Litterae – Issue I

Edited by Mandy Moore

Litterae - 2

3 – Letter from the Editor

4 – Photo by Krystal Casey

5 – “If Memory Serves” Shannon Devine

10 – “Late Night Homecoming” George Freek

11 – Flower Photo by Mandy Moore

12 – “The Dark, Stormy Night” Judy Weaver

15 – “At the Cottage Near the River” George Freek

16 – Shadow Photo by Mandy Moore

17 – Tiny Little Cuts by Leonard Moore

20 – “Why I Do Not Stop Drinking” George Freek

21 – Photo by Krystal Casey

22 – “The Pedophile” Rafael Reyna

26 - #YesAllWomen by Mandy Moore

27 – Photo by Krystal Casey

28 – Writing Tips

Index

by Page

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Hello readers!

I am excited to welcome you to the very first issue of

Litterae Magazine. Litterae is a brand new magazine focusing on

controversial topics that you likely won’t find anywhere else.

This magazine is a dream realized and will be a fantastic

adventure for everyone involved. I want to thank those who have

contributed their wonderful works of fiction and photography for

our first issue. Hopefully in the future many will follow in the

footsteps of these artists. So, without further ado, welcome to

Litterae. Enjoy!

Mandy Moore

Editor Litterae Magazine

Disclaimer: Views within Litterae are not necessarily those of Litterae staff or its affiliates.

Litterae - 4

Krystal Casey

Litterae - 5

ave you ever

imagined killing

someone?

Have you ever

imagined shooting

someone in the head?

Have you envisioned

breaking their neck? I think

everyone has had a quick,

clean, murderous day dream.

The real question is, have

you ever imagined killing

someone slowly? Tying them to

a chair perhaps and slowly

drawing out their misery.

Have you closed your eyes and

imagined them sitting there,

their wrists red and raw from

the struggle of trying to

escape? You look at their

eyes, watery from crying out

for help even though no one

could hear them. Do they have

bruises on their face and

arms? Are they bleeding? Is

there a lot of blood or a

little? Are they

naked or clothed?

Have you ever thought

of which torture

devices you might

use? I have thought of using

power tools. When I close my

eyes, I can see myself

holding a power drill and

when I look at the victim,

he’s screaming. I look at his

knees. Two, tiny, perfect red

circles in each knee cap ooze

blood down his shins. “Why?”

he screams. “Please, stop!”

he pleads with me. When you

open your eyes after these

horrifically satisfying day

dreams, do you feel better?

Do you just go about your day

knowing that you haven’t

actually done anything wrong

H If Memory Serves

By Shannon Devine

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but you still feel that

slight calming relief? If you

do, I am happy for you. I tip

my hat to you, law abiding

citizen. When I open my eyes,

there is still a man. He is

still tied to a chair, wrists

raw, crying, and shouting

with the twin holes in his

knees and I’m still holding a

power drill. Although, I

think I can safely assume my

smile is much bigger than

yours.

My concentration is

broken by the sound of my

door bell. The man’s shouts

are muffled by duct tape.

“Now, now, let’s play nice.”

I place the drill on the

shelf and walk out of the

room. I lock all three

padlocks on the door behind

me and head upstairs. I walk

to the front door; it’s

Frank, a uniformed police

officer my dad worked with at

the station before he passed

on. I open the door. “Hey

Frank!” He takes his hat off,

“Morning Jackie! How have you

been?”

“I woke up today, that’s good

right?” I chuckle. Frank

chuckles with me, thank God

he likes corny jokes. “Is

there anything I can help you

with, Frank?” Frank pauses,

he doesn’t want to ask what

he’s about to ask. “Have you

seen Officer Sanders?” “Wait,

Jimmy Sanders?” I ask. Frank

nods. “Well, not missing per

se but his wife is saying he

didn’t come home last night

and I was at the station when

he told me he was going home.

