Bad jacket Issue 7 by Bad Jacket

ISSUE 7

Letter from the editors, Whoosh, the Easterly winds tap their claws at the window panes of our thawing minds. We have heard your screeching winter thoughts, and after one bitch of a scuttle, we have come out victorious once again with a basket full of sugary, bunny-shaped treats to share with you all. ...not that we really like mascots for holidays. In fact, we don’t. Nonetheless, the golden eggs are no less savory coming from a group of weirdos in furry suits. Especially when the weirdos are our adorable and alcoholic street neighbors who art from their guts, and submit to our magazine. Some of our sexy submitters are sober too. What can we say? Good art is good art. If you find this book, please hide it in your friend’s yard, and if you see a rabbit in an alleyway, think of us. Antagonistically yours, Bad Jacket TO SUBMIT TO BAD JACKET SEND YOUR WORK TO BADJACKET94@GMAIL.COM To keep us in print, this magazine costs $7. Brought to you with love by editors Katryn Dierksen, Daniel W. Wright, Frances Garren, Chris Zuver, Zoë Scala, R.C. Patterson, Jacob L.E. Oliver, Clara Stone, and Benjamin Luczak.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Anna Wermuth..................................1,15,51 Aaron Joseph Bulejski............................3,14 Alyssa Mae Willaims................................35 Brett Underwood....................................22 Bretton Hamilton...................................17 Carlynn Forst...................................16,19 Chelsea Brooks.....................................32 Chris Zuver........................................34 C.J. Hugh..........................................31 Clara Stone.........................................4 Cody Spotanski and Joe Morgan.......................5 Cory Perkins.....................................3,11 Daniel W. Wright....................................6 David Anson........................................28 Denmark Laine......................................44 Dove Fleetwood.....................................23 Emilia Eller.......................................11 Emily G. Stremming.................................40 Elise Giammanco....................................36 Frances Garren.....................................25 G.M.H. Thompson....................................13 Grace McGinnis.....................................29 Greg C. Hartl...................................30,39 Haley Michelle Jones...............................27 Jacob L.E. Oliver..............................1,7,33 Katryn Dierksen.....................................8 Kristen McGeehan.................................2,9 Kurt Zuver.........................................43 Mackenzie Thorn....................................12 Madison Wizzard Price..............................37 Mike A. Bryan......................................41 Moody Rose Christopher....................cover,25,52 R.C. Patterson.....................................20 Mark Vertigo and Jen Bloodstone....................26 Sarah Wahoff.......................................28 Sean Arnold........................................24 Sheena Starstuff................................10,35 Spencer Hughes..................................12,23 Terrence Brown......................................7 Theo Banaszak......................................27 ZoĂŤ Scala..........................................42

The Faith Jacob L.E. Oliver

Niña Pequeña Anna Wermuth

Collision Kristen McGeehan

My Least Favorite Alarm Cory Perkins I lie in the dark Eyes closed. I am trapped somewhere Between indecision and surrender, Counting the hours I haven’t slept. I hear the breath of all other creatures crashing through the house like waves not meant for me. Unmoving, My sighing gets softer. The darkness gets dimmer. Then a sharp, lifeless voice sounds: “ITS 7 A.M.” I sigh hard enough to wake the sleepers and surrender to the day.

Untitled Aaron Joseph Bulejski 3

Scrabble Poem Clara Stone Water in the vat, it’s dew, but not in a drop. Vats sealed with wax, carved from a stick of yew. A view, avocado by day. A boa told to wait, pulling my bow, I’ll aim to the sky and let the arrow fly. Not to kill, just to hit a cob. A ruby star, meow. Crystal ice, a map inside who knows? Not I. I can’t hear your horn toot, my foot, or toe is stuck in this old key fob. Nifty boat, a boot of tin, ten of them. A cent’s worth, I’m deaf, what’s debt? You’re daft, you say. A zoo that can fizz, a zit, a bit, a zulu, a yurt. You’re hurt, clean out that dirt, quick, I’ll quiz you.

The Apathetic Gods Play Tennis with My Sun While I Whistle-Walk Through a James Taylor Song Cody Spotanski and Joe Morgan Sun, come warm my shoulder on a sleepy April Wednesday Before the gods dink you lightly over the mountains and your oft-inspired lover chokes the dust you left behind. I pick a soggy-eyed fluke out the ol’ flat river, slackin’ steps down the hillside in my Turtle Wax tee. I seent you smilin’, John Wayne I seent you wink, John McEnroe I seent you naked, Johnny B. Goode Clustering bees eavesdrop beneath a leaf Smackin’ bizz-rhyme and buzz-rhyme, all in a day. Where plant you your shadow tonight, sweet Sun--where conjure your ghosts? Where hide you your sacrament, your St. Margaret, your Queen of Scots? Where lie your unsteady conscience, the hapless crabapple tonight? You are remote, Sun; artless at the crest of your long lob across would-be darkness. Give me something, Sun. Give me something, Indifference.

