Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012
I was definitely drooling. First and foremost my concern was the puddle of saliva I’d managed to get my face into. But regaining consciousness is an amusing process. There’s no discernable order to what comes to mind and why. Shit, I thought I’d been asleep, didn’t realize I’d just slumped over and turned deadly pale. Felt fine. No complaints on my end. Not to mention I knew for a fact the puddle of drool was on a mattress, so fuck all if napping on a mattress isn’t okay.
by Holly Day
Monday, February 13th, 2012
Illustration by Cody Pickrodt
And so it came that the Lord was not born in a manger in the middle of an empty field covered with a light dusting of the purest whitest snow, surrounded by angels and wise men and a barn full of docile beasts of burden with proud parents looking on, but was actually born in a noisy, overcrowded stable in the middle of a well-traveled desert on the outskirts of town, just past the market where hookers tried to con married men out of their grocery money for something they’d get at home anyway, a group of muggers and thieves looking on, chaste for the day.
By J.E. Reich
Tuesday, February 7th, 2012
What, exactly, does it mean to “rock waffles”? If you ask editor and writer Danny Goodman, it is what good fiction should aspire to. According to the submission guidelines for Goodman’s literary brainchild fwriction : review, the fiction he looks to publish should “melt faces and rock waffles”; the phrase, therefore, seems to speak for itself.
But fwriction : review and its sister blog fwriction are not the only Goodman productions that rock waffles; Danny Goodman himself is an enterprise and entity unto himself. He is also a published writer, and is most notable for his “Ben Stories.” Goodman is currently working on a novel about the relationship between the aforementioned Ben and a character named Roddy, who is featured in his complete novella.
by Milcah Orbacedo
Monday, January 31st, 2012
For you, darling Marie. Preach, sister.
I hope that you will listen, but not with the memory of what you already know; and this is very difficult to do. You listen to something, and your mind immediately reacts with its knowledge, its conclusions, its opinions, its past memories. It listens, inquiring for a future understanding. Just observe yourself, how you are listening, and you will see that this is what is taking place. Either you are listening with a conclusion, with knowledge, with certain memories, experiences, or you want an answer, and you are impatient. You want to know what it is all about, what life is all about, the extraordinary complexity of life. You are not actually listening at all. You can only listen when the mind is quiet, when the mind doesn’t react immediately, when there is an interval between your reaction and what is being said. Then in that interval there is a quietness, there is a silence in which alone there is a comprehension, which is not intellectual understanding. If there is a gap between what is said and your own reaction to what is said, in that interval, whether you prolong it indefinitely, for a long period or for a few seconds in that interval, if you observe, there comes clarity. It is the interval that is the new brain. The immediate reaction is the old brain, and the old brain functions in its own traditional, accepted, reactionary, animalistic sense. When there is an abeyance of that, when the reaction is suspended, when there is an interval, then you will find that the new brain acts, and it is only the new brain that can understand, not the old brain.
— J. Krishnamurti
by Matthew Dexter
Monday, January 30th, 2012
“Get the hell off my arm and let a woman free.”
“Why are you here?” the security guard asked.
He was holding my wrist and watched the dirt under his thumbnail as it pressed into my veins. The vertical lines on his nails were indicative of a health issue he was not aware of. His teeth were yellowed (not from smoking crack like most of the shoplifters he brought into the little office in the back corner behind the dressing rooms and inflatable rafts which hung from the roof) but because he never brushed them or drank too much coffee.
by Milcah Orbacedo
Monday, January 30th, 2012
Hooray! Art Faccia is back with a new faccia. Our little digital babe of a site is not what it was a year ago. Much thanks to our Art Director, Cody Pickrodt, for coding the website and refiguring the design, and thanks to everyone who has contributed to Art Faccia in any form. This wouldn’t be a tribe without you. Mostly, thank you, readers. You make our efforts worth it.
by Micah Dean Hicks
Monday, January 16th, 2012
Ladybaby is an old, old woman these days. Ladybaby decide she gonna buy some chickens. Put ‘em in her grown daughter’s old playhouse in the backyard. Ladybaby is outside in that August sun, tacking chicken wire over the windows with a tiny hammer. That’s how serious she is.
by James Newborg
Monday, January 2nd, 2012
The stones of the jetty beyond the balcony glowed with dawn. I was leaning on the railing, smoking a cigarette. The weakness of a hangover and little sleep were starting to tremor in my stomach and head. Wearing only my underwear, I shivered against an oncoming breeze. It was the end of April, the sun still quite a distance from Provincetown and winds from the ocean still close by. Behind me, the screen door slid open.
by Evan Fleischer
Monday, December 19th, 2011
The barking forsythia teeth – a real Teddy Roosevelt grin encircling the house. Chester and Gimbley are on the porch. “I wonder if Shakespeare or the supposed priest who wrote Beowulf ever sat around and imagined their folios rewinding themselves back into the insides of a sheep.”
Chester announced this as the tumbleweed fog rolled in from the Gashouse Cove, the Pacific, over the hills, and snaked itself, bounced itself, and pulled itself like a bed sheet over the house, seeking the tip of the chin in a land – one can safely assume – far, far away.
by Pilar Reyes
Thursday, December 15th, 2011
Editor’s note: Go get your nostalgia on early with their last show this Saturday.
Out of all the sappy, nostalgic things I could say about Mama Buzz right now, the fact still remains: Mama Buzz has always been the best place to hang out, for free, indoors in Oakland. Sure, the whole premise of Mama Buzz was that it’s a “cafe” that serves coffee and vegan donuts, and you can smoke outside, and there’s wifi, which put it in the upper hipster echelon of “not the library, and also not scary” locations to do whatever it is that hipsters do at cafes, namely pretending to do something creative while waiting for a friend/anybody who looks like they’ll engage in interesting conversation to show up. And while no one has ever had anything overwhelmingly positive to say about their food - always of the overpriced and underwhelmingly typical sort - they always served up a reliable cup of coffee and had vegan donuts that weren’t disappointingly vegan, but actually quite tasty to us more carnivorous types.