The Web Issue

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PaperfingerOctober 2013 The Web Issue

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PaperfingerOctober 2013 The Web Issue

Think you’ve got what it takes to write something for us?Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail

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Editor / Co-founder

Currently studying creative writing at Indiana University, Kristiane enjoys listening to vinyl and

reading a good book, even if its a cliche.

Designer / Co-founder

Originally from the suburbs of Philadelphia Jessica is a Graphic Designer who loves

typography and a good iced coffee.

Jessica Frick Kristiane Weeks

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I once had a high school art teacher tell me (in front of the entire class) I couldn’t paint. Every time I begin a new painting, I think of her

and prove her wrong.” That’s right. The incredible works of art filling these pages was done by someone who can’t paint. It is incredible that Brianna was able to take a moment in her life that could have stopped her from ever pursuing art and turn it around to be what actually drives her to be better.

After hearing from Brianna what her work ethic is like (40-60 hours in the studio a week on top of a full course load!) I can’t say I am surprised that she has risen to such a high level. Brianna and I graduated together, unfortunately I did not know her while at school however when I heard her name (when I was told I HAD to feature her!) I recognized it instantly.Brianna Angelakis, the one who stood so frequently to accept award at graduation that she should’ve just stayed standing, how could I

forget? Of course when I saw her breathtaking work I understood why she was so heavily awarded, there is without a single doubt in my mind that no one else in the art department (and probably the entire school) was as deserving.

I remember the first time I saw her work, it was on the first floor of the art building.

The art building is littered with art and artistic stimulation. There are paintings and posters covering every inch of the walls. Sculptures crowding the floor, the bathroom signs are usually covered so you can’t tell if you’re walking into the mens room or womens and on the bathroom mirror more likely than not there is a strange, confusing, inspirational and philosophical quote that will leave you reeling – long story short – the art building is a mess.

At some point you have to learn to cancel a certain amount of the noise out or you will never find your way

from one classroom to another. Despite the noise Brianna’s work stood out to me. I was rushing out the door most and I ran down the spiral staircase leading to the first floor. Sitting at the bottom was a painting with a girl who was falling, or floating in front of an incredibly realistic imaginary landscape with detail and beauty that made it more beautiful and real to me than looking out a window.

Unlike the vast majority of work I’ve seen around the art building or in museums, it made me stop.

It took my breath away.

The work of Brianna Angelakis is absolutely incredible. She finds a way to blend a believable world with a fantastic one. It is hard to believe that she has only recently graduated college. Her skill and technique is on caliber with work made by artists many years her senior and yet, she didn’t start out college as an art major. “I just

“I once had a high school art teacher tell me I couldn’t

paint.”“

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graduated from Flagler College in April, and while I did graduate with a Bachelor’s in Fine Arts, I also graduated with a Bachelor’s in English. English was actually my first and only major during college until the end of my junior year when I decided to double major in both English and Fine Arts.”

Her passion for literature fueled her art by giving her inspiration. “Because of my love for English literature and poetry, my works from all three series of paintings (Bronte, Wonders of the Invisible World, and Enchantments Encountered) are directly inspired by literature. My Bronte series, for example, contains four portraits directly inspired by Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. My Wonders of the Invisible World series are inspired by Kate Chopin’s

feminist novel The Awakening as well as acting as a commentary on the idea of the ‘fallen woman’ which has existed throughout the course of written history. The vast majority of my papers during my college career centered around feminism, so feminism quickly made it’s way into my paintings as well. Currently I’m working on a series of paintings inspired by traditional fairytales which again links back to literature.”

Drawing inspiration from literature is not unusual for artists, in fact Angelakis is inspired by other artists who draw inspiration from literature as well, although she decidedly does not have just one favorite artist “I have dozens of favorite artists, and I constantly surround myself with work via social media so it’s kind of difficult to just pick one! The deceased

artist I probably frequent the most is John William Waterhouse. I’m drawn to his work because most of his paintings are inspired by works of literature, like myself.”

Don’t worry, it’s not all work for Angelakis, when she first became interested in art she drew Sailor Moon inspired work and still enjoys watching the popular cartoon “I’ve been interested in art since I could physically hold a crayon. I started watching Sailor Moon when I was five years old, and for the next decade I would continue to draw Sailor Moon inspired work. Disney (particularly the Disney Renaissance years) always inspired me from a very young age as well. Even now, my love for Sailor Moon and Disney is stronger than ever!”

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Although Angelakis started out drawing and coloring as a small child it is hard to believe she ever did anything besides paint in oils, other mediums she experiments in include “graphite, ink, colored pencil, marker, watercolor, acrylic, scratchboard, printmaking, etc.” However she admits that she has gotten a thirst for oils which simply can’t be quenched “For the past two years, I’ve barely touched any media besides oils. This past month I began working in graphite and printmaking again. I was a little rusty at first (since I haven’t really drawn anything since 2012), but I’m very much back into the swing of things. Oil painting is undoubtedly my most preferred medium. There’s really nothing like the feeling of having a brush in my hand and mixing colors on my palette.”

