Litterae - 1
Litterae - Issue II v2 Edited by Mandy Moore
Litterae - 2
Cover art by qthomasbower
Index
By
Page
Pg. 4 Phantasm Carnival
By Owen Rodriguez
Pg. 6 Black Gold ‘89
By Justice Whitaker
Pg. 14 In Spite of Himself
By Judy Weaver
Pg. 20 Conditional
By Elizabeth O’Connell-Thompson
Pg. 21 Donny H.
By Jason Bertucci
Pg. 25 The Square
By Jason Bertucci
Pg. 28 Cheetah Mom
By Mandy Moore
Hello readers!
Raw beauty, what does it mean to you? To me raw beauty is
what this country was when the first settlers arrived. Raw beauty
is the unpolished diamond, the wonderfully flawed rough draft.
Raw beauty is the soul of an artist. So in celebration of the raw
beauty of the United States this issue is left in its most raw
state. No editing has been done to the pieces you are about to
read. Artists were not informed of this to prevent anyone from
polishing their work. It is my belief that each piece still
shines beautifully because each is true to the artist’s original
idea and it is in that original idea that the most beauty is
found. So read on and please feel free to send me feedback.
Thanks and as always enjoy!
Mandy Moore
Editor Litterae Magazine
P.S. This is the second version of this issue due to Mr. Wellington
choosing to remove his poetry from our magazine.
Disclaimer: Views within Litterae are not necessarily those of Litterae staff or its affiliates.
Litterae - 4
Phantasm Carnival
By Owen Rodriguez
Note: Mr. Rodriguez’s piece was due to
be published last month but was
absentmindedly overlooked when
compiling Issue I. We cannot apologize
enough for this oversight and hope you
all enjoy his work.
The lights exploded with crimson
colors that sparked the sky,
As peculiar children of all ages
gathered from worldwide.
The tents reached higher than the
heavens its self.
And clowns with painted on faces
held balloons like animated
cartoons
Music played in tune, dancing and
singing, in all the months of June.
Kid’s teeth rotting from the candy
they eat, while laughing with
marvelous joys.
Their mind decomposing, rough but
sleek, from the games they play and
the life long prizes they’ll keep.
The ride’s move in every direction
and sorts them out in a generic
collection.
And their overly maudlin parents
watch their young grow up in a
manifested life of decoy, then send
them off one by one too deploy.
The festivities start to chant
louder and look more amusing:
Once the children find out what
they are losing.
And in their heads they can still
hear the bittersweet sound of their
childhood
Calling out to them from the
carnival, they once loved so much.
But its now only memory of a common
tasteless touch.
The kids grow old into adults and
teens, some turn into kings and
queens, while others just grow old,
never knowing what the carnival
really means.
The residue from the party
streamers seem to now look and fade
like distant dreamers.
Litterae - 5
The carnival tents, that was once
fun has all its strings coming
undone,
Revealing the thin lie that lies
beneath them all.
They leave the carnival empty
handed and their mind left
stranded.
Remembering all the things they
done holding on to the cheap prizes
they have won.
And now all that remains in the
month of June are lifeless kids and
exit sign that reads
“See you soon”.
Litterae - 6
By Justice Whitaker
Black Gold ‘89
By Justice Whitaker
Excerpt from GrayScale: A Memoir in
Black and White.
He donned his 14kt gold-plated
hoop earring for the first time.
His black denim jacket and
caramel complexion stood out
against the pithy,
underdeveloped bodies of his 4th
grade peers. It was the 80's. He
looked tough as leather; yet,
from the surface to the core he
was as soft as the child-sized
earlobe that the hoop had been
pushed through.
Where the gold had actually come
from I will never know, and he
had never considered.
Undoubtedly the hoop was sold as
one unit of thousands to the
Long’s Drugstore and Pharmacy
that offered the piercing
services of a gum snapping and
Litterae - 7
artificially caring high school
student for $14.99. The gold
plating was surely done in China
by sweatshop workers who had
never considered such body
adornments beyond ancient myths
of dynasties and valor: terms of
which their lives seemed
permanently deprived. Where the
factory got its raw material is
unknown, but to conclude that it
came from the same continent as
the boy’s enslaved ancestors
would be no stretch of the
imagination. This is the
circular irony of infinite
connections that made his
elementary experience both
quaint and massively traumatic
in the same breath. There he
stood, December 5th, the day
after his birthday—lookin’
tough.
