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She thought she got it, too. Hands shaking with excitement, the spoon rattling against the teacup in her hands, Staci recounted every second of the oddest audition of her career to her roommate. Her skin flushed from the cocktail of adrenaline and August heat, but she couldn’t sit still or even stop to take a sip. There was too much to say. Charlotte eyes widened. “And you said yes?” “I had to. You know how many times I’ve gone in for roles I was made for, and all I left with was a half-hearted handshake?” Staci’s eyes glimmered. Yes, the director had seemed more than odd, if not downright creepy, and the low-budget film set, in a dingy warehouse pier, didn’t fill her mind with confidence that this project would be her stepping-stone to stardom. Still, there was a stirring inside of her. She’d opened the grimy warehouse door, at once desperately hoping she had the right place and desperately hoping she didn’t, to find the familiar buzz of theatre activity already underway. The costumer makers huddled and murmured in one corner, squinting and shaking their heads over reams of avocado green and creamsicle orange fabrics. The set designer paced the stage, alternately placing the cheap metal chair upside-down on the little wooden bar table and then removing it again on an endless loop. Green, purple, blue and red lights flashed on and then off, marionettes of the tech crew. “STOP PLEASING OTHERS, ANGELA!” He was in front of her suddenly, screaming so violently the veins in his neck visibly quivered, his eyes bulging and throbbing with rage. “You are only on this ride once. Are you going to waste it on rodents who don’t even care you exist? Do YOU even care you exist?” “I’m… I’m…” The spittle from the insult flecked her face. In her shock, it took her moments to realize he was delivering lines from the play, so disorienting was his attack. She had a sudden awareness that all eyes in the tacky, makeshift studio had turned towards them. Without time to discern anything more and with all her faculties having return to her, she leapt. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about the cost of trying to make it in this place, Frank! This wasn’t handed to me! You...you were born into this! Daddy made sure of it!” She looked down, briefly, then a back up again, leveling an icy glare on the man. “Perhaps...” She paused, for a moment, while her right hand reached inside the shiny black bag dangling at her waist. “...this ride needs one less passenger.” By Viva & Matt McCluskey dramatic reading (at the June event) by Suzanne Schapira
“Did you get the money!” “Yeah, I got it.” “No, shut up. Shut up, Luscious. You’re not listening to me. Did you get the money?” “Yeah, I got the money.” Chuck slapped Luscious so hard his dark flowing locks covered his face. “Hey, man..” Luscious moped, rubbing his cheek. “No. Shh. Just shush.” “You hit me.” “Shut up, Luscious. Just shut your hairy face for one second.” Chuck massaged his chin. “So you got the money.” “Jesus, I got the money!” Chuck slapped Luscious across the face again. He grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him close. “But the vig! What about the vig, Luscious? Did you even think about the vig?” “Oh sh -- ” “Of course you didn’t!” Chuck let him loose, turned, and slammed his hands down on the poker pinball machine when a little ditty started to play and lights turned on circling around the word JACKPOT. “I knew I couldn’t trust you. I knew you’d just go and screw this up for me.” “You didn’t tell me about any vig.” Chuck spun around, poking Luscious in the chest and knocking him back. “I didn’t think I needed to, Luscious! It’s pretty common sense you need to account for the friggin’ vig! Everybody knows that. And now we’ve got to make amends. Now I’ve gotta go the extra mile, which is something I didn’t want to have to do, but, because of you and your stupidity, now I have to. All because you don’t have any common sense. So...” Chuck reached around Luscious and grabbed a pair of scissors off the table, “Now this is happening. Give me your hair.” “What? No!” “Give me your hair, Luscious.” “Wh-Why?” “I’m going to sell it.” “Nobody’s going to buy my hair.” “Luscious, you’re hair is amazing. It’s practically glowing. It’s like the mane of stallion if the stallion was birthed by a unicorn. And I know about hair. I never told you this, but I used to be a hair merchant. Hair hawkers they called us. And, Luscious, I was good. Real good. With me and your hair, I can get us what we need. Probably a little extra.” Luscious took a step back. “You’re not cutting off my hair!” “Well, then Petey Pablo will. Along with the rest of your body.” “Petey Pablo? Isn’t he a rapper?” “Not anymore, Luscious, now he’s a bookie and he’s the worst of all the bookies. Of all the bookies