“You have no clue why but she draws you in. She’s some kind of decrepit siren…” (Autumn Krause)

“All our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.” – MacBeth
This story explores a teenager seeking meaning in a seemingly meaningless event (the descent of an old woman into Alzheimer’s). While the parental figure clings to an ordered system of belief, the teenager obsessively fixates on the random and chaotic words of a woman who has lost herself to a debilitating disease. In the end, the teenager is filled with guilt as she realizes she has decontextualized and fetishized the woman’s decline and, though she is at the start of her life while the woman is at the end of hers, she finds herself in a similar place: lost.
(Autumn Krause, Artist Statement)

Sound and Fury

by Autumn Krause

You can’t get the smell out of your hair when you leave. Later on, when the new AMC puts the same orangey soap in its dispensers, you can’t use it and you have to douse your hands in your Sweet Pea waterless sanitizer from Bath & Body.

As you stand in front of her, you’re breathing out of your mouth so you don’t smell that disgusting cocktail of orangey antiseptic (you see bottles of it sitting in the bathrooms and at the check-in counters–that’s how you know it’s orange), old person pee, and microwaved food. This is what the end smells like, you think. And it smells pretty shitty.

You can’t help but study her. Her eyes are bluish. Only, not really. When she was young, they were probably blue, or who knows? Maybe even hazel or brown. Now they’re all washed out–how the fuck does she see out of them? But she does. She sees you and she smiles.

“Bertha,” she says.

And, two seconds later, “Gloria.”

Then, “Stacey.”

You answer to all of them. For the Sunday afternoon, you’re Bertha or Gloria or Stacey or whatever old-timey name she calls you. And maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Maybe, in her head, she’s happy. Sure, she has no clue what day or month or year it is. But she remembers names. And those names are–or were–people, right? Her daughters, maybe. Friends, perhaps. Only you know she’s fucking terrified out of her mind. Her smile flickers like fluorescent light bulbs on the fritz. On. Off. On. Off. Happy. Scared. Happy. Scared. And, two Sundays ago, she grabbed your wrist. Grabbed it with her claw-like hand and too-long nails and pulled you close and said in your ear, “It’s told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

And she was proud. Let you go and nodded, pleased. You can tell she was reciting something, so when you get home you googled the words ‘idiot,’ ‘sound,’ and ‘signifying nothing,’ and it turns out it’s Shakespeare. The woman who has whiskers on her chin and gunk in her eyelids fucking knows Shakespeare. Can’t remember her own name. Wears a diaper. Has to eat Jello. Sound and fury, indeed.

“Smile at her,” your dad says. “Talk to her.”

You do and you do.

“We don’t even know her,” you say to your dad as the two of you wait to be buzzed out of the ward. “Why do we have to come?”

“No one knows her,” he says. He tucks his Bible under his arm.

And you kind of hate him and don’t go for two Sundays. But then you need to go back. You need to see her. You have no clue why but she draws you in. She’s some kind of decrepit siren, one whose stink and madness and emptiness slips into you, stays with you, lingers.

Only, when you finally go back and walk into the nursing home, trailing behind your dad (who, for whatever reason, always calls it an ‘old folk’s place’) because you don’t like to walk next to him, Nurse Mariel waves your dad down and says, “She’s gone.”

“Where?” you ask, as though Nurse Mariel is going to say the woman has stepped out for lunch or gone to have her hair done.

“She’s passed on,” your dad says in his pastor voice. And you’re angry, robbed. You take a deep breath, even though that means sucking in that putrid nursing room air. You [sic] dad puts his hand on your shoulder and you shake it off.

There’s no need to be so upset, you think. She was gone a long time ago, long before you met her. You’re the freak who turned her slow and tortuous end into something else.

Sound and fury, you think. Sound and fury.

Autumn Krause is a writer in Orange County, California. She edits a wedding inspiration website and writes young adult fiction. This story was inspired by her many visits to an Alzehiemer’s ward growing up. To learn more about the author, follow @autumnsarahstory on Instagram.
“Sound and Fury,” by Autumn Krause originally published in Forum (Spring 2017, City College of San Francisco).

“But that’s a drag–my life.” (Norman Davies)

1967 short 1

The story as it originally appeared in Forum (1967)

People Not Located

by Norman Davies

At thirty, I don’t wait for ideas, I chase them. They glimmer, and dart–I wish I could use my bare hands on them.

Ideas aren’t trapped in books, either. I open the cover, and get all tangled up. The ideas, greased in language, slip away, scatter. Or else (worse) just stare back at me in a line of print, not really telling me anything. Quiet. I hate that quiet.

Other people haven’t helped me much. They’re doing their own looking around. They don’t know anything yet.

So, what do I do? I sit, and I go after ideas. I go to work right inside–which is really outside.


