Crack the Spine
Literary magazine
Issue 161
Issue 161 August 25, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine
This issue is generously sponsored by:
Outskirts Press
CONTENTS Paul Riker Smolder Tom Montag More Poetry
Bryan Crumpley I Should’ve Said Hi
Caroline Tsai
In Which We Drive Over Potholes
Christopher S. Bell One Word Titles
Tiffany McDaniel Mason Jar Promises
Lee Todd Lacks Inert Passes
Paul Riker Smolder My old roommate Weber used to date an attractive Icelandic girl named Gregg. “Gregg?” my other roommate Shivan said. “With two Gs,” Weber said. “Ah,” my other other roommate, Greg, said. “It’s a family name,” Weber said. “So she’s a she,” I said. “Yeah,” Weber said. We all smiled, happy for him. At first he would only bring her over occasionally. She had morose blue eyes, cream-colored and blemishless skin; straight brunette hair that kissed the small of her back; a birdlike neck and thin shoulders; and a lean but ample body frame, with a slim stomach but wide hips and a melonesque behind. She was also very tall, I noticed, taller than Weber by at least three or four inches, which was saying something because Weber himself was 5’10 or so (about four inches taller than I was); so to me Gregg was gigantic in stature. When he would enter our apartment with her in the evening, the rest of us in our living room, having disrobed our collared shirts and slacks from our office jobs, playing video games or individually browsing the internet, she would look at us and merely nod, maybe giving a brief “hey,” which we would reciprocate. But that would be the extent of our interactions with Gregg. She and Weber would enter Weber’s room, and we, Shivan, Greg, and I, would on occasion unanimously become dead silent, listening for her sounds of love making.
But we never heard anything. The room would always be noiseless when Weber and Gregg co-existed within it. No sounds of chatter, no drone of television from Weber’s computer – not a single noise. The only perceivable difference in our apartment – which none of us noticed until Gregg’s fourth apartment appearance – was that our entire living quarters became stiflingly hot. We grabbed a thermometer from our kitchen and held it up like Excalibur in the hearth of our living room, and found that the apartment sat at a balmy 82 degrees, all and only, apparently, at Gregg’s beckoning. We’d turn off all of the radiators and open our windows to compensate, but nothing would fix the swelter of Gregg – only when she would finally leave in the morning, her confident footsteps echoing through the silence of dawn and slipping underneath the cracks of our bedroom doors, would the air clear, the climate restore itself. Shivan, a long-faced Indian guy with rectangular sideburns; Greg (with one G), a stocky dude who looked like his flesh was made of Play-Doh; and myself found ways to cope in the long-run. We installed air conditioners in our rooms. We developed a strategy to circulate air in our apartment in what we gathered was the most efficient way. At one point, a couple of weeks after our discovery, we confronted Weber about our finding, trying to be delicate. “She makes the apartment how,” Weber asked, puzzled. “Like, super hot, dude,” Shivan said. “You really don’t notice it?” I asked. Weber shook his head. “It’s the radiators,” Weber said. “During the winter they crank the boiler room in the basement up really high. Trust me.”
That was the end of the conversation. We didn’t want to strike another nerve with Weber, who seemed to, trite and empty cliché aside, be falling head over heels in love with this radiant Icelandic girl.
I went on a double date with Weber and Gregg the weekend after our roommate town hall meeting. I brought the girl I was seeing at the time, a diminutive, mousey girl with a large chest and crooked teeth whose name was Rebecca, who either worked as a vet’s assistant or a nurse at a free clinic; I never learned which. Rebecca and I were a bit late, and when we arrived we saw Weber and Gregg at our table, sitting closer than necessary as they took sips from their porcelain sake glasses. We sat down and exchanged pleasantries, and minutes into our rendezvous I felt the heat. The room took on a balmy atmosphere like that of an over-taxed sauna. I undid a button on my collar and downed multiple glasses of water, trying to cool myself. I used my napkin to dab the beads of sweat from my forehead and dry the perspiration that was building on my palms. “Are you ok,” Rebecca said, putting her hand on my knee. “You’re sweating bullets.” “I’m fine,” I said as our waiter refilled my water glass. I looked at him to thank him and saw that – or maybe I was delirious – droplets of sweat were building over his eyebrows. “This jacket is just too heavy,” I said. “It’s wool, you know.” “Well, then, take it off,” Gregg said. Her eyes met mine. I felt my tongue dry, my underarms all but drown in my bodily fluids. She, in her dangling earrings, her maroon dress showing a subtle but tasteful amount of cleavage, and the light dabbing of rouge on the apples of her cheeks, made her beauty resolutely
realized to me. I had never really examined her that closely – she was quite gorgeous. “I’m just gonna head to the bathroom for a second,” I said. “Pee out all this water.” “You sure you’re ok?” Weber asked, sincerely. Gregg’s gaze had broken from mine as she became engrossed with the lip of her sake cup. I nodded, saying something about being totally fine, and skip-jogged to the bathroom, where, in the confines of the end stall, I removed my jacket, untucked my shirt from my slacks, and leaned against the stall’s door. It was much cooler in the bathroom. I waited for my skin to dry before peeing, accidently letting some stray urine bounce back onto my khakis, all but ruining them for the rest of the evening.
