If you are planning on submitting to the Spring 2011 annual journal, you only have until Thursday, December 23! We accept work in all genres: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, short plays or screenplays, artwork, photography, collages, etc. You may submit up to five entries. Each writing entry should be no longer than 3,500 words. For art pieces, please submit work with 600dpi resolution or better, and include the original medium of the artwork. Also include a title, location, and year for photograph submissions. Please send submissions as individual attachments to submissions@blackandwhitejournal.com. If you have any questions, feel free to email at us at editors@blackandwhitejournal.com!
To make up for our recent lack of posts, here is a prompt in which we had to include both a doll collection and a character screaming after a loud noise. These did not have to be central ideas, necessarily - they just had to appear somewhere in the story. Happy reading!
---
Well, I'll Try To Be Honest
by Joshua L Durkin
Right before i did it I was in my daughter's bedroom. I imagined I had dog tags, because I had never been to war. I imagined that I had pictures of myself, and that I'd punched holes through all of the pictures of myself I could find. That I couldn't escape the desert. That I wasn't a father. But I was. But I wasn't. I hadn't done a good job of explaining.
It was her doll collection that got to me. I imagined the dissonant sounds and the normal sounds making the weird, weirder, and the normal more distant. That dull sound a bullet makes when it smashes into concrete. I'd heard that before. Maybe soldiers hear that all the time. Maybe they don't. If they did, they probably wouldn't have time to think about that dull thud. Like the sound of God. Like the sound of death.
There was a prince in my daughter's collection, a simple brown-skinned doll. Looked handsome. I imagined that I killed a man like that in a war once and didn't know what to think—I imagined I felt ambivalent, that it was inevitable and totally avoidable at the same time, the man's death. That brown-skinned prince. He would never feel precious again.
Right before I did it I thought about the wars I paid for in no small way. That it was hard to know anything about the wars because the media catered to interests different than the public's. That I wanted control. I wanted to know the truth about the stories on TV.
Then I called for her and she came in. She was embarrassed because she hadn't played with her dolls in years, and there I was toying with them. Trying to arrange them in orderly ways.
I told her that there are truths in life that you can only feel in your heart and your gut, and they affect you there because it’s where you feel the most. I told her that I was guilty. That my money killed people in faraway places. She didn't understand, but she really tried, she told me so. She kept telling me to think about something else. I chided her softly.
—No, honey, listen. I'm guilty. People die… they're killed.
I began to cry but I held her close so she wouldn't see me.
—Carly, listen. We're really lucky that we don't have violence in our lives like they do over there.
—Where's there?
—It's hard to explain, Carly. But I'll try to be honest about it-
---
A Doll's Room
by Shannon Spada
Emily stared at the dolls. The dolls stared back.
She leaned against the headboard of the white lace-covered bed. At the foot of the bed, Emily’s toes just touched the quilt her grandmother had made out of the remains of other quilts. Decades of memories, her grandmother would sigh. Emily thought it was disgusting.
The dolls continued to stare.
Emily had been sitting on the bed for an hour when her grandmother poked her head into the room. “How are you settling in, dear?” she asked, glancing down at the unopened suitcases next to the bed.
“Fine.”
Her grandmother blinked her tiny eyes. “Would you like some help? It doesn’t look as though you’ve begun...”
“Gram, the dolls,” Emily said.
“What about them? Honey, I’m sorry my doll room was the only available one we could move you into, but, look, now you have a whole collection of new friends!” Her grandmother picked up a small porcelain doll with brown ringlets and a crimson velvet dress. “This is Clarisse,” she said, clutching it to her chest. “She was my favorite when I was a little girl.”
“The dolls,” Emily said.
Her grandmother set Clarisse on top of the quilt at the foot of the bed. “I’ll let you unpack,” she said, and disappeared into the hallway.
Clarisse, smiling calmly, stared. The others – all sizes, colors, ethnicities, styles of dress – stared. Some of them weren’t smiling at all.
Emily slid off the bed and went outside to the garage. She headed straight for her grandfather’s tool bench, where a hammer hung from a peg on the wall. She pulled it off the peg, tested its weight, and went back inside.
Clarisse was still facing the headboard when Emily returned to the bedroom. Grasping the hammer with both hands, she walked toward the bed. With each step, she raised the hammer.
