ISSUE 5
Letter from the editors, We explicitly requested Halloween content and now we are left empty-handed, like a trick-or-treater with a bag full of floss instead of king-sized kitkat bars. We could count the number of Halloween themed submissions on the fingers of one head. One very shapely head, might we add. But no matter. Creativity is a song played on a guitar with one string made of twine.. It’s using all the cardboard boxes to contstruct a wall 5 feet high around your precious Pibb Sodas. It’s doing the best with what you have, when you have it, and only then: not later. And don’t forget that you only have one string with which to make the guitar (all of it) and you had better think carefully. You’re not excited? Fuck it. Drink a cup of coffee. Do these metaphors not excite you enough? Get on this dog pile. We bear our metaphors before us like a shield, a spore. Juliet is like the sun because she is bright and gives off light, not because she is a nuclear furnace eviscerating all of Verona. Much like a nuclear furnace -- this issue is the Helen of b-sides, the face that launched a thousand ships that we could not contain in the previous issue. No, do not mistake her for a bartender at B-Side. This is a metaphor, not a namedrop, and certainly not a feature. Thanks to the usual Suspects. Baddest, Jacket
SUBMIT up to 5
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COVER ART BY FRED FRICTION
BAD JACKET COSTUME CONTEST On a scale of 1 to 35
David Anson - Hawaiian Shirt, Bucket Hat, Cigarette Holder - Score: 2 Craig Bischof - Ketchup on Left Ear, Paint Palette - Score: 11 Raven Carter - Standing on Clam Shell, Toga - Score: 18 Jenni Desuza - Globe Hat, Hands on Head - Score: 2 Fred Friction - Mop and Bucket - Score: Cover Greg Hartl - Apron, Mustache, Burger - Score: 35 Sahar Joakim - For Sale, Baby Shoes, Never Worn - Score: 3 Jessie Kehle - Regular Clothes, Conceptual Genius - Score: 32 Mackenzie King - Crown of Thorns, Groovy Sandals - Score: 3 Wayne Kennedy - Frodo in Handbag, Potatoes, Man-Love - Score:
16, 31
Lex Malashek - Top Hat, Cane, Can-Can, Gender - Score: 10 Peter Myers - T-shirt Labeled “Sound,” Waving Hand - Score: 13 Lauren O’Donnell - Tilted Stage, Nude Sweatsuit, “HEHH!” - Score: 9 Emma Seidel - Peg Leg, Parrot, Eye Patch - Score: 5 Moira Smith - Too Many Legs, Chrysalis, Fuzzy Sweater - Score: 20 Jonathan Soboleski - Black Suit, Coffee, Cherry Pie - Score: 9 Clara Stone Teardrop, Guitar, Grammy - Score: 29 Aiko Tsuschida - Vomit, Bookbag, Student ID - Score: 31 G.M.H. Thompson - Lightning Bolt, Spiders, Mars - Score: 17, 19 Mackenzie Thorn - Powdered Wig, Apple, Gravity - Score: 1 Chelsea Vanhouten - Skinhead, Green Face, Snake Eyes - Score: 28 Sixtus VI - Pork Skirt, Bacon Hat, Sirloin Bodice - Score: 18 Anna Wermuth - Easel, Paint Brush, Happy Clouds - Score: 8, 12 Oscar Wright - Squirrel Mask, Powdered Nose, Bushy Tail - Score: 33
THE REAL BAD JACKET CONTEST WRITE 300 WORDS ABOUT THE SPIRIT OF NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS. A LIST OF YOUR NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS WILL BE DISQUALIfIFIED. SPIRIT NEED ONLY APPLY WITHIN. EDITORS WILL PERSONALLY REWARD THE WINNER WITH $50 USD via PAYPAL OR CASH - SUBMIT YOUR 300 WORDS TO BADJACKET94@GMAIL.COM DEADLINE IS DECEMBER 23rd, 2017
Motor City is Burning
Mackenzie Thorn
Bombs over Oklahoma scatter the lesser and extinguish the rebirth of a people Fires burn in East St. Louis like the heart of hell has bridged with the surface. Buildings and people rot in Detroit while you masturbate your narcoticized ego guiltless and free you critic the weight under which the St. Louis people crawl. Bury the truth beneath the prison and kill the child that dreams of defiance and sex. Kidnap brothers and fathers from church steps under a judgmental sun. The same sun that has witnessed crimes and destruction and has said nothing but watched the human race use itself as fuel in our own gradual extermination. Not understanding the rhythm in dialogue that separates the serpent from the apple but makes one in the same. React with violence. Cry with fists. Mourn with bourbon beer and breasts. Remain and sustain from advancement. Pass the buck and the blame. Kill again and again. Till there is nothing left but hipsters and irony. I will not leave the earth to the carnivorous buildings whose hunger knows only oblivion. Their walls caste shadows on the Graves of rooted gods that breathed life into our pointless survival. We live kill and die. Then the earth will repair and continue with or without us. 1
Jenni Desuza
Waiting at the Bar
David Anson
The hip crowd, expensive in dress but not explanation, gathers around a themed mess of thrift store failure and catalogue curios, shrieking for strange colored liquid served with daddy issues and a smile. Their volume is merely excessive blood flow, with any desperation or exception annulled in the forced lack of tension. In this vein, the question of stasis begs an underlying theme: At least half of the perfect few drift in their milieu with neither speculation nor concept of simple complacency. The latency of ecstatic patterns of thought do more damage weighing on my mind than pressing on designer sunglasses. A swelling crowd only confirms that wi-fi is alive and well, counterfeit smiles bobbing in and out of self-preservation posts and staged moments in time which insist that time isn't supposed to matter, while the true picture of any such gathering is being surrounded by false hopes, empty dreams and emoji aphorisms for as far as any phone will take you. And all I want is a damn beer. 2
A Poem on Sadness
Sahar Joakim
Sadness, It is the feeling most real, It is scary how often I deal, with sadness, on the hush, and it is not often revealed, I’m afraid of how well my frequent feeling of sadness is concealed, Is it good or bad that I hide how I feel? What if every person I swipe over in the streets eats their feelings as a meal? My heart is home to a hole, Albeit filling it has been a steady goal, I’m consistently causing it to increase, The growing pains won’t seize. I feel sadness every time I think of you. There is a hole in my chest, No lungs in my breast, I seem to want to express, these thoughts to myself, But there something in my throat, Maybe a mental block that sinks that boat, The train of thought is haunted, No one is on that band wagon. I’m alone, without a hard hat in a construction zone. I think of you, and I cry, sobbing A Devil’s Advocate Mackenzie King “why?” If you were going to disappear, why even show? You filled me with emptiness, cut me up with your sew. It’s scary how your love resulted in nothing but sadness. It’s too bad that the good turned from rad to sad and you’re not even mad. 3