I know you didn’t really know

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him but I figured maybe you

saw him around town” I hung

my head, “I only saw him

once, at my father’s

funeral.” Frank leans against

the doorway, “I know he’s not

your favorite person but I

had to ask.” “It’s okay.” I

reply. Frank opens his mouth

then keeps the words from

leaving his lips. “What?” I

ask. “He feels terrible about

what happened to your dad. To

this day, he blames himself

for what happened. Nobody

could have prevented it.”

Frank always saw the best in

people which I predict will

lead to his eventual

downfall. I imagined him

years from now, a seasoned

detective, accidentally

letting a murderer walk

because he believed a half

assed alibi, leading Frank to

eat his own gun. “He could

have gone into the perp’s

apartment with my father

instead of staying in the

hallway with his thumb up his

ass.” It fell out of my mouth

before I even had a chance to

act like I was concerned for

Jimmy. Frank frowns; I know

he’s trying to smother the

inner voice telling him I’m

right. “He’s wanted to talk

to you for a long time now.”

Frank confesses. “Well, who

knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll

feel better about it.” I

force a smile. Frank touches

my hand, “Time heals all

wounds, right?” I nod, “I’m

sorry, do you want to come

in, have some coffee?” Frank

shakes his head. “That’s

tempting but no, I have to

Litterae - 8

head back to the station.

Call me if you hear or see

anything. Let me give you a

picture of him so you can be

sure.” Frank reaches into his

back pocket. “I’m pretty sure

I know what he looks like.

Thanks anyway, officer.” I

close the front door and

watch him walk away.

I walk back down into

the basement; the man squirms

in his chair, he’s fading,

bleeding out. Funny, he looks

nothing like the man I

remember. The blood caked to

the wrinkles in his face made

him look completely

different. “Hello again,

Jimmy. That was Frank, he

says hi.” He yells something

from behind the tape. “Oh,

stop it.” I pinch the bridge

of my nose then rub my eyes;

I am so tired of his begging.

His muffled screams become

louder. I walk over and rip

the tape off his lips. “What

the hell are you saying?” He

can barely keep his head up,

“F...Frank.” I turn around.

Frank is standing by the

door, I forgot to lock it.

“He killed dad!” I blurt out.

Frank stands in utter shock.

I walk over to him, “He got

my father killed! Don’t tell

me you wouldn’t do the same!”

Frank’s lips quiver, “That’s

not him.” I look at Frank’s

face, I don’t know if his

intense concern is for me or

the guy in the chair. “What

are you talking about?” I

ask. Frank takes his shaking

hand and pulls the picture

out from his pocket. “This is

Jimmy.” I look at it. The

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picture of Jimmy looks

nothing like the bleeding

lump in front of me. Frank

looks at me with tears in his

eyes. I take his hand in

mine, “I’m sorry, Frank.” He

handcuffs my wrist, then the

other “Me too, Jackie.”

Litterae - 10

LATE NIGHT HOMECOMING

(After TU FU)

By George Freek

I return from my father’s funeral.

I’ll be the next to go. Tonight,

the clouds are threatening.

They unnerve me with

apocalyptic warnings.

Night hangs from the branches

in cold sobriety.

It seems to surround me.

The stars behave

like bats in a cave.

In the moonlight, shadows

appear as fossils.

I think of my dead father,

as I drink a cup of wine.

He taught me many things.

If I can remember them,

now is surely the time.

Litterae - 11

Mandy Moore

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ain drenched the

leaves that covered

the trees

surrounding the

cottage of the

poor cobbler and

his wife. The wind

whistled in harsh relief and

whipped around the building.

The shutters that covered the

windows clattered with each

gust of wind, and the

curtains whispered with the

whistling of the wind.

Huddled on the straw

filled mattress together, the

cobbler and his wife held

each other tightly. The sound

of water dripping into a tin

pail steady. Plop, plop. Mrs.

Cobbler's face pressed into

her husband's ratty nightgown

as she moaned in fear. The

house shook with each hearty

gust of wind. "It's all

right, dearest," Mr. Cobbler

whispered into the gentle

curve of her ear.

