Litterae - 1

Litterae - Issue II v2 Edited by Mandy Moore

Litterae - 2

Cover art by qthomasbower

Index

By

Page

Pg. 4 Phantasm Carnival

By Owen Rodriguez

Pg. 6 Black Gold ‘89

By Justice Whitaker

Pg. 14 In Spite of Himself

By Judy Weaver

Pg. 20 Conditional

By Elizabeth O’Connell-Thompson

Pg. 21 Donny H.

By Jason Bertucci

Pg. 25 The Square

By Jason Bertucci

Pg. 28 Cheetah Mom

By Mandy Moore

Hello readers!

Raw beauty, what does it mean to you? To me raw beauty is

what this country was when the first settlers arrived. Raw beauty

is the unpolished diamond, the wonderfully flawed rough draft.

Raw beauty is the soul of an artist. So in celebration of the raw

beauty of the United States this issue is left in its most raw

state. No editing has been done to the pieces you are about to

read. Artists were not informed of this to prevent anyone from

polishing their work. It is my belief that each piece still

shines beautifully because each is true to the artist’s original

idea and it is in that original idea that the most beauty is

found. So read on and please feel free to send me feedback.

Thanks and as always enjoy!

Mandy Moore

Editor Litterae Magazine

P.S. This is the second version of this issue due to Mr. Wellington

choosing to remove his poetry from our magazine.

Disclaimer: Views within Litterae are not necessarily those of Litterae staff or its affiliates.

Litterae - 4

Phantasm Carnival

By Owen Rodriguez

Note: Mr. Rodriguez’s piece was due to

be published last month but was

absentmindedly overlooked when

compiling Issue I. We cannot apologize

enough for this oversight and hope you

all enjoy his work.

The lights exploded with crimson

colors that sparked the sky,

As peculiar children of all ages

gathered from worldwide.

The tents reached higher than the

heavens its self.

And clowns with painted on faces

held balloons like animated

cartoons

Music played in tune, dancing and

singing, in all the months of June.

Kid’s teeth rotting from the candy

they eat, while laughing with

marvelous joys.

Their mind decomposing, rough but

sleek, from the games they play and

the life long prizes they’ll keep.

The ride’s move in every direction

and sorts them out in a generic

collection.

And their overly maudlin parents

watch their young grow up in a

manifested life of decoy, then send

them off one by one too deploy.

The festivities start to chant

louder and look more amusing:

Once the children find out what

they are losing.

And in their heads they can still

hear the bittersweet sound of their

childhood

Calling out to them from the

carnival, they once loved so much.

But its now only memory of a common

tasteless touch.

The kids grow old into adults and

teens, some turn into kings and

queens, while others just grow old,

never knowing what the carnival

really means.

The residue from the party

streamers seem to now look and fade

like distant dreamers.

Litterae - 5

The carnival tents, that was once

fun has all its strings coming

undone,

Revealing the thin lie that lies

beneath them all.

They leave the carnival empty

handed and their mind left

stranded.

Remembering all the things they

done holding on to the cheap prizes

they have won.

And now all that remains in the

month of June are lifeless kids and

exit sign that reads

“See you soon”.

Litterae - 6

By Justice Whitaker

Black Gold ‘89

By Justice Whitaker

Excerpt from GrayScale: A Memoir in

Black and White.

He donned his 14kt gold-plated

hoop earring for the first time.

His black denim jacket and

caramel complexion stood out

against the pithy,

underdeveloped bodies of his 4th

grade peers. It was the 80's. He

looked tough as leather; yet,

from the surface to the core he

was as soft as the child-sized

earlobe that the hoop had been

pushed through.

Where the gold had actually come

from I will never know, and he

had never considered.

Undoubtedly the hoop was sold as

one unit of thousands to the

Long’s Drugstore and Pharmacy

that offered the piercing

services of a gum snapping and

Litterae - 7

artificially caring high school

student for $14.99. The gold

plating was surely done in China

by sweatshop workers who had

never considered such body

adornments beyond ancient myths

of dynasties and valor: terms of

which their lives seemed

permanently deprived. Where the

factory got its raw material is

unknown, but to conclude that it

came from the same continent as

the boy’s enslaved ancestors

would be no stretch of the

imagination. This is the

circular irony of infinite

connections that made his

elementary experience both

quaint and massively traumatic

in the same breath. There he

stood, December 5th, the day

after his birthday—lookin’

tough.