I see you on social media, could you appear more glad? I feel sadness, when I think of the madness, to which you drove me. Nothing in any encyclopedia, could explain your actions, without the characteristic: Blasphemy. The only holy thing about us is the hole you dug in my heart. My persona is forever changed, I’ll never be the same. Meeting potential life partners, Often they wish to pick my brain. “What makes her happy… what feelings in her reoccur?” I don’t pick the unconscious ones, so to them it often occurs: People often ask about you and me directly Our story is a curse. I’m sad to say the truth, I’m scared to hide you with a lie, Yet no one could find otherwise-proving-truth I can’t hide you though since you sincerely removed yourself. It’s scary how you are still the only person from whom I always want to hear. You cut me up so dearly yet I hold the thought of you so dear. You are the only person by whom I have ever been made feel anything but top-shelf. The way you treated me feels as if the people I call giants are but elves. But you are the elf. I feel so small because I thought you were a god. But you are the elf. When I turn from darkness to light, it turns out I am top-shelf. It’s scary how wrong you were and how strongly I believed you. You: the elf. I should have kicked you out instead of running away myself. You are the problem, not me. I feel sad because I see you look so glad in photos yet you will never be. I feel scared because I deserve to be happy, yet will I ever be? You are my biological father but a dad is something you will never be. And that is scary sad. …Sadness. 4
One Small Step for Man
Emma Seidel
I regretted telling Irene that I can teleport the second it got out of my mouth. I guess I just really wanted to impress her. I was afraid the conversation (and entire date) was going nowhere. Up until then, I just was getting the feeling we weren’t connecting all that well, and I just panicked and tried to salvage the date. I don’t exactly have that much practice with dates: actually, it was my first. Yeah, I was a bit old to be going on my first date, I know, but when you can teleport, you’re kept cooped up a lot and don’t have too many opportunities to go out. All in all, I just really wanted to impress her. She obviously didn’t believe me at first. I don’t know why I thought she would. But to convince her, I started telling her all the details. I ramble when I’m nervous. That’s how I got myself into this mess. “Yeah, I can teleport,” I said, failing at sounding casual. “But – the thing is, I can only teleport about 20 feet. Which, yeah, I guess being able to teleport is cool, but why only 20 feet? It’s useful for crossing the road, but I usually don’t do that because, well, people might see. I don’t tell anyone so as not draw international attention and whatnot.” Irene cut me off. “Who all knows about this?” She sounded like she didn’t believe me, but at least she dropped the monotone. I answered her. “A few select people: my mom, my older sister, my dog, my kindergarten teacher. The usual.” She cut me off again to ask about my kindergarten teacher. “The reason my kindergarten teacher knows,” I told her, “is related to how I teleport, so I guess I’ll tell you about that.” She raised her eyebrows a little, crossed her arms, and relaxed back in her booth. I regretted this entire conversation, but especially this part. If she didn’t believe it before, no way she would now. I breathed in. “In order to teleport, I have to do the following: touch my head, then my shoulders, then my knees, then my toes, then say ‘no one who care about me’ – look, I know it sounds crazy! Just go with it for now. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I say ‘no one who care about me,’ then just think about the place I’d like to go, and I go there. You know, it keeps me pretty limber, since in order to do it I have to bend over and touch my toes.”
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“You’re telling me you have to do all that to teleport? Is this a joke?” “No, trust me. I have to do all that. I found out about this power in circa 1999, which gives me plenty of time to have played around with it and discover my limits. Well, twenty feet is one of them. The other is that I have to do all that before I can teleport. I don’t know why I have to do it. All I know is that I do.” “And how, exactly, did you find out?” “Oh, yeah, well, the reason my kindergarten teacher knows about it is because I found out I could do it in kindergarten. Once, I pulled another little boy’s pants down during recess and my teacher, Miss Maloney, made me go inside for a time out. Well, that song about ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes!)’ was playing in the classroom and I was supposed to sing along and dance with it. So I did. Then I got really pouty or something and said, with my kindergarten grammar skills, ‘no one who care about me,’ and wished I was outside with the other kids. Then, all of a sudden, I was. Luckily, none of the other kids saw me appear out of thin air behind them since they weren’t paying attention, but my teacher did. She brought me to my parents and asked them if they knew what happened, since she couldn’t believe her eyes. She asked if they knew I could teleport. Obviously, they thought she was insane. I don’t really remember being scared; I think I was pretty excited and thought I must be some kind of superhero or something.” I could tell by her expression that I was losing Irene in the story, so I told her the more believable part next. “I couldn’t do it again, though. It took me another two months before I could do it again. I mean, I was, like, six. Also, you should know, I have to say, exactly: ‘no one who care about me.’ It does not work if I say ‘no one cares about me’ or ‘who cares about me? No one’ or any grammatically correct version of the phrase. It makes me wonder if everyone can teleport twenty feet or so if they do some bizarre gestures and chant some incantation, but nobody else has figured theirs out yet. And my technique doesn’t work for everyone. I got some good laughs watching my older sister get super annoyed when it didn’t work for her. Hilarious.” “Right. But how come nobody knows about this? How could you keep it a secret for so long?” 6
