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2010 cca literary magazinesurface

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wtf

what the feelingwhat thewhawhat thewhat the framewhat thewhawhat the fiction

so wtf? what is the feeling? what is the frame? what is the fiction?

danica hoeprichbritney schroederchris cubbison

made this.

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so wtf? what is the feeling? what is the frame? what is the fiction?

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Hello, Reader. My full name is Constantine Muy Guapo, and I am a piñata. Before I begin my story that I am about to tell, I feel that I must address the misconceptions about piñatas, mostly regarding the idea that we are created to be destroyed. We, like the rest of you in the Milky Way, live within a hierarchal society. Not all of us are ponies constructed out of feathered paper and attacked by semi-sadistic children until candy explodes from our cardboard bodies. In fact, natural selection proved that piñatas can no longer be just one-trick-ponies. Our suppliers had to bring in some bigger names every once in a while, like famous cartoon characters, or any other creature that has their own T.V. show but probably shouldn’t. Anyways, my name is Constantine and I am a decorative piñata. I was purchased at a swap meet in Santa Fe by a woman who strangely re-sembled Elton John. She brought me to my current home, where I live in an unjustifi-ably awful room decorated entirely in Ronald Reagan paraphernalia. I must admit my resentment to the day I was purchased. But life never really handed me any lemons so the lemonade I drank was mostly made out of complaints. Anyways, my name is Constantine and I am a special piñata and not just by my own standards. I can not talk or anything, but I do have a mustache… A mus-tache that I am very proud of. And it is because of my mustache that my name is Constantine Muy Guapo. My mustache is very impressive and I would like to tell you about it.It is the color of a grand piano that glistens under a single halogen light, and, it is long. But not too long, long enough that it curves upward to accentuate my cheek-bones. I took exceptional care of my mustache by taking advantage of the bristles of the Reagan figurine toothbrush on my leftward side. It provided a perfect texture to keep my mustache silky and smooth. I grew it naturally from synthetic hair and glued it to my upper lip. I groomed and took care of my mustache without any outside financial or emotional support. I am very proud of myself for this because it can get very difficult at times being the sole provider of such a delicate responsibility. One morning while I was pretending to wake up, I heard a murmur. It was soft. Like the fur of a baby kitten but in the format of a soundwave. It was nice. I con-tinued to listen to the fluffy newborn murmur. After eight days and eight nights of the developing Murmur, my mustache began to tingle. The Tingle seemed to grow for another eight days and eight nights, until both Tingle and Murmur suddenly ceased to exist. Which was why the next day I was quite startled when something new surfaced …The Voice.The Voice introduced itself: “Hello.”“Voice! Oh, how I’ve missed you!”“We’ve never met actually.”“Oh dear Voice, where do you hail from?”“I’m from right above.”“From above?! Dear Voice, please explain! I am not yet savvy in the interpretations of such mystery.”

WHAT THE FUNKby Hannah Coleman

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“I am your mustache, Constantine. I am Muy Guapo.”“OH WHAT THE FUNK?”“Yes, Constantine. I know this is shocking to you, you have been very good to me. But I am now reaching the length in my life where I can no longer just be your 30 degree piece of synthetic hair-flair. I have hopes, aspirations. I want a career.”“Muy Gaupo,! NOoOo! How long have you felt this way for? Let us not move too quickly here. I will consider compromising with a trial separation. But nothing more. I have done so much for you.”“I know Constantine, I know. Really, it’s not you, it is me.”“Muy Guapo, don’t do this to me! My cheekbones will be like empty sacs of flour without you. You are the husk to my corn. The pending to my patent!”“Constantine, please. Don’t make a scene. My non-existent things are packed. I am sorry for the loss, but it’s really for my best.” Using a bird-like technique Muy Guapo used his hairs to flutter off our shelf and out of the room. I was pierced by the air under my nostril marking his painful absence. After taking some time to mourn my loss, I alas gained the courage to embrace my empty upper lip. My days have remained pretty much unchanged since. But I now have considerably less things to spend my days thinking about being that I don’t have a mustache to care for. Yet, I have found solace in my remaining good looks. I now spend much of my time gathering various materials that I use to construct very wearable yet also affordable miniature hats. I alternate wearing the different ones throughout the week. The rest of the room seems to be jealous of them. My hope is that one day I will catch the attention of an appreciating passer-by and I can begin my much deserved celebrity lifestyle.