Earlier that week as the 4th

grade curriculum had wound its

way through the tales of U.S.

history, the unit had switched

over to the new nation and

eventually would lead to a

grazing mention of the slave

trade as the teachers prepped

students for civil war

simulations and boring

documentaries on laser discs

with fanatical re-enactors.

The topic of slavery, Africans,

and really anything to do with

historical or contemporary black

culture fell heavily upon the

boy, and he was expected to add

insight and perspective in the

classroom. Once he was pulled

aside by student teacher and

warned about his failure to

participate in an activity where

students were asked to write

from the perspective of a slave.

"This is something that should

be important to you, it’s YOUR

history. You're a great student,

Litterae - 8

but if you continue this type of

behavior, it’s going to damage

your participation points," she

warned.

The whole time period in history

began to be uncomfortable, and

everyday after science he would

begin to feel his ears get hot

as if too many eyes were fixed

upon him, challenging his sheer

existence in the classroom. He

would distract himself by

flipping to the back of the

history book, Into the West,

with the overly lit studio shot

of a 19th century covered wagon

on its front, and sifting

through the maps of the world.

He was unfamiliar to the concept

of "backpacking," but he

fantasized about taking boats

down the Nile to Cairo and

catching a caravan of camels or

land rovers across the Sahara to

Timbuktu, which was next to a

place named Niger, who's capital

was Niamey, and then down into

Dakar which was a place his

parents had gone together before

they had kids, and which also

reminded him of the cologne his

older brother wore, Dakar Noir.

Noir, he knew, meant black.

The class finally caught up to

him when the teacher told them

all to turn to page 988, a high

number which he quickly

recognized as the map pages.

Flipping there, he saw a map of

Africa with an inset of the

globe, both tagged with the

graffiti of transatlantic slave

trade routes that crisscrossed

and wove deeper and darker in

some places like lashing scars

on the backs of the slaves that

had travelled them: his father’s

forefathers. The mumbles and

laughter over the names of the

African nations that had been

Litterae - 9

formally recognized only in the

last 20 to 30 years began to

irritate him, the irritation was

exacerbated by the one other

half breed student in the class

who, although they were friends,

was sitting in his chair

repeating "nigger, nigger,

nigger" as if to aggravate the

boy further. When the boy

attempted to quiet him, the

friend pointed to the nation

labeled "Niger" and said, "It’s

just a country in Africa...."

After class the boy and his

mulatto friend, who had started

to refer to the two of them as

zebras for their half-back half-

white blood mixture, were

walking out the classroom when

the friend, who was raised to be

either impervious to, or unaware

of, race, questioned: “If

there's a country named

"Nigger," why do you get so

angry when people say it...?”

The boy, thoroughly lacking a

response, turned and walked off

the playground unconsciously

duped by ignorance.

That night the boy, seated at

dinner with his bi-racial

family, brought up the question

that his parents must have been

anticipating since they had

birthed their two sons as kings

in paradox, or at least a

version thereof.

“Why is there a country in

Africa named Nigger?” This set

off a series of actions around

the house, his father reached

towards the bookshelf, out came

dictionaries and an atlas to

correct the linguistic and

geographic errors, while his

mother stood aimlessly

unprepared for the racial

dialogue with her black son,

Litterae - 10

although she had brought the

eldest up to age 16 already.

That elder brother brought

emotion and pragmatism with one

pointed statement: “If anyone

calls you a nigger, punch him in

the face!” This inadvertently

jolted mom into the

conversation. "I don't want you

getting into any fights.... Did

someone call you that at

school?"

The next day the science lesson

caused an involuntary anxiety to

grip the boy, anticipating the

forthcoming history lesson, and

another hour of looking at

pictures of slaves on ships and

auction blocks brought about the

type of nausea that comes not

from stomach sickness, but from

fatigue. When the class broke

for afternoon recess the boy and

his ‘Zebra’ friend walked in

front of a few other boys. One

of them, Raymond Horatio, a fat

Jewish boy who's family had

undoubtedly suffered its share

of marginalization, called the

boy’s name. As he turned around,

Raymond asked "Were your parents

slaves?" A muted and broken

"Shutup!" spurted from the boy’s

lips as the arrow nearly hit his

heart. Raymond laughed.

"Whatever, nigger..." The

laughter continued. The boy

reached the end of the walkway

and took one step onto the

grass. About face; stand at

attention. As Raymond closed the

four-step gap, still laughing

with his friends at his display

of bigotry, the boy balled his

fists.

