He Was Wearing a Dress Made Out of Flowers - A Special Walleyed Press Journal

IT IS FINALLY HERE.

AND

NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON?

(okay)

A MOMENT TOO SOON!

If you would like to read He Was Wearing a Dress Made Out of Flowers, a special one-off release by us featuring a handful of writers who attempted to conquer the borderline of the absurd, then click RIGHT HERE AND DOWNLOAD A COPY.

If this ends up a semi-success, we’ll consider doing another one. But for now, get her while she’s standing there.

HWWADMOOF Update

While the HWWADMOOF journal was due to be released late last night, it’s my civic duty to announce to you that it has been delayed until this coming Friday night (5/4/12). 

There is reasoning to this (love it or hate it)

The original design of the journal caved in after 3 key points to it were not accomplished. There were 3 writers working on 3 key segments for the journal, which when put together were intended to represent the 3 major areas of the United States. 

With the original philosophy of this, the 3 writers (who will remain nameless) failed to come up with said materials that were satisfactory to themselves. Therefore, the “backbone” of the journal fell out, broke down, whatever you wish to call it.

What would we be without a little dramatics?

Not much.

This left me scrambling. What is an editor to do? My initial idea was to just push the massive amount of submissions into the June edition of Fresh Fish. While this seemed like an easy choice, I’ve now come to the conclusion that THAT is the wrong choice. 

So where does that leave us?

I have enlisted the help of one of those 3 writers, a guy you may or may not be familiar with, by the name of Joshua Robert Long to fill in the hole left by the exclusion of these 3 key pieces. Joshua has been given free range to do what he pleases to introduce the journal. He has all of the submissions to review, and his own mind to wander off in.

I have decided to not rush the process. I know he is a busy man. So by Friday the journal will be here. I PROMISE. Check out walleyedpress.com Friday, May 4th at 10:00PM EST and you will be able to download the journal. If that is not the case, then my name is Biscuit.

Keep the faith.

Sincerely yours,

Robert High

Web Series #58, “A girl…and one more inside” by Alex Falangi

A girl…and one more inside:

She is June, traveling with Johnny

from side to side

she is a dark-haired girl…

and one more inside.

Her identity is a mess which

makes boy’s life hard cause

she is a witch

with a kill switch

HWWADMOOF Release News

Yes, today is the fungled (yes, I said fungled) day of He Was Wearing A Dress Made Out of Flowers.

When is it coming you ask?

Soon.

It debuts at 11:30PM EST. 

It’s a midnight read.

Web Series #57, “sugar” by Sarah Lucille Marchant

sugar:

i. 

I created us in my mind.

we were only snowflake consistency in reality, paper patterns and melting triangles trying to press themselves onto the sun and prove that they were permanent. but we never found any sort of golden elixir; all we caught was its light. fragmented reds and blues were all we could comprehend;

we would never earn yellows or greens.

ii. 

at least, not at that time.

now we are real.

finally these acoustic lullabies have meaning and our hands reach out to cup the tiny promises spilling over. 

they were black music notes overflowing, treble clefs and dotted half-notes — because, after all, you wouldn’t settle for normal or ordinary.

we would be extraordinary.

iii.

if only our hourglasses hadn’t run dry.

we are tangled—

undeniably, irreversibly, inevitably.

I cannot cut the strings

but I can never call you my own.

you are silently pulled, lost somewhere other than in my arms.

Web Series #56, “for always” by Anna Borchert

for always:

you couldn’t scream loud
enough for children to hear
blocks down, their terror proves
nothing on this. your eyes gleam
with hunger & sweat you

swear, nothing is less than this,
nothing is more. did you ever 
watch the sunrise from the brooklyn 
bridge and fall in love with yourself?
cause I saw that moment, your eyes
telling me.. that is the only bones I 
will ever love

Web Series #55, “heart-holder” by Alex Falangi

heart-holder: 

if you want somewhere to go

there’s a place where we don’t get older

if you needed to cry

there was a place on my shoulder

when we waited for warmth

summer became colder

lie down in my arms

i’ll be your heart-holder

Web Series #54, “Survival” by Eve Anissimova

Survival: 

Survival, Paris was full of it.

