Dash Spring 2011 by dashliteraryjournal

Slim windows swing open to turn your volume up. I find your secret drawer of 78s and put one on: an opera moans a whale, an old elephant. Well, nobody told me that my ass could fall out, or that my breast implants might quit. A doctor says they’re like cars – sometimes you need to buy a newer model. O Victrola, let’s sit in a dark corner. I’ll open your elegant windows and sing loud accompanied by my shiny brass farts. I’ll turn you on: Crankity plunk plunk, crankity plunk.

DASH literary journal

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Benjamin R. Perry EXECUTIVE BOARD

Enrique Avalos Joseph Blair Matt Corcoran Sarah Corp Jamie Dingman G. Ehring Coralyn Foults Maureen K. Fox Julia Fullman Sandy P. Palas EDITORS

Amelia Counts Amber Dinh Kendra Dixon Stephanie B. Elizondo Brian Fulsom Michelle Greer Daniel Hogan Chris D. Johnson Sara A. Kelley Josh Korn Tara Leederman Lincoln McElwee Christen McGaughey Amiko Moran Kristine Nikkhoo Megan Ozima Elizabeth Padilla Bethany Peery Phillip Trad Marta Wallien Calli Welsch FACULTY ADVISOR

Steve Westbrook DESIGN BY Kristen McClure

www.dashliteraryjournal.com www.facebook.com/dashliteraryjournal Sponsored by the California State University, Fullerton Creative Writing Club and the Department of English, Comparative Literature and Linguistics. ISSN 2156-8758 Copyright © 2011 by Dash Literary Magazine. GDF=B; &$%% JC@IA9 (

hUV`Y cƓ

CONTENTS POETRY

J]Whfc`U Mci C`X H\]b[ Mary MacGowan :fca <Yf FYZYfYbWY GYWh]cb Trish Falin GYdhYaVYf L.S. Bassen @Y DYh]h Acfh. 5 FYj]g]cb L.S. Bassen :cf h\Y :]fgh H]aY Neil Carpathios 5 FY`][]cb ]b h\Y GiaaYf Vanessa Pike-Vrtiak ;ch\ ;Ui[Y Eric Lawson A]gWUff]YX Jeffrey Alfier @ibU Ach\ GiaaYf John Davis, Jr. H\Y GcbbYh 5`acgh 9jYfmcbY <UhYX J. Marcus Weekley IbjY]`]b[ Mary Buchinger 5 6f]YƓ 5ddYUfUbWY Vm 8" @Ugh H\Ub_g[]j]b[ Jorge Alberto Arreola Michel =h KUg @]_Y K]bhYf[fYYb Lyn Lifshin

09 10

17 18

19 20

FICTION

FYgiaY Patrick Manning H\Y KY]fX DUfh cƓ Hckb Oliver St. John 5 6U[ cƓ DYfg]aacbg Karen Loeb H\Y Gifdf]gY <]h cƓ Ub Ch\Yfk]gY @UW_`ighYf GYUgcb George Harrar IbZcf[]jYb Eliana Osborn

&( 28 32 '( ($

HYBRID 8UX·g K]gXca Jamie Dingman 8]Ufm cƓ U b 5`acgh 8YUƓ ;]f` Calli Welsch 7cc` Ug DUhhm <YUfgh Lori Horvitz

(( (* (+

FEATURED ARTIST: CARLY CRAM

EDITOR BIOS

ADVERTISEMENTS/CREDITS

POETRY

Mary MacGowan |

Victrola, You Old Thing Slim windows swing open to turn your volume up. I find your secret drawer of 78s and put one on: an opera moans a whale, an old elephant. Well, nobody told me that my ass could fall out, or that my breast implants might quit. A doctor says they’re like cars – sometimes you need to buy a newer model. O Victrola, let’s sit in a dark corner. I’ll open your elegant windows and sing loud accompanied by my shiny brass farts. I’ll turn you on: Crankity plunk plunk, crankity plunk.

Trish Falin |

From Her Reference Section Even the last paragraph was heavy, coated in cob webs from the corner. This most wanted plot was necessary as bass is to jazz. She lost that spark for living, leaving present in the past, traveling light, paring down to a sentence, then a phrase to fit a billboard, a tagline after a song. She carried it off like a free woman or thief, that lost girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face plastered on post office walls. She rocks, then just rocks, or only a word like sweet, a taste of sugar. She is desperate to record everything like a mystical last shout, a chant, a hum or moan, a gasp sucked out of an empty mausoleum.

L.S. Bassen | September

(reading The Adderall Diaries by Stephen Elliott) A poem doesn’t change anything. It’s not E = MC squared It’s September. In these latitudes, depression can spiral counterclockwise into hurricane. In the eye by contrast is greater stillness than vacuum. At the end of a poem, the sky calms and clears. Birds return to branches. A neighbor plays Vivaldi on a cello. The birds sing louder when he plays.

Le Petit Mort: A Revision Dusk of new November, how swiftly darkness falls. When her loverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sun is set, Woman is full as the full moon. Delilah watched the sleeping Sampson and cut his hair. Of his black curls she wove a tapestry displaying the kiss, the carnal act, conception: a full moon, November night, mist. Do not speak to me of little deaths when I am at my loom.

Neil Carpathios | For the First Time

Coins in my pocket fall in love with distant chinks of someone playing horseshoes. In my mug, the teabag leaks its copper blood. What fun to look at things through these silly glasses. A murder of crows like flying pepper. A scarecrow crucified in corn. A ladybug straps on her helmet getting ready to collide with my forehead. For the first time I understand sunlight on my hands and on the wicker chair and staining grass yellow. I have seen it before but stayed up all night and watched blackness bury everything and take it away. Just inside where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re fixing eggs, I hear you singing.

Vanessa Pike-Vrtiak |

A Religion in the Summer I swallowed a matchbox And drank a bottle of kerosene Hoping you would notice me

Eric Lawson | Goth Gauge

How Goth can you possibly get? Turns out, pretty damn Goth So Goth that I shit live bats So Goth I killed Robert Smith just so I could worship him as the true Goth saint he is So Goth that Marilyn Manson is afraid of my dark eyeliner So Goth that I live on a rented Italian sofa in creepy Monrovia So Goth that vile gang bangers can’t join my evil marauders because they can’t cast spells That’s how Goth I am

Jeffrey Alfier | Miscarried for my daughter

Thunder rumbles in off the bay. Gulls and pelicans â&#x20AC;&#x201C; those minimal souls, hurl beaks through a trundle of waves in which greater beasts once flourished through a staggered surfâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wind-lift dazzle, now diminutive bones shadowing estuaries, messengers shallowed, hardly arriving until the first dazed dance toward light.