“Let this be an example to you all,” she hissed, and then slammed the hammer down on Clarisse’s head. A loud crrrack! resonated off the walls of the little room. Emily's eyes lit up at the sound, and she let out a wild cry, bringing the hammer down again and again on the porcelain doll. Finally, she spun around to face her silent audience.
“Who’s next?”
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Black & White Goes E-Networking
The deadline is slowly creeping up, so it's up to you to get your submissions in soon. You can now check us out on Facebook (search Black & White Journal for the Arts)! Please, like us and comment on our page, and remember to send your submissions (up to five per person) to submissions@blackandwhitejournal.com by December 23.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Black & White Journal for the Dark Arts
Happy Halloween!! As an extra treat, here's our page from last year:
And if you haven't already, scroll down to read this year's Halloween spread! Mwahahaha...
And if you haven't already, scroll down to read this year's Halloween spread! Mwahahaha...
Friday, October 29, 2010
Week 32 - Halloween 2010
With Halloween only two days away, we made it our prompt this week. Usually, some of our favorite pieces come out of Halloween, so we hope you enjoy them! Happy reading. (Or else...) :)
Ugly Sycamores
by Joshua L Durkin
There was quiet light coming from the houses that lit the street and sycamores. The light was quiet like the trees were mellow and kind of dirty and worn.
Dan and I walked, he dressed as Serpico and I dressed like Batman—his costume far better, authentic, while mine, the ersatz, caught the eye of a boy with a woman walking the opposite direction. I couldn’t tell what the boy was supposed to be.
—Mom! Look! Batman… with a red beard! he yelled, ran over.
I gave him five and he beamed. I looked up the street to a group of guys Dan and I were going to meet and I thought about how the kid looked clean.
The craggy sycamores craned over us. The kid ran off happy. Somewhere down the walk along flaking sycamores caught in the oversaturated glow of life and the quiet light coming from the houses, you get ugly in ways you don’t expect. On that walk you learn to control your excitement and emotion, you learn not to run excitedly at people to tell them “That’s great!” You learn to look at kids and think, They’re gonna get ugly.
They will most definitely get ugly, but you realize that’s okay, so do good costumes and old trees and comfortable shoes and….
---
Ugly Sycamores
by Joshua L Durkin
There was quiet light coming from the houses that lit the street and sycamores. The light was quiet like the trees were mellow and kind of dirty and worn.
Dan and I walked, he dressed as Serpico and I dressed like Batman—his costume far better, authentic, while mine, the ersatz, caught the eye of a boy with a woman walking the opposite direction. I couldn’t tell what the boy was supposed to be.
—Mom! Look! Batman… with a red beard! he yelled, ran over.
I gave him five and he beamed. I looked up the street to a group of guys Dan and I were going to meet and I thought about how the kid looked clean.
The craggy sycamores craned over us. The kid ran off happy. Somewhere down the walk along flaking sycamores caught in the oversaturated glow of life and the quiet light coming from the houses, you get ugly in ways you don’t expect. On that walk you learn to control your excitement and emotion, you learn not to run excitedly at people to tell them “That’s great!” You learn to look at kids and think, They’re gonna get ugly.
They will most definitely get ugly, but you realize that’s okay, so do good costumes and old trees and comfortable shoes and….
---
What’s Left of the Trees
by Leah Glazer
Hand me another roll!”
I shove my hand to the bottom of the pillowcase, searching for another roll of toilet paper. We've only got two left. One for Logan, and one for myself.
I toss the extra soft white paper over a branch. The paper ripples like waves through the air and gently falls on top of the branch. The heavier end lands in Logan's hands, but quickly soars through the air once more.
CRRRRAAAAAACK!
“What was that?” I say, stopping short.
“It's just the trees; they do that when it's cold. Keep tossing!”
I follow Logan's orders and throw more toilet paper into the tree. As it lands across three branches, the tree bends towards the ground and slowly sways to the right.
KRRREEEEEEEE!
The branches scrape against the cobblestone and chase after our feet. I dart to the left just before the tree can wrap its naked limbs around my ankle as it returns to its straight, lifeless position. The alleyway sits still with an eerie silence.
“I think we should leave,” I whisper.
