Author Archives: Qu Literary Magazine

Family History

The way my mother tells it,
I ran away. She didn’t shove me
out the front door at sixteen.
Afterwards, she remembers my little sister
possessed by a poisonous anger
but has no recollection of dragging her
through the house by her hair.
The history of our family was oral,
repeated to herself
in the splotched bathroom mirror,
where everything came out backwards.
Backwards everything came out
of that mirror, where she repeated
our family history, with no recollection
of dragging my sister through the house
by her hair, of her own poisonous anger, or me
at sixteen, pleading at our front door.
She didn’t shove me.
I ran away.

Echidna

Sword in the bonestone. Blade rhumb lining the tongue. I
was really sick but didn’t know it. One by one the
acupuncturist tlcks out the rostrum-like pins—forehead
cheeks chin—save for the splinter embedded in the
meridian of my soft spot, crown of the governing vessel.
Monster irresistible like the rhinoceros. Spiny spiky anteater.
Hedgehog cousin. Half-squamate, half-woman dwelling in a
cave no outside world’s iron age pierces. When I press the
antenna hidden in my skull the mind’s long lists of past due
& to do & will it so. When I press harder that axis of a planet
yet discovered: blood temples; glass blowing nerve hiss; salt
of tinnitus. Harder still—a jet shatters the sound barrier of
retrograde amnesia, a bolt of lightning fernseeds dream into
channels. Like a finger in the dam or a cork in the socket,
it’s the plucking out of the stoppering—not the arrow
spearing the heart—which kills you

Mothering Lust

Rub her tiny protruded belly in circles
and the sin will crawl out, fill a room

like prayer. Her first word is mine.
Do not let her use your heart

as a tool. You cannot take body
from her. You must keep her

alive, let her fatten up like a little disaster.
Under her coiled ribs beats a new tender

plan. If you bend deep enough

 

… [Click here to purchase a copy of the magazine]

Something Rare

What lives in the laboratory of the body
was cradled in someone’s hand
Look, they said and the thing
wet, translucent, glowing,
pulsed like the inside of a firefly
essential inner matter, vital, alive
in someone’s hand in a hallway

Kill the Angel in the House

The room is your own, but it is still bare.
It has to be furnished; it has to be decorated; it has to be shared.
-Virginia Woolf

 

The day after we take possession of the house,
I find two bats mummified in the basement,
a mother and, perhaps, her child. They live

 

in our dustpan for a week before I decide
to carry them outside. Meanwhile,
we ferry furniture up stairways and through

 

narrow doors until I feel I have mastered
the maneuverings of each four-legged
wooden beast—dining table, sofa, armchair,

 

desk. There are cobwebs on every stair.
The spiders spin faster than me here
and I have been hurrying so long.

 

I sink anchors into the walls. My partner
buys a fly swatter, chases the insects
around the house. I buy knives

 

with rosewood handles and blades honed
in the country where my grandfather
was born. I have been building bookshelves

 

in our highest room, fitting dowels
into each pre-drilled hole. I assemble them
on their backs, laid down, then raise them

 

their weight tipping lighter, then level,
as they tower over me. On my front porch,
a great grey dame of a spider, quite rotund,

 

has spun her corner web. She sits at its center,
her hourglass abdomen turned
toward our door. I watch as moths, mosquitoes,

 

other wings catch in her careful architecture.
She never leaves them long, no struggle lest
their dying break her fragile home.

 

She kills them quick, then carries them away.
Just today, checking the mail, I saw that her web
was gone. I cannot know if it was the mailman

 

who swatted the strands aside, or a swallow,
or some other bird that passed through,
or if it was she herself who made another plan,

 

unstrung each filament and let them fall
leaving only an isosceles frame—three guy-lines
and somewhere, perhaps, in a corner out of sight

 

the remains of her meals, a tidy pile of wings.

