Blue Ships Magazine Issue 0002

Issue #002 June 2011

Featuring: Moriah Beagel Adam White Erica Morgenstern

Contributors: Tony Flaco Mitchell Waldman Sari Kronsinsky Jordan E. Brooks Chelsie Roberts KC Hase

Photo by Tony Flaco

Table Of Contents Issue 2, Tuesday, June 1, 2011

INSIDE THIS ISSUE: Lit In A Flash

5

Featured Visual Artist

11

Short Story

19

Stage Play

25

Contributors

28

Editor’s Corner

30

Special points of interest: ● Cover art by: Tony Flaco

The Wall by Jordan E. Brooks

Your Ghost At Nite By Jordan E. Brooks

Lit In A Flash

The C Word When Amy was diagnosed I panicked, imagining Isaac growing up with the same scar I have, scored at the same age.

I wanted to help, but I was trapped by memory—mommy in the hospital bed, giving me her skim milk ’cause she didn’t like it and I’d drink anything that came from a cow’s tit.

I could only pray that for Isaac the hospital wouldn’t become the place that failed to save his mother, too.

After the first night sitting shiva, I escaped to my cousin’s house. Side by side, we looked down on the shadows shimmering across the yard. She asked me how it felt, not yet old enough to know some things can’t be told.

Seeing Amy’s bald head wrapped under a scarf, I prayed Isaac would get to stay a child, to live a little longer in a world where parents don’t die.

By Sari Krosinsky

Home Your smile so far away I close my eyes to bring it back the days the nights see you walking towards me again heels clicking on the pavement my heart beating faster and fuller as you come into view and stand before me see the sun love of your stare washing over bathing me again filling me to the brim my Love, as I wrap my arms around you you wrap yours around me wrapped together tight together again, nothing can defeat us, smelling your spicy scent the feel of my lips on your neck way we fit together just right holding you close closer never close enough as you pull back look me in the eyes drilling to the core of my soul and being and whisper: I love you, Baby.

And I know I am Home the place I have always been headed the place I have always been searching for traveling back to the sanctuary of Our Love.

By Mitchell Waldman

Birthday The grown-ups charged me to keep my 3-year-old cousin off the half-built porch, a wooden precipice shadowing the backyard. Of course, he couldn’t resist. He snuck past me up the first few steps before I saw, followed, cinched him round the waist and locked him in place ’til I could work out how to lift him down. Then the grown-ups came and he took off crying that I’d pushed him. I believed he was telling his truth. No one believed me. I didn’t care about being forbidden to open the gifts. My mother only a few months in the ground, brother and sister gone to college, dad and I were the only family we had. I couldn’t bear his disappointed look, to find his baby such a bad girl.

By Sari Krosinsky

Young love One of my few memories of mom: from the back seat of the car, the tops of trees and houses whoosh by, framed by mom’s shoulder and the stiff fall of the wig covering her chemo-scalp. But mom never drove.

So is it real, the one where I tormented the cat, bundling her into my lap when she had things to chase, and mom persuaded me to substitute stuffed animals for real ones and I padded my little body in plush fur?

Or the time she gave me soup filled with tiny stars that drove the cold out and filled my belly with light?

Real or no, I remember enough to know I loved her intensely for a short while. Not enough to love her still.

By Sari Krosinsky

Art by Chelsie Roberts

Alien Life

Who dropped me on this planet?-I want to know.

Who left me here without the instruction manual, without the translation dictionary?

Come get me, Mom? Why did you leave me here all alone?

Who needs Kryptonite when you have human emotions to deal with a factor so long forgotten on this planet-sex, death, life, nothing more here than a series of ads for Nike, Coke, Levis, Safe Sex not like back home, on our planet where feelings were understood the spirit was acknowledged as supreme and there was no Video Shack no Hustler Babe of the Month no 900 numbers no "Will Work For Food" signs no unemployment checks no dribble down your shirt front economics no nuclear missiles dead lakes mansions on the hill caviar and truffles no, none of that.

Why was I left here as some observer of a great experiment gone bad?

I've seen enough, Ma, Scotty, beam me up, Please!!

