1932 Quarterly // Winter 2016 // Vol. I • No. 1 by 1932 Quarterly

1932 Quarterly

Winter 2016 Vol. I • No. 1 Based in Indianapolis, IN

Table of Contents Poetry When I Cut Your Hair • Julia Alvarez

Emotional Fascism • Alec Swartz

Loving Somebody Who Doesn’t Love You Back • Alexa Terrell

Lilac Sky • Ali Zimmerman

Weird Honey • Joanna Medofer

if you would allow me to • Guido Castellani

What Haunts Me • Mason Hershhenow

Shattered Glass • Matt Marvel

Science • Chelsea Brown

Everafter • Katie Campbell

Sonnet To The Living • Timothy Vincent

Young Man • Wyatt Smith

WW3 • Ali Jacobs

Hitting Home • Lindley Rose Yarnall

old world maps • Joe O’Brien

XY • Layla Lenhardt

Prose The Liaison • Samantha Campbell

The Maiden • Kori Williams

The Top 10 Killer Ways to Write a List Post • Shawn Mahalik

Ten Minutes • Benjamin Rozzi

Contributors

Staff

Information

Dear readers, I’ve always been awful at missing people. I’ve been lucky enough to live in dozens of cities and countries across this darling earth, and I’ve been even luckier to fall in love with the vast number of people I’ve met. Unfortunately, I’ve had to leave everyone I’ve ever loved as well. I’ve always wished for one thing, however, which was to bring all the people who’ve ever made me feel alive, youthful, electric, comforted, appreciated, and sublimely happy in one place; and that’s what we have here. 1932 Quarterly is my way of having everyone I’ve ever loved—from Seattle to London to Philly to Vienna and everywhere in between—in one place. At least between the covers of 1932 Quarterly they’re all together and it bridges the distance. What started with bringing unlikely people together and building an everlasting bond has grown to something far more than I could have ever imagined. The outpouring of support and submissions, and the willingness to help that I’ve gotten from people of all walks of life has truly made my heart so full. I want to thank my team of editors, who have stood by my side through everything, for their skill, perseverance, and big hearts; you’ve become my family, and my words can’t possibly do justice to how thankful I am for you. I also want to thank the readers and the contributors. I want to thank Dr. George David Clark for teaching me the skills to make this possible. I want to thank Nicholas Chiesa for being a beacon of reason throughout this process. Finally, I want to thank my mother, whose love transcends time and geography. Behold our first issue. It has been such a beautiful and fulfilling endeavor so far, and I’m looking forward to the future.

Layla Lenhardt Editor-in-Chief

Poetry

When I Cut Your Hair Julia Alvarez

We fed each other with Tiny cups of water. It was Lukewarm and screaming, And above all, wet. You lost your passport at A bar in Athens, Georgia. And to pass the time I cut Your hair on a ski slope. Then, your freckles, like Corks in milk bottle skin. I counted out each one of them, Tally marks on my thigh. Blowing bubbles and cracking My gum, jittery. We took up Residence in a canary skull Two girls in love with the same boy. And people were crawling Over cars like the animals That they are. While I Whispered pretty things About the parts of me made of glass.

Emotional Fascism Alec Swartz

remember this christmas the way your cock glided in my hand under a million sparkling electric lights, because in dreams i only see the blank stare of a lover’s eye, praying to the virgin mary to show us the secrets of herself. remember this christmas the way your mouth tasted like an ashtray, the witch’s dance of berlioz penetrating the flesh beneath my grandmother’s coffee table as the tired rhythms of the night drip softly on our naked feet. remember this christmas the way the stereo screamed volare and emotional fascism while the cool scent of plastic pine tiptoed slowly through the sweat of two souls too cold to enter the frigid howls of the winter.

Loving Somebody Who Doesn’t Love You Back Alexa Terrell

When the cold seeps through your cracks, melt me down, use me as insulation, paint the cage that surrounds your heart in thick coats. When you overheat, put your hands around my throat, squeeze, fill the bathtub with my tears chilled by my frozen mind. When you’re lonely, find the zipper at the base of my skull, unzip and release me. I will talk your ear off and sew it back on. When you’re overwhelmed by the magnitude of my broken pieces that surround you, climb the ladder and leave me shattered at rock bottom.

Lilac Sky

Ali Zimmerman Lilac sky faded into a swirl of indigo and stars You licked funnel cake powdered sugar off your fingertips I licked powdered sugar too—off the back of a Mastercard This rubber band relationship is like Jekyll and Hyde I should’ve sworn you off and the horse you road in on That’s what they said too Mum, Nicole, anyone who wasn’t blinded to the discernible signs And it wasn’t until I was face down on a dirty rug that I realized You were fucking me But thinking about him Saturday morning blood lost Red tears dripped on wood chips crawling with maggots I felt as if my head too was infested with maggots And they had, over the months, devoured my rotting intuition

Weird Honey

Joanna Medofer Last night I kissed two boys who do not love me. Last night my thoughts rest in the front pocket of some manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shirt, somewhere. I brushed the dust from my memories of your hands on my neck. I wrap flames around sticks to bring to my lips, my bodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s miserable mistress. My blankets smell of dissatisfaction. Big buses carry small loads and if the sky gives up every once in a while, so be it. Laughter and alcohol are an empty cure for our fate.

if you would allow me to Guido Castellani

if you would allow me to, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d carve tomatoes into coins and drip their seeds onto dark wooden boards, i would place them like stars. i would forget the words to our favorite songs as my banjo rings joyfully out of tune. i would remember the birthmarks on your arms as you wrap them around me like shuttle-looms and wire. we can scrawl poetry behind loose bricks, stay in bed for days. let words condensate lazily on wet lips and pool around our feet. & you can give names to each movement we make together; you can fix the clasps shut on our rib bones. draw circles around me as i tremble, keep shut timid cries. lover, i am a fragile boy & i am afraid of things like fire. i will rest in your arms, for i feel at ease.