THE END

ABUSED LIKE A COFFEE MACHINEby Jesse Clark

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And when you feel like running –Remember life’s a stroll, with anAnswer hidden somewhereBehind the grassy knoll,Past the long and winding road thatSits and surveys with someBeautiful childhood understanding,That uneasy shelter of knowingThere is no Boogieman under the bedAnd checking anyways, only to find theStoneDropped his pen, but soft –Like a gentle ridicule from a snakeRattleskin.Is it all just a Box? It is just like the rocksThat stop. And wait! For the second quarterFrom a blind desert corridor.

There’s more.

I have seen you through, too –Shut down and sit quiet, and restAnd watch the shadows that playWithin a play, Just! Do not break the boxThat times the Tic Tocs andBuilt the big blocks of theStoneDropped hisPencil, Pencil, Pencil! Pen –And forgot.

STONEby Maurice Bumbu

Do I scare you?Do I remind you of your inlaws?Because those people are the worst. So let’s have another laugh at them, if we may.Is it the asymmetrical look or the mismatching socks?The way I nodded at a time when I should not have been or laughed awkwardly?Ha ha ha ha ha ha.That one time when I made a joke with a reference you didn’t understand?Yea, that was pretty cumbersome.Or that my lawn and garage door window panes aren’t identical to yours?I can see how that would intimidate you.Don’t even mention the rapid and unusual movement of my hands.Or the fact that I ride a motorcycle…I must be a stupid delinquent, right?My motives beguile you, they don’t seem very logical.Why own a record player in the 21st century?Maybe because I like the sound.Your inability to predict my quagmire should certainly make you shiver.But why the long face?And by the way, I wasn’t looking for your advice;I thought you were a doctor.

THE SKETCHY APPOINTMENTby Roelof Grootenhuis

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RODRIGOby Spencer Stein

Terrace becomes less of a Tea PartyAs porcelain cups tip, shatter.Swimming in the boiling backwash ofEnglish Breakfast and Earl Grey,I await for the quake to commence andAm un-phased as my Mother’s favourite china setsAre suddenly delicate fragmented shards.Women in petticoats and dainty dressesPlace their manicured hands chest highAs if they must declare their femininity andMeekness even in this time of earthly war.The quiet strings of violin continueAn appropriate soundtrack to the stillnessWhich eventually rolls over.A teapot, still held, TurquoiseAncient Turquoise remains in my right handThe teapot my grandmother gave me.Untouched and whole against theBroken bits of its children, the cups and saucersWhich are now embedded into the padsOf small muddy feet. My small muddy feet.Soon, warm scarlet runs into a small circle about meRuns quietly into the clear Sepia Liquid that onceWas their elixir of superficial conversation and monotonous laughter.I tugged at the hem of my mother’s dress onlyTo inform her of what I had originally jumped theFence to say. She slowly allowed her head to fall inThe direction of my tousled braids and overalls.Pain seared through her eyes and face crinklesShow her failure of what could have been thePerfect event which the ladies spoke of for months.“Here Mother. Nana’s teapot. I thought it would beNice to share.”…………. I allowed her small release of facial tension toServe as an appropriate reply as I slowly turnedTo face the aristocratic women who I knowOnly speak of me in ridicule, and smiled.My bloody footprints followed me as I climbedBack over the fence to my oak.Wrung by wrung, I stepped slowly up the ladderTo my tree house and observed the messyHorror from a better view.

DARJEELINGby Kelsey Rhodes

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BIG VIOLINby Sander Dufour

MINDED

Why do I grip my clawswhen one offends?Or draw swords insteadof sew words to patch amends?

My scalp sports a chestnut color,yet sweats a gray mane.As if a willow’s rings multiplyeven in the absence of rain.

This, condition is impressedinto my eyes.I’d almost prefer to laugh at the lonely, than to hearregret echo throughout my mind.

