Welcome. I am so excited to kick of the featured artist series! Our first artist is a very close friend of mine. She and I met in the same online writer's group that Whiskey and I did. As a writer and as a human being, she is easily one of the most inspiring souls I have encountered on my path. Full of life, she never gives up, and is always working hard for the dreams she has for herself and her family. I tease her sometimes, that she must wear a cape, but it's not far from the truth. Whenever we work together, I feel the slight flutter of her cape, like angel wings have brushed by me. I am very lucky to have her in my community. I am proud to introduce Amber E. Box, Writer.
Artist Bio:
Amber E. Box is a teacher, freelance writer, editor, and
photographer, and she is currently working on breaking out of the birdcage. She
is a volunteer copyeditor for Landesa, a member of the editorial board for
VimFire Magazine, and the editor-in-chief of the Scribes Anthology Series. She
also does copywriting for a high-end real estate marketing firm in Boston. Box resides in North Texas with her wonderful husband of nearly
7 years and their three beautiful children. She has a Bachelor of
Arts in English Language and Literature from Southern New Hampshire University
and will begin work on her Master’s Degree in the fall, allowing her the
opportunity to teach at the college level and of course...write.
Interview
Tell me a little about how/when you were drawn to
your art.
My writing generally began as a way to chronicle the
severe nightmares I had when I was young. I found it not only helpful to keep
track of patterns within those dreams but also cathartic. I’ve been writing
ever since. I began with poetry and it just blossomed out into fiction.
What are some of the things that inspire your art?
Since I began with my own darkness, I am
particularly drawn to artists who also write on similar themes; Edgar Allan Poe
and Flannery O’Connor are two of my favorites. But I think the ultimate truth
within my stories is inspired by the emotions that we don’t always like to talk
about. Anger, fear, depression, lust, etc. These feelings are what help me
navigate a story, more than any plotline. As such, I find it to be nearly
impossible for me to leave out. Many of us are not shiny and new. We are
broken, and when those pieces are put back together—they leave scabs, scars.
That’s where I am most inspired. I like to pick the scabs open and let them
bleed.
As a writer, I make it a priority to reflect on my
craft to ensure that I am growing. Tell me one way in which you have seen yourself grow
in your craft.
Over the last two years, I have really spent a lot
of time learning more about myself—my past, my fears, my goals. Coming to
understand who I am, I feel, has really helped to strengthen my writing because
it helps me to also understand others. Though my work is often inspired by my
own experiences, this is not always the case, and trying to understand their
pain as well as my own allows me to be more real and raw on the page.
I like to refer to my style as “confessional”
because it is; it’s like being in the confession booth and revealing some part
of yourself. Maybe it’s in the hopes of being forgiven, or healed, or
understood, or just to be heard. In any case, it’s the truth that people don’t
want to share because they fear that others won’t understand or relate. I hope
to change that perception that some of us are flawed and others are not.
Do you create other kinds of art as well as the
craft you are featuring today?
I am a writer. But I’m also a mother, a wife, a
daughter, a student, a teacher, an editor, and a realist. That is my art.
What are your goals for your art?
My goals are to continue to expose these truths.
Simple as that.
~***~
A Taste of Amber's Art
Chewing Gum
The cold rain fell in sheets of
vellum paper—thin and transparent enough to see the shapes and colors of the
life it was trying to protect. We ran, like ink on a page, dripping sweat and
pain and ecstasy. She had just finished working and I had just finished
watching. She said she was tired and wanted to go home. I wanted to be anywhere
but home. Home reminded me of my wife.
The sun had long set and slow jazz spilled from the speakers of the End Street
Depot as we waited. She cried. Or maybe it was the rain, I couldn’t be sure. I
hugged her close, smelling her hair—a mixture of lemon, rosemary, and
artificiality. I liked it.
The train pulled into the station,
slowly coming to a halt a few feet away from where we stood beneath the
overhang. We held newspapers over our heads and ran into the safety of barren
seats and chewed gum left to die on the metallic floor of the nearly empty car.
She sat next to a window, avoiding me. I sat across the aisle, staring at her
from behind the steel pole that stretched between floor and ceiling. Her sleek
black hair now soft with damp waves. Her red lipstick smeared across her
face—and mine.
“It’s not enough for me,” she said,
watching the blurred landscape as the train sped out of the station.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. I could feel unfamiliar
eyes staring me down from a few rows up.
It started as sex. No strings. An escape from my life. She stayed with me for
the money, the gifts, the things she couldn’t have as a stripper. I was fine
with that.
“I can’t give you more.”
She turned to face me, her freckled
nose crinkling in frustration. She was fucking beautiful.
“It’s not enough,” she repeated.
I sat up, as though correct posture might make this conversation easier. I
turned to face her, my legs blocking the aisle. I no longer cared about who
heard us. “Elana, I don’t know what else you want from me. This was the deal. A
good fuck and a nice new dress…nothing’s changed.”
“Everything has changed,” she
said turning to face me, her eyes bloodshot. “I want--”
“I already told you—there’s nothing left to keep us apart. She’s gone!”
“I know what you said,” she snapped, turning back to the window.
I thought about the day I first met her. Stubb’s Hall. She lit up the stage
with her black glittered heels and wicked smile. I thought about the slow burn
of the whiskey as I watched her undress to the wail of the low saxophone behind
her. I knew my wife would have killed me if she knew where I had been, but the
whiskey had already convinced me that I didn’t care.
Sinking back into the hard seat, I let my hands fall helplessly to my sides. “I
just need more time.”
“For what?” she yelled. “I’ve given you nothing but time!”
I told Elana I would leave my wife,
but I didn’t mean it. In the same breath, I promised my wife that it was over,
that I was through with Elana—she was just a toy, a plaything. Something to
keep in my back pocket for the days I got bored—like chewing gum. She would ask
why I got bored, but I never could seem to answer that question. The sicker she
got, the more I clung to Elana—coming home with glitter stuck to my groin—and
the less I tried to hide it.
“I just…I don’t know. It’s complicated. My God, she hasn’t been dead a month.”
The night my wife died, my heart broke. I buried it with her and I knew I would
never get it back. I didn’t deserve it back. Fuck Cancer, I thought. Fuck
me for being such an asshole.
The train jarred us both as it pulled into the next station. The rain kept a
steady beat on the car’s metallic roof, falling harder. The soft shapes of the
world outside now hid completely behind opaque sheets.
“You’ve had enough time, Shawn,” Elana said as she stood, steadying herself on
the steel pole that stood between them. “I can’t wait another six months for
you to decide what you want.”
I watched her tears fall in a stream
of sparkling black. There was no mistaking them for rain this time. I shoved my
hands in my pockets and made no attempt to go after her. The train jerked
forward to the next station. I thought about my wife. Her innocent smile. The
paper skin around her gray eyes. How I chewed her up and spat her out just like
I did Elana. I hated myself.
The beckoning lights of Stubb’s Hall
flashed pink through the window. I hadn’t realized that the rain had stopped,
once again revealing the world around me. Bracing myself for the next station,
I stood and took hold of the pole. The cold stung my hand. When the car had come
to a complete standstill, I made my way to the exit. Apparently, this was where
I got off. Stepping from the platform to the ground, I stopped as my foot
caught on something. Inspecting the underside of my shoe, I couldn’t help but
laugh. A wad of gum. Freshly chewed and strung along between the bottom of my
foot and the hard metal floor.
Originally published in 1:100
http://www.oneforonethousand.com/
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