Survivor Magazine : v.1:no.1(1999)
- Title
- Survivor Magazine : v.1:no.1(1999)
- Description
- This magazine’s main goal is to call attention to women as the main victims of rape. More than that its goal is to help these women through the healing process after surviving such a traumatic event. Survivor is written and illustrated in a way that gives power back to survivors and reminds them it’s not their fault. This magazine is largely a collection of poems and illustrations that cover themes of rape, child molestation, power, control, and survival. The ending of this issue lists biographies of all contributors that are throughout this source. Another important theme throughout this text is that of victim blaming.
- Relation
- Survivor Magazine
- Rights
- Contact UCO Chambers Library's Digital Initiatives Working Group at diwg@uco.edu for the permission policy on the use, reproduction or distribution of this material.
- Date
- 2024-11-26T00:00:08Z
- Date Available
- 2024-11-26T00:00:08Z
- Subject
- Survivor
- extracted text
-
NNNAME
Paulo Re
you do not know
my name today
the torrid swing
of your fist will
not touch me
not really
i hove hidden
my head in the wall
i am becoming
one of the neighbors
living on the other side
I will ask them
who i am
I wl II know my name
i will learn to breathe again
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
15
CHILD N\OLESTATION
Susan Weaver
Abstraction becomes reality when
she describes the day at four years old-the neighbor's cookie, his cold basement floor,
the invasion of tongue and lips. His threat
as he forced her arms into the furnace.
the smell of singeing hair. Upstairs
he laid her on the kitchen table.
Sixty years later she recalls it
as white porcelain banded in red.
To it he brought a crochet hook, a knife.
She doesn't tell me what he did then.
but says simply, "I'm lucky I ever had my son."
16
SUAVIVOAIWlGAZINE
THE ART OF HEALING
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
17
THE RAPIST
by LaVerne Williams
18
SURVIVOR MAGAZNE
PURPLE CRYING EYE
by Laverne Williams
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
19
SCREAMING WOMAN
by LaVerne Williams
20
SURVIVOR IMGAZINE
MOSAIC IN PINK
by Laverne Williams
SURVIVOR MAGZINE
21
TONIGHT
Suhelr Hommod
when you get into
my bed at night
my head tonight
i scream
screams that feel scratchy
blood that sounds violent
when you raped
our bodies today
our minds today
we heard our screams
echo In the blood flowing
from our womb
from our wound
you come Into
my head every night
my body tonight
i feel your breath
hear your rough hands
roar with the power
of your weakness
when they tell me
to get over it
i'm crazy
you laugh and pull me close
and I embrace you
cause at least i know
22
SURVIVOR NiGAZINE
SUH€/R HAMMAD
you're there
when you pull my hair with
your hands
your eyes
i feel the pain
know i'm alive
and wish i were dead
no one knows
wants to know
how you come into my bed
every night between
me and my lover
me and my teddy bear
when you
breathe into me
suck out my life
i can taste emptiness
while you fill me up
when you come into
my bed
my head
I feel
your weight on the mattress
your stain on the mattress
grimace as you smile
face contorts
you contort
my body
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
23
TONIGHT
my life
they can't see
but i feel you
hear you
taste you
hate you
love you
cause at least i know
you're there
when you come
into my
head at night my
bed tonight
you won't surprise me
i'II await you
hate you
i no longer sleep
no longer dream
night and day
hear my screams
as i laugh and joke
cry and breathe
know i'II never be without you.
24
SURVIVOR NfK3AZINE
TRANSlATIONS
Toni lo Ree Bennett
How do you suck and brsothB ot the some time?
Baby - you learn.
1. Be nice to me," he says.
Translation: "Suck my dick."
2. "We on for lunch again today," he asks.
Translation: "Suck my dick."
3. "Make 50 copies of this right away," he orders.
Translation: "Suck my dick."
4. "You're so nice to me," he says. "But
I'd never marry anyone with so much experience."
Translation: "You've sucked too
many dicks."
SUAVIVOA MAGAZINE
25
HALLOWEEN
Rhonda J. Nelson
He raped Eulah-Lee at Sultan's Launderette;
Spread her across the folding table
like Daddy's clean. white shirt.
He whispered, ''This ain't no game of chicken. 0
It was Daylight, and he took her
like a bolt out of the blue;
hands chopped at her cheeks like heavy hatchets.
She did not move.
From where she lay,
she could see other children
eating Kool-pops In front of Prince's Market.
She did not scream.
A grinning Jack-0-Lantern, pulling up his pants,
He fingered her braids and said:
"Cover yourself. angel, or I'll be back again."
He winked, then walked across the street.
for a Schlitz Malt Liquor Bull.
before he gunned his Mustang
and lurched down the avenue.
She rinsed off in the bleach bucket,
knowing she would not tell.
A while ago. when her momma died.
she figured out this way of life:
Some girls listened to records all day in their rooms,
Some got a dollar for the Saturday matinee,
26
SURVIVORIIIGAZINE
RHONDA J. N€l.SON
Eulah-Lee learned that men's truths hung
like ghosts from the Halloween trees.
She pulled her wagon full of clean clothes
'round the corner to her house.
For the rest of the day, she ironed
and played "My Girl" on the phonograph
Over and over again.
