BE ABOUT IT [the TRIUMPH issue]

7/30/2019 BE ABOUT IT [the TRIUMPH issue]

1/35

The

TRIUMPHissue

BEABOUTIT!azine

Conceived,written,formatted,andprintedinSanFrancisco,California.

TsaritsaPublishing2011,AllRightsReserved.Plagiarismisillegalandfor

wankers.Don'tdoit,orelse!


2/35

Welcome to Be About It, the TRIUMPH issue.

The word triumph brings to mind an assortment of ideas

and inspirations.

Triumph. Some minds may automatically go to the Wu-TangClan upon hearing the word, while others envision a dog witha snarky attitude and a cigar. Others will think of amotorcycle when the word triumph is spoken,or perhapssomething that may seem insignificant to others but is

special to the individual. Thus, I decided to leave the topicopen-ended, free for interpretation.

This is the fourth issue ofBe About It(wow, I really cantbelieve Ive already popped out four of these bad boys!) andI am very proud of all the writers and artists who submitted.

Thank you so much, and thank you for being so gracious asI put this thing together Im a one-person-show and ittakes time and care to put these zines together. You have noidea how happy I am to see this pocket guide to the pseudo-literati still kicking a whole year after its conception.

Please enjoy this little product of my time and love. If you likewhat you see, I hope you consider sending a piece of writingor art in for the next one!

Love,

Alexandra the Tsaritsa Naughton


3/35

Triumph

What it means to be a winner and how it feels to be a loserIf you act like a beggar you wont be seen as a chooser

The game of life is rigged and the board is brokeWatch as your aspirations go up in smoke

The dreams we have when were young get compromisedWhen the weight of the world is fully realized

Reality bites, its the winter of discontent

Opportunity knocks, but its not heaven sent

Triumph of the willThe taste of the thrillSpent so much time just runnin up that hill

Wonder what it feels like to make that kill

How far to take it just to get top bill?

byAlexandraNaughton

A spirit that has been rewired

The celebration of authentic expression.

Adversity withers,

As blessings begin to blossom.

The subconscious calms as the conscious remembers.


4/35

Compaand uni

Allow e

The au

You

words

GossiI.That biwe're t

risons must cque.

mpowerment

hority has be

ave found th

ndartworkby

is Bad for Y

ch said,ey type of wo

ase, the jour

o course thro

n seized fro

sun.

BrandieHarris

ur Lungs

men who sho

ey has been

gh your fiber

dark clouds

ld come

ecessary

.


5/35

with a Surgeon General's warning -we're bad for your health.That's overkill & bullshit, for sure'cause I ain't never heard of plagues coming in fives.

Thinkin' us hollow & shallowwith dangerous tongues -always quick to remind,trouble's all they'll every know of 'em.Talkin' in tight circles 'round drinks mixed too strong:

II.

Shannon, with the dark hair,she's from Long Island, gave upcursing for Lent but you'd never know itwhen her accent flares andshe's callin' that tramp

her ex- cheated with a stupid cunt.

One with the whiskey's Meredith,Catholic schooler who can destroya man faster than a flash floodafter four or five shots of Jimwithout ever removing that

I'm a nice girl smile.

III.

Crazy curly red is Katherine,only thing bigger than that hair's her accentespecially when she's ripped off four or more -

she always being going at it

IV.

with Lily, the blond, got the boyfriend& that damn mouth the size of Italy,


6/35

nearly picked a fight last weekend in the clubI'd a had to fight,

V.

But that's just me,skinny legs with the temper & the bad luck,stompin' stilettos wounds in our path.

byKateStone

THE GANG THAT COULDNT SHOOT STRAIGHT

While I wasnt born there, Hialeah, Florida is where I wasraised. My family settled there after years of movingthroughout Europe, as well as the northeast tri-state area,and then the west coast.

If youre not certain where Hialeah is, dont feel bad. MostFloridians dont either, and those that do would ratherforget.Hialeah is trapped, protruding like a cancerous tumor

from the northwest shoulder of Miami on one end, and theEverglade swamplands surrounding its other.

It was, and, still is, a town where no matter what type ofbusiness you enter, you have to speak Spanish. Its a placewhere almost every last man above a certain age is waitingfor the fall of a seemingly invincible dictator, so they could

return to their island paradise.

In a place that could be hotter than Hell, Miami was thesweet spot. They had their beaches, while I swam in snake-infested, man-made lakes.


7/35

Hialeah was Miamis little bitch. Like Camden toPhiladelphia, or Jersey City to Manhattan, except no onesever heard of it, and luckily, it wasnt in New Jersey.

As you grow up so close to a city held high by tourist boardsand the Euro jet set, one couldnt be but embarrassed whenyou drove by someone on a horse, or traffic stopped due toall the chickens in the road.