“Well, for a couple years, I was really sad and wished I didn’t know about my ability, since I wasn’t allowed to use it. Then I threw a fit. In hindsight, I regret making it so hard on my mom. But, we moved to a really secluded neighborhood and my mom got me a dog. Wow, being able to teleport and having a dog go handin-hand, let me tell you. So much fun. Especially when you throw a ball and watch the dog try to go catch it but you teleport and catch it befor–” “Show me.” “I’m sorry, what?” “If you can really teleport, show me. Take me to your house and show me.” I really should have seen this coming. I think I knew, in the back of my mind, that she’d want to see, but was ignoring that fact until I had to face it. And that time had come. I took her to the road in front of my house and showed her how I can cross the street. By this point, the sun was setting, so the street was gradually getting darker and the fireflies were coming out. I checked to make sure nobody was around, and then did it. At first, she just stood there for a second like she couldn’t believe it. Which, she probably couldn’t. Then she looked at me from across the little street like she was hungry and said, in quite a sultry voice, “Do it with me. Take me.” I was taken aback for a second. Was she really this impressed by my ability to teleport? I’d only known her for a few hours, and she seemed totally uninterested until I showed her. Then, when I didn’t respond for a few seconds, she said, “Teleport me.” This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. I told her I didn’t feel comfortable and didn’t know what could happen. “Oh, come on, haven’t you ever teleported with a girl before?” she asked. When I looked down, she said “No? I’m your first?” I just wanted to impress her so much. I told her I had teleported with a few other girls before, even though that isn’t true. In reality, I had never even tried to take another person with me, not even my dog, so I had no clue what would happen. But I figured that since I’d been able to teleport with objects in my hand and clothes on and whatnot, that if I held on to her hand, it would be fine. I regretfully walked back across the street, and thought: 7
if this were a movie, there would be some really dramatic music playing in the background. In contrast, the only sounds were some very loud crickets and cicadas in the surrounding trees and grass. I know my palms were sweating when I arrived by Irene and turned to stand next to her, facing the street. With my stomach in knots, I once again inhaled. I touched my head, then shoulders, knees and toes, grabbed Irene’s hand, said “No one who care about me” and shut my eyes. I reopened my eyes on the other side of the street and looked to my right to see Irene. However, Irene wasn’t there. I turned around to look across the street where we took off from, but she wasn’t there either. She was nowhere. I was alone with the crickets. Strangely, I felt at peace. I didn’t for the life of me know where Irene had gone, but I didn’t miss her, or even look for her very much, because deep down I knew she was gone and was never coming back. The lightning bugs were making me philosophical, and I began to wonder the meaning of all this. Then, I shook my head to wake myself up from my daze and teleported two more times until I was in my living room, relaxing on my couch.
i wonder what obama thinks of zines 8
Anna Wermuth
creative layout straight lines. blank space. termites. fingernail clippins. a woman with a red bandana. she wants to cut my grapefruit, but it’s moldy. I don’t know how to tell her. do that. done.
Jonathan Soboleski
UNTITLED Lauren O’Donnell
I want my dad and I to always have enough people to play D&D with I am a quick-thinking man like my dad, except that I’m a young woman but everything else is pretty much the same. He’s been depressed for a very long time but doubts it. We both pick bards and we’re both chaotic neutral. The space between my neck and the rest of my spine is always swollen thick with webs of fluids and nerves. I think everybody gets it. And mine isn’t even that bad. My first girlfriend tried to relieve the tension with the heels of her palms, really worked at it. It felt good, if only because she could’ve so easily killed me, but didn’t. I carry my dog by her nape scruff because that’s a thing mothers do and we bought her from the mall, so she is probably an orphan. I think we all really do like to be handled by our palest parts, those that make us go limp when touched. Or maybe we just get off on playing dead. 9
Dad and me are both tricksters, so watch out. In my fantasies, I’m a grifter. Dragonlance was a series of D&D fantasy novels published from 1984-2011, from when my dad was 9 all the way up until I was 17. The main protagonists are Raistlin and Cameron Majere, the Heroes of the Lance. Raistlin is frail and intelligent; Cameron is brutish and pure. Raistlin is a tragic hero, a Byronic hero, an antihero who becomes a romantic villain. You know what I mean? Cameron is America. Raistlin is too smart for his own good. Our bards are always a little evil, if only because they’re so aware. My dad and I both think Office Space (1999) is so fucking funny. He got an IT job in the early Internet age and lived it, and I watched. Brilliant but lazy. Dragons sleeping on big mountains of treasure. Never Be Ashamed of Your Body
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Lex Malashek
Aleahgold 11
Craig Bishof
fated habitat In the tiny house built on wheels will be only enough technology for muted trumpet to chime, for fire to fuse roots with leaves, for tongue to burn on rosemarried beets as a rib-caged beating aligns steady to the song. Dirt clings to bare and aimless heels that flit along. Any day is a Holiday when Billie croons––she rides a ceaseless radio wave to the moon––past the ear-hearts of mortals she breaks through ozone and bursts into black. Her thirst for a strong drink and a smoke doesn’t reach me. I may as well be an alien, stumbling upon the sound. At any meal served with a dish of company, I will remember: Still and alone, at once and all ways around, still alone. 12
Anna Wermuth
Danceable Heartbreak: Thoughts on Lorde’s “Melodrama” Peter Myers
Ya know what gets a bad rap? Pop music. I think I know why. Pop is, by it’s nature, accessible. Often it’s something you can dance to, screaming the lyrics. You don’t need to be a “music” person to enjoy it. I think that pisses some people off. Music snobbery is a very real thing, and discussing something that’s, well, popular, can feel generic. But that’s a bad argument against a genre that reminds us what makes music so fun in the first place. Claire Boucher, better known as Grimes,
once wrote in a tumblr post before releasing her pop masterpiece “Art Angels”, “[I’m] tired of being considered vapid for liking pop music or caring about fashion as if these things inherently lack substance or as if the things [I] enjoy somehow make me a lesser person.” And sure, there’s plenty of flimsy pop out there. But truly great pop embraces it’s nature and elevates itself to something distinct- something relatable. I remember the first time I heard about Lorde. My university was putting on our version of “American Idol,” and students were auditioning for the chance to sing against other finalists at a main event. A buddy asked me to help judge the preliminary rounds, and with three other judges I watched as people filed in and sang a cappella for a minute or two. It was fun, and in the time between students walking through the 13
