Bad Jacket Issue 3

Letter from the Editors Well, here we are. A few months later and an election cycle dumber we find ourselves yet again at the advent of an installment of Bad Jacket. If the first two issues were a manifesto and an assault, respectively, then this is a collage: art, prose, poetry, and photophgraphy of every hue, tone and voice all jostling together. Hand drawn nudes, plain spoken poetry, television dissection, and speculative fiction have all been coerced into a room and forced to be friends.

We sincerely hope you, dear reader can find for yourself a blank space in its pages; or, if you discover its tapestry inscrutable, you find at least a dirty window onto a way of making good art.

Sure, the singular artist on his 3rd pot of coffee, toiling deep into the night, may acheive transcendence but it is only through community that we are witnessed. It is only through community that we are named.

Thus, as you turn the pages of the society we’ve cobbled together out of disparate parts, we hope you find something that speaks to an unknown part of yourself, something alien, yet familiar, which reveals in a flash that your limits extend to realms sweeter and deeper than you know. That’s the dream, at least.

Affectionately yours, SPECIAL THANKS TO The Goddamned Editors.

THE KISMET CREATIVE CENTER badjacket94@gmail.com https://www.facebook.com/Bad-Jacket Cover Photo by Marcia Camp

Advertisements & Notices

Anonymous (14) Kaylyn Bauer (5, 7, 25, 33, 45): What do you call a blind dinosaur? Local author TH Blood, Jr. (55) pawning liminal experiences at reasonable rates, catch him on his birthday and he’ll sing you many songs. Jim Boyle ( 12, 25, 53): I self identify as a Hot Girl. Terrance Brown (34), 23 by way of St. Louis Missouri, previously published in Bellerive’s Sonder, wusgoodblack & the site Brooklyn Buttah.

A pacifist deciphering the mathematics of a war time society.

Bred from scribbles on the tabletops in your local schoolery.

Sam Bufe (13) recently learned that the “Why did the chicken cross the road?” Joke is about suicide. Joey Coombs (33) is an acotr in the St. Louis area.

A very lazy one. Sometimes he writes, as seen here. He is thankful for the opporutnity to have something published!

Shane Devine (12, 38, 47): My writings are cut from bits of rag I found pinned to the underside of a tortoise with a porcelain shell and a new umbrella. Casey Diebold (6): Realizing the true wonders of the Real World are worth a lifetime of labor, and indeed all those who have traversed deep enough into its borders have died. I will meet you there.

Katryn Dierksen (15, 21, 23, 31, 32, 35, 41, 49, 55) has an English degree.. Brian Dugan (16, 50) has spent an entire ONE day without facial hair, a day he immediately regretted for the financial burden of a razor. He is working toward graduating from Saint Louis University this May with a B.A. in Psychology. Jessie Eikmann (8, 21, 41) drinks wine from the skulls of her enemies.

Gabriel Habtemariam (10, 12):

Too high. Can’t come down.

Losing my head. Spinning round and round. Dou you feel me now? A recent transplant from Kentucky to Saint Louis, Adam Hempling (31) is a fun-loving, coffee-drinking, music-making, long-distance-running, Japanese-speaking, poetry-writing kind of guy. These are the pages of Hart L’Ecuyer (24): Winner of the Nobel Prize, “Heart attack” L’Ecuyer is a Professor of Humanity at Most Universities. He lives.

Young and fit college student Zachary J. Lee (5, 26) seeks lifelong companion who will put up with incessant wordplay and 30 Rock binges.

Must be a cat. Apply within.

Benjamin Luczak (Ʃ) is looking for a cheap used car. Please email him at benjamin44@ymail.com Melanie Luczak (4, 10, 27, 36) loves Florence and The Machine and does not care about what you think.

Thomas Mays (49) is a man. He does things, sometimes for fun, usually not.

Michael Mclaughlin (9, 47) is largely exceptional.

Bryson Miguel (23) eats birds. Cecil Morgan (33) is a professional college student at Truman State University.

William Morris (20, 39): Do-you-think-he-saurus.

Connor Nicks (Ø) is the Mike Pence of Bowling. Brianna Price (13, 19, 22 48) is an artist based in St. Louis. You can follow her art on Facebook (Brianna Price Art) and Instagram (@ bpriceart). She hopes you enjoy her work, or not, whatever.

Mike Renez (7, 40) lives in an 80s movie and his way of being cool is not try, but do.

Elliot Russo (7) is a saxy beard with a beardy sax.

Zoe Scala (42, 54) is a 21-yearold “darned millennial” in a committed long term relationship with their cat. They spend their free time doing little else other than watching ancient Youtube memes, and can be found in the UMSL student lounge sleeping Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I’m Kate Scheutzenhofer (12, 20, 26) I’m a broke starving artist and I hope one day to be known for my passion for photography and makeup artistry. You can find me on Instagram @kateschuetzphoto and we can be friends on Facebook if you can figure out how to spell my last name Since determining he wants to be a full-time writer, Amber Scholl (19) is a recently graduated English nerd with a passion for travel and good coffee. For your editing, writing, design, and website needs, shoot her an email at TheEditingExpresso@gmail.com.

Nat Smith (11): Education is the boot out of here, while they strangle us with it’s straps.

Kevin Thomas (45, 49): Buy my book. I haven’t written it yet, but I want your money.

Aiko Tsuchida (28) will eart all your transphobia and vomit on your shoes.

Anna Wermuth (21, 27, 39, 46): No matter what you’re told, believe it’s true: that scientists can be poets too.

DANIEL W. WRIGHT (9, 55) was born in 1984 in Chicago, IL but has made St. Louis his home for over 30 years. A freelance writer and poet and a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him, he is also the author of the poetry collection Working Bohemian’s Blues and Other Poems 2008 – 2014

Melanie Luczak

4

buzz

Kaylyn Bauer I cannot escape this was not written with my hand and a pencil.

I put the headphones in to find solace but the cacophony of technology rings out.

I sit upon the mountain meditating with the nature the drone comes -

(you are) Diviner—A Warning Zachary Lee

stare at the coffee grounds left in the bottom of his cup —don’t let the dregs drug you stare at the tea leaves and wind listen when the moon lights the path from his place to your place

“Cacaphony” Kaylyn Bauer

point the magick stick t’ward the ground but not too close or you’ll sn a p– —let if follow what it will dig when you know there’s water

5

A Piece of Paper by Casey Diebold

I am a piece of 8.5 by 11-inch paper. Situated amongst hundreds of others exactly my type, I remain stoic and expressionless, detecting a vague sense of waiting within me but not quite reacting to time as a hindrance to any forward motion. For it is innate in my nature to not move of my own accord, but to only react upon the impression of other physical bodies. Of course, I am not bothered by the presence of my fellow papers, for we are stacked with all of our four respective corners cleanly aligning, which allowed the plastic packaging to seal air-tight the ream of which I am currently a constituent. However, there is no government in this body. Together, we form more of a mass. This is clear now that the coating has been savagely torn from the surfaces of the ream, exposing every piece of paper to the elements. Of course, I—being approximately a third of the way from the top of the stack—am protected by a thick layer of my brethren on both sides of me. Therefore, I am not affected by the small amount of liquid that is penetrating the pores of those papers on top, rendering them shriveled and discolored for the remainder of their corporeal existence. I remain blind to the world in aeonic meditation. That is until, unannounced and without regard for my permission, a light shines brightly from all sides of me and I lay face up experiencing a world of light hitherto unknown to my experiences. My only previous clues to the nature of the world beyond the darkness of my previous state were the temperature of my surroundings, of which I was indifferent—to an extent—and the gradual decrease of the weight upon my top face. Now I am exposed to humanity and bear witness to the torture that humans thoughtlessly put paper through.

There is a room full of humans and they are using tools to impress symbols onto the bodies of my paper brethren and they laying there, hopelessly paralyzed, reciting the message conveyed to it ever so softly, like a secret, between the farthest facet of the paper’s surface and the sharpest tip of the instrument. The utensils were of various types, one nearest me being a long octagonal prism made of wood, with the butt end resembling a short cylinder of pink rubber and the front end tapering into a metallic point, which seemed to be the instrument responsible for the markings left on the paper. The humans held this device, which they call pencil, in their hands with three fingers clasping the upper shaft of the prism and the remaining two fingers providing support, allowing them to manipulate this tool to form impressions of shapes and symbols in certain combinations; this interaction of the pencil and the paper is what they call writing. It’s really nothing more than depressions being carved into the body and infusing those depressions with quick-drying fluid so as to allow the paper to forget the pain of change. Suddenly, I experience a sudden rush as my position within the three dimensions of space change immensely and abruptly. I am placed upon a solid surface and perceive the pencil approaching my face. I anticipate unpredictable and permanent alteration, but beyond that I feel nothing. That is the best defense against what is to come, for succumbing to any other emotion would only illuminate the hopelessness of the situation. I am immobile and uncaring. I accept my fate, and feel the marks of the pencil impress upon my surface, and I feel compelled to replicate the tracings of the pencil, instinctually repelling precisely the force I receive. So it begins, and soon I am covered with markings and scratchings and notes and in all of this I have transcended. I no longer exist as a piece of paper, but a message. I have something to say.

This is now my purpose. The piece of paper that was behind me, it still exists as a tabula rasa. It still has the potential for anything. It can even crumpled up into a wad and tossed around as a game, though its purpose would then become evident and it would lose the purity of its initial potential.

My purpose will never be that, though, for I am one with markings, and even if I were crumbled into a ball for sport, it would only tarnish my original purpose: to communicate an idea. But just as I could not control my being selected, or written on, I also cannot prevent being used for a purpose that corrupts my original one. This powerlessness over myself is my true fate. My true purpose over all else. Each paper in that ream will suffer the carving of the pencil and if they don’t, they will suffer a worse fate: having gone to waste. I retain my message for as long as I can; I will never let go, until the sun fades away my skin and the rain washes clean my memory and the fire burns my passion into something totally unrecognizable.

6

by Kaylyn Bauer Dispos Packing abl es:

razor condom brush s sing h t le-se o o t rvin g fr

iend s

5 Steps to make others happy Eliott Russo

1) Look at yourself in the mirror.

2) Sigh deeply and weep a little on the inside.

3) Grab your hair-removal tool of choice.

4) Look at yourself once more.