that’s ever existed, he’s the worst. He takes the cake. And you better believe he knows what a friggin’ vig is, Luscious. So, not to oversimplify it, but, you know, I think cutting your hair is, like, the least you could do for putting us in this situation. Besides, it’s not like your modeling career is ever going to take off.” “Well if you’re so good at this thing then how come you left it all to me, huh? You’re so knowledgable about all this stuff, how come you left me, a rookie, to take care of all this? I think you need to take some of the blame for this too, Chuck. Not be such a goon.” “I left it to you, Luscious, because you were the one that wanted to make a little money, pay off your debt from this poophouse.” “It’s not a poophouse!” “Look at this place! The floors a mess. The walls are dated. I mean, you’ve got dishrags hanging over your damn windows. Hell, you’ve only got one table. One table, Luscious! How the hell did you ever think you’d make any money with only one friggin’ table! Maybe stop worrying about your hair and start thinking about how terrible you are as a business owner.” “You know what, fine! Cut my hair. Sell it or whatever it is you gotta do with it. I don’t care! Let’s just pay him off and get this over with so I don’t have to deal with you anymore.” “Sounds good to me,” Chuck said, pulling Luscious’ hair back and hacking it off in the most ridiculous manner, one couldn’t even fathom to describe through prose, all while whistling. “All right.” Luscious grabbed the hair out of Chuck’s hand and darted through the door. “Let’s get this over with.”  illustration by Marshall Hyde
BREAK dusk separates night and light like spoiled milk with my bare-shouldered body—I am done our love an uneven table our love a pillow of soft mites by Meg Willing Plaster cast (of Heather's back), choreography, and video by Heather van der Grinten
Skipper Madison Roberts had been trapped inside her sister’s camper since 1977. Emerging from the time warp required a period of reorientation to a world that had aged forty years in the flick of an eyelash. How had she gotten here? Barbie’s younger sister, Skipper made her own friends, Skooter and Ricky, because Barbie spent more time with Ken and grew more interested in making babies than babysitting her tween sister. That June in 1977 they had gone to the beach on Lake Michigan near Manitowoc and spent a weekend playing inside Barbie’s camper. Skipper, Skooter, Ricky, Ken and Barbie and their beachcomber recreational vehicle belonged to two sisters, Jane and Julie. As the elder sister, Jane had acquired her Barbie dolls new and Julie got her hand-me-down dolls when Jane was ready. When Jane and Julie went with their parents on a summer vacation to Wisconsin, they played in the sand dunes along the western shores of Lake Michigan. They brought their Barbie dolls and camper and dressed them in summer fun outfits and seated them around the formica table. Jane pulled back the draperies. Julie rolled up the window screens and let the summer breeze come through the mosquito netting. Jane laid Skipper on the sofa without putting an outfit on her. The midcentury modern design of blond wood cabinets and lineoleum floors gleamed in the bright sunshine. Julie and Jane went swimming, and for ice cream, rode their bikes with Skooter and Ricky in Julie’s pockets and Ken and Barbie in Jane’s. They forgot all about the camper and Skipper on the beach. Without realizing it, they left Michigan without picking up all their toys on the beach. Forty years later, Skipper woke up. Back in her body made of flesh and bones instead of molded plastic. She didn’t have any clothes on but her eyebrows were perfectly applied. Auburn hair hung to her shoulders. Perfectly shaped red lips. Bendable knees. Proportions of bust-waist-hips that weren’t like those of a fake Barbie doll. She was a real woman. In a trailer park filled with other midcentury pre-manufactured ticky tacky homes in a row. by Jill Swenson by Alanna Newkirk
The Secret Life of Trains Janelle didn’t want to look down. As she half-smiled weakly at the faces peering up at her in shocked silence, she wondered why she always had her face on. It seemed completely unlikely under the circumstances that she would be fully made up, but she always was: brows filled in, undereye shadows scrupulously concealed, lips her usual shade of “Juicy Revolution Red.” The moment passed and the silence gave way to whispers and giggles. Soon it would be outright laughter among her classmates, resounding off the chalkboard that framed her torso. Another naked-in-front-of-the-classroom dream, Janelle thought. How original. She glanced down at the desk; this time, the report was on the recent discovery of ancient Etruscan pottery shards and their implications for modern reconstructions of the civilization’s demise. She sighed