Restore

In early 2021, Off Menu Press made a promise to publish the work of authors who had to pull written work from a press. Oftentimes, in the literary community, this happens due to unfair publishing practices and predatory behavior on the part of the press. As a team of writers & artists we viscerally feel the pain these events have caused and we stand in solidarity with anybody who has been affected by toxicity in the lit community. We hope that this page on our website, “Restore,” will serve as a safe home for writing and art.

Although it took us quite some time to be able to publish these words on our site, we are thrilled to finally have them up. Please read with care and enjoy. And if you have a piece that you had to pull from a press for whatever reason, reach out to us at contact (at) offmenupress (dot) com. We promise we will read your piece and let you know whether it’s a good fit for our press.

two truths & a line

By Ash Fox

CW/TW: The poem references suicide attempt, death, and domestic violence

Walked around the house unclothed so that you might notice the invisible word wounds so easily missed. Put on new clothes and played pretend.

Never loved the sight of my body as you tried to make love to it with the lights on. When I finally admitted that I liked the way she looked, you laughed and asked so do I need to worry about your girl friends too?

Slept on the couch with sins stained red on the lace another man touched. I don’t think you ever forgave me; I never forgave myself.

—

Watched you smash the glass of a dead wrist watch in anger as if already being dead and timeless didn’t matter. All of the pieces of broken glass are never found.

Lost count of all the times I called you back home from wanting to end your time—because if I couldn’t save my father, I might be able to save you.

Called you out of everyone else and when you answered you pulled me out of our bathtub, calling me crazy, crazy, over and over a n d o v e r a n d o v e r a n d

—

Collected our lies and spread them like the ashes sitting in a jar on my bookshelf; you could not deny the smell of smoke always in my hair.

Examined my flesh against pictures of women on your phone half indecent, half unknown. Cut out my pieces that didn’t match, looked at my blank and cropped out images in the mirror daily. The easiest lie to look straight in the face. I think about what other women must do to love themselves when every hand that has ever touched them has lied.

Built houses out of I’ll never do it again promises that we each made and each tore down. Even the tenets upstairs who could hear our screaming destruction said nothing. There was no love alive in the living room. I stopped dreaming of a home my childhood self might one day feel safe to sleep in.

—

Screamed and heard an echo of my mother’s voice in my head yelling at a man drowning his sins with empty bottles; you looked at me the way my father looked at her with wonder of what wounds when touched could make such a sound. On the worst days I am nothing but the echoed pain that a daughter’s wounds make.

…

…

—

When I picked up a candle to smash against the ground outside and you pulled my arm so hard I snapped inside, I knew that flame would never be lit again.

When my mother took her mother’s wedding ring off her cold, dead hand and placed it into my palm I knew that no man who abused me ever deserved to ask for it.

When I imagine you reading this one day, I see you mouthing the words, but every line was true.

Untitled

By Lynne Schmidt

OPHELIA AND THE ROBIN

By Cassandra Finch

The stream parts here, just beyond

This rood-screen of rushes. It was here

That the girl fell, half-mad for grief

And disappointment, trailing columbines,

Scattering fennel, daisies, rosemary

For remembrance; this the willow,

Weeping, as she did, betrayed

And heartbroken, choking on ruin

And cursing the bitter rue that failed her.

They say mad girls belong to water,

Both beloved of the moon, so many

Fair hands lifting stones into pockets.

Her gown bore her up, gasping;

Her dead father’s last grace still

Raising her position in the world.

The vision of it, duckweeded petticoats

And her long hair, trailing, is made for artists

To exploit. They will even call it romantic:

The girl, despairing, all comfort flown,

Cut off, drifting through cold blue space,

Weightless. She has surpassed our sphere

Of human machinations, become a wild thing

Among other wild things. The robin in the willow

Was a country omen, a restless soul

Returning, small belligerence; it sang,

As she did, until the end, and then

It sang alone. Ophelia, drowning,

Knew a little of his open, sunwashed world:

All obligation spent, her gentleness

Overthrown, the fond blue sky assuaging —

Opening, finally, to embrace her.

Daily Schedule at Bremen Camp

By Lynne Schmidt

4am 

Wake up to guns pointed at your face 

and men barking orders in a language 

you’re learning to understand, wearing 

scratchy and soiled clothes that haven’t 

been washed in weeks. 

6am 

March to the bunker. The blisters on your feet

tear pink and ooze against wooden shoes. Ignore

the ache in your bones, the sleep you can’t wipe

out of your eyes.

7am 

Begin work. Try to find the smaller slabs of metal

to conserve what little strength is left. Be smart. 

Don’t get yelled at. Wonder where your family is. 

Wonder if they’re alive. Remind yourself to breathe. 

If you can survive, they can survive. If you are still

here, they may still be here.

9am 

Ignore the pain. Ignore your muscles buckling from 

the weight of metal. Fingertips are splinters of metal 

edges imbedded. Hope your family is safe. Hope 

your sister escaped. 

10am 

Keep your eyes on the work you’re doing rather than

the bodies of people collapsing beside you. Your body 

still stands though you gave up yesterday, 

and the day before that. 

12pm 

Lunch break. Eat slowly so you don’t puke. Accept that

 it won’t be enough food. 

Pray. 

But then again, what kind of God would let this happen?

2pm 

Pretend you are at home hiding under blankets. Get screamed 

at and spit on for closing your eyes a second too long.

4pm 

You’re not hungry. You’re not hungry.

5pm 

More deaths. More distraction. Keep going. 

7pm 

Work ends, the next shift comes in as you leave. 

Everyone has the same facial expression. 

8pm 

March back from bunker. At least this way, you

are too tired to feel your knees ache, the blisters 

peeling away from your toes. Your mind is separate

from your body. 

8:30pm 

Roll call. Keep standing. Keep standing. Be thankful 

your brother is already dead. 

9pm 

Dinner.

10pm 

Go to bed hungry. Count your rib bones like children 

count sheep. Pray for sleep quickly because they’ll be 

here too soon for a restful night.

Repeat daily from December 9, 1943 - April 20, 1945.

You are 16 years old.