// Audience \ \ 1 // Askew \ \ Volume I Issue 3 Winter 202 3 Audience Askew Literary Journal Mission A t Audience Askew , we like the strange, quirky, and unique — aiming to find thought - provoking stories, engaging poetry, and distinctive artwork that doesn’t quite fit in anywhere else. We welcome new and established authors , poets, and artists worldwide who want to showcase their talents to an au dience just as askew as they are. Volume 1 | Issue 3 | Winter 202 3 www.AudienceAskew.com The rights of the works of poetry, prose, and art included in this issue of Audience Askew remain with their creators. No portion of this magazine may be reproduced without permission from the artists. Audience Askew Literary journal is a publication of Nat 1, LLC. www.nat1publishing.com Editorial Board Brandan Roberts, Michaela Butler, Dahlia Thomas New Age Alexey Adonin Front cover art 35.4 x35.4in, o il on canvas . 2018. Untitled Jenny Nash Photograph Contents Untitled Art by Jenny Nash 04 Contents 05 Window to Another World Art by Em Harriett 06 Gheerulla Lullaby Poem by Kathryn Reese 07 The Dignity of Work Story by L. Nicol Cabe 08 Understanding Immensity Poem by Lily Hinrichsen 12 Blew Bleu Art by J’Atelier9 13 Regret Poem by Labecca Jones 14 Beguiled Art by Pedro Yo unis 16 The Creek Story by Edward M. Cohen 17 You Forgot Your Shoes Art by Frances Fish 19 Sisyphus Inversions Poem by Rae Diamond 20 Red Snow Cars Art by Ann Calandro 21 You are the Hot and Weak One Poem by Keira Armstrong 2 2 Fragments Story by Vince Agcaoili 23 Great Wide Open Art by Ian Hill 26 Use Caution Poem by Ellen White Rock 28 Meet Me at The Lake Art by Jessica Fogal 29 Contributors 30 // Audience \ \ 6 // Askew \ \ Window to Another World Em Harriett Photograph. 2021. // Audience \ \ 7 // Askew \ \ Gheerulla Lullaby Kathryn Reese Cradle your weary, shaking shoulders into these laced fingers — these lava fingers, once fire, now cool rock, curved to nest your flesh. Count the leaves that lie here like stars. Name each: eucalypt, bracken, banksia, cedar, bunya, picabeen, mountain ash. Press your ear to loam, brow to moss, hear cicada song crescendo ro und your restless, naked form less dream. Hear song breath on your skin, on your damp and tangled curls. Lie, your sorrows, weep, deep. Let tears take life, leap escarpment, carve new laugh lines into stone. granite, graphite, dust, carve new fate for palms to read. Your tears are not salty until they flood the sand dunes of your tongue, until, River, they soak your estuary mouth // Audience \ \ 8 // Askew \ \ The Dignity of Work L. Nicol Cabe My name is Mira. This is my official court testimony. Because I can’t make bail, I can’t leave, but I’m allowed to record a pre - written statement. It is such bullshit that I have to represent myself! Just because I have a previous criminal record, I’ve lost the option of legal counsel. Calm down. Breathe. No lawyer wants to get mixed up with me anyway. Criminal negligence doesn’t play well on the news wire. Not to spin too much of a sob story, but I had a tough start. I was born into a family of survivors — hard - scrabble rabble with nothing to lose. Our neighborhood o f migrants had a strict curfew enforced by frightening men in uniform. Growing up, I was only familiar with the law as enforcement. Giant men made larger by thick armor and those helmets that hide everything but their scowls. Their guns were bigger than me for most of my life I couldn’t imagine setting even one toe out of line when I went to the corner market for milk because the patrols were always watching . But, almost as soon as I finished my education, I met a boy. We were together long enough for me t o think I was pregnant, sign the kid up for healthcare , and then find out I wasn’t pregnant after all. I’m told that miscarriages are common, but you wouldn’t know from how I was arrested. It turns out c hild endangerment is a big deal One year in jail, si x months with parole if I was good. It was hard enough to find decent work anyway , but once you’ve been incarcerated, it gets even harder. Still, I refused to hit rock bottom. I didn’t steal, I didn’t prostitute myself, I didn’t launder money or sell drugs Instead, I lived in a tent, propped up in a public parking lot after hours to get shelter from the rainy season until I could find an actual, paid position with a real company. My mom migrated up here during the Genocide to avoid being caught and expunge d; she wasn’t a quitter, and neither am I. I met a kind gentleman, whose name I won’t smudge on this testimony, while selling plastic bits I netted from the b ay to recycling centers. I f I worked hard, I would g e t a few bucks out of it — enough for a coffee a nd a sandwich a day. This kind man ran a salvage business, sending workers to gut the old buildings in the Venice neighborhood. At the time, it was off - limits for most city dwellers, but the buildings were still for sale, despite being in foreclosure at ma jor banks for decades. He saw I was struggling, sunburnt and thin but gaining muscle. He hired me. Salvage is a good gig. A lot of you wouldn’t think this, but it’s fun. If you’re emotional, you can take that out on dry wall with a hammer. When you’re more focused and level - headed, you can remove circuit boards from