Showing posts with label Issue 5 (V-Day) February 2010. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issue 5 (V-Day) February 2010. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Art by Tom Besson
Unfortunately I could not find the titles to these pieces as we have a questionable bookkeeping system. When we get the titles we will correct this.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Issue Five's Table of Contents
Inside Looks Out, Outside Looks In, Amanda Abraham
0330 am-out of control, JANEisnotplain
1.20.09 CHANGE, JANEisnotplain
Golden Anniversary, Dan Brady
The Bug, Amanda Abraham
Untitled Dec. 2006, Beth Rolingson
Untitled Dec. 2007, Beth Rolingson
Art by Tom Besson
I Am (1), Clara Hsu
I Am (2), Clara Hsu
twisty doings, Stephen Kopel
Exhausted, Stephen Kopel
Dear Emily, Ariel Daniels
Dear Emily, Cont'd
Art by Andy Bigelow
Contributor Bios
Editrice Note: Love Is in the Air, (starring The Toucan's world-famous literary pick-up-lines)
0330 am-out of control, JANEisnotplain
1.20.09 CHANGE, JANEisnotplain
Golden Anniversary, Dan Brady
The Bug, Amanda Abraham
Untitled Dec. 2006, Beth Rolingson
Untitled Dec. 2007, Beth Rolingson
Art by Tom Besson
I Am (1), Clara Hsu
I Am (2), Clara Hsu
twisty doings, Stephen Kopel
Exhausted, Stephen Kopel
Dear Emily, Ariel Daniels
Dear Emily, Cont'd
Art by Andy Bigelow
Contributor Bios
Editrice Note: Love Is in the Air, (starring The Toucan's world-famous literary pick-up-lines)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A New Issue To Warm Your Heart...
Yep, folks, the long awaited Valentine's Day Issue is here. Laugh and cry like you're in love. We love you too. If you want a print copy, starting Monday, you can check out the table outside the Fiction Writing Department Office at Columbia College Chicago, also in the English Office, and it will be at Quimby's, 1854 North Ave, Chicago, IL, later in the week for a reasonable $3 investment. (We're working on San Francisco distribution options.) If it's easier, you can always drop us a line at thetoucanmag@gmail.com with your address and we'll snail mail you a copy.
Thanks to Andy Bigelow for our updated cover design! Also thanks to Dan Cirilo for being awesome! And THANK YOU for reading!
Page 1--Inside Looks Out, Outside Looks In--Amanda Abraham
I am on the inside looking outward. Having strategically positioned my body here, the sun is damaging my eyes, but the blinding warmth couldn’t be better.
As expected, I haven’t been able to function normally at all today… as it has been for the past few weeks now, particularly on Sundays. The one day I put aside for homework, and naturally my head is filled to the brim with the strangest things imaginable. Today is like this, yet entirely different, for obvious reasons. Weeks ago my friendship with an old and dear female Scorpio friend was dissolved over a breakfast. And as what I believe to be a product of Saturn’s pull, my former muse—who both despises and revels in this astrological label—has managed to work his way back into my life somehow, years after I had all but wedged him out of my mind with an electric drill. Fantasy and reality have collided. This balancing of the scales is one of the most unexpected I’ve encountered…
I have spent the last few days seriously questioning whether if I am in a dream. Wondering if all that has occurred is just an illusion: When is someone going to pinch me so I may awake? Where is the thorn in this rose, this gift presented to me from the stars? I have only to expect to be setting myself up for a fall, but as I’d outwardly mentioned, nothing he could do or say to me at this point would shock me in the slightest. Yes, I lied to him several times, looking back on it. He lied too, and even though that is an assumption, still it doesn’t cheapen the experience. I have thought of every possible scenario that could happen prior to our reunion. All of them—and then some—have occurred.
I have been cast a spell on. My breasts are swelling for some unknown reason. Something is pulling me towards this person I don’t really know, but would like to think I do, and constantly try to pick apart.
I walked through his door knowing full well that I would not be the same when I left. I didn’t expect him to let me stay until morning. The man I’d previously looked at as the devil himself has now transformed in front of my very eyes. Hardly a saint…but more so in human form than I’d seen within the confines of high school. I still fear him. He had hurt me several times in the past, just by being himself, and now I hate myself for that. I allow the things that people do to me to affect me that much. I want to change, but I can’t move on from past hurts. This seems to be the only definite thing we have in common- the nickname he has formed for me is a prime example of this. We have grown separately since we first met… we weren’t even friends then. Are we friends now? I still carry with me rather a large laundry bag of apprehension. He tells me I don’t need to be insecure around him… probing me with questions he already knows most of the answers to. How did he know my mother married young?
Nobody, at least in quite a while, had shown such an avid interest in finding out what makes me tick both positively and negatively. I look in the mirror constantly and wonder about how I can change how others see me. He tries to be humble and appear puzzled at the thought of me being totally enamored of him, almost as if the mere questioning of it would change my mind completely. I don’t see how it’s possible. I don’t see how he can look in the mirror and not be completely aware of this power he has. I feel like even though I have exposed so much to him, there’s still so much more I want to share. I don’t think the hidden list of potential things to say will ever run out. I wonder why he feels like sex with me this soon was a mistake. I think he may have overlooked how patient I’ve been (several years is a rather long time span, I would say). I don’t think one needs to pencil in an agenda for an appropriate time to make it. There is no schedule for love— if you need it, give it.
“You know we’ve done this before, right?”
I wonder why tears sprang from his eyes more than once that night. I still can’t help but worry there were other reasons for his sudden fits of laughter other than being too impaired by alcohol to function. Somehow I was astonishingly able to keep my own bubble from bursting. I don’t know if he noticed how much I wanted to cry… I guess I figured I’d extracted more than enough tears by then. Everything is a contradiction. Our entire interaction is a contradiction.
There I am, trying to appear as if there is some sort of composure about myself, and suddenly my back is pushed up against the wall in the shower. Makeup is running off my face. My top fear has come true—my ugliness has been exposed. I look at my reflection in disgust and pinch my cheeks in desperate order to restore color and distract from the imperfections- I draw blood instead. He comments on every movement I make, down to how I’m getting dressed before I leave, so why wouldn’t he mention the fact that I have a horrid complexion? Once again, I am actively waiting for this humiliation. I expect it. I go home, and as soon as I make a feeble attempt to direct my attention on “normal” things, like dishes and scrubbing the caked baking sheet… soon I am sobbing. I don’t know whether they are tears of joy, fear, regret, or extreme disbelief, but the last time I cried like this wasn’t recently. I don’t know if I’m depressed, or just overwhelmed, but these tears keep welling up at the remembrance of certain scenes from the night. I feel as though I’ve gone on an acid trip without the LSD. He tries to convince me that we will be seeing each other again soon, but not doing a very good job of it. I suppose it’s obvious I need that reassurance. He tells me I always have this blank expression on my face, although I have noticed the exact same quality in his.
He says he wants my friendship- suddenly willing to look past the constant guard I've put up. Wants my continued help with literary works... what useful help could I possibly offer other than grammar and spelling? Anything he wants me to do, I am willing to do it. I sincerely want to, and I have a strong need to... I’m used to this sort of puppetry, but I would like to think there is a purpose or reason behind it. What if there isn’t? I’m sure that would make no difference. We are, after all, merely a repeat of something that’s existed twice before.
The sun is now setting, today’s colors are shifting, and with this transition, I’d feel better to convince myself that I’m somewhat saner now preceding this release.
Would it really surprise you all that much if I decide not to share these details with anyone else? It’s all headed for the garbage, anyhow...
Inside looks out, outside looks in.