By Mitchell Waldman

Just Driving

Staring at a little black bug as it crawls up my wall remembering the day the park the faces that were running smiling drinking breathing stealing thinking feeling feeding reaching reeling being together hands held tight laughing without reason overwhelmed by the sun something locked in their eyes they won't let me in.

Driving just driving no reason or destination lassoing the life knotting nooses too tight remembering what it was like passing the faceless rows flying right by cars lined to enter waiting for their Sunday wafer the sun the games the breasts the legs the laughs the falls.

Busting open a beer the bug asks me where I've been.

By Mitchell Waldman

Featured Visual Artist Moriah Beagel

Photography is a chance to adore a moment that no one else may see. The tender or harsh ways in which light touches an object bringing life out of it and for one moment it just may be aware of how grand it is. This is what I like to shoot. When I am open to receiving it I can see these bits and pieces that add up to everything. I make myself available to the world so it might show me its roaming graces. I want to pull the life to the surface, to show the intimate interactions between all things.

I did not go digital until 2004. I was a stickler for paper photos and film. As I became more technologically advanced I found that the time spent and the creativity output with digital manipulations were just in tow with the older darkroom techniques. It is still highly time consuming and it still takes many different variation to get a perfect pic. The upside to digital is that there is a huge amount of room for imagination. In 1996 I was dodging light in the darkroom to put wings on a model...now I can put wings on with the tap of a few buttons...its amazing.

This picture is altered pink of glass. Title "Sea Thru" I have many other color variation of this. Originally I was studying the effects of light through the glass. once I was processing though I found great joy in finding all of the different simple manipulations I could do to something so basic

This is the photo at the lake at sunset. Name "Lake Shawnee at Play" This photo it an oldie but one of my favorites. This photo just happened to me. I was walking around the lake and shooting pictures but these kids at the shore were the reason I was out that day. I just didn't know it until I saw it. I feels timeless to me.

This is the picture of the mans back in blue.

Title " Blue Boy" I was at a live D.J. session with D.J. Ostinato. I captured this picture in the middle of his set. There is so much in his posturing that suggests the movement of his sound. His work in progress.

This is the picture of the crows in pink. Title "Warning signals" I love crows. I was lucky enough to walk upon these two adolescents. They had no fear and were in hands length of me. They were in the process of showing me how tough they were when I shot the photo. I love this picture. Again this was a gift from nature all I could do was shoot. I manipulated the picture with some basic inversions and color fillers

Is the print version of the Warning signals i.e. Print Warning signals

All of my Mountain photos were taken while climbing Bear Peak in Colorado. I manipulated them heavily and with great joy. They feel ethereal to me now like I have uncovered the secret Identity of the mountains. Some ominous account of the violent collisions that formed them so long ago.

This is the unaltered bent tree. I sent two different versions.

Titled "Twisted" This picture was taken At the mouth of a mountain trail .I feel that this picture really called out to me for obvious reasons, texture, form, the extreme conditions that must have possessed it at the time of its demise. Often I wonder how many of us have a picture of this tree.

This Is "Twisted" in negative. I love playing with the parameters of natural light and with this come cool inversions such as this.

MORIAH BEAGEL, 31, is a graduate of Washburn University KS where she studied Psychology, Creative writing and the Fine Arts. She has been taking pictures for over 15 years. As a Photographer she enjoys night photography, playing with light and Portraiture. "The play of natural and artificial light has always been a personal obsession. Light holds the world and brings a thing into life."

She currently hails from Boulder CO and Winter Park FL

Muckmore by KC Hase

Curdled Afterbirth: The New Adventures of Adam White The year was 72 BC, and I rode into Bethlehem on a marvelous re-make of the Leonardo Da Vinci “Helicopter.” A woman with fairly large bear feet came bounding towards my landing spot. She looked like a goddess; unfortunately it was an animal-headed Egyptian goddess which she resembled. I panicked and hurled a Molotov cocktail at her. She screamed curses at me as she burned alive.

Her funeral was postponed until the year 1862, due to bad weather, the invasion, the war, and lack of interest.