Sadly, if it werent for drugs, Hialeah would probably havebeen absorbed by all the snorting going on in our sister city,

but the country air and quiet atmosphere of the placeconvinced quite a few drug lords to move in, and stake aclaim on the land. To have been incorporated into Miamiwould have surely changed my life, possibly for the better,but Fate had dealt me her hand already.

Hialeah was safe though, just not for long.

In come the 22 Ave Players, which wasnt so much of a gangas it was a group of four friends, and I use the word friendsvery, very loosely.

Some would say that we were led by Abe, a tall, lanky,wannabe pimp - half Arabic, half Argentinean.

Juan, a Puerto Rican, was his sidekick, and reminded me ofthe little dog in cartoons that always asked the bigger dog ifwhat they did was cool. And, just like in those cartoons,every once in a while, Abe would hit him, and growl,Shaddup!

Nick was the playboy of the crew - another PR, who, at only17, had good credit, a car, and a real job. Because hescored with the ladies, taking a cue from The A-Team, wecalled him Face.

Lastly, was me - somehow the only Cuban. Quickly growing


8/35

tired of the Miami hardcore scene I was already part of, Idecided to hang around ruffians, thieves and criminals, onlyto meet up with these three instead.

Small town gangs are, at least today, a bit scarier than theircity counterparts. Nowadays nerdo wells will try to provethemselves, and so, will stab, shoot and then rape anythingthat moves, just so their names could be fearfully whisperedon the streets. I guess in the mid-80s, not many knew better,and society is all the better for it, though those that fret aboutoverpopulation might not think so.

We could have been a real gang. All we had to do was gointo Miami, and strike up a deal with the Latin Kings.Forgetthat!

They were a local chapter of a much larger syndicate out ofChicago. We werent going to be run by guys being run byother guys in some far off mid-western state.

Nah!

We preferred to be run by the hormone-driven delusions ofour adolescent minds, and the small town images of what lifein the city must be like.

Making matters worse, real gangs would fight one anotherfor turf, so they can peddle their wares on whatever cornersthey absorb, since bigger property makes for bigger wallets.

Im not sure if the Hialeah kids knew this, and I chalk it up tosmall town ignorance, but the local crews constantlyassaulted one another on the street, simply because theybelonged to another clique.It wasnt about money, drugs oreven pride: it was simply because they threw a differenthand sign in the wrong neighborhood.

The best thing that developed from this was gaining anability to handle a good ass whoopin, as I didnt care to keep


9/35

to myself, and would often ride my bike into neighboringhoods.

The mind may boggle at the number of bicycles Ive donated

to another gang all due to riding through their set.Aftercountless broken noses, and several times waking up on thecurb, without our rides or even shoes, we began to realizethe rules of the game, and we wanted to make, not only aname for ourselves, but a living.

Nick had the idea, as well as the connections, to buy a kilo of

coke. We were to cut it, distribute it, buy more and becomereal players.We needed cash for that, and in the true spirit ofpunk ethics - though we had none at the time - we decidedto pool our resources, and try it D.I.Y. style.We each threw inwhat we had, and came up with $56 - hardly two points of apercent against the twenty thousand we needed.What to do?What to do?

Abe spoke up in his usual monotone drawl, I know a liquorstore we can knock over. They usually have fifty grand in theplace.

Not that it mattered, but one of Abes problems was hisconstant exaggerations. If he said fifty, it was more likefive.Still, it was better than the lint we were scrappingtogether out of our pockets, and we all looked at one anotherexcitedly.Its a start, and it would have to do.

We were to set if off on a Saturday night, around midnight,as most everything closed a little after 10 or 11, except theliquor stores.That really didnt make a bit of difference, asthe one, which was decided on, was a stand-alone store in

the middle of nowhere, at the very beginning of US 27, justbefore it takes off past Hialeah out into the Everglades.

To this day I have no idea why, but I decided to drop a taban hour before the robbery.


10/35

Though I knew I would write of my life in later years, andeven saw myself as some sort modern-day Jean Genet, itmay have had something to do with the fact that I didntreally want to murder anyone.

Anyhow, the acid begins to kick in strongly, as we pull intothe parking lot. I can hear shaman drums, but later noticethat its just the sound of everyone loading their guns.

I brought mine ready to go, a snub-nosed .38 Specialrevolver.

I remember looking up at the stars, and seeing the cross andflare around them caused by dilated pupils, and wondering ifthis is where the ancient Druids came up with the Celticcross.

Abe snaps me back to Earth when I hear him asking, You

guys ready?

Gibang steady, I replied - meaning to say, Born ready.

Suddenly everyones asking if Im okay.

I meant to reply that I was fine, but out came the - dare I say

- words, Sheee. I sobahreah.Lez goat inzer and gothum.

Juan, who Im certain was high on crack, as he always was,almost screamed, Hes ready, so lets go!

As we begin to step out of the car, everyone places theirguns in the waistbands of their dungarees.

I felt funny walking toward this place, as for all I know Imay kill someone, but all I can do is giggle as the cold steelbarrel firmly makes its way down my butt crack.

