Bad Jacket Issue 8 by Bad Jacket

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ISSUE 8

Letter from the editors, Like bob-ombs, our wicks are lit and the keys in our backs are twisted as we skitter along the sabulous gray area of our lives. Wolves maul us in our dreams and then we wake to the monotony of routine. A cacaphony of intrusive thoughts shatters through our subconscience, screaming in tri-tone, “YOUR FRIENDS HATE YOU.” As expected, insecurity seeps in, flooding our basements with nostalgia memorabilia. Drowning in the mundane hellscape of regular days, we threaten to pitch ourselves off bridges. Cars crash, things fall apart, some seeds never sprout, and Mortality whispers our names. IDK...some things never change... Still here for you though, The Editors

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.

LIVES REMAINING Aaron Joseph Bulejski..........................16, 28 Adem Sibic.........................................40 Amber Skies........................................20 Anastasia Robinson.................................21 Anna Wermuth....................................4, 17 Dani Skye...........................................7 Daniel W. Wright....................................2 Denmark Laine......................................37 Dove Fleetwood......................................6 Ejla Zeric.........................................39 Elise Giammanco.....................................1 Emily G. Stremming.................................26 Frances Garren......................................3 G.M.H. Thompson.....................................9 Jacob L. E. Oliver.............................17, 19 Jazmine Lampley....................................27 John Dorsey........................................18 Kristin McGeehan.............................cover, 7 Kurt Zuver.........................................25 Lew Blink..........................................38 Mackenzie Thorn....................................23 Moody Rose Christopher.........................24, 35 Oscar Wright.......................................34 RC Patterson.......................................29 RL Schleicher......................................33 Sarah Marchant......................................6 Sheena Starstuff...............................19, 31 Spencer Hughes.....................................36 Steve Miles........................................32 Suen................................................5 Todd Smith.........................................18 ZoĂŤ Scala..........................................22

Chasm Elise Giammanco What do you know about being split open? With the sharp, freshly bitten nails Digging underneath my fleshy pulp Leaving imprints for days after your departure I am a bruised bag of apples But inside I still have star seeds I hope you don’t think you know Everything about me now because Of our short, intense bouts In this ring we call life Pinning you down in apartments Wait until I get you in the mountains I can go for many rounds My patience is unmatched Enduring the mundane Like a stone in the desert Laying a hundred years unturned In the meantime I’ll willfully wade through The routine moments In order to get something I won’t ever be able to forget

Exerpts from Bottle of Golden Blues Daniel W. Wright

XVI She was dressed in red with black fish net covering her red shirt that said Hairy Pussies Matter Her hair was done up in two ponytails made to look like devil horns She’d taken lipstick and made herself look like she had evil eyebrows and a Cheshire smile “You pay $200 to be wit de Devil?” “No thanks. I’m fine.” XXIV Phone plugged in but losing power Control only spells doom Tea too hot to drink on sweltering day Senses heightened beyond aware Deep breath to calm down no good We look at each other both unsure

expiration Frances Garren there are darkening homes inside our heads beyond comprehension there are killing machines inside our dreams gears that give and take to doom fleas of stardust gnats that are slurping slurring squelched in their belching chants of hallelujahs what parody of praise we assign ourselves dates do we not there are police airbnbing in our thoughts patterns of ambivalence shrewd particularities turning off our knobs before going to sleep back to misremembering or never learning to find out we blame it on fear name it hacking mame an entire war ship weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll quite worship what if god is understanding nothing is personal even ourselves

Anna Wermuth

what if “what if” was god or us on one timer what what what what what what what what what what

if if if if if if if if if if

god is money we made him become that god is herpes im a monster im not good enough for heaven i never learned the idea of heaven no one believes it anymore im someone’s morning cigarette im someone’s afternoon tea we dont die

we snap

Vidrio

Young Circle Suen Brandished as a by-product of an era now passed Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve reached my tail again, at last Unsheathing my teeth and devouring once more Time is a cyclical cycle in accordance to lore They call me Jormungandr, Enso, Quetzalcoatl, Ouroboros Collective conscious, anima mundi, endless knot, a proper dose Though recurrence demands these same words be spoken Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see to it that this cycle is broken Acknowledged only in deep states of meditation Or when youth wade in despair A false sense of enlightenment Replicating the benzene affair Tributaries of truth staying warm beneath the waves With a fear of emergence, they wait Just going through the motions Just drowning in their graves To dissuade the discourse Means a sacrifice of equivalent exchange To finish where we began It seems some things never change

Smoke Room Sarah Marchant Rewiring bombs in my sleep. Different shades of street names and a red glow playing across your eyes. A blue hum inside my chest. I could be lethal if I let myself. Slice you pink. Cradle the flower petals dropping on my kitchen table. I could be the one warm day in January or the tube of paint bursting at the alarm clock. Waking you up; I could never leave you alone.