Finally it was time for the funeral, I wept like an anemic little altar boy. I then put on my ass-hat, and flew on the back of Chumley, my pet snail, into the glorious sunset.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------It was an unusually warm Hanukkah, 234 years later, in the year 2096, and I had just finished remodeling the master bedroom in my Chateau, that was nestled deep within the bosom of the Ottoman Empire. I posted fliers on the telephone poles and backs of sweaty child laborers in the nearby village, advertising how I was in need of some…sensual favors. Not too long afterwards a “who’s who” of the village kicked down my door and stood, ready to be examined.

Among these men were The Flying Huckleduck Bros., Richard Nixon, Iron Man, and my future wife.

I shot one of the The Flying Huckleduck brothers with my tactical 12-guage, the other brother explained to me that the man I had just shot was actually Satan himself and I was to be proclaimed the greatest hero of all time, if I could just find a mate.

Luckily, my future wife was standing mere centimeters away. Her skin was like porcelain, her eyes like sapphires, her legs like tall and full vanilla-fudgesuckles that you’d imagine to taste orgasmic in your mouth, and of course her breasts were like two rabid howler monkeys that were to busy dry-humping a log to notice the Scottish game hunter sneaking up behind them…naked.

I approached the beauty of a woman and asked her to marry me.

She replied, “I just sunk your battleship.”

I wept as the two of us set off into the glorious moonlight to seek a Priest, for she was Catholic, and I was willing to convert to any fanciful cult if it meant tapping that piece of ass.

In the spring, my wife and I got married. She revealed to me that her name was William Shakespeare, and I wept. A crowd of about three people stampeded across the fairy garden in order to take there seats before the priest, Jesse Ventura, wed us.

After the ceremony, the small gang of people (around five-hundred), my wife, and I all traveled on the back of a magical talking whale that could fly. The whale explained his name was Trini, and he was pregnant…with my child.

I started to foam at the mouth while blood spurt from my fingernails, and then, as any high-powered attorney would do, I wept. Needless to say William Shakespeare left me for dead in a dirty alley way in New York, New York.

I eventually woke up in a hospital, I had apparently suffered a severe beating from a flaming-barbed-wired baseball bat. My injuries were numerous, a fractured ass, cracked penis, and I could not stop lactating.

On the day of my release from the hospital, a nurse who had always kept her face hidden from me finally turned around. I gasped, it was Hillary Clinton, my former chess apprentice, body guard, life coach, and personal trainer. She explained to me that Andrew Jackson was in need of a favor, and I was the man for the job…

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Andrew Jackson was currently stationed in Gettysburg, and I traveled from Kansas all the way to his estate, but on the way had several unfortunate encounters.

First, Paul Revere and I had an orgy with the two of us and our two horses, the British were indeed coming and my lover had to make an early withdrawal.

After officially naming my noble steed, “Big Peter McJohnson”, I reached Pennsylvania, where I was brutally attacked by female cheetah-human hybrids. I was ravaged as my entire world as I knew it was rocked. Both my legs were shattered in multiple points so I crawled into Gettysburg.

I finally met Andrew Jackson after going through a secret underground series of tunnels beneath his estate. It turned out that he owned an illegal Luchador Federation, that is, a masked Mexican wrestling league. It was illegal because all the wrestlers practiced their craft in the ring whilst firing spaghetti guns to brutally murder their opponent.

I picked up one these spaghetti guns and shot the dwarf king that was sitting in the front row, instantly his eyes turned into cheese and he left the room screaming in joy.

Andrew then informed me that my first adversary was the fierce, Brian “The Brain” Hemmeridge.

Knowing full well the intensity of Brian “The Brain” Hemmeridge, I ran away like a Dutch Crossing-Guard that belonged to a group of old fiddlers and pickers, which is a very common way to run.

I soon realized my life was basically over already, as Andrew Jackson would want me dead for costing him the bets that had been placed on my match with Hemmeridge. Jackson was a well-known member of the Nightlight Shawtyz, aka Illuminati.

Luckily my 1623 Ford Pinto was parked mere decimeters away, I ripped the door off, jammed the key in, and slammed my foot down on the gas with the force of a thousand nations of the Persian Empire descending upon a single Spartan Solider.

