#why i flat out cannot read literary magazines

[whentheynameyoujoy]

Sometimes I wonder if literary critics are aware how extremely easy it is for a reader to tell the difference between a critic who’s simply presenting arguments as to why a book is bad, regardless of how rude they are about it, and one who uses other people’s work as a reason to launch into a wordy tirade of contempt meant to demonstrate one’s own cleverness.

[megacrashcourse]

Press Roundup for Periodic Boyfriends

Analog Science Fiction & Fact: "The land of the dead, like the realm of the microscopic, may be invisible to the naked eye, but it’s still there." (interview)

Chelsea Community News: "The poems run the gamut from sneakily humorous to outright hilarity to loss and longing, and sometimes encompass all of the above in a single entry."

CultureSonar: "...a masterpiece of love, lust, loss, and acceptance."

Full House Literary: "This collection of poetry should be on your must read list."

GCN: "...strangely beautiful in its resolve."

Highland Park Poetry: "Pisarra is skilled at emulating the classic moves of the Shakespearean sonnet, deploying enjambment to dazzle his audience..."

John V’s Eclectic Avenue: "...eloquent and masterfully constructed sonnets."

Loch Raven Review: "Much like punk culture, the most provocative, daring, and honest art often comes from the LGBT+ community. Periodic Boyfriends is no exception to this rule."

The London Grip: "Rabelaisian, witty, wistful and intelligent, Drew Pisarra’s poems are a delight to read."

Misfit Magazine: "Pisarra has written a one-of a kind collection of gay 'love poems' that even a straight person can love."

Modern Literature: "...there is no time better than now for reading this voluptuous collection of sensual poetry."

Modern Literature (part 2): "Why do you always write about sex?" (interview)

Ocean State Review:  "If you want to celebrate pride by reading something by a queer author that will make you laugh, gasp, and give you what the kids call 'the feels', and make you go, 'Huh? Huh!', then I highly recommend it."

Other Terrain: "The humanness of this collection is striking, that cannot be understated."

Out in Print: "These poems exist beyond their origins, all 118 of them." Ovunque Siamo: "Pisarra shows not only a keen understanding of chemistry theory and poetic craft, but of psychology and human relationships. These poems are, by turns, incisive, beautiful, salacious, wistful, and flat-out entertaining." (not online)

Penumbra Journal of Literature and Art: "The work is sexual and heady, but brings much more than that to the table the deeper one reads."

Sacred Chickens: "​It’s a rare writer who can combine laughter and tragedy, light and darkness, not only in the same poem, but in the same sentence. Drew Pisarra is that writer."

Vagabond City: "Pisarra’s poetry playfully explores a wide swath of experiences and feelings, making the collection’s specific vision all the more impressive and admirable."

The Washington Blade: "...like hanging out on a summer’s night with the acclaimed queer poet Frank O’Hara and Dorothy Parker."

Your Impossible Voice: "Everything changed for me once I’d experienced Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers." (interview)

[victorusolano]

FYD Series

It was one evening of summer. Anyone's skin can be steamed when exposed to the open air of the night. There, perched like a bird on his writing desk, contemplating seriously in a small dimly lit room was - Xenon. His family was all disturbed by the climate condition, so they went out of town to some nearby beach resorts. Xenon on his volition stayed alone, in which he likely enjoyed making love with the old typewriter resting in a great silence. He thought that this is what he needs to write a story tonight and the deadline of his paper is tomorrow before the sunset.

Two weeks ago, the writing task was assigned to him, by the chief editor of the literary magazine he is working with; and till this night it had remained untouched, and unmarked, though the time left was enough to say generously to finish one short story. However, catching up the race between him, and the ongoing moments is now useless. Words and meanings ran away and went to a place nowhere to be found. I should eat a dictionary, He murmured to himself. He took a glance at the old wall clock and looked away at the open window, stared blankly across the survey of height and to the dark space outside.

When he reconciled his thoughts; he gave a sweeping look at the old pictures of the family photos and old framed certificates of academic achievements of writing contests. He nailed his attention to a class picture of his college.

It was before the day of graduation; like a dreamy shot, his recollections swirled in a throwback changing a milieu; a trance to a memory. He can even smell the old odor of the room where he was in the picture: the blackboard with the doodle half-erased drawings of impish boyhood, girls prepping up in a rush as the bell rang when the class was announced dismissed. “Wait for me at the powder room, just need to fix this” the president of the class pointed at the board trying so hard to erase the drawings. “Come on here now Xenon!” The tall pale boy invited him to take his place for picture taking along the corridor. The boys, in a disorganized choreography, set themselves like a tableau; rowdy as they were. They were teasing, joking, thumping in harsh horseplay. “It's the last day!” Declared joyfully of one of the boys.

His consciousness lurched back into reality like a warp of time; he put his palm on his face. Now, he began carelessly to at least write something. The editor will kill him flat tomorrow; I need to finish at least one tonight.

He took a glance at the old wall clock which struck exactly twelve-thirty midnight. He returned to his writing desk, wiped out apple cores and peels, and decided to transcribe anything that comes first into his mind, a short story must be short and should have a story, he said to himself. But what story should I write? desperate he was, hope suddenly became absent; tomorrow I'm dead! Misfortune has taken its form now: all he accomplished about writing have flown away, he began to think that all structures of narratives are bogus, workshops and seminars he attended are all hoaxes. No formula could teach someone how to write. He then remembered a book called Under The…  What? It’s something ahm… He tried it with difficulty to remember. Suddenly, he remembered Tree - then he told himself, all writing may be divided into two groups, good writing, and bad writing; good books come out of good writing while bad writing produces failures, again and again, he scanned the line like an X-ray of that passage from a book which was a foreword by RK. A failure He exclaimed silently; not even of Montes’ Of Fish… and etcetera, What would I be writing about dogs or flies? Then he recalled Peter's Touch Move. I am no longer a kid! That conviction made him more worried there, he is now sure that a block along the streamlines of thoughts is hampering him to be productive and creative. No is now a strong resistance, to be Noel’s Games is something, and to finish a writing task today is a different thing. He remembered it all well; call me Tina or Fanny – No one calls me! He snorted.

It was almost three in the morning and no matter how hard he tried to have an idea and flood an ink in the paper, it just equated to frustration. A scrap of papers had been spilling off the bin and onto the floor, so he decided to take a walk outside for a while and jog. The objective of his motivation was like a plan, he thought that maybe he needed to activate an endorphin from his brain, in a matter of two minutes he got changed his clothes, he wore that unlaundered navy blue jersey shorts, he wore the other day; he paired it with a billowy old white cotton shirt, and put on his ash-colored rubber shoes which was a birthday gift, and went to the plaza.

He went on jogging around the track field. Quickly, it made him asphyxiated on the sixth round, but he decided to run two more and two rounds of walk to complete the set; good enough for an hour jog today he thought. Thirsty as he was, he wanted to look for water, so he went to an all-day convenience store to quench his dried throat. “Good morning!” a sweet greeting of the store staff, he smiled back and padded to the panel doors of chillers; grabbed a bottle of water, he opened it right away and in a spur-of-the-moment, he drank it all without thinking that he hadn't paid it yet; he remembered, so he went to the counter, and scanned the bottle, he grabbed some chips, and instant coffee, pay the total, and left.