“Phantom�

Mike Renez

5) Put that shit down. It's your body, do what you want with it.

7

The Eight Communists in St. Louis City Look Ahead to 2017 Jessie Eikmann

Well we’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes and all we’ve done is stare at our hands How about we all just be honest We’re tired of conference call static campus occupations meetings marches speculation heaped on speculation At our Party conventions they said we can’t try to be the USSR anymore we have a reputation to save have to have a new agenda so for now we stay underground hide behind a 501 C-3 create coalitions organize the workers But this is stupid We can’t beat a Nazi cabinet with disco parties vegan chili punk rock concerts and whatever else the nonprofit planned I knew all of this would happen knew it the minute my new black cat kept pacing

back and forth across my bed on November 8 that cat is evil I tell you Now is the time for action mass exodus I’m talking thousands of camper vans Or if planes we have to do it quick because after January 20 it’s no-fly list blackballing Red Scare all over again Out of the city

Damnit why can’t we just dig a moat around 63118 get the shovels Out of Missouri Out of America home of the lynch mob and white everything But we have to get the people of color out first because this Party is whiter than a Grand Wizard’s costume plus all the trans people who will never get health insurance again On to some other country that needs us South America isn’t completely hopeless yet anyone here speak Spanish

Shit that reminds me you too Papa Castro you were supposed to be immortal Or we could stay and go to the scaffold like our comrades in Germany once upon a time And I hate to get in bed with the anarchists but they don’t have any fucks to give and I need that right now can’t believe I’m saying this but we need some guns My cat is closing his eyes it’s a symbol We’re so doomed

8

Bullies Dan Wright

Timely thoughts on timeless problem Bad guys win the day Parents can’t look children in the eye Science and fact now shots in the dark David Byrne raps now prove prophecy as puppets dance for freedom Children keep responsibilities only to be ignored Lunch money stolen as necessary hostage They’d shoot you in the street bragging that they got away with it and then claim they never did it because they don’t remember

Pornography preached against by those who read the National Review but only for the articles Transcontinental snobs become uneasy

when called out for what they are “Listen to me you queer, stop calling me a crypto-Nazi or I’ll sock you in the goddamn face and you’ll stay plastered.”

Immigration gets blamed on abortion as they wish for a government small enough to drown in the tub while judges are impaled Six steps forward means ten steps back Brass rings are never meant to be touched Obscenity normalized too many problems swept under the rug as they wonder why the house is so dusty So many scramble for every dollar unaware they may not have a world to spend it in

Michael Mclaughlin

Talking heads scream for most attention Here we go again The point is never understood the first time because there never is one

9

Gabriel Habtemariam Ten word letter to an addict: My love for you was not enough to save you.

10

Melanie Luczak

Counterpublics Nat Smith

When I was a kid I made friends easily and always found the “group” to belong to. I was one of the popular kids in my classrooms and always had someone to sit with at lunch. The same cannot be said for me once I hit high school. I went from having dozens of friends to only having a few. My friends were no longer the popular kids like in my grade school days. Now they were the social outcasts, the rebels, and the shit disturbers. Like most groups of friends, we always sat at the same table in the lunch room. It was a place of comfort and solace away from the stress of classes, teachers, and most importantly, the popular kids.

I realize high school was terrible for most of us. I hope you will humor me and try to think back to those days in high school cafeterias. Do you remember the first few weeks of school when you and your friends were still getting your bearings on your schedules? What about that sinking feeling you would get heading to the cafeteria if you didn’t know a friend would be there sitting already? How nerve racking it was walking out of the lunch line with a tray full of nachos looking for a familiar face… It was torture, right?

Once you found your place, surviving high school didn’t seem that bad. You and your fellow angst-filled friends could freely talk about how your parents, teachers, bosses, and fellow students were against you. For some of us, that lunch table security could be found in other areas of the school. Maybe it was the school band, theater, choir, or a club. If high school was the public sphere of our teenage years; then without realizing it we all found our own counter-publics, as Nancy Fraser would put it. According to Fraser, a counter public is a sub-sphere of the dominant culture. Places where individuals can hide, congregate and discuss their critiques of bourgeoisie society. It is within these counter-publics individuals find a way to voice their oppressions and start to take action.

This has been a vital foundation for the LGBTQIA+ community. If we look at the history of the LGBTQIA+ movement and its critique of heteronormative culture we see fantastic examples like the Stonewall Riots, the Aids Quilt, Marriage Equality, and recently the Trans Rights movement. That being said, even within the LBGTQIA+ community there exist further counter-publics. When talking about political counter-publics most of the community falls into two categories: Those who want to assimilate into heteronormative culture and those who want liberation from it. I find both of these counter-publics exclusive and problematic.

I am a queer individual in a long term relationship co-raising three children with my partner. I want all the same rights a heterosexual person has. I want to be able to marry my partner. I want her at my bedside when I am sick. I want her to have access to my children if something were to happen to me. I want us to be able live where the best schools are for our children. Do I think we need a complete overhaul of our political and judicial system? Yes. Is this entire country run on heteronormative, bourgeois masculine and patriarchal beliefs? Yes. Do the current systems in place systematically and systemically oppress anyone who is not cis, white and male? Hell yes. Why is it within the LGBTQIA+ community that I have to pick a side? Where is the counter public for radical-assimilationist trying to survive heteronormative society?

Politics aside, one of the most beautiful things about the LGBTQIA+ community are the identity-based counter-publics. We have groups for Queers, Ace (Asexual), Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Poly folks, and Kinks. Within the Trans community, we have groups for Non-binary, Femme specs, Masc. specs, and QTPOCs. We even have support groups for family members of the Trans community. These groups, or counter-publics, are vital to not only changing the way society treats us but to our survival. These groups help keep people alive. They help keep our community members off the street and most importantly keep folks from committing suicide.

Without the use of counter-publics and the discourse that they produce, queers wouldn’t be allowed to marry. They wouldn’t help protect our country. Amazing QTPOC members wouldn’t be fighting for black lives in 2016. High schools across the nation now supply specific counter public spaces for LGBT+ students through GSAs/QSAs. Colleges across the country now have specific LGBTQIA+ resource spaces, coordinators, and retention practices. All of this progress started outside of dominant public discourse. It started with groups of individuals finding a similar voice and standing up against heteronormativity. We still have a long way to go, but at least until then we know where to sit at lunch.

11

Gabriel Habtemariam What you wanted from me, I could not be.

I wanted so badly to be free.

If you're reading this, Please know I'm happy.

Confide Shane Devine

“Current Mood” Kate Scheutzenhofer

SCIENCE PROJECT Jim Boyle

I intended to actually do my science fair project, but the days slipped past and I completely forgot. I was so busy playing sports and copying other kid’s homework that finally the day came where I had to present. The teacher called me up to the front of the room, where I stood for a moment, then sat down and curled up into a ball. I said, “I am now an egg.” 85% Yes!

12

CONFIDE in one friend.

Nothing leaves one.

One won’t blush, and His mouth won’t leak.

Confess to one – One is a confidant.

For two friends, perform.

There’s play between two.

Something might slip.

Two is in cahoots, and Two might spread to three.

Fake it for two – Two is an audience.

October 13th in 3 Haikus​ Sam Bufe Notification.

"Bob Dylan" in the title.

Oh no. Is he dead?

"Nobel Prize Winner."

You are god damn right he is. simply the greatest.

Bob is a legend.

Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.

13

Brianna Price

14

Guðrún (god rune; secret) Katryn Dierksen

After graduating from university with a degree in marketing, I naturally began a career in the service industry. There is no finer (or, rather, rougher) a position through which to buff out one’s so-called “effortless charm” than waiting tables. While I had no good intention to put my education to use, I had good sense enough at that point to continue honing in my good sense. The job was average—urban tourist street—boutique restaurant paired with an over-priced menu considering it’s intended demographic (to such an end that I was frequently under-tipped—nevermind). Meanwhile,

there did take place in the seven months I was employed there some strange events, two of which I hope to convey to you here—however obtuse an aim that might be.

the first thing I must tell you about is Sarah. Sarah was a bartender and the single mother of two children—in custody of their father for the sake of Sarah’s fondness for alcohol. Sarah had golden eyes an amber hue I had never seen produced in the human iris before. Being as possessed as I was to walk out each night well-cared for, I made a matter of flattering her to the extent that she would provide me with samples of whiskey throughout my shifts—if only to highlight my empathetic spirit. I provided her with a drinking partner—an impermanent appointment I achieved by my third week on the job.

By my second week, now I must tell you, I discovered something strange in the restaurant, about which (at the time) I prettily thought I alone was privy. (ASIDE: I admit I only now feel double-crossed out of a developed anxiety.) It happened one night as I was folding linens in the basement. I had been on the job just long enough to feel confidence in slipping through the alley between the kitchen and the cement cellar with an armload of napkins, no sooner than to hear the wholly distinguishable sound of a woman crying in sexual sublimation. Excited—

my eye caught a yellow shaft of light in which I took humble pause to discern a front-of-house manger’s bare ass, just above his loose belt and stone-washed jeans, fucking Sarah with what seemed great frustration.

In the moment it took me to note sufficient detail, I found myself hustling up the stairs from the cellar again—no napkins folded. I felt rather wry until I clocked out half an hour later by the same manager, whose ass still shone behind my eyes. I even stayed at the bar for an after-shift beer, only to read the crummy satisfaction in her guilty golden eyes.

I tell you this as a confession. I don’t want you to know much about me except that I wanted to fuck Sarah’s brains out for six months after the fact.

This all culminates with the time, one week before she cold quit (moved suddenly to Tennessee—I heard), that I followed her to the back of a pub, hanging behind her shoulder as she sized up the juke box. I felt uncomfortable—or out of place, the heat from her back radiating into me, and intrusive sensation (on my part). To relieve myself, I took leave of the restroom. On the toilet I huffed dramatically from my dime bag and rolled my eyes back. The door banged open and while I jumped out of my skin and onto my feet Sarah whorled, sliding the lock into the just-slammed juncture.

I felt my forehead pinching; my eyes popped. Before my eyebrows could come uncinched , she pivoted and snatched me, catching my upper arm with an angry grip and before I could read the intention in the flash of gold she shoved me to the sink, biting my mouth. The discomfort in my chest writhed, and, responding to the violence of my ass hitting the sink, I grabbed her and pulled our pelvises together. She moaned into my lips and I felt her hands snaking around me again, then felt her fingers at my waistband.

