Wing Finger Magazine Issue 3

7/28/2019 Wing Finger Magazine Issue 3

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Issue 1.3 April 2013

Wing Finger MagazineHello again,

First of all, I'd like to thank everybody who's read the e-zine and been a part of it! Houma has some

great artists, musicians, and writers. Much more than people realize. But this will be the last issue of

this e-zine. I am killing the Wing Finger. (And sorry, this is not an April Fool's joke lol.)

It wasn't an easy decision, as I like seeing what the community has to offer and this magazine was away to do that, but my true passion is in creating things too namely music. And I just feel the need to

apply myself fully to that.

So again, thanks to everyone who's joined me on this e-zine journey. This last issue is full of awesomewritings from local authors.

If you'd like to continue being creative or check out more of the local art scene, please check out thefollowing:

Art Versus Monthly art show at the Boxer & the Barrel in Houma

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Art-Versus/189929464402748?ref=ts&fref=ts

Houma Regional Arts Council for local art happeningshttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Houma-Regional-Arts-Council/198239750203292?ref=ts&fref=ts

Houmapalooza Bi-annual music festival featuring local bands

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Houmapalooza/257037517673160?ref=ts&fref=ts

Stay creative and curious,

Kenny
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Art-Versus/189929464402748?ref=ts&fref=tshttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Houma-Regional-Arts-Council/198239750203292?ref=ts&fref=tshttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Houmapalooza/257037517673160?ref=ts&fref=tshttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Houmapalooza/257037517673160?ref=ts&fref=tshttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Art-Versus/189929464402748?ref=ts&fref=tshttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Houma-Regional-Arts-Council/198239750203292?ref=ts&fref=ts


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In This Issue

This Moonlight Shawn Ledet Pg 3

Writer Spotlight Shawn Ledet Pg 4

Cinnamon Candles Damian Babin Pg 5

Writer Spotlight Damian Babin Pg 8

Letter of Mourning Dylan Belanger Pg 9

My Biggest Fear Dylan Belanger Pg 10Writer Spotlight Dylan Belanger Pg 11

The Monster Inside Shawn Ledet Pg 12

Desecration, Procrastination Dylan Belanger Pg 13


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This Moonlight by Shawn Ledet

This moonlight shines in through the lace

Piercing into my secret place

This moonlight shines upon my skinUnraveling what lie deep within

This moonlight is all that I have

No friends, no family, no fucking dadThis moonlight shines deep within

Waking me up, showcasing my sins

This moonlight, this gift, this gentle caress

Separating the colors in sharp contrastThis moonlight shall stay till the end of my days

Showing me what I am, showing my wicked ways


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Writer Spotlight: Shawn Ledet

Name: Shawn Ledet

Age: 17

Hometown: Bourg

Describe your work in three words: Emotional, Meaningful, Real

What keeps you creative? Life. A lot of my work is inspired by my own misfortunes and emotions. I

also have music playing 24/7. And lots and lots of coffee.

Who inspires you? You, whoever is reading this, you inspire me. Everyone inspires me. Watching the

natural flow of life, observing how different people do the same thing differently; it all inspires me. Iguess Im a product of everything around me.

Favorite dinosaur or prehistoric beast (and why?): Pterodactyls, theyre so chill. Get a T-Rex mad

and hes all like, Roar Im a T-Rex, Ill eat you! Not a pterodactyl, a pterodactyl is like, whatever, Illjust fly away. Pterodactyls are chill. And theyve got wing fingers.

What other artistic/literary styles or media would you like to try in the future? Id love to do anytype of painting or drawing, but I cant draw at all. Id also love to get into videoing and acting.

Do you have any other interesting hobbies or current projects? Im a musician. I play guitar andbass. Im currently in the band In Societys Eyes. Aside from that I love film, and all forms of art for

that matter.

The main thing you want people to know about you and your craft: Im writing life. All of myworks are rooted, sometimes loosely, in my own experiences and emotions. Im expressing my

emotions, but in a way anyone could relate. I was once in a dark place, but music saved me. Thats

what Im trying to do. I want to speak the words lost souls are afraid to. I want to reach out to thosewho cant be found anymore. I want to save lives by showing people they arent alone.

Where can people find your work? Well Ive got a ton of stuff at home, but if someone whereinterested in my work they could find me on facebook. I love when others read my stuff, so just ask.