and gripped the report to her chest as she dashed for the door, assaulted by the tide of derisive hoots. ::::::::::::::::: Waking up was a relief when it happened. Janelle dimly remembered the naked dream, which had gone on to involve a horse and a dog and also, confusingly, chocolate mousse and someone named Kara. That name felt familiar. She heard it often, lately, echoing in her head. Was it outside her head, though? Something felt slippery about the name. But there was no one here called Kara. No one named Kara was on this train. There were plenty of things to wonder about the train: where it was going, who had chosen the terrible yellow color of the curtains, why the tables in the dining car were still Formica as if it hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. Janelle was sure that it wasn’t the 1970s, but there weren’t any calendars in the train to check. Perhaps the conductor had a calendar, but he was also a mystery. Janelle corrected herself: perhaps he or she had a calendar. She wondered the most about the scenery outside the windows: it faded a little with the days, and if you moved to a new car and a new window, it was different. But if you looked too closely out a window, you could see the tree-ish mountains not-moving very stolidly. They were not-moving all day, every day. They looked as if they were made of brushstrokes, or dots of ink from a stamp, but that wasn’t right. Janelle knew that scenery moved by, when one stood at the window of the train. And that landscape wasn’t made of paint. It couldn’t be right that they were not-moving. She unsnapped the clip holding the blind up and let it roll to the base of the window so the scenery could move or not-move on its own, out of sight. The main thing Janelle could do was to walk up or down the train and seek out the others. They weren’t always there, but she could often find Cleo or Pony or Eric hanging out in another car, passing the time. Sometimes they were having tea, or at least, sometimes they had a tea set. She got ready to start the day of walking. Walking and seeing the others was, so far, a lot more interesting than wondering about the train. They didn’t know any more than she did, but at least they moved more than the scenery outside the windows. And anyway, if she made it far enough down the train, she had other window scenes to look at, even if they were not-moving. No one else seemed worried about the scenery, but Janelle couldn’t quite forget about it. ::::::::::::::: It is strange to find yourself in a location other than the place where you fell asleep. But Janelle woke up in a different car, slumped over one of those Formica dining tables. She shook herself slightly, wondering if she’d had the naked dream again. What would a psychologist say?, she wondered. Always naked in front of everyone, and that girl named Kara again. Maybe I have a problem. There wasn’t a psychologist on the train. Janelle wasn’t sure why she knew about psychologists, but like the tea set and the dim sense of how scenery should behave, the knowledge seemed to have been a part of her forever. Yesterday, the others hadn’t been available. It was hard to say where they went when they weren’t in the other cars. Janelle wondered if sometimes, she wasn’t in any of the cars either. This was one of her least favorite things to wonder about; it made her mouth dry and interfered with her breathing. Wherever “there” was, outside the train, it seemed like a long way off. And how would she get there? Pony might know, but Pony was the hardest to talk to. Janelle wasn’t sure she was ready to wake up, after all. She settled her head back on the Formica; even the naked dream, which probably meant she was disturbed, was better than wondering what was outside the train or who was running it. She drifted quickly into the twilight of her sleep, where she realized once again: The whole class is staring at me. Why would they be staring? The giggles started to drift across the classroom. Not again. She tipped her head slowly to check. No shirt. She sighed. ::::::::::::::::: “Kara! It’s dessert! I’m not calling you again!” She fumbled with the doll’s clothes, trying to pull them off quickly so she could pull the pretty cherry-patterned dress on before she had to go downstairs. “Kara! NOW! I’m going to give your mousse to your sister!” “I’m comiiiiiiiiiiing!” she yelled back. She gave up on dressing the doll, propping her instead against the little slate chalkboard on her floor. “Sorry, Janelle,” Kara whispered. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll get you dressed up so you can look nice.” She scampered towards the door, glancing back at the toy train where her My Little Pony was standing on a tiny built-in Formica table while another doll was having a tea party with a half-cat, half-woman action figure she called Cleo. Kara smiled and shut the bedroom door behind her. by Tyler K. Cassidy-Heacock  multimedia piece including necklace that was given to Tyler during the event in June
