Vol. II, Issue III - February 2015 by The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

THE RAIN, PARTY, & DISASTER SOCIETY IS A WORKSHOP-BASED ONLINE LITERARY PUBLICATION THAT STRIVES TO GIVE REPRESENTATION TO NEW IDEAS AND THOUGHTS, TO CHALLENGE THE READER, AND TO QUESTION COMMONLY ACCEPTED OPINIONS, VALUES, ETIQUETTE, AND IDEAS. WITHIN OUR PAGES, YOU MAY FIND: WORKS THAT TACKLE HOT-BUTTON ISSUES, WORKS PRESENTED IN A STYLE THAT IS OUT OF THE ORDINARY, WORKS THAT PRESENT THE READER WITH A QUESTION OR DEBATE, AND WORKS THAT BREAK MAINSTREAM RULES WITHIN THEIR GENRE. ALL OF THE PIECES YOU FIND ON THIS SITE HAVE BEEN THROUGH OUR WORKSHOP PROCESS, DURING WHICH THE RP&D EDITORIAL STAFF WORKS CLOSELY WITH CONTRIBUTORS TO HONE THEIR VOICE AND HELP THEM TO PRODUCE THE BEST POSSIBLE WORK FOR YOU, THE READER, TO EXPERIENCE.

TO RESPOND DIRECTLY TO A WORK YOU SEE FEATURE IN THIS ISSUE, USE OUR CONTACT PAGE TO SENT A LETTER TO THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF. YOU MAY ALSO WRITE YOUR OWN REBUTTAL AND SUBMIT IT FOR PUBLICATION IN A FUTURE ISSUE.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " 2

" "

Table of Contents

Pg 4. - CREATING ART AND BRIDGING GAPS, Bec Everett Pg. 7 - BREAD CRUMBS, Scott Malkovsky Pg. 8 - A PROFESSOR OF AMERICAN LIT, Alan Semrow Pg. 10 - WHEN I STOPPED RUNNING AWAY AND JUST RAN, Shelby Converse Pg. 11 - BOARDING SCHOOL, Alan Semrow Pg. 14 - COMMANDING THE SUN, Robert Knox Pg. 15 - IF YOU WERE STRANDED ON AN ISLAND, WHAT THREE THINGS WOULD YOU BRING?, Jade Freeman Pg. 16 - THE LOVE PARADE, Doug Main Pg. 17 - KID ON TREMONT, Jade Freeman - A PERFECT VIEW OVER THE CITY, Winston Plowes Pg. 18 - ANY CURRENT PORTION, Mitchell Grabois Pg. 19 - YOU’RE SIXTEEN & YOU’VE JUST COME HOME FROM ANOTHER HARDCORE SHOW, William James Pg. 20 - THE STATE IS BROKEN, Tobin Johnston Pg. 21 - WEST WING MEMORANDUM, Krista Farris Pg. 23 - AUTUMN CALM AND COLLECTED, Zane Johnson Pg. 24 - WAR AND HOOTERS, Mitchell Grabois Pg. 25 - THAT BIG OL’ DIAMOND, Brennan Bestwick Pg. 26 - THERE ARE NO PEOPLE, Ghada Khalil Pg. 28 - MASHED, Mitchell Grabois - SONNET FROM 555, John Lowther

Pg. 29 - EDITORIAL STAFF Pg. 30 - CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

