August 2015� e Crop Circle Issue

Paper� nger (n.) one or two movable clamps on some typewriters that are used in place of or in addition to the bail to hold paper � rmly against the planten.

Paper� nger is a digital publication bringing the love of art and writing together and putting them on display. Each issue features short � ction, poetry, and creative non-� ction together with art by our featured artist. Paper� nger’s purpose is to promote how creativity and higher education can join hands to accomplish beautiful and meaningful pieces in a professional world.

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Kristiane WeeksEditor / Co-Creator

Currently studying creative writing at Indiana University, Kristiane enjoys

listening to vinyl and reading a good book, even if that’s a cliche.

Working as a Developer in Olde City Philadelphia Jessica is a graphic artist, writer,

nutrition a� cionado, runner, avid podcast listener and singer who loves iced co� ee.

Jessica FrickDesigner / Developer / Co-Creator

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What’s Inside?

6 Creative Writing 19 Poetry

What’s Inside?What’s Inside?What’s Inside? Inside? Inside? Inside? Inside? Inside?

8 Hot Coffee (part 7)by Brandi David

17 Untitledby Yanping Soong

20 Lois Goh22 Shereen Younes26 Kristiane Weeks

All artwork was supplied by Ramya Sarveshwar@RamyaSarveshfacebook.com/RamysPaintings

creative writing

50 INT. MATER DEI HIGH SCHOOL CLASSROOM - EVENING

Michael slips into the room carrying his copy of Brokeback Mountain late but no one seems to notice. A large num-ber of STUDENTS sit in chairs that are rearranged into a large discussion circle, Michael does not pull up a chair upon entering. MIRANDA--young, eclectic, slightly androgynous--is sitting on the opposite side of the room as Michael.

STUDENT ONE: Of course they killed Jack with the tire iron! What else could it have been? If it was just a blown tire,then their secrecy has just been a waste.

STUDENT TWO:Isn’t it more meaning-ful if Ennis is paranoid about the situ-ation? They’re hiding it, sure; a lot of people would disagree, sure; but if it’s a blown tire then Ennis isn’t to blame for Jack’s--

STUDENT ONE: He’s not to blame anyway! One was in Texas, the other in Wyoming!

As the students squabble, Miranda looks at and watches Michael. The two meet a gaze, and she looks at him flirta-tiously.

51 EXT. GRILL’D - NIGHT

Jeremy and Raena are waiting outside for Sydney. Jeremy is carrying his viola case with him again and is dressed im-peccably. Sydney leaves the shop and is startled by their appearance. They start walking, Jeremy trailing slightly behind the other two, as they begin talking.

RAENA: We’re your escorts.

SYDNEY: What if I only want Jeremy?

RAENA: You can have him once you’re home.

SYDNEY: How much does that cost me?

RAENA: He’s young. And he’s a musi-cian. About $200 an hour.

SYDNEY: He doesn’t look like he’s worth that much... I’ll give you $100.

RAENA: $150.

SYDNEY: $125.

RAENA: (beat) Done.

They stop walking long enough to shake

Hot CoffeeBrandi David

(Part 7)

hands.

JEREMY: (confused) What.. just hap-pened?

Sydney wraps his arm around Jeremy’s shoulder.

SYDNEY: Why, I do believe she just sold you to me for $125 an hour. And I can go all night.

Jeremy doesn’t shy away, but remains awkward with Sydney’s arm around his shoulder as they near Sydney’s apart-ment and part ways, Raena and Jeremy continue onward together as Sydney enters his building.

52 INT. SYDNEY’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Sydney walks into his apartment and sees a message on his answering ma-chine. He presses play to listen to it and flops down on the couch, pulling a pillow into his face, as it plays.

MARTY: Hey, it’s me again. I don’t know if you just haven’t been getting my calls.. or what. But there’s a GSA thing going on at.. Mater Dei High School. It’s getting a lot of bad publicity and needs community members to stand up for it.(beat)I guess, if you’re interested, let me know. I’ll talk to you some other time.(beat)Well, hope to hear from you soon.(beat)Okay. Bye.

Sydney rolls off the couch and grabs a collection of David Trinidad poetry and settles back down in an attempt to read

it. After flipping through the book for a few moments, he looks at the answering machine, then at his phone. He sets the book aside and calls Marty.

53 INT. PERSONAL ESPRESSIONS - MORNING

Michael and Miranda sit at his normal table, drinking coffee together. Cindy and Emily stand behind the counter, watching as the two interact with laugh-ter and smiling.

EMILY: Who do you think that is?

CINDY: She looks so.. young.