At the park, He again tried to process what was going on with him. The situation of being a writer seemed to change from what he has believed for the past years; beginning from his aspiration to be a writer someday which now has been achieved. Now is a challenge against himself, am I just being lazy? He rebuked the thought hastily, laziness is a big word, he would like to think that he is more of a selective participant rather than being the word lazy… these thoughts wire loomed in his mind. He walked toward a wooden bench at the park but at that moment, an answer did not come; he decided to sit for a moment while looking at the cadastral and being engulfed by the tranquility. When suddenly an old man spoke, “What are you looking at?” the old man asked, breaking the silence. Astounded Xenon was; as he did not realize the presence of the old man sitting next to him at all before. Xenon tried to find a complete grasp of how it could happen?

“Nothing sir” he answered back at an instant without an inch of hesitation.

“Thinking?”

“No, sir”

“What exactly do you have in your mind and how would you like to describe it, before you sit here beside me?” The old man asked. “Well I am thinking of so many things, I am thinking of my article, a short story of some sort, it’s my deadline today, and I need to submit it this afternoon” Xenon responded as if caught in a corner with the question.

“Excuse me, sir - you've been here all the while?”

“Yes”

“I… did not see you’re here, I am sure of that!”

“Well I am exactly”

“Exactly? like how? I’m sorry sir!”

The old man gave him an artificial laugh before he uttered another word. “There so many things we trouble so much in this life – we don’t see now details of why we’re here or how did we get there, time runs too fast, we don’t see that - I like this place,” An eminent pause before Xenon was able to respond, “I'm sorry for the intrusion, sir!” What he wanted to mean in that is like a stop.

“Are you alone or waiting for someone? I'll just then look at another bench around.”

“No,” the old man said.

Without a second the old man said, “You can sit here, I don't own it anyway - I am the same, like you…” he turned a look to Xenon “I as well wanted to take a walk and free the mind of so many things.”  

Xenon did not believe the words, like the same he tried to process the thought, it cannot be possible for two people to do something the same or thinking completely parallel at the same point of time at exactitude, and meet. He’d like to dismiss the idea with a general conviction. “Yes, I am thinking if this is appropriate to have your autograph?” The old man said, Xenon wondered very oddly. The old man was very well informed, he thought as if he was under surveillance. “Hold on a second, sir - How did you know that...? I am… ahm” He can’t find the words again. “Writer?” The old man responded so very quickly to help him grasp the words. “Yes! You've already told me, I think no less than a minute before the whole sentence that I have calculated.” - “What?” He was surprised by the old man’s precision of thoughts. “You see now my friend, It seems that you're not paying much attention to the details, you’ve just told me that; this day is your deadline of a narrative to some sort that you needed to submit later this afternoon.” He repeated it like a backmasked vinyl recording to him.

He did not answer back and noticed something which he cannot sham his feeling. he thought it was talking to some kind of a prophet; an oracle, the old man gave him a creep but it was never of fear he felt that time, when the old man said, you're not paying much attention to the details: and it provided him a connection, an impulse releasing the secret of his lingering dilemma. It seemed that the old man had known him before and was reading his mind in silence. And before he could say another word, the old man got on to his feet and walked slowly in the distance. “Where are you going, sir? I thought you wanted my autograph?” He replied instantly. “I was about to do that” he slipped his hand on the pocket of his shirt and brought out a pen. The man moved close to him and said, “maybe after you finish the story you are about to submit today – I want surprises, I love that. It sounded more of a challenge to him. “I'll just wait for it once it’s out,” the old man continued, “I'm expecting that one will be good too, like the others.” Xenon felt being seized. Then in no time delay, he asked, “Sir, may I know your name please” The old man looked away and replied with a serious note. “I never had one.”

“I grew up in a home,” the old man continued, Xenon did not understand what he meant by the word home.

“I never knew who my parents are”

“You mean you're an orphan, sir?”

He sounded that question as an inquiry, not a statement or a report; he could not completely believe when the old man said, never had one. He assumed, while the slightest of what he can accept, that someone in his infancy had given him any name at least any among the common names, like Peter or Jeff.  

“Yes, may I?” The old man was demonstrating to take a seat, he snatched the opportunity, and released a deep sigh before Xenon could make his reply.

“Yes! Surely, sir”

“I would like to tell you a story – may I?” Without averseness he agreed — this is what precisely he doesn’t have at this very moment — He felt a pity to himself that the old man at least has something to tell a story. He thought resentfully. “Now, what is your nearest happy memory? – something that may be a remarkable one?” The old man asked. “Well, I can still remember my days when I was in college, you know a scholar of some sort, a nerdy bookworm student and sometimes nasty. I enjoyed the friends and their all varieties of personal attitude, the mentorship and all; that experience gave me a feeling of a second home too,” he ended his recollection with a ruminating smile.

The old man started after his last word and said, “home Oh yes! I grew up in a home too, you know. But it was different, — there are all sorts of people from all diversities you know? minor age killers, thieves, abandoned children, and those who escape from their hostile relatives and parents — there is one thing that is common among all of us resident mates. We are all looking for someone who could give us genuine love; so to every opportunity of adoption; though we don’t want to go away from home, we grab it in hope for a foster parent. On the contrary, after a week or so; most of us go back and never want to go out. The result rather turned worse, trust became more absent.”

“That must be interesting – go on please” Xenon eagerly butt in. “We didn’t have a good foundation of education there.” Xenon in his skeptics let the old man claim his privilege of a good start of his story, “though a mother staff is there to attend the everyday needs of the operation of a foster home, there is always a lacking that only a real parent could provide the never-ending emptiness lingers every day. When you were being born and grew up in a home you’ll never find a name in your birth identity, the space in the paper reads either baby boy or baby girl, or at least a consolation part is you have your last name written on your birth certificate, then at your legal age, you will then be advised and go on a series of counseling to condition your mind that you are now ready to be set free and join the outside world. On the other meaning, you will now look for your own. All years of staying there, all favors of your daily needs are all in the form of a plea and request, it’s like a nauseated chick being asked to walk or run.” Xenon, unconsciously now conceded and pondering deep to the part brimming inside him, the visual in his mind provided a still picture that speaks a thousand and more ideas to write.

He felt like hanging on a cliff and wanting more. “Go on, please!” He said. “Very well,” the old man continued. “Overwhelmed you are now huh? - There was an incident that night when everybody was all sleeping in our respective quarters; the boy’s place was on the east of a pavilion near the high walls while the girls’ was just near the lobby entrance. I never got an interest of why is that because I never asked, I am always like that timid among other orphans, I was very young then, not even that I know what an introvert means but I enjoyed my solitude; they often think that I am weird, but I have my way of covering, a defense mechanism, mostly I pretend; which always sets me in a situation turned more difficult at the end. It was an unforgettable experience that everybody there will never forget. A fire, a huge one that killed one group of orphans in quarter D at the corner pavilion, maybe fifteen or twenty souls in there burnt alive.” Xenon’s shoulders twitched at the mention of being burnt alive! But he remained silent, leaving the old man to continue.

“How did it all happen, sir?” he went on curiously. “I expected that would be your most obvious next question” As the old man continued - “The mother staff on duty that night left the door locked and she brought the keys with her and stride past for a moment to meet someone outside, but she never calculated it right that a kettle in the kitchen was also left on a stove, she enjoyed the romantic rendezvous with the guy she has been seeing for the past weeks, the next series of event happened so fast as the fire spread all the rest of the quarters, I happened to escape quickly and help the young ones to get out, well I would like to say thank you for my insomniac.” The old man paused there for a while. “Investigations went on afterward but of course, the subject of the incident died just like that; an isolated one. But the tremor lives like a resurrection and even to this moment whenever I recall the experience I can still feel the trauma.”

