1

ON THE CUSPno. 8

after

2

3

April 2013Hey there,

We’re coming into spring as we put this issue together and every single year I think it’s the most extraordinary thing ever; winter in the Midwest in general means March is only a glimpse at what’s possible (warmth) (blue skies) (leaves on the trees), but it’s April now, and there are flowers coming out of the ground. Things are happening. We did something unusual a few months ago when we actually picked out the themes for the first few issues of On the Cusp 2k13 in advance, and After was our “finally an issue about time” pick. We’ve been trying to come up with some way of talking about time without it being just “time” since our first issue Space, back in 2011, and it didn’t let us down.

After isn’t just about time, though. There’s a kind of tension within the past, whether it’s a confrontation with ghosts or simple nostalgia, or death constantly coming toward us– comparing now and then is one of the most human things we do. Even with the basic indefiniteness of After, the ways we learn, remember, love, create our lives, and ultimately live are dependent on the continual progress of leaving things behind. We went into this issue hoping to investigate what all of that means, and now present these submissions with the hope that they get to you like they got to us.

Yours,

On the Cusp Zine TeamClare, Felicia, Rachel, and Wes

4

5Mike Boyle

i: a hospice bed still unslept

somewhere out there you will bedrinking in the dullness of my daysfilling the gaps in my light buti’ll find the wind still undoes theprogress of the sun

soon to wear your gazein every stitch; preparingto hold my breath at eachbottle, to hear bells inevery Stairway to Heaventhat weren’t there before

time to fold the moth wingstime to kiss goodnightyour heavy lids

--------

ii: former lung cancer survivor

here you aren’t;building a nest of your presenceout of fires and mom still sleepson your side of the bed

you would have loved ita new coat for the old snowany chance to hold nature andstroke along its tresses

thought about cancelling todayclosing up the whole monthsealing away my yearsflooding with water and draininga slow puncture

but there will always beparts of my head for youto whistle through

6

7Aimen Azim

8 Wesley Schwartz

on paint

i’ve reached the white wall(the one with the window)which stands west of the one i yellow-washed yesterday.thought a warm palette might make the light alivewhen the inescapable sun sets west of the white wall—

this is indeed our hemispherewhere the seasons affect the tideswhich ride on reason to affirm the rising and that setting—

but the blankness seems bleakerat dawn, during daydreaming doing dishes down the hall decked in winter wearwhen the white wall windowdoesn’t keep shutand the westward sundoesn’t heat up.

i can’t tellCrisp Linen apart from Eggshellsnor Napery from the Autumn Sunso i guess they’ve won,these happygold pieces pinned to white wallin the blank room where the westwas somehow lost.

9Clare Vernon

10 Corey Galloway

Smoke—

a pile of ash.I want to see my need(to be)reborn.

(an obsidian mane caught fire and turned to grayThere’s life in the waythings die.

What we have confused—in heaven as clouds is snow

11Rachel Frankel

“spectre”

my parentheses warmly embraced the secrets you kept

locked behind deadbolt doors, clipped from fingernails

you shined a light on every wrinkle in the sheet; each divet an excavation to study and restore

you rode in cars with girls that barely knew Portland was a pipe dream in the back of your brain slipping down the interstate.

12 Dalton Day

The chickens gathered under the porch as the rain

began to lay its body down. I left my shoes in the yard. In the kitchen

was the smell of bread. There were feathers in the bread box.

I scooped them into my arms. I listened

to the banjo strings moving under my kneecaps.

I couldn’t place the song.

I cleaned the butter knives. A brown dog slept under the roses.

I watched it from the kitchen window. I listened to my fingers

whispering to my heart. I never learned how to pluck strings. My fingers wanted to.

My heart wanted to feed the birds. So I did.

I told you I was scared of storms. How loudly

they rattle their bones. You put your lips on each of my wrists.

You sliced the bread. We ate it with butter. I pulled my fingers through

your hair like it was a soft instrument. You slept. You dreamt

of black berries. Of colts. And I listened

to your heart opening like a planet in reverse

becoming breadcrumbs. While the chickens huddled close,

pecking quietly at the ground.

13Kelsey O’Kelley

14 Kelsey O’Kelley

15Ali O’Brien

(i) One hundred and six late nights alone and the bite of Austin, Texas in the summer. A packed bag, the pock marked sky at night. Abandoned coffee shops with rings on all the tables and a five dollar strip club where most people don’t know my name. His repeating tongue and my unbreakable connection to the past. The missing piece in our relationship, your lips spilling secrets between book pages like an after dinner drink. A black eye with a raw piece of steak over it. The beginning of who I’ve always thought I’d turn out to be.

(ii) Hot nights. The souls of my shoes peeling off like a lazy band-aid. I write my art in the cracks of the sidewalk. New York City subway rides and the overwhelming memory of you and I asleep in the rubble of Ground Zero.