She even admits to being intimidated by oils when she first started using them “I had painted with acrylics a few times prior; however, painting with acrylics and painting with oils are entirely different processes. My Painting 1 class introduced me to oils, and I literally had to learn how to paint all over again. I hated it. I hated oil painting. The first few weeks of class, I complained about it. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the best in my art class. I was average. I hated being average. I started spending more time after hours in the studio. All of those extra hours paid off, but they didn’t stop there. Since the beginning of 2012, I have spent about 40-60 hours in the studio per week. That was on top of my 18+ hour credit hour class schedule during the semester and my full-time job in the fast-food industry during the summer. Now I work full-time as a professional artist. I absolutely hated oil painting when I started, but here I am now two years later, and I’ve shown my oil paintings in museums and in galleries nationally ranging from San Francisco to Minneapolis to Baton Rouge. I have upcoming shows in Los Angeles to Portland to Chicago. My first solo exhibition opens in May of 2014 in San Francisco. I’m still learning how to paint. Every new painting I produce, I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone. I constantly test myself through composition, perspective, distortion, color, light, shadow, texture, etc. You will never grow as an artist unless you challenge yourself. It also makes things more interesting!”

Despite her recent succcess (which I am sure is just the beginning) Brianna can recount one of the first pictures she drew “In my first grade art class, I had to draw a self-portrait by referencing a photo of myself. I decided to use a photograph of myself with Goofy at Disney World. I can remember sitting in class with everyone telling me it looked just like the photo. Of course, it didn’t look anything like the photo, but it was pretty spectacular for a seven year old. My mom still says from the day I brought that self-portrait home, she knew I was going to be an artist.” What’s even more impressive is Brianna’s drive which is what

I think really separates her from everyone else.

Art is not something you’re just inherently born with. Of course, just like everything else, you have to work to be good at it. There are those people who are born with talent but no matter how much talent one possesses talent is nothing without drive, ambition and hard work. Brianna proves she has what it takes not only from the caliber of work she produces but through the hours she puts in at the studio and her eternal drive to prove her high school teacher wrong.

I am sure I am no alone when I saw I can not wait to see what she does next!

To Contact Brianna you can view her work on: http://www.briannaangelakis.com

She’s also on most social media websites:

Facebook fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/BriannaAngelakisArt

Instagram: http://instagram.com/brianna_angelakis

Tumblr: http://briannaangelakis.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/BAngelakis

Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/shop/BriannaAngelakis

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In the summer when I was twelve, I could still feel myself growing and changing along with the growth of the cornfields. I felt it especially

during late July, when green stalks rose tightly together, I felt strong and lean and full of life, too. I remember how instead of watching my older brother play baseball, I would find myself sitting in the tree line, looking out across the railroad tracks to gaze at the long lush fronds that appeared to be holding hands, forming a chain that would remain untainted until the harvest in September. Except, of course, by worms and lightning bugs and stray cats. All the kids who weren’t playing in the baseball tournaments, including who I thought was my best friend at the time, Clara, would occupy the space just outside the field among greenery, the railroad tracks, and the cornfield.

But that summer was also the last year my older brother would play a baseball tournament in our hometown of Caster, Iowa. The last day of the tournament meant the end of summer was near, and school would soon begin. It must have been at least five innings into the game before I went to the tree line, and I knew my light skin would fry if I kept sitting in the bleachers with my mom. My younger brother, Trey, was getting anxious, too. Mom wouldn’t let him play in the trees if I wasn’t with him, even with all the other kids bobbing in and out of the trees. Finally, after Trey had lugged a metal bat from a rack near the dusty wooden dug-out and pounded enough dirt around the bleachers for a sandstorm to appear he asked, “Don’t you want to get out of the sun, Holly?”

Tink! Parents roared and jumped on the bleachers as another grounder made it to the outfield. The teenagers leaped around puffy bases and one slapped his foot on home plate.

“As long as I can see you two, you can play with the others,” our mother noted through claps and whistles. “And stay off the tracks this time?”

I huffed deeply and pushed red curls off my wet forehead, gazing to the only sliver of shade in the ballpark. Trey knew I didn’t want to sit and watch the game, but I was avoiding the trees for a reason. Even back then I knew the importance of keeping distance from uncomfortable situations. I fought with myself over going to the other kids to play. I watched the girls and boys uninterested in baseball championships run around tall pines and oaks that separated the ballpark from the railroad tracks like a swaying green Wall of China. My heart fluttered nervously when I caught a glimpse of Clara swinging on a low branch. She was the real reason I was avoiding the other kids. Clara had a kind of power over the all the kids because she was older than all of us. She was only a couple weeks older than I was, but she always reminded me of her superior age. However, I was the only girl among the bunch of summer kids in town, and she took a liking to me last summer when our brothers played ball together for the season. We spent long summer nights camping out in tents and ate bowls of vanilla ice cream swimming in milk. That summer, all of the kids found great joy with the discovery of coin-smashing on the tracks. Clara and I loved the luring beams that stretched to infinity, the giant boxes of trains that zoomed by as we waited to find the coins we strategically placed on the beams. The rush of wind and heat we felt from standing near the passing trains made us giggle uncontrollably. But a week prior, I accidently got Clara grounded. Her parents were stricter than mine, and I showed Clara’s mom a quarter that was smoothed out by the train, with