His feelings were automatically snatched. “Pitiful souls,” Xenon added, “true, indeed!” The old man replied. “Well just like other closed call stories, the ending was still unknown and then life just went on, I finally said goodbye to the orphanage and faced a life of my own.” The old man got up on his feet and walked away slowly. “Where are you going, sir?” xenon asked. “Home,” the word gave him a sensation like a blank white paper inked with lots of things and images of a scene scribbled in no exact direction; he imagined an abstract picture that was difficult to understand from that story.

Unexpectedly, it gave him a feeling of freedom. A unit of work that he is required to finish a story from that conversation. And the task is waiting for him now at home. “Sir, could I just at least have your name?” The sun had shone its glimpse in the sky. The illumination gave a picture of cucoloris lighting patterns of shadows of the old man’s face, like a mirror from afar. “Could you please tell me your name?” Xenon asked garishly. The old man stopped, and said, “You should fix the ending.” He tried to catch the sounds from afar. “Will you?” The picture of him was already filtered out of the blinding lights.

THE END

This is a work of FICTION. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 

Copyright Statement This work is the intellectual property of the author. Permission is granted for this material to be shared for non-commercial, educational purposes, provided that this copyright statement appears on the reproduced material. To disseminate otherwise or to republish requires written from the author.

[bytheangell]

put you into words

(Read on AO3) 

“Alright everyone, listen up! We have a slight change to the submission process for the Literary Magazine this semester!” Clary calls out, gathering the attention of everyone in the classroom.

Magnus, with more than a few papers already tucked away into an envelope for his own submissions, listens with a worried look on his face.

“After a few troubling submissions last year, Mrs. Penhallow has decided to err on the side of caution and require that all submissions have a name on them, and be turned in personally to a club member by the writer. Nothing can be turned in entirely anonymous - but if you wish for it to be printed anonymously, we can still do that! To keep them as anonymous as possible there will be one person unaffiliated with the club assigned to reading through them, just to make sure they fit the guidelines before taking the names off as long as you aren’t doing anything stupid like sneaking bomb threats in, or threatening to hurt anyone.”

Magnus tenses. He has some pretty personal submissions, some… well, honestly, they could be quite embarrassing if anyone knew they were from him. Not because he’s ashamed of them - quite the opposite, they’re some of his best writing in his own humble opinion - but because if someone read them with him in mind as the author they might be able to piece together who they’re about. And the last thing he needs is for word to get out that his muse this year is his unrequited crush on Isabelle’s brother. Even Isabelle doesn’t know, despite the increasing frequency he makes excuses to hang out with her while he knows Alec will be around the apartment the two siblings share with their other brother, Jace.

They’re friends in their own right at this point. They follow each other on social media, text more than Magnus texts with anyone else, even Catarina, and usually spend most of their little group hang-outs gravitating towards one another to catch up on life, and school, and everything in between. But it’s been the majority of the year now and after an attempt or two at flirting that fell flat Magnus wonders if it’s entirely one-sided, and he isn’t about to risk their growing friendship to find out. Not when he can just dump his feelings into his writing instead.

Anyone who knows him might connect the dots. But a stranger reading them, and then keeping them anonymous from there? He doesn’t love the idea but it’s better than the alternative of Clary reading them, or someone else in the club. And what can he really do about it other than not submit what he’s been working on for weeks now, and that simply isn’t an option. So Magnus nods in agreement along with the rest of the group before scrawling his name on the bottom of every sheet in the folder previously marked only with the word ~Anonymous, before handing it over to Clary.

With the folder in hand Clary holds it up, grinning from ear-to-ear. “This is pretty thick,” she observes. “You’re going to be half the magazine at this rate.”

“I’ve got a lot of inspiration this year, what can I say?” He smirks a bit before shrugging.  “And they probably won’t all make it, anyway. You know how it goes.”

And with that he leaves the rest up to fate, and forgets all about the writing submissions for the rest of the week.

---

The following Thursday he shows up a few minutes early, catching just Clary in the classroom re-arranging the tables into a circle.

“Need some help with that, Biscuit?” he asks, shrugging his messenger bag off of his shoulder and tossing it to the side of the wall by the door.

“Sure you wanna risk messing up that perfect manicure of yours?” Clary quips, and Magnus laughs as he grabs a table without waiting for permission or acceptance.

“So what’s on the agenda for tonight?” He asks, and the hopeful tone of his voice must give away the answer he’s hoping for because Clary shakes her head.

“We’re not voting yet,” she says, and Magnus sighs.

All the submissions for the magazine are typed up without names, read aloud to the group, and voted in by a points system. Everyone gets a vote, and the 30 submissions with the highest number of votes gets in. Not all of them are from people in the magazine, either, so it’s really a mixed bag of submissions every semester. But it’s fair, since they’d obviously be biased towards each other’s if they knew which was theirs.

“I wanted to do it this week, but I couldn’t get them back in time from our apparently too-busy-to-finish-in-one-week volunteer reviewer,” she explains with an eye-roll.

“Really? I mean, I know it’s not their job or anything, but there weren’t that many to read through, were there?” Magnus wonders who could be so busy they can’t set aside an hour or two to read through some poems after an entire week.

“Yeah, well, I gave them to my girlfriend’s brother so I can’t exactly be rude about rushing him--”

Magnus drops the chair he’s carrying, paying it absolutely no attention when it tips sideways onto the floor. His eyes are wide and he’s certain he isn’t breathing. In fact, he can’t remember what air is as his entire brain seems to short-circuit because Clary is dating Isabelle Lightwood.

“What? He’s finishing them now, so don’t worry! They’ll be done by next week.” Clary’s trying to make him feel better, as if his reaction is to the news that they’re still being worked on, and not over who is working on them.

“Clary - and I cannot stress how important this is - which of Izzy’s brothers did you give them to?”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting you know the Lightwoods, too. Why does it matt--”

“CLARY, PLEASE.” Magus is pleading now, and he feels about five seconds away from throwing up. He and Clary aren’t very close outside of the club, and she and Isabelle just started dating a few weeks ago, so of course he doesn’t expect her to remember that he’s friends with them, too. He doesn’t blame her, he isn’t upset with her, he’s just upset.   “Are you alright?”

“CLARY.”

“Oh my god, alright already! Alec volunteered to read through them when he overheard me complaining to Izzy about the new rule, but I don’t see what the big deal is-”

Magnus takes several steps backwards to lean against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes in frustration. No no no no no no no, he thinks, and doesn’t realize he’s also saying the word over and over again out loud, too, until Clary gives him a look like she fears for his general sanity. She might not be too far off after tonight, if he can ever show his face on campus again for her to notice.

“Magnus, what’s wrong?” Clary keeps her distance, eyeing him carefully during this burst of erratic behavior.

“I have to go.” Instead of answering the question he turns and leaves, pausing only a moment to grab his messenger bag off the floor.

“Magnus?!” Clary calls after him, but he doesn’t stop or turn around.

The walk to Izzy’s apartment isn’t far from the classroom he’s at, but every step seems to drag on for a lifetime, even as he speeds his pace up to something not quite a run, but pretty damn close. Paying little mind to the people around him he bumps into the shoulders of more than one student while he punches a number into his phone and brings it to his ear.