As expected, I haven’t been able to function normally at all today… as it has been for the past few weeks now, particularly on Sundays. The one day I put aside for homework, and naturally my head is filled to the brim with the strangest things imaginable. Today is like this, yet entirely different, for obvious reasons. Weeks ago my friendship with an old and dear female Scorpio friend was dissolved over a breakfast. And as what I believe to be a product of Saturn’s pull, my former muse—who both despises and revels in this astrological label—has managed to work his way back into my life somehow, years after I had all but wedged him out of my mind with an electric drill. Fantasy and reality have collided. This balancing of the scales is one of the most unexpected I’ve encountered…
I have spent the last few days seriously questioning whether if I am in a dream. Wondering if all that has occurred is just an illusion: When is someone going to pinch me so I may awake? Where is the thorn in this rose, this gift presented to me from the stars? I have only to expect to be setting myself up for a fall, but as I’d outwardly mentioned, nothing he could do or say to me at this point would shock me in the slightest. Yes, I lied to him several times, looking back on it. He lied too, and even though that is an assumption, still it doesn’t cheapen the experience. I have thought of every possible scenario that could happen prior to our reunion. All of them—and then some—have occurred.
I have been cast a spell on. My breasts are swelling for some unknown reason. Something is pulling me towards this person I don’t really know, but would like to think I do, and constantly try to pick apart.
I walked through his door knowing full well that I would not be the same when I left. I didn’t expect him to let me stay until morning. The man I’d previously looked at as the devil himself has now transformed in front of my very eyes. Hardly a saint…but more so in human form than I’d seen within the confines of high school. I still fear him. He had hurt me several times in the past, just by being himself, and now I hate myself for that. I allow the things that people do to me to affect me that much. I want to change, but I can’t move on from past hurts. This seems to be the only definite thing we have in common- the nickname he has formed for me is a prime example of this. We have grown separately since we first met… we weren’t even friends then. Are we friends now? I still carry with me rather a large laundry bag of apprehension. He tells me I don’t need to be insecure around him… probing me with questions he already knows most of the answers to. How did he know my mother married young?
Nobody, at least in quite a while, had shown such an avid interest in finding out what makes me tick both positively and negatively. I look in the mirror constantly and wonder about how I can change how others see me. He tries to be humble and appear puzzled at the thought of me being totally enamored of him, almost as if the mere questioning of it would change my mind completely. I don’t see how it’s possible. I don’t see how he can look in the mirror and not be completely aware of this power he has. I feel like even though I have exposed so much to him, there’s still so much more I want to share. I don’t think the hidden list of potential things to say will ever run out. I wonder why he feels like sex with me this soon was a mistake. I think he may have overlooked how patient I’ve been (several years is a rather long time span, I would say). I don’t think one needs to pencil in an agenda for an appropriate time to make it. There is no schedule for love— if you need it, give it.
“You know we’ve done this before, right?”
I wonder why tears sprang from his eyes more than once that night. I still can’t help but worry there were other reasons for his sudden fits of laughter other than being too impaired by alcohol to function. Somehow I was astonishingly able to keep my own bubble from bursting. I don’t know if he noticed how much I wanted to cry… I guess I figured I’d extracted more than enough tears by then. Everything is a contradiction. Our entire interaction is a contradiction.
There I am, trying to appear as if there is some sort of composure about myself, and suddenly my back is pushed up against the wall in the shower. Makeup is running off my face. My top fear has come true—my ugliness has been exposed. I look at my reflection in disgust and pinch my cheeks in desperate order to restore color and distract from the imperfections- I draw blood instead. He comments on every movement I make, down to how I’m getting dressed before I leave, so why wouldn’t he mention the fact that I have a horrid complexion? Once again, I am actively waiting for this humiliation. I expect it. I go home, and as soon as I make a feeble attempt to direct my attention on “normal” things, like dishes and scrubbing the caked baking sheet… soon I am sobbing. I don’t know whether they are tears of joy, fear, regret, or extreme disbelief, but the last time I cried like this wasn’t recently. I don’t know if I’m depressed, or just overwhelmed, but these tears keep welling up at the remembrance of certain scenes from the night. I feel as though I’ve gone on an acid trip without the LSD. He tries to convince me that we will be seeing each other again soon, but not doing a very good job of it. I suppose it’s obvious I need that reassurance. He tells me I always have this blank expression on my face, although I have noticed the exact same quality in his.
He says he wants my friendship- suddenly willing to look past the constant guard I've put up. Wants my continued help with literary works... what useful help could I possibly offer other than grammar and spelling? Anything he wants me to do, I am willing to do it. I sincerely want to, and I have a strong need to... I’m used to this sort of puppetry, but I would like to think there is a purpose or reason behind it. What if there isn’t? I’m sure that would make no difference. We are, after all, merely a repeat of something that’s existed twice before.
The sun is now setting, today’s colors are shifting, and with this transition, I’d feel better to convince myself that I’m somewhat saner now preceding this release.
Would it really surprise you all that much if I decide not to share these details with anyone else? It’s all headed for the garbage, anyhow...
Inside looks out, outside looks in.
Page 4--0330 am: out of control--JANEisnotplain
[ ] want so much and [ ] are just doing [ ] best
and [ ] see things there that no one else does and
[ ] keep tripping and banging into walls of worth-
less conversation but [ ] keep going because [ ]
know its worth it and people say that the journey
matters but of course the destination does too or
what is the point if [ ] are too real for anyone to
comprehend and too passionate to the point of
self indulgent excess and all of life is focused on
a single point that is out of control.
[ ] really just want to kiss [ ].
and [ ] see things there that no one else does and
[ ] keep tripping and banging into walls of worth-
less conversation but [ ] keep going because [ ]
know its worth it and people say that the journey
matters but of course the destination does too or
what is the point if [ ] are too real for anyone to
comprehend and too passionate to the point of
self indulgent excess and all of life is focused on
a single point that is out of control.
[ ] really just want to kiss [ ].
Page 5--1.20.09 CHANGE--JANEisnotplain
every everything
is available to
every [thing and] one
abstract concrete
hidden showing
[time space]
conservation symmetry
united survival
we are happy and sad
hopeful and desperate
by choice of thought
observation and attention
this is a magnificent and
sobering responsibility
now is then and
this is now and
intelligent people
[places things]
realize now and then
is never ever
[always]
is available to
every [thing and] one
abstract concrete
hidden showing
[time space]
conservation symmetry
united survival
we are happy and sad
hopeful and desperate
by choice of thought
observation and attention
this is a magnificent and
sobering responsibility
now is then and
this is now and
intelligent people
[places things]
realize now and then
is never ever
[always]
Page 6--Golden Anniversary--Dan Brady
It hasn’t always been styled prefab there
They’ve become our auto chrome reflections
But Hiroshima still squirms within
Beneath our fleshly body
It sips
It wasn’t just the blaze of wind
Hiroshima kissed a mouth in the sky
No matter where ever, whenever
We drink to it
It comes through
Even with fifty years of insulation
We reinforce the bombs being put
High above
The joint command
In bed with Teller, Strangelove et al.
Still, now
Through every survivor’s veins
Its warm smoke and black rain courses
Second by second
Hiroshima still waters their eyes
Think we’re snug?
Think we’re smug?
It is still
Sucking on us
It drinks to us
A parasite clutching onto our soul’s mantle
And
Its silent roar
Echoes
All the louder now a days
Happy golden anniversary my dear
And
Many
Many
More returns.
They’ve become our auto chrome reflections
But Hiroshima still squirms within
Beneath our fleshly body
It sips
It wasn’t just the blaze of wind
Hiroshima kissed a mouth in the sky
No matter where ever, whenever
We drink to it
It comes through
Even with fifty years of insulation
We reinforce the bombs being put
High above
The joint command
In bed with Teller, Strangelove et al.
Still, now
Through every survivor’s veins
Its warm smoke and black rain courses
Second by second
Hiroshima still waters their eyes
Think we’re snug?
Think we’re smug?
It is still
Sucking on us
It drinks to us
A parasite clutching onto our soul’s mantle
And
Its silent roar
Echoes
All the louder now a days
Happy golden anniversary my dear
And
Many
Many
More returns.
Page 7--The Bug--Amanda Abraham
Walking on edge
Invisible positions on bank
Just ahead, in dire panic
Emitting a splash
Incredibly amused, incredibly still.
I got better and better
And out of the water
I recognize, slowing down
The difference in texture
Flying all around me
Half in and half out
Like a schematic ram
He didn't jump.