the features of Washington’s face completely gone, flattened and smoothed by hot train wheels, not thinking of any consequence but excited to show the flattened silver. Then Clara couldn’t go to the movies, or out to ice cream, and she had to sit on the bleachers with the adults the entire baseball game. Today she was off the hook, and I was afraid to approach her because I knew Clara had used her superior age to convince the kids that I was a tattle-tail. She had done it last month to a boy who also got her in trouble. He was sitting on the bleachers in front of me, he had stayed there all month, and with school around the corner, I didn’t want to be that kid. I didn’t want to be alone all year, with no one to sit with. Clara’s power extended into school groups as well, after all. Finally, I found the courage to accompany Trey to the trees with the other kids. I had to talk to Clara, even apologize if I found it necessary. Sitting in the hot sun wasn’t worth a whole year of being known as a rat, if not longer. I kept my eyes on Clara while Trey pushed a branch back with his bat.

Comforting scents of earth and grass filled my lungs as the passed into shade. I sat on a bed of orange pine needles, digging my fingers into the cold, soft dirt, thinking what I would say to Clara, to get back in her good graces. A few boys ran past me with Clara hot on their heels, laughing with her arms reaching for the boys.

“Clara!” I called. She swung her head sharply in the opposite direction. She disappeared around the trunk of the oak I leaned against. I guess it was going to take a little more effort than that.

I watched Trey and some boys slide down to the rock ditch sitting like a valley between the trees and the tracks. They threw rocks at each other and at the tracks. Then, a little blond boy ran up to the group boys, shouting, “I found something!” He had come from the

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tracks, a little ways down. Clara and the other kids gathered on the tracks. Everyone left the trees to hear what the boys had to say.

Now was a chance to talk to Clara, since she wasn’t running around. I got up from my shaded area and went right behind Clara, tapping her on the shoulder just as she was saying, “Let’s go!” The boys and Clara headed to where the blond boy had come from.

Trey trotted over to me, cascading rocks under his tiny feet. His green eyes sparkled up at me.

“You wanna see?” he asked, tugging on me. He was used to me going everywhere with him.

“You know we’re not supposed to play on the tracks, Trey.” I didn’t want to budge, I didn’t want to get anyone in more trouble. Trey’s brow furrowed. His lips and cheeks puffed up.

“I’m gonna go.” His short legs strained to climb up the rocks and

gravel with the others. A few kids walked on top of the thick beams, arms out like yellow crossing signs for balance.

I didn’t want to sit in the trees by myself. And I wasn’t going to go back to the stands, although I thought it was funny watching the pitcher’s knee rise like a flamingo’s as he wound up to release a curve ball. I still had to talk to Clara.

As I caught up with the others, the railroad gleamed as white as the sun in hot straight lines. They looked like glowing parallel arrows that led straight to a crumpled black lump. I felt like we all had teleported at an instant to the thing. We crowded the thing and everyone whispered. Clara found a plank that had shaken loose from the tracks and pushed through the kids.

I followed behind, then grabbed Clara’s arm as I caught a glimpse of a scraggly brown and muddy cat lying on its side in a puddle of brownish-red. Its fur was matted and sticky in the hot afternoon.

One of its legs angled irregularly over the large track, and a small white bone jutting out. The cat seemed to be sleeping with its eyes were half-closed on a brown stain that had formed in the gravel. It didn’t even move as we all closed in. I guessed it barely escaped death by an oncoming train, but its leg got caught and hit. It couldn’t have been there long. It must have happened earlier in the morning, but I wasn’t sure.

Clara pulled her arm out of my grasp and poked the thing gently with the plank. Fur moved in towards the stomach, but nothing else happened. A few boys let out short laughs and smiled.

“Is it dead?” I whispered. The boys all murmured and deliberated. “We should just go back to the trees.”

Clara scoffed and put her hands on her hips. At least I was getting her attention.

Those with bats jabbed at the cat again. This time, the cat’s silver eyes

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bulged open. Its hanging mouth unhinged from its jaw, letting out a loud screech, like metal train wheels squealing against rusty metal railroads. The screech rung in our ears. Sound stuck itself on our bones, sending chills through us, screeching into eternity with the distance of the tracks. The mangled foot on the other side of the beam twitched, and the red puddle grew over more rocks and wooden train track planks.

One boy jumped at the sound and swung his metal bat down on the wounded animal’s muzzle. The shrieking stopped. A few gasped in surprise.

“I didn’t mean to! It scared me!” the kid said, trying to justify his actions. Black and red trickled from the cat’s mouth, clotted in its furry chin. The silver eyes stared down the tracks.

