grass,” he spat out. “Is it weird to hate grass? If it is I do.”

“I know this is hard for you, it’s hard for me too.”

“It’s everywhere, all over the place. I can’t even rip it all out.”

“But Charlie…”

Dirt and grass was starting to fly everywhere and I had to shield my face.

“Sometimes I think I can hear it Charlie, screaming at me, wanting the things I cannot give.”

His hands suddenly stopped their rampage and he stared at me finally, his face contorted in a mixture of frustration and agony.

“You know it can be beautiful too,” he said. He wasn’t talking about grass anymore. “It’s a part of us. A part that’s you, and a part that’s me.”

“It won’t be the same you know. We won’t be the same,” I said.

“Maybe I don’t want to be the same! Maybe I want different! Did you ever think of that?” he was yelling now and the Scream started to become unbearable. A wave of nausea hit me and I swallowed.

“Well maybe I want it to stay the same. I want to be eighteen. I want to be with you!”

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think I could be with someone that would…” And then he had squeezed his eyes shut blocking out the sun, blocking out me. So there it was. The thing he could never say out loud, and the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about. <

“So that’s it then?” my voice cracked and I looked away.

“I don’t want you to do this,” he answered instead, his voice strained.

“Will you still come?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Charlie I can’t do this without you.” I was pleading with him and I didn’t care.

He started to pull up the grass again.

“Please Charlie…”

He sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll come.”

I smiled grimly. “It’s for the best. You’ll see.” I had tried to put my hand on his shoulder then, but he shrugged it off, stood up, and walked away from me. Today would be the first time we’d seen each other in a while.

I wiped away a stray tear and shifted in front of my window. The sun was slipping away and an ugly gray cloud was beginning to take its place. It would rain soon. I hoped Charlie would wear a helmet today. He was always breaking the rules, challenging fate in his way. In many ways, I think Charlie thought himself invincible. He saw life as a test of endurance. Always testing how far and fast he could go. He was perfectly happy with living life in the moment without a care. Maybe that was why he fought me so hard. You can’t see past the present living in the here, the now. I on the other hand have always been the practical one. I was the seatbelt to his wild ride. I would be that seatbelt once more even if he couldn’t see it now. I would protect us both. He’d see it after a while. He’d forgive me sooner or later.

Then I saw a flash of light in the growing darkness, taking me out of my thoughts. I could hear the roar of his motorcycle coming to a stop in front of my driveway. I watched his hunched figure straighten and as his foot reached down toward the kickstand. He moved slowly, dragging each foot forward as if it were weighted down by bricks. No helmet. I watched him all the way until he reached the door. He knocked once, hard. I looked toward my mother who I noted, had taken post on my bed.

“Will you get that?” I asked.

She nodded and left and I listened as she went down the stairs to answer the door. I waited patiently to the rise and fall of voices from below until they lifted and found me.

“She’s just in here Charlie,” my mother said. She smiled. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Charlie smiled back. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

She looked at me then. “Would you like me to stay?”

I shook my head. “No, we’ll be fine,” I assured her. I wondered then if that were true. She smiled once more, this time at the both of us, before closing the door. Charlie’s eyes left where my mother had once been and made their way toward me.  He smiled sadly.

“You’re wearing the white dress I love so much.”

“And you look like you’re dressed for a funeral,” I said teasingly, trying to lighten the mood.

He looked down at his black attire and grimaced. “It kind of is,” he said, his voice catching. I thought he might start to cry so I stepped closer.

“Do you want to sit down?” I pointed to the bed. He shook his head. He looked at the pill bottle I had forgotten I was still holding and frowned at it. He didn’t see it as I did. He saw a destroyer and I saw a way out.

“So, this is it, that’s what they gave you?” he gently took it out of my hand and twisted the orange bottle around with his fingers and furrowed his brow. “I thought it would be…a lot more complicated than this…” he paused before asking, “Is it safe?”

I nodded. “Yes. Or at least that’s what the doctor said at the clinic. He said there are a lot of women who decide to take the pills instead of getting a procedure done there. This way it’s private and I won’t be alone. There’s actually another one I have to take after the first set to make sure, you know. I really don’t think it’ll hurt at all.”

He handed the orange container back to me and shifted around uncomfortably.

“How long does it take exactly? I’m only familiar with the other way.”

“It can take up to a couple of days to two weeks,” I said.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked. “You know, you can always change your mind.”

I sighed. “Yes Charlie, I’m sure.”

“It really wouldn’t be so bad if we kept it,” he said quietly.

“Yes it would.”

“It really wouldn’t.” and then he really looked at me. “We could be a family.”

“It would ruin us,” I said.

“Or,” he said stubbornly. “It could be the best thing that ever happened to us.”

I shook my head sadly. “I can’t take that chance. I’m really sorry Charlie.”