Earlier that week as the 4th
grade curriculum had wound its
way through the tales of U.S.
history, the unit had switched
over to the new nation and
eventually would lead to a
grazing mention of the slave
trade as the teachers prepped
students for civil war
simulations and boring
documentaries on laser discs
with fanatical re-enactors.
The topic of slavery, Africans,
and really anything to do with
historical or contemporary black
culture fell heavily upon the
boy, and he was expected to add
insight and perspective in the
classroom. Once he was pulled
aside by student teacher and
warned about his failure to
participate in an activity where
students were asked to write
from the perspective of a slave.
"This is something that should
be important to you, it’s YOUR
history. You're a great student,
Litterae - 8
but if you continue this type of
behavior, it’s going to damage
your participation points," she
warned.
The whole time period in history
began to be uncomfortable, and
everyday after science he would
begin to feel his ears get hot
as if too many eyes were fixed
upon him, challenging his sheer
existence in the classroom. He
would distract himself by
flipping to the back of the
history book, Into the West,
with the overly lit studio shot
of a 19th century covered wagon
on its front, and sifting
through the maps of the world.
He was unfamiliar to the concept
of "backpacking," but he
fantasized about taking boats
down the Nile to Cairo and
catching a caravan of camels or
land rovers across the Sahara to
Timbuktu, which was next to a
place named Niger, who's capital
was Niamey, and then down into
Dakar which was a place his
parents had gone together before
they had kids, and which also
reminded him of the cologne his
older brother wore, Dakar Noir.
Noir, he knew, meant black.
The class finally caught up to
him when the teacher told them
all to turn to page 988, a high
number which he quickly
recognized as the map pages.
Flipping there, he saw a map of
Africa with an inset of the
globe, both tagged with the
graffiti of transatlantic slave
trade routes that crisscrossed
and wove deeper and darker in
some places like lashing scars
on the backs of the slaves that
had travelled them: his father’s
forefathers. The mumbles and
laughter over the names of the
African nations that had been
Litterae - 9
formally recognized only in the
last 20 to 30 years began to
irritate him, the irritation was
exacerbated by the one other
half breed student in the class
who, although they were friends,
was sitting in his chair
repeating "nigger, nigger,
nigger" as if to aggravate the
boy further. When the boy
attempted to quiet him, the
friend pointed to the nation
labeled "Niger" and said, "It’s
just a country in Africa...."
After class the boy and his
mulatto friend, who had started
to refer to the two of them as
zebras for their half-back half-
white blood mixture, were
walking out the classroom when
the friend, who was raised to be
either impervious to, or unaware
of, race, questioned: “If
there's a country named
"Nigger," why do you get so
angry when people say it...?”
The boy, thoroughly lacking a
response, turned and walked off
the playground unconsciously
duped by ignorance.
That night the boy, seated at
dinner with his bi-racial
family, brought up the question
that his parents must have been
anticipating since they had
birthed their two sons as kings
in paradox, or at least a
version thereof.
“Why is there a country in
Africa named Nigger?” This set
off a series of actions around
the house, his father reached
towards the bookshelf, out came
dictionaries and an atlas to
correct the linguistic and
geographic errors, while his
mother stood aimlessly
unprepared for the racial
dialogue with her black son,
Litterae - 10
although she had brought the
eldest up to age 16 already.
That elder brother brought
emotion and pragmatism with one
pointed statement: “If anyone
calls you a nigger, punch him in
the face!” This inadvertently
jolted mom into the
conversation. "I don't want you
getting into any fights.... Did
someone call you that at
school?"
The next day the science lesson
caused an involuntary anxiety to
grip the boy, anticipating the
forthcoming history lesson, and
another hour of looking at
pictures of slaves on ships and
auction blocks brought about the
type of nausea that comes not
from stomach sickness, but from
fatigue. When the class broke
for afternoon recess the boy and
his ‘Zebra’ friend walked in
front of a few other boys. One
of them, Raymond Horatio, a fat
Jewish boy who's family had
undoubtedly suffered its share
of marginalization, called the
boy’s name. As he turned around,
Raymond asked "Were your parents
slaves?" A muted and broken
"Shutup!" spurted from the boy’s
lips as the arrow nearly hit his
heart. Raymond laughed.
"Whatever, nigger..." The
laughter continued. The boy
reached the end of the walkway
and took one step onto the
grass. About face; stand at
attention. As Raymond closed the
four-step gap, still laughing
with his friends at his display
of bigotry, the boy balled his
fists.
