Punk Monk Press/Magazine

LET THE RECORD SHOW One day I’ll remember to hit ‘record,’  Before the argument begins,  So I can read the transcript later  Find the exact phrase  When it stopped being about  [what I said something that my friend said and you said “well, that’s racist,” and I said I misspoke and that’s not what they meant...] What you said in response to what I said, [You shook your head and said, “it’s racist anyways,” and I said, “don’t say that about my friend,” and you said…] And we were arguing about the argument itself. [“Why do you always have to escalate everything?”] About our relative debate skills. [“Can you let me finish a sentence?”] Comparing each of our reactions to the situation we now find ourselves in-- Speaking in elevated tones about our tones.  [“You always have to make everything political.”] I need you to understand why I am right and you are wrong. The turn when we lost the thread of what triggered the row  [You hate the word ‘triggered,’ because it makes a person sound weak]

Title: Backseat Driver Author: Sophie McMillan I was taught that food was my enemy in the back of a silver Toyota Camry on a day trip to Boston.  Just a baby fat wearing eight year old happily unwrapping a Little Debbie Zebra Cake from the gas station. My mother - a tall, tan (surprisingly tan for a woman in Vermont), brunette goddess (to me at least) and exercised religiously damn near every day - asked if I knew what calories were. What I did or didn’t know didn’t matter because she immediately made it crystal clear: “Calories are what make you fat. How many calories are in that cake?” And I looked at the wrapper and I saw the calories and I put the cake back in the wrapper. And I felt guilt for the first time about food.  And it’s never gone away. It’s been 30 years and it hasn’t gone away. And now, now I’m the mom of these two little amazing beings.  A boy and a girl, whatever those labels mean today or later. And I have to teach them about food and what it does for us. Telling the

The Family Barbecue   Victoria is late to the family barbecue, even though it’s in her own backyard. She stares out her bedroom window, chewing her cuticles and longing for the morning, when cute rabbits sniffed through the lawn’s dewdrops. Now, the lawn is full of people that somehow share her blood.  Victoria’s year-long bout with Lyme disease is a readymade excuse to avoid mingling. Sometimes the tiniest things cause the most damage. The condition is currently in remission, but she refuses to touch grass.  Victoria’s mom calls her name. The first time around, Victoria can pretend she doesn’t hear it. That’ll buy her some time before having to make an appearance. She has approximately nine minutes before her mom calls her name again. She knows the drill. She’s seasoned at this. She sees her cousin, Craig, strutting around with a drink in his hand. She can’t read his lips but he’s got his “bragging about being in law school” face on. If only the rest of the family knew about his DUI.

Band Practice and the Red Flags Punk Rock Warned Me About His sister and I were sitting side by side, but we couldn’t hear a single syllable despite the exaggeration of our lips. We typed our conversation with our thumbs instead, holding up the messages on our phone screens like passed notes in class. There were more jokes than logical tunes filling the room, and I wondered if this was how band practices typically went. I was at his mercy, without another ride home late at night and not born with any sense of direction when it came to the city. And I was pretty sure I’d catch a disease from the bathroom  in a music studio that looked like it had been condemned for years. So, when he mocked my admiration for punk rock, I kept my mouth shut. But I wanted to say that every punk band on earth was always going to be more popular than his half-ass attempt at metal. And that he missed the point of the fast messy beats and sloppy yelled lyrics. Because the bands I was in love with  were all an

My Secret   I look the best I’ve ever looked,  not much but certainly something.  Even my mom says I’m glowing.  Even my friends want to know  my skin care regime.  Tell me your secret, they say.  Has an enemy of yours  died perhaps?  They’re asking a man who sprains his back  when peeling an orange, who sometimes cannot  pump the nozzle  to the shampoo dispenser, who clicks  his ribs each time he breathes  too hard. This face, I say,  wears the skin of an invalid  which hardship cannot callus  and can only make bleed. And then, they laugh, and I laugh along. It’s the only thing left for me.  --Daniel Chan

Raw There was nothing to look forward to Tomorrow looked like  today looked like  yesterday The entire world was grayscale except for in bright flashes of aching sepia and bursts of unbearable blurred saturation And the weight of every single thing rested comfortably behind my eyelids breaking my spine   There was no memory I couldn’t mimic that smile anymore The one I had in that picture of me from when I was a little girl That little girl never existed At least I didn’t think she had   There was no respect My mind had no censor My body was a tool, a shell for me to twist and mutilate A filter that once told me don’t think of those things was burnt to ashes on the ground   There was no compassion I hated everything about myself every  fucking  thing and there was no room for exception It seemed impossible to care enough about anything or anyone and yet I cared so much it drove me mad All those times I told myself I could be a martyr were really death wishes in disguise   There was no