Instead of going to the strip club that evening (I had driven Rebecca home embarrassingly early and that was the end of the date), I decided to go to a Burlesque lounge. I was, at that point in my life, trying to wean myself off of strip clubs; and based on research I had done it seemed that Burlesque lounges were classier, and also that the girls who worked there wanted to be there, or that there was some sort of artistry in it more so than stripping, or that it was more intellectual in some way – or something. The point was that there was no way I was just going to quit cold turkey, so the alternative was a Burlesque lounge, my own unique nicotine patch. I found one in the Taiwanese section of town, nestled between two acidic-smelling restaurants with unintelligible otherworldly scrawling on their doors. The door to the Burlesque lounge sparkled a neon orange in the night as if sunlight was colliding with it; it gave off a smell of lavender, and emitted a sort of ethereal warming. I became
irrationally excited, which I gathered as a positive sign. After a solid minute or so of mental deliberation, I collected my bearings and pushed through the door, becoming enveloped in darkness. The pitch-black hallway emerged into a massive open room marked by a theater-style stage on the far wall, lit by lights of fuchsia and indigo that gave the entire club the look of the inside of a Barbie Dream House. The air inside smelled of fruit and inner thigh; the patrons, all men, all older than I, relaxed at pleather-coated tables, sipping glasses of bubbly piss-colored alcohol and laughing uproariously, giving each other fraternal eyes. The bouncer at the door, a bald man with an orange mustache and forearms that best resembled turkey legs, asked for my ID and $10. I complied. I sat down at a solitary table, far from the stage, outside of the fluorescent light, and ordered a gimlet from a passing waitress. I took in the room around me. The girl on stage was just now finishing her set; she was a voluptuous blonde with great billowing tits and a rear end that beamed like truck lights. As she exited the stage she winked to a man with a bright cherry-colored bald spot leaning onto the platform’s edge. He shouted something obscene at her; I laughed. The waitress came with my drink and I drank from it and waited for the next show to begin. And when it did, I saw her. I had to lean forward, squint, rub my eyes like a cartoon character to make sure it was really her: and it was. Gregg strutted onto the stage, the far corner of her mouth upturned in a knowing smirk. She was adorned in full flapper attire, the feather hat, the fishnet leggings, a birdsegg blue corset that pushed her somewhat-average sized but well-shaped breasts nearly to the cleft of her chin. I spilled a small portion of my gimlet.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by what next occurred, given every interaction I had ever had with her up to that point, yet I could not help but be amazed, astounded. As she pulled off one of her gloves, waiving it around her head and discarding it onto an awaiting table of arthritic businessmen, the heat began. Suddenly I was uncomfortable, and the atmosphere of the room only sweltered more as she continued to remove her clothes. I yelled at my waitress for some water. I looked around and saw my gentlemen compatriots were behaving the same way – wiping their brows with cocktail napkins, removing their suit jackets with heart-diseased grunts. She loosened her corset and I could almost see, feel, the condensation building on the walls, on the ceiling. And as she began slipping the baby blue from her body, she scanned the crowd and caught my gaze, her eyesight colliding with mine. My body shook with a piercing spasm. I never did see her bare breasts. I escaped from the lounge before I could, pushing through the dark door and retreating to the neutrality of the hazy night air. In the days after that incident I contemplated telling Weber of Gregg’s occupation, but time and time again I decided against it. Their relationship, I gathered, was rapidly becoming very serious, and as such I assumed Weber knew of Gregg’s line of work; and that if he didn’t, I rationalized that it was far better in this case to let sleeping dogs lie and not tell Weber I had paid $10 to see his girlfriend perform her body for me. I did tell Shivan and Greg, however, because I had to tell someone, and knowing that they too found Gregg to be a more-than-good-looking girl, it seemed only fitting.
“You see her boobies,” Shivan said to me as we watched re-runs of old Entourage episodes one Sunday afternoon. “No,” I said. “I didn’t have the heart to stay around. It felt like I was, you know, playing homewrecker by being there.” “You gonna go back,” Greg asked me. “Probably not,” I said. I proceeded to go back to the lounge an uncountable number of times. It didn’t take long to learn Gregg’s schedule – when she wasn’t performing, she was at the apartment; when she wasn’t at the apartment, she was performing. Her nights of work were Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. It was always essentially the same show, although her dress would vary in color, in genre. I fell into a Sisyphean cycle of Gregg – every one of those nights I would give my $10 to the orange-mustached bouncer; every one of those nights I would sit at a back table, shrouded in darkness; every one of those nights I would order a gimlet from one of the lounge’s fleet of heavy-set waitresses; and every one of those nights I would feel my heart beat so psychotically that I feared it would give out, waiting for Gregg to come on stage, seeing her, becoming violently sweaty, then finally, before the show’s climax, escaping into the winter night, never seeing her reveal herself to me. As the weeks passed I began to dress for the temperature – I would leave my work slacks at home and instead wear t-shirts, shorts, my attire comically contrasting the suits and dress moccasins of the businessmen around me. But it was the only way I could bear the heat for long enough to truly drink her in, see her steely eyes move around the room, let the upturned grin of her lips bleed into my brain. My roommates and I saw Weber less and less. He would come home, Gregg in hand, and sequester himself in his room, sometimes mimicking Gregg’s cool
(ironically) demeanor by saying nothing to us at all. Gregg would still, to her benefit, occasionally give a “hey,” but now her “hey”s were inflected with a sort of knowing; she would lock eyes with me – only me – and give me a glance as if she knew I was one of her patrons, one of her adoring fans. She said nothing of it. She didn’t have to. “Jesus she’s a hot broad,” Shivan said to me one evening in late February, after one such glance. I was too dry-mouthed to respond.
Then on a Saturday morning in early March I found her tampon case on the floor, sitting in front of the threshold to Weber’s open room. It was a small, delicate object, shaded so coral it was nearly orange; it looked like the case I had for my retainer in high school. Its plastic latch was unhinged, revealing five skinny stringed tubes, tucked in line like cigarettes, with room for one more. I stared at it. “Weber,” I said, turning away from his room. “Hello, Weber. You home?” There was no answer. No one else was home. I looked again at the case. I reached my hand out, touched it, picked it up, held it in my hand. I dropped it reactively. I was in pain. I inspected my palm and the tips of my fingers, on which were forming what would become blisters in due time. The case was absurdly hot to touch. Without thinking much, I scrambled to hide it, to stow it away in my room. I grabbed salad tongs from the kitchen and used them to hoist the case from the ground, holding it at arms’ reach from my body as if it was a poisonous snake, and brought it to my room, setting it on my dresser. I carried on with the rest of my day.
This time I did not tell Shivan and Greg about my discovery – it seemed too intimate of a thing to share with others. I instead told them, when the question of Gregg’s occupation arose one night, that I had stopped going to her place of work (a lie), and that I was starting, truth be told, to no longer find her attractive (a lie), but also that I was super happy for Weber and hoped his relationship continued to work out (both a truth and a lie). The tampon case sat in my room for what seemed like weeks, resting on top of a couple of layers of paper towels on my bookshelf. It gently radiated a steady heat that did not suffocate my room, but rather nurtured it with warmth. I had decided it was not worth returning – how much did tampon cases cost, anyways? She probably had another one, or just decided to put loose tampons in her purse, or did something else that women do with tampons (I’m not sure what). I felt very little guilt and very much comfort; it was the exact, precise, pinpoint amount of Gregg that I needed. But one evening I learned that Gregg was taking on a new job. “Gregg’s taking on a new job,” Weber told us during one of the fleetingly rare transitional conversations we had between him entering the apartment and him going to his room. As he talked with us Gregg alternated looking into Weber’s room and looking into me, again granting me her omniscient, lawful gaze. “Huh,” Shivan said. “Doing what,” I asked, sounding a little too enthusiastic. “She’s gonna be teaching 2nd grade come the fall, but the school she’s working at is gonna have her instruct some summer learning camps – you know, for kids from troubled homes and things like that.”