With adrenaline pumping through
his veins, the boy’s body began
taking blood from his brain,
causing everything in his vision
to seem as if highlighted by a
Litterae - 11
backlight. Subsequently, there
was a trail of shiny glittery
soul power that followed behind
his fist as it bolted through
the air and planted contact on
the fragile cheekbone of the
Horatio boy like a comet with
enough power to extinguish the
dinosaurs. Glass jaw Raymond was
spun around, and stumbled
backwards down the sloped knoll.
The boy pounced like a panther;
clad in his black denim jacket,
today with jeans to match, he
looked like an affiliate of Huey
Newton and Eldridge Cleaver, and
fought just as viciously for a
similar egalitarian definition
of humanity. Although the
Panthers before him had created
a calculated movement, he acted
upon the same visceral impulse
that each of them, and every
other black man in this nation,
has felt at one point or another
in their lives.
Landing upon the Jewish boy and
rolling down the grassy hill
with him, the boy asserted
himself on top and began to
pummel the Jewish boy whose
great grandparents may have even
been ancestors of the boy’s
mother. The caramel knuckles
were white- tipped like snow
cones at the movie theater, and
with each crushing blow they
reddened and eventually began
shredding the pale flesh of his
opponent. Left, right, in a
military cadence inherited from
his grandfather’s time at
Tuskegee, transmitted from his
fathers time in ‘Nam, now the
left blows hitting low, cracking
Raymond’s winter chapped lips
and striking Raymond’s throat,
the right hitting high and now
forming a bulb over Raymond’s
left eye that would later seal
shut.
Litterae - 12
The boy’s supersonic comet soul
power had blocked out the
screams and yells of the now-
formed crowd, the whistle
blowing from the teacher
trotting across the yard, the
muffled moans from Raymond and
the war cries and victory
screams the boy had channeled
from tribal forefathers and his
native bloodlines. This is for
Geronimo, and this is for
Soujourner; this is for Nat
Turner, and this one’s for MLK
and Malcolm, this one’s for
Hector Pieterson and one for
Emmett Till—the spirits each
took a shot as if the
meaningless revenge would cool
the centuries of anger that
burns in the souls of black
folks. The blows freed the caged
bird, and Mumia, who had been
locked up since the year the boy
was born: free - if not for more
than a split second…. Amidst his
rage the child foreshadowed the
signing of peace treaties
between both the Crips & the
Bloods and Palestine & Israel.
His world was simultaneously
spinning at a heightened speed
as well as standing perfectly
still. Then it faded to black.
At some point in the five days
of freedom he was awarded from
the suffocating institution of
education, he noticed the golden
hoop was missing from his ear.
It had not been pulled out, but
rather in his unfamiliarity with
its design he had never secured
the clasp properly, and in the
tumble it must have fallen out.
He chose not to replace the hoop
with the solid black onyx stud
that had been used to pierce his
ear. There was something in him
that felt as if he had grown far
beyond any manhood or toughness
that would come from that
Litterae - 13
jewelry. He no longer felt the
need to wear his blackness or
the stolen gold, on his sleeve;
somehow, he had internalized his
struggle, and with it, a piece
of his identity. Today, the ear
is still scarred from where the
hole closed before it had
finally healed, but the wounds
left unknowingly by the
schoolyard boys have long since
been shifted into positive self-
healing energy, the pain has
evolved into a dedicated self-
expression in support of the
movement towards an active
educated populace, in hopes that
future generations will not have
to tussle in the school-yard to
define their blackness.
Litterae - 14
In Spite of Himself
By Judy Weaver
"Oh come on, Ian!" Leander
shouted over the din of the
hammers hitting the anvils. He
and his older brother Ian were
near the stables at the Duke's
castle. Fostering children out
to others was a common practice
among the nobility of that era,
and it was Le's turn to join his
brother Ian at the castle. For
the summer at least, the Cross
brothers would be together until
Ian left for Hogwarts at the end
of August.
Le didn't want to be here, he
wanted to be home where his
parents were. Why he had to come
here he didn't understand.
Couldn't his father teach him
just as well how to be a knight
of the realm? Though it was a
sight better than being sent off
to the monastery, where second
sons often ended up. There was
no way he wanted to go there,
even if Friar David was nice and
all. He wanted to be a knight,
wear armor like his father and
if lucky, have his own war horse
that went charging into battle.
