Date post: | 24-Mar-2016 |
Category: |
Documents |
Upload: | mandy-moore |
View: | 221 times |
Download: | 0 times |
Litterae – Issue I
Edited by Mandy Moore
Litterae - 2
3 – Letter from the Editor
4 – Photo by Krystal Casey
5 – “If Memory Serves” Shannon Devine
10 – “Late Night Homecoming” George Freek
11 – Flower Photo by Mandy Moore
12 – “The Dark, Stormy Night” Judy Weaver
15 – “At the Cottage Near the River” George Freek
16 – Shadow Photo by Mandy Moore
17 – Tiny Little Cuts by Leonard Moore
20 – “Why I Do Not Stop Drinking” George Freek
21 – Photo by Krystal Casey
22 – “The Pedophile” Rafael Reyna
26 - #YesAllWomen by Mandy Moore
27 – Photo by Krystal Casey
28 – Writing Tips
Index
by Page
Litterae - 3
Hello readers!
I am excited to welcome you to the very first issue of
Litterae Magazine. Litterae is a brand new magazine focusing on
controversial topics that you likely won’t find anywhere else.
This magazine is a dream realized and will be a fantastic
adventure for everyone involved. I want to thank those who have
contributed their wonderful works of fiction and photography for
our first issue. Hopefully in the future many will follow in the
footsteps of these artists. So, without further ado, welcome to
Litterae. Enjoy!
Mandy Moore
Editor Litterae Magazine
Disclaimer: Views within Litterae are not necessarily those of Litterae staff or its affiliates.
Litterae - 4
Krystal Casey
Litterae - 5
ave you ever
imagined killing
someone?
Have you ever
imagined shooting
someone in the head?
Have you envisioned
breaking their neck? I think
everyone has had a quick,
clean, murderous day dream.
The real question is, have
you ever imagined killing
someone slowly? Tying them to
a chair perhaps and slowly
drawing out their misery.
Have you closed your eyes and
imagined them sitting there,
their wrists red and raw from
the struggle of trying to
escape? You look at their
eyes, watery from crying out
for help even though no one
could hear them. Do they have
bruises on their face and
arms? Are they bleeding? Is
there a lot of blood or a
little? Are they
naked or clothed?
Have you ever thought
of which torture
devices you might
use? I have thought of using
power tools. When I close my
eyes, I can see myself
holding a power drill and
when I look at the victim,
he’s screaming. I look at his
knees. Two, tiny, perfect red
circles in each knee cap ooze
blood down his shins. “Why?”
he screams. “Please, stop!”
he pleads with me. When you
open your eyes after these
horrifically satisfying day
dreams, do you feel better?
Do you just go about your day
knowing that you haven’t
actually done anything wrong
H If Memory Serves
By Shannon Devine
Litterae - 6
but you still feel that
slight calming relief? If you
do, I am happy for you. I tip
my hat to you, law abiding
citizen. When I open my eyes,
there is still a man. He is
still tied to a chair, wrists
raw, crying, and shouting
with the twin holes in his
knees and I’m still holding a
power drill. Although, I
think I can safely assume my
smile is much bigger than
yours.
My concentration is
broken by the sound of my
door bell. The man’s shouts
are muffled by duct tape.
“Now, now, let’s play nice.”
I place the drill on the
shelf and walk out of the
room. I lock all three
padlocks on the door behind
me and head upstairs. I walk
to the front door; it’s
Frank, a uniformed police
officer my dad worked with at
the station before he passed
on. I open the door. “Hey
Frank!” He takes his hat off,
“Morning Jackie! How have you
been?”
“I woke up today, that’s good
right?” I chuckle. Frank
chuckles with me, thank God
he likes corny jokes. “Is
there anything I can help you
with, Frank?” Frank pauses,
he doesn’t want to ask what
he’s about to ask. “Have you
seen Officer Sanders?” “Wait,
Jimmy Sanders?” I ask. Frank
nods. “Well, not missing per
se but his wife is saying he
didn’t come home last night
and I was at the station when
he told me he was going home.
