Soo thanks to my parents really old computer the poem I though I posted is not in fact up. Anyway here's something else I'm working on. It's not done yet. And it's not very good. But something posted is better than nothing.
“It’s my anxiety Ellie, the anxiety.”
Anxiety isn’t an excuse to be such an exhausting prick, I think to myself.
“My life is a mess Ellie. My mom, Kelsey, Aubrey, and I never met my dad! They’ve all damaged me. You don’t get it. No one does. I’m just so messed up.” Joe rattled on.
So this is it. Three long months of driving him around, buying him lunch when he had no money, doing his laundry. All to be dumped for his ex-girlfriend, who is apparently, just that special. And to top is all off, he’s not even apologizing. It’s just the same old sob story. Poor Joe had a hard life. Poor Joe has anxiety. Poor Joe is an irrefutable jackass.
I stopped listening somewhere in between when he said “she makes me feel like I’ve never felt before” and when he proclaimed “she is my soul mate”. How cliché. For someone who calls himself a writer, he isn’t very clever with words.
I look around his bedroom. It’s a mess. His clothes are strewn on the floor, bed, and hanging on the back of the door. I’m sure if I asked him he’d say that they were there to dry. His bed is unmade, and its apparent to me by bra that’s half under the pillow he wasn’t alone last night, as he had been claiming earlier.
I glance up and look at the poster on the wall. That poster was one of the reasons I fell so hard for him. There on the bedroom wall of a 23year-old man is an illustration from Where the While Things Are, my all time favorite children’s book. I stare at it. The happy child is frolicking with his beastly companions. I should have known then that no normal guy hangs pictures from children’s books on their walls.
I look back at him, snapping to attention.
“Ellie, there’s one more thing”.
“What’s that?” I reply.
“Well, the thing is, Kelsey goes to school here. I just don’t want things to be awkward if you see her. If you see us.” he began to stammer a little “…you know, together.”
I just starred at him. I knew what he was asking me. He had confided a lot in me these past three months (2 weeks, and four days, but whose counting). He told me enough to write a book of my own, really. If I ever had the energy to sit down and put it on paper, which I doubt I would, I could call it Confessions of a College Sociopath or perhaps The Hipster’s Guide to Anxiety. Or maybe not, those are terrible titles. Then again I’m not the writer. Anyhow this doesn’t really matter I think trying to clear my head.
He just looks at me waiting for my response. He’s waiting for a promise. A confirmation. A smoke signal. Anything from me saying that I won’t tell Kelsey what I know.
I just look at him and smirk. Then without guilt or hesitation I respond by saying…
“Sure. Whatever.”
Damn!, I think. That is not at all what I wanted to say. I wanted to say something like “Awkward for me? Not a chance. You on the other hand are going be a little more uncomfortable when I tell her…” Well I lost my chance.
A look of relief spreads over his face.
“Good. I mean I wouldn’t want you to feel weird or anything.”
“Thanks for the concern” I reply, trying very hard to sound icy. “Well if that’s it, I better go.”
“Ok, sure. See you around?” Joe says.
“Maybe” I respond.
I walk out his bedroom door. Take a left on down the hallway. Walk down the rickety old stair case, through the living room, trying to avoid his roommates. I walk out the front door, hop into my car. And then I loose it. My eyes well with tears. I feel the saline stinging my cheeks. I take a deep breath, turn on my car and head home.
Why didn’t I listen to Caitlyn. Or Dan. Or Rich. Or Melissa. Or Anyone for that matter. I told them that I was a fine judge of character, and Joe was a great person who had a hard life.
When I told people about what he did to his ex-girlfriend, they would gasp in horror. Telling me to “get out now”. But what did they know. I knew that he had anxiety attacks. I knew that he had been seeing someone. He had made a mistake, we all make mistakes.
As I drive I begin to fantasize about what I would say if I saw them together. I would see them on the opposite side of a faded crosswalk. I would walk right up to them and say brightly…
“Hi Kelsey! I’m the girl Joe here was dating when you came back into the picture! You are not going to believe what he told me!”
If only, I think.
I notice I’m almost home. I take the right onto my street, and then the left into the driveway. I get out of the car, and wipe my cheeks. I don’t want my parents to know that I’ve been crying.
