Ashley Skaff and Amy Souza
Untitled
By Ashley Skaff
Painted using Amy Souza’s story (below) as inspiration
Alley View
By Amy Souza
A skinny, burned-out girl and a fat boy have been sifting through rundown buildings the past couple of months. They’re quite a pair, these two—hard and angular, puffy and round. Even from a distance his skin looks touchable and new. Hers? Well it has other attractions.
I wonder about them, their relationship, and I guess I’ll ask them someday. For now, I just enjoy the question. First I’d decided they were runaways, orphans who’d grown up together in squalid conditions and decided to make a break for it.
Last week, I thought maybe they were clandestine lovers, shunned by society for the ridiculous way they look together. But if that’s true, the magic’s gone ’cause that girl hardly looks at Tubby.
I finally gave them names, though I admit “Tubby” isn’t the nicest way to call someone. The little girl is Clarissa—such a pretty name and I suspect that girl was pretty once. I got a split-second look at her face yesterday as she raced past, headed for a warehouse window in my alley. It had the lines and wear of the women under the bridge, but how could that be? They’ve got fifteen years on her, at least. Her eyes—dark, deadened—made me want to cry.
Clarissa climbed onto a Dumpster under the window and slid in through the empty pane all in one motion, like she was on stage doing a routine. She had a fearlessness about her, the kind that, around here, either saves you or kills you. Tubby was running to keep up with her, a sort of hobbled skip, like the girl’s comic relief. When he made it to the Dumpster, turned out he couldn’t climb it, though I had fun for a while watching him try.
“Door around back’s jimmied open last week,” I said, and the boy nearly jumped out of his skin. He stared in my direction with a curious brow, as he singled out my body from the surrounding boxes. Didn’t expect I could talk, I guess.
“Thanks,” he finally managed, then half skipped down to the door, glancing back at me every couple of steps.
I’ve decided now that Tubby’s a guardian angel. A pretty piss-poor one, I’ll grant you that, but someone compelled—maybe destined—to keep Clarissa safe. And in that they’re both plain lucky.
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Untitled
By Ashley Skaff
Inspiration Piece provided to Amy Souza
Pantoum: Mrs. Pac-Man Ate a Glow-Worm
By Amy Souza
Mrs. Pac-Man ate a glow-worm
Chartreuse guts and all.
The night sky bleeds:
Cotton candy pink.
Chartreuse guts and all,
Evolution’s on the guillotine.
Cotton candy pink—
The quick brown fox rules the airwaves.
Evolution’s on the guillotine,
Headless helmets line the field,
The quick brown fox rules the airwaves.
Are you ready?
Headless helmets line the field.
Adam gave snakes an unfair rap.
Are you ready
To finish what you started?
Adam gave snakes an unfair rap.
Chickens. Now they can’t be trusted.
To finish what you started,
You must sever a moonbeam.
Chickens now, they can’t be trusted.
Spread your graffiti elsewhere.
You must sever a moonbeam
To reach the stars.
Spread your graffiti elsewhere.
Mrs. Pac-Man ate a glow-worm.
To reach the stars,
The night sky bleeds.