She dragged her fingernails into the strip on skin just above, searing her way to the zipper of my pants. In the next moment, she tugged my pants down—her fingernail running along my pussy from back to front.

I gasped. She laughed into my face, putting the pad of her middle finger onto the head of my clit. A strangled whine caught in my throat.

I can’t really tell you more than that. As a policy I do not have regrets. I haven’t seen her since she moved away. I think she’s plays in a bluegrass band now, taking tips on a street somewhere. I try not to think of it much, but I still feel the blow.

15

Mirrored Justice Brian Dugan

We’ve become weak. We must have; our President-elect said so. Criminals and nuisances aren’t punished like they used to be, and we’re worse off for it. “In the good old days, this doesn’t happen, because they treated them very, very rough,” our President-elect said about a protester at one of his campaign rallies. “I’d like to punch him in the face,” he said of another dissident. “Try not to hurt him. (But) if you do, I’ll defend you in court, don’t worry.” But would the court accept this type of defense, a claim not of self-defense so much as of retribution? Right now, likely not. If you heed Charlie Brooker’s warnings, though, or if you don’t deem his satire particularly relevant, then a combination of our technology, dehumanization, and paranoia might drive us blindly toward a future that accepts equal retribution as a necessity.

In the increasingly rare moments our phone screens aren’t illuminated, they act as black mirrors, shadowed distortions of our own images. It is this latent state of our nagging pocket companions that Brooker’s hit TV show evokes in its name: Black Mirror. If you ask Netflix, most worlds of this satirically thrilling anthology exist in the “near future,” although how near that future is depends on the episode. According to Brooker, that proximity “might be … 10 minutes’ time if we’re clumsy.” Or, in the case of the show’s season three finale, “Hated in the Nation,” it is, at most, an iOS update away.

In a series of only 13 episodes, Black Mirror examines retributive justice in at least four: season two’s “White Bear” and White Christmas,” and season three’s “Shut Up and Dance” and “Hated in the Nation.” Retribution, for many of us, is most readily understood as the basis for the death penalty: true justice requires that the offender be punished equally in regard to his or her victim’s suffering. Murder, then, must be punished with murder. 32 states legally protect this method. There is no indication, though, that any protect the right to assault and batter a child beater, nor to rape a rapist, nor even to torture a torturer. As much as Buffalo Bill makes our skin crawl sympathetically toward the hanging hides of his female victims, I doubt most of us could stomach skinning him and collecting his hide as a nice compliment to the ottoman and wardrobe in our bedrooms. It is tough for nearly anyone to reconcile performing these acts on a human, regardless of their guilt. Excepting the death penalty, though, dehumanization merely allows us, for the most part, to hand out arbitrary retribution in the form of a prison sentence.

If death is the only sort of true retribution we have, then it could be worse, right? The issue, though, is the arbitrary type of retribution that we practice today. Retribution does not have to be equal so much as equitable. This stipulation eases our desire to deal with psychopaths like Buffalo Bill, whom we cannot do unto as he would do unto women. Instead, we’re free to punish a drug offense with six months in prison, or we’re mandated to lock a murderer away for 25 years. At the end of the sentence, it’s on the prisoner to figure out his own rehabilitation.

Brooker waits until the fifth episode of his series to introduce his satirical caution of retributive justice, and not until its final third does “White Bear” reveal this unique take. “White Bear” begins with an amnesiac woman awaking to a scattered home and silent community, whose only neighbors on this Fall morning are camera-phone-wielding bystanders. She has glimpses of flashback to a man and a child, and scattered around her world is a minimalist, head-on image of a polar bear, its front legs, shoulder, and head represented rectangularly. Nothing else seems certain. Within minutes, the main character finds herself on the run from a rifle-wielding man masked by this white bear logo, and she finds a companion along the way. In a forest of crucifixions, the companion saves the main character from an ally-turned-hunter who nearly power drills the back of her head. Finally, the two arrive at an industrial complex, where a masked man and woman hunt them with power tools. The main character manages to find a rifle and point it at her enemies, but as she fires, confetti flies and the wall slides open behind her to reveal an audience and a stage.

On the stage, a familiar face greets applause with an explanation: this woman, now being chained to a chair by her ally and enemies alike, was an accomplice in the kidnapping and murder of a young child. According to this man—who was the same man with the power drill in the forest— this woman now chained to a chair, who’s been identified as Victoria Skillane, videotaped her boyfriend slaughtering the child. She stood by, silent, not exactly guilty, but anything but innocent. Now, as punishment for her sins and her boyfriend’s, who hanged himself in his cell and had the white

16

bear logo tattooed on his neck, Skillane must undergo for herself this brutal, helpless torture. Every day, for an interminable but unknown length—the episode focuses on day 18—Skillane wakes up with no memory, unknowingly plays her part in a hit theatrical performance, pleads for the bystanders (really, the paying audience) to get off their phones and help, discovers her crime, faces ridicule from the audience while being paraded back to her “home,” and has her memory wiped. So it goes.

The world of “White Christmas” is more China than Canada in terms of temporal proximity, but it similarly toys with retribution. Instead of the prison sentence, however, the retribution in the season two finale deals with the trial. To force a man to admit to battery and murder, the police use an American entrepreneur to enter his mind and replicate the world of the murder in question. Usually, the technology functions to clone a person with the intent to task this miniature clone with all of the executive functioning tasks that humans no longer have time for—setting an alarm, opening the blinds, buttering toast, organizing the home. These clones, we learn, are essentially slaves, although their inherent subhumanity keeps them from strict classification as such. By the time the man in question discovers that he’s one of these slaves, a mere figment of the real murderer’s mind, and that his real self faces trial, he’s already confessed to the accidental but brutal murder of his dead, adulterating, ex-girlfriend’s father and daughter. The clone receives 5,000 years of isolation, and the American entrepreneur, as punishment for his inhumane system, is put on the sex offender registry—an even deeper stigma in this future world than in our own.

“Shut Up and Dance,” considered widely among myself and most of my friends who watch this show as the most disturbing and proximal episode, follows a teenager taken hostage by text messages. A downloaded software enables hackers to catch video of Kenny masturbating, and as soon as that evening, he’s given relatively mundane tasks that eventually evolve into a bank robbery and, soon after, a death fight.

As the tension of the episode mounts, it becomes increasingly clear that Kenny’s deed wasn’t as normal as it first sounds, and his mom confirms our suspicions when, over the phone, she screams to a bloodied and limping Kenny, “KIDS?! You’ve been looking at kids?!” Behind him, cops approach, and Kenny submits.

Brooker leaves us with another retributive punch at the end of season three, a detective’s tale of a vigilante hacker that unfolds layer by layer, like the previous three episodes I’ve highlighted. The mysterious murder of an inflammatory journalist turns out to be a quasi-suicide, which is followed the next day by a similar death. Soon, British intelligence traces online evidence back to a nationwide hack of government-sanctioned Autonomous Drone Insects. These bumblebee replicates exist for mass pollination, a last-ditch environmental effort. Within a week of their release, though, an unknown hacker obtains their control and programs them to enter victims’ pain centers of their brains via the ear or nose. These victims are selected by popular social media vote: whoever’s name garners the most #DeathTo Twitter mentions between midnight and 5 pm of a given day earns a target. Ultimately, though, the bees are programmed to attack the over300,000 Twitter users who participated in this game, whether or not they were conscious of their hand in the murders. Like its three retributive justice predecessors, the ultimate premise of “Hated in the Nation” is absurd, but we don’t quite realize its absurdity until after we’ve felt empathy for the initial moral violators.

The most effective satire is the most absurd satire, and the longer a satirist can withhold the absurdity, the more realistic it feels. Brooker’s masterpiece works so well, because in all of these episodes, the idea of retribution lies dormant until more than halfway through. Until his grand revelations—on stage, epiphanic, a call from mom, in an interrogation—these stories are simply futuristic. But the darker, creepier effect brings these stories so close to home. How many of us have videotaped a bar fight or verbal altercation, fought our brother in the heat of an argument, been caught with lewd paraphernalia, or Tweeted a thoughtless and bottomless threat?

So what, you might ask. Yes, we do these things, but our justice system does not punish battery with battery, rape with rape, or recklessness with recklessness. But think about the nearly 3,000 American prisoners currently on death row whose crimes have been deemed “punishable by death,” or of the unsubstantiated suspects monitored recklessly by the government under the PATRIOT Act. In less extreme terms, think about the teenager who received three months for a couple grams of weed found at a traffic stop. The government’s retribution doesn’t involve pure seizure of illicit substances, but rather the stripping of autonomy and social functioning that is packaged in a prison sentence. The public perception of our justice system is notoriously anti-reformative, but not necessarily retributive. Abstractly,

17

though—and abstractions are no less real than concreteness—retribution is central to American justice.

Let’s revisit the idea of inherent subhumanity, which I mentioned in reference to “White Christmas.” Personhood, humanity, life—whatever you call it—is legally defined to “include every … member of the species homo sapiens who is born alive at any stage of development.” This definition is taken from semantics related to abortion, but as artificial intelligence has not yet been perfected, the abortion debate offers a good place to start in terms of legal understanding of humanity (corporate personhood is more closely tied to fiscal rights than civil rights, so for that purpose, I’ve elected to dismiss it from this essay).

So if we accept the rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as guarantees of humanity, anyone who qualifies as a home sapiens “born alive at any stage of development” should qualify for these rights.

In other words, they are inherently human. But a golden retriever, for example, is belongs to the canis lupus species and thus does not fit the legal definition of humanity; it is subhuman. A clone, presumably created and not born, violates the birth clause of humanity and thus is subhuman. To violate their liberty and enact retribution on them, then, is not as much a stretch of ethical code as it is to rape a human rapist.

So to make retribution permissible, we must dehumanize its victim. How can a murderer be a victim, though? Don’t they deserve what they’ve received, whether that be 25 to life or death? If we accept them as fully human, though, despite their transgressions, they become the victim of retribution, a violation of the right(s) to life, liberty, and/or the pursuit of happiness. When rehabilitation is deemed impossible, their rights are stripped. We make them less than human.