When I get inside I go straight to my computer. Not taking the time to pat my dog, or to say hello to my father. I sit at my desk, and move the mouse until the screen lights up.
If he can write so can I, I muse. I mean I have all the material to write a really good novel. I know it’s not fiction, but with a few name changes, and location swaps, I bet he won’t even recognize the story. Not that he would read it. Not that anyone will ever read it.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Journal Project
Pocket Myth Zine
Editor-Andrea Lawlor
Pocket Myth publishes issues yearly.
Each edition of Pocket Myth is simple is appearance. The name of each edition is written in large print, followed by the names of the contributors. The third edition, Orpheus, came with a CD attached to the front cover.
The magazine is published from Philadelphia, but has some roots in Western Massachusetts.
Submission guidelines for the Pocket Myth are quite loose. Editors ask that contributors send a sample of the work they wish to submit with a brief note describing where they heard about the journal from. Submissions should be pertaining to the theme of each edition. Currently Pocket Myth is taking submissions for their newest journal which will be titled Dionysus. In edition to poetry and prose, submissions of art, sound clips and computerized moving images.
Pocket Myths publishes poetry and prose as well as art work, sound, and moving images.
6 X 6
Publisher- Ugly Duckling Press
Editors- Anna Moschovakis, Matvei Yankelevich and G. L. Ford.
6 X 6 comes out two to three times a year.
The appearance of 6 X 6 is relatively conservative. The name of each edition, along with the number of the addition is printed in large letters, on a colored background. The whole journal is bound with a large rubber band.
6 X 6 publishes from Brooklyn, New York.
Submissions are encouraged to be in the format of the journal. Each poet is allowed six pages to display their work. The works of six poets are accepted for each edition of the journal. Also 6 X 6 tries to publish at least one poet in translation per edition.
6 X 6 publishes only poetry.
Editor-Andrea Lawlor
Pocket Myth publishes issues yearly.
Each edition of Pocket Myth is simple is appearance. The name of each edition is written in large print, followed by the names of the contributors. The third edition, Orpheus, came with a CD attached to the front cover.
The magazine is published from Philadelphia, but has some roots in Western Massachusetts.
Submission guidelines for the Pocket Myth are quite loose. Editors ask that contributors send a sample of the work they wish to submit with a brief note describing where they heard about the journal from. Submissions should be pertaining to the theme of each edition. Currently Pocket Myth is taking submissions for their newest journal which will be titled Dionysus. In edition to poetry and prose, submissions of art, sound clips and computerized moving images.
Pocket Myths publishes poetry and prose as well as art work, sound, and moving images.
6 X 6
Publisher- Ugly Duckling Press
Editors- Anna Moschovakis, Matvei Yankelevich and G. L. Ford.
6 X 6 comes out two to three times a year.
The appearance of 6 X 6 is relatively conservative. The name of each edition, along with the number of the addition is printed in large letters, on a colored background. The whole journal is bound with a large rubber band.
6 X 6 publishes from Brooklyn, New York.
Submissions are encouraged to be in the format of the journal. Each poet is allowed six pages to display their work. The works of six poets are accepted for each edition of the journal. Also 6 X 6 tries to publish at least one poet in translation per edition.
6 X 6 publishes only poetry.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The End
Mary sat in the dimly lit room. The only source of light came from a lamp that was placed in the middle of the floor. The lamps glow reflected delicately off the pale blue paint on the walls.
She surveyed the room. The bookcase that once burst with books and photographs was now bare. She could almost see the outlines of where each worn out novel had sat just a few days ago. In the corner were stacks of boxes that she got from the liquor store. Words like “clothes, toiletries, books, and kitchen” were scrawled in her hand writing on the side of the boxes that once held Mount Gay’s Rum, Svedka Vodka, and Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch.
Her computer desk was disassembled and was resting so that it leaned partly blocking the doorway. The bed that she once shared had already been moved to her parent’s basement, and was now replaced by an air mattress that she would use just for tonight.
The room looked so strange and empty, but then again that’s how she had been feeling for the past month or so. Mary was brought back to focus when she heard a key turn in the door. She braced herself for what was coming. Her hands started to shake. Her eyes darted through the open door, her view being obscured by the desk.
Before she could see, Mary could hear the familiar footsteps. Each small thud was like a stab to her soul. Then came the familiar smell. His cologne always preceded him into a room, and always lingered long after he did.