I crept close, winter killed grass
He was small with wide,
Dull eyes. Spirit vanished, snuffed
Skin emptied, dropped
Skull collapse and settle, kicked.
Shrinking eyes deflating
Ruck, rumple, fall.
Invisible positions on bank
Just ahead, in dire panic
Emitting a splash
Incredibly amused, incredibly still.
I got better and better
And out of the water
I recognize, slowing down
The difference in texture
Flying all around me
Half in and half out
Like a schematic ram
He didn't jump.
I crept close, winter killed grass
He was small with wide,
Dull eyes. Spirit vanished, snuffed
Skin emptied, dropped
Skull collapse and settle, kicked.
Shrinking eyes deflating
Ruck, rumple, fall.
Page 8--Untitled Dec. 2006--Beth Rolingson
The Copenhagen sky is a white feather blanket
pulled up snug over the city
then two and three,
the harbor city is transformed:
Yule markets spring up along the canal;
in the Winter Gardens;
on downtown streets.
Cinnamon steam rises from boiling cauldrons.
on the morning train) in baskets,
hanging from strings,
their stitched and painted smiles
beaming at the babies bundled into
bright cocoons, packed in prams.
winking at the babies and believers.
The city is sparkling with light.
Art by Tom Besson
www.tombesson.com
pulled up snug over the city
by the unseen hands of Winter.
Grey blocks of buildings wait
for men on ladders
to outline each glassy pane with green garlands
oozing sap and smelling of the forest.
Like windows lighting in the early dawn,
one yellow square appearing,then two and three,
the harbor city is transformed:
Yule markets spring up along the canal;
in the Winter Gardens;
on downtown streets.
Cinnamon steam rises from boiling cauldrons.
Everywhere, images of the red-capped jul nisse, Christmas elf, appear
as rag dolls, crowded (like office workerson the morning train) in baskets,
hanging from strings,
their stitched and painted smiles
beaming at the babies bundled into
bright cocoons, packed in prams.I imagine, amongst the dolls,
a jul nisse, for real,winking at the babies and believers.
The city is sparkling with light.
Art by Tom Besson
www.tombesson.com
Page 11--Untitled Dec. 2007--Beth Rolingson
An American artist
and a Czech musicianstare at the fire, break bread,
and drink the distilled plum of the orchards outside.
They muse on the Muse.
The scene is out of sync with the swirling sands of time.
It is February
and the Christmas tree still stands in the center of the room.Hung with apples,
wax candles in its boughs,
the tree is from a line of trees
that have emerged from the forest to occupy this room,
the tree is from a line of trees
that have emerged from the forest to occupy this room,
this very room,
for seven hundred seasons.
The two are not alone.
For company they have the wisps of those
who have moved through this space yesterday
and long ago.
A ghost hovers at the hearth,
wrapped in the music and the light.
Treble notes of the twinkling candles,
bass fiddle, roaring fireplace,
moon song and the orchestra of the spiraling universe.contained in the room.
Art by Tom Besson
Page 12--I Am (1)--Clara Hsu
I loathe exact science
pure mathematics
logical theoretical validations
problems that can be solved by equations.
My tongue freezes
at the first round of reasoning
stumped by statistics, reports and surveys.
I am forced to say
things that I don't mean
and resort to raw emotions
against insurmountable evidences.
I
am one.
My tools are not precise.
My perception is liquid with time.
My passion does not propel the wheel of knowledge
rather
it limps along the history of mankind
falling precisely into the category of
fatuity.
pure mathematics
logical theoretical validations
problems that can be solved by equations.
My tongue freezes
at the first round of reasoning
stumped by statistics, reports and surveys.
I am forced to say
things that I don't mean
and resort to raw emotions
against insurmountable evidences.
I
am one.
My tools are not precise.
My perception is liquid with time.
My passion does not propel the wheel of knowledge
rather
it limps along the history of mankind
falling precisely into the category of
fatuity.
Page 13--I Am (2)--Clara Hsu
I am wind
breathe incense to your senses
I am sea
sweep whitecaps under your feet
I am moon
to bathe you anew
I am star
that dazzles your eyes
I am quicksand
I swallow your faith
I am mirage
when you thirst for dreams
I am voodoo
dark and poisonous
I am duende
magic of your soul
I am spices
of intoxicating bouquet
I am sex
you heave as I climax
I am haunting
a recital of your past
I am Zen Buddhist
shuffling down your street
I am present
occupying a piece of earth
I am you
who must live with me.
breathe incense to your senses
I am sea
sweep whitecaps under your feet
I am moon
to bathe you anew
I am star
that dazzles your eyes
I am quicksand
I swallow your faith
I am mirage
when you thirst for dreams
I am voodoo
dark and poisonous
I am duende
magic of your soul
I am spices
of intoxicating bouquet
I am sex
you heave as I climax
I am haunting
a recital of your past
I am Zen Buddhist
shuffling down your street
I am present
occupying a piece of earth
I am you
who must live with me.
Page 14--twisty doings--Stephen Kopel
wet notes notify the floor
this joint is slick city
while
couples wearing rubber gloves
rub together, do the scrub,
sexy sax scoops the doops
slinky Maggie Mop
sinks into her bath bucket,
dips and shakes,
ringlets soapy
flaunt the flounce
kinky suds blow kisses,
praise her rinse cycle,
applause greets her final squeeze..
she stands, shimmies,
twirling like a top..
emphatically,
queen of this hop
this joint is slick city
while
couples wearing rubber gloves
rub together, do the scrub,
sexy sax scoops the doops
slinky Maggie Mop
sinks into her bath bucket,
dips and shakes,
ringlets soapy
flaunt the flounce
kinky suds blow kisses,
praise her rinse cycle,
applause greets her final squeeze..
she stands, shimmies,
twirling like a top..
emphatically,
queen of this hop
Page 15--Exhausted--Stephen Kopel
If my bubblegum
wad plugs the
Cumberland Gap..
I Adirondack
to my Roledex..
remove all rocks
from Jackson Hole..
find a Schlage lock
my Okefenokee
will open..
if I learn to
fly in the ointment
without a co-pilot..
unzip the Zodiac..
maybe, finally, I'll
get some sleep.
wad plugs the
Cumberland Gap..
I Adirondack
to my Roledex..
remove all rocks
from Jackson Hole..
find a Schlage lock
my Okefenokee
will open..
if I learn to
fly in the ointment
without a co-pilot..
unzip the Zodiac..
maybe, finally, I'll
get some sleep.
Page 16--Dear Emily--Ariel Daniels
It’s Monday night, which means I should be getting an email from you sometime before 1 am. Except, oh right, we’re not speaking. Forgot about that. Well, it’s not like I’m going to spend my time doing anything productive, such as reading Virginia Woolf, ha ha, or working on the novel you so conveniently threw off track. So I may as well write you anyway, I’m well in the habit by now.
So, would you like to know what I’ve been doing? No, probably not. I’m happy, I’m perfectly happy, I swear. I’ve written three stories so far and you’ve been in all of them. I don’t care that you never wanted me to write about you, I’m doing it now. And besides, it’s not like you’re going to get around to writing about me anytime soon. We were supposed to have a contract for who got to write what of our myriad adventures. Well, too late for that now, I say I take all of them. You should at least be happy I changed your name—you know how much trouble I have with changing names.
Ok, I lied, I’m not happy, I’m just caffeinated and bitter, like coffee. And I don’t mean to sound so sarcastic. And I wish I could talk to you, but I can’t, of course. I wish I could even explain what happened but I don’t know if I could do that even if we were speaking. I couldn’t do it on the phone that day. I think it was just your voice. I knew you’d be in pain, at least as much as me, but that fact didn’t intellectually impress me until I heard your voice. So if this is easier for you, (it’s definitely easier for me), I want to tell you how I told Lisa what happened.