It makes sense, right? No good human could kidnap a child, rape a “friend,” kill a lover. There must be something subhuman about them. And perhaps there is. But to call this subhumanity inherent is a stretch that presumes an unchangeable evil will within this person. In “White Bear,” Skillane cannot be fully human because she watched—joyfully or not—and recorded a murder of a child without so much a pang of wrongdoing. In “Shut Up and Dance,” Kenny presumably perpetuates child sex trafficking. But have Skillane and Kenny always been so reprehensible? Modern psychology tells us, no, probably not.

The best among us have it in ourselves to be complicit with the next Charles Manson, accomplices to the gruesome crimes of a twisted manipulator. If we were once better, then we must be able to be better again, to rehabilitate. Retribution, though, stunts rehabilitation. Its victims become locked into subhumanity.

The hundreds of thousands of victims in “Hated In the Nation,” though, are the most similar to any of us: who among us has not wished, even privately for the death of our least favorite politician, or a shitty boss, or the best athlete on our rival team? And who has done so publicly? Does this type of thoughtless and impulsive Tweet necessitate subhumanity? Is it not the most human of things, to think and speak without a filter? Irresponsibility does not a villain make.

Retributive justice relies on the perception of subhumanity. To want revenge is natural, and to diminish the inherent value of a criminal is easy. But I share Charlie Brooker’s fear that retributive justice creates more injustice than true justice. We have not reached a sort of justice system that allows concrete retribution, but the abstract retribution inherent to prison sentences is something that should be evaluated for its merit. I do not expect that we will abandon it, and frankly, I’m not even sure that we should, for there does not yet exist a coherent alternative that might replace it. But as Barack Obama leaves office, and his Administration’s legacy and efforts to curb unjust sentences is left to Donald Trump’s White House, it is increasingly important to be vigilant in our attempt to keep satire separate from reality. As inherent humans, we have inherent protection against retribution in the same way we should have inherent protection against crime in the first place. The Good Old Days behind us for a reason, and as we approach our next destination at Near Future Station, we must be vigilant that Brooker’s cautions do not become prophecies.

18

The Musicians Amber Scholl

My fingers fold over yours, over frets We fret— Pressing and plucking, in all the right positions We pretend not to notice Fumbling over the G chord, forgetting the formation of an F Our fingers unused to moving in sync.

Our voices trek through Well-worn flat verses and Spike over sharp words and the chorus With high notes we always miss now.

We can’t find our key so we tumble Through the alphabet Composing empty lyrics— A three-word refrain.

I keep strumming, hoping the beat Will teach my heart to skip its own and You press your fingers Into strings until they cut too deep to heal On the bridge, on our way to A modulation’s shift, or A coda’s end, or Both.

Brianna Price

19

“Baphomet” Kate Scheutzenhofer

Self-portrait with Cat for Kaylyn

tap, taste some crumbs and go down the hall, around a William Morris corner, with no true aim, and there Sometimes, when I am here alone, she is, the cat, wandering on her own lying on the couch and reading circuit. We won’t cross paths, but something obscure, I will watch the I will think, We are the same, maybe. cat.

Distant cousin, half-sister, longShe sleeps with a crooked neck, forgotten friend still sticking to my sunning herself, languid and skin. Only, night will fall and oblivious. Then, in spite of myself, the cat will run on padded paws I will make some sound, a sneeze and give no thought to passing or squeak of springs, and planes in the starless city sky she will wake, give me sideways eyes, blotted out with light, and I a look of, Don’t. A slight will long for someplace distant, aside, and we return, over mountains, in a dream. each of us, to our distractions.

Later, in the kitchen, I will open cabinets, run the

20

Sonnet for the Metro Movie Peddler Who Keeps Hitting on Me Jessie Eikmann

You tell me that you like my “honest eyes” (You mean to say my thighs, my hips, my breasts, but by not mentioning those things you guess— wrongly—that I’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Yes, I’ll smile through your half-baked metaphors I’m cocooned and could be a butterfly, you say, if only I’d swoon for a guy— by which you mean your charming self, of course.

But let’s be clear: the line you think you’ve blurred Between girls who’d like you and lesbians is carved in stone. If you look up the word, it doesn’t say “closet bisexual,” and if my honest eyes can’t pierce your skull with that knowledge, we need not meet again.

“Sangre de Cristo” Anna Wermuth

21

Brianna Price

22

ellipsesickness

Bryson Miguel

straw holes suck me in like ballads you have sucked me in like running water (taken4grantedd) water rushing i want to make love to you every grind choreographed in rhythm to Debussy’s “La Mer.” i’m standing here, Daddy telling you to gogogo drag race for me Nice + .Slo. we are a medley we walk elsewhere but she can tell, she can see that little string that ties us together attached conjoined i don’t have any friends give me 1 good reason to go on w/o you you cough that fireball went down the wrong pipe i pat you on the back like a baby you asshole always looking for Mr. Mom you tenderly place you fist on my back you wanna go to the top of the Arch? (106.5) i did when I was five. looked down @ all the teeny tinies. get off of the ground you’re not that drunk those leaves are wet (ew) water rushing i woke up in a pool of blood & you weren’t even home selfish i keep telling myself that I should get marriedgetmarriedgetmarried but I’m tired too tired to live very much i told you i told you I don’t have any friends why won’t you tell me? tell me tell me HOW DID THEY EVER MAKE A MOVIE OF LOLITA?

23

Enormous Green Eyes M1 Instead of sit and wait pitch a long table Legs of the animals annunciate red X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_ During the first 2 weeks of his enormous green eyes, he died for our sins & that doesn’t give us much time. To Flood the Streets, which are often of A colossal size,

Instead of during the table which for 2 weeks has been sitting ink his enormous green eyes, I never was the kid pitching, instead my legs were sinful; all the time, which didn’t give me much time to flood the streets.

$$$_$$_$$$_$$_$$$_$$_$$$_$$_$$$_$$_$$$_$$$_$$_$$_$$$$* The doctor told you with his enormous green eyes to speak up, and that he couldn’t hear you.

We won’t be hearing any more about the doctor, I don’t think Now that I think about it.

While you’re waiting, would you

please direct your attention to these

enormous green eyes

--I went to bed after all.

I know I said I wouldn’t but I did. I had snorted so much heroin earlier that even the thought of my exgirlfriends’ body did not

24

arouse me, and all I could think about was my enormous green eyes.

I masturbate three to twenty times a day, so I was kind of itching myself and that turned into plucking pubic hairs and the night just got worse from there. All night I counted conference tables to no avail, and the legs of the animals annunciate red. During the first two weeks of our summer sex he died for our sins, and that doesn’t give us much time.

To flood the streets))(‘&_%_&’()hjdgtyuuiopq###

I think I may have overstated things a bit

in my last communication. I can’t even

remember what I said last night, or who I am,

or what any of this has to do with

Hart L’ecuyer

CHRISTMAS LIST ‘16 (Big Christmas) Jim Boyle -airplane -waterplane -dollar -new table -boobs -boobs subscription -new bike -old bike -regular bike -sand -anthracite coal -30 mins of peace and fucking quiet, Jesus F. Christ. Please.

-book

“Dichotomy” Kaylyn Bauer

25

EVENING OF THE PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCES

Shane Devine

Nearly holding hands, two fathers admire the architecture of their daughters’ catholic school.

Sardine Shoulders Side By Side By Sardine shoulders side by side by foreign thigh across my crotch I’m boxed in briefly by two bodies like Lincoln logs like an arm holding mine holding another holding breaths from landing on his neck or his neck wondering if I could just move either arm—just don’t wake him or him

Zach Lee

“Alone at Midnight” Kate Scheutzenhofer

26

A mountain is never forgotten All rituals are born from difficulty.

Anna Wermuth

Year after year he walked into thin air, searching for God. His yearning dug into the Earth, chipping away at the sacrificial horn.

And the mountain said, “Drink from me, and be satisfied.”

And the Lord must have said, “Fill your heart with devotion to me, or be denied.”

A man cannot heed a commandment he is doomed to sin against–– Yet holy is he who dies trying.

In the end, only the mountain is not forgotten.

Melanie Luczak

27

Goldfish

Aiko Tsuchida

sleepwalkers ball gag commuter town mortgages locked doors idly masturbate malingering monomania languid teatime stillness grows lips, fingers, and a tongue kisses, caresses, licks unperturbed vulgarity curtains purse, tremble, shiver, quake--she swears, in casual conversation, the menopausal neighbor watches it all from an upstairs bedroom window with her binoculars despite all her animatronic fretting, those blinds remain

drawn even though she won’t be watched today she loves to know someone is trying stagnant afternoon miasma can be so trying for goldfish memory, as it swims fallacious suburban upstreams endures bear attacks, calls it a spawning hazard writes it off as testosterone, instinct, and the cost of doing business the gauntlet of the hunt that whittles mountain cedars into toothpicks needlepoints comfortable creatures threads tiny ad infinitum nooses hair bristles vestigial on necks hidden beneath

28

blue collars husbands stare past mounted firearm reminders disheveled minds ponder oughts and coulds --something is missing! it exsanguinates debtors chasing targeted advertisement lifestyles stacks pay-day loans in extended-bed manifest capital avatars lays exhausted arterial cement in the toy aisle a christmas eve father joylessly extends an officially licensed lucasfilm ltd. plastiglomerate embryo shrugs this indifferent nonsense logs his pre-tantrum defense:

“i can prove how much i love you, child-i have kept all my receipts for tax purposes.” he was an early-adopter striker his Achilles heel was his Achilles heel it tore during athlos in athens, texas before lethe immersion ablution of glory days only mentioned during the 18th wmsl 1st cap score when pressed about specific knowledge he tends to his father whose night terrors sprung ambushes in incheon expressionist hellscapes unconsciously smashing furniture into pungi sticks from the hours

of 11:30 pm to well, about fifteen ‘till 6am for a few decades until one cracked daybreak a folded flag presented saw a fixed bayonet readied and plunged into chihuahuan high desert until all the oil deposits in the south china sea sprang little leaks on the globe’s reverse and filled his dead son’s grave with crude remarks about the faggot son who lived pretty pecos bill, who once came out of the closet declared himself other lived among coyotes howled at the

29

moon until departed brother cowpoke grabbed him by expectation, ordering, “git on home and start actin’ human” force-fed expired christian mores, he regressed, collapsed, accepted, endured, and bred a heteronormative identity for a heteronormative life with a heteronormative wife and a heteronormative family programming his heteronormative children with his heteronormative habits that he still actively chooses to stray from on occasion at least whenever mizz xxx mouth sucks off dallas

on the down-low she keeps it 100 when she says your secret’s safe with her i mean, she doesn’t tell anybody but she does film and upload all her craigslist escapades encourages discussion in the comments section tags all her content: “straight guy fucks tranny” an mwm moans promises unkept her expertise gets him all hyperbolic dumb he swears jagged, halted bursts: “i’d leave my wife for that hole in your

head.” she walks a sex-work tightrope that turns her body to a closed fist sailors knot her back in disagreement with themselves a lightning rod is never thanked for grounding regular discharge mid-act, she pauses. sagebrush exhales, greets bluebonnet line-dancers how-d’ya-do milky-way light years crowd lone star palaver she says, “my gawd --they really do look so big and bright deep in the heart of--yeah, clem.