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Cinnamon Candlesby Damian Babin

Jordan was irritably sick with a cold. It was, in fact, one of the worst colds he'd ever had. His

nose was running with mucus and his mouth was thick with saliva. Around the outer part of his nostrils

it was raw with flaked skin peeling off from repeated blowing and wiping. And no matter how hard he

trumpeted into a tissue he could never manage to clear the bats out of the cave.

He sat at his desk writing an essay for his basic comp class, a green and white striped tissue box

within reach. Air passed through one nostril freely, the other was clogged with a goal line defense of

snot. His glasses were smeared from pushing them back above his nose after falling from a violent

trumpeteer's salute. He couldn't taste the cinnamon flavored gum in his mouth, but he chomped on it

because he felt it helped him swallow the gobs of spit forming in his mouth, spit that any person with a

sore throat was always so much more conscious of. He was trying considerably hard to ignore all of

this, of course, because it was already an hour and a half passed midnight, and his essay was due for

eight-twenty in the morning.

Shouldn't have spent all evening watching the entire 'Batman Begins' trilogy, he thought,

procrastination is a cruel mistress. He typed all he could about The Grapes of Wrath and the figurative

devices used in it. He was getting tired, and the mistakes became more prevalant. The miserable illness

within him continued to wear on him.

Jordan plucked a tissue from the box. It made a rough sound when it slid through the plastic slit,

like cutting cardboard. He folded the tissue lengthwise, (hot dog style, as his elementary teachers would

say) and pressed it to his nose. It was an off-brand label and it felt like wet tracing paper that started to

stiffen.No wonder my nose is raw.

He blew into it. One nasal grotto was clear enough for a tour guide and the following tourists,

but the other passageway was still blocked by an inconvenient pile of rubble.

He blew harder. He blew until his ears popped and his cheeks got warm. He even stood up

thinking it could help. He continued to pull tissues until the soft whiteness was tinged with dots of red.

Jordan sank into the chair. Crumpled tissue littered the desk. He sighed and stared into the

computer screen.

The fan above him was making things move, making shadows shift and little things like balled

up gum wrappers tumbleweed across the desk. Most noticeable were the crumpled tissue papers thatalmost seemed to flower and dance an ancient native custom.

He heard tiny noises. Something very small or very far away. He glanced all around him and

wondered if something was going on outside. The sounds were agitated, angry. There seemed a hard

purpose to them.

One tissue in particular seemed the chief of Kleenex Tribe. It was dancing rhythmically. Back

and forth it seemed to roll, favoring one side more and more with each sway.


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Jordan concentrated on the sounds that were now more frantic, like squishing sticky tack

between thumb and forefinger. He focused on it until he was sure it was coming from Chief Kleenex.

He slowly opened the tissue.

Pink blots dotted the inside, but he realized that the pink dots were actually moving, separating,

and joining again.

Jordan let go of the tissue. He leaned his face closer and watched the pink dots split into what

he now saw were separate red and white dots that came together. As he watched, he noticed the

movement of the tissue again, and that it wasn't the fan moving it so much as the dots. With each divide

and collision the tissue was rocked by the force of it, and the tiny sounds were a little louder the closer

he was.

He hurried into his closet in search of his old bookbag. He found it and rummaged through until

he found the magnifying glass he'd used in high school. He rushed back to the desk.

He hovered over the tissue and peered through the glass.

Tiny men, soldiers, fought back and forth. Like the toy army men he played with as a kid, their

entire body was of one color. They were blobby, plump figures, certainly not battle-ready physiques.

The white soldiers looked professional, with uniforms straight and well made, save for the rips

and tears made from the more savage, brutal looking foreign hordes that were the Red. The White were

outnumbered now, and the Red were conscious of their imminent victory, and hooped and hollered as

they charged.

Jordan's magnified eye moved from both sides of the fray. Enamored as he was by such a literal

interpretation of biological warfare, his mouth hung open and his gum fell out onto the tissue. It fell inthe middle of the fighting, like a hidden boulder triggered by the pull of a secret string.

He heard screams as loud as the buzz of a fly, but as violent as a victim of rack torture. He saw

men squirming away from the wreckage, their pudgy legs almost non-existent. Red and white

millimeter length arms and legs stuck out from under the gum at interesting angles. Others yelled to no

avail as the juices from the mysterious rock were being absorbed under them, and they disappeared into

the wetness.