Holding Space

 

FADE IN:

INT. APARTMENT – DAY

A young woman who has already lived a difficult life, PHOEBE sits on one of two stools at the lounging counter separating her small galley kitchen from the main room of the apartment. There is a plastic cup in front of her along with a fifth of vodka. The counter is cluttered with spice jars, olive oil bottles, dirty dishes, an open box of children’s cereal, mac-n-cheese boxes, children’s toys, and other kitchen odds and ends. The stove has pots on it. The sink is full of dishes. To the side, a small buffet holds the type of ceramics that children make as gifts, along with various bottles of liquor and shot glasses. A string of white Christmas lights hangs along the walls.

The door of the apartment is plain. The security chain is unlatched. Someone knocks. PHOEBE goes to the door and peers through the peephole.

PHOEBE
Who is it?

VI (O.S.)
Me.

PHOEBE sets the security chain then opens the door.

VI leans against the opposite wall so that he is facing PHOEBE as she looks through the partially opened door. VI exudes violence without any explicit threat. He leans in towards the door. One of his hands is on the wall next to the door and another hand is on the door. Only half his face is visible. A small mirror on the wall next to the door shows only half of PHOEBE’s face.

PHOEBE
Why you here?

VI
Early release.

 

… [Click here to purchase a copy of the magazine]

Is This Part of the Play?

A Ten-Minute Comedy

Characters
Nic, Any Age or Gender
Olive, 40’s – 70’s, Female

Setting: The Audience, Right Before the Curtain Goes Up

 

I pray you.

~ William Shakespeare

 

(A theater. NIC is seated in the audience. OLIVE approaches NIC.
OLIVE seems hesitant. She looks around, and then –cautiously– sits
next to NIC. NIC notices her. They smile at her. OLIVE smiles back, but
it’s a weary smile. NIC goes back to looking at their program. A moment
passes. OLIVE can’t take it anymore.)

OLIVE
Is this part of the play?

(A beat. NIC turns to OLIVE.)

NIC
I’m sorry?

OLIVE
This. Is this part of the play?

(A moment.)

NIC
I don’t…understand the question?

OLIVE
Oh. Sorry. I get so nervous these days.

NIC
Nervous about what?

OLIVE
Well, theater is so different now. You go to see a play and they want you to walk through a maze or watch somebody make risotto, and then you have to eat the risotto, and it’s not seasoned properly. It used to be, you would walk in, take your seat, watch a play, and go home. Now, they want you to be afraid all the time.

NIC
Oh, you mean like immersive theater?

OLIVE
No, I’m talking about when the theater is all around you.

NIC
That’s–Right.

OLIVE
I like to ask ahead of time so I know what I’m getting myself into, but I forgot to call the box office, so now I’m nervous.

NIC
This isn’t immersive. It’s just a touring production of The Tempest.

OLIVE
Do you think they’ll come into the audience?

NIC
Uh. I’m not sure.

OLIVE
One time they came into the audience. They grabbed the woman next to me. Brought her up onstage. Never brought her back down.

NIC
She was probably a plant.

OLIVE
No, she was human. She had a bracelet on.

NIC
I mean, she was probably a part of the show.

OLIVE
She was when they brought her up onstage. They made her put on a clown nose and do jumping jacks. I would have died. Can you imagine? Jumping jacks? In front of other people? I’d sooner make love to my husband in front of his golfing buddies. Do you have any idea what I look like jumping up and down? I’ll spare you the image.

(A beat.)

NIC
That sounds–Yeah.

OLIVE
So I hope this is just a nice show without any of that nonsense.

NIC
I think it will be. These people are British. They never do anything fun.

OLIVE
British Shakespeare. God, I hope I can understand it.

NIC
You’ll be fine.

OLIVE
I wonder why they didn’t do the American version.

NIC
Well, it’s–a mystery, I guess.

OLIVE
My cousin John was in a Shakespeare play once. The one about the witch? The witches?

NIC
Oh, you mean–

OLIVE
Hamlet.

NIC
There aren’t any witches in Hamlet.

OLIVE
No, the mother was a witch.

NIC
Are you speaking figuratively or–?

OLIVE
No, she had on a long, black dress.

(A beat.)

That means she’s a witch.

NIC
Well, that’s–open to interpretation, I guess.

OLIVE
My cousin played the guy in the hole.

NIC
You mean the Gravedigger?

OLIVE
Yes.

NIC
Gotcha.