I drove for miles, interrupting and accidentally winning several races. First I beat Speed Racer after taking his b*tch *ss out with an oil slick. Next, I ended up in a race with all of the Wacky Racers from the old Cartoon Network show of the same name. I made strong sexual advances on Penelippe Pitstop, and laughed at how Peter Perfect’s car looked like turbo-p*nis. I was all set to win the grand championship of wacky racing, until that b*stard Dick Dastardly summoned a candarian demon straight from the Evil Dead series, which caused me to crash and die a horribly painful slow, burning death.

My eyes slowly opened after what seemed like a sleep that lasted eons. I saw the Pearly Gates set upon clouds, an old man who I assumed to be St. Peter, and a line various people standing in line, waiting to be judged.

I began shake and weep uncontrollably, knowing I was already doomed to Hell. Even so, I thought I might luck out, and I took my place behind Tom Hanks in the line.

“Wait, You’re Tom Hanks?! I loved your movies! I’m a huge fan!” I yelled as happy as I’d ever been “Yeah that’s me…I’m not sure if this “God” character is such a big fan though, what with the Da Vinci Code and all…”

Tom Hanks answered I went back to being as scared as ever as I watched God sentence Tom Hanks to infinite pain inside a lake of fire.

“The Almighty shall now judge the one called…Adam White!” I heard St. Peter yell over the disco music that apparently always played in Heaven.

I stepped forward and was about to plead for forgiveness when God held up his hand.

“Don’t. I already know what you’re going say. I hear it all the time. Tell you what though, Adam, because you’re the main character of this story, I’ll let you walk the Earth again, if you can defeat this demon that’s been giving us trouble down in Hell.” God spoke in an echoing, booming voice, typical of God’s voice description.

“Great! Who is this demon?” I asked hopeful “Satan.” God answered “ah cr*p” I said before suddenly falling down, down, down into a fiery landscape.

I finally landed on my d*ck, down in hell. After brushing off the dust and VHS copies of “The Teletubbies”, I glanced around. Tom Hanks was laying on the red, cracked soil in the fetal possession singing “Mary had a little lamb”, and sucking his thumb.

“Snap out of it!” I yelled and did a double-french slap to his face Tom Hanks let out a wolf-like howl, and the ground began to shake and crumble. Flames and shadow beings shot out of a deep pit that had formed before Joan Rivers stepped out from the blaze.

“Holy Sh*t” I managed to blurt out before Joan summoned demonically possessed chains which ensnared me to the very spot I was standing.

“So you’ve come to kill me, eh?” Joan Rivers asked in her thick Canadian accent “No. Just Satan.” I replied “Hahaha…I am Satan!!” Joan screeched before distorting her already hideous face into what resembled the classic depiction of the devil.

Suddenly, Tom Hanks sprung to action, he grabbed the holy battle-axe, jumped six feet in the air, and cut Joan “Satan” Rivers clean in half. After that, Tom and I began flying upwards at amazing speeds. While we traveled up out of hell, I gave him an erotic massage, which included fondling his *ss-bre*sts, his d*ck-n*pples, and his v*gina-thighs.

I remember inhaling sharply, my eyes opening wide, my muscles tightening, getting several Charlie-horses, slapping my belly uncontrollably, and c*mming, all while laughing madly.

I was in a hospital. A creepy, abandoned, haunted hospital, but a hospital, none the less. I slowly got off of the bed, the only light source was coming from a closed door on the other wall. I didn’t realize I was completely naked until I had already knocked at the door, it didn’t matter though I thought, I was an attractive bachelor straight out of high school, and no where to go.

Hulk Hogan answered the door, he immediately ripped his shirt off and welcomed me into his room.

It was furnished in the style of late 1800s Victorian socialites, complete with a beautiful bookshelf filled classic literature such as Penthouse, Playboy, Hotrod, and “Oscar Wilde’s greatest hits”.

Hogan sat at a desk and seemed to sketching something, I glanced over his shoulder and what I saw froze me in terror.

It was an elaborate cover for this very story, detailing every single place & person I had described.

Hogan turned and spoke, “Adam. My full name is Hoganeus Morpheus Hulkeus. Do you understand.”