I get it, it’s just not funny. no, I get it, clem.

I have a sense of humor— It just isn’t funny.

Ugh, fine--

30

I’ll say it: Even your cock looks bigger.

Happy?

No, I get it.

Clem--I’m fixin’ to whoop you-I get it.

It’s bigger.

Because we’re in Texas.”

Notice: Firearms welcome.

Please keep all weapons

holstered unless need arises.

In such a case, judicious marksmanship

is appreciated.

DAMN IT JIM, YOU’RE A POET NOT A DOCTOR Adam Hempling Damn it Jim, you’re a poet not a doctor... at least you were once (a poet, that is).

I guess that’s why you thought you had license to speak freely on behalf of your mysterious lover, Death. You, with your velvety voice and your hypnotic, moody eyes, made the foolish error of thinking she would be charmed and enchanted like your copper-headed muse on Love Street.

But you were wrong, Your Scaly Highness, she was not your friend and never was, nor was she your enemy, silently laying in wait for you to kiss the snake and let go...

No, she is a bored child seeking something new to play with and not finding it, a wolf whose plan is to let you exhaust yourself before moving in for the kill, an impartial collector of souls that once belonged to the elderly, to the sick, to the Indians, and to the used-up rock stars.

A doctor would have fought not sought Death; a lizard would have let go of its own tail to escape; a king would have led not fled to Pair-ree... and if we ever needed a leader, this was the time ‘cause people aren’t strange anymore — they’re dangerous, cornered, and mad as hell.

Their hair is burning and the hills are on fire but they’re too busy plucking dusky jewels and stopping the tired, the poor, the yearning masses from sleeping in anyone’s soul kitchen to halt the river of blood in the streets or to rescue the night they all set on fire, changing the mood from glad to MADNESS. And all the children are insane for they were glued to their cell phones and tablet computers, their reality TV, their cat pictures, and their selfies — blithely unaware and uninformed (perhaps on purpose) while the generation who rode that cold, old, seven-mile snake with you set the country back sixty years... silently handing it to the bigots and the homophobes, the bought and the sold, and the fearful fact-denying fools that believe in a score-keeping Jesus who supposedly

31

said unto his flock: “...whomsoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, shoot them through the left... and never mind what Our Father who art in Heaven said about ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and ‘Love thy neighbor’ for He liveth NOT in today’s world where you, my sheep, are under threat and persecuted again, especially those amongst you who are white, straight, and affluent like Me.” No, they tweeted like twits, while their elders wrestled the wheel from the driver of that blue bus... the one we all boarded a while ago, cheering and proud, too elated to even ask where it was taking us...

They could have changed the world but they sold out chasing pleasures here and digging treasures there, unable to recall the time they cried.

This is not the end, beautiful friend! It can’t be!

I won’t let it be... not while I’m on this side of the dirt, not while I am still desperately in need of some stranger’s hand in this desperate land, not while I still have breath in these lungs and voice to speak with, not while I still have a pen in hand and a vote to cast, not while I’m alive and you’re immobilized under stone having found your brand new friend, your old lover, Death, residing in her hyacinth house.

Sorry, Jim, but I still want to swim to the moon!

I still want to climb through the tide until I scream LAND HO! No, this is not the end, Backdoor Man...

This is the beginning.

- for Jim Morrison.... duh

32

“Untitled�

Kaylyn Bauer

Everyone is a Succubus Joey Combs I live my life solely for others. Everyone has a problem that only I can fix. I feel like I'm standing in a room on fire, but I'm giving my only glass of water to you because you are thirsty. I can only fix others' problems, my own just continue to burn...but is that a bad life? It's better to be sucked dry so that others can flourish than be fat like a tick while draining those around me, right? My dry husk will be a monument to your happines.

33

On wishes of tax-exemption

Terrance Brown

It seems we pay more nowadays to bury dead bodies, all too still beating heart of the masses, minimized into minority, mummified with them, still mumbling condolences to each other for not being more massive.

Taxing, tell ya it takes its toll, ministers made more necessary during death time ticking, time tucked away safer than the weightiest tokens, gratitude clutched to chest.

CNN says compassion is rare these days, who trusts the media? hands fall faster than dead bodies, those bullets with disavowed brakes drove through, red lighting up chests, stop life.

Oh you ain't heard?

Hands fall faster that way, hands fall faster these days who can write coffins fast enough to bury dead tax funded bodies?

A cruel taxonomy of an urban economy.

Taxidermic in the way we stuff truths in the corpses of murdered black boys.

Marble and oak, crafted from the bark of poetry, adorned with enough meaning to mirror regal sarcophagus, scarred Egyptian gold melted in the loose molds of the soul

34

molten intensity magnified by a motherhood far too acquainted with loss, in fact oftentimes bosom buddies, bride to sorrow the woes of the brown mother: a beatitude in it's promise not to be eternal.

Someone stop that infernal noise; strangest percussion drumming on the skin of apple soiled and stained burnt burgundy, blood green.

The steady thud of the federal reserve churning out chains wrapped around wallets and not necks, heavy as hearts at a funeral the death of equity enviable to no man or woman Nowadays death seems to have an appetite for black bodies, unhinged jaw of the anaconda mauling the poor, swallowing whole batches of chefs in cop costumes sure to oblige.

Died a bit when we all realized we pay nowadays, fund a machine that files out dead bodies fills out dead bodies like tax returns

35

Melanie Luczak

36

"1989"

Tyler Dmitri Gottschalk

I still bleed for you.

A solitary prayer among hearts that rang true And yours did, once I suppose But you left when the fire rose Up too high, try as I might Finding kindness in my heart is similar to you fleeing the night And every breath comes with a bite, I was a baby then, did you know that?

And when my bare legs grazed yours, did you fight back?

I still have flashbacks Every time I read your letters I watch the words Trickle through my fingertips And I was too young to understand then But I no longer yearn for your fingerprints I started reading the fine print, But you still leave me wondering How could you?

I was sixteen, I didn’t know what the difference was But a twenty six year old man knows lust between love And I held myself accountable But the damage you left was insurmountable.

Distrust, you overdid it.

The taste you leave in my mouth is acidic But when I yell your atrocities I take comfort knowing you’ll never find me.

You are the definition of disgusting, Men like you are what make young girls rightfully untrusting And trust me, you should hope you never see me Because this time, I won’t be the only one left bleeding.

37

“WHERE DID THE CANYON get its bigness?”

Shane Devine

“A dedicated stonemason, the Colorado River.”

“Where did the canyon get its banding?”

“A dedicated painter, the Colorado River.”

“Could a person carve such a thing?”

“One thought so.

An Arizona rancher who was bigger than himself Stood where we stand now, Peered over the canyon’s bigness and banding, And spat in the dirt.”

“Pffoot! I’ve seen bicycle tracks with more to say!

‘Taint fit to be a tadpole’s grave!

A dried-up mudpuddle’s got twice the presence!”

“And he spat in the dirt again, And he set to carve a canyon of his own, And when he felt that it was done It was so deep and so grand That the cameramen’s flashbulbs couldn’t find him at the bottom And the reporters couldn’t ask him how it felt.

He tossed his spade on the canyon floor, and hollered to the rim.

“It’s done! Toss me a line!”

“But it was too deep And it was too grand, And the cameramen shrugged, And the reporters swallowed their pencils, And the Arizona rancher thwacked the canyon walls and hollered louder,”

“It’s done! Toss me a line!”

“But the canyon was carved in haste and was easily shaken loose And the canyon walls began to crumble around the Arizona rancher Who was bigger than himself, And he peered up at the falling boulders and dust, And spat in the dirt.”

“Pffoot! I’ve seen leaky faucets with more to say!

A dripple of drool’s got twice the presence!”

“And the canyon caved And leveled at the rim.”

“Where did the Arizona rancher get his bigness?”

“A good poker game.”

38

Weekday Poem It is sometimes necessary to sit for days and watch the sun through the window like a yawning child, not knowing it’s grown tired and fallen asleep, and to listen to the neighbors walking, their floorboards creaking, and to cross the room and touch the wall and think of all the books you have not read, and stand before the piles of books, like a viewer in a museum, at a respectful distance, so the docents know you won’t touch the art, and to touch the art, and to open the books and stare at the paragraphs like dogs in the street, and to listen to the dogs in the street, and to imagine that you are a dog in the street, and to go back to sitting and watching the moon, though no one watches the moon, and fall asleep mid-thought and dream of women dancing.

William Morris

“Her Performance” Anna Wermuth

39

“Wine & Dine” Mike Renez

40

Escorting at Planned Parenthood Jessie Eikmann I’ve been donning my Velcro vest & my plastic whistle for a few weeks now, & I must confess I was about ready to blow this pop stand.

So when your friend with the ferret face showed up today to film the escorts, I just thought: Why? There’s nothing happening here.

It’s a few seconds of wild gesticulation at a closed SUV window—you waving a pamphlet & me flailing my arms inward like those dudes on airplane runways— & then dead air. A staring contest between gate bars.

What Ferret Face really captures here is our struggle as the triangle players in our orchestras. & as he puts down the iPad & flops back in his lawn chair waiting for the next car, I marvel that we obsess over the same glob of cells while it sits oblivious in a dark pink castle.

Every week my whistle gets less breath.

Are you also bored with our jingling? Do you ever just wish somebody would win so you could pack your sandwich board back into your bus across the street & we can get our medals or whatever & go home?