smart appliances and strip the casing off copper wire. You can bandy insults back and forth with your coworkers, get a good workout, eat anything you want, and sleep like a log. I loved it. Work ing salvage meant I was in a lot of grand old buildings on the regular. You know t hose elegant metal and glass high rises in the mucky flood plain? The ones our government told us to abandon decades ago because it // Audience \ \ 9 // Askew \ \ was cheaper to take over higher ground tha n sump - pump downtown? That they said were too dangerous to live in anymore? That’s where I spent my work days. The thing is, I think too much. I had a hard time getting my degree because I kept questioning the information and how the curriculum was present ed. Working salvage around the Venice Neighborhood did give me some distractions when I had to do detailed work. Like when I had to figure out how to de - bond an old, bloated biobattery from a penthouse suite’s dead home protection system without it blowing toxic fumes in my face and starting a zombie plague. But after a while, even that wasn’t enough to keep me from dreaming. My imagination is the problem. Wading through ooze and sand at low tide to get into those abandoned structures wasn’t too pleasant, b ut the insides were ridiculously nice. A lot of stuff on the upper floors would function just fine if you could patch a generator into it and get the lights going. As long as salvage crews like us hadn’t stripped the place, those looming, gleaming shapes w ere doing okay. We discovered that people still lived in those buildings without sanction. We never reported them because they were just squatters — homeless, drug - addled, and sick. We had to get them out nearly every day because my boss bought the buildings specifically to tear them apart. Sometimes, my boss would hire a few of them, cash under the table, out of the kindness of his heart. That man was generous. But usually, they were so out of it, so malnourished, that we just had to escort them from the bui lding. Some squatters had fascinating, functional home systems, though. They found ways to squeeze every last drop of electricity from biobatteries and power the lights. Upper floors didn’t have the same problems of mold and rotting fish stink , s o they bec ame prime campground. Space in this city has been limited for a long time. A sanctuary city that takes everyone and has high ground above the flood waters — even if that ground is artificial — is very sought - after. I grew up in a neighborhood built from rubble and recycled plastic scraps. Contractors are building more housing all the time, but they keep getting smaller, more expensive, made from material that barely keeps out the wind. These sturdy, grand buildings had lasted through storms and waves that disso lved some tough material. I wanted to know how people survived there because those were some nice rooms — better than my apartment, which was basically a single room partitioned with thin particle board. And they lived there for free, kings of their heaps. The tricky part at the time was getting over the dykes and into Venice. My job gave all of us tidal charts, so we knew what hours we could safely be inside. I knew when tides would be still enough to get around, even at night. Finding unmonitored ways in w as harder. I kept my eyes open as my crew gutted building after building, creeping through the sinking neighborhood. There is a place near the wall where some relief workers had piled gravel and sandbags into a mound, probably an early attempt to keep the acidic water out of some of the neighborhood. The wall made a stable walkway for me after I scaled the dyke one evening, allowing me to enjoy the sparkling black water without wading through // Audience \ \ 10 // Askew \ \ slimy algae blooms and sucking mud. I walked until I found buildi ngs with lights on. I watched shadows move across filmy curtains. I examined the evening routine of the pretending rich. Everyone wants to be rich. Everyone is willing to throw their meager money awayto feel wealthy. These squatters had shored up their hom es with relic technology to keep feeling affluent. I knew I could invest in that sensation. Those facades claimed our imagination every day, stuck on our horizon, constant reminders of a time that was. If I could sell the nostalgic wealth, I’d be able to m ake a decent living on my own. Starting a business would be the best way to raise my status. Venice’s buildings were cheap — that’s why the salvage business boomed for so many years. The land deeds belong ed to banks, which were still too big and bloated to c ompletely fail. Like any person, bank managers cling to their former wealth, hoarding it just in case. But if you walk in and ask for a deed, make them an offer, they are more willing to let go of a small part of their Great Dream. From the man who hired m e, I found getting a high rise was as easy as handing over a few hundred dollars and claiming a thin piece of paper. I saved up what salvage income I could until I finally bought my first building from a startled bank manager. I cleaned it up myself , takin g pride in my purchase, I pumped out the water. I shored up the walls, repainted, and cleaned out barnacles , seaweed, and stink. I made those