With adrenaline pumping through

his veins, the boy’s body began

taking blood from his brain,

causing everything in his vision

to seem as if highlighted by a

Litterae - 11

backlight. Subsequently, there

was a trail of shiny glittery

soul power that followed behind

his fist as it bolted through

the air and planted contact on

the fragile cheekbone of the

Horatio boy like a comet with

enough power to extinguish the

dinosaurs. Glass jaw Raymond was

spun around, and stumbled

backwards down the sloped knoll.

The boy pounced like a panther;

clad in his black denim jacket,

today with jeans to match, he

looked like an affiliate of Huey

Newton and Eldridge Cleaver, and

fought just as viciously for a

similar egalitarian definition

of humanity. Although the

Panthers before him had created

a calculated movement, he acted

upon the same visceral impulse

that each of them, and every

other black man in this nation,

has felt at one point or another

in their lives.

Landing upon the Jewish boy and

rolling down the grassy hill

with him, the boy asserted

himself on top and began to

pummel the Jewish boy whose

great grandparents may have even

been ancestors of the boy’s

mother. The caramel knuckles

were white- tipped like snow

cones at the movie theater, and

with each crushing blow they

reddened and eventually began

shredding the pale flesh of his

opponent. Left, right, in a

military cadence inherited from

his grandfather’s time at

Tuskegee, transmitted from his

fathers time in ‘Nam, now the

left blows hitting low, cracking

Raymond’s winter chapped lips

and striking Raymond’s throat,

the right hitting high and now

forming a bulb over Raymond’s

left eye that would later seal

shut.

Litterae - 12

The boy’s supersonic comet soul

power had blocked out the

screams and yells of the now-

formed crowd, the whistle

blowing from the teacher

trotting across the yard, the

muffled moans from Raymond and

the war cries and victory

screams the boy had channeled

from tribal forefathers and his

native bloodlines. This is for

Geronimo, and this is for

Soujourner; this is for Nat

Turner, and this one’s for MLK

and Malcolm, this one’s for

Hector Pieterson and one for

Emmett Till—the spirits each

took a shot as if the

meaningless revenge would cool

the centuries of anger that

burns in the souls of black

folks. The blows freed the caged

bird, and Mumia, who had been

locked up since the year the boy

was born: free - if not for more

than a split second…. Amidst his

rage the child foreshadowed the

signing of peace treaties

between both the Crips & the

Bloods and Palestine & Israel.

His world was simultaneously

spinning at a heightened speed

as well as standing perfectly

still. Then it faded to black.

At some point in the five days

of freedom he was awarded from

the suffocating institution of

education, he noticed the golden

hoop was missing from his ear.

It had not been pulled out, but

rather in his unfamiliarity with

its design he had never secured

the clasp properly, and in the

tumble it must have fallen out.

He chose not to replace the hoop

with the solid black onyx stud

that had been used to pierce his

ear. There was something in him

that felt as if he had grown far

beyond any manhood or toughness

that would come from that

Litterae - 13

jewelry. He no longer felt the

need to wear his blackness or

the stolen gold, on his sleeve;

somehow, he had internalized his

struggle, and with it, a piece

of his identity. Today, the ear

is still scarred from where the

hole closed before it had

finally healed, but the wounds

left unknowingly by the

schoolyard boys have long since

been shifted into positive self-

healing energy, the pain has

evolved into a dedicated self-

expression in support of the

movement towards an active

educated populace, in hopes that

future generations will not have

to tussle in the school-yard to

define their blackness.

Litterae - 14

In Spite of Himself

By Judy Weaver

"Oh come on, Ian!" Leander

shouted over the din of the

hammers hitting the anvils. He

and his older brother Ian were

near the stables at the Duke's

castle. Fostering children out

to others was a common practice

among the nobility of that era,

and it was Le's turn to join his

brother Ian at the castle. For

the summer at least, the Cross

brothers would be together until

Ian left for Hogwarts at the end

of August.

Le didn't want to be here, he

wanted to be home where his

parents were. Why he had to come

here he didn't understand.

Couldn't his father teach him

just as well how to be a knight

of the realm? Though it was a

sight better than being sent off

to the monastery, where second

sons often ended up. There was

no way he wanted to go there,

even if Friar David was nice and

all. He wanted to be a knight,

wear armor like his father and

if lucky, have his own war horse

that went charging into battle.