OLIVE
They couldn’t afford a real hole, because it was a small theater, so they painted a hole on the back wall and he stood in front of it.

NIC
Very creative.

OLIVE
Amazing how these people’s minds work. I never think of things like that.

NIC
Well, how often do you need to communicate to someone that you’re in a hole?

OLIVE
I’m never in a hole. I don’t like being underground.

NIC
Understandable.

OLIVE
I had a bad experience with a submarine once.

NIC
That sounds–Okay.

OLIVE
I’m Olive.

NIC
Nic.

OLIVE
You always come to the theater alone?

NIC
I prefer it, actually.

OLIVE
Why is that?

NIC
Because then you don’t have to talk to anybody.

(OLIVE laughs.)

OLIVE
You’re absolutely right. That’s why I don’t bring my husband.

NIC
How long have you been married?

OLIVE
Too long.

NIC
Well.

(A beat.)

OLIVE
You’re sure this isn’t part of the play?

NIC
I’m sure.

OLIVE
Because if you’re an actor, you’re very good.

NIC
I’m not an actor.

OLIVE
I respect what actors do. The arts are important.

NIC
Yes, they are, but–

OLIVE
You know what I bought my daughter in third grade? A ukulele.

(A beat.)

It’s good for kids.

NIC
Ukuleles?

OLIVE
Music.

NIC
Well. Yes.

OLIVE
She had no talent for it. Poor thing. She tried though.

NIC
That’s what’s important.

OLIVE
Is there music in this?

NIC
The play?

OLIVE
Yeah.

NIC
There probably will be. It’s Shakespeare, so–

OLIVE
They’re always putting music in plays where there isn’t supposed to be music. I don’t mind musicals, but if I’m seeing a play, I’m seeing a play. If I want to see a musical, I’ll see a musical. Most of these plays are long enough without anything extra.

NIC
That’s–Yeah.

(A beat.)

OLIVE
Listen, if you’re in the play–

NIC
Olive.

OLIVE
–I don’t mind, but just please don’t bring me up onstage. My eye shadow is a mess today. I’ll be mortified.

NIC
I’m not in the play.

OLIVE
But it’s fine if you are. I know if you are, you can’t say you are. It’s like the FBI, right? You have to keep it a secret.

NIC
I’m not in the play.

OLIVE
I’m very good at keeping secrets. My sister has been sleeping around on my brother-in-law for years, and I’ve never told a soul.

NIC
Good for you.

OLIVE
So if you’re in the play–

NIC
I’m not the play.

OLIVE
I’m just saying, if you are, it’ll be between you and me.

NIC
I–Thank you. I appreciate that.

(A beat. BOTH look at their programs.)

OLIVE
I just don’t know how you learn all those lines.

NIC
I don’t have any lines.

OLIVE
So it’s not a speaking part?

NIC
No, I–

OLIVE
I’m sure you were very good at the audition, and they just had a lot of people to choose from.

NIC
I never auditioned.

OLIVE
Sleeping with the director, huh? Just like my sister.

NIC
I’m not an actor.

OLIVE
You’re right. I’m sorry. A thespian.

NIC
I promise you, Olive, I am not in the play.

OLIVE
But if you were in the play, that’s exactly what you would say.

NIC
At this point, I think I would just confess. You’ve a very good interrogator.

OLIVE
It’s from all those years I spent in the BBC.

NIC
You mean MI6?

OLIVE
Who told you about M16?

NIC
You don’t even have a British accent.

OLIVE
I don’t believe in accents.

NIC
That’s–fine.

OLIVE
You know who uses accents?

NIC/OLIVE
Your sister? / My sister.

OLIVE
She talks like a Southern debutante. The woman’s never been below the Mason Dixon line. A total phony.

NIC
Maybe she’s been an actress this whole time?

(A moment.)

OLIVE
You know what? I never thought of that.

NIC
I was just–

OLIVE
That would make sense. These plays they do now? They go on and on. I wouldn’t be surprised if my whole life was a play.

NIC
Like The Truman Show?

OLIVE
Or Kennedy. Or Roosevelt. I wouldn’t say it’s just like Truman.

NIC
You–

OLIVE
But politics is theater, yes, that’s very astute of you to say.