As suddenly as we take our first steps towards the door,Juans gun misfires.


11/35

I see it in front of me - almost in slow motion - blow a holeout the back of pants, as if it were some dimwitted collegekid trying to light his farts on fire.

Everyone begins to completely lose their minds as theyscramble back to the car.

All except me, who, still in my altered daze, but suddenlyable to put words together, yell, Yeah motherfucker, itson!I pulled the gun from my pants, and begin waving mypistol around, firing every last round into the air.

The car screeching away without me didnt bother my fragilestate at the time, as I may have already been running intothe surrounding cow pastures.

One of the last things I remember was, hours later, findingmyself in an open field with cupped hands aimed skyward,wanting to catch the bullets on their trip back down.

Needless to say, we didnt last much longer after that,though we did try another heist or two, all of which failedmiserably.

We finally went our separate ways after a handful of creepswho called themselves the Young Latin Organization, known

as Y. Lo, surrounded us at a city fair, and bashed out all thewindows in Nicks brand new Mazda CRX.All except for, ofcourse, the windshield - the only one free to replaced.

We went home with our tail between our legs, sans cottoncandy or the joy you still feel hours after exiting a carnivalride.We were as tired as those in battle, and felt as if we had

surely fought one - finally making it home, bloody, andbruised.

I think it was unspoken, because I dont recall anyone sayinganything important. We may have shot the shit for a fewminutes, or even hours, as we cleaned our cuts, but starting


12/35

the very next day none of us hung out ever again.

After a few months, I left the gang life to the street toughslike those in the Latin Kings. Unlike the handful of thugs in

Hialeah, those cats, and the dogs they squared with, couldhandle guns pretty well.

They were straight shooters alright, and Im just lucky to nothave gotten in the crosshairs.

byAdelSouto

Strings, theories

Strings, theoriesfringe can't keep me from goingcutting edge ain't all its knifed up to beor not.

All I feel is hot, electricityRunning the circuit, piecemealspreading, rushes then cackle.Coughing blood has never been lovelier.Oh, but I'm too young for those thoughts, stirring the ice witha long spoon.So many minutes to spend, waste, forget.But stop-- fatalism is not attractive.It's not how or why, but whereCarried by the wind, taking root.Time falling short, who would even show up?

byAlexandraNaughton


13/35

Emily Dickinson on Needlework, Baking, Music, andWriting Fascicles

Note: A fascicle is a bundled collection of poems ornewspaper articles held together by string, a popular term inthe Victorian era. Emily kept her poems as fascicles.

Writing is a spiritual calling --- as birds in orchidsare obliged to sing --- for what is more constrainedthan an unresolved heart?

As girls, we learned the tiny stitchand straight seam --- continuing to expandinto days, with needles of light.We gave ourselves into the needlework of conversation.This is what it is like to write tightly.

A cake needs to sit in a cool, dark place

to improve its flavor. So too, the closureof a final knot. It takes just as longto contemplate the exactness of a word.

I play strange melodies from my own inspiration ----but when I have the overpowering urge to write,

I use anything within reach --- a butcher receipt,

brown paper bags, scraps of newsprint, backsof opened envelops, discarded bills, pressed flowers ---the wall themselves if I was not so restrained.I bind them into booklets with black embroidery thread.It is the business of love --- to write ---to stitch words and serve them later ---

to strike notes on the keyboard of the heart

so it resounds long after penetrating darkness.

What use is poetry, you demand.

I cannot imagine this room --- this earth ---


14/35

this universe --- in such terrible silence ----without something baking inside, demanding Light ---be forced into the fabric of paper.

I am darning my life into paper ---

singing, beyond singing.

byMartinWillittsJr

Photostakenatthegraduationpartyinmylyceum,itwasan

amazingmoment.Endingastudyismylongawaitedtriumph.

byKirrillMazhai


15/35

Statues of Iowa City

Winter.

The Tie That Binds.Ross watched the clock, hoping it would speed up. Helooked past the few customers still in the store, out into thewhite blur falling outside the window. Ross wondered howcold it was today, and whether he would lose any body partson the walk home. The mall was getting quiet, almost time tocall it a day. Ross thought back to when he was a child, and

how different this place was then.

After attending a football game with his parents, both IowaAlumni, they had ventured into the mall for food and restbefore the long drive home across Interstate 80. It was thecenter of shopping then, long before the larger, highwayfriendly mall opened in nearby Coralville. Now the building

served as little more than an extension of the University, andthe few stores on the bottom floor mostly catered to nichemarkets.

After closing the shop, Ross bundled up in the many layersneeded to survive a Midwestern winter night. The cold hit hisexposed face as soon as he stepped outside. He watched asa car struggled to move down the road before crossing thestreet himself. His boots disappeared into the snow as hemoved through the bricked pedestrian mall. A few bars wereopen, the neon lights giving off an odd glow on the blanket ofwhite. The sound of a snow-blower started up somewherenearby. Ross put one foot in front of the other, on a missionto get home.

