ZAFTIG #12 - Pilgrimage

i s s u ei s s u ewriting director - jason melton @captainjmoseseditor, design - jacob sanders @jacobsandersar t

PILGRIMAGEPILGRIMAGE

october 20141212october 2014

writing director - jason melton @captainjmoseseditor, design - jacob sanders @jacobsandersar t

PILGRIMAGEPILGRIMAGEdadushin.com

jardleyjean-louis.com

youngcoupleseries.com

@dadushin

@jardster

@theodoreblanco

@jacobsandersartjacobsandersart.com

@narcisoespiritu

@brandonogborn

dadu shin

jardley jean-louis

brandon ogborn

hazmatsnrainbows.tumblr.com

conradjavierart.blogspot.com

p6-9

p14-16

p17

@conraaad

p4-5

cover

narcisoespiritu.com

c o n t r i b u t o r sc o n t r i b u t o r s

jacob sanders

ted white

conrad javier

narciso espiritu

p12-13

p10-11

Jacob Sanders

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I was lying in the sand when I heard the screams in the water. “Help! Help!” I sat up and my eyes adjusted to the bright ocean. Four massive men, hands waving as a limp body was lifted and dropped back into the waves. I shot a glance to the lifeguard station, where a lithe blonde boy in red shorts gazed off the balcony with indifference. I thought, “I guess it’s all okay. Lifeguard Boy is just hanging out. Maybe it’s a game.” But as more beachgoers stood up to look at the scene, it dawned that this was real. I hopped up from my towel, dashed out into the swell of waves, pausing briefly to see if I had left my phone on me. Thank God, I thought, I really didn’t want to get my phone wet. It’s one of the new ones.

All the brawn between the giants was futile in the aftermath of a storm. As they pulled the drowned man up by his feet and hands, he kept slipping back under the shallow water. “The middle! Get the middle,” I yelled. No one seemed to understand this, so I wrapped my arms under the body and pulled it against me, his chest collapsing into

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mine, his head draped over my shoulder. I began to crabwalk him out of the shoreline while the others held his feet and hands. Another kept his head steady – the neck bro-ken, sea foam from his lungs gurgling out and down my back.

“Get him to the shore, get him to the shore!” We hobbled the body clumsily while the waves kept trying to knock us down. Five drunk babies carrying a limp dog. From a dis-tance, we must’ve looked like French comedians pretending to be a Seal Team.

As we arrived at the shore, a dozen lifeguards rushed up by foot and Jeep, barking verbiage like auctioneers. I could only think of how goddamn attractive they were, how there are no ugly lifeguards in Southern California. This was a day after a Mexican hur-ricane, named Marie - a nice girl, became a tropical storm, making the biggest southern swells in 18 years. She exploded shipping containers of Walmart wear and old tires, soda bottles and baby backpacks up along the SoCal coast. And now, as she drifted off into the silence of a cloud, she left remnant waves for tourists to die in. Business was booming for these Boy Scouts in Speedos.

I was a just an abeyant pedestrian now, gazing in idle tension with the lumpy tour-ists, board-shorted toe heads, beach bums and the 9/11 conspiracy theorists of Venice Beach. CPR began its administration. More lifeguards arrived, and most stood dormant while the team leader breathed and pumped away on the body. I was certain this guy was chosen by virility and looks because the motherfucker was a dead-ringer for Eddie Redmayne. This went on, “No pulse! No pulse! Clear! Again! 1-2-3-4-5-6!”

A board was pulled from atop a yellow Jeep and they lifted the swollen body atop it to make a flat surface for their work. “Again! 1-2-3-4-5!” Nothing. Two dumpy girls in black bikinis stood nearby, whimpering, “Oh my God,” and taking turns holding each other in a theater of grief. I wanted to tell them, It’s okay. He’s free now. When I carried him in, his neck was snapped and I felt his spirit floating above his body. But then I figured, might be a bit much for basic bitches.

