Catch My Disease

I did it once more, I submitted some work to a magazine.

In January or February I submitted to Cranky Literary Journal, but never heard back. I didn't know why at the time, but now I understand that my submission was ignored because I forgot the cover letter. Oops. Not this time. I looked through some of the writings, so that I could pick from my own the most suited for this magazine, and found a cover letter format. This is me hoping it's worked this time, and that I will at least get a rejection letter. Any word is better than none at all.

Dear Cranky Literary Journal,

I have been searching for months, sifting through websites and periodicals, for a publication I find most desirable for my work. After stumbling upon your magazine, I was instantly interested in the content and look of the journal. Thus, I am writing, sending in something I hope is appropriate.
I have been writing since I was six. Not necessarily a long period of time—most of which was spent writing useless poetry, the brainchild of an underage day dreamer—but over time and with experience I have developed my style and voice, and I believe I am matured enough for the literary world.
Of course, I cannot be the judge of my ripeness. Ultimately, it will be publishers and journals such as Cranky that will decide my fate as a writer and the future of my career. But you cannot judge, and I cannot learn, if I do not take the first leap.
I am sending what I believe is a good representation of my voice—which might be a little offbeat, or “quirky” if you will. Here’s hoping you find these intriguing. Thank you for your time; I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely yours,

Rachel C Johnson


Rachel C has been writing for thirteen years, based in Oklahoma. After spending four months in Chicago, she has been working on developing her voice for publication. She is currently writing prose, poetry, and working on a chapter book based loosely on her life.



Down in a Rabbit Hole
January 16, 2006

Alice in Wonderland had nothing on girls living in America,
where dreams come true, so much more than
following the white rabbit down his hole,
to the pit of all insanity--because we don’t have to travel
so far to find that core

Take a subway, walk three blocks, break a heel
on your pretty new shoes, and call yourself a woman
of tomorrow, using superglue in the strangest
of places. You wouldn’t call yourself home, in these
alleyways stained with yesterdays,
and the seats on the subway are always different:
new people, new places, new ideas to fulfill,
all the while walking on a newly heeled sole;
balancing on tip-toe and hoping that those seats are all
empty, so you have something to fall into.

Rabbit holes don’t usually come on trains.
And all the gentlemen are mad to help you up,
because you’re independent now.



If Peter Pan Should Take You
January 24, 2004

Drop a tear into my ocean.
Trace the ripples
With your finger tips.
Let them linger on my skin.

Watch the sky,
For the stars might fall.
And we can follow them
To Never, Never Land.

Listen to chop sticks,
Hidden beneath towers
Of paperclips,
Where you hide.

And when night falls,
I'll watch you
From here I stand.
Dance with fairies on the wall.



Dematerializing Bonnie
January 16, 2006

She catches her hair in a brush every
morning, and watches strands she’ll miss
float to her feet, where they may hang
for the rest of the day, not letting go yet.
She’ll pick them off, one by one, and watch them drift
away to catch on to someone else, be drug along
to see sights they were never meant to see,
and hear things she would never have said.

She keeps her lips closed throughout the day,
never speaking unless asked, avoiding eye
contact with pretty faces, pretty mouths
saying words she’s heard in movies, and once
from my father. She imagines they go home and
see their parents fighting, beating, screaming,
and crying, but they sit
with their families at dinner tables--
study, read, play with little brothers.
From the way they speak, shouldn’t someone be
hurting them? From the way they yell,
shouldn’t someone be yelling back?

The world has engulfed its morals around material
items, and Bonnie has too. She still relies on childhood
fantasies, that family is always what it appears
on the outside looking in; but, I’ve realized that family
is not the street we live on, the car we drive, the home
we reside, and all the quiet girls, who do well in school,
who are obedient and respectful, and who never
say more than what is seemingly appropriate,
are always the broken ones.

Tear-Drop-Style
December 21, 2004

I
haven't

spoken yet,
and wink-smiles

are all I've got for

your lonely mind

and sad head.



Toes
May 12, 2005

I envelop myself in sand

and I hope it could swallow me,

but I can’t dig deep enough

and the suffocation is stifled.

I can see my toes above the surface

wiggling with spasm to release

themselves from the weight

I’ve taken on.

And when I pull myself from the

grasp of beach and tide, my toes

remain uncovered, unblemished,

unadorned with the grains that seep

into the crevices of my body

and weaken my breath.

It is they who carry me

to the bathhouse to find a

shower. It is they who take me

to the wardrobe where I dress.

It is they who create my movement

and force me forward with inch-steps,

twitches, convincing me with wiggles

that I should continue further.

I miss the sand some days,

the feeling of my toes above the surface;

for when I stand upright

the weight of all my burdens

falls to my toes.