As he neared the playground, set squarely in the middle ofthe pedestrian mall he slowed and took in the icicles hangingfrom the various slides and swings. The ice looked playful,the children of winter claiming the metal structure, before thehuman children returned to lay their claim at first thaw. It wasquiet here between the playground, the public library and a


16/35

recently opened deli. Ross felt like he could hear the snowfalling. It made him smile.

He debated stopping into the deli for dinner, but decided to

hold out and save money. As he passed he noticed themetal head barely peeking out of the snow. He walked overto it and began to brush snow away. Beneath the snow sat asculpture, perfect for the playground. A man, a fatherperhaps, knelt down, tying a young childs shoes. In hissummer walks home, past the bustling playground full ofmothers, fathers, and the always rambunctious kids, Rosshad often looked at the small child sculpture as a hope forhis own personal future. The child was covered up to hisshoulder by the continually falling snow. Ross placed hishand on the sculpture of the child, and almost apologeticallygave it a pat.Ross continued on his walk home and the snow once againburied the father and son.

Spring.

Irving B. Weber.

The last bite of her sandwich wasnt the best thing she hadever tasted, but it was passable. Julie was outside during herlunch break sitting on one of two parallel benches on Iowa

Avenue directly in front of the statue of Irving B. Weber. Thewinter snows had passed, and a few weeks of blusteringwinds had died down into a truly beautiful spring day. Thesun was high in the sky and the golden dome of the old statecapitol shimmered in the sunlight.

Irving Webers statue stood in front of her, all five feet tall ofit, staring off across the street, its copper body extending an

arm up into the sky. The arm held the statues hat as if hewas saluting some friendly passerby. Julie liked the peacefulface of the statue. She moved to Iowa City in 2003, a fewyears after Irving Weber died, all 97 years of his life passedbehind. Julie had heard the stories of the man, the historianof the university and its city. She looked past the copper and


17/35

broken glasses into the eyes of the motionless copper face.They seemed kind in their lifelessness.

Students passed by her constantly, to their classes, or

further downtown to shop, drinks, and work. They all lookedso young to her, so full of energy. Julie reminded herself thatshe was only a few years removed from their lifestyle afterall and that brought a small smile of remembrance. Lookingat her watch, only fifteen minutes of her break remained.She sighed and stared at Mr. Weber.

Your busy city thrives, Mr. Weber.

Julie grabbed her purse, collected her belongings anddeposited her trash in a nearby receptacle.

See you tomorrow old friend

Summer.

Jazz.

Ross escaped the noise of the bar and walked slowly acrossthe pedestrian mall. He was a little tipsy from one too manydrinks, right on the line of actually being drunk but not quite.He walked over to the statue of the three men playing jazzand sat down on a nearby bench. It reminded him that the

Jazz Festival was coming up in a few weeks and then thesestreets would be full of people, to the point where it wasntfun anymore.

He looked back to the bar where his friends still were,smiling knowing full well they would probably be comingdowntown for the festival no matter what objections he mayhave. The three statues looked truly happy, but also kind ofDisney-like in their musical venture. From looking at themone would imagine it was the best thing in the world to be amusician. Ross thought of his guitar then, and how it hadbeen ages since he picked it up. Never far out of reach in hisone bedroom apartment, but it lay quiet, collecting dust.


18/35

He saw her first. Her brown hair almost shoulder length, shewas walking slowly admiring the buildings, with a cup of icecream in her hand. Ross smiled her way, and after a whileshe noticed him. She returned the smile as she got close

and spoke first.

Ross, right?From Sams party?

He nodded, smiled some more.Nice day for ice cream?

She looked at her cup and smiled back at him. He slid overon the bench and motioned for her to sit. So Sam says you

work for the University? he asked as he searched for hername in his memory banks.

Yeah, over in admissions. Its alright. Pays the bills.Hername was Julie. It came to him pretty quickly. The alcoholmust have been wearing off. Good health benefits. Whatabout you?

Ross pointed across the road to the Old Capitol Mall and hisstore. I manage that place.

Julie smiled at that and added,Oh, so youre not atransient?

Transient?

You know, college student. Here for four years, and gone.Meanwhile leaving your mark on everyone you touch, andnot looking back when you go.

Ross laughed at that. They talked for a bit longer, andexchanged numbers with the promise of hanging outsometime. Ross liked her at Sams party and now he could

tell he liked her here in the open air even more. When hegot home that evening, he pulled out his guitar and started toplay.

Fall, 53 years later.


19/35

The Black Angel.

Julie stood in the cemetery, taking in the cool fall breeze.She reached down and brushed off the tombstone with her

wrinkled hands. She smiled as she looked at her latehusbands name on the granite and marble stone.

I miss you Ross.

