Kiosk 37 by The Kiosk Magazine

typographers designer K :: ben suh designer I :: laura rottinghaus designer O :: luke lisi designer S :: tristan telander designer K :: yim chi hiu

managing editor :: andy green fiction editor :: rachel gray poetry editor :: robert knapp editor-in-chief :: sasha graybosch fiction editor :: mark petterson

bookworms

{

able of contents [ 12 :: 13 ]

Llruiz auren [ 28 :: 29 ]

Jjmok osefina [ 44 :: 45 ]

Bbharberg ailey [ 60 :: 61 ]

Llruiz auren [ 88 :: 89 ]

Pp eter longofono

[ 64 :: 65 ]

Bbtaylor ethany [ 90 :: 91 ]

Ccdibben hance

[ 30 :: 31 ]

Aa my rottinghaus [ 46 :: 47 ]

Kk iana schneider [ 66 :: 67 ]

Mm egan mcatee [ 92 :: 93 ]

Llhunt esley

[ 08 :: 09 ]

Ddetzel ennis jr. [ 16 :: 17 ]

Aakimllison [ 34 :: 35 ]

Mm ark peterson [ 48 :: 49 ]

[ 18 :: 19 ]

Jjicenogle ulia [ 36 :: 37 ]

Aatrinh nh-linh [ 50 :: 51 ]

Mm ark Mm onica gundelfinger hennessy [ 70 :: 71 ]

Aaornery nson [ 94 :: 103 ]

Ssmatson cott

[ 72 :: 81 ]

Aa dam mitzhell jr. [ 106 :: 107 ]

Kkjackson ari

[ 22 :: 23 ]

Jjbriceland ordan [ 40 :: 41 ]

Mm ike dent [ 54 :: 59 ]

Ssgalloway ean [ 84 :: 85 ]

Jjmackay ennifer [ 108 :: 109 ]

Zzrachel eke

[ 24 :: 25 ]

Aatrinh nh-linh [ 42 :: 43 ]

Rrshaffie ehaan

A BC D EFG H IJ KLMNOP QRS TU VW XY Z ab cd efgh i jk lmno pqr stu v w x y z Garam ond Bo ld 9pt

OLDSTYLE 1475

Ty p o g r a p h y DENNIS ETZEL JR.

For fluidity in reading, just add water. The text will smudge into a new typeface to smile through rough times with. When I was young, I went swimming through words, cutting myself on dangling modifiers. An artist saved my life, telling me one can drown in language as she painted an Arial protective coating over my mouth. Now I practice breathing under surface, try to bring up sunken treasures. I sometimes seek a smooth surface to read from, with letters that round themselves. When the form catches up to the context, I get excited, as if moving my fingers across your skin. Typography is of the moment, of the text and the typeface, of the abstract pulled by gravity to the concrete. You and I intersect on the page, where you read my body with your fingers. I am thinking what you are reading, within the rhythm and stanza of each other. I become a Garamond to your qâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, your sâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Personality profiles for text and texture emerge like pressure from an inkwell. Conflict and tension pushes letters into fuller shapes, as if each word will come out to punch you. The government tries to prove words are not so dangerous, dropping bombs on any writer as proof. However, your unwritten words will knock you into shape if you ignore them. Face the page by yourself, trained with a surprise hook from your writing hand.

Typography is of the moment, of the text and the typeface, of the abstract pulled by gravity to the concrete. N IN E :: 0 9

ewer and fewer people use the term “typography” to signify specific techniques for the cutting of punches, the striking of matrices, the casting, the composing and printing of type. It is now commonly used in graphic art magazines to cover the whole field of visual communications: traffic signals, pictographs, symbols and posters as well as newspaper layout, advertising, or, eventually, book typography. If “typography” is no longer to imply punches and so forth, what then could and should it stand for? —Fernand Baudin, 1967

E LE V E N :: 11

““““““““““““ untitled :: lauren ruiz :: mixed media

THIR TE E N :: 13

* shift+8

b...

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

FIF TE E N :: 15

be BOLDER.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

expressive type poster :: allison kim :: graphic design

VER if yo u f in d a f o u r- l e a f

CLO

.................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. .................. ..................

(.)

i t w i l l br i n g ha p p i n e s s

ANYONE

whe re i t â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wh it e f l ower bloo m s o r h ow m a ny leaf l e t s f ro m it s stem e x t e nd thef o u r- l e af edc l over. io n l y w a n t yo u r h a p p i n e s s k n ow i n gi ca n n e ve r be yo u r s to s ha re i t

,,,,,,::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,:::::::::::::::,,,,,,,,,,,,,:::::::::,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

delish :: mixed media

,,,,,,,,,,,,,:::::::,,,,,,,,,:::::,,,,,,,,,,::,,,,,,,,,,:,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,:: julia icenogle

NIN E TE E N :: 19

ss :: mixed media

A BC DE F G H I J KL M N OP QR S T U V W X Y Z abcdef ghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz123456 7890 Bickham Script Pro 14 pt.