Logan stands stiff as a board and nods. He slowly takes a step backward towards the street and I follow suit. We've only got two more steps to take before we reach the street and can race home when I step on a crisp, orange leaf.
CRRRRRUUUUNCH!
The branches tremble as the tree trunks twist and turn with fury. The trunks double over as the sharp, lanky limbs coil around our torsos and legs. We open our mouths to scream, but the trees shove their remaining leaves into our mouths as the branches swallow us in.
What’s Left of the Trees
by Leah Glazer
Hand me another roll!”
I shove my hand to the bottom of the pillowcase, searching for another roll of toilet paper. We've only got two left. One for Logan, and one for myself.
I toss the extra soft white paper over a branch. The paper ripples like waves through the air and gently falls on top of the branch. The heavier end lands in Logan's hands, but quickly soars through the air once more.
CRRRRAAAAAACK!
“What was that?” I say, stopping short.
“It's just the trees; they do that when it's cold. Keep tossing!”
I follow Logan's orders and throw more toilet paper into the tree. As it lands across three branches, the tree bends towards the ground and slowly sways to the right.
KRRREEEEEEEE!
The branches scrape against the cobblestone and chase after our feet. I dart to the left just before the tree can wrap its naked limbs around my ankle as it returns to its straight, lifeless position. The alleyway sits still with an eerie silence.
“I think we should leave,” I whisper.
Logan stands stiff as a board and nods. He slowly takes a step backward towards the street and I follow suit. We've only got two more steps to take before we reach the street and can race home when I step on a crisp, orange leaf.
CRRRRRUUUUNCH!
The branches tremble as the tree trunks twist and turn with fury. The trunks double over as the sharp, lanky limbs coil around our torsos and legs. We open our mouths to scream, but the trees shove their remaining leaves into our mouths as the branches swallow us in.
---
The Revelations of Autumn
by Zach Richter
1.
Days when,
as the road flies by,
colors speed by too.
On both sides of cars,
green yields,
to orange yellow and red,
who fall,
so overwhelmed by their dramatic,
transformation, lost from the place,
of birth disconnected from branches,
and flying free –
open eyes in to unknown.
2.
When the shadows,
align with crescent moons,
faces seem to change,
dreams creep through the edges,
of the void,
that hides behind all we know,
and behind all faces, a fake.
3.
For all the days so easily wandered through,
with branches that drop their paper mask,
in the mirror a face stares,
but the branches of the mind are bare,
so the truth of such faces falls,
like so many walls,
and the emptiness of mind stares.
4.
And on we walk,
faceless in hollow clothing,
footsteps like badges,
body bags or clothes being ripped off,
our faces are seen trailing behind –
escaping to the void forgetting,
as we walk on.
And we may never know,
the inside of flesh or souls,
moral claims,
but bodies are splayed.
And all we have are these masks,
we wear, haphazardly.
The Revelations of Autumn
by Zach Richter
1.
Days when,
as the road flies by,
colors speed by too.
On both sides of cars,
green yields,
to orange yellow and red,
who fall,
so overwhelmed by their dramatic,
transformation, lost from the place,
of birth disconnected from branches,
and flying free –
open eyes in to unknown.
2.
When the shadows,
align with crescent moons,
faces seem to change,
dreams creep through the edges,
of the void,
that hides behind all we know,
and behind all faces, a fake.
3.
For all the days so easily wandered through,
with branches that drop their paper mask,
in the mirror a face stares,
but the branches of the mind are bare,
so the truth of such faces falls,
like so many walls,
and the emptiness of mind stares.
4.
And on we walk,
faceless in hollow clothing,
footsteps like badges,
body bags or clothes being ripped off,
our faces are seen trailing behind –
escaping to the void forgetting,
as we walk on.
And we may never know,
the inside of flesh or souls,
moral claims,
but bodies are splayed.
And all we have are these masks,
we wear, haphazardly.