A yellow pickup truck that’d been fashioned into a giant beach rescue Lego toy, kicked up sand like a kid. Men jumped out and seamlessly hooked an oxygen tank around the drowner’s face. The board he laid on was hurriedly walked toward the back of the truck

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with such clumsy abandon they nearly broke his dangling arm against the edge of the bumper. They peeled out and off, six lifeguards over the body in the back of the truck. Eddie Redmayne the squad leader, disappeared to the horizon. I pictured him later that night, all sexy and sad, in some dreamlike Tiki bar, parlaying the heroic sob story of his day into a blowjob from a girl in marketing.

We were all alone now on the beach, leftovers at a party with no music to dance to. I got some ice cream.

My phone. My sweet, sweet phone. I texted a few folks the generals. “Yeah,” I typed at their disbelief. “It was real as fuck. Dead dude puke on me.” The rest of my day was in-tensely present, focused. I could hear more sounds in the air and see further. I felt stron-ger, bigger. I wanted someone to come up with a switchblade and try to take my wallet. I wanted a bus to try to run me down so I could hold out my hand and feel the entire mass of it fold around me like foil.

Condolences came in calls and texts. “I heard you pulled a guy from the water! WTF!” And, “You okay, bro? Heard you had a heavy day.” I was fine, but yes, I did have a heavy day. I’d brushed with death, faced it head on. I was deserving of the well wishes and attaboys. I was a sixth grade girl at her locker, crying about the great-grandma she met once. My girlfriends all holding me as we passed sniffles and blubbers around. “I love you, Stacy. I’m so sorry,” as the cute boys walked past us, tilting their heads to see what was wrong with me. “Nothing, Darren,” my bff says to him, “Stacy’s gramma died.” Dar-ren looks at me, he’s in love with me. “I’m sorry Stace.”

The next day, I played it all back. The body in my arms, his limp neck. Fifteen minutes of CPR. I’d seen TV shows. If he’s not alive in 3 minutes, it’s time for a commercial. “We lost him, doctor. Go home to your wife.” But something tugged at me. Google it. I typed in the keywords. Venice Beach, drowning. It popped up. NBC Los Angeles. “Chicago Man In Grave Condition After Nearly Drowning At Venice Beach.”

Wait. NEARLY? Fuck, he’s alive? Maybe in a coma, maybe they’re harvesting him by Fri-day, but he’s alive. My, “I pulled a Dead Dude/Dead Guy Puke” story was now a lie. I was a fraud. Stacy’s great-grandmother wasn’t dead, she had the tubes in at the hospital.

Stacy was a liar and everyone was going to find out.

A ding came from my phone. Sam. “Dude - heard you pulled a dead guy from the ocean. Sorry, man. Intense. U ok?”

I sat with a bottle in my hand. Stella. Was I okay? Of course he was from Chicago. I’d just moved from there. I was starting over. I killed my old self and just held the buttery body in my arms. It was written in the old and new testament, the killing of self and re-birth. I became a symbol, I was living proof. Metaphor, motherfuckers.

I knew the dash-dash dots were flickering on the other end of the phone at Sam. He wanted the conclusion. I weighed the truth against the story. I could continue the lie. Yes, yes I did pull a dead dude from Chicago from the California Ocean. I could let my tale grow tall and full and envelop the story of my own life that I was writing, sharing into the sphere of Facebook. I sipped the beer and clicked it out with a sigh. “Actually, he survived.”

The power of the Chicago Tourist fell away. His death became fiction. I was in the Army but never saw active duty, no combat, no shit. I was just a normal person, a beach snooz-er in wet khakis with a warm beer.

Sam typed back without a beat. “He survived? Holy shit. You saved his life. You’re a hero!”

I felt it well up inside me, bright and tickling in my stomach, fanning out through my arms. I saved his life. I shared the NBC article with all of them, that bright flickering world. “He lived.” The love and adoration came back to me all over again in dings and chimes. This time bigger, more validating. My phone survived and so did he. I wasn’t a normal person anymore. I was a fucking hero.