SCRIPT STYLE 1550

cast current :: cast iron

:: jordan briceland

tongue parade :: plum wood

T W E NT Y-TH R E E :: 2 3

fallacious cuisine :: anh-linh trinh :: digital photography

T W E NT Y- FI V E :: 25

The is the mirror

of the mind of men.

expressive type poster :: josefina mok :: graphic design

T W E NT Y- N IN E :: 29

no on e

ed to

stom accu ll ot s ta ve n seem ore i’ anym ty is eyes reali hing hard searc from

th s ture e fea e tr

t up

gh cau

dista

but only

eop

of p

dista

fall

ple peo

fall

s of

n grow

dge ll bri sma

own ly gr

ture e fea

dge

hea

t on

bu up

tr the

ll bri

t ca

one

but

ple

of p eo

ugh t

e fe atu res

e tr

to th

seem anym s tall ore i’ve no

usto med

acc

con

t ugh

sma

ps dro k wee cid a

in w drop eak s acid ty is eyes reali hing hard sesmarcall brid from ges

no on

ed to stom accu

ll ot ca s ta ve n fasellem ore i’ anym

dista

52 ps dro k wea d tain aci con

ve tain

row n

expressive type poster :: amy rottinghaus :: graphic design

hea

only

gro wn

hard from reali sea ty is rch ing eyes

dista es

fall ridg

ll b

sma

small bridges

d wea rops k acid

hard reality is from searching eyes

hea

distant hard reality is from searching eyes

con

hard from reali sea ty is rch ing ey

ly g

ut o n

ple

of p eo

hea

heave drops contain weak acid

o on e

not

ugh t up b

e fe atu res

e tr

to th

tain

small bridges drops contain weak acid

fall

no one

seems tall anymore i’ve not caught up but only grown accustomed to the tre features of people

accustomed to the tre features of people

seems tall anymore i’ve not caught up but only grown

no one

seem anym s tall ore i’ve

usto med

acc

ac!d people con

heave

fall distant

TH IR T Y- O N E :: 31

TRANSITIONAL 1750

y yy yy

yy yyy yy y y yyy y y

yy y y

yy y

yy y yy

y yy

y yy y

y yy

y y

y o y yo y

y y y yy y y

y y

yoy

y y

y yy

yoy

y y

y yy y y y

oy y yy yy

y yy

y y

y yy

yy yyy

yyy

y y

yy yy

y yy yy

y y y y

y y

y y y

y y y y y yy y y y yy yyy y y y

y y y

y y y y yy yy y

1986

y yoy y yoy y o y oy y

y y y

y y

y y y

y oy

CHRISTMAS EVE,

y y y y y y y y y y

y y y

y yy y y

y y y

y y y y

y y y y y y yy

y o

y o oy oy y y

y y oy

{mark peterson}

o oy y

oy oy

oy o oy

oy y oy

oy y o oy y

oy oy

y oy

oy oy o

o oyy

oy o oy y y oy y o oy

oy oy oy o o y

yy y

y yy

yy y

y y

yy y

y yy y

y y

yy y

yy y y y y y y y y y y yy y y y y y y

y y

yy y y y y

y y

An opening figure, overcome by the weight of his overcoat, And whatever else he may have been carryingMaybe money, maybe books, maybe some hidden secret Fell to the cobblestones; stumbling into the one ray Of sunlight left in that grey city. It was not the laden coat, exactly. That caused him to fall so un-gracefully, Like a frozen parachute; unopened. TH IR T Y- FI V E :: 3 5

And not even the invisible burden could have Tripped his stride like that. For it was the blinding glare of a Macy’s window That distracted the pitiable broker Into thinking that perhaps the curb at his feet Wasn’t really that high. But it was. Naturally

yy y

y y

oy y

o oy y o y

y oy

y y y y yy

y oy o oy o y oyy y y y

yy oy

yoy

y y y yy y

y o

yy yyy

oy oy

y y y y yy

y y y yy

yy oy

y yy y y y

y y yoy oy y

oy yy y oy y y o y o yoy oy oy y oy oy oy oy o yy y oy oy

metro :: digital photography

I empire :: digital photography

TH IR T Y-SE V E N :: 3 7

:: anh-linh trinh

Perfect typography is certainly the most elusive of all arts. Sculpture in stone alone

comes near it in obstinacy. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Jan Tschichold, Homage to the Book, 1968

Patches and Badges

Mike Dent

The grass tickled our stomachs, But we concentrated on the sky rolling past us, The breath of God exhausted but always moving. Aimee mentioned the color of camouflage And we both gulped little pauses, Foreign gaps in time we knew weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never fill. Our thoughts turned to friends, Gunmen, paratroopers, mechanics, All of them with patches and badges, Stars to replace scars and lost years, Memories blurred out in sandy cigarettes That were lit before enemy fire kicked in.

