insert lit mag here

work that bares its teeth

issue one//april 2014

welcome to the FIRST isssue of

insert lit mag here. We sent out a call for submissions. We said that we were looking for work that bares its teeth. Our contributors did not fail us. We’ve put together all the work that left us screaming, crying, and begging for more. These pieces burrowed themselves into our skin, and we couldn’t get them out of our heads even if we tried. We’re hoping they spend some time in your brain too.

I’d also like to use this space to say thank you to everyone who helped make this first issue a success. Creating a space for artists to share their work has been a dream of mine for some time now. I am grateful that this dream is becoming a reality. I’m grateful to know and love so many artists. I am grateful to be meeting new artists through this project. I am grateful you wanted to share your work with this mag. I am grateful for the relationships we are forging. I want to keep growing, evolving, and articulating together. You all fill me love, creativity, and positivity, and I hope all three radiate from this endeavor.

I proudly present Work That Bares Its Teeth -Julia Alexander

The cover of this issue is a photo by Maddi Montero Amezaga.

what I mean when I say “just have to”. Those of you who do not define yourself as such, maybe this will help: Ever been in your car after a break-up? Dumper or dumpee, it makes no difference. You throw a song on your mp3 player, or a

CD in, you are driving a little fast, a little lost in your own world, and sudden-ly this music comes out of your throat.

suddenly this music comes out of your throat. You are belt-ing the song out at the top of your lungs. And you mean ev-ery word. It is coming from that place. It is duende. It is pure art. It is ecstasy. An ecstasy of pain. Turn it around: you just got the job of your dreams; or that person you crushed on just told you they are madly in love with you; or you graduat-ed; or you just

A poem in one word. A uni-verse of creative thought en-capsulated in six letters. Three syllables, three rolling and lyr-ical sounds. All of this is true and yet still does not quite capture the concept. To begin with the concept is old, old-er than the words for art. It is the beginning of art. It is the begin-ning of cre-ative thought perhaps. And how not? The word has been defined as a feeling be-yond passion, of deep heart-felt something in the soul of the artist. An ecstasy. Duende lives at the very edge of love and pain. It lives deep within all of us, where the laughter and the tears touch. It is that feel-ing where you “just have to...”. For the artists out there, from the visual to the cerebral to the aural, you know precisely

duende peter lusher

your throat.

got finished rebuilding that junker into the beautiful clas-sic it was always meant to be... -you get the point. At that mo-ment there is a rush, a shout, a song comes rushing through you. Your body tingles, you feel more alive than you ever have, that is duende. Could it not be that the people that did the cave paintings, from the first to the last, I’d argue experienced this intense feeling? Isn’t it something that we all want to feel all the time? Or is it more important to feel this only every once in a while?These are questions that I leave as an exercise for the reader, because I know the truth of that as it regards my own life. I know it is a feeling that I live for. And lets deconstruct that statement. When I say I live for those mo-ments, that means that those moments are when I remember that I am alive. I feel connected

to the world. When those mo-ments occur, those are the brief seconds that I will take with me when the reaper drags me kicking and screaming from this mortal coil. Those mo-ments, that split second, that insanely glorious millisecond, those will be my memories of earth. And those moments of ecstasy, the “memories of earth”, that is how I define Duende. How will you define it?

Peter Lusher is a writer and poet from Cincinnati. An academic but also artistic, his voice finds that place between seriousness and humor, converstion and lecture, surreal to real. It is likely that he is still a starving artist in that city.

bleeding wild strawberries

Jesse GebelShe thought she knew her ways,

and soon good days had flashed in her.

She sat there eating wild strawberries that were bleeding

on her tongue.

A red cold sweet tongue touches my tongue,

you don’t watch my eyes wide,

my eyes go the way of Sartre,

and you tell me I finally

look crazy.

Jesse Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks a deadly publsiher that will publish his dement-ed knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.

Todd Behrendt lives in the Adirondacks with his wife and daughter. Sometimes it is quiet; sometimes it is loud.

Todd Behrendt

MuseDex Mason

I could writeAbout you allDay and ifYou think I can’t,

I dare you:Put me to the test.

I promise youI’ll find poetry inThe curve of your spineAnd in the wayYou speak.