“That’s really good,” I said. “Yeah,” Weber said, turning to Gregg and twinkling his eyes. “She earned it.” “Yeah,” I said, head down.
It only took a small amount of research to discover that her last day of work would be the final Sunday of May, and that only then would I be able to give Gregg her tampon case – as I had decided that keeping it in my room was no longer an option. It seemed like something I had to gift her without Weber around – not that I didn’t want him to know, because I would have told him if he would have asked, but that it just seemed an odd thing for him to see me do, or to know that I did. It had to be a moment only between me and her. Not for the intimacy, but rather for the mutual understanding of this personal, lost item and my good will in returning it to its rightful owner, rather than, say, throwing it away. I didn’t consider the fact that I would have to explain to her how I knew she worked there, or how I was able to figure out it was her last day; and I especially didn’t consider the fact that I would have to, explicitly or implicitly, reveal that I had indulged in her “art” for multiple nights, countless nights. My reasoning, I’ll admit, was somewhat obscured by the increasingly murky aura that the case had started to emit in those elderly spring days. It was as if it was resisting my decision, imploring me instead to keep it secure on my bookshelf. But what it didn’t realize is that I owed it to Gregg. I had to do this one thing, I knew – even if I did not exactly know why. The final Sunday evening arrived. I was nervous as I placed the case, wrapped in a woolen gauze, in a small brown lunch bag. I clasped the bag tightly in my hand as I walked out of my apartment to the bus stop, riding one to the Taiwanese district. I feared the case would burn a hole through the
gauze, through the bag, and that it would fall out, searing, onto the floor of the bus, or onto the early summer street, fuming in the night. But it never did and I made it to the lounge. Once there, I gave my $10 to the orange-mustachioed man, sauntered over to my table, ordered my gimlet, and sat mutely. I glanced around – the same crowd as always surrounded me, the same as it had been every night; it was a totally static clientele, a vessel of sameness that was as sure of a thing as death or taxes or the tampon case – still sitting at the bottom of my brown bag, my contraband container – burning a hole in my flesh. I had the sudden realization that, on this my final evening here, I never learned the orange-mustachioed bouncer’s name. Gregg’s set began after what was not a short wait. Its beauty – while tempting to say it was “indescribable” – was in fact truly and totally describable, which is what made her whole dance, the entire act of her cumulative movement, so magnificent. She removed clothing, removed her baby-blue gloves and slithered out of her lizard’s green corset with a sadness that indicated she knew, and wanted to make sure we knew, that this show – this stripping masquerading as (or transformed into) art – was her finale, her ultimate cry, her magnum opus. Her skin was even more crystalline than usual. Her hair, now longer, rye-like and mathematically straight, extended down her shoulders, tickling the dimples of her back. Her eyes, blue, only blue, pure blue, cut murderously through anything on which she laid them – including me. And the heat. Hotter than it had ever been, than it ever would be in the tackiness of this lounge. The men around me removed their coats, their ties. I sweated it out, accepted the excess warmth, as if by doing so my pores would exhume her from my system. I nearly fainted – I should have fainted – but I never did, even when, in a declaration of glory, her breasts began to
appear: her bare, exposed and unfiltered breasts, slipping coyly out of the top of her corset, showing themselves in the glassy pink of the lounge like a bullfrog’s eyes illuminated by the glints of fireflies around it, a looking glass into the machinations of nature itself. Yet, somehow, when I saw the hint of areola, I shut my eyes tight, like a child playing hide-and-seek, not opening them again until I heard the diminuendo of the raucous and drunken and exhausted applause that indicated her exit. I remained sitting for a long time. I knew she was backstage, but I didn’t know how to gain access – how to sneak around the right personnel, etc. I looked around the room, the house lights turned on to signal the end of the shows and the resuming of overpriced drinks and reddening faces, the lights also showcasing the dinginess of the room, which I had never before noted – carpets flecked with crushed nuts and red spills. I finally found what looked like a door to the green room, as a lumbering Hispanic man with a Gorbachevian birthmark and a “Staff” t-shirt boorishly entered it. I rose, walked to the door, looked behind me – no one seemed to be paying any attention – and entered. I navigated the hallways, reasoning where to go. Backstage was very sparsely populated, to my surprise – the occasional makeupped girl in sweatpants and a pullover would cross my path, making poisoned eye contact, but nothing more than that. As I passed doors of dressing rooms, some closed, some open, I came to a (relatively) sizeable gathering around one of them, maybe eight or ten people, a few of them teary-eyed. I heard responses of You’re Welcomes, in a voice tinged by a vague accent, an off-worldly otherness. Of course it was Gregg. And of course, as I pushed my way somewhat aggressively through the jumble of people – mostly young women, other
dancers – like a malnourished beggar, I reached her, clad in a scratchy bathrobe. Weber stood beside her. He looked at me like this was some kind of joke, laughing because it was the only thing he could do. I glanced at his hand, snug in Gregg’s. He seemed to be in no pain; no smoke singed his skin. Meanwhile, I sweat like a hog, felt so hot that my eyes glazed over. I struggled to stand; I found a nearby chair and casually placed my hand on its back for balance. “Gregg,” I said, cottonmouthed. “Hey. What’s up, Weber. Surprised to see you – I mean I’m not – I mean – it’s good to see you.” “Yeah,” Weber said, still confused. Gregg looked at me like I was a sparrow who had just collided with a clean transparent window. “I liked the show,” I said. “Thank you,” Gregg said, her voice shallow, annoyed, as if she was wondering why I had never complimented her before. “So, not to be, you know, invasive,” Weber said, “but what are you doing here?” “Me? Well, you know, I actually – Gregg, you left something at our apartment—” Weber still held Gregg’s hand. He inched towards her and their shoulders kissed. Again he showed no discomfort. He gave no sweat. “—and I wanted to give it back to you.” “Oh,” Gregg said. “Thank you.” But I did not have the brown bag. I had left it at my seat, under my chair. I snuck a glance behind me, at the girls now viewing my exasperated spectacle. They looked fine. None showed signs of discomfort, of heat. I was hysterically dizzy.