FO R T Y- O N E :: 41

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aaaa

a a a a

aaaaaaaa

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{STRANGE FRUIT} Rehaan Shaffie gravel voices ricochet off bare walls and wood floors mourning the night-bloom trees vomit-sick voices carry across soft cotton whips prickling hairs like cool wind cast-iron voices thunder like stretched skin drums beating news of strange fruit

the blue drum song past laden southern branches and forget where it came from

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FO R T Y-THR E E :: 4 3

baby-new voices mimic

u u u u

3_4_5_6_7_8_9_10

g FO R T Y- FI V E :: 45

pears :: bailey harberg :: oil painting

dancing with myself :: kiana schneider :: charcoal

a e

e b j

d e b

i c

D a nc i n g

w it h

m ys e l f FO R T Y-SE V E N :: 47

I DONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T CARE

for any of those things

CH RLOTTE INTER NATION L

mark hennessy

I wept a long time in the airport

but for the mannequins

as one by one all the lights went out

composed in a pantomime;

and the food shops closed down.

a man, a woman, a child,

A woman I had seen before

around the tableau’s table.

met me at the gate, she said,

I said, “What do these people do?

“Yesterday you were young,

“These people work,” she said,

to a showroom empty

“they eat and sleep, they make love—they hold hands, they talk.” “I don’t care for any of those things,” I turned to say but she was already gone.

FO R T Y- N IN E :: 49

tomorrow you will be old.” She led me by the hand

untitled :: monica gundelfinger :: pinhole photo

FIF T Y- O N E :: 51

ABCDEFGH IJK L M NOP QR S TU V W X Y Z abcde fg h i jk l m n o p q rst u vw x y z1 23 45 67 89 0 R ockwe l l 9 p t

SLAB SERIF 1825

sean galloway

Amber was a town. It was a town with

never been. The boy stole dandelions from

a boy and a thief. Amber had a boy; the

the ground, leaves from his favorite hill-top

thief, just passing through. The boy read

tree, and glimpses at his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dusty

books and poems and caught bullfrogs.

military uniform. The thief stole silverware

The thief dressed like a priest and picked

from the drawer, pies from the windowsill,

flowers before they blossomed. The boy

and the mayorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s child when he burned an

cut his hands on tree bark and bicycle

empty barn. Both believed everything their

chains. The thief drank gin. The boy tried

mothers ever told them. Both believed what

to concentrate at church. The thief had

Amber said when the papers read guilty.

Only the thief smiled when the dust and the shouting ascended and threw a rope over the tree’s lowest limb. The bent branch cried and heaved when the rope swung taut. The dust became wide-eyed and silent and drifted away leaving a sagging bough a sagging body. That night the boy stared out his window at the summer moon and a swinging thief. The father told the boy about swift justice, law, and what goes around comes around. The

breeze. The boy went out the next day and stole dandelions from the ground, glimpses of his father’s dusty military uniform, and a

the boy about swift justice, law, and what goes around comes around.”

FIF T Y- FI V E :: 55

boy lied awake all night and winced at the

“The father told

hymnal from the church where the minister

Breeze, to gale, to bedlam. The thunder

spoke of swift justice, law, and what goes

shook the bed from rest. The lightning

around comes around. Every once and again

silhouetted flaying limbs and fingers that

dust stirred about the tree— Observance

bore a single saturated fruit. No one dared

of the idle is necessary. The tree, anointed

the boy to stare. Clouds hung, the sky kept

as a reliquary—That night he read verses

melting, and morning was nowhere to be

that rang of shepherds and sheep, but they

found. The boy hid in the attic until dinner

couldn’t help the boy to sleep. The sky now

and left the voice of praise in a mildewed

fell in torrents and tapped at his window.

blanket. He ate the meat and nibbled on

“The lightning silhouetted flaying limbs and fingers that bore a single saturated fruit.”

the bread. He was gorged with water so he left the glass untouched. The boy’s stomach might have been empty, it might have been full. The boy sat on the rug in the middle

father’s knife. The screen door clacked

of his room. He stared at his bed, for once

in the wind. The boy grabbed and closed

indifferent to what lay under it. Behind,

it—careful but firm. On the back step, the

flashes captured the sick shadows. The

thin white pajamas wet. The handle of the

boy laid himself on the fading pattern. Eyes

knife, the peeling leather watered. Tensing

arrested to the stuttered projection. The

of the hand on the grip. The boy stepped

tree, the bending bough, giving gallows.

off into yielding grass. Cold water washed

closer… closer… closer the Storm, the Boy

over his feet, the storm painted black hair

—waiting, holding out, persisting. Wind,

on his brow. Step, climb, slow clamber. The gusts in the leaves, the mocking applause—

rain, thunder, the thief—echoed in his ears.

sounding closer. A sagging bough, a sagging body, a boy, a screaming heaven, a sagging

the rusted latch and opened the musty

from within. The thief’s smile, hooded in

chest. Photos, postcards, promises, grand-

tattered canvas. The toes drooped toward

FIF T Y-SE V E N :: 57

He crashed silently into the attic. Crushed

“The pleading speech of the strained rope, ‘Does Amber forgive? Awake Amber, await.’”

rushing amid the bark of the tree and the

for: the ground again. The boy’s joints ache

lightning. Clasping crawling—the sailboats

in embrace of the knife. The rain pushes the

tear and capsize on his skin. Inching along

thief ever closer to the earth—the wind ready

the bough, the screeching whine of wind

to walk him all over. The pleading speech

and water. The boy looked up at the Father’s

of the strained rope, “Does Amber forgive?

dusty military uniform. He stopped, just at

Awake Amber, await.” The boy interrupts,

arms length to the rope. His weight, with

positioned and facing. An argument between

the prairie reaching to tickle life into rot

the boy’s eyes and the departed pendulum.

limbs. The blade, a reflection of a face and

It moans lower, heavier. Circling the hilltop,

storm wrought with ardor. Then flung back,

his breath lingers where the thief no longer

two thuds splashed into the earth. And

wants. His fingers feel among the streams

arose a sagging body, sagging from within.