“Hi.” said Paul, his head appearing through the vacant space in the door way.
“Hi” Mary responded, trying to control the spastic movement of her limbs.
“How’s the packing” he snarled, in a voice that unlike everything, else was unrecognizable to Mary.
“Don’t be like that” she said softly, standing up.
Paul looked at her for a moment. She was beautiful. The soft light of the lamp made her skin look like it was glowing. Her eyes sparked in the way her eyes always did when she had been crying.
“Be like what?” he responded. “I’m like nothing, that’s what you want me to be, anyways.”
“Paul, honestly!” she moaned. “You know it’s not like that. Things have changed and you know it.”
“Yeah things have changed. But that doesn’t make it bad. You did this to yourself. To us. All of it was your choice.” He moved in closer. “I didn’t want this for us. I wanted us to be happy.”
“I did too!” she cried. “I did too. But happiness is fleeting, it’s not permanent. Nothing’s permanent. We both learned that the hard way.”
Paul glared at her. His eyes looked black in this lighting. Mary though to herself that he looked like a wild animal before it pounced on its prey. She knew at this point there was nothing she could say to comfort him. She just sighed.
“I didn’t think you’d be here until later tonight.” She said, doing her best to sound casual, which was hard since her throat was still swollen from the fit of tears she had just minutes before he walked in. She hoped he couldn’t tell.
“I though you’d be here forever” he responded callously. He watched as the startled expression on her face turned into pure dejection and then again to anger.
“You can’t blame me for everything” she yelled, a little louder than she had meant to. “You know it wasn’t on purpose. Don’t you remember how upset I was after the whole thing? I didn’t get out of bed for a week. I punished myself”
She looked away. “I still am punishing myself” she whispered.
Paul looked remorseful for a split second. Then his face wound into the look of contempt that Mary was now so used to seeing.
“The only person you’re punishing is me. You are leaving me. You have deprived me. I could get over this. I could move on. But I need you for that to happen.”
Mary sighed again. “You act like this hasn’t hurt me. It has. Physically, emotionally. But I need to focus on myself now. I need to heal. I can’t save you, just like I couldn’t save her.”
Paul didn’t say a word. He turned his back. Mary stood in the middle of the room, tears flooding her face. He walked through the apartment, familiar foot steps echoing. She heard the door knob turn, the familiar creek of the door, the snap closed, and then nothing.
She turned to face the window. She breathed in deep, sucking in the smell of his cologne. The wind outside started to pickup. It sounded like a baby crying she thought. She sighed, sat back down, scanned the barren room.
She surveyed the room. The bookcase that once burst with books and photographs was now bare. She could almost see the outlines of where each worn out novel had sat just a few days ago. In the corner were stacks of boxes that she got from the liquor store. Words like “clothes, toiletries, books, and kitchen” were scrawled in her hand writing on the side of the boxes that once held Mount Gay’s Rum, Svedka Vodka, and Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch.
Her computer desk was disassembled and was resting so that it leaned partly blocking the doorway. The bed that she once shared had already been moved to her parent’s basement, and was now replaced by an air mattress that she would use just for tonight.
The room looked so strange and empty, but then again that’s how she had been feeling for the past month or so. Mary was brought back to focus when she heard a key turn in the door. She braced herself for what was coming. Her hands started to shake. Her eyes darted through the open door, her view being obscured by the desk.
Before she could see, Mary could hear the familiar footsteps. Each small thud was like a stab to her soul. Then came the familiar smell. His cologne always preceded him into a room, and always lingered long after he did.
“Hi.” said Paul, his head appearing through the vacant space in the door way.
“Hi” Mary responded, trying to control the spastic movement of her limbs.
“How’s the packing” he snarled, in a voice that unlike everything, else was unrecognizable to Mary.
“Don’t be like that” she said softly, standing up.
Paul looked at her for a moment. She was beautiful. The soft light of the lamp made her skin look like it was glowing. Her eyes sparked in the way her eyes always did when she had been crying.
“Be like what?” he responded. “I’m like nothing, that’s what you want me to be, anyways.”
“Paul, honestly!” she moaned. “You know it’s not like that. Things have changed and you know it.”
“Yeah things have changed. But that doesn’t make it bad. You did this to yourself. To us. All of it was your choice.” He moved in closer. “I didn’t want this for us. I wanted us to be happy.”
