Room 18 Issue 1 (Online)

7/31/2019 Room 18 Issue 1 (Online)

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LETTERS + STROKES

ROOM EIGHTEEN

MARCUS BROWN - BRIDGET DEASE - MAX FRESHOUR -LAURA FUNDERBURK - KRISTOPHER HALL - SIENNA LASTER -CARA RACIN - SIERRA REAUX-MCNEIL - SARAI REED -LAYLA SHARAF - HELEN STEINECKE - MALIA WILLIAMS-HAYNES

LETTERS + STROKES


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Jimmy wants ribs. Jimmy wants steak. Jimmy want a piece of your

chocolate cake.-EDDIE MURPHY AS JAMES THUNDER EARLY,

IN DREAMGIRLS (MOTION PICTURE)

LAURA FUNDERBURK -2

KRISTOPHER HALL - 4

SIERRA REAUX-MCNEIL -8

BRIDGET DEASE -10

HELEN STEINECKE - 13

CARA RACIN -17

MARCUS BROWN - 18CARA RACIN - 21

SARAI REED - 22

MAX FRESHOUR - 23

SIENNA LASTER / MALIAWILLIAMS-HAYNES - 24

LAYLA SHARAF - 26

ROOM EIGHTEEN - ISSUE I

CONTENTS

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4

KRISTOPHER HALL

YOU CANT WIN

FOR LOSINGThe streets were as narrow as the minds that walked them, from the dealers

to the fiends, the corner jockeys and the squealers. Shit, who didnt know that money

was what drove the market? But to be fair each niche didnt share the same motives.

The fiends ranged from crack heads to dopers, and everything in between. Some

dealers dealt to pay the bills, to feed their kids, while others just wanted thecustomized rims and more shoes than anyone would need. It was a God awful place,

a neighborhood with no sense of community, just a gathering of vices and trash, menbent on destroying one another. Yet at the same time you would be hard pressed to

find a closer knit collection of illicit peoples. Everyone knew each other, and ifsomeone didnt know you, it meant you didnt exist. You could stop a body on the

street, point to any cat, and rarely were they incapable of telling you who that person

was and the hustle they dealt. Someone from 34th could walk down 35th Street and

make it to the end of the block. The gangs over here didnt divide themselves by

street or block, thats what made this community different. Between Granger Street

and Harper Street, we went without the drive-bys and all that other nonsense. Theentire neighborhood was one. One unit, one gang, one community. Everyone looked

out for one another, even the snitches. In fact it was the open mouthes that kept the

balance. The snitches were like our peacekeepers, and if anything went awry it wasthem that blew the whistle. It was a system, and as with every system there were

flaws, but it was our system and for the most part the community worked. The fact

that everyone knew everyone was what kept people in line. We had ourselves aCommunity Code, something that resembled the most basic codes of the street:

dont sell to elementary school kids, dont communicate with the cops, and so on.

When this code was violated, the community acted as a whole to resolve it.

* * *

Games real name was Maurice, but because he refused to roll up his weed inanything but Game blunts only his mother, lawyers, and judges called him that.Before Game he was called Morrie, like the gangster in the movie Goodfellas.

In his seventeen years Game had felt as if the entire world was against him.

That is, the entire world outside of the community, including God; especially God.Every year it was something new; every time he started to get back on top, God

reached down and knocked him back on his ass.


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He lived with his mother in a single room apartment that she had rented outwhen his father left, and that he now paid for. No, Games father hadnt bailed on his

mother. Most fathers in the community remained put, albeit often only until their

kids were old enough to care for themselves. But Games father had died. Shot by acop when he was reaching in his pocket for a lighter, shot in the fucking back.

The officer was suspended for two weeks with pay.

Since then his mother had raised him, until she was diagnosed withParkinsons and had to quit her job and go on welfare. He was ten when that bad luck

story went down and so he started fending for himself, started hustling candy to the

kids at school. Less than a year later he graduated to selling weed. Before his twelfthbirthday he had dropped out and now sold everything from weed to pills to crack.

With the help of the community, hustling, and other illegalities, he managed to paythe rent. Then as soon as he turned thirteen, it seemed as though everything startedgoing wrong. Whenever he was about to make something for himself, something

always fucked it up. That something was usually the cops. By the time he was sixteen,

he had been arrested over fifteen times before he lost count. Somehow he managed tonever be in jail longer than a few weeks, and people would joke about how someday

his luck with the law would run out.