What Haunts Me Mason Hershenow

My choice was right, albeit slow I could no longer play this game You know that’s not what haunts me, though No victor, nothing more to show No change, forever the same My choice was right, albeit slow The wrongs so deep, we can’t let go The wrongs which I will never name You know that’s not what haunts me, though And somehow she will start to know That somewhere deep she feels the same My choice was right, albeit slow And we apart will fin’lly grow The rage and fury now contained You know that’s not what haunts me, though For this I will forever know, No matter how much guilt I tame: My choice was right, albeit slow. You know that’s not what haunts me though.

Shattered Glass Matt Marvel

This morning I threw glass at the floor I walked on it to see if I felt pain anymore Then I emptied out a can of gasoline With a single match set the ground on fire The blaze was serene Beneath my feet I felt the burning oil Between my toes felt the blood beginning to boil I stood there listening to the glass scream The voices crystal clear, told me we were a team Without hesitation I laid on my back I felt each shard of glass shatter and crack The shards pierced the inner chords of my spine Leaving me stuck lying there with only time by my side Not a single regret passed through my mind As the flames engulfed me, I burned from the inside In this moment I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t scared to die I hope I gave the demons one hell of a ride

Science

Chelsea Brown I’ve seen a lot of things regarding the body renewing its cells every 7 years. It’s been about 3.5 years since I saw you. This means that there is still half of you that I have touched and kissed that exists. My lips have danced across the cells that haven’t renewed yet. Half of you still knows what I feel like. But days pass and soon it will be 4 years and over half of your body won’t even know that some nights my skin wanted so badly to be an uninterrupted continuation of yours. In some number of weeks, the majority of your body wouldn’t be able to recognize mine. However, My cells renew as well. And they’re forgetting you, too.

Everafter

Katie Campbell Kissed and damned upon this Eve of Everafter where Edenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gates Are only dreams of yesteryear And Pearly Gates discriminate. Cast away from sheets but far too Late, I walk with downturned head on Ashes of white wedding vows where Love was taken then cast down. Glance close behind, behold those ghosts: The devil and the angel toast For making love before I fall Onto the floor with scream and gall. So one-night bliss turns chapped lip kiss And no more screaming, pleading love Can now return those pure wings to This unsung devil from above.

Sonnet to the Living Timothy Vincent for Robert Desnos

Scotch and water and a twist of lemon And the memories begin to flow again I might even smoke a cigar tonight I was human once with normal desires But I’ve been dead now for a long, long time Why didn’t I demand more from my life? Everyone seemed bent on happiness While I put up with a spiteful marriage To a woman I hadn’t kissed in years Who lived for and through her two grown children And never listened to a word I said You, the living, you would have walked away I didn’t have the money, for one thing And was in rather poor health, for another.

Young Man Wyatt Smith

It Seemed he Got his Wish Though as the Wishing Goes, He Never Thought he’d Miss the Pitch Of Small folk and their Woes. The Silver-Lined complaining Of Folks Light In their Purse That, “While the Times were Pretty Rough, The Times could Yet be Worse.” His Boss’s Ceaseless Drive To Make another Dime, “You Must keep Up appearances, And Better Keep the Time.” His Mother’s Petty Nagging, The Girlfriends On the Phone, “I’ll Leave you All behind! He said. “I’ll Make it On my Own!” “I’ll Build a House on Private Land, I’ll Set the Brick and Stone. I’ll Live just How I Want, You’ll See! I’ll Not Rest till I’m Done.” “I’ll Get to Work now. Right Away! And Race against the Time To Make sure that there’s Plenty Left Once All that Time is Mine...”

... He Built a House just as he Said, By Years and On his Own. He Sat at Last in Silence then Broke Only by this Eerie Tone: “Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.” The Clicking of the Clock. The Only Hands that Knocked, The Only Thing that Talked. He Listened to its Limerick, So Mocking in its Tone. For Once in his Entire Life, He Truly was Alone.

WW3

Ali Jacobs My feet tie me to the earth, like weathered reins. The only worldly possessions I may keep.

Hitting Home

Lindley Rose Yarnall I will dismember this moment – wonder once again which turn it was that twisted fate, and watch my best intentions play second fiddle to her lure. I will December this moment – freeze each second before it slides though my mind and slips through the cracks, forming icicles of these regrets that wink with every rising sun. I will remember this moment – capture the smile playing in the corners of your mouth, and deeply embed your most recent attempt at crawling underneath my skin. You’ve always done it in the only way you know how: by reminding me that I am just like you.

old world maps Joe O’Brien

namesakes are like this funny for an atlas is not Atlas holdin’ heaven but closed book keeping enfolded browning maps kissing a Narcissus in stasis no one who knows whole sea’s depths golden age titans blink and briefly permanent epochs crawl by while social ants unaware their Gatling gun lives or geography beyond the anthill strive there is no heaven within early world maps patched whole by soft men each page history of borders tremblin’

Layla Lenhardt i. There’s a fever dream in me that keeps coming. In a photograph she wore a black pencil skirt and you said, “don’t worry, she wears a promise ring.” All these women with their promise rings and pencil skirts and virginities and love of god. Every woman was a virgin. Blessed Art Thou Amoungst Women in Indianapolis with godly devotions to promise rings. ii. In Omaha, in your hotel room, you whispered in her ear and she melted like wax all over your bedsheets while I was in a mid-atlantic city saving space. When I think about it, it makes me want to taste the saltiness of every single man who’s ever batted an eyelash in my direction. I wanted to tell the tinman that I had enough heart for the both of us. iii. In June, I was a skeleton. Pansy seeds were burrowed in my clavicle and in my kneecap and in the jammy gap between my big and little toes. In June, you were a botanist. iv. This time was no different, we marched like refugees, bare feet stomping on cold linoleum to my bedroom. On my back I carried the life we once had. My former world fossilized like an insect in amber in the lies you’ve told. My skirt a heap on the floor, the yellow lighting refracting off your shoulder blades. Our bodies broken into one dozen worries.