“I’m sorry,” I said, staggering. “I—I forgot it—it’s gone—” “Are you ok, dude?” Weber said. As my vision clouded I saw him hold Gregg closer. “You need water,” Gregg asked. My knees buckled. And then Gregg branded my shoulder. All it took was a light touch, a pat, a gentle nudge of compassion, a caring gesture, to turn my entire left arm into a searing stick of flame. It was pain upon pain; in my few conscious moments before my head struck the wood floor of Gregg’s dressing room and I heard the echo of frail gasps around me I could hear a hissing sizzle in my left ear, like water hitting the flat of a skillet; and my skin boiled and relented into itself as my body in spectacular fashion. It was apparent, far too perfectly clear, that she was a creature not to be engaged, a woman to whom one makes no offering, a thing that those like me never may dare to ponder.
Tom Montag More Poetry
More poetry than can be lived, though God knows, he tries, walking into the sun, coming home, singing. Sometimes his shadow leads him. Sometimes he knows the way home.
Bryan Crumpley I Should’ve Said Hi
I Should’ve Said Hi - Hipster Starbucks Chick I was walking down Michigan Ave. I felt like the only person in the world not smoking a cigarette. I wanted one so badly. The city was cloudy, but it could’ve just been the ashes. I’d been having a bad day. I got drunk the night before and called my ex, Elizabeth. She got mad and cussed me out saying I’ll never change, that I’m still the same piece of shit I’ll always be. I was hungover and needed coffee, but I only had six dollars to get me through until Friday. Fuck it, I thought, if I need to I can just sell. I went into the Starbucks on Michigan and Balbo. You were behind the counter, you had on your green apron, thick black glasses, and dark red lipstick. I was too tired to think much of you. You asked me what I wanted and I told you a large coffee with an extra shot of espresso. You smiled and asked me if I had had a rough night. I let out a small laugh. I know you were just being polite and doing your job but I thought it was funny that it was that obvious. “Yeah, you could say that,” I said. You handed me my coffee after taking my money and told me you hope my day gets better. I wanted to tell you that I wanted to see you naked. Instead I just smiled and thanked you and left. I wanted to say more to you, but I’m like a cursed coin, there’s no good side of me.
I Should’ve Said Hi - Indian Rest Stop Princess I’m from Chicago and I was on my way to see my family in South Carolina. I stopped at a rest stop in North Carolina. It was beautiful there, the Smoky Mountains are a breathtaking backdrop. My dog was in my passenger seat and after I leashed him I took him out to pee. That’s when I saw you. You were with two sisters and your mother. You got out of a silver SUV, it had a Chapel Hill bumper sticker. Your skin was brown but your smile was white. You all surrounded my dog saying how cute he was. More passerby came to pet him. There was something charming about you. You stood above your sisters, above all the others, above even the Smoky Mountains. I wished we weren’t going our separate directions. I wished you were alone and it was dark out, and we had only the stars to light us through the mountains as we lay together and stared at the stars on the hood of my car.
I Should’ve Said Hi - Blindsided On The 290 I’ve always known I’d die in a car accident. In 2014 alone there were 910 traffic deaths in Illinois. It’s plain statistics, eventually it’ll be me. I’ve gone over scenarios in my mind, how I’ll want it to go. I’ve decided I want to be blindsided. I don’t want to see the car coming, I think there’s something tragically poetic about that, being alive one moment and dead the next with the last thing you see a cloud shaped like Godzilla.
When I saw you driving next to me I thought I was going to die. You were beautiful. You were singing along to an Eric Church song, one arm swinging wildly in the car, the other hand loosely gripping the wheel. You were smiling through the lyrics and it made the sad song sweet. I think I closed my eyes as I listened to you, I almost prayed to be hit in that moment. That death would’ve been perfect. I didn’t die though, and now I don’t think I can live without hearing your voice again.
I Should’ve Said Hi - To The Man Who Broke My Boyfriend’s Heart He said he loved me but I didn’t feel the same way, I thought I did, but in that very moment I knew that I didn’t. He was nervous telling me, I could see his heart dangling by a string on his sleeve. I had scissors in my hands. You walked past me at that moment, I think that’s what made me know I didn’t love him. I felt it all in slow motion. He said “I love you,” I looked down, readying myself to say it back, I looked up, saw you over his shoulder, I stared at you for a moment. All you were doing was walking, but it took me away from him. I looked back down at him and stuttered. I think he knew. I think he could feel me fading away from him then. I felt bad. I wish I could’ve taken back that glance at you. But now it’s too late, and I just want to know you.
I Should’ve Said Hi - High Class Chick Outside of Sephora I was only in a store I could never afford, but I still felt guilty. I was testing my boundaries of comfort. I was testing the public. How long could the shoppers of a high-end department store endure the sight of me? Rich people can smell poverty and depravity. I saw you shopping with your girlfriends. My first impulse was to hide behind a rack of clothes. I felt like I should only be seeing you from far away, like a lion stalks its prey. I followed you for a while. I didn’t want to, but you had a scent that I’d never smelled before. You looked like a nice girl, not nice like I’m sure she gives money to homeless people, but nice like I’m sure she’d make a fantastic wife, a great mom. In my mind I pictured a life with you. We would fall madly in love with each other, I’d propose to you in a magnificently romantic way, on a horse carriage ride, there’d be fireworks, nine months later we’d have a beautiful baby girl, we’d name her Madeleine and give her a little yellow hat with a black bow like the girl in the book. I’d stop listening to music about hoes and bitches. I’d stop watching violent horror flicks. I’d get my life together, get a real job. I’d wear watches and carry around briefcases full of important papers. Every week I’d mow the lawn, and take pride in my skill, and brag about the evenness of the lines. I’d make time every day to play with Madeleine and make sure she was raised right. It was then I let you walk away from me. It was all a great plan as long as it stayed in my head. In reality you’d know I didn’t deserve you. I’d call you a bitch. You’d call me trash.
You went back to your mansion, I could only assume, to play with your ponies. I went back to my apartment and jerked off to the thought of our life together. People like me aren’t allowed to make plans. We work, grow old, grow bitter, and die. Even still, I should’ve said hi.
