This document is a collection of creative writings submitted to Qlub magazine. It includes short stories and poems on various topics from nature to personal experiences. The first piece is a poem about gravity by Kelly Clancy that discusses our limited understanding of gravity as the weakest force, and uses the personal story of the author's grandfather dying by falling into a river to reflect on gravity's effects on both individuals and the universe.

1. Qlub
July
2013

2. 2
Contents
Gravity
by
Kelly
Clancy
……………………………………………................................……..…3
RE:
Interoffice
Memos
RE:
Appropriateness
in
the
Work
Place
RE:
Suck
it
Monkeys
by
Maria
Acosta
………....……….………….......4
History
in
plaid
by
Brian
Isett
……………….……………………………......……….……….6
Point
Reyes
by
Brian
Isett
.…………………………………………………...…………………..6
Blind
Pointillist
by
Brian
Isett
……………………………………...………..………………….6
Caricature
of
Youth
by
Brian
Isett
………………………………..……………………………7
Retreats
by
Emily
Pinkerton
…………………………………………………........………...…..8
Flower
Show
by
Laura
Wolfe
………………….………………........………………………..…16
Before
Breath
by
Jane
Pettibone
Riccobono
……………………………………...............17
Copyright
©
2013
by
Qlub
Artwork
by
Kelly
Clancy

3. 3
Gravity
by
Kelly
Clancy
Of
the
four
fundamental
forces
in
nature,
gravity
is
the
weakest.
It’s
so
weak,
in
fact,
that
scientists
have
yet
to
measure
it:
it
can
only
be
inferred
from
the
motion
of
the
massive
bodies
it
affects.
The
graviton,
the
elementary
particle
thought
to
mediate
the
force
of
gravitation,
has
never
been
detected.
Reality
is
constantly
thwarting
scientists’
expectations
of
the
phenomena:
for
example,
there
is
a
well
documented
anomaly
wherein
spacecraft
flying
by
Earth
report
a
brief,
inexplicable
increase
in
velocity
of
13
millimeters
per
second.
Gravity
doesn’t
fit
within
the
Standard
Model
of
physics,
and
by
our
current
understanding,
it’s
too
weak
to
hold
galaxies
together
as
well
as
it
does.
Yet,
while
stars
are
bound
together
more
tightly
than
expected
for
such
a
frail
force,
the
universe
also
appears
to
be
rocketing
apart,
as
though
repulsed.
The
constellations,
familiar
forms
since
antiquity,
will
eventually
become
unrecognizable
as
the
stars
composing
them
dance
towards
the
farthest
edges
of
the
sky.
Though
physicists
must
force
gravity
into
their
equations
on
faith,
our
experience
of
it
is
inarguable:
to
most
humans,
it
is
the
mundane
perpetrator
of
wrinkles
and
prat
falls.
We
infer
it
every
time
we
drop
a
pen
or
pour
milk
into
our
cereal.
When
a
body
falls
to
Earth,
it
exerts
an
equal
but
opposite
force
on
the
planet.
In
1980
my
grandfather
jumped
from
a
bridge
into
the
Delaware
River.
“Jumped,
or
fell,”
the
obituary
politely
reported.
Assume
his
body
was
a
sphere.
The
center
of
his
mass
moved
in
a
straight
line
through
curved
space
time,
tugging–infinitesimally–on
Earth's
trajectory.
He
did
not
hit
the
water,
but
the
rocky
riverbed:
atomic
forces
binding
molecules
of
stone
repulsed
his
descent,
creating
an
inelastic
collision
wherein
the
force
of
impact
was
absorbed
by
his
frame.
The
mammalian
heart
is
not
well
supported
within
the
chest–we
might
model
it
as
an
egg
cradled
by
rubber
bands
stretched
across
the
rigid
ribcage.
My
grandfather's
legs
were
broken,
but
he
would
have
lived
had
his
heart
not
been
torn
from
the
soft
webbing
of
arteries
stringing
it
in
place.
We
know
from
relativity
that
gravity
doesn’t
just
pull
on
mass–it
pulls
on
time,
too–so,
as
my
grandfather
neared
the
surface
of
the
Earth,
time
slowed
imperceptibly.
As
he
fell,
the
arch
of
Ursa
Major
flattened
itself
out
by
one
billionth
of
a
degree:
gravity,
try
though
it
may,
cannot
hold
even
stars
in
place
for
very
long.
As
he
fell,
every
galaxy
in
the
universe
fled
farther
away
from
Earth
in
a
mathematical
arc
that
gravitation
has
no
power
to
correct.
My
grandfather’s
body
was
discovered
the
next
morning
by
a
motorist;
policemen
collected
the
items
flung
from
his
pockets
on
impact.
His
face
unrecognizable,
my
grandmother
refused
to
believe
it
was
him
until
an
officer
produced
his
rosary.
Outside,
spring
flurries
danced,
as
though
suspended
midair.
www