It’s funny, right before all this, I was going to tell you I’d told Lisa about us. In fact I actually wrote this in emails several times but always deleted it. I didn’t know how you were going to take it and was afraid of your reaction. And besides, I figured if I needed to vent to someone about you, I didn’t want you to know I was doing it and have my pure thoughts on the subject tainted by what you might also be thinking. But I only told Lisa about us because right after I told you I liked you, she got asked out by this guy in her anatomy class named Ben. He was the first guy who’d ever asked her out before, and she was as nervous as hell. I figured that her and I could go through the first-time dating thing together, compare notes. Initially, since I thought I knew what I was doing, I planned to be more of a supporting role, but as time went on I realized I needed a therapist and Lisa fit the bill. It also helped that her and Ben broke up within a month—at the time that scared me about what would happen to us, even though back then according to you everything was “simple, comfortable, and enjoyable”.
I think you probably could have guessed that I told Lisa, though. After you she was my closet friend, and since you and I ended up dating and technically probably weren’t friends anymore, maybe she was my closest friend. And I’d talk about Lisa all the time, I told you about the musical bra and the bra slingshots and the sheep farm in Scotland. I admit, her and I did talk about you a lot. It seemed for a while we had a whole sub-genre of Emily-related jokes, some of which are still coming back to bite me in the ass, and now even more painfully than usual.
Until I saw her, I hadn’t talked to Lisa in four days, so given our frequency of communication she, like you, knew something was wrong. She called me the day before I told my mother about our dating, but I was busy. And she kept calling me for four days afterward even though I was in no shape to talk. I ended up having to go downtown early on Wednesday for this stupid major briefing—at least I thought it would be stupid but it ended up being helpful—and Lisa got out of class at 3:20 on the 13th floor of the Michigan Building, so I figured I’d meet her there. Some other interesting events of the day convinced me I should just get it out with her—I ran into every other lesbian I know and even a few I don’t, but I don’t think you’d be any more thrilled if I shared that with you, so I won’t.
Anyway, so I waited and I saw Lisa come out of class but she didn’t see me. She just made a beeline for the stairwell. Feeling terribly ignored, I followed her, pounding down the steps. I didn’t want to make a scene and scream “LISA!” but I was a little afraid that I’d lose her, although I could see where she was because of that long blond hair of hers. It’s ridiculous. You’d be able to recognize her anywhere with it. Amusingly, she got off at the 12th floor, the famous Fiction Writing floor which I know you loved SO dearly, but then she slowed down to wait for the elevator and I finally caught up with her in front of a purple couch.
She was happy to see me, gave me a big hug. I think she thought I was dead or mad at her or something. I asked her if it was OK if we talked and she said it was fine, she probably would have told me stripping to my bra was fine, and she asked where, like a coffee shop or something. I said it didn’t really matter and we could decide after we got off the elevator, so we stood there in the smush of people with their backpacks and waited patiently with tentative smiles.
We walked over to Grant Park—she suggested it. If we had walked over to Millennium Park I probably would have tried to jump into Michigan Avenue traffic along the way, because I still remember the exact spot where you told me you were gay. It’s in the Lurie Garden—I walked back over there a few weeks ago. I would have sat on that bench and reminisced but some woman was sitting on it with a laptop, probably doing her homework. Why did all of our most pivotal moments happen on benches? I led Lisa up to one of those parts with the stairways, set back behind the trees and a pile of dead leaves swept in the corner near a lamppost. It was a little too secluded, maybe, but I asked her if it was OK and she said it was. Lisa’s the amenable sort. You could tell her you’re moving to Zanzibar and getting a tattoo of a green mamba on your mohawked scalp and she’d be like, “oh, that’s lovely.” Most of my friends are like that, Emily, I think it’s a requirement for getting to know me although I’ve never had the desire to move to Zanzibar or get a tattoo of a green mamba. But you weren’t really like that, which I think maybe I enjoyed, it made a nice change from everyone else. You would have said, “Ok, now why in the hell are you going to do that?” Damn, I can hear you say it now. You did, however, stick pretty stubbornly to the idea that I was cute (which still amazes me, but…). I even sort of got you to admit a couple of emails before all this that you’d still think I was cute even if a small furry animal attached itself inadvertently to my nose. Then again, you were stubborn and inflexible. It was probably the only thing I didn’t like about you. But like I said, it made a nice change from everyone else, and me.
I started trying to tell Lisa what happened. It didn’t work. She knew what had happened because I also sent her a little short email the night I sent you that little short email, Sunday night, and she reasonably assumed that was what we were going to talk about. And I figured I should tell someone else besides my mother, someone who knew the whole story, or close to the whole story. You don’t even know the whole story, and you may never know. Not that I think that’s right. I think maybe I’m the only one who knows the whole story and can keep the lies and the chunks of doled-out information and the database of who knows what in my head. But Lisa probably knows closest to the whole story, I didn’t have to worry about any parental censor with her. If I could tell her this part, which for an amazing amount of time, I couldn’t.
“Spit it out, Nikki. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I waved my hands sort of wildly in front of my face, staring ahead at the concrete railing. “I mean, I don’t know what to say, I don’t know if I should be saying it.” It felt like that day I told you I liked you, and I sat across from you tongue-tied for 10 minutes (on the bench, of course), making little noises and beginning sentences, and then you’d say “What?” and then I couldn’t finish. I don’t know how I ever get any sentences out when they relate to you, whether they’re beginning our relationship or ending it or you’re there or not.
Lisa took out a pack of cards from her purse. What amazed me is that they were all together and not rubber-banded. She started to place them one by one in a pile on the sidewalk, presumably counting them as she did. “We can just pretend we’re playing cards, and maybe that will give us an excuse to talk.”
I put my chin on my fist and stared at the rapidly growing pile on the ground. Do you remember that’s how I used to gaze at you, propping my chin up and directing my adoring eyes at your face as you talked? This went on for months before we admitted anything. I can’t believe you didn’t notice or didn’t realize that I didn’t look at most of my friends that way. It probably conveyed more than mild infatuation. Then I took my chin off my fist and glanced over at Lisa, at her hair sloping over her sweater-vest as she kept going through the cards.
“Can we play Rat Slap?” I asked, with an eagerness that surprised even me.
“Rat Screw. I am not going to call it by that bastardized name. We have to be official.” She picked up the blue-checked pile, and handed them to me. “Here, you shuffle.”
“I can’t shuffle.” I said. “You should know this by now.”
“Well, too bad. I can’t shuffle either.” My hands started going through the cards. Something about shuffling is conducive to spilling your secrets.
“I told her Friday night.” I said. “I’d just gotten back from my grandmother’s birthday dinner, which my mother nearly walked out on because the appetizer wasn’t in the same kind of dish as before and was cold. All day long I was debating with myself whether I should tell her. I consulted philosophy books, I took a long drive out into the country and played the CD I made of songs that reminded me of her.” I never told you about that CD, did I? I don’t think I wanted to.
Lisa didn’t stay anything. We both stared straight ahead at the trees overhanging the railing.
“I mean, I wouldn’t have told my mom if she hadn’t asked, but she asked me twice, and the second time I was about to leave for class and I didn’t want to get involved in a long discussion, so I just lied again, but that time I was very conscious of having lied about it. It’s different when someone just doesn’t ask, it’s a lie of omission then, but when someone asks and you don’t tell them the truth—that really bothered me. And she knew, I thought, and it was going to get harder and harder to keep lying. And I just kept asking myself, how long was I going to keep lying?”
Lisa nodded, bringing her knees up to her chest and pressing herself into the steps.
“She said something about that I should have waited until I was 21 to do this all, but that would have been two years, and I mean, how was I going to handle everything in the meantime? ‘Oh yeah Mom, I’m just going out with Emily to White Castle on Valentine’s Day because we’re both lonely and don’t have boyfriends and think Valentine’s Day sucks’. ‘Oh yeah Mom, I’m just going to stay over at Emily’s apartment because…I can’t even come up with a good reason for that!’ How long was this going to go on if she didn’t know?!”
“You couldn’t have.” Lisa said suddenly. “It would have been worse for her to find out later, but at the same time if you’d told her earlier, you couldn’t have done what you did.”
“Yes, I know that!” I screamed to the pile of dead leaves. “Sorry, I’m just…”
“Oh, I understand.” Lisa said, mildly. “Or maybe I don’t, but…”
We sat there for a while. We hadn’t started the game of Rat Screw yet. I never taught you how to play, did I? I would have.