“I did too!” she cried. “I did too. But happiness is fleeting, it’s not permanent. Nothing’s permanent. We both learned that the hard way.”
Paul glared at her. His eyes looked black in this lighting. Mary though to herself that he looked like a wild animal before it pounced on its prey. She knew at this point there was nothing she could say to comfort him. She just sighed.
“I didn’t think you’d be here until later tonight.” She said, doing her best to sound casual, which was hard since her throat was still swollen from the fit of tears she had just minutes before he walked in. She hoped he couldn’t tell.
“I though you’d be here forever” he responded callously. He watched as the startled expression on her face turned into pure dejection and then again to anger.
“You can’t blame me for everything” she yelled, a little louder than she had meant to. “You know it wasn’t on purpose. Don’t you remember how upset I was after the whole thing? I didn’t get out of bed for a week. I punished myself”
She looked away. “I still am punishing myself” she whispered.
Paul looked remorseful for a split second. Then his face wound into the look of contempt that Mary was now so used to seeing.
“The only person you’re punishing is me. You are leaving me. You have deprived me. I could get over this. I could move on. But I need you for that to happen.”
Mary sighed again. “You act like this hasn’t hurt me. It has. Physically, emotionally. But I need to focus on myself now. I need to heal. I can’t save you, just like I couldn’t save her.”
Paul didn’t say a word. He turned his back. Mary stood in the middle of the room, tears flooding her face. He walked through the apartment, familiar foot steps echoing. She heard the door knob turn, the familiar creek of the door, the snap closed, and then nothing.
She turned to face the window. She breathed in deep, sucking in the smell of his cologne. The wind outside started to pickup. It sounded like a baby crying she thought. She sighed, sat back down, scanned the barren room.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Carver Imitation
I was sitting near the window watching Wes, so I saw Chefs car turn into the driveway. I walked outside, glancing up at the clouds that hung in the sky. Chef said he had news about Bobby in Washington, bad news. I said what kind of news, Chef? Wes said “Why didn’t Bobby just tell us himself? Chef said couldn’t call, you ain’t got a telephone. Bobby’s hurt an’ he’s coming here. Come here? I said. Chef said yes, coming here. Told him I’d pick him up from the bus station myself.
The look on Wes’s face showed the words I was thinking. We were making a new life in the old way. We loved Bobby and his sister, but having him here would get in the way of the quiet life we had made for ourselves, here at Chefs house. Wes left he first time, partly because of the children. He got a girlfriend when Cheryl was 12, said her incessant talking drove him mad. Wes said his girlfriend was quiet. I tried to be quiet for him now.
Wes said Chef, when’s that bus going to get here? Chef said tomorrow, round dinner time. I said that doesn’t give us much time to make up a bed and catch enough trout for the three of us. Wes said are you sure he wants to come here Chef? Chef said sure as day, he said he wanted to be with his family.
A family wasn’t something I though of us being in a long time, not since Cheryl and Bobby were little, not since before Wes left the first time. Now things aren’t the same. Things are new. Wes and I have each other. We love those children of ours, but they aren’t children and they aren’t ours, not anymore.
I said I better get inside and start fixing things up. Chef said I need to get home. Wes just stood there trying to make sense of this invasion on Chef’s house. Chef climbed back into his car and pulled out of the drive way. I went inside and Wes stood in the drive way.
I went into the kitchen and started to get things ready to make a meal. I wanted to show Wes that things were going to be the same. I could see him from over the sink, still standing. I washed the string beans. I dried them. I put them in a pot, and move it to the stove. Wes still stood in the driveway.
I walked outside. I said things will be the same. I said Wes come inside and have a meal. I said Bobby is our son, we need to care for him. Wes looked at me. Wes said the clouds are moving, looks like rain.
The look on Wes’s face showed the words I was thinking. We were making a new life in the old way. We loved Bobby and his sister, but having him here would get in the way of the quiet life we had made for ourselves, here at Chefs house. Wes left he first time, partly because of the children. He got a girlfriend when Cheryl was 12, said her incessant talking drove him mad. Wes said his girlfriend was quiet. I tried to be quiet for him now.