John Davis, Jr. |

Luna Moth Summer Curious but cautious, we dared not touch that great, grey-green luna moth attached to the camp store’s screen door. “They only live twenty-four hours,” the ranger said, “then they’re gone.” You, eleven, and I, thirteen: too old to play, too young for wisdom that week at the mountain retreat our parents had chosen for us. We explored trails, felt waterfalls, traded secrets until there were no more unspoken words, except half-hearted farewells. The moth remained, we made a plan to feel beauty just once before parting. A quick count to three, extended fingers trembling, a sensual stroke of stiff silken wings that spiraled to the wood-plank porch floor like a leaf that found autumn too early.

J. Marcus Weekley |

The Sonnet Almost Everyone Hated wanted to be an epic when she grew up, though her mother wanted an elegy. Her father taught her how to wear make-up— he was a drag queen after all—and at parties, she’d carry trays of finger foods elegantly, like nobody’s business. She had a boyfriend shortly, an oxymoron dealing in unrequited gas or something. She got fresh with metaphors, even similes, and upon revealing her true intentions (romance), everyone dashed to the nearest bar for a line dance and a drink. But kittens loved her; puppies too; and the moon; past poets; fashion-conscious maids; thinkers wanted to mold her into couplets, but then… she died a suicide, suddenly, death by silence.

Mary Buchinger | Unveiling

A man on the subway today sketches a woman across the aisle who happens to sit beneath a map of the Red Line. She’s donned the veil of morning commuters, indrawn and elsewhere, even as her face—cheekbones and almond eyes—emerges in graphite from his rough paper. His wrist and forearm move—back, forward, around—with quick, controlled strokes, even as the train stops and starts again, again, Harvard, Central, Kendall, passengers with briefcases and backpacks, newspapers open like wings, still he manages a sightline, draws the thin bow of her lips—if she could see this, surely she’d recognize herself—her straight dark hair, the lobe of her right ear, as the train lifts to cross the river and it is almost quiet—the noise springs clear, the light so much larger out here.

Jorge Alberto Arreola Michel |

A Brief Reappearance by D. Last Thanksgiving I used to contain a consuming cynicism about an ex lover who scorned me and moved to NY. But the last time I slept with him on one of his homeward visits, laying in bed naked after cleaning ourselves, our hands slippery and entwined like decades old ivy vines, he recanted the most tender story of when he first felt attraction towards a man, a boy who would order black coffee at the kiosk where he worked at LAX and of how he subconsciously started to dress fancier to impress this young man and would serve his beverages free of charge, all the meanwhile unbeknownst of the strange desires burgeoning like rhododendrons unfurling in his stomach. The image dripped and clung to my mind like honey, invincible and sweet, and I felt strangely touched that this man who held a clear abeyance on learning how to love had at one point in his life allowed his heart to rev like a showroom engine and the autoclave in my chest at last unlatched to relinquish an organ that could still pulse.

Lyn Lifshin |

It Was Like Wintergreen a camouflage over the babies’ graves. Even as the Americans marched in, 2000 were killed. While the Germans were surrendering, they put ivy over the earth where arms and legs were still sticking up. The Americans made them rebury the dead. But the Germans didn’t put flowers or memorials over the prisoners of war, just left wintergreen. It doesn’t need light,

it doesn’t need care. You don’t have to think about it

FICTION

Patrick Manning | Resume CV^YWh]jY

The way I remember it, ladybugs crept through the window screen, burrowed into the walls, covered it like a mosaic of red and orange exoskeletons. My mom will tell you that it wasn’t as bad as all that. But I woke up more than once with ladybugs crawling over my pillow, so I moved into the Howard Johnson and waited it out. For those few days, I was like a real person, my own bathroom, responsible for dinner. I’d drink beer downstairs at the hotel bar and discuss life with Pam the waitress, who sipped vodka on ice. She said, “You know what? You’re a pussy for staying with your mom.” I told her I needed a better job before moving out, but she said that was a lie. It sure as hell wasn’t, but I learned arguing with her was almost impossible, downright detrimental to my health.

Kcf_ 9ldYf]YbWY

,#$)!Bck 6fUXZcfX 9fU 6fUXZcfX DU Printer My mom made me give up the landscaping because it didn’t pay enough, so she found me this job at the newspaper printing it at night. Shift from ten to four, but most of the printing doesn’t get started until twelve. This guy I work with, Ray, deals pot from his car for the first two hours, smoking a joint with every customer. Offered some to me once, but I turned him down. Not that I don’t smoke every once in a while, I ain’t a pussy or nothing, but not while I’m working.

*#$'!,#$) 9jYf ;fYYb @UbXgWUd]b[ 6fUXZcfX DU Landscaper The landscaping company was by far the best job I ever had. This guy, Bob, thought trees and flowers and every plant had the same feelings humans did. He even told me that someone did a study and proved trees cry or something when they’re cut down. Funny thing is, he’s not a tree-hugger or nothing, he just really believes it. Like how some people believe in God or Santa Claus. He really made me think about the whole idea, though. Once, when I was a kid, I saw a tree oozing sap, and, not knowing what it was, I ran inside and told my mom “The tree’s bleeding.” But she didn’t care, just hummed along to All My Children’s theme song and smoked another cigarette. 9XiWUh]cb

-#$$!*#$( 6fUXZcfX 5fYU <][\ GW\cc` 6fUXZcfX DU My grandmother came to graduation. After I got my diploma and waited around out in the hall, she came up to me holding onto her cane and held out her hand. “Here,” she said. It was a Zippo lighter with my name engraved on the back and the date underneath. On the front, there was a picture of the American flag, bright reds and blues, folded like it was waving in the wind. I thanked her, and, still unsure of her English, she murmured, “You’re the first Rossi to graduate.” In quick Italian, she said something about my father and got all choked up. Two feet shorter than me, she put her hand on my neck and pulled me down, muttered “Dio benedicali” and kissed my cheek.

GdYW]U` G_]``g

On my twelfth birthday, my father got me a magic kit. In the basement, after we moved boxes against the wall, he laid out all the equipment: a wand, black cape, top hat, satin cloth, rainbow handkerchief, a stuffed rabbit, a deck of cards, mirrors, a bow tie. Upstairs, my mother yelled, “The pizza’s here,” but my father ignored her, tied the cape around my neck, waved his hands in front

of me and said, “Abracadabra.” He taught me how to pull the Ace of spades from my sleeve; how to tap three times on the hat before pulling out the rabbit; how to hide in the basement from whatever lurked upstairs; and how to make a handkerchief disappear, reappear, change color. Before I went to Howard Johnson, knowing it wouldn’t work, I tried it on the lady bugs. Abracadabra, disappear. Nothing. I thought maybe they had at least changed color, went from orange to red, yellow to brown, but it was probably only their crawling, the constant flow up and down the walls. 5kUfXg

I got a trophy once for making the Senior League All-Star team. Made it all the way to the state championship. We refused to wash our black and gold uniforms thinking that the dirt gave us luck. We played our last game in Harrisburg, and lost in the first round to some team from around Philly. But, at the banquet up at Derrick City fire hall, me and the rest of the players all got trophies. Coach Hull took my picture, said my Dad would be proud of me if he was still around. While he drove me home, the little gold baseball player in his batting stance on my lap, Coach Hull hummed along with the radio. “You know this song, Mike?” I said no. “It’s a good one,” he said. I nodded in agreement, flicked the miniature bat, almost snapping it off.