At the moment Games luck with the law didnt seem to be running out any timesoon. Roughly a month ago a white man, an outsider, was hit by a car and killed on

the corner of 33rd and Tines. An hour later, the block looked like an overcrowded

pig pen. There were a dozen cop crammed into the intersection with two dozenoccupants clamoring around on the corner trying to make themselves look busy. It

was a show of bullshit. That man wasnt the only person who had been killed that

night. Not even a mile away a twelve-year-old boy, Micheal Thomas, lay dead in analley with his heart blown out by a twenty-two. One squad car had been dispatched,

no leads. Yeah, there was never no fucking leads.

It had taken the police less than thirty minutes after arriving on the scene tofind the car that had hit the man, abandoned in an empty lot a few miles away. The

car had been reported stolen earlier that evening; a witness claimed to have seen

two young black men forcing the door.

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Game was one of those men, his friend Jay was the other. They had beendrinking since five, and by the time Game suggested going for a joy ride there was

enough Grey Goose in both of them to go after the Batmobile. At fifty miles an hour,

Game never even saw the white man as he sped around the corner on his bike. Boy,he didnt stop to see if he knew him either. The consequences were sobering. Both he

and Jay were on their last strike, hitting someone in a stolen car was a one way ticket

to a life sentence inside.

At first it seemed that they had made their clean get away. Cops put out a

dummy statement, some shit that suggested that beyond the stolen car, they had noleads. They appealed to the public to come forward with any information they might

have, offering a bullshit five-thousand dollar reward to any information leading to

an arrest. The reward for Micheal Thomas murderer was five hundred dollars, acollection took up by the community. I put in my twenty bucks.

Anyway, so you got the owner of a gas station on 40th, I mean that even inthe community, he werent one of us; the motherfucker called the police hot line,spitting lyrics that two black men had filled up a car on the same night of the hit and

run, and that they fitted the description. Who didnt fit the description around here?

Shit, even Mr Winston fitted the description, and he was pushing eighty-five witharthritis. Well the profiling didnt matter, Game and Jay showed off some rookie

moves by using a debit card to pay for the gas. Jay woke up shortly after one a.m. to

find a shotgun and a warrant being shoved in his face.

The police had suspected Game as Jays accomplice, yet they had nothing onhim and Jay wasnt about to talk. Case closed. Jay would get life and Game would

dodge the bullet yet again. In the community, things were not so simple. They had a

code to follow, and for the first time in his life Game found himself on the wrongside of it. It went without saying that you dont snitch on your friends, and Jay had

followed the code through it all. But theres another bit to this part of the code, never

forfeit your friends life for your own. Game had broken the code but the way he sawit there was nothing he could do. Shit happened, and if he turned himself in he and

Jay would just both be fucked. Whether Jay was driving or not they wouldnt let him

go, they would slap him with some account of manslaughter like they tried to dowith Game. When you kill a white man, everyone involved got fucked. Thats what

let Game sleep at night.

The community didnt see it the same way. We got principles that putchivalry to shame. Whether or not it got Jay off the hook, the community wanted

Game to own up. It had nothing to do with whether or not both of them would be

fucked. For the community it was as simple as right and wrong. The code was not tobe broken.

As the day of Jays conviction loomed, the community started to talk to

Game like only it knew how. When he went to the store, he was either refusedservice or the prices doubled, even his lotto numbers were screwed up. Every liquor

store started carding him. Every club bouncer turned him away. By far the worst ofit was the silence. To be shunned was to be exiled from the community. You can still


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live in the community, but it wasnt your community anymore. This was Gamespenance. He would walk down the street and past life long friends, men who had

helped raised him, who now only stared at Game with an unforgiving coldness.

Jays conviction came and went, without a confession from Game. He

hoped that with time the community would forgive him, that the silence would

give way to a calm acceptance; and then later noise, a greeting, maybe even aconversation. He knew this was unlikely, a leper would get more love. Except this

wasnt about love. There were plenty of people who loved Game, but there was a

code to follow. It was never anything personal. And so for nearly three years thesilence continued. Didnt know why dude didnt move the hell out the

neighborhood. Instead he was holed up in his apartment, didnt leave much, there

wasnt much reason to. He spent his time cradling a bottle of some sort, which hetraveled forty-five minutes round trip on the bus to get. Tell a lie, I do know why

he stayed. Getting away from it all was never that simple for him. For one he

didnt have the money to move anywhere, he hardly had enough to stay where hewas. He was fired from the corner store about the time the community started

talking, and no one would hire him since. He was frozen out the drugs market, no

one would give him any stuff and even the fiends felt they ought to go elsewhere.So he had been living off welfare and odd jobs since Jay went in, and he was

running out of money. Even if Game could move, he wouldnt. The community

was who he was. This was his home, where he always felt he fitted in. Now that hedidnt belong, he had nothing.

