CCLaP Weekender
From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography
May 1, 2015
New Fiction by Joseph G. Peterson Photography by RobotsOnFilm Chicago Literary Events Calendar May 1, 2015 | 1
THIS WEEK’S CHICAG
For all events, visit [cclapce FRIDAY, MAY 1
11:30am Andrew Cohen Union League Club / 65 W Jackson / Free bookstall.indiebound.com
The journalist discusses his latest book, Two Days in June: John F. Kennedy and the 48 Hours That Made History. 6pm Celebration of Asian Writers in Chicago Open Books Ltd. / 213 West Institute Place / Free open-books.org
Readings by Nami Mun, Alec Nevala-Lee, Vu Tran, and Wailin Wong, copresented with Chicago Writers Conference. 7pm James Bradley Barnes & Noble / 5405 Touhy / Free barnesandnoble.com
The World War II historian (Flags of Our Fathers) discusses his new book, The China Mirage: The Hidden History of American Disaster in Asia.
SATURDAY, MAY 2 Independent Bookstores Day Various Locations chicagobookstoreday.com
Calling all bookworms: following last year's success, 12 Chicago bookstores from Andersonville to Hyde Park are banding together to celebrate Chicago's second annual Independent Bookstore Day. Participating shops host various events throughout the day; customers will also have a chance to collect pages from each store to complete a limited-edition, unreleased short story by Stuart Dybek, illustrated by Dmitry Samarov.
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GO LITERARY EVENTS
enter.com/chicagocalendar] 10am Centennial Celebration University Center / 525 South State/ Free midlandauthors.com
The Society of Midland Authors celebrates its centennial with a day's worth of literary events, including appearances by Tribune journalist Rick Kogan, Third World Press publisher Haki Madhubuti, the Reader's own Steve Bogira in conversation with Jonathan Eig (The Birth of the Pill), Christine Sneed, and much more. See website for schedule. 3pm Paper Machete The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / Free, 21+ thepapermacheteshow.com
A “live magazine” covering pop culture, current events, and American manners—part spoken-word show, part vaudeville review—featuring comedians, journalists, storytellers, and musical guests. Hosted by Christopher Piatt. 8pm Blackout Diaries High Hat Club / 1920 East Irving Park / $10, 21+ blackoutdiaries.info
A comedy show about drinking stories, a “critic’s pick” at Red Eye, MetroMix, and Time Out Chicago. Comedians share the mic with “regular” people, such as cops, firefighters, and teachers, all recounting real-life tales about getting wasted. Hosted by Sean Flannery.
SUNDAY, MAY 3 10am
Sunday Morning Stories Donny's Skybox Studio Theatre / 1608 North Wells / Free
We performers are pre-booked. We feature novice as well as seasoned storytellers. On or off paper.
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7pm Uptown Poetry Slam The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $6, 21+ greenmilljazz.com
Featuring open mike, special guests, and end-of-the-night competition. 7pm Asylum Le Fleur de Lis / 301 E. 43rd / $10 lefleurdelischicago.com
A weekly poetry showcase with live accompaniment by the band Verzatile. 7:30pm Truth or Lie Firecat Gallery / 2124 N Damen / Free
Five to six storytellers spinning true or fictive tales and leaving the audience to wonder, truth or lie? Hosted by Sarah Terez Rosenblum. 7:30pm Here, Chicago Stage 773 / 1225 W Belmont / $8 or dish to share, 13+ herechicago.org
The potluck reading series. Formerly Here’s the Story, each installment starts with dinner at 7:30pm, then continues with readings at 8pm—five featured storytellers and five sign-up storytellers. No pages, no stage, just “the kind of old-timey storytelling that is practiced under porch-lights and on street corners by people who have a truth to tell, whether through fact or fiction.” Everyone is encouraged, but not required, to bring a dish for the potluck. Hosted by Janna Sobel.
MONDAY, MAY 4 7:30pm Litmash Haymarket Pub & Brewery / 737 West Randolph / $8, 21+ chicagoslamworks.com/litmash
Combining poetry slam, story slam, and live lit, Chicago Slam Works brings together the city’s “literary elite” for a battle unlike any other.
