Scribe Base Spring 2015

Table of Contents Page 3. Dedication by Chris H.

Page 4. Two poems by Ruchi L.

Pages 5-6. Two poems by Nicholas D. Lamb

Pages 7-9. No Gigs in Spring by A.P. Speck

Pages 10-12. Him and I by Samantha R.

Page 13. Time Stands Still by Chris H.

Page 14. Biographies

Page 15. Copyright Information

Dedication

Spring is a time for renewal and rebirth. The plants that

went silent during the winter months are reemerging, with

new life, as they begin reaching for the sun. So, too, should

we reach upward in hopes of what exciting adventures we

may embark on this coming year; so, too, should we reach

upward in hopes of what the rest of this year will bring.

Poems by Ruchi L. Beats

5 o’clock shadow. 9 o’clock bus rides.

White Beats. A heart beat.

Familiar faces of strangers bopping against windows;

peering into a world held in palms.

And then there is me: not beating an eyelash

except

3 seats away. Grey coat. Head back.

Mouth slightly open.

Drifting in and out of dreams.

Existing in another time.

Another place.

Another world.

All while being here-

making breathing look easy.

Raindrops syncopating.

Deep breaths.

My head turned

slightly to the left.

Neck sore. No complaints.

From the seat where I sit,

A sound I hear.

Tap-tap- A foot to a beat I cannot hear.

Music to my eyes, mouth and ears.

Brakes to the floor.

“Have a nice day.” Coda.

The beginning of the end.

New Roads

Roll out new roads. Old ones do no good.

Stand where a prisoner once stood

begging for freedom.

Old habits die hard. New ones catch on.

Rise at dawn and

seek again.

Hiding is a refuge. Away from failing.

Living in denial of

sailing through storms.

Come as you are-shaken but firm.

Stand as you stood

before the turn of your center.

Poems by Nicholas D. Lamb A Wizard in Her Eyes

Mystery behind his shoulders

His daughter can’t help but ponder

Upon what his eyes have studied

As she stares in awe and wonder

Seeking simple signs of love

Forever longing for his time

Making gallant features melt

When she smiles in delight

So he brings her close to heart

Full attention, listening well

Bonding while she is so young

Letting her imagination swell

Always there to guide her hand

And to teach her every word

As she transforms into woman

Until it’s time to take her turn

The Rhythm of Life

Rhythm is

the cornerstone

of all life

A heartbeat

a walk

even the division

of our cells

happen

in their own time

Sudden disruptions

are the beginnings

of new rhythms

A path

that in life

is called growth

and in drama

is called plot

The Rhythm of Life (cont.) Without rhythm

life cannot exist

Without variation

progress is impossible

Without change

all organized words

become

stale

So

we crave

beautiful words

that help us feel

the breath of life

and its never-ending cycle

of birth, existence, and death

and always

Truth

No Gigs in Spring by A. P. Speck

Weeds broke through the pavement of the curb in front of Murphy's Bar, where two broke musicians sat drinking forty

ounces out of brown paper bags that crinkled when they grabbed the bottle by the neck. Billy in his low top sneakers and

brown leather jacket picked up a rock and flung it at a rusty dumpster with some vulgarity spray­painted red on the side.

Zach moved his fingers around the fringed hole on the knee of his blue denims and did little of nothing else. The DJ at

Murphy's came over the outside speaker with his golden voice echoing “This one's for all the single ladies out there!” and

the crowd inside Murphy's screamed with drunken delight.

Billy reeled his head back and howled, “SCREW YOU!!!” then he cleared the phlegm from his sinuses and hocked a fat gob of

spit on the concrete.

“You got a problem with single ladies Billy boy?”

Billy picked up a few more rocks and pelted the side of the dumpster till it was humming. Then he set his beer down and

leaned back on the flats of his palms admiring, not for the first time, the crude street poetry written on the dumpsters side.

“Mike Walker: The Bastard Son of Barberton.” He chuckled, “Sounds like a band name.”

“I like it better as an album,” said Zach, bringing the bottle to his lips again.

Billy grabbed his bottle off the ground, but before he took a drink he pointed at the sign of the bar and said, “You bring

Zappa back from the dead to rip a guitar solo and these kiddies would vomit blood, but you bring up some coked up it­girl

to sing off­key for two hours and everyone goes postal. That ain't music Zach, that's fabricated shit masquerading as art.”

Zach shrugged, “They seem to be enjoying it.”