FIF T Y- N IN E :: 59

grass. Make sure the blades aren’t too sharp

face

beard

--– _----—_–----------point size

nick

metal slug

_---—_–---------3-em quad

SI X T Y- O N E :: 6 1

hands :: lauren ruiz :: charcoal drawing

I MP R E SS ION

SI X T Y-TH R E E :: 6 3

print ing

x-height

baseline

serif

BETHANY TAYLOR

READING SHAKESPEARE

in high school

What if the page is a mercury glass you could ripple; a viscous ocean with the wallowing crippled words haunted by some ghostly sighing commas, serifs sharp like jagged rocks, apostrophes like fish. What if I could dive in and swim among the twisted wrecks? Could I the letters touch, the phrases rearrange?  They might be fixed like coral to rock or maybe stuck in sand. If I dug in and loosed their roots, I could their places shift.  Would “My Mistress’s eyes” become “mess messy rye it’s” ? A house I would erect, made of decrepit old Tottering words and live in it forever.

SI X T Y- FI V E :: 65

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Faces of type are like menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s faces. They have their own expression; their complexion and peculiar twists and turns of line identify them immediately to friends, to whom each is full of identity. -- J.L. Frazier --

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AB C D E F G H I J K LM N O P Q R ST U V WXY Z abcdefgh i j k l mnopq rs t u vw xy z 1 2 3 4 5 678 9 0 Berthold Akzidenz Grotesk 9 pt

a SANS SERIF 1900

Lazar Markovitch (El) Lissitzky

earth form :: anson ornery :: water color

E E

E E E E

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“Honey!” He cried, “I found my mask.”

decades of his attic on account of the reunion. Current rivals and ex-lovers would be there. His

Downstairs, Gloria pretended not to hear. She

wife had been shedding dress sizes. He searched

gazed at her reflection while zipping up. She

for, and eventually found, his mask, the one

practiced receiving compliments while adjusting

Gloria had fallen in love with. He asked himself,

the strap hidden beneath the hairstyle she had

why did I ever take this off? Inspection revealed

chosen for just such a purpose.

no chips or cracks; its strap pulled taut. The mask was bulky, cut into his forehead, and its smile revealed a lot of tooth; muffled his speech.

a a a a a a a a a a a a a a

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At the reunion, the music of their youth

blared from mounted speakers. The same

accosted them from mounted speakers. The

songs he used to hear on his way to work.

alumni had failed to raise enough money for

Before carpooling; the changing of the

a live band, and this was everyone’s reward.

pre-sets. Before soft voices introducing

The same songs she heard for years; the

nocturnes, sonatas, and concertos. Long

soundtrack to their poor decisions. Before she

before Gloria riding shotgun; doing her

had instituted some changes. Before she had

face; no kissing, that would smudge the

decided to bring culture to her home. She had

lipstick. Before those things he would

had to listen to these songs. She began with

drum the steering column, air guitar

small things. The mail brought new magazine

along the freeway, sing into the toll-booth

subscriptions. Their diet was to be educated;

change basket. At the reunion, he grabbed

their life: informed. Also, the compact disc

Mindy Messner during Born to be Wild

selection and radio pre-sets changed. She

and they both climbed so high they never

found classical; wanted to live with class. At

wanted to die. While flailing and sweating,

the reunion she found Ronald Stubbins, a man

he noticed, through his mask’s eye-holes,

who exuded class, and attached herself to

Gloria turn in shame, and approach the

his side. Through her mask’s eye-holes she

punch bowl with Ron Stubbins. With

watched Harold embarrass himself. Watched

increased vigor, he renewed his grip

him sweat and flail in his ridiculous tight-

around Mindy’s waist.

fitting mask. The one she had fallen in love

E E E E E E EE E E

with. With a shake of the head, and a renewed “You haven’t changed a bit Harold,” she

lack of spousal commitment she turned back

giggled into the loose flesh of his neck,

to Ronald and his offer of punch. Handing her

“still the wild man.”

the glass, he leaned and spoke into her

slender neck, “Gloria, you haven’t changed one bit, still gorgeous.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __

The reunion ended when Harold, and two

The reunion ended for Gloria when she

guys who had twenty-seven years before

bent to retrieve a hairpin from between

flushed his keys down the toilet, tore down

two restroom tiles and her mask slipped

the banner proclaiming â&#x20AC;&#x153;25 and STILL ALIVEâ&#x20AC;?