EMILY: Scared?

CINDY: Aren’t you?

EMILY: Nope. I’m younger than either ofbyou. No worries.

CINDY: Youth isn’t everything, brat.

EMILY: Then what is it?

CINDY: It’s a folly.

EMILY: You’re thinking of the folly of youth.

CINDY: Doesn’t matter. (beat)She looks a little like a guy.

EMILY: I think it’s the short hair.

CINDY: I think it’s the jaw line.

EMILY: I think it’s the tits.

CINDY: What tits?

EMILY: Not every women can be as blessed as Cindy Double-D.

CINDY: (sarcastically) Aww, don’t you just have the cutest little green eyes.

Emily whips out a compact and looks at her eyes.

EMILY: My eyes are brown.(beat)Bitch.(beat)Besides, it’s not like those udders ever did you any good.

Michael and Miranda stand up, still smiling with one another and get ready to leave while Cindy and Emily are arguing. As he helps Miranda into her coat, the baristas call out to them.

CINDY: It was nice meeting you, Miran-da. We hope to see you as regularly as Michael.

EMILY: Hope you two have a good day! Come back soon, Miranda!

Michael and Miranda wave as they leave the building, still smiling.

54 EXT. MICHAEL’S OFFICE - MORNING

Michael and Miranda are walking to his office.

MIRANDA: Last night was a lot of fun. I’m glad we could do something. Mi-chael slowly nods in agreement.

MIRANDA: When you came to the meeting, I was afraid you were one of those crazy religionists who are trying to shut it down. I just don’t understand

how some people can be so ignorant. This isn’t just about gay kids. It’s about fighting that kind of ignorance instead of fostering it to adulthood. A lot of straight kids come regularly, too. In fact, most of them seem to be straight. I can’t actually know, or anything, but it certainly seems like that...They are in front of his office building. Miranda steps in front of Michael and turns to face him. She turns her face up to him and smiles at him.

MIRANDA: (cont.) That’s why I’m glad you’re so supportive. We need adults who can say “This is okay,” to the teens of the area.

She leans in and the two kiss. She pulls away and smiles; Ellie can be seen ap-proaching from the opposite direction. She looks confused and concerned as she approaches.

ELLIE: Morning, Michael. How are you today? I see you stopped for coffee already.

MICHAEL: Morning Ellie. Miranda, this is my secretary Ellie. Ellie, this ismy--(very short beat)--girlfriend, Miranda. She teaches over at Mater Dei.

MIRANDA: Hi, nice to meet you.

Miranda is bright and polite, and ex-tends her hand in Ellie’s direction. Ellie, still confused, smiles and shakes it.

ELLIE: It’s good to meet you, too. Howdid.. how did you two meet, exactly?

MIRANDA: Oh, I’m the sponsor for the GSA we’re working to establish at

Mater Dei. Speaking of which--

Miranda checks the time on a wrist-watch.

MIRANDA: (cont.) I have to get going, sorry. Classes start in like, 10 minutes! But it was nice meeting you.

Miranda leans up and kisses Michael again, who puts his arm around her and gently squeezes. Ellie is standing there with a shocked look on her face. As Miranda walks off:

ELLIE: Nice to.. you too.

Ellie looks at Michael as she walks off. He has an embarrassed look on his face but simply walks past her into the build-ing.

MICHAEL: So uh, how are the kids?

.....to be continued

If something is a myth, that means it didn’t happen right? Sometimes I think these memories swimming in my head are myths. They weren’t real. They didn’t exist. They never happened to me.

I see him, swimming in my head. He comes in bits and fragments. He carried the New York Times with him, wearing thick-rimmed glasses in the Brooklyn fashion. His eyes -- I remember them, piercing into me, both our glasses off. I had leaned in to kiss him. But suddenly, he’s pulling my hair, pressing his weight onto me. “You’re mine now! I’m going to pimp you out! You’re going to make money for me! You understand?” I can’t tell if he’s whispering or shouting.

If it’s a myth, if it never happened, why does it bother me so much?

“She has a master’s in chemistry, but she chooses to be a sex worker,” the Bellev-ue Hospital lawyer says, as he argues to the mental health judge why I shouldn’t be released from involuntary commit-ment. I debate whether to contest his statement by saying that I actually only have a bachelor’s degree. My hospital-izations are a blur. This one lasted a month I think. That’s what the discharge report says.

It would be a myth otherwise, wouldn’t it?

How odd how I came here. I remember being distraught. “The next Brook-

lyn-bound L train will arrive in one minute,” the overhead speaker declares. I close my eyes and see a mythical Eter-nity, his dark eyes beckoning me to join him. His arms are warm, comfortable, peaceful. I open my eyes to bright head-lights and leap onto the tracks.