"We need to get up to the

fields," Ian reminded him and

began walking away. He was the

first born of the Cross

brothers, and he knew already

the responsibilities that lay

before him. One day he'd take

his father's place as Earl, and

he wanted to make sure he was

ready. He thought Le was a

slacker - he should have been

fostered out two years ago and

come here at age six like he

had. Didn't Le understand the

honor it was to be fostered to

the Duke of Sussex? The Duke

didn't accept too many children,

Litterae - 15

especially of lower nobility and

never two from the same family.

Their being wizards like the

Duke's own family was the

reason, but it was still an

honor.

Le was already making him late

for training, and that never

boded well. The knight that was

teaching the lessons didn't

suffer fools gladly, and

besides, Ian wanted to learn.

His wooden practice sword was

firmly tucked in its scabbard

and there were shields there to

use. Today's lesson was on how

to block, and it had sounded

exciting to the eleven year old.

Soon he would be at Hogwarts and

his magical training would

start, but he was going to be a

lord of his own castle one day.

He needed to learn how to defend

it.

With one last exasperated sigh,

Ian stormed off and left his

little brother to his own

devices. Maybe Le would learn

what responsibility was when Sir

Danvers showed up and dragged

him off by the ear to the

lesson. Or worse yet, get sent

home to their parents'

humiliation. That thought almost

had him stopping in his tracks

and turning to grab Leander's

ear on his own volition. But Ian

wasn't his brother's keeper,

and what would Le do when he was

on his own here? Best to learn

the hard lesson of obedience

now, and he stomped off.

With his brother gone, Leander

looked around with a lack of

interest. Stables were stables

to him, and shoeing horses no

different here than it was at

home. Everything he needed to

Litterae - 16

learn to be a knight he could

learn from his father, and his

jaw set mutinously as he entered

the stables and climbed up a

pile of bales to hide. Maybe if

he did his worst, he'd be sent

home. That thought comforted him

slightly, even though he knew

his father wouldn't like it.

Le dug into the straw and built

himself a comfortable seat to

sit in and watch from. The serfs

were a busy lot, and he followed

each one as they bustled about

in their chores. Their castle

didn't have serfs, but freemen.

He couldn't understand what made

the Duke so special anyhow. So

he had a higher title, it didn't

make him any better than his own

father. Well.... in the eyes of

the court it did. He hated that

place also, even though he was

still young enough to left in

his parents' room while they and

Ian ventured forth.

A shuffle in the hay near him

had Leander shrinking as far

down as he could in his hiding

spot. If it was that evil

knight, he wanted no part of the

man. His face was covered in one

long scar that twisted his face

into an evil looking smirk that

never changed. It was scary to

his eight year old self... what

had the man done to get that?

"Boy?" A lilting voice called

out to him and Leander sighed.

He hadn't hid as well as he

thought and sat up straighter

and groaned. He'd seen her at a

distance when his father had

dropped him off, and he

recognized the Duke's only child

and daughter from that. She'd

snitch and tell, and his father

would be humiliated. "Why are

you hiding here?" she asked in

Litterae - 17

disbelief. He could tell by the

look in her eyes she hadn't

expected him here, but what was

she doing there also?

"Tis none of your concern,"

Leander retorted and shifted in

his place, digging deeper into

the hay. Girls were ickle with

their pretty dresses and airs

that always made them better

than they were. As a duke's

daughter, she was probably full

of ickles anyhow.

"Your face is all dirty," she

told him with a laugh and

clambered through the hay until

she was next to him and plopped

down in a flurry of skirts. "I'm

Gillian, who are you?" she asked

him and tucked her skirts around

her. Le couldn't believe it -

was the girl crazy? They didn't

belong in the stables - didn't

they have girl things to learn

to keep them busy? He snorted

and rolled his eyes before

rubbing the dirt even further

into his pores.

"Leander Cross," Le answered

finally, the manners his mother

had so patiently taught him all

but forgotten at the moment. He

knew he was being rude, and if

the Duke found out - which he

suspected he would if the girl

snitched - he'd be mucking the

stables he was now hiding in

instead of learning how to be a

knight. Or worse sent home and

then sent of to the monastery.

Whoever thought up those itchy,

brown robes has to be crazy

also.