Untitled Dove Fleetwood

Untitled Kristin McGeehan

FACE THE WORLD Dani Skye I lay in my bed, 5:15 am my alarm clock goes off, A single teardrop rolls onto my pillowcase, Its dark and the room is cold, This bed remains empty, My eyes closed trying to block out the memories of yesterday, I don’t want to get out of bed, Just want to stay under the covers, I don’t want to face the world today, I just want to wallow in my sorrows for a minute, How long will I suffer in silence, This shit is for the birds, Losing sleep, Can’t eat, Pains in my body, I feel like I’m dying inside slowly, 7

Wish I could run away, I walk into the room and it feels everyone knows about our secrets, I feel small, Like an outsider Something inside of me has changed, I’m not the same woman I used to be, Who am I now? Soul searching, My vision is blurry, Can’t see straight, This is scary not knowing what road to travel, I feel like I’m going crazy, I don’t want to face the world today, Not ready to let go, But I don’t want to hold on, Stuck in neutral, Trying not to look at your picture, Feels like I’m backsliding, Trying to erase the very existence of you away, Hate that I love you so much, But you are no good for me, I miss your touch, I need you to hold me right now like you used to, Kiss my pain away, The thought of you kills me, Your smile, My heart aches so badly, Why did you have to make me fall for you so hard, It’s a done deal, Can’t trust you anymore, Thought you were my soulmate, Imperfectly perfect for me I thought you were, So just for today I will stay in the darkness, Allowing the beautiful sadness to comfort me, Because I don’t want to face the world today.....

Brazilwood Carousel Phantasm G.M.H. Thompson “The road to Hell is paved with adverbs.” —Stephen King Black Nickel was there alone, counting his diamonds on the kitchen table. Tulip’s Trumpet came in abruptly, which surprised him. “Can’t you see I’m doing something in here?!” he inquired angrily, making wild gestures with his hands and with his eyebrows as he did so. This was so bewildering, Tulip’s Trumpet became like an aardvark and left the room jibsome as candy-corn. Relieved, Black Nickel went back to his careful computations. He seemed to have twistedly of them. This didn’t make any sense. ‘Twistedly’ is an adverb. It wasn’t modifying anything besides ‘have’ the way he was compelled into thinking about it. More importantly, this didn’t make sense because one cannot use ‘twistedly,’ or any other adverb, for that matter, in place of a numerical noun like ‘twenty’ or some quantitative adjective like ‘many.’ One simply could not have ‘twistedly diamonds.’ Yet, according to his calculations at any rate, that’s precisely what the situation was. This was clearly a problem that needed to be straightened out. There was only one thing for it— he had to visit the Ocher of Shadows. And yet, one did not simply ‘visit the Ocher of Shadows’— it was an undertaking long brooded o’er and avoided if at all possible. And so, Black Nickel desperately tried to find a way around it. For weeks, he tried. In bars, he tried. At home, he tried. In the shower, he tried. On the street, he tried. With his friends, he tried. With his enemies, he tried. With his casual acquaintances, he tried. In games, he tried. In books, he tried. In the newspaper, he tried: Man of Twelve Tortures & Kills Stag-Beetle for Petty Amusement, Little Sister Claims; Broken Bottles Found Littered Illegally, No Leads Yet on Possible Suspects; Politician Stackly Murdersome Under Investigation for Parking Violations, Grand Theft Unicycle, & Poaching Office Supplies Without a Permit, Among Other Offenses; Troubled Youth Sentenced to Life Imprisonment in Juvenile Detention,