“I don’t think it would ruin us. But if you do this…” he stared at me with a determined expression. “We will not survive this.”

“Charlie…”

He turned away. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m done talking about it.”

I wanted to say so much more, but one look at his face told me he was already barely holding it together and I didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. I stared down at the bottle and pressed the tabs together and popped it open. I could feel the Scream gaining momentum as I shook two pills out.

For the first time sense this dreadful thing happened to me I wondered about the thing inside of me and how it screamed. Could I really do this? I stared at Charlie’s now unreadable face. We were at the beginning of the end. His eyes bored into mine and I knew, as I imagined a hunter knew as his rife aligned with his mark, that it would be so easy, so simple, to put pressure upon that trigger, to feel that quick vibration of a bullet releasing. Yes, I thought solemnly. I could take a life.

back to archive 2014

Fire by: Celina Smythe

Expressions

Expressions by: Al Nash, Oil on canvas, 2013.

Fire
by: Celina Smythe

Fire.

People don’t come running
If you call for
“Help”,

But people always rush
When you scream
“Fire”.

Kick.
Kick
And kick
And
Kick!

Thrash your hips
From side to side.
It will be harder
For him to undress
You.

Claw his face.
Punch his cheek.
Bash your knuckles against
His throat.

Keep shouting.
No!

Don’t let him guilt you,
Like usual.
Your body is not his.

When all else fails,
Remind him that your
Younger brother is downstairs
And that if you call for Scott,
He will call the police.

And Please

For the love of everything,
Once you are
Safe from him,

Break up with the bastard.

back to archive 2014

Denial by: Hillary Milbauer

Mountains

Mountains by: Jacob Grillo, Oil on canvas, 2014.

Denial
by: Hillary Milbauer

These hands, the soft delicate nature they possess.
These eyes, green as an emerald.
This hair, so long, blonde and flowing.

I see nothing but her.
This is where it stops.

I will not be her.
I will not be her quilt
made by narcissism.

Stitching her every feature upon me
precisely as her own.

The light radiating off the sheer’s edge
slicing through every strand.

The dye takes hold of the light
Becoming dark,
overpowering my innocence.
Soaking in my skin,
Taking over.

My sister Hillary’s eyes
gleaming with tears
carefully tucked away
so I can’t see her heart break.

As the days continuously go by

My anger collapsing my lungs
Keeping my thoughts from
becoming real words.

The years passing by
with more silence.

Alone in my pride,
She is still my only ally
My person.

She disagrees with the stance I have chosen.
The life I live.
Completely cut off
from the family
I no longer call my own.

Though the tension grows between us
A thick cloud of smoke forms

With the question;
When will this silence break
through the smog I have solely created.

back to archive 2014

What I Learned in Physics by: Matthew Steiner

Steampunk Whimsy

Steampunk Whimsy by: Sandra Haubein, Mixed Media, 2014.

What I Learned in Physics
by: Matthew Steiner

Emissivity describes how much heat
an object gives and receives.
Takes a value between zero and one,
either reflecting or absorbing energy.

I see a dark sword, surrounded by flame.
It’s handle of steel, though it might be sun
it hurts to look, but the blade hurts to feel.
It is one.

The buoyancy force pushes up against
fluids. The more fluid displaced,
the more mass can be lifted, or floated.
The less dense, the better.

I see a silver ship, an oblong orb filled
with nothingness. Orange clouds buffet
it five Earths below the Red Spot.
Eat your heart out Hindenburg.

Friction is always with us, but sometimes
we pretend, or ignore if we have to.
Ice has friction, else skaters couldn’t
start, but it has little enough.

I see a line of men in white suits and skates.
Behind, an arena of stars, watching
as they push off against a ground that isn’t
and then no slowing.

back to archive 2014

Color Box by: Alex Perez

Sanctuary

Sanctuary by: Sandra Haubein, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.

Color Box
by: Alex Perez

Who needs a time machine when you’ve got an old box of crayons?
So strongly scented I can taste the stale wax on tongue.
Crumble the hues with my teeth and I’ve de-aged to a child.

Withered with age, this sparkling box no longer shines.
The Pokémon sticker that made all the difference between the others
Has torn down the middle to read “Pomon”
Beside it lay untouched all the creatures that fascinated me as a kid.
Animalistic mutations that withstood a decade’s passing.

But inside this worn out chest lies the real treasure.
Crayons and pencils in wildly vibrant assortments.
The old colors sticking to the torn wrap have become fragile.
If I color, I fear I might break their bodies, but I can’t resist.

I’ll take the red and peel away another layer of its skin.
Leaving it exposed, perhaps I’ll cerulean instead.
Or silky violet with its wrap so damaged it’s unreadable.