It rings, and rings, and goes to Alec’s voicemail. He sends a text (‘Hey. This is going to sound strange but if you haven’t read the Literary Magazine submissions yet could you wait, and call me first? It’s important.’) but it stays unread and unanswered. Of course it can’t be that easy.

Okay, that’s fine. He can try a back-up plan. A few seconds later another number is dialed and ringing, and this time an eager, “Hey!” greets him through the phone.  

“Isabelle, darling, please tell me you’re at home.” He tries to keep his voice even but there’s a clear edge to it, an underlying panic. Izzy being home to try and stop her brother before he gets to Magnus’ submissions is his last hope.

“No, I have class late on Thursdays, remember? Why?”

Magnus groans, face dropping after the moment of hope he mistakenly felt after she picked up.

“Damn. Right, well. I’m going to your apartment to try and stop Alec from reading about half a dozen poems I wrote about him, so if you never see me again it’s because this went about as mortifyingly as I’m anticipating, I’ll have to transfer schools so I never have to face him again, and it was really nice knowing you.”

“Ma-” Izzy barely starts to say his name when he hangs up on her, much the same way he walked out on her girlfriend only minutes before.

He doesn’t want to go to their apartment because if he does, and Alec already read the poems, he genuinely doesn’t know what he’s going to do. But he has to risk it on the off chance that luck is on his side and maybe Alec just told Clary he was getting around to them now, but he was really pushing them off again. Please, he silently pleads with the universe, be on my side this once.

It only takes ten minutes for him to reach the apartment, but another 4 of pacing the hallway outside the door before he finally knocks.

There’s the sound of shuffling behind the door, soft footsteps that grow louder before a lock clicks and the door swings open.

“Oh, hey Magnus!” Alec’s clearly surprised to see him.

“Why do you even own a phone if you never have it with you, Alexander,” Magnus tries to joke, but he’s too nervous and it shows.

“Oh, sorry,” Alec looks a little sheepish. “Probably left it in my room. Uh, if you’re looking for Izzy she won’t be back from campus until late, it’s Thursday.” Alec points out. It occurs to him that this is the first time the two of them are actually alone, without Izzy or Jace or another group of friends along to go out or watch movies with. His heartbeat picks up speed at the realization, even if this is far from how he imagined finally getting some alone time with Alexander.

“I know. I was actually hoping to talk to you, if that’s alright. You didn’t happen to--”

But Magnus pauses when Alec shifts in an obvious attempt to block Magnus’ view of the living room. Shifting just enough (because Alec is tall and imposing when he needs to be, but he isn’t big enough to block the entire doorway) Magnus glances past Alec to the table that’s in his line of sight, and sees what Alec is trying so obviously to block.

He’s too late. The table is covered with papers and a familiar envelope with Magnus’ name on it sits open at the top.

Alec knows. He read the poems and he knows and there’s nothing Magnus can do to take that back. He’s ruined everything - the dynamic they all had when they hung out together, any chance he had of maybe flirting with Alec properly and asking him out one day - now he just looks crazy, like he does nothing but stare at Alec and those gorgeous hazel eyes and soft smile and those little crinkles around his eyes when he laughs that just beg to be admired in poetry.

Which, to be fair, isn’t entirely off-base. He does spend a lot of time sneaking glances Alec’s way. It just isn’t something he planned on exposing yet. It isn’t the right time, and now it never will be.

“--you know what, nevermind. You’re right, I was here for Izzy but I totally forgot about her class, so I’ll just… go. Yeah, I have to go. Sorry.”

Magnus turns around and takes several steps down the hallway when he feels Alec’s hand on his shoulder. “Wait.”

It’s a simple request and yet somehow actually stopping instead of taking off in a sprint down the hallway is the most difficult thing Magnus has done in recent memory.

“Magnus, I-” Alec starts, but stops again.

Magnus takes a deep, steadying breath before forcing himself to turn around. “It’s alright, you don’t have to say it. I know you only hung around with me because I was friends with your sister. It’s cool, really.” Giving his best, fake-confident ‘I’m fine, really’ smile.

“That isn’t what I was going to say.” Alec frowns.

“No, of course it isn’t. You’re too nice to actually say it,”  Magnus shakes his head. He can’t do this, not here, not now. He can’t stand there and listen to Alec let him down easy until he wants the ground to swallow him whole. They were just starting to become better friends and now he ruined even that, and he’ll never forgive himself for it. “I’m sorry. I can’t-”

“Will you come inside for one minute? I want to show you something.” Alec looks nervous. Why would Alec be nervous? “Please?” When Alec repeats the request, practically begging this time, Magnus knows he can’t say no to that look.

“Alright.” It’s a reluctant agreement but he finds himself following Alec back into the apartment. When the door shuts behind him it leaves Magnus feeling strangely claustrophobic.

“Just… wait here. Don’t leave.” Alec instructs before disappearing down the short hallway that leads to his room. Magnus can’t help but wander over to the table, picking up his poem from the top of the pile and glancing over some of the words he wrote of a trip they took with Izzy and Cat and a few other friends to hike and picnic a month ago.  

‘We watch the sunset from the mountain top Hand-crafted by deities, perfected over centuries To be mesmerizing To be awe-inspiring But nothing in heaven or on earth could compare To the enchantment I feel Watching hues of green and chestnut and gold Light up like fireworks when he laughs’

It was a perfect day. A perfect memory. Why did he have to go and ruin it?

When Alec comes back Magnus drops the paper back onto the table like it burns to the touch.

“Seriously, Alec, I’m sorry… if I thought for a second Clary was going to give these to you I never would’ve-”

“Listen, Magnus, I know words are your thing and all, but if you could just stop talking and listen for five seconds.”

Magnus winces at Alec’s exasperated tone, attention finally drawn to the paper Alec holds out. It’s covered in Alec’s handwriting from top to bottom.

“What’s this?” Magnus asks, taking it when Alec doesn’t reply right away, instead just holding the paper out stubbornly in front of him.

“It was meant to be anonymous, too. But since I read yours it’s only right that you get to read mine.”

Magnus looks from Alec down to the paper in his hands, and begins to read. It isn’t a poem, more an uninterrupted stream of consciousness. The prose takes the form of Alec observing someone in the fading light of the sun’s last rays. Of a moment on a mountaintop, with wind-blown hair and friends and wine… and about how Alec wished it was just the two of them instead of a group outing, instead of his sister sitting between them on the blanket they shared.

Magnus has to read it a second time to be certain before allowing himself to speak.

“...you wrote about me?” Magnus asks, dumbfounded.

“I know it’s probably awful, I tried the whole poetry thing but it was total garbage so I just sort of rambled instead, but… that isn’t the point. You’re asking if it’s about you, and yeah. It is.” Alec smiles, not the big kind that give him those explosive laugh crinkles but a small, reserved twitch of his lips that’s barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.

And of course Magnus is looking.

“I thought there were some signs, but then I wondered if you were just being nice to me because I was Izzy’s brother,” Alec admits. “So I figured if I sent this in, and it wasn’t just me…” he shrugs. That’s clearly as far as he got with his plan, but it’s more than enough.

“It isn’t just you.” Magnus confirms, smiling for the first time since Clary told him about Alec.  

“So now what?” Alec prompts.