If I brsh my teeth,I brsh away tnse moments; I flss out stcky dsagreements.I use mouthwsh on never tlking to your sistrs.I rnse with humn cnnection, and spt into my luv.

brshy brshy Maxwell Bland

Dex Mason gets herself in trouble by excessively wearing her heart on her sleeve, and she just never seems to learn. All she’s hoping for is that her words will mean something to someone other than herself.

Maxwell Bland is is an American poet and one of the background figures of the alt lit movement. An aspiring writer of postmodern and new sincerity literature, he is considered by his friends to be “lacking in social skills.”

Anthony Bailey is a photogra-pher from Ontario, Canada. Born and raised in the Greater Toronto Area, he’s been photographing his surroundings since late 2011. Anthony took initial interest in wandering around his hometown, capturing places where nobody ever was, like alleyways and forest trails.

MADDI MONTERO

AMEZAGA

MADDI MONTERO AMEZAGA is a photographer from Donostia. She doesn’t know why, but she makes photographs.

Anthony Bailey

i love you

Aria DaryadelI’ll miss you while away,even if it’s just one room,tug you while awakeand asleep too.

I’ll never take for granteda single thing we do.My heart is yours to break,keep or remove.

And I hope that you die firstso it’s me who’s dealt the painof waking up each day without you.

But if we could remain two lost souls missplacedforgotten, left to live,well that’be great

cause one lifetime with youis too short for me to provehow far I would go

to see you smile.

So let us both grow graywith these feeling most mistakefor an awful fear they must escape from.

And I will write for youjust like I tend to do words that fit the feelingsthat you make.

Don’t you dare forgetthat I would die for youand every other clichethat there is….

But I hope that you die firstso it’s me who’s dealt the painof waking up each dayalone, confused.

I love you.

Aria Daryadel’s writing chronicles every bit of happiness, depression, and empathy he’s felt over the years as specific to his feelings as possible. In his twenty four years of being here he’s had every sort of feeling and anxiety imaginable and there is nothing he’d love more than to be a relating guide to anyone who may be strug-gling or feeling alone or lost in this gigantic, tiny world.

Anthony Bailey is a photographer from Ontario, Canada. Born and raised in the Greater Toronto Area, he’s been photographing his surroundings since late 2011. Anthony took initial interest in wandering around his hometown, capturing places where nobody ever was, like alleyways and forest trails.

Anthony Bailey

Pretty flowersbelong in your hair,not over your grave.I still have troublethinking of people,over your grave.Over you,like I wouldn't bebut am now.Pretty flowers belong in your hair,not over your grave.I never want to beover your grave.

On buying her fLowers Rene Pellissier

Rene Pellissier is a Student at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. She is in her sophomore year, and writes both poetry and prose. She was raised in Connecticut, on sarcasm, and alcoholic cherries.

Kayla Savage is a photographer and artist from Connecticut. She likes surf punk. She thinks eyebrows are important.

Kayla Savage

Rest In Peace You Big Dumb Idiot

Daniel WrightI’ll ache your headI’ll send a nail through a boardI’ll turn the radio dial and I’ll crash the carAllow me to be explicitI don’t have a heroEvery day I fight with listlessnessif you’re feeling pathetic you are not aloneif I put that feeling there then I guess I’ll gothe values that count to me are also the ones I know are wrongis anybody on this Earth doing it right?there is no rightthere is some lightfollow that shit until the day you dieor else you’ll die on a day much soonerthat you didn’t planor think about.so say your goodbyesbecause everybody has their goodbyesas if each person is entitled to the phrasewhy do I do what I doWhy Do I Do ItAnswer Mewhat did the people before me doShould I seek them out?Am I supposed to fear the future or regret the past? Which is it?Neither? Fine. I’ll live in the now, right?Then I’ll feel great, I’ll just live and do and act and play and work and sing and kill and release and swim and play again and work again and play again and work again and play again and work again and play again and work again and play again and work

again and one day my heart will have a complication and if I’m lucky it’ll be short and uneventful because everybody wants to die in a state furthest from regular life, like in their sleep or being celebrated and forgiven.He, the champion, the one who grasped so much about the world around him that he spoke to it, and he was wise and ed-ucated us all, he improved the quality of life around him and considered the well-being of those that mattered most to him. He didn’t even mind all those times that he felt bad. When he passed he considered his impact and smiled. Farewell. Rest In Peace you big dumb idiot. You died like everybody else ever.

Dan Wright is a person living in Massachusetts. He will occasionally sit down with a fine point Sharpie pen and write about things he wish he had.

Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.

Colin Hassett

Inspectionemma hannan

i. it’s truethat i am afraid for you to love me,that i can’t write poems with you around, with “it’sokay. it’s okay. we’re okay,”leaking from your mouth likesap, sticky and sweetand vital.the foundations i had laid for myself are old, are cracked,dangerous. floorboards in a second story where termiteshave made a home. youhave fallen through me before.

ii.it’s true that i am a house you havebuilt again,that my triyng it alone was notnearly good enough. youhave reconstructed shatteredglass and shattered frames andshattered hearts;an architech with not only aneye for potential, but a hunger forit. you sank your teeth into minerecklessly.

iii.it’s truethat you have made a home from me,within me,a place welcome and warm and full of light. my heart is a bay window thatlooks on to only you and a world thatwe will conquer together. it took lovingyou to realize that i was not a one-manjob, that i was not a project, that i was a story needing reviving. i allowed youto fill the cracks beneath me and it was much more beautiful than metrying to lift myself andcrumbling.

Emma Hannan began writing in 2009 and became a contributor and editor of her high school’s literary magazine, Scriptura. Post-graduation, she has dabbled in everything from short story to journalism, but her heart will always beat in poetry. Her goal is to inspire art, create art, and to ultimately become art.

one more tuna! paul alexander

The summer afternoon air hangs thick, hot, humid.It’s going to be a long day.Scratch my name on a timecard, punch in. ClickBoil water.See what’s left in my section from last night.I need pasta, garlic, sausages, broccoli.Pull the door to the walk-in, handle worn smooth from years of abuse.Embrace the cold air I know I won’t have time to savor later to-night.It’s quiet in here, the sound of the phone and fans muffled by piles of produce.

The parade of employees entering begins, “Hey Courtney, what’s up?” Click“Hey Chris, what’s up?” ClickThe bartender shows up, makes the usual ridiculous requests, and goes to wait for customers. The first table gets seated,Read the orders scratched on the pad,“Anna! No chicken Milanese! I could do veal?!”“I’ll go see…” ClickThe dishwashers must be here.The chorus of cooks, voices gravely from too many years of cheap cigarettes and yelling orders,“Hey guys, I’ve got pans for you!”“Can someone get me some medium boxes?”

“Whoever’s not doing anything, I need parsley cut. 2 bunches!”

Brrrrring!The phone. I’m busy, someone will get it. Brrrring!“PHONE!” Brrrring!Can’t they get the phone, what are the waitresses doing? Brrrring!Gotta get that, wipe my hands, pick up the receiver.“Thank you for calling, how can I help you?No sir, we don’t have pineapple, we can’t make a Hawaiian piz-za.No sir, our only gluten free pasta is penne.And what dressing would you like with your salad?We have Italian, Ranch, and Bleu Cheese.Alright, can I have a name for this order?Great, it’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

Back to the veal.

The familiar sound of a meat mallet whacking against the cut-ting board echoes.Bread the veal, grill the vegetables, drop the pasta.The veal sizzles, more tickets come in.

And so it goes.

“I need more clams opened.”

“Can someone get me some mozzarella?”“Two more tuna!”“Hey guys! Can one of you bring some ice to the bar!”

“Can you do a shrimp fra diavolo over spinach instead of pas-ta?”Again? Why are you the only one who brings me these tickets?“Yeah, but it’s going to be three bucks more.”

I see flames in the corner of my eye. Vodka sauce? Too busy, doesn’t matter.Okay, chicken francese. Butter, parsley, lemon, wine, stock; is it a small? No, three pieces chicken. Low heat, don’t burn it.

“One more tuna!”

Look at the clock, 9:00, it should be about done by now, let’s shut it down.Wrap up the cheese, wipe down the board, “Guys, I’ve got pans and casseroles for you!”Dump pasta water, turn off ovens.Okay, I need a spray bottle, not that one, Wipe down board again, put knives away,Clean burners, lifting each one, wiping away the carbonized re-mains of mushrooms and capersLift the rubber mats, knocking pieces of peppers and cheese onto the floor. Sweep.Drag mop bucket outside to dump in the street,The familiar sound of mops splashing back on the floor, rhyth-mic and wet.The cold, metallic clanging of silverware being sent through the dish machine. Click

The waitresses leave, stuffing their tips in their wallets and pockets Click ClickThe pizza cooks leave, “See you tomorrow guys”

It’s just me and the dishwashers now,The clangs of tools returning to their bins, the sounds of stack-ing plates echo through the kitchenI’ll leave them to sweep and mop their section, they know how.Okay, is everything off?Grill, fryer, my burners, my oven, grinder oven, pizza oven, yes.