"Ian's brother?" Gillian asked

him with a note of surprise in

her voice. Leander nodded his

head and wondered why that

mattered. Or did it mean Ian

Litterae - 18

liked hanging out with girls? "I

thought - I mean - Ian said that

there was practice today," Her

eyes rounded in confusion, and

looked to where a far off set of

trees were. Where Ian and the

other were near and he was

supposed to be and he shuffled

in the hay more. It itched

through his clothes and his hose

and he brushed at his legs with

his hands.

That was Le's mistake as the

straw shifted with his movements

and slowly the pile they were

sitting on slid down the sides

and dumped them to the muck

below with the girl screaming

all the way down. They landed

with a plop into something that

made Le gag and Gillian scream

again. This time his name and

the words 'I hate you' as he

felt her hands slap at his face

in frustration.

Their commotion drew a crowd,

and Leander tried to stand but

kept slipping and covering them

both in return with more of the

smelly muck. He knew, just knew

he was in trouble when a voice

behind them said their names.

Sitting there, finally stilled

by the duke's voice, Le turned

his head and stared into the

eyes of the very angry man.

Oh yes, Leander knew that he was

going to become very acquainted

with the stables now. If he ever

learned to be a knight, it would

be to spite the Duke.

By Justice Whitaker

Litterae - 20

Conditional

Elizabeth O’Connell-Thompson

When I see someone with whom

I trusted my body,

once or often,

it remembers him.

The patterns he bit

into my chest redden again,

bruises blossom on my back,

and all of me hums

with the touch of his hands—

a fist knotted in my hair,

a palm heavy on my thigh

—resting in mine while we slept.

As we share drinks or

make room for one another between

tourists and businessmen

on the sidewalk, I wonder

if his scalp stings where my lips

left hushed noises,

blood wells where my fingernails

caught,

or his hands remember where I am

soft.

And, if they’d forgotten,

If they’d like to learn again

Litterae - 21

Donny H.

by Jason Bertucci

He owned a door factory

the name of the business was 'A

Door Factory'.

While not being a very inventive

moniker

I have to admit, it made sense.

That's what he did - he was a wood

worker, a door maker,

a son, brother, father, grandfather

and a husband

If you got to know him well enough

you would also call him an

alcoholic and a harry misogynist.

He had the type of forearms that

used to work in construction

a mustache that wouldn't conform to

the times

and he would sometimes smoke

flavored tobacco out of pipes,

he treasured his large collection

of tobacco pipes.

While the transformation of lumber

was his thing

he was also fond of tequila and

racism in general,

As far as the racism, let's just

say he didn't like my black

friends.

Where the liquor was concerned he

had a penchant for the good old

Cuervo Gold

just the Gold - this was before

they put out all that fancy shit

they have now.

One would also assume correctly

that he had tried his fare share of

Acapulco Gold.. and most likely at

the same time as the Cuervo.

I doubt he'd ever been to Mexico

though - he just wouldn't fit in.

His strange life happenings took

place in a very small area

an hour and a half outside of Los

Angeles,

the kind of place millionaires

would send their kids to go to

school

so they didn't have to rough it in

the big city.

He was a real red blooded American

alright.

Litterae - 22

There was an old Woody parked in

the garage that never moved,

a couple of vintage Playboy pinball

machines that nobody touched

and without asking you knew that he

was into The Beach Boys and Dick

Dale.

I almost forgot to mention his

shiny red Corvette that he would

drive on the weekends.

Among other 'cool guy stuff' there

was a pool and a pigeon coop in the

backyard

I could never figure out why the

pigeon coop was cool?

but for some sick reason he loved

those damned pigeons.

You'd have to be blind to miss the

huge barn/workshop towards the rear

of the lot.

The barn was his hideout and

workplace, his excuse to get away

from it all

He must have had 2 of any tool or

mechanical piece of equipment that

you could name.

I imagined while he was puttering

around, making random saw noises

that he would drink his tequila and

try to think of a different

existence.

So I lived in the sweaty loft,

right upstairs of this hot, humid

barn

there was a tiny corner for a small

bed, enough room for a couch, small

table and a television.

The bathroom was tiled like a 50's

diner and when you walked in the

door

the billiards table was obviously

the main feature.

We all know heat rises and air

conditioning was non existent

there were only three windows

making it quite hot almost all the

time.

I had to park somewhere in the

crowded driveway or on the street

and walk around the side of his

sawhorses, clamps and other devices

just to to get to my room, which

was up a deformed staircase.