Caroline Tsai
In Which We Drive Over Potholes So we start with Act II. You're in the airport when I find you, bathed in a deluge of Styrofoam small talk and pleasant engine din, hands and knees bound behind laminate stall doors with the overhead lights casting geometrically anomalous shadows on your sunken eye sockets. Here's where it gets interesting: I'm talking to the waitress who is only half-awake to negotiate a price when she puts up her hands and says, Hey. Don't take it out on me. Take it out on the albatross. So there I am, slogging knee-deep in silt and nectar and gasoline, trying to hear you through the radio, trying to talk you out of it—the grey house with yellow shutters and the doorknobs you'll have to replace. And then I'm in crisis control with the cartographer, unbraiding borders and rivers and fault-lines while we
stir the soup. I know you're hungry but they didn't have whole wheat, so try this on for size: the bird was a double agent, the waitress was the dragon, and me, I was the lion-girl with the argentum heart. Yes, this whole time.
Christopher S. Bell One Word Titles
1977.
My father was twenty-three, and yet to this day, he’ll never understand punk rock. I’m twenty-six, somewhere between drunk and reflective, surrounded by a disgruntled generation, all of us past the point of excitement, anxiety or rebellion. A stranger’s basement decorated in torn party streamers and bad black light keeps us closer than we’d like, past the stray comforts of dorm rooms and desk chairs. The crusty underbelly from white, middle-class suburbia, pissed off, gallivanting around their peers, sipping swill and sucking electronic nicotine so as not to offend. Sheila’s to blame. I wouldn’t have driven to Canton if she hadn’t held the idea of hooking up over my head. We don’t know each other well enough to be legitimate friends; our few encounters riddled with minor glances and unsettled rationalizations on my end. I always fall for some stupid college chick, unsure of herself, straying on the border between sex kitten and cutesy girl next door. I can’t teach Sheila much, because I’ve met her too many times already. She keeps hanging on Ken tonight. That piece of shit. While I’ve played the game enough times, showing vague interest in the socially-repressive and fantastically sour, Ken’s always been better at it. The stout worm is a barrelful of hyphenated emoticons, quietly scoping the available crop of lush head cases, and deciding that Sheila’s worth his tethered brand of flattery. He’ll make her feel important, blow up her cellphone and pretend to be depressed when
they’re alone, getting off before deciding she’s not quite girlfriend material. Sheila Hoffer’s just another bad reason for me to leave the house. The first act is a whiney little puke, tattooing his inconsiderate rationales on everybody’s palms; another punk pretending that an acoustic guitar makes him folk; meanwhile his spikey-haired brethren wonder why this political message of slow-burn indifference isn’t forcing them out into the streets with signs and scripture in hand. I want to leave, but have beer to drink. Maybe I’ll single out a weak one, lure her in front of the brightest fixture and wait for Sheila to see us together. She’ll hear an abrupt laugh and suddenly wonder where everything went wrong. I get stoned in my car and roam aimlessly, missing some feminist with nothing to say between songs. The next asshole doesn’t look much like the others, but holds his Fender with the same disdain. Says he’s Eddie, but goes by Slacker Son. It’d be a clever name if it didn’t sound like the other ungrateful pariahs, jumping from rock to swimming pool, acting like their one-man traveling salvation shows are savage grace incarnate, full of grit and contempt. Another blowhard pretending that it’s still okay to fake naïveté and pretend like certain broad strokes are just new enough to set the room ablaze. Considering his audience, I don’t blame the guy, but remain skeptical as Eddie finishes his introduction. Then he plays his first song. I don’t wanna like it. He shouldn’t appeal to me, even though I’m angry and horny, forlorn, illogical and not quite high enough. His ragtag blend of deranged pop sensibility and rudimentary strumming usually isn’t what I go for. It takes a certain kind of transcendental foot tap to rip my preconceptions in half. I tend to steer away from the gimmicky bastard leftovers; the eager, bleeding-heart, master craftsman making light of their
misery, combining sarcasm and twice-cloned enlightenment, stirring up the deadpanned mouth-breathers and lip-smacking brats in the same kettle. Death to these posers, teasers, spoilers and kindred spirits, although past the indiglow of smartphone screens, I stand aloof and watch them all ignore a musical God. This Eddie isn’t like the others, and not in a cliché, leather-jacket, Leader-ofthe-Pack kind of way. He strikes the wrong chords with his audience, making them feel stranded, because they don’t get it, and never will. Eddie’s delivery, syncopation and lyrical prowess are unmatched, but they can’t stomp on the hard cement, howl out the cliché choruses, or live in denial. These songs aren’t there to piss off the cops or somebody’s abusive father. Far from radio-friendly or overly-conceited, aimed at the underground egotists and lopsided surface dwellers; they’re what I should be writing, what won’t get me the girl. Eddie understands this duel insanity, smoking his cigarette outside, ignoring the few compliments passing on their way to somewhere else. I approach without words, full of anti-climactic reservations. The introduction is normal; our exchange: standard. Then he gets into this sob story, except it’s more bad luck than “Oh poor me”. Eddie breaks up with his girlfriend, heads out to see the country, plays his songs and falls prey to many dives. He ends up in Canton without a vehicle and four shows left on his itinerary. I wish I could relate, or offer up more than a traditional response. “Oh. Well that sucks man.” We separate, watch the last act, and linger. I talk to Sheila long enough to be reminded of how awful she really is, and eventually stumble back upon Eddie, grabbing his belongings from the basement floor. He didn’t sell anything, doesn’t know where he’s staying, how he’s getting back home and whether this will be the last great adventure in his life. We’re maybe two years apart, but I
haven’t done enough. High school, college, mushrooms, acid, spin the bottle, fake the smile, make the most out of the in-between for a while. I could be great, but settle for mediocrity, except in this one instance, on this one night, things happen. I offer up my shitty Ford and a companion for the next four days. Eddie is overjoyed. It’s important to finish things. We buy beer and single-out roommates waiting in line behind us. Dee and Leena are both pre-law. They invite us back and make our nights contemporary. I feel baron remorse leaving the next morning. It’s a fast food breakfast before the hour drive to my house. Packing light, I decide against leaving a note for my folks out to lunch. Eddie showers while I hit the ATM. Our drive to Pittsburgh is encouraging. We talk a little too much about all the things we love and are fed up with. In the city, I call Nola. She’s caught off-guard. Usually we make plans a good week in advance. The last time, we got drunk and made-out, but decided against much else. She gets the details about the show second hand. It’s a rented space with graffiti-soaked bathroom walls and one smoke-alarm, the battery compartment dangling above our heads. Eddie does a lap, schmoozing with the promoter and some lesser minds. Nola and I catch up. She makes light of her shitty job and undesirable neighbors. My compulsion to venture towards the relatively unknown surprises her. “I didn’t think you were quite the type, Alvin,” she leans against the street light. “Every once in a while, ya need something like this,” I reply. “I can’t deny that.” We listen to the muffled distortion inside. One more act to go.