NIC
We should probably focus on the show.

OLIVE
It hasn’t started yet.

NIC
No, but–

OLIVE
Or has it started? Is that what you’re trying to communicate to me?

NIC
No, I’m really just trying to, uh, end the conversation.

OLIVE
Trying to get in the right headspace before you do one of your little monologues, huh?

NIC
Sure, if that’s what you want to–Sure.

OLIVE
I get the same way right before I do yoga.

NIC
Great. So you understand?

OLIVE
I understand completely.

(The LIGHTS start to dim.)

I hope it’s not too long. Do you know how long it is?

NIC
I don’t.

OLIVE
Does it say in the program?

NIC
No, it–

OLIVE
I think the runtime is right under–

(OLIVE stands up.)

My name!

NIC
What–is happening?

OLIVE
(With a British accent.)
You have entered the world of the play, dear audience member!

NIC
Oh god, no.

OLIVE
Please–

NIC
No.

OLIVE
If you would–

NIC
No, no, no.

OLIVE
Join me onstage!

(SOUND OF AUDIENCE APPLAUSE.)

NIC
I should have gone to the movies.

 

End of Play

Manifestos

Singularity

In 1993, mathematician Vernor Vinge warned against the coming technological ‘singularity,’ an event he predicted would occur between 2005 and 2030. The event: basically, robots take over the world. Vinge felt ambivalent and said more or less this: The robots are coming, the robots are coming, the robots are almost here. I am excited for the robots and afraid of the robots the robots are almost here. The robots are almost here, my friend, the robots are almost here. The robots will do whatever we say the robots won’t do what we say. The robots are us until the robots aren’t us the robots are almost here. The future is coming close your eyes close your eyes the robots can almost hear. I bring news of the future the end is in sight all is afright the robots are almost here.

 

Transit Manifesto

1. The purpose of transit is transit.

2. Three transit zones exist: mechanical, perambulatory, and the collective line.

3. Each zone has rules. In the mechanical, one must think only of transit. Any deviation from thoughts of transit results in revocation of one’s mechanical transit pass. The purpose of transit is transit.

4. The purpose of transit is not consumption of food is not consumption of information is not pleasure the purpose of transit is transit.

5. Those in the collective line will be removed forcefully if impeding the movement of the collective line. Pretending one is not in a collective line is strictly forbidden.

6. The collective line can spring upon you at any moment. Do not be taken unawares by the collective line.

7. Creation of collective lines by standing before or behind another citizen is encouraged but only for the sake of transit not for personal revenge.

8. Collective lines are organic. Transit is organic. Transit is purpose.

 

Interestingly, the Vow of Chastity DOGMA 95 Manifesto

raises a heretofore undiscussed aspect of a good manifesto: it must be self-flagellating: The author of Manifesto X sees clearly that the power dynamic is broken and while author may have some power it’s meager as manifesto authors are never empowered they are on the short side of things. Author of Manifesto X must make himself Christlike via manifesto, must through Manifesto X show that he is willing to sacrifice his own humanity—empathy, including pleasure, most of all joy—in following the dictums of Manifesto X. Manifestos are composed by the sad muttering heirs of Zeno the madman as only words remain now that THE STOICS are gone; their pitiful descendants, upset at the state of the world, slap words together as a sad code for self-punishment, thinking that through personal suffering they will challenge the order of things…

 

…precisely as is seen in the Dinner Party Manifesto

1. A dinner party is not a ‘party.’

2. A dinner party is rather a competition with every other dinner party.

3. In advance, request dietary restrictions.

4. Then, insultingly, ignore them.

5. In the days leading to dinner party, make a time-plan: this dish then, clean this then, prep then.

6. Burn the list before significant other’s alarmed eyes.

7. It’s all just fun! insist to significant other.

8. Because: We’re going to win this thing together!

9. A bit of sensory imbalance and discomfort creates sensitive and open-minded

guests: Johnny Greenwood’s There Will Be Blood soundtrack
a too-strong scent of aromatherapy bergamot
welcome bags with Off! wipes