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8:30pm Kafein Espresso Bar Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com
Open mic with hosts Chris and Kirill.
TUESDAY, MAY 4 6pm Mary Robinette Kowal and Marie Brennan Barnes & Noble / 1 East Jackson / Free barnesandnoble.com
Fantasy authors Kowal (Of Noble Family) and Brennan (Voyage of the Basilisk) read from and sign copies of their work. 6:30pm Emily Shultz City Lit Books / 2523 North Kedzie / Free citylitbooks.com
Help us welcome Emily Schultz as she reads from her newest book, The Blondes, in conervastion with Megan Stielstra. She'll also answer questions and sign copies of the novel. 7pm Wit Rabbit Reads Quenchers Saloon / 2401 North Western / Free, 21+ witrabbitreads.com
An inter-genre reading series showcasing poetry, prose (narrative or otherwise), drama, and other “text-creations,� particularly the earnest kind. 7pm Write Now Cafe Lutz / 2458 W Montrose / Free chicago-bakery.com
An open mic for comedians and live lit storytellers. Hosted by Danny Black and Anne Victoria LaMonte. 7:30pm Homolatte Tweet Let's Eat / 5020 N. Sheridan tweet.biz
With Scott Free, featuring gay and lesbian spoken-word artists.
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7:30pm Tuesday Funk Hopleaf Bar / 5148 N Clark / Free, 21+ tuesdayfunk.org
Chicago’s eclectic monthly reading series, presented by the Gothic Funk Nation, and featuring a variety of fiction, poetry, essays, and other works in all genres. Hosted by Andrew Huff and Eden Robins. Every first Tuesday of the month. 9pm Two Cookie Minimum Hungry Brain / 2319 West Belmont / Free, 21+ twocookieminimum.blogspot.com
Stories and cookies. Both are free, the latter vegan, too. The goal is to highlight new writers and the Chicago zine community. Hosted by John Wawrzaszek, A.K.A. Johnny Misfit.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 5 6pm Lyricist Loft Harold Washington Library / 400 South State / Free youmediachicago.org
“Open mic for open minds,” presented by Remix Spoken Word. Hosted by Dimi D, Mr. Diversity, and Fatimah. 7pm Poetry Off the Shelf Poetry Foundation / 61 West Superior / Free poetryfoundation.org
This month's installment features National Book Award finalist (for 2012's Fast Animal) Tim Seibles. 7pm
Readings Under the Influence Tweet Let's Eat / 5020 N. Sheridan / $3, 21+ readingundertheinfluence.com
“Because everyone needs a literary hangover.” Original short stories plus short-short excerpts of published work related to the theme of the month, such as “Well Done,” with trivia contests that award books and other prizes. Rotating hosts.
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9pm
In One Ear Heartland Cafe / 7000 N Glenwood https://www.facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear/210844945622380
Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.
To submit your own literary event, or to correct the information on anything you see here, please drop us a line cclapcenter@gmail.com
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ORIGINAL FICTION
We didn’t know what to expect once we tethered our boat to the concrete rock of the giant pumping station two miles out into Lake Michigan, when we jumped into the cold water because we’ve never dived there before or anywhere else for that matter, and though Rita claims there was a time in her life when she had a passing interest in diving and therefore read everything about diving she could get her hands on, I’m dubious—especially since she said that most of that reading was done in a suburban public library miles from any significant body of water.
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“Enduring the Mist,” by Bob Vonderau [flickr.com/vonderauvisuals]. Used under the terms of their Creative Commons license.
