Editor’s Note
I used to celebrate the day I made it another year, until I forgot the day one year and felt guilty about all the days I wasn’t celebrating.
I threw away the word “recovery” because it sounded like there was an old version of me I wanted back until I remembered that my only consistent trait is using trash creatively, so I dug until I found “recovery” again and wiped the slime off.
I told myself I was killing off what wasn’t working, but I hadn’t killed anything. I don’t plan to start.
These stories, pictures, songs, and moments are glimpses into life, death, monsters, desire, and all the universal wriggly things that cling to us all. I know I’m not alone as I try to figure out what it means to be alive, and I am so grateful these artists showed me that. I hope you feel less alone as you visit THE RESURRECTION OF TRASH WONDERLAND.
— Kit Lascher
Larena Nellies-Ortiz
Tony Hernandez
Rachel Turney
Linda Ann LoSchiavo
CENTO Metamorphosis
"Werewolves are much more common animals than you might think."
— Daniel Pinkwater
The wolf howls in its dire need,
While howling at the marrow of the marrow of the bone –
An unnatural specimen,
Preferring the high places closest to the moon,
Always hungry, bloody-tongued
But louche and free and supple, perfumed in pine and ashes –
Transformed into this thing.
. . . . .
Sources:
"The Wolf" by Imru Al-Qays
"How to Cook a Wolf" by Adrian Blevins
"Transformation" by Jewell Edith Bothwell Tull
"The Summer I Lived as a Wolf" by Pippa Little
"The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka
Lon Chaney, Jr. and the Wolf Man’s Curse
From a blank page he bloomed – like wild wolfsbane.
Unlike Henry Hull, recognizable
Under his wolf disguise, make-up restrained,
Lon Chaney’s son kept his werewolf label
And prosthetics for five films, was fabled
As the original Wolf Man fans know.
Though he played villains and character roles,
Horror’s dark meat left stains – a lack of respect.
The Walk of Fame star owned by his Dad froze
Out the son – doomed by the moon after death.
tommy wyatt
WORK OR DIE!
after spam job emails
Download our software to begin,
insert it through the skull to be
a best fit for our ever-growing
company. Text us on WhatsApp
to confirm, and we’ll reimburse
the cost in units of dreams
dropshipped directly to you
for an additional $999. Promise
this isn’t spam, we have
the security to be social
with you. Here’s a line:
how do you feel about collecting
names in exchange for life,
and legally you can’t say
it’s identity fraud?
business casual in the river
body resting on a rock cooled by waves
witherwrecked from wind water
seeping in the keyboard wired to a broken
laptop screen there’s always a deadline
to meet a nothingness to solve and to do it all over
again research a new way
the riverbed will recede and how
time won’t save me
nature is healing? / this is where your email has found me
blanking out via screen, i am too dissociated to compose a better resignation letter than dotting it all with apologies for punctuation. as in, sorry for the inconvenience, and i’m sorry to need to apologize for this, but—
i take a moment to steady my breathing, loosening my gaze to the marbelized sun seeping through diamondcut and cubed windows. it flicks warmness on my tongue to let me astral project to the other side. the one you scrubbed from my search history,
but i hope this computer gets colonized by fungi with angelic proportions, 666 brown mushrooms sprouting from the disk reader alone. which reminds me, have i told you lately that existing only to work is like living on wii sports mode? rainwater broke through the terminal last week, and i neglected to tell you that, too,
sorry,
tommy
Ella Whistlecroft
Every Doorway is a Border
She made her home in a bedroom with no windows, sublet in a strange neighbourhood that didn’t seem to exist on any map. It was a compromise.
She was sandwiched between the Jones family in the main living room and the young couple who worked in IT that lived in the bedroom on the other side of hers. They had a window. She was supposed to, officially. Supposedly there was a skylight but it never let through sunlight, covered with layers upon layers of fallen gum leaves, leaving the room smelling strongly of eucalyptus and nothing else. The overhead lights had long since flickered and died. Lamps cost too much to run nowadays.
Occasionally she would hear the IT couple arguing about whether to have kids or the Jones family playing the Peter and the Wolf story on CD; Their sons-only possession, that he got for Christmas from the family who used to live in the kitchen. The music droned on and on into the night and the child giggled with a delight that didn’t belong in such a sad place.
In the dark, she learnt to keep her possessions in good order, always putting them back where they came from so as not to lose them.
She wished that the IT couple would walk through her room to get to their jobs, knocking over her stacks of books and stumbling in the dark. But they just went through the window if they needed to leave. Even the Jones family barely talked to her, occasionally passing through the parcels of food she ordered from the web. She would paint her nails lilac, though she could not see them. It was self-care, she said. She knew they were there and that was enough.
The rooms of the house not connected to hers were more like urban legends in her mind than actual places. Every scrap of information she gleaned about the kitchen was through the conversations of the Jones family, who seemed equally curious about the dining room and the family of five that lived there. She knew that they’d tried to arrange a play date for their son and the youngest girl, but the new tenants of the kitchen refused to allow any movement through their home. She wished she had a floorplan to see exactly how the rooms fit together, to imagine what open borders on the property could mean. That kind of thinking was student politics though, a fantasy for a kinder world.