I merely nodded, a single tear fell from my eye and it landed on Hoganeus’ outstretched hand, it turned into a blue pill.

“Take the blue pill.” Hoganeus Morpheus Hulkeus instructed me I swallowed the pill. Not knowing what strange new reality would be revealed to me. I was entering…The Matrixeus.

My eyes opened slowly. I soon realized I was naked and began dry-humping the nearest tree. As the rough bark from the tree scratched and tore my bare skin, I started to weep, not from the pain, but from the fact that a crowd of over five-hundred people had gathered all around me and were laughing mercilessly at me.

Suddenly, a shadow of what I thought would’ve had to have been a gigantic bird cast itself over the crowd, which consisted of Karl Marx, Vincent Price, the entire Lollipop Guild, Tom Hanks, and even Bill Murray, among several thousand others. The insane uproar that followed caused mass confusion, pandemonium, strife, lust, gluttony, envy, and death.

I was to bloody from humping the tree to move, and when the enormous bird landed, I gasped, for Gary Busey sat upon the monstrous beast.

He was nearly engulfed by a holy white aura, “Hop on.” He said We flew over what seemed to be an extremely altered version of the United States. At one point on the journey, I fell asleep, only to be awakened by Gary Busey’s laughter, he was sitting backwards on the large phoenix bird, facing me, and just laughing, staring.

Gary Busey and I eventually landed in the Mountains of northern California. A large wooden cabin surrounded by budding grape trees, stood erect on the face of a snow-capped mountain. As Gary lead me inside, I was struck with visions of what was inside the cabin. Four or five people were strapped to hospital beds. I could just barely make out there faces, I think they were Mel Brooks, Chris Kattan, Charlton Heston, and Sarah Palin. I also saw a bloody surgeon laughing maniacally, it was Pee Wee Herman, and he was making a “Human-Centipede” out of his victims.

I then realized that Gary Busey was Pee Wee’s servant and I was going to be the last link in the Centipede, so I punched Busey in the balls and bit his d*ck off. Busey only chuckled and spawned a new d*ck which grew so rapidly it poked my right eye out.

Nearly blinded, I ran and stumbled down the mountain-side, I looked back to see Gary Busey and his viper-like d*ck slithering after me, Pee Wee Herman was firing a harpoon gun whilst riding atop the Mel Brooks-Chris Kattan-Charlton Heston-Sarah Palin-Human -Centipede.

I then had a brilliant plan, I yelled, “Ricolaaaaa!!” as loud as I could.

A rumbling threw my assailants off before the avalanche began rushing down upon us. I quickly pulled my hoverboard out of my *ss, only to find Pee Wee had down the same, we each drew our light-sabers as intense battle-music played in the background.

- Start Copy Pastea The battle, and the downward slope of the mountain, lasted for eight days.

Eventually, the avalanche and mountain slammed into a what appeared to be a training camp of some sort. Covered in snow, blood, and glitter, I glanced around to find Pee Wee Herman dead crushed under the weight of the typical Edward Cullen fan.

A womanish-figure appeared off in the distance, she suddenly vanished only to reappear again mere tetrameters away from me.

“Absolutely Stunning” were the only three words that could describe her. Ghostly-pale, flawless skin, sky-blue eyes that seemed to hypnotize me, feisty ruby red lips, and a figure that would make wonder woman cut herself.

Without saying a single word she seduced me and lured me back to the training camp, where we made bitter sweet bohemian rhapsody love.

I was in a trance, subdued and submissive I followed every order the mysterious woman gave me, I only mildly noticed the weakness I felt in the morning, and the bite marks on my neck.

After 3 months of great vampiric sex, she brought me to head Vampire, Lady GaGa, who programmed my subconscious to go on a mission to the dark lands of the west to slay the legendary monster of Nipplestein.

---After slaying the mythical one-headed dragon of Boston, I discovered an old castle up on a hill, which I assumed to be the birth place of Nipplestein. My assumption was wrong however, and it turned out that Nick Nolte lived there, he autographed a copy of his mugshot and sent me on my way.

To my horror, I found Nipplestein’s liar; a cardboard box. Nipplestein was just a pregnant dog. I realized that pregnant dogs do in fact have numerous large nipples, and “Nipplestein” would be an appropriate name for that.