Old Man Says He Had It Coming; Girl Comes Home Twenty Minutes Late— Mother Worried Sick; Cat Presents Bird-Corpse to Mortified Master, Bureau of Wilderness Preservation Is Pressing Charges; Agnostic Unsure of Whether or not to Cross the Street even though no Cars Appear to be Present. None of these headlines or their associated stories aided Black Nickel in his errand of evasion, and neither did anything else he attempted in the course of the endeavor. And so finally, after several millennia of unsuccessfully trying to stave it off, he was forced to conclude that the Ocher of Shadows was his only hope of resolving his vexing adverbial altercation. It was with great reluctance that he set out upon the road that led to this grand personage. * * * * * Trees of gray and trees of green Man the forests of my dreams Trees with mouths and trees with eyes Watch us through a thin disguise Trees most fair and trees most tall House the squirrels, birds & bees Listen and you’ll hear them call See them clutch the fleeting breeze Feel them think and feel them grow Smell the things they seek to shawl Taste the secrets your trees know Woe to you if your trees fall The highway was a cunning serpent slinking through the dense, sinister forest, abode to all manner of waking dream. Tulip’s Trumpet, who had come along despite Black Nickel’s numerous dissuadments & berasions, felt pale and sickly gazing into its murky depths as the dazzling gold Cadillac rushed madly on by. Black Nickel, who owned the vehicle and was driving it at present, moodily toggled the radio’s dial with his right hand while steering with his left. This caused the car to swerve wildly several times, and following just such an incident, a sharp corner was traversed and they nearly flattened a police car that lay in wait on the opposing shoulder. Needless to say, the cop was less than enthused by this, and his lights were soon flashing. Yet, as he was pointed in the opposite direction, correctly chasing Black Nickel and Tulip’s Trumpet would take some doing—a three-

point turn was in order that an unexpected pickup in traffic waylaid for several minutes. Following this, said maneuver was attempted, but Officer Smellingstones had never been particularly adept at this sort of thing, and in the excitement of the hunt, he ended up riding the gas pedal too hard on the reverse and backing up into a ditch where, it being a heavily wooded area, his squad car’s caboose collided with a tree, causing considerable damage to the trunk and, through mechanical machinations too dry to be related here, rupturing the rear wheel axel. As the department had been too stingy to spring for four-wheel drive, this last fact meant that Smellingstones’s rear wheel drive automobile was fatally incapacitated for the foreseeable future. Shocked at what had transpired in just a few rash seconds and more than a little unsettled owing to the ominous, hungry look of the surrounding foliage, Smellingstones called in to base: “This is Lieutenant Smellingstones, over. Requesting backup at 10-20 just off Route 17, midway through Cadaverous National Forest, over. My vehicle is hit and the trees— they’re everywhere! Send backup immediately!! They’re everywhere!!!, over.” Meanwhile, back in the Coupe de Ville, Black Nickel thought he was under hot pursuit and was thus driving even faster and more aggressively than before. Both hands firmly gripped the wheel, and the search for better music had long since been abandoned—a station halfway through an all-ABBA hour was left on merely through police related inattention. Tulip’s Trumpet would have either changed it or switched it off, but Tulip’s Trumpet actually enjoyed ABBA a great deal and silently thanked the pig for granting this aural boon, albeit by chance and through no will of his own. Suddenly, a shrouded figure sprang from the branches onto the concrete several hundred yards ahead of them & strode directly into the path of their metallic mount with an arm desperately outstretched, fingers splayed stiff, as if in pain, & wild eyes bloodshot and pried wide. Black Nickel slammed on the breaks, and the Cadillac screamed headily to a halt. “Woah, steady girl,” he advised his machine tenderly, a look of genuine empathy softening his face into a Buddhalike mask of compassion. As he mentally fretted over break pad wearation and engine strain to the tune of The Winner Takes it All, Tulip’s Trumpet rolled down the side window and hesitantly addressed the stranger, who stood languishing not a foot in front of the chromium grille:

