The Opiate: Fall 2016, Vol. 7

TheThe OpiateOpiate Fall Fall2016, Vol. 2016, 7 Vol. 7 This page intentionally left blank YourThe literary dose.Opiate © The Opiate 2016 This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission. Cover art: Carrie Cottini 3. The Opiate, Fall Vol. 7 Editor-in-Chief Genna Rivieccio Editorial Advisor Armando Jaramillo Garcia “Is there no way out of Contributing Writers Fiction: Shay Siegel 10 Joel Streicker 16 the mind?” Jo Mortimer 23 Daniel Ryan Adler 26 Evelyn Sharenov 31 -Sylvia Plath John M. Keller 37 Poetry: John Gosslee 42 A.G. Price 43 Joseph Harms 46 Jackie Sherbow 48 Chris Campanioni 49 Kailey Tedesco 51 Criticism: Genna Rivieccio 54 4. 5. The Opiate, Fall Vol. 7 deceased father (and, by association, her) for causing the faultiness of a generator at Editor’s Note the nearby fairground. Some people with an overly literal mind might question: “Genna, why lipsticks for the Next is Daniel Ryan Adler’s seventh chapter from Sebastian’s Babylon, rife with coffee fall cover? What does makeup have to do with fiction and poetry?” Well, more than shop brawls and dragon slaying reimaginings. Hurt feelings and misappropriated you might think, as it were. But before we get to that, let me break it down for you emotions are, naturally, par for the course as Sebastian gradually accepts that Lexi is simply: the lips of writers are often sealed, reserved for opening only when bringing repulsed by and uninterested in him. the glass or bottle to them. And nothing cinches a closed mouth like a daub of lipstick. The nuanced buildup to the final scene in Evelyn Sharenov’s “The Hood” is punctuated With this in mind, is it any wonder that so many writers are nutcases, bursting at by a mixture of ennui, nostalgia and resignation as two childhood friends, one of whom the seams with tales to tell and emotional baggage to unload? They possess many is dying of AIDS, get to know each other again after being separated for a lengthy shades, alternating tones of personality and temperament at any given point in time, or period. Filled with ruminations on loss and the facile slippage of that commodity, time, throughout the day. Thus, yes, the lipsticks are an homage to the multi-faceted psyche Sharenov weaves a valuable lesson throughout the narrative: a person can always of the artist. Plus, it can’t be ignored that those who write are often trying to re-create a start over again, no matter how impossible it seems. better world (or maybe “livelier world” is the more fitting term), much in the same way makeup tries to re-create a better face. Rounding out the fiction section is John M. Keller’s “The Death of James Franklin,” an almost magical realist tale that explores not only the obsessive reactions of “commoners” Shay Siegel’s “Carlin, David” kicks off the issue with an appropriate amount of the when famous people die, but also the question everyone secretly wants to answer: at macabre, in keeping with the dark-hearted sentiments brought on by the fall season. what age would you want to die? (“After eighty, I guess. Then you know you’ve lived a long life, where you had time enough to fit everything in.”). Taking the subject of self-mutilation to a level far beyond Richie Tenenbaum, Siegel delves deeply into the mindset of what propels David to cut himself with the combined Our poetry section commences with John Gosslee’s “Knocking on the Night Sky,” a veracity, delicacy and frankness that fictionalized accounts of this subject matter tend lament, of sorts, on lusting after another chance to get it all right. “It,” being, of course, to be missing. life. A.G. Price’s “Unstable Ground” is yet another piece in the fall issue that seems to place its emphasis on the difficulty of starting anew. Maybe the season was simply For anyone living in a major metropolitan city right now, with its forceful subjugation designed to suffuse people with a more than slight tinge of hopelessness. Spring and of affordability and therefore artist communities (especially New York and San summer are for “pep.” Francisco), Joel Streicker’s “I’m Really Going To Miss This” will resonate with particular profoundness thanks to the main character, Roger, making peace with the fact that Joseph Harms’ “Mortmain” harkens back to a bygone era of poetry, one of more staidness the city he once knew no longer really exists (though he will always be charmed by it and poise, and will most assuredly have you reaching for the dictionary (if people still when those rare instances of what