Maybe I’ll take the rarest of the lot, untouched gold.
No, it’s much too valuable to waste, alright, just a little bit then.
I bring them closer to my face and take another whiff.
For a second, I hear my grade school teacher from a distance.
“Stay within the lines, we’re not monkeys, we have thumbs”

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Nirvana by: Jessica Fultz

Urban Sunrise

Urban Sunrise by: Al Nash, Acrylic on canvas, 2008.

Nirvana
by: Jessica Fultz

Alone in this coliseum, over-flowing with fans
Here i am, forsaken.
there’s a hole where my heart should be,
and the needle in my vein is the only thing keeping me alive.
Love you so much it makes me sick.
it’s eating my brain, becoming my infection.
fuck some kind of redemption.
i have Love in my life
a daughter of my own
i know how fucking disappointing it must be to have a family but no home.
when the applause gets louder than the pain, i think i might have finally pushed it away
but it lashes out once again, more excruciating this time than the last
slurring my reality
it Loves the taste of my anarchy
i thought i was strong but my temptation is stronger
i’m worse at what i do best
Here i am, isolated.
the barrel coaxing me to finger its trigger
Here i am now,
forever in debt to your priceless advice
the crowds still rocking out in honor of my name,
Long Live Kurt Cobain.

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The Time Traveler by: Joshua Obas

Shift

Shift by: Patti Lozano, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.

The Time Traveler
by: Joshua Obas

He sits cold, hungry, and alone in his tiny apartment room staring vacantly out the frost coated window. A rose withers away in one corner of the room. Patches of mold grow rampantly in the walls. A thick layer of dust covers everything. The only source of light is a small candle in the center of the room that looks as though it might go out at any moment. The December snow lay blanketing the city of Chicago in a death-like grip. People pass by, always huddled together in groups of three or four. The world is silent as he counts the falling snowflakes and in the distance he hears a pack of dogs barking. Glancing at his cheap watch, he noticed it is almost 7 o’clock.

Quickly he opens the window and begins reaching for the fire escape as he hears a loud banging at his door. Making his way to the ground below, he hears an angry grunt as keys begin opening the lock to his room. Closing his eyes in a moment’s reprieve, he takes a deep breath and breathes in the frosty morning. As with each morning, he begins his somber walk down the block. Looking to his left, he notices the bakery his mother took him and his brother to when they were kids. He remembers the small sticky bun his mother would buy for them to share each week. Walking over he peers through the glass, marveling at the small store. He could almost feel the warmth of the lights seeping into his skin through the old, thin jacket he had worn for years. His nose pressed against the cold glass, he tries to imagine the sweet smell of the freshly baked goods until the store owner notices him and waves him away like a stray dog.

Stumbling onwards, he looks up at the morning sky and says hello to the sun as it struggles to rise. We’re not so different, he thinks to himself. Both struggling to awaken to a new day. His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a rock that hit him square in the head. Glancing in the direction it came from, he sees the neighborhood boys across the street staring at him. When they noticed that he saw them, they scatter to the four corners of the earth like the cold bitter winds of the Arctic. Laughing to himself, he continues walking with no particular direction in mind.

His head hung low, while his eyes gaze at the sidewalk as if it were a compass guiding him somewhere important. When he did decide to look up, he notices his steps have brought him to an abandoned building. Looking through the broken glass and feeling the rotten wood door, he finally recognizes the dilapidated looking building and he remembers where he is. It is the small family owned market where his mother took them every week to buy groceries. He could almost smell the racks of choice meat sizzling on the stove, and remembered that they could never afford them. One day though, his mother had talked to the kind old woman who ran the meat department, and after a few minutes brought a piece of freshly baked glazed ham for him and his brother. He wasn’t sure how his mother had gotten it for them, but that didn’t matter as they bit into it, the juices dripped down their chin and their eyes briefly connected as they shared a quick thought. They’d never forget that taste for the rest of their lives.

A low hollow rumble erupts in his stomach as he thinks back to that memory, and a tear runs down his face as he remembered the rest of their lives was painfully short for his older brother. Not wanting to dwell on that tragic memory longer, he leaves the sad building behind and continues walking. He decides to cross the street and head for the old park in the distance. As he begins to cross, a car speeds past him angrily blaring its horn. Upon his arrival in the park, a lone bird begins chirping in the trees above. He begins to whistle through his cracked lips, imitating the mourning dove’s sad song. While he whistles, he wonders why the mourning dove was mourning, what caused its sad song? Perhaps he thought, it’s because it was alone in the world. A tear falls from his other eye, as he mourns with his new friend.