10. Instruct guests to, as you apply the finishing touches, go outside and behold the moonrise.

11. Provide there for them a tub with ice, alcohols, and raw potatoes.

12. Watch them from the kitchen window; shut it quickly when they look at you.

13. Serve the meal two hours after the announced time.

14. Make sure it’s bloody.

15. Tell them about the handfuls of MSG only after the meal.

16. Tell them that this dinner party, your dinner party, has the advantage of recency bias.

17. That, as it’s the season’s first dinner party, it also has the advantage of anchoring bias.

18. Throw your napkin down and cry out that you will never ever attend another dinner party!

19. Bow. Show them the exit. Never once ask their names.

 

Everyone Knows

Marinetti’s Futurism manifesto, which proves the hypothesis that a manifesto is by nature hysterical. As in this line:

Smell,” I exclaimed, “smell is good enough for wild beasts!

Etc. A manifesto is a bit like Viktor Frankenstein in the midst of one of his mad passions, always fainting, far too frequently employing questionable metaphorical language. A little violent, existing in opposition to established orders. A manifesto goes on too long. A manifesto is not meant to be funny at all yet is fucking hilarious. A manifesto is written after midnight drunk with friends and is forgotten until whoops social media alerts the next day. A manifesto is an angry teenager who blares Cat Stevens’s “Father and Son” behind locked doors. A manifesto is a little tired. A manifesto is so glad for summer vacation. A manifesto looks back from time to time and thinks, Wow, what an asshole I was! And it is in a layered gray pajamaed ambivalence of nostalgia, regret, fondness, and shame that manifesto climbs into bed each night, leans over, kisses significant other on the cheek, and lies back, wishing the ceiling weren’t there, that sky and space and stars in all their darkness were visibly rushing in raucous still silence above.

 

Then of course there’s the SCUM MANIFESTO

In which, prior to shooting Warhol, Valerie Solanas shared these amongst many lines:

Maleness is a deficiency disease.
He is at best an utter bore, an inoffensive blob.
He is trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes.
He’s a machine, a walking dildo.
Every man, deep down, knows he’s a worthless piece of shit.
Just think of what you could do with 80 trillion dollars — invest it!
And in three years time you’d have 300 trillion dollars!!!
Actual fact: the female function is to relate, groove, love and be herself.
The male function is to produce sperm.
(the ultimate male insight is that life is absurd)
Sex is a gross waste of time.
Life, an utter bore.
SCUM wants to grab some thrilling living for itself.
SCUM is too impatient to wait for the de-brainwashing of millions of assholes.
Eventually SCUM will take over the airwaves.

SCUM will couple-bust — barge into couples, wherever they are, and bust them up. SCUM will conduct Turd Sessions, at which every male present will give a speech beginning with the sentence: `I am a turd, a lowly abject turd.’
If SCUM ever strikes, it will be in the dark with a six-inch blade.

Thusly we learn that a manifesto can in fact be a mad cry in the darkness a hot burning flame a match struck this this is wrong this is so wrong wrong wrong here I proclaim what would be righter maybe also wrong but at least a little righter than this abject bullshit motherfucking turd unfairness this utter dehumanizing inequity. A manifesto doesn’t even know that all about in the darkness there are other burning flames. A manifesto is so alone that a manifesto doesn’t know that it is not alone because in its heart of hearts a manifesto is a written thing written by a writer in a dark room alone in her mind screaming (silently) against darkness her skin aflame (screaming) and perhaps we might reach out and give comfort but no, we can’t, too hot, have to let her screaming burn.

 

Neoliberal Aurelian Grocery Shopping Manifesto begins

Oh, wow, are your days numbered.

