story-zine

Shoutout to poly people!
  • Hey! I'm looking to collect some stories for a little zine that will preceed my zine on understanding polyamory for the monogamous. It's going to be called "Why am I poly" and be a collection of short writings on why people are polyamorus. The zine is intended to be used as a tool to help monogamous people understand why someone would want to be poly, as well as help other poly people connect with other members of the community.
  • Please, if you are interested, send me a few paragraphs on why you are polyamarous. Include your name if you want that included, or let me know if you want to remain anonynous.
  • Thanks!
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I just finished this project, and am gonna have these buddies with me at CZF this weekend!

It’s an audio cassette/zine bundle: I asked friends to tell me stories, and I asked if I could record them telling them. What resulted is 13 true-life stories told by 13 different people, all compiled onto a tape for you to listen to.

The accompanying zine includes 120mm portraits of all the storytellers (taken on the day of the story’s recording), and information on them to follow along with as you listen.

There are stories about ballet teachers, jail time, rabies shots, bad parenting, paranormal experiences, tour escapades, dance contests, and more.

Storytellers are: Samantha Cohen, Jared Larson, Michelle Ravit, Sarah Ayton, Alan Resnick, Dee Addario, April Rose, Dylan Taylor, Matt Ross, Simon Thrasher, Kate Larson, Jordaan Mason, and Dustin Lamberta.

I think it’s a really great collection! It’s sort of like an audio book: perfect for car rides, a day inside, a stroll with your walk(wo)man, etc.

Each tape is hand-stamped with gold ink, and runs 98 minutes long, in a numbered edition of 50.

Tape duplication by SUPERCRUSH tapes. 
www.supercrushtapes.com

Dictionary Stories by Jez Burrows

A zine of very short stories composed entirely of example sentences from the New Oxford American Dictionary for some reason. For some reason a lot of people seem to die in these stories, but this is mostly accidental.

Composed and designed by American graphic designer and illustrator Jez Burrows

Keep reading

Issue 1 Now Online

Finally, what we believe to be the first dark web literary magazine is now online and ready for reading! In this issue you can look forward to:

Editors’ Note

Fiction

The Breakfast Room, by Peter Conlin
Chapter Nine of The United States of Air, by J.M. Porup
Shadowbook, by Miriam Rasch

Poetry

Two Poems, by Alissa Quart
Snowfall, by Vance Osterhout

Non-fiction

Disruptive anti-fraud artivism – Digital art exposing Internet scammers, by KairUs (Linda Kronman and Andreas Zingerle)
Misusing the Master’s Tools: Exploring the Capacity to Break from Prescriptive Use, by Nathanael Bassett

Interested? You can find it all here:

http://toristinkirir4xj.onion/the-torist-issue-1-goes-live/

Enjoy!

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The Walk, Page 4 - 7


“Did you see the sky?” Eric pointed to the sky.


“You mean the Moon?”


“No, that’s the Earth. ” Eric pointed down to where we stood. “This is the Moon.”



*     *     *

5" x 4", one-color-risograph-printed and hand-bond in Taiwan, signed and numbered, edition of 22. 


Buy The Walk: 

Etsy (US and international) | 給孤獨者書店 Anathapindika Books (Taiwan)


*     *     *

Official Site | Behance | Instagram

"You.” -Gabby Diekhoff

This is the expanded version of Gabby Diekhoff’s story “You”, featured in Clitorally Issue #4.