Julie watched a pile of leaves circle around, pulled by thewind in a dance of the coming winter. She turned and left herhusbands grave, and walked through the cemetery back

towards her sons car. He would be waiting for her there totake her back to her assisted living apartment on the otherside of town. Julie looked for the Black Angel to guide her.

And when she saw its green and black wing, across the hillyfield she knew she was on the right track. As she neared itshe looked up at the famous statue, the lady angel, its faceunchanged in all the years Julie had lived in Iowa City.

Julie thought of her first encounter with the Angel. It was onlya few weeks into her time in Iowa City and she had boughtone of the tourist guides to learn her way around town.Inside the guide they listed this statue and the legend thatwent with it. It was said that any couple who kissed in front ofit would die soon after. Julie smiled at that knowing that shehad kissed one or two men here before and never sufferedany consequences.

She wondered how many more couples had kissed here.And how many more would. Julie looked back towards herhusbands grave and blew a kiss his way.

She headed back to her sons car. He opened the door for

her and they drove back to her apartment. It was the lasttime she visited the Black Angel.

byShawnScottSmith


20/35

Extras in my life

I love all the extras in my lifeRandoms walking by, no important speaking roles

but essential for just being there.

Like this little girl with the stroller, pushing, trying hard topush straight over the cobblestones, her mother followsalong, chatting on her cell.She might be in the background later, or not, like right nowbecause were watching her.

She definitely wont be in the next scene, but we might findout her name so we can put her in the credits.

byAlexandraNaughton

Speaking Terms

When I ponder the concept of triumph, I realize that it is nota subject with which I am personally very familiar. Triumphisn't just winning, it is overcoming all odds, decimating one's

opponents, destroying all obstacles; in general, triumph isthe kind of victory one has when they destroy the Nazi warmachine or win the gold medal at the Olympics.

The word "triumph" even comes from the celebration theRomans would throw when a general returned from acampaign victorious and put his new-found treasure,captives, and slaves on display.

I'm not saying I always lose, but I will admit many personalvictories have been...Pyrrhic, to maintain the Roman wartheme. I then come to the conclusion that the averageindividual, regardless of personal victories and failures, likelydoes not ever approach the grandeur of triumph.


21/35

Perhaps triumph is meant for injured athletes who win thegame anyway, for Navy Seals (or their peers) hunting downterrorists, and for skilled researchers putting an end todiseases that ravage the world. I'd like to experience

triumph, but putting my own successes on the scale, theyseem to be just a bit light.

byPaulMartens

It is important to get it down, out

It is important to get it down, outBefore it sits and becomes poison.

Before it stays only on paper and slowly rots.

Recording is the answer and only solution.We need to get it out.I really need to get it out.

byAlexandraNaughton


22/35

This is my triumph. Nothing I ever do will compare to myson.

byNormanWhite

Why I Write

Could you tell me how to grow --- or is it unconveyed --- likeMelody --- or Witchcraft? --- Emily Dickinson to ThomasHigginson asking him how she could improve as a writer.

My mind is bewitched by voices ---

or is it from heaven? How can one know the difference?And, does it make any difference to anyone except a few?And do those chosen few convene in unconventionality?Which is spell? And, which is the cure?Does an expression of an idea come from nothing?


23/35

Where was it incubating? My brain is stirring,commencing winds of omens.

This lack of harmony is unavoidable. It shakes inside

until cast out. There is no tonic for this fever.

The whiteness of paper demands fillingwith music of words, until I blot out sunlight.

Bed rest will not halt this illness.This is not infection;but the incredible requirement to share messages.

I am obliged to witness and share.I have trust in whence they come; and I do not doubt.

The questions is not why I write --- but instead,is it growing in the Light from the tiniest of voices--- are they worthy of speaking?

byMartinWillittsJr

Britomart

Ride like BritomartStuck preserving my heartand my lungs from the cancerSteal wind from breakdancers--its the sex, not the answer.Take too many chances

Split too many lancesTime and half, spending up my advances.

Oh wait, let me write a skitBout how Im the shitPoppin bank pens that spiffy two handed flip


24/35

Gesture hidden, spring and hit em with the slipNeed no curses, my encyclopedia got words to fitFaking knives faking hivesParading please come and buy my kit

Teach you sentence diagrams and history of the boys I bit.Exclamation points and a period, yeah thats really beautiful

My plaid kicks sturdy, my pocket web dutiful.

byAlexandraNaughton

Bragging Rights

It was the last inning of a tied game. Standing at 3rd basewith my glove and a Yankees hat on, I looked at a toughhitter from the opposing team, the White Sox, step into thebatter's box. Our steady pitcher wound up and delivered apitch right down the middle. The batter took size of the balland promptly hit it for a double in the gap and knocking inthe winning run. The nail in the coffin.

The parents and the coaches of the Sox burst out onto the

field, forming a make-shift ticker tape parade line with metalt-ball bats. Their players strut through proudly andcelebrated as if they had just won the championship, when infact they had played the role of spoiler.