Rumble Daniel W. Wright

Type your poem so loud that you wake up your roommate Scream it out loud that you gain a drunk’s attention Beat it out so long that your heart syncs up to its rhythm Let it change you so much that you leave the husk of who you were on the floor Yearn for it so much that you’re not ashamed to cry Do not leave it alone until you know who you stare at in the mirror Never let it sit idly in your mind only to fade away with other forgotten thoughts Write it down Even if it’s the dumbest thing you ever thought If it brought something out of you a laugh or an eye roll it’s worth something You and your misery are never as alone as you think

On cinema I could loop Terrence Brown You, becoming a million floral sunshines blooming in the field of my vision, browning in my memory like sugar and honey in a skillet. In other words you, flower in my heart. Mothering a sweet fragrance in your thought

Painted Jacob L.E. Oliver 7

A Lens Katryn Dierksen 8

Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Warm Kristen McGeehan 9

Words Sheena Starstuff She parted her lips to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The knowledge was unknowable. So she asked him to take it easy. And when he laughed she knew it wasn’t at her. So she laughed too. Because life is not easy. The depravity of raw emotion. Like a thousand small deaths. And she was afraid. Because she had been dead for so long she wasn’t sure she knew how to live. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. But this sensation. So immediate. So imminent. So intense. A smile touched his lips. He looked into the depth of her eyes and revealed her soul to her. She examined herself through his eyes, as she lay bare before him. Then she trembled, struck by the frailty of the thing. The absurdity. To think- she had thought she was strong. And that’s when she laughed again. Because, words. There are none. No way to articulate the overwhelming feeling of pain as The mundane falls away. To come upon the precipice and leap. Knowing that the time has come to soar.

Put Your Money on the Dead Cory Perkins Strike a match to a dead man’s pipe And send smoke signals to stars. There’s ghosts in my apartment—I can hear ‘em now But I still don’t know who they are. I bet 55 dollars on every horse And no pony won the race. There’s poison in the water—Now I’m flat broke I aint got a single dollar to my name. I was trying to play poker at an old road house But somebody had stolen the Ace. The cheat wouldn’t confess and so I grabbed the cash and shot the rest-Worth every penny that I played. Strike a match for my cold dead heart. My clocks been ticking since the silver age. There’s people looking for me—I don’t want ‘em here. I’m not trying to share my shallow grave.

THE MAIDEN, THE MOTHER, THE CRONE Emilia Eller 11

Untitled Spencer Hughes

Water is Wet Mackenzie Thorn

I wonder Will we one day sit side by side mutually masturbating to fascinating nuclear eclipses I then reminisce Over black out days Tilting bottles and sniffing God until totality Chasing that first high through fields of yellow grass and broken glass My imagination within the creek bed kept me fed While Ketchup sandwiches only reminded me of how hungry I really was Just like having sex with strangers only reminds me of how lonely I really am

There’s a Wild Cat G.M.H. Thompson . . . it had so many flowers you couldn’t see the leaves; we had one with maybe twenty

flowers.

There’s a wild cat out here, there’s a feral cat, you know, sometimes when no one cares about them & they’re on their own . . . You know, I think I’ve seen that cat a little while ago . . . What do we do, just make our own sandwiches why don’t I just sit here on the corner & you can make me a sandwich. I only want one piece of bread, one piece of meat, a little salad— I’ve already had my pickle allowance . . . Did you say you saw that other feral cat: there’s two of them. I don’t know whose coffee this is. We were all in Mammoth Cave all of us & you know every kid had a bag with all their clothes . . . I guess I lost my fork; that’s okay— : we should just take all the forks here. We took the train in Georgetown with you; why did they tear it down, because it was dangerous on the tracks?: — take the chair behind you . . . don’t throw it away, just put it here! Do you know what the early people did with the buffa-

lo? they chased them to the end of the mesa & then what happened to the buffalo? they crashed to their death & then they slaughtered them

Aaron Joseph Bulejski 14

She Faces Anna Wermuth 15

Bound Back Carlynn Forst

The Unbelievable Case of Human Metamorphasis Bretton Hamilton Texans are no stranger to the Monarch Butterfly. These beautiful insects migrate south through the Lone Star State after a short pupation period. Throughout February and March, kids can search through the abundant milkweed plants in search of their iconic pupae. This familiarity did little to ease the shock of Dorothy Smith, mother of the 24-year old graphic designer, Jamie Smith. Dorothy drove out to Jamie’s flat in Houston this past Monday to discover her daughter’s bed nearly encased in what is being called a chrysalis. “When I first walked in the whole flat smelled like death. I was so sure Jamie had overdosed or slipped or something. I could barely hear her over my crying, but she was shouting from her bedroom. I ran in of course. She was buried beneath or somehow inside this reeking, oily mass on her bed. She was pleading me to stop as I began tearing away at the [chrysalis’s] hardened crust. She apologized for not calling me, but told me that she was ok. Her speech was slurred and muffled. I was so scared I called [her father] Ron and 911,” Dorothy recounted. Over the next several hours Jamie and her bed were extracted and airlifted to the Houston Methodist Willowbrook Hospital (HMWH). The outer layer of her chrysalis was tested to consist of gastric acid and genetic material, suggesting that it was formed from Jamie’s vomit and other bodily fluids. Imaging scans revealed that Jamie’s body had mostly been reduced to a goo of digestive enzymes, stem cells, and raw genetic material. Over the following day she further degenerated until we were no longer able to speak with her. Dr. Uzmani, Chief Physician at HMWH, reported “[Bacterial and Genetic] tests show that Jamie’s condition is not viral or infectious. This is unlike any disease or illness we’ve seen. Before [Jamie] fully lost the ability to communicate with us she was struggling to form coherent thoughts. She begged us to ‘let this