Eddie looks nervous, consciously out of place. I consider how his mind works, having prematurely given up the night before. He plays, and it’s nothing special. The two songs I haven’t heard are somehow inferior. The crowd loves his unbalanced wit, how easy it is to talk over the jangle of his Bstring. Nola’s entranced, but acts to the contrary, swaying along only to fixate on tiny messages sent from the outskirts. I want to look over her shoulder, to wrap my arms around her waist and say something profound. “I thought we’d never get here,” or “we can leave whenever you want.” There’s a familiarity to us, a minor itch that keeps her in check. Even if Nola’s has similar thoughts, they’ll never surface. She doesn’t talk about me with her friends, making newer ones every week, re-acquainting herself with the likes of shallow interactions and the incriminating nature of fate. She only looks about halfway perfect, not dressed down or dolled up, but numbed off. Her eyes stay drowsy and fixate on popular strangers drifting around us. She wants them to notice her, and I want her, either in the ratty bathroom, or my backseat; her futon or bedroom and maybe in my bed when she decides to visit. I realize it’s increasingly unhealthy, reflecting on pornographic possibilities with a suspiciously reliable friend. She’s not the first. They all hold a unique place, even if a few seats have gathered dust over the years. For some, I maintain equal ground in their stratosphere, but not Nola. She claps and goes back outside. I watch the crowd, waiting as a few wimps buy CD’s. Eddie talks more than he should, but doesn’t sink to their level. I pay my compliments, and ask if he’s stumbled upon plans for the evening. The musician has yet to look. Nola’s ready to leave, off to some bar for casual instabilities. I say we’re going to stay for the next act, but will meet her after. She hugs us both and
migrates towards her signature wishing well. I hope something will come to fruition in the time it takes for another gruesome bunch of buttholes to set up and play their power chords. Eddie’s indifferent, far from flattered and quick to neglect his adoring public. He crawls from one end of the space to the other. I consider the past thirty days, whether they hold any real answers, or if it’s all the same bullshit, except now I’m a willing participant. I try to tell Nola everything when we’re at the bar. She’s already a few shots in, taking the jukebox to heart. Even in our most intimate encounters, somewhere between college and careers, neither one of us has gotten too deep. We express general feelings of disgust for our contemporaries, but when it comes to each other, she still has no problem ignoring my words, blaming the surrounding noise. I don’t know whose more contagious, if I’m taking cues from their humbling distrust, or if they’re merely waiting for me to lose my cool. The alcohol keeps us talking. Last call and we three break stride past our cars, squinting at the signs. I need to move by eight or there’s a ticket in my near future. Nola falls into Eddie, letting him handle the gravity. She giggles at his slightest mutter, prancing up her apartment stairs, kindred and docile. I’m over her vanity, how it’s all some spectacular reply to the simplest of questions. Where do we sleep, and when will we wake? Who with, and how will that make the rest of our days considerably more irrational? I come to on the couch by seven, piss and down some tap water. Flashes of our last hour surface; outrageous laughs as we get high and lose time. Eddie slurs some nostalgic backwash before following her to the bedroom. I feel it all creep back up into my chest, before leveling off. We didn’t judge each other the previous morning; his actions on par with mine. I appreciate this balance, even
though it’s a punch in the stomach. They sleep on opposite ends, her snore overwhelming his steady breath. “Eddie man,” I whisper. “I gotta move the car, let’s go.” He opens his eyes, not quite asleep. “We’ve got time. Tonight’s show isn’t until eight.” “I’ve gotta move the car. It just seems logical for us to get out of here now.” I give him a look that a friend should understand. It sinks in, but he still rolls over and stares at Nola’s bare back. I know her better. She won’t wake until ten at the earliest. Then it’ll be another excuse to get baked and roam the streets, searching for an unpleasant eatery and a return in motor skills. I steal a bowl of cereal and two aspirin, then the roach from the ashtray. Eddie runs his hand through his hair, stepping into the living room. “Ya know, this doesn’t feel necessary,” he says. “You want me to get into it.” “I don’t think so. I’m just having problems remembering what all I left here.” “I looked around. Not much.” “You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?” He kind of smiles. “Maybe a little,” I say. “Yeah, it’s pretty obvious.” “We still gotta move the car.” “No, it’s cool man. We can leave.” We don’t say much more. I hold his demeanor as a slight against everything established in the previous thirty-six hours. Tired, the GPS leads us to earlymorning traffic. Eddie nods off just as we hit the highway. I leave the radio low for him, listening to one of Fiona’s mixes. We used to have competitions to see who could make the best one. It was stupid college shit, and I can’t stand
most of the songs now, although every once in a while, between the silence, there rests the greatest of all pick-me-ups. Something unfiltered, inconsiderate, tender and ridden with sentimentality. Eddie stirs, rubbing his eyes and moving his hand to the dial. “I’ve always loved this one.” “Yeah, me too,” I nod. We listen to a few more and get back into it, little quips and minor irritations. Some of his opinions baffle me. I argue, but he doesn’t wanna hear what I have to say. Suddenly, I’m a lesser person, thinking of home, the friends I should get a hold of instead of chasing college girls or some fraction of a life that even I’m over understanding. There’s no great mystery to why people like Eddie Niesner exist. He’s here for our entertainment. “But it’s like I was saying, they should have never kicked that guy out of the band. He was the reason they were so good, even if he didn’t write all of the songs or whatever.” “Were you in a band before going solo?” “Of course, everyone is.” “What was it, some stupid garage act or something?” “We were a little progressive, but ya know, poppy.” “What did you call yourselves?” “I’d rather not say.” “You’re kidding?” “Can’t we just say this is where we are now, and that it’s the right jumping on point?” “So you don’t want me to eventually find out what you used to sound like?”