As a sat in my Cadillac, I wept while I pondered who would want to send me on this wild goose chase.

Suddenly, my iPhone rang, it was my girlfriend, Miley Cyrus. She cried to me over the phone asking me to come back to Paris to audition for her broadway musical, “Passion of the Christ 2”.

Reluctantly I boarded a hang glider and gliding from Transylvania to Paris, crashing through the roof of the theatre where Passion of the Christ 2 was auditioning.

Some of the best actors in the universe were gathered at Miley Cyrus’ theatre. Nick Nolte, Gary Busey, PeeWee Herman, Jack Nicholson, Tom Hanks, Bill Murray, and Stone Cold Steve Austin all greeted me, Nick Nolte even tossed me a pack of Candycigarettes and winked at me.

As my girlfriend, Miley Cyrus was about to begin the audition process, Gene Wilder kicked down the back door and shot Stone Cold Steve Austin with a rail-gun.

The Cops showed up, one wearing nothing but a London Fog trench coat, a sapphire necklace and a sh*t-eating grin. They were also apparently magician-cops, as one pulled out a magnum from behind his ear and shot my girlfriend, miley cyrus.

I was quickly taken into custody, they said I was being charged with vehicular manslaughter, and I handed them my resignation speech.

After blacking out from the severe beating the cops and Freddie Mercury gave me, I awoke in a jail cell with none other than Biz Markie. He winked at me and promised I wouldn’t be “Just a friend”.

Scared for my life and my buttox, I hired the local pirson-surgeon to attach teeth within my anis, and experimented with chewing granola bars with my butt-teeth.

Biz Markie was furious when I used them to defend myself from his d*ck. He began blowing bubbles from a bubble pipe and reading Sherlock Holmes until the jail guard, Danny Glover, put him into solitary confinement.

Terrified at the thought of having to play solitaire and various other card games in a tiny space, I become the epitome of prison-based good behavior, and received smiley face stickers on my daily record.

After serving my 19 life sentences, and getting a conjugal visit from Yogi Bear and Rumplestiltskin, I moved to Russia.

The bitterly freezing Siberian winter was brutal. I lived alone with Charlie Sheen in a log cabin-duplex. I would stay up until three in the morning ready horrifying tales of the paranormal and unexplained.

On one such night, a tapping came at my window, I turned my head slowly, nearly petrified in fear to see an old hag with glowing red eyes peering in at me.

I vomited and shat upwards, driving me through the floorboards, into an underground river of some sorts.

The river was illuminated by huge antique chandeliers, as my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized I was floating amongst bottles of wine, crystal skulls, holy grails, and blu-ray copies of “Memoirs of a Geisha”.

The river rolled along into a waterfall, which landed me in a small lagoon at the edge of what appeared to be some sort of mythical village.

ADAM WHITE was born and raised in Topeka, Kansas. He attended Seaman High School, and is currently attending Washburn University where he hopes to graduate with a degree in English.

Photo by Tony Flaco

UNBELIEVING by Erica Morgenstern

Cast of Characters: A woman of any age A man of any age Setting: A small cafĂŠ with both an indoor dining area and an outside patio area.

ACT I Scene 1 Lights up on a cafe setting. The cafe is not crowded, but has a steady stream of customers. A man sits alone at a table in the dining room. A woman sits alone at a table in the outdoor area.

MAN Women don't believe what we say...women only believe what we have said. Yeah, that's right, a guy just can't win these days. They expect us to say these things, these words they've already scripted inside their own heads, but then we say them perfectly, never missing a cue, and they don't believe any of it. Why give us the script if they don't want us to follow it? Claim they want honesty, but only if that honesty comes wrapped in a pretty package of lies, with a bow of false words sitting on top. Well, no more, I give up. If she doesn't like what I have to say them she doesn't have to listen and she can just move on.

WOMAN Men don't believe what we do...men only believe what we have done. Sure, a man can go out and flirt with every available female, maybe even sleep around a bit, but a woman? How sad that the double standard still exists in a society which claims to be open-minded. Does it really matter what we may have done in the past? Does the person we are now actually change when our previous, possibly misguided actions are revealed? I am who I am because of what I've done, am I supposed to lie about that? Well, no more, I give up. If he doesn't like that he's not the first then he doesn't have to touch me and he can just move on.