" " " " " " " " " " " " 3

CREATING ART AND BRIDGING GAPS Bec Everett

Three months ago I spent a week and a half at ARTifariti, an arts and human rights festival in the Western Sahara. That's the North African country being illegally occupied by Morocco that I wrote an article about in April last year. Geographically speaking, the festival is actually in the Algerian desert these days, which is where the Sahrawi refugee camps are located. The liberated territory of the Western Sahara is located a short drive right across the border, but it is still mostly uninhabited because the land is devastated by unexploded ordinances from the war. It’s also very difficult to get adequate food, water, and medical supplies into the area for survival. Artists representing at least 16 countries attended the festival. Ten of us spoke fluent English in a sea of people who were mostly Arabic and/ or Spanish speakers. The group of us were referred to collectively as "The Americans" regardless of the fact that one of us was an Irishman and one was a German living in Paris. We were all there producing music, dance, painting, theater, documentaries, photography, etc. for the purpose of telling a story that isn’t being told by the media. Most of us met in Madrid and flew together to Algiers, where we were joined by another group of local artists. From Algiers we flew to Tindouf, a small military airport in the desert. A fleet of ancient trucks, coated in sand inside and out, came to retrieve us in the wee hours of the morning after our full day of travel. We bumped and bounced, unbelted, our luggage piled precariously around us, on dark roads through the sand until we came to the camp called Boujdour, which is where we made our home for the next ten days. Boujdour is one of seven camps, all of which are about an hour’s drive away from Tindouf, except for Dahkla, which is about 100 miles south of the rest of the camps. I’m not sure of the exact population in each separate camp, but all together the Polisario and the Algerian government estimate that there are about 165,000 refugees in the camps. Some are much denser in inhabitants than others. Boujdour was a fairly small community in contrast to another camp, Smara, that I visited, which has a vast, sprawling quality to it and holds about 40,000 people. We stayed in Boujdour because that was where the conference was being held. When we were dropped off after our jeep ride, we were turned over to the various families whom we would stay with for the remainder of our trip. The houses were low, adobe style, sand brick with corrugated zinc roofing. The bathrooms were outhouse-type buildings with a hole in the tile floor to squat over and a large bucket of water with a scoop in it to splash yourself with after going. The waste drained into a hole in the ground outside. The bathroom at the house I stayed at had an additional room for bathing, which had another large bucket of water with a scoop. Each family also had a traditional tent, called a jaima, outside of the house, which is used primarily as a living room space, as well as for sleeping in on hot nights. Some families didn’t have room for the artists inside their house, so the visitors slept out in the jaima. My group, which consisted of myself and four other women, slept communally in a large open layout room in the house. In the daytime we mostly worked on our projects, unless there was a group trip scheduled, and in the evening there were gatherings where we all came together for performances, showings, and lectures. I signed up to go without my own project planned. When some of my fellow Adelphi University alumni and faculty found out that I was going, I was lucky enough to be invited by them to work on two

existing projects that they had planned. I helped with one project that was through ArtsAction Group, in which we went into one of the classes at the elementary school and set out long pieces of butcher paper on the floor for kids to do a body project as a team. They traced the outline of one kid from the group and then illustrated it with whatever concepts they wanted, with the idea that they were supposed to express their dreams and desires. Many of them chose to include pictures of their flag, which is especially symbolic since in the occupied territories, Sahrawis who display their flag or even the combination of colors on it - red, green, white, and black - are arrested for showing dissent toward the Moroccan regime. Another very touching picture that one young boy drew was a beach scene with sand, water, and a palm tree. As a child born in the camps, he has never been able to see the coastline of his homeland. I was very moved by that drawing in particular because it evoked a need for a home he had never even had a chance to know. The sheer enthusiasm of kids when you hand them art supplies and tell them they can create whatever they want (within the basic set of the project parameters) is beautiful to behold. It didn’t really matter that I could only communicate through gestures if one of the translators was with another group. The focus and vibrant creative energy was enough to get us all through. The other project I worked on was with Shared Roots. Every day we interviewed people about their family histories. We asked about the people who had influenced them to be who they had become, with the thought process that a political history of war and violence sometimes covers up the equally important history of lineage and family tradition. Many of the the stories that we listened to came through the context of the violence that they had witnessed. One woman shared with us the experience of evacuating a city that was being bombed with napalm and the horror of witnessing the atrocities that the Moroccans were perpetrating against the Sahrawi civilians. Not all of the stories focused on the political upheaval that directly shaped the lives of all of the older generation of the camp. There was an elderly lady who told us about her life as a traditional Bedouin girl before the war broke out. She told us she had been given a camel to raise as a little girl and she loved him so much. She would ride him in races against the other girls that were camping near her and she would beat them all every time. She said he was so fast that it felt like she was flying and the world would blur away on both sides of her. Another woman recited a traditional Sahrawi children’s story for us featuring talking animals that reminded me of something like a mashup of The Three Little Pigs and Little Red Riding Hood. Without the help of our incredible translator, Mohamed, we never would have had as rich of an experience. He came with us to all of our projects and events and interpreted for us with an ease and grace that impressed our group very deeply. He is kind and insightful and he carries himself with the dignity and the self-assurance of someone far beyond his twenties. Our group had many wonderful conversations with him throughout the week about topics ranging from family, to art, to politics that added a depth to our time there for which I am very grateful. The general hospitality of the people we met there, who have only the bare minimum required to survive, is astounding. At every home we visited to conduct interviews, we were offered the best of what they had. We were given tea, homemade bread, cookies, olives, even jewelry off of their wrists and fingers as gifts. All that they asked for in return was that we promise to tell their story. It is very little to ask.