“If you’re determined, you’ll find out regardless of what I do. I just don’t think it’s the best thing to talk about right now, given the situation.” “Wow. You guys must have really sucked,” I say. “We were alright. I don’t think we ever quite captured in the studio what we sounded like live.” “It’s difficult. Of course, what would I know. I’m just a weary listener.” “What are you doing Alvin?” “Nothing. Just stating fact.” “You want to argue with me right now, don’t you? And over something so insignificant. You do realize it’s not going to do us any good?” “Ya know what didn’t do us any good? You fucking Nola. That didn’t do us any good.” “I can see that now. I didn’t take you for the jealous type.” “Fuck off. It’s more than that. I’m going to have to see her again. You won’t.” “That’s not necessarily true. I’m sure she’ll find me on Facebook. I’ll likely play Pittsburgh again.” “Well, I won’t be there.” “Nothing like setting plans for the near future,” he waxes poetically. “I don’t see much point.” “You’re not like in love with her or something, are you?” “The thought’s crossed my mind, but no, probably not. She’s always been a bit too crazy for me.” “But she likes having you as a friend.” “I suppose.” “Yeah, that’s where they really start to fuck with your head.” “Obviously your knowledge on the subject is far superior to mine.”
“Why would you think that?” “You perpetuate the eternally sad singer/songwriter vibe. The guy that’s been twice shit on by women in the past and now gets back at them either in a song, or by making them think that the song could be about them. It’s either that or you’re full of shit on both fronts, where your songs aren’t true enough to hold ground, or perhaps the reality is so much the opposite that you’re afraid to write about how you really are.” “And how’s that?” “You know what you do isn’t cool, but at this point, it’s not practical to stop.” “And what do I do? I mean, other than sleeping with Nola, what have I done?” “Nothing. And that’s the fucking problem man. You haven’t done anything, and there’s only so much time.” “We’re young, though, aren’t we?” “Not as young as some. Those morons you play to every night.” “What about ‘em?” “They’re kind of in the middle where they can chalk all of this stupid nonsense up to one phase or the other.” “Is that what you’re going to do after all of this?” “It’ll take a while for me to look back on these particular moments and be swayed one way or the other.” “Yeah, well I think that’s kind of sad, Alvin.” “Oh yeah, why’s that?” “Because these are still the best times.” “Agree to disagree.”
Eddie sighs and looks out the window. “You wouldn’t have liked my old band. They were too much like how I used to be.” We stop and eat. It’s a gimmick of a place just outside of Hazelton. Monday and everyone’s somewhere else. I order greasy reserves and think about the old work crew, how their weekends lacked definition. Mine were always interesting, but inappropriate. I couldn’t get into the logistics; explain how one point inevitably led to another. I wonder if Eddie occasionally breaks character with the so-called normal people in this world, or maybe he’s polite and forlorn like the rest of us. I digest on the passenger’s side; Eddie’s comfortable behind the wheel, taking us farther away. I haven’t been to New York since my brother’s graduation. The picture of my fake smile after commencement holds equal ground in our family room. Being surrounded by memories I’d prefer to forget is a legitimate enough excuse for this freak-out. Everyone needs them once in a while. I’ve only been absent for two days, but it feels much longer. He tries to hide his excitement, taking the exit. Making it here doesn’t mean what it used to. People share moderate hostilities, talk shit more than they should, and feel universally justified if and when the right replacement notices. My experiences are thin, but withstand the wind past our open windows as the smell hits. Charred metal mixed with garbage and urine. It only gets thicker as we make our way to Brooklyn. Eddie insists we stop by the venue first, even though it’s three hours until show time. I take in the sights of another furious commute before he finds us a spot two blocks from the venue. Following him past hipster and homebody, my eyes fixate on their jacket buttons. It’s a crop of crusty gutter trash in front of boarded windows, flaunting their biker chains with pride. Doug introduces
himself as Dredge, and proceeds to nickname his buddies. We go inside and notice their girlfriends thumbing through the tail-end of convenient-store dinner. The one looks alright, just young and temporarily uncomfortable. Dredge chats with the musician, getting into his influences, where his band wants to eventually end up and whether the general public can handle it. I say I’m going for a walk. Nervously, my hands rustle around for the car keys. I always get them back from Eddie after we end up somewhere. It has something to do with equilibrium. I need a phone in my left pocket and a means of escape in my right. I don’t use either for the first block, longing for something to surprise or beckon me forward. At block two, I flag a cab and consider texting him. Rich might not be home, but there’s a forty-percent chance the key will be there. This rate of reliability has never been the strongest of traits in an older sibling. Originally, I pictured the night happening without us running into each other. Maybe mom told him I’m in a bureau, but he wouldn’t have put up the effort. I never saw this city as an endpoint, and yet there I am on the elevator after sneaking in behind a blonde and her doxin. The key isn’t there, so I knock. Rich answers, not too shocked to see me. “Hey,” he says. “Hey,” I step in. “So you were supposed to call me, weren’t you?” “Was I?” I fall back on the sofa. “Yes, but it’s cool. It’s early enough that nothing’s come together yet.” “I figured.” “So you don’t want a lecture from me or anything, right?” “Nope.”
“How ‘bout a beer?” “Sure.” He’s quick to return as we cheers. I wait for him to ask and eventually unload about Eddie, how I’ve done him the favor, but there isn’t much point in continuing our journey. Rich is about to say something sarcastic when the buzzer interrupts us. Then he explains things a bit. Beth is coming over with her friend, PJ. They’re about my age, listless and sardonic. Why they’re hanging out with Rich is beyond me. Jokes about us being brothers follow along with more drinks. When he calls, I hit ignore, and feel one more part of me die. There’s a good chance this PJ is the one. She makes so much sense, despite everything else. The ride home will be exceptional if I ever decide to make it. Here is where I’ve been avoiding, but eventually the somewhere else becomes less appealing. We go out, but make our way back soon enough.