v. Between pursed lips you told me she moved to Peru. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure she brought her virginity, her promise ring. I told my sister I forgave you. I told anyone who would listen until my tongue cells went dry and both sides of my mouth were exhausted. The freckles on your back shackled me to you. I wanted to tell the scarecrow he can have the squishiest parts of my ridgy brain. vi. Your father was an Indian giver, so I gave you a free pass as I patiently watched the syncopation of your dogmatic breathing. Forbidden fruit, you told me. You had a sweet tooth for it. Forbidden fruit, they tell me, pairs well with the Lagavulin left over from easter. vii. Autumn came like a bill in the mail. While the sun hung low like a pendant on the neck of a mother and the birds had all left us, I was opening the envelope. viii. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d given life to something more than we had planned when we pressed promises between us like finger prints in ink. The crumpled white sheets in an Ohio apartment knew of a motherhood of which I was unaware.

ix. At 7 weeks it’s ears and teeth At 5 it’s heart, limbs, and eyes. They put that on posters to make you change your mind x. Eyes, limbs, heart. How many times can a person ask if you’re certain? But I knew I was certain as I’d pinch the translucent skin between my thumb and index finger to stop the acid from rising in my throat. Just like someone told me once, just like I did three years before. I’d like to tell the lion he can have all of my courage. xi. Two weeks later, a warmth previously unknown, came over me when the portly black butcher said, “lay back and count from ten, this will only hurt a bit.”

Prose

The Liaison

Samantha Campbell Heat rose from the pavement in dense waves, warping and twisting the shoes of the passers-by hustling to their day jobs. It was early, but the determined sun had been hard at work for hours now. Businessmen sweating in professional suits and young collegiate men and women passed the concrete steps upon which a young woman was perched, cradling a notebook in one arm and erasing with the opposite hand. I pulled into the open spot slightly down the road from the house, windows rolled down. As I shifted the car into park and attempted to focus on my job, the girl glanced up and back down to her work. Eyes closed, breathing steadied. Eyes opened. “Breakfast is ready,” called a woman’s voice from inside of the house. “I’ll be right there,” said the girl, scribbling furiously as she furrowed her brow. She stood after a moment, gathered her supplies, and turned to meet her father’s gaze as he stood in the doorway. He reached out and grabbed her elbow, pulling her with careful force through the threshold. Adjusting my hat, I turned on the radio only to be met, however ironically, with the voice of President Johnson, declaring that the war in Vietnam was not yet moot despite overwhelming opposition from the American public. A glance to my right revealed, through a picture window, the kitchen of the family. The girl, all dark hair and sullen eyes, sat across from a man I assumed to be her father as a woman I supposed was her mother took a seat between the two. One chair sat vacant next to the girl. I heard snippets of the conversation as it drifted through the thick summer air, their voices undulating in volume. “—behavior last night was unacceptable—,” the man said sternly, eyeing his daughter. “—sharing the political opinions of dirty hippies—,” her mother added, averting her eyes to the food on her plate as she spoke. I grimaced at the conversation and turned the radio off quickly. Obviously, this was not going to be smooth for anyone involved. My official papers sat scattered across the passenger’s seat, the most important one lay on the top of the pile. Each official document was one delivery that I had to make today. Gathering them, I sighed and buttoned my uniform, using the rear view mirror to check the quality of my work. “Excuse me!” a woman’s voice pierced through my consciousness. I tore my eyes from the mirror and looked straight ahead. She stood in front of my car, hands on the hood, as a man on his bicycle skidded to a stop behind her. “Are you deaf?” the girl spoke in a conversational tone now; looking at me with familiar sullen eyes, shared by many sisters, mothers, and wives. “Not quite deaf yet,” I said, “Can I help you?” “If you could possibly give me a ride, that would be helpful,” she said, nearly under her breath. “Sorry, miss, I’m afraid I can’t. Government car.”

I opened the door and stood in the street, remaining close to my car. She shrugged. Cautiously, we continued to survey each other. I felt a twinge of guilt in my stomach as my eyes caught sight of a button on the bag that she held to her side: Draft Beer not Students. Another on the strap of the bag: give peace a chance. I met her eyes and a flash of realization passed over her as she took in my Class A uniform and what my presence implied. She maintained her stony visage for just a moment before her eyes were brimming with tears, and she left, turning on her heel and walking off down the sidewalk. The bicyclist was nowhere to be found. Stepping up onto the sidewalk, I took a few unsatisfying breaths of the sticky midsummer air. My lungs felt starved. Normally, I prayed that the family didn’t see me coming, as in most cases it only made the job harder. This time, I hoped they saw me from their picture window or heard the exchange between their daughter and myself. As I moved toward the doorway, again I heard the same speech by President Johnson, this time emanating from an abandoned radio balancing on the ledge of a window. His words mingled in my head with the image of the girl’s button – give peace a chance. Climbing the stairs, I heard her parents’ conversation through the open window in the kitchen. Plans for an upcoming trip, I guessed, or maybe a visit to relatives or a vacation destination. I would never know, but it was pleasant to imagine. Listening for a moment, their rapport comforted me greatly and reminded me of my own parents. Quick, clever responses – their communication laying mostly in eye contact and the sort of mind reading only many years of marriage can perfect. I rang the doorbell. Their conversation halted. Footsteps padded through the kitchen as I glanced down at the name on the top of the paper. I didn’t like to know too soon, it felt too personal. The door swung open, and terror flashed across their faces. Tears stung my eyes as the woman wordlessly clung to her husband. I passed him the Union telegram and began my army-issued speech: “Mr. and Mrs. Beck, at this time the United States Military...” At times like this, I felt like an extension of the grim reaper – not the collector of the dead but his liaison to the living. I had a stack of telegrams to deliver today.