My Yankees were in first place before that game, but theWhite Sox had completely destroyed our hopes of winning

the league. The only way we could have lost the leaguechampionship that day was if we lost and the team in 2ndplace beat the last place team.

I walked over to the other game after the White Soxcelebrated. I remember seeing one of the players hit a laserthrough the infield and the Shortstop of the last place team


25/35

diving for the ball and missing it. What happened next waslike a scene from a Benny Hill skit, with a single being turnedinto an inside-the-park home run through a series of comicalerrors.

The scorekeeper looked at me and said "I don't think we'regoing to do you any favors today." I left that day without achampionship and a bitter taste in my mouth. My dadreminded me on the way out "There is still the braggingrights game."

That year was one of my first years in little league. Peoplebegan to recognize me as a pretty good player and theycalled me the Babe as I was chubby, on the Yankees, andcould hit the ball like a slugger -- but good luck getting me torun.

The name stuck in that league for a couple of years, evenwhen I was on the Mariners the next year. The players in the

league were comprised of different age groups, mainlypeople from the local elementary and middle schools. I wentto a private school, and there were only a few boys from theprivate school willing to go muck it up in the local baseballleagues, so we were kinda like ringers. No one knew whatyou're going to get with the kid no one has seen play.

After tryouts, I remember being in a shopping center, waitingfor my dad to come back to the car from Rite Aid. When hegot in the car he said to me "You're going to be a Yankee.Your mother called the store and told them to hand me thephone while I was checking out." This was before cellphones, and my mother knew I was desperately waiting tohear which team I was going to be on the next season. It just

so happened that one of my very best friends andclassmates at the time, Peter, got recruited to the Red Sox.

The debate in the Fourth grade class room went on for daysabout which team was better until we finally had the firstgame of the regular season. I remember showing up and


26/35

taking a look at the Red Sox, and I just hated them. I didn'tlet my friend know it at the time - but I hated their guts. Theyhad the best sponsorship in the league that gave them allnew shoes and they had a banner, a water mister for their

benches and every single bell and whistle they could thinkof, completed with a very loud, vocal parent group behindthem.

My squad was a little more rag-tag. There were some greatathletes, but we didn't quite sparkle like they did. The RedSox took beat us in that first game, but it was close. Iremember having to tell the class the next day in Mrs.Neale's classroom.

"So who won?"

They did, alright,thefreakin' Sox.

As the season went on, Mrs. Neale would play up the rivalrya little more and ask us if we won that weeks game. MyYankees were climbing the standings and it looked like myYanks or Petes Red Sox would win the whole thing in thefinal month.

The second time my squad faced the Red Sox was a shot aredemption the winner taking sole possession of first

place. They beat us again. Same outcome as last time. Welost another one-run game in the late innings.

I remember watching their coach on the sidelines. Anytimehe moved his hands to signal, his players were on the go.They played small-ball very well - they stole bases, tookpitches, and made smart runs and throws. They were the

best mentally prepared team in the league - hands down.Our lineup was fierce as well, but our support was small andwe made mental errors that cost us games on a number ofoccasions. The mental mistakes proved to be our undoing.We underestimated the White Sox, losing the final game tothem, sealing our fate as the Silver trophy team.


27/35

The week leading up to the bragging rights game, Peterproudly announced to the class that he just won thechampionship, but mentioned that we were going to have

one more game between the first and second place team theupcoming weekend.

My teacher asked the class who they thought would win andthey were going to take a count of hands to tally the votes.When the teacher asked "Who thinks Peter's team is goingto win?" I raised my hand in favor of the Red Sox. Everyone

started laughing when they saw my hand raised in the air. Imean, I just lost the championship and I've lost to thesecrafty Red Sox twice now...why would I have faith?

Towards the end of the week the temperature started to soar- as it was the first days of Summer were starting and asummer in the Coachella valley means degrees of 100+each day. The day before the bragging rights game thetemperature was 115*, maybe even hotter.

My dad came into my bedroom to talk to me about theweather and the game. "It's going to be another scorchertomorrow - I want you to drink a lot of water, he said as heleft a large carafe of ice water in my room.

He knew I had been pretty down since losing to the WhiteSox and he wanted to remind me how important thisbragging rights game could be.

"You remember how happy that team was when they beatyou?"...Mmm yes...I can't freaking get it out of my head."Well the Red Sox just won the championship and they're ontop of the world and you have a chance to knock themdown."

I smiled as I realized what he meant.

"They have everything to lose now that they're thechampions...you're just in it for bragging rights. That's


28/35

something you could brag about to your class and bragabout for the rest of the year. The last word."

I finally got it-- I could be a stick in their mud. I could bring

them down and leave myself with the final satisfying win ofthe season, even if it didn't count for the standings. This wassomething more, this was for bragging rights.I kept a glass ofwater next to me that whole day, constantly hydratingbecause I wanted to be ready for the long grind of a game inextreme temperatures.