take its course.’ She could feel herself changing. She was both excited and terrified, but she wasn’t in any pain.” Uzmani insists that physicians and experts are going to great lengths to ensure Jamie is kept safe and quarantined for the duration of her stay. The police investigation unearthed additional information about Jamie’s behavior in the weeks prior to her disappearance. Friends reported she had been struggling with depression for most of the year. “We made an effort to get [Jamie] to come out with us,” Lynn, Jamie’s best friend told us. “She always had a nice time. It was better than just drinking at home alone. Eventually, she stopped coming out altogether. She told me she quit her job and was going back to stay with family. She isn’t close to her parents, but she insisted that she needed to disconnect and relax for a bit. I tried to get in contact with her a few times after that and assumed she was just ignoring me. I send [Dorothy] a message asking how she was doing. That’s pretty much how we figured out she was lying. No one had any clue where she was.” Experts disagree on the exact cause of Jamie’s condition. The ‘Metamorphic Gene’ hypothesis builds upon previous research into human hibernation. Humans may possess inactive genes that act as dormant triggers for hibernation, or in this case, human pupation. No other mammal exhibits this behavior. Jamie’s condition is truly a bizarre and unbelievable event that has not only changed the lives of Jamie’s friends and family, but perhaps, our understanding of human physiology. If Jamie’s pupation follows the same path as the Monarch Butterfly she will likely exist in this condition for weeks. Some insects remain in their chrysalis state for months or even years. Lynn called in to comment as these new revelations about Jamie’s condition became public, “Whoever or whatever Jamie becomes at the end of all this. I hope she’s happy.” Dorothy

Smith

declined

comment.

Bound Vertical Carlynn Forst 19

Understand We are Not Aliens! RC Patterson

You guys remember the Tasmanian devil? He went by Taz. Taz has been portrayed as Brutal, ravenous, barbarous, bloodthirsty Dimwitted, ignorant, stupid, illiterate. Speaking in grunts and moans. This was the Tasmanian devil, as the English knew them. Living off the earth. The Henna skinned mother sits outside her home. She is Basket weaving, performing a tradition. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s braiding malachite valleys with kelp, interlacing, intertwining. The basket will carry water like Moinee, the primeval creator, Who created lands, rivers and plateaus of the first man, Parlevar, a spirit residing in the ground. He will return to the ground leaving his bones as a talisman on a kangaroo sinew string necklace worn by the daughters of the Henna skinned mother. She is weaving a visual story. She is a story the maireener shells, fashioned into necklaces, bracelets, and anklets, traditions handed down from families surviving on the Furneaux Islands. This is the Tasmanian Devil. Yosemite Sam is a bitch-ass little man.

A Germanic Genocidal little shit of a man The Tasmanian Devil Speaks in a phonology The syntax of which consists five “open”, five “closed” vowels, and nasal vowels. Many ain’t speaking it now Because the English came in beat and murder raped them out. Sam hunted them in the bush. Killed kids, sold skulls, to museums, of people you forgot. Sam sold skulls of people you forgot! Much like his American cousin bartering in red skins and bucks. Cutting red skins like tomatoes, pealing red skin and selling it She’s dreaming now Dreaming of the spirits. Dreaming of the devils, but never thinking of leaving, sounds Of music are frequent, as are scenes of these dark people singing about Surviving, singing in a language where which Stress appears to have been on the penultimate syllable Saying know us, the people of this land. Understand that we are not the aliens! We are not devils, We are black skinned rebels In speaking Palawa Saying know us, the people of this land. Understand that we are not the aliens!

Brett Underwood

Knowing that the butt is aflame after the failure of journalism in a cool, stiff rain under a broken limb in a foreign forest It is nice to walk the sidewalks of a broken world of misspelled verbs and broken promises. After a meal of unscrambled segues and dog food amidst the babble of the diner attendants and unimaginative dolts or a view of the wet, slick streets alive with oil and broken neon, It is nice to walk home through the corpses and have a quiet and lonely wank and fall silently asleep on a dirty carpet of comfort knowing the rent is due. the seed is spent. the credit is overdue. until the next nightmare of awakening a defecation taste in the parking lot could not care less.

Alive

Untitled Dove Fleetwood

Untitled Spencer Hughes

St. Louis on Fire Sean Arnold

The backwoods backwards twang of an inner city miracle Lost beneath an elm growing out of a dumpster. I’d sit by the river, sip a bitter root and let the barges Drift towards the city Rick smoking insatiable in my memory. I once heard of a fight where one man pushed another into the river He flailed and met his end. There I’d bike along that dusty fall trail, find used needles Search for evidence, answers Men muttering about violence The voice of streets I could barely know or comprehend. I got lost among a woods of brick apartment buildings and corner shops selling hookah A woods of brick buildings lawless rules and a landscape shaggy with elms and sponsored community gardens Nikes strung across telephone poles. The city’s on fire There are warring factions I watch the river move.

A Bukowski Met a Lana Del Rey Frances Garren i peeled myself inside out for you like a tangerine and you coaxed my body into your coffin bed and my fruits became your ego’s receptacle, my skin, your flesh those prideful strokes into naive caverns those growing pains i wouldn’t birth romantically sickened minds shouldn’t reproduce

Untitled Moody Rose Christopher 25

Mark Vertigo and Jen Bloodstone 26

Red

The next time the next time Theo Banaszak There I am, in the basement of this endless parking garage for people, wondering what it would take to get me to the top. She’s right there asking me if I’m all right, if I’m cold, if I need some bread. I don’t need some bread, I don’t need a blanket. At an altitude of a mile but lower than the Grand Canyon, I guess I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. It had been years since I had seen her face and then there she was again asking all the same motherfucking questions about do I need some bread. I don’t need some bread. Maybe the next time I won’t drink so much. I do not want any bread. I begin to lumber to the door labeled “roof access” and climb up to the bottom. I am floating at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. The next time. The next time.

