December

In our continued effort to support the arts in Detroit, thedetroiter.com and Elitist Publications are collaborating to showcase local authors and their works.

Submissions to thedetroiter.com's
lit section can be made
C/O Elitist Publications
487 W. Alexandrine, 3rd Floor
Detroit, Michigan
48201

For more information on Elitist Publications check them out on the web at www.elitistpublications.com

Ah the Holiday's! It's a time to stuff your face with turkey and yams, see old friends and relatives, and to spend money that you don't have. This is certainly a special time of year, no matter what race, religion, or culture you come from. The pieces in this month's lit section celebrate the human condition, especially for this time of year.

Happy Holidays, from all of us at thedetroiter.com– Eric Novack, Editor.


Joy Helton- is a lit section first timer. Her piece "The Visit" was submitted during the Dally in the Alley sudden fiction contest. When we emailed her to tell her we would be running her piece she said "Wow! I never have written anything so short before!" Well Joy, it might be short, but it sure is sweet.


The Visit

     Ruthie and I haven't seen Melaina in ages. We go down to the diner at night. We wait and drink coffee.

     Melaina walks up to our table, brand new in navy cords and a sweater the catalogue probably labels Taupe. Her chocolate curls bounce as she tells us about how much she misses us, and how nice her roommate is, and how bad the food is. She asks us about what's been going on here (nothing), what we've been up to (not much), and when we're coming to visit her (soon).

     I kick Ruthie under the table when I can't stand it anymore, but she kicks back and I know we have to wait. The waitress refills our coffees three more times. The ashtray is filled with stumpy yellow cylinders. Melaina brings up the time the three of us dyed our hair blue in seventh grade, and we cringe. Ruthie runs a hand through her reddish mop and says she's glad she stopped bleaching it. Melaina says it looks good now. Mine does too she says, and I tell her I'm probably going to chop it off, at least to my shoulders.

     When we are the only ones left in the diner, when the smells of Early Bird waffles fill the room, when the waitress goes in the back for a smoke break, it is time. There are no words left, so Ruthie passes Melaina her gift. Melaina smiles, she has to get back. We watch her go.


Brandon M. Crupi is a lit section Alumni. His new piece has echoes of Bukowski and Langston Hughes. Brandon is currently attending Wayne State University.


The Human Revelation

Maybe that's just it.
Maybe I've just been being consumed
by the over-consumption of everything.

Of food. Of drink.
Of friends. Of family.
Of love. Of hate.

This over consumption,
this superfluous use of these ideas,
has fattened my mind, body, heart, and soul
of useless stimuli

But every once in a great while-
there is a bubble of oxygen
that makes its way to the aforementioned vitals,
and gives me some signs of life.
A drop of sweat-
traveling slowly down my skin,
battling through the hairs of my arm,
to drip creativity from my fingertips.

Then it is revealed:
The Human Revelation.
In the search for the knowledge of everything,
humans shove placebos down our throats.
That is all god, science, and any big deal is-
just something to make you feel,
so in the end you do not have to.

Pills filled with politics, sand , religion, and sugar,
that are way too big for any of them to swallow-
which is all well and good.

I hope they choke.

Lea Jeffire is a first time contributor to the lit section. We suspect it won't be her last.


Bored Games

Pick a number, any number.
Pick a lover.
If you pick at scabs they
Turn into soft scars.
Hot and shiny, fragile like babies.
Scabs from lovers.
Pick a number, any number.
Pick on my brother.
He does anything I say,
Me and Michael made him shit his pants before.
He's real quiet now.
Pick a number, any number.
Pick myself apart in the backyard.
My right eye landed on the patio stones
And watched as the birds ate up my fingers
And made little houses out of my hair.

Whitewash

Separated from sound and motion
I stare at the white sheets.
Oblivion has become the norm.
Sensory paralysis deep inside the mind's eye.
The sheets evaporate into the walls
And sink down the door jam.
Everything dulls into a soft white light.
Every atom frozen and suspended where it exists.
I am nowhere to be found.
Lounging in a broken bottle that's
Washed ashore at the edge of the world.
Freshwater escapee.

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