MAN Maybe nice guys really do finish last. Maybe there really is a woman out there who doesn't expect rose petals to be the only thing falling out of my mouth when I open it. Maybe...

WOMAN Maybe soft and sweet really is the ideal. Maybe there is a man out there who doesn't expect me to be snowy white as a blank page of paper. Maybe...

MAN

I could be the asshole. I could act like I don't care, like the woman in my life is the least important person in creation. Is that really what they want? Ugh, who am I kidding, I couldn't treat someone that way, why would I want to? What would I gain from acting like a caveman?

WOMAN I could be the pretty little virgin, never admitting that the man in my life isn't the first to touch me. Is that what they really want? Ugh, who am I kidding, I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not, why would I want to? What would I gain from acting like a naive little girl?

MAN All I want is a woman who wants to listen to the words I actually want to say, a real person with words of her own to share.

WOMAN All I want is a man who wants me to be who I am, a real person with a history of his own.

The man and woman get up from their respective tables at the same time. They each leave money on the table, their actions mirroring each other. They leave the cafe, bumping into each other outside the door.

MAN Excuse me, ma'am.

WOMAN Oh no, I'm so sorry, it was my fault.

MAN Not at all, my fault for not paying attention to where I'm walking.

WOMAN Well, thank you, sir. Have a good day.

MAN You too, ma'am, and I apologize again.

The woman nods, smiling, and they begin to walk in opposite directions offstage. At the edges of the stage, both stop and look back at the other.

BOTH Eh, fuck it.

The man and woman both turn and walk offstage.

END OF PLAY

ERICA MORGENSTERN is on Facebook as Rhykky Morgenstern. She is a full-time senior at Washburn University in Topeka, KS and will be graduating December of 2011. She has a 3 year old son and works weekends as a server

“You Don’t Remember, But I Do” by Jordan E. Brooks

CONTRIBUTORS

JORDAN E. BROOKS, a Kansas native, may not be a big name yet, but give it time! Influenced by such a wide variety of art ranging from Fine classical of 1600s to the comic books styling’s greats of the 90’s. Born and raised in Kansas, Jordan spent much of his life between Topeka and Lawrence, KS. You can find more of his artwork at his website: www.jeb.mosaicglobe.com Photo by Anthony Richardson repdc1999@aol.com

ANTHONY "TONY FLACO" ELROD is a resident of Topeka, KS. Born in Hawaii and raised in New York, as well as the state of Georgia and abroad in Europe for most of his years as a child.

He grew to appreciate the arts and different cultures of the world. Among his love for photography, he is also a creative writer and song writer going by the stage name of "Adullessence". His first camera a Nikon D60, and now a Nikon D90 are hardly out of reach when you see him out and about these days.

CASEY “KC” HASE was brought up in Kansas on a small farm. Artistic creativity was an essential factor for her upbringing. Her family exposed her to the arts wherever available and remained supportive through the years. Now living in Oregon, she spends her time working on a variety of projects such as photography, painting, writing and illustration.

CHELSIE ROBERTS is 15 years old and lives in Overland Park, KS.

S K 's first book, "god-chaser," is forthcoming from CW Books. She edits Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fic#on. Her poems appear regularly in literary and genre magazines. She received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in crea#ve wri#ng from the University of New Mexico. She lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with her partner and cat.

Ads run for two months.

EDITOR’S CORNER

Belief In What-If By Nadiyah Abdul-Khaliq

It is my belief that no matter one’s belief system, one must always be open to the possibility of what-if. What if you’re wrong? What if you’re right? What if the world isn’t flat? What if, despite its being invisible, air is something we need? As a creative writer and someone who enjoys the arts and indie and pop culture, I find it fascinating that what we think of as geniuses are just people open to ideas beyond their expertise.

It is the belief in the possibility that things may not be as we think they are that allows us to learn. Without this very important thought process, there’s no telling where we’d be today, maybe the Dark Ages. Well, maybe not the Dark Ages, perhaps the Barely Lit Ages.