I know you didn’t really know
Litterae - 7
him but I figured maybe you
saw him around town” I hung
my head, “I only saw him
once, at my father’s
funeral.” Frank leans against
the doorway, “I know he’s not
your favorite person but I
had to ask.” “It’s okay.” I
reply. Frank opens his mouth
then keeps the words from
leaving his lips. “What?” I
ask. “He feels terrible about
what happened to your dad. To
this day, he blames himself
for what happened. Nobody
could have prevented it.”
Frank always saw the best in
people which I predict will
lead to his eventual
downfall. I imagined him
years from now, a seasoned
detective, accidentally
letting a murderer walk
because he believed a half
assed alibi, leading Frank to
eat his own gun. “He could
have gone into the perp’s
apartment with my father
instead of staying in the
hallway with his thumb up his
ass.” It fell out of my mouth
before I even had a chance to
act like I was concerned for
Jimmy. Frank frowns; I know
he’s trying to smother the
inner voice telling him I’m
right. “He’s wanted to talk
to you for a long time now.”
Frank confesses. “Well, who
knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll
feel better about it.” I
force a smile. Frank touches
my hand, “Time heals all
wounds, right?” I nod, “I’m
sorry, do you want to come
in, have some coffee?” Frank
shakes his head. “That’s
tempting but no, I have to
Litterae - 8
head back to the station.
Call me if you hear or see
anything. Let me give you a
picture of him so you can be
sure.” Frank reaches into his
back pocket. “I’m pretty sure
I know what he looks like.
Thanks anyway, officer.” I
close the front door and
watch him walk away.
I walk back down into
the basement; the man squirms
in his chair, he’s fading,
bleeding out. Funny, he looks
nothing like the man I
remember. The blood caked to
the wrinkles in his face made
him look completely
different. “Hello again,
Jimmy. That was Frank, he
says hi.” He yells something
from behind the tape. “Oh,
stop it.” I pinch the bridge
of my nose then rub my eyes;
I am so tired of his begging.
His muffled screams become
louder. I walk over and rip
the tape off his lips. “What
the hell are you saying?” He
can barely keep his head up,
“F...Frank.” I turn around.
Frank is standing by the
door, I forgot to lock it.
“He killed dad!” I blurt out.
Frank stands in utter shock.
I walk over to him, “He got
my father killed! Don’t tell
me you wouldn’t do the same!”
Frank’s lips quiver, “That’s
not him.” I look at Frank’s
face, I don’t know if his
intense concern is for me or
the guy in the chair. “What
are you talking about?” I
ask. Frank takes his shaking
hand and pulls the picture
out from his pocket. “This is
Jimmy.” I look at it. The
Litterae - 9
picture of Jimmy looks
nothing like the bleeding
lump in front of me. Frank
looks at me with tears in his
eyes. I take his hand in
mine, “I’m sorry, Frank.” He
handcuffs my wrist, then the
other “Me too, Jackie.”
Litterae - 10
LATE NIGHT HOMECOMING
(After TU FU)
By George Freek
I return from my father’s funeral.
I’ll be the next to go. Tonight,
the clouds are threatening.
They unnerve me with
apocalyptic warnings.
Night hangs from the branches
in cold sobriety.
It seems to surround me.
The stars behave
like bats in a cave.
In the moonlight, shadows
appear as fossils.
I think of my dead father,
as I drink a cup of wine.
He taught me many things.
If I can remember them,
now is surely the time.
Litterae - 11
Mandy Moore
Litterae - 12
ain drenched the
leaves that covered
the trees
surrounding the
cottage of the
poor cobbler and
his wife. The wind
whistled in harsh relief and
whipped around the building.
The shutters that covered the
windows clattered with each
gust of wind, and the
curtains whispered with the
whistling of the wind.
Huddled on the straw
filled mattress together, the
cobbler and his wife held
each other tightly. The sound
of water dripping into a tin
pail steady. Plop, plop. Mrs.