THE END. Brandon Ogborn is a writer-performer who recently relocated from Chicago to Los Angeles. He co-created the acclaimed series, Young Couple

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Jardley Jean-Louis

Conrad Javier

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disability is. I know she had a seizure when she was very young. She still has seizures sometimes. She has trouble walking. She has trouble with a lot things.

She watches the news but only for the weather. She likes Chicago sports, watching the weather

on the news, and collecting stuffed bears.

Sometimes she says “hey mister!”

And she is expressing disapproval. But I like it.

“Hey mister!”

Same shit over and over.

Anyway, I am explaining all this to that very cute girl. She has a good memory. By the way, her name is Fiona Apple. I’m explaining that Jay-Z thinks he is cursed by God, and that’s a terrible thing to think because Jay-Z is a very old man.

I think that it makes the situation much worse that Jay-Z is a very old man. To believe in God and think he hates you. All while preparing for him to knock on the door to your coffin.

Fiona Apple gave me a pinwheel. For distraction. It was colorful and reflective, even in the dim red light of the bar.***It was supposed to be that when Jay-Z dies, Lil Kim would take care of Missy Elliott. Missy Elliott needs to be taken care of, and Jay-Z is preparing to meet the God that hates him. But suddenly, Lil Kim died. Lil Kim was Missy Elliott’s sister. Jay-Z’s other daughter. My aunt.

And it was very sad for all of us.

Sudden death from a kidney infection.

Who will take care of Missy Elliott when Jay-Z is dead.

Does God control who lives and dies?14

She was standing in an empty cave. She had come to say her final goodbye, but his body had been taken from the tomb. The limestone altar echoed with his absence. She felt the hot tears well up in her eyes. She was too late! Mary Magdalene knelt be-fore the altar where the body had been, put her head in her hands, and wept. “Hello, Mary.” A familiar voice echoed through the tomb. It sounded clear and sweet. She looked up over her shoulder to see. Her vision was blurred from the tears, but she saw...no, it couldn’t be... Jesus Christ was standing in the entryway to the cave. He was wearing a simple linen robe, and looked serene. He didn’t look like a man that had been tortured to death three days prior. “You died.” She sniffled. She reached out to his hand as he walked towards her. “I did.” He said. “You’re not real.” Mary said, a tear streaming down her cheek. Jesus smiled and sat down next to Mary and put his arm around her. She could feel the warmth of his body against the robe he was wearing. He wasn’t an apparition. She embraced him and buried her head into his chest. The sobs came harder than before. “I thought I had-had lost you...” She said with her arms around his chest. “How...How is this possible?” Tears were streaming down her face. “I don’t know.” Jesus smiled, kindly. She was so happy he was alive, but the question of how sprang to the forefront of her mind. Jesus of Nazareth had risen from the dead. He had been crucified, stabbed and brutalized. He was placed in a tomb with a boulder sealing the entrance, and here he was looking healthy. Mary pressed herself up from Jesus’ chest and looked up at his face. He brushed his thumb under her eye to wipe away a tear. “What happened...when...when you...were dead?” Her eyes were red, but they still shone with intelligence. Jesus’ smile faded a little. He looked off at the entryway. “I don’t know.” Mary sniffed and wiped a tear away from her cheek. This was different. Jesus was always so sure of

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God could have given Hitler a kidney infection. We didn’t need Hitler to take care of my aunt, ya know?

These things happened. And it could be because of the curse from God. Ya know what I mean?

I really think Jay-Z is cursed by God.***

Although, my grandpa (Jay-Z) may have stopped believing that he is cursed by God. He says

things, now, that don’t make much sense. He asks the same questions over and over.

On Thanksgiving, he couldn’t re-member why people were visiting.

We were visiting because of Thanksgiving.

Same shit over and over.***I wonder if you can completely forget about God. I will ask Fiona Apple tomorrow.

What would happen if you completely forgot about God.

And someone said “God be with you.”