SURVIVOR NIIGAZINE
27
THE WOMAN IN ADAM.S COUNTY
Jeon O'Bn,,on
He comes In the stiff silence, when the children
are quiet. The futile •no" tastes
like bitter tea -- he never listens.
He swings his body <:Ner mine, clings
to my neck -- accelerates, moans, finishes
and leaves me lying there, wounded, whimpering
beneath the crumpled, musky sheets.
I count the days. Consider my options.
Only one child of four asleep down the hall
was planned. The rest began on nights like this.
My panicked mind reels its awful movies:
Imagines giving this one to a woman
with a husband who cares; Imagines steering
the Plymouth, child inside, Into Beck's Pond,
watching the waters close, saying nothing.
The battered phone book sits on the nightstand,
page marked, clinic number circled in red.
When I call, they won't ask any questions;
they'll know It's me.
28
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
MICHEUE I. CZAIKOUJSKI
the face comes to me
even now
in nightmares i wake from
drenched in sweat and
Ice cold
(god
turned his back
pretended not to see)
the tongue rose
from rotten breathstench of stale urine
enclosed around me.
I clench my lips
tighter
prayed it would all
end
soon.
stone hands touched
my young breasts,
tears gutted silent rivers
through my cheeks
as he pulled me closer
to kiss me again.
three years
my god ignored me
mother always in the next room,
her laughter echoing across
the kitchen-my heart breaking
body
trembling-fear stunning me worse than any
poison .
i could not move
I could hardly breathe
the deer
trapped in headlights
mentally begging mother to
help me please help me
she never came
never rescued me
no one ever came.
years later i ran to my god
seeking a safe
place to hide
but he laughed
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
and turned away
called me a tease and said
i was not welcome
I was not pure.
innocence could not be
restored
my soul now a fetid
corpse,
not even a god
could love me.
29
NIGHT WALK
Fem Levin Flores
She never expected to use the gun. She Just kept It for safekeeping. It made her feel secure. No
one even knew she carried it, except a handful of close friends. And only then did she speak of it
in guarded easy words, careful not to step on anyone's toes or get caught up in issues. Because
ever since that night. she wasn't concerned with issues, Just her own well-being. So she kept the
gun concealed, inside her left pocket, out of the holster and out of view as she walked west down
Huron Street; this time ready to use it.
She moved easily along that street. long after the sun set, and after the men and women dressed
in three-piece suits, armed with briefcases and portfolios, shopping bags or packages, dispersed
to high rises along Lake Shore Drive or Lincoln Park brownstones or third floor Lakeview walk-ups.
She wore her bag slung over her shoulder. Inside it was her spiral notebook, the address she'd
hastily scribbled from the Chicago Reader torn and folded neatly in her other pocket. The ad
promoted the formation of a new theater group, followed by a discussion of "Women in Theater."
Tuesday, August 16... 8 p.m.
Ring 2nd Floor -- Karla or Judy ...
It had been so long since she auditioned for anything.
The sun was slipping behind the rooftops. Everything looked glazed and blurred in that pink time
of night that seems to camouflage trees, people, even entire buildings in the shadows. But as she
walked past familiar streets and sights, like the cherry red sign of Woolworth's, or that venerable
Catholic church with its manicured lawns sprawling across State Street, she never took her hand
from the gun. Because this time she was ready to use it. Each weekend she would practice at the
pistol range, all her anger and hatred packed tightly in that finely controlled movement. And with
her earphones in place, she would stand inside that small booth savoring the muffled sounds of
shots ringing out around her and the sweet smell of gun powder in her nose. She kept her legs
slightly apart, her arms and shoulders straight; and with her fingers curled around the trigger. she
took careful aim, hitting that paper target, that silhouette of a man, every time. In the heart. In
the stomach. Or in the groin. Anywhere she chose.
The odds of it happening again were slim, her friends told her. "Go out -- don't hide," they said.
Her friends, never knowing the terror that turns your bladder inside out so you stand bathed in
your own urine when two men leap from the shadows, one with a gun, one with a knife. And even
through your coat you feel that blade poke your ribs, the gun caress your temple, as they stuff you
into a waiting car and tear off Into the night.
Her heels clicked against the pavement as she picked up her pace, her shoes echoing loudly In
the quickly falling darkness as east turned Into west. She kept moving, passing Clark Street,
passing Dearborn, then LaSalle. The address written on her paper was 647. She still hod several
blocks to walk.
A wino hunched In a doorway, the red brick wall turning a syrupy brown from his urine. A group of
children on bikes tore around the corner forcing her off the sidewalk. She took her shelter beside
30
SURVIVOA MAGAZINE
FERN L€VIN FLORES
a building where a rusty air conditioner dripped on her head, coaxing her to move on. And her
fingers cramped and her knuckles whitened from the grip she had on that weapon, that 25 caliber
automatic pistol, that fine nickel plated piece which had such astounding accuracy at close range .
Soaked with perspiration, she pulled open the collar of her raincoat. She touched her forehead
where moist curly strands of hair stuck so she had to pry them away with her nails. There were no
clouds in the sky despite earlier warnings of rain. But the night hung thick with the stagnant smell
of hot dogs and old onions, grease and car fumes and the lingering odor of absent people. She
walked so fast, her chest wheezed. It was much too hot for the coat, but she wouldn't take it off.
not as long as her hand wrapped snugly around that gun.