The Maiden

Kori Williams

Dark clouds hid the sun. Thunder boomed, and rain poured relentlessly against little Amelia’s tiny window. She sat in the isolation of the small, empty attic, unafraid of the elements, but fearful of something else, something within her, a darkness that cried for help. She cried quietly into her knees, careful not to make a sound. Laughter from her mother’s party echoed through the floors, and she did long to be around them, around the company of others who seemed so cheery, but that was against the rules. She was forced to remain by herself, confined to the attic with only her thoughts to keep her company. Day after day, her life started and ended the same, and earlier that day was no different, except for her mother’s eerie sense of cheerfulness. She helped clean and arrange the house to her mother’s liking for the party, performing labor her small physique struggled with in order to meet her mother’s demands. Everything had to be perfect. “Shiny, clean, and perfect!” Her mother would remind her. Amelia’s hands felt so raw from days such as these, cleaning everything over and over and over and over… Until perfection was finally met, she was not allowed to eat or rest, and for many days, such as this, she wouldn’t be able to stop for hours. About now, Amelia would have taken the opportunity to rest and eat the meal her mother made her, but it was left untouched in its spot by the door. She felt worse than ever because she had done something wrong. Her mother doesn’t like it when things go wrong, and today Amelia created too big a mess for either of them to handle by breaking one of her most precious and expensive vases. Amelia tried to apologize—she didn’t mean it—but her mother wouldn’t listen. She remembered being pummeled into a corner, and then pain. She cowered, closed her eyes, wished for it all to end, and cried, but her tears only made it worse. “I’ll give you a reason to cry!” In her hand, she clutched an older picture of her and her father, stained from tears and wrinkled all around. Amelia unfolded her hand and looked at his smiling face. She wished he was there to hold and comfort her, to make all of it go away. She would runaway to him in a heartbeat, but she couldn’t. Stuck and alone, she had no one to seek out comfort. Thunder cracked again, and lightning lit up the sky briefly. Amelia’s gaze shifted to her window; that darkness within her grew more apparent, and she felt terrified. Yet, as if in a trance, she stood to her feet and walked toward the window. The laughter and chatter from downstairs immediately silenced as she opened the window. The bitter wind hit her with a bit of force, splashing water on her old clothes. Grabbing hold of the sill, she peered out and carefully looked down below at the muddy ground, mesmerized by the raindrops. But as she looked back up at the sky, the sensation slowly turned to gloom. No ray of sunshine, no matter how hard she wished or how long she stared, would make the rain end. She turned her back to the outside and looked at the picture of her and her father once more. She saw her own smile, and she wanted that feeling again, to be happy with her father, but she couldn’t be. Not alone in the attic. Amelia sat on the sill and held the picture close to her chest, against her heart. She

took in a nervous breath, closed her eyes, squeezed the picture, and fell out the window. Amelia inhaled suddenly and her eyes flashed open to a hazy blue sky; the haze seemed to cover everything as she continued to look around her. She rolled onto her side and lifted herself up to sit on her knees, and she smiled. She was surrounded by the most beautiful and colorful flowers. She pressed her hands against the cool dirt and leaned closer to the blossoms around her to smell their alluring aroma. The warmth of the sun and the beauty of nature offered comfort and bliss. She stood to her feet and twirled amongst the flowers. She smiled from the freedom of her soreness and filled the void with laughter throughout. Beside her, on either side, was an open meadow that seemed to stretch on forever, but she gasped as she finally turned around to look behind her. There stood her house, as if nothing had changed. She walked closer toward it with a spur of hope but, the closer she walked, the darker the sky became. Thick clouds rolled over the house, and thunder boomed, like on that rainy day. Amelia jogged to the door for shelter, and suddenly the air grew stiffer. The cold paralyzed her, gripping her with a fear she knew all too well. Laughter from inside the home echoed, and her eyes began to tear. Panicking, trying to catch her breath, she stumbled backward and fell against the ground. Shaking, she pushed herself to move back further into the field, and as she did the laughter quietly began to fade. The clouds rolled back behind the house as quickly as they came, and she was once more greeted by the sun. Its warmth was no longer welcoming, but puzzling. The house still stood, but as a memory. Amelia held her hand against her chest to calm her racing heart, and she sighed. She stood tall amongst the flowers and eyed them with curiosity. They were lovely, and they blossomed with brilliant color, but they no longer filled her with bliss. She slowly turned around, but was abruptly standing in the middle of a path in a forest. Her eyes widened, and she quickly turned around only to find an abyss staring back at her. The meadow was gone in an instant, and the sun hidden to her from the canopy. Amelia gulped quietly and faced the path with an air of caution, stepping as if she were walking on egg shells. Although she could see light at the end of the path, it offered little comfort to what she would be facing along the frightening journey. Closer and closer, the distance between her and the darkness greatly lessened. Stepping through the light, she was welcomed to another meadow, but one much more closed in. Surrounding it was a denser forest, although there was no canopy. The sun’s rays were distorted among a similar haze from before, and water from a pond glistened. Upon reaching the bank, she knelt down and peered into the depths, but no fish swam, nor plants swayed. No life could be found. Her eyes focused to the reflection staring back at her. Her hair was notably unkempt, and she finally saw the new mud stains on her tattered dress. She dipped her hand into the cool water and used it as a cloth to wipe away the dirt on her face, but not all of it would easily smear away. She continued to wet her hands and clean her face, but many of the darker marks would remain. Amelia felt her eyes tear up the more she tried to clean away the marks over and over, but still they stayed. For a few moments, she sat in weeping silence. She kept a hand on her face, feeling the tender spots that covered her jaw and cheeks. She stared at her rippling reflection with uneasy eyes. “You’re safe now, my child,” a soothing female voice spoke from above. Her head

