THE EARTH IS A RELIQUARY

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE EARTH IS A RELIQUARY

Her growth brings us to this forest; the forest I stand in. It’s as though a window’s picture could
not capture her elements.

She spills over our graves, swallowing our bones in plants. The streets are taken over with the
brush of her hand.

She plays with airplanes, pushing against the machines.
She visits me often.

Ribbons ripple through the air, a festival of mourning the living <things>.
My death was beautiful. The struggle to breathe mangled in a deep scarlet world.

I had a weak heart overwhelmed by beautiful things. And the horrid <things> tore me apart.
I ran through the highway now filled with itchy grass. My toes sank into the dirt as I wiggled them.

She was giggling at my expense. My mouth watered the mud; I was now in waist deep.
<ground> I would not struggle.

She lifted me as a child who was inconsolable to the whispers of the whirling sea.
I still cried though. She had buried me just to come and pick me back up as though time had
gotten to her, making an unstable fixation on her negligence.

Who am I to judge her nature?

I had joined society in the overthrow. I had polluted her love and rebelled against my own
mother.

Who am I?

Taylor Noe is a current student at Bowling Green State University as a Bachelor of Fine Arts major in Creative Writing. Her passion for writing began with self-publishing her early collections of poetry in two books showcasing her growth as a creative writer from 2022-2023. Since then, Taylor has been working on fine tuning her creative methods and studying in a more professional setting. If you would like to see more of Taylor and her work, follow her on Instagram at tay.writes_07.

‘THE BANANA WHISPERER’ & ‘BITTER HALF’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE BANANA WHISPERER

by

Daniel Weitzman

Ben is the apostle of perfectly ripe bananas. 

Does Ben have his mother to thank for cultivating this talent?  She may have played a part, had relied on the child Ben to let her know when bananas had attained the right shade of brown to be turned into banana bread. 

Does Ben have his streetcorner fruit vendor to thank for his prowess?  There may be a connection, the scrambling man is forever laying out unripe bananas for his customers — only to invoke Ben’s disapproving eye. 

Maybe Ben was just born a Banana Whisperer; regardless of how he achieved this distinction, it’s only done so much for him.  For reasons that escape Ben, potential employers aren’t terribly impressed by his knack for identifying banana ripeness — even though he customarily gifts interviewers with a Ben-approved banana.

Once, Ben’s then-girlfriend Elsa called him out for his banana-centric skill set, convinced he was just trying to work a banana into their bedroom maneuvers.  Ben denied the allegation vehemently — while still suggesting that a greener banana would be the banana of choice for such activities.  Elsa was gone shortly thereafter — but not without terming their breakup, “The Banana Split.”  Ben was not amused, moped around his studio apartment for weeks afterwards.  Ben reached out to his older brother Joel for comfort; Joel accommodated accordingly, inviting Ben to spend a long weekend at his swanky beach house.  Ben was only too happy to accept, was having a lovely weekend until he apprised Joel’s six-year-old son, Alexander of a classic banana peel shenanigan.  Alexander tossed a banana peel on the floor to see if — as Ben had suggested — someone would slip on it in true cartoon style.  The gambit was summarily derailed by Joel’s wife Melissa, who a) spotted the banana peel before anyone could slip on it and b) had Ben disinvited for the rest of the weekend for being a bad influence on Alexander.

No job, no girlfriend, no support network.  Things are not looking up for Ben.  Ben wonders if there is a way to “monetize” being a Banana Whisperer.  He imagines launching a career where he travels the country, advising cooks, grocers and shoppers on banana viability matters.  Surely, he could be a featured guest at Whole Foods or alike!  Ben goes so far as to design a Banana Whisperer outfit/apron to help him build his brand and impart his knowledge.  Ben digs deeply into his already-scanty savings to promote this initiative, which turns out to be more of a de-monetizing idea.  There are no takers for a traveling (or stationary) Banana Whisperer.