Magnus considers for a moment before the perfect idea comes to mind.

“I’m free Saturday for another hike. You drive, I’ll pack the picnic?” And then, just in case he isn’t clear enough, adds, “Just us this time?”

Alec’s entire face brightens at the idea. “Sounds perfect.”  

...maybe the universe wasn’t as out to get him as Magnus first thought.

[madeleineandwilliam-ff]

Chapter Five: Part One

“Discuss the various roles of the witches in ‘Macbeth’ with special emphasis on Coleridge’s remark that “the witches have the power of tempting those that have been tempters themselves.”” Louise asked reading from the pile of papers that were in front of her. 

Louise was currently helping Madeleine study for her Literary Analysis class but Madeleine, as of late, couldn’t concentrate on anything related to school. 

“Uh, I don’t know.... tacos?”

Louise gave her friend a small smirk, trying not to laugh. “Tacos? Seriously, Leni. Try to take this serious.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just can’t think today.” Madeleine replied with a sigh. 

Louise neatly placed the papers back into the folder they came from. There was clearly no studying on the agenda for tonight. 

“You still haven’t heard from him, huh?”

Madeleine ran a hand through her curly hair and shook her head. “You know what pisses me off the most? When you pretty much insist on seeing someone for the weekend, you get their hopes up. He got my hopes up, Lussan and I hate him for it.”

It was Saturday night, meaning it was the weekend. And Madeleine planned on seeing William this weekend, but she hadn’t heard from him since they spoke earlier that week. She knew he was back in London too, that was the worst part. Louise made her watch the news coverage of him outside of Clarence House with his brother from last night.

“Well maybe it’s for the best, Len. I mean you came to London to be normal, not date a future king.”

Madeleine exhaled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought too. You know, I blame my parents. If it weren’t for them I would’ve never met stupid Prince William of Wales and I wouldn’t be here ruining our Saturday night.”

Louise raised an eyebrow at her friend. “Your parents didn’t make you have a thing for him.”

Madeleine threw her hands up in the air. “Must you always correct me? I need someone to blame, let me blame them.”

“Fine, as long as you’re not being serious.” Louise paused. “You could always call him, you know. The phone works both ways.”

“And let him think I was looking forward to seeing him? Never.”

“You know, you would’ve had tons of boyfriends by now if you wouldn’t play so hard to get.” Louise said as she rose from her spot at the kitchen table to grab a snack from the cupboard. 

“Yeah, well I’m not easy. And anyways my way is more fun, especially with him.” Madeleine said as she threw her head down on the table and buried her face into their red and white checked tablecloth.

“Want some ice cream or chocolate? I can run to the store.” Louise offered, trying to think of some way to make her best friend feel better.

“You’d have to, we both know I can’t leave this godforsaken flat with those savages camped out outside.” Madeleine responded crestfallen, her head still buried in the tablecloth.

“Well you could, if you called your father and got him to authorize your security. But we both know you’re too busy being dramatic for that to happen anytime soon.” Louise teased as peeled back a banana. 

“Uhg, why did I.....”

Madeleine sat straight up in her chair as she heard the trill of her cellphone ringtone from the next room. She immediately sat up and bolted into the living room, tripping over the couch, nearly face planting on the coffee table as she made a swoop for her phone. 

“That wasn’t pathetic at all!” Louise yelled as she laughed at the show Madeleine just put on for her. 

“Oh shut up, Lussan.” Madeleine snarled at her as she picked up her phone, not looking at the caller ID. “Hello?” 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair.” A voice, William’s voice said once she answered. 

“William are you fucking drunk right now?” Madeleine asked, desperately trying not to smile as Louise watched her from across the room. 

“No, Princess. I’m here to break you out of your tower, if you’d just tell me which flat and floor you live on.” William replied, while clanging noises of what sounded like metal came from the background.

“Wait you’re here? Like at my flat? Right now?” Madeleine paused to give Louise a look of sheer panic. “I guess, I’ll just buzz you in?”

“Well, that would be great. But, well, you see, I’m on your fire escape. Now what floor?” William asked, acting as if this scenario was completely normal. 

“Uh fifth floor, apartment four.” Madeleine replied as Louise rushed around the apartment tidying up for their surprise guest. 

“Great, be there in a jiff. Go to the window that looks out your fire escape so I make sure that I’ve got the right flat. I’m not sure how my father would be able to cover that story up if I got caught on this fire escape.” William replied, with more clangs of metal sounding off in the background as his long legs trudged up to the fifth floor. 

“Uh ok.” Madeleine said to him as she looked at Louise who was rushing back and forth from room to room, desperately attempting to tidy up their flat. Madeleine made her way into her bedroom and sat on the windowsill that outlooked the fire escape. 

“Can I hang up the phone or do you want me to wait for you to get up here?” Madeleine asked as she walked over and checked her reflection in the mirror before William got there. She was just about to put on lipgloss when she heard a tap at her window. 

“No need, and stop looking in the mirror. You’re gorgeous.” William said as she looked over at him and he waved to her from outside the window.

“Oh um ok.” Madeleine said into the phone as she stared at him, frozen in place for a moment.

“Madeleine?”

“Yeah?” She replied as she continued to stare at him.

“You can hang up your phone and let me in, unless you’d prefer to make me wait all night.” William said, smiling at her.

“Oh right, coming.” Madeleine said as she tossed her phone on her bed and went over and opened the window for William to climb in. 

William climbed into her window effortlessly and smiled down at her. “So, miss me?”

Madeleine just exhaled loudly and hit him in the shoulder. “What the hell!? I have a front door, you know!”

William winced and put his hand over the spot Madeleine just hit. “I take it someone doesn’t like surprises.”

Madeleine scowled at him. “Well no, especially if I don’t get a phone call from . you to confirm plans. How do you know I don’t have other plans for tonight? What did you expect from this little show of yours!?”

William began to chuckle. “You’re cute when you’re agitated. I told you that you’d be seeing me, I thought that was enough. You should know that I always keep my promises.”

“Oh quit complimenting me.” Madeleine replied, rolling her eyes.

“Aw you did miss me and by the way, nice place.” William said as he walked around Madeleine’s room, picking up various objects to examine.

“Why are you here, William?”

“First of all, some appreciation for my entrance would be nice Rapunzel. That took some major creativity on my part. And second of all, do you have memory loss? Because I told you four days ago that you’d be seeing me this weekend.” William said as he began to flip through Madeleine’s Vogue magazine on her dresser. 

“Well I figured I’d have some notice and preparation, excuse me for thinking you weren’t this rude.”

“I gave you a three minute phone conversation to prepare, like I said you look gorgeous. And I sincerely mean that, Princess.” William paused as he shut the Vogue magazine. “Now, are you ready to go? My bike is in the alley. But we have to go back down the fire escape because the press are out front.”

Madeleine threw her hands down to her sides out of frustration. “You’re kidding me, right!?”

William crossed his arms. “Don’t make me carry you down that fire escape.”

Just then Louise appeared in the doorway and smiled at William and Madeleine. She’d clearly been eavesdropping on their conversation. “Madeleine, quit giving him such a hard time and get your ass down that fire escape.”

William turned to Louise and grinned. “You see, I like her. Get your ass down that fire escape, Princess.”

Madeleine scowled at both of them. “I cannot believe you two right now.”

Louise turned to William. “Beleive it or not, she gets easier to deal with. You just have to be patient.”