CRAZY IDEA BY JOSEPH G. PETERSON May 1, 2015 | 9
So we’re surprised when we jump into the water and feel the almost immediate sucking sensation from the giant pump below—surprised, of course, but not too surprised. After all, this is an adventure and we take our risks, but inside, underneath everything, I’m frightened as hell and wish I thought twice about this. It was her suggestion, somewhere on a Chicago beach south of the South Shore Golf Course, two miles inland at Rick’s annual Fourth of July party, that we try this crazy stunt. “Do you think we can do it, Abe?” she asks in her sweet way. There was the wooden row boat that looked like it’d been run aground one too many times, oars which seemed splintered and shattered by ten thousand storms, and brooding Lake Michigan which rose from its own depths and spilled itself with reckless waves upon the beach. But there was that question of hers of whether it would be possible, if not outright crazy, to make a voyage to that fresh-water crib, two miles in the distance, and go for a swim. She kicks sand at me and laughs. “Who knows?” she says, resting her fingertips on my pectoral. “But I bet they’d think we’d be crazy to try.” She’s barefoot in the sand and wearing a bikini when she asks it. Mixed up in her words and those eyes which look directly into mine and the skin of the woman underneath the bikini, I hear the question she really asks: not if we can do it, but if I have enough lust for her to row her out there, and since she’s obviously in no condition to do anything but sit in the bow of the boat, acting beautiful and naked, the whole argument becomes a question of whether I’ll allow myself, like a jackass, to be led around by the proverbial carrot. The waves crash against the beach, the wind slashes in gusts from the southeast, and she’s right. We’d really be crazy to try it. But I’m not thinking about that. All I do is stand there with my eyes focused on her, and if I’m going to take this risk, I may as well get as liberal a view of her as I please. So I look up and down her legs, focusing my eyes on the downy hair near the inside of her upper thighs, the small mole near her belly button, the freckles on her face, and her eyes are looking at mine while I contemplate if I’m as crazy as she is. The idea of going down with her in rough seas, playing the hero as we go, becomes strangely appealing to me. If we survive, and chances are in our favor, I might even get laid and this idea makes me more and more happy as I look at her beautiful body. “Okay.” I smile. “I’ll prepare the boat.” “Oh,” she says terse, sweet. “You’re wonderful.” She comes close to me and hugs me up and down my body. Later, much later, when I was deep in that water with her and sinking fast, even then, her kiss, which was incredibly tender, burned warm and fierce against my neck. 10 | CCLaP Weekender
Word passes around the beach party faster than fire in the sky, partly because Rita spreads the word, partly because all people have a vicarious interest in the daredevil risks other people will take, and suddenly, we’ve taken center stage at this party of a few dozen people, which is its own type of circus. One by one, they come until the volleyball game is put on hold and the grill is abandoned and even Rick, the owner of the beach house which is in decrepit condition, descends by rope from the balcony of his house where he’d been overseeing things, long-stem wineglass in his hand, to the beach and walks over to the crowd that has gathered, watching me clean the boat and Rita oil her already well-tanned body. These people, on the surface, are our friends, though I’d question more than a few men on this very point because I believe they’d rather it was them than me playing the hero, rowing Rita beyond the brink of her last crazy idea. I sense they’ve come to feel me out, if I’ll really be the hero to do it or if I’ll waver on my word at the last moment and say something about the waves being too high for such a stunt. I’ve backed down before, it’d be no surprise to these people, my friends, if I backed down again. I listen carefully, trying to locate their feelings towards Rita and sense that they, in turn, desperately want to know what Rita’s feelings are towards them, because Rita is a beautiful exhibitionist and what she feels is often indecipherable, and yet, somehow, important. All these men are looking for the clue that’ll give them the key to her tightly closed heart. What I also sense is that some people here really wish the best for us, and in my moment of anxiety, I’m touched. “Here,” says somebody, a hand darting out of the group. “Wrap this electrical tape around the oars. You’ll get more pull.” From another place in the crowd comes a familiar voice. It’s Rick, the man throwing this party. “The way you work the boat in these waves,” he says full of concern, “is very important. Now, what you got to do is follow the curve of the beach until you clear the bay. You won’t be bothered by as many waves, see? Then, what you do is crisscross back and forth, cutting the waves at forty-five degree angles. With these kind of waves you may never make it.” And yet another voice, a woman’s drunken voice. “It all reminds me of a trip I took to Bermuda!” she screams. “Can I come?”