"We need to get up to the
fields," Ian reminded him and
began walking away. He was the
first born of the Cross
brothers, and he knew already
the responsibilities that lay
before him. One day he'd take
his father's place as Earl, and
he wanted to make sure he was
ready. He thought Le was a
slacker - he should have been
fostered out two years ago and
come here at age six like he
had. Didn't Le understand the
honor it was to be fostered to
the Duke of Sussex? The Duke
didn't accept too many children,
Litterae - 15
especially of lower nobility and
never two from the same family.
Their being wizards like the
Duke's own family was the
reason, but it was still an
honor.
Le was already making him late
for training, and that never
boded well. The knight that was
teaching the lessons didn't
suffer fools gladly, and
besides, Ian wanted to learn.
His wooden practice sword was
firmly tucked in its scabbard
and there were shields there to
use. Today's lesson was on how
to block, and it had sounded
exciting to the eleven year old.
Soon he would be at Hogwarts and
his magical training would
start, but he was going to be a
lord of his own castle one day.
He needed to learn how to defend
it.
With one last exasperated sigh,
Ian stormed off and left his
little brother to his own
devices. Maybe Le would learn
what responsibility was when Sir
Danvers showed up and dragged
him off by the ear to the
lesson. Or worse yet, get sent
home to their parents'
humiliation. That thought almost
had him stopping in his tracks
and turning to grab Leander's
ear on his own volition. But Ian
wasn't his brother's keeper,
and what would Le do when he was
on his own here? Best to learn
the hard lesson of obedience
now, and he stomped off.
With his brother gone, Leander
looked around with a lack of
interest. Stables were stables
to him, and shoeing horses no
different here than it was at
home. Everything he needed to
Litterae - 16
learn to be a knight he could
learn from his father, and his
jaw set mutinously as he entered
the stables and climbed up a
pile of bales to hide. Maybe if
he did his worst, he'd be sent
home. That thought comforted him
slightly, even though he knew
his father wouldn't like it.
Le dug into the straw and built
himself a comfortable seat to
sit in and watch from. The serfs
were a busy lot, and he followed
each one as they bustled about
in their chores. Their castle
didn't have serfs, but freemen.
He couldn't understand what made
the Duke so special anyhow. So
he had a higher title, it didn't
make him any better than his own
father. Well.... in the eyes of
the court it did. He hated that
place also, even though he was
still young enough to left in
his parents' room while they and
Ian ventured forth.
A shuffle in the hay near him
had Leander shrinking as far
down as he could in his hiding
spot. If it was that evil
knight, he wanted no part of the
man. His face was covered in one
long scar that twisted his face
into an evil looking smirk that
never changed. It was scary to
his eight year old self... what
had the man done to get that?
"Boy?" A lilting voice called
out to him and Leander sighed.
He hadn't hid as well as he
thought and sat up straighter
and groaned. He'd seen her at a
distance when his father had
dropped him off, and he
recognized the Duke's only child
and daughter from that. She'd
snitch and tell, and his father
would be humiliated. "Why are
you hiding here?" she asked in
Litterae - 17
disbelief. He could tell by the
look in her eyes she hadn't
expected him here, but what was
she doing there also?
"Tis none of your concern,"
Leander retorted and shifted in
his place, digging deeper into
the hay. Girls were ickle with
their pretty dresses and airs
that always made them better
than they were. As a duke's
daughter, she was probably full
of ickles anyhow.
"Your face is all dirty," she
told him with a laugh and
clambered through the hay until
she was next to him and plopped
down in a flurry of skirts. "I'm
Gillian, who are you?" she asked
him and tucked her skirts around
her. Le couldn't believe it -
was the girl crazy? They didn't
belong in the stables - didn't
they have girl things to learn
to keep them busy? He snorted
and rolled his eyes before
rubbing the dirt even further
into his pores.
"Leander Cross," Le answered
finally, the manners his mother
had so patiently taught him all
but forgotten at the moment. He
knew he was being rude, and if
the Duke found out - which he
suspected he would if the girl
snitched - he'd be mucking the
stables he was now hiding in
instead of learning how to be a
knight. Or worse sent home and
then sent of to the monastery.
Whoever thought up those itchy,
brown robes has to be crazy
also.