“Um, Hi? I’m Tulip’s Trumpet; I mean, that’s my name— Tulip’s Trumpet. Does there seem to be anything the problem? ‘Cause, see, we’re trying to . . . Well, we’re doing . . . Well, I’m not quite sure what we’re—” A strident cry from the unanticipated newcomer severed these tentative considerations: “Help me!!!” “Get in,” Black Nickel shouted brusquely above Take a Chance on Me, unlocking the doors froamishly. The ragged wayfarer was all too ready to comply and nearly pried the metal from its hinges in eagerness of ingress before lunging like a wombat into the plushy padded leather seating accommodations of the vessel’s aft and then slamming shut the grovey hatch zelpesian as a neerquog smoker. This calamitous procedure met with no comment from either denizen of the front, and for several minutes, nothing was heard beyond Swedish disco muzak. Black Nickel floored the accelerator and they soon were cruising at speeds in excess of 70, as per previous the somnoq eljig-gnar. “So, hmmm . . .” Tulip’s Trumpet offered awkwardly, accompanied by the chorus of S.O.S., “Why exactly . . . Well, why are you, like . . . you know?” “I think what is meant by that is, ‘Why are you in the back seat of my de Ville and who are you even?’” Black Nickel opined inquisitorially yet without emotion. “I am Tile Kite of the Kingdom of Illatia, and I’m being hunted!” the figure replied dramatically, eyes appearing to glow ruby red beneath his tattered hood of jet leather as the word ‘hunted’ left his craggy maw. “Hunted, huh? Well, that’s . . . that’s . . . wait, what?” Tulip’s Trumpet meandered foggily through a web of questions and confusion. “Yes, Yesss, that’s right—that’s what I said: hunted. I’ve seen things in the rotten heart of these woods, things as would put mercury in your veins and needles in your flesh. Ohhh, Ooohhhhhhh, but if you knew the horrors of the Sorcerer . . . Aaaahhh, No!! There he is now!!!” Tile Kite broke off his smoky account to point a gnarled finger tremblingly at a black form emerging from the timbered darkness ahead like a viper slinking sinisterly from the broken mouth of a ruined sepulcher. “Oh terrors, oh foul terrors of the night! Go faster, man, go faster please!! Oh, but you must, you must go faster!” Tile Kite wheezed urgently, glancing rapidly back and forth between his salvation and his doom with a cowed

look of apprehensive supplication. Black Nickel, however, needed no inducements to accelerate after seeing the abysmal nightmare’s nascent traces wispily begin to materialize on the shoulder, and the steel craft he piloted was soon sailing the concrete seas swifter than the century mark. Yet, the nefarious summoner who now beset them would not be put off by base celerity alone. Floating several feet above the earth and immersed in a swirling cloud of the deepest purple, a booming baritone laugh issued like rolling thunder at the height of the tempest’s wrath as the Cadillac rocketed past: “Ah, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha!! You think you can escape me in that newfangled horseless carriage?! Fool!!! You cannot escape me!! None can flee from Najgoroth the Baleful!!!! I will torture you for an eternity!!!!!” So saying, the maleficent phantom hefted a mighty forearm through the haze which seemed to be constructed of yet more smoke (the forearm, that is), but the auto was so far away by that point that Tulip’s Trumpet could no longer be sure about anything, not that that was ever the case. In a similarly uncertain fashion, rivers of lightning may or may not have been emanating from the raised, clenched fist of the malevolent magician as the words of his spell crashed through the air like massive boulders and colossal trees sliding down the raw, scarred face of a forbidding height: “Bork Ra. Soam Uhm-Nha, Soam Uhm-Nha! Guz-Kulch Chee-Chee-Chee-Chee-Chee-Chee! Non-Quoy-Aaaaagh!!!” This last phrase was really intended to be ‘Non-QuoyAwoot-Phenwop,’ and had it been, our three hapless wanderers would have found themselves in the gloomiest bowels of Najgoroth’s dungeons, no doubt destined never to escape from that most wretched den of agony and evil. Luckily, at the very last instant, right before the incantation was properly concluded, a line of cop cars rounded the bend, racing to the rescue of poor, disoriented Lieutenant Smellingstones with blinkers blazing and sirens wailing at full blast. Now, it must be understood that Najgoroth the Baleful had always been acutely paranoid concerning the police— so much as seeing a patrol car made him lose all his concentration in a temporary tidal wave of fear and loathing. And though he was more set upon the task at hand than he normally would be when such an event transpired, it was also true that such a cavalcade of cruisers had never so surprised him, bursting as it were from the very fabric of nothingness and seemingly rushing straight towards his person with the red and blue