Wes said Chef, when’s that bus going to get here? Chef said tomorrow, round dinner time. I said that doesn’t give us much time to make up a bed and catch enough trout for the three of us. Wes said are you sure he wants to come here Chef? Chef said sure as day, he said he wanted to be with his family.
A family wasn’t something I though of us being in a long time, not since Cheryl and Bobby were little, not since before Wes left the first time. Now things aren’t the same. Things are new. Wes and I have each other. We love those children of ours, but they aren’t children and they aren’t ours, not anymore.
I said I better get inside and start fixing things up. Chef said I need to get home. Wes just stood there trying to make sense of this invasion on Chef’s house. Chef climbed back into his car and pulled out of the drive way. I went inside and Wes stood in the drive way.
I went into the kitchen and started to get things ready to make a meal. I wanted to show Wes that things were going to be the same. I could see him from over the sink, still standing. I washed the string beans. I dried them. I put them in a pot, and move it to the stove. Wes still stood in the driveway.
I walked outside. I said things will be the same. I said Wes come inside and have a meal. I said Bobby is our son, we need to care for him. Wes looked at me. Wes said the clouds are moving, looks like rain.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Rice Krispies Treat
“Lynn! Why aren’t you listening to a goddamn word I’m saying?” Rob screamed into the telephone in his thick Boston accent.
“A Hyundai? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Here on the fifteenth floor we have a lot of characters, Rob being one of them. Everyday I come to work, take the elevator upstairs, walk over to my desk, and sit down. Everyday Rob, otherwise known as Rice Krispies (I have no idea why), sits at his desk bellowing into the phone at some poor unsuspecting soul. Today it’s his girlfriends’ mother.
“Lynn, let me tell you something about Hyundai’s… they fucking suck, and you are a complete idiot for even considering buying one. No Lynn...okay… right… good I’ll pick you up at 7 and we’ll go over to the Honda Barn... peace out.”
Rice Krispies Rob, as I like to call him when he isn’t in earshot, is what one might call the quintessential meat head. He goes to the gym twice a day, as he likes to remind us regularly. His biceps are about the size of a 6 month old child, and if he has a neck, I certainly can’t see it. On a semi regular basis I must endure his screeds about the other people at the gym.
“Dude, like those people just make me sick. I bet they work out, what? Three times a week. Fucking pussies. I go twice a day, you gotta man. You just gotta”.
I usually just sit still trying not to make eye contact with him, especially since I’m one of those disgusting people who only goes to the gym three times a week. Even with this semi regular workout routine, you wouldn’t know it, since at a lofty 6ft 2, I weight in at a whopping 170 pounds, and I have no ‘cepts, pecs, or gluts to speak of.
Even though I sit next to Rob, I don’t know a ton about him. Technically he doesn’t work for the same department as me, so there’s almost no reason we would speak. What I know about him comes mostly from what he bellows into his phone.
Rob is from Revere (figures), he is currently living in the North End of Boston (also figures). His girlfriend teaches Yoga classes at his gym, and her name is JoJo. He’s a slum lord in his spare time. And finally, his favorite movie is Scent of a Women, go figure.
In addition to cursing out his girlfriends mother today, he has also talked to his dentist, his brother, his personal trainer, his therapist (rage issues), and his nutritionist. Apparently he’s starting a new diet before the holidays, which is funny since all I’ve ever seen him consume is protein shakes.
Soon after hanging up the phone with his nutritionist he glanced over at me and declared:
“Bro, those legumes will ruin you”.
I don’t even know what that means.
“A Hyundai? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Here on the fifteenth floor we have a lot of characters, Rob being one of them. Everyday I come to work, take the elevator upstairs, walk over to my desk, and sit down. Everyday Rob, otherwise known as Rice Krispies (I have no idea why), sits at his desk bellowing into the phone at some poor unsuspecting soul. Today it’s his girlfriends’ mother.
“Lynn, let me tell you something about Hyundai’s… they fucking suck, and you are a complete idiot for even considering buying one. No Lynn...okay… right… good I’ll pick you up at 7 and we’ll go over to the Honda Barn... peace out.”
Rice Krispies Rob, as I like to call him when he isn’t in earshot, is what one might call the quintessential meat head. He goes to the gym twice a day, as he likes to remind us regularly. His biceps are about the size of a 6 month old child, and if he has a neck, I certainly can’t see it. On a semi regular basis I must endure his screeds about the other people at the gym.