A car approached slowly, illuminating her. She froze like a doe blinded by the headlights. Only
when It continued did she move on. And the streets stretched out endlessly before her. suddenly
strewn with too many warehouses, abandoned buildings and parking lots. row upon row of dull
metal, on these streets where no one seemed to live. But it hod been so long since she
auditioned for anything. And now, she was the only woman walking in the middle of that block.
The only woman, even with all those people bustling in the distance. The only woman, like that
night in New York City. On her way to dinner to meet friends at the corner deli when she was
plucked off the street, whisked away to lie blindfolded and curled up in a wet ball on a cold car
seat, her only thought of how she would be found: slashed to ribbons in some alley, floating face
down in the East River with a bullet in her head or maybe even not at all.
The vapor of street lights threw off an eerie fog, so a mangy dog running toward her glowed a
sickhw1 green.
"Get back." she yelled in a voice she hardly recognized as she walked on rubber knees, watchful
of the darkness and mindful of the distance she hod already travelled. Too near her destination to
turn back now.
A basketball hurled over her head followed by several teenage boys whistling, throwing their cat
calls. They bounced around her but their thumps grew fainter as they fell bock into the night. And
she felt the pattern of that gun would be imbedded in her hand forever.
She crossed the street. One low warehouse stretched out for half a block, reaching the railroad
tracks. The address on that building was 501. And beyond those tracks a long factory abruptly
halted her journey. She removed the crumpled paper trying to focus on the numbers in the
darkness. 647. But there was no 647. She must have copied the numbers wrong. Or maybe the
street was Hudson, not Huron. Or Franklin or Superior or Ontario. She stood in the middle of that
block looking back into the darkness from which she had come, searching for a phone, a gos
station, anything. If only she could be there already -- at Karla's and Judy's -- sitting cross-legged
on a wooden floor, sipping wine In a cozy brownstone, discussing the characters of Hellman or
Williams, or some new production. Erase this fear that nipped at her, like hundreds of bugs
converging on her skin all at once. A gust of wind sent a beer con skipping across the tracks. She
jumped, but she never took her hand from that gun. And this time she was ready to use it.
She began that long walk back, her feet like lead in that shrouded quiet. And she felt like a
speck in the middle of one long block that was sealed up tightly at both ends. Occasionally, she
SURVIVOR NflGAZINE
31
NIGHTWRLH
stopped to listen for other steps, for rustles, for wind, for anything beside the pounding of her
heart. Her eyes darted around the corners. walls and trees; and she wonted to scream, to drag out
the whole neighborhood to chase away her night monsters. But just like that night, she knew no
one would come to her rescue. She slunk down one block, then up another to go bock. They were
all the some. Deserted. Dark.
She shivered, despite the heat and her coot wore her down like an iron suit, but she wouldn't
take her hand off that gun. She fingered the trigger. One chambered. Five lay in waiting. But she
couldn't shoot the night away. She couldn't shoot the horror that still festered in her memory so for
years after it happened, it would be her first conscious thought whenever she awoke: The men.
The knife. the gun. The long ride to that roach-Infested apartment where they dragged her up that
fifth floor walkup. The smell of bacon hanging In the air. But especially those men looming over
her with dark, cruel eyes and angry mouths, speaking words that had no meaning anymore as she
squirmed and slithered beneath their touch, melted away. slowly spilling down the furniture until
she finally disappeared. But the thrusting, groaning, pounding frenzy continued all through the
night as they kept coming at her, not caring she was gone; those men with their large hands and
huge bodies coming at her and using her over and over and over again, never even knowing that
for an endless time, she had ceased to be. And somehow, the morning sun sneaked up without
her ever even knowing it.
But this wasn't New York City. This was Chicago. This was home. And tears spilled down her
cheeks even as she tried to walk calmly. rhythmically. still wondering if someone was lurking in the
shadows, waiting to get her one more time.
In the distance, she saw the flickering sign of the Erie Cafe, the Old Town landmark, its neon
alternating with its "Brother-That's-A-Steak" promise. and flashing a huge sirloin. She broke into a
run, her heels bouncing senseless against the pavement. The restaurant was at least a block
away, but she ran so fast, her head rattled. The gun shook inside her pocket, ripping the lining of
her coot. But she wouldn't stop until she reached the restaurant and opened the doors. Panting,
she walked inside and tried to straighten her wind-blown hair. She lifted her body onto a stool,
taking comfort in the drone of dinnertime conversations, the clinking of glasses and silverware in
the distance, grateful to even inhale the cigarette smoke billowing around her head.
"Wanna drink?0 the bartender said as he neatly toweled the inside of a glass.
"Just a coke, please," she said, setting her bag on the bar. Then she felt her grip loosen as she
took her sweaty hand out of her pocket and placed her gun conspicuously on top of the bar.
32
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
AD US FOA THE MUSE
Pat Hu1,1ett
Here's that raw resume
giving rise
to the tempered cry.
I've put in my time, rasping sass with the radio,
travelin' hard on back highways,
bustin' ass on assembly lines,
fighting string-out demon speed,
wired to nerve from rape's sick joke,
beating bedlam walls,
Godohgodohgodohgod -- I'm no better for this.
just another pilgrim, lost on the way
to City Lights Bookstore ....
