South Broadway Ghost Society: 2018 in Review

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South Broadway Ghost Society was founded in October of this year, and that already feels like a lifetime ago. Over the last three months, there has been a plethora of amazing poems, fiction and non-fiction among other magic on the journal. I wanted to take a minute to look back at some of the highlights of the year.

a specific hell

A Specific Kind of Hell: Writing and Survival in America’s South

In “A Specific Kind of Hell: Writing and Survival in America’s South” Blake Edward Hamilton gives us an in-depth look at what it was like to grow up in the South as a young gay man and an outsider. Through his creative non-fiction essay, he paints an important picture of American climate that continues to be challenged today.

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Three Poems by Sam Pink

In three short poems that seem to belong together, Sam Pink captures the magic of mundane moments of life, leaving it up to you to decided where between existentialism and nihilism they fall.

ghost selfie

Ghost Selfie by Alexandra Naughton

Alexandra Naughton combines selfie videos with paranormal activity in only 82 seconds. Watch it with the closed captions on.

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Girl Gone by Natalie Sierra

“Someone fed me nostalgia through a tube and I thanked him with my cunt…” begins Sierra’s poem and the momentum just keeps on from there. Sierra herself feeds us nostalgia through an undeniably strong, sardonic voice.

taco bell

Best Title of a Piece on The Journal

Recognition for best title of a piece on the journal has to be a three way tie between:

“Put Me on a Dog Leash and Make Me Eat Taco Bell of the Floor” – Nate Perkins

“A Wink May Be The Same as a Nod to a Blind Man, But That Doesn’t Mean He’s Going to Lend You His Credit Cards to Get a Bunch of New Spongebob Squarepants Tattoos Unless You’ve Got Some Pretty Serious Collateral” – David S Atkinson

and

“I Got Drunk and Pissed on the Side of Buffalo Exchange” by Ghost #62.

In “Put Me on a Dog Leash…” Perkins sends us barreling through the anxiety of money, relationships and depression at roughly 300 miles per hour.

In “A Wink May Be The Same As a Nod…” Atkinson gives a quick glimpse at the end of the world – where it’s really not that big of a deal.

In “I Got Drunk and Pissed…” anonymous Ghost #62 looks at self-destructive behaviors and seasonal depression.

I’m thinking there might be a correlation between long titles and apathy.

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Three Poems by Ahja Fox

In three poems, Fox looks at her relationship with her mother, her identity and God, giving us a better collective idea of where the poet is coming from and where she is headed.

There was so much great work on the journal this year. This is by no means a complete list, but really just a quick look at some of what really stood out to me. I highly encourage you to take a look back through the pages of the journal at all the amazing voices we’ve had the opportunity to share.

 

Thank you all for making 2018 a great year for South Broadway Ghost Society. I cannot wait to see what 2019 brings.

Brice Maiurro
Editor-In-Chief
SBGS

put me on a dog leash and make me eat taco bell off the floor – nathaniel kennon perkins

taco bell

You keep thinking you will grow accustomed to a feeling of worthlessness, but you never do.

Your goal was to pay off your debt by the end of the year. Your credit card. Your overdrafted checking account. The last three thousand or so dollars of your student loans. The payments on the van you bought but that your ex-wife sold to get the money to buy herself a truck.

You are just making payments on her truck, basically.

You’ve been working, but you realize it isn’t going to happen. This is not the year that you pay off your debt. Even on days you have off from your regular job, you go to work for your friend Gruber to make extra money.

He owns a landscaping company. You meet at his house in the morning and go together in his truck to a client’s yard, where you pull weeds.

After a while, Gruber says, “That’s good enough.”

He says, “That’s the good thing about trying to go for a quote-unquote natural look. When I’m sick of pulling weeds, I just stop pulling weeds. It’s natural.”

Time for a break. You go with him to the coffee shop where he used to work before he started his own company. The baristas there are cute. They are excited to see him. When he realizes that he has forgotten his wallet, they make jokes about scanning his retinas. He giggles and puts his face over the cash register, as if it might be accepting a payment from an account linked to his eyeballs.

One of the baristas grabs the back of his head and slams his face into the cash register and laughs.

It looks like it hurt.

“Sorry,” says the other barista, addressing you. “I know that seemed violent, but we all love each other. We love Gruber so much.”

You can’t think of anything clever to say.

You are thinking about all the times that you have wanted to grab your friend by the hair and smash his face into something, but you feel like you probably shouldn’t mention that.

You pull some crumpled bills out of the pocket of your work pants and pay for the espresso.

You wish someone would grab you by the hair and smash your face into something.

You don’t think you deserve it, but you’ve been wrong before. You probably do deserve it.

It’s a safe bet.

Maybe that’s how you could make some money.

Frustrated service industry workers could take out their rage and frustration by paying you to let them smash your face into something.

It could be donation-based.

You don’t want to be classist.

You could print up flyers and pass them out:

“Smash my face into something! Suggested donation: $5 – $10. No one will be turned away!”

Back to work, sort of. You drive with Gruber to a plant nursery almost an hour away.

On the way there, you listen to the college radio station and think about how you recently got laid.

You certainly didn’t see it coming. Why would you?

So, even though you knew that you were going out on a date, you did nothing to prepare.

She came back to your house, and when you opened the door to your bedroom you said, “Sorry. It looks like a depressed person lives here.”

You thought about saying something similar about your neglected, untrimmed pubic hair, but you didn’t want to call any more attention to the complex ecosystem of chaos in which you seem to live.

Does any of this make you an asshole?

Probably not.

If anyone ever calls themselves an asshole, you should probably believe them.

You make a resolution to believe every self-declared asshole.

And then let them smash your face into something.

But you’re not an asshole.

You’re just a loser in a mountain town populated with extremely rich people.

They know some secret that you don’t.

This is because you are dumb.

You and your best friends are a bunch of dumb drunks who will never pay their debts.

Like Paul, who lives out of his car.

And Jimbo, who pours shitty whiskey into a Maker’s Mark bottle that he carries around in his backpack.

And Avagyan, who is dating a 21-year old.

Though, when you think about it, dating a 21-year old actually doesn’t seem like such a loser thing to do.

Seems pretty cool.

This creepy guy at some hot springs once told you, “You’re only as old as the woman you’re holding.”

You imagine dating a 97-year old woman.

About letting her smash your face into the hood of a Lincoln Continental.

About fading into the sweet peaceful caress of the universal void together.

No, you’re not a loser, you decide.

And neither are any of your friends.

How could you think such horrible things about your best friends?

You dumb dick.

You asshole.

You really do deserve to have your face smashed into something.

And you’ll get rich from it.

You’ll finally pay off your ex-wife’s truck.

sbgs cowskull

Nathaniel Kennon Perkins is the author of Cactus. He lives in Boulder, CO, where he works as a bookseller and publisher at Trident Press. His creative work has appeared in Triquarterly, The Philadelphia Secret Admirer, Keep This Bag Away From Children, decomP magazinE, Maudlin House, Timber Journal, and others. He is the recipient of the High Country News’s 2014 Bell Prize. 

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