An Open Letter To The Moon

Cecil Morgan

Dear Moon, Dear Moon I hope you write, To Save me from this sleepless night, You know I see you watching me, I know you move the endless sea, Although tonight you are not full, My heart still feels your ancient pull Dear Moon, Dear Moon why must you hide, I need a companion in which to confide, The sun is hot and burns my face, I seek your moonlit sweet embrace, While tides will change and lives will end, I’m glad that I could call you friend.

41

Phosphor Zoe Scala

The dropship rattled and shuddered with each and every second spent penetrating the atmosphere of Planet C576. Over the sheer force of entry and the blare of sirens instructing how to brace oneself repeating, she heard her com crackle to life, the Commander chuckled softly.

“This is always how it goes isn’t it? You’d think we’d find the funding to fix this old clunker by now to recognize when we’re piloting and when we’re falling.”

“With all due respect Sir, there’s not much of a difference,” spoke Johnson, straightbacked and fastened in correctly and fully, helmet already on and pressurized. The Commander scoffed again, leaning back and twisting his own helmet onto his suit.

The pressurized air spat smoke through the four holes on the neck, the helmet sealing and fully encapsulating the Commander’s scowling face. The helmet went foggy for a minute or two, obscuring his features before the suit cleared up once again.

He leaned back and she swore she saw neon for a second—the flashing lights displaying gruff men leaning back and blowing smoke from large cigars seen in her childhood. Dreary cities with perpetual rain, built 40 stories high, always humming with noise from vehicles above the clouds and the flickering of neon sign upon neon sign. The hum reverberated in her still, in the dark where only rats and urchins lived.

“Huang, are you gonna keep staring or are you going to get your helmet on before the doors open? I’d prefer not to have to write a letter to the General about losing a recruit because they spaced out. Already down 30 this cycle, don’t need to lose another.”

She nodded mutely, hastily following orders, her helmet sealing itself in the same manner as the Commander’s—and during the minute of fog that obscured her vision she idly wondered who the Commander used to be. Was he an urchin too? She doubted that—she’d seen him scratch syllables out in the dirt on missions sometimes, muttering sounds to himself along with the scuffing of his boots. Maybe he was hoping for a promotion soon, or was far too curious for his own good.

Nothing good came of thinking too hard out on these harsh planets.

As if agreeing with her sentiment, the ship lurched to a sudden halt, the engines kicking in to slow the fall. All of the nameless faces around her were thrown forward with her before unceremoniously being slammed back into their seats. The padding in her helmet kept her head safe, but it seemed her suit had a way to go if the sharp pain in her back was anything to indicate that. The sensors on her suit flashed yellow briefly before once again releasing air and tightening to fix the pressure.

The alarms cut off, and instead of the flashing red and continuous noise, there was nothing; the humming of the engines that slowly leveled the ship, each and every individual staring at nothing. Although there was no family for Huang to return to, no god for her to answer to, she supposed now would’ve been the time to pray.

With a resounding thud the drop ship landed on uneven terrain, lurching most of its passengers to one side. Again, her suit kicked in briefly to read the statistics both of itself but also of known information of the planet—which, as usual, was next to

42

none. The designated name, C576, indicated a carbon body with a molten core and an average temperature of 34 degrees Celsius. There was a rough topographical scan of the planet itself, and it would seem the area was incredibly hilly, with dense patches of volcanic activity and mountainous ranges—

“Huang, get your ass in gear!” Her eyes flickered over to the empty seats, harnesses hanging limply where people once sat, the readings all minimizing on her screen.

She hastily jumped into action, narrowly slipping out before the bay doors closed on her and clambering to get up with her unit.

“Woah,” Johnson breathes next to her, the atmosphere itself instantly pressing heavily on her as if enveloped in a weighted blanket. The landscape was incredibly striking—although there was no foliage, the rocks formed incredible canyons, mountains, and plateaus. Despite the same color of fine, sand-like particles being the only material, even someone like her could appreciate the beauty.

While she and Johnson admire the landscape, the Commander impatiently clears his throat, getting their attention.

“You done yet? We have some land to cover.” Both stood a little straighter, mumbling apologies before moving to follow. It seemed other units were already moving out in other directions, the stark white of their receding suits the only relief against the rust colored landscape.

They walked and they walked—the planet itself wasn’t particularly large in diameter but there were many nooks and crannies to explore. Scaling mountains, stumbling down the other side, scattering fine dirt into the air everywhere. The silence was uninterrupted, the Commander a man of few words, until the coms crackled to life.

There was a sharp, loud, grating noise that had everyone in their group reach up to cover their ears—only to meet glass. The sound cut out abruptly as it came in, and caused serious pause. The Commander seemed to be using his tracker to try and find the position of the transmission if his darting eyes were a signal.

“We’re the closest. I’ve already sent out a message for everyone else to get back to the dropship.” And just like that, he started walking once more. Johnson nervously glanced over at her and she scowled back at him. Again, the walking began, but Huang couldn’t help but feel an unease in her heart. Something about that shrill noise was unsettling her—something she couldn’t quite place a finger on. She’d ask the others, but she’d rather just get back to the ship as soon as possible.

The signal led the party down into a system of underground caverns, where only the dim light of their flashlights could lead them. The color of the walls around them grew darker and darker, seemingly to a fine grey before one bend in the narrowing tunnel opened into a vast and lush green. Light seeped in from small holes in the canopy, intertwining vines and ferns creating a dense carpet as far as the eye could see.

It grated on her eyes. Too much of one vibrant color made her squint and blink as if trying to comprehend such a brilliant, unending hue. She felt foggy and anxious, shifting her weight uncomfortably, and she looked around for any hints of the squad that came before them. The Commander shone his flashlight all around the wall slowly before finally landing on the wall of vines on the opposite wall of them—and as if stir-

43

ring a sleeping bear, the vines shifted.

From the vines themselves, a creature turned and emerged. The vines became long flowing hair and from behind them emerged half of a woman the same brilliant hue as her surroundings. She smirked quietly, reaching her sinewy arms out to support her weight as she set herself against an outcropping in the land.

The same sharp and humming noise cut through the surrounding silence, making everyone wince before the creature cocked its head in confusion. It took a while for the suit to recognize any sort of language for the creature, but eventually after sorting through thousands of languages it settled on one. Dimly, she could’ve sworn she saw red lights flashing but one blink had nothing but the brilliant green flooding her vision once more.

The creature spoke, and though it is only one body, it sounds as if many speak in time with it. She hears the hum of neon in the being’s voice, sees the stories upon stories she knew in her youth, looking up for who to address prayers to, only to find the hazy continuation of monolithic grey buildings.

Even with the translation seemingly in place, she still could hear nothing, but she felt much more at ease. From her peripheral vision, she could see the Commander speaking to nobody, and Johnson stepping forward. She continued to stare directly at the being in confusion, and after it focused on the two others, leveled Huang in its gaze.

“A smart girl,” it warbled out, a grin revealing sharp jagged teeth. Surprisingly at ease with this, Huang too stepped forward. “Not smart enough, though.”

In her peripheral, she noticed Johnson and his helmet lying next to him. He lay still, eyes and mouth gaping.

“Welcome to my home,” The creature crooned, shifting and swaying slightly, as if buffered by a nonexistent breeze. Again, she noticed the Commander speaking, before reaching up to twist off his helmet, kneeling down and laying it in front of him. He was bowing, and eventually he too lay still. “I’m sure you’re tired girl. You’ve come a long way—and I’m sure you’re tired. Please, rest.”

Huang furrowed her brow, hands shaking despite her slow heartbeat. She knew something was off about this, something odd about the behaviors of the other two, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it.

Ah, well. Nothing good came out of thinking too hard.

In the seconds following when she removed her helmet, she could’ve sworn she saw eight eyes and a hissing maw—sharp edges and the dull grey she knew too well.

Her tongue started to dry, and she rested as the creature suggested. She breathed the deepest she had ever, before joining her squadron on the ground, gasping for air before finally laying silent.

44

“A Collection of Questions I’ve Amassed” Kevin William Thomas What is the capitol of Romania?

Is there a difference between porridge and oatmeal?

Why can’t I finish anything that I start?

Am I gay?

What the fuck is certainty?

If you had tentacles instead of arms,

How many would you want?

How have I survived this long?

Why haven’t I killed myself yet?

What’s everyone’s favorite color

That doesn’t exist on the rainbow?

What does “a high potential to have substance abuse issues” mean?

Will I ever be famous?

How do telephones work?

Why do people like the suburbs?

Am I depressed just because I’m alive?

Why is it that I sometimes feel colors instead of emotions?

What the hell is going on?

Does anyone have any answers?

Why am I so confused?

“Time Out” Kaylyn Bauer

45

“Growth (Resisting Death)” Anna Wermuth

46

4’33” Michael McLaughlin

Ok, so I’m driving home from school one day. Or to a friend’s house. And I’m thinking about this Netflix documentary I saw about the Grateful Dead. I respect the Dead greatly (groan) and was intrigued by a comment Phil Lesh made about John Cage, the experimental composer, dropping loose change onto exposed piano strings. It made me very self conscious—do I know anything about music? Is that good or is that bullshit? A lot of people who know a lot of things probably think it is good.

Once I forgave myself for my inadequacies I considered his—John’s—composition 4’33”.

It’s a piece where the musicians are instructed to not play their instruments for the titular length of time. I guess the sound of the confused—or, abhorrently, engrossed—audience is the music.

Or it’s just a Zen koan or something. That kind of shit was very “in" in the 50s. If I bought it on iTunes would I have silence or a murmur crescendo? Idk. But the NPR whispers were especially grating on that drive to my friend’s house or home from school, and I thought I’d give 4’33” a shot.

I grabbed my second brain, opened Safari, let autocorrect help me type “grooveshark.com” into the search bar, cursed the fact that the mobile version of the site didn't assume itself to be necessary, clicked what appeared to be a tiny search bar, drifted into the rumble strips, avoided thinking about the fact that staring at your phone while barreling through space at 70 miles per hour gets exponentially Dumber the longer you do it, typed 4’33”, mashed my planet of a thumb against a little arrow or magnifying glass to the right, plugged my piece of shit aux chord into the headphone jack while waiting for the results to reveal themselves, selected a reliable-looking link, pressed play, and waited.