Jordan's wide eye moved in hungry pleasure. He scanned the scene frantically, relishing the

deaths of these alien droplets of color like a god.

He saw a White soldier trapped under the gum by his legs. He had 'Mitch' stitched into his

uniform. There was no insignia next to it, so Jordan knew he was a private. He lay crushed with his

hands on the wad that rolled so idly off of Jordan's tongue. Though he pushed and struggled to get from

underneath, his cheeks did not turn a rosy hue.

"General," Mitch said, "we tried, damnit, we tried hard."


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Jordan's giant eye blinked at the man.

"They were too strong, sir. They . . . they'd been around a long time and were good at what they

do." He moved his hands from the gum and grabbed the chain that hung behind his dogtag. "My wife

will do fine, and so will Clyde. He's a good boy."

The private was blinking hard and gasping between breaths, but he saw Jordan's crystal tearform in the corner of his eye.

"It's okay, General, you'll be fine. We got boys all over in there, they'll do their job and . . . and

you'll be well again, sir." Mitch laid his ivory head back against the tissue and Jordan nearly lost him in

the whiteness. He looked up and searched the sky."You shouldn't of shook his hand, General, he'd

sneezed in it not a minute before. Those savages pounced on it and waited to strike. The guy at the

restaurant . . ."

Jordan remembered the guy he'd recognized the other night. He'd walked up to him and shaken

his hand in greeting.

"General, sir . . ." Mitch was fading now. "I smell cinnamon. Cinnamon, like my wife liked.

Them nice candles she put out . . . I like them nice candles."


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Writer Spotlight: Damian Babin

Name: Damian Babin

Age:Nineteen

Hometown: Bourg, Louisiana

Describe your work in three words: Redemptive. Spiritual. Offensive.

What keeps you creative? Life.

Who inspires you? Everyone. That's what writing stories is all about.

Favorite dinosaur or prehistoric beast (and why?): Velociraptor, for no real reason. And the

direwolf. (The King in the North!)

What other artistic/literary styles or media would you like to try in the future? Film.

Scriptwriting. Play writing. Anything to tell a story. It's all been poems, songs, and short stories since Iwas twelve, and some less seriously written stuff before that.

Do you have any other interesting hobbies or current projects? Nope. Writing is all I know how to

do. I seriously can't do much else. I try to write as much as I can, so every now and then I'll finish a

new story. Maybe even a poem.

The main thing you want people to know about you and your craft: It's the hardest, most annoying,

stressful thing. But I absolutely love it. I've been writing stories exclusively for ten months now, not a

very long time, but I intend to never stop. Though I wrote poems and songs for six years, they don't

seem to drive me as much anymore. Stories are relics, or fossils as Stephen King calls them. I feel like

by some divine intervention I've been re-calibrated to dedicate my time to unearthing them and

revealing them to the reader. So the reader can bring them back to life.

Where can people find your work?Nowhere as of now. I don't have enough finished work to putmuch out there. If anyone would like to read some, though, they can e-mail me.

[email protected]
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


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Letter of Mourningby Dylan Belanger

I woke up from dreaming

Only to have my fears confirmedWhat is the meaning?

What is there to learn?

Tear after tear trickles downAs I mourn and cry

You looked so pretty in your gown

As you watch me from so high

It kills me to be so far away

I long to see you face once again

And I know I will one dayI can only wait until then

But for now Ill write

Ill spill my blood on these pages

A new page every nightJust trying to kill the ages

And when I finally see you

Ill run to you with glee

I wont know what else to do

I only hope youll be as happy as meThis is my letter of mourning

Im writing to ease the pain

In hopes to keep soaringBut writing has become my cane

It stops me from fallingIt keeps me saneIt stops me from calling

It subsides the pain


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My Biggest Fearby Dylan Belanger

For years I thought I knew

I thought I was over it

But I was wrong

I need you

Like a catcher needs a mitt

This feeling pounds me like a gong

I see the truth

I now know my biggest fear...

