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    The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6)
    The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6)
    The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6)
    Ebook173 pages1 hour

    The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6)

    By Audrey Rey and Mina Hunt

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The Larcenist is an international literary magazine, published bimonthly in paperback and ebook form.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateDec 15, 2014
    ISBN9781312755581
    The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6)

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      Book preview

      The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6) - Audrey Rey

      The Larcenist (Volume 1, Issue #6)

      The Larcenist

      Stealing reality to achieve art

      The Larcenist

      Volume I, Issue 6

      (December 2014, January 2015)

      ISBN: 978-1-312-75558-1

      Editors:

      Audrey Rey (poetry, stageplay)

      Mina Hunt (prose, stageplay)

      Illustrations: Hana Mori

      License: Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 2.0

      Cover illustration based on the story The Ice Woman by Mira Patel.

      Visit http://thelarcenistmagazine.wordpress.com for more information.

      Foreword(s)

      My dear Larcenists,

      We made it through our first year! When we started this project I didn't think there will be so many exceptional stories waiting for me to get through them each month. So many new worlds, imaginative characters and innovative storylines. Some were sad, others funny; some scary, others adventurous. What they all had in common, however, was that they were all amazing works of art. I enjoyed reading every single one of them, though I admit I was sometimes tempted to pull my hair out when I was »curing« someone's work of acute comma avoidance. Even so, I am thankful for the escape from reality you provide me with your pieces.

      Keep creating new worlds, keep stealing reality and keep writing. But most of all, keep sending it my way.

      Happy holidays,

      Mina

      Dear readers and authors,

      Thank you for a wonderful first year of The Larcenist. Being in touch with new literature from all across the world has truly been a unique experience. So many different poetics, so many different cultural backgrounds ... It's something every editor dreams of. And being able to show these works of art to a variety of readers is what I always wanted to achieve as editor — after all, literature is meant to live within the readers, not just by (and within) itself.  Personally, your words have stayed with me this whole time and I never get tired of re-reading them. You truly have remarkable artistic voices.

      I hope we will continue to work together with old acquaintances and I hope to come across new authors that will mesmerize me with their works.

      Lastly, I would like to thank Mina and Hana for being the best possible team, because working with them has been nothing but pure fun.

      Best,

      Audrey

      Hello from me as well, fellow Larcenists

      I don’t interact with any of you personally, but you may know me as the person responsible for the covers of our literary magazine. I joined this little project since it seemed like it would be a lot of fun to work on something like this and a nice thing to pass the time. Boy, was I wrong. Each piece chosen as the base for the cover illustration has been so deep and so full and interesting, it has often pushed me further to where I wouldn’t usually go by myself in my creative drawing process. In fact, all of the entries, both prose and poetry, as well as the plays that are published in each edition, inspire me greatly. I find myself imagining you, dear little Larcenists, lying in your beds, sitting on your favorite chairs by the window or wherever it is that you like to write, and pour out your souls onto papers and keyboards. It makes my fingers itch with anticipation and my mind racing with images and sketches of all the wonderful stories you bring to life. Each edition has been a blast to read and I look forward to the many more that I will get to read in the future.

      I wish you all a steady hand, a good pen that doesn’t die when you most need it and happy holidays!

      Your illustrator,

      Hana

      Poetry

      Clio

      Jewish Shoplifter

      The one she loves-

      she`s in love with a corset

      She`s in love with

      boxers

      The one who filled them is a ghostly parasite,

      he hogs all the covers at night

      just another man begging for mercy

      as I – crave experience

      He advised me to jump

      off of a cliff and

      see what

      words

      I`d gather from the canyon`s

      high and sleek slope

      curves of liberation

      Loneliness is liberating

      I get to think however while only God can judge me,

      But my Jewish candy has molded,

      I miss his feisty tastes- sarcastic balloons-

      I even anticipated such character at my 21st birthday in a casino

      Ha!

      Although a man is only as pricey

      As he wants to be

      And a woman like me has a will-not to be purchased.

      Cadaver

      Pin me up

      I`m an immortal

      doll

      dying for osteoperosis,

      a bony dalilah

      skin graphs isn`t even an art; it`s an invasion of privacy

      My privacy- being a flyleaf

      a rock up a nose

      a soon-to-be-dried-up-rose

      I`m just his warm body

      a snap pea

      when the morning drears

      red

      melodramatic,

      No doubt, patch my ears

      with an xylophone

      at least A,B,Cs makes sense

      My privacy - spiritual

      keenness

      lost between

      bedsheets

      I choke in my dreams now,

      only to wake up in my

      earphones twirled around my neck

      Deaf takes such initiative to stone

      Then there is sight- I see me-

      ghost me under a size fifteen blade

      of psychobabble

      Not long after octo

      The only fortune to have is sanity.

      Throb

      I woke up absent-

      absent and without a host

      with a sudden case of Boreas.

      Only a nosebleed

      could warm me-

      my breasts were soft,

      but I haven`t forgotten

      the low smokes

      that formed

      beneath my toes

      Passion is furious and angsty

      A year of this has been reincarnated

      dismembering sanity by four pieces

      four....

      I`m your muscle, the misunderstanding

      No- it`s not trivial to be

      misconceived

      Depressing is that jackal to even accept it

      You flicker me on and off

      Why so female?

      It`s bombing fluid in the brain again

      He had watched me stiff and feverish,

      quite smothered in sulfur

      quite retching

      the smokes become cruel

      Now it`s a hell horse to gallop along the mind-lines

      scraping up the rocks of irrational decisions to rise as a written body

      What does it take to be your darling?

      A mother?

      I am almost out of sight

      - coiled and not even within earshot.

      Yet the nosebleed feels wonderful.

      Katie Alexander

      My Shout

      If God is the world's poet,

      we are the side-notes he scribbled in the

      margins.

      We aren't the heroes,

      the victors,

      the winners of the game.

      Our shouts into oblivion go

      unheard,

      but still,

      I want my shout to be your name.

      Roses

      The sun

      blossomed in the East with the

      quiet grace of

      twelve new roses,

      Which were as bright as

      lightning would taste

      and lit up their corner of the world

      dutifully, as a father lets his guinea-pig grieving daughter

      dig too big of a grave in their garden,

      and then finishes the hole for her because her hands hurt

      from the shovel.

      To the dying sun, the

      sky is one endless canvas that it

      paints with soft pastels.

      But with death of day

      the roses shrivel

      and fade

      because the girl forgets to water them,

      and the father is too busy

      filling in the hole

      to do it for her.

      Gabrielle LaFrank

      Values

      A thought costs a penny,

      fixed value for a dollar,

      many zeros for a home,

      but what's the value of tomorrow?

      I have witnessed the inability

      of comprehension of time and youth.

      Learn to embrace the mortal right

      to choose your own truths.

      I refuse to accept

      my coming nonexistence.

      Fixed value for a dollar,

      but what's the price of a minute?

      Icarus, Prologue

      He lights the fires to produce smoke.

      He inhales so he can suffocate on something

      other than his anxiety.

      He extinguishes the flame with his fingers

      lubricated by the genetics from his own lips.

      It burns his pale skin, but the searing and stinging

      are more tolerable than the falling.

      The drop gives way to numbness of his body

      before the crushing weight of living piles upon his chest.

      Just as the embers meet the water

      his face and body are submerged, anchored by his panic.

      He thinks he's met the floor of the abyss

      but every day he sinks further

      further into the paranoia and the water-filled lungs.

      Renee Belden

      Mundane Routine

      I have grown complacent watching you mow the lawn,

      change the

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