Abuelita wraps me up in tamalitos, so warm, But she cools me down with Fresa Tropical, ah Canciones de mariachi cry in the background, and we Dance like we’re wearing clothes made of cucarachas Executing imprecise movements like forced twitches Fixating, fixating, fixating, on las guitarras Gently strummed, unlike the singers’ vocal chords Harsh, hoarse, heartfelt vibrations that tingle my eardrum I’ve never seen tears fall in tune to a beat like this before Just watch my mother’s head sway back and forth Knowingly imitating the tapping of the performers’ feet Like her body embodies the songs of melancholic mariachi Musical notes invading her bloodstream, her lagrimas shine Nosotros – felices en nuestras vidas sencillas Oblivious to our nearing flight departure Persistently ignoring the dates on the calendar Questioning what life could have felt like before this Repressing the thoughts of once existing outside of this Sin mi país bellísimo, sin mi país, sin mi This is my people’s holy land, but it doesn’t feel mine Unfathomable experience of being both free and shackled Vulnerable with no country, vulnerable within it Withholding parts of my soul, trapped in two places Xenophobes in two nations targeting parts of me, I’m just Yearning for my country to be mine.
Emely Rodriguez is a Latina writer from the D.C. / M.D. area. She is in her first year of the Creative Writing and Publishing Arts MFA program at the University of Baltimore, focusing on poetry. Her work has been published in 45th Parallel,The Voices Project, and Welter Magazine.
Congratulations Samantha Proctor and Lily Davidson, winners of Grub Street‘s writing contest for high school students. Timothy Taranto, author of Ars Botanica (one of our staff’s all-time favorite memoirs), judged.
Sneak Peek of “The Boy Who Drew Halos” by Samantha Proctor
When I met her, it was dawn. Her chickens had come out, and the light that traversed over her fragrant driveway, where the sleepless bring life to the tortured, sprinkled like rose petals over the glint of her forehead. It is said that time is the expanse, a limitless blanket that seems to shroud any other concept in nature. The lightning, the seas, the birds all bow to His song. How lucky I am to exist in the same second of universe as the dry knuckles that lead me through the front gate of a home where spirit thrives.
Sneak Peek of “Saturated Introspection” by Lily Davison
Dark or light wash, it made no difference. Each of us wore denim like it was a second skin. My parents bought me my first pair of jeans when I was three; stretchy overalls with flowers on the front. It was my rite of passage. Don’t eat wild blueberries that you’ve found in the woods without making sure they’re wild blueberries. My lips were royally stained and buzzing with nerves, and my throat was raw and screaming. Beauty and poison go hand in hand I suppose.
To read more, you’ll have to wait for the print issue of Grub Street‘s release on May 8. Samantha and Lily’s full pieces will be available online after the print issue becomes available.
Sometimes I’m shopping online, which is something I love to do, shop online, as every store is a new puzzle to solve, like, which clothes would I buy if I shopped here, and sometimes I end up buying the clothes, so I guess you could say it’s very meta and works on a few levels, and I stumble across something that I didn’t know I needed, like, say, a black bardot crop top, and it’s like suddenly I’m meeting the lord Jesus Christ or found the path to Enlightenment because I feel, out of nowhere, absolutely convinced that this is the one clothing item I have always been missing, like since infancy or conception, and that having this thing, wearing it but really just the owning it, the possessing it, will finally Change My Life in the ways I’ve been waiting for it to change, and it’s like I enter a fugue, I short circuit, I hit “purchase” and there I am, sort of shocked, addled, kind of post-coital, like exhausted but satisfied but not totally satisfied, and if I’ve ordered, say, a pair of bright pink palazzo pants that I know will need tailoring and I know I will never tend to, I feel itchy, and blue, and a little dumb, maybe, or sexless and vast like the last woman on Earth, and I start wondering after creepy stuff, like regarding my personality and whether I am worthy of love despite all the raisins in my bed, and I open another website and hope I don’t get struck by a thunderbolt of object fancy but sometimes I do, sometimes it happens, I hit “purchase” and the cycle repeats itself, and has been, really, repeating itself for some years, you should see my dresser, the drawers don’t close, they’re all overstuffed with shit, with pink and sateen fabrics that I don’t wear or know what to do with, that I drape around my hips like a hand, like a gift, and I know, at least at home in the mirror, alone among my things, objects too precious for this city with its leers and grime and violence and dripping virulent ugly, that I am beautiful, a Chaos void spotlit in pink, singing my body’s sweeping arias.