“So I’m just hoping her and I can still be friends after all this.” I said, finally laying down a card and staring at the pebbles trapped in the concrete.
“You know it’ll take about a month.” Lisa said. “And then you’ll know, I guess.” I thought that was odd that she said that before you did. I guess it’s just a nice reasonable number for everyone.
“It’s going to take time, but I think I can do it,” I said, sighing. I was still optimistic about the possibility then. A jack popped up and since Lisa only produced a 5, I took it.
Something twitched at Lisa’s mouth. “I just want to let you know that it’s a mark of how much I love you that I didn’t start singing the song,” she said.
“I thought of that too!” I giggled. “It’s gonna take time, a whole lotta precious time…” She joined in.
“I just thought it wasn’t appropriate for such a serious subject.” she said when we finished our musical interlude.
“George Harrison is always appropriate.” I said. “And I totally knew you would do that.”
NO, THEY WILL NOT KEEP SINGING GEORGE HARRISON SONGS, BUT CLICK HERE TO KEEP READING!
So, would you like to know what I’ve been doing? No, probably not. I’m happy, I’m perfectly happy, I swear. I’ve written three stories so far and you’ve been in all of them. I don’t care that you never wanted me to write about you, I’m doing it now. And besides, it’s not like you’re going to get around to writing about me anytime soon. We were supposed to have a contract for who got to write what of our myriad adventures. Well, too late for that now, I say I take all of them. You should at least be happy I changed your name—you know how much trouble I have with changing names.
Ok, I lied, I’m not happy, I’m just caffeinated and bitter, like coffee. And I don’t mean to sound so sarcastic. And I wish I could talk to you, but I can’t, of course. I wish I could even explain what happened but I don’t know if I could do that even if we were speaking. I couldn’t do it on the phone that day. I think it was just your voice. I knew you’d be in pain, at least as much as me, but that fact didn’t intellectually impress me until I heard your voice. So if this is easier for you, (it’s definitely easier for me), I want to tell you how I told Lisa what happened.
It’s funny, right before all this, I was going to tell you I’d told Lisa about us. In fact I actually wrote this in emails several times but always deleted it. I didn’t know how you were going to take it and was afraid of your reaction. And besides, I figured if I needed to vent to someone about you, I didn’t want you to know I was doing it and have my pure thoughts on the subject tainted by what you might also be thinking. But I only told Lisa about us because right after I told you I liked you, she got asked out by this guy in her anatomy class named Ben. He was the first guy who’d ever asked her out before, and she was as nervous as hell. I figured that her and I could go through the first-time dating thing together, compare notes. Initially, since I thought I knew what I was doing, I planned to be more of a supporting role, but as time went on I realized I needed a therapist and Lisa fit the bill. It also helped that her and Ben broke up within a month—at the time that scared me about what would happen to us, even though back then according to you everything was “simple, comfortable, and enjoyable”.
I think you probably could have guessed that I told Lisa, though. After you she was my closet friend, and since you and I ended up dating and technically probably weren’t friends anymore, maybe she was my closest friend. And I’d talk about Lisa all the time, I told you about the musical bra and the bra slingshots and the sheep farm in Scotland. I admit, her and I did talk about you a lot. It seemed for a while we had a whole sub-genre of Emily-related jokes, some of which are still coming back to bite me in the ass, and now even more painfully than usual.
Until I saw her, I hadn’t talked to Lisa in four days, so given our frequency of communication she, like you, knew something was wrong. She called me the day before I told my mother about our dating, but I was busy. And she kept calling me for four days afterward even though I was in no shape to talk. I ended up having to go downtown early on Wednesday for this stupid major briefing—at least I thought it would be stupid but it ended up being helpful—and Lisa got out of class at 3:20 on the 13th floor of the Michigan Building, so I figured I’d meet her there. Some other interesting events of the day convinced me I should just get it out with her—I ran into every other lesbian I know and even a few I don’t, but I don’t think you’d be any more thrilled if I shared that with you, so I won’t.
Anyway, so I waited and I saw Lisa come out of class but she didn’t see me. She just made a beeline for the stairwell. Feeling terribly ignored, I followed her, pounding down the steps. I didn’t want to make a scene and scream “LISA!” but I was a little afraid that I’d lose her, although I could see where she was because of that long blond hair of hers. It’s ridiculous. You’d be able to recognize her anywhere with it. Amusingly, she got off at the 12th floor, the famous Fiction Writing floor which I know you loved SO dearly, but then she slowed down to wait for the elevator and I finally caught up with her in front of a purple couch.
She was happy to see me, gave me a big hug. I think she thought I was dead or mad at her or something. I asked her if it was OK if we talked and she said it was fine, she probably would have told me stripping to my bra was fine, and she asked where, like a coffee shop or something. I said it didn’t really matter and we could decide after we got off the elevator, so we stood there in the smush of people with their backpacks and waited patiently with tentative smiles.
We walked over to Grant Park—she suggested it. If we had walked over to Millennium Park I probably would have tried to jump into Michigan Avenue traffic along the way, because I still remember the exact spot where you told me you were gay. It’s in the Lurie Garden—I walked back over there a few weeks ago. I would have sat on that bench and reminisced but some woman was sitting on it with a laptop, probably doing her homework. Why did all of our most pivotal moments happen on benches? I led Lisa up to one of those parts with the stairways, set back behind the trees and a pile of dead leaves swept in the corner near a lamppost. It was a little too secluded, maybe, but I asked her if it was OK and she said it was. Lisa’s the amenable sort. You could tell her you’re moving to Zanzibar and getting a tattoo of a green mamba on your mohawked scalp and she’d be like, “oh, that’s lovely.” Most of my friends are like that, Emily, I think it’s a requirement for getting to know me although I’ve never had the desire to move to Zanzibar or get a tattoo of a green mamba. But you weren’t really like that, which I think maybe I enjoyed, it made a nice change from everyone else. You would have said, “Ok, now why in the hell are you going to do that?” Damn, I can hear you say it now. You did, however, stick pretty stubbornly to the idea that I was cute (which still amazes me, but…). I even sort of got you to admit a couple of emails before all this that you’d still think I was cute even if a small furry animal attached itself inadvertently to my nose. Then again, you were stubborn and inflexible. It was probably the only thing I didn’t like about you. But like I said, it made a nice change from everyone else, and me.
I started trying to tell Lisa what happened. It didn’t work. She knew what had happened because I also sent her a little short email the night I sent you that little short email, Sunday night, and she reasonably assumed that was what we were going to talk about. And I figured I should tell someone else besides my mother, someone who knew the whole story, or close to the whole story. You don’t even know the whole story, and you may never know. Not that I think that’s right. I think maybe I’m the only one who knows the whole story and can keep the lies and the chunks of doled-out information and the database of who knows what in my head. But Lisa probably knows closest to the whole story, I didn’t have to worry about any parental censor with her. If I could tell her this part, which for an amazing amount of time, I couldn’t.
“Spit it out, Nikki. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I waved my hands sort of wildly in front of my face, staring ahead at the concrete railing. “I mean, I don’t know what to say, I don’t know if I should be saying it.” It felt like that day I told you I liked you, and I sat across from you tongue-tied for 10 minutes (on the bench, of course), making little noises and beginning sentences, and then you’d say “What?” and then I couldn’t finish. I don’t know how I ever get any sentences out when they relate to you, whether they’re beginning our relationship or ending it or you’re there or not.
Lisa took out a pack of cards from her purse. What amazed me is that they were all together and not rubber-banded. She started to place them one by one in a pile on the sidewalk, presumably counting them as she did. “We can just pretend we’re playing cards, and maybe that will give us an excuse to talk.”
I put my chin on my fist and stared at the rapidly growing pile on the ground. Do you remember that’s how I used to gaze at you, propping my chin up and directing my adoring eyes at your face as you talked? This went on for months before we admitted anything. I can’t believe you didn’t notice or didn’t realize that I didn’t look at most of my friends that way. It probably conveyed more than mild infatuation. Then I took my chin off my fist and glanced over at Lisa, at her hair sloping over her sweater-vest as she kept going through the cards.