“I need all those hungry friends. / I wanna get warm, / available.” (Ann Nelson Gleeson)

Forum 70s cover and content

Past issues of Forum. Clockwise from top left: & other lovely insects (1976), (no title, 1972), Reality Trip (1973), Double Mirage (1975).

The English Department at City College of San Francisco holds 35 past issues of Forum, the earliest issue dated 1948. Upon request, these issues are available but cannot leave the office.

During the 1970s, Forum was renamed with individualized titles: Reality Trip (1973), Double Mirage (1975), & other lovely insects (1976), and Undertow (1977, 1978). In Double Mirage (1975) visual art was creatively incorporated with decoratively drawn frames, hand-drawn typeface, and full-page sketches accompanying text. Student editors have fiddled with Forum‘s style for decades, building a legacy of unique perspectives.

Forum can better preserve past issues with digital archiving. Traditional archives localize physical content, whereas digital archives have no bounds. Ensuring that voices of past authors are heard would continue Forum‘s mission to give voice to the talented authors, poets and visual artists in our community.


by Ann Nelson Gleeson

I need a black leather jacket.
I wanna look cheap,
I need the Ozone Hotel.
I wanna act,
I need the Rolling Stones and drugs.
I wanna get lost
and available.
I need all those hungry friends.
I wanna get warm,
I wanna be there when
the rain turns to gold,
I wanna be under the
shower of good tears,
I wanna be available cheap.

Available for the storm,
riding the highest crest of the sea.
Available to rub my hair
across Neptune’s belly and ride the dolphin
to the rocks.

I wanna be available cheap
filament sizzles, bulb bursts
and glass shatters leaving splinters
in a thousand faces.

I want all that.

“Greedy,” by Ann Nelson Gleeson originally published in Double Mirage (1975, City College of San Francisco).

Two new late-start classes!

Due to popular demand, two new Creative Writing classes have just been opened and will begin on 9/5. These go towards the Creative Writing Certificate and transfer to universities including CSU and UC. Please spread the word!

English 35 A/B – Fiction
· MW (Section 003) 3:10-4:35, ART 307 – J. Young 9/5-12/22
English 35 C/D – Poetry
· T (Section 552) 6:10-9:20, ART 307 – C. Bailey Burns 9/5-12/22

Register here!


We’re Back! And a Call for Submissions!

Goooooood evening, everyone! It’s your former blog editor, Zach, back at it again~

This blog went dark for a few months over the summer semester between Forum classes. I hope you all had a good June and July with at least a decent amount of relaxation.

CCSF classes started on Monday, so this marks our first ENG 35L/M class of the new semester. We have new staff advisors, new students, and we’re looking forward to getting a whole host of new submissions, from you, for you!

Please welcome Steven Mayers, a veteran Forum advisor, and Chante McCormick, our new advisor for this semester.  They and we would like to invite you to SUBMIT TO FORUM MAGAZINE!

Forum, the literary magazine of City College of San Francisco, gives voice to the talented authors, poets and visual artists in our community.

  • Photography
  • Screenplays
  • Short Stories
  • Creative Non-fiction
  • Poetry
  • Art
  • Comics

All submissions due by Friday, September 29 2017

Launch Party at Adobe Books

SO I know I said that I’d have this post up “soon”. A week is “soon”, right?

Anyway. We had some really great moments at the Launch Party. Many many many thanks to Adobe Books for being fabulous hosts. Thanks to the Forum Staff who came early to set up (and to Jeremy Williams, who organized the whole thing). Thanks to Jackie Davis-Martin and Saramanda Swigart for beautiful featured readings. And gigantic thanks to everyone who read, and everyone who came!

Look at all these beautiful, amazing human beings! I hope everyone who came left satisfied, and everyone who didn’t have a chance to come can come see us at the next event~!

Screenplay: Out With Italians [Excerpt] by Tony Bianco




A small fishing town in the San Francisco Bay Area. December 7, 1941.


A small, simple apartment. LINO NOCCI, 35, wiry, handsome, a scar along the left half of his jawline, stands staring at his radio. An Italian-speaking announcer is talking about the Pearl Harbor bombing.

Il bombardamento di Pearl Harbor denudera il gran buffone d’Italia, Benito Mussolini. La debolezza di Mussolini sara esposto per il mondo. Il nemico di tutt’italiani, il pazzo detestato stara disfatto. Mussolini …

The announcer is cut off in mid-sentence. There’s KNOCKING at the front door.

Lino turns the radio’s knob but gets only static. The KNOCKING gets LOUDER.

(heavy Italian accent)
Why you no break down?

Lino Nocci. FBI . Open up or we will.

Who you are?

Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Lino hurries away from the door. (more…)