DYfgcbU` =bZc

Because Dad died, she says she needs me to stay. The house is too much upkeep for her, too much money that she doesn’t have. “You think cafeteria ladies make tons of money,” she said, rocking in her blue recliner, as I showed her the brochure for UPB. I said I could stay at home, live with her, work nights and go to school. “If you have time for school, you have time for a second job.” She asks all the time if I’ve found anything yet, another way to spend my days other than sleeping. In a cloud of smoke, she waits for me. I hear all the time that I look like her: the straight black hair, the olive skin, the oval face, eyes

bordering on brown and green, changing color like a mood ring. In the early morning, before she wakes up, after I get home from work, I’ll sit on the front porch, hands stained with ink from the day’s news, and watch the sun’s orange light from behind me color the red rusted bikes across the street, the yellow paper boxes, the duct taped door of the neighbor’s brown Buick. And right before the whole town is flooded with light, I’ll go inside and shut my blinds, turn in my bed, and wait for the day to begin.

Oliver St. John |

The Weird Part of Town “Are you going out?” said Jacob to George, who was on his way out the door. “Yeah, I need a new plug for the bathtub. The old one’s wore out.” “Where do you buy those?” “I was going to buy one at Ken’s. They sell them there.” “Isn’t that in. . . the weird part of town?” “Yeah, but it’s the only place I can think of. You wanna come?” “Sure. I’m not really doing anything right now.” And the two bundled up, searched for keys and trundled out the door into the cold, cold morning, and set off toward the weird part of town. Now, the first thing you might notice when advancing into the weird part of town would be that particular feeling you get when advancing into the weird part of town. Something starts to feel a bit off at first -- that means you’re near the border. Then, as you draw closer in, something feels more off. Then, it feels way off, and you know you’re there. However, if you weren’t particularly attuned to this sort of thing, you’d probably notice the people. There are many more kinds of people in the weird part of town than you’d usually see, all walking about and going about their daily business just like you or I or anyone else. There are soft, plush people, and hard ones with rigid edges and dangerous angles. There are topsy-turvy people; there are lumpy people and there are bumpy people. There are noisy ones who clatter and clang, and crash about, and knock things over. There are ones you might not even notice at all! But don’t get the wrong idea about the people in the weird part of town; there are quite enough regular every day people to see who also find themselves, just like Jacob and George in the neighborhood. The two were very cold by the time they made it to the weird part of town, so they stepped into

a small shop to warm up. But to their surprise, it was colder indoors than it was out! Beyond icy floors and frosty counter tottered a wizened old man. “Hot tea for sale! Hot tea! Only two pence!” “Shall we buy cups of tea?” said George. “Excuse me sir, but do you accept cents in place of pence?” “NO!” And because they had none of the correct currency, they had no choice but to leave the shop. Curiously, or perhaps not so at all, it felt much warmer to be outside by comparison. “Shall we continue onwards to our destination?” “I’d like to try this shop first. They sell hats,” said George, indicating a narrow three-story yellow brick building with signs of efflorescence on the 2nd floor. “Topp’s Emporium - Purveyors of Fine Hats,” read a hanging sign above the door. Now inside the store, which was in fact a haberdashery, were hats in all shapes and sizes. There were hats on racks, on hatstands, on mannequins, on shelves too high to reach with out a ladder. Every sort of hat you could think of, and some you wouldn’t have. People don’t wear hats much these days, so the store had few customers, and was heavily overstaffed by thin, bespectacled saleswomen with very bushy hair. Jacob had admired a handsome fez with a canary yellow tassel in the window display, and as George disappeared elsewhere into the jumble of hats, he wandered toward the fez section, indicated by a sign suspended from the ceiling, as in a grocery store. Selecting the one with the yellow tassel, he affected the fez at a jaunty angle, and admired himself in the mirror. “Looking smart,” admired a passing saleswoman. “Much obliged,” said Jacob, slightly embarrassed. “But be careful of the hat,” the saleswoman spoke with a faint Italian lilt to her voice. “Is it dangerous?” “No, but you must have checked the price.” “Break it you buy it?” But the saleswoman only smiled wryly, and turned her bushy head away. Jacob glanced at the

price tag, discovering to his surprise, the price to be negative twenty dollars! “Negative twenty? Does that mean --” But the saleswoman was nowhere to be found. Somehow uneasy about paying a negative sum, he set the fez gingerly back onto the rack and went to go find George. When he found George, his friend was speaking with a saleswoman about the hats in the clearance section. “And about the pear-shaped hat. Tell me about that one.” “Yes,” said the saleswoman, “that hat is a sad hat. When you wear it, you are overcome by sadness.” “That so?” “No kidding.” “Is it a popular hat?” “Some people like to feel sad. They say there would be no such thing as happiness without it.” George was not convinced. “Imagine, perhaps you attend a funeral for a friend you hardly knew. You hardly miss him, yet you feel obligated to do so. I tell you, stoic indifference is not fashionable anymore. All the men these days are weeping at funerals.” “Are you ready to go George?” “I think I’m good.” “Thanks for your help, ma’am, but we should be on our way.” “Do come again! And make it a great day!” “You too!” and they left. “We ought to head back soon. It’s getting late,” said George, as they left the store. “Colder, too. Let’s just pick up that bathtub plug, and be on our way.” “Agreed. And here we are!” Ken’s was a regular sort of drug store. It was a poor fit for the weird part of town. The only thing that was off about it was that they sold bathtub drain plugs, and as the two discovered, they

didn’t even have that many of them. They bought one they liked, and were heading back out into the cold, when Jacob commented, “Now that wasn’t so odd, was it?” “Are you kidding? The clerk who checked us out had no head!” “That’s not true at all, he definitely did!” “That’s what I thought until I took a closer look! It was a trompe l’oeil head.” And so it was.