Its been three years since Jay went in, and the silence has broken Game.

His mother eventually died, and after that he gave up trying to make rent. Youd

be able to catch him circling the neighbourhood in the summer, pushing a grocerytrolley full of his belongings. Id try and stop and talk whenever I could stomach it

but the dude reeked of piss and God knows whatever else. I did it, I did it, is all

hed ever say and Id say yeah Morrie, we know. We went back to calling himMorrie those days, couldnt call him Game if he had no Game. I did it, I did it,

hed carry on, he damn well lost his mind. Id look away whenever I replied. I

couldnt stand to see the sight of his nails.Game got caught by the blizzard the following winter, hypothermia while

sat in his mothers rocking chair in his usual spot, an alleyway on 35th. Sure there

were enough group homes and soup kitchens that the cat couldve frequented butthese all stretched beyond the neighborhood. There was something both foolish

but admirable about the way Game himself stuck by the code until his very lastbreath. It was like he knew he had a penance to pay for, just like the kid with thedummy hat that doesnt move from the corner. Game werent going no where until

the community said he could. I guess he never thought the day would come wherehe would suffer a fate worst than infamy. Yeah he was the kid with the dummy hat

alright, the boy in the corner that never turned around to see that the teacher and

his classmates had long since left the building and forgot he was even there.


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SIERRA REAUX-MCNEIL

A SHADE OF GRAY(LETTER TO ME)

Dear Me

Sahn, what the fuck is going on? Its funny how we forgetall the things we are fucking up in, the day after we fuckup. Self-deprecation is always something we have beengood at; we both know its not an attractive quality. Our

inability to sustain a successful relationship is amystery. As a result we enter into multiple meaninglessrelationships as backup plans. This results in amultitude of emotional outbursts that make us seemunstable if not slightly crazy. Nonetheless, we seem toattract the strangest of guys. Our love life serves as amere distraction for the tasks at hand. School, oh lets

talk about school. School has never been our thing letsface it. We cant force ourselves to do something wethink is meaningless, I mean what is an A really?

When am I ever gonna use Algebra 2 or Geometry?Those lengthy English papers, we both know we arecapable of completing them, but what is the use? Whydo we care about that shit? Newsflash. We dont.

Mother, oh yes, we love her dearly but she is enablingour ability to roam free through life. I think the smallarguments with her will pass once Im done with this

whole teenage thing. Mom always supports us, which atthe end of the day is pretty cool. In fact Michelle isnthalf bad; as far as moms go she is a pretty good one. Illadmit we are not a piece of cake to deal with; sometimes

we can be, dare I say, unreasonable (of course we willnever admit this). I think we will skip over Momsboyfriend in this letter because we both know how wefeel about that subject. We could go on for days.Father...Dad...What ever we are going to call him. Hesan Ass and most days an unreasonable self-centeredpompous jerk. 8


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Resentment is something we do well. I think we havecome to a place where we begin to understand some ofthe choices he has made. We even, dare I say it, have

begun to see him as an actual person instead of some

type of soap opera villain. Speaking of soap operas(sorry another tangent): why are we always wishingour life were more dramatic? Some days we lay in bedthinking up exciting things to happen in our life.Sometimes the process is so vivid it feels as if it hasactually happened. This is also another reason for ourlack of homework. We sit down and think about

something so much and so thoroughly, that we exhaustourselves. But back to dear old dad... hes not so bad.We should probably cut him some slack in the future.The future aaah yes...What are we going to do with it?Filmmaker, screenwriter, public relations,schoolteacher, housewife? Do we have to make achoice? One of our biggest issues is that we are alwaysoperating in the gray area. I cant quite explain why wefeel we must remain neutral on a lot of issues. Wedont speak up and we dont choose sides. In reality wehave strong opinions about most things that enter intoour thought process, because - lets be real - we overanalyze EVERYTHING. This is going to be a hard habitto break. We think that appearing to be a shade of graymakes us approachable and easily accessible to a wide

variety of people. We both know I could ramble on andon about all the details of our life but let me leave it atthis. Take one thing at a time (because you know how

we get overwhelmed) and just graduate high schoolfirst.