I love puzzles. (I feel like all people love puzzles. If you don’t, you are sad inside). What I love the most about them is that in order to put one together, you have to be in a constant state of what-if.

What if this piece goes here? What if this piece doesn’t go here? Pretty soon, you have the whole picture put together. I feel that, not just as artists, but as people, we need to keep things as a fresh-out-ofthe-box puzzle, chaotic, open to anything, that way we are not afraid to keep turning the pieces until everything fits.

Anyone who wants to create something new must see the old as if it’s a prism through which multiple angles of light and ideas reveal themselves. It’s when we are receptive to these ideas that truly fascinating things appear to us. We hear harmonies, see shapes and colors, and movements, and we understand them in a way unique to whomever we are at the time. No matter what we end up doing with these revelations, once we see them, we can’t unsee them. Once you’ve seen both the heads and the glass, you can’t go back to seeing just one or the other.

A discovery once made can’t be unmade. Thankfully. Discoveries, revelations, good and bad, must be dealt with or they’ll just keep popping up until something drastic happens which has everyone going, “Damn. We should have dealt with that.” Usually, what we try to ignore are things that test our faith system, what we believe, what we don’t believe. Many people must have thought planes were some kind of new fangled witchcraft because everyone knows humans don’t fly. But here we are, floating around the sky like we built that, too. All because the Wright Brothers had a thought that maybe humans could fly if given the right tools. All because, once discovered, airplanes wouldn’t be ignored.

Belief that things are only as we immediately perceive them and nothing more keeps us primitive, stagnant. It kills our spirit while allowing injustice to thrive. What if no one had ever considered that African slaves are people, too? What if warring religious factions considered the possibility that none of them are getting to heaven because they can’t make peace. Belief that nothing beyond one’s understanding is possible is the father of stagnation; it’s standing water in which nothing grows but mold and mosquitoes.

On no other species was the ability to think, grow, and advance bestowed as that of the human being. While they are gifts that we have definitely put to good use as evidenced by the pen and paper I’m using to write this essay and the computer and programs I’ll use to transcribe it, as a species we can do better. The belief in possibility is one that I feel is very basic and necessary to human survival for basic problem solving skills; however, the state of the world and the misuse of power by our leaders, suggests that maybe it is a concept that some must learn.

Or it could be a simple fear of being or refusal to be wrong. People don’t like to be wrong. I don’t like to be wrong. I don’t know anyone who endeavors for that. However, it seems that when the method one thinks of as right starts to go wrong, one would consider alternatives that one once thought wrong. You know, if all right answers have been tried and don’t work, then the wrong one must be right or at least attempted. You never know. Starting down the wrong path could lead you onto the right one.

Fear to attempt an idea once thought impossible or incorrect, keeps one in an infinite loop of ideas that don’t work. Fear, possibility’s arch enemy, then becomes the belief system through which all

decisions are made. While possibility knows no limits, fear’s limits are endless. Women can’t work in the workplace, ‘cause who knows what’s gonna happen once that happens. No one’s gonna buy a cell phone that does all that if they already own a computer. Being in a state of fear of what will happen if the unknown happens is a sure way to make sure that nothing ever happens. Ever.

The concept of what-if is critical to the creative mind. Arts and sciences rely heavily on exploring the unknown that is ever present in our lives. Without this innate curiosity about the road not traveled there would be no Edgar Allan Poe or Nicholas Tesla; we would be deprived of Radiohead and Einstein.

So, my fellow artists, scientists, and random people, beware the naysayer in yourself and others. There’s no idea so stupid as the one that says you can’t.

NADIYAH ABDUL-KHALIQ was born in 1981 in Kansas City, Mo. She earned her BA in English/Creative Writing from Washburn University in Topeka, KS. Since graduating, Nadiyah has authored 500 5-Minute Writing Exercises, Color in the Dark: A Collection Of Poems and Short Stories, and The Demon Cleaner Book One: Demons of The Guilded. She is also editor of the creative arts online magazine, Blue Ships Magazine. Nadiyah was recently accepted in the MA Creative Writing and The Creative Economy program at Kingston University in London, England

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