Cobbler's face pressed into
her husband's ratty nightgown
as she moaned in fear. The
house shook with each hearty
gust of wind. "It's all
right, dearest," Mr. Cobbler
whispered into the gentle
curve of her ear.
His lips brushed
against the top of
her head of gray
hair and his hand rubbed
soothingly against the
frailness of her back to hide
the shaking.
Fear. It filled the room
and threatened to chip away
at the hope that normally
inhabited the place. All the
cheeriness and brightness had
seeped away that night, and
only despair was left. Worry
that the storm outside would
sweep away the rickety
cottage down, down the hill
to the small creek that
normally bubbled merrily
through the meadow. Filling
R The Dark, Stormy Night
By Judy Weaver
Litterae - 13
now with the torrents of
rain, it could be heard
angrily rushing over its
banks.
But then there was the
sound of humming accentuated
by the hiccups of Mrs.
Cobbler's sobs. Slowly at
first, broken and incomplete
as despair tried to regain
its hold until Mr. Cobbler
too joined in. The storm
raged louder as if to drown
the couple's music. The
cottage's foundation creaked;
one shutter blew off to slam
into the side of the house in
a splintering of wood. Mrs.
Cobbler jumped up in fear,
the hum ending in a keening
scream of terror. "This is
it," she cried out and with
wide eyes looked at her
husband with love.
Resignation. "It's not,"
Mr. Cobbler shouted and his
hand rose in a fist to the
fear that enveloped them,
threatening to choke them.
"It's not," he said louder.
Slowly he began to sing. The
words flowing from him at
first in hesitance before
getting stronger. If tonight
was that night, he wasn't
going to allow the darkness
to take them, but rather the
light that couldn't be seen
right then.
Mrs. Cobbler joined in
with Mr. Cobbler's song of
hope. Her voice wobbled, but
the notes were pure and true.
Despair howled at the perfect
harmony that the Cobblers
created and the wind whipped
even harder at the shingles
of the roof until finally
Litterae - 14
they gave way to the power of
the storm. Rain streamed down
now on the couple, but they
continued to sing, now with
more resolution. Louder,
sweeter, stronger, their
voices filled the tiny
cottage until despair was
driven from their presence.
In that brief moment
where the sun seemed to shine
around them in the whirling
center of the storm, Mr.
Cobbler looked at his wife
with eyes shining of his love
that mirrored Mrs. Cobbler's.
His lips upturned into a
gentle smile and they looked
upward. "Now it is time," he
said.
The foundation broke
that held the cottage firm
all those years ago when Mr.
Cobbler's great-great-
grandfather had built it for
his own bride. It creaked, it
shuddered and made a sound
that mirrored the screams of
despair as it had been driven
out before gently sliding
down the grassy hill to the
creek below.
Litterae - 15
AT THE COTTAGE NEAR THE RIVER
(After OU YANG HSIU)
By George Freek
The face in the mirror is bored
with old secrets and old tea.
Can it belong to me?
The dying sun still warms
the trees, as they prepare to
let loose their leaves.
The day seems written in Sanskrit.
Let the stars tell their tale.
The sound of birds is in the air,
which is like the singing
of bodies from the grave,
bodies, who thought
they would never die,
who know nothing
of where they lie,
whose upturned eyes
will find no hope
in this October sky,
and the swift flow of life.
Litterae - 16
Mandy Moore
Litterae - 17
iny little cuts. Not
enough to seem too
damaging but in the
right places severely
painful. He’d always
done it. A million
times before he would
lock himself in a
room and take his
frustrations out on himself.
He came from a broken home
where his dad was nowhere to
be found and his mother was
usually too drunk to do
anything for or with him.