Sometimes, if she tilted the door open just enough without being noticed, she could watch the old episodes of Doctor Who that the IT man in the bedroom next door liked. Her dreams were filled with Dalek lasers lighting up her darkened room, her skeleton convulsing brilliant electric colours and no one finding her corpse until the next parcel arrived. It was only in surviving these dreams that she could wake up feeling refreshed. Convincing herself she was a freshly shed snake slipping through an enriched enclosure. That every day was a fresh start.
Bill Wolak
Barlow Crassmont
Regimen Revenue
I always detested aberrations in all their forms, until I became one.
The meetings I had to endure only confirmed those fears. The Chair who ran them smiled, but with a shitload of phony in his expression. You know, squinting eyes, too many flashed teeth, a forced grin, followed by three mechanical nods. But especially today.
His cheap aftershave hangs in the musty air as I pour myself a coffee. Not warm at all. No sugar, either. And the donuts are stale. What else is new.
Seven of us sit in a circle, like recovering knights of the hooch table. Our tent is large, spacious, but muggy. Little fresh air gets in the transparent enclosure. Numerous spectators wander outside. They stop and gaze at us, ignoring the skillful juggler behind them. Their eyes are bulgy, their mouths agape, and the only thing grander is their curiosity. I divert my attention, and turn back to the meeting.
The blonde newcomer is anxious and fidgety. Unsure of why she’s even here. She stands up, shivering, stuttering her words, and introduces herself. The rest of us respond in unison, like a mindless cult: Hi, Jennifer!
Often I wonder why I even bother, for my progress is non-existent. I’m just delaying the inevitable until I succumb back to the demon. But at least the stories I hear are fun. One can never underestimate the power of a suppressed chuckle.
Our Chair opens the flap door, letting in a much needed breeze. It brings the aroma of funnel cakes and cotton candy from outside, enticing our growling stomachs. The tune of the carousel makes its way to our ears, and for a brief moment, we all feel like children spinning endlessly on the fiberglass animals. More people crowd the outside of our canvas. They stare, giggle, and snicker. Their fingers track each of us as they did to freaks of yore.
Deformities are so yester-year, our Chair says. We are the new sideshow. And with ticket admissions, we can invest in new treatments.
A chubby boy presses his nose against the clear coating of the canopy, making faces and grimacing to the rest of us. I stick my tongue out back at him, much to the dismay of our Chair.
Another member rises. On and on he goes about what he regrets, what he fears and what he hopes to accomplish. I tune him out while craving a cold one.
I should be so lucky.
Yet the same can not be said of my fellow members. They are on the road to recovery - or so they claim. Just like the man running the meeting, they spew phony sentiment with each and every syllable. But I see right through them.
Like a discerning observer at an anomaly exhibition - only from within.
Kit Stookey
Orlando, Florida
Mickey's arm hoists an advertisement for himself.
Emerging from the ground,
He is Florida's zombie
Eating the state alive.
You are protected only by a rented Dodge Charger.
Your boyfriend—
Right now, another monster from the swamp—
Hurls out invectives to idiot drivers in your way.
Red tail lights blink with rage.
Apocalypse, now?
Janina Aza
Karpinska
Edward Michael Supranowicz
BEE LB
poem in which no one dies
split skin. gash
below knee. purple bruise
yellow pus. i didn’t tell you
because i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.
bandage pulled back to show
it was not a cavity containing secrets.
two photo tickets. empty revolver. eyes stained
pictures ruined. is that your girl?
no, that’s my sister. i’m mixing memories.
peach ale chasing pink lemonade vodka.
all the ice melted. body pulled into something resembling
a semblance of modicum. at some point you have to
decide. i tried to leave my body and failed.
now i’m stilted, an unintended italic.
there’s a slant to the way i walk, a lilt to how i carry myself
body held up by legs.
an endless wave of goodbyes. perforated
mistake. bulletproof glass between us.
our allotted time running out.
Gratitudes, Comments, and Credits
These artists are remarkable, kind, and I’m so grateful to have them as part of this project.
Thank you to all contributors, my community who has supported me as I bring this project back to life, and the Bernal Heights Library where I did the vast majority of work on the website.
And thank you for reading/viewing/listening.
-Kit
Janina Aza Karpinska is a multidisciplinary Artist-Poet-Scavenger of materials, ideas and inspiration to create the poetry of visual images by whatever means. She achieved an M.A. (with Merit) in Creative Writing & Personal Development, Sussex University. Her work has appeared in Grim & Gilded; Shanti Arts; 3 Elements Review; Antler Velvet, Quibble, Waxing & Waning; Blue Mesa Review, and Rundelania, amongst others. She lives on the south coast of England.
tommy wyatt (he/they) is the jester of popular culture and poet laureate of timefuckery, who's synthesizing digital archives, space voids, and confines of the body. he's the author of DITCHLAPSE / [REALLY AFRAID]; NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL HORROR!; So, Who's Courage?; Trick Mirror or Your Computer Screen; disasterfire/disasterstar; and others.
Kit Stookey (they/them) is a film bro in the darkest timeline. In this one, they ruminate on nostalgia, Gender (TM), and, of course, passenger princess-ing. Their work has appeared in Across the Margin, wig-wag, and yawp, amongst other publications. You can find them on social media @kstookley and in real life running up and down the hills of Pittsburgh.
BEE LB is the facsimile of a living poet; a porcelain pierrot with a painted face. they collect champagne bottles, portraits of strange women, and diagnoses. they've been published in PULP, Dirt Child, MOODY, and Landfill, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co and they can be found at patreon.com/twinbrights