The day of the game was more insane and crowded thanopening day. The older kids were still battling for theirprospective titles and every single parent was there to cheertheir kids on. Several players from other teams showed up inuniform even though they weren't playing just to saygoodbye to their teams and to see who would win the wholething. The smug Red Sox parents showed up with their lawnchairs and shirts that read "Red Sox Champions. They hadenough money and enough time in a week to make achampionship shirt for a youth baseball league.

Our team was juiced to play these guys and my coachpepped us up with a talk that essentially was the same thingmy dad did last night in different words. "We got nothing tolose."

The game started pretty slowly and we got them out of thefirst inning pretty fast 1,2,3.

When we came up in the first inning we unleashed a barrageof hitting that was simply shock and awe. A single, then adouble, then a home run - three times over. It was a

steamrolling of hits that must have amounted to 10+ runs.We destroyed them before it even started. A lopsided,decisive, bone-crushing defeat. We kept hitting the ball untilthe faces of the Red Sox parents turned like they smelledsome sour milk. "Yeah, nice shirts guys. Champions...pfft" Iremember one of our parents saying to them. The last thing I


29/35

can tell you in finishing they left the field looking like chumpsand not champions...and that's something I could brag aboutto my 4th grade class - and something I remember all theseyears later.

byTheodoreOrdonYaussi

Gardening in Georgia Clay

I built a garden on riverbank Georgia red clay: hard dirtused to make potteryand not quite right for planting.

In that indeterminate soil was shale ledge, fragments

of tonsil-shaped shells, and coarse beach sandwith particles and filaments from a factory

long reduced to brick, sparkling as night full of fireflies,

I excavated, hands covered with shell-shocked fire antsbiting their discomfort. My hands became swollenand inflamed for weeks, welded shut,

and almost palsied, stiff as a trowel.

I learned the hard facts then: wear leather glovesthick as determination.

The information on the seed packetsof how-to-do, what conditions and starting periods

were best and when it was too late, what zone I was in,where does the frost stop,

when to expect if you follow instructionscarefully, how to determine failure.

After several growing seasons, after several dry seasons


30/35

when dirt clumped into afterthoughts,after several on-going drenching seasonswhen soil ran as rivulets taking everything with itincluding the seeds, reason, and a watering can,

I soon knew enough of failure.

Failure followed me to work, punching outmy need to re-locate. Failure influenced the temperatureof divorce and the refusal to re-pollinate.It washed out anything I wanted to hold onto.It was impossible to manage as the red clay.

Yes, I know a thing or two about failure.I also know about the joy of seeing the first sprout,the warm wash of tomato-colored suns,and sometimes, sometimes, the impulsive claywas just enough to retain moisture,

just enough for the self-seeding Forget-Me-Nots

to remember what they were supposed to do.

And in those moments, I would remove the garden gloves,head into the house, knowing what I had to do.

byMartinWillittsJr

First Step

I studied and taught martial arts for several years. I've

studied under many different instructors teaching differentstyles and arts, and I've tried to pass some of what I learnedon to those I've taught. In truth though, when I first steppedonto the mats in a YMCA near my home town, I neverthought I'd be able to learn, let alone teach.


31/35

I had grown up with a brother who was more than talented inmartial arts, coincidentally for the same reason I ended upbeing skilled, we were both sick of getting bullied. I trainedwith my first instructor, Sensei Bowden, for 3 years, and

went back to visit him a couple times later on as well. Hetaught me one of the two arts that I still rely on to this day,

Aikikai Aikido.

When I started, I wasn't strong, or fast, or skilled; these arenot needed to begin Aikido. In order to become skilled in

Aikido, one just needs to listen and feel. He taught me in thebest way possible, letting me feel the full pain of myopponents first so that I could then properly adjust my forceand speed. We learned to feel the moves as both attackerand defender, which turned techniques into reflexes.

He overwhelmed us, sending us individually onto the matsfor huge randori sessions. During randori, multiple attackersare sent in numerically increasing waves, and the defender

must use whatever skills he can to defend himself from theonslaught. Trust me when I say that after having fifteentrained martial artists charge you, sometimes with weapons,the average mugger ceases to be intimidating.

I learned all I could from him, but I never thought I was verygood. I believed myself to be an average student who was

simply following the teacher and not falling behind yet. Onenight, coincidentally a dark and stormy night, Sensei pulledme aside during Kenjutsu (sword) training.

He told me "Paul, you have a certain style to your moves,you make them your own. Would you help me teach thelower ranks?" I had never received a compliment like that inmy entire life. He put a new bokken (wooden sword) in my

hand, and sent me to teach his students.

If I have ever experienced something like triumph, it was thenight that my Sensei allowed me to teach his own studentsfor the first time. I still have that bokken, and though I'vebroken it a hundred times in practice, I always glue and duct


32/35

tape and hobble it back together, since that simple hunk ofwood reminds me of the first time someone trusted my skillsenough to pass on their teachings. It was the first time I hadstudents of my own, and I will never forget it.

byPaulMartens

On Lying, Inspiring, and Sighing

Dont you ever lie?