When she wasn’t drunk she was
yelling or throwing things at
him, blaming him for all the
misery in her life. It had
always seemed a good way to
deal with the stress in his
life and most of the time it
worked well for him. However,
this particular occasion
started just like all the
others with stress and a need
but quickly, and all too
late, he realized that the
cuts he had made were
just a little too
deep. As he felt the
warm, exquisite
pleasure of the blood running
down his arms he had a
momentary panic at the
conclusion he made moments
too late. He had cut too
deep. As he thought about
trying to bandage himself,
locked in his room, he gazed
around at the bare walls, at
the black screen of the small
television in the center of
one wall, at the writing desk
that sat, unused, for so
long. He noticed a fine layer
of dust. Pausing to reflect
on the concept of cleaning
T Tiny Little Cuts
By Leonard Moore
Litterae - 18
the desk later he momentarily
forgot that he was slowly but
surely bleeding to death. He
snapped back to reality only
after the pools of blood
began to gather around his
waist. He thought about
crying out for help but
quickly dismissed it under
the notion that, just as
always, no one was listening,
NO ONE cared. He then
reflected on his existence in
the general scheme of the
human race contemplating if
there was one person on the
planet that would actually
miss him. There wasn’t. After
another moments panic at the
brief thought of the
afterlife or lack thereof, he
decided that this “accident”
was a good thing and maybe if
he had been more clear minded
when he did it he would have
just cut deep on purpose.
This thought comforted him in
his final moments as he
realized nothing he could do
would matter and even if he
could avoid death he would
just welcome it with open
arms next time.
After a few hours his mother,
drunk and shouting, banged on
his door. Demanding to know
why his door was locked in
HER house. After no response
she dismissed it as him just
being his usual quiet self.
She walked off not noticing
the lack of his presence for
several days. Not missing him
for any other reason than she
didn’t have her usual abuse
sponge. When she finally did
notice he still hadn’t come
out of his room she managed
Litterae - 19
to break the door in and all
she could manage, out of the
kindness of her heart, for
her dead child were the
words, “well at least I don’t
have to feed you anymore.”
Litterae - 20
WHY I DO NOT STOP DRINKING
(After MEI YAO CHEN)
By George Freek
As day becomes night,
my life is spread across my lap
like a confusing map.
The past is a book of the dead.
It’s better left unread.
The moon is wrapped in darkness
like a smothering cocoon.
I’ll think no more of it.
Thinking is a bottomless pit.
I shiver with a sudden chill.
I have lost all will.
The stars look down,
but the stars are twisted
into the fabric of night.
And I fear there is
no God to set them right.
Litterae - 21
Krystal Casey
Litterae - 22
here was an old man who
stopped by the ranch
when I wasn’t
home. In the middle
of the night, he
drove up on his motorcycle.
It was one of those old 1980s
BMW motorcycles. I found him
sleeping in the fishing boat
in the driveway like a
shrunken corpse. When old
men sleep they look dead.
“Hey Clay! What’re you
doing here?!” I shouted into
the boat. He was an old
friend of an acquaintance who
I barely knew.
“Would you mind if I
stayed here a night,” he said
almost in a whine. “My old
lady’s been giving me
trouble.” His gray moustache
curled into a smile.
I knew he was running
from something. I just wasn’t
sure from what. In the
low desert
backcountry,
everyone’s running from
something. So I don’t ask
questions.
We let him stay at the
ranch a few weeks. He was a
great worker, always willing
to help and always busy.
Sometimes he would drift away
and disappear for hours in
the mountains and washes and
pastures. And then when he
reappeared, he would continue
with whatever silly and
meaningless task he had
forgotten, like making a gate
for the chicken coup out of
an old rusty shovel or
collecting prickly pear in
tree pots.
T The Pedophile
By Rafael Reyna
Litterae - 23
One day I caught him
huddled over the bedsheets
where a former tenant slept.
He slid his pale boney
fingers along the mattress
following an imaginary
contour. He laid his cheek
where a woman’s butt would be
if she was sleeping there and
sighed deeply.
“Clay,” I said peeking
in. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” he said, his
voice muffled in the bed
sheet. “I miss the smell of a
woman.”
“Who? Mariposa? That’s
the nasty witch that used to
sleep in this bed,”
“Mariposa,” he said
breathlessly. “This must be
where she masturbated.” And
he lifted the covers and
curled under the sheets,
falling asleep almost
immediately in the bed of
that horrible woman. But
Mariposa is a story for
another time.