“It’s dead now,” Clara snickered.

“I’m surprised our parents didn’t hear the thing!” a boy chimed. A

soft roar of chants and cheers could be heard from the ballpark. The kids stared at the cat.

“Well, we better make sure…” the blond boy raised a bat over his head and pulled the trajectory of the thick part of the bat down. It landed on the stomach of the cat. A puff could be heard from the cat, but the screeching didn’t begin again. Three other boys joined, laughing. I never told Trey how grateful I was that he wasn’t one of those boys. Clara and Trey and I watched the fur break away and catch in the breeze. A parade of thuds landed on the cat. I couldn’t believe it, but I couldn’t stop the boys from slamming their bats over and over like miners on the brink of striking gold. Pink innards and red and black liquid covered the tracks, the bats. None of the kids said anything as the beating ended. The boys were sticky with sweat. Clara threw

the plank she had on top of the flattened mess.

Heavy vibrations rattled up through the ground, and then through me. A rumbling reverberated off tall oaks, then a low gust of air came. We turned and saw a ball of fire heading toward us through the waves of heat rising off the train. Mechanical screeching ran through our ears.

“Train!” Trey yelled. We all slid down the ditch and up into the safety of the dark trees. The black train’s horn bleated three times. Heavy boxes of red and gray swished through the green cornfield and trees, over the plank Clara left, splitting it into bloody, splintered shanks.

I sat on the edge of the trees, watching the mangled animal lie as they left it. A bubble swelled in my stomach. A few minutes passed along with the train. The tracks were clear again. The heat and wind from the caboose carried the scent of stinking fur. The smell

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made me want to lie back on the grass. I closed my eyes, inhaling deep through my mouth to avoid the smell.

Most of the boys went back to the cat, to see what the train had done in addition to the mess they made. Trey stood over me as one of the boys asked in the distance “Can we leave it here?”

Clara’s voice squealed through the air, “Not if Holly’s going to tell.”

I looked at the kids looking back at me. Clara’s brown eyes were squinted half-moons, surrounded by overzealous crinkles. Her smile crinkled high into her cheeks.

“She should get rid of it!” a small voice yelled from the group. The boys all nodded in agreement, their eyes never leaving me.

“Awe, leave her alone, guys! She didn’t do anything!” Trey yelled back to them. A couple of the boys threw rocks at Trey’s feet. “She’s a tattle-tail!” A few boys murmured. I was right, Clara had said something. Now was my chance to say something back. “I didn’t mean to! I’ve been trying to apologize since we got over here. I didn’t know showing your mom the quarter would get you in trouble, Clara. I mean that. I’m sorry!” “You can prove how sorry you are by hiding this cat.” I never forgot those words, just like I never forgot the decision I made after.

She didn’t even look at me, but looked at all the kids agreeing with her, smiling her usual deceptive, crinkly smile. Such a young girl shouldn’t have had so many creases around her eyes, folds down her nose as she snarled at me. It was that moment I begun to question our friendship. But I still wasn’t going to end up like that kid on the

bleachers. “Why don’t we just leave it here? I don’t think our parents are going to walk down the tracks any time soon,” I said. It was true. Our parents never went past the tree line. “You aren’t sorry at all,” Clara taunted. “But I am! I am sorry. Why can’t you just accept my apology? I didn’t know you’d get grounded!”

“You know how my parents are!” I could tell she was really upset about it. It seemed like every month Clara was getting grounded for something. I would have been sick of always being in trouble, too, I suppose. But I didn’t consider that maybe she was always grounded because she was actually a kid who was always misbehaving. “I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry.” The other kids were silent as the two of us stood there, staring at each other. Then, she walked toward me. “You can prove you’re sorry by getting rid of this cat. Everyone might get in trouble if our parents come back here, especially now that my parents know we play on the tracks.” It wasn’t what I was hoping to hear, but I was on the way to getting back into Clara’s favor and getting out of being a tattle-tale. I looked at my younger brother. He was looking up blankly at me. I knew he was always going to be a person I could depend on. I wanted him to tell me that I didn’t need to do anything, I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone but myself because those kids’ opinions meant nothing in the long run. Instead, Trey runs down the hill to catch a frog the boys have noticed hopping around. I’m left alone with Clara. “I’ll help you,” she said. She opened her hand to me. “We can bury it in the cornfield, but you have to help.”

Clara always made the plans. She always had the big ideas.

“You aren’t mad at me anymore?” I asked. I didn’t take Clara’s extended hand.

“Mad?” Clara’s face assumed the role of an innocent girl. What I didn’t realize at the time was how her innocence was just a hoax to get me to follow her lead. Without my consent, Clara grabbed my hand anyway. “C’mon, we need to get a towel from the concession stand and get it off the tracks. Unless you wanna use your hands.” Clara yanked hard and I felt like I was stuck, I had to obey her. She didn’t let go of me as she lead me back to the ballpark.