Open the door outside, kick empty boxes of cheese and lettuce away from the door,Drag the trash cans outside,Punch out. Click “Good night guys, see you tomorrow” “Same time tomorrow boss? We still have one more tuna.”Walk through the dimly lit parking lot to my car, breath the cool night air.Get in, sit down, key in the ignition, close the door.

Click

Paul Alexander, according to legend, once cooked a piece of wolly mammoth, just to check it off the list of animals he hadn’t eaten yet. Now if only he could get his hands on some narwhal meat.

virtuessonia lopez

Habits are symptoms Unless you want them to be virtues.People are painfulUnless you want to be in love with them.

We are wedged between the rhythm and the rhymeThat wills us, and wounds usInto the crypt and out of the cradle.

But what beat, or pulse baitsUs into hanging around for more?

The question is notWhat do you need, when you need to beHung, or Hurt, or Handled badly?But rather, who needs you?

Sonia Lopez was born and raised in Houston, Texas and lives with her two res-cue dogs Reefer and Buddy. Sonia is inspired by the works of Allen Ginsburg and Charles Bukowski.

JJ Kuya is an illustrator and writer from north Texas

jj kuya

Colin Hassett

Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.

commotion within

Zaf kassamConscience had his hands in his pockets as he stood there watching the woman examining the unbreakable glass barrier.Ego was sitting on his self-cre-ated throne, observing Con-science. Within was silent. The woman ran her fingers along the smooth invisible surface as if searching for a crack or an incongruence; something to help her get past this insur-mountable obstacle. A deep furrow formed on her high fore-head and determination set firm amid her proud features. She curled her delicate hands into fists and started pounding incessantly on the glass wall. The shock waves knocked Ego off his throne, but the earth-quake of echoes left Con-science untouched. He stood there calmly, still watching her, assessing her. Ego got angri-er by the second and stormed forward to dispel with the nui-sance. Conscience was pro-pelled into action and grabbed

Ego by the arm.“Thy dare!” Ego demanded as he spun around.“Calm down,” Conscience said, his voice silken.Ego growled. But Conscience was undeterred.The sightly beauty kept bang-ing; kept hurting as she hurled her weight against the glass wall. Conscience saw this, and winced. Ego was simply ad-amant to get rid of the dis-comfort all felt; especially him. There was a low moan from the deep recesses of Within. The other residents of Within crept out soundlessly, know-ing all too well that the stage belonged to the two at the forefront, at least for the time being. They simply took their positions on the bleachers, forming sombre files and sitting up straight. “Let not thee be drowned by the forces of Rage I endeav-our to ignite,” Ego threatened. Rage, on the back bench,

glowed at the mention of its name.“Calm yourself, and just look at her. Look at how She is willing to put herself through so much trouble to get Within.”Ego glared at Conscience. “Be not a fool like thine lord,” he spat. “Thine lord who gaveth I thine power of attorney.”“Yes, very foolish indeed is the Heart,” Conscience said in a low tone, “But your lord is no bet-ter.”“Speak no evil of him!” Ego bel-lowed.Conscience went on as if un-interrupted, “Mind suffers a persecution complex that has tainted my dear soulful lord. Your lord is but a fool and nothing more.” Ego bristled, “Thee is in con-tempt! Unhand me!”Conscience let go of the ridicu-lous monster.“There is no point in reasoning with you; beyond your inflated belly nothing can be seen.”“Thy dare!” Ego spluttered, bal-looning out even more.

Rage stood and descended the bleachers slowly, like a cloaked ghoul. Conscience paid no heed to either and stepped up to the glass barrier. The beau-tiful woman had weakened; her blows no longer strong. She slumped against the wall. Conscience raised his hand to the glass and splayed it there, a look of regret befalling his peaceful face. “I’m sorry, Love,” he whispered. She picked herself up again and threw herself bodily against the impenetrable glass. “You deserve to be Within and Within deserves to know your grace,

tranquillity and worth.”

Love began to bleed. Conscience

burned. Within trembled. Ego pushed Conscience out of the way and stood before her and him like the pompous ass he was. Then pressing some trig-ger, he spoke, “You are not welcome. Go away. Or be off with your head.” “It is not fair,” Justice cried from his corner. “How am I to ever be of use if I

do not lay with Love?” Passion demanded from his position.“She seeks to destroy Within,” Fear shouted, quaking.“Heart is too fragile to be jerk-ed around,” Rationale offered. “Mind is too chaotic to com-prehend the affair that would ensue. Mind and Heart are at loggerheads already. We just want Peace to reign Within again.”“Love will bring her back,” Hope spoke out, his voice ringing strongly.“It is too big a risk,” Caution countered. “Love is not to be trusted.”“Let me be the judge of that,” Trust interjected. Conscience turned to him, as Faith stood beside him. “Are you strong enough to stay with Heart and support our lord as he embraces Her?”“Yes, Sir,” Trust and Faith cho-rused.“Pray tell, upon whose authority does thee command the Walls of Within Ego demanded when Conscience sidestepped him and raised his as if beseeching the Wall to part.“Upon mine.” The voice came

from the deep recesses, a voice of subtle power and authori-ty, a voice calmer than Con-science’s and sweeter than Hope’s. Heart was breathtaking in his robes of Purity, delicate and fresh. Hope rushed forward and knelt at His feet. Trust and Faith flanked Him.“And Mine.” Mind’s voice was gruff and aristocratic and pur-poseful. He stood tall and proud, Intellect perched on his left shoulder and Emotion perched on his right, like exotic birds of paradise.Conscience smiled. Ego stepped away into the lurking shadows of Within. He knew his role would be reinforced sooner or later. “My Lords,” Conscience too stepped aside to reveal Love, exhausted and frail. Heart rushed forward, con-cerned. “By my rose, this is not done. She must be honored and nurtured.” Mind flicked his sinewy hand about and ordered the glass barrier to vanish. It did so in-stantaneously and Love fell into the arms of Heart and was fully consumed by Him.

Joyous celebrations broke out, the festivities enhanced as In-vincibility and Glory appeared from thin air to decorate Within. And Within came alive with en-ergy and festivity that had never graced this place ever before. Within called out Victory and all else was forgotten as reckless abandon took over. Mind and Heart danced around Love like little children at the park. And the partying continued until...

Zaf Kassam spends her time creating parallel storylines out of reality. She is soft-spoken, has loud thoughts, is of a quiet demeanour and harvests a rag-ing love for all things witty. She likes learning new things and is very, very grateful for Google.

MADDI MONTERO

AMEZAGA

MADDI MONTERO AMEZAGA is a pho-tographer from Donostia. She doesn’t know why, but she makes photo-graphs.

WILDFIRE

DOMINIC DEFILIPIYou’re the fireThe conflagarationThat will taint my skies of blueYet I’d burn the whole world overFor another night with you

Your facade is slowly melting butYou’re not the one to blameUnless I cut the kindlingI can only fan the flame

But if love’s a fiery vortexWith a burning heart and soulI know that ours could catch aflameAnd char us both to coal

You’re the fireThe conflagarationThe soul the flames have kissedI love you I adore you But I’m not an arsonist

Dominic Defilipi is a pharmacy student at the University of Rhode Island. He writes poetry and music for money, so he can sell drugs one day.

maybe if i tried jesse gebel

My friend tells me he gave up on his girl because she got lazy, and smoked crazy dope too much, and got slightly fat, got too much of a barrel of bombs that shouldn’t be around no more.Throw her over the bridge, he gets fit and I get drunk and get lost in the streets and this little belly on me from something is soft and mean.Good night I never hear in this house, crumbs on the table, crumbs and maybe mice- something will feed from my food crumbs in the black night.Dirty floor and the carpet in my bedroom stinks and it feels rough. I cook something and it tastes good, I’m a good cook, I should have been a cook.I should have been something, good coming forward in life but laziness takes over and ambition is nowhere to be found- how it felt good to have you around. Once not eating for two days and you gave me your food, your soul.It made me fall for you more in some room that we will never touch again.

Jesse Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks a deadly publsiher that will publish his dement-ed knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.