 

Meetings Manifesto

• The focus should not be on fear of the “what if” scenario if we don’t hold meetings, but to focus on building meetings to improve them

• Definitions and roles are defined by Position Description Questionnaires (PDQs)

• The formula for determining roles may not be one that can be applied to everyone

• Professionally, certain titles do matter

• How we define meeting roles may be based on intelligence quotient, velocitation, or other metrics or factors

• Definitions of roles should also clearly specify summer advising expectations

• Prior to meetings, units should meet first to define their own affinity groups to create opportunities for collaborative team-building exercises at subsequent meetings

• Meetings could help us be more distinctive

• Meetings should focus on improving experiences and success

• To help with meetings we need to look at comparable models

• The activity of thinking about how meetings can be interdisciplinary should certainly be on the first half of the agenda

• So much more flexible with meetings offerings

• Meetings should begin with recitation of roles followed by meetings offerings

• Meetings should address specific problems stake-holders need to resolve (e.g., increasing follow-up meetings) and if meetings cannot resolve these specific problems, meetings about how meetings need to be realigned with meetings can be had, based on this evidence

 

Pizza Manifesto #37

All pizza is perfectly fine food.
But not all pizza is good pizza.

 

A Manifesto

Does not laugh.

Does not listen.

Is as deep as it is shallow.

Complains and proclaims.

Is masculine at heart.

Is one more terrible written in the face of all the more terrible.

Even as it is born it rejects and wishes to inflict suffering.

Is pleased with all the coming ends of things.

Wants to eat its father.

Shouts and shouts even as it begins to suspect that no one is listening.

Goes on too long.

Doesn’t ever learn that there’s no point in arguing.

Doesn’t understand that a person is not a people.

Is so lonely.

 

Even More Essentially,

a manifesto is an articulated desire for freedom in an age of imposed constraint. In 1776, the American colonies published the Declaration of Independence Manifesto. In 1812, Simón Bolívar published the Cartagena Manifesto. 1848 Communist, 1850 Anarchist. In 1965, consumer advocate Ralph Nader subverted the manifesto form by publishing the anti-manifesto Unsafe at Any Speed, articulating a desire for imposed constraint in a time of freedom. The year prior, 1964, conceptual artist Stanley Brouwn published the Short Manifesto. It’s got 96 words, so it’s not really that short. In it, Brouwn writes things like, “When science and art are entirely melted together,” and “people will have lost their remembrance and thus will have no past, only future,” and “they will live in a world of only colour, light, space, time, sounds, and movement…[all] will be free.” Come on. It is abundantly clear that Brouwn did not overly consider his assertions. A people with no past and no memory is a people who have not suffered and people who have not suffered cannot empathize and people who cannot empathize are not humane and Brouwn supported being humane. Science and art will not entirely melt into one. Gross. A people who don’t need others aren’t people, they are a person. A person is not a people. You cannot bestow freedom on Space as Space is free. As light is free.

Oh, Stanley.

 

An Alternative Short Manifesto: The Holiday Party Manifesto

There is nothing more or less ironic than a deviled egg.

 

Perhaps in Fact a Manifesto

is everything ever written or spoken? Perhaps a manifesto is in fact all communication, every plea and exclamation, every careful or indignant assertion? An I-hit-my-shin-against-the-bed-frame manifesto. An I-would-like-a-large-#9-combo-meal manifesto. A No-one-by-that-name-lives here-manifesto. An I-wonder-many-good-movies-Don-Draper-has-been-in manifesto. A What-is-the-root-of-the-Azerbaijan-Armenia-conflict manifesto. A What-is-going-on-with-this-weird virus manifesto. A When-will-this-presidential-race-be-over manifesto. A When-will-we-get back-to-normal manifesto. A What-even-was-normal manifesto. A Despite-it-all-Good-morning,- Lovely, manifesto. Last-night-was-quite-nice, manifesto. Wasn’t-it, manifesto.

 

Or, Alternately,

Is a book a manifesto? Is a manifesto a book? Or is: a book-is-a-manifesto manifesto. Is every book a manifesto? Is this a manifesto? Is a manifesto deep or is a manifesto shallow? Does a manifesto resound or is it a wee bit tinny? Is there even a new manifesto? Or is every manifesto already written? Are we just stumbling in darkness with our hands out groping after manifesto after manifesto? Are we lost in space, surrounded by dark matter manifestos? IS THIS MANIFESTO A DARK MATTER? Is it the type of manifesto to make a sound like Whoosh? like the deep sound of spinning in space? like all the sound was there a moment ago, all about you and in your mind, and Whoosh, now all the sound is gone, all is gone, the Whoosh Manifesto in which the future seems suddenly unstable and bleak and scary, but does anyone even hear this manifesto?