Dear You,
            1:30 P.M: October 1st, 2015

           I found an old journal entry a few days ago. It was torn from the seams of its notebook and stuck in a drawer that held more “personal” things like photographs and extra condoms and it smelled of envelopes and latex dipped in cigarette ash. The ink from the gel pen it was written with was smudged as if I’d run my thumb over it while it was still wet but I knew that I hadn’t done that because I was always careful to not do that. The corners of the page were curling, too, and brown. I bet I spilled coffee on it at some point.
           The beginning of the entry was boring. In fact, I kind of hated it. I think I was trying to write more poetically than I should have been, which is odd, because usually I’m not poetry’s biggest fan. It opened with something along the lines of “It was unexpected, the kind of accidental love that you trip and fall into; his teeth pressed to mine for the first time yet his words were still committed to someone else,” and then I tried to say that we didn’t mean for that to happen, we didn’t mean for any of it to happen, yada, yada, yada. It was juvenile and it followed that pattern as I retold stories of our adventures together, me and him, and how we would “weave in and out of the colored bungalows, both agreeing that our favorite was the sky blue one with the porch and pale yellow shutters, worn and shabby but charmingly so,” or how “Hand in hand we’d stop to pet a stray cat and still be on that same square of sidewalk 30 minutes later, already too attached to the cat to let it go.” Memories like this were stretched across the page in a hurried half-cursive, half-print. It seemed everything was so fairytale-like when we were together, and I wrote over and over again, “I couldn’t be happier than I am in this moment.”
But then I guess I remembered how much I liked to be alone. And in my aloneness I would ponder Her and what it would be like to weave in and out of the bungalows with her. And we would have our own, sky blue with pale yellow shutters and a porch sagging beneath the weight of all our potted plants. And “the air was ripe with autumn’s rotting aroma” and “her cheeks are wind-kissed pink and mine are, too, and she kisses mine and we giggle like 13 year old girls at their first middle school dance,” would You like to dance?
And the next thing I know “She’s smiling and leading me with her hand, it’s still cold and dry, almost chalky, but it’s comforting, up the stairs and into the bedroom, our bedroom. And now we’re kissing and nibbling and touching, our hands are exploring the valleys of each other’s being and we love each other with more passion than the heat of a million suns, and I fall asleep, my head on her bare chest. And I’m comfortable.” And I wrote again and again, “I couldn’t be happier than I am in this moment.”
Anyway, I think the entry was written for You but I didn’t know who You were yet. I hadn’t met You yet.  



Dear You,

            2:04 P.M: October 5th, 2015
           Today has not been…ideal…to say the least. In fact, today has been nothing short of a never-ending act in the up and coming play, “Wow, Life is Kind of a Shit Show,” starring: me.
I guess “today” actually began last night when I told Him I was going to study at a coffee shop on the opposite side of town. “Why all the way over there?” He asked. And I said because it’s the coziest shop in the city and their chamomile is only $2 and it comes with unlimited refills. Oh, and that I liked their used garage sale-esc mugs. “So I’ll go with you,” he suggested, “I have to get groceries for dinner anyway.” His hand was on my knee now. “Pancakes and sausage, right?” I shifted my weight and shrugged his hand from my knee. His hand hung in the air before he fidgeted with a thread dangling from his sweater.
“Well, OK…yeah. That’s fine, I guess.” I considered saying that it would be out of his way or somehow inconvenient for him to accompany me, but protesting on my part would have raised some eyebrows (which he desperately needed to pluck, by the way).
I told Her I had taken the wrong bus and was stranded across the city in front of a Target and could we meet 40 minutes later than planned? and I’m so sorry. She said that was fine and that she was running late anyway.

      3:16 P.M:
      I went grocery shopping with him. I picked out soups and vegetables and some seasonal tea flavors like gingerbread and pumpkin cookie. The cashier rang up the items and the total came to $187. I winced. He reached into his wallet and pulled out $200 in cash. Yes, he said, he did want to donate the change to the co-op. No, he didn’t want a receipt. The cashier thanked us halfheartedly and read my tee shirt. He said he liked that band, too.
We passed pumpkins on the out the door. They were perfectly orange and perfectly shaped; ideal pumpkins that you wished you could carve as a kid but somehow you always got one that was yellowing and covered in warts and eventually you learned to prefer that kind. He asked me if I wanted one. I said no, thanks. He asked me if I wanted a ride to the coffee shop. I said no, thanks, I’ll walk and it’s nice outside and maybe I’ll find a dog to pet.
I didn’t come across any dogs.

     4:28 P.M:
     I got there and She wasn’t there. Or, maybe she was and I just couldn’t recognize her because you know what they say about people looking different on the internet, or whatever. I ordered my chamomile with the $2 that were in my back pocket. I was fairly certain they belonged to Him but they were all I had aside from a few nickels. He wouldn’t miss a couple of bucks anyway.
I walked up the stairs to the back of the shop. They creaked below my feet and I wondered if it was because I was fat and then I got mad at myself for thinking poorly of myself. Tea splashed on my lap. It burned but I let it simmer. The bell hanging above the door jingled a few times, could this be her? so I tussled my hair and made it look like I was doing something other than waiting.
“Hi, I’m good, how are you?” a singsong voice responded to the barista. I’d never heard Her voice but part of me hoped this wasn’t hers, it was too cutesy and airbrushed like those pumpkins at the store.
I waited another moment. I was relieved to find the voice didn’t belong to her.