Inkblot 1 Haley Michelle Jones 27

No Title Sarah Wahoff fists in the walls my feet upon the floorboards when my voice cracks against the windows they break I won’t become this place again I can’t sleep in this bed with you and when I go back home I’ve been gone so long will they remember me

Dance with Me David Anson Dance with me, through the shimmering spotlights of a blushing solstice sky. Give all your worries to the keeper of the riverboat of dreams, and be carried into a breathless mist floating over the waters of innocent ecstasy. Melt the fusion of muscle and bone into care worn cushions below you; the body becomes irrelevant in subtropical consciousness. Go ahead, sink passionate teeth into the neck of Sunday morning. There is no past, no future here anymore. The second hand ticks backwards in willful yield to the thankful toil of heaving backs. Even the sun is hesitant to rise. And why should it? Let revelry be the only life worth living. Put worry or service to any jealous deity that would demand you on hold. In this place, we are the keepers of such small gods, and we have a far greater duty to this infinite work than any other.

Untitled Grace McGinnis

Freud would say you haven’t matured since phase one, but I say you and your mouth can stay awhile. From where I’m kneeling you appear well adjusted, distinguished in fact, As you crack me open with your teeth, and like an oyster, suck all of me, seemingly, into the pocket of your cheek. And a thought manifests: Have I ever been wanted? Not enough. Have I ever been taken? Not adequately. Not like this. There’s a craze to possess me emanating from you that’s almost palpable, audible, singing through your dilating eye and have smirk, and I become yours, unequivocally. In this battle dance, you’re the only partner I’ll take. Young matador, your grace is matched by calculated intent. I squirm and swell, hands clamped upon your hands, upon your shoulder blades, a headpost, a ribcage, my own hair, a foot. A tremor is drawn up the curve of my spine like water through a siphon, like a tickle and a scream, a hot flash and a daydream.

And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m quelled momentarily, a gloss of intoxication still present upon your lips.

Winking Girl Greg C. Hartl

O Cynical High School Math Classes and Outer Space C.J. Hugh O cynical boy Oh cynical boy you laugh like a mop end floor sprawled face eater insured in sweet ego lapping twist twist twist marijuana blower coin eatin Knower’ drinkin it up on your nice rice plate Traveling in the bridge lights open ended fist fight ours was a game of great discern. Mashed in torrid mouth noise Heaving dark enticed boy sweetly making love to a sleeping sight We were a first score Baby savin’ coarse war Now you’re an ocean bound grave mound Boy, we’ll always be joined.

Sacrament Chelsea Brooks at five water tickled my forehead trickled down the side of my face, tears rippled in a holy water basin at seven i made a banner for the pew assigned to my family, a dove above a golden chalice i received my first wafer with hot glue burned fingers at eight mothers wedding was excessive in cost, people, extravagance it lasted two years she spent more on a single day then she earned throughout her marriage at thirteen I decided to believe in nothing and confirmed myself in the notion. at sixteen My pastor told me about his homosexuality his family, his choices, and that I should only ever answer to myself.

at twenty-seven Kristen took five Xanax, washed them down with vodka, and walked in front of a red pickup on the foggiest night of the year. When it was announced she wouldn’t die, a priest joined my family in her hospital room: twelve people circled around a comatose drug addict, praying. at twenty-eight I sat three pews behind my brothers other family. I didn’t stand or kneel, pray, offer peace. Instead, I listened to a sermon about the pure whiteness of heaven and thought “Why is everything so white?” I watched my brother stand, kneel, pray- for pity, I think, but I know the truth.

Loneliness Loneliness Jacob L. E. Oliver 33

That feeling in your throat when you speak Chris Zuver

May every drop of rain that hits your nose Be caught for a warm instant in your vision As it magnifies the light catching in whatever youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re looking at May every hug feel as genuine As the last time you smelled the wind As it picked up the smoke of bonfire friends May every tear not be your last As there is always more to cry about Whether in beauty or in vain May you love animals May every animal show their true nature to you As you pass them by unknown in the middle of the night May you grow old enough To find closure May the sounds and visions Of your true soul Be met in the real world May you step onto the cliff and look down And may the drop to the bottom look wonderfully deep And may that depth match you As you are naked in the drop And the rain continues To fall on your nose

On Deaf Ears// New Normal Sheena Starstuff My Rose Colored Girl Sees the sky. Painted in sickly hues of Mauve and green. And when she sees The chem-trails Amongst the filth And pollution She shrieks to the skies above, â&#x20AC;&#x153;More sedatives please!â&#x20AC;? And I pray Her pleas will not go unanswered.