“Can we play Rat Slap?” I asked, with an eagerness that surprised even me.
“Rat Screw. I am not going to call it by that bastardized name. We have to be official.” She picked up the blue-checked pile, and handed them to me. “Here, you shuffle.”
“I can’t shuffle.” I said. “You should know this by now.”
“Well, too bad. I can’t shuffle either.” My hands started going through the cards. Something about shuffling is conducive to spilling your secrets.
“I told her Friday night.” I said. “I’d just gotten back from my grandmother’s birthday dinner, which my mother nearly walked out on because the appetizer wasn’t in the same kind of dish as before and was cold. All day long I was debating with myself whether I should tell her. I consulted philosophy books, I took a long drive out into the country and played the CD I made of songs that reminded me of her.” I never told you about that CD, did I? I don’t think I wanted to.
Lisa didn’t stay anything. We both stared straight ahead at the trees overhanging the railing.
“I mean, I wouldn’t have told my mom if she hadn’t asked, but she asked me twice, and the second time I was about to leave for class and I didn’t want to get involved in a long discussion, so I just lied again, but that time I was very conscious of having lied about it. It’s different when someone just doesn’t ask, it’s a lie of omission then, but when someone asks and you don’t tell them the truth—that really bothered me. And she knew, I thought, and it was going to get harder and harder to keep lying. And I just kept asking myself, how long was I going to keep lying?”
Lisa nodded, bringing her knees up to her chest and pressing herself into the steps.
“She said something about that I should have waited until I was 21 to do this all, but that would have been two years, and I mean, how was I going to handle everything in the meantime? ‘Oh yeah Mom, I’m just going out with Emily to White Castle on Valentine’s Day because we’re both lonely and don’t have boyfriends and think Valentine’s Day sucks’. ‘Oh yeah Mom, I’m just going to stay over at Emily’s apartment because…I can’t even come up with a good reason for that!’ How long was this going to go on if she didn’t know?!”
“You couldn’t have.” Lisa said suddenly. “It would have been worse for her to find out later, but at the same time if you’d told her earlier, you couldn’t have done what you did.”
“Yes, I know that!” I screamed to the pile of dead leaves. “Sorry, I’m just…”
“Oh, I understand.” Lisa said, mildly. “Or maybe I don’t, but…”
We sat there for a while. We hadn’t started the game of Rat Screw yet. I never taught you how to play, did I? I would have.
“So I’m just hoping her and I can still be friends after all this.” I said, finally laying down a card and staring at the pebbles trapped in the concrete.
“You know it’ll take about a month.” Lisa said. “And then you’ll know, I guess.” I thought that was odd that she said that before you did. I guess it’s just a nice reasonable number for everyone.
“It’s going to take time, but I think I can do it,” I said, sighing. I was still optimistic about the possibility then. A jack popped up and since Lisa only produced a 5, I took it.
Something twitched at Lisa’s mouth. “I just want to let you know that it’s a mark of how much I love you that I didn’t start singing the song,” she said.
“I thought of that too!” I giggled. “It’s gonna take time, a whole lotta precious time…” She joined in.
“I just thought it wasn’t appropriate for such a serious subject.” she said when we finished our musical interlude.
“George Harrison is always appropriate.” I said. “And I totally knew you would do that.”
NO, THEY WILL NOT KEEP SINGING GEORGE HARRISON SONGS, BUT CLICK HERE TO KEEP READING!
Page 20--Dear Emily, Cont'd--Ariel Daniels
We finished the game of Rat Screw. It was over rather quickly, even though I hadn’t played since this summer. I still won, and neither Lisa or I were surprised by this. I was only surprised that the breeze didn’t blow the cards away. A bum came up and asked us if we wanted to buy Streetwise, but he went away when we said no. We sat on the steps. Lisa got up and picked a leaf from a tree. “It’s soft,” she said, stroking its underside. I thought about you trying to articulate that the tops of my feet were as soft as some sort of stone that had…I can’t even do it now, what on Earth were you trying to say? Anyway, I laughed at that, laughed a bit sourly I must admit.
A guy and his girlfriend walked past. Of course they were holding hands. I squinted at his white T-shirt. “I think that’s John Lennon.”
“No, it’s not.” Lisa said. “It doesn’t look like him.”
“On the shirt?” As the couple walked past, and the guy turned away from us as the bridge, I caught the outline of the familiar beaked nose, the long stringy hair and circle glasses. John Lennon in Paris, the shirt said.
“It was, it said it.” I said.
“Oh. Well then.”
“It makes sense given he’s been stalking both of us for years.” Lisa nodded and then we didn’t say much until we decided to climb a tree. Well, actually, I decided. I looked over at the trees behind where we were sitting. They were small and stunted from attempting to grow in the middle of the city, but also low and twisted, the kind of tree you can actually attempt to get up in.
“Those are good climbing trees.” I said. “Those two over there.” Lisa followed my gaze.
“I’ve never actually climbed a tree,” she said. This sounded like sacrilege. I got up, leaving my bag over by the balcony, and walked over to inspect the trees, placing my hand on the flaking thin trunk.
“Yeah, these are good climbing trees. Would you like to climb one? Do you think we’ll get arrested for climbing trees in the middle of Grant Park?”
“It’s a park.” Lisa said. “I mean…”
“I think you should climb one.” I said. “These are good climbing trees.” I thought I sounded like you when I said that. I even felt like I was with you, that daring you to climb a tree was something I’d do to you, just like I threatened that I was going to teach you how to ride a bike one day, or how you mocked me for not wanting to walk in the giant mud puddle covering the path and I stuck my tongue out at you and marched straight through, laughing. You probably wouldn’t have gotten up in the tree, though, because you’re paranoid and would have thought the cops would see us. And if you had been wearing a skirt I don’t think it would have been possible. Or your sandals without backs. But you weren’t there anyway, and besides, I can’t see you climbing trees. There’s something slightly klutzy about you, even though you’re so tiny and skinny and you did do figure skating. You move too slow and deliberately. When we’d dance I thought it was amazing that you were just as clueless as me. I think even I had a better sense of the flow of the muscles and joints, where they were supposed to go, what felt right, what we were supposed to look like, and you were just along for the ride. When we were holding hands and swinging our arms back and forth, it was completely ridiculous. No, I can’t picture you going up a tree, whether I dared you to or not. I still suspect that you’re afraid of heights, anyway. And you’re also good about knowing what you don’t want to do. I always envied that about you. It wasn’t just your confidence, it was just the way you said, “No, we’re not going to do that,” and you sounded so decided and because of that, I just went along, even if I did really want to hold hands or tickle you.
Lisa did get up in the tree. It took her a few tries and me climbing it beforehand before she did. She looked good up there; we took a picture on her phone. It was a good thing she got down when she did, though, because right after she jumped out, a horse trailer for the Chicago Police drove by on Balbo and we still weren’t sure if we were supposed to be climbing trees in Grant Park or not. She’s still talking about having climbed a tree, and I’m flattered that she’s still excited.
And I felt better after all that, felt slightly released. I had another moment of realizing I wasn’t with you, though, when Lisa went to go try to climb one of the trees and was like, “there’s a humongous spider web there, I’m not climbing that one!” In all fairness, it was a pretty big spider web, and it was stretched over the fork of the branches and it was very thick, so I wouldn’t have wanted to mess with it either. But even if I never got you up in the tree, you wouldn’t have been bothered by that. You probably would have stared at it for five minutes and told me exactly what kind of spider had made it as I also stared at it, mostly just because you were staring at it. I think that was the moment when I realized despite the return of the same recklessly happy mood I used to get when I was with you, spawned by the advent of this tree-climbing adventure, that I was like, “I’m not with Emily, we are not in the woods. I am here in downtown Chicago with Lisa.” And I missed you at that moment, I’m sure you can tell. It really, really wouldn’t have mattered to me if you hadn’t tried to climb the tree. I can just imagine you looking up at me, though, as I perched in between the branches, saying, “don’t hurt yourself.” I think you would have been secretly proud, though, of your daring, somewhat talented girlfriend. Ah god, I can’t write girlfriend, it hurts too much.