No one in the stands noticed us walk behind the fenced outfield to the snack stand. Clara stepped behind me as we approached the chipping white building. The screen was half torn-off in front of the moustached man behind the window. He was one of the dads who volunteered every season to run the snack bar. I took the towel from the man and Clara immediately turned and began to walk back to the tracks. I followed close behind, wadding up the towel in my hands, deliberating going back to the stands, fighting the urge to back down.

“You gonna do it?” a boy yelled as Clara and I walked down the rail road to the black and red mess. Neither of us said anything. It seemed like thousands of flies were circling and tagging the carcass. A few tiny gnats stuck themselves to a staring eye. Clara grabbed the larger half of the plank she used earlier. “Put the towel down.”

I fluffed out the towel like we were setting up a picnic blanket, smoothing out the corners as far as the towel would stretch. Clara held out the plank to me.

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“You can to do this.”

I should have retorted, told her I wasn’t going to play her game. Instead, I took the plank. I shoved it as hard as I could under the smashed cat, somehow still a single mass, except for the foot that had been derailed by the train. I felt my mouth quivering and my eyes closed as the cat’s imploded face rolled to face me. I was holding my breath as I pushed, scooped a heavy mass of fur and guts and gravel on the plank. Then I shook it all loose on the towel. The mess rolled lethargically down the plank like giant uncooked ground beef onto the clean towel. A brown outline of a shriveled cat had stained the rocks and railroad. There was nothing to clean that up. Clara covered the tiny severed paw by kicking a pile of big rocks on top of it.

I folded up the corners of the towel and lifted the package. I felt bones and slimy insides shift around, but I was determined not to have anything fall back to the ground. I looked at Clara’s squinted face, the familiar snarl she always seemed to have.

“Let’s go.”

I obeyed, holding the towel in front of me, my arms out at full length. The bottom of the towel had begun to spread with a light shade of muddy brown. I continued to hold my breath, my chest puffed up as we tripped along the rocks to the opposite side of the tracks. The corn loomed above us, like British soldiers that wouldn’t let us pass. The breeze swished the stalks lightly, and they rattled a hollow warning. Clara expertly dodged and dipped through the thin green shoots. The compactness of the stalks made it hard for me to keep the wrapped towel at arm’s length. I lead with my arms stiff, weaving through the countless green shoots behind Clara’s path. Clara stopped when the tracks were out of sight.

Around us was nothing but thick green leaves, shoots like bamboo with fountains of brown cob hairs spouting from all sides. The weight of the towel and pushing with my arms through the stalks made me shake with weakness. I dropped the towel between her and I, and it made a soft oof. Part of the towel slid away, revealing a clump of black and brown. Clara handed me the plank and said, “Dig.” So I stuck the plank into the moist, dark ground and churned a pile of soil loose. Ears of corn shook above us as I rolled the towel into the hole. I was the only one to kick dirt over the towel. A small glimpse of dirty cloth could still be seen through the hole when I finished. I looked down at the dirt pile nestled between two rows of stalks. My mouth felt glued shut. I wanted to say something, anything. I had followed her lead as I always had. It was at that moment I knew I would never follow the lead of someone or something I didn’t agree with. Clara looked up into the blue sky, and let out a short breath through her nose.

“It’s hot. We should get some water,” Clara decided. She took my hand in hers again, like a mother holding a small child’s hand. We headed back the way we came. Clara didn’t look back at the pile, but I did. I watched the pile disappear into the fortress of the corn. We emerged from the green and found the railroad was empty and silent. A burst of claps were heard from the field. Then I finally said, “I’m not a tattle-tale. You’re my friend.” Clara gave me a big toothy smile, her cheeks like small round plums and squeezed my hand.

“What are you talking about? I know that,” Clara said in a syrupy tone. We walked to the stands where a giant blue cooler had bottles of water submerged in an ice bath. I saw the baseball players were in lines like caterpillars, giving the other team high fives

and sputtering “good game” to one another. Clara grabbed one of the bottles from the cooler and took a big gulp. “We were just playing in the trees.” Clara was right, there’s nothing to worry about with our parents. Everyone gathered left-over snacks and blankets. No one paid attention to the train blurting its horn three times when it passed the field, as the trains always did, without a care or a notice to the tracks, the trees, the cornfields that contained more than nature reveals. I was the only one who looked back toward the trees waving their branches good-bye with a gust of wind. A rumbling was heard in the distance that filled my hollow cavity, then a long metal screech tore through the air. I watched little green flags of Kentucky blue grass wave to the train, signaling for it to stop, to look for everything lost to the field, or to the soft brown dirt that easily hides a secret. I heard an owl hoot quietly. Night was near. The owl screeched louder, knowing what I did under the influence of someone else. I watched the sliver of sun sink under the train tracks with the moon as white as a cat eye, watching me from the sky. At the time, I fully blamed Clara for disconnecting me from the magic of the fields. I felt as tainted as the soil I stuck the cat in. When school started up again, I had enough time to realize that I didn’t need to prove my loyalty to anyone. I especially didn’t need to prove it to Clara by hiding a poor innocent cat that I had nothing to do with. I didn’t feel the same connection with the fields surrounding our small community after that day. Sometimes even in my older age, I still watch the wind moving through fields, and can’t help wondering if ghost cats were slinking through the stalks, moaning the same moan as passing trains, all covered in muck and blood.