His lips brushed

against the top of

her head of gray

hair and his hand rubbed

soothingly against the

frailness of her back to hide

the shaking.

Fear. It filled the room

and threatened to chip away

at the hope that normally

inhabited the place. All the

cheeriness and brightness had

seeped away that night, and

only despair was left. Worry

that the storm outside would

sweep away the rickety

cottage down, down the hill

to the small creek that

normally bubbled merrily

through the meadow. Filling

R The Dark, Stormy Night

By Judy Weaver

Litterae - 13

now with the torrents of

rain, it could be heard

angrily rushing over its

banks.

But then there was the

sound of humming accentuated

by the hiccups of Mrs.

Cobbler's sobs. Slowly at

first, broken and incomplete

as despair tried to regain

its hold until Mr. Cobbler

too joined in. The storm

raged louder as if to drown

the couple's music. The

cottage's foundation creaked;

one shutter blew off to slam

into the side of the house in

a splintering of wood. Mrs.

Cobbler jumped up in fear,

the hum ending in a keening

scream of terror. "This is

it," she cried out and with

wide eyes looked at her

husband with love.

Resignation. "It's not,"

Mr. Cobbler shouted and his

hand rose in a fist to the

fear that enveloped them,

threatening to choke them.

"It's not," he said louder.

Slowly he began to sing. The

words flowing from him at

first in hesitance before

getting stronger. If tonight

was that night, he wasn't

going to allow the darkness

to take them, but rather the

light that couldn't be seen

right then.

Mrs. Cobbler joined in

with Mr. Cobbler's song of

hope. Her voice wobbled, but

the notes were pure and true.

Despair howled at the perfect

harmony that the Cobblers

created and the wind whipped

even harder at the shingles

of the roof until finally

Litterae - 14

they gave way to the power of

the storm. Rain streamed down

now on the couple, but they

continued to sing, now with

more resolution. Louder,

sweeter, stronger, their

voices filled the tiny

cottage until despair was

driven from their presence.

In that brief moment

where the sun seemed to shine

around them in the whirling

center of the storm, Mr.

Cobbler looked at his wife

with eyes shining of his love

that mirrored Mrs. Cobbler's.

His lips upturned into a

gentle smile and they looked

upward. "Now it is time," he

said.

The foundation broke

that held the cottage firm

all those years ago when Mr.

Cobbler's great-great-

grandfather had built it for

his own bride. It creaked, it

shuddered and made a sound

that mirrored the screams of

despair as it had been driven

out before gently sliding

down the grassy hill to the

creek below.

Litterae - 15

AT THE COTTAGE NEAR THE RIVER

(After OU YANG HSIU)

By George Freek

The face in the mirror is bored

with old secrets and old tea.

Can it belong to me?

The dying sun still warms

the trees, as they prepare to

let loose their leaves.

The day seems written in Sanskrit.

Let the stars tell their tale.

The sound of birds is in the air,

which is like the singing

of bodies from the grave,

bodies, who thought

they would never die,

who know nothing

of where they lie,

whose upturned eyes

will find no hope

in this October sky,

and the swift flow of life.

Litterae - 16

Mandy Moore

Litterae - 17

iny little cuts. Not

enough to seem too

damaging but in the

right places severely

painful. He’d always

done it. A million

times before he would

lock himself in a

room and take his

frustrations out on himself.

He came from a broken home

where his dad was nowhere to

be found and his mother was

usually too drunk to do

anything for or with him.