This is discouraging for Ben, but he will not give up on his dreams.  He puts a banana under his pillow at night, perhaps it will whisper pulpy intelligence to him while he sleeps.  For his troubles, Ben’s pillow smells like a banana — not an awful turn of events, but not the outcome he is hoping for.  The ‘pillowed’ banana has attained a lovely yellow hue overnight, Ben deems it suitable for a morning peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Still seeking a way to leverage his Banana Whispering skills, Ben wonders if he’s been culturally insensitive in pursuit of career actualization.  Might he fare better if he included plantains in his scope of Whispering?  He spends the next few weeks focusing on plantains; the streetcorner vendor allows Ben to sniff and fondle the odd plantain.  It makes for an interesting sight — Ben up to his nose in plantains while customers go about their habitual melon, kale and carrot acquisitions.  Still, Ben’s efforts to diversify fall woefully short.  Seems his gift doesn’t translate for plantains — which he discovers tend to remain green even when ripe.  Unable to account for this variance with his prognostications, Ben is forced to move on.

Accordingly, Ben widens his scope of inquiry, visiting the monkey house at the zoo.  Here, he hopes to find inspiration, identify a telling interaction between monkeys and bananas that will inform his pursuits.  Sadly, there are no revelations to be had among his fellow primates (though Ben does have a modest breakthrough, realizes he prefers orangutans to chimpanzees). 

Ben’s research continues, he trains his thinking on certain banana icons: banana cream pie, Banana Republic, J.D. Salinger’s short story, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.”  Still, he is unable to close the loop, find a rationale for Banana Whispering as a tenable occupation.  While Ben is tempted to drown his sorrows in a banana daquiri, he is not so far gone as to recognize the cycle of self-destructiveness this may unleash.  

Instead, Ben finds himself in the throes of another potentially self-destructive act, agreeing to visit his mother for an afternoon catch-up.  Ben, thoughtful Banana Whisperer he is, comes prepared — bearing a bunch of bananas perfectly-suited for his mother’s banana bread. 

Ben takes a deep breath at mom’s door, waits to be admitted.  She throws open the door, ushers Ben into her living room.  Here, a surprise awaits — as Ben’s brother, sister-in-law and Elsa close ranks with his mother, surrounding Ben.  Ben wonders if he’s forgotten somebody’s birthday or if his mother has gathered the family to announce that she is finally ready to downsize to a smaller apartment. 

As it turns out, the get-together is all about Ben, whose family has united out of concern for Ben.  Ben has walked into an intervention.  For years, they’ve tolerated his Banana Whispering.  But his recent attempts to make something more of his gift, to turn it into a bona fide business?  Ben has crossed the line, has taken his Banana Whisperer preoccupation too far.  There must be something else he can do with his life; he did, after all, graduate a reasonably good university with a B.A. in Media Studies. 

Ben looks around the room, absorbs the would-be succor. 

His mother offers to take him to the theatre to help clear his mind.

His brother offers to bring him into his restaurant supply business.

Elsa offers to take him to lunch, maybe they can mend fences. 

Ben recognizes that all present have honorable intentions.

Still …

For all their troubles, it’s clear to Ben that those nearest and dearest to him have no idea who he is.  Ben is The Banana Whisperer — and that’s not about to change.

Ben departs his mother’s, bananas in hand.

BITTER HALF

by

Daniel Weitzman

“Who are you?” said a particularly hefty tween, bellowing at Landon Raff from among a throng of alligator worshippers. 

“Just the creator of “Ali Alligator,” said Landon, a few beads of sweat running down his concave face. 

“What do you mean, ‘creator?’ said tween nightmare, flapping his costume Ali jaws. 

“Where are your parents?” thought Landon.  “And can they just show up and drag you away?”  Landon knew that wasn’t about to happen, more likely, mom and dad were among the attendees of today’s Ali-thon.  The show was just getting started, and Landon was already primed for it to end.  One of these days, he would walk. Today?  Probably not, he was already present and accounted for — even if he felt unaccounted for.  Such was the life undiscovered, unappreciated, unknown.  

“I wrote Ali into existence, he’s my brainchild,” said Landon, peering down at the imperious tween from a podium asparkle with lights and glitterati all paying tribute to Ali.  At least it wasn’t a big city humbling; today’s show was taking place in the mid-Huron valley, where press coverage was less suffocating than it would be in any given Gotham. 

“Whatever,” said the kid.  “When will Ali be here?”