The train stops half a foot from my face. For a myth, I can remember an awfully strong smell of burning rubber.

“I’ll never jump in front of a train again.” I tell the judge. “I will take all my medications as prescribed.”

It doesn’t feel like a myth. I sincerely believe it.Even if it was my seventh attempt.

He comes almost every night. I feel his mythical eyes, filled with anger, his warm heaviness pressing into me, his words asserting ownership over me, his fingers dancing over my heart. I some-times wonder if he remembers me, as much as I remember him.

But that’s silly. Myths don’t remember their victims.

UntitledYanping Soong

poetry

Lois Goh

Title: I am Clean, I am perfect

I can only sit on my bed once I’ve taken a showerbut I’m so exhausted and I just want to go to sleep.Put my head down for a nap but I start to feel nervous,I need to get myself clean or I’ll dirty the sheets. You’re 10,000 miles away and yet I’ve been conditioned to first take a shower before sitting on any furniture. I shall not, will not, must not bring dirt onto the furniture. For we are clean, it just makes sense.

Shereen Younes

2:32

Tuh-woo thirty tuh-woo Spelt with double o’s As her black ink finds my veins, And she smoothes down her dress

We are travelling, look She paints my skin With the falling rain That is falling over the soil From her worn tiled roof

My hair tips begin to soak, the scent of henna burnt scalp Is a cinnamon heat Fingers dipped in gold And eyes heavily kohled Ready for the burst of embers

We rise in it, before the sun is warm enough to brave the sky We rise in the air, The smoky whisps of Charcoal hair. Anchored by our Full lipped mouths Opened wide So hearts fall out easily, Their slapping sound pleasing To the many sons of sons.

We watch them Rising in the swarms Of our own warm air Entangling their limbs In our kohl black hair And falling as lovers as the night finally cools But still we rise, the trapped warmth steaming The glass of our eyes escaping from the flicks of our upturned lips.

Speckle

Walking under Satin, thick and black Hoping it’ll edge down Wrap around These worn out bones of mine

I blink and it retreats Back to the skyline nice and neat Blink twice, to be certain It’s drawn tightly closed A silent curtain.

You’ve become the knot twisted into The back of my eyes, straining my cornea tight against the flesh My pupil gaping And eyes tearing the minute You flare up Uninvited Unwanted Intolerable

But, Oh! That sweet twang of release When my knuckle grinds Me free of you! Eye red and (yes) teary Vision a little blearyAnd skin swelling indignantly All worth The feeling as you Wriggle out Of sight.

Blinds

Break the blindsI want the sun to tellThe sky what you’veTaken from me.But do not letThe cloudsCondense andsteal him from myarmsI only asked you tokeep his eyes opento keep my heartfrom falling broken.Starve off the nightIn the morning he’ll bestripped and smotheredin the sand we walkedon moments before.So soon it was,The memoryhas not finisheddrying in my eyes.I will debate this withThe undertaker, andRescue him beforenight cools his grave.Drop the blindslet him be easy in deathhis head heavy as my lidsas night claims us both;My heart buriedIn his chest.

Kristiane Weeks

Find A Simpler Time

Bicycle wheels, spokes out of routine,we try to ride through the sunlightpeeking through tunnels of trees.Like on Magnolia street, with Spanishmoss hanging in soft lime curls

low enough for us to graze as we spinonward. Trails of memories lead usto the shore of Ana Island, surroundedby cigarette smoke and tapestries coveringthe beach, trinkets holding each sheet

against the wind; a tiny bell, or a leatherpurse… Threaded with all the stringsof simpler times, only heartache to us now,etched onto skin or in the sage-coveredhut of the heart. But if you close your mind--

breathe in the salted winds, howeverrough–you have to come out into the open,into a clearing, and rest–Sunflower eyes,turn toward the sun, let kaleidoscope lightgive you strength, reach toward airy skies.

Suspension

With the way things are going,there won’t be time to getaround to putting our handson things we’re craving,

tactile forces we’ll neverexplore. At least not untila later season, where there’sharmony in the Four Winds,

moon waning a little slowerthan she’s used to… Can youimagine all the golden wavesout of lapping motion, rustling

against each other, no carefor rhythms, only how big crashes canbe, how massive they can makethemselves, regardless of harm.

Thank you to all of our incredible writers!Submit your work to PaperfingerArts@yahoo.com

All artwork was supplied by Ramya Sarveshwar@RamyaSarveshfacebook.com/RamysPaintings