What I also sense is that some people here really wish the best for us
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After the oars are taped and the draining hole is tightly plugged, I’m prepared to shove off. I stand to face them, touching Rita’s hip. The late afternoon sun still blinds—nonetheless, I can see the expectation collect in the corners of their eyes. A child comes running from the house with binoculars in her hand. Their voices are fractured and giddy. Someone hands me a first aid kit. Rita snatches a beer out of somebody’s hand. “All right,” she says, smashing the bottle against the bow of the rowboat. “Let’s go!” So that’s what we do. Go. Shoving the rowboat off the sand, into the water glistening with the super-reality of yellowing sun, we are immediately kicked back, peddling onto the beaches by the force of the waves and this, of course, makes everyone gathered around us on the beach laugh. Everyone but the owner, who seems a little nervous, whose very face leaks the doubt that we’ll ever return alive. He’s the inside man, these are his waters—he should know. Recovering with shouts about the frigid water which, like the oars that’ll rip my hands soon enough, is something I get used to, we shove off once again, me in the stern, Rita in the bow. With my solemn efforts, we surge forward against waves that seem not one or two feet high, but several dozen feet, pitching us up into the sky where we crash hard with a sudden thud, facing hell in the guise of water below. As the boat rears up on another wave, I realize Rita is not only crazy, but probably suicidal for asking me to demonstrate to her just how far I’ll go— suicidal, because she must have known I’d go to the edge of the rim of the surface of the planet for her love, and if the abyss was staring back at me and she yelled jump, I’d probably—. Once we’ve cleared the beach, we look at each other—I’m hauling back on the oars with all my strength, hoping my efforts will bring me somehow closer to her idea of me. “Hey,” she screams over her shoulder, above the roar of the water around us. “You’re one crazy sonofabitch, Abe! You should know better than to give a girl everything she asks for!” We hear the laughter and shouts of the people gathered on the beach, and before I know it, they disappear entirely, as if they never existed. I get down to this business of rowing the boat. I lean into the oars and pull, and already, my hands are ripped apart and I continuously look over my shoulder at her and in the direction towards the pumping station. After a while, I’m fairly certain I can detail and catalog every jerk and bend of Rita’s spinal column as it tries to cushion her and her brain stem from the blows of the waves. She clings to the gunwales with a tenacity of grip, revealed by her reddening knuckles and the bleached white pressure spots of her fingernails. Her ass is plastered to a 12 | CCLaP Weekender
red cushion on the bench. Then, there is her long, brown hair, which falls down past her shoulder blades and changes colors, sometimes becoming the aquamarine of the water below us and the pure white of crested sea froth, but also becomes wet and glistening and raven black. We rise and fall and catch a gale blowing off the land. After one giant wave crashes against the boat, rolling us off course, Rita turns her head to look at me, to see if I’m in control. She smiles with the excitement of what we’re doing. She’s in her element, the element of pure risk, something I don’t completely understand. Another wave crashes over the bow of the boat, practically knocking Rita into the lake. She turns to look ahead, bracing herself against future waves, and until we dock up alongside the pumping station, it’s the last time I see her eyes. But that’s Rita and part of her character that I was only beginning to understand. She’s always looking ahead and today, in this tiny boat heading out to that pumping station, is no different. We made a bet to go out there for a swim under these conditions, and that being done, she never looks back. All eyes ahead, towards that pumping station. All eyes ahead. But my eyes are different than Rita’s eyes. I have the type of eyes that have never been able to look anywhere but behind. The beach is in the distance and the crowd has gone back to their business of having fun. They’ve forgotten us, as if we never existed—they don’t seem to care what danger we’re in. As I’m pulling away at the oars in the stern of the boat, fighting against hope, swell after swell, I ask myself—and I remember distinctly phrasing it like this—is it possible, with her looking ahead and me looking behind, that we’ll ever exchange eye contact again? I suck in some air and pull hard on the oars. “Honey,” she yells, barely audible above the wind and the waves, not turning her head to see how I’m suffering. “Can’t you pull harder? It doesn’t seem like we’re getting anywhere!” I turn my head to look over my shoulder and she’s fixing the strap of her bikini, and I realize, briefly, that beneath her bikini, she’s naked. Yet, beneath her nakedness, she’s clothed like we’re all clothed, even in our most naked moments. And I felt like I wanted to get at that more than I ever wanted to get to any pumping station—the nakedness beneath Rita’s nakedness. But I didn’t quite know how to do that, except to go with her out to that pumping station or beyond that pumping station to that point where her eyes stared, and I felt like a fool for wanting such an abstract thing so intensely. I dropped my head so that I wouldn’t see her and just pulled harder at the oars. Who knows how long we were gone? In my imagination, we were gone forever. Sometimes, looking back on my past, that’s all I see—that massive body of blue water and all my days rowing upon it. Rita is in the bow looking May 1, 2015 | 13