---
Stroll
by Keith Roland
Through the halls I walked and went
The halls of walls and trees
Down the path of leaves all spent
Murmuring of the breeze
They slide and crackle, dead red friends
Chase along behind, nip at my heels
And astride my side they lend
Brush strokes away the grime
Reveals
Wicked, the wicked shades
Along the walls they stalked and bent
The walls consumed my ease
Down the path I now resent
Shaken, then I freeze
They snap and cackle, dusk husk fiends
Hunt, pursue, surround, rip out the seals
Of the fears that I have weaned
So stokes them up, then my mind
Reels
Wicked, the wicked shades
Stroll
by Keith Roland
Through the halls I walked and went
The halls of walls and trees
Down the path of leaves all spent
Murmuring of the breeze
They slide and crackle, dead red friends
Chase along behind, nip at my heels
And astride my side they lend
Brush strokes away the grime
Reveals
Wicked, the wicked shades
Along the walls they stalked and bent
The walls consumed my ease
Down the path I now resent
Shaken, then I freeze
They snap and cackle, dusk husk fiends
Hunt, pursue, surround, rip out the seals
Of the fears that I have weaned
So stokes them up, then my mind
Reels
Wicked, the wicked shades
---
Trick or Treat
by Shannon Spada
I can’t believe we’re actually here!” Sam said, grinning like she had won the lottery.
“Neither can I,” Jackie grumbled. “I wanted to go trick-or-treating.”
“Jackie,” Sam whined, “do you know who Katrina Taylor is? This will be the hottest Halloween party in the entire high school, and we got invited.”
It was exactly 8:10, and Sam in a bunny costume and Jackie as a werewolf stood on the doorstep of Katrina’s tall, gray house. Sam reached over Jackie and rang the doorbell.
On the second chime, the door swung open, flooding the porch in orange light. Katrina Taylor, dressed as a devil with sparkly red horns, smiled down at them. “Hey girls, come on in!”
They followed Katrina down a long hallway to a poorly lit sitting room. Ten of the most popular girls from their class sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, and they all glanced up when Sam and Jackie walked in.
“This is the hot party?” Jackie whispered.
Sam frowned.
Katrina sat in a gap in the circle and made room for Sam and Jackie. A witch’s hat was positioned upside down in the middle of the circle. Katrina reached for the hat.
“It’s time for Trick or Treat,” she said. Her teeth glistened in the half-light.
Maybe we’re going trick-or-treating after all! Jackie thought as she watched Katrina pass the hat to the girl on her left.
The girl closed her eyes and reached into the hat, pulling out a tiny slip of green paper. She unfolded it and opened her eyes. “Treat,” she read, exhaling.
She passed on the hat, and each girl in the circle retrieved a slip, announcing, “Treat,” after opening each one. Jackie was beginning to wonder what the point of this was when Sam passed the hat to her. She reached into it, only to discover that there was one slip left. The other girls grinned at her as she unfolded it.
“Trick,” she read. “Shouldn’t it say ‘Treat’?”
The girls giggled, and Katrina shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “Jackie, isn’t this is your first time being in my house?”
“Yeah.”
Katrina’s smile stretched wide. “Then maybe I should give you a tour.”
She stood and gestured for Jackie to do the same. Jackie got up, uncertain, and followed Katrina into the hall. Katrina stopped at the first door they came to.
“This is my cellar,” Katrina said, opening the door.
Jackie leaned through the doorway and peered into the darkness. “It’s—" she began, when Katrina shoved her.
Jackie crashed down the staircase and landed on a concrete floor. A moan escaped from her mouth as she opened her eyes just wide enough to see the slit of light from above cut off. Locked in pitch black, Jackie lay motionless. Everything hurt too much.
“Grrrrrr.”
It came from somewhere behind her. Now more out of fear than pain, Jackie was paralyzed.
“Grrrrrrrrrrr.”
Much closer.
“Hello?” Jackie whispered. “Is this some kind of trick?”
Trick or Treat
by Shannon Spada
I can’t believe we’re actually here!” Sam said, grinning like she had won the lottery.
“Neither can I,” Jackie grumbled. “I wanted to go trick-or-treating.”
“Jackie,” Sam whined, “do you know who Katrina Taylor is? This will be the hottest Halloween party in the entire high school, and we got invited.”
It was exactly 8:10, and Sam in a bunny costume and Jackie as a werewolf stood on the doorstep of Katrina’s tall, gray house. Sam reached over Jackie and rang the doorbell.