4. 4
RE:
Interoffice
Memos
RE:
Appropriateness
in
the
Work
Place
RE:
Suck
it
Monkeys
I,
Charlie
Higgins,
am
writing
you
a
faithful
account
of
the
weeks
events
leading
up
to
the
departure
of
Margie
Kao.
I
am
asking
you
to
grant
me
this
professional
courtesy
and
to
take
responsibility
in
your
own
part.
Let’s
assume
for
the
sake
of
this
memo
that
I
am
a
human..
There
is
a
gap
of
$4,000
between
us
as
well
but
I
experience
pain
and
pleasure
like
the
rest
of
you.
I
do
notice
your
comments,
scorns,
whispers,
and
looks.
I
get
it.
I
walk
into
the
room
and
there
I
am
(for
future
reference
I
use
the
same
bathrooms
that
you
do
and
tagging
company
property
is
prohibited).
Do
you
have
any
idea
how
humiliating
it
is
to
tell
grown
adults
how
to
act?
To
people
like
Stevens
who
is
as
old
as
my
father?
I
wouldn’t
have
said
anything
about
the
Solitaire,
but
did
you
really
think
it
was
smart
to
play
games
on
the
day
of
our
walk-­‐through?
I
get
paid
to
tell
you
people
that
while
playing
Solitaire
may
give
you
a
sense
of
accomplishment
using
company
time
and
resources
for
personal
amusement
is
restricted.
Apart
from
the
company’s
regulations,
games,
e-­‐mail
and
Internet
usage
unrelated
to
work
is
both
distracting
and
disruptive
to
our
work.
Thank
you
for
your
attention
in
this
matter.
I
hate
that
guy
too,
but
you
all
have
got
to
start
using
your
common
sense
and
courtesy.
For
instance,
I
shouldn’t
have
to
tell
you
to
clean
up
after
yourselves.
There
is
no
one
here
to
do
that
for
you.
I
know
you
think
Jenkins
is
here
to
wipe
down
your
tables
tops
and
clean
your
fridge
out
-­‐
but
as
janitor
his
job
is
to
empty
the
trash
cans
and
clean
the
floors
for
the
entire
building.
He
is
not
paid
to
clean
up
after
you
in
that
individual
sense.
So
please,
no
more
memos
about
Jenkins
and
how
he
is
not
doing
his
job.
He
does
his
job
just
fine.
I
know
you
are
all
very
creative,
but
ridiculing
company
policy
and
directives
is
hardly
high
art.
Any
3rd
grader
can
do
that.
What
I
fail
to
see
is
how
you
take
care
of
each
other
and
our
work
environment.
There
was
a
time
when
I
really
believed
in
our
steady
incremental
growth.
We
had
those
logos
made
up.
I
was
a
different
person
then.
.
I
see
now
that
can’t
happen
at
a
place
like
this
-­‐
where
we’re
all
set
up
against
each
other.
Just
look
at
how
many
walls
and
doors
separate
me
from
you,
listen
to
how
we
talk
to
each
other
and
about
our
work,
smell
the
sterile
paper
files
and
plastic
covers,
look
how
stiff
we
all
are.
Two
days
before
Marige
Kao’s
upset
and
resignation
the
position
of
Assistant
Production
Manager
was
on
the
table
as
you
were
all
aware.
I
know
some
of
you
have
been
with
us
for
a
long
time,
I
know
each
of
your
backgrounds
and
expertise.
I
know
your
strengths
and
weaknesses.
I
know
the
value
of
each
of
you
and
the
role
you
play
in
this
company.
I
hired
most
of
you
myself.
.
And
I
know
you
all
thought
you
deserved
it
-­‐
so
how
was
it
that
I
chose
Margie
over
all
this
talent?
Once
I
saw
Margie
a
while
back
at
the
grocery
store
where
I
was
shopping.
I
was
not
in
a
suit
and
so
I
was
camouflaged
to
her
as
I
am
sure
I
would
be
to
most
of
you.
I
saw
her
there
with
her
children
and
I
watched
her
negotiate
food
choice.
She
offered
them
choices
like
whole
grain
cereal
or
no
cereal
this
week
(we’ll
just
finish
the
oatmeal
we
have
at
home).
Or
do
you
guys
want
apple
or
more
apples?
And
when
she
was
checking
out
her
daughter
said,
Mom,
how
come
Jennifer
Aniston
can’t
have
one
kid
or
keep
a
man
and
Angelina
Jolie
seems
to
be
having
more
and
more
babies
with
the
one
man
that
Jennifer
loved?
Noticing
those
magazines
for
the
first
time
I
found
myself
wanting
an
answer
as
well
and
do
you
know
what
she
said?
She
said
don’t
worry
about
those
people,
angel,
they
don’t
need
your
business.
Look
at
me,
this
is
the
person
who
cares
about
you,
right
here.
Maybe
you
think
that’s
not
the
way
to
pick
managers,
but
I
am
afraid
it
is
that
simple.
She
posses
the
skills,
compassion,
and
patience.
These
qualities
will
make
her
a
good
manager.
I
knew
this
would
be
a
controversial
choice,
but
this
is
what
makes
me
a
good
manager.
At
her
performance
review
on
Tuesday
I
offered
her
the
job.
I
could
tell
that
she
was
surprised
by
the
offer.
I
could
tell
you
were
all
surprised.
I
saw
Dennis’
face
turn
red,
I
watched
Morgan
leave
the
room,
I
noticed
Sharon
false
smile.
At
this
time
Margie
had
not
accepted
or
declined
the
companies
promotion,
but
I
observed
each
of