“People don't know what they like.”

“You think?” he asked, “Maybe you don't know what people like.”

Billy shook his head and swirled the beer around in his bottle.

“You know what I'd like,” he said, “I'd like to go to that new bar on 8th, order one of those fishbowl drinks, you know the

one's that've got a whole fricking fruit salad in 'em? I'd like to drink one of those, then make my way across the street to

Jensen's guitar shop. I'd like to saunter up to the register, drop my jeans on the floor, and piss all over that mofo's counter

for giving me ONE-THIRD of what my Epiphone was worth. Then I'd take his head and smash his face through the display

cabinet. THAT... That is what I'd like.”

“Damn...” Zach reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of menthols. He lit one and took a slow drag, “Wouldn't

even share that fishbowl?”

Billy chuckled, “Hell no, but I'll tell you what. I'll take that pretty bass guitar of yours hanging behind the counter and hit him

in the crotch a couple times.”

Zach exhaled a stream of white smoke, “Nah, I ain't got nothing against him, I sold it, same reasons as you.”

“I sold it 'cause I had no other choice.”

“You had a choice. Playing nothing or living on the street ain't much of a choice, but it is a choice.”

“Well we're doing a great job avoiding that aren't we?!” said Billy, spreading his arms wide and spilling a third of his beer on

the sidewalk.

He took the bottle back and drained half of what was left, then wiped his saliva on the sleeve of his jacket.

“He could've given me half.”

“Or nothing.”

Billy massaged his forehead with his fingers, “I know that.” He took another swig. “But I'd rather be pissed at someone else

than myself, at least I can forgive someone else.”

He motioned his arm towards the pack of cigarettes Zach left sitting on the ground, “Think I can bum one of those?”

Zach handed him the pack then the lighter.

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence and smoked their cigarettes, letting the sounds of Saturday night crash over them in waves. An ambulance

sang in the distance over the chorus of cackling laughter coming from the bar.

“We live another day Billy.”

Billy laughed, “For what?”

Zach flicked his cigarette into a sewer grate.

“I don't know,” He shrugged, taking another drink, “I just always figured that as long as my heart's still beatin I can make it

back up. Digging and scratching maybe, but as long as my heart's still beatin I still gotta chance. Might be nil of a chance, but

you know what Billy? Not all singles are gonna be hits, but that sweet bass... Oh, that sweet bass just keeps on rolling.”

Billy's eyes snapped back, he stared at him for a long moment before saying, “I hate you.”

Zach laughed “Oh I know,” then he put his hand on his on Billy's shoulder and shook him, “But I love you buddy, don't you

forget that.”

Billy's lips formed a toothy grin, then they sat in silence and finished their drinks, because there was nothing left to say.

Him and I by Samantha R. We walked off the ship that day with all the belongings we needed and if we were completely honest we were carrying much

more than we needed. All we needed, as far as I could see, was each other.

It had been a whirlwind of excited shouting and paralysing fear. They called that “training.” It didn't really make me feel more

prepared for anything though. It was humbling, those humiliating speeches in front of strangers. I quite liked the strangers

though. I felt somehow connected to them because we were all in it together.

Not that any of that mattered anymore. Everything that had brought us there was behind us and in front of us was a foreign

country so close to home that it was hardly foreign at all. We were illegals and that was exhilarating because I had never really

done anything illegal before. Nothing serious. I drank a bottle of wine when I was nineteen but I threw it back up so it didn't

really count.

It felt like a tongue-in-cheek sort of joke. Americans never illegally immigrated to Mexico. We never followed the mainstream

trends though, him and I. After growing up together in San Diego and doing everything together for... well, forever, we only

knew what it was like to be different from everyone else. We weren’t capable of being different from one another anymore.

I supported him, he supported me, I loved him, and he loved me; it all seemed so simple when I would remember it years

later but at the time adrenaline was racing through my veins because I was giving up my dream as I walked off that ship.

The funny thing about dreams though is that they are never what they seem. All you want to do is get there. Then you do.

Then what? The sky isn't so blue and it rains up there too. So you walk away. Right? That’s what you would do, isn’t it? Well,

either way, it’s what I did. What we did, him and I.

We got a room at a hotel that we could afford. It was so close to the ocean that when you closed your eyes and just listened

it felt like you were floating over the ocean. I guess part of me might have wanted to still be on that ship.