“Dude, like those people just make me sick. I bet they work out, what? Three times a week. Fucking pussies. I go twice a day, you gotta man. You just gotta”.
I usually just sit still trying not to make eye contact with him, especially since I’m one of those disgusting people who only goes to the gym three times a week. Even with this semi regular workout routine, you wouldn’t know it, since at a lofty 6ft 2, I weight in at a whopping 170 pounds, and I have no ‘cepts, pecs, or gluts to speak of.
Even though I sit next to Rob, I don’t know a ton about him. Technically he doesn’t work for the same department as me, so there’s almost no reason we would speak. What I know about him comes mostly from what he bellows into his phone.
Rob is from Revere (figures), he is currently living in the North End of Boston (also figures). His girlfriend teaches Yoga classes at his gym, and her name is JoJo. He’s a slum lord in his spare time. And finally, his favorite movie is Scent of a Women, go figure.
In addition to cursing out his girlfriends mother today, he has also talked to his dentist, his brother, his personal trainer, his therapist (rage issues), and his nutritionist. Apparently he’s starting a new diet before the holidays, which is funny since all I’ve ever seen him consume is protein shakes.
Soon after hanging up the phone with his nutritionist he glanced over at me and declared:
“Bro, those legumes will ruin you”.
I don’t even know what that means.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Close Your Eyes
There is a picture of me
Handcrafted and carefully sewn.
It lies some where only you can see
It makes you feel less alone.
There was a time right after we met
When I trusted you with my heart
But I lost that bet
Now I count my blessings that we are apart.
You spend all of your time
Wearing that suit
Bathing in quarters, nickels, and dimes
You don’t enjoy the bounty of your last pursuit.
Her dark hair and smooth slender thighs
Are as empty
As you and your lies
Glossy hair won’t make you happy.
When you look deep inside of her eyes
Straight through to her soul
Does what you see make you cry?
Or is that you, see nothing at all?
You have your girl.
You have you’re money.
But what you’ve lost is
But what you’ve lost is
There is a picture of me
Handcrafted and carefully sewn
Close you’re eyes and you will see
I guarantee it’s there.
So close your eyes and look at me
Close you eyes, can you see me?
Close you eyes.
Handcrafted and carefully sewn.
It lies some where only you can see
It makes you feel less alone.
There was a time right after we met
When I trusted you with my heart
But I lost that bet
Now I count my blessings that we are apart.
You spend all of your time
Wearing that suit
Bathing in quarters, nickels, and dimes
You don’t enjoy the bounty of your last pursuit.
Her dark hair and smooth slender thighs
Are as empty
As you and your lies
Glossy hair won’t make you happy.
When you look deep inside of her eyes
Straight through to her soul
Does what you see make you cry?
Or is that you, see nothing at all?
You have your girl.
You have you’re money.
But what you’ve lost is
But what you’ve lost is
There is a picture of me
Handcrafted and carefully sewn
Close you’re eyes and you will see
I guarantee it’s there.
So close your eyes and look at me
Close you eyes, can you see me?
Close you eyes.
Clementine is Missing
The face on the missing children’s poster was that of Clementine. The missing children’s poster showed Clementine looking sad and lonely. Clementine’s eyes pleaded with all those who looked at the missing children’s poster. Clementine’s rusty red hair was distorted on the missing children’s poster, so that it was more of a putrid shade of gray. The black and white of the missing children’s poster did not do Clementine justice; she was a beautiful child who simply radiated in life. But here on the missing children’s poster, Clementine just looked dull.
The missing children’s poster was hung on every street corner, so that Clementine’s face could see all who passes her. Clementines’ desperate pleads started to become unnoticed because her missing children’s poster hung around for days. As weeks passed Clementine’s became worn and translucent as the missing children’s poster got pelted with rain. As months began to pass Clementine on her poster slowly started to disappear as she was covered with the faces of other missing children.
The missing children’s poster was hung on every street corner, so that Clementine’s face could see all who passes her. Clementines’ desperate pleads started to become unnoticed because her missing children’s poster hung around for days. As weeks passed Clementine’s became worn and translucent as the missing children’s poster got pelted with rain. As months began to pass Clementine on her poster slowly started to disappear as she was covered with the faces of other missing children.
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