The Kite frofc

Into the distancethe fields stretchedforeverFar more thanmy eyes couldever beholdAnd thereall above uson a back dropblue oceanthe kite would rattlelike the gibon a yachtDown belowour gazethe horses didgatherto stare at thisbright lightthat buzzedthrough the airand over the browon the spineof the South Downsthe darkness rolled overand carriedthe rainFROFC is a mystery to us. We believe that FROFC is a human who writes poetry. We can’t really be too sure.

The Memory remains

Navin EnjetiWe were both seventeen. Lara’s theme played as she accepted my request to dance.She left her hair open and her mind, it seems. We danced, we spoke, we drank and we laughed.Married at twenty-five. It was simple as that. My hand held hers tight-ly; just as I had the night we danced eight years ago. She left her hair open. We danced, we spoke, we drank and we laughed.We shared the pleasure of be-ing each other’s “firsts”; making love under the stars on the first day of summer. She grew from being a clumsy adolescent to a lady the town looked up to. We never spoke of us not being able to conceive; sharing our moments with one another was

our inability to conceive. So, when she left the car running one night, before our friendly neighbours alerted us; we were grateful. And yet, we laughed.Nineteenth of April 2009, was the day I turned forty seven and the first time in twenty-two

years, I had wo-ken up alone. “I went for a walk”

she said. And, we laughed, as she handed me a daffodil.We had always shared our firsts. Remember?She was the same, on the out-side. Yes, yes she was, or so I told myself, despite my inclina-tion to believe the signs. She faded like ink; slowly at first, before rapidly deteriorat-ing. I had become a stranger to her, much like the town itself.

me to leave, not knowing who I was. Soon after, we stopped.Twenty fourth of August 2011 and after thirty two years of sharing our firsts, it all came to an end. We would share firsts no longer. There was a time, I remembered for the both of us, as she failed to recall any de-tails of our life together. The tighter I held, the more she lost. Today, in her absence, I remember the days we danced, we spoke, we drank and we laughed. I shall make do with this and for now only her memory remains.

Navin Enjeti is an author who writes about heartbreak and loss based on his own personal experiences from his childhood through to adult life. A firm believer in living life to its fullest, he draws inspiration from all that surrounds him.

Regret Poem #3

Maxwell Bland

I made the 2nd joke, like, 12 times,

and not 1 hit.

Yet when the 2nd one made the 2nd joke,

it hit, like, a … lot.

Maxwell Bland is is an American poet and one of the background figures of the alt lit movement. An aspiring writer of postmodern and new sincerity liter-ature, he is considered by his friends to be “lacking in social skills.”

Photosynthesis

Sonia lopezYou are not a holy man.You are a man of science,Who mends me, and tends to me organically,With the only means you know how.With your hands, with your mouth.

At daybreak I rise,Limbs tangled around your creature contoursBecause I’m solar-powered, green, and deprived.My body bends towards you even when we are apart,Because I cannot function Without the salt that falls from your browWhen you are over me, under me, inside me.

At night, when I am sick with wanting,I hear you car keys finally hit the nightstandAnd your easy breathAs you curl your forgiving body around mine, Methodically coaxing the warmth back into my thighs.

Photosynthesis is clever, Leaving no room for Unnecessary expenditures of energy.Everything you are to me is vital.

SONIA LOPEZ was born and raised in Houston, Texas and lives with her two res-cue dogs Reefer and Buddy. Sonia is inspired by the works of Allen Ginsburg and Charles Bukowski.

Untitled frofc

He had chewedon shards offuture hopesand washed them away with smokefollowedthe ruleswith calloused handsand breathed incoal dustdown hisdried up throatThe forecast was bleakerthan youth had proposedHis heart had shrankand with ithis horizonsbut on the roadhe had learned hard the lessonsthat he was neveron a free ticketHis demonsalways there to dinewhilst those inthe magnolia towerslooked downfrom high opinionbut a mist belowobscured the view

and all they couldsee was their ownreflectionsLife is a nonexistent myththey saidand they dinedon themselveson the roadto hellobliviousof the mansconvictions

FROFC is a mystery to us. We believe that FROFC is a human who writes poetry. We can’t really be too sure.

colin hassettColin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include mu-sic, photography, writing, and more.

havencory Blair

In 34 minutes, the car will be hit and both children will be killed instantly. Two years lat-er, the mother will hang herself (she’s always been old-fash-ioned). Six years after that, the father, driven further into alco-holism, will leave this world at the ripe old age of 54. There will be nobody left to miss him when he is gone.