We lay on the itchy blankets and I pretended to be catching up on much needed rest while he softly snored in a way that

should have irritated me, I think. Things like that shouldn’t still be endearing after a couple had been together as long as we

had—but it was. There were quirks about him that could be annoying when I was tired or stressed but if they were only

annoying at those times they were more my problems than his. I wondered what annoyed him about me. Would he ever tell

me these things? Would I ever want him to?

He stirred in his sleep when the horn blared in the distance and our ship left port. I quickly clenched my eyelids together

tightly as though that would make me invisible. I felt like we were fugitives on the run as we hid away behind rickety hotel

room door and broken deadbolt lock. We were thick as thieves, him and I.

We lazed around the touristy port city for a couple more days but we knew we had to move on. It wasn’t a place to live. We

weren’t going to sell seashells to American tourists on the beach. We were American tourists. We could still buy seashells

and feign dignity and pride for another little while.

We sat at a bar just down the street from our hotel and ate greasy tortilla chips and too much guacamole. I had consumed

more guacamole in those three days than I would have eaten in my entire life if things hadn’t gotten turned around and life

hadn’t popped me out of my perfectly good plan and into that Mexican tourist town.

The young man (or perhaps old man, it’s hard to distinguish ages in Mexico—maybe it’s the carefree living that protects

people from the telltale signs of aging. Or maybe it’s the way no one is required to “graduate” to Dockers and polo shirts at

a certain age, so there’s no distinguishing age by clothing either. Either way, this ageless man) told us about a friend of his

who was working at the farm picking oranges. We could pick oranges.

We checked out of our hotel the next morning and hitchhiked to the farm. We started off with a ten mile walk and I know it

doesn’t sound too bad... My dad used to run ten miles every other day for my entire childhood but ten miles in the dusty

desert in the increasingly hot, hot heat, well, it’s no joke. I wondered what would happen if one of those Mexican drug

cartels you always hear about on the news showed up.

I feel like he would have died saving my life. Maybe he wouldn’t have but he always made me feel like he would, if it came to

that. I guess that’s what matters most. I would have remembered him fondly as I became a victim of human trafficking. These

are the things I think about while walking on desolate highways in Mexico.

Just as a vulture (or some other equally frightening bird of prey) started circling a pickup truck drove by and we were able

to flag him down. We didn’t walk again until we hopped out and walked through the weather-beaten wooden gate which

loosely separated our new home from the rest of the world.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the ship was in port again by now as he bargained in what sounded a lot like Spanish with the

farmer who would become our boss.

The days were long and the work was hard. We were up before the sun because orange picking got tough quick once the

sun starts beating down. Usually we were asleep again before the world fades to darkness outside. We never made love in

the three months we spent there, which is ironic somehow because I never felt like he loved me more.

I think we could have stayed there forever if we didn’t leave. We always left. Maybe we’re quitters because we leave things

that are too hard. We’re too idealistic. Maybe we’re lazy San Diego stereotypes. I would argue if you called us entitled but

maybe it’s true. We’re waiting for that thing that makes us happy. No, happiness never lasts—contentment would be the real

success.

We take turns chasing dreams. We never say no to an opportunity but we never let go of our exit strategy. Maybe we’re

destined to keep chasing dreams our entire lives and never really get anywhere. Maybe that’s okay.

We’re dreamers. We’re quitters. We never really get where we’re going but we keep going, him and I.

Time Stands Still by Chris H. Time Stands Still

The petals glisten with just a drop

Reminding us of a time where time stood still,

Where the hourglass of life seemed to stop

Your reflection

Pale and dim

In front of the setting sun

After it had stopped pouring

But it is ever raining now

It is pouring still

But even now

We find that neither of us can move on

As time once again stands still

Biographies Alex (A.P. Speck) is a freelance writer with a bachelor's in English Literature, currently residing in Columbus.

Chris Hubbard: Co-founder and organizer of Scribe Base Literary Magazine. I have published poems in literary

magazines, and in an anthology, the theme of which is centered around Greek mythology. I run Scribe Base’s

WordPress blog, review submissions, compile those submissions, write articles for Scribe Base focused on

inspiration and advice, and manage Scribe Base’s mailing list.

Nicholas D. Lamb is a writer/filmmaker with an MFA in Screenwriting. His work has been published, performed, and publicly

screened. Micro fiction and poetry is his latest addiction.

Copyright Information All persons who provided submissions to this issue retain authorship of the work(s) they submitted