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We’d been fighting. I could feel the tension in your body as I sat next to you but continued to ignore you. I feigned an intense interest in the conversation of your friends at

the dinner table with us. My stomach growled. Your jaw clenched. I knew you were wondering how long it had been since I’d eaten. I laughed at something someone said that wasn’t funny and picked a stray French fry from your best friend’s plate. He was less attractive than you, slightly heavier, but his muscles were more prominent. I’d noticed the way he stared at me, and how flustered he was when I was close. You seethed. I touched his arm.

“You’re not going to win,” you muttered, smacking my hand against the face of the stoic queen.

I watched you gather the stack of cards between us and shuffled them into the rest of your hand. Somehow, the sun had gone down between our drive up to the lake and now. We sat on an old plaid blanket on the sandy dune and played Egyptian Rat Screw until we couldn’t see the patterns on the cards. When you lost, or let me win, I looked up and sighed.

“We didn’t watch the sunset,” I whispered as you moved closer, wrapping your arms around me from behind.

“We have plenty of time for that.”

We were still kids when my mom died. You were as sweet as you knew how to be at fifteen. You sat next to me as I went through all the papers in her desk. Past due bills, blank birthday cards, an old spelling test from when I was in the first grade. I had misspelled orange. You held my hand when I found the yellowing manila folder, and I read the poems she’d written in college. I didn’t cry, but you rubbed my back anyway. I traced the curve of her words and realized she and I had never been that different.

When I first saw you, I couldn’t have been older than eight. There was a large Oak tree down by the river that I used to climb. Its branches fit perfectly against my body. I watched you skip rocks across the water. You were fire with sun kissed skin and hair as red as the sunset. Dear fire boy, I thought, I fell in love with you today. I whispered the lines of my love letter while I sat among the highest branches of the Oak tree grown for me.

We were the only two people awake in the world. The floor was rough and uncomfortable, but I refused to care. I was tangled in blankets and your arms, and we said nothing. There was no time; hours and minutes blended together, and we pretended it was true. Somewhere, playing softly and breaking the pact between silence and early morning, the song kept skipping. When we both felt my tear slide between our cheeks as you kissed me, I think you understood.

You gathered me up in your arms, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, and you treated me like a figure of paper-thin glass. Never had I felt that small in front of you, so fragile.

Outside, in the middle of the front lawn, you pulled me to the ground. The grass replaced the basement floor and the ceiling had been ripped back, exposing the sky. Somehow you knew I’d been begging to see the stars. If only my hand stretched just a little farther, maybe I could touch them, let them slip from my hand, and scatter overhead. It would be heaven’s rain. In this moment, the world seemed to end at my fingertips. And maybe it did.

I used to know the feel of the tattoo on your shoulder, its slightly raised lines scarred into your skin. We laughed at the drunken mistake. You’ve since covered it with a new design.

I used to know the way your red hair curled at the base of your skull, what it felt like to twist my fingers through it. You keep your hair shorter now.

I used to know the way your voice sounded when you smiled against the phone. Even miles away, your smile was contagious. You don’t call here anymore.

I don’t mean to think this much about you and your life, about the way we used to be. But you’re toxic to me. You creep into a little part of my head and spread like fire. You’re the arsonist of my body, dear fire boy.

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October

Floridian Autumns changethe weather from hot and humidto rainy and humid.The Palm Trees remain green whilethe neighborhood lawns becomelush jungles of growth that battle the lawn-mowers, plastering wet blades and dampinsects upon bare shins thathave to wait for a break in the clouds,leaving the jungle only half tamed until late evening. The streets soon floodand the standing water brings a second Spring for frogs and mosquitos, their renewedsongs accompany young trick-or-treaters who stuff their costumes into rain boots, holding candyand capes far above the soggy ground.

Duvall

My grandfather died a month before I was born;his name is stamped upon my birth certificate.When we visit the Farmhouse for ThanksgivingI picture him there, standing on the porchwhen the mountains cast long shadows under thefading sun and browning leaves.

I see his strength through my Aunt,he is with her when she gardensthe rows behind the house.He taught her to work long hours with calloused hands to meet natures deadlines, bending low totend the squash vines as her breathplumes away into the cooling air.

I want to farm with him-put my fingers in the cold, orange clayand bring forth something it birthed.See him smile, because he knows he put it there,but neither one of us made it grow.

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17 Months

I was waiting for you in the kitchenwhen the clock said it was tomorrow already.Do you mind that I left the dishes? The green counters stretch out wrap around me, like the skin of the WickedWitch, like something out of the Brady Bunch,which we never watched muchbecause our rabbit ears didn’t pick up the channel.Dad was more important anyway,staying home Saturdays to pull weeds, bleaching the far corners of the shower while we swung from trees shaken by windand ate cereal slowly.