Landon was tempted to tell his audience exactly what they didn’t want to hear, something like … “As soon as I fire up my imagination and dream up Ali’s next adventure,” but reason prevailed. “Soon,” he said.  “He’s just getting his Ali rap together — getting pumped for you guys.”  More likely, Derek Solomon, the man who donned the Ali suit for live events, was getting his stomach pumped after another bender of an evening. 

It was just another day of abject humiliation for Landon — the man whose blood, sweat and life savings had gone into giving life to Ali, but who remained an anonymous figure to the army of Ali allies whose patience was wearing thin — almost as thin as Landon before his Ali submission somehow found its way out of The Bokar Syndicate’s slush file and into the spotlight.

If only Meredith Bokar could’ve prepared Landon for the life of callous disregard that came with the territory. 

Ali was a multi-media sensation:

His syndicated exploits appeared in almost three thousand publications.

His animated show boasted streaming numbers that wrung sponges dry and shellshocked ninja turtles.

Of course, there was a movie in production.

Ali was the best-selling plush plaything in toy stores, nationwide.  He was also gaining momentum internationally; could an anime Ali be far behind? 

There were Ali pajamas, diapers, string cheese, breakfast cereal.

There was talk of an Ali ice skating extravaganza.

And as if Landon didn’t feel expendable enough, A.I. Ali had made a cameo on the Internets.   

It was Ali’s world, and Landon was just living in it.

Barely.

Sure, he was making stupid money and had redeemed himself in his mother’s eyes (the monthly check Landon sent her had shut her up about his life of Bad Choices and Missed Opportunities), but he couldn’t help but feel like an afterthought.  One might speculate (and Landon did) that his relationship with Dear Mother had forever doomed him to feeling like a second-class citizen.  That said, forever hadn’t happened yet, and Landon pined and sighed for first-class status.

How that was to be attained was anybody’s guess, Landon hadn’t a clue.  Of course, he could shutter Ali, walk away — but could he, really?  Ali was a cash cow, Landon wasn’t likely to fill the void as a dog-walker, barista or podcast host.  Better to feel jealousy than nothing at all, reasoned Landon — a sentiment sorely tested by his current surroundings.

“We want Ali … we want Ali … we want Ali!” 

The rafters shook, the auditorium redolent with worship — none of it for Landon, who — per script — grabbed the mic and shushed the crowd, the emcee who stood between Ali and his acolytes.

“Hello, Huron!” said Landon, playing his part to obsequious perfection.  These moments were scant consolation — but would have to do until Landon could devise a way to share in the spotlight with Ali.  Equal partners — he could live with that.  Right now, the scales were sorely out of whack; not only was Landon an unknown, he served to introduce the man in the Ali suit.  Oh, how the fit was preposterous; what fit?!?

Still, he had signed on to be Ali’s party-starter, had to put on his conciliatory pants and get the show started. 

“What do we say when Ali’s in the house!?!”  What, indeed?  Landon had burned the midnight oil — well into the following morning — coming up with a catchphrase.  But boy, had it been worth it!  For Ali.  And to adorn t-shirts, bumper stickers, the banner that accompanied the Ali float for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

The auditorium buzzed, a sea of fanboys and girls singing Ali’s praises with carefully hewn phrases!  Oh, how Landon loved his work, his way with words! 

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

The auditorium buzzed, a sea of fanboys and girls oblivious to the work that had gone into inventing Ali.  Oh, how Landon hated his work, his way with words! 

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

What a bunch of fools and tools — if only Landon could bring himself to go rogue.  One of these days, Landon would put Ali in his place and elevate his own place.  Not today.  Not as the curtains parted and the star maker to the star maker to the star appeared.

What in god’s name was Meredith Bokar doing taking the stage; this was unprecedented?

Less unprecedented was the appearance of Ali nee Derek, riding Meredith’s coattails. 

The arena exploded; Meredith took it all in stride — as if she’d been born to bask.  In fact, she had been; daddy was the prototypical media mogul, had handed down the reins to someone just as capable and probably twice as bloodthirsty.  When Landon had floated the idea of a bigger payout, she had countered with the notion of diminished compensation; hadn’t Landon profited enough from Ali — and the corporation that sponsored him?

