Wingin’ It
By Jessica Machado
In the seventh grade, I asked my father to take me to see Winger, a glam rock band whose greatest hit, “She’s Only Seventeen,” included the lyrics, “Daddy says she’s too young, but she’s old enough for me.” My father said yes, even though the concert was on a school night and he had no idea what Winger was.
When we arrived at the show that evening, the parking lot was a black sea of T-shirts and spandex. It was August of 1989 in Honolulu, and here at the Aloha Tower concert hall, sweat was about to …
Be Careful
By William Cass
Tim got up early. It was Saturday. The trailer was still. He lifted the corner of the curtain with his finger and looked outside: it was snowing again, hard. Only the week after Christmas, and already the heaviest winter snowfall on record. He dressed, then walked down the short hallway, plugged in the Christmas tree lights, and started breakfast.
Austin woke up next. He came in carrying the new stuffed elephant that had been poking out of his stocking, holding it by the ear. He sat on the edge of the couch and looked at the tree. …
Life Taxidermy
By Brie Huling
There was no one here to tell me I was wrong.
In taxidermy, you skin the animal first
like removing the skin of a chicken.
I’m casting my own form here,
but I am an amateur. It’s pretty obvious.
& you have cast me queerly, firm tendrils falling …
Heart Decay
By Brie Huling
I’m hiding inside my vestibule of hearts today—
among the lanceflower and sour purslane.
I am a little millipede with antennas like an old school radio
the weeds are wracked and riddled,
all wrapped around me.
I’m taking wild guesses about eternity
but there’s no reception
through all this
static:
all the racket blocked
by branches of the wishkisscolor tree
painted out back near the tired cathedral.
I am trying to forget you. Again.
I’m shouting!
I am eating flowers!
Suddenly!
Now.
A silhouette of a past is hanging from a limb of the sorry tree over there—
my vestibule is directly under this jacaranda.
When I …
Poor Her Soul
BY MIRA PTACIN
Nicole Carpenter used to go through my city like a walking middle finger. She fought, smoked, dipped, drank and skipped school, and by the time she finally reached her junior year of high school, she altogether dropped out. I met her some years ago in my hometown of Battle Creek, the Cereal Capitol of the world (think: Kellogg’s Cornflakes).
Nicole wore sandy blond cornrows that dropped to her waist and wrapped around her like seaweed. She’d sway her head side to side and fling those braids behind her shoulders, rake back the strays with two acrylic …
One Day
BY ANNABEL SMITH
We arrive in the nameless village early, when the morning light is still thick and golden, marred only by the dark smudge of hills on the horizon. Doctors, nurses, dentists, support staff: a team of ten, we’ve flown into the Dominican Republic for a week of one-day stands. Day four, this is our fourth and final village. Like most foreigners, we’ve brought a sense of adventure and spare memory cards. Unlike them, we won’t be staying at luxury resorts or visiting golf courses. We have come to do good, to make a difference.
Our local partners are waiting …
Revelations
BY MATTHEW CHENEY
When I was a child, we lived inside the war. Our parents went away sometime during the last year, leaving me and my sister, Olly, to fend for ourselves amidst the rubble. Our house was old and solid, made of stone, and the shelling had mostly been to the other side of town, so all the walls of the house were still intact and there were only a few holes in the roof. Most of the windows had shattered, but we covered our bedroom’s windows with trash bags taped to the frames, and that mostly …
Why Believe?
The writers and poets in this issue of SalonZine remind us of community and possibility, of what is absurd and beautiful in our world. Take a break from your work and worries and read this issue. Believe that the world is on your side, even in challenging times.
We dedicate this issue to risk takers, caretakers, and survivors.
-The Editors, Nita Noveno & Caroline Berger
-Assistant Editor, Barbara Sueko McGuire
HELP TEAM CAFÉ AND THE PEOPLE OF BENGUET
Special thanks to writers Padmapani L. Perez and Luisa A. Igloria for connecting our communities.
In early October, devastating typhoons hit regions …
Why Do We | BELIEVE
EDITORIAL
Why Believe? by Salon Staff
FICTION
Death Becomes Us by Tim Kreider
Revelations by Matt Cheney
NON-FICTION
One Day by Annabel Lucy Smith
Poor Her Soul by Mira Ptacin
Pinheads No More by Chris Grillo
POETRY
Composure by Louisa A. Igloria
Birthmark by Prabhakar Vasan
Noise by Cheryl Burke
Consider by Diane Schenker
Yes No Yes by Diane Schenker
INTERVIEWS
Nancy Agabian by Nita Noveno
Birthmark
BY PRABHAKAR VASAN
It is, again, unsafe.
At least, it is unclear.
animals, their dark forms when they crouch at the margins of the freeway
The city is charred, as
from a blast. Or the eyes are.
The mind is crumbling into
its own foundations. Or
the homes are. Waiting, even,
is a taut state, the drone
of current through a wire.
silent, tense, they search for a space in which to cross
And negotiations unravel.
Language, a dried gauze, fails
to keep this clean.
Exposes to the air the burnt
stump still raw. Flesh painful
just to look at. The burn wound.
Which refuses to scab over.
Endures like a birthmark.
how we must blur and roar past them
Any impulse must originate …
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