In the tree Lisa and I eventually ended up climbing, there was another spider web right in between the branches, only this one wasn’t as big so I got rid of it with my purple hippie shirt I wore last time I saw you specifically so I wouldn’t give you the poison ivy on the inside of my arms. I felt very debonair as I balled it up and took a swipe at it, like you were standing there and I was doing it to impress you. But then of course, you weren’t there, even if you would have said the same thing as Lisa: “Wouldn’t you have rather used your sweatshirt?”
I wasn’t daring when it came to my mother. But I would have gone to see you anyway. I would have found a way. I would have met you downtown pretending I was going to class, I would have stole my car keys back from her. I don’t know what I would have done given that she threatened to disconnect the car battery, but I would have learned how to reconnect it. I would have done anything for you and I want you to know that.
So maybe I should have kept lying for you, to her, for us. I’m sorry, Emily. You probably don’t know I loved you, but I did. I think. I wanted to spend time with you and this willingness to do anything may have been the closest thing I’ve ever felt to love. I’d do anything for you now even if you don’t want to talk to me. Why do you think I’m waiting a month to email you, just like you said we should? God, I miss you. Even if we just go back to being good friends, if we can after all this, I hope you write back.
Yours, Nikki
A guy and his girlfriend walked past. Of course they were holding hands. I squinted at his white T-shirt. “I think that’s John Lennon.”
“No, it’s not.” Lisa said. “It doesn’t look like him.”
“On the shirt?” As the couple walked past, and the guy turned away from us as the bridge, I caught the outline of the familiar beaked nose, the long stringy hair and circle glasses. John Lennon in Paris, the shirt said.
“It was, it said it.” I said.
“Oh. Well then.”
“It makes sense given he’s been stalking both of us for years.” Lisa nodded and then we didn’t say much until we decided to climb a tree. Well, actually, I decided. I looked over at the trees behind where we were sitting. They were small and stunted from attempting to grow in the middle of the city, but also low and twisted, the kind of tree you can actually attempt to get up in.
“Those are good climbing trees.” I said. “Those two over there.” Lisa followed my gaze.
“I’ve never actually climbed a tree,” she said. This sounded like sacrilege. I got up, leaving my bag over by the balcony, and walked over to inspect the trees, placing my hand on the flaking thin trunk.
“Yeah, these are good climbing trees. Would you like to climb one? Do you think we’ll get arrested for climbing trees in the middle of Grant Park?”
“It’s a park.” Lisa said. “I mean…”
“I think you should climb one.” I said. “These are good climbing trees.” I thought I sounded like you when I said that. I even felt like I was with you, that daring you to climb a tree was something I’d do to you, just like I threatened that I was going to teach you how to ride a bike one day, or how you mocked me for not wanting to walk in the giant mud puddle covering the path and I stuck my tongue out at you and marched straight through, laughing. You probably wouldn’t have gotten up in the tree, though, because you’re paranoid and would have thought the cops would see us. And if you had been wearing a skirt I don’t think it would have been possible. Or your sandals without backs. But you weren’t there anyway, and besides, I can’t see you climbing trees. There’s something slightly klutzy about you, even though you’re so tiny and skinny and you did do figure skating. You move too slow and deliberately. When we’d dance I thought it was amazing that you were just as clueless as me. I think even I had a better sense of the flow of the muscles and joints, where they were supposed to go, what felt right, what we were supposed to look like, and you were just along for the ride. When we were holding hands and swinging our arms back and forth, it was completely ridiculous. No, I can’t picture you going up a tree, whether I dared you to or not. I still suspect that you’re afraid of heights, anyway. And you’re also good about knowing what you don’t want to do. I always envied that about you. It wasn’t just your confidence, it was just the way you said, “No, we’re not going to do that,” and you sounded so decided and because of that, I just went along, even if I did really want to hold hands or tickle you.
Lisa did get up in the tree. It took her a few tries and me climbing it beforehand before she did. She looked good up there; we took a picture on her phone. It was a good thing she got down when she did, though, because right after she jumped out, a horse trailer for the Chicago Police drove by on Balbo and we still weren’t sure if we were supposed to be climbing trees in Grant Park or not. She’s still talking about having climbed a tree, and I’m flattered that she’s still excited.
And I felt better after all that, felt slightly released. I had another moment of realizing I wasn’t with you, though, when Lisa went to go try to climb one of the trees and was like, “there’s a humongous spider web there, I’m not climbing that one!” In all fairness, it was a pretty big spider web, and it was stretched over the fork of the branches and it was very thick, so I wouldn’t have wanted to mess with it either. But even if I never got you up in the tree, you wouldn’t have been bothered by that. You probably would have stared at it for five minutes and told me exactly what kind of spider had made it as I also stared at it, mostly just because you were staring at it. I think that was the moment when I realized despite the return of the same recklessly happy mood I used to get when I was with you, spawned by the advent of this tree-climbing adventure, that I was like, “I’m not with Emily, we are not in the woods. I am here in downtown Chicago with Lisa.” And I missed you at that moment, I’m sure you can tell. It really, really wouldn’t have mattered to me if you hadn’t tried to climb the tree. I can just imagine you looking up at me, though, as I perched in between the branches, saying, “don’t hurt yourself.” I think you would have been secretly proud, though, of your daring, somewhat talented girlfriend. Ah god, I can’t write girlfriend, it hurts too much.
In the tree Lisa and I eventually ended up climbing, there was another spider web right in between the branches, only this one wasn’t as big so I got rid of it with my purple hippie shirt I wore last time I saw you specifically so I wouldn’t give you the poison ivy on the inside of my arms. I felt very debonair as I balled it up and took a swipe at it, like you were standing there and I was doing it to impress you. But then of course, you weren’t there, even if you would have said the same thing as Lisa: “Wouldn’t you have rather used your sweatshirt?”
I wasn’t daring when it came to my mother. But I would have gone to see you anyway. I would have found a way. I would have met you downtown pretending I was going to class, I would have stole my car keys back from her. I don’t know what I would have done given that she threatened to disconnect the car battery, but I would have learned how to reconnect it. I would have done anything for you and I want you to know that.
So maybe I should have kept lying for you, to her, for us. I’m sorry, Emily. You probably don’t know I loved you, but I did. I think. I wanted to spend time with you and this willingness to do anything may have been the closest thing I’ve ever felt to love. I’d do anything for you now even if you don’t want to talk to me. Why do you think I’m waiting a month to email you, just like you said we should? God, I miss you. Even if we just go back to being good friends, if we can after all this, I hope you write back.
Yours, Nikki
Contributor Bios
We love our contributors so, so much. OK, we love our readers too, but until you catch the writing bug and send us something we’re not going to be publishing all your accomplishments plus a description of your ideal mate in three words or less. What do you think we are, a dating service? <3
Amanda Abraham: I am 24 years old and trucking through my education @ Columbia College as a Creative Writing/Poetry major part-time. I'm an aspiring editor and working-class girl who's juggling two jobs at the moment. More of my work can be viewed on a publishing site at www.writerscafe.org/thecatsmeow85. I also have poems published in the 1999-2003 issues of the Labyrinth literary magazine, as well as an article published for the July 2007 issue of www.theopinionmagazine.com. My ideal mate? Most likely imaginary (haha)!