The car hummed. I appreciated that hum and immediately got to work. I wondered why I always feel the need to fill my ears with sounds and my eyes with articles and my mind with stuff I almost certainly won’t retain for more than a week, and even in that week I’ll experience considerable difficulty intelligently recounting what I’ve absorbed to (probably) unimpressed friends family and coworkers. So much of my life revolves around what fictional people might think of my content of choice. I can’t speak for everyone, but I think everyone is addicted to that way of being. Maybe addicted is the wrong word, but we do it. We’re all narcissists who value what we do and what we consume for how it’ll be judged by other people. We live like we’re being watched. I find that very unattractive. And here I am listening to John Cage like I really give a shit about John Cage.

But it made me think, and I guess that’s good. I thought for a while—probably around ten minutes or so. It didn’t really matter that I fucked up and failed to actually press play.

LAURELS

Shane Devine “There were some hundred-fifty people in the chapel and I sung so well they threw fresh cut roses and money on the stage, and a lady even walked up and gave me her panties. Just like that.

And she came up and she says all sultry and glassy-eyed how lor-dee beautiful it was. I look out and her man is red-hot in his seat, fidgeting under the minutes of applause, and he breaks and barks and tears off his shoe and throws it right at my head. But I caught it quick like nothing. And I pulled out my pocketknife and sliced it to strippings except for the shoelace, which I pocketed along with the panties. And I’ll tell you what— I kept those panties under my pillow nearly a week ’til my mama took up and burned them in a flowerpot on the back porch.”

47

Brianna Price

48

hro

hat FBI /CI A

Wildfire

embers are g ui

m

lty of

ion c i sp g su n i t a re ss of c ad-J acketing: the proce

B

Post-Hardcore Porn

Kevin William Thomas

I asked a Jazz musician to teach me how to write.

He asked what I meant, practically.

Pragmatism is bullshit.

-- t

ide nce t

ug

h th e s pread ing o f r u m ors, manuf acturing o

f

ev

Thomas Mays flaccid and without reprieve— futureless decapitated without nostalgia

weeping ejaculate loathsome alone boastful deboned featureless half-faggot without time for hopeless semantics erectile retention the split-second phase between revelation and repulsion the resurgence of context the immediate reality the lack of steady rhythm

hands engaged

in deliberate friction hair that can’t be seen without polished lenses on solipsist genitalia approaching the horizon between vagina and rectum screams from just enough violence remember the dead and clutch jerk groan observe a moment of silence

I just want to know how to write

the way he sang into his saxophone

the way the drummer danced

the way the bassist jumped They sucked the oxygen from the air They were a wildfire They turned into a tornado And the sparks flew round the room And I was gasping for air

red faced

body bouncing, bumping.

I want my words to be a whirlwind.

I want to follow their flames.

49

Road Grays Brian Dugan

Words of dinner plans at Taco Shack and whose girlfriend would put out that weekend bounced off of the metal lockers and rang in my ears as I sat in my own corner, staring blankly at my unlaced spikes.

My glove rested next to me, limp from my verbal attack into it a half-hour earlier. In the seventh inning, I bounced my eightieth pitch of the game in the dirt for a wild pitch. Instinctively I screamed, “God fucking DAMN it!” while Coach wildly let slip that Finan looked retarded in his attempt to block it. We still held the lead then, but the two runners advanced to second and third, eventually scoring on an error by Schmitt and a bloop single by their eighth-place hitter; I had little to show for my best-pitched game of the season, a 2-1 loss pinned on that wild pitch, error, and bloop single. What if my eleven strikeouts shrunk behind the L?

“Not your fault, man,” Robby said to me. “Head up.”

“Easy for you to say.” I said. In our class, only Robby and I made the Varsity team all four years. We grew up in the same predominately black neighborhood on the north side of town, my family the only white one on the block. When we got to Hopkins, I became the racial majority for the first time in my life, but I felt just as out of place as Robby: everyone else’s dad drove an Audi or BMW, while my mom dropped Robby and me off every morning in her 1997 Ford Taurus. We both made the team freshman year as pitchers, but by last year it became clear that I’d be our ace our senior year. He took it okay: not envious, but surely disappointed.

“It’s just bullshit, you know?” I shook my head and leaned it back on the lockers, staring at the bumps on the concrete ceiling, painted gray. “Robby, I need this. You need this. I can’t stay at home again next year.

I just can’t.”

“I know, Dav. I know.” He turned his head down and away from me, quietly whispering, “At least you still have a shot.”

“Robby, what?”

He instinctively widened his eyes, suddenly aware that his thought had been audible.

“Jesus, Hernandez, get some fucking clothes on and wipe that damn smile off your face!” Coach saved Robby an explanation as he came around the corner, his voice booming. Hernandez, the shortstop responsible for the error that allowed the inning to continue to the batter who had the bloop single, turned pink and wrapped his towel back around his waist; he’d just been playfully whipping Gleason, our only freshman.

Around the locker room, Coach’s gaze around the staggered circle of meek faces enveloped the metallic echoes from a moment ago. “Six damn good innings in the field today, boys. One shitty one. It happens, Hernandez, don’t pout about it. But where the hell did those bats go? No one looked assertive today. Nine swinging strikeouts, chasing shit in the dirt for almost all of them. I’ve been chasing a District title for 11 years, and a team that can’t score isn’t going to deliver hardware to my desk, that’s for sure.”

None of us spoke. Coach let the silence sit for some time.

“Pull your shit together; we’ll be fine,” Coach said. “And Finan, I swear if my daughter sees you out this weekend drunker than piss and stumbling around like a baby giraffe, I’ll be sure to awaken the bats and shatter your knees.” At Finan’s expense, the tension fizzled. Hernandez gave Gleason a noogie and chatter resumed about FIFA, delivery pizza, and Lindsay Delafani’s house party. Robby remained quiet, though, and I examined him to try to figure out his earlier murmur.

Coach approached us, his stocky frame overpowering Robby’s and mine. Our lanky bodies looked like young dogwoods compared to Coach’s massive shoulders and the gut that shows up on every man after becoming a father—nature’s way of making wives feel less self-conscious about their pregnant bodies, I guess.

He skewed the balance even more by remaining on his feet while we sat.

“Davin, you pitched a hell of a game.” His gruff voice complemented his five o’clock shadow, oddly suiting his gross overuse of clichés. “You can’t win ’em all, and today wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, Coach, thanks.” I hoped the others in the locker room couldn’t hear him. As a Christ Carpenter disciple, I embraced being feared on the mound—it garnered respect. One time, Carpenter glared so sharply at Brendan Ryan that tears welled in the shortstop’s eyes on national television. But fear off the mound would undercut that respectful fear on it. Couldn’t Coach have snagged me on the way to his office instead of finding me in front of the team?

“I’m working on getting a couple coaches to your next game,” he lowered his voice and shielded Robby

50

from the conversation. But just as I’d heard Robby’s whisper, Robby overheard our private conversation.

“There gonna be any there at my game, Coach?” Robby asked. Coach pinched his lips and turned slowly to face him. Robby’s turn in the rotation was slated for the semifinal of the District tournament, the game before mine.

“I’m sorry, Rob, but I couldn’t get any to come out. They’re more interested in the District final. Tough to convince any to come to two games in a row.” He looked over Robby’s short, fuzzy, black hair when he spoke to him. Some of the brown flushed from Robby’s cheeks.

“Gotcha,” Robby said tersely. “Guess my arm only is here to protect yours,” he whispered to me when Coach turned the corner toward his office. The remark confused me; I struck out a few more batters per inning, sure, but we carried similar ERAs: Robby’s 3.57, mine 3.18. I remained silent, though, as I slipped into sweatpants and a hoodie, both stale from not having been washed for two weeks.

Robby and I left the locker room at 6:29, my favorite time. The sky glowed a bright orange in the west and a dark, rising blue in the east. For a final moment, campus remained a haven from my house. Plus, the significance of the numbers of the Cardinals legends within it: 6 for Stan Musial and 29 for Chris Carpenter.

“What was that about in the locker room?” I asked after a few silent minutes, probing for the explanation Coach had rescued him from earlier.

“What are you talking about?” It wasn’t like Robby to play dumb. All season he had served as the team’s energizer, never letting a comment from the opposing dugout eat at him or a bad game undermine his mood—not that either one happened frequently. But when a backup pitcher taunted Robby by puffing out his cheeks, crossing his eyes, and pulling out his ears, Robby’s composure on the mound resembled anything but an ape. And when our hitters turned a lousy three-inning, seven-run outing by Robby into a 10-9 walkoff win, he led the charge from the dugout to home plate, eager to mob Chopski in celebration of his home run.

“About you being so bitter that I’ve ‘still got a shot.’ That coaches can only come to my game.”

“I’m not jealous,” Robby said. He sounded sincere. “I’m really not. But that doesn’t mean I’m not bitter.

Dav, I’ve been the Motte to your Carpenter for two years now. Remember freshman and sophomore year?

Yeah, neither of played much, but we did so together. Then when our entire pitching staff graduated, Coach made you the ace without second thought. And you and I both know you never outdid me at any point from third grade until then.”

He was right. Our skillsets differed, but the results were consistently great between the two of us. I pitched with more power, Robby with more finesse. His discipline at the plate made him a better hitter than I, but my speed always made me a valuable alternative in the outfield. “Yep,” I said. But I don’t know what else to tell you, Robby. It is what is, and we’ll both be fine.”

He laughed and shook his head as we entered Sequoia, marked by busted fences, cracked asphalt, and perpetual sirens that added blue and red accents to the brown and green landscape of abandoned brick buildings and dying grass fields. “You don’t get it, Dav. I mean, it’s fine; I don’t expect you to. But it’s just not that simple. It won’t be ‘fine.’”

“Don’t lose hope like that, man.” I believed what I said, even as the neighborhood drained my soul and wrapped me in an anxiety inescapable until graduation. “It has to get better.”

Robby paused in front of his house and we slapped our hands together. “Easier to believe that if you’re white, I guess.” As rain began to fall, he walked toward his front door, which shed chipped paint. But Robby had a relatively good home life—having both parents present was a Sequoia rarity; his dad—who preferred I call him Brother, a nicknamed derived from the initials of “Big Rob”—worked construction, and his mom worked the register at Target. He had two little brothers: Carl was a freshman at the public high school, and Byron was in fourth grade.