5. 5
you
pulling
on
her
pigtails,
kicking
the
sand
in
her
face,
tripping
her
in
the
hall
way.
Once
a
beloved
college
now
someone
else
to
you;
I
could
see
who
you
thought
she
was.
I
am
only
a
little
too
familiar
with
what
your
brand
of
hostility
feels
like,
but
how
she
feels
it
I
cannot
know.
This
kind
of
treatment
came
as
a
shock
to
her.
It
was
during
these
two
weeks
a
couple
of
you
came
in
to
see
me.
Donald,
the
voice
of
the
majority,
was
troubled
by
the
choice.
He
made
clear
to
me
that
he
personally
did
not
want
the
job
but
that
how
I
went
about
making
choices
was
“arbitrary
and
unprincipled.”
He
claimed
many
on
the
staff
were
disturbed
and
that
I
was
breaking
up
the
group
and
bringing
down
morale.
At
this
point
he
me
aware
that
one
of
the
staff
had
it
in
his
mind
to
go
to
my
superiors.
I
assured
him
that
that
is
the
prerogative
of
each
staff
member
and
I
would
not
interfere
and
deal
with
the
consequences.
I
also
assured
Donald
that
involving
my
supervisors
in
such
a
minor
concern
would
only
be
a
nuisance
as
they
approved
and
were
aware
of
the
decision
to
make
Margie
Assistant
Production
Manager.
It
was
at
this
time
that
Donald
went
directly
to
talk
to
Margie.
This
conversation
in
combination
with
a
weeks
worth
of
scorn
was
what
put
Margie
over
the
edge.
I
don’t
know
what
was
said,
but
I
only
imagined
it
went
something
like
this:
Donald,
the
voice
of
the
devil
on
your
shoulder,
smells
blood,
he
sense
her
weakness,
he
plays
with
her
for
a
little
while.
Are
you
going
to
take
it?
I
know
it
would
help
you
out
at
home.
More
work
for
you.
In
charge
of
half
the
department
with
all
the
resentment.
Isn’t
Saundra
going
into
high
school
next
year?
Were
you
expecting
something
like
this?
It’s
a
lot
for
work
for
a
little
more
money,
but
is
it
worth
the
trade
off?
Money
for
heartaches
and
bellyaches?
Everyone’s
problems
are
your
problems
now?
I
am
sure
happy
I
didn’t
get
put
in
that
position.
I
heard
they
only
came
up
with
the
position
because
they
want
to
make
cutbacks
elsewhere.
I’ll
tell
you
what
you
couldn’t
pay
me
to
take
it.
Thankless
job.
Sometime
later
I
pressed
her
for
a
response,
encouraged
her
to
accept
and
gave
her
a
deadline.
After
that
you
all
know
what
happened,
we
all
saw
it.
New
copy
machine
parts
come
on
Wednesday.
(Thank
you
for
your
patience
in
that
matter)
After
she
made
alterations
to
the
machine
she
took
her
personal
belongs
and
sent
a
memorable
inter-­‐office
memo.
If
you
happened
to
open
the
attachment
please
have
IT
come
look
at
your
computer
and
install
the
latest
anti-­‐virus
program.
On
top
of
losing
a
valuable
team
player
I
would
also
like
to
say
that
this
incident
has
attracted
even
more
attention
from
above.
I
believe
their
memo
read
something
like:
What
the
Fuck
is
Going
On
Down
there
Higgins?
God
damn!
Seems
the
virus
affected
the
entire
company.
They
will
be
in
on
Monday
to
have
an
overall
review
and
audit
of
our
branch.
Each
of
us
will
stand
on
our
own.
In
these
difficult
economic
times
attention
to
our
office
and
our
habits
couldn’t
have
come
at
a
worse
time.
The
company
is
looking
for
just
such
an
excuse
to
cutback.
They
will
ultimately
make
the
final
decision
about
our
department.
Also
for
future
reference
interoffice
memos
are
not
used
in
order
to
communicate
personal
business
but
official
company
business.
That’s
why
were
are
all
here
presumably
–
to
work.
Blogs
and
facebooks
are
for
your
little
manifestos.
We
are
not
Jerry
Maguire
–
with
a
15-­‐paged
memos.
You
do
not
complete
me.
I
can’t
help
me
or
you.
Also
please
note
that
posting
illicit
pictures
of
you
and
23-­‐
year-­‐old
interns
on
facebooks
looks
bad
on
your
resume
so
to
speak.
Don’t
check
it
at
work
and
yes
it
is
still
considered
sexual
harassment
if
you
do
it
online.
Everyone
is
fired,
Charlie
Higgins
Director
of
Operations
-­‐
by
Maria
Acosta
www