jerked up to see the woman standing before her. Amelia was startled. “Don’t be afraid,” she spoke in a more hushed tone, lowering herself into the pond. She removed the hood of her cloak, and she was met with a hypnotic gaze. Long golden hair draped down her shoulders. Her figure had the same aura as the haze distorting Amelia’s vision, and her smile showed a kindness that the young girl had not seen in many years. “Who are you?” Amelia’s mousy voice was a little shaky as she slid back a bit further. “Where am I?” “I am what you asked for, Amelia. This is all that you wanted,” the maiden spoke sweetly while stepping to the side to reveal what was forming behind her. A white apparition appeared from the haze, shaping to the mold of a person. Amelia stared with wide eyes from anticipation as the white glow began to fade and the face was clear. She beamed with a smile, “Papa!” “You can be with him again,” the maiden stretched her hand out. “Just take my hand.” Amelia looked to her father for reassurance, and he gave her a calm nod. She stood to her feet and carefully stepped into the pond. Keeping her eyes mostly on her father, she walked toward the maiden until she was in reach of her hand. “Are you ready?” She gulped and lifted her hand up to the maiden’s, wrapping her small fingers around her palm. Amelia felt the rhythm of her heart beat slower and slower. Her eyes closed, and she was met with the vision of her father reaching out to her. She reached back to him and, upon their hands touching, she finally drew her last breath. Her body fell limp against the maiden’s. The maiden lowered her head and took the child into her arms to lay her back on the bank. Her flowing long hair began to fall in strands to the ground, until her head was entirely bald. Her flesh slithered down her face revealing the clean white bone that lay beneath. She lifted the hood of her cloak back over her face as her eyes melted down onto the ground. Her teeth cracked and fell out of her jaw, following the flesh. Nails slid from her fingers. The pale puddle slipped into the pond until all of the flesh had been removed. The figure lifted Amelia’s body from the ground and strode away from the pond. The water spiraled at its beckon, withering to nothing. The dense trees grew taller and darker, reaching to the light to block it permanently. The figure walked towards the path Amelia had bravely taken, and the two disappeared along its shadowy tunnel.

The Top 10 Killer Ways to Write a List Post Shawn Mihalik

So you want to start a blog, I hear. And why wouldn’t you since you know it worked so well for me? I want you to understand that I think this is a wonderful thing. But if you’re going to start writing blog posts and posting them on the internet for all of internet-accessing humanity to see, and if you want this blogging to lead to the freedom and wealth and internet fame that I and countless lucky others have enjoyed and for your blog posts to be read by a large enough group of internet-accessing humanity, you’re going to need to follow certain rules with respect to the steps of writing blog posts and coming up with a catchy blog title and post titles and effectively—what’s the word?—insinuating SEO (search engine opportunization, I think it stands for). These certain rules are as follows: One: Write your posts like lists because people [italics]love[italics] lists as much as they love sugary desserts like cake and ice cream and certain kinds of pies (pumpkin, cherry, apple, chicken pot). There are a great many kinds of list posts you can write. List posts like Five Ways to Write an Awesome Blog, Five Ways to Make Money from Writing on the Internet, Ten Steps to Growing Your Audience by a Very Large Percentage in Only 30 Days, Ten Things I’ve Learned About Life Through Writing This Blog, Five Ways to Kick Ass with Blog Posts, Ten Places to Get Free Pictures for Your Blog Posts, Five Reasons to Not Include Pictures in Your Blog Posts (it’s simpler, it looks less cluttered, it looks better, it allows for more white space, your readers can focus on the words). Make your posts controversial. And flakey. Like the above mentioned picture/no picture conundrum. If the majority of the web is doing one thing, you write about doing the opposite. One important thing to remember is that if you want your blog to stick out, when writing list-type posts, don’t use your normal old-fashioned numbers like 5 or 10 because those are the numbers all the other bloggers use and so they’re over-used and the internet is kind of saturated with them; instead use the less-used numbers like 7 and 9 and 16. Two: Move out of your parents’ house as quickly as possible because they just don’t understand what blogging is, and while you know you’re going to make it as a blogger, your parents will do nothing but discourage you and your dreams. The conversation you have with your parents might go something like this: You say, “I don’t need this college crap, [italics]Mom[italics]. It’s just slowing me down and preventing me from living the life I know will make me happiest.” “Just what are you trying to tell us?” your mother says as you and her and your father sit in a dark restaurant, you on one side of the booth’s table and them on the other. They’re sipping wine but you’re drinking water because you won’t be 21 for a few more months. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m quitting school, is what I’m trying to tell you,” you say,

the exasperation you knew you were going to have to feel during this conversation already setting itself dreadfully upon you. You can just tell your parents aren’t about to like what you’re trying to tell them. Your parents get this incredulous look and your father says, “What!” Your father is this balding, fit man, who has worked a difficult manual job his entire life at the shipping center just one town over, every day lifting boxes onto trucks, one after the other, lifting, lifting, bending at the knees and putting the boxes on the trucks over and over again all day, until only just recently when he put in for a promotion because Hey, what the hell? he deserved it after all these years, and so now he still works at the shipping center but in administration. And he’s worked so hard because he wanted to see you taken care of. He’s pretty much paid for your tuition. He’s wearing his only suit tonight at dinner, a dark-blue wide-lapel jacket, pleated pants. His white shirt’s top button is unbuttoned, his collar open, his striped tie a little loose. “It’s okay,” you tell them reassuringly, moving both your hands in front of you up and down, palms down, as if to say [quote]calm down[quote]. “I’m going to become a blogger and make money on the internet.” “Oh hell you’re not!” your father says, erupting, just as you anticipated he would. And why wouldn’t he? They couldn’t understand. They don’t get how the world works anymore. It’s not the one they grew up in. We have cell phones now and laptop computers and tablets and Bluetooth devices in cars. Your mother tries to calm him down because others in the restaurant are staring. “Honey, dear,” she says, “calm down. Others are staring at us.” “And they should stare at us!” your father says. The silverware and glasses and appetizer plates clank as he slaps a hand down on the tabletop. “They should look over here and see what a lazy daughter I have. They should see what I’ve thrown all my money away for, paying for her education and this is the thanks I receive!” It’s okay, though, because [italics]you[italics] know things are going to be fine. It’s been fine for every blogger you read regularly, and some of them even travel the world and have adventures. Three: Find your niche. “Niche” looks like it should be pronounced like “Nietzsche,” so don’t get confused here. I’ll explain what a niche is: A niche is a thing where you write about a topic and only that particular topic. Except that when I say “only that particular topic,” I don’t necessarily mean that you only have to write about that particular topic—you can write about whatever you want, as long you write about your niche most of the time. Example of niches: Fashion Minimalism Cooking and recipes Food Exercise