flags of arrest proudly bedecked atop their pregnant sails. And so, during the most critical scene in the drama that was his perverse sorcery, the lead actor had slipped and been replaced by an inferior unknown. ‘Non-Quoy-Awoot-Phenwop’ would have divested the travelers of their mechanical steed and thrust them into the stony clutches of his fortress’s dank prison cells, but what ‘Non-Quoy-Aaaaagh’ did, or where it took them, was not at all clear to this wizard of the underworld, for all his diabolical wisdom. However, what was plainly apparent was that the charm definitely took our heroes somewhere, transported them and their gasoline means of locomotion to some where other than the where where they had been, for they were no longer there, a faint blue residue of light that glimmered vaguely being the only clue as to their former presence. Yet, what was still readily discernable was that the convoy of law enforcement personnel that had so startled Najgoroth had not disappeared and that it meant business. After discovering the unconscious body of Smellingstones (who had fainted owing to an attack of his newly acquired arboreal anxiety disorder) in his totaled vehicle, the officers had turned their attention to the hulking presence of billowing midnight that seemed to take up an entire lane as well as most of the shoulder. Two squad cars cruised slowly towards this monstrous mass of mist, and one of them, equipped with a loudspeaker, addressed it nondescriptly: “Sir, we’re going to have to see some license and registration for this . . . for this whatever it is that you are driving. Sir, please pull fully onto the shoulder— you’re impeding the flow of traffic. Sir, we will issue you a ticket unless you comply with the traffic laws and pull fully onto the shoulder. Sir . . .” It was at this point that one of the officers approached the infernal stygian thing on foot and attempted to affix a ticket to its windshield, which, windshield lacking, was an exercise in uselessness that, were it but for the circumstances, would no doubt have proved quite comical—this unlucky soldier of regulation just kept placing the little white slip of accusation slightly within the oppressive field of vapor only to see it waft gently down to earth, at which point, he diligently retrieved it and repeated the whole pathetic process over again at a faintly different location in the indeterminate sea of sooty steam. This happened twenty or thirty times before defeat was admitted and a full retreat achieved.

Najgoroth the Baleful should have left, should have drifted dreamily back into the safety of Mother Nature’s firm embrace, for one needs not a crystal ball to read the writing on the wall, but Najgoroth didn’t do this. He didn’t do this because, by this point, he had recovered enough from the astonishment of his linguistic misstep to become consummately furious about it, and when once Najgoroth’s ire was aroused, it transformed him into a demon of the highest (or lowest, depending on one’s perspective on such matters) order. Soon, bubbling and hissing sounds could be heard and the ceaseless colonnade of inky smog that the cops had cordoned off (and were eyeing cautiously with drawn arms) began to give off sparks and shimmer, as with heat. The disregarded megaphone had long since ceased in speaking. All at once, the fell fiend’s terrible voice rent the tense silence with a force a hundredfold greater than before: AIG-HOKHARATH! AIG-POLZOCRAF!! NOG-ZOOKH WA-WA VI!!! SUTZO KHAR-QUO TI!!!! When these vile verses rumbled from the ethereal lips of the ghostly alchemist, the very ground ‘neath the policemen’s wheels – soil, concrete, tar & all – was wrenched violently upward in a naked show of elemental strength and brutish recklessness, which naturally all but obliterated these fragile cages of iron and sand. The officers opened fire, but this just caused Najgoroth the Baleful to cackle maniacally as the bullets bounced harmlessly off his ashen aura and bright spikes of electricity fell like torrential rain from the dusky heavens of his fingertips. As oblivious to all this mayhem & murder as it was to him, Officer Smellingstones gently dozed in the dusty cocoon of his cruiser’s cramped interior, forgotten by the world for the nonce, and in his turn, forgetful of it. And happy, for sleep and freedom together comprise a sizeable proportion of that most golden of states. Yet, Smellingstones would, in time, have to return to his post and vacate the merry country we meet him in now, for felicity is but fleeting and must be cast off for one to don the helm of duty, as all men of nobility must do in their hour of virtue. Yet, it seems too cruel thing to do to so good a man. And so, let us leave kind Smellingstones aslumber for just a little while longer, bathed and hidden in a growing laurel of leafy roadside shade, a caterpillar of the gathering twilight who will wax to become a moonlit butterfly. * * * * *

Rain hammered down upon the weary roofs and worn bulwarks of Pearsil City like a sunken idolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fury, cleansing the crooked streets of their sordid conditions and battering pure the sculpted visage of many a gruesome gargoyle and great man lost to Historyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s faded oblivion. The drains drank deep, gulping gluttonous this deluge, aqueous monsters of endless thirst, mythical sinks fig-wreathed and perilous. t Mask Replica, 1969

Untitled Aaron Joseph Bulejski 16

Worrying((framedrighttho)) Jacob L. E. Oliver

ยกapril ending! Anna Wermuth

Getting Lucky for Jason Ryberg & Matthew Haines John Dorsey on a cold missouri morning my pockets smell of spring air & day old marijuana the sunflower of the south pulled over & frisked by the county sheriff before i’ve even had a chance to brush my teeth i think about the first girl i ever loved running her fingers along the seams of my $13 walmart trousers for a few moments i forget where i am forget the order of the things & let the universe run its fingers along my asshole just long enough to let the sun in.