Karen Loeb |

A Bag of Persimmons You meet your father in the parking lot of the San Diego motel where he will be staying. He walks toward you with a large brown bag. “Is he bringing groceries to my mom’s?” your husband Sam asks. As you near him, he hands you the bag, which is heavy. “I brought you persimmons, Rachel,” he says. “From my orchard.” Persimmons are about the size of kiwis. There must have been hundreds in the bag. You have not seen each other in thirteen years. “What do I make with persimmons?” you ask. “Whatever you want,” he says. “You know. Jam, pie, things of that nature.” “What do you make with them?” You are hugging the bag, hoping it won’t fall. “Me? I don’t make anything. I have a dryer. I dry them. “ “So then you eat dried persimmons?” “Not really. They get like leather.” A half-smile creases his mouth. “So why do you dry them?” you ask. “I hate to waste food. Drying preserves them.” “But if you can’t eat them dried . . .” “That’s true. I can’t. No one can, really. I still have all my teeth, and they’re strong.” He says this to Sam, who is leaning on your rental car. “I guess I’ll try making some pie soon,” you mumble. “Enjoy them,” your father says. “That’s why I gave them to you.” You cannot believe you have spent the last ten minutes talking to your father about persimmons when you haven’t seen him in so long. “This is Sam,” you say. “Sam, this is my dad.” “I figured it was your dad, hon,” he says. He reaches out his hand to shake your father’s. “I wasn’t quite sure,” your father says. “I thought maybe you were having a rendezvous with

someone.” He laughs as he shakes Sam’s hand. You give the largest collection of persimmons you’ll ever have over to Sam. “Dad, let me hug you.” You embrace your father, which for some people and their fathers comes easily, but for you, not so easily. He hugs you, giving you a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you,” you say. “Good to see you too,” he echoes. His hair is white, combed back and eccentrically long. The last time you saw him, his hair was gray, and he was still in his sixth decade. “I’m hungry,” he says. “Can we go somewhere to get a bite to eat?” “We’re going to Sam’s mother’s condo.” “Is that right?” “Yeah. We’ll pretty much do everything out of her place.” “Well, at least we have plenty of persimmons,” Sam says. He sets the bag in the trunk of the car and closes it with a clunk and a whoosh. Your father follows you in his car, and you head to Sam’s mother’s condo. All you can think about are persimmons, and how you have many more persimmons than you could ever use in an entire lifetime riding in the back of your rented Toyota sedan. It’s like the thread that your mother left you. You inherited a small table with two drawers. In it were dozens of wooden spools of thread. Thread has come on plastic spools for years. Every color seemed to be represented. You realized that you had enough thread to last you a lifetime. You would never have to buy any thread ever again. What is it with your parents, so incompatible in every way, except they’re both giving you lifetime supplies of perishable items. Yes, you’ve recently discovered, while hemming a dress, that thread is perishable too. The antique thread on wooden spools breaks easily and is really not good for anything.

George Harrar |

The Surprise Hit of An Otherwise Lackluster Season Good evening America, I’m Johnny Motion, and it’s time for another 15 minutes of AMERICA’S FUNNIEST HOME DEATH EXPERIENCES! It’s our 26th show tonight, and you’ve made us the No. 1 Home Death Experience on this great planet. America, you just keep dying to be on our show. (Cheers and Hoots) Wendy, we sure have a lively group of voyeurs tonight, don’t we? We sure do, Johnny. Well now, is that a new see-through rag I see through? It certainly is. Made from the latest miracle material--MicaLite, soon to arrive at your neighborhood Spray-On Shop. There’s no need to take off MicaLite before bed, my friends, it just washes down the drain during your mineral shower. Well, I’d like to be there to see that, heh, heh.... I bet you would, Johnny. Isn’t he a real chuckler? (A Few Laughs, A Few Cheers) Now Wendy, who’s dying on us tonight? Well, Johnny, we have a DVD-A D-V-D? What century is this, anyway? Your guess is as good as mine, Johnny. It’s labeled “Birthday, Number 34.” All right, let’s turn our Vivron Experiencer on Sean Faroe, in Moosehead, Maine, and see what this D-V-D is all about. Are you there, Sean?

Hello, can you Experience me? We certainly can, Sean, that’s the miracle of CyberFeel, isn’t it? Let’s see, I’m sensing wet flannel, burnt rubber, and dog food. Am I close? Well, I guess you are, Mr. Motion. Okay now, go ahead with your story. It was my birthday, like the tape says. I was turning 34, and my...my... Don’t be nervous, Sean old sap, there’s only 100 million peekers on you. ....my fellow people at work--can I say the name? Why not? This is still America, isn’t it? It’s the Have-A-Ball Amusement Company. We make party favors for parties. Party favors--isn’t that about as interesting as you can get on this happy-go-lucky planet of ours? So, I bet you outfitted your own birthday, kind of a busman’s holiday, was it? Uh, well, I wouldn’t know about that. We don’t have buses up here, `cause we’re kind of out of the way. Okay Sean, I understand perfectly, you’re way out there, continue with your story. Well, they decided to take me to this restaurant on the water, it’s called the Sea Sense, because the ocean’s right outside. It’s a pretty swizzling place. Tell us, Sean, what makes for a swizzling eat-in up there in Moosehead--some of that gill netting hanging on the walls, maybe a buoy or two to buoy the old spirits? No, none of that, actually there’s nothing on the walls. The fancy thing about the Sea Sense is the prices. All right, I’m sure we all feel the scene. Now time’s vaporizing, Sean--let’s get to the death. We’ll spin here in our new CyberLounge, and you voice up the scene. Okay, we had crawlers for dinner, that’s why we’re all wearing the bibs. They were two pounders--you really haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Maine crawlers. I’m sure I haven’t lived, Sean. Now, that’s you at the head of the plank? Yes. And what’s that wrapping the old sphere?

A paper crown, `cause Jean--she’s my boss--she said I was King of the Day. That’s her sucking the meat out of the tail. And there’s Jack, her live-with, with the claws hanging from his ears. He was really submerged--oh, I guess I shouldn’t say that. Too late, Sean. Now we know Jack likes to soak up a few now and then. We were all under water, not just him. Anyway, he picked up the shell cracker, and he was trying to get Jean’s nose in it. Oooh, I bet that’d hurt. It really does. So the Servo came to clear away everything and Jack ordered another round of liquids. Then he started telling this used-up joke about a farmer holding a squealer up to an apple tree to feed it. Jean--you see her? She’s throwing Nut-Os into the ozone and snagging them in her mouth. She was always making us laugh. What a mouth! Yeah, it’s sort of huge. I seen her put her whole fist in it once. Whoa, Sean, I’m getting ideas. Jean was always eating salty stuff around the Have-A-Ball, like Wally Chips, Nut-Os, and those new Bacobars. So she had some foul habits, that’s what you’re saying. We didn’t know they were foul at the time, Mr. Motion. Anyway, just as Jack was getting to the punch, she threw a handful of Nut-Os in the air and caught them in her mouth. Quite a trick. We were cheering for her and all. Then she started hacking a little...right there you can see it. Wendy, let’s roll that again for the blinkers in our audience, can we? Sure, Johnny, here we go. There friends--Jean’s first hack. Tell us, Sean, what you’re thinking. Thinking now? Then, Sean, then. Oh, well, I wasn’t thinking anything. I try not to, `cause people say I get into trouble when I think too much. Jean was hacking a little, so Jack slapped her on the back.