forward, hands gripping the gunwales, singing. I don’t know what she sings but it’s rock ‘n’ roll, and for a brief moment, I feel happier than I’ve ever been. Her singing makes me that crazy with joy. When we get there, I’m giddy. I’m holding her in my arms. I can’t let her go. “We’ve made it.” “Yes, you’ve done it! What do you think they’ll make of us now?” A huge wave crashes against the stern, nearly knocking us out of the boat. I try to stabilize it as best I can. I grab the anchor line, step out of the boat, and tie it to a rusted ring. I help her out. We step away from the boat, climb up on a rock, and strip naked. “Will the boat hold?” she asks. “If it doesn’t, we can swim back!” “Do you know how to swim, Abe?” “No, do you?” “I’m an expert,” she yells. “Let’s dive in!” So that’s what we do. Her hand in my bloody hand, we jump feet first into the waves. The first time we come up for air, she’s gripping me around the waist with her legs. “This place is very dangerous,” she says, looking deeply into my eyes. But her eyes, which say something entirely different than her words, tell me that it’s my turn to take a gamble, to decide what to do next—no matter what I say, she’ll follow me like I followed her, rowing the boat to this pumping station. That’s when I make the move, despite the wind, the waves, and the sucking sensation from the pumps—the crazy, irresponsible move. I pull her close and kiss her. In that moment, we both understood that the stakes had been raised. I was playing off her love of risk. If this kills us, at least we’ll die riding the edge. She’s not laughing, neither am I. We’re struggling to be closer to one another. Her mouth is in my mouth and she’s taking as much of my tongue as I’ll give her. I feel her wriggle next to me and her legs spread apart. We break free, make a few adjustments. A wave washes over her and then over me. I see the pumping station fading in the distance as we float out into the lake. We pop up again, serious and laughing. Who cares what becomes of us? What the fuck are we put on earth for in the first place and who ever grew old who knew how to live life anyway? So we come together more fiercely than before and we hold each other. A giant wave crashes over our heads and we’re quiet because we’re kissing, but on the inside, we’re laughing because we know that, in the next moment, we’ll be drowning. We’re laughing, because it’s hilarious to be fucking like mayflies that swap existence for one brief, intense, sexual encounter. In another moment, we’ll become the dross we spew, useless and dead in the water. 14 | CCLaP Weekender
“Sing!” she says. I bellow. “It’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard,” she screams. We laugh some more. I close my eyes and concentrate on putting myself into her, and after that, I don’t know what happens. I feel an incredible sense of peace surge through me. All sorts of beautiful things explode like watercolors on the inside of my eyelids. I’m holding my breath, giving her as much of myself as I can. I remember saying to myself that this can’t be happening. We’re sinking fast, down to the base of that pumping station. I feel the sucking sensation grow stronger. I relax, holding Rita in my arms, letting myself be pulled closer to that iron grate outside its vent. I realize Rita has been struggling to break free of me and I don’t know how long she’s been struggling to separate, but I remember feeling ashamed of myself for holding her close in spite of her efforts to break free. Even so, I hold on another moment. This time, it’s my gamble and her turn to abide by the rules of that gamble. I thrust up one more time and consider holding onto her until I black out, but finally I let go. I feel her kick free, and the next thing I know, we bob back to the surface where the waves crash over our heads. We’re gasping for breath. When I open my eyes, I see almost immediately that Rita is changed. She’s not the same woman that went down into the water with me. She’s terrified and crying. We drag our naked bodies up to the rock of the pumping station and change—I into my shorts and t-shirt, she into her bikini. “You asshole!” she yells from a thousand miles away as I try to bring air back into my lungs. “You could have killed us! What the fuck were you thinking? Are you crazy?”