"Ian's brother?" Gillian asked
him with a note of surprise in
her voice. Leander nodded his
head and wondered why that
mattered. Or did it mean Ian
Litterae - 18
liked hanging out with girls? "I
thought - I mean - Ian said that
there was practice today," Her
eyes rounded in confusion, and
looked to where a far off set of
trees were. Where Ian and the
other were near and he was
supposed to be and he shuffled
in the hay more. It itched
through his clothes and his hose
and he brushed at his legs with
his hands.
That was Le's mistake as the
straw shifted with his movements
and slowly the pile they were
sitting on slid down the sides
and dumped them to the muck
below with the girl screaming
all the way down. They landed
with a plop into something that
made Le gag and Gillian scream
again. This time his name and
the words 'I hate you' as he
felt her hands slap at his face
in frustration.
Their commotion drew a crowd,
and Leander tried to stand but
kept slipping and covering them
both in return with more of the
smelly muck. He knew, just knew
he was in trouble when a voice
behind them said their names.
Sitting there, finally stilled
by the duke's voice, Le turned
his head and stared into the
eyes of the very angry man.
Oh yes, Leander knew that he was
going to become very acquainted
with the stables now. If he ever
learned to be a knight, it would
be to spite the Duke.
By Justice Whitaker
Litterae - 20
Conditional
Elizabeth O’Connell-Thompson
When I see someone with whom
I trusted my body,
once or often,
it remembers him.
The patterns he bit
into my chest redden again,
bruises blossom on my back,
and all of me hums
with the touch of his hands—
a fist knotted in my hair,
a palm heavy on my thigh
—resting in mine while we slept.
As we share drinks or
make room for one another between
tourists and businessmen
on the sidewalk, I wonder
if his scalp stings where my lips
left hushed noises,
blood wells where my fingernails
caught,
or his hands remember where I am
soft.
And, if they’d forgotten,
If they’d like to learn again
Litterae - 21
Donny H.
by Jason Bertucci
He owned a door factory
the name of the business was 'A
Door Factory'.
While not being a very inventive
moniker
I have to admit, it made sense.
That's what he did - he was a wood
worker, a door maker,
a son, brother, father, grandfather
and a husband
If you got to know him well enough
you would also call him an
alcoholic and a harry misogynist.
He had the type of forearms that
used to work in construction
a mustache that wouldn't conform to
the times
and he would sometimes smoke
flavored tobacco out of pipes,
he treasured his large collection
of tobacco pipes.
While the transformation of lumber
was his thing
he was also fond of tequila and
racism in general,
As far as the racism, let's just
say he didn't like my black
friends.
Where the liquor was concerned he
had a penchant for the good old
Cuervo Gold
just the Gold - this was before
they put out all that fancy shit
they have now.
One would also assume correctly
that he had tried his fare share of
Acapulco Gold.. and most likely at
the same time as the Cuervo.
I doubt he'd ever been to Mexico
though - he just wouldn't fit in.
His strange life happenings took
place in a very small area
an hour and a half outside of Los
Angeles,
the kind of place millionaires
would send their kids to go to
school
so they didn't have to rough it in
the big city.
He was a real red blooded American
alright.
Litterae - 22
There was an old Woody parked in
the garage that never moved,
a couple of vintage Playboy pinball
machines that nobody touched
and without asking you knew that he
was into The Beach Boys and Dick
Dale.
I almost forgot to mention his
shiny red Corvette that he would
drive on the weekends.
Among other 'cool guy stuff' there
was a pool and a pigeon coop in the
backyard
I could never figure out why the
pigeon coop was cool?
but for some sick reason he loved
those damned pigeons.
You'd have to be blind to miss the
huge barn/workshop towards the rear
of the lot.
The barn was his hideout and
workplace, his excuse to get away
from it all
He must have had 2 of any tool or
mechanical piece of equipment that
you could name.
I imagined while he was puttering
around, making random saw noises
that he would drink his tequila and
try to think of a different
existence.
So I lived in the sweaty loft,
right upstairs of this hot, humid
barn
there was a tiny corner for a small
bed, enough room for a couch, small
table and a television.
The bathroom was tiled like a 50's
diner and when you walked in the
door
the billiards table was obviously
the main feature.
We all know heat rises and air
conditioning was non existent
there were only three windows
making it quite hot almost all the
time.
I had to park somewhere in the
crowded driveway or on the street
and walk around the side of his
sawhorses, clamps and other devices
just to to get to my room, which
was up a deformed staircase.
I got very good at avoiding him and
shooting 9 ball as well.