Once Upon a Snow in Cairo... Todd Smith the keyboard of the Spaceship, formerly known as the “Control Room”—except that, more often than not, “no control” was the rule, whence the name was changed, by curious decree, to the “Over-Inflated Phallus”: No felicitous monolith this, so much as a lumbrous shadow cast, cumbersome over all, the re-christened Spaceship, hovering high above, camouflaged by a fuzzy fleece of fake clouds, shrouds of Ubermensch-shaped snow-bots avalanching down, armed with fresh falling fictions to re-legislate the ground, while the Gloominati—aloof in their Big Obelisk—grimace: their icy chatter makes no sound, as the snow-bots boots silently strike the ground...( A Phantasmal Dystopian Fragment ) 18

Done Sheena Starstuff Beers for dinner And Chilli for breakfast Because You ate your last two eggs At yesterday’s lunch. And when he said he Manifested You, you know it’s true Because You weren’t really real, or whole Without a man to serve. Spending daytime hours To pay for nighttime classes You took Because You want your daytime hours To be spent in a more noble pursuit. And when the final mountain is moved You Will not be satisfied Because The emptiness inside will continue to Consume you alive.

Weaving in and out of Bliss Jacob L. E. Oliver 19

Girl on Fire Amber Skies

Your body loves you Anastasia Robinson Why do we hate ourselves? why are we disgusted by these blessed bodies that we inhabit? Angry fingers full of flesh plucking at ourselves scrutinizing eyes peer back from the mirror the judge, jury, and executioner The court of public opinion is open and nobody fucking asked. Your body loves you like a loyal dog unblinking and without limitation Your organs have an intricate, never-stopping system to keep you living, moving, laughing, and thriving These precious creatures are carefully, bravely, and selflessly guarded by armies of fat, tissue, and bone your ribs lovingly encase your organs like shield-bearing knights And yet we put our bodies through the agony of hunger and drag blades across our skin Your body is working constantly to keep you alive Your body loves you! So why wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you love it?

“You better not need to go the hospital, it’s a busy week for me.” Zoë Scala

I apologize my sickness doesn’t bend to your whims like a green barked stem; like the rest of me does. I’m sorry you bore me wires crossed, veins tangled like overgrown ivy, incomplete. I’m sorry my words aren’t enough, my actions, the ever present lump in my throat, the ever pressing reminders of time wasted. I’m sorry I just now know it’s better to suffer quietly than to inconvenience. The pain you get used to, but you never quite develop a tolerance for the guilt.

Spring Mackenzie Thorn Play Otis Redding and set my coffin adrift along the river Styx I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see nothing beneath this crescent moon April breeze lets me know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not alone as it swims between reflections of familiar strangers I cry Why Was I The one Five dollar red wine Candles glowing soulful harmonies Sweat stained pillow case dresses clenched until knuckles turn white Cigarettes set adrift at red lights after midnight Green onions growl black coal exhaust Red meat juice cools warm red lips Manic pirouettes blossom orgasm tantrums Rejoice The son has returned

Untitled Moody Rose Christopher

Untitled Kurt Zuver 25

Untitled Emily G. Stremming 26

Young, Dumb, and Dirty Jazmine Lampley For all the skidded, bloody knees and mosquitos blistered legs, the scratching at the stale ruffles on the ankles of the socks, and the shiny black shoes with the baby heels and snap on buckles. For all the dirtied up, fluffed out dresses and grass stains from rolling around in it after the pastor said The doors of the church are open. For all the unbraided French braids and scuffed up Mary Janes, Wrinkled Catholic school jumpers and skirts, being the one who could take the crucifix cracker and backwashed wine the Priest gave out to the Believers. For all the boys who watched girls run when the girls didn’t want to be seen, the odd, chubby woman who looked like a man with dripping Jeri curl juice and the whistle in her mouth that subtly looked at the girls as well. For all the boys who stared at girls in class, and suddenly couldn’t stand up, the ones who made bets to see who could talk to thin pretty-eyed girl first, but ignored the girl with the same eyes and a softer midsection. For all the boys who got notes that said “Let’s talk after class”, and the unanswered ‘do you miss me’ notes and 27

Untitled Aaron Joseph Bulejski

stretched out phone cords from sneaking on the line after 10pm. For all the broken hearts, and scared faces when it all had to come to an end. For those who walked, wobbled, and limped across the stage and moved the tassel from the right to left. Little did we realize, the boys will still stare and love the girls with the hazel eyes, the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;do you miss meâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;sâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; will go unanswered, and hearts will go on being broken and girls will still want to be seen (or not), but the door of the church will still be open. 28