doors, our tiny group talked about music. It was that night that one of the judges asked if we had listened to Lorde. I’ll never forgive my reaction: “Oh, I think so. I mean, I’ve heard that song on the radio.” Ugh. But I didn’t get off that easy, and promised to check out the album. I’m not sure if it was that night or that week, but eventually I got around to putting on “Pure Heroine.” It’s been on repeat ever since. That was 2013. It’s been a long 4 years waiting for a follow-up, but public interest in Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O’Connor (alright we’re sticking with “Lorde” for the rest of this one) didn’t dwindle during the time. The big gossip was her breakup with long time boyfriend James Lowe. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that when “Melodrama” was announced, complete with a painting of her alone in a bed, it would pull from the experience. The album is a lot of things: dark, freeing, catchy, sad. Above all, it’s just phenomenal. The lost love is ingrained in every song. “Liability,” the fifth track on the record, was haunting and beautiful when Lorde performed it in a wedding dress on Saturday Night Live. Here, it’s a gut-wrenching glimpse of coming home to just yourself, and culminates in a wave of anxiety over self-worth. “Writer in the Dark”, another ballad, finds Lorde swearing revenge on her ex. In theory the idea should feel freeing, a middle finger to the one who caused a world of hurt. Instead, her voice sounds on the edge of breaking down, unable to cope with being alone, the unhealthy id hell bent on causing hurt. Follow-up “Supercut” provides an interesting counter. Thoughts of being happy and togetherness reach through the speakers and conjure real images flashing one after another: expectations of a reunion, of forgivingness, of getting back to the basics. It’s just out of reach, but despite the insane danceability and a chorus made for shouting along, the song knows the fantasy is just that. This is Lorde’s music at her absolute best, which unfortunately means this is Lorde wrestling with some very hard feelings. Besides an attempt at a liberating breakup, “Melodrama” also finds Lorde growing up. A break-up forces you to re-evaluate, and in a sense rediscover, parts of yourself without that other person by your side. On that end, it’s fun to view the album through her own eyes, who has said that a common thread ties the songs together: that of being at a party, and watching the night unfold. The environment of a night out definitely provides a nice microcosm for the swings of self-reflection; you may have to squint a bit to get there, but the beats exist if you look. 14
Take opener “Green Light”, which truly feels like the song that plays on the way to a night out after a split. What starts as just a piano and Lorde throwing shade at her ex quickly evolves into a dance floor romp, albeit one where even the sunny beat and chanting chorus can’t block out the pain of its composer. It’s an excuse to let loose, but one where the primary driver for the action isn’t far in the rearview. “Sober”, then, makes for a great follow up, finding the artist asking the inevitable: what happens the day after? A killer blast of horns during the refrain almost implies a common contradiction of the album; this all sounds like a celebration, if you could just ignore the lyrics. That song even gets a sequel on the back half of the record, aptly titled “Sober II (Melodrama), ” which revisits the morning after, only this time Lorde’s angrier then before, calling out anyone who critiques her need for a night out or a one night stand. There’s “Homemade Dynamite,” featuring a dance with a new partner and a night of willed self-destruction, whereas the before mentioned “Liability” feels like the turning point in the night when creeping loneliness can rear it’s head. With all the alcohol and parties and friends and new lovers, it still feels natural by the end of the record to ask if we’re still doomed to sadness. “Perfect Places,” the album’s closer, doesn’t give us a happy ending; instead it feels like a summation. It’s another night out. It’s the trying to forget, and maybe failing. But it’s also the search that matters, and the hope that it gets better. If you’re not going to find any perfect places after a breakup, maybe just acknowledging that fact and pushing forward anyway is the first, real victory you can have. There’s still pain and loneliness, but there’s also a lot of life to be had in the state of emotional purgatory. So just have it. And once the record’s over, play it all over again. Only this time, you can sing along. In the months since this album was released, it’s meaning has changed a lot for me. But there are too many good reasons it’s currently my album to beat this year. Hyperbole aside, it’s damn near close to pop perfection, each song standing on it’s own merits while fitting nicely in to a larger picture. While “Pure Heroine” and its tracks still stand as a remarkable debut, that album almost (almost) feels lacking when compared to the cohesiveness of its successor. This is an ideal follow up, one that reminds us why we all latched on to “Royals” and friends in the first place, while building on everything done right the first time around. It’s fun, but has so much substance that a single listen is out of the question. Varied production keeps everything fresh. Electro-pop hits are complimented by yearning ballads. There’s synths, beats approach15
ing light trap, horns, and strings. There’s swooping choruses, and quiet reflections. It’s raw, and honest. And it’s timely. When discussing Lorde, it feels foolish to ignore her age. At just 20, she’s one of the biggest names in the game because of her age. Yes, these songs feel like a young adult woman experiencing heartbreak. If it were anything else, it wouldn’t ring true. Anyone who’s experienced young love, particularly in the modern era, won’t need to listen very long before their skin crawls, but that’s only because of the familiarity of it all. Much like the cover itself, Lorde paints these moments vividly. It’s easy to close your eyes and watch the party unfold. The music is relatable, then, because it’s being funneled through an aggressively articulate and self-aware talent. In fact, the title alone sounds like a challenge to her skeptics. “Melodrama” could just as easily have been a snarky comment belittling the perils of young love if the album was just another pop record. Thank the Lorde that it isn’t.