Looks like he’s really swopping the juice out of her. No, that’s the thing, he was just seeming. He didn’t think there was anything really out of orbit. Nobody did. Guess we should have. Cogito, Sean, no need to blame yourself. I don’t. Good for you, I mean, there’s still such a thing as personal responsibility, at least the last time I checked. She didn’t seem to want any help, Johnny--oh, can I call you that? I’d be blitzed if you didn’t, Sean. See, Johnny, she’s waving us away. I think she was embarrassed to toss it up in front of us, especially in an eat-in like the Sea Sense. A swizzling place, like you said. Right. So there she is folding over. Looks like she’s fingered a wipe off the table. Yeah, she turned stern to us and hacked into the wipe, then turned back and smiled like everything was... Hold on, Sean, I’ve been keeping track on our Atomic Ticker--Jean’s been O-less for two minutes, thirty-seven seconds. She’s straying into danger-land here. And what’s that coming your way--the birthday cake with 34 rockets? Actually it’s a birthday pie--coconut meringue with olive icing. Well I’ve never heard of that duet, have you, Wendy? That’s one for The Guinness, Johnny. Everybody started singing happy birthday to me. Sans Jean, I presume. Excuse me? Can’t breathe, can’t sing--right Sean? Right, she was still hacking. And see there--she looks into the viewer. Such a symmetrical woman, isn’t she folks?

(Polite Applause, A Few Sighs) Oh-oh, Sean, I spy a basic law of physics about to be tampered with. Jean turned all of a sudden and banged toward the ladies room. Squished right into my birthday pie. That struck everyone as hilarious, eh Sean? It was sort of tickling, except she didn’t get up. That’s Jack kneeling over her, swabbing the coconut off her face. You can see right there, his eyes popping. He realized that she was--you know. Heading for the dirt, Sean, that’s the phrase. It’s a sad phrase, Johnny. She didn’t deserve the dirt. Couldn’t leave her out in the air. Hold on. I’m sensing...salt water. You know the rules, Sean, turn off the water works. I can’t, `cause Jean was kind of special. One in a million, Sean? Let’s see...ten billion people--that means there’s ten thousand just like her. You don’t understand, there’s nobody like Jean. She hired people at the Have-A-Ball that no one else wanted. You mean she liked to dive into the low end of the gene pool and rescue a few of the bad swimmers? You’re not making fun of her, are you Mr. Motion? Let me think for a blink--yes Sean, that’s why we’re here. I didn’t know that. I’ve never seen your show before. I just wanted people to know about Jean `cause, you know, she’s O-less because of my birthday. Remember our name, Sean--America’s FUNNIEST Home Death Experiences. I didn’t send you the Experience to make fun of her. Well, we had fun anyway. We always do. Goodbye to Sean Faroe in Moosehead, Maine. You know, Ladies and Gentleman, most of the time on this show we peek in at the exact moment of dying--and that is gripping, don’t get me wrong. But tonight was kind of special, wasn’t it? When lovely Jean turned toward the viewer, her pipe stuffed with those wonderful Nut-Os, you

got to see the pause before perishing. She knew it was coming. We knew it was coming. Only Sean and his merry birthday-makers couldn’t see that it was the salty hand of death in her throat, not the Nut-Os. Is there a lesson here, Death Watchers? I submit it’s this: If you’re going to choke, do it at a cheap eat-in where you don’t mind tossing up in public. (Groans, Cheers) Now remember, folks, unlike other Home Death shows, what you see here is 100 percent AllReal All-American Death--no fakes, no foreigners. When they die on our show, you can be sure they stay dead! Next week we’ll start our second season with a visit to the Museum of Deathly Delights in none other than the carnage capital of the entire galaxy... NEW MIAMI!! That’s right, you’re in for a very special treat on an all-new episode of AMERICA’S FUNNIEST HOME DEATH EXPERIENCES! That’s all the death we have time for tonight, folks. This is Johnny Motion saying, if you or someone you love is heading for the dirt, turn on the Viewer!

Eliana Osborn | Unforgiven

It started to fall apart when she asked me to give her pit bull insulin shots twice a day while she went on vacation. I had to pinch up a pile of loose skin on the back of his neck and talk real smooth while I put in the needle. Two weeks like that, morning and night. We’d been dating about six months by then. I guess I wanted to impress her. I mean, I’m just a cop so I always worried about her looking for someone better. I drove across town every day, watered the grass and brought in the mail. When there was nothing else left to do I’d measure out the insulin and track down the dog. She came back, things were good for a while. Funny thing is she never said anything about me taking care of the dog, like it was just expected. After a few weeks it was too late to bring it up so I let it go. But I guess I never did. Still rubs me wrong to think about it. Couple years go by, we had a kid like she wanted, I made sergeant. Every little thing I did would make them both crazy. Like it wasn’t me paying the bills? Like I wasn’t allowed some sleep on my day off? If I surfed the web to unwind it meant I hated her. If I went out for a drink after my shift it meant I was thinking about leaving. It was the dog that finally pushed me too far. He was dying, anyone could see, but not her. That dog could barely step over the threshold to get outside. I felt bad—I never liked the thing but that didn’t mean I wanted him to suffer. I drove way out a dry river bed, further than I’d ever gone before. Kept up a one sided conversation the whole time, told that dog how good he was. He was in the front seat next to me and I just scratched behind his ears, rubbed his chin, gave him all the attention I could muster. By the time I stopped by a spreading dead mesquite, that dog was happier than I’d seen him in years. I let him out and he wandered slowly, sniffing all around. I don’t mind saying what happened next, it was the best thing for everyone. I took out my Glock, not the 9mm for work but my 40cal that I carry all the time. Too much paperwork if I use the department one, even though it would have worked better. I shot that dog right through the top of his head. I sat with him till he was cold, longer

than I expected. I rubbed his belly and pointed out the roadrunner I saw across the way, talked about that cartoon with a roadrunner from when I was a kid. Three days, that’s how long it took till she even noticed her dog was gone. I’d almost forgotten by then, had to put it out of my head. Soon as I walked through the door she was at me, wild eyes and flailing arms. It was too much. I’d left whatever was between us out in the desert. The good times were in that hole, stuck to the gooey mess of dog hair and blood. The first time she had me give that poor dog a shot I should have known it would never work out.