Sam Regal is a playwright, poet, performer, and recent transplant from Brooklyn to Athens, Georgia. Her translation of Yao Feng’s One Love Only Until Death was published in 2017 by Vagabond Press, and her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from Sum, The Wild World, NoD Magazine, Lucent Dreaming, and elsewhere. A former resident at TENT within the Yiddish Book Center, Sam was awarded the Colie Hoffman Prize in Poetry in 2017. She earned her M.F.A. from Hunter College and now studies within the Creative Writing Ph.D. Program at the University of Georgia.
Scott Laudati lives in NYC with boxer, Satine. His writing has appeared in The Stockholm Review, The Columbia Journal, and many others. Visit him on Twitter or Instagram @Scott Laudati
The Carly Simon Album – oil paintCreamy Skies – oil paint
A message from the artist:
With everything going on in the U.S., I just want to say that maybe it’s time we put our phones down for longer. Maybe it’s time we see the ones we love more often instead of texting them. Maybe it’s time we enjoy life for every second we have here instead of wasting it unthinkingly and carelessly. Let’s be genuine. Let’s be strong for the ones who are weak. Let’s be the voices that these kids deserve. Notice that the things going on in your life are temporary, so drive a little slower, use more caution, hold the door for others, and look up and smile when you walk around. Don’t get so mad when something goes wrong, remind yourself that someone always has it worse, refrain from using negative words, and forgive easier now so you can love harder later. Everything will always be okay. Get your head out of your devices and live this life with raw emotion and joy. Stop saying offensive words like “retard” because we can easily make the difference that others want to see, as they are capable of making the difference we want to see. We are born to adapt and with that comes the ability to make others feel more comfortable. Ask people how they are, because this is important. Do at least three selfless things a day. We must work together to make this world safe and bring peace. And on my last note, our generation has this tendency to say things like “fml” and “kms” often and nonchalantly. We need to understand that this life is the longest thing we will ever experience. Don’t wish for it to end; don’t joke about it. Don’t fail to recognize how precious every second is and how lucky you are to be exactly where you are at any given time. Know that you are breathing, have shelter, and are loved. So forget the cliché “life is short.” Your life is long. So breathe, relax, inhale and exhale, take things one at a time, and, most importantly, slow down. Make sure you are happy and continue to live, not just merely exist.
This quirky bookstore in Northern Baltimore is a bookworm’s dream, hosting dim nooks of floor to ceiling books, an impressive collection of vinyl records, and, most notably, a mouse pad with a blown up photo of Nicolas Cage’s face sitting on a shelf next to the register. Normal’s is one of the only places in the city that back stocks periodicals, so you can stock up on old issues of lit and art mags after browsing the adjacent local artists and writers section.
Atomic Books – Hampden
On Falls Road, just off of the charming 36th street that constitutes the main drag of Hampden, lies Atomic Books. This local favorite stocks new books and cultural tchotchkes alongside an extensive comic and zine collection. Crack a fresh spine and enjoy a cup of coffee at the cafe through the back.
The Ivy Bookstore – Mt. Washington
This book store does a lot to contribute to Baltimore’s literary culture, hosting frequent readings from authors and acting as a collaborator with Artifact Coffee to curate Bird in Hand, another entry on this list. The Ivy’s pretty storefront promises what’s delivered inside: a comfortable browsing experience, a vast array of titles, and friendly staff to guide you to the right book.
The Book Escape – Fed Hill
The Book Escape has all the nooks and crannies necessary for book hunting and the low prices on used titles to make the search feel like a victory. Some of my favorite tomes from my personal collection found their way into my hands from the shelves of this store. I’ve spent many Saturday afternoons lounging in an armchair tucked away in a corner of The Book Escape, flipping yellowed pages and reading handwritten inscriptions (“with love”) on inside covers.
Bird in Hand – Charles Village
This bookstore and cafe is settled right next to the bustling area of Johns Hopkins’ University, an impressive college with a busy literary scene. This small shop is the perfect place to scrawl in a Moleskine or tap away at a Macbook to the scent of roasted coffee and the tinkling sound of spoon against ceramic, and it hosts an impressive lineup of writers reading from their published works.