On the second chime, the door swung open, flooding the porch in orange light. Katrina Taylor, dressed as a devil with sparkly red horns, smiled down at them. “Hey girls, come on in!”
They followed Katrina down a long hallway to a poorly lit sitting room. Ten of the most popular girls from their class sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, and they all glanced up when Sam and Jackie walked in.
“This is the hot party?” Jackie whispered.
Sam frowned.
Katrina sat in a gap in the circle and made room for Sam and Jackie. A witch’s hat was positioned upside down in the middle of the circle. Katrina reached for the hat.
“It’s time for Trick or Treat,” she said. Her teeth glistened in the half-light.
Maybe we’re going trick-or-treating after all! Jackie thought as she watched Katrina pass the hat to the girl on her left.
The girl closed her eyes and reached into the hat, pulling out a tiny slip of green paper. She unfolded it and opened her eyes. “Treat,” she read, exhaling.
She passed on the hat, and each girl in the circle retrieved a slip, announcing, “Treat,” after opening each one. Jackie was beginning to wonder what the point of this was when Sam passed the hat to her. She reached into it, only to discover that there was one slip left. The other girls grinned at her as she unfolded it.
“Trick,” she read. “Shouldn’t it say ‘Treat’?”
The girls giggled, and Katrina shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “Jackie, isn’t this is your first time being in my house?”
“Yeah.”
Katrina’s smile stretched wide. “Then maybe I should give you a tour.”
She stood and gestured for Jackie to do the same. Jackie got up, uncertain, and followed Katrina into the hall. Katrina stopped at the first door they came to.
“This is my cellar,” Katrina said, opening the door.
Jackie leaned through the doorway and peered into the darkness. “It’s—" she began, when Katrina shoved her.
Jackie crashed down the staircase and landed on a concrete floor. A moan escaped from her mouth as she opened her eyes just wide enough to see the slit of light from above cut off. Locked in pitch black, Jackie lay motionless. Everything hurt too much.
“Grrrrrr.”
It came from somewhere behind her. Now more out of fear than pain, Jackie was paralyzed.
“Grrrrrrrrrrr.”
Much closer.
“Hello?” Jackie whispered. “Is this some kind of trick?”
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Banner Adventures
This week was Homecoming at WestConn, and for Black & White, that means the annual banner contest! The theme this year was Wild Wild WestConn, and we had to incorporate that in our banner while also illustrating who we are as an organization. So, here is the final product:
In keeping with the theme, "Black" was pasted on in rope, and "White" was done in black leather. As for the spiders? If you've picked up a copy of last year's annual edition, you will see our very own Becca Simas's short story, "Eight," which involves undulating cacti, poisonous spiders, and a warning from a man named Ed Darwood: "Bites from those spiders could even kill you." We thought "Eight" would be the perfect basis for our banner.
Unfortunately, we did not win the contest, but we had a lot of fun participating.
In keeping with the theme, "Black" was pasted on in rope, and "White" was done in black leather. As for the spiders? If you've picked up a copy of last year's annual edition, you will see our very own Becca Simas's short story, "Eight," which involves undulating cacti, poisonous spiders, and a warning from a man named Ed Darwood: "Bites from those spiders could even kill you." We thought "Eight" would be the perfect basis for our banner.
Unfortunately, we did not win the contest, but we had a lot of fun participating.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Week 31 - Oct 2010
For our first prompt of the fall 2010 semester, we chose an all-too-familiar topic: work. Who doesn't have a memorable work story? Happy reading! :)
---
At the Drive Up
by Joshua L Durkin
So I worked in a fried chicken place after a bunch of decisions took me around the country and landed me in South Carolina where my parents lived and I needed work fast to save up and leave which ended up getting all fucked when both CV joints went on the front of my car and nearly all I had saved went to pay for that.
In the drive up booth of this fried chicken place the cash register rang and the double window folded open and I handed two bags of chicken breasts with french fries and fried okra and chicken tenders and chicken wings and then coleslaw because the driver asked for coleslaw and then he handed the bags to his daughter who looked down through tears and raccoon eyes and he glared at her and I knew that he'd caused the black eyes having lost control of the swelling fucked up brute inside that brimmed then as I watched and he looked at me, taking his glasses off to scrutinize the check while the two kids in the back seat one asleep and one playing on a Nintendo DS that contrasted sickly the sobs of the young girl riding shotgun giving off awful vibrations that I'd felt before. The kind of vibrations that make you feel like you want to puke or tear skin from muscle and muscle from bone.