Wayne
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Kennedy
A Poem for Pharaoh— : Lord of Rats, Lies, & Butterflies G.M.H. Thompson
a Carib ate his shrunken head while scarab-sealed Egyptian dead looked on as we found misery— remember when you whispered Please . . . ? I do—you never were on cue and that’s the reason why we’re through . . . I long to taste of mysteries, discover secret histories, forget the reasons why I came (they’re only ever all the same), remember but of summer hair and far off days that passed so fair . . . ‘twas dark and bitter in the gloom, yet feared we not to break that tomb, for trapped within were treasures grand that glowed like godly stolen brands . . . but once inside, we shrieked and wept for something woke that long had slept . . . a monster overwhelms my mind, devouring people, fields, & time; where once were pleasure gardens now are pools to only please sea cows; while crocodiles lord o’er this silt, the pyramids are being built . . . Caesar looks on Father of Fear, yet he can’t find the stone’s answer and so it seems, his end is near . .
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in the beginning Sixtus VI X in the end before the end X but after the beginning before the end X and before the beginning after the end X and after the beginning after the end X but before the beginning PART ONE OF SEVEN:
Raven Carter
In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was X PART TWO OF SIX Xxxxx PART THREE OF FIVE XXXXX xzzzsgok dunlocxxxz xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx PART FOUR has been redacted & replaced with "Darryl" (WARNING)
Raven Carter 18
The Moon Queen
G.M.H. Thompson
Flowers with eyes for centers and hands for petals, many colored in their brilliance and in their horror, writhed in the fields of purple soil. Seven moons of various sizes and at various stages of deterioration hung far above, sullen in complexion and etched ragged by time. In the middle distance, delicate trees of pastel crystalline shards wounded the stygian navy of the night sky in glittering waves of razor-sharp finery, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and many other intricately cut precious stones dripping from the ends of their adamantine stems. Beyond this fragile forest, crimson mountains with grotesquely gaping maws of diseased gums and broken teeth as black as tar glowered terribly at anyone who chanced to gaze upon them. They had no eyes, yet the beautiful Pellkushra Angorika, eleventh Vokchin of Toquanoy, heir to the throne of Dhanghail and wielder of the mighty Baulshaz, the death of heroes, sensed that they were watching her, watching her with hunger. She urged her furious charger, Madness, to greater speeds with the vicious dig of a spur and he gave a startled whiney before galloping forward in a reckless dash, splitting numerous hands and gouging countless eyes of the freakish flora that covered the ground so profusely as he did so. Pellkushra shuddered— she had never liked the Watching Plots, as the peasants called them in Tarquel, and that loathing was intensified at present, riding through them and seeing them ogle her so eerily, leaning on their arm-like stalks to get the closest look possible while maniacally grasping the air with their hideously fingered leaves, as if they wished to snatch her up, as if they wished to hurt her, as if they wished to devour her. Which, as she was perfectly well aware, was precisely the case, but knowledge is worth little in the face of terror and revulsion, and so it was with Pellkushra, wading, as she was, through their very midst. It did not matter that they were near powerless against celerity— she still felt a dark dread, as if she was doing something irrevocable, something evil in passing through there, that unbearable labyrinth of bizarre corn, something evil and with frightening consequences, consequences which she could not foresee but could 19
sense, and all her senses bore ill news. Yet, she also felt as if she were chained to this perilous path, and that she was compelled to walk it. She felt like wolves were chasing her, abysmal shadow wolves she could not outrace or otherwise escape, but only keep running from in the hope that they would tire, a hope she knew somehow to be a lie. The mesmerizing eyes still stared at her unblinkingly and their snakelike appendages still clutched with the rhythm of lunacy towards Madness’s frenetic form. ‘Why do those cursed things even
Moira Smith grow?’ she thought breathlessly, more confused and unsettled than angered, for she really did not know, despite her mystical learnings. On soil she supposedly ruled over, no less. What did they even yield as fruit? They certainly were not grown to protect the Gemstone Grooves, for that special property of the crown was guarded through far more potent means, means in comparison with which the rows of Hand Flowers, hideous or not, carnivorous or not, enigmatic or not, seemed positively absurd as a deterrent. This perplexing mystery occupied her thoughts for some time, and before she realized anything had changed, Madness had reached the verge of the jeweled jungle, where the Watching Plots terminated abruptly and without ceremony. A road of worn onyx hexagons flanking these organic obsidian 20
ramparts could just barely be seen under the final ranks of palmed plants, and it was onto this hidden highway that she directed Madness, his expertly shod hooves clanging on the ancient stonework like murderous hammer blows. After a league or so, they approached an almost unseen opening in the dense and forbidding fortifications of icy foliage. Vokchin Angorika eased her mount to a halt as she approached this slight sylvan smirk. The unearthly cries of night-birds and more unsettling beasts besides could be heard as Madness snorted shortly and stamped a hoof with uneasy displeasure. Pellkushra carefully controlled her breathing and recited the words once more within her mind. Precise diction was of dire importance in this matter. Then, with mercury in her veins, she took the plunge: “O-non-riel, Ko-xian-phu, Nostz-dar-tsov-hrain,” she intoned in a high, cold voice of command. Nothing happened beyond a rustling of wings and then a silence that seemed to dominate the scene like some vast fortress towering over a lonely and desolate valley, red earth and a dry river bed in a land long dead, the fearsome castle grinning like a skull on this skeleton country, cadaverous walls and gaunt towers frowning sternly down upon the encircling wastes in bitter spite. The tension of her grim quest was building within the fair noble’s breast, yet she was hesitant to enter the dismal fir standing so imposingly before her. The oppressive quiet, which had grown like a black specter of gloom since she uttered the words of entry, only added to her feelings of suffocation and impending doom. ‘I must go forward,’ she thought to herself desperately, ‘I must go now. I’ve wasted too much time.’ But it was hard, so hard—her chest felt heavy, tight, and unstable, like a trade cog caught in a storm, ladened heavy with goods that would be lost to the waves; her heart was pumping blood so rapidly, it pained her to breathe. A dull throbbing wracked her brain and made her dizzy,— her thoughts were a blurred mess. She gave Madness a slight nudge with the toe of her sabaton, and he trod hesitantly forward, creeping into the forest’s null womb with the slowest of gaits, almost as if he were tiptoeing in expectancy, though of what, Pellkushra supposed only horses knew. The trees shimmered with light emanating from the lunar 21