HYBRID

Jamie Dingman | Dad’s Wisdom

My dad’s lessons on life have always been sporadic and mostly off the wall. For example, one of his favorite methods of teaching my brother and me was through the cinematic classic The Godfather. My dad was firmly convinced that The Godfather was the foremost guide to life and that obsequious adherence to it would bring great success. He would always give a running commentary with the movie to point out lessons. Dad would pause the VCR and say things like, “That’s why you should keep your mouth shut and listen to your dad,” and “Don’t ever betray the family,” or “You should always look at beating someone as business; no apologies because it’s not personal.” When you are seven and eight years old, I’m not sure how much bearing this has on your life. One Saturday morning, after watching The Godfather, my dad decided to give us one of his “lessons.” My brother, Bubba, was failing the second grade. My dad told him that if he continued failing in school, he would never get a high school diploma. If he never received a high school diploma, he would end up with a shitty job. If he ended up with a shitty job, he would live in the projects. My brother’s brilliant retort was, “Well, at least it’s a house!” My dad proceeded to snatch up a scrap of paper and diagram a crude housing plan. He drew a rectangle and divided it in two. Then, he drew a door that connected the two compartments and two front doors. He labeled the left side compartment “Bubba’s House” and the right side compartment “Lowlife’s House.” The drawing looked something like this:

He told my brother he would be living next door to a welfare low-life, and there would only be a thin door separating my brother’s possessions from a the low-life neighbor’s. Dad went on to say that the neighbor would constantly be breaking in and stealing from Bubba. Seven-year-old Bubba was unable to comprehend exactly why Dad was getting so upset and drawing, and he relied, “Dad, it’s still a house!” At this, Dad flew into a rage. He dug into his nose, pulled out a big, greenish-gray booger and smeared it on the drawing. Pointing at it, he screamed, “Look at it! It’s a booger! If you put glitter on it, it’s still a booger!”

Calli Welsch |

Diary of a(n Almost) Deaf Girl

Lori Horvitz |

Cool as Patty Hearst Twelve years old, captive in a fluorescent pink bedroom with frilly curtains and a flowery bedspread, I watched the image of Patty Hearst flash across the TV screen, a videotaped bank photo of her in a beret, a machine gun cradled in her arms. One day, I thought, I want to be as cool as Patty Hearst looks in that photo. Let’s hear it for the debutante turned revolutionary. That year, I trained my neighbor’s pocket poodle, Cricket, to play dead, to stay, to sit. I would have taught him to beg, but Tress, Cricket’s sister, a volatile German Shepherd, put an end to my training when she finagled her way out of the master bedroom and bit me. A week later, I entered my poodle, Cindy, in a local dog-show and, for bribing purposes, brought along a piece of chuck steak fat from the steak my mother broiled the night before. I dressed Cindy in a pink skirt and she danced, barked and walked a straight line. We won second place for best tricks and I thumbtacked the red ribbon to my pink wall, next to my bowling trophy for most improved bowler. That same year I read Abbie Hoffman’s Steal This Book and learned how to make free phone calls from phone booths and to get a gum machine knob to spin around and around at the supermarket, but the grocery cart guy, Norman, caught me and shooed me away. Norman looked like an overgrown five-year-old but the neighbors said he was in his fifties and worked as a grocery cart boy because he was “a little retarded.” Before I knew I liked girls, strong girls, the bank image of Patty Hearst sent tingles through my body. Twelve years later, while traveling in Northern Ireland, I saw a similar image, a painted mural on the side of a bombed out building in Belfast. A woman in camouflage wearing a beret, a machine-gun in her hands. There’s something about a woman with a beret and a machine gun; a woman who knows

how to get what she wants. Not that I’m an advocate of violence, but as the mural said: You Can Kill the Revolutionary but Not the Revolution. At a pub, a seventeen-year old kid, thrilled to speak to an American, a rarity at the time, asked me what I was doing in Belfast. “You must be mad,” he said. Because I was stuck in my frilly pink bedroom for so long, I now wanted to live on the edge. Bombed out buildings. Graffiti. He told me about his brother who was in prison for setting off a bomb at a department store. “When he gets out,” he said, “he’ll do it again.” He asked which side I was on, if I supported the British Army. I wasn’t on either side, mostly because I didn’t know the full story but told him about my job at an Irish-American newspaper in New York, where the editors supported the IRA and loved Ronald Reagan. “Reagan is a good man,” the kid said. I didn’t tell him that I thought Reagan didn’t seem too bright and the more he talked about the Communists who were out to get us, the less I believed him. And I didn’t understand a president who supported war and then spoke about the sanctity of life. At the newspaper, if we had extra space before going to press, the editor, an older leprechaun-looking Irishman who giggled a lot, pulled a letter from a stockpile of fake letters comparing abortion doctors with Nazi war criminals. And this was the 80’s and people said hitching in Ireland was safe, even for a woman traveling alone, and I thought, Great! I’ll save some money and meet the natives! I wore a pea-coat, beret, green khakis and a big backpack, and stuck my thumb out. A woman with a small child picked me up and drove twenty miles up the road. Then I got another ride with two middle-aged women who said stuff like Top of the morning to you and You’re American! That’s brilliant! And I was on a roll and stuck out my thumb for a third time. An older man with a big bald head and black teeth pulled over and I ducked my body into his tiny car. He had a gravelly voice and I couldn’t understand much with his thick accent but nodded when he spoke. A hairy mole grew from his neck and he asked if I hitched a lot and I said, “No, you’re the third ride,” and before he let me out he moved his head towards mine and kissed me on the lips and I was stunned and baffled and Ireland was not as safe as they said and I wiped my lips and found the youth hostel and took the train from there on out. At the youth hostel I met a woman who served in the U.S. Army, stationed in Germany and on

break. She loved Ronald Reagan and believed the dollar was strong because of his leadership. That night she told me about a friend at the army base who had given her a massage. Later she learned the friend was a lesbian. When she found out she felt disgusted. “Imagine that,” she said. “A lesbian massaging me. Gross.” Can one be grossed out by physical touch, only in hindsight? I didn’t say a word, because I was in love with a woman, an Englishwoman, a self-proclaimed revolutionary who wore army boots and a beret and called herself an Anarchist. We were having a secret affair, so secret that we never talked about what was going on, only about the men in our lives. Patty Hearst served two years in prison for driving the bank-heist getaway car, released early because she claimed her captors brainwashed her. Maybe they did. But at the time, she believed in what she was doing. I think about the connections between brainwashing and desire—if we truly want something, or want something we’ve been brainwashed to want. I knew it was bad to like girls because people said terrible things about fags and dykes and queers and I didn’t even know any, never saw or heard of any until college. When I told my mother I met a friend from my hometown, a gay man, she said, “Oh, he’s probably just pretending to be gay.” My great Aunt Irene never married and traveled the world and always sang and clapped to the song, “Those Were the Days my Friend.” She died in her fifties of a terrible autoimmune disease. Among her travel photos, I found an image of her, her arms wrapped around another women’s shoulders, in front of a big Chevy on Daytona Beach. And then there was my father’s effeminate bachelor friend, Maury Goldstein, who sold socks and died of stomach cancer in his late forties. From what I could understand, unmarried people died young. Fifteen years after she married, a friend called to say she was getting divorced. She said, “You’re the only one who told me not to get married, and you were right.” When she had told me about her impending marriage, I asked if there was passion between her and her fiancé. “Not really,” she had said. “But that’s not the most important thing.” “Don’t do it!” I replied. She said that during the first