The metro had often teased my poetic interest in survival: where others would disinfect their hands upon leaving, I would bite my nails and lick my fingers.

One night, returning home from town, I waited for the metro. The station wailed its lingering silence. When the train arrived, the driver opened his door, looked me in the eye and motioned. I squeezed beside him in the front and he started the engine. We entered through the tunnel gate.

There lived the people of the metro.

They had arranged themselves, sat waiting for a finger to crawl into the dark and scratch at them, before this same finger touched daylight and became discussion, rebellion, stinking hot puddles of city out of which they could emerge, jewels around their necks, bracelets to their elbows like belly dancers or thieves swimming in their loot, only to have their sorrow remoulded by romantics, or their strength, the strength of collective symbolism, reduced by psychologists.

Each conceptual duo or lone creature had his own rectangular depth: a stretching darkness of three by infinite metres of which they used the front to stage their lives. A dirty yellow spotlighted the scene. What slept behind? Bone-chilling hollows, my imagination.

Museum pieces, they were all there. On the left, the mother on shoes with the bare footed child. She, on a chair; he, rebelling out of her copper grip, waving his arms and legs, his red flags. At the waggon’s passing, the light went out, they were swallowed up by the sweating walls. Only the glow of his feet remained.

The light switched onto the accordion player. As we rode to Vincennes one day, he plagued me with his song, refusing to touch the melancholy of “Katusha” by one chord. With every refrain he tore his own memory and mine of the way his song could dig into the heart. He was playing something now, too. Sitting on a stool, his body swayed from side to side and the accordion folded out completely. I could not hear it but I knew that it was the right version ofKatusha, and maybe even more. Lights out.

On the right, the ventriloquist, his lifeless round-eyed friend perpetually on his lap. Two voices, one forgotten voice. And two shrivelled cocoons for bodies.

Mute driver, is this sight too familiar? Was it his regular shift that had caused the layer of callus on his heart? Then, like a roll of film exposed to sunlight, the lights of Les Halles erased what my eyes had seen and it came to me: he had simply not seen them yet. He was one of those sad cases, the public underdog of the time: a university degree; an economic straight jacket. The job market had started clearing its stands.

Web Series #53, “Ballad of the Lady a la Carte” by Eve Anissimova

Ballad of the Lady a la Carte:

In a fisherman’s village

A sullen young man

With war in his eyes

And a ring in his hand

Stops at her door

But he cannot go in

His once tender heart is infested with sin.

He takes off his cap

Throws it down on the floor

The doormat says ‘welcome’

He is welcome no more.

He walks to the bridge

And takes off his boots

A woman in white

Shouts “stop” and salutes

Runs up to the man

And touches his hair

He follows her home

And its private from there…

When he wondered who she was

The village voices whispered so:

She’s the lassy of the harbour

An address for you to know

She’s a mother to the martyr

She’s a harlot of the heart

She will feed while hunger eats her

She’s the Lady à la Carte.

By scavenging eyes

He was seen leaving late

With a smile on his sleeve

And a gold-coloured fate

With generous love-craft

She cured him of woe

But he’s just one of many

With many to go.

Yes he’s just one of many

With many to go.

One autumn storm

She had just gone to bed

A knock on her door

A man, lonesome and wet

He held her to him

And showed her his heart

“I’ve come here to save you, my sweet a lá Carte”

You may not yet know me

But a fire inside

Has told me to hold you

If just for one night.

His touch felt like Mother’s

His kiss was her child

For the first time in years

Through wet eyes she had smiled.

This tender gift was her first and her last

She woke up next morning and saw he had passed.

Yes she woke up next morning and saw he had passed.

In her eightieth year

She could offer no more

She closed both her eyes

And to heaven did soar

They had left her no flowers

None wilting or dead

All the pansies she’d known

were now blooming instead.

When people wonder who she was,

The village voices whisper so:

‘T was the woman of the docks

They’d take her love and off they’d go

She had nurtured countless fellows

‘T was the Lady à la Carte.

But no one knew that she had kept

An empty shelf for one warm heart.

Web Series #52, “More” by Katherine Anderson

More: