FICTION + MUSIC

ROOM EIGHTEEN

THE MIXTAPE

PAGE 21 - THE MUSIC

DEPARTURE by XFCTRGATSBY by XFCTR

DEEZ by MARTY HEEM TIE BILL END by AKIL NADIR

KUNG FU by AKIL NADIRTEACHER DON’T TEACH ME NO NONSENSE by AKIL NADIR

PARACHUTE by DARIAN JONESDAUGHTER by POETIC HYSTLET’S GET IT THEN by M.A.B.Z

NEVER FORGET ME by M.A.B.Z.WATCH ME by SmCITY feat TREY DUPREE

ALL MY FRIENDS by SmCITY FLATOUT by KAY HEEM (INSTRUMENTAL)

HEEM ONLY by KAY HEEM (INSTRUMENTAL) WHAT’S GOING ON NOW? by THE R-STREET COLLECTIVE

PAGE 3-20 - THE FICTION

3. TODAY SHE DROVE HIS CAR by KYNDALL BROWN

4. HUNGER by RASHAWNDA WILLIAMS6. MS. ANNA by ISIS COOPER

8. THE BOY WITH THE QUARTER by MADISON HARTKE WEBER10. ONE GIRL’S FORTUNE by

LUCY FRESHOUR11. SNOW (HEY OH) by IDIA LEIGH

13. THE BEST FRIEND by IMONIE KING

14. I DON’T SLEEP ANYMORE by MARCUS BROWN16. MOLLY by NILE MYERS

18. DEAR SON by BRIDGET DEASE

ROOM EIGHTEEN VOL VI“THE MIXTAPE VOL.1”

“I’M NOT A BUSINESSMAN, I’M A BUSINESS, MAN” - JAY Z 2

KYNDALL BROWN

TODAY SHE DROVE HIS CARShe followed her regular routine this morning. Except, on the way to the grocery store, she decided to listen to an old mixtape from college. To bring back the years in which she did not know him. She’s always avoided confrontation; stepping out of her comfort zone would be suicide. No matter how deep the words cut, or how many women replaced her, or how tight his fist clenched - she remained silent. She had the six-figure husband. The tall dark and handsome husband. The “man of my dreams” husband. She had her family’s false humility. She had their envy. To give up such a life, for happiness, would be foolish. However, the next day she woke up on his side of the bed with the music still on her mind.

Today she drove his car. Today she sat at his desk, and decided to write him a letter. She felt exhilarated. He would be gone until late. This was her chance to escape. She listed everything, in detail from beginning to end, the reasons why marriage was a mistake, line after line. No question was left unanswered, not one mistress was forgotten. This letter would fight every battle she lost. It was a five-page letter, for every year of their marriage. She lifted her head from the page, any second thoughts were lost in the surrounding silence, until the silence was broken. He was standing in the doorway.

What are you writing? He said.

3

RASHAWNDA WILLIAMS

HUNGERShe will climb in bed and her heart will ache, a dull persistent pain. She will lay in the dark on an empty stomach. She will be disappointed and stay up ’til the sun rises from her small rectangular window. She will caress herself and sob for hours. No noise, just tears. He had not called her as he promised he would the night before. She will convince herself that something must have happened.

She was fashioned in all black and was in mourning. Not because someone had died, but because she couldn’t shake the loss. He had not called her back. He always called back, but for the past month she received no calls. He had taken a trip to California to visit family. He had promised to call every day. Six months had passed. At the beginning he had called her religiously. He did not call at any particular time, but always seemed to know when she was going to bed. They were connected until recently. He did not return on the day he said he would. She did not understand why. She only felt his absence.

She knew he had a family once before, another life before her, but she did not want to accept it. She had to assume the routine of her life, but she found that she couldn’t, so she just waited. She seldom left the house. She would eventually get out of bed, but not today. The past week she had stayed in bed. She had heard that he was coming back, but she knew he wasn’t. She continued to wait.

5

Broken memories flooded back into her mind. She bit her lip hard, thinking of the time he said, “One day we will get married, and grow old together.” They had stared at each other, and she had finally responded, “Don’t be ridiculous, Nate.” “I’m serious” he had joked. “I know” she had said halfheartedly.

She will sit in darkness, silently sobbing as she replays the Righteous Brothers Unchained Melody. It is their song. The song will put her to sleep. The lyrics of the song will chisel themselves into her mind, imprinting themselves until she knows every word, until she understands every word, and feels every feeling. Each time she listens to the song, she will feel differently, sometimes joy, other times melancholy. She will absorb every eight-count measure. “I’ve hungered for your touch.” “ll be coming home wait for me. Wait for me.”

She once held faith in the lyrics. She will continue to cry, every night until he comes home. He will come home, but when he does she will have forgotten about him only holding on to the hunger. Now, as she listens to the song, she knows the true meaning of hunger.

ISIS COOPER

MS. ANNAWhenever she walks away, the noise of her walking stick echoes in my head. I see her, every morning, at the same time. She gets off at Connecticut and 16th Street, the same place I wait for my bus. I always greet her with a friendly “hello”, sometimes we exchange small conversations while she waits for help to her building. Connecticut Avenue is often bustling with buses and taxis, especially during rush hour, so one of the traffic directors usually escorts her to work from the bus stop. Her name is Ms. Anna. The first time we talked, she asked what school I attended, and she was excited to learn that I attended a performing arts school. “I danced until I was 22,” she said. “I even performed in a number theatres. Young lady, I absolutely love classical music...” I wanted to ask why she stopped dancing, but then again, the reason was clear. I wondered what happened. She seemed so nice and full of joy, considering her conditions.

The next couple of times I saw her, it was the same subtle “hello” until I offered to walk her to her building. The street lights weren’t working, and the traffic directors had their hands full. While walking she asked what music I was listening to, I didn’t think she could hear it, “Alicia Keys” I said, “She’s phenomenal, isn’t she?” She responded, “She’s one of the few singers of your generation that I like.” We both laughed, I didn’t think a little old white lady would know anything about Alicia Keys. “She’s quite talented. She’s a wonderful pianist and has a beautiful voice.”

I promised myself that I would never look at a senior citizen in the same way. She offered to pay me for walking her, but I declined the money, the conversation was enough.

I decided to create a mixtape for Ms. Anna, one that she would enjoy. I put Alicia Keys on it, as well as Beethoven, Bach, Zumsteeg, and even a little Adele. When I gave it to her the next day she wouldn’t stop thanking me, “I didn’t know you knew anything about Bach and Zumsteeg.” I guess we both surprised each other. “There’s only one issue...” she said “Why in heavens did you put it on a CD? They are for old people.” We both laughed and I continued to walk her to her building. “Have good day, Ms. Anna” I said, “You too Grandma.” She called after me.

7

MADISON HARTKE WEBER

THE BOY WITH THE QUARTERHe sits with his guitar and plows through his repertoire. A list of songs that serve as his autobiography. Top 40 tracks, outlining the accident he was in as a child; Beatles songs, representing the hope he found through music and his own love ballads, tales of the girls in high school who were always sympathetic, but never affectionate, toward him. Passing pedestrians look, not at him, but at the wheelchair he is sitting in. Women passing by give him the same sympathetic glance as the girls in high school did. Sometimes a person will shake his hand, calling him an inspiration. Not because of his music, but because of the optimism he displays. After all, his music is all he has left. Sometimes they drop money into the open guitar case on the ground. Single dollar bills, the occasional cheapskate drops in a dime. Everyday the same group of boys passes through. Rowdy and energetic, they stare, they point and fail to suppress their sneers and laughter. The man plays a game with himself. He eyes the group, silently guessing which boy will point first. He watches them, while continuing to play and sing.

Today is the same. The boys pass and as he plays, he watches them. They do not point. They stand at the curb waiting to cross, laughing and joking with each other. One boy backs away from his friends toward the man. He listens to him sing about a high school crush, who he thought rejected him, because he couldn’t play football. The boy approaches him with his hand in his pocket, troubled by the memories of being laughed at when he couldn’t find a homecoming date.

The man makes a silent bet that the boy is about to throw something at him. The boy steps closer. He smiles and pulls something out of his pocket. A quarter. The boys drops it into the case. The song is coming to a close. He sings a final note and plays a final chord. He and the boy share a grin. Then, as if nothing had happened, the boy rejoins his friends and crosses the street without looking back.

9

LUCY FRESHOUR

ONE GIRL’S FORTUNEJane waits for the bus under a red umbrella.She reaches into the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a tiny piece of paper. It’s a fortune from last night’s Chinese takeout. It reads, “Love will lead the way.” Jane scoffs under her breath.She thinks about what a load of shit that is.Which reminds her of Luke, who, she thinks, always smelled like a load of shit. But this thought itself, is a load of shit. Luke always smelled good. She still wears a t-shirt of his and refuses to wash it. She loved the way he smelled.Which reminds her of the perfume he bought her last Christmas.She thinks about how he could never have afforded it.Which reminds her of the summer they worked at an ice cream place together. She thinks about how stupid they were. How they thought they’d be rich by the end of that summer. They were barely getting minimum wage. But they didn’t care.Jane thinks about how he used to walk her home from work every day. He used to sing her songs along the way.Which reminds her of the mixtape.“I hated that mixtape,” she thinks to herself.But she is only lying to herself, she loved that mixtape. Better Together, I Want to Hold Your Hand, Love Song For No One. He knew those were her favorites.Jane feels that familiar lump in her throat. That lump that she hates. Tears well up in her eyes. She tilts her head back and sighs.Jane waits for the bus under a red umbrella.

10

IDIA LEIGH

SNOW (HEY OH)There is a song on the radio, and between its words and its rapid chord progression lies all the enthusiasm of the former decade. She’s never heard anything quite like it. But that’s what she wakes up to, something different than the songs she would typically listen to; those songs with the lyrics that signal the cogs in her head to turn and the memories to flow into her tears. She gets up out of bed and goes straight to the mirror, not quite sure if it’s her that’s awake. In her reflection she sees her eyes are clear, not as muddled as they have been. Still, she recognizes herself in the mirror. As the song continues to play, she goes to the computer and googles the lyrics, the fragmented words that cling to her memory. Come to decide that the things that I tried were in my life just to get high on. She finds the full lyrics and name of the band. And with that she finds even more melodies and words and she takes the time listening to each one, even before her shower, compiling them all into a list, downloading them onto a CD.You sit at the shop, sipping on a black coffee. She isn’t here yet. You feel strange thinking that. You feel strange even noticing her absence when you can’t even picture her face. You know what she looks like, but she always seems kind of faded, looking like everyone else, yet different. But there you are, waiting for her. Waiting for a girl you can’t remember but can’t seem to forget, and you can’t help but wonder why. You begin to make excuses for her, as if it’s your duty, reasons for her being late. Oddly enough, you come up with nothing. You’ve never thought of what she does before she arrives.

Now you remember, the strange yet beautiful smile that appears every time she sees you.

She gets ready for the day, replaying that first song over and over again through each of her daily routines. She leaves the house and rushes back in to grab everything she needs before leaving again. So she runs down to the coffee shop where she sees him every morning and her smile is different from most days. She hands him a disc from her bag and with that she says: “This is for you…I’d like you to meet me.” She leaves the shop without buying anything, the sun catching her eyes in a way it never had before.

On the disc you find songs you are familiar with, but that you’ve never really heard, and there she is, nestled within it all. You guess you should have noticed the original sorrow that she had held in her eyes, but you didn’t and the thought leaves you feeling ashamed. It is only then that you realize all those previous smiles were something that you had mistaken for joy. But when she had walked in that morning she seemed to glow from deep within herself. There was something so sweet about the simplicity of her disposition. Of her face. Of her eyes. Just looking at her made you want to smile, and so you did. And she had smiled back. You can’t help imagining what she had done differently today. The first thing that pops into your head is that she had danced. She had danced out of bed, danced out of her clothes, danced in the shower. You imagine her under the showerhead, as water droplets find themselves drawn into her mouth. She had danced when she looked in the mirror and seen her eyes were suddenly clear. And she had danced when she recognized herself. And now, when you hold the CD case in your hands, you realize the lies in what she said. This wasn’t for you.