upscale hovels look real nice. And I priced the rent to be the best in the city. Young people who couldn’t afford to stay here lived in that building — for years sometimes. Those first tenants were like my kids. They put in hard work to help the buildings get nice. They painted inc redible murals all over the walls, they built furniture, they even sometimes threw parties to help me raise money to replace computers and lightbulbs. They were the music - makers, the dreamers of dreams. The world left us alone. Until that first damn rich k id came in. Some little girl looking to hurt her parents’ feelings by hooking up with an artist and running away from home. She spent most of her time high on prescription pills and cheap wine, throwing her money at my tenants . It was nice at first , b ut th en she invited some of her friends. And then they started demanding more new stuff. T hen they bought the upper floors and moved in. I am not opposed to making a buck off people, so the artists went away , and my building suddenly got ritzy. O ther rich kids started buying other buildings in Venice, which was kind of nice because public services were in the area more. A lot of it was histrionic warnings about water damage and black mold. But it kind of felt like a neighborhood if you squinted and tilted your head. Not like a ghost town. No one predicted Hurricane Orlene. There are categories to help us define such storms, but no one uses those terms when discussing this one. Water became more solid than rock. The ocean shredded the land like it was recycled pl astic. So much of the city was destroyed. Venice sank into the sea. All that was left were spikes of twisted beams thrust up like pleading hands The neighborhood wasn’t destroyed, more like broken, bloodied. Demolition is clean , but this was just .. Viole nt // Audience \ \ 11 // Askew \ \ And I am blamed for that violence. Like I sold room to rich brats and then used my witchy powers to summon Death in the form of ocean wind. I did the same thing th ose kids’ parents did — I invested in starting a business — and now I’m told that was crimina l. Because of a horrific accident. Yes , of course I knew Venice was dangerous. I worked there. Yes, I took advantage of an opportunity to make easy money. But if this was actually about those kids, their parents would have taken me for all the money I have But instead , I was arrested and charged in a criminal court Is gentrification our only law ? I’m so sorry that those rich kids died. I’m sorry that anyone died in that storm. It was awful. But I didn’t cause it. I didn’t force anyone to live in cheap hou sing — I just offered it. Yes, I promoted it. Yes, I know ocean water is toxic and damp walls cause disease. I warned my tenants about that. I didn’t place them inside the worst storm the West Coast has ever seen. I just wanted the dignity of work. // Audience \ \ 12 // Askew \ \ Understanding Immensity Lily Hinrichsen The last time the sky engulfed me was the last warm day of Autumn I was pinned to a reflection in Lake Winona anyone from shore would have seen a kayak skimming across clouds cutting the blue heavens with gentle trailing wakes I could not see myself in this scene but I could see the entire hillside of mottled color echoed in the mirrored waters all around me stillness even the wind refused to breathe just me and the lone sandhill crane feeling a sublime emb race // Audience \ \ 13 // Askew \ \ Blew Bleu J’Atelier9 37.5x25.5in, Acrylic, mixed media, repurposed cardboard ephemera newsprint recycled bags. 2022. BLEW BLUE highlights a global world of ethnic & racial diversity. As recognized brands can familiarize us, racism & discrimination are at the underbelly of global integration. We witness racism from what began in the wet markets of Wuhan to genius breakthroughs in lu xury fashion through #virgilablohlouisvuitton. Yet ultimately, we remain of one human race on th e big blue planet. // Audience \ \ 14 // Askew \ \ Regret Labecca Jones ~ For Aunt Lois My backyard is filled with flowers. They remain year round for no reason, alive in bloom and I suspect they stay suspended on their stems for different reasons. Some soak sunshine, open brightest when birds call them to life, holding themselves agape to rays, enduring the wind, the heat, hovering around them. In winter, though, my backyard fills solid with frozen petals. I’m surprised how well the multiple colors lap at snow and ice as it drips down their spines. They never grow, each feeding on frozen earth harnessing silence into energy, smiling on early nights. // Audience \ \ 15 // Askew \ \ Nothing in the yard ever blows away; blossoms appear as if out of nowhere, never change, as do stems, leaves and thorns, each year, all year long. They never move, never die, only stand, all still, all silent, staring at me through closed windows, and sealed drapes. Against the backyard panes - wind never rattles, never leaks water from the outside in, nothing mo ves inside out of those frames of glass. Just my own reflection stares back while I watch that nasty mess of tangled colors, how they stare, cold and lovely wanting, desperate to be pruned. // Audience \ \ 16 // Askew \ \ Beguiled Pedro Younis Photograph. 