Maybe now I'll start collecting on dues overpaid.
Cuz legendary Step Buddy digs me,
murmuring after an all night jam,
"Darlin', you are a Most Strong Singer."
So hand me the blue pencil.
Let me sit in on your session and scat;
Lay down diminished chords
And give me my key,
to convert, to condense
this ragged riff
into a boss line
for lucid musing.
SURVIVOR NIGAZINE
33
THIS IS NOT A POEM OF FORGIVENESS
for Nonno
Donna J. Woldt/ow
Does your hair still grow wild
in the dork of your grove, unruly
as your mind. your groping hands?
I hope it bothers you that I'm
dancing on your marble slob, on the
Here Lies The Beloved bullshit
carved for eternity. I'm savoring
your bod death -- pissing on yourself
in dork and lonely rooms. I'm glad
it was slow and painful. glad you
sow witches chasing you. clawing
at ~ our face -- you always feared
those Tuscon demons -- females.
I was only o girl. fresh from the womb.
trying to make sense of your touch,
your anger. I learned not to scream,
but hear me now;
I'm singing on your grove.
Full-throated glee. Soul-felt.
You get no mourners ache, no lament.
They tell me: forgive, not for you
but for me, and I'll see that I'm bellied-up
and I see
to this bitterness, drinking again
my poison. I'm not ready.
I still need to dance. to spike out
this flamenco, fingers snapping. heels
celebrating your bad, bad death.
34
SURVIVOR tfflGAZINE
DYNIPHNA'S DAUGHTERS
Topeka State Hospital, Women's Wing, 1976
Pot Huyett
Hate
I am the only Angel of Mercy here.
That's why I wear white,
why I knew Cuckoo's Nest
would sweep the Oscars.
I record their transgressions,
they who call my visions hallucinations.
I smirk at their label of grandiose.
God called me to this mission
to check up on them.
They think I don't know
how the night aides raped
Anno in seclusion.
But I know for my visions
have shown me-even if Donna can't remember,
begging for mercy as they pinned her down,
refusing to let me change places with her-I know God's mercy shines
in her forgetting.
And I know
they're going to pay.
Muriel
She whimpers from punctured buttocks,
bleeding from daily thorazine
and a nurse's slap to her behind.
Set her bed on fire with forbidden matches
Oh, please gimme a good cigarette, she begs.
I roll her one from the butts they leave.
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
35
DYMPHNFl'S DFIUGHT€RS
Her tongue too numb from Haldol to feel
the clog,
she choked on her French toast
thev should have cut up.
KIiied by her own breakfast.
I went hungrv two davs to remember.
Donna
She frets over poinsettias,
spits out her
Mellaril-Stelazlne cocktail
In the one bv the book case,
her control plant resting
on the ward's dumb piano.
The subject hasn't withered
as she expected, but It's free
of spider mites.
Rita
Here uelopement means to run awav.
Alta's tied in a chair, soaked with her pee,
jilted by the bridegroom of freedom.
I mop the floor around her chair.
uDo we all go to hell when we die?" she asks.
We can't, I tell her, for we've already done
time in purgatorv.
0
FIiice
Our sixti.,-year-old lobotomized bobi.,
grins through teeth blackened
with delectable cigarette butts.
When she serenades us with
"If I hod the wings of an Angel,"
someone soi.is she once taught music.
36
SURVIVOR NIIGAZINE
PAT HUYETT
Kate
Our social worker
with the wedge hair cut
asked on the sly what
St. Francis revealed to me.
That we should be instruments
of His Peace, I whisper.
Then she wanted to know how I got
Dorothy to talking after three months
of catatonic silence.
I read her Blake, I said.
But there's more
I blew a psych tech
on the night shift, so I could
phone legal Aid.
Got Muriel out of
three weeks solid lock up.
I wrote the AMA of Donna's findings.
I leave the door open for Aita to try again.
I slipped the nurse
thorazine in her coffee
so she'd know how it feels.
I ask each day
for Dymphna's intercession.
And each summer, I'm avenged
when over this city
of madhouses and politicians
I invoke the heavens,
the sword of St. Michael. so
the air smells like matches,
the winds boll.
the sky turns yellow
and cyclones descend.
*Dymphna is the patron saint of those afflicted with "nervous disorders."
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
37
HEAUNG THE BODY/MIND
Anne Wennerstrond, CSW, DTR
SURVIVOR INIGflZIN€ UJOUld /Ike to UJtJ!comtJ flnntl L
lJ./tJnntJtstrr CSU/, DTR os OU' regular colt.Knnlst. Fis
1apt1 SI.Wlvors, UJtJ hove ~ /SSVflS surotnd~thttJ
body-mind conn«tlon. Ms. lJJt!JnntNslron wl/1 ~
lntJS#J ISSUtJS for us In ht,r column and glllfl us adv/a, os
to how to h«JI from thttJ lrocmo olstJJtUOI assault.