    4:45 P.M:
    Finally, “Hey! Before I order I’m just gonna make sure the person I’m meeting is here…” This was a steely voice, vaguely raspy, but not in the gross cigarette commercial way, more in the “I was chewing peppermint gum and sucked in a breath of cold air” way. Heels on the stairs followed. Boots, maybe? A flash of black and blue turned the corner. “Hi…”
“Oh, hey!” Why did I sound surprised why do people always intentionally sound surprised when they’re expecting something? I think I was supposed to shake her hand, maybe. I didn’t.
She sat down. “How’s it going?”
She was terrifying. I was terrified. I felt my cheeks flush and I rushed to cover them with my sweater sleeves that were so obviously constructed for a man six times my height and weight. I wanted to stop staring at her, Jesus I am a creep, but I couldn’t look away. She was terrifying and dark, so dark, but in a way that’s beautiful, strikingly so, and sharp. I imagined if she were a country she would be Iceland. What would I be?
           She spilled soup on her skirt and I gained control over my breathing. Her hands were shaky like mine. A chunk of tofu from the bowl bounced off her thigh and landed silently beside my shoe. I glanced at it and said nothing. She said she had to use the restroom (already?) so she did and when she came back we talked about everything we could come up with in our two hours. I referenced my book “642 Things to Write About” that I always used to propel myself through otherwise uncomfortable social situations. It was full of random, prying questions. I asked her if she would rather be a rock star or win the Nobel Peace Prize. To my delight, she chose “be a rock star” without hesitation and she twisted a strand of her liquid black hair around her finger. I looked at her fingers and fingernails. They weren’t as perfectly manicured as I had expected. She had chewed them, I could tell because I chew mine and try to mask the nubbiness with polish but it is an ineffective tactic.

     6:21 P.M:
     She asked me if my parents knew. Had I told them??? “No…” and I explained my family situation. “Family situation” makes it sound more severe than it is. My parents are conservative and they do asshole things like disowning my brother for having a child out of wedlock and they like to criticize my appearance on a day to day basis, but they have never physically beaten me or anything. Anyway. I explained and she understood. She said that that made her sad and that her parents were very liberal and accepting. Telling her parents was never an issue.



Dear You,

           She drove me back to His apartment last night. I told her to drop me off in a parking lot that I knew was out of sight of his place. I don’t think she thought anything of it. She pulled into the lot. I didn’t really want to get out because her car smelled like honey and sugar cookies and I thought I caught traces of acrylic paints, too. I liked it.
           She faced me. “So.” A half smile. A smirk. I saw it twitching on her lips, a ribbon refusing to curl.
           “So,” I countered. Maybe I should say more… I gnawed my lip. “That was super fun…” (silence) “I really enjoyed talking to you and getting to know you and” – A full blown smile, now. I wished my smile looked like that – She interrupted me.
           “I really like you.”
           I stared at my feet and nodded and I thought about her smile pressed to my cheek, those lips pressed to my cheek, and then I thought about Him; he was probably making our pancakes right now and he probably had the candles lit and he had probably done my laundry and made the bed. I plucked a piece of lint from my pants and a cold sweat pricked under my arms. “I like you, too.” This was rushed. Slow down. “Come hang out with me again soon. I’ll be out of town this weekend, though. Thanks for the ride.” I didn’t know if she wanted to kiss me or hug me or whatever so I just opened the door and waved and walked home.

       7:44 P.M:
           My head is spinning.