Litterae - 23
This grew to be a lively event and
began to become a little game of
sorts
we would both pretend to
acknowledge each other
and throw out a fake smile every
now and then.
I don't think he liked my lifestyle
and I couldn't understand his.
Maybe now I should mention that I
was dating his daughter
this made things much more
complicated as one could imagine.
She had her own room in the main
house
and I was sweating my ass off up in
that old loft.
So either I would sneak down into
her room at night
or she would have to 'make the
walk' past the barn
while Donny was knee deep in
tequila and sawdust.
I don't think he liked the
situation but his wife suggested it
-
seemed like she was wearing the
pants?
Things got weirder when his
daughter and I broke up,
we were off and on again for a
while.
Now this house was located directly
behind a high school,
in fact the only one in maybe 20
miles or so.
so eventually some of the girls
would start walking from school up
to my scorching loft.
I was out of school and had a full
time job at an upscale hotel.
The tips were substantial and I was
doing well for myself.
So now imagine, other, younger
girls 'making the walk'
past the open barn of wood madness
and up the rickety stairs.
This did not go over well at all
with anyone.
He told the wife, she told the
daughter - it was a nightmare.
I would have the girls on the phone
trying to get them to wait,
wait until he would stop his
drinking and construction and close
Litterae - 24
the barn door.
When the barn door was closed the
side entrance was free game.
One day I timed it wrong or they
just wouldn't wait, I can't
remember
two gorgeous girls, both younger
than his daughter
came walking past the barn, through
the side entrance and up the
stairs.
It wouldn't have been so bad if
their skirts were a lot longer
and in hindsight their tops could
have been a little looser too.
I'm sure his bloodshot eyes were
popping out of his head
I almost wish I could have heard
some of the things
he was muttering underneath his
pungent breath.
This was the last straw - I was to
move out rapidly.
I found solace in a nearby
apartment and never looked back
although his daughter would still
come by every once in a while.
Oh the strange days with Donny H.
Litterae - 25
The Square
by Jason Bertucci
The slackers looked at each other
in disbelief
when the smoke was all gone and the
wine bottle,
tipped over - dropped out it's last
leak.
The air was getting dry and people
started getting itchy,
the street folk were feeling
twisted and hungry
riddles mumbled by geniuses and
burnouts ruled the nights.
They would all gather at the square
to reveal the day's goods
and perfect their schemes to
overrun the government.
Some days it was a happy place,
with shiny smiles all around
others - merely a cold hard place
to lay your head,
and you'd be lucky to have a
blanket.
It was right off the main drag of a
popular,
coastal southern California town
right in the middle of lower State
Street but tucked away just enough.
Just enough so nobody could stare
for too long tourists and locals
alike would walk by, appalled and
frightened like their pretty little
city had been invaded,taken over or
infested by pirates and marauders.
We knew just enough to be dangerous
things sinister and menacing were
always practical.
The city officials would come
around daily
trying to weed out the weak and
deficient,
if someone had a chance to see them
coming
he or she would signal the enemies
approach.
The old, former military man in the
wheelchair would hide the goods
'The Blessed' as he was called
would carry a bible at all times.
He had a long flowing beard and
always wore his dirty white robe
'Who would frisk a Christian
Litterae - 26
veteran in a wheelchair?'
they actually tried a couple times
- but on the right days.
getting harassed was just a routine
a standard part of the day after a
while,
like brushing your teeth or taking
a shower
But neither of these were a very
common practice.
the ocean and restaurant bathrooms
were the shower
and I never saw a toothbrush in
anyone's hands.
Us loungers all pitched in to
support the collective good.
It was like communism in a 75 by 75
foot concrete alleyway
the hard benches made it a
tolerable place for loitering
but it was far from comfortable.
I image in Laos or any other
communist country
they use a comparable blend of the
material,
and I'll bet their version isn't
soft either.
The beach was a careful fifteen
minute walk away
where there would be drum circles
on the weekends
naked children, devil sticks and
people spinning fire.
The improvisational dancing looked
more like twirling to me
so picture lots of people twirling
about.
It was akin to the Hell's Angels
but without the motorcycles
and the bikers might have been
better dancers, who knows?
Anyway, no one cared and no one
judged.
A code of ethics was unspoken yet
powerful
there were times to step on toes
and times to take a step back.
'Tree' and 'Zob' could only
panhandle for so long
their songs and antics grew
tiresome,
so everybody took turns trying to
hustle up some capital -
whichever way they could,
specialties varied greatly.