part of the marriage, despite the lack of passion, she felt so normal, so settled, so part of the mainstream. She was somebody’s wife. During the same time, I felt so abnormal; all I wanted was to meet a guy, get married and settle down; instead I dated women but hoped I wasn’t really a lesbian, drank a lot of gin and tonics and downed my dead grandmother’s Xanax to get to sleep. After I told my boyfriend of five years that I liked girls and was having an affair with an Englishwoman, he smiled and said, “I always knew you were a lesbian.” He wore army boots and considered himself an anarchist and railed against the government’s support of the Contras, the U.S. backed anti-revolutionaries, the mercenaries, who fought against the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. One day we marched in an anti-war protest in New York City, a call for the U.S. to get the hell out of Central America. We chanted, “Hey hey, ho ho, Ronald Reagan’s got to go!” The boyfriend smoked a lot of pot and read leftist manifestos and got fired from jobs because he talked back to his bosses. A year into our relationship, we vacationed in Key West. He stayed in our tent, drank vodka, complained about rich tourists and threw rocks at birds. When he got mad at me, he called me a cheap Jew and once said, “Hitler didn’t finish his job.” I told him I would relay this message to his Jewish friend, another revolutionary, and in turn, he denied saying such a thing. My sixth grade teacher, Mr. Diamond, told our class about women’s liberation, Gloria Steinem, and the Equal Rights Amendment. He called himself a feminist but the other kids in class made fun of him because of his dandruff problem. He played “I am Women” on the phonograph and mouthed the words while pumping his fist. That night, with hands on hips, I told my family I was a Woman’s Libber. My brother mimicked my words and actions, hands on his hips and all. Years later I met Gloria Steinem at a writer’s colony in Washington State. She gave me a copy of the latest Ms. Magazine and on the cover was an article about women and antidepressants. One night we took a walk and I told her that most women I knew were on antidepressants and she said she had no idea how prevalent they had become. She came up with a theory—women aren’t communicating with each other, they’re too isolated, alone, only disembodied voices on the computer screen. She said there was something to consciousness-raising groups of the sixties and seventies and how women

now needed, more than ever, to connect with each other, to share, to vent, to celebrate. She wasn’t wearing a beret or army boots, only a t-shirt and denim overalls. Patty Hearst, kidnapped at nineteen, was a rebellious teenager who told a nun at Catholic school to go to hell. At nineteen, I traveled alone through Israel, Greece and Turkey. I didn’t shave my legs in Europe; I always hated that I had to shave them. At fifteen, I argued with my mother when she insisted I shave my legs for my cousin’s wedding. We compromised when I agreed to wear black tights. In Europe, none of the Europeans shaved, so why would I? Back at college, I shaved stripes into my hairy legs—vertical stripes in one leg, horizontal in the other. Perhaps army boots and berets are overrated. Now that I’m a college professor, I prefer to blend in, to not call attention to myself. Some of my students have piercings through their noses, lips, eyebrows and tongues. Occasionally they get infections. I try to make a difference by teaching my students to engage with the world, to question authority, to speak up in the face of injustice. And when minds open in the classroom, when ideas take shape, the light is brighter, and louder, than any grenade thrown on enemy soil.

FEATURED ARTIST: CARLY CRAM

An Interview with Carly Cram | At the Mercy of Larger Forces

HY`` ig U `]hh`Y V]h UVcih mcifgY`Z" K\c UfY mci3 K\Uh Xc mci kUbh cif fYUXYfg hc _bck UVcih mci3 My name is Carly Cram. While most girls planned their weddings growing up, I always planned my funeral. I collect spoons, old bottles, and old pictures of people I’ve never met. I hate the smell of wet gravel but love the smell of freshly cut grass. The last movie I want to see before I die is The Great Dictator; the last song I want to hear before I die is Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor. If I could send one song into space it would be Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit.” If I could save one piece of artwork from a zombie apocalypse, I would save Fountain by Marcel Duchamp (supposing it hadn’t already been smashed to pieces). =Ɠ mci \UX hc XYgWf]VY mcif UYgh\Yh]W ]b gYjYbhYYb gm``UV`Yg k\Uh kci`X mci gUm3 A lonely figure / completely at the mercy / of larger forces. K\Uh kci`X mci gUm ]Ɠ mci \UX U k\c`Y gYbhYbWY3 My work attempts to capture the sadness and pain of subjects having been made into objects of cruelty. K\Uh ]b]h]U``m `YX mci hc d\chc[fUd\m UbX k\m \Ug h\]g VYWcaY mcif dfYZYffYX aYX]ia Uggia]b[ h\Uh ]h \Ug 3 I have noticed that I am introverted with my frustrations, and the only way for me to rid myself of them is through artistic expression. When I’m feeling emotional, instead of dwelling on the emotion, I try to recast it in a way that hopefully other people can relate to. On top of my love of photography, I also love to sculpt. It’s an incredible feeling to start with a bag of wet clay and end up

with a sculpture, a likeness of something. K\Uh kUg mcif aU]b gcifWY cƓ ]bgd]fUh]cb Zcf h\YgY dUfh]Wi`Uf dcfhfU]hg3 I think the inspiration is in any given moment. I see someone or I feel something and I have to take the picture right then and there. I’m inspired by something the subject tells me, something the subject is feeling, or even something that I’m feeling at that moment. K\Uh ]g mcif [cU` Zcf h\Y dfc^YWh3 K\Uh Xc mci kUbh j]YkYfg hc hU_Y UkUm Zfca mcif d\chc[fUd\g3 On a smaller scale, this series of portraits is representative of my work as a whole. I often choose female subjects, singling them out in order to more intensely convey feelings of loneliness and isolation. The images themselves are then manipulated to look aged or ravaged as a way of commenting on the sad reality of oppression and corruption: even as time and trauma pass, the effects are forever with us. =b k\Uh kUmg Xc Ubm dUfh]Wi`Uf Ufh]ghg kf]hYfg cf aig]W]Ubg ]bÀiYbWY mcif kcf_3 Certain photographers—Sally Mann and Achim Lippoth, for instance—affect me on the basis of their conceptual content, while others—Mark Tucker and Michal Chelbin —have an aesthetic that appeals to me. Music—which I will usually have on while editing—conveys emotion in such a pure, visceral way, and is something I strive to emulate with my images, to bring about an immediate, direct reaction in the viewer. And, more often than not, a song will lead me to envision a scene—I tend to always form pictures in my mind based on the mood or atmospherics of a song. K\Uh Xc ZUWYg aYUb hc mci3 5bX k\Uh Xc mci h\]b_ h\Ym fYjYU` UVcih h\Y giV^YWhg mci d\chc[fUd\3 Usually, I find myself drawn to faces with character. In some ways I believe a face tells you so much about the person you’re photographing. If I had the choice between a youthful model and an elderly woman, I would choose the elderly woman every time because her face expresses what her life has been like, and I find that much more captivating than a beautiful woman with smooth, perfect skin.