Diet Finances Meditation Buddhism Travel Productivity and productivity systems Technology Vintage Moleskine notebooks Writing Reading Cell phones Apple Computers (Regarding exercise and diet: if you choose either one of these as your niches, you had better make sure beforehand that you are in pretty amazing shape yourself because nobody likes to take that kind of advice from people who don’t look like they should be giving it. If you aren’t in shape, that’s okay too, but just frame your posts as if you’re on this amazing life-altering journey the ultimate goal of which is perfect physicality and you want your readers to follow this journey with you. Also, regarding diet: Paleo and Vegan seem to be the only diets worth writing about on the internet these days.) Four: So you’ve quit school and your parents have disowned you (is what you tell everyone even though they—your parents—still call you daily and ask if you need any money and are you eating and can we help and we’re worried about you), but that’s okay because now you live in Portland or Boston or Seattle. Now technically you’ve spent all your money getting there and on a brand new MacBook Air and Merino wool pants, but you’ve been writing all about this, and people actually find it somewhat interesting, and so you’ve got like almost 50 whole subscribers at this point, which isn’t so bad. By the end of the month you’ll have even more and will even be making an income from your blog. Five: Two months in, you’re couch-surfing in Portland and spending most of your day in coffee shops, writing a lot. You’re writing something around 2,000 words a day, and you end up publishing anywhere between 500-1,000 of those words around noon just after you drink your day’s second green smoothie. You’ve received some initial criticism of your blog’s first several dozen post’s spelling and grammar and use of HTML, but you’re definitely getting better. You write every morning in the coffee shop, and then in the afternoon you read other blogs, the blogs of the bloggers who first inspired you to blog, and you watch important web videos like catchy new dance songs and TED talks. Someday maybe you’ll give a TED talk. Or at least a TEDx talk. Six: Step six is one of the most important steps in writing a killer list post, and step six is: Practice Yoga. Every evening here in Portland or Seattle you go to this little yoga studio on the corner of one of the hippest streets in town. The place is small with wooden floors and pink or blue yoga mats spread out at regular intervals, but the instructor is calm and kind and wise and certified and has been a yogi for almost three

years. The practice is donation-based, which is great because your income is small and trickling in slowly because, like a digital version of the box with a slit in the top that sits by the door to the yoga studio, you’ve placed a donation button on the sidebar of your website and at the bottom of your posts, which occasionally people click on and give you a couple bucks, which you can access in a few days after the bucks have been transferred to your bank account. You can afford yoga and smoothies and vegetarian food and to save a little so you can get an apartment in this city or buy a plane ticket to the next city you’re thinking about maybe moving to, because this city is sort of used up, blogging-wise, is the blogoshpere’s consensus. Sometimes you practice yoga on your own in the park. You wear special yoga pants. You have sex with the yoga studio’s yogi three or four times. Seven: Now you can afford your own domain name, which admittedly you should have purchased from the very beginning, so you purchase one. Your blog’s url no longer ends in .wordpress.com but in .net, which is just far more professional. You’ve also purchased domains ending in .biz., .co, and .es. You pay for hosting now, too, because your RSS and email subscribers when counted together total over 1,200. It’s still not the best, but it’s a following. You tell your parents how happy you are. They say they still don’t understand what you’re up to, what this blogging thing is, exactly, and how you’re able to earn a living. They don’t actually even subscribe to your blog, you suspect, but they’re happy you’re happy. Just be careful, they say. Eight: Write an ebook. Nine: Well now things are tricky. Your ebook initially sold very well, like surprisingly, insanely well, surpassing the highest sales you could have possibly expected, a relatively unknown blogger like you. It started when you sent a review copy of your ebook (in ePub, mobi, and PDF formats) to this one popular guy in your niche who’s been blogging for years and whose readers number over a million, and he actually read it, and for some reason he liked it and wrote a post about it praising its simplistic but refreshingly clairvoyant approach to a tired topic (you’ve managed to stretch a paltry 8,000 words into 114 digital pages with a clever use of whitespace and creative layout which you claim you did to make each thought more poignant and reflect-uponable), and some of his readers bought it and some of the other popular bloggers who were initially inspired by this guy also bought it and wrote about it and their readers bought it, and so in the first week something like 15,000 people bought and read your ebook, which you priced at $2.99 and sold on your own website using various plug-ins so that there would be no middle-man, and so you made almost $45,000 in seven days, and your sales comparatively died after that and you sold maybe 50-100 copies a week after that, but you had at that point enough money to relocate and so for the hell of it you moved to Japan because not many people blog from Japan, you noticed. By the time you’d purchased your ticket to Tokyo and arrived there and converted a portion of your funds to the local currency and found an apartment (which was no small feat; it was expensive and you had to pay cash upfront for several months), you had spent about half your money (because you had also invested in a new computer and a tablet and a fancy backpack to carry your belongings and two pairs of barefoot-style shoes and expensive tea and a Vitamix once you moved into your apartment and you eat almost all of your meals out because not purchasing cooking equipment cuts down on your