spheres, illuminating the evening’s ebon velvet like dim lanterns, immense, smoky chalices of ochre & jade, burgundy & denim, lavender, gold, and vermillion. This rich, twinkling sight was punctuated pointedly by the miniature wonders that gave the otherworldly arboretum its sobriquet, the Gemstone Grooves. These diminutive treasures, each exquisitely crafted by Mother Nature more skillfully than the combined efforts of the master jewelers of all the ages could ever achieve even in reverie, glistened in the reverberated radiance of their parent objects d’art, shining like congealed drops of blood on the edge of a slovenly butcher’s cleaver. Small creatures moved in and out of the crystalline-tinsel fronds, splintery things with glowing neon eyes that appeared to move chaotically, following no readily perceptible patterns of motion. They sent shivers down Pellkushra’s spine and she gave Madness another jab, this time with an increased vigor born of nervous urgency. He shambled into a light gallop. Peculiar animal noises clinked and echoed in the surrounding shatter-wood, and the trail, though clear of brittle brush, was riddled with markings too esoteric for Lady Angorika’s limited lore of hyaline fauna. Far ahead, some disturbance to the uncanny equilibrium of the place seemed afoot, a dull rumbling alluding to this as yet obscure commotion. Metallic branches and then whole limbs were snapping brutally, bearing their precious loads with them as they dove headily downward, smashing violently into a thousand stray pieces and more upon the woodland’s pitiless floor. Pellkushra nagged Madness yet swifter and adroitly drew Baulshaz, vanquisher of dreams, from its rune-encrusted scabbard. The wicked blade, forged by the legendary swordsmith Quen-Ti in the sulfurous depths of Mount Toksar, flashed like lightning in the dim phosphorescence of the latticed tangle. Holding the deadly weapon low in ideal striking position, she felt the intoxication of the hunt wash over her, the delirium of danger drink her whole, the ecstasy of battle transform her into someone without cares or worries, into something beyond all that, into a thanatoid force of annihilation, an angel of death, baleful and pure. Suddenly, a thrashing monster of dazzling coils and terrible countenance exploded from the vitreous verdure in a holocaust of reckless malevolence not twenty paces from Pellkushra. As broken fragments of glassy leaf and clockwork bark chimed turbulently to 22
the ground, Madness came tumultuously to a halt, neighing stridently in stark terror, and rearing so steeply that Pellkushra had to grip the reigns fiercely and nearly lean through his neck. The nefarious serpent before her, however, was far too occupied with his own affairs to pay this novel phenomenon or its temporarily unstable condition any mind— wrapped within the innermost folds of the beast and nearly strangled, a man vainly tried to bring his saber against his all-encompassing adversary. Though the man was strong, it was clear that soon, he would breathe no more. “Leave him, wanton hellion, for such a low miscreation as you is not worthy to touch even the filings of that heavenly being’s nails,” Pellkushra cried in a voice that could break steel, it was so shrill and dread. The ghastly beast whirled in her direction as if affronted, climbing to his full height and relinquishing his victim casually as he did so. Like a nightmare, he glared down at her, fangs the length and lethality of keen cast-iron swords, eyes blazing like the hottest coals in a furnace’s heart, scales incandescent as the sun. Defiant, she met his menacing scrutiny, not blinking once as her foe most fell loomed high above her like a maleficent storm cloud of rancor. Then, with the awesome alacrity of evil, he lunged towards her like water rushing forth from the breach of a dam. Vokchin Angorika calmly awaited this onslaught with no apparent reaction. Madness whinnied unhappily, yet was too well trained to so much as twitch without the express orders of his mistress. At the exact instant when the cavernous orifice of the diabolic dragon was not more than five lengths above her helm’s panache, she stood up straight in her stirrups and thrust Baulshaz into the roof the colossal reptile’s mouth, causing him to hiss and pulsate crazily in the searing misery of dying. His jaws snapped shut with the weight of a slamming sepulcher’s door, and his frenzied body, visibly panicked, continued to plummet towards the earth. Yet, Pellkushra had long since abandoned her hold upon the pommel of Baulshaz, and Madness was cascading down the lane as rapidly as his flowing hooves could raft him when the ropey calamity’s corpse ultimately ended its descent. He convulsed in futility for some time, a slow rattle escaping his gasping lizard lips as his spiraled span churned over and over again, successive 23
surges of gore and entrails erupting unpredictably, his forked tongue crawling along the ground as if seeking out something very important to it, and cutting itself on slivers of tiffany vegetation many times over in the course of this insane voyage. While this cold-blooded villain expired in an anarchy of cacophony and carnage, Pellkushra carefully sought out his former quarry. She did not have to look very far, for he came running towards her: tall, muscular, & youthful, with golden hair and blue eyes, she speculated that he was either a merchant prince or a lordling, for he wore no armor and his garments were far too costly for a mere commoner: a silk doublet of scintillating azure and scarlet hose of the finest quality wool were joined by an ornately patterned belt clasped in silver. Handsome jet boots glossy with polished care completed the luxurious costume. Her brooding fears were returning now that the lust of combat was wearing off, yet gazing at this novel personage, her head begin to spin and a small hope sprung to life deep with the primal loam of her psyche. “Good Sir!” the stranger hailed her breathlessly, “what you have done is worthy of an epic poem, for such heroism have I never met with in all my days at my father’s court. I am in your debt, Noble Sir, and am forever grateful