IMONIE KING

THE BEST FRIENDHe sets the pink CD case down. On the outside, in black sharpie and large print letters, it reads: PLAY WHEN I LEAVE. She bites at the skin on her peeling pink lip. Her worn and tired eyes look over him. He tries to kiss her, and grabs at her waist. Playfully, she pushes him back and away from her. A sharp pain drives at his emotions. He knows that to her he is the best friend she never had. Fiddling with her necklace, she’s nervous. She’s cried tears, many nights he knows all too well, being that shoulder she needed to lean on. She’s loved and she’s lost. Like all the other times, he’ll comfort her. Smooth her hair back and tell her the same thing. And she’ll listen, nodding her head, sobbing into her short while crying out for all the things she’s never had. This time it is different though. He’ll grow tired of reassembling her heart, the shattered pieces cutting his jagged fingers as he tells her to sit and stay calm; to reassure her he won’t hurt her like the others. As he lays down next to her, her faint breaths and slow heartbeats will prove too much to handle. He’ll finally grow frustrated and play the CD for her. And he’ll sing along with track one as she drifts off into a sleep where she’ll wake up and remember nothing.

13

MARCUS BROWN

I DON’T SLEEP ANYMOREHe burns CDs, one after another, to his computer. It has to be perfect. The perfect mixtape for the perfect girl, he thinks. He goes through the track listings of each album, picking one song out of every twenty. He ignores the hand cramps and pushes everything else to the back of his mind. Except her face. He keeps her face with him, though he sometimes forgets her name. He does not think about the rapidly approaching morning that would bring with it another agonizing day of school. Another day to be spent fixated on the back of her head, from where he would paint pictures of her face from memory alone as the teacher etches intricate equations on the board. Another day filled with longing that maybe, just maybe, he will receive more than a cursory glance, a look which is barely enough to sustain him for the day. He prefers the nights because he can imagine conversations they would never have, secrets they would never share, dates they would never go on, and other things best left to the imagination. The hours were hard on him because all day he would have to watch her, knowing that he was just one of many shifting faces in the hallway. It was a reality that felt both unreal and unbearable. What drove him to make the mixtape was the emptiness. It was the profound sense of loss. The feeling that no matter what happened, until he saw her face, his days would still run together in a cohesive blur of mundane rituals.

15

It was not her smile he yearned for but the perplexed furrow of her eyebrows in A.P English, or the sheepish grin she wore when she was talking but not really paying attention to the conversation. He wanted to give her something she would appreciate, just as much he appreciated her. So this is was how he had recently come to spend his nights, eyes glazed over the computer screen, one hand dragging the mouse, the other flipping through piles of CDs. Then there it is, a bright red Facebook notification, and though they have not shared many words before, she was now requesting that he be her friend in a virtual world. With a whispered ‘yes’ and a click of the mouse, he is introduced to her parents and her sister, her best friend and her Christmas break. He takes a front row seat as she fools around with her dog, and takes the chair beside hers at the dining table as she carves at the turkey. Not before long he steps into the summer vaction she spent in Cancoon last year. He spends some time there. In one photo she poses in a turquoise bikini, puckered lips, blowing him a kiss; the pair of goggles on the top of her head pulls her wet hair from her face. He lingers on the birthmark she has on her inner thigh and feels the Cancoon heat climb down his back.

NILE MYERS

MOLLY

You and Molly are sitting on the couch. You try to hold her close and tell her that you love her but she pushes you away. She calls you a prick and asks to see your phone. You laugh and pick up your phone and just stare at her. You suggest you both get some fresh air and pick up some food. You head to Jerry liquors across the street from the pizzeria to pick up a bottle of pinot grigio. As you enter the store you remember that Molly hates it when you buy her expensive things to try and impress her. So instead, you buy a ten dollar bottle of wine; that sutter house bull shit. Molly gives you a look.You ignore it and pay the cashier. Outside, you pull your last cigarette out of the carton and the empty box to the sidewalk. You take your lighter out and try to light up but the lighter is out of fluid. You pat your pockets down and find a pack of matches. With your cigarette finally lit, your mind is at ease for the time being. You take Molly's hand and she pulls it away from you. She hates it when you smoke around her. You happen to be next to a flower stall on the corner of 16th and Lenox, and debate whether or not to grab a bouquet of flowers. Molly's senses your hesitation and appears flattered, so you smile at her as you pull a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill from your wallet. You can’t help but examine the Asian vendor’s busty chest and compliment her on her dress, which is, in fact, ugly. She looks away from you as she takes the money. Molly says she’s heading home and walks away. You wait for your change before you hurry after her, calling her baby and honey as you offer up the flowers. She is giving