“Ha! I’ll believe it when I see it.” William replied, grinning with satisfaction as he looked over at the scowl on Madeleine’s face.

“I’m standing right here, you two.” Madeleine paused as her eyes met William’s. “Now, maybe I’d consider going if you tell me where you’re planning on taking me.”

“Sorry it’s a surprise and I can’t wait to see your reaction, because you’re such a fan of surprises.” William teased as Madeleine rolled her eyes.

Madeleine crossed her arms. “No.”

Louise threw her head back and sighed at Madeleine. “Good lord, you are exhausting. Get your ass down that fire escape and live a little, Party Princess.”

William gestured as he grinned at Louise. “Yes, thank you!”

Growing tired of this charade, Madeleine couldn’t help but be interested in William’s plans for them tonight. And she was impressed on his entrance too, although she’d never admit that to him. “Ok, give me five minutes? You can wait in the hall.”

“Fine, I suppose I can give you five minutes.” William said as he and Louise headed out into the hallway and closed the door behind them, leaving Madeleine alone in her bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Madeleine and William were readying themselves to climb back down the fire escape. 

Madeleine had changed her outfit from her jeans and white sweater into a blue, floral print dress and her jean jacket. She’d pulled her blonde curls back into a braid and decided to put on that lip gloss that William told her not to put on. 

“You’re not afraid of heights, right?” William asked as he was opening the window for them to climb out.

Madeleine shook her head. “You wish, Prince Charming.”

William rolled his eyes. “For being a princess, you have zero manners.”

William began to climb out the window and reached out and leant Madeleine a hand to help her out. She looked at his outstretched hand hesitantly, and after a moment took it.

“Ok Princess, let’s do this quickly and quietly. Last thing we both need is to fuel the rumors in the press.”

“Agreed.” Madeleine said, still holding William’s hand in her’s.

William began to smirk. “Hey Princess, as much as I enjoy this skin to skin contact, I need both hands to climb down safely.”

“Oh right, of course.” Madeleine said, immediately dropping his hand from her grasp.

Minutes later they found themselves at the end of the fire escape. William with his long legs and athletic build was easily able to jump from the fire escape to the alleyway. Madeleine, however, was having some difficulty trying to safely make it off the fire escape in her dress. 

“Want some help?” William asked after watching her examine her situation for a moment.

“No, now quit being so....”

And before Madeleine could say another word, William had her lifted into his arms and was carrying her over his shoulder to his Ducati parked near the end of the alley.

“I didn’t need your help! I have legs, you know!”

William began to chuckle. “Quit your whining.”

“William, I swear to god if you don’t put me down this instant I’ll....” Madeleine began and he once again didn’t let her finish.

Before she knew it she was being shifted in her arms and being lifted down to the ground. William set her carefully down to the ground, she was inches away from him as she looked up into his eyes.

“I’m not the only one who doesn’t have manners.” Madeleine huffed as her blue orbs stared into his.

“Oh I know, that’s what makes us perfect for each other. Remember, Peaches?”

Madeleine huffed and turned on her heel. She walked over and grabbed the spare helmet from the back of William’s bike and put it on. She then climbed on the back of the bike and watched as he stood there with his eyebrow raised, grinning at her.

“Are you coming or do I need to drive?”

William came over and adjusted Madeleine’s chin strap on her helmet. His hand lingered on her cheek as he grinned at her. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Madeleine couldn’t help but notice her heart skipped a beat whenever he touched her, and how it drove her crazy at the same time. “Oh William, sweet sweet William. You have twenty seconds to get your ass on this bike before I...”

William shook his head and put his own helmet on and then climbed on. “Quit giving me ultimatums and hold on.”

“Don’t drive like a...”

Once again before letting Madeleine finish, William started the bike and flew down the alley and into the busy London traffic. 

A/N: I so hope you guys enjoyed Part 1 of Chapter 5! I can’t wait for you to see where William is taking Madeleine! Any guesses? As always, I can’t wait to read your feedback on this chapter. I hope to have the next chapter out soon. :) Thanks for reading!

[ciaossu-imagines]

One of my strongest headcanons for Chikusa is that he’s actually an avid reader. He doesn’t much care for televison but reads quite frequently - it’s one of those canons I just can’t let go off, a soulcanon almost! So, in honor of that headcanon (which you will tear away from my cold, dead fingers), I chose this meme to do for him! I hope you enjoy!

Does your character know how to read? If yes, who taught them? If not, why?

Back when he was still just a test subject for his family, Chikusa learned to read from another, older test subject, the closest he really had to a ‘big brother’ like figure. The older boy would tell him elaborate stories and read him the books he could manage to lay his hands on. He taught Chikusa the basics of reading and Chikusa taught himself a little bit more after he, Mukuro, and Ken escaped. However, it wasn’t really until they were imprisoned and Chikusa found himself in a building with a library and a lot of down-time that he really put a lot of effort into learning to read and write better and really grew to love reading.

Do they enjoy reading for themselves?

Chikusa definitely enjoys reading for himself and himself only, actually. It’s the ultimate form of escapism to him. If the book is good and the story engaging enough, Chikusa can tune out reality and live in the book until he finishes it, devouring it and ignoring all the turmoil and grime of the real world.

Is reading aloud easy for them? Do they read to others?

Chikusa will not read aloud. He doesn’t like to talk overly much to begin with and finds it hard to read aloud. He always reads faster than he talks and often finishes reading the page before he finishes saying the first paragraph and gets too eager to go onto the next page, stammering and stumbling over words, which annoys him to hear. He flat out refuses to read aloud, not that he gets asked much anyway.

Favorite book?

Chikusa doesn’t really think he’s read enough books to really have a favourite. Each new book either becomes his favourite or trash, one way or the other. He loves so many books, loves so many fictional worlds, that he can’t narrow it down to just one or even three or four. 

What sort of stories do they enjoy?

Anything. Chikusa will literally read anything because that’s often what he’s forced to do. All the books he reads are ones he finds or ones that are easy enough for him to simply take, used books or lost books, old books or dime-store trash novels. However, Chikusa really does enjoy horror novels or fantasy novels since they tend to keep the story progressing quickly and the action moving along enough for him to steadily stay engrossed in it. That’s not to say there hasn’t been any drama or romance books that have done that, no true crime or essays that haven’t grabbed him. He really will try anything, with a fair shot. He’s not overly into poetry though, save for the occasional Bukowski or Atwood, Kaufman, Ginsberg, maybe some Rilke or Poe very rarely.

Do they themselves write?

Chikusa doesn’t. He can and he would enjoy doing so but everything he writes is by hand and his handwriting is not the best. His hands also cramp easily. On top of that, he lives with very little, if any privacy, and he hates the thought of trying to write something only to have the others find it, read it, and ridicule it.

Magazines? Books? Blogs? Do they subscribe to anything?

Chikusa cannot afford to subscribe to anything. If he had a choice, he’d really like Google Books or Kindle, some app he could buy cheap books from and read them on his phone or a tablet if he had one. He’d also be intrigued by Texture, provided any of the magazines interested him - he likes Rolling Stone and Mad, along with Playboy and magazines of it’s ilk. What can he say? He’s a growing boy.

Do they have a blog? if they had one, what would they blog about?