(iii) My name is Destiny. You have’t been here long, have you? Here, honey, let me show you the ropes.

(iv) And after it all, we were motionless, slipping in and out of mirrors like blue-eyed prom queens. You were the poet I’ll never be. The only famous man I’ve ever fucked with my eyes open.

16

17Violet Ryder

18 Chloe Monson

19Matt Hemmerich

“50/50”

cancer stain,I carry younot as a wound, buta lesson

trailed by an ellipsis,I followthe intemerate mark

20

21Jonathan Pivovar

22 Caitlin Neely

Absolution

The dirt swallows and opens.I measure the grain, pulse up.

I fiddle with the downpour.I let the mud settle.

The valley: a hollow hollow,a displaced grace.

23Rob Freimuller

24 Chelsea DuDevoire

You will start to see things differently. You will notice the accumulation of dust atop the blades of your bedroom fan, the crookedness in the calendar on your wall, the way things sound so empty when you are only sharing space with yourself. Your eyes will scan over the same general areas you’ve lived in for months but never taken the time to truly no-tice— (you had previously spent this time scanning things like the freckle under his right eye, the way he looks in-between breaths in his sleep, the duration of time at which his chest rises and falls while your head lies on it’s surface; inhale, exhale.)

You will forget to inhale. You will forget to exhale.

Your best friend will bring you waffle fries and coca cola and write vaguely inspirational snippets on your mirror in bright red lipstick while you ugly-girl-sob in the fetal position on what was formerly his side of the bed. Your wallet will accumulate handfuls of Star-bucks receipts from all of the under-caffeinated, overpriced drinks you will purchase in compensation for lack of sleep. You will be pitifully dragged to a friend’s house where you will end up as the third wheel, resulting in your consumption of one too many bottles of hard cider. You will cry while you compose and send text messages. You will regret this the following morning.

You will drink from multiple bottles of wine with seven of your closest friends, but this time, you will not cry. You will sing and dance around someone’s living room until five o’clock in the morning. You will begin to wear your own t-shirts to sleep again and reflect on how comfortable you had forgotten they were. You will laugh hysterically at a line from a movie while sitting alone on your couch. You will notice yourself. You will realize that the allotted amount of time in which you have chosen to act as a dysfunc-tional member of society is pathetic. You will brush your hair and paint your fingernails and line your eyelids in liquid black. You will be pleasantly surprised when some of your “friends” line up to date you. You will kiss one of them. (It will be weird.) You will receive compliments regarding how great you look, how happy you seem. You will purchase new perfume. You will see musicals and concerts and delve deeply into the work of new authors. You will write again. You will take photographs again. You will be again.

25Jessica Kennedy

26 Nora Berggren-Jensen

27Keely McDicken

(a catalogue of scars)

middle finger of your left handyou were nine andclumsy with scissors

also ninechickenpox (five days home from school)smooth shiny circles(arms stomach legs back)

sixteen, swimming blindan oyster-encrusted rockyour knee

you shaved your legs for the first timein the communal showers at the caravan parkthirteen (still clumsy)

ten years old anddrunk onfreedom in the empty lot next doorl e a pbarbed wirethin line over your ribs

a bug tried to make a home in your right shoulder(fourteen? fifteen?)you compress the raised lump with your fingersabsent-minded

friction burns, abrasions, the back of your handyou are nineteen andthe studio floor is not forgiving(you didn’t need that skin anyway)

28 Jacqueline Krass

Lullaby

Little has changed in my house in my home since I left, though my mother sworeshe’d change out the bed – only I know she sleeps there nights when my father’s snores echo in the chamber of her heart & moonlight seeps between her bones like rain, she spends hours at night alone these nights I know she does— She’d climb into bed with me some nights, sleepless, pale in matching pink pajamas, “I couldn’t sleep” she’d whisper into my shoulder blades as I shifted my body over, making room. Our breathing slowed like a lullaby to the blinds, my heartbeat humming with the sound of my mother snoring, ever so slightly, into morning.

29Emmy Lou Virginia

30

Between One Shore and Several Othersafter Vivek Vilasini

The ocean backed off,

you tossed your towel in a sack.

I said we’re not the same and you disagreed.

I took your ego in mine; I let you temper.

The shore slipped between us.

I called for you like a squall

(din of ocean).

For once, I was honest.

The sea settled in.

I sent my regards.

Caitlin Neely

31Rob Freimuller

32 Nora Berggren-Jensen

33Tyler Meese

minizine

34

CONTRIBUTORSMike Boyle18, connecticut. mikeboyle.tumblr.com

Aimen Azimis a fifteen year old art enthusiast currently residing in Dubai. She is a full-time cat lover, and occasionally an aspiring writer and photographer.