Fondly,

Yourself (dont know why I said fondly, we are always

trying to be different - who are we kidding? Sincerely

would have been just fine)

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BRIDGET DEASE

SUBTLE HOPEMy brother complained about the move from the suburbs to the rat-

infested streets of Lulleyville, Minnesota. He sounded as if there was nothing leftfor us. I couldnt have compared his complaints to our mothers abandonment. Istill have a hard time figuring out whether or not she left because we were burdensor if she had problems to work out on her own. Distinguishing between the two wasat times unbearable. A kid in my remedial English class once made a remark aboutme. Its funny how we poor kids perform poorly in school; its not like we haveanything else to live for, hed said. Id laugh along with him, but something about it

stung. Word traveled quickly at Careplain high, and I feared it would be a matter oftime before every student knew about my current predicament. Eventually, it cameout why I, Elise Tamara Lane, went from preppy to diva in rags. You see, my fatherhas and always will be a greedy man. Hed cheat his brother, his wives, and hisemployees out of a lot of money. When my brother and I were younger, wed spenddays trying to dislodge that one tooth that just wouldnt come out, hoping that thetooth fairy would give us the shiny quarters we thought we deserved. But that coinwas never given to us.

A couple of months after my tenth birthday, my father stole from one of his

employees bank account. Instead of spending his own money on my big day, he haddecided it would be better to spend someone else's.

There is no better temptation than success and so after the first theft, hedecided to do it again. Only this time his luck ran thin. A former employee whomhed fired a week before came to pick up her last paycheck and had stumbled uponprintouts of the illicit bank transfer. A lawsuit was filed against him and hisaccounts were frozen. Matthew Michael Lane served time in prison for five years. Inthe meantime, without a nanny, cook and cleaner, motherhood reeled its ugly head

and Merrilyn Beauregard did not like what she saw. Somewhere along this course,she looked into the abyss and decided that shed had enough of my brother and me.

A note was left on the kitchen table. My brother stumbled upon it themorning after she left. Im sorry, it read.

My brothers eyes were like mini faucets. Faucets that were still runninglong after our mother had left. He was only twelve, and like many twelve-year-oldshe wanted to have a normal family. I, being fifteen, assured him that there wascertainly no such thing as a normal family. That almost all families in a sense

were abnormal. Despite my fathers reluctance, we stayed with our Aunt Susan inMinnesota and when our father got out of prison he joined us there. She waswealthy enough to keep us on our feet, but she had children of her own and otherresponsibilities that were beyond us. We dreaded the days we spent with our fatherand the hours almost always dragged in his presence. It was as though a strangerhad infiltrated our family.

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In the mornings, Id go to school; it was the lesser of two evils but an evilnonetheless. Id walk through the narrow halls and pray that I was in remedial

English, my last class of the day. When that class came and ended, Id go pick up my

brother from Careplain Middle School. He was just as happy to leave as I was, butalso just as nervous to go home. To distract ourselves, we would make fun of

something. Wed often say that Lulleyville was so stupid for labeling its high

schools, middle schools and elementary schools all with the same name. It waspitiful, but so were we. Our jokes would not delay the journey home. My brother

and I would eventually have to accept our new life, one without the glamour and

being waited on for our every need. Although we were together, we were twoindividuals that each had to carry our own separate weights.

Upon getting out of prison, my father found a liking to alcohol and yelling

very loudly. He would blame it all on our Aunt Susan, and at first I couldnt

understand why; but then I thought that as she was our mothers sister, her

presence was a constant reminder of what hed lost. He would drink a bottle of Jack

Daniels every night and then yell my brother to sleep. It only made it worst when Iconfronted him. I would have wished that Aunt Susan wouldve let us remain with

her and told him as much. I knew our father wouldnt have considered yelling with

other people living in the house. But she got us a small apartment for three abouteight blocks from her house in Lulleyville, and we were expected to deal with him.

But I couldnt deal with him and I doubt my brother could either.

One night, in his anger, my father yelled that whether we liked it or not wewere stuck with him. It was directed at my brother and I could hear him crying in

terror. I couldnt blame him. Robert never found a way to deal with the horror.