Again, because of his living situation and lack of finances, Chikusa doesn’t own a computer to blog on. He’d really enjoy having a blog though and would likely have a twitter that’s full of just stupid things the others did summed up in 140 characters or less. He’d really like tumblr too and would have a little writing blog on the side, along with a main blog he used mainly just to reblog things he liked or to write posts about the stupid stuff others do that simply can’t be summed up in 140 characters.

Did they read all the books they own?

The answer is definitely a yes, but mainly because he owns so few books. As said above, any book he has is one that was easily stolen or was discarded and there really aren’t that many books that he’s found that fit one of the two categories. If he had the opportunity and the finances to though, Chikusa would still really read everything he owned. He would be the type of person to limit himself to only buying one or two books and not buying any more until he’d finished them and any other books in the series if either book was actually part of a series.

Which book(s) would they most likely recommend to others?

Chikusa really enjoyed The Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye and A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. He was lucky enough to find used copies of all of them in a little, understaffed used book store that he was able to nick out of their small ‘classics’ section. He also is a pretty big Stephen King fan and enjoys most of his novels, though It and The Shining tie as his favourite King novels. He thinks King gets it, he really does - everything’s more terrifying when it’s happening to children, isn’t it? And everything’s more terrifying when you are a child. He also really likes King’s short stories, of which The Body is his favourite. He loved the Harry Potter series - it became the first real series to grab him and keep him and he definitely made sure to be near a store the day after each new book was released so he could steal himself a copy. 

Did they get read to as a child? If yes, whom by?

As said above, Chikusa was read to, albeit infrequently, as a child and it’s what really first sparked any interest in reading. Had he not had that friend reading him stories, introducing him to a way to temporarily escape from an awful situation, Chikusa wouldn’t care about books or reading and would wander through life completely illiterate. 

Are they a literature snob?

No. Chikusa isn’t able to be picky enough to be a literary snob. He figures that a book’s a book and books are good inherently. If he finds a book to be boring or badly written, he simply stops reading it and takes it to a used book store in Namimori that accepts trade-in’s, allowing him to get another book he might enjoy better, though that’s something he does rarely. Most often he can find something to like in most books.

Do they feel a certain book influenced their life?

No. Rather, it’s a culmination of all the books that have shaped him, influenced him, as he’ll be influenced, shaped and changed by all the books he’ll read in the future.

Do they think their memoir would make for interesting read?

While Chikusa wouldn’t enjoy writing a memoir, since literature is an escape from his past and the difficulties in his life, he figures it would probably sell well enough if he ever did. He’d have to pass it off as fiction though - no one would ever believe it had really happened as it seems so impossibly far-fetched, even to someone who lived through it. 

Do they have a favorite author/blogger?

As said above, Stephen King is definitely among his favourites, as is Lovecraft. He really enjoys S.E. Hinton as well, especially The Outsiders. He loves J.K. Rowling only for her Harry Potter series - he hated her adult novel and found it boring, something that disappointed him greatly. 

[hencoplumbingservices]

Vancouver theater company stages ‘I Hate Hamlet’

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Such a typical teenager, that poor Prince of Denmark. So confused and angsty. So emotive and explosive. Hamlet is such a drama queen!

Not that he doesn’t have good reason. His uncle murdered the King, Hamlet’s father, and married the Queen, Hamlet’s mother. Worst of all, Queen Mom was happy to oblige. All of which either drives Hamlet mad — or drives him to pretend that he’s mad. Or some ambiguous blend of the two. Literary critics have been debating that riddle ever since William Shakespeare penned “The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,” circa 1600.

“He’s so sad. Everybody knows he’s so sad. We’ve been listening to his lament for 400 years. It’s the best lamenting that’s ever been written down, ever,” said Heather Blackthorn, who recently revived a long-dormant theater company, Pacific Stageworks, in Vancouver.

“I love ‘Hamlet,’ but I know there are people who are like, ‘Do I have to sit through all that lamenting again, or can I just kill myself now?’” Blackthorn laughed. That’s why the title “I Hate Hamlet” jumped right out at her as she was hunting for a follow-up to Pacific Stageworks’ relaunch presentation last fall, Neil Simon’s “Rumours.”

She thought “I Hate Hamlet” was hilarious, she said, and based on an irresistible true tidbit as well. In 1917, actor John Barrymore moved into a New York City apartment and began a run as Hamlet that earned accolades like ��greatest living American tragedian.” Barrymore (the grandfather of Drew Barrymore) was a famously troubled and alcoholic man whose star faded after he tried jumping from stage to screen. He died in 1942.

In the late 1980s, playwright Paul Rudnick moved into the very same New York flat and felt moved to write something about the site and its former occupant. He created a nervous TV star named Andrew Rally, who is preparing to play the world’s moodiest, most aggrieved teenager for a “Shakespeare in the Park” production.

One problem: Rally really hates Hamlet. Maybe that’s because he doubts he can manage the deep, demanding role. “He thinks it’s over his head, and it well might be,” said Tony Bump, the director of this show and one of the founders of Pacific Stageworks.

Bigger problem: The ghost of John Barrymore, who handled the role like a champ, appears in the apartment and won’t take no for an answer. Because of that, and because Rally really wants to impress his girlfriend, he accepts the challenge despite his insecurity. But what will he do about an offer to abandon all that and take on an easier, more familiar task — an overpaid, under-challenging TV show?

Because it’s based on a real Shakespeare masterpiece, “I Hate Hamlet” contains a true Shakespearean element: a sword duel. In this case, it’s between a hapless living actor and the overexcited ghost of a dead one.

Here’s the best true tidbit of all. Showbiz insiders still talk about an early incident during the Broadway run of “I Hate Hamlet,” in 1991, when actor Nicol Williamson, as the ghost of Barrymore, struck co-star Evan Handler with his sword. Handler wasn’t wounded, but he could easily have been; he stalked offstage in the middle of the scene and never returned.

Playwright Rudnick later wrote in The New Yorker magazine that Handler was right to quit, and that Williamson’s unpredictable, uncontrollable behavior had been leading up to the this. (Williamson died in 2011; Handler went on to many TV roles, including “Sex in the City” and “Californication.”)

Don’t expect anything nearly so dangerous at Vancouver’s “I Hate Hamlet,” Blackthorn laughed. “Yes there is a little sword fight, yes there are sharpy, pointy things.” Actor Brett Farnsworth, who has fencing training, has carefully coached and choreographed the swordfight scene, Blackthorn said.

“Nobody’s going to get stabbed in our production,” she promised.

Runway style, Broadway style

Given the dearth of performance stages in Vancouver, Blackthorn said, she’s thrilled to have gotten a nice deal on a banquet room at the Hampton Inn and Suites hotel in East Vancouver. That is Pacific Stageworks’ stage for now, she said.

“They’ve never done anything like this before, but they were willing to take a chance,” Blackthorn said.

Because it’s a long, narrow room, the audience sits on both sides of a “runway-style” staging, she said. “The movement is more naturalistic and it’s fun to be so close to the audience,” Bump said.

Also, Blackthorn added, Pacific Stageworks is offering a “Broadway-style” workout session that’s aimed at stoking your fantasies of dancing on stage — without actually daring you to do it. There’s no public performance at the end of Pacific Stageworks’ “Body By Broadway” classes, she said; they’re just an opportunity to learn some choreography for fun and fitness.

“Body by Broadway” isn’t held at the Hampton Inn — it’s at a nearby yoga studio, every other Sunday night at 6 p.m. (upcoming dates are Sunday and Feb. 17). Check the Pacific Stageworks website for details. The price is $15 per class; February’s curriculum is “A Bushel and a Peck” from “Guys and Dolls.”

