Tag Archives: Caroll Sun Yang

“My Teen Ghost is Hungry” – Fiction by Caroll Sun Yang

Ice Cream – Evelyne Axell, 1964

Until today, Caroll Sun Yang’s vibrant & Proustian experimental flash fiction “My Teen Ghost is Hungry” could only be read in copies of our Spring 2017 issue, FLAPPERHOUSE #13… but now, as a special treat, it’s freely available to read on FLAPPERHOUSE.com ! Dig in…

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Prognosis. Oakland, 1974.

FATHER’S MATE SERVED STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM IN DEPRESSION ERA BOWLS. We prodded lobsters in ten gallon barrels. Babysitter froze colorful fluids in Gerber jars—I chipped away for taste and to birth gemmy shards. Nurse fed me marinated fish on sticky rice. Mother pushed me in a special stroller, post-hospital chocolate cookies leaving muddy smears on me. Picking Froot Loops out of olive shag while loving mangled dolls in heat. I taste/d air, a bustling mid-70’s melting pot with boiling grease, steamy grates and desperate immigrant kisses.

Prayer. Vallejo, 1981.

Fingered globs of Duncan Hines lemon frosting when none noticed. Held stolen Olive Wood rosary beads in my mouth. Balmy winds thrashed as devils chased me on my bike—mouth open to the antiseptic, wild fennel and sour flower fumes. I smoked candy cigarettes. Grandmother fed me bloated Captain Crunch in warmed milk. Fevers. I burned, snuck out in rain, pressed my cheek to a crippled Oldsmobile Cutlass, and lapped up lukewarm raindrops.

Remission. Oxnard, 1985.

Father arrived wielding a fluffy banana birthday cake with a tub of PB&J ice cream. Guzzled grape Slurpees with Randall while watching scrambled sexy movies. Malt-O-Meal quicksand drowning sliced hotdogs blanketed in Kraft Singles. Sunshine frolic with grimy kids, sucking Tang covered ice while wading in muddy backyard ponds. Slabs of Jolly Rancher Fire! Manure fields. Hot. Grainy Orange Metamucil doled by mother frowning.

Relapse. Camarillo, 1988.

We undressed easily, bodies collapsing on heaped clothes, chewing homework pencils and breaking Miracle Whipped bread with Libby’s corned beef that never met my hips. Final rays filtered through pale lavender drapes, faces painted in dreamy shadows, first/ last kisses. Radiant sick eyes, blather about heaven’s boys between sips of Minute Maid Punch in crystalline tumblers. Feverish. Settling sadness. Tongue fade.

Outcome. Here, Now.

Hunger.

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CAROLL SUN YANG earned her BFA at Art Center College of Design, an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, and holds certification as a Psychosocial Rehabilitation Specialist. Her work appears in The Nervous BreakdownNew World WritingMUTHA MagazineThe Los Angeles Review of BooksMcSweeney’s Internet TendencyNecessary FictionIdentity TheoryWord RiotColumbia Journal and Juked. She lives and toils over her gestating debut collection while writeressin’ and matriarchin’ in Eagle Rock, CA. She can never have enough personality-disordered friends/ lo-fi anything/ human touch/ sarcasm/ cell photo filters/ art films featuring teens/ Latrinalia/ frosting flowers/ bio changes. She spews forth as Caroll Sun Yang on Facebook.

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“Dead Squirrel Oh My Soul” – Fiction by Caroll Sun Yang

Squirrel Nutkin – Beatrix Potter, 1903

A vision of roadkill gives life to some wonderfully psychotropic short fiction in “Dead Squirrel Oh My Soul,” one of two pieces by Caroll Sun Yang in our Spring 2017 issue.

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Jesus, don’t want me for a sunbeam.
Sunbeams are never made like me.

Nirvana

{ Squirrel }

IS THERE NOTHING SO EXTRAORDINARY ABOUT ROADKILL? Today, I have taken the exact measure of java, carbs and psycho-tropics to be able to keenly observe that this squirrel does not look dead but rather in slumber. An earth-colored body unmarred, at rest with a bushy tail curled slightly in, sharp-tipped paws laid upon each other as if in lazy prayer, a round frog belly covered in a down of cocoa-cream fur, overgrown teeth in a surprised mouth, slit wet eyes and such bitty folded ears pasted against its head. If I scream, will it hear me?

Los Angeles’ sunlight is stark, with a pale topaz gleam that provokes a suicidal nerve. I felt it many Augusts. Sometimes you will come out into this luster, from within dank dream-infested apartments or sprawling pseudo-Mediterranean abodes or any of the ill-composed habitats between and blink many times in an effort to calibrate self to such exposure. Blink, red behind the lids, blink, white, blink sunset, red-orange, white, blood oranges, white, tracers and floaters, veins, pomegranate, blink, open blue, blink… Thick polluting dust and the molecules of deferred hopes might take you. Sometimes that dazzling light plus the babble of traffic, daytime neon, alarms, vendors, construction, birds, elevators, footsteps, chewing, whispers… mated with the smell of tar and industry and perfumes and decay will deliver you straight to panic.

A poisonous sun shines hard on our dead squirrel, stiff rays push through a.m. clouds and smog. A religious feeling light spills over the beast, like it is a Virgin Mary in a master painting. The squirrel has a mother, as all must. A juvenile death is incorrect, even in the case of a peanut-brained mammal; premature death steals opportunities for action. Actions like falling in love, breaking up, falling apart, giving seed, taking seed, trusting again and slowly not. Imagine this rodent, before the vehicle met him, doing what it knew instinctively to do. Forage, collect, store, mate. It had innate sense of beginnings and endings. Begin spring. End spring. Begin summer. Reproduce. End that. Start fall. Collect like mad. Store. Feed. Reproduce. Spring. An ancient rhythm.

Cycle. Wilderness. Go.

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