Tom Besson, born in 1951, is a product of Nineteen-Fifties America, and a Czech immigrant subculture. He studied at The University of Houston Art College for 3 years before “dropping-out” and moving to the counter-culture Austin of 1974. In the mid-90’s Besson retraced his immigrant ancestors’ journey back to Moravia, Czech Republic where he now maintains a summer studio. His involvements with symbolism lead to a Neosymbolist collective of American, Czech, German, Slovakian and Danish artists with similar interests. His work has been displayed in museum exhibitions sponsored by the Czech Ministry of Culture and in contemporary art galleries in Texas, Denmark, Slovakia and the Czech Republic. Besson has work in the permanent collection of the University of Houston and in private collections in Ireland, Wales, Czech Republic, Canada and the United States. More of Besson’s work can be seen at www.tombesson.com
Dan Brady: I write prose, poetry, haiku, essays and science fiction. Over the decades, my poetry has been published in small press magazines and other publications. I have been performing readings in San Francisco since 1972. In 1985, I went back to college to obtain an elementary teacher's credential and began teaching in 1987. I married in 1989 and for several years writing was set aside. However, it was through haiku and the Haiku Poets of Northern California that I began my return to writing. I am again active in the San Francisco poetry scene performing readings, publishing, hosting and attending events as well as maintaining a calendar of San Francisco’s open mic scene.
Ariel Daniels is a Chicago-area writer who has her correspondence hacked into occasionally for inspiration. She is a proud feminist whose ideal mate would be adventuresome, smart and hilarious.
When she was a little girl, Clara Hsu wanted to be a hermit and martial artist living in the mountains of China. Life's mysterious path took her to the United States. In this reality, she practices the art of multi-dimensional being: mother, musician, traveler, and poet.
JANEisnotplain is a Chicago-based word artist whose work has been featured in a variety of rags like CRIT Journal, Xtsis MAG, Sein Un Verden, etc. JANE has become adventurous of late and has been experimenting with text and visual media. She is always investigating self and surroundings, bending zones of comfort. She is anxiously awaiting the return of Polaroid 600 to complete visual text documentaries. Her ideal mate would understand.
Stephen Kopel is a teacher, cyclist, art collector and blatant wordsmith; author of crax, crux, Spritz and Tender Absurdities; work resides in Margie, Off The Coast, Aethlon, Birmingham Poetry Review, Harpur Palate, Free Lunch; creator of Word Painters public poetry programs presented at SF's branch libraries. Oops, I forgot to include the 2nd 'item' you asked for...namely, in three words describe a perfect- well, I'd say: "bold, empathetic ethicist"...
Beth Rolingson lives outside Austin, Texas on Pan’s Farm, a place where roses and mesquite trees grow and where she has raised angora goats, children, and grandchildren. She has been writing poetry for 40-some years and a dream journal for nearly 20. She helps fight poverty and social injustice in her day job at Advocacy Outreach in Elgin.
Art by Andy Bigelow
Amanda Abraham: I am 24 years old and trucking through my education @ Columbia College as a Creative Writing/Poetry major part-time. I'm an aspiring editor and working-class girl who's juggling two jobs at the moment. More of my work can be viewed on a publishing site at www.writerscafe.org/thecatsmeow85. I also have poems published in the 1999-2003 issues of the Labyrinth literary magazine, as well as an article published for the July 2007 issue of www.theopinionmagazine.com. My ideal mate? Most likely imaginary (haha)!
Tom Besson, born in 1951, is a product of Nineteen-Fifties America, and a Czech immigrant subculture. He studied at The University of Houston Art College for 3 years before “dropping-out” and moving to the counter-culture Austin of 1974. In the mid-90’s Besson retraced his immigrant ancestors’ journey back to Moravia, Czech Republic where he now maintains a summer studio. His involvements with symbolism lead to a Neosymbolist collective of American, Czech, German, Slovakian and Danish artists with similar interests. His work has been displayed in museum exhibitions sponsored by the Czech Ministry of Culture and in contemporary art galleries in Texas, Denmark, Slovakia and the Czech Republic. Besson has work in the permanent collection of the University of Houston and in private collections in Ireland, Wales, Czech Republic, Canada and the United States. More of Besson’s work can be seen at www.tombesson.com
Dan Brady: I write prose, poetry, haiku, essays and science fiction. Over the decades, my poetry has been published in small press magazines and other publications. I have been performing readings in San Francisco since 1972. In 1985, I went back to college to obtain an elementary teacher's credential and began teaching in 1987. I married in 1989 and for several years writing was set aside. However, it was through haiku and the Haiku Poets of Northern California that I began my return to writing. I am again active in the San Francisco poetry scene performing readings, publishing, hosting and attending events as well as maintaining a calendar of San Francisco’s open mic scene.
Ariel Daniels is a Chicago-area writer who has her correspondence hacked into occasionally for inspiration. She is a proud feminist whose ideal mate would be adventuresome, smart and hilarious.
When she was a little girl, Clara Hsu wanted to be a hermit and martial artist living in the mountains of China. Life's mysterious path took her to the United States. In this reality, she practices the art of multi-dimensional being: mother, musician, traveler, and poet.
JANEisnotplain is a Chicago-based word artist whose work has been featured in a variety of rags like CRIT Journal, Xtsis MAG, Sein Un Verden, etc. JANE has become adventurous of late and has been experimenting with text and visual media. She is always investigating self and surroundings, bending zones of comfort. She is anxiously awaiting the return of Polaroid 600 to complete visual text documentaries. Her ideal mate would understand.
Stephen Kopel is a teacher, cyclist, art collector and blatant wordsmith; author of crax, crux, Spritz and Tender Absurdities; work resides in Margie, Off The Coast, Aethlon, Birmingham Poetry Review, Harpur Palate, Free Lunch; creator of Word Painters public poetry programs presented at SF's branch libraries. Oops, I forgot to include the 2nd 'item' you asked for...namely, in three words describe a perfect- well, I'd say: "bold, empathetic ethicist"...
Beth Rolingson lives outside Austin, Texas on Pan’s Farm, a place where roses and mesquite trees grow and where she has raised angora goats, children, and grandchildren. She has been writing poetry for 40-some years and a dream journal for nearly 20. She helps fight poverty and social injustice in her day job at Advocacy Outreach in Elgin.
Art by Andy Bigelow
Editors' Note--Love Is In The Air
Okay, maybe not. But perhaps it is, since you picked up our Valentine’s Day issue. This year, this is the only good thing about V- Day, since Liz’s grandiose plans got unnecessarily preempted. Sigh. Oh well. Hey, this issue actually has a few pieces that fit our lovely theme. We start off with um, a failed relationship, and end with, um…a failed relationship. But never mind that! Because we at The Toucan get bored when we’re not discussing our love lives, we have some tips for improving yours. Namely, literary pickup lines. C’mon, if you’re reading this, you: A. Are literate and hip, and B. Need all the romantic help you can get.
So, yeah. We really, really, REALLY don’t recommend giving these a shot (note Liz’s bookstore suitor was NOT successful), but if you’re desperate and/or are really turned on by these and start churning out lit pick-ups of your own, let us know about them by commenting at www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com, or drop us a line at thetoucanmag@gmail.com. That goes for submissions, too, people!!! We <3 submissions. We need them more urgently than affection!!!
Well, that’s about it before we binge on chocolate roses. Thanks to the Bird’s real Valentine, Dan Cirilo, and his randy raven, EAP.
Love and hugs, Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices
- I’d like to flip through your chapters.
- Are you open to interpretation?
- Will you be My Antonia?
- You know The Great Gatsby? Yeah, well, I’m better.
- I can tell a book’s quality by running my hands down its spine, and you look like a fantastic read.
- The Age of Innocence has officially ended.
- You wouldn’t be reading A Farewell to Arms if you were in mine.
- I wish I could see you without your dust cover.
- I’ll treat you better than a first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice.
- Let me fill your margins with my ink.
- Were you to have A Room of One’s Own, would I be included?
- Like a good book, I can’t wait to curl up with you.*
- Looking at you, I feel like Sydney Carton. You’re a far, far better thing than I’ve ever done.
So, yeah. We really, really, REALLY don’t recommend giving these a shot (note Liz’s bookstore suitor was NOT successful), but if you’re desperate and/or are really turned on by these and start churning out lit pick-ups of your own, let us know about them by commenting at www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com, or drop us a line at thetoucanmag@gmail.com. That goes for submissions, too, people!!! We <3 submissions. We need them more urgently than affection!!!
Well, that’s about it before we binge on chocolate roses. Thanks to the Bird’s real Valentine, Dan Cirilo, and his randy raven, EAP.
Love and hugs, Liz and Laura, Toucan Editrices
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