Dear You,

      8:30 P.M:
           Our pancakes were O.K. The recipe sucked a little bit, but I guess that’s what we get for snagging vegan recipes from Google. The fake sausage was better than average, though. I was stabbing mine with my fork and He was watching me from the sides of his eyes. He’s too nervous to look me directly on. The air between us was humming and it told me so.
           “Hey…What’s wrong?” His voice quavered. Why can’t he face situations like these without impending fits of hysteria?
           “Nothing.” And I pretended to be preoccupied with the syrup that was gripping the webs between my fingers. At least they smelled like apple cinnamon now. He continued to stare so I elaborated; I told him I couldn’t catch my breath and that school had me stressed and my anxiety was acting up. I’m bored. I wanted to say it but the words were coiled behind my tongue. I’m so, so bored. I’m suffocating. He pretended to buy into my lies but the pretending was obviously pretending. I suggested we watch a horror movie. “Sleepaway Camp?”
           He was all for it. Tongue in cheek 80’s horror was his favorite.
           We laughed at all of the ridiculous death scenes in the film, our favorites being the pervert chef who was boiled alive and the bully of a camper that drowned and became a late-night snack for the water snakes. The final scene of the movie is perhaps the best I’ve ever seen. I won’t spoil it for You, though. Just watch it.

      10:20 P.M:
           As the credits rolled my laughter died out. He asked if I was tired and I said yes and “I’ll sleep here tonight” and he stood up, blew out the candle, and walked silently into the bedroom, our bedroom. The door clicked shut a few minutes later.
         

     10:44 P.M:
           I had a text from Her. For an hour I laid there and texted her and thought about her and the vibrant blue of her bangs and how it matched her eyes so accordingly.  “Blue is my color,” she had said (moments after she had dumped soup on her skirt) and I could see why. I would say something about her eyes being ocean-like or reminiscent of thousands of crystals reflecting on the glass surface of a lagoon, but I think those comparisons are tacky, and her eyes hold so much more than an ocean or crystals could ever represent or even hope to capture. It’s kind of like when you try to take a picture of the full moon on your iPhone.
         
    11:01 P.M:
           The shower turned on behind the closed door. Aside from that, the apartment was silent. He was awake and I knew it was my fault but I went in the bathroom anyway and asked him through the cloud of steam why he was up, “what’s wrong?” He shook his head and said he just “felt like taking a shower.” I perched myself on the toilet seat and watched his blurred silhouette through the frosted glass. That must be how I’ve appeared to him, lately. He turned the faucet to its maximum temperature, buried his face in his hands, and stood stagnant as the water hit him.
           The shower door opened. “Did I do something wrong?”
           I said of course not and that I was just “confused” and when he asked what I was confused about I held his stare in silence and he nodded and closed the shower door.
As I crawled into bed, our bed, I could hear him sobbing above the water. I wanted to sleep but I also wanted to throw up or press a lit cigarette to the inside of my wrist.
A few minutes later he was lying beside me. His sobs shook the bed and his tears were wetting the sheets that he had just washed that evening while I was out “studying.” And then I heard him whisper and I felt it on my neck. “I love you.” A sob. “So much.” He thought I was asleep but he had said it anyway and that was enough.
I turned over and cried silently. He thought I was asleep.

    12:48 A.M:
I’ll be dreaming of Her.
I’ll be dreaming of You.

                                                                                                                       -Me.

DEADLINE EXTENDED! Submit to Mixed Up, the Mixed Race Queer & Feminist Zine Vol. II

Hey loves!

There’s still time to share yr stories of kitchen magic and remedy for MRQF Vol. II. Submissions are due by March 1, 2016. 

Check out the full call for submissions below!

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / /


What Brings You to the Kitchen Table?

Mixed Up, the Mixed Race Queer & Feminist Zine
Volume II Call for Submissions!

Are you…
…mixed race?
…not able to fit into normative color/gender boxes and angry about it?
…tired of people shaping your story for you?
…a foodie??

Do you…
…come from a mixed cultural background/household that includes non-white experience?
…love and identify with the food from your bloodlines/roots/cultures?  
wish you knew how to cook like both sides of the fam?

…………..And what happens when you add gender, feminism, and queerness into the mix?!?

Mixed Up Volume II is simmering away, but is still missing one crucial ingredient: YOU! The first volume of the Mixed Race Queer & Feminist (MRQF) Zine was a heart-filled, overflowing grab-bag covering a broad spectrum of queer and feminist mixed-race experiences and narratives (link below!). For this second volume of the zine, we are excited to announce a special focus on food: how we’ve learned to nourish ourselves, how we come to the table while healing wounds to get there, how cooking shapes and manifests our intersecting identities, and how we connect to heritage and ancestors through eating (together). Food-centered rituals are passed down, recreated, recovered and remixed over time. The dishes we dream of, what we eat after long stressful days, and the snacks we offer to our loved ones all tell a story. These acts and rituals are rooted in survival. And as mixed folks, we often approach these experiences with a distinct lens. We challenge you to gather stories, recipes, medicinal remedies, your ancestral and indigenous modes of healing; to meet with your elders and community members; and to learn and record what you’ve been meaning to. This is your opportunity!