Hebeloma Syrjense Alyssa Mae Williams

Untitled Elise Giammanco

Never so direct Ever more astute like A monarch butterfly Assessing her route south To the Mexican forests Expansive and secret She is Conscious and cocky With her logic while planning Her course It’s instant knowing Rooted in genes Acutely aware it’s a multi generational Thing Who gets love right away Ever anyway? like It’s some definitive concept That can be explained But isn’t that the whole mystery Of this life thing So bleak and exposed all at once Me standing naked before you Ready to be transformed Chrysalis yearning to hatch Rapid with rupturing want

Over Drinks with Sister Wizzard Madison Wizzard Price

Intimate interviews with talented local musicians, at their favorite local spots. Motherbear Precise plucking and careful, delicate, harp-like strumming are just a few of the enchanting details that initially draw you into Motherbear’s ambience. Standing solo onstage is a spritely Sarah Wahoff. Her soprano vocals are captivating and subtle. They leave the audience hanging on every smooth finger flick to the strings and every single syllable with her almost ASMR qualities. Motherbear’s grace invites you into a mystical and whimsical soundscape and allows you to relax and simply listen attentively. Monday night, a quiet coffee shop. Gelateria on South Grand. Sitting in a leather chair is, Sarah Wahoff aka Motherbear. She sips a chai tea latte and sweetly states, “It tastes like a cloud.” And how could I resist not to try one? When asked why we were chatting Over Drinks at Gelateria, Sarah smiled and said, “I mean have you been on the back patio? Look at those lights, it’s magical! One of my favorite places to come and color. Also their quiche is amazing.“ Immediately we began discussing how the recording process is going. Sarah expresses the complications with recording to a click-track. Stating that it feels a little unnatural and leaves little room to bend. Which seems about right, considering the elastic and flexible style that makes MotherBear so unique. Sarah wants her recording process to be very fluid. She explains her plans to be recording in an open warehouse and playing violin while walking around a room. Recording vocals in an echoing stairwell. Her sound will be reverberating. Growing up with a background in orchestra and playing violin since the age of 8, her style is what she calls, “Jazzy but meditative influenced by classical orchestral music and video games.” Sarah composes melodies that tell

stories. Each chord expressing a different feeling all in itself. A beautiful and heartbreaking tale of grief and the stages we go through during that experience. Motherbear is expected to release an album come Spring 2018. Sometime later, Sarah will also be releasing a video game that follows the story of the album. I won’t go into too many details as to not spoil the surprises, but the artwork will all be designed by Sarah herself. Holy Posers It’s a Friday night and I walk into Tim’s Chrome Bar. A definite hidden treasure located in the Bevo Mill area. If you are looking for an off-the-beaten-path sort of vibe, this place has it. It almost feels like being in your grandparent’s basement, but in a very cozy way. And I’m not just talking about the carpeted floors, the wood paneling or the multi-colored Christmas lights. The regulars are probably old friends of your folks. A great place for a brew and some barstool wisdom. So Imagine my surprise when This was the requested spot by five cool, young, strangers sitting at the bar; members of Holy Poser. A brand new group to make its way into the St. Louis south city music scene. A brain child of Trent Dickerson. Who has played with the group, JailBox, and alongside many other groups in St Louis. He has assembled his dream team. Ashley Byrne on keys and vocals, who just released a renowned solo EP titled Bedroom Ballads. Phillip Zahd in the horn section, who plays with the infamous Golden Curls. The rhythm section being held down by Aaron Essner who is also from JailBox, and on the bass is Brian Thompson. Trent explains that this group is all about fun. He wants provide a good time for the audience and to make sure that the experience is worthwhile. Placing emphasis on keeping the music energetic without strict boundaries. “I’d say the main focus is creating a loose, comfortable vibe that lets us hang out and share the things we are thinking about/things we are encountering in our lives.” Says Trendt. Tremolo guitars and muted trumpet solos. Ambient percuss-

sion and buttery harmonies from Trent and Ashley. They even chose to do a Sheryl Crow cover. Okay, all I wanna do is have some fun with that funky bass bb omg. I definitely enjoyed myself while listening to Holy Posers. Be on the lookout for their first single being released this March. You will definitely not want to miss their next show!

70â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Woman Greg Hartl

Untitled Emily G. Stremming 40

IN REVIEW: LOOPRAT Mike A. Bryan LOOPRAT brings the funk in their recently released 14 minute opus Cypher, starting with a groovy, driving bassline that walks the listener down to the first verse, not letting up through various changes, with each MC spitting verses on the mic. The keys, horns, guitar, and bass all take their turn in keeping the beat flowing, supporting the rhyming of the MC’s. “Hope you listen to our latest shit...Suburban Pro got it sounding like our greatest shit” Davie Napalm raps about the local studio where they record. If Suburban Pro is the key ingredient, then LOOPRAT should keep recording there; Cypher has an attractively frenetic energy to the lyrics and music, hinting at the greatness and diversity of talent that is this St. Louis jazz hip hop collective. The video is on YouTube, and the single can be found on Spotify. Their only album available on Spotify is called, appropriately, How Live. The idea of a live hip hop band backing MC’s is the point of this album; it brings the whole party. Musically one hears jazz, hip-hop, funk, and soul, by about a dozen members of the collective, in various combinations that make each track unique. Their fusion of hip hop and jazz covers everything from jazzy piano to funky horns and bluesy strings, layered over hip hop drums, with spoken word verses, soulful backing vocals, and some New Orleans classic style thrown in for a little spice. The MC’s cerebral flows move together and separately in perfectly timed and cleverly layered ways, evoking the ethos of classic Beastie Boys vocals, but presented in a more jazz-centric manner. Where How Live focuses on the live hip hop band sound, In < No Time has higher production value. This does not detract from the overall sound, it is just a different sonic exploration for the collective. Both current hip hop exploration and classic jazz can be strongly heard on In < No Time. This album is much more sample-heavy, while still maintaining a jazzy, groovy vibe that sounds like LOOPRAT is evolving. This evolution is due in part to outside production, where all of the earlier music was produced by Davie Napalm. In other words, the party has not left the music, but it has evolved. This album is available through Soundcloud, along with another EP from 2016, How We Live. The presence of the DJ/producer is also felt more strongly on How We Live than How Live, with some clever samples and dope record scratches, creating a sound that is a bit more raw and experimental. All of these tracks were produced by Davie Napalm, and his hand can be felt in the overall vibe of the EP.