For the second time that day, he is interrupted and brought back into the reality he so desperately sought to escape from. This time it is the sound of children’s laughter that interrupts his thoughts. Turning in the direction the sound came from, he again saw the mob of children from before, only in larger numbers. He reasons the park must be their breeding grounds, as more slither from behind every nook and cranny the park has to offer. He is quickly surrounded by the children and their harsh sounds which soon turn into taunts, jeers, and then clenched fists. As the blows rain down on him, he closes his eyes again and remembers.

This was the park his brother had always taken him to when they were younger. He remembered their laughter as they played during the summertime. He remembered one time when he was playing in the sand pit and a group of older boys surrounded him, separating him from his brother. They began making fun of his poor clothes and soon began beating him. As he cried out, his brother came to his rescue. Fighting against the horde of bullies, his brother held his ground, until one of the kids pulled out a hidden knife and thrust it into his brother’s stomach. The blood began spewing forth like a ruptured pipe, the bullies fled in every direction, the blood soaked knife left behind. Running to his brother, the tears streamed faster and a hole opened inside of him as he helplessly watched his brother dying.

When the children finish beating him, they waltz off feeling powerful and leaving their victim dazed on the ground. After some time had gone by, he slowly picks himself up from the ground and begins the long journey back home. As he walks, he coughs up blood and his vision grows blurry. Hearing laughter, he looks across the street and sees a father walking with his son. The boy is holding a toy and smiling at his father, who is glowing with pride. What’s a father? He thought to himself as he struggles to remember a time when he had anyone like that in his life. All he could bring to mind was a memory of his mother crying at the front door.

She was covered in bruises and had her arms wrapped around a shadowy figure that was opening the front door. As light came into the room, he could make out what he assumed to be his father leaving the family behind. His mother begged him not to leave, and he shoved her hard towards the ground. As she fell, her hands ripped off the jacket he was wearing as she crumpled to the ground, utterly defeated. The memory faded away and he was brought back to the present, he noticed the jacket he was wearing must have belonged to his father.

When he reaches his apartment, he looks towards the sky again, just as the sun is setting. We’re not so different he thought, both going home from a long, tiresome day. Maybe we’ll see each other again tomorrow. He climbs back up the fire escape and peers into his room and after seeing that the coast was clear, creeps back in. Peeling off his jacket, he crawls into bed. As he closes his eyes he notices the small candle in his room dying. The once bright and cheerful flame has diminished to a weak light, and in moments is snuffed out by the darkness for good.

back to archive 2014

Alone in a Corner by: Mike Troxell

Dualistic Essence

Dualistic Essence by: Carlos Tiznado, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.

Alone in a Corner
by: Mike Troxell

Alone in a corner I sit with my gun.
The evil I fear is that from within.

In this moment I become defined.

I sit in the corner holding on
to memories long forgotten.
When childhood dreams turned to passion
and my world became a towering inferno.

Thrust into hell by forces unholy
I came back forgiven, yet not released.

Forgiven by those who could not save.
Forgotten by those who could not imagine.

The horrors that escalated
into a nightmare within
defined my passion
and tortured my soul.

Alone in this corner I sit with my gun.
A round in the chamber and a bottle of strife.
The evil within stirs my dreams
creating a slideshow of my horrific life.

Life full of wonder and mystery,
Clouded by nightmares and misery.

As I contemplate the true meaning
of my desires,
I bring back the hammer
and the bottle expires.

back to archive 2014

The Young Poet by: Trevor Bolin

crystalsART

Untitled by: Crystal Waters, Marker on wallpaper mounted on panel, 2013.

The Young Poet
by: Trevor Bolin

The young poet sits in his dim lit room
Drinking cheap wine and wondering.
He knows it could all just be bullshit
But oh how he wants to believe himself.
He takes another sip and sparks a cig
Then you start to hear the clicks.
Suddenly there’s music in the air.
He can no longer feel his room around him.
We see walls. He sees anything. He is free.
Losing track of his typing, he only has to think.
His fingers now move with his thoughts.
Clocks spin and his attention is never broken.
Then it ends and he sits depressed at the foot of his bed
With his head in his hands wondering when he will do it again.

back to archive 2014

Divine by: Lauren Hendon

Sanctified

Sanctified by: Douglas Vo, Acrylic on canvas, 2014

Divine
by: Lauren Hendon

The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit
Clouds collide, making clumps of cotton
Soaring along far, far above my head

Cold, calming water seeps into my pores
A ritual ablution as the sins float atop the water just like oil
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit

Uncovering the brightness that was buried so deep
Sinking heights taking me lower, I watch the clouds
Soaring far, far above my head

Collapsing inside these walls, I can no longer hear the sky
Speaking loudly could have saved me, but my thick soul
Gets washed by the waves, oh so thoroughly

Pressure is released from my chest, pulling me up and out
Sucking in air, air as a new person
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit

The strength now within me, I am capable
Of nearly anything, as long as
The wave washes over me to cleanse my open spirit

back to archive 2014

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