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A Letter From the Editors

Middle Name Mag - Friday, June 24, 2016

a letter from the middle name mag editors regarding the recent hiatus:

 

hello friends. it’s us. we know has been a long while, but we’re happy to say that the magazine is returning tonight with new content, new contributors, and new ideas. as always, we aim for honesty in our words - so, honestly, there’s no real explanation for why we disappeared. a combination of stress, medical issues, and a need to really figure out where this zine could take us all contributed to our long hiatus. we have taken the time off to heal both physically and mentally, and we are beyond excited to see what you all have created in the meantime. it’s good to be back.

 

lots of love,

 

maye hadley and kaitlen alexandra

editors, middle name mag

Cracks

Middle Name Mag - Monday, May 02, 2016

It’s half-past ten and your dad’s silver BMW – ten years old, not worth more than three thousand bucks – pulls into the parking lot of the 7-Eleven a few blocks away from your house. You are sitting in the passenger seat while your dad drives and the car is quiet except for the sound of wheels turning against the pavement and a muffled R.E.M. song that you used to know. You pull past the gas pumps towards the fluorescent store front, your pulse involuntarily rising at this small act of defiance against your all-organic mother. Your dad turns off the car and the music comes to an abrupt conclusion. You had heard silence described as heavy before, but perhaps you previously never quite understood the metaphor.

 

You pass a single Snickers bar and a can of Arizona Mucho Mango Iced Tea to the gangly dropout perched behind the counter, and, seeing your total light up in green LED, pass him a five dollar bill. He hands you eighty-four cents and a plastic bag. You nod in his general direction as you push open the glass door and step in to the night air.

 

All your life, you have opened car doors with too much force, yanking on the handle and tripping over your own feet, and tonight is no exception. Your dad is still sitting in the drivers’ seat with the engine stalled, his eyes closed and 80s new-wave once again leaking through the speakers. He doesn’t open his eyes when you sit down on the fake leather seat and pull the door shut behind you, so you fasten your seatbelt and unwrap your candy bar. As you are chewing the first bite and rummaging through the plastic sack in search of your iced tea, it occurs to you that the moment has a particular cadence about it. You think that you would like to do this again, but even as you are still sitting in it, the details of the experience have begun to slip through the cracks in your mind. Then your dad opens his eyes as if waking from a dream and smiles at you while he shifts the car into reverse. The silence persists in the air, but moments later it has faded into the background.

 

- maye hadley

 

 

Blisters

Middle Name Mag - Monday, March 28, 2016

I like to linger in the space between one day and the next –

the entire world fades away as eleven turns to twelve,

and I somehow remain,

left to gather up the fragments of a shattered heart I cannot remember how to repair.

 

I take a drag of my future and hold it,

heavy and glowing inside my lungs for

one, two, three.

I exhale, watching the tendrils of smoke wind their way

around AP Calculus, around Raleigh, around college essays,

in the door of a 200 square foot musty apartment and out into a green backyard

with a picket fence and a border collie named Inevitability.

 

I find a certain pleasure in tearing pages from my notebook –

as if by laying fragments of my existence face-up on the hardwood floor

I can will them to rearrange themselves into something better;

as if by flicking ash onto black ink

I can become the paper, become the fire, become the smoke that will carry me

far, far away from here.

 

There’s a building pressure inside my chest

and I’m not sure how many more pages I can burn before heat consumes me entirely.

Perhaps I am not words, but light and ember –

perhaps I do not want to reorder myself

as much as I want to watch blisters simmer across my fingertips.

 

This should be simple:

smoking ashes in a firepit sixty-five miles west of Abilene,

rain that lingers on my lips long after I have ducked inside.

 

This should be simple,

yet I linger to light up again.

 

- maye hadley

 


 

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