The rest of the families on the block looked more like mine, aside from our skin color.

Mom set the microwave timer for five minutes. Nothing rode the glass carousel inside the box—no frozen vegetables, no subpar Orange Chicken, no bowl of condensed chicken noodle soup. The air lacked delicious wafts of greasy leftovers, but it didn’t smell like burning popcorn, either. My mud-caked sneakers stained opposite sides of the once-white carpet, adding new spots alongside thirteen years of spilled grape juice and beer. Georgia watched Arthur from the couch, sitting atop cookie crumbs. A couple blocks over, she might have been watching Phineas and Ferb, but Sequoia residents don’t get cable. I doubted whether

51

she actually watched Mr. Ratburn scold Buster; a sheen of tears that she refused to let fall Disneyified her already-large eyes. As an amateur not-crier, her lower jaw quivered so violently that I expected blood to creep from her lips. She learned the impropriety of crying from our mother, who hung her head against the microwave, blank-faced. Four minutes and nineteen seconds more. I dared not move until then, not even to slip out of my rain-soaked socks.

This ritual began the night Dad left; Mom had to fill the time they’d spent fighting one way or the other, and who’s to say that pinning yourself against radioactive waves is any worse than dodging a drunkard’s wayward blows? The final fight was tame compared to some others, but the broken glass from the shattered photo frame might as well have cut all of our wrists. Dad had come home drunk off of four PBR tall boys he’d spent five dollars he barely had on—the oldest family ritual. They never wanted us to see them fight, but I guess they would forget that sound travels well down the hall, sixteen steps from their fist-punctured bedroom door to the kitchen table. “Bitch!” followed the crash of the frame, and Dad went from macho to coward faster than I could cover then-two-year-old Georgia’s eyes. He tore out of the room with an armful of clothes and extra pair of worn-out shoes that added a haunting quality to his desperate countenance.

The timer beeped. I noticed again my socks suffocating my chafing feet, but Mom had returned to the moment before I’d kicked off my shoes, apparently assuming the mud stain had been marked by the neighborhood stray dog’s shit a while back.

“How do Happy Meals sound tonight?” She feigned a smile, but a face forgets how to correctly curl its lips after seven years. Georgia, on the other hand, beamed. Four Chicken McNuggets with flavorless fries and a Minion toy that would break the silence of our home in a way no one deserved could apparently remedy a nine-year-old’s sadness. She sounded excited enough that I muted my pending protest of the three-dollar lack of nutrition.

As soon as Mom went to her room for her jacket, I stripped my socks and slid into my sandals; the chill of the late-April evening on my damp feet sounded less than ideal, but trapping them again in socks sounded miserable.

“Davin, put some shoes on,” Mom said. Not wanting to argue about my feet again, I walked silently past her to the car.

Sequoia’s finest homes looked the same as ever: cracked sidewalks, pebbled driveways, broken shutters, rusted fences, cars on blocks that hadn’t functioned for two and a half months since the engine froze.

Because of Georgia, Chris Daughtry tortured our ears on Now That’s What I Call Music! 25. Mom had found it on the rack at Goodwill for two dollars in December, and Georgia was thrilled with Santa’s best gift for her. On a normal night I’d have begged for Rooney and Shannon announcing Cardinals, but I didn’t want to let Mom win. No one spoke except at the drive-thru. Even when I ate in the car, Mom kept quiet about it, for once.

I went straight to my room, still hungry but without anything to eat; I refused to settle for the stale Goldfish or mushy orange in the otherwise-bare pantry. I took out the red, portable radio my grandfather bought me for my tenth birthday—much like the one he owned in the forties, he told me—and tuned to it KTRS. I relied on the radio even more now that the cable networks pulled my Sunday service from the electric tabernacle in the living room. For the four years Grandpa lived with us before his third bout of lung cancer tagged him out for good, we watched each Sunday afternoon game on Channel Five. He would mark his scorecard on the recliner, occasionally spitting into a Dixie cup—a result of his cancer treatment. I would lay on the ground in front of the screen, palms propping my head up and feet swinging in the air above my butt.

“Who’s your favorite player?” my eleven-year-old self had asked on a June Sunday in 2006, the year I first saw the Cardinals win the World Series. My eyes didn’t leave the screen as Jeff Suppan threw a curveball in the dirt to Yadier Molina.

Grandpa disregarded the first words either of us spoke in two innings. “Suppan doesn’t have it today.

Tony oughta pull him.”

“But we’re up 7-4.” Albert Pujols was on the disabled list for a strained lat muscle, but Yadi had hit a home run and Jim Edmonds had a pair of doubles; their contributions negated the three home runs Suppan had allowed to the Brewers.

“You want to pitch, right, Davin?”

“I do pitch, Grandpa. I do that already.” I turned around to see that he’d retired his dulled pencil to his

52

ear and rested his bifocals back on the bridge of his nose.

“Yes; but I mean at the next level,” he said. He hacked a cough and spit into his Dixie cup. “But yes, you do pitch. You do that already. So you should know that a pitcher has no team. He’s working alone.”

I tilted my head and slanted my eyes, confused. “No team?”

“None that he thinks about. Davin, baseball has its own delightful secrets—none greater than its identity.” His glasses magnified the sparkle of his green eyes. “How easy it is to never even see that the other eight players disappear every pitch, that the pitcher and the batter are isolated in their own battle. It’s nine to a side, but it’s not a team game. To the best pitchers, teams are an illusion, Davin. Baseball is an individual game, simply pretending to be a team sport.

“Ernie Banks, Ted Williams, Ferguson Jenkins, Juan Marichal—their teams never won a World Series; they became Hall of Famers on their own.”

“But Poppy, you cheer for the Cardinals. And they’re a team.”

He grinned. “Now you get what makes it America’s pastime.”

Oblivious, I asked him again about his favorite player.

“Gibson.” Grandpa smiled at a memory and returned to his scorecard as LaRussa pulled Suppan for Tyler Johnson. Josh Hancock ended up getting the win that day as the Cardinals pulled out a 7-5 victory.

Hancock died in a drunk driving accident the next June. If only it had been my dad, instead, I thought that day.

The morning of the District final. . . Follow Bad Jacket on Facebook to read the story in full!

Gas Station Jim Boyle The gas station was a setup much more like a general store than a gas station, but they sold gas there anyway. They sold a lot of other things there, too, like sodas, you know, those old glass bottle ones with the pop off tops and the real sugar.

So I walked in to give the cashier some money for some gas, and there were some pew-like benches there for people to sit and eat at, and there were some kids sitting around at one of the tables. They were playing Chemical Demo, and Chemical Dome is a very bad game. They basically would just sit around and inhale canisters of chemicals that would go right to their domes. Jesus Christ.

“What in the fuck is going on over there, man?”

“Nothing, just some terrible shit. How much gas did you want again?”

“25 bucks on that black car out there. But really, what’s with all those canisters over there? Is that kid about to inhale that?”

The kid put the thing up to his face and pressed down, and it made this loud, hissing, grinding, releasing noise.

“KAwhOOOOOOSHCH!”

“Oh! My God!”

I was taken aback, but the clerk tapped me on the shoulder.

“Do you want the gas or what?”

He had his hand out. The money was there in my hand but watching the kid play Chemical Dome was terrible. I gave him the money and he ripped it out of my hands.

“Dude, this is fuckin terrible, and you shouldn’t be letting

53

kids do that.”

“Whatever.”

As I was walking out, the one kid handed the other kid the big cannister and encouraged him.

“Do moore! Do more!”

His voice was unnaturally deep and sounded raspy, like it was bottoming out and there wasn’t enough air moving over his vocal chords.

“Uhhhhhhh”

He was wheezing.

“Uhhhhhhhhhh I uhhhhh can’t do anymore uuhhhhhhh.”

“Come uhhh on man uhhhhh.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh oh kayyuhhh.”

“Tink! Tink! KAwhOOOOOOOOOOSHCH!!”

Jesus Fat Fucking Christ.

Addendum

Zoe Scala

E

M

P

T

Man said to the Universe, “Sir, I exist!”

The Universe, monolithic and unending in Its ways, spoke no words back to Man, leaving what was once Their favored creation, Y

in the vast recess of space.

No longer does the Universe reach out Their hand, giving to the hunger that cannot be sated; Man, the destroyer of worlds, has no place in the history of histories, save for a small addendum at the footnote of a research paper.

54

atters of

e out breat

process beco

me matt

he in breathe out

breathe in

see god

marc z da

nielewski loves

55

d do geese

do geese see go

nielewski loves

marc z da

As California slides in to the ocean like the mystics and statistics say it will and Missouri drowns in the mud I lay myself down and wait for the predicted flood dreaming of how I got so close I almost got it right but dreams are always out of touch I guess that’s why they’re always the only thing we’re left with

One final look to the wall of the other apartments, a sign of the cross, and shot to the moon. With a little help, this essay might get written soon.

see god do geese

I stare at a sun that seems angry with me The beers in this town say I got a problem But the cigarettes say I’m doing just fine All the blank pages have the nerve to call me a hack That I should just give up the dream my dream the only thing my heart knows how to do right

breathe in breath

They say that in dreams are where responsibilities begin I guess then that even in dreams you’re never really free

Dan Wright

ers of place m

DREAMS

et.box42 T H Blood Jr 4.47 many suns still await to come up, boy do those cigarettes need some more smoking. The backyard roses had mostly evacuated the balcony having been left unoccupied personally for about thirty-two minutes. A pot of coffee later and the essay left unfinished the last thought tracing through some William Blake again. Not this time, the childish words resound, and then another sip of coffee made constant by the nicotine mind.

A light comes on in the adjacent house, a light known to be the bathroom the masters students’ first floor lavatory. The blinds vertically reiterate the shadow of a female form. Probably some Stephanie, it couldn’t be the immensely private Chinese girl. A distant tracing alarm pokes a hole through the English cloud cover. Yet again does it replicate the form of unfinished work, of abandon and lack thereof the coffee sings forever, or at least takes another slurp.

Caveman stirrings rumble from the basement, a grunting muscular lung clearing and blip on the burner: U up? Inside the kitchen the French press festers the black grounds of preparation, known to be desired from the caveman kind. Was it last week he asked the Chinese girl about a date? Or who was it who mentioned something about the drapery around her bed?