6. 6
History
in
plaid
by
Brian
Isett
Point
Reyes
by
Brian
Isett
Cattle
and
black
clouds
open
fissures
on
a
blonde
hill.
At
sunset
the
hoof-­‐packed
trails
drip
red
to
the
valley.
Blind
pointillist
by
Brian
Isett
In
mist,
California
learns
my
face.
On
northeastern
thin
blue
nights
and
crosshatched
days
the
west
is
sun
cut
white
on
blue
sun
bleached
and
worn
like
memory
in
orange
or
shivering
early
in
maroon
the
amount
of
coffee
it
takes
to
live
a
normal
life
cures
to
root
my
roots
cure
to
tincture
plaid
is
a
collection
of
small
accidents
pools
like
California
wrinkles
prescribed
like
the
scrub
jay
chides
a
neighbor

7. 7
Caricature
of
youth
by
Brian
Isett
A
gate
casts
puppeteering
shadows
deep
in
autumn.
Thin
lines
spread
at
the
corners
of
a
young
man's
mouth,
drip
until
his
jaw
knocks
like
a
wooden
nut
cracker
on
his
chest,
then
jump
behind
a
bush.
Under
one
arm,
chrysanthemums;
the
other
arm
jaggedly
aligns
to
block
the
sun.
Sensing
panic,
the
cemetery
whispers
his
forgotten
lines.
www

8. 8
Retreats
by
Emily
Pinkerton
I.
just
some
parallel
bars
amid
tall
grass,
riverside