you the silent treatment so you leave her and decide to head to the pizzeria. You put your cigarette out. Inside you find Bobby, Tony, Perrelli and Joey. They are by the register, discussing lottery numbers. You say hi to them and order a medium spaghetti and two calzones. As you wait for the food, Bobby and the others ask you about Molly. You tell them that she is fine, only to realize, moments later, that they are whispering about her. You ignore them as you wait for your food and leave once it is handed over. You walk out the door and across the street to your apartment. You check your mailbox and find nothing but bills. You shove them back in and run up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. You almost drop the bottle of wine as you trip on the last flight of stairs to your room. You pick yourself up and open the door to your apartment. You lay the food, wine and flowers on the kitchen counter. You notice Molly isn’t home yet, so you decide to take a shower. You put on your favorite record, “Beach Samba” by Astrud Gilberto. You hop in the shower and wash your impurities away. You dry off and enter bedroom to find a note on your bed. It begins with: “You’re not the same anymore,” and you sit down on your bed as you try to figure out what that, and all the other sentences, means.

17

BRIDGET DEASE

DEAR SONIt wasn’t long before his mother’s words began to drift away,

as if the weight they contained no longer existed in them. He shifted from side to side, uncomfortably waiting for his ailing mother to completely disappear.

“This is it,” he thought. There’d be no more late night demands, no more glaring

reminders of a callousness he couldn’t help but display. He felt smothered by the room, the lack of happiness it contained, and the short life ahead of his mother. She’d grown accustomed to the bed over the past few months. The only thing that seemed to brighten the almost always dreary days, was when her son talked about his music. He knew that she would’ve liked to have him hum a tune from one of his many upbeat melodies, but he refrained from doing so. This was his moment to watch. She looked at him with near broken eyes, and it was clear the she’d remembered something that at one point both her and her son enjoyed. Slowly but surely his mother left him in peace. A few hours before her passing, he sat at her bedside, listening to her last few murmured words. He hadn’t been able to make out a lot of it, but he understood what he could hear. She said things like “tape” and “music” and “drawer”, and they instantly made sense to him. He rose from his seat, walked haltingly across the almost vacant room and opened the drawer. He shuffled through the various stacks of old letters, post cards and piles of match sticks to find what he had hoped his mother wanted him to look for; the tape at the back of the drawer.

He took it out and smiled. He showed it to his mother and she managed a smile. He held the tape firmly in his hand, and not once neglected it.After his mother’s funeral service, a group of people who called themselves “Sorry” gathered by an ailing rose bush at the side of the church and offered their many unmindful condolences. They were sorry because they had been just as unappreciative of her gift as he had been. The gift of recognizing good music. He sat in the pews of the empty church. This was the first time he had allowed himself to be alone. He finally felt worthy of listening to the tape. He placed the cassette into the recorder he brought along with him, anxious about what he might hear. At the start of the tape he heard the beautiful stylings of Beethoven, immersed with the likes of Stevie Wonder. Towards the middle of the tape, he could hear the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” spliced with a piano riff in “Watermelon Man” by Herbie Hancock. He couldn’t help but smile because he knew his mother didn’t really care what the music was, just as long as there was music to hear. As the tape neared its end he succumbed to tears once again. He began hearing his own upbeat melodies, some of them on piano, others on the electric guitar. He thought this was an odd choice to place beside the calm music that the tape had began with and, as he sat there, listening and reminiscing, another strange occurrence - his mother’s voice, as sweet and tender as he’d remembered. They sang the final words on the tape. He listened , ignoring the muffled sounds of people calling him from outside. His mother’s lyrics ringing out: “There was a time, where we knew one another, loved one another, and cherished one

another. And with time, this disappeared. What can I do to reignite that spark?” The lines were continuously sung before the tape abruptly ended, but still he sat in the back at the very edge of the last pew, hearing his mother’s words drift away again.