LOOPRAT has a few upcoming shows, but a huge one is in Norman, OK, in April. The music festival line-up includes Tune-Yards, Parquet Courts, and Japanese Breakfast, and is a big step forward for the collective. You can also catch LOOPRAT live here in St. Louis in the next few months, but the details of the next show have not been released. This collective has so much raw talent and drive that they should be popping up on NPR, Stereogum or some other music news outlet anytime now. I can’t wait for that day. For now, I’ll content myself with these tracks online, and try to see them perform as often as possible. I highly recommend you do the same. You will not be disappointed.

Caenus Zoë Scala

“What is it that you wish?” I’ve only ever had one answer— skin no man can spear, tear, rip, pull, or mar.

I’ve spoken the words before only to be met with hollow laughter; This time is no different. Instead, I’ve done that which is necessary for myself; breaking myself down, sewing steel into ligaments, fashioning tungsten into bone, alloys upon metals to forge myself anew. Fabric confining soft flesh— man gave me nothing but the will to change myself, and a home among brothers.

Untitled Kurt Zuver 43

Pink Cigarette Denmark Laine DeNova, Calisoto was an old city. An art deco burial ground for the pharaohs of neon and graffiti. That’s what most people think of. Vineyard Hills: capital of the entertainment industry. The film and TV studios that glitter along Olympic Boulevard. The gates of Mammoth Pictures near the marquee lights of the Szechuan Palace Theater, a famous landmark above its cinema billboards. Celebrity mansions tucked away in the surrounding hillsides. EZ Burger. Rancho Calle, high-end shopping mecca for luxury brands like Perseus and Viccini, that runs through the heart of downtown. A few miles up the hills, Lorelei Canyon, a hideout for musicians and free-spirits along Mulhony Drive, a long, winding scenic route that curves out to the Santa Feira Freeway, down the Calisoto coastline, all the way from Sunset Mission, to Oceanfront Pier, to the sand volleyball courts, outdoor gyms and sidewalk markets of Valeria Beach. Most tourists never venture to the city’s darker side. In the Brownfield Projects, just shy of the factories in Knockover Square, the evening gloom approached earlier than usual. The neighborhood fondly referred to as “the Strand” was DeNova’s infamous red-light district. A ghetto of brownstones and barbwire. Windows were nailed shut or stared out like empty eye-sockets of shattered glass. Deserted streets twisted into menacing alleys crawling with shadows. The black, polluted sky hung rank and humid overhead. Low. Heavy. Claustrophobic. Hot, bathwater rain sprinkled into the gutters. Foul steam rose up through the steel jaws of the sewers to form a sweaty haze in the night. The remaining, grim skyscrapers jutted up like huge rusty nails in the sky. The only lights this deep in the Strand came from billboard signs advertising liquor stores, poker clubs and XXX skin bars. A woman in a brown leather jacket, black fingerless gloves, carrying a paper grocery bag, hurried along the sidewalk. Sierra Devicent was what was known as a “bardo” in the trade; a freelance detective, offering her services to the highest bidder and not restricting her occupation to any one employer – or one side of the law – like so many she knew who’d sold their souls to work for the lawyers and senators downtown. Those corporate cases were long on pay, but short on answers. Private investigators like her were the most looked down on by the city’s more upstanding clientele...as well as the most sought after.

She opened her own practice because she wanted to help people. Sort of. The idea of being her own boss didn’t hurt. The world, as she understood it, was the history of conspiracies. She enjoyed being at the center of a gordian knot, unraveling the threads of paradox. Still in her mid-twenties, pretty young for the business, she was by no means inexperienced. Her office was at the corner of Tudor Street & Del Pueblo in the Champion Building; an abandoned warehouse for the old A-1 Aluminum Company. The Egyptian statues that upheld the the craggy warehouse entrance now resembled gargoyles after weathered from years of smog. She moved quickly, but not hurriedly. She strode across puddles of raw sewage and scattered newspapers, not making eye contact with any of the solitary pedestrians she happened to pass. In the Strand, it would be a mistake. Her eyes constantly probed her surroundings; reflective, focused, noticing every detail she passed, like the eyes of a hunted animal. She happened to spot a giant pitbull watching her from between the rotten planks of a broken fence. Its red, harelip maw softly growling. That was Shitface. Leader of the stray dog packs, regarded as a local terror; a beast that could not be captured and could not be killed. That mutt was famous for taking a bullet from a drunk cop, right before it bit the cop’s hand off. The same hand that pulled the trigger. In spite of this, Sierra wasn’t afraid of Shitface. They had a mutual respect. She knew as long as she stayed out of its way, the brute would leave her alone. A quality she admired in animals and wished humans had cultivated. She turned the corner where a fallen “No Outlet” sign lay in the ditch and headed down the short, suffocating cul-de-sac. At the end of the row she hurried though the chain link fence, jumped over the heaps of trash bags neglected for months and walked across the cracked pavement, overrun with weeds. She stopped at a the door between the titans, placing her bag of groceries by her right leg, she fumbled in her pockets as fast as she could. Tearing into every pocket, her hands flying with frantic urgency like she was going into withdrawal. For the first time her harsh exterior melted into true emotions. Where’s the key? her thoughts hissed, the dog in her snarling at a cage. She was desperate to get inside. “Hey baby!” someone shouted from behind. “Feel like helping the needy?” She recognized the inflection in the voice. This was not a request. Sierra did not turn around. She held still, her