And you would be like, “Oh yeah. God. I forgot about Him.”

In between now and then, maybe Fiona Apple will pray for me and Jay-Z.

And God will say “Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay. Uh huh. Uh huh.”***

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had her own ideas of an All Powerful God that lived forever, but it was Jesus’ message of peace and love regardless of station that drew her to him. But this Jesus that was back from the dead seemed chastened somehow. Still, he had to remember something.

“What do you remember? There must be something you re-member.” Mary put her hand on his back and

leaned forward to look into his eyes. She sniffed and wiped her nose with a

linen. Her crying had stopped. “Nothing.” Jesus’ previously warm demeanor had cooled.

Jesus touched his hands where the nails were hammered. They were

still fresh, just barely clotted over. “I re-member dying, and then nothing, then I was standing

outside this tomb. The lack of memory seems to span a lifetime. How long was I gone?” He looked so lost. This was unnerving. Mary looked at the entryway where the boulder had been. It had taken four centurions to move that massive piece of rock to seal the entrance. Had he moved that boulder and not remembered? “Three days.” Mary said. Jesus smiled ruefully. He placed his thumb on the wound on his palm, pensive. His silence resonated throughout his tomb. They sat quietly for a few moments. “What are you going to do now?” She said, softly. “Now?” Jesus looked at Mary. His eyes looked different. Before his death they were wide and full of kindness. A sort of quiet wisdom that didn’t judge or condemn. His eyes were full of love for all. Sitting here in this cave, the same warm kindness was there, but something different too. Something darker. “You died at the behest of your Father, and now you’re back on Earth. Have you spoken with Peter?” Mary asked. Jesus had always enjoyed the company of the apostles, but Mary knew that she and Christ shared a special bond. Almost as if they were equals, if not spiritually, at least intellectually. This had always generated ire from Peter and the apostles. They wouldn’t dare speak up in Jesus’ presence, but she knew it was no acci-dent that none of the apostles had reached out to her after Jesus’ death.

Jacob Sanders

“Oh, I’ll speak with the apostles eventually. I have plans for them about the future of my church.” He said.Of course. Mary knew that Jesus’ resurrection would inspire people for generations to come, she could only imagine the good that would come if his message of peace and love for one another spread across the Empire. Jesus’ church would change the world. “When will you start?” Mary Magdalene was sitting up, her hand on Christ’s back. She saw that same slight twinge of darkness in his eyes again. Jesus’ jaw was set. “I’ll leave the church to Peter. He’ll do well enough.” This was different. Now Mary was even more perplexed.“Peter will do fine, but he’s not t he most inspiring leader.” Mary said. “You came back from death. Don’t you think you should be the one to begin this church?” Unless... “Wait, you, what are you going to do?” “He left me there to die.” Jesus said quietly. “My Almighty Father. I begged Him for mercy, I did everything He asked.” Mary drew her hand away from Jesus. “And how does He repay this unconditional obedience from me, his only son? He allows these barbarians to parade me through Jerusalem with a cross on my back, to be tor-tured to death.” He was no longer looking into her eyes, instead at the entrance to the tomb again. The cave was pulsing with energy. Jesus looked vengeful. “And for what? To come back to the same people that murdered me in the first place? I will not be tortured to death again and again to spread the ‘glory’ of ‘His name’.”Mary was agape. Even when being led to his death, Jesus was calm and collected. Up to his last moment, he begged God to forgive those who executed him. She leaned away from him, her eyes wide. “For thousands of years, humanity has cowered under the thumb of my Father. Wor-shipping him and fearing his wrath. It is time for you to be free from the whims of your creator.” Silence vibrated through the cave. Mary spoke. “What are you going to do?” Mary asked quietly.. “I will go to Heaven and I’ll have words with my Father.” Jesus looked at her, his eyes cold. “And then, I’m going to kill Him.”

Ted White is a performer/writer/jack of all trades residing in Brooklyn. He performs regularly with Story Pirates.

Narciso Espiritu