All abilities, including people like Blackthorn — “a terrible dancer” with a rich fantasy life, she joked — are completely welcome. “Body by Broadway” is aimed at people “who know they’ll never dance in a Broadway play but still cannot stop thinking, ‘I want to dance in a Broadway play’,” she said.

  If You Go

What: “I Hate Hamlet,” by Paul Rudnick, directed by Tony Bump.

When: 7 p.m. Friday, Saturday and Feb. 8-9; 2 p.m. Sunday and Feb. 10. 

Where: Hampton Inn and Suites, 315 S.E. Olympia Drive, Vancouver.

Cost: $17; $15 for seniors/military.

On the web: www.pacificstageworks.org/

[Read More …]

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[thebroadkillreview]

from the archives...Maxine Kumin interview w/Linda Blaskey #NationalPoetryMonth

--from the archives of The Broadkill Review

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Support us by purchasing a title from the Broadkill River Press, co-sponsor of the Dogfish Head Poetry Prize.

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    And indeed, Maxine Kumin has lived well as evidenced by her work, her devotion to her family, friends and farm and her commitment to social causes (…old friend from Vietnam sit-in days,/the rain-soaked marches to stamp out Jim Crow,…from the poem “Elegy”, Still to Mow, W.W. Norton & Company, 2007).  Ms. Kumin has published sixteen volumes of poetry including Up Country (Harper & Row, 1972) for which she received the Pulitzer Prize and Still to Mow, her latest volume released in September of this year.

    She is quoted in a 1994 interview by Daina Savage in Rambles, a cultural arts magazine, as saying “I think it’s good for a poet to write prose, to confront the simple declarative sentence.  So often poets deal in ellipses. It’s what we leave out that’s important. So it’s so easy to forget grammatical structure.” Following her own advice, she has published four novels, a collection of short stories, two essay collections, an essay and story collection and a memoir, Inside the Halo and Beyond: The Anatomy of a Recovery (W.W.Norton, 2000), about her near fatal carriage driving accident in 1998  at the age of 73. Her doctor later informed her that ninety-five percent of people with her injuries don’t survive and that ninety-five percent of those survivors are permanently paralyzed.

    Fully recovered, she lives on a 200 acre farm in New Hampshire with her husband, Victor, where she continues to care for her horses and dogs, muck out stalls, mend fences, tend to her organic vegetable gardens and to write.  She has won the Aiken Taylor Prize, the Poet’s Prize and the Ruth E. Lilly Poetry Prize.

    So how does a woman born in the Germantown section of Philadelphia become New Hampshire’s poet laureate (1989 – 1994) and the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (1981 – 1982),a position later renamed Poet Laureate of the United States?  Read her work. It is a journal of a life well lived.

(A special thank you for their assistance to Jenny Waltz and Vanessa Schneider of W. W. Norton & Company, NYC; Giles Anderson of The Anderson Literary Agency, NYC; Sherry Chappelle of Chappelle’s lending library, Rehoboth Beach, DE)

TBR:    In your essay “First Loves” (Always Beginning, Copper Canyon Press, 2000) you talk about memorizing and reciting poems.  You say…”I am grateful for those old-fashioned teachers who revered the poems of a bygone era and by exacting from us our twenty-odd lines a week gave us an inner library to draw on for the rest of our lives.”  I don’t think memorization or recitation is done much in schools anymore. Do you think this is a loss for present day students?

MK:    I think the dearth of memorization requirements today is a distinct loss.  Rote learning provided an unconscious but strong sense of meter and paved the way for some lessons in prosody.

TBR:    And was it teachers like Mrs. Blomberg, in “First Loves,” that started you on the path to writing?

MK:    Yes, I suppose.  I started to write seriously in high school, then stopped during four years in college where I was flat out taking in information in a number of fields – history, French language, 19th century literature in French and Russian, etc.         Creative writing was rather dismissed as frivolous, something to do outside the university.

TBR:    In many current literary journals poetry does not appear in any particular form (villanelle, sonnet, pantoum) but is rather free form.  Sometimes, even, without a strong sense of rhyme or meter. Is this an “easier” path taken by many poets today? Or is it, rather, a fashion of the times?

MK:    I think the absence of formal poetry is simply the fashion of the times.  Postmodernism squelched metrical patterns for a couple of decades but I think interest in these forms is slowly reviving.

TBR:    How important is it for beginning writers to learn about forms and to practice writing in them?

MK:    I think it is vital information even if the young writer never seriously writes in form, just as the good abstractionist painter has behind him or her long sessions drawing from life, learning anatomy, doing still lifes.  Then the painter has something to abstract from.

TBR:    Speaking of literary journals, very few pay poets, except in copies. Does this seem fair?  Or even respectful of all the work that the writers have put into perfecting their work?

MK:    It is what it is.  Many editors of literary journals work for free.

TBR:    Do you see any trends in current poetry?

MK:    More poems that concern current events.

TBR:    Some poems are about large themes – love, war, religion – while others are about, say, a cricket sitting on a woodpile.  Are they all equally important?

MK:    All are equally important.

TBR:    Why is that?

MK:    I’ve said all are equally important because for the poet they are.  The impulse that led to their creation doesn’t vary from poem to poem and who knows?  The cricket (or cockroach) poem may outlast one of the grander poems about war or religion.

TBR:    You have written and published essays, mysteries, children’s books, novels, memoir, short stories and yet poetry appears to be your favorite genre. What is it about poetry that makes this so?

MK:    Poetry is the most succinct, most metaphorical, possesses a music prose cannot, indeed should not match.

TBR:    Is that what saves good poetry from sentimentality – its exactness?

MK:    Yes, their exactitude and inner music.

TBR:    In a recent article written for The News Journal, Fleda Brown, Delaware’s poet laureate, comments “Poetry (all art) isn’t frivolous.  It’s the human mind working beyond itself, trying other ways of being.…Poetry teaches the mind to be flexible and adventurous….”  Do you agree with this, and if so, why?

MK:    I do agree though I’m not sure poetry teaches the mind anything.  Poetry comes up out of inchoate feeling, the mind structures it, talent and tact shape it, but it may be the mind teaches poetry, just to confound the statement.  We are on the same page, nevertheless.

TBR:    Who was Amanda and what was it about her that inspired the series of Amanda poems?

MK:    Actually, her real name was Tasha and she was the first horse who lived here at the farm.  Thus she got the high beam of my attention.

TBR:    A friend recently asked me what a martingale was.  After I described it to him he said that he had read it a long time ago in one of your poems (he has forgotten the poem’s title).  Don’t you find that powerful – that someone can read a poem and several years later recall not only the poem but a specific word in it?

MK:    Yes.

TBR:    Do you have specific writing habits?

MK:    I’m a morning person so I like to write in the morning.  I used to be quite disciplined and worked every day. Now I am more casual (also older).

TBR:    And what do you do when nothing comes to you?  Wait it out or force the issue?

MK:    When nothing comes I either turn to something waiting in the wings in another genre or simply kick back and read, a great pleasure.

TBR:    If you had one piece of advice to give to writers, prose or poetry, what would it be?

MK:    My one piece of advice to writers in whatever genre is to read widely in another genre.  Most of us would benefit from reading in the sciences; I know I would.

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— Linda Blaskey

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