hands in her pockets trembling slightly. “Answer me!” She glanced over her shoulder. A freak, dressed in black, stood beside the fence. He was impressively tall, gaunt, hard stringy muscles, hair shaved into a white mohawk. He wore a chain around his waist. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. His mouth curled into a vicious scowl. Saliva ran off his clenched teeth. Sierra noticed a trigram tattoo on his throat; the mark of the Mantis Tong cartel, a local gang that operated out of Little Cambodia. Sierra looked back to the door. Her instincts told her this was a man not to be crossed. A man who, if angered, or bored, had the strength to do the unthinkable. She could tell the freak was only halfway in control as it was. He had drug eyes. “You hear me, sweetie?” Sierra did not face him. She stood as still as a matinee curtain. “You’re on something, man. Go home. Get some rest,” she said firmly. The freak snapped a switchblade out of his leather coat and held it up into the air. Sierra winced as she recognized the sound. The sharp thin blade glistened under the street light. “Then I guess I’ll help myself!” the freak snarled, his voice quavering with mad-dog rage. Sierra, in a calm, cool move, gently slid her hand into her jacket pocket. A gunshot ripped the night down the middle, followed by a horrible scream that ended as soon as it was heard. Sierra slid the glock back into her jacket, took a key from her boot, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Without another word, she left the freak laying rag-dolled on the concrete as she climbed the steep flight of stairs that led to the upper level. Her face calm. Her pace quick. Her breath controlled. The air inside was stale. A cloud of dust floated off each step she took. On the top floor loomed a long hallway, walled in by cracked plaster. Only a single barred window at her right let a few shafts of light from the street peer down the gloomy hallway. She trudged down the hall to the furthest door away from the window; number thirty, but the ‘3’ had long since fallen off leaving only the ‘0.’ A handwritten sign hung below which read: “S. Devicent, Private Eye.” She unlocked this door with the same key and stepped into her office. The hardwood floor was barren. The walls were stripped and needed paint. Cardboard moving boxes were stacked at one end of the room. The only furniture was an old worn-

out armchair in front of a small, folding card table with a chess board design on top which served as her desk. One small TV set sat on the floor in front of the armchair, and behind it in a corner was a small refrigerator. Nearby, a yellowed mattress lay on the floor. She stalked across the room and unpacked her bag of groceries into the empty fridge. Then she sat down in the armchair with a bottle of Heisler Beer and flicked on the TV. After changing all three channels about a hundred times and getting nothing but static, she flicked it off again. She sat alone, unhurried, staring into the nothingness around her and took a slow sip. She tried to force the image of the freak out of her mind; his bloodshot eyes; his snarling mouth; the sound of the switchblade as he screamed, clutching his bloody chest. She blinked and shook her head. The numbing images blurred away. She got up, went back to the fridge and took out a loaf of rye and some liverwurst. There was a knock at her door. She felt her heart clench as she spun around, dropping the beer bottle which shattered on the floor. She stood staring at the door, hoping the noise would go away. The knocking continued. She slowly felt for the gun in her jacket. Her right hand closed on the hilt as her left hand closed on the doorknob. She swung it open and whipped out the gun in the same move. A man in a long, tan coat waited on the other side; a passive look on his face as he starred down the barrel of the gun. “Detective Devicent?” A faulty light panel in the ceiling above them blinked on then off, lighting half his face. “Who are you?” she demanded of the stranger. “Henry Calloway.” Sierra peered out the door to scan up and down the hallway as the lights flickered back on. The man was alone. “Alright. What can we do for you?” gesturing with her gun. “Do you know there’s a dead man in front of your apartment?” Sierra leaned against the doorframe. “Tomorrow’s trash day.” Henry grinned nervously. “Big fan of your work,” he said. “But are you sure it’s a good idea to go making enemies so quickly?” Sierra shrugged. “Easier than making friends. Besides, everyone needs a hobby.” “He was a Mantis, wasn’t he? Adriel Santi will have his tail up. The cartel takes a blood grudge pretty serious.”

“You came a long way to talk about nothing.” “Mind if I come in?” asked Henry. Sierra cocked the trigger. “Empty your pockets.” He handed her the contents of his tan coat: a pack of Morley cigarettes, a metal lighter, a pocket knife, a black flip phone, a money clip containing a few hundreds, a leather flask and a red handkerchief. Satisfied, Sierra waved him inside. “What can I do for you, Mr. Calloway?” “I need a bardo. Someone not with the police, but not with the mob either.” “Hard to tell the difference these days,” Sierra crossed to her armchair and plopped down, helping herself to one of his cigarettes. “I’m a waiter at the Royale Diner,” Henry began. “Lately I’ve been cutting my chops as an actor. I got cast as an extra in a film. A big one.” “I don’t keep up with the flicks.” “You’d know this one. Pink Cigarette. The next Marion Love blockbuster.” Sierra knew that name. Marion Love was the most famous movie star in the world, as well as an iconic sex symbol. Even if you’d never seen her films, like the award-winning Dead End Angels, you’d seen her face in newspapers or women imitating her hairstyle on the street. “Production shut down yesterday, still in the middle of shooting.” “Why’s that?” “Marion was found murdered in her trailer on the Mammoth Pictures backlot.” Sierra flicked a glowing speck of ash in his direction. “So another Vineyard Hills actress had a little too much fun. How do you know this particular cliché was a murder?” “She drowned in the shower.” Sierra suddenly felt a little colder. What sounded like physical impossibility to most of the general public had a different significance to people in her profession. She knew what it meant. If someone was said to have “drowned in their shower”, it was slang for one of the most torturous, execution-style murders in all the criminal underworld. The victim is subdued, usually administered a mild sedative, then is either tied or handcuffed to the water taps with their head strapped to the shower-head with their mouth firmly fastened around the nozzle. Then the water, usually hot, is left running. The victim’s body slowly fills up, the stomach bloats, the lungs clog, until eventually the victim’s organs burst internally...