When she wasn’t drunk she was

yelling or throwing things at

him, blaming him for all the

misery in her life. It had

always seemed a good way to

deal with the stress in his

life and most of the time it

worked well for him. However,

this particular occasion

started just like all the

others with stress and a need

but quickly, and all too

late, he realized that the

cuts he had made were

just a little too

deep. As he felt the

warm, exquisite

pleasure of the blood running

down his arms he had a

momentary panic at the

conclusion he made moments

too late. He had cut too

deep. As he thought about

trying to bandage himself,

locked in his room, he gazed

around at the bare walls, at

the black screen of the small

television in the center of

one wall, at the writing desk

that sat, unused, for so

long. He noticed a fine layer

of dust. Pausing to reflect

on the concept of cleaning

T Tiny Little Cuts

By Leonard Moore

Litterae - 18

the desk later he momentarily

forgot that he was slowly but

surely bleeding to death. He

snapped back to reality only

after the pools of blood

began to gather around his

waist. He thought about

crying out for help but

quickly dismissed it under

the notion that, just as

always, no one was listening,

NO ONE cared. He then

reflected on his existence in

the general scheme of the

human race contemplating if

there was one person on the

planet that would actually

miss him. There wasn’t. After

another moments panic at the

brief thought of the

afterlife or lack thereof, he

decided that this “accident”

was a good thing and maybe if

he had been more clear minded

when he did it he would have

just cut deep on purpose.

This thought comforted him in

his final moments as he

realized nothing he could do

would matter and even if he

could avoid death he would

just welcome it with open

arms next time.

After a few hours his mother,

drunk and shouting, banged on

his door. Demanding to know

why his door was locked in

HER house. After no response

she dismissed it as him just

being his usual quiet self.

She walked off not noticing

the lack of his presence for

several days. Not missing him

for any other reason than she

didn’t have her usual abuse

sponge. When she finally did

notice he still hadn’t come

out of his room she managed

Litterae - 19

to break the door in and all

she could manage, out of the

kindness of her heart, for

her dead child were the

words, “well at least I don’t

have to feed you anymore.”

Litterae - 20

WHY I DO NOT STOP DRINKING

(After MEI YAO CHEN)

By George Freek

As day becomes night,

my life is spread across my lap

like a confusing map.

The past is a book of the dead.

It’s better left unread.

The moon is wrapped in darkness

like a smothering cocoon.

I’ll think no more of it.

Thinking is a bottomless pit.

I shiver with a sudden chill.

I have lost all will.

The stars look down,

but the stars are twisted

into the fabric of night.

And I fear there is

no God to set them right.

Litterae - 21

Krystal Casey

Litterae - 22

here was an old man who

stopped by the ranch

when I wasn’t

home. In the middle

of the night, he

drove up on his motorcycle.

It was one of those old 1980s

BMW motorcycles. I found him

sleeping in the fishing boat

in the driveway like a

shrunken corpse. When old

men sleep they look dead.

“Hey Clay! What’re you

doing here?!” I shouted into

the boat. He was an old

friend of an acquaintance who

I barely knew.

“Would you mind if I

stayed here a night,” he said

almost in a whine. “My old

lady’s been giving me

trouble.” His gray moustache

curled into a smile.

I knew he was running

from something. I just wasn’t

sure from what. In the

low desert

backcountry,

everyone’s running from

something. So I don’t ask

questions.

We let him stay at the

ranch a few weeks. He was a

great worker, always willing

to help and always busy.

Sometimes he would drift away

and disappear for hours in

the mountains and washes and

pastures. And then when he

reappeared, he would continue

with whatever silly and

meaningless task he had

forgotten, like making a gate

for the chicken coup out of

an old rusty shovel or

collecting prickly pear in

tree pots.

T The Pedophile

By Rafael Reyna

Litterae - 23

One day I caught him

huddled over the bedsheets

where a former tenant slept.

He slid his pale boney

fingers along the mattress

following an imaginary

contour. He laid his cheek

where a woman’s butt would be

if she was sleeping there and

sighed deeply.

“Clay,” I said peeking

in. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he said, his

voice muffled in the bed

sheet. “I miss the smell of a

woman.”

“Who? Mariposa? That’s

the nasty witch that used to

sleep in this bed,”

“Mariposa,” he said

breathlessly. “This must be

where she masturbated.” And

he lifted the covers and

curled under the sheets,

falling asleep almost

immediately in the bed of

that horrible woman. But

Mariposa is a story for

another time.