The suitcases piled up in the trunk look like the skyline of an empty city. My diabetic brother sits next to me. He is checking his blood sugar lev-els. He has a huge phobia of needles, so when he pricks his finger twice a day he always turns his head, closes his eyes, and grimaces, making sure he doesn’t actually witness the needle penetrating the skin. He says, contrary to what one might expect, his fear of nee-dles grows each day, and it

gets progressively harder and harder to prick his finger. One day he might not be able to check his blood sugar at all. I don’t know what he will do whenthat day comes. Maybe just curl up into a ball and wait.A blanket covers my legs. It has a picture of a smiling cat hold-ing up a “peace” sign. I hate this blanket. I don’t know why I still have it. My aunt that nobody likes or keeps in touch with got

it for me for Christmas a few years ago. She didn’t get

anything for anybody else and hasn’t sent anything since.The blanket is wrinkled and makes the cat look more like a blue paraplegic man. The wrin-kles remind me of old people, or my fingers after I stay in the bath for too long. Perhaps that’s why old people get all wrinkly. They have spent too much time bathing. I’m looking forward to getting old. I imagine old

people sit around all day and just knitand tell stories to one another. Then one day they just curl up into a ball and wait.My mother and father get into the car. My father turns around and smiles. He doesn’t smell of alcohol. I shift because the bruise on my arm is hurting. “Everybody ready?” he says enthusiastically. I don’t think his over-emphasized smile is genuine but I can’t really tell.My mother isn’t crying for once. She cries a lot. Her only expla-nation is, “I’m tired.” Yesterday we couldn’t get her out of the bathtub. She was “very tired.” When my father and my brother finally lifted her out, she was all wrinkly.This is what she will look like when she is old. Tired and wrinkly.There’s no response to my fa-ther’s inquiry. He continues.“Look, I know things have been…I’m sorry. Let’s put it be-hind us and have a good time.”My brother looks up and gives him a half smile. His blood sugar was a little low so he eats a bag of fruit snacks. My father smiles back. This one is genu-ine. He awkwardly reaches

es behind his seat and pats my brother on the shoulder. A nice, manly pat.“Hey Joanne, how’s that cute boy in your class doing?” he asks me.“Dad, I’m a lesbian, remember?” I joke back, looking to avoid his mandatory parental teasing.“That’s too bad. I was looking forward to beating the shit out of the boys you brought home over the years. Beat them off with a stick.” He waves his hand around like he is bashing in the skulls of overzealous, horny teenage boys. My brother be-gins to laugh and my father beings to laugh and I begin to laugh. It starts off slowly, like faux-chuckles you throw cour-teously at your friends after they make a bad joke, but be-gins to build and build, an en-ergy flowing out of our mouths and dancing throughout the car. We make eye contact and continue, the car shaking, the deep baritones and high shrieks of our varied laughter harmonizing and feeding into to one another. The laughter of my family enters my mouth and travels to my stomach. I

am full. In my brother’s open mouth I see fruit snacks.It dies down and I see my moth-er’s head buried into her arm. She is crying again. My father leans over and kisses her on the top of her head. He whispers something in her ear. She looks up. She is smiling. These are a different kind of tears.“It’s just so good to hear all you guys laugh.” She begins to sob. She is still smiling. “Oh, I’m just so glad we are finally doing this.”“We’re finally doing it,” whispers my father. “We’re finally do-ing it. It’s just what we need.” He looks back and smiles. We beam back. We are finally do-ing it. What had just been words and promises for years has fi-nally turned into a family vaca-tion. We are finally doing it. As we pull out of the driveway and down our street, I stare out

the back window. I watch the sun rise over our hand-made skyline. It makes the entire car glow in a soft golden tone. A tree passes in front of the sun, filtering the light into delicate

strings that weave and form a tap-

estry that smothers me. It’s so beautiful it’s hard to breathe. I stare directly into the sun and it burns my eyes but I don’t look away. I can’t. We turn a corner and the sun is no longer visi-ble from the window. I close my eyes and look inwards. It’s still there. Five hours until Cal-ifornia. I curl up into a ball and wait.

Cory Blair is a journalism major at the University of Maryland. He freelances for the American Journalism Review and does not think A1 steak sauce compliments the taste of meat very well. You can find Cory on tumblr by visiting http://a-sneaky-keyhole-view-of-hell.tumblr.com

Jan. 21, 2014- beautiful Dex MasonYou sworeThe most beautiful of flowersCouldn’t growEven in the darkest partsOf your wretched heart.