I don't remember walking out back for a cigarette. But I did. The way she cowered in her seat, as much as she could, shrinking slow and constant, down and down and down. And I stood for a long time, that young girl's eyes, sore and black, blank and blurry, looking somewhere in my direction while I handed the father his change.
---
Dollar Store Nightmare
by Leah Glazer
He stormed in through the double doors and walked straight to the counter before rifling through the bucket of Silly Bandz. He tossed a few packages on the counter. I took that as my cue.
“All set, sir?”
“WHAT!” he shouted while still rummaging through the bucket.
“Are... are you all set?”
“No I’m not, Grandma.”
An awkward silence fell over the store. The woman standing behind him in line mouthed, “Is he calling you Grandma?”
I shrugged.
“There, Grandma. I’m all set. Happy now?”
I counted seven packages of Silly Bandz and punched his total into the register. “That’ll be seven forty-two.”
The man handed me seven singles and searched his pockets for the exact change. He threw the coins on the counter, and I handed him his bag.
“Would it kill you to smile?” He stormed out.
---
Orange Blossom
by Becca Simas
I stand behind the register, a big smile plastered across my face. “What can I get for you?”
“Small vanilla latte, non-fat.”
I punch her request into the blue screen in front of me.
“Okay, so, one tall vanilla–”
“No, no. I said small.”
Who do you think we are, Dunkin Donuts?
“Right, but our tall equals a small.”
“Fine.”
“I can help the next person in line.”
“Can I get a grande caramel Frappuccino lite in a venti cup with extra whip cream?”
Sure, you can completely defeat the purpose of a lite Frappuccino.
“Next.”
“I’ll have a tall Orange Blossom tea.”
Finally! The least complicated drink to make.
1. Drop tea bag into cup.
2. Add hot water.
3. Place lid on correctly.
4. Hand off to customer.
I walk back over to my designated register. I listen to the gurgle of milk steaming in metal pitchers, the buzzing of blenders, the bleeping of eight-minute timers.
“What kind of tea did you give me?”
I turn to my right. A crotchety old woman snarls at me.
“…Orange Blossom tea...”
“No, you didn’t. This tastes like poison.”
That’s a bit melodramatic.
“Did you look at the tag on the tea bag?” I say.
“No.”
“Well, look, it says ‘Orange Blossom.’”
The woman studies the small square piece of paper for a moment. She looks back at me. Back at her cup. “I haven’t had this tea in years. Maybe you guys changed the ingredients and added poop to it.”
She turns and walks back to her seat. All I can do is blink. The woman props her feet up on the wooden ottoman and sips her drink.
I shake my head. “I can help the next person in line.”
---
I Don't Run on Dunkin'
by Shannon Spada
Excuse me? miss? Can I get a poppy seed bagel with chive cream cheese?”
I want to roll my eyes. I hate when people call me “miss.” “I’m sorry, we don’t carry poppy seed bagels here,” I reply.
The customer frowns. “You don’t carry poppy seed bagels, like, you ran out?”
“No, we don’t carry them at all.”
“What?" the man yells. “That is morbidly obese! That’s just wrong!”
I glance around to see if any of my coworkers are hearing this. But no, everyone else is at drive-thru.
The man continues, “My whole day is ruined! I guess I’ll have to get a plain bagel now.”
I try to smile. “Do you want that toasted?”
“Yes I do, miss.”
I punch it into the register. Even though his total is only $2.10, he gives me a $20. He walks off, and finally, no one else is in line. I am about to go stand in the walk-in freezer so I don’t have to do anything, and I’m sweating bullets on top of three years worth of coffee fumes and watermelon Coolatta syrup. But then a mother with two children – both screaming, “MOMMY, I WANT A DONUT! CAN I GET HOT CHOCOLATE? I WANT MUNCHKINS!” – comes through the door.
Someone else can take them. I walk to the freezer, and a blast of cold air hits me in the face. As I step in, my vision blurs with tears. I close my eyes. Behind me, I pull the heavy freezer door closed.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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