I dont have to. Well, thats not exactly true. I do lie whensomeone asks me what I do for a living. What a boringquestion, and a little presumptuous.

I think people most often ask this question when trying togauge whether youre worthy of continuing the conversation,or if the person should move on to the next person at theparty.

Im a writer. Writing is my passion. But when you tellsomeone youve never met that youre a writer when theyask you how you spend your days the next question,naturally, is a variation of who do you write for? or likewhatnovels?

And the facts are that yes, I write, but Ive only beenpublished in a few small journals and on some websites thatyou probably never heard of. And I write a blog, almost daily.I pour my life and effort into that thing. But that doesnt

always impress, it sometimes prompts the inquirer to make asour face.

So what do I do when someone asks me condescendinglywhat I do for a living? I lie. I tell them Im a marine biologistor yoga instructor. I think I even once told a chap at an event


33/35

that I play jazz piano professionally. Its better than thealternative. I dont know about you, but when Im out andtrying to have a good time I dont really want to think aboutwork or the woes of independently supporting myself

financially.

Id rather have fun and talk about quirks, interests andpassions, the things that move you. Life is full of chancesand moving moments, you just have to be open to it. I carrya notebook with me at all times, just in case I happen uponsomething that inspires me, be it a defaced billboard sign orthe way an abandoned building seemed to let out a sighwhen I walked by.

byAlexandraNaughton

Author and artist bios

Martin Willitts Jr recent poems appeared in Naugatuck RiverReview, MiPOesias, Flutter, Atticusbooks.net, and CaperJournal. He was recently nominated for two Best of The Netawards and his 5th Pushcart award. . He has had eight poetrychapbooks accepted this year including True Simplicity (PoetsWear Prada Press, 2011), My Heart Is Seven Wild SwansLifting (Slow Trains, 2011), Why Women Are A Ribbon Around

A Bomb (Last Automat, 2011), Art Is Always an Impression ofWhat an Artist Sees (Muse Caf, 2011), Protest, Petition,Write, Speak: Matilda Joslyn Gage Poems (Matilda Joslyn GageFoundation, 2011), How To Find Peace (Kattywumpus Press,

2011), Swimming In The Ladle Of Stars (Pudding House, 2011)and Secrets No One Wants To Talk About (Dos Madres Press,2011).

Shawn Scott Smith is a writer, creature painter and a dabbler inthe creative arts. He is also the co-creator of Daytime GhostHunter webcomic with artist Jessica C. White. He lives in


34/35

Asheville, NC. All of his adventures are documented on hiswebsite at luckycreature.com Please write, I like [email protected]

Theodore Ordon-Yaussi has enjoyed baseball ever since

someone left baseball cards in his cubby in kindergarten. Heplayed baseball until high school and still enjoys playing theoccasional softball game from time to time.

Brandie Harris lifelong love affair with writing and creating hasbeen revived with the start of her blog,www.DeliciouslyAlive.com. I have been diagnosed with Crohn'sDisease, a digestive tract disorder with chronic andembarrassing symptoms, but it doesn't hold me back. I practiceYoga, write, eat a diet that works for me, and look to the Crohn'sas a "teacher"... and not a disease. I love life and all it has tooffer, knowing that later, I'll be nostalgic for this moment. Youcan also follow me on Twitter @TuesdayBlu XO.

Norm is a computer security professional with over 15 years inthe computer industry. He loves traveling, camping,backpacking, hiking, climbing, and all forms of outdoor

activities.He currently maintains three web sites: TheNormanomicon (normanomicon.com) his general web site thathas everything from political commentary to cooking andhacking, Keystone Guns Gear and Guides(keystonegunsgearandguides.com

) a gear review website thatcan handle any type of game, gear or guide you could think of,and The Normanomiphoto (normanomiphoto.wordpress.com

)where he posts any and all pictures that he takes trying to learnmore about photography. He is an avid firearms enthusiast and

general gear nut and gamer. When hes not busy with work orhis web sites, he can be found working in the yard, his garden,the gym, working on the house or spending time with his family.

Alexandra Naughton is a writer, rapper, and social media fiend.When she isnt hard at work for San Francisco start-up, AlphynIndustries, you will most likely find her with a camera or pen inher hand, working on some next great feat. She thanks you for

reading this zine and supporting small press publishing. Dontforget to follow her on Twitter @theTsaritsa


35/35

Formorefungoto

www.theTsaritsasez.com

andcheck

out

my

rants

and

raves.

BEABOUTIT!

Feelfreetocontactmeat

[email protected]

questionsandsubmissions!

Imalwaysuptocollaborateandworkon

newprojects,whetheritsahiphoptune,

movie,orcomicjam sopleasedontbe

shy!

OUR

NEXT

ISSUE:

SURPRISE!

Documents

BE ABOUT IT [the TRIUMPH issue]