made it great occasionally shine through), and that reached for dictionaries). After, the evocative prose of Jackie Sherbow pervades her he must leave it in order to carry on with basic survival, i.e. shelter that won’t dip into grudging ode to the brain, “Narcissus, tulipa, cerebral cortex.” one’s entire paycheck. Perhaps the most stylistically unconventional poem in this segment of The Opiate is Chris Campanioni’s “We Hope You Enjoy the Selection,” blending elements of exaggerated fiction Following Streicker’s “I’m Really Going To Miss This” is Jo Mortimer’s whimsy-filled within the framework of poetry. And, after all, who hasn’t felt the strange out of body experience “Sparks,” detailing the unlikely grieving process of Sophia, a baker who works in of traveling only to be hounded by the airline demanding you to rate your experience, as a small English town and grapples with its denizens placing blame on her recently though experience is that effortlessly classified? 6. 7. The Opiate, Fall Vol. 7 To conclude the poetry segment is Kailey Tedesco. In “I Hear Evil Enter Through The Nothing of Me,” Tedesco brings the constant struggle of humanity to the forefront: that of grappling with an innate duality, and feeling compelled to settle upon merely one aspect of the self (you see, that’s why lipstick shades are key—you never have to choose just one). Last is “The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same: Douglas Coupland’s Generation X,” a criticism of this forgotten gem of the early nineties comparing the similarities between Gen Xers and millennials. The only reason I came into contact with it was thanks to my cousin’s Polish girlfriend. I really need to give the book back to her, but then, she’s there and I’m here. Yours very sincerely, Genna Rivieccio FICTION 8. 9. The Opiate, Fall Vol. 7 Carlin, David - Shay Siegel that I was awake, I remembered what I could feel her warmth inching crook of my elbow, right near the I did. I rememberd the red, oozing toward me. I thought about what I collection of white scars on the inside Carlin, David liquid pouring out of my wrists. The would pick up from Pat Flannigan’s of my forearm. I focused on the warmth as it streamed down my hands on the way home for dinner. My coldness of the liquid making its way Shay Siegel and dripped all around me. Clutching stomach grumbled a bit thinking into my veins with each slow drip. It the razor between my fingers, refusing about their cheeseburgers. tasted like stale metal in my mouth. to drop it. I remembered the smell of A cold draft slipped beneath “What day is it?” I asked her gin and vomit slipping across the tiles the sheets. I clenched my teeth, ready as she brought a straw to my lips. of the floor before I hit the ground. I to reach for my clothes. “It’s still November 22nd, remembered silent blackness. She propped herself up on sweetie.” Why was I here and not one elbow and looked at me with I hung my head, wondering dead? those huge green eyes, like emeralds how it was only a few hours earlier in her face. She weakly smiled, her that I let the cold, sharp blade sink ****** dimples barely visible. into my wrists. The purple roots “I guess I should get going,” I protruding––I wanted to sever them I stood at the end of her said. until they were no longer connected. driveway, staring up at the wall of “Sure,” she replied. But I couldn’t even get killing myself windows that seemed to be watching I picked up my pants from right. me. My breath escaped my body the floor. I had let that blade sink into like a dangling ghost in the frosty “What are you doing the rest my arm so many times before without air. I approached the front door; ivy of the night?” she asked. intending to off myself. The first time snaked up the sides. I lifted my hand “Um, just gonna get dinner,” I did it was the night that woman to the rusted, brass knocker but she I said, plainly. called. was already there. She wore a pink “From where?” she sat up, flowered dress that looked as though wrapping a pink blanket around her ****** it was made for a six-year-old—not a shoulders. I buttoned my pants and sixteen-year-old. I still didn’t believe scanned the room for my shirt. “Hello.” I picked up my we were the same age. She ushered “I don’t know,” I said. dad’s phone that had been buzzing me in with the same smile she flashed Her eyes were on the back of on the kitchen counter for at least the first time I met her. Dimples, my head as I dressed.

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