Here are some prompts to get your creative juices flowing:
What memories and imagery are conjured up by the kitchen?  
What sights, scents and sensations bring comfort and connection?
What is sacred and what is charged about spaces (counters, floors, dining tables, stoops) where food is shared with family (kin or chosen)?
What role does food/kitchen magic/remedy play in your healing/self-care?
How does food play a medicinal role in the life of your community?
What are some indigenous remedies that have been passed on in your family?
What do we do when familial/familiar ingredients are not available or not affordable?
How has poverty or displacement impacted your relationship to food?
What knowledge has been retained through the generations and what has been lost, and why?
What does passing on/reshaping tradition mean to you?

While we are open to traditional zine mediums (poetry, fiction, visual art), we encourage you to think beyond! We would love to receive recipes, either by themselves or accompanied by a piece; and interviews with family. We are committed to amplifying voices of folks who are indigenous, disabled, POC on “both sides,” Black, transfeminine specifically and trans broadly, queer, survivor, and mixed-race.

The deadline for submissions is March 1, 2016.

Please send submissions to mrqfzine@gmail.com. Send all text submissions in both .doc(x) AND .pdf format (yes, both for each submission, please!), images in .jpg format, and other media in the format you deem appropriate. Please include a brief (2-3 sentence) bio along with your submission.

Looking forward to your art and recipes, healing and stories!

Love,

Your Bay Area MRQF V2 editors – Amir, Caro, Emiliano, Lindsey, Lior & Tatiana

Get updates at http://mrqfzine.tumblr.com andhttps://www.facebook.com/mrqfzine.

Check out the first edition athttp://issuu.com/poczineproject/docs/mixedup_2013_rev.

8

This blog post is a little slow, a little late. Sorry about that.

In 2015, I released something like 400 pages worth of comics and drawings and writing*.

Plans We Made, my first graphic novel, was published by Uncivilized Books after a successful Kickstarter in the Spring. I was staggered that so many people would be interested in taking a chance on my work. I’m really proud of the book, and it’s been getting some nice reviews.

I released three more issues of SMOO after an 18 month gap. I also started a zine subscription service, making all my zines at home, printing, folding, stapling and trimming them myself. I released three more zines of stories and drawings, and a split zine of comics by Jason Martin and by me.

I sold my work at Toronto Comic Arts Festival, Crouch End Comic Arts Festival, Safari, the Lakes International Comic Arts Festival and Thought Bubble. I also co-organised the Bristol Comic and Zine Fair.

Then, in December I drew my ongoing series, SMOO, to a close with the release of issue ten and set about thinking of new ways to make and share my comics.

Oh, and we got a cat.

It was a productive and fun year, artistically. But it has also felt like a funny year.

Keep reading

2

The Walk, Page 8 - 11


02


“How long do you think it takes to walk there?”


“Yes.” Eric said. “Where the real life is.”


“It’s gonna be a long and cold walk.” I said. “We should bring your pudding with us.”


“The pudding with be cold, too.”


“We can cuddle to stay warm.”


Eric smiled and squeezed my hand.


“We have to cuddle hard then.”



*     *     *

5" x 4", one-color-risograph-printed and hand-bond in Taiwan, signed and numbered, edition of 22.


You can purchase The Walk at:


Etsy (US and international) | 給孤獨者書店 Anathapindika Books (Taiwan)


*     *     *

Official Site | Behance | Instagram

Zine 01: East Hollywood Story

First of 3 spotlights on the zines that I will be selling at this years L.A. Zinefest. This one is called East Hollywood Story, based on my portfolio (that can be found here) featuring photographs from one of the neighborhoods that I grew up in. Coming up tomorrow, a preview of my Pedestrian Zine!

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The post Zine 01: East Hollywood Story appeared first on The Los Angeles Recordings.


from Zine 01: East Hollywood Story