How it went so slowly.I miss that pace—your dark brown eyes eyeing mine.

2403 The Woods Drive East

There is still a small bend in thewindow screen frame from the nightwe slipped out across the redred mulch and biked the concretepath by the canal, the white moonlight held high,running like a pale thread over a dark blue quilt.The field was our oceanof battles and pirates and loaded cannonsraining pine cones, rain pooling before a dam of pine needles and mud and the pebblessticking when you skinned your knee.We climbed the tallest tree, watching the sunsetfrom the waving branches above waves of grass,wondering how could anything possiblychange. The days stretched on, taking solong to grow short that we never even noticed.

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Haiku #1

I fell in ear firstSummertime lies are sweetestWinter truth, bone bitter

Haiku #2

Five months of mourningMy thoughts buried me alivewaiting for autumn

Haiku #3

Words are life’s compostOnce spent emotions witherI will forgive you

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Suspension

The moment of held breathThe burning anticipation beforeamity comes along to moves usbefore the fall when we were atour highest, the pirate boat rideat the county fair, my sisterwould drag me up to the bow,after a swig you would feel itthere the longest, I hated it,little did I know it was love, themoment with all it’s perfectionsuspended, that’s what she waschasing, it thrilled her andterrified me, I knew the fall waswaiting so I could never be present, fall catch and recover,a continuous motion that makesme Ill. It’s that moment beforedeath, or in modern dance, whenyou are most alive. Alive without breath, the furthest stretchof a sling shot, the first momenthe held your hand, before therewere plans, before you wrote himthat poem and waited by thephone, life is fall catch recover.We search for the moments ofsuspension, we can’t control thevelocity, some swings are shortand we feel the rush, some takelonger to fallow through andsuspension is hard to maintain,but we all come back to it, wedie in (perfect) suspension.

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False Alarm

Papa seems content.Mama looks divorced.

All five of usstanding in Omi’s yardposing.

Papa looks disengaged.Mama smilesa painful smile,like a farmer with a toothache.

Three siblings in orderfrom youngest to oldest.Unaware of each other’sfacial expressions.

I am wearing rain boots, preparedfor the storm, but there is no rainyet.

The rain would come.Replaced boots for high heels.Posing again.

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Home

Covered in stains. Tumbled over, dented. A lost wedded bliss.

Our house looks old, smells old. Seems to be falling apart. Uprooted, drained and burnt.

The windwill has stopped.Tulips died. The sun is stuckbehind the clouds.

With this part of land, life—we—kith and kin are done.

So have father and mother decided.

Our home is vanishing, like a cloud of loons, migrating south.

The south, its warmth, scent and healing sunshineis where we babes want to go.

Go together, with both the folks. We try to keep our little hands on mother’s maternal shoulder.

Hoping to remain swaddled in her arms. Ignoringthe cracks.

A flock of pain, familial heartbreak, surfaces ever so often, steady.

It will haunt us. Taunt us.Always separated. Two different families. Trying to blame each other.

We will always wonder why and what if.

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Surrogate

My father I now favorover my darling mother.

A caterpillar, hairy and doomedto change in a cocoonof love.

A scent of Bergamot bitter orangesand Iris.A scent of nights on the town, happilymarried.

I do not have to tell youcaterpillars mutate intobutterflies. Fleeting,fragile.

You changed too,and flew away,and moved on.

You used to turn upthe volume and I wouldsing along, yet you arethe one who sailed away.

Doubtful like today’s unsettling weather.Doubtful I have become

about my fervorfor you.

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Paternal Mother

A day so dark,my eyes seemed shut throughout.Beneath us in the dark blue depths lieirrevocable feelings that should be undone.Vanity mixed with pride, causes me to be unsure..Are you missing the maternal love? Is there a lack of instinct or ethos?Each time I try and try with you,never reaching that peaceful sentiment.Together we have nothing.

Laugh when we can, but only when we ignore the past.Our connection is on the surface,vacillating like waves.Even your illness cannot calm this sea.

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Butterflies

A sharpness never felt before. Is it grandor doomed? Somedays, it landsme on rose petals.Other days on rocks.They are pinches disguised in a softness.

The butterfly has flown,back to nature. Leaving the childin civilization. No one has cautionedme, forwarned me aboutthis trap.

Their capriciousness, their fluttering.Motherly love is a bitch.

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Writ

Loudly spoken words, soft written text. Do you have a preference?I can no longer speak, give me apen. I will dash it out.

Mother, I hate youfor divorcing dad.For picking your new loverover us. But mother,I still love you.I have to.

Read between the lines, puzzle with thewords. Solve the riddle here.Did you find the message expressed?Don’t come and ask, I can’t tell. I already have so many times.

Can we just forgive and forget? Move on. Be a happy family again?

No, because you keep sayingit is our fault. We are obnoxious,unaccepting, teenagers. You deservelove, and we are in the way.But we cannot leave. You won’t let us.