off and cracked between the eyes. Ronald

that hung above the banquet hall entrance

was just then exiting the stall, readjusting

and pulled Mindy around on it while Magic

his shirttail and tie, when he noticed her

Carpet Ride sent the rest of the room into

crying. He patted, then squeezed her on

a sing-along frenzy. The alumni organizers

the shoulder, and left her to it. He then

found and pulled the sound systemâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s extension

proceeded to approach the dance floor to

cord. Representatives of the Golden Saber

excuse himself while he kissed the sky.

banquet hall stood accusingly in the door

Gloria retrieved her coat and purse, and

frame like disappointed mothers; motioning:

while exiting tore the name tag from her

out. The magic carpet riders stared dumbly

breast and let it flutter to the ground. She

at each other, like survivors of a tragedy,

turned the key in the ignition, and sped

or a bacchanalia. Harold peeled a piece of

home with Stravinsky. Harold could find

paper from the sole of his shoe. It said: Gloria

his own damn ride.

(Rogers) Majors. He found Mindy and one of the key flushers fondling behind a fichus. Tapping them on a shoulder, he offered gas money for a ride.

E E

SE V E NT Y- FI V E :: 75

25 AND STILL ALIVE

E E

KILL HIM!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Now Harold listens to rock music. Gloria asks him to turn it down. Sometimes, grabbing the knob, she dials it down to hear herself think. That sonofabitch, is what she thinks. Since the high-school reunion Harold has been eating cheeseburgers, making lewd suggestions in the bedroom, and damaging the speakers. Their classical compact discs, Bach, Stravinsky, and Chopin, aren’t even placed properly in their cases; left delicately open to the elements. Gloria looks protectively at the portraits of the old masters, and asks them for advice. Kill him! They shout in unison. Now that’s no way to act,

KILL HIM! >

she replies. He’s the one eating cheeseburgers, I still have my dignity.

E EE EE EE EE EE E

()

Now Gloria has begun talking to the compact discs. Harold was taking garbage to the curb when he tip-toed by. Thinking she was lost in thought, he felt it wise to creep. She was asking the classical discs dinner advice. “....but Harold refused to eat the steamed veggies and rice...” That much was true, but he didn’t see the classical masters as any kind of authority on the subject of his eating habits. Since the high-school reunion Gloria has placed locks on certain cupboards, begun refusing his sexual advances, and always reading pamphlets entitled, “Reconnecting with your Partner,” and “What You Deserve.” Harold returns from the curb after a tool-shed detour. Gripping a hammer and making his way deliberately. Swinging with purpose, he liberates the snack cakes, fried pig skins, and Butter-Bomber popcorn. He glances at the violated lock at his feet, then reaches for a Creamy Delight. He slyly wonders what Gloria will say to the classical masters about this reconnection with his loved one.

“”

EEEE

aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa SE V E NT Y-SE V E N :: 7 7

{}

EEEEEE

>>>>

SHE DOESN’T > DESERVE > > A HUSBAND > RELEGATED > > TO THE COUCH

> > __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ ___ _ >

> __ _ __ _ >

> __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ >

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Maybe it’s the sound escaping from his open mouth that disgust Gloria. Or it’s the beer bottles lying empty at the head of the couch? Just the fact that he’s using the fold-out? It’s all of those things. She doesn’t deserve a husband relegated to the couch. She looks at him as she does the children covered in flies in National Geographic, then takes her coat from the entrance closet. She feels for her objects and knows they are there before her fingertips do. Left pocket: one half of her mask. Right pocket: the inlay booklet from her Stravinsky “The Rite of Spring” (conducted by Pierre Monteux) compact disc. She gets in the car and navigates the winding streets of her subdivision; named for men she’s never heard of.

it’s the phone, excited at the head of the couch that wake Harold? It’s all of those things. Into his ear is the news that Gloria’s mother has died. This will be his fault. As the messenger he will be lined against the wall in the garage and shot, no blindfold, and definitely no cigarette. He jots down particulars, hangs up. Massaging his back, he bends and folds the bed into its cushion hideout. Gloria is working on a Saturday. Harold takes this time to stay in pajamas well into the afternoon, he reads on the toilet with the door wide. When the water will no longer stay warm he leaves the shower. Gloria’s mother haunts him. He pictures her with, and without the tubing; always smiling, engulfed in the extra-large Houston Oilers sweatshirt draped over her withering frame. It’s loyalty to a team that had abandoned her that impressed him most. He thinks while toweling and dressing, she was always cheering something on. Harold walks into the kitchen and eyes his cupboard. The wood is still splintered from snack reclamation. He knows what he will see, but opens it anyway. A pamphlet titled, “Eating for a Better You,” is taped inside. One box of light butter popcorn decorated with a smiley face note saying “try this instead.” Instead, he decides to indulge his craving for a King Beef burger.