for, and eternally in awe of this deed of knightly valour accomplished on my behalf,” he beamed, earnestly falling to his knees in rapture as he finished. This was quite a careless mistake, for slivers of the fractured chandelier-timber littered the ground like shells upon an ocean shore. He yowled in his agony and jumped around erratically as a grasshopper, finally managing to hang faintly onto Madness’s right flank as well as Pellkushra’s armored leg as he struggled weakly to control his enflamed knees, newly weeping tears of tortured red as they were. “It is not wise to rest upon the forest floor when one finds oneself in the Gemstone Grooves,” she observed mordantly. “Now, we shall have to staunch those tender wounds, or you’ll die of blood-loss before long. Give me your sword,” she mandated imperiously. Delirious with hurt, he readily complied. “Now, off with that doublet right quick, my man.” In spite of his burning perforations, he hesitated to comply with this directive. “What do you want with my fifth best suit?” he inquired pee24
vishly. “I don’t have any bandages,” she explained brusquely, “The suit must serve instead.” With some fretful remarks regarding his kind mother and her almost certain displeasure at this disastrous turn of affairs, he reluctantly forfeited his beloved apparel, revealing a bare chest superbly honed by rigorous exercise. Using the sword like a skilled surgeon would a scalpel, Pellkushra sliced the offered linen into measured strips. She then dismounted gingerly and removed her gauntlets, placing them daintily on Madness’s saddle. Seeing her naked hands, he was so struck by their beauty, he gasped and forgot the raw, throbbing soreness of his injuries. “ Sir, your hands— they are celestial, and your voice— it is heavenly; this sounds strange and insane even to me, but I think I am falling in love with you. Razing her beaver in shock, Pellkushra stared at him with white faced disbelief: “I am Vokchin Angorika, ruler of Toquanoy and heir to the throne of Dhanghail. I know nothing of you and this talk of love does dishonor to us both.” This being said, she proceeded to dress the stranger’s lacerations as if no indiscretion had transpired, yet in silence, using the blade’s fine edge to slice away much of his hose so as to get at the mutilated area, something he no doubt would have whimpered about, had he been in his normal state of mind, that is. As it was, however, he had been quite blown away by the vision of her face, struck like a philosopher by some profound revelation, and was for the nonce plunged into a trance owing to this, being unable to speak or see or think of anything besides that sublime visage. When she had finished tying his bandages, she put her gauntlets on once more and decreed that he should mount. He did so with the ease of hypnosis. Mounting behind him, she leaned against his back gently in order to reach the reigns. The cool metal of her panoply stroked his skin and partially brought him back to himself: “I am Prince Hanopie, and my father is King Juktjian, sovereign of all of Thrujia. Wait, why are we riding in this direction, My Lady, this isn’t—” he started dazedly, but was cut off by an irritated Pellkushra— “I am Vokchin Angorika, in case you have forgotten, not your lady.” After this, there was no conversation for a long period and 25
Hanopie’s query was seemingly forgotten. Eventually, the motley crystal trees began to thin and at last they ceased entirely. Yawning before them were blood red heights, hungry mandibles of inky fangs leering sinisterly, as if whispering to them, ‘What are you doing here? You’re such an awfully Long Way from home. You could get LOST out here.’ “But Noble Angorika, these are the Peaks of Infinity. I’ve…I’ve heard such…tales…of this place…tales that speak of—” “I, too, have heard tales, Prince Hanopie, yet I have enough sense to know that they are just that: tales. Would that the same were true of you.” Following this stinging rebuke from the newfound object of his amorous imaginings, Hanopie gave no further voice to his apprehensions, though they did not dissipate, and indeed, only strengthened as the silence grew. The roseate rubble that composed the path shifted unpredictably, and Madness often nearly lost his footing. Small clumps of spiky grass dotted the winding slopes and a slight shrub could now and again be seen. Nondescript blurs of pale mauve darted in and out of view, yet these always moved too fleetly for either traveler to get more than a blurred glimpse at them. Pellkushra still felt a gaunt apprehension and a festering sense of foreboding in her heart, but her inward torment was gradually abating: it would be soon. Madness followed a tortuous track that spiraled sharply downwards into an ill-lit grotto of sorts. In the midst of this gloombathed hollow, three figures cowered around a bubbling pot, as if for warmth. It sounded like they were chanting bizarre cooking songs, possibly recipes. Silhouetted by massive slabs of rude granite piled on top of one another at weird angles, dullish crimson & roughly hewn, this trinity of slouching humanoid shapes approached their callers at a leisurely pace bordering upon a lack of movement. After several long minutes had elapsed, minutes awkward to all parties involved excepting this triad, they finally reached the travelers and Pellkushra & Hanopie could properly make them out: classic hags they seemed, eldritch crones with drooping under-lips, leprotic skin, and a myriad of warts. They were cloaked in robes of perfect darkness. “At last, you’ve come to us, dearie,” one of them murmured softly with a grin that seemed too wide for her shriveled face to con26
tain. “We saw that you would, yet we did not foresee that you would be waylaid,” another reported eerily with no less demented jubilation than the first. “Yet, these things aren’t free, as I’m sure you are aware,” warned the third in a wry hiss that was more conspiratorial than sinister. “I have brought a sacrifice,” Pellkushra replied, her voice grim, dead serious, deaf to their perverse merriment. “But without your sweet horse, dearie, how will you outrace the twilight wanderers of these hills or the fiendish monstrosities of the Gemstone Grooves? They will surely overcome you,” the first witch observed sardonically at an even lower pitch with even greater excitement than before. “I was not referring to my steed,” Vokchin Angorika intoned in a leaden voice of glacial certainty, loan-cutlass drawn and ready at her side, eyes squarely locked on Hanopie, who was beginning to quiver and yelp oddly as the true nature of reality clarified itself. In the weird heavens floating far above, the last of the seven moons faded out of sight. A bright star extinguished in a red haze. More distantly, so distantly it almost could not be seen at all, a new star blazed to life in a dazzling flash of white.
