Feminism | Posted by Sarah M on 12/28/2010
Hey, You! Go Make a Zine!
Are you interested in writing, creating, drawing, and DIY (“do it yourself”) ethics? Then you, my friend, should write a zine. A zine is a self published mini-magazine that can be about anything you want. Zines can be written, typed, drawn, xeroxed – it is all up to the creator. Zines have been a part of feminism to spread DIY punk feminism etc through local communities.
Zines can be traced back to riot grrrl bands, who created zines to spread their messages to their fans. Zines have recently been in decline because of blogs, but zines allow you to make a messy, imperfect, raw, funny, and inspiring piece of art that stands out in a world that obsesses over perfection and cleanliness.
To get started on a zine, …
Creative | Posted by Lindsay T on 12/3/2010
All You Wanted
I cannot be what you want.
It is this thought that wakes me, that draws me from a fitful sleep in sweat-dampened sheets, that pulls me down the hall. My eyes are closed still, shut tightly against what will come next. I am safer this way. The real monsters do not invade my dreams. The real monsters haunt only during consciousness.
But it doesn’t matter if my eyes are closed or not. I know this route too well. I know that tonight will be like all the nights before.
My fingers are shaking as they close around the pewter doorknob, twisting it open. I slip inside. It is just a whisper of a movement made by a whisper of a girl. The door closes silently behind me. I am good …
Creative | Posted by Tessa G on 11/5/2010
I am in their house, his house, but the doors are twice my height. I leave our sisters and go upstairs, looking for him. He is using the computer in the kitchen and I sit next to him, on the same chair but barely touching. He shows me how to fight with animated soldiers.
He races up the hill in my backyard and I chase him, trying to release the competitive spirit that he has been coaxing from me all night. He trips over a tree root and slows, I slam into him, we tumble down. He catches himself on his elbows before landing above me, but his leg still comes down on mine and I groan. I look down, trying to disentangle, and I see his pale, pale arms, …
Creative | Posted by Ilinca N on 10/29/2010
Blood On Her Mind
Tonight she cannot sleep because there is blood on her mind. It’s on her hands as well and on her nails. Pretty soon the sheets she wraps herself in will be stained with it and sweat; then the stench will fill up the room with sour, tangy vengeance.
They were pink this morning, her hands and nails, but now there’s red to show underneath the paint and sludge she covers her appendages with so that they are merely long and oily instead of long and chapped. The ad-woman says it’s hard to keep hers smooth and attractive. On nights like this, with the iron taste on her tongue, the redness on her body, she can almost believe that, she can almost bring herself to trust the ad-woman and her perfection. …
Creative | Posted by Shenny on 10/8/2010
The morning was grim.
Mom woke me earlier then usual, whispering something about a family outing. Her lips were trembling and her eyes were nervously flitting around the room, as if afraid that someone was lurking behind the curtains, ready to bounce out and kill her.
I wiped the sleep away from my eyes and dressed in the cold darkness of my small bedroom. I could hear my father shouting in the living room. He wanted breakfast.
The sun had barely risen when we left the house. I was confused but too tired to ask questions. Dad was driving the car, his hands clenching the wheels so tightly I thought he might just break them in half. Mom had her cheek pressed against the chilled window, I could tell that …
Creative | Posted by Ilinca N on 10/1/2010
She learns shame when she’s a first grader. She learns hunger later on. And hate, she learns that in plenty. The way her thighs rub against each other, the soft roundness of her body. So she starts drawing stick figures. Two legs, two arms, one torso, one head. Strong, opinionated lines on the back of her hand. Her forearm. Her desk. Fences. Tree trunks. Notebooks. Her forearm again. She marks her territory, one line at a time. Pencils and fingernails and knives, anything she can get her hands on. And it’s always two legs, two arms, one torso, one head and she gets the hang of it quickly as if her body had known all along what shape it’s supposed to be.
Her heads are never quite right, more square …