20

ENJOYED THE STORIES?

NOW DOWNLOAD THE MUSIC!

THE ROOM EIGHTEEN MIXTAPE IS AVAILABLE ONLINE FOR DOWNLOAD via BANDCAMP @ room18.bandcamp.com

OR SCAN FOR IMMEDIATE ACCESS:

LINK:

http://room18.bandcamp.com/album/the-room-eighteen-mixtape-vol-1

THE MUSIC

1. DEPARTURE by XFCTR2. GATSBY by XFCTR

3. DEEZ by MARTY HEEM 4. TIE BILL END by AKIL NADIR

5. KUNG FU by AKIL NADIR6. TEACHER DON’T TEACH ME NO NONSENSE by AKIL NADIR

7. PARACHUTE by DARIAN JONES8. DAUGHTER by POETIC HYST9. LET’S GET IT THEN by M.A.B.Z

10. NEVER FORGET ME by M.A.B.Z.11. WATCH ME by SmCITY feat TREY DUPREE

12. ALL MY FRIENDS by SmCITY 13. FLATOUT by KAY HEEM (INSTRUMENTAL)

14. HEEM ONLY by KAY HEEM (INSTRUMENTAL) 15. WHAT’S GOING ON NOW? by THE R-STREET COLLECTIVE

(LIVE AT THE KENNEDY CENTER - DIRECTED BY MARK A. WILLIAMS)

ALL TRACKS PERFORMED BY STUDENTS & ALUMNI OF THE LITERARY MEDIA & COMMUNICATIONS DEPARTMENT (THE LMC)

@ DUKE ELLINGTON SCHOOL OF THE ARTS

EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: KOYE OYEDEJI & KAY HEEM FOR LITERARY MEDIA & COMMUNICATIONS (THE LMC)

@ DUKE ELLINGTON SCHOOL OF THE ARTSALL TRACKS COPYRIGHT OF THE PERFORMERS

CONCEPT BY MR O. & THE LMC CLASS OF 2013

SmCity

smcitymusic.comTwitter.com/smcitymusicYouTube.com/smcitymusic

Akil Nadir

akilnadir.comTwitter: @akilnadir

XFCTRTwitter: @XFCTR_1th

Marty HeemTwitter: @MARTYfucknHEEM

Poetic Hyst

Kay HeemTwitter:

@SpaceTrap_Mafia

M.A.B.Z.Twitter: @IAmMABhttpp://reverbnation.com/dmvmab

Darian Jones

The R Street Collective

read more at:http://issuu.com/literarymediacommunications

THE MUSIC

1. DEPARTURE by XFCTR2. GATSBY by XFCTR3. DEEZ by MARTY HEEM 4. TIE BILL END by AKIL NADIR 5. KUNG FU by AKIL NADIR6. TEACHER DON’T TEACH ME NO NONSENSE by AKIL NADIR7. PARACHUTE by DARIAN JONES8. DAUGHTER by POETIC HYST9. LET’S GET IT THEN by M.A.B.Z10. NEVER FORGET ME by M.A.B.Z.11. WATCH ME by SmCITY feat TREY DUPREE12. ALL MY FRIENDS by SmCITY 13. FLATOUT by KAY HEEM (INSTRUMENTAL)14. HEEM ONLY by KAY HEEM (INSTRUMENTAL)15. WHAT’S GOING ON NOW? by THE R-STREET COLLECTIVE (LIVE AT THE KENNEDY CENTER - DIRECTED BY MARK A. WILLIAMS) ALL TRACKS PERFORMED BY ALUMNI OF THE LITERARY MEDIA & COMMUNICATIONS DEPARTMENT (THE LMC)@ DUKE ELLINGTON SCHOOL OF THE ARTS

EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS: KOYE OYEDEJI & KAY HEEM FOR LITERARY MEDIA & COMMUNICATIONS (THE LMC) @ DUKE ELLINGTON SCHOOL OF THE ARTSALL TRACKS COPYRIGHT OF THE PERFORMERS

download music at:room18.bandcamp.com