“We’ve got a special guest appearance today,” said Landon, cueing the crowd as Meredith cozied up to him.  “To what do we owe this pleasure?”  Meredith lived and died by the script, what was she doing interceding in today’s Ali-thon?  Why?  And why in God’s name did she insist on wearing alligator skin stilettos, wasn’t that a bit off-brand? 

“Hello, Landon … hello, Huron … hello, Ali,” exclaimed Meredith, wresting the Ali-clad Derek to her accommodating side.  “What do you have to say for yourself, Ali?”

“I say that today’s Ali-thon is a great place to break the news!” barked Derek, pumping his webbed wardrobe arms in the air.  Speaking of off-brand, an upright alligator was an anomaly no turn of genetic events could have ever concocted.  But the low-to-the-ground version of Ali had tested poorly—so, there was Landon’s brainchild, subverting evolution and snubbing him.          

“What news?” said Meredith, who clearly knew the news — and was allowing today’s main attraction to break it.  Landon waxed hopeful, had one of his recent story pitches gathered momentum?  ‘Gator-Haters Anonymous’ was one that he took perverse pleasure in.  Also, ‘Crock-Pot Journal,’ which would launch a new nemesis for Ali Alligator — a crocodile who fought Ali tooth, nail and jaw for the rights to reptilian greatness. 

“You heard it here first!” said Derek, egging on his Ali allies with stubby leaps and snappy prehensiles.  “You, my dearly beloved Ali lovers, are standing on the very site where we will soon be breaking ground for an amazing new Ali venture!”

The first to create, the last to know.  Landon shook his head, a bulbous bead of sweat splashing the podium.  What now?  Hadn’t Ali already broken the bank, wasn’t every possible version of him already in existence — or well along in the development process?  How else could Landon’s progeny lap him? 

“You tell ‘em, Ali!” extolled Meredith.  “Sure, we could’ve leaked the news sooner, or chosen a bigger media market to tell everybody — but we decided to tell the world on the exact grounds where our biggest Ali attraction ever will be located.”

“We?” wondered Landon.  He had zero recollection of being consulted on whatever it was that was about to turn Ali fans into fanatics — if they weren’t already.  Not that Bokar owed him the courtesy, by terms of his contract, he had been acknowledged as Ali’s author (a lot of good that had done him) but the iterations of Ali that found their way into the public eye belonged to Bokar. 

D/Ali (Landon’s term for the mash of Derek and Ali) snatched the mic and hatched the news.

“You, the fine people who make Ali possible, are standing on the future home of Ali World — where all things Ali will be happening!”

If Landon thought the crowd couldn’t get more boisterous — in fact, he didn’t, and they did.  A tumultuous cry rang out through the auditorium, Landon spotted the torturesome tween doing a flop of a backflip — which toppled a few of his equally enthused neighbors.

Ali World!  Wasn’t it already?  Landon had suffered a legion of Bokar babies; this one would be truly insufferable, the straw that broke the alligator’s back!  The death roll that dismembered Landon and relegated him to irreversible oblivion!  What happened in mid-Huron wouldn’t stay in mid-Huron; a few shakes of Ali’s tail and there would be an Ali World Europe, an Ali World Japan, an Ali World Saturn. 

It was time for Landon to take action … time to dial up his visibility … time to get the respect he so sorely desired.  Needed.  Was owed!  If it cost Ali some of his Landon-created popularity, so be it.  The scales of justice demanded it! 

And what might that action be?

Months later, when Landon was squirreled away, preaching the word of Landon to his listeners, he would reflect on how he’d fomented such an outlandish idea.  In fact, there was no thunderclap, no “ah-hah!” The idea just came to him — much like the idea for Ali had those tumultuous years ago.  The idea?

He would kidnap Ali, hold him hostage until the world paid his creator the attention he was long overdue.

How would that work out?  Landon wouldn’t know until he tried.

And so, he did.

It was now — not later — to make off with Ali Alligator.

If you happen to spot a hollow-faced gent shepherding an alligator wannabe — quite likely, against their will — you are encouraged to contact the authorities. 

The alligator is in great demand.

So is the man who created him.  His mother misses her monthly check.

Copyright © 2024 by Daniel Weitzman.  All rights reserved.