I ain’t got it RC Patterson I ain’t got it You know I ain’t got it. I told you I ain’t got it. But you insist on this frivolous expedition, this exodus on to my nerves to get it. Old man asked for cash as I was sipping bourbon in my burgundy car with the driver side door broken like the mechanic was toying with my time only to give me my shit back broken. I asked him if he had time that week to fix it. He said, “I ain’t got it.” You know I ain’t got it. I told you I ain’t got it. But you insist on this frivolous expedition, this exodus on to my nerves to get it. The old man asked me for cash while my burgundy car was incapacitated on the highway as I was listening to the President advise the police to not worry about fucking up the suspects head, Conflating the concepts of a suspect and a guilty person. I check under the hood. The man asked, 29

“What do you think the problem is?” I knew Making to fix as the But as I told

the camshaft busted. any attempt the engine as fruitless addict begging for change. he persisted asking, him

I ain’t got it You know I ain’t got it. I told you I ain’t got it. But you insist on this frivolous expedition, this exodus on to my nerves to get it Being on that road was like being on the precipice. Cars and trucks moved around my vehicle, I had the hazards on, then highway patrol, with lights flashing, pulls up behind me. I hope he don’t ask for my I.D. because, I ain’t got it. You know I ain’t got it. I told you I ain’t got it.

Divide and Conquer (Pussy Grabs Back) Sheena Starstuff #Maybeshedoesnthityou If you think The average Joe Is the enemy And not the assholes In DC Then you’re buying Into the bullshit They’re selling you. With your pink pussy hats And “grab this” signs Turning my G-o-d into your D-o-g Keeping men on short leashes And under thumbs Castrated and ostracized Instead of uniting the power of the PEOPLE Crush the men and boys under our steel-toed heels Sweep them under the rug Maybe keep them around to fuck Yeah fuck the man But not THE man, Just men. Cuz they’re the oppressors, man. Not the puppeteers, the Wizard of Oz, those who shall remain nameless, the ones who sell the red herring and blow the smoke screens Can’t you see it sisters? We are being played Y’all are still tap dancing for the man And smiling All the while Dividing And siding up with those who keep you enslaved Under the guise of liberation

Best Friends Steve Miles

an untrue dialogue of fictitious circumstance… a fable with a moral So you remember I tol you on the weekend that young one was strapped an was fixin to roll ya spot wit his boys? Oh sure, I remember that… Well ya ain’t gonna see that boy around here no more… That’s good. You run him off? …He ain’t around no more… No? No. He’s in trouble – got caught up? No! He ain’t around no more. So what you mean, tho? I seen him earlier – walkin round out here by himself – ain’t around cause when I seen him earlier he’s like “What up OG!” That’s me. Sure “Yeah son” I said “come with me an smoke these weeds.” Yeah? So… Yeah! So, we was down in the cut and I’s like “Let me see your piece.” – Yo! You got you a piece? Huh? You ain’t got a gun yet!?! Oh. No, not me. You gotta get a gun, dog! GOT TO! Heard. Just tell me what you want – y’all should get an AK! You probly a pistol guy… Probably so… What’s with the kid? Oh that fool. He ain’t had his gun with him so I’s like “remember you was talkin that floogazy bullshit? Is you off’a that shit!?! “No” – No! No? NO! – he tol me no… “I’ll probly roll those honkeys when you ain’t around” Huh… I was mad but I was quiet – I was cool an I walked him deep in the cut… really deep, I tol him, so no one see us smokin, ya wit me? Sure… go on… So we finish up smokin an he says he gonna take a piss… I was cool like go ahead… ok like I don’t care, right… right, and… soon as his back is turned – BAM – I grabs him by the mouth! BAM! I stick him! Bam Bam Bam I slit his throat! What? Really!?! I took his head clean off – wow – ya hear me! Off! Nah, really? OFF! I cut his clean off. I turned him off. Off, ya hear me? Heard. But – I put my knife back in my pocket all bloody and shit. Damn, man… I pulled him in the bushes an I just wandered off… What the fuck, man!?! What you do that for? He ain’t gonna be messin wit you, dog – you’s my best friend! Dog… I got you… Thanks, I guess… and the moral of the story is, you can choose who your friends are, but you cannot choose who takes you as their friend, or what you mean to them, or what they’ll do for you, so be careful who you’re nice to. The End