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Scars 28
Chelsea Vanhouten
Lying here on my bed Clara Stone
Lying here on my bed doing nothing at all. Since when has lying here ever accomplished anything? I talked to my mom, asked her to consider, altering the agreement. She said no, but what did I ever expect? Waking up forever late lying in bed contemplating how to live life instead of just living it, contemplating what I should do instead of doing. I'll never get anything done. Not like this, afraid to make the wrong choice, but unsure which one's the right choice. What if they're both right? Or what if they're both wrong? If I don't like the way this house functions, I can move out, but you don't want me to leave. Do I really have the freedom to go? Or is it just some scary prospect so that I'll comply? Because that scary threatening prospect, sure seems like freedom to me, when I feel trapped where I am. Like I do, tired of life and monotony. It's gotten better,
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but I still want to break out of this invisible cage and fly. What I want to do... I don't know. I want to be free. I want to help all those who need help, reach out my hand so that if they want they can take it. Plant flowers in cracks in the alleys to brighten the days of those who wander past, and feed the birds and butterflies. Paint all of the beautiful things that I see, so that I can share them with others who don't. Make and create and help and brighten. Is it wrong? Is it what I need to do? I want to paint a bus and roam the country. Talk to all those who need talked to, hug all who simply need an encouraging hug. Love all the animals, and take them all with me, scatter sunshine to all downtrodden people. Leave gifts of seeds that'll grow into flowers. That's what I want. To be free... free to brighten my city. Free to make and create. It's doable, I know. I need to break out of this invisible barrier. Be real with myself. Move, I need a change. Life's become too comfortable, and in the comfort, I'm trapped.
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Narcissist Internal Kiss Aiko Tsuchida
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Wayne Kennedy
The Woman in the Box Jessie Kehle
When the rain that spoke without speaking first broke over Danae’s subterranean chamber, it said: Aha! Found you! They shut you up in here so I thought, oh this chick must be really hot, and I was right! And once I’m done with you here, you’re going to be all that because every bitch I touch becomes famous forever! But Danae just scoffed and replied: Dude, get over yourself. I was already famous. See, when Dear Old Dad first got the idea to shut me up, he put me in a see-through cube that he wheeled all over Greece like some traveling circus. And he yelled at spectators: Behold the Woman in the Box! This daughter’s womb will be my undoing! She looks helpless now, but she has powers, I tell you, and she’ll break this box and unleash my hell! And through the glass I could hear the idiot villagers gnaw on their peanuts and ooh and aah and theorize how I must be able to conjure seed from thin air and breed demons out of nothing because no one could get into this cage. I laughed because I knew better. Daddy had to be ten flavors of dumb to think a box could hold back His Horniness himself. But I must say, this guise is mediocre at best. Everyone else got plowed by giant swans and bulls and shit. Even a free-floating sphere of strobe light would be cool, but gold en rain? That’s what you went with? Whatever. I’ve been in heat for years waiting for this moment, so drench me and let’s get this show on the road. I hope our precious little bastard kicks all kinds of ass. Especially Daddy’s. And for a moment, the rain forgot how to fall. 32
Divorce Oscar Wright
Rob the Sculptor’s Assistant was a squirrel living in south St. Louis. Rob was out enjoying the summer day with his partner, Audrey the Teacher. He had turned 2 in March. It was July that fateful day, nuts were ripe on every block and Rob had the day off. Rob was Assistant to Norm the Sculptor. In addition to assisting Norm he worked as a sculptor himself. He was almost ready to change his title to Sculptor, but until his training was over he would wait. His son, lil’ Frank, was going to turn one in October. He and Audrey had raised him well. He got through school with good grades and honest friends and he was going into politics. Audrey led the way up Sydney St., lil’ Frank was out with friends and the two were enjoying some time alone. They had just reached Minnesota Ave. “I was thinking about your job for the fruit shop,” “Oh yeah?” Rob liked it when Audrey talked to him about his work. “Well I was at the market and I saw some cherries,” Rob was hired to make a sculpture of a jolly cherry squirrel, “I think it would look cool if the cherry squirrel had a stem for a tail and only his limbs were stretched out from his body.” “Maybe... I’m not sure it would be as easy to make but I think I see what you’re saying.” Audrey didn’t talk to Rob much about his work because he wasn’t very receptive to her ideas. Audrey asked, “want to go up to our spot?” “I bet I’ll make it up first!” Rob said as he ran toward the trunk of the oak tree. Audrey chased him up the trunk, but took a different route and got to their branch just before or after Rob. They took their conversation up and down the branch, stopping to make love or eat acorns. Looking over the neighborhood, Rob thought about what lil’ Frank was up to. He was no longer a little boy, he was now a squirrel. He remembered being lil’ Frank’s age. He remembered 33
his father at his own age. He thought of his brothers and sisters who never reared a child, the branches of the ancestral tree that were broken in summer storms. He remembered his grandmother, who was hit by a car when Rob was eight months old. He thought of what a mighty lineage was hers, and the honor it held from the deeds of her forebearers. He thought about having another child with Audrey next year. She had said she wanted to spend time with lil’ Frank that summer and so agreed to forego having another for a year. Rob dreaded the thought that she meant to leave him, he had grown very attached to Audrey. The shadow of a bird passed over them. “It’s great to hear lil’ Frank is enjoying the work for the WLP, Did he tell you about his meeting with Sam the Cook?” Sam was a friend of Audrey’s that she met in school. Sometimes he thought they were fucking. He smiled to hide the thought. “Yeah, It’s great!” The couple left their favorite branch when they heard some youngsters coming up the tree. They decided to go see what was going on in the park. They crossed Grand without a problem, there didn’t seem to be any dogs around. They darted around, Rob was in the lead this time and he was in the mood to move. They sprinted from tree to tree, taking hold of each trunk and scanning for the next path to take. Audrey, too, was having fun but Rob went too fast sometimes, she thought. “Let’s go down to the trees’ knees,” Audrey chortled to Rob. There weren’t any squirrels to be seen, just a few humans in the distance. Rob was under a fig tree and the park was completely quiet. Audrey was still a tree behind him. He looked back to see her nibbling on an acorn. The sight of his love then brought Rob immense joy. Audrey had made six steps before the hawk had her in his talons. “Audrey!” he screamed as he ran to where she was taken. He watched the hawk disappear over the trees. He screamed again “Audrey!” and then kept screaming until the word melted into tears. 34
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