by Jennifer Green Fais If I had ever thought of the challenges of middle school, the problem I faced would have never come to mind. My first period class, including me, had been informed of the school writing contest. This was a chance to show your true talent. Our quirky English teacher had told our class, hoping to resurrect our dead spirits towards the assignment. I was hooked at the idea, for writing stories is one of my great pastimes. But, for once, I felt as if I was trying to bake a cake with no ingredients. I didn’t know how to start my story. To avoid my constant habit of procrastination, I decided to take a short walk down the hallway. As I entered the long corridor, I was greeted by the brisk, glacier-like air clearing my mind. In a serene state, I stretched out my hand to the paper-white brick wall. It was as if my hand was an oar and my body was a boat, sailing through an ocean of air. Could I possibly be entering a state of enlightenment and inspiration? Nearing the end of the corridor, I felt my hand brush over something rough. The texture was drastically different from the smooth surface of the wall. The wood-like area of the wall was an indent in the hallway, making up a mere tier in an unknown cake of wall. I was surprised that I had never noticed this disembodiment while transporting myself through the corridor. Moving my hand in several full revolutions, I came to discover that the region I was touching moved slightly at its top. This must be a door, I thought to myself. The door must have a purpose, but what was it? Thoughts of childish excitement bombarded into my head like an extra neutron in an uranium atom. This nuclear fission overcame me. Could it be a pipeline of ductwork that led to every classroom in the building? Or was it a portal to another dimension with rainbows and unicorns and clouds made of fluffy cotton candy? Filled with curiosity, I got on my hands and knees, while I prepared to open the door knowing whatever lay behind it would amaze me. Checking the hallway to see if anyone was occupying the space, I decided to proceed, pass go, and collect two-hundred dollars. Well, maybe not the two-hundred dollars part, but something amazing, I hoped. I gave a gentle push on the door. The small board moved through the air like a stealth boat on dead calm water. I crawled through the small entrance, greeted by a dimly-lit room. The motion-sensor light illuminated a small portion of the room, the rest of the space was coated in inky shadows. Taking up the rest of the space were large articles. There were two chairs upside-down that were placed atop a small wooden table. On the other side of the rectangular room, a shower stall and a pinball machine lined the wall. Looking back on that day, I never truly understood how I found a storage closet so intriguing. Thinking of nothing better to do, I took down one of the chairs from the top of the table and sat in it. The cold, firm plastic sent a tickle up my spine. As my awe for the room had floated away like the graceful smoke of an extinguished candle, the thought of the story competition struck me like a snake in the grass. What was I going to do? I pondered over the issues to what felt like a great amount of time. I took a second glance at the articles in the room and several ideas came into my mind. Hmmm… I thought looking at the old, tired pinball machine. Maybe I could enter a story about a man named Ramon and how he met a girl, Stella, at an arcade or a casino, or any place that adults go to have fun. Or, peering at the shower stall, I could write about a naked lady who was murdered in her own bathtub. No, that wouldn’t work, I realized. It sounds like one of the boys in my class would say that to annoy the girls. Could I write about one of my adventures? None of these ideas seemed to work at all. Standing up from sitting at the table, I felt my chocolate wavy hair fall over my shoulders like a waterfall. Then, all of the sudden, I realized something important. Inspiration can come from you inside, not just what you see in the world. With this wisdom, I knew my story that I was going to write would be great. by Sophia McMaster  Photograph & installation by Chris Walters
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66 OURS - Collaborative Writing ProjectStarting with Phase 1, writers had 66 days to base their writing on 1 anonymous person & 1 vignette, dutifully and judiciously assigned to each writer by Amelia. Photos given to the writersEach writer was given a combination of 1 person + 1 vignette from the following:
Person 1
Person 2
Person 3
Vignette 1
Vignette 2
Vignette 3
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