A few weeks later, my father broke the terms of his parole. He went onone of his early morning rants and near scared a woman to death. I dont think heplanned to hurt her, but the yelling, the alcohol and the bruise count on mybrothers back proved to be enough for the police to take him in. This time he was

sentenced to ten years in prison without the possibility of early release.

Robert and I were returned to our aunt for awhile. She already had five children and two

more wouldve been a struggle even for a

wealthy single mother. Foster care seemed tobe the only option for us. While in the care of

adults that we hadnt known for more than a

couple of days, I began to think of my motherand where she might have gone. There werent

many places for her to go. The only family she

had was Aunt Susan, Robert, and I.

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On the fifth night of our stay in the grouphome, Aunt Susan came to visit us. It was

after five oclock and visiting hours were

over. As she left, she stopped and held a long

conversation with Ms. Marie, the ill-tempered care worker. Robert and I tried to

listen in on the conversation, but parts of itwas vague. I heard words like hurt and

never and affair but I hadnt been able to

make out much else. Aunt Susan began tocry. She held her face down and began to

walk slowly toward us. She opened her

mouth to say something but stopped andshook her head, Ms. Marie turned to her and

said Its not fair to them or you. I was

afraid of what she would say. I guess Idreally hoped that whatever it was, it would

not hurt my brother. I couldnt see him hurt

again. Moments later the words startedspilling out of Aunt Susans mouth. Im your

mother, she said. Although muffled, weunderstood every word; it left us speechless.

Shed kept staring at the ground even after

those words had been revealed to us. Robertand I were in utter shock for most of the

night but that didnt stop the sun from rising

the next morning.

Over time, Merrilyns whereabouts and ourfathers imprisonment began to matter little

to my brother and I. We were taken out ofthe group home and spent time with Susan

and the five cousins that were now suddenly

half-brothers and sisters. Now, all of theunanswered questions were answered.

Merrilyn and Matthew had raised us as their

own for most of our lives, but I longed toknow the answer to one other question. Why

had we been the last to know?

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HELEN STEINECKE

OVER THE RIVER


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CARA RACIN

DREAMLINES

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MARCUS BROWN

SUCIDE BOMB

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Suicide Bomb is an experimentation with the use of monologue. What theauthor attempts to do is to combine a narrative with a visual aesthetic. The

words in Suicide Bomb are not mere signifiers in the conventional sense.Instead size is taken into account as a measure of the weight that words cancarry for an individual at any given moment. The author is well aware that asreaders we will differ in opinion on the measure of each word, which in thispiece is indicated by size, the larger the word the more weight carried. Theauthor is interested in a dialogue with words, and how the configuration ofeach word would differ with not just context but also the readers constant flux.


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CARA RACIN

ART & BEAUTY

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SARAI REED

NINETY FIVE DEGREESOF SEPARATION

I lay my palm flat on the dash and leave it there until itbegins to burn. I press my forehead to the window,looking for some relief there but even the glass is warmto the touch. Reclining my seat, I weigh my options. Icant roll down the windows with the car off and I dont

want to get out. The asphalt looks molten. Its alwayspuzzled me how crime rates rise with the heat index. Icant even muster the strength to unfasten my seat belt.How could I commit a felony?

The seat belt is making me sweat. I cantbreathe. The glare of the Mercedes logo on the steeringwheel threatens to burn my retinas. Outside mywindow, men and women are sitting on porchessweating. Even the children looked sapped of theirenergy, sitting on steps and curbs, fanning themselves

with their small ineffective hands.I insisted on waiting in the car despite my

mother telling me shed be a while. She refused to leavethe windows down in a neighborhood like this. I wassure that leaving me to stew here for a while was herintention, that she was taking her good time in order toteach me a lesson for defying her. I straighten up in myseat again. Through my window I see a man washinghis car in an alley. Im sure hes the only person movingfor blocks. He scrubs, soaps and rinses meticulouslyuntil a short round woman walks past, apparentlycatching his eye. He takes up the hose and appliespressure with his thumb to make it spray with greaterforce. Aiming with one eye open, he points the hoseright at her and wets the seat of her pants. She turnsaround embarrassed. The hose is still trained on herlower half. The womans face breaks into a smile.Running and ducking behind the car, she grabs the wetsoapy sponge from the bucket and hurls it at him. Itleaves a big wet rectangle in the middle of his chest.

A minute later, the scene has unfolded into an allout water fight. A minute after that, the two sit on thecurb drenched and laughing. I get out of the car.