__ _ __ _ __ _

E E E E E

Maybe it’s the spring jabbing into his spine? The noon sun hot on his face? Or

EEEEEEE

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E E

/ ^ ~ :

E E

__ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _ __ _

Harold grabs his wallet and navigates the twisting roads of his subdivision. Gloria has taken the car. Harold enjoys walking his neighborhood where everyone seems stay inside and the streets are named for famous Dallas Cowboys. A fact he once mentioned to Gloria when they first moved in as ironic, seeing as how they lived in Arkansas. But he has grown used to the silent and manicured front lawns of Aikman Pass. He meanders along Emmit Smith Run in a daydream. He thinks with sadness of Gloria’s mother, a lady he too once addressed as “Mom.” Mindy Messner is there. The ghost of her waist lingers on his palms. He should have gotten her number, he thinks, before feeling ridiculous. His face flashes hot beneath his mask. Harold barely notices the mask since the reunion. Gloria has refused to kiss him since he rediscovered it, but that’s her problem. She complained first of its smell; attic and age, time and immaturity. She hated its affect on his speech, which he too found initially bothersome, but now his mouth has conformed. Stopping for traffic at the edge of his subdivision he leans upon the “Staubach’s Shady Acre” sign for a moment and fingers the mask. It’s cool to the touch, but far from lifeless. He senses his own warmth beneath. He thinks of flesh, he pictures Mindy’s hips undulating, he tastes the King Beef burger waiting for him at Dairy Hut.

aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

__ __ __ __ __

. & [ ] >

Harold walks back toward his subdivision

to subside. She waits for the door to swing

rubbing his belly full of two King Beef

open and the steam to waft out. Ronald

burgers and a large Sugar Shake. He

takes long showers. Ronald signs them

carries a greasy bag with Milksy the Cow

in under pseudonyms like they are spies.

smiling and giving the thumbs up in one

She lays almost dutifully on the bed, while

hand, and some lottery tickets in the

absently fondling the motel key and her

other. Attempting to scratch their silver

mask half, one in each hand. Ronald’s

scratchable surfaces with the thumb of

showers give Gloria too much time to think.

the same hand in which they are held ,

She feels frustrated, alone, normal. She has

he narrowly avoids running directly into

read the pamphlets, magazines; listened to

Gloria, who is parked in his path, watching

talk show hosts, and made attempts at their

him. She laughs when, startled, he drops

instruction. She knows what she deserves,

the Dairy Hut bag sending calories flying.

thought she knew about reconnecting.

Because she opens the passenger side

Gloria drops both objects on the bedside

door for him to get in, he gets in. They

table. As she hears the shower curtain

stare at each other for a moment before

yanked aside, she leaves.

Harold notices guitars from the stereo. “You know, you can hardly tell you’re wearing it anymore,” she says reaching to touch his face. “I’m sorry, but your mother is dead,” he

says, reaching back to touch hers.

E I G HT Y- O N E :: 81

Gloria waits for the roar of the shower

E E E E

__ __ __ __ __ __ __

1234567890

dirty skies :: jennifer mackay :: pinhole camera

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

E I G HT Y- FI V E :: 85

EXPERIMENTAL 1984

ow and

e Cr

Pet

the Cast

L ngof

ono

Barbarian towers shred the air And remember the wrinkled paws of their masons, Spires of morbid Earth Forgetting the omnifucking thrust of grass. Carpets rot, and A mirror perfectly imitates adventurous clouds.

A crow flies into a spiral staircase, Spinning itself into an airborne chapel. The chapel paints it scarlet and cerulean But neglects to feed it. Chandeliers look at tabletops, dangling. It will remain a mystery Whether the ants in the courtyard Fathom their titanic world, Or the petite irony of their sand castles. Far away, the manyâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;hued crow starves.

As he twists and pushes, Inside from inside, a certain trepidation sets in. Swallowing the key was easy. But for now, escape will have to wait.

NIN E T Y- O N E :: 9 1

Chance Dibben

18 t 18pt24pt36p 7pt8pt9pt10 pt

4pt5pt6pt

12pt14pt

7pt8pt9pt10pt11pt

4pt5pt6pt

11pt12pt14pt

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too late :: lesley hunt :: pen and ink

8pt24pt

N IN E T Y-TH R E E :: 9 3

36pt

The first time your mom was sober around your father was after the second doctor confirmed she was pregnant. Coincidentally the first time she realized that your father had a drinking problem was as they were painting the nursery and he spilled his vodka tonic all over the new crib. When she gives him an ultimatum he’ll leave. There will be custody battles and divorce papers signed while you still breathe through gills.

they created together. When you’re a child you’ll watch your parents find solace in the beds of other people, and you’ll see them wrap themselves up inside cardboard shields with words like “Milwaukee” and “Light” written on the outside. You’ve never seen your parents fight – but you’ve never seen them kiss either; you