Occasionally Clay would

make me drive him the twenty

or so miles into town so he

could ask every cashier where

to find the available ladies.

He would always return to the

truck heartbroken and

forlorn.

“Isn’t there some squaw

lying around to keep me warm

at night?” he would say.

Then he would vanish for

a few days on his bike and

return reeling with tales of

the country honky tonk bars,

dancing with large breasted

blonde women who would

squeeze their chests against

his and sing long into the

Litterae - 24

night. He was a great dancer.

He had in fact worked with

the Swedish and Canadian

national ballet companies in

his twenties. He was so

inspired by these episodes

that he would pen country

songs long into the night

wearing his silly red

bandanna around his neck.

There was a time when we were

cutting mesquite logs with a

big wood chopper. Clay put

his hand in the chopper wrong

and broke a finger, but he

never told me and kept

working. At one point, Clay

stumbled to the ground and

began rolling around moaning.

He had a heart attack.

Over the next few weeks,

Clay became increasingly

different. Instead of

jaunting for long hours in

the desert heat, I would more

often find him in the dark of

the cabin brooding. He

received a series of phone

calls. When he returned, all

color had flushed from his

face and his eyes were wet

and distant.

“I’m in big trouble

now,” he said sorrowfully. He

would sigh and look at the

chickens eating bugs in the

orchard. “My wife is taking

my truck away.”

Clay left the next

morning. I will never forget

him sitting on his motorcycle

at the arch at the ranch

gate, with his red bandanna

wrapped around his neck. His

motorcycle was nearly tipping

over with blankets, duffel

bags, saddle bags, jackets.

And he had a stack of egg

Litterae - 25

cartons wrapped in bungee

cord on the back seat, which

leaned perilously. He was a

74-year old man, and to be

going through such drama at

this stage in his life seemed

a little bit sad.

“I’ll miss this place,”

he said, and then he rode

off. I watched his frail form

disappear in the purple

Aquarius Mountains leaving

nothing but a haze of dust on

the country road. I never saw

him again.

About six months later,

I was picking up dirt from a

friend outside Phoenix. He

told me about an old man who

had been caught performing

fellatio on a 12-year old

retarded girl. He had

molested many young girls in

surrounding towns and was

developing quite a

reputation. There was a

circle of fathers, uncles,

neighbors who were on a

manhunt for the pedophile’s

head. I asked my friend the

description of the man in

question. He said it was an

old man on a 1980s BMW

motorcycle who was very fond

of country dancing and was

often seen wearing a red

bandana.

Litterae - 26

#YesAllWomen

By Mandy Moore

Fed up,

We stand,

We look around.

Who will be first?

Who will be brave enough?

The chants reverberate.

Slowly,

Softly,

at first.

Yes! All women!

Yes! All women!

No longer silenced.

We stand united.

We share our strength.

No longer afraid.

Yes! All women!

Litterae - 27

Krystal Casey

Litterae - 28

1) Be yourself

Tone, the general character or attitude of a piece of

writing, must be specific to situation. However, your voice can

still shine through. If you lose your sense of self in a writing you

will face two problems. First, you will likely lose interest in the

piece. Second, the piece will sound mundane and autonomous.

Never lose your “self” for any reason.

2) Listen to others

If you are writing with the intention of letting anyone else

read what it is you’re writing expect feedback. Good or bad people

will want to tell you what they think of your work. Take it all with

a grain of salt but do take it all. It is important to hear what others

are telling you with as much objectivity as possible. Why?

Because they represent one audience and a writer must always

know their audience.

3) Write!

For the love of all things write! If all you do is read you’ll

become a fantastic reader but you likely won’t write much. It is

important to put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, voice to

recorder and get those ideas out. If they suck who cares! Scrap

them and keep going. In the words of Pat Pattison, “I hereby grant

you permission to write crap. The more the better. Remember,

crap makes the best fertilizer.” So stop reading and go write.

Litterae - 29

If you want to appear in our next issue check out the Submissions tab at

litteraemag.webs.com!