The body is the place where all of us "live" and
experience life. Body Is the very medium and container
through which we sense being and belonging in the
world. The body and mind are so connected that It is
difficult to call one "body" and one "mind." Each cell of
our body has an intrinsic intelligence, therefore, the
"mind" is not just in the brain or the head. The "mind"
exists In each part of our body. The functioning of the
body affects the emotions. The state of the emotions
affects the mind and body. To see a human being from
a body/mind perspective means seeing that a person's
psychological, physical and spiritual aspects are all
interrelated. We may know this deeply and still feel
very frustrated. It can be very difficult to care for our
body/minds. We may be afraid of caring for our bodies
for many reasons. We may not think we ore worthy to
feel good. We may simply not know how to core for
ourselves on the body/mind level or where to start.
In my therapeutic work with survivors, I draw on
many mind/body techniques to help women recover the
deep, intrinsic healing power that they possess. Mind/
body techniques such os yoga, dance therapy and tai
chi ore founded on the principle that o vital connection
exists between the way in which one moves and the
way in which one feels. As a dance/movement therapist, I believe that the changes in the way one moves
can affect the emotional, intellectual and physical
health of on individual. Many people, particularly
those who hove been traumatized, cannot put feelings
(including bodily sensations) into words. Sometimes
"moving" those feelings can be tremendously healing.
The work of deep healing on a mind/body level should
be done with the guidance of o trusted teacher,
practitioner or therapist if you have never tried it
before.
There are some things that you can do on your own
to begin healing on a mind/body level. It Is important
to just begin to core for yourself in this way if you have
never done so. Right now 1,1ou con practice by noticing
the position you are sitting in as you read this column.
What position is 1,1our body in as 1,1ou read? How are
you breathing? Are you toking deep breaths that come
from your bell1,1 or are you breathing shallow and from
the throat? Is your jaw tight or is it relaxed and light
feeling? Are your shoulders inching up towards your
earlobes or ore they dropping down towards the floor?
Are your feet touching the floor evenly or Is one
suportlng you more than the other? Are your eyes
squinting and tense or con you let the little muscles
around 1,1our eyes gently "let go?" Is 1,1our spine curving
like the letter "C" or is it more like the letter "I"? Take an
Inventory of your body right now. Are there any places
that ore gripping or muscles holding more tenion than
necessary? One way to relieve body tension instantly
38
is to notice which places ore extra tense and uncomfortable and try "tightening" them on purpose for a
count of three. For example, If you notice that your
shoulders are very tense, try drawing them up towards your ears and holding them tightly while you
silently count to yourself, "l-2-3." Then take a big
deep breath in and when you let the breath out, drop
your shoulders. Do this once or twice and you will
notice a difference. Notice the effect it has on your
emotions and feelings to practice this along with
deepening your breath. No one else can describe
your feelings for you. Doing body/mind work helps
you to connect to your own special and individual
experience by helping you to name your feelings and
begin to heal from them. Ideally, this work is done
with the help of a trusted teacher or therapist.
Another way you can begin to care for yourself in
... YOU AAE ON YOUR WAY
TO HEALING YOUR BODY/
MIND ... DECIDE TO START...
DECIDE YOU ARE WORTH
IT... DO IT FOR YOURSELF
AND YOUR HEALING.
this way is by practicing breathing. This may sound
strange at first because breathing is seemingly the
most natural thing that we do. However, we take our
breathing for granted. Most of us go through a typical
day taking very shallow breaths. To feel better, the
flow of the breath should be slow and deep. Try this.
Sit back in your chair and try to relax your body as
much as possible without falling asleep. Without
exacerbation or hyperventilating, just slow down your
breath. Focus on the feeling of the air as it passes
through your nostrils. Notice the temperature of the
air. Notice when the breath "In" turns over and
becomes the breath "out." Notice what happens to
the rest of your body as you purposely slow your
breath down. For many people, just the simple act of
slowing the breath down brings relief from anxiety
and slows down the constant stream of thoughts
flowing through the mind.
By practicing these simple techniques, you are
on your way to healing your body/mind. To go deeper
and further, consult a therapist or yoga teacher.
However you decide to start, decide you ore worth it
and do it for yourself and your healing.
SUAVIVOA MAGAZINE
JESSY
Jamie Parsley
Jessy Griffin read the last words and closed the book. She was done. She sat there, a pile of
three over-stuffed pillows at her back, looking at the cover. Atala and Rene by Francois-Rene de
Chateaubriand. A slight smile played on her lips as she brushed Andrei, her cat, from her lap, sat
up from her bed and made her way to the kitchen.
The dented tea kettle creaked as soon as she set it to the gas flame. She dangled the tea bag
into the empty black cup. The thin book lay nearby on the counter, finished, the spine worn, the
threads fading a little where her fingers had held It. It took several moments for the silence of the
apartment to engulf her completely. She stood there counting her breaths as the water cl icked
loudly in its kettle. By the time she reached ten and started over again, she caught herself and
shook her head slightly.
She reached for the small transistor radio
that sat atop the refrigerator and turned it on.
The final strains of one song ended. The DJ
came on. His voice was hoarse. He was joking
about the fact that he hod a cold. Then, a
commercial.
Outside the kitchen window, snow was
falling, thick and wet, in the darkness . It was
almost blue as it fell past the light of her
window. It settled in a thick layer on the wind.ow sill. There were lights still on in the building
across the street. They glowed there through the falling snow like bright, white stars. Shadows
moved in one of the lighted squares. Two of them. They come together, merged, then moved
away from each other. They're dancing, she thought to herself.