So here I am, saying to anybody reading this, that there are people living in the desert who have been waiting 40 years to get their rightful homeland back from the Moroccans who stole it from them. They are living in refugee camps, relying on world aid and the kindness of the Algerian government for food, water, and the education of their children. It is a ridiculous injustice when the home that is theirs by right is full of wealth and prosperity. The Western Sahara has rich fishing along its coast and other precious natural resources, such as phosphate mines.It is very hard to live in refugee conditions in the desert where nothing but the hardiest of acacia trees grows, with no access to bodies of water, when the older generation has known what it is like to be the citizens of a country with such great natural bounty. The elderly people I talked to reminisced about their simple but extremely contented way of life. I was told that almost every family used to have a herd of their own camels. Now almost no one can afford to feed and care for anything more than a few goats that they give their dinner scraps and mashed up cardboard to.The memory of the life that could have been without war still lives in the minds of the generation who built the camps four decades ago, and their children and grandchildren all desire what they should have been born to. I've had eleven weeks now to reflect, share stories, and climb back into my own comfortable world. There's no way to distill the experience of living Â in a refugee camp. Living in the desert, malnourished, dehydrated, with sand in every orifice, with no running water and limited electricity is insanely difficult. I only did it for a blip on the screen in comparison to the people who have lived their lifetime that way. There is a deep sense of restlessness and a need for change building up among the people in the camps. I hope that starting this conversation will spark action, and maybe the next generation of Sahrawis can go home and live they way they were always meant to: with comfort and dignity.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " 6

BREAD CRUMBS Scott Malkovsky

You’re a siren on a large boulder  In the middle of a shallow lake that gets deeper with every step  Drowned more men than whiskey and with similar effect

You speak with your body, with your hair, with the wind  You tell me to lose myself in your hypnotic embrace, jump in

Most men don’t think once   Just drunkenly lunge for your salvation  Animal instinct telling human cognizance to get lost   And die under the docks

But I’ve walked your shores   Studied your rocks, written my name on all of ‘em  Skipped a few in your direction

Kissed your banks, used my feet to pluck your weeds  Cupped your water with my hands and stared at it  Stared at it for so long  Brought it to my lips   Refused to drink  I waited for you to beg

I’ve sat here for hours, for days, for 34 years  Slept just out of reach  Whispered my dreams, my failures, my name  “You want me”   “You want me so bad you can taste it”