“overhead”), so you needed some surefire way to bring in more money. Another ebook. And with the sales of your first ebook came new subscribers to your website, so you were confident your next book’s sales would be plenty high. You wrote the next book (6,500 words in 80 pages, with pictures this time, which pictures were taken with a new camera you bought upon arrival in Japan and were edited with the latest version of Adobe’s Creative Suite) in three days, rehashing much of the material in your first book, and edited it hastily. Feeling bold, and knowing that information only you could provide should be priced appropriately, you sold the book for USD $30 (because the majority of your readers were still American despite your location change). The book sold dismally and so you lowered the price, but by now the reviews had come out and the reviewers almost unanimously seemed appalled (because they just didn’t [italics] get it [italics], you argue) and you only made a few thousand dollars and within months the whole operation collapsed around you and you were unable to support the quality of life you’d set up for yourself and your permanent address was still listed as your parents house and suddenly now you have to pay a large amount of taxes on the income you made and then spent and you don’t even have enough money for food, which is why now things are tricky. Ten: You wander the streets of Tokyo. This is it, you tell yourself—you’ve [quote] made it [quote]. You’re the talk of the blogging community. Other bloggers write about you, asking question’s like Where has she gone? and Whatever happened to her? Every few days, someone buys one of your ebooks. You can’t afford vegetarian food anymore, so you start eating cheap meat. You’re suddenly now eating worse than you did before you started blogging, because back then—was that really only months ago?—you still didn’t eat fast food, even though you were a student and most students ate fast food, because your parents always made sure you ate better than that, but now you’re eating fast food. Fast food is cheap in Tokyo. It’s only so many yen. You still have your laptop. You’ve tried to sell your fancy tablet, but nobody cares for that particular brand in Japan, so would it really even be worth it, you ask each time someone offers you a small amount. You should sell it anyway, though, because of food. You sit in this coffee shop connected to wifi—which you have to pay for here, a few bucks an hour, and so you don’t connect often—and you open up your email. There’s a message from that yogi you slept with, a link to the yogi’s latest blog post, the title of which has the word “Tantric” in it. There’re several emails from your parents, who it turns out did subscribe to your blog and read each and every post and are concerned now because they haven’t seen you post in a while. Are you okay? Where are you now? Are you still in Japan? Please, call us? Do you need to come home? Do you need money? You’ve got a bunch of mail waiting here for you. We can pay for your ticket home, honey, just call us. We love you. We hope all is well. Your grandma was asking about you just the other day. Why don’t you give her a call sometime? Here’s her number in case you no longer have it. Stay safe. Email us. Where are you? What’s new? Where are you? We love you. We love you. We love you. Where are you, honey? Please, at least let us know you’re safe.

Ten Minutes

Benjamin Rozzi Ten… Birds nestling in trees draped in auburn and goldenrod leaves—sunshine streaming through the gaps. A gentle breeze came whistling by, causing some of the browner foliage to fall to the earth below. Cigarette smoke from the designated zone pulled away with the wind—patients infectiously smiling at one another. Today is the day, the day we are finally taking our little one home. Claire. Nine… Born 11:42AM on October 22nd. Seven pounds, eight ounces. 20 inches long. Her piercing squeal was reminiscent of Marie’s loud mouth—something all of the Smithton girls innately have. Each cry sent a lightning bolt down my spine, which coursed through my body and exited through my toes into the linoleum floor beneath my feet. But, when our eyes met, the tension between my wife and I subsided. Our daughter was here, and she was healthy. Claire. Eight… I always associated the hospital with death row—a marginal amount of the populace rotting away as they walk their own Green Mile. All through the halls, sounds of coughing and somber moaning surface between beeps and squeaking cart wheels. However, today is significantly different. Today, as the automatic doors close behind us, I picture the gates of heaven closing and a cherub in Marie’s arms. Claire. Seven… Luckily, Marie and I were the planning type, so our baby making an early appearance didn’t catch us off guard. After the news of the unexpected pregnancy, we kicked our asses into high gear. Or should I say, Marie kicked my ass into high gear, ordering me around. I always knew that gag-gift whip from her bachelorette party was going to backfire. By the end of the first trimester, I had already baby-proofed the house and had a new IIHS top safety pick sitting in the garage bay. Claire. Six… As ready as we were, nothing can prepare a new parent for putting the carrier in the car for the first time, which I failed to do until Marie’s water broke. “Damnit, Henry! I told you to get that done a week ago!” Marie exclaimed between her contractions. Now, with Marie silent in the front seat and our daughter asleep in the back, all of that seemed pointless—the nagging and the screaming and the fighting— because our sweet angel is going home. She’s finally going home. Claire.

Five… Smooth roads are something for which West Virginia is not known, a fact I knew too well having worked for the Department of Transportation for the past few months. “I thought you were supposed to fix all these holes, not make them worse!” Something Marie doesn’t realize is the entire state is sitting on quicksand. No matter how many times you patch something, it’s going to come back—sometimes worse than it was before. Even parking lots are Swiss cheese. “I just need to make sure I don’t…” I begin to say before hitting a crater at the top of the street. “Shit. So much for the baby having an easy first car ride.” Claire. Four… “Henry, can’t you do anything right? I can’t even trust you to drive home without messing up,” Marie said. I know it’s difficult to believe, but Marie has redeeming qualities. She keeps the house clean, makes dinner every night, and respects my mother, which can be quite difficult considering Marie’s short temper; and—let’s be honest—my mother isn’t always the easiest person to get along with. Let’s just hope our daughter doesn’t inherit the short fuse. Claire. Three… Red rings began forming around the angel’s eyes from all the crying. I turn around in the driver’s seat and begin singing a lullaby to the bundle of fire, crackling raucously. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And, if that mockingbird won’t sing, papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.” Marie chimed in, sarcastically, with a “Yeah, I’m sure,” probably referring to the fact that I couldn’t afford a proper engagement ring given the circumstances. In the few moments it took to glare at Marie contemptuously and glance back at our baby, the wailing had ceased, and all was calm once more. “Well, Marie. If this is a telltale sign of what parenting is going to be like, I think we’ll be just fine.” Claire. Two… Staring at my baby, I gently press the gas pedal to begin into the intersection. High-pitched screeches fill my ears. A truck hits us and sends us careening onto our side. Through my winced eyes, I caught glimpses of my surroundings. Glass shards glimmering in the same sunlight that was filling the gaps in the trees just minutes before. Sparks as friction brings our vehicle to a stop. A pacifier flies from the back of the car, rattles off of the dashboard, and rests just out of reach. Complete silence. And then, nothing but black. Claire.