Two more commercials on the radio and then the announcer with the sore voice . A rushed
weather report. Snow tonight, with moderate temperatures. More snow again tomorrow with
partly cloudy skies.
The snow fell.
The kettle clicked on the stove. The blue flame beneath it hissed.
The first strains of the song hit her full-force. In a single flowing movement, without a thought
in her head, she reached up and knocked the radio from the refrigerator. It shattered with a loud
crash on the linoleum. The batteries rolled across the floor. One rebounded from the radiator on
the opposite side of the kitchen and rolled back towards her bore toes. The other rolled beneath
the stove.
Silence.
Andrei had whispered into the kitchen, attracted by the rolling movement of the batteries. He
slithered around both of Jessy's legs in a curly-cue motion and sniffed first at the battery and then
at his food in its bowl near the radiator, before he moved back into the livingroom without a
sound.
The snow fell at the window.
now I'm only falling apart...
nothing I can do... a total
eel ipse of the heart.
SURVIVOR NIGAZINE
39
JESSY
The teapot tapped.
It was too late. The song ... the words ... were already pounding in her aching head.
Beginning piano strains. Bonnie Tyler.
Once upon a time I was falling in Jove,
now I'm only falling apart.
Nothing I can do ...
A total eclipse of the heart.
It had been raining all day, that day. And thundering. She never forgot the thunder. It
rumbled through the night, low and guttural.
He was drunk. She could smell it on his breath when she got into his car and leaned across
the seat for a kiss. As his chin brushed against her cheek, she felt the stiff. dark stubble scrape her
skin. As he backed out onto the street, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels rolled clumsily from under
the seat.
He was playing the radio too loud. He kept drifting over the center line into the oncoming
lane. The headlights of the cars moved over their faces. He had the windshield wipers on high.
Their dizzying motion made her feel ill. He kept looking over at her and smiling. They were
half-way across town when he finally said something.
"We're not going to the porty tonight," he said. His voice was low.
"What do you want to do then?" she asked. She had to raise her voice . The music was
hurting her head.
He looked over at her again and smiled a wide, perfect grin. All teeth. They were so white
in the darkness. She looked back at him and frowned. He had had a haircut; it was clipped short
in the back and over his ears, but hung loose and long over his forehead and eyes. Even from
across the seat, she could smell his breath. It
was thick and bitter.
"We could talk," he slurred.
11
1 said no." She slapped his
"About what?" she asked.
His face colhand away.
He shrugged and smiled again.
"Nick, why don't you just tell me what's
lapsed... His voice was low
wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
and he kept missing vowels.
"Yes. Something's wrong. You call me
and tell me we're going to this party. Then you
pick me up, drunk nonetheless, and tell me we're
not going. Something is very much wrong. 0
He looked straight ahead at the road. Finally. after several moments of silence, he said:
"Today's the sixth anniversary of my mother's death."
She gasped.
"Oh Nick," she sighed. She reached for his forearm. His muscles were hard and tense as
he gripped the steering wheel tightly .. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged again.
40
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
-----------
JAMIE PARSLEY
1 try not to think about it. 11
She looked at him.
"It hurts. Still," he said. His words came out slurred. It took everything in his power for the
sentence to make sense.
"Oh, Nick." She squeezed his arm.
He looked at her. His eyes were dark and depthless.
"I think about her all the time."
His jaw was firm, as though he were biting the inside of his cheek.
He wasn't crying.
11
At his apartment, he kissed her. again. Long and tender. His hot, wet tongue pushed past her
lips and caressed her teeth. His hand moved across her chest, tracing the line of her bra beneath
her blouse. She let him move toward the waist of her skirt.
"No," she whispered.
His had was big and red. The veins under the skin were thick and blue. They made their way
up his arm, into the rolled-up sleeve of his black shirt. His fingers moved over her thigh. Her hand
was small and white against his forearm. She pushed him away.
"No."
He moved close. She could smell his cologne. It
stung
her eyes. His breath kept catching in · his
once upon a time there
throat, creating a little rattle. The smell of the
was light in mv life, now alcohol
was sour on his tongue as he forced it
there's onlv love in the between her lips again with a loud sucking sound.
turned her head slightly to the side and as she
dark. nothing i can sav ... a She
did, his wet lips moved slowly across her face. He
kissed her cheek. He bit, hard, on her earlobe,
total eel ipse of the heart.
pulling at the ruby post earring there with his teeth.
"Jessy," he moaned in her ear. His body was
huge and tight. His shoulders completely covered her. Both of his hands were everywhere at
once.
"Jessy ... "
She felt small and weak.
"I said no!" She slapped his hand away.
His face collapsed. In the dark livingroom, his skin was almost purple. His hair hung in his
dark eyes. He pulled away from her. As he did, the couch moved with him.
"You know something. Sometimes I just don't understand you."
His voice was low and he kept missing vowels. He moved behind the couch.
The only light was coming from the kitchen and, occasionally, from the white flashes of
lightning. In the half-light, she looked at her hands folded in her lap. Her fingers worked against
each other nervously. Clasping them together, she dug the fingernails into the soft flesh of her
palms. Her heart slammed insiae her chest.