9. 9
II.
traded
for
oaks
and
elms
dappled
sunlight
through
new
leaves
rustling
and
wind-­‐blurred,
peripheral
coming
to
catch
a
breath
in
the
sheen
of
summer
sweat
where
the
bell
calls
out
clear
in
the
clock
tower.
nights
wakeful
and
tinged
with
jet
fuel,
then
aromas
of
evergreen
and
honeysuckle
cold
clear
darkness
to
pant
into
terra
incognita,
shifting
shadow
horizon
warmer
toward
the
east
its
sickly-­‐sweet
smell
of
russian
olive
trees

10. 10
III.
tooth
met
tooth
tooth
met
flesh
tooth
met
tail,
smelled
blood
smelled
sweat
and
fear

11. 11
herbivores
in
the
dead
of
winter
cannibalized
each
other,
licked
wounds
through
muscle
spasms
just
before
paralysis

12. 12
(with
all
the
benevolence
of
hibiscus
blooms
in
spring)
on
a
grey-­‐dark
damp-­‐cold
bone-­‐chilled
afternoon
light
rain
fell
each
drop
illumined,
shooting
down
by
the
orange-­‐
haloed
streetlamp
three
loose
flagstones
soaked
drop
by
drop
in
the
street

13. 13
Flesh
turned
hard,
its
opening
sealed
scarred,
over
tender
heat.
Hard
to
feel,
indifferent
blood
still
beneath.
Give
hope,
open
a
darkened
seam
by
a
single
fingernail.
Blood-­‐rust.
Sharp
lust
treads
heavy,
come
in.
Feel
old
age
on
new
skin.

14. 14
IV.
the
sidewalk
acidic
hotly
reeking
and
stained
reminiscent
of
bacterial
breath
and
the
skin
of
teeth

15. 15
V.
shudder
toward
the
equinox
warm
wind
races
there.
light
by
nightfall:
the
flickering
gleam
in
the
predator's
eye,
the
primal
insistence
of
hurried
steps
a
heartbeat
sings
through,
skull
to
temples
each
breath
drawn
a
gasp.
www

16. 16
Flower
Show
by
Laura
Wolfe
Hints
of
heady
cedar
bring
me
to
the
Flower
Show,
of
leaves
and
blooms
bloated
to
dinosaur
size,
swollen
banana
plants
brushing
industrial
lights
&
beams,
nudged
by
lips
of
brachiosaurs,
convention
center
ceiling
dripping
with
lush
worlds.
We
stop
to
get
a
water
at
the
white
cart
between
a
deciduous
forest
and
the
Garden
of
Eden.
But
she
only
sells
soda
cans
and
cinnamon
pretzels.
My
mother
pulls
me
away
and
spins
a
finger.
Soda
makes
your
body
stop
developing.
You’ll
want
to
grow
breasts
from
those
little
buds
soon.
I
walk
behind
her
past
a
pink
French
rose
garden
arranged
for
tea,
a
Buddha’s
Hand
and
a
blue
ruffled
ribbon
where
a
candy
farm
grows.
Marshmallow
cauliflowers
and
glowing
gumdrop
ears
of
corn,
skittle
seeds
dropped
in
tilled
dirt
to
grow
skittle
trees.
Around
the
corner
in
the
undergrowth
my
mother
finds
African
violets,
stems
with
white
fuzz
like
my
legs
I
am
supposed
to
start
shaving
next
year.
She
laughs.
Heavy
rainforest
mist
smells
like
guava,
sloping
down
black
tarp
and
deep,
moist
soil.
Parrots
cry
on
speakers.
The
downpours
come
timed
every
twenty
minutes
or
so.
Like
a
busty
woman’s
red
mouth,
magnolias
pop
open.
Those
frantic
bird
calls
echo
in
our
empty
space,
like
we
were
on
the
moon.
If
Earth
were
gone
we
could
live
here,
I
tell
her.
Where
vegetables
are
candy
and
the
water
can
quench
our
horrible
thirst,
every
twenty
minutes.
www

17. 17
Before
Breath
by
Jane
Pettibone
Riccobono
Before
breath
I
floated
in
sound
And
a
heart
beat,
close
Then
it
vanished
Or
I
did
I
gasped
to
bring
it
back,
got
air
instead
And
cried
into
the
sea
I’d
lost
Cut
loose
I
entered
the
world
In
search
of
new
moorings
Traveling
on
waves
of
breath

18. 18
www