She's not the same woman that went down into the water with me.
The beach house grows larger and Rita’s not talking to me.
My back, my elbows, my knees—the whole world is suddenly a painful sensation. There are fires on the beach. A few people are knee-deep in the water, waiting for our boat to come in. I hear their shouts. It’s dark. When we’re five hundred yards from shore, Rita dives into the water and swims towards them. She has a nice, athletic stroke. I watch her disappear in the waves and dark water. When she reaches the beach, she’s surrounded by the others. May 1, 2015 | 15
I hear her voice echo from the land. It’s shrill and devastated. She’s crying. I pull back a few times on the oars, but set them aside. I close my eyes and imagine spinning around until my bearings are lost. I listen to the wind and the waves. They’ll crash on, long beyond midnight, and then they’ll grow calm. I lower my head to the rocking of the boat, and for a while, I just let things drift. C
Joseph G. Peterson grew up in Wheeling, Illinois. He worked in an aluminum mill and in the masonry trade as a hod carrier to pay for his education at the University of Chicago. He is the author of four novels: Beautiful Piece, Inside the Whale, Wanted: Elevator Man and Gideon’s Confession. He lives in Chicago with his wife and two daughters. His story collection Twilight of the Idiots, comprised of the pieces being published in this magazine over the next year, will be put out by CCLaP in 2015.
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Robots On Film
Panayot Savov Sabina Yordanova
PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE
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Location: Sofia, Bulgaria We shoot on film (35 mm and medium but not large format) or directly on paper. Cameras are equipped with pinholes, most of them are handmade. Sometimes the pinholes are laser drilled, in that case we buy them over the eBay. We also use a Noon Pinhole 6/6 camera from Poland, it is really great. In future we would like to experiment more in the curved projection, with anamorphic approach, focusing in that field is kind of magical. We do solargraphies as well, but they take a lot more time. Speaking for myself [Panayot], I believe pinhole photography is a great tool to externalize ideas with the means of long exposures. I don’t like people on my photos, they make everything so ordinary in a way, and long exposures really erase their presence. It’s like being in The Zone from Tarkovsky’s Stalker. You are alone, space itself is alive. It all becomes a magical dreamland.
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robotsonfilm.com
flickr.com/robotsonfilm
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CCLaP Publishing
Paul McCartney is not a celebrity himself, but works on the edges of that industry, unhappily toiling away at a tabloid devoted to famous deaths and the public’s ongoing fascination with them. But one day he discovers a mysterious red button on a back wall of his new house, which when pressed causes the immediate death of a celebrity sometimes half a world away. And what does this have to do with the eyeball in a glass jar that his biggest fan has recently mailed to him? Find out the darkly hilarious answer in this full-length debut of British absurdist author Stephen Moles. A rousingly bizarro exploration of fame, identity and mortality, this novella will make you laugh and cringe in equal measure, a perfect read for existing fans of Will Self or Chuck Palahniuk. You might not think a book about death would begin with the word “life” written 27 times in a row, but then you have yet to enter the strange but compelling world of Paul is Dead. Best approached with caution and with tongue firmly in cheek!
Download for free at cclapcenter.com/paulisdead
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The CCLaP Weekender is published in electronic form only, every Friday for free download at the CCLaP website [cclapcenter.com]. Copyright 2015, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editor-in-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Behnam Riahi. Layout Editor: Wyatt Robinette. Calendar Editor: Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@ gmail.com.
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