I got very good at avoiding him and

shooting 9 ball as well.

Litterae - 23

This grew to be a lively event and

began to become a little game of

sorts

we would both pretend to

acknowledge each other

and throw out a fake smile every

now and then.

I don't think he liked my lifestyle

and I couldn't understand his.

Maybe now I should mention that I

was dating his daughter

this made things much more

complicated as one could imagine.

She had her own room in the main

house

and I was sweating my ass off up in

that old loft.

So either I would sneak down into

her room at night

or she would have to 'make the

walk' past the barn

while Donny was knee deep in

tequila and sawdust.

I don't think he liked the

situation but his wife suggested it

-

seemed like she was wearing the

pants?

Things got weirder when his

daughter and I broke up,

we were off and on again for a

while.

Now this house was located directly

behind a high school,

in fact the only one in maybe 20

miles or so.

so eventually some of the girls

would start walking from school up

to my scorching loft.

I was out of school and had a full

time job at an upscale hotel.

The tips were substantial and I was

doing well for myself.

So now imagine, other, younger

girls 'making the walk'

past the open barn of wood madness

and up the rickety stairs.

This did not go over well at all

with anyone.

He told the wife, she told the

daughter - it was a nightmare.

I would have the girls on the phone

trying to get them to wait,

wait until he would stop his

drinking and construction and close

Litterae - 24

the barn door.

When the barn door was closed the

side entrance was free game.

One day I timed it wrong or they

just wouldn't wait, I can't

remember

two gorgeous girls, both younger

than his daughter

came walking past the barn, through

the side entrance and up the

stairs.

It wouldn't have been so bad if

their skirts were a lot longer

and in hindsight their tops could

have been a little looser too.

I'm sure his bloodshot eyes were

popping out of his head

I almost wish I could have heard

some of the things

he was muttering underneath his

pungent breath.

This was the last straw - I was to

move out rapidly.

I found solace in a nearby

apartment and never looked back

although his daughter would still

come by every once in a while.

Oh the strange days with Donny H.

Litterae - 25

The Square

by Jason Bertucci

The slackers looked at each other

in disbelief

when the smoke was all gone and the

wine bottle,

tipped over - dropped out it's last

leak.

The air was getting dry and people

started getting itchy,

the street folk were feeling

twisted and hungry

riddles mumbled by geniuses and

burnouts ruled the nights.

They would all gather at the square

to reveal the day's goods

and perfect their schemes to

overrun the government.

Some days it was a happy place,

with shiny smiles all around

others - merely a cold hard place

to lay your head,

and you'd be lucky to have a

blanket.

It was right off the main drag of a

popular,

coastal southern California town

right in the middle of lower State

Street but tucked away just enough.

Just enough so nobody could stare

for too long tourists and locals

alike would walk by, appalled and

frightened like their pretty little

city had been invaded,taken over or

infested by pirates and marauders.

We knew just enough to be dangerous

things sinister and menacing were

always practical.

The city officials would come

around daily

trying to weed out the weak and

deficient,

if someone had a chance to see them

coming

he or she would signal the enemies

approach.

The old, former military man in the

wheelchair would hide the goods

'The Blessed' as he was called

would carry a bible at all times.

He had a long flowing beard and

always wore his dirty white robe

'Who would frisk a Christian

Litterae - 26

veteran in a wheelchair?'

they actually tried a couple times

- but on the right days.

getting harassed was just a routine

a standard part of the day after a

while,

like brushing your teeth or taking

a shower

But neither of these were a very

common practice.

the ocean and restaurant bathrooms

were the shower

and I never saw a toothbrush in

anyone's hands.

Us loungers all pitched in to

support the collective good.

It was like communism in a 75 by 75

foot concrete alleyway

the hard benches made it a

tolerable place for loitering

but it was far from comfortable.

I image in Laos or any other

communist country

they use a comparable blend of the

material,

and I'll bet their version isn't

soft either.

The beach was a careful fifteen

minute walk away

where there would be drum circles

on the weekends

naked children, devil sticks and

people spinning fire.

The improvisational dancing looked

more like twirling to me

so picture lots of people twirling

about.

It was akin to the Hell's Angels

but without the motorcycles

and the bikers might have been

better dancers, who knows?

Anyway, no one cared and no one

judged.

A code of ethics was unspoken yet

powerful

there were times to step on toes

and times to take a step back.