But alas, both occur.

MIRROREDby Chris Cubbison

“Time flies when you never know the date.”

A time-warped eye looks through sullen glassas I try to cry,but can’t.My iris is too dryto fake an emotionthat is void ofdevotion.

I throw my hand through mirrored framesand watch it raisen.With each shell,my fingers graze through grains ofsun-stained capsules of memories.By the time I get through one window,I forget the previous.Each moment I experience feelsambiguous.

These, glimpses are subconsciouslyaging my mind.If only I could speed this process,kill some time.Maybe skip

some,

lines.

And then I realize,

“Time slows when you have no escape.”

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ABSENT MINDEDby Danica Hoeprich

I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him. This is the final straw. He’s helped me through some tough times, but enough it enough. Do you know what he did to-day? Today, as we were having lunch, Samantha Fenley came over and said hi. And do you know what he said to her? We’re busy. WE’RE BUSY?!? YOU DO NOT SAY WE’RE BUSY TO SAMANTHA FENLEY. And what did I do? I just sat there, immobi-lized by the idea that Samantha Fenley knows I exist outside of a hello how are you good you how was the test fine you I dunno the essay was hard yeah well see ya later okay bye. And he said we’re busy. TO SAMANTHA FENLEY. Sure without him I never would’ve passed Chemistry. Or Psychology for that matter. But this is it. I finally had the chance to prove to Samantha Fenley that I’m a normal chill guy, and he drove her away. Like he does everyone else who offers a hello. Every group project: he’s with me. Every time I’m invited somewhere: we’re busy that night. I’m done with him controlling my life. This has gone on way too long. His reign of terror ends now. I should’ve gotten rid of him long ago – namely all of those times when I fall asleep in my bed or on the couch and wake up to find he placed me in an awkward position. Like with my arm in the refrigerator. Or sur-rounded by the smell of toast that had been in the toaster for six minutes. I got rid of him once. I can do it again. The trick is making it permanent. When I got rid of him three years ago things were good for a while. No. They were great. But soon he returned. First he was silent, just making sure I was aware of his pres-ence. Then he started inserting words into my sentences. Then he made amend-ments to my statements. And now he controls all of my conversation. If I get rid of him, I have to make it permanent. I have to be strong. Do it for Samantha Fenley. Three years ago he put up quite a fight. But I concentrated really hard and then he was gone. Now I just have to concentrate harder. Then I will be free of him forever. He will finally be out of my head. Out of my mind. Out of my voice. This won’t work. Yes it will. No it won’t. Get out of my head. Make me. You ruined my life ruined it ruined it shredded it. You ruined your own life I fixed it. Samantha Fenley Samantha Fenley talked to me. No she talked to me. Go away. No. Go away. No. GO AWAY. Without me you are nothing. Without you I am free.

CONFLICTIONby Robert Glaser

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Then you have to think on you own. You don’t have me. I don’t want you. YES. YOU. DO. NO. I. DON’T. You can’t win. Go away. Make me.

TITLEDby Andy Ribner

IMAGINATIONby Juhi Israni

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HISTORYby Lainey Kral

UNTITLEDby Spencer Stein

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Resistance doesn’t come so easyWith an apple in your handI thought I really made it clearI thought you’d understand

I just can’t grasp that you’re that selfishI know you’re not to blameBut when you can’t abide by my measuresI return as quickly as became

I’ve never took you off the shelfYou never set me freeI never thought to free myselfWhen your form was all I’d see

And I’m seeing it more again these daysAnd your eyes, I see those tooIn the garish light that leads to MayAnd the time my help is due

But with darted glance and half-scared creaseI enclosed you in my handsAnd I put past rue and constant dueWhen you tried your looks so meek

And then it dawned on you what we would doAnd you pleaded sorry againBut when you plead, I just don’t needAnother stab at defense

But what could I say? What could I do?What do I do for you?So I bent my ears the other wayAnd said goodbye this final day

Masking my hurt, I pad to the skirtOf my rich blue cloud of sleepAnd left you in the dark beneath the bedSo you can one day find a brand new friend

UNTITLEDby Crystal Long