Occasionally Clay would
make me drive him the twenty
or so miles into town so he
could ask every cashier where
to find the available ladies.
He would always return to the
truck heartbroken and
forlorn.
“Isn’t there some squaw
lying around to keep me warm
at night?” he would say.
Then he would vanish for
a few days on his bike and
return reeling with tales of
the country honky tonk bars,
dancing with large breasted
blonde women who would
squeeze their chests against
his and sing long into the
Litterae - 24
night. He was a great dancer.
He had in fact worked with
the Swedish and Canadian
national ballet companies in
his twenties. He was so
inspired by these episodes
that he would pen country
songs long into the night
wearing his silly red
bandanna around his neck.
There was a time when we were
cutting mesquite logs with a
big wood chopper. Clay put
his hand in the chopper wrong
and broke a finger, but he
never told me and kept
working. At one point, Clay
stumbled to the ground and
began rolling around moaning.
He had a heart attack.
Over the next few weeks,
Clay became increasingly
different. Instead of
jaunting for long hours in
the desert heat, I would more
often find him in the dark of
the cabin brooding. He
received a series of phone
calls. When he returned, all
color had flushed from his
face and his eyes were wet
and distant.
“I’m in big trouble
now,” he said sorrowfully. He
would sigh and look at the
chickens eating bugs in the
orchard. “My wife is taking
my truck away.”
Clay left the next
morning. I will never forget
him sitting on his motorcycle
at the arch at the ranch
gate, with his red bandanna
wrapped around his neck. His
motorcycle was nearly tipping
over with blankets, duffel
bags, saddle bags, jackets.
And he had a stack of egg
Litterae - 25
cartons wrapped in bungee
cord on the back seat, which
leaned perilously. He was a
74-year old man, and to be
going through such drama at
this stage in his life seemed
a little bit sad.
“I’ll miss this place,”
he said, and then he rode
off. I watched his frail form
disappear in the purple
Aquarius Mountains leaving
nothing but a haze of dust on
the country road. I never saw
him again.
About six months later,
I was picking up dirt from a
friend outside Phoenix. He
told me about an old man who
had been caught performing
fellatio on a 12-year old
retarded girl. He had
molested many young girls in
surrounding towns and was
developing quite a
reputation. There was a
circle of fathers, uncles,
neighbors who were on a
manhunt for the pedophile’s
head. I asked my friend the
description of the man in
question. He said it was an
old man on a 1980s BMW
motorcycle who was very fond
of country dancing and was
often seen wearing a red
bandana.
Litterae - 26
#YesAllWomen
By Mandy Moore
Fed up,
We stand,
We look around.
Who will be first?
Who will be brave enough?
The chants reverberate.
Slowly,
Softly,
at first.
Yes! All women!
Yes! All women!
No longer silenced.
We stand united.
We share our strength.
No longer afraid.
Yes! All women!
Litterae - 27
Krystal Casey
Litterae - 28
1) Be yourself
Tone, the general character or attitude of a piece of
writing, must be specific to situation. However, your voice can
still shine through. If you lose your sense of self in a writing you
will face two problems. First, you will likely lose interest in the
piece. Second, the piece will sound mundane and autonomous.
Never lose your “self” for any reason.
2) Listen to others
If you are writing with the intention of letting anyone else
read what it is you’re writing expect feedback. Good or bad people
will want to tell you what they think of your work. Take it all with
a grain of salt but do take it all. It is important to hear what others
are telling you with as much objectivity as possible. Why?
Because they represent one audience and a writer must always
know their audience.
3) Write!
For the love of all things write! If all you do is read you’ll
become a fantastic reader but you likely won’t write much. It is
important to put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, voice to
recorder and get those ideas out. If they suck who cares! Scrap
them and keep going. In the words of Pat Pattison, “I hereby grant
you permission to write crap. The more the better. Remember,
crap makes the best fertilizer.” So stop reading and go write.
Litterae - 29
If you want to appear in our next issue check out the Submissions tab at
litteraemag.webs.com!