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
41
JESSY
"I really cannot figure you out sometimes," he hissed from behind. She could still smell him. His
bore feet slid against the carpet. He had always had that rule: no shoes on the carpet. Like an
old lady.
"I know what you want though. I know what you really want."
The room was suddenly filled with music. He had slipped a cassette into his stereo.
"You love this song," he whispered.
She almost didn't hear him. He turned up the volume. The music poured from the speakers:
once upon a time there was light in mt,1 life
now there's onlt,1 love In the dork
nothing I con sov
o total eclipse of the heart
He was standing behind her, his hand moving over her neck, squeezing and releasing.
Squeezing and releasing. They almost covered her shoulders completely. He bent at the waist.
She felt his nose moving against the top of her skull, smelling her hair. His rank breath was hot
and wet on her skin.
"Jessy," he whispered into her skull.
His hands were strong. more agressive than before. He was pulling at the collar of her blouse
now.
"Nick. Please: ' Her voice was quivering. sore in her throat.
"Jessy."
t-:~ was moving rhythmically
11
against the couch behind her. He
don't you move one inch, bitch ...
was singing along with the song."
swear, I'll crack your neck like a twig. 11
and if you Jove me hold me tight
we 'II be holding on together
She pulled away from his
hands. from the smell of his breath and his stinging cologne. From his overwhelming presence. As
she moved from the couch, he pulled at her shirt.
"No. Nick!"
She was standing on rubber legs.
"I think I want to go now. You said we were going to talk. This is not talking."
He was smiling at her from behind the couch. His fingers were fumbling now with the top
buttons of his shirt.
"I know what you want. honey," he said, his voice deep and husky.
He moved from behind the couch toward her. As he did, she moved instinctively away from
him. She found herself bocked against the patio screen door. The rain was falling hard. There
was thunder. It growled low, like his voice. The room smelled dirty. Lightning flashed again. Then
once more. Quick. Like a camera flash.
"I know what you want," he repeated.
and we'll onlt,1 be making It right
cause we 'JI never be wrong
together we con toke it to the end of the line
42
SURVIVOR INlGAZINE
i
JAMIE PARSLEY
When he came upon her, she slapped him hard. Her fingers burned with pain as they connected
with his high, hard cheekbone. The connection made a dull, thudding sound. It scared her. Never
In all her life had she hit anyone. She felt her jaw slacken. Her stomach tightened.
He jerked away from her, his hand moving from his half-unbuttoned shirt to his cheek. It was
already red. She could see the mark she made in the half-light. When the lightning flashed again.
she saw that his eyes were wide with shock.
"You ... " he hissed, as he recovered. His eyes disappeared into thin slants. "You stupid bitch!"
Spittle wet his pale lower lip.
and Jove is like a shadow on the opposite side
The pain didn't settle in until he had pinned her, face-down on the couch. Her arm went numb
as soon as he grabbed it, just above the elbow. Her legs, precarious before that moment, gave
out completely as he dragged her towards the couch. Her body went completely limp as she
landed on the soft cushions. They smelled rank ... a sour. sweaty smell.
Any sound she might have been able to make was forced out of her by the heaving weight of
his body against hers.
" ... dumb ... bitch." His slurring voice mumbled the words over her.
She was panting and tried to force herself to look over her shoulder at him. Maybe, she
thought, he could see the panic. Maybe he would take pity. Maybe ...
Both of his knees were over the backs of her legs.
" ... stupid ... "
"Nick," she finally managed, but the word was lost in her throat. All her breath was gone.
"Wait. Please!"
She heard his shirt rip as he tore it off. Then ·she felt his hands moving over her body, over her
back, over her legs. He mashed her buttocks painfully.
The rain was falling. She could hear it over the music.
tum around, bright eyes
eve,v now and then I foll apart.
"I can't believe you did that to me, you stupid cunt," he hissed in her ear. He licked at her ear
lobe as he groped beneath her. She tried to move, tried to stop him. One arm was pinned under
her body. She struggled.
And then the pain. He had hit her in the small of the back.
"Don't you move one inch, bitch. I mean it! I swear, I'll crack your neck like a twig."
Her skirt tore as he pulled at it. Her underwear was like paper beneath his fingers. He was
wheezing loudly as his hot fingers kneaded her.
"Ohhh," he moaned.
That was when she heard his zipper.
I really need you tonight
Forevers gonna start tonight.
SURVIVOR NIIGAZINE
43
"No, 11 she spat into the cushion beneath her. She felt It against her bock. It was hard and long
and slimy. He was jabbing It at her buttocks. She could feel its heat against her bore skin.
Puh-leeeeeze, 11 she pleaded. Her mouth was dry and her teeth hurt. The pain in her bock was
so excruciating, she didn't know if she could stand It much longer. He was forcing the brunt of his
weight against her.
11
And then, she felt him lunge. His chest moved against her bock. He ground his chin into the
top of her head. His fingers worked their way beneath her and squeezed violently at her breasts.
Her mind exploded with pain.
The music was loud ... louder than her voice.