Wesley Schwartzcaffeine slave, slant heart, slight, and often anxious

Clare Vernonindiana-hearted. i don’t need your friends, i’ve got my own.

Corey GallowayI’m a soon to be senior poetry major living in Chicago. I work within slight surrealism and am attempting to expand into cubist styles. My work will be presented in a multi-sensory exhibit held during Columbia College Chicago’s end of the year art show, Manifest. Besides that you can find me doodling and wishing I had a bear.

Rachel Frankelis a multidisciplinary artist living and working in San Francisco. She is fascinated by narrative, animal instinct, human nature, and the complexities of memory. You can find her visual work at www.speakeasyillustrations.com.

Dalton Dayhas spent two decades on this flying chunk of rock. There is a birdhouse where his heart should be. He leaves feathers on the tops of mountains. He wants a silkie chicken named Mrs. Mulberry.

Kelsey O’Kelleyis studying English at the University of Illinois, and her writing and photography has appeared in Cicada Magazine, the Prairie Light Review, and the Sun Day Newspaper. In her free time, she works at a library and drinks green tea.

Ali O’Brienis so official, all she needs is a whistle.

Violet RyderI’m an ex-pat Midwesterner currently enjoying the sunshine of Northern California. I blog whatever strikes my fancy at: weatherthisdanger.tumblr.com

35

Chloe Monson19, Salt Lake City. chloemonson.tumblr.com ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Matt Hemmerichis the bastard son of Donald Trump. His first chapbook White Moon was released February this year. You can give him a hug at matthemmerich.com.

Jonathan PivovarI’m a chicago-native artist. I typically work in the field of photography, though much of my work leads up to the photograph its self. I’m also a writer, woodworker, bike builder, and sculpture artist. You can find more work at my website: www.jonathanpivovar.com and follow my thoughts and ideas at jonathanpivovar.tumblr.com

Caitlin Neelyis a student at Northern Kentucky University. She is the poetry editor for Loch Norse Magazine. Her work has appeared in Loch Norse Magazine and is forthcoming in Licking River Review.

Rob FreimullerI graduated in 2012 from Norwich University College of the arts with a degree in Fine art. Within my work I employ a documentary style approach, wandering different locations in search of the uncanny, unpredictable and unappreciated.

Chelsea Du DevoireI am twenty years old, from Bradenton, Florida, and currently studying Editing, Writing & Media at Florida State University. I’m a dancer and a big fan of eating hummus. I have a huge crush on Elvis Presley, and I’m pretty positive that I’m a living hybrid of Julie Andrews + Beyonce.

Jessica Kennedyis a 22-year-old senior at UNC-Chapel Hill studying journalism and trying to figure out what’s next. You can find more of her work at jrskimbued.tumblr.com.

Nora Berggren-JensenI am an earthquake of a girl.

Keely McDickenwears too much blue and drinks too much tea and spends too much time on the internet: versary.tumblr.com

Jacqueline KrassI’m an 18-year-old poet/writer/library assistant from Brooklyn, NY. I study at

36

All copyrights remain with contributors upon publication. Please respect these submissions and seek permission from any author or artist before reproducing the work in any way.

On The Cusp began in 2011 as a vision shared between three budding Chicago artists to lend a megaphone to those peers of ours whose voices get lost in the noise of Today. In an age where everyone with a smart phone is a photographer and everyone with a blog is a writer, we dreamed simply of spotlighting and showcasing those who deserve recognition, those who quietly devote their lives tirelessly to their craft, those who are skirting the edge of anonymity and esteem.

The OTC Zine Team meets weekly on one of two of The Coziest Couches in Chicago. We talk about art and not art and we laugh about things that probably aren’t that funny. We have all agreed that OTC is the best thing to happen to us since Domino’s improved their pizza recipe.

On the Cusp works from onthecuspzine.com and has a storefront at onthecuspzine.bigcartel.com. We welcome feedback and hellos at onthecuspzine@gmail.com.

Thank you for your support!

Vassar College, and am an English and Women’s Studies major. I like philosophy, feminism, and literature, and collaborate with my best friend on a social justice zine that we put out bimonthly. You can find more of my writing at my personal blog, galactical.tumblr.com, or the site for my zine, monsterzine.tumblr.com.

Emmy Lou VirginiaI am a self-taught Vancouver photographer who specializes in natural light photography. I love coffee, with a mix of really good rainy day music, and old typewriters, and the smell of hyacinths, and the way people look when they first wake up in the morning, and apricot jam with cheese.

Tyler Meese was born in Michigan but now lives in Indiana and may very well die in the Midwest. E-mail him anything at tylermeese@gmail.com.

37

38

ON THE CUSPno. 8

after