One… Everything is hazy; reality is coming back to me in waves. The car is resting on the passenger side. The faint smell of gasoline fills my nose. “Marie? Marie, are you okay?” I see blood, forming a pool under her head. “Marie?! Answer me!” Why isn’t she responding?! But, wait…the baby…our daughter. “Claire, honey?!” Her arm is limp, hanging across her body. “Someone help!” I began screaming through coughs. The smoke filling the cabin is starting to grow more dense. But, just then, I heard the Smithton squeal and glanced quickly enough to see her hand clench into a fist. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Daddy’s here. Hush, little baby, don’t say a wo…” Blackness fills my eyes once more. Zero.

Contributors Julia Alvarez

is originally from Monongahela, PA, but spends most of her days on the Washington & Jefferson College campus where she studies English. She enjoys reading books and jamming out big time.

Chelsea Brown

is 27. She is a scorpio—truly. She lives in Philadelphia. She works for an education-based non profit—she loves it. She loves her family more than anything. She loves her friends -particularly her roommates- as well.

Katie Campbell

is currently a junior studying English and Chinese at Washington & Jefferson College. She is involved with a plethora of activities on campus and enjoys reading science-fiction novels, writing creatively, and dancing.

Samantha Campbell

is a native of Pittsburgh and a student at Duquesne University. She studies English, Political Science and Business. Upon graduation, she hopes to teach English in a foreign country and return to the ‘Burgh to open a bookstore.

Guido Castellani

is a songwriter and poet based in east London. He is inspired by post-modern literature, American folk music, and an obsession with loss and pain.

Mason Hershenow

is an award-winning photographer and writer based in California. He holds a bachelor’s degree in photography from Sacramento State, but still struggles with writing an effective artist biography. He can be found on the Internet. 35

Alessandra “Ali” Jacobs

is a graduate of Washington & Jefferson College. She works in real estate and manages her own online fashion store, Un_Brand_ed. Her writing passions lie in dark, but simple poetry and making the mundane spring to life.

Layla Lenhardt

was once drunk in Jane Austen’s living room and has since had poems published in The Wooden Tooth Review, Third Wednesday, and Right Hand Pointing. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of 1932 Quarterly.

Matthew Marvel

started writing at a young age. He began writing short stories and movie scripts that one day he saw himself starring in. Over the years his work evolved into poetry that is inspired by his life experiences.

Joanna Medofer

is a junior at the University of Pittsburgh studying Communication Science and Creative Writing. She is originally from Brownsville, Pennsylvania.

Shawn Mihalik

is the author of four works of fiction. His most recent novella, The Assured Expectation of Things Hoped For, was published by Asymmetrical Press in 2015. Shawn currently lives in Helena, MT, with his wife and their two cats, Worf and Oliver.

Joe O’Brien

is a professional layabout who has been called ‘lazy’ by grandmothers in several languages, and an amateur boddhisatva attempting to sever all attachments to this material plane. His enthusiasm for travel stems from a deep-seated obsession with maps.

Benjamin Rozzi

is currently a senior at Washington & Jefferson College, where he studies English. His post-baccalaureate plans include obtaining an MFA in creative writing, continuing onward to receive a Ph.D., and teaching at a collegiate institution.

Wyatt Smith

is generally a decent human being, but he certainly has his dark side and might even be evil. This sharp divide is where he gets his edge, and you will find him here sharpening his pencils, ruining sheets of paper.

Alec Swartz

studies English at Washington and Jefferson College and edits poetry for The Wooden Tooth Review. In his spare time, he is a stunt double for Superman and a minder of his own business. He prefers Star Trek to Star Wars.

Alexa Terrell

is a student at Washington & Jefferson College where she studies English. She aspires to obtain an MFA in creative writing.

Tim Vincent, Ph.D.

teaches writing and literature at Duquesne University, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Recent poetry of his is forthcoming in anthologies from Concrete Wolf Press and Grayson Books. He is a 2016 winner in the GRSF/Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest.

Kori Williams

flourishes by drawing from her own experiences, in thrillers that ponder the deeper meanings of life and death as seen in “The Maiden.” She is empathetic, and a person who strives to promote only the best in others.

Lindley Rose Yarnall

took her first writing course one summer during her elementary school years, and she immediately fell in love with such a limitless way to express anything and everything. She dedicates this poem to her brother.

Ali Zimmerman

graduated from W&J with a bachelor’s degree in Business Administration. She is currently a zookeeper and animal educator at a farm/private zoo in Eighty Four, PA.

Editors

Layla Lenhardt • Editor-in-Chief

Staff

Rosie Corey • General Managing Editor

Benjamin Rozzi • Managing Editor of Prose & Social Media Coordinator

Alexa Terrell • Co-Managing Editor of Poetry

Kori Williams • Co-Managing Editor of Poetry

Julia Nadovich • Managing Editor of Design Lauryn Halahurich • Website Coordinator

Design Team Julia Nadovich Lauryn Halahurich Kristen Lucente Lauren Markish

Associate Editors Shannon Adams Julia Alvarez Megan Bolger Samantha Campbell Brent Herman Ali Jacobs Jessica Kerr Christina Kosch Lauren Lamm Kayla Marasia Lauren Markish Matt Marvel Joseph Reedy Annelise Rice Sarah Royds Alec Swartz Ke’alohi Worthington

Information Interested in submitting to the next issue?

We are accepting any and all creative fiction. The guidelines are as follows: 1. You can submit up to 10 pieces of poetry and 3 short prose pieces, no more than 10 pages each. 2. Email each piece in an individual word document, please do not include your name in the word document. In your email, tell us which attachments are prose and which are poems. 3. Email your submissions to the following account: 1932quarterly@ gmail.com In order for your submission(s) to be considered, you must follow these guidelines. Our team of editors will be going through a lot of pieces, so your assistance in adhering to these three points is greatly appreciated.

Interested in editing for 1932 Quarterly?

If you have an interest in joining this wonderful project as an associate editor, please contact Layla Lenhardt. The position can be used as an internship, as a resume builder, and we hear, Layla writes an amazing letter of recommendation. So if you have any interest in editing, learning about the literary journal process, or just a general love of reading, please contact us at Lenhardt.layla@gmail.com! It will be a such a rewarding experience, we promise!

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Winter 2016