N INE T Y- FI V E :: 95

Later you’ll wonder how a married couple couldn’t stay together during the pregnancy of a child

wonder which would be worse for you. When you are in elementary school you’ll have a school program and as you sing you look out over the audience and see both your parents smiling back at you from opposite sides of the gym. You’ll be in second grade and plagued with the decision of which parent to run to after the last song is over. Your mom starts to date other men and it doesn’t seem normal, not because it’s not your father, but because it’s always just been the two of you. You love your dad for trying to be your friend the same way you hate your mom’s boyfriends for trying to be your dad. When you’re sixteen you’ll be a virgin but depending on who asks, you had this girlfriend from this other town. Girls will like you, but in a friendly way; you’ll be too nice and too shy to make them think anything else about you. You’ll find it difficult to play hard to get because you are in fact easy to get. When you’re a senior in high school and you’ve lost your baby fat you’ll have a girlfriend. She’s your first but you’re not hers so you’ll know that it can never work out, you’re just learning. Several expectations will go unmet, you stumble through the first kiss, the TV steals most of your conversations, and you’ll find yourself so in love with the idea of it that you don’t even know who she is. Once she stops talking to you for a week. When you find out what’s wrong she’ll say, “I thought I was pregnant,” “You can’t be serious.” “Well, my period was late.” “You understand how that works, right.” you say. “Of course I do, I’m not an idiot,” “Mary, we’ve never even taken our pants off together”

“I just thought maybe it went through the layers.” You’ll expect more fireworks or maybe tears when you break up, you expect more pain. When you said you loved her, you meant it, and every time she whispered, “I love you too,” your entire body tingled. You’ll realize that neither of you were ready to wield that kind of power – to tap into that world. When you’re in love with the idea of love it doesn’t take much. Sometimes when you talk to your dad you can sense the loneliness in his voice. Also, sometimes you feel responsible for your mom’s premature engagements. It’s so much easier when she doesn’t have to find a babysitter to stay at his place, if he moves in. You wonder if she could have her pick of the single guys, not just jump into it with the first one who tolerates single mothers. Before you graduate you will have been in four weddings. They were all your parents’. When you first meet Sonja Patterson you know she will break your heart. You’ll know your own tendencies to become someone who you are not, but you’ll try to make her love the real you. When you find yourself driving to the vintage clothing store before every date to find something hip but used (so it looks like you were always this cool), you’ll know then that you failed. You’ll fall in love with her. You will fear the end before it begins, so you’ll know it can’t last. When she says, “I love you,” the first time, it startles you, and you’re not sure if that’s what she said, but you say, “I love you too.” You’ll never know if she was just too surprised to correct your hearing.

She shows you things that open you. She takes you to the roof of the tallest building in the town you grew up in to watch fireworks. There are no lights but intermittent flashes illuminate her face. When the sky ignites, she holds her breath and after the red and gold flecks sprinkle away she makes a sound that’s like a sigh. At some point you will realize that you have given her your heart. It wasn’t a decision you made, although given the choice you wouldn’t have hesitated. She will have all you have to give and when that isn’t enough for her you’ll realize that you can’t ask for it back. It’s hers now, and you’ll miss it almost as much as you miss her. She tells you she’s not ready, that she can’t give you what you need. You never asked anything of her, though, so you struggle to understand what she means. You tell yourself she had commitment phobia, that her parent’s relationship wasn’t a healthy one so in turn she had to fear committed relationships. But, you fear deep within yourself that you just weren’t enough. It’s hard to tell whether your parents are better off unhappy in their new marriages or still lonely. They have made a choice, to sacrifice happiness so that they don’t have to sit alone at restaurants when they go out to eat.

suasoas

After Sonja you meet Tara. She’s not Sonja. You both know it but neither of you mention it. It’s not love, but you’re not without someone, and when she laughs, you feel worthwhile. She vaguely mentions an ex while you not so vaguely stare into the lamp at the table, commiserating in silence; it is then that you realize you’re playing a role too. It ends with Tara slowly, by growing distances in the space left between you on a couch, by the words left unsaid, quietly it is faded out. A relationship that existed entirely within the blank spaces. You feel slighted by love, for escaping you, but mostly you feel empty like a forgotten balloon floating away from a boy it once made so happy.

x Neither of your parents have real friends. They’ll say they admire you for yours.

Your step-mom is closer to your age than your dad’s, but that doesn’t give you a reason to bond. She’s not nice to your dad so you rarely see fit to be nice to her. But, mostly you don’t like her because you used to go on vacations with your dad but now there was only room for her dog. Sometimes when he falls asleep she makes faces, she’ll flip him off, she mouths foul words and curses him for being too fat and boring. She kicks him when he snores and when he offers to move to the couch, she says, “Well I do have to be at work in the morning.” You watch her argue for attention, and when you see the tired look on your father’s face you realize that he understands who she is. She doesn’t come with him to visit you. You never figure out if it’s because she doesn’t care to, or if he doesn’t invite her.

After your mom gives up Buddhism she marries a minister of the Disciples of Christ church. She eats double-cheeseburgers and leads bible studies in the basement of her ranch-style home in Iowa. You still remember the taste of the soy-gluten-wheatgrass patties she used to try to pass off as meat. You still remember her inner-strength. You remember when she dated the blownglass artist and how they tried out his line of pipes in the backyard, how they laughed harder and turned up the volume on your CD player playing the CD he brought. You wonder if the minister knows about blown glass. You meet Dana at work. She’ll ask you about your scarf, you’ll ask her about the book she’s reading. She shows you music that you love, and likes to go on walks.