Daniel Weitzman is co-author of ‘Odd Gods’ (HarperCollins, optioned to be turned into an animated series). His children’s stories have been featured in ‘My Dad’s a Punk’ and ‘Stone-face.’ His film and TV credits include ‘The Pirates of Central Park’ (Children’s Film Winner, New York Film & Video Festival) and ‘Row Your Boat Ashore’ (Nicholl Fellowships Finalist). “Grown-up” material includes ‘The Only American’ (Every Day Fiction) and ‘Oh, Brad’ (Free Spirit). Daniel is author of a number of digital initiatives, including his personal favorite, a multi-media effort created for the US Forest Service. To check it out, visit https://discovertheforest.org/ 

MOTHER MIRROR

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I always take forever to get ready. I force the itchy fabric of tulle and cotton down my body as I slither into it, making sure my “bits fit right”.

At twelve years old, I don’t think I’d have any “bits'' to speak of, yet my mother echoing to me from downstairs, with her shapewear and diet soda, protein milkshakes and cigarettes, instills
within in that even as a pre-teen, I must be small enough or else “I’d never make it.”

The mirror, standing proudly, an arching mouth laughing at me, I can’t seem to escape its addictive, smirking surface.

I run my long pale fingertips at the surface of the mirror as my eyes adjust and distort my image, and I am once again overstimulated by my mother shouting at me from the first floor to ‘hurry
up’.

Is that a zit coming in? Did I eat too much? Why does my face look so weird?

The scent of cheap cotton candy perfume clouds around me and I feel locked in front of my alternate-universe self looking back at me with an emotion I can’t quite recognize, on the verge
of laughing—No, crying?— the feeling is like an anchor to my feet.

It holds me there steady, my red pumps digging into the carpet, the vines of each grass-like fabric embracing me lovingly in front of the mirror. I’m an only child, so I must be mother’s favorite, and least favorite all at the same time. The golden child, yet the black sheep, mother’s little doll that collects dust once she’s finished playing. Yet, when I’m on a stage with layers of makeup and archaic judges ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I’d tell the audience members with the 20,000 monster eyes and the male announcer who analyzes my frame and chest a little too long, that I wanted to be ‘just like my mommy!’, even though I was lying.

I smiled big, teeth a chemical white, hoping my acting was convincing enough— that the script was believable enough to make my mother gaze at me with
pride for just a little longer.

I wonder if she knew I was lying too. I wonder. I bet we fooled them. “You’re perfect, just perfect!” I see my mother mouth to me.

Or maybe it was “You’re blowing it, just fake it!”

Kenna DeValor (@teadragonz) is a nonbinary + queer writer and current university student residing in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania and they are an English Literature major and Creative Writing minor. They have been writing stories since they were eight years old and has always loved a good freaky little book. Kenna has been published in multiple art/literary journals and magazines around the East Coast/Central US, UK, and AUS. They have been on a huge playwriting kick recently. When Kenna’s not writing, reading, analyzing banned books, or performing a silly song on a stage, they are a tattoo artist in their hometown of Bethlehem, PA. Kenna loves to wear all the different "hats'' of the art world.

‘Imbecile’, ‘Kiss Manzanita’ & ‘Sandbox’.

Imbecile - Aaron Beck

Kiss Manzanita - Aaron Beck

Sandbox - Aaron Beck

Aaron Beck is a poet and pianist living in Portland, Oregon.

Peach Me, Darling - Kites Up -The Fence - The Man Lounging with Flowerpot Head - A Never Mandatory Title - Bloom Where You Are Planted - Humanoid Gardening - Another Way to Look at It

Robin Young is based out of Borrego Springs California and currently works in mixed media focusing mostly on collage and contemporary art making. Her focus on collage art using magazine clippings, masking tape, wallpaper, jewelry, feathers, foil etc. allows her to develop deep into the whimsical and intuitive.

From large, life-sized pieces, 3D sculptures, to small postcard-sized arrangements, Robin's keen eye and gripping esthetic guide her viewers into her own semi-readymade world. Repurposing nostalgic images for lighthearted and sometimes disquieting messages; Robin’s artistic universe is strange, funky, sometimes perverse and always alluring.

https://www.instagram.com/2songbird/

https://www.gotoborregosprings.com/robin-young-borrego-springs-artist