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Oscar Wright

Food

Besides the sink dripping in the kitchen, it was quiet at Peter Boyd’s third floor apartment, until the chime of a key-chain could be heard through the back door. Ssscrunchsh … sssshhhhaaah Boyd opened the door and put his keys back in his pocket. Thhhk ‘Finally’ Boyd thought to himself. He dropped the groceries and grabbed the coffee pot. He poured 6 cups of water into the machine while tapping his foot - he needed to relieve himself but he wanted to get the coffee going, ‘Let’s go! Let’s go!’ He threw his jacket onto the couch on the way to the bathroom. A black cat awoke from under the couch and stretched her shoulders on the carpet. Boyd’s bowel movements were much louder than the cat’s. Boyd was generally much louder than the cat. She watched Boyd’s shadow until he opened the bathroom door. Boyd kicked his shoes off on his way back into the kitchen. He turned around, took some groceries out of the bag on the floor. ‘Oh hey, Olive!’ He said to the cat in the doorway. ‘Hey’ the cat replied. She was starting to like the new apartment but Boyd wasn’t at home as much lately. The cat walked onto the vinyl kitchen floor. She licked her arm below the gurgling coffee maker at the end of the counter. Keeping an eye on the small passage between the fridge and the cabinet, the cat crossed the kitchen floor. She pounced to the crack but found nothing she could kill. She looked up at Boyd. ‘I’m hungry’ she said. He said something to the Alexa and music started playing. The cat rubbed against his leg with her head but he was busy. She drank some water out of her bowl, then left the kitchen. ‘Coffee!’ Boyd remembered and smiled. He was glad to be out of the cold, Boyd had the next day off and planned on writing late into the evening. He didn’t know what it was exactly that he wanted to write, but he knew something would come to him. Luckily his favorite knife was clean. He cut an onion in two and then wasted the hard part and the top layer. He cut thin slices out of each half and then pushed it into a mostly clean pan. Next he got out some mushrooms. ‘People

are mushrooms too’ he thought as he multiplied them. He stirred in garlic powder and olive oil and lit the stove. He cut up some peppers and tomatoes while the veggies simmered. He put those in and turned the stove off after he put some pasta in the microwave to boil. The smell coming out of the kitchen made its way into the study of a silverfish in the living room wall. The bug was reading a collection of works his friend RC recently published through a local press. It was ready for a break, the subject matter was not light, so it decided to go out for some food. It looked out from under the trim and saw the cat clawing at the arm of the couch. Taking its chance, it ran along the wall and into the kitchen. The silverfish looked up and caught a glimpse of the giant before scurrying into the crack between the fridge and the cabinet. It would waits there until the giant left. ‘I put some food in your bowl’ Boyd told the cat as he walked in with his computer bag. He put down his coffee and resituated himself. Boyd pressed the power button on his laptop and it began humming on the table. The screen lit and Word was open with a few notes on the page. ‘I’m hungry,’ Boyd thought to himself, ‘I won’t be able to write if I’m hungry! How did I let it come to this?’ He put his feet up, put his warm hard-drive onto his thighs and wrapped his hands around his mug to think. He wondered ‘How should I start?’ but then beep beep beep went the microwave. Boyd put the computer on the table and went back into the kitchen. He entered the kitchen to see the cat playing with something on the floor. It was a bug. She was torturing it, throwing it across the floor and then tackling it again. ‘Stop it!’ he told her and stepped on it. ‘Eat your food.’

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Aradia Denmark Laine The huntress whose face is the moon turns to Sigmund Freud cradling a wolf-boy who dreams the silversmiths are chanting, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” Maddalena deals an ace of spades to Cain, the mandrake farmer, his bloody fingers dug medieval soil, to grow a New Age, a golden bough the living tree that’s body and soul Her brother, the roebuck in the thicket who masks his face with the sun serves the head of the pope at Herod’s Feast to prostitutes and woodland fauns The black madonna, whose womb is the world all-devourer, all-begetter may teach you of her Art, the word of madness and mystery, that you might learn her true name and yours

Rausch Lew Blink intoxicated with us faces look ugly when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re unwanted but beauty is found in deeply sumerged feelings of mankindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s collective sign elevated and enraptured in the hustle, the roar of a crowd smiles penetrate loose being licking lips in anticipation of that old Time Warp once again. drunk, manic, hopeful nights in shoulder to shoulder spaces high as kites with thunder hash dawning the hideousness that reveals commonthread bared toe to toe, finger to finger touching god on a cloud experiencing rausch, you sly German phrase saying everything and nothing at all.

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