Bluebird – Hampden
This swanky bar just off of Hampden’s 36th street serves fancy (and delicious) cocktails outlined in “chapters” on their menu. Stacked books and reading lamps line the long tables, and the ambience plus the liquor equals a reading room you won’t want to leave. Check it out on Sunday or Monday for all day happy hour.
The Book Thing – Waverly
A weekend wonder that seems too good to be true, Baltimore’s generous The Book Thing is a bookstore that’s only open two days a week – and all the books are free. Nestled right behind Normal’s Book & Records, The Book Thing offers free used titles to anyone who stops in, as long as they get there between 9 and 5 on Saturday or Sunday.
Barnes and Noble – Inner Harbor
No, this isn’t a cool indie
bookstore with readings or local titles, but the book giant’s location on
Baltimore’s Inner Harbor boasts beautiful architecture, two floors of browsing,
and a Starbucks upstairs with outdoor seating and views of the harbor below.
A small independent bookstore opened in the Fells Point neighborhood of Baltimore in March of 2018. Greedy Reads sits at the corner of Aliceanna and Ann Street, two blocks from the water. Narrow red and blue stained glass windows run the two exterior walls and cast shadows across the beaten hardwood floor. Wide windows are filled with books facing the street, and a wrought-iron gate swings wide to welcome you inside.
The owner and sole operator, Julia Fleischaker, is a Maryland native. After working in New York City in the publishing industry for 20 years, she wanted to come home. But it wasn’t until she walked past the space on Aliceanna Street that she knew she was going to open a bookstore. It was the perfect space. As Fleischaker points out, “the beautifully weathered floors, the stunning stained glass, the huge windows…sometimes I stop and look around and still can’t believe I landed in such an amazing space.”
The space is spectacular. Walking in feels like arriving at a picnic with friends you didn’t know you had; so many stories that you want to catch up on, so many voices you need to hear. It’s warm, welcoming, and cozy. Somehow it’s both small and expansive. The floor is weathered, worn but not broken, giving you the delightful feeling of all those who must have walked here before you – a sense of community and shared experience.
A table by the door is stacked with paperbacks. A small A-frame bookshelf houses a colorful collection of feminist and children’s books. An aisle is formed by two tables and the benches that fit neatly beside them. There, the larger books are displayed, the ones that will eventually find their way to coffee tables, sparking conversations. One wall is lined with built-in bookshelves housing fiction, memoirs, cookbooks, signed books, comics, and a sorted offering of others. The other wall has children’s books and a small selection of literary-related gifts.
Large windows let in the light and offer a view of the neighborhood. It’s an ideal escape from the snow or the rain. It’s a place to browse books, become taken in by their worlds, and forget about whatever the weather is outside. And if you visit on the right day, a labrador-greyhound mix may just come over to greet you. That would be Audie, the friendly and lovable store dog who eagerly accepts any affection she’s offered.
The bookstore is personal; it has a voice and a personality. The selection of books is not determined by a computer but by Fleischaker and the recommendations of the community. It’s hands-on, heartfelt, and purposeful. As she says, “It’s my hope that anyone who lives in or around Baltimore can come into the store and find a welcoming environment and a book that speaks to them.” She makes a point to offer a diverse collection, highlighting authors of color and female writers.
It’s a small store, but enough books are there for you to find, on each trip, at least one new one that you didn’t know you wanted to read. Last year’s bestseller was Michelle Obama’s Becoming, and other top reads included Paul Beatty’s The Sellout and Charles Yu’s How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe. Handwritten “Why I’m Greedy About This Book” tags offer recommendations and give a sense of who the community is and what they’re reading.
Fleischaker loves the books, but she also loves the community she gets to share that passion with: “I’ve gotten to know so many of my customers, and honestly, most days it feels like friends just dropping in to visit.”
It’s a place of beauty: the words in the books, the people who frequent the shop, the light that filters through the stained glass windows and falls upon the paperbacks. Stop by to give Audie some love, join the book club or hear an author talk, and find the next book you’re greedy to read.
By discussing our mutual hurt we could ground ourselves in a
shared reality. Through our conversation something might solidify.
As a solid, it could be located and placed elsewhere.