H\Y ZUWYg cƓ h\Y kcaYb mci d\chc[fUd\ `cc_ ]bhYbgY gcaYk\Uh \UfXYbYX UbX mYh ji`bYfUV`Y" <ck Xc mci WUdhifY cf WcbghfiWh h\]g _]bX cƓ dUh\cg3 8c mci dfYdUfY mcif giV^YWhg ]b Ubm dUfh]Wi`Uf kUm3 I think in looking for subjects I am drawn to a certain style of facial features. I tend to photograph these individuals out of their element because being comfortable usually doesn’t translate to being vulnerable. K\Uh ]g mcif dfcWYgg `]_Y3 I shoot predominantly with a digital SLR. I start in Lightroom and then transfer the images to Photoshop for additional editing. A single image can take anywhere from 10 minutes to 3 hours, depending on the image and what needs to be done. <ck Xc mci ZYY` UVcih fYWYbh W\Ub[Yg ]b hYW\bc`c[ƕ UbX d\chc!aUb]di`Uh]cb gcƓhkUfY3 8c mci ¿bX h\Y ]adfcjYX igUV]`]hm UbX ]bWfYUgY ]b cdh]cbg `]VYfUh]b[3 8c mci \UjY Ubm gYbgY cƓ bcghU`[]U Zcf h\Y dfY!X][]hU` XUmg3 I hear a lot of people say that digital photography is not as good as traditional film photography, but in my opinion they are completely different processes and so shouldn’t really be compared. I started with film and gradually transitioned to digital, but I will still work in whatever format most suits a project’s purpose. I definitely admire photographers like Sally Mann who shoot using 8x10 glass plates, but it is a completely different process. K\Uh Xc mci ZYY` ]g h\Y fc`Y cf ZibWh]cb cƓ d\chc[fUd\Yfg ]b h\Y &%gh 7Ybhifm3 I feel like photographers in the 21st century will revert back to film. With technology increasing so rapidly and powerful software and equipment widely available to amateurs, I really believe that photographers will bring back film photography because the field will be nearly wholly digital—photographers will be forced to do something new and different, to evolve, even if that means, somewhat ironically, devolving.

=g h\YfY cbY h\]b[ cf dYfgcb mci kci`X bYjYf kUbh hc d\chc[fUd\3 I really donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enjoy photographing landscapes, but also feel an artist should be able to take even the least desirable subject and give it some kind of emotionally resonant quality.

Contributor/Editor Bios |

Six Words to Say (Almost) Everything Contributor Bios >YƓZfYm 5`¿Yf was last seen fleeing the border. @"G" 6UggYb. Prizewinner; reads for electricliterature.com; serialized online. AUfm 6iW\]b[Yf. Wherever I go, there I am. BY]` 7UfdUh\]cg. Portsmouth, Ohio professor with three books. 7Uf`m 7fUa. a pessimistic optimist. >c\b 8Uj]g >f". husband, father, teacher. >Ua]Y 8]b[aUb. Hates to think she’s been blinded. Hf]g\ :U`]b. Between E and G, I am. ;Ycf[Y <UffUf. Connect at georgeharrarbooks.com. @cf] <cfj]hn. Dogs, chickens, books. Sometimes a guitar. 9f]W @Ukgcb writes every day. No matter what. ?UfYb @cYV. Check out China poems: wwwtctype.com #6. @mb @]Zg\]b. www.lynlifshin.com 130 books, chaps, photos, reviews. AUfm AUW;ckUb. A broom with her wayward dustpan. DUhf]W_ AUbb]b[. EMU graduate student; reads, writes, blogs. >cf[Y 5`VYfhc 5ffYc`U A]W\Y`. Escribi Mi Nombre En El Sol. 9`]UbU CgVcfb. sun-worshipping mother, writer, teacher. JUbYggU D]_Y!Jfh]U_. Poet. Activist. Tree Hugger. Rock Star. C`]jYf Gh" >c\b·g house is haunted. >" AUfWig KYY_`Ym teaches, photographs, quilts. 7U``] KY`gW\. desert dreamer in a dreamed world. * denotes contributing editor

Editor Bios 9bf]eiY 5jU`cg. tweeting every moment! >cgYd\ 6Ù]f. more, or less. AUhh 7cfWcfUb dreams of a world without shoes. GUfU\ 7cfd. six words will never be enough. 5aY`]U 7cibhg is a princess in disguise. 5aVYf 8]b\. impossible to describe in six words. ?YbXfU 8]lcb believes Morrissey cures writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s block. ;" 9\f]b[ eats cookies before theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve cooled down. GhYd\Ub]Y 6" 9`]ncbXc. ready to explore something totally different. 7cfU`mb :ci`hg likes the smell of books. AUifYYb ?" :cl. a world traveler seeking adventure. >i`]U :i`àUb. my other personalities are Jedi Masters. 6f]Ub :i`gca. an event horizon of random trivia. A]W\Y``Y ;fYYf. another now and yet the same. 8Ub]Y` <c[Ub. nine-letter word for orange ape? GUfU\ <ckUfX. see Sara Corp. 7\f]g 8" >c\bgcb. daily practicing premeditated worder. GUfU 5 ?Y``Ym. striving to make each moment matter. >cg\ ?cfb exists. Most of the time. HUfU @YYXYfaUb. Teramus Prime, indivisible by Decepticons! 111. @]bWc`b AW9`kYY wants a one-way ticket. Anywhere. 7\f]ghYb AW;Ui[\Ym. reading on beach under the sun. 5a]_c AcfUb. looking forward to the next adventure. ?f]gh]bY B]__\cc is overthinking this. AY[Ub Cn]aU. invoker of the invisible force-field. 9`]nUVYh\ DUX]`Ù. Seemingly perpetual student and paranormal enthusiast. GUbXm D" DUÙg. the dashing Greek.

6Yh\Ubm DYYfm. hoping to teach English in Taiwan. 6Yb^Ua]b F" DYffm. still training for that 5K. D\]``]d HfUX. aspiring Masters student writing science fiction. AUfhU KU``]Yb. still trying to figure it out. GhYjY KYghVfcc_ is feeling califragilistic: not super, nor _______________.

ad space

Students always receive a discount of 10% off their meal. Just show school ID.

128C W Wilshire Ave, Fullerton CA 92832

DASH Literary Journal would also like to thank: Burger Records - http://burgerrecords.webs.com/ ESPN Zone - http://www.espnzone.com/ Typewriter stock photography (c) Kjartan Ivar Paulsen http://mercyop.deviantart.com