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MAX FRESHOUR

SODIUM CONTENT

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From:[email protected]

To:[email protected]

RE:6&10

6.Iwrappedmysweatypalmsaroundherneck,pullingher

closetillwewerefacetoface.Ilookedovermyfoggy

glassestolookintotheeyesofadyinglamb.Ahorrid

screechingnoisecameoutfrombetweenherlips,Dont

killme,Ihaveafamily,shepleaded,butthatwasntgoing

tosaveher,whodidnthaveafamily?Iyelledinherface,

carelessspecksofspitescapedfrommymouth.Iwatched

herchokeandgaspforair,bloodspilledfromthecornerof

herlips.

10.Everyday,Ipeekthroughmywindowinmyroomto

watchmyneighbor.Ienvyhowhislifeisbeinghandedto

him,whilemineisbeingthrowninmyface.IfImlucky,I

catchaglimpseofhiswifechangingintoherjogging

clothesthroughthewindowinmybathroom,hedoesnt

deservetobelovedbyhiswife.Hedoesntdeservethenew

car.Hedoesntdeservethewhitewashedhouse,butId

sayhedeservesthosespoiledkids.

SIENNA LASTER - MALIA WILLIAMS-HAYNES

NEW TABLETS
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]:[email protected]:[email protected]:[email protected]:[email protected]


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25

3. She thinks church is boring. That all you ever do is sitthere and listen to someone preach to you all day. She

told her mother how she feels yet she is dragged there

each Sunday. She usually doesnt listen to whats been

said. Shell draw or write stories and poems. On this day

she listened in to a bit of the sermon. Pastor was saying

something about not saying the Lords name in vain. It

didnt interest me so I continued drawing. Church was

almost over, thank God, she thought. She couldnt wait

to get home, take off her church clothes and relax.

Maybe even play some video games. The sermon finally

ended, hallelujah she thought, and as the congregation

rose in anticipation of the final verse and the Lords

Prayer, in spite of her mothers glare, she decides not to

stand.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

RE: 3

25
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


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LAYLA SHARAF

HOLIDAY

Beach trip. Alone. It begins with long lines, weird smells, shitty food,and constant pushing. Forever in the way. Lost a hair band and a lens cap.The FujiFilm is now going unprotected; shes archaic and has a low megapixelcount. She creates grainy, low-resolution images. She takes photographs thatare similar to pointillism paintings; composed solely of little, colored specs.Forever stretching for a keen sense of perfection. There are over a millionfragments composing one image, imagine that, interacting with one anotherin very specific ways, lovely. The lack of a lens cap has led to a thumb sizedsmudge on every picture she takes, throwing off a harmony that was once

fundamental. Before, there was no doubt of what you would come acrosswhen scanning over a photograph. Looking through her pictures now givesher a tingling urge to wipe off the errors with the tips of saliva-coveredfingers. But she cant.

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Vacation to the mountains, they are such photogenic masses of land. A series ofday to night photos would serve well. If only the FujiFilm was in better condition.The Polaroid is manageable. However, she would need the Nikon to capture thewilderness, to have mother nature pose for her like she often does for those whosework fills the pages of National Geographic. The bitter air which was oncerefreshing, is now a frostbiting cold. The weather makes the fingerless glovesuseful. She increases the shutter speed and lowers the ISO and the results areplentiful but not perfect. Besides the tenderness of her exposed fingers, a charleyhorse in her left leg strikes her and then leaves, only to return again with anincreasing amount of discomfort.

A resort with excursionsinto the New Zealand interior. Theintruders host the indigenous inthe former colonized towns; theindigenous still rule the grass here.With little observation the need toexploit the high megapixel count,zoom, and close ups is obvious.Dirt-stained faces, permanentsmiles lines, and pain stricken eyesagainst the prim, the orderly, theunconcerned, and the frivolouscreate enough irony without anoverpowering meaning.

Beach trip. Vacation to the mountains. Trip to New Zealand. Ive been off on aholiday. 2,740 pictures: 2,210 of which are in the trash bin, 28 saved in a folder

within a folder within another five folders, 502 left for others to view, to critique,

to destroy, to analyze, to lose all previous meaning that is true to the FujiFilm andto me. There are now 502 photographs pumped with testosterone, crushed

Oxycontin sprinkled all over them, and flowers shoved down their gun barrels.


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Documents

Room 18 Issue 1 (Online)