2019. // Audience \ \ 17 // Askew \ \ The Creek Edward M. Cohen Five - year - old Noah saw an old man in the market. When he tells me, his body curls into an imitation, and he nods his head and pretends to walk with a cane. The old guy had been walking up and down the aisles, muttering, “Mine eyes ! Mine eyes!” The memory makes him cackle. I am not sure what this means, but I’ll ask his mother later. Maybe she’ll know. Maybe not. Ten minutes go by, and, in the middle of another conversation, he mutters, “Mine eyes! Mine eyes!” His voice crackles wi th make - believe age, and he giggles to himself again. It doesn’t matter whether I understand or not — he enjoys the story. He also loves to sing Allouette. He announces, “I can speak French, Grandpa!” Then he sings, “Allouette, gentil Allouette. Allouette g entil ploo merai!” He doesn’t understand a word. He is just mouthing sounds that his father probably taught him, but he proudly sings the refrain over and over. The most impressive thing about him at this age is how he relishes private jokes, sets his own goals, pleases himself with accomplishments, figures things out, and gets lost in his private fantasies. We are spending the afternoon at the creek. Noah’s parents have rented a cottage near our summer home for the month so they can get a vacation with f ree babysitting — a treat for us all. They bring him over every afternoon, and he has fallen in love with this creek. We spent two hundred bucks on membership to the town pool, figuring he’d meet other kids there and take swimming lessons, but no, Noah prefe rs the creek. The water only goes up to his waist, so he can just wade in and sit and splash, but the current is strong, and he loves to let the cool ripples rush over him. He has started to build a dam — flinging rocks around, piling them up, then breaking them down, dousing his head under the waterfall he has created and sings Allouette to himself. Noah used to be totally dependent on adults for information and stimulation; he soaked up whatever we told him. He wanted to hear the same story over and over. These days, when we walk to the creek, he talks to himself, repeats his favorite punch lines without caring if I get the jokes or not. In the fall, he will be going to a real school instead of the pre - K he has been at for years. Noah will have to travel o n the bus by himself. He will learn letters and numbers. He will lose old friends and have to make new ones. His parents are nervous, but not him. Now I know why — just when he needs it, his inner self is growing strong. We walk home from the creek, he in h is baggy bathing suit, hair golden from the sun. He shows me his Karate poses, copied from television. He sucks in his tummy, and I see the first outlines of muscles, like the beginning of a scrawny pre - adolescent. He says, “I have to keep my knees bent li ke this for support!” God knows where he heard it, but he seems to understand and is clearly impressed with himself. I hope I never forget how he is on this carefree summer day. His personality before facing so many of life’s hurdles. Problems he can’t ev en fathom right now. . Noah has been so happy in his current school; he’s been there for so many years, the darling of the teachers. Kindergarten will be the first great disruption in his life. // Audience \ \ 18 // Askew \ \ To us, it seems frightening. Not to him. Maybe he is aware of the tension and, without even knowing, has taken this summer to marshall his inner resources. He is building a sense of self, to rely on when he faces whatever awaits him. He knows it. We will l earn. He is signaling that we have to. He will not be held back by our old - people concerns. I know separation is a part of parenting but does it have to happen so soon? His friend Andy is visiting from the city this coming weekend, so Noah will not be co ming over until Monday. We will miss him terribly. After only these few weeks, we cannot remember how we used to fill the afternoons. This is a horrible reminder of how brief this period will be. Soon — too soon — he will be busy with soccer games and music le ssons and Boy Scout meetings. There will be very little time to visit his grandparents. Maybe, every now and then, he will need to replenish his spirits by returning to the creek. If he does, we will be here. // Audience \ \ 19 // Askew \ \ You Forgot Your Shoes Frances F ish Photograph. // Audience \ \ 20 // Askew \ \ Sisyphus Inversions Rae Diamond i quickly collecting scrapes the sound of a bowling ball rolling down a hill at night let loose on a sleeping suburban street what will stop it ii a friend wrote me a love letter put it in a bourbon bottle he emptied threw it in the ocean it never arrived iii earlier in wee hours spellbound we played the strings of a broken piano beside a dumpster its helpless keys refl ecting the wide luminous disc of moon above us the police were not enchanted iv a bartender gave me a trombone he no longer played since it didnt fit in my backpack i lost track of it years later a stranger thanked me for it v i climbed a ladder fifteen stories my backpack small and light was my only companion on the rooftop i slept with stars vi on ferries i inhabited the sweet spot with the slightest wind and an engine drone omnipresent envel oping there where no one could hear me i sang freely