Tiffany McDaniel Mason Jar Promises
my grandmother jarred plums whole and unsliced purple things she promised would return to me through my navel as an infant
Lee Todd Lacks
Inert Passes Companion artwork by Leah Burbank
Subsequent to attending a faculty research lecture, Dr. Eliot Beek and his esteemed colleague, Dr. Ursula Webber, arrive at an elegant, if somewhat unfashionable supper club, just a few miles from campus. Their table by the plate-glass window seems small in relation to the nearly vacant dining room. After several minutes of polite convers-ation, Dr. Beek becomes pre-occupied with the gas-discharge lamps lighting countless storefronts all along the boulevard. Staring out the window, the chemist ponders a group of elements known as the noble gases, each of which emits a uniquely colored glow when excited by electricity. Dr. Beek extols the virtues of these curious elements, much to the chagrin of his esteemed colleague. “Dated beacons of a city past its prime,” he declares, prattling on about emission spectra. In the seven years during which she and Eliot have worked together, Dr. Webber has never known him to seem whimsical. “He’s reciting an ode.” she notes with an incredulous smile. “Perhaps I ought to order him another drink.” “Does Dr. Webber seem engaged?” Eliot wonders, having just informed his dinner companion that her eye color resembles that of xenon when it’s charged at high peak currents. Sipping past the point of inhibition, he proceeds to count the ½ inch squares that form the checkered- print pattern of her dress. “Perfect for graphing.” he muses. Eliot imagines himself plotting graphs on Dr. Webber’s dress. “Would she let me do that?” he wonders. “Is she wearing tights? Wait. Why am I thinking about Dr. Webber’s tights?” Unable to suppress these and other inappropriate thoughts, Dr. Beek
suddenly notices himself reaching under the table. The chemist’s mind screeches to a halt, but his right arm refuses to yield, extending its reach even further towards what?!” He panics. “Oh, my God, no. No, no, no!” Floor-length table linens mercifully conceal the fits and starts of the ensuing internal power struggle. Try as he might to regain control, Dr. Beek’s insubordinate hand continues its tortured advance, until the touch of Ursula’s lower thigh shocks them both. All the air in the room vanishes. Prattling stops, breathing stops, and yet, nothing changes. Fractions of a second pass. Eliot does not retract, Ursula does not repel. “Is he touching me?!” she questions, oddly amused by Eliot’s bizarre impulse. Not wanting to discourage her esteemed colleague, Ursula worries that his heart might stop if she were to let his hand remain at rest. “She is wearing tights!” Eliot observes, sensing the sheer nylon fabric upon his fingertips. Dr. Beek’s synapses begin to cross as he feels pale lavender blue, warm and fragrant, stretched taut over Ursula’s shapely leg. “Tights, when worn, seem very much like icebergs,” he asserts, “in that only a select few ever view their full extent. Is that a romantic notion? Perhaps I ought to share it with Dr. Webber.” The servers buzz with recognition, having witnessed these awkward mating rituals many times before. “Don’t bother bringing their entrées,” says one, as she rolls her eyes. “He’s copping a feel.” “Ewwww!” groans another, “They’re old enough to be my parents!!” Much to their amazement, neither Dr. Beek nor Dr. Webber seem willing to break contact. The esteemed colleagues study one another intently, each expecting the other to react first. Still, nothing happens. No words; no breath; nothing. The two remain inert, mouths slightly agape, excited, yet captured. He
does not retract. She does not repel. Several more seconds pass before Dr. Beek’s hand starts to tremble. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he braces for the inevitable shaming, the career-shattering fallout of his transgression. “She’ll report me to the Head of the Department for this!” he frets, scrambling to form an adequate apology. “What’s worse, she’ll surely never speak to me again.” Sensing Eliot’s distress, Dr. Webber prepares to reassure him without seeming too disappointed. Ultimately however, neither can manage more than a few incoherent syllables. “Here he goes,” she grumbles. Offended by Dr. Beek’s remorse, Ursula refuses to let him deny his indulgence. With a conviction that startles them both, she grabs Eliot’s hand and yanks it beneath her dress, well past the point where thigh and hemline meet, holding it there long enough for both of them to know what happens next.
Contributors Christopher S. Bell Christopher S. Bell is twenty-nine years of age. He has been writing and releasing literary and musical works through My Idea of Fun since 2008. His sound projects include Emmett and Mary, Technological Epidemic, C. Scott and the Beltones, and Fine Wives. My Idea of Fun is an art and music collective based out of Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Christopher’s work has recently been published in the Broadkill Review, Madison Review, Red Rock Review, Mobius, Gesture, and on Fringelit.com. He was also a contributor to Impression of Sound. Leah Burbank Leah Burbank studied photography and sculpture at Portland School of Art. She is inspired by the human form, especially in the expressions and features of the face. For “Inert Passes,” Leah sought to render Dr. Beek’s unmanageable emotions in caricature. Bryan Crumpley Bryan Crumpley is a Chicago area writer who spends his time writing, reading, and growing a beard. Bryan Crumpley is also the managing editor and founder of Dali’s Lovechild Literary Magazine. Bryan has previously had pieces published in Johnny America, Quail Bell Literary Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, and Dali’s Lovechild.
Lee Todd Lacks Lee Todd Lacks is a mixed-media artist, music therapist, and clinical counselor, who seeks to blur the distinctions between rants, chants, anecdotes, and anthems. His experience of living with significant vision and hearing deficits often informs his work, which is forthcoming in Liquid Imagination, Clockwise Cat, and Tincture Journal. He currently resides in South Portland, Maine, where he shares his life with his wife and young son. Recordings of Lee Todd’s spoken word material may be found on his website. Tiffany McDaniel Tiffany McDaniel is an Ohio native. Tiffany’s first novel, “The Summer That Melted Everything,” will be published in Summer 2016 by St Martins Press (USA), Scribe (UK & Commonwealth), Signatuur (Dutch translation). Tom Montag Tom Montag is most recently the author of “In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013,” as well as “Middle Ground,” “Curlew: Home,” “Kissing Poetry’s Sister,” “The Idea of the Local,” and “The Big Book of Ben Zen.” Recent poems will be found at Architrave Press, Atticus Review, Blue Heron Review, The Broken City, The Chaffin Journal, Digital Papercut, Foliate Oak, Fox Cry, Hamilton Stone Review, The Homestead Review, Hummingbird, Little Patuxent Review, The Magnolia Review, Mud Season Review, On the Rusk, Plainsong, Portage, Red Fez, Riding Light Review, South 85, Split Rock, Sand, Stoneboat, Third Wednesday, Torrid Literature, Town Creek Poetry, and Verse-Virtual. He blogs as The Middlewesterner and serves as Managing Editor of the Lorine Niedecker Monograph Series, What Region?
Paul Riker Paul Riker was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He is a staff writer for the fledgling cultural blog National Ave, and has previously served as the editorin-chief of its sister site Sherman Ave, a satirical news website at Northwestern University. He resides in Chicago. Caroline Tsai Caroline Tsai is a junior in high school. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Mimesis, her school literary magazine, and the Editor-in-Chief of the Untitled Newspaper. She has been recognized by the Scholastics Art and Writing Awards on a national level, and last year, her personal essay was published in The Best Teen Writing Anthology of 2014. This summer, she plans to attend the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, the Kenyon Review Young Writers’ Workshop, and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. Caroline enjoys NPR, traveling, and Jane Austen.
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