Formulate a response andawait my calm reply.Stay! Don’t walk away and take my words.Screamed utterances hurt.

Let’s love through belles-lettres and enjoythe turbulent silence.

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Can you read me? Over.

Our words reachthe ears, but never the mind.It wasn’t my fault. You kidsneed to give me a second chance. You guysare just frustratedteenagers.—No Mother, you chose him over us. How is that our fault?

I speak Russian, youspeak Arabic. No wonder we don’tunderstand each other.No wonder we havea miscommunication.I am right. You are right,but we’re both wrong.

For some reason we don’tspeak mother-daughter.That we should is nota given. It requires hard workand labor.

But when you becamesilent everythingbecame very clear. It’s all good. It’s okay. I love youanyway.

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Re-Appreciation

With death come memories.Memories buried in the past,long forgotten, brought back to the surface of the conscious mind.

Now that you are goneI see your beautiful dresses.The dresses you wore when youwent dancing with dad. Before you leftyou always came to kiss me goodnight,smelling of Shalimar.

Rushing over you like aviscious tidal wave. Leavinga bittersweet, unwanted feeling of sadness

Now that you are goneI smell your baking. The cakes.The buttercake. The ginger spicedcake. The birthday cake. Its heartwarming smells penetratingmy nose, making my mouth water. You always tortured usby making us wait until it was all the waycooled off. Slapping our wristsreaching for that high counter top.

and longing. A longing tothose wonderful daysin the past. Wishing you hadappreciated them as muchthen as you do now. Regrettingyou did not create morememories. Hoping youwill never forget them.

Now that you are goneI think of all the clothes.The clothes you made, the clothesYou fixed. No hole or tearwas safe from your healing thread

and needle. You would prescribeto all the sewing magazines for morepatterns and inspiration. Anything we saw in the store you could make. Youtalented copycat, you.

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Strings.

as the violins play ondrawing note for notefaster and disgruntledthe marionette dances

the dance of the marionetteis forced and stifflights fly across its faceand her legs collapse beneath her

fallen, the fallen marionettestands, stands with a whiff of shame.In her wooden head, a war rages,the forces batter the insideof her mind

she waits for it to stop but it continuesshe tries to cry but her voice was locked upthe key thrown awayand, she has been looking for it ever since

the strings bind her to the one who controlsand she looked beyond and into eternitysearching for the face of her captorbut all she could see was a suspensionno one was controlling her except herself

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Title: My Daughter, the spider

Charlotte. That would have been the name of my daughter. But marriage is now not part of the plan. Well. No. Not that marriage is necessarily a pre-requisite for child bearing. I thought about the perfect wedding when I was 17. When I was 13. When I was 10. Ah, 10. I was 10 when I first read Charlotte’s Web. Fern or Charlotte, the big name dilemma for the daughter.

Title: My great grandfather, the spider eater

I would have named my daughter after a spider. Charlotte. Yet every Chinese New Year, I rethink spiders. Spiders. Pigs. Love. Visiting relatives every year, collecting red packets, eating “fat choy” and suckling pigs. Wilbur. I eat Wilbur every Chinese New Year. At least I only eat Wilbur. Great grandfather eats Charlotte too, dunked in wine and five years old.

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Loom of Fate

Under the web of stars, I see the weaver’s hand.Each constellation a pearl string so delicately placed on Night’s graceful neck.Tessellations of triangles and squares collect on the blacknessand it is all so frighteningly wonderful.

You are tiny.The stars sing and snicker as comets sashay past.

I am tiny.Never before has that been more obvious.The behemoth sky could, if so inclined, swallow me in an instant.I am so very tiny, you see.

But I am also so very old.I have aged a thousand night times on this blanket.The weight of time compresses relentlessly onward.

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The Dream Catcher

Four weeks of nightmares in a row my eighth year before my mother gave me the first dream catcher I ever owned. Small, purple, full of promise but not yet full of nightmares (that’s what they catch – not dreams) “Dream Strainer” a more accurate title,but who doesn’t like the thought ofcatching dreams?

I fantasized emptying a whole week’s worth of strands of smoke-like conscious madetangible in the dream catcher’s handsinto a jar to keep on my shelf. These will be nice to have once I’m older.I imagined in a few years’ time in mytwilight years of thirteen, shaking free the contents and smiling at their frothinggleeful glow.

The Dream Catcher is still there on my wall, a vigilant watcher of my night, and the dreams are safe in their jars.

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CREDITS

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Thank you to all my incredible writers and to Brianna Angelakis for being this month’s feature.

Think you’ve got what it takes to write something for us?Submit your stories and poems to jessicafrickdesigns@gmail

Photo Credit:Brianna AngelakisPages: Cover, 2, 7, 8-9, 10, 12, 13, 14-15, 16-17, 18, 22, 24-25, 26, 28Jessica Frick Designs Pages: 4, 6, 20-21, 30, 32-33, 34, 36, 38, 40, 42, 46, 48, 50, 52, 54, 56 Lily Aireal Lynn McElroyPage: 58