You ask her about her day and sometimes she forgets to ask about yours. When you look into her eyes you see the reflection of someone else, you have a hard time making out who it is. You wonder if it’s how she sees you or if she wishes for someone else entirely. Sometimes Dana will walk through life in a daze, you’ll ask her what’s wrong, but she’ll say, “Nothing,” or “I don’t know.” She doesn’t seem happy, but she doesn’t seem sad either and when the two of you fight she never gets mad just frustrated until she leaves -- when she calls you in the morning she pretends that nothing happened. Problems will never be solved, you’ll want to fix it, but you won’t know how. You know that there are times that she floats, times where she snaps into color while everything around her fades to grayscale.

You’ll watch her be happy and wish that you were the cause. When you learn that you’re not you wish you were more surprised. At some point you’ll ask, “Why am I not enough?” “Its not you, I love you, this is the best relationship.” “What is it then?” “It’s just something that’s always been there, and I don’t know how to be happy sometimes, I need things that aren’t possible.” In the silence you’ll search for her meaning, while she searches for the right way to tell you the things she knows will tear you apart. The things she won’t tell you, but you will be able to guess, are really only one thing, or one person. She met him through a friend that always smirked at you like he knew all the things about her that you wished you knew. “He’s someone that means a lot to me, but it isn’t meant to be.” You’ll learn later that she calls him a soul mate. “I do love you,” she says. “It’s over with him.” When she says goodbye to him she cries out loud, she convulses and begs him to stay, she kisses him with lips wet from the tears he coerced. He says nothing, he only watches in awe of the power he has over her heart. You avoid asking the questions you know you should ask, they scream at you from the back of your mind. You’re afraid of her answers. “Do you want to be with me?” “I don’t know.” You fall asleep holding each other in the loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

eyes and says,

â&#x20AC;&#x153;You clean the plates.â&#x20AC;?

O N E H U N D R E D TH R E E :: 10 3

In the morning you wake up and she is gone; when you walk into the kitchen she is standing over the stove and asks if you want any eggs, then she walks toward you, gives you a hug, looks into your

O N E H U ND R E D FI V E :: 105

— Mac Baumwell

Kari Jackson

I thought a few more legs would have fallen off by now. Only one floats in the puddle of Raid youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re twisting in. Most fall instantly when the poison shocks the eight limbs. Most scramble opposite the spray. Most shrivel in spasms until folding into a spot of carbon in a linoleum corner.

Are you the one who spun the home on my patio? It had two captures. Did you ever dine? At least Papa swallowed seven gummy worms before he seizured, staggered through the front door, and shivered down to a heap of fleshy poison. From across the room, your carcass looks like a crumb of mud. I think Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll let you dry first.

S N T D I O E N YE

iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m now c onvinced that writing p oetry is ju s t passing k idney sto nes we squat in dark ro oms writhe in abandon e d basemen chewing ts through o ur tongue s

! sharp pie ces of ou rselves lest they poison us we trade sweat an d blood for a pitif ul pebble made of piss and salt

:: zeke rach el

O NE H U N D R E D N INE :: 10 9

the legendary terrordactyls

ku student senate

kjhk

thank you jackpot saloon

anna neil

danny pound band

ku fine arts department

stormy story dj jason

OLD STYLE

SANS SERIF

EXPERIMENTAL

[06 – 07] garamond

[68 – 69] berthold grotesk

[86 – 87] box

[08 – 09] adobe garamond

[70 – 71] cyrillic

[88 – 89] do fuse

[10 – 11] caslon

[72 – 73] helvetica neue

[90 – 91] din altered

[12 – 13] jenson; janson

[74 – 75] helvetica neue

[92 – 93] crayon; cupojoe

[14 – 15] janson

[76 – 77] helvetica neue

[94 – 95] hammer thin; hairline

[16 – 17] bembo

[78 – 79] helvetica neue

[96 – 97] hammer thin; hairline

[18 – 19] palatino

[80 – 81] helvetica neue

[98 – 99] hammer thin; hairline

[82 – 83] din

[100 – 101] hammer thin; hairline

[84 – 85] futura

[102 – 103] hammer thin; hairline

SCRIPT STYLE [20 – 21] bickham script

[104 – 105] custom made

[22 – 23] bickham script

TRANSITIONAL

[24 – 25] bickham script

[32 – 33] walbaum

[26 – 27] berthold script bq

[34 – 35] baskerville old face

[28 – 29] amazon bt

[36 – 37] walbaum

KIOSK 37

[30 – 31] amazon bt

[38 – 39] din

DIN is used throughout the

[40 – 41] bauer bodoni; carta

entire book and as the body

[42 – 43] baskerville old face

copy for all literature.

[52 – 53] rockwell; woodtype [54 – 55] serifa [56 – 57] serifa [58 – 59] serifa [60 – 61] bell mt

[108 – 109] hazard

[44 – 45] bauer bodoni [46 – 47] bell mt [48 – 49] baskerville [50 – 51] linotype didot

[62 – 63] mesquite; woodtype [64 – 65] clarendon; woodtype [66 – 67] serifa

(( (( ( special thanks to johannes gutenburg without whom none of this would have been possible ) )) ))

O N E H U N D R E D E LE V E N :: 111

SLAB SERIF

[106 – 107] neoprint m319