while still alive and conscious. Sierra fought off a shudder. The thought of such a cruel and unusual death made even the toughest killer nervous. Nobody took out someone that way unless they wanted to send a message. It wasn’t a quick, tidy job. It was prolonged and merciless. It was extra credit. It was showing off. “She had tap water coming out of her pores.” Sierra exhaled a wisp of smoke. “Sounds like DeNova’s favorite femme fatale got in something deeper than a scandal in the tabloid rags. This has the mark of a pro.” “So you’ll help me find out who did this to her?” Sierra sunk into her chair. “What’s your stake in this? I mean, why come to me? Why not let the cops handle it?” “Studio cover-up. Her death will be all over the front page of the DeNova Star tomorrow, but our producer, Raymond J. Wolfe, the new head of Mammoth Pictures, is withholding details from the investigation. He’s only allowed the DNPD to go so far. Their official story will be...how did you put it? ‘Another Vineyard Hills actress who had a little too much fun.’” Sierra doused her cigarette on the armchair. “That still doesn’t explain your angle. What? You’re just a working-class crusader who wants justice for a raging narcissist bimbo?” Henry paced away from her. “We were having an...on-set romance,” he sighed. Sierra groaned. “It says ‘P.I.’ on my door. Not ‘paparazzi.’” “It was nothing serious. Just a few times on the side. She was bored. I was the lucky one. Who doesn’t want to make it with a silver screen idol? The woman has been with presidents. But her husband...” “Which one?” Sierra interjected. “Fred Hubbard. Her forth. He wrote the screenplay for Pink Cigarette. He caught us in her dressing room.” Sierra slowly rose from her chair. “So that’s it. You feel responsible. You think jealous hubby had her bumped off because he saw you together?” Henry shrugged. “He had a drinking problem and a violent temper. Who knows?” “One schlockmeister producer trying to cover the truth and his ass. Or one angry writer plotting a tragic ending for his former leading lady.” “Or it could be Phil Trager.” She glared at him. “Our director. A no-talent AV geek whose girlfriend, Coco Sandrine, was quickly recast in Marion’s role.”

Sierra shook her head. “That doesn’t play. The industry can be cutthroat behind the scenes, but if a sleazebag director is auditioning with his dick, he can just as easily fire the competition on some pretense. Drugs. Public breakdown. Leaked sex tape. He wouldn’t have to kill her.” “There’s something else,” Henry added. “Coco used to be a Vixenville dancer.” Sierra frowned. The Vixenville strip club was only a few blocks from her office; across the street from Nick’s Lagoon, her favorite bar. Vixenville was a front for DeNova’s biggest prostitution ring. Owned and operated by Tony Delmar, kingpin of Vineyard Hills’ oldest crime family. That did complicate matters. The Delmars were pimps and mobsters that had been meddling in the lives of the city’s rich and famous since the silent era. “If Trager was dating a Vixenville girl,” said Henry, “Then she was on loan to him from Delmar.” “For what price?” “Exactly.” Sierra turned this over in her mind. This case had potential; which, to her, meant danger. Her last two cases had been no exception. She’d helped the police investigate a string of murders committed by a a man who called himself “The Blue Wasp”; a character from an old TV show about a masked vigilante who fought crime in DeNova. The Blue Wasp’s secret identity was millionaire playboy, “Burke Royce.” He had a sidekick chauffeur named “Kano”, who drove his vintage sports car, a blue, Vesper Centurion. Sierra discovered these real-life capers were perpetrated by Eugene Peabody, the actor who played the Blue Wasp on TV, who went crazy after losing his fame, stole his old costume from the show and took to the streets, deluding himself into thinking he really was a superhero sleuth. Before that, Sierra had been hired by international, jet-setting debutante, Thomasina Gatland, to find her priceless diamond, the “Crystal Empress”, which had been stolen by operatives of Quantinuum, a religious cult of physicists who believed the diamond contained the soul of their alien savior who crash-landed on earth a thousand years ago in a “crystal spaceship.” But Sierra had spent half her professional career trying to bring down Tony Delmar. His name came up in almost every instance of rape and human trafficking in the Strand. He’d always eluded her. He had powerful friends in Vineyard Hills. Nothing was more dangerous in this town than the pop culture cowboys who ran the movie business. Their world of red carpets, five-star hotel sex and dirty money revolved around

kickbacks from the mayor’s office, secret ballots held by shady, foreign investors and bodies buried in end zones. Tony Delmar was their errand boy. He brought them their favorite creature comforts from his empire of vice and afterwards made their sins disappear, permanently. Raymond J. Wolfe. Fred Hubbard. Phil Trager. It could be any of them. “I’ll do it,” said Sierra. “How much do you pay?” “A few hundred now,” said Henry. “But I can get you more later. Also these.” He held up tickets for two courtside seats at the next DeNova Devils basketball game in the Rex Bank Arena. “Delmar never misses a game,” said Henry. ~ ~

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Summit Anna Wermuth 51

Building Moody Rose Christopher