It's losing you

Tears are rolling down my face

And I've come to realize

I'm far from ok

I'm losing this race

I'd swear I wasn't alive

But I'm breathing

As I relive that dreadful and heart wrenching day

I feel numb

But I say nothing

I'm full with somberBut I hide it

I wear a mask

So you don't see my agony

You think I'm fine

But I'm breaking inside

It's becoming all too much to hide

I think I'm about to collapse


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Writer Spotlight: Dylan Belanger

Name: Dylan Belanger

Age: 19

Hometown: Houma

Describe your work in three words: Emotional Outlet, Heart-Felt, CreativeWhat keeps you creative? What keeps me creative is listening to different genres of music and

constantly expanding my musical horizon

Who inspires you? What inspires me is my addiction to building my vocabulary, reading, and learning

new things. I love to expanding my vocabulary because it enables me to find different ways to say andrhyme things. I love reading whether its to learn or just for entertainment. Its also helps to give me

ideas on how to write and it gives me an insight on how other people write. I get to see the different

styles of writing through reading. By learning new things, I am able to further my knowledge ondifferent events from the past and future, which could potentially provide inspiration in some way to

me.

Favorite dinosaur or prehistoric beast (and why?): My favorite dinosaur or prehistoric beast would

have to be a phoenix even though it never actually existed. I like the phoenix the most because it neverdies and it is a very majestic looking beast. Plus when a phoenix reaches the end of its several hundred

year long life, it will burst into flames and is reborn from the ashes left from when it self-ignited. So it

never actually dies. I guess one could look at it as a shower. Humans take showers when we are dirtyand occasionally not feeling well. In the phoenixs case, it will burst into flames.

What other artistic/literary styles or media would you like to try in the future? I already write,

draw a little bit, and mess around in Photoshop at an amateur level. In the future I would like to try myhand at sculpting.

Do you have any other interesting hobbies or current projects? Hacky-sack is an interesting hobby

of my friends and I. We were the only ones who ever played it in middle school and throughout highschool. The only current projects I have going on is my first semester at Fletcher Technical Community

College in Schriever, Louisiana and a new band some friends and I started. College is going good sofar. Its a lot of work at times but I enjoy it and I know it will be worth the trouble in the end. As far asmy band goes we literally have just started out. We are currently writing music and songs and we

havent decided on a name just yet. If I had to choose a band that we are trying to sound like it would

be the band Mayday Parade.

The main thing you want people to know about you and your craft: The main thing I want peopleto know about me and my craft is simply that I do it for the love. I enjoy doing what I do and I always

will. Theres a special connection, feeling, and state of mind I experience when I do what I love that I

cant get enough of. I guess writing poetry and songs is like a drug to me except that it doesnt slowlykill me. And if it were to be said that I was addicted to writing, at least its an addiction that helps me

throughout life and is something I can be proud of.

Where can people find your work? If anybody wants see some of my work the only place to view itright now is the few things I have posted on Facebook. I do plan to make a website of my work one day

when I have time.


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The Monster Insideby Shawn Ledet

As I lay my soul to sleep on needles, poison pins

There is no innocence to keep, theres nothing left within

I was once a man, I was, I use to have virtuesThere was a million things I did to keep away from you

You wallow in your own self-pity

Theres nothing left, theres nothing left

Are we really men, or is there something more?Theres nothing left, theres nothing left

What the fuck are we fighting for?

Theres nothing left, theres nothing leftThe better part of me walked out that door


As I lay my soul my soul to sleep with no guardian wings

Nothing left protecting me as you rape my beliefsI use to be so innocent, I use to be so pure

I never knew the shit you did was my fucking cure

You wallow in your own self-pity

Theres nothing left, theres nothing leftAre we really men, or is there something more?


What the fuck are we fighting for?

Theres nothing left, theres nothing leftThe better part of me walked out that door

Theres nothing left, theres nothing leftEvil is the name you go by as you run uncaged

How was I supposed to know that we were both the same?Your hurt, your pain, your wicked ways,

Youve been led astray

I wish upon a shooting star youd fucking go away

As I lay me down to sleep I start to look aroundWicked monsters lurking near, but I hear no sound

There is no innocence within, theres nowhere left to hide

We stopped checking for monsters when we realized theyre inside


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Desecration, Procrastinationby Dylan Belanger

I used to consider many things indispensable

But as I have matured with ageI realize now, that what was once important to me, is now forgettable

I see that it is now time for me to turn to a new page

It is time for me to extricate myself from this pathAnd reroute myself to another

For I am full with apathy

Im battered and bruised from lifes wrath

Instead of me? Why not the other?This truly is a tragedy

Its an untherapeutic situation

In which one must make a decisionBut, in his confusion; which is he to choose?

Desecration

Procrastination

Ultimately, he will face both; so which does he choose?


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Thanks for reading!

Wing Finger Out...

Wing Finger Magazine Issue 3

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