I didn’t think it through.
I’d had the experience of telling a friend. Someone who’d been
through similar shit, also lived to tell the tale. We had a feeling
about each other, before either of us said a thing. It would happen
this way, again and again, with other people I would come to know.
But the first time I told her, I felt sucked out, 2-D, hysterically on
the verge of hyperventilating, hallucinating, as we stood outside
the bar. I was back to feeling unreal in my own body.
I don’t discount this telling’s necessity.
It was a quest to know, thus doomed to come at a cost.
The box with Pandora’s warning. I kept paying for more.
I wanted to meet someone who had also seen his face. Heard him
speak. Could recite back the twisted things he’d said and done — I had
no doubt he was a repeat offender, and relied on rehearsed technique.
I found one victim I could talk to — not part of the family tree.
A single woman, young, like me.
She took on a life in my mind. I would imagine meeting her
in a café. Small talk, small flurry of female compliments,
then down to business. I would lean forward, and with trembling
righteousness, speak the words: He raped me.
She would pause — then shift in her chair as she steadied
her attack. She’d smirk, get angry, then laugh in
my face. He raped me, too… And I liked it…
Get over it, she added, her face turning to stone.
It wasn’t such a big deal.
It was similar to what happened when I had to
imagine for therapeutic purposes my present-day
self going back in time to comfort and advise the
teenage self. The younger self would always win, would
praise him, and together they would laugh as he threw me
down the stairs, against the wall. My teenage self was
full of mirth. Cruel and bubbly when she said take it.
This violence I imagined came from within
came from the him in me and also came from me.
In Real Life — I never met her. Chatted on the Internet
in a twenty-minute burst that scared us both
that we would come to regret. Scared of him, scared of each
other, scared of repercussions for sort of speaking aloud.
It was clear we lived under the same gag order.
“I just want to stay completely out of this, out of his life.”
“I had the most bizarre dreams last night. Yes, seems it’s best
to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Agreed!”
“Stay safe and warm.”
“You, too.”
*
Sure — go ahead and ask. But not every question has an answer you will like.
If you know too much, you will lose your mind.
Clare Needham is the author of the novella Bad Books, published by Ploughshares Solos in 2015. Her work has appeared in New York Tyrant, Catapult, Bodega Magazine, Fiction Attic Press, and Armchair/Shotgun. She has been a resident at Yaddo, the MacDowell Colony, the Vermont Studio Center, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.
to commit murder, slice a dog in half, reassure its trembling
fur, its anxious eyes that I will do it clean, by running a
sharp knife fast along its length. Though each time I trembled
with the dog, said do not be afraid
for us both.
Instead I now find the dog in two pieces
split in half but still alive, and it is my task
to glue her back. I take my time, I do it
almost perfect. The dog is healed, is whole, yet
I haven’t aligned her right, one back leg
is too high; she limps slightly, moves
— haltingly —
away.
Clare Needham is the author of the novella Bad Books, published by Ploughshares Solos in 2015. Her work has appeared in New York Tyrant, Catapult, Bodega Magazine, Fiction Attic Press, and Armchair/Shotgun. She has been a resident at Yaddo, the MacDowell Colony, the Vermont Studio Center, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.
When I read about the one girl who studies orangutans
suddenly my passion for apes knows no cage-like containment.
Another young woman travels widely in the summer
and there I am zip-lining alongside her above Cozumel’s white sands.
When they hate black licorice, I swear to ne’er eat it again.
They all like Mad Men– seriously, they all like Mad Men–
and so I don my best clenched Draper jaw, click and upload accordingly.
It’s all a perfectly amiable way in which to pass the day,
sifting through a sea of smiling beauties, sailing witty inquiry boats.
But if I’m being honest, I miss you-
-r better moments, your silent laugh, body shaking in soundless guffaws,
or those nights you spelled letter-by-letter words on my chalkboard back.
And your hand in mine, which deserves its own line.
Strange, to sit here with infinity at my fingertips, wondering
how I got it so wrong – that what I thought a spark was actually a wildfire.
Josh Lefkowitz received an Avery Hopwood Award for Poetry at the University of Michigan. His poems have been published in Washington Square Review, Contrary, Electric Literature, Court Green, Shooter Literary Magazine (UK) and Southword Journal (Ireland), among many other places.