Litterae - 27
There were of course good days and
bad days.
on the good days drugs of choice
could be purchased
so you could say all the booze,
heroin, speed
marijuana and psychedelics were
basically free.
Just as free as the women.
I can only compare it to something
like the Ringling Bros. outfit
It was a carnival of sorts and
everyone was along for the ride
none of the dirty hippies were in
any hurry to 'go home'.
Some had never met their parents or
been to a dentist
others were probably sons or
daughters of dentists and lawyers
Although, if they kept living in
this manner
they would definitely need both at
some point.
When I think about the things I
thought I used to know
I gaze around with a pervading
smile and a prominent glow.
I'd like to think I've 'grown up'
since then
but history tends to repeat itself.
Litterae - 28
Cheetah Mom
By Mandy Moore
I don’t have stripes. Who has
the time for stripes. I have spots,
messy Cheetah spots. Spots I have
time for. Spots are everywhere in
my life. I am a Cheetah mom full of
spots. My daughter’s shirt has
spots on it. We were too busy to
use a bib and she spit her mashed
carrots all over it. My little
green hooptie has spots on it from
bird poop, dried dirty raindrops
and my son’s fingerprints where he
had to put his hand on the car
while I put his sister into her
seat.
Constantly I am surrounded by
spots. Stripes have no place in my
life. Stripes are too neat, too
precise. Stripes take too much
time. Spots are more my speed.
There are spots in my yard where
patches of grass have yellowed and
withered because no one had time to
take care of it. Spots cloud my
vision daily when I’m too tired to
rub them from my eyes. Staining my
favorite dress, more spots. These
remind me of my son’s first
experience with food when he
decided his peas should go back out
instead of down. Who can afford a
new dress in three years?
Spots and I have become close
friends. I don’t have time for the
flesh and blood type. Stripes are
the enemy. Marring the beauty of my
marriage license, spots. Spots from
the teardrops that fell caused by
the stripes of the creased paper
and signature lines on my divorce
decree. These stripes I have time
for. These stripes I have to have
time for.
I saw plenty of stripes on
the day that I signed those papers;
the day that those first spots
showed up on my marriage license.
Stripes lined her pinstripe
pantsuit. Stripes made his bifocals
glaring obvious. Stripes creased
the judge’s full black robe.
Everywhere I looked there were
stripes. I don't have time for
stripes.
Litterae - 29
I am a Cheetah mom. Other
mothers can be tiger moms. Other
mothers can have their stripes but
I will keep my spots. Spots are
mine to keep forever.
Spots dapple the newspaper
that has set out in the Sunday
morning rain a little too long;
because who has time for fetching
the newspaper when there are
spotted kids to keep. Spots stain
the dining room table after I share
a home cooked meal with my
children. Spots even open,
magically and unexpectedly, in
lines when I am wrangling two
rambunctious kids. I embrace spots
now.
My spots are my battle
wounds. With time they will heal
but they will never completely
disappear. My spots are my link to
the real world. Each spot is a new
memory, a different mishap, a
little more time spent in the
moment and less time worrying about
the future. Spots and stripes will
eventually mingle. Stripes will
become less fearsome. For now, at
least, my spots are here to stay.
Once, however, I too was a Tiger
mom. Once I had time for stripes.
Index Cards and 15 Steps Method
July is the second month in the year for a world-wide program
designed specifically for individuals to write a 50k word novel in a
month. Three of these events are held throughout the year with the
most popular still being in November. Sounds crazy right? Well it is
completely achievable. Every year I use a method of outlining derived
from something called the 13 step method. It is a very simple way of
ensuring that you will have the number of words or pages that you want
by the end of your story, instead of scrambling to eliminate or
fabricate words.
Now, in order to outline using this method you first need to have
fifteen index cards on hand. On each index card you should put a
chapter title. After each title you will write a one line chapter
synopsis. These are your chapters. On the back of each card you will
write 15 events that need to occur within the chapter. These are your
scenes. Next, take your word count and divide it by the number of
chapters (15), this is the number of words you need for each chapter.
Once complete divide the chapter number by 15 once more and you have
the number of words you need for each scene.
Good luck, have fun and as always keep writing!
Writing Tips – Volume II Tips on Writing Well
Litterae - 31
If you want to appear in
our next issue check out
the Submissions tab at
litteraemag.webs.com!