But I wonderIf you’ve everHeard yourself sing?

I wonder,Have you ever heard the soundOf your own smileBefore your laugh?

The tone of your voiceAs you go into depthOf the thingsYou are most passionate about?

I’m almost certainIf you weren’t yourselfFor only a momentYou’d be enticedBy your own nature.

Maybe then,You’d begin to feelThe water lilies sproutFrom even the coldest places

DEX MASON gets herself in trouble by excessively wearing her heart on her sleeve, and she just never seems to learn. All she’s hoping for is that her words will mean something to someone other than herself.

In your heart;

You’d begin to feelThe colors restoreTo your black dahliasAnd your calla lilies,

And the roses emergeFrom your wristsAnd maybe then,You’ll understandHow beautiful you areTo me.

I used to be the matBut now I’m the doorThe lock is brokenYou cant come in anymore

I thought I liked youBut you proved me wrongI put so much effortWhere I didn’t belong

I wasted my timeI wasted my energyI wasted my thoughtsAll on you

At least now I know the real youAnd it’s someoneI’d never want to be withYou’re a perfect exampleOf who I hate

Now walk out that doorI’ll lock it behind youYou’re not coming in againJust go and never come backI don’t want you here anymore

I’m locking you outForever.

DoormatColin Hassett

Colin Hassett lives in Portland, Maine with his girlfriend Katie Traver. His hobbies include music, photography, writing, and more.

jj Kuya

JJ Kuya is an illustrator and writer from north Texas

The snow falls lightly,melting into mud on the ground.I walk past every namecarved in granite.I recognize the surnamesof people I have known,but I can’t find the one that I have loved.I’ve tried walking in a gridbut now I am following the wind.Scanning for the name I want to see.It was a snowy day in decemberand I couldn’t find your graveI’m sorry I wasn’t your favorite.I bet he leaves you flowersand tells you about his day.I just want to run my fingers across your name.The snow falls harder.

Hide and BurryRene Pellissier

Rene Pellissier is a Student at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. She is in her sophomore year, and writes both poetry and prose. She was raised in Connecticut, on sarcasm, and alcoholic cherries.

I don’t know if women everimagine a man crying;in his room while nothingplays and the quietmakes him sadder.

you see a woman break downeasily and how a man stands therelooking at his father or mother’sgrave, and doesn’t cry ever.

some men think if youcry,you are weaker than the dirt thatsinks in your shoes.

Hell I cried one nightafter seeing a youngwomanwho I thought I loved,and all I did waspour that liquor down

to the liver and makeme smile again.you bastard.

I saw my baby sister’sgrave and held on steady,but we kept on going to

Crying Fool Jesse Gebel

other known graves,and the steadiness oftears on me.flowed on outlike the river risingand killing us all.

Jese Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks a deadly publsiher that will publish his dement-ed knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.

Episodes Emma Hannanthere was a time when i wouldtouch myself to the thought of youand hate myself for it, cursing myown name while screaming yours to the ceiling.

i am familiar with self-loathing; we’ve shared a bed almost every night and told no one. vulnerability is my mistress;we’ve fucked in the back seat of acar, she’s left bruises on the back ofmy thighs where her teeth resided.my affairs have turned me to stone, andyou’ve sunk to the bottom from the weight of me too often.

abuse and masochism became a niche, a comfort. i memorized thecracks in your voice like a language,each time translating them into a newreason to never speak again. the onlyair i ever learned how to breathe was toxic with my own pain, and i wasnever taught the basic exercisesto survive without it - so isurvived without you instead.

~over three hundred moons have passed and i have fallen more in lovewith you than ever before. i am clean,clarified, complete. i am full like a moon.

a year later and you bite into meevery day like a plum and it isecstasy, a fulfillment more satisfyingthan the kiss of a person you don’t know. this is permanent,the manifestation of pure consistency - more reliable thandeprecation that has spentmuch of her time whoring herselfout to me, and is finally moving herthings out of my living space.

Emma Hannan began writing in 2009 and became a contributor and editor of her high school’s literary magazine, Scriptura. Post-graduation, she has dabbled in everything from short story to journalism, but her heart will always beat in poetry. Her goal is to inspire art, create art, and to ultimately become art.

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