"Noooool"
turn around bright eyes
His breath quivered when he finished. He collapsed on top of her. His breath was beading
like steam against the bock of her neck. Her ear bled where he bit It. He had scratched and bit
small tears Into the small of her neck. Her clothes were torn. She had bit her own lower lip until it
tore and bled its salty taste. Her gums were even bleeding.
Her bock throbbed and ached. It was greasy and hot with his sweat. His body, its entire
weight now collapsed onto her small frame, was hard and heavy. His breathing in her ear slowed.
The hand that hod crushed her breast was now softly caressing her side.
"Honey," he hummed tenderly in her ear. It was a groan.
She could barely hear it. The music was too loud in her head. The piano. The song was
ending. The thunder. And that rain. The lightning flashed into her eyes through her thin, closed
eyelid.
turn around
The shriek was loud. She shook her head as though she were waking from a dream. The
teapot was whistling. Her robe hod fallen open and cold chills wracked the entire length of her
body. She closed the robe over her and moved the kettle off the open flame. The scream died to
a moon and then to a soft, hollow hissing deep in the kettle. She took up a tea towel and
removed the nozzle. She poured the boiling water into the cup over the paper bag. The water
turned light brown as the tea seeped through and took hold.
A light went out in the building across the way.
Snow fell at the window.
Her apartment was silent.
The radio lay smashed at her feet.
She stood in her kitchen, blowing on the hot tea. Her eyes were dry and stinging. She was
humming.
44
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
THE STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS FOR RAPE
IS ONLY FIVE FUCKING YEARS
LoVerne Will/oms
The statute of limitations for rape
is only five fucking vears ... five fucking
years of burial, unearthment and mental
breakdown: a stiffened corpse oozing poison
into the land infested with rabid rats spitting ...
riffing ... this strange outrage of radioactive bile.
The statute of limitations for rape
is onlv five fucking years of bleeding
flutters in the gut... the ulcers
of burnt wild mind and heart explosions
from the fires of hell dreaming vengeance
in these breasts of old stone.
The statute of limitations for rape
is only five fucking years of silence
and dance therapv that dis-covers
all the black holes holding volcanoes
of fiery, bitter aloe tears searing
the eyes into a blind pool of phlegm.
It has been fourteen vears ... for me.
Fourteen years and the semen
has evaporated. or at least, its stain
is undetectable bv anv mechanical
device a weak judge could ever require.
Yet I can tell vou that I sti II smell
the malodorous odor of rotting yogurt-his thick, stinking cock goo soiling
my deltas with his distemper ... his
disgusting sneer... his swavbacked swagger
stomping my womb ... his ass-ugly face smiling
as if I hadn't said no 30 times between
midnight and 12: 17 a.m. on November 4, 1984.
I must have been talking to the moonlight ...
like the wind in that dreadful forest of cancered
oaks choking
on my bellows. Hatred is a gnat compared
to the scorpion stings I would give this so-called
man for stealing what I cannot give again ... get back.
I must have his head ... neck ... gizzard ... to kill
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
45
TH€ STRTUT€ OF l/M/TRT/ONS...
my New York City roaches with. I must hove
his dick -- o.k.o. Lorena Bobbitt-style - heroine,
but with zippered lips which never tell where
his weapon of flesh is.
The statute of limitations for rope
is only five fucking years and fourteen years later,
I still scream oceans of salty tears ...
retribution due in years of arrears -- shears
in the bock where kidneys bleed astronomical acid
coiling into cobras which refuse to dance
to a fucking flute, but spit into the eye
of the fool who ploys the cacophony of schizophrenic
drums.
Since I began to rage this poem, fifteen
women in the United States ore roped,
now limping ... fisting ... down a long, slow
rood lined In lynched dreams bleeding
from their palms.
46
SURVIVOR MAGAZINE
810S
(In order of appearance)
Magie
Dominic is a writer whose work in this issue was previoush.i published in
"Countering the Myths. 11
Annecy
Saez Hernandez hails from the Dominican Republic and is a social worker in
Westchester County.
Suheir Hammad is the author of "Born Palestinian, Born Black" and "Drops of This
Story. 11
Paulo
Re is a writer.
Susan Weaver is a poet, freelance journalist and author who works at a shelter for
victims of domestic violence. Published in several literary magazines, she lives in
Allentown, Pennsylvania with her husband.
Toni
LoAee
Bennett, a writer for the past 24 years, received her BA, MA, and Ph.D.
from the University of Washington in Seattle. She now works on translating her
poetry into Italian and raising finches.
Rhonda J. Nelson has been published in literary magazines including: Slipstream,
Panhandler and Dexter Review.
Jeon O'Bryan lives near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and conducts writing workshops
for people of all ages.
Michelle Czaikowski lives in Raleigh, North Carolina and is working on her master's
degree at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.
Fem Levin Flores is a published poet and singer who is working on a novel.
Pot Huyett is the author of Eldorado Roso:Vokes from Midtown.
J. Waidtlow. editor of the internet poetry journal Switched-on Gutenberg,
won a 1997 Chapbook Award from Floating Bridge Press for A Woman Named Wife.
She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College.
Donna
Jamie Parsley, author of four books of poetry, lives in Fargo, North Dakota.
loVerne Williams is a published poet and artist who has been featured at several
New York City locations such as The Knitting Factory, 13 Bar Lounge and The
Nuyorican Poets Cafe.
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