'Tree' and 'Zob' could only

panhandle for so long

their songs and antics grew

tiresome,

so everybody took turns trying to

hustle up some capital -

whichever way they could,

specialties varied greatly.

Litterae - 27

There were of course good days and

bad days.

on the good days drugs of choice

could be purchased

so you could say all the booze,

heroin, speed

marijuana and psychedelics were

basically free.

Just as free as the women.

I can only compare it to something

like the Ringling Bros. outfit

It was a carnival of sorts and

everyone was along for the ride

none of the dirty hippies were in

any hurry to 'go home'.

Some had never met their parents or

been to a dentist

others were probably sons or

daughters of dentists and lawyers

Although, if they kept living in

this manner

they would definitely need both at

some point.

When I think about the things I

thought I used to know

I gaze around with a pervading

smile and a prominent glow.

I'd like to think I've 'grown up'

since then

but history tends to repeat itself.

Litterae - 28

Cheetah Mom

By Mandy Moore

I don’t have stripes. Who has

the time for stripes. I have spots,

messy Cheetah spots. Spots I have

time for. Spots are everywhere in

my life. I am a Cheetah mom full of

spots. My daughter’s shirt has

spots on it. We were too busy to

use a bib and she spit her mashed

carrots all over it. My little

green hooptie has spots on it from

bird poop, dried dirty raindrops

and my son’s fingerprints where he

had to put his hand on the car

while I put his sister into her

seat.

Constantly I am surrounded by

spots. Stripes have no place in my

life. Stripes are too neat, too

precise. Stripes take too much

time. Spots are more my speed.

There are spots in my yard where

patches of grass have yellowed and

withered because no one had time to

take care of it. Spots cloud my

vision daily when I’m too tired to

rub them from my eyes. Staining my

favorite dress, more spots. These

remind me of my son’s first

experience with food when he

decided his peas should go back out

instead of down. Who can afford a

new dress in three years?

Spots and I have become close

friends. I don’t have time for the

flesh and blood type. Stripes are

the enemy. Marring the beauty of my

marriage license, spots. Spots from

the teardrops that fell caused by

the stripes of the creased paper

and signature lines on my divorce

decree. These stripes I have time

for. These stripes I have to have

time for.

I saw plenty of stripes on

the day that I signed those papers;

the day that those first spots

showed up on my marriage license.

Stripes lined her pinstripe

pantsuit. Stripes made his bifocals

glaring obvious. Stripes creased

the judge’s full black robe.

Everywhere I looked there were

stripes. I don't have time for

stripes.

Litterae - 29

I am a Cheetah mom. Other

mothers can be tiger moms. Other

mothers can have their stripes but

I will keep my spots. Spots are

mine to keep forever.

Spots dapple the newspaper

that has set out in the Sunday

morning rain a little too long;

because who has time for fetching

the newspaper when there are

spotted kids to keep. Spots stain

the dining room table after I share

a home cooked meal with my

children. Spots even open,

magically and unexpectedly, in

lines when I am wrangling two

rambunctious kids. I embrace spots

now.

My spots are my battle

wounds. With time they will heal

but they will never completely

disappear. My spots are my link to

the real world. Each spot is a new

memory, a different mishap, a

little more time spent in the

moment and less time worrying about

the future. Spots and stripes will

eventually mingle. Stripes will

become less fearsome. For now, at

least, my spots are here to stay.

Once, however, I too was a Tiger

mom. Once I had time for stripes.

Index Cards and 15 Steps Method

July is the second month in the year for a world-wide program

designed specifically for individuals to write a 50k word novel in a

month. Three of these events are held throughout the year with the

most popular still being in November. Sounds crazy right? Well it is

completely achievable. Every year I use a method of outlining derived

from something called the 13 step method. It is a very simple way of

ensuring that you will have the number of words or pages that you want

by the end of your story, instead of scrambling to eliminate or

fabricate words.

Now, in order to outline using this method you first need to have

fifteen index cards on hand. On each index card you should put a

chapter title. After each title you will write a one line chapter

synopsis. These are your chapters. On the back of each card you will

write 15 events that need to occur within the chapter. These are your

scenes. Next, take your word count and divide it by the number of

chapters (15), this is the number of words you need for each chapter.

Once complete divide the chapter number by 15 once more and you have

the number of words you need for each scene.

Good luck, have fun and as always keep writing!

Writing Tips – Volume II Tips on Writing Well

Litterae - 31

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