And now, finally  Finally  I’m done feeding the ducks

" " " " " " " " " " " " " 7

A PROFESSOR OF AMERICAN LIT Alan Semrow

I had a student three years ago who committed suicide after I told him that his short story was noble in a unique way, but not necessarily appropriate for publication. The morning after, the Dean emailed the campus to share the news. That’s how I found out. Through an email. I try not to think about it. I even made a pact a year ago to not think about it. I saw a therapist for a while. He just talked about Joan Collins and stuff. Personal tragedy aside, I had an obligation to a crew of English majors, who said they were interested in learning about Realism and Naturalism. So I told them to go home and read some stuff by Dashiell Hammett, Kate Chopin, and Henry James. A lot of them liked Kate Chopin. A lot of them said it was their favorite book of all time. I told them I was happy to hear it. And then I gave the majority of them A’s in the class. I guess you could say that it’s only when you’re kept busy that you don’t think about all the bullshit. And when you’re not thinking about all the bullshit, that’s probably when you’re living the most authentically. But we don’t really think about it that way in the moment—we don’t really give ourselves the time to breathe in and savor this second away from our own wretched minds that are tearing us apart a lot quicker than any other force ever could. The day I read that email about the suicide, I didn’t cry. I haven’t cried. My editor, Grady Hansen, told me that I had a lot of good things to do still—I had a lot of people who felt a lot of love for me. I had my parents, my wife, my sister, my dog, my friends. He said I just had to believe in that love and accept it, and I’d be alright then. “Bill, you’ll be alright,” he said. I thought maybe he had a point. And I knew he also had a deadline. Grady’s always been that guy that everyone loves more than morning coffee and the first sights of spring. He swoons the ladies with his little gay charm, and he intimidates the men with the same thing. All he’s ever had to do was walk into a bar wearing his big Buddy Holly glasses and say, “Heyyy!” Times like that, I’d just sit there, letting him have his little moment of splendor, his little after sex fun. And then we’d sit down and talk about the progress of my novel. I’d given him the proofs. Grady said this could finally make me into the person I always wanted to be. He’d giggle, play with me. Touch my cold hands. I always thought it was too soon.

I got divorced a year ago, after the dog died. She said she wanted a new one and I told her that what she really wanted was a new me. That day, the day the dog died, that was the day I came closest to crying. I still see her every once and awhile. She doesn’t own a dog and has about three kids and a husband, and she tells me that I should really get my shit together. She tells me this as I pet my little Shih Tzu, Ellie. It’s funny the way all this shit works. The moment you say you’re going to let go, is the moment you start asking yourself why you’re so fucked up. There’s really no winning—or so you think. You tell yourself to be a very, very strong person—for once in your motherfuckin’ life. And you can’t. You go to bed, after spending an entire day winding yourself up to some form of happiness, and you wake up in the morning, feeling like shit again—letting that all too familiar shit take over your life yet again. So what do you say? Should we all just go die? Nah. We all have things to do. The little moments. Like how the dog greets me when I get home from a long day of lecture, or when Grady hugs me on my birthday, or the emotion that takes over when I listen to “Home” by Sheryl Crow. The little things. Once you start spotting those little things—I guess that’s it. You don’t hate yourself so much. How fucking brilliant would it be to just let yourself enjoy whatever the hell is happening—the absurdity of it all. Let it go, let it go. You used to be so happy, Bill. Tell yourself, let it go. I climb into bed. Ellie jumps up next to me and settles in. I pet her belly. My breathing, it deepens. Fuzziness. Blurred lines. An ache. A strong ache. Lie head down. No coming back. You join Cory.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " 9

WHEN I STOPPED RUNNING AWAY AND JUST RAN Shelby Converse

Diet Pepsi and hornet buzz: running away,   the leaving and never getting anywhere else. The child  on a swingset, it’s the summer of 1998—

I prefer the old-fashioned kind of suitcase  to a carpet bag, duffel bag on wheels. When waiting  for someone to come for me, I could sit

and tuck my hands into pockets, clutch  the key to room number 117. I am twenty and moving  to a city that’s the same color as my hair.

When my friends asked me where I am from:  the Adirondacks. Mohawk: they eat trees. The mention of  my family leaves a bitter taste in my mouth

but it’s better than the taste of Diet Pepsi, any day,  especially summer days: the hornet knows there’s nothing  to suck because your grandfathers already died in June.

I run away to arrive in time for Thanksgiving  dinner, their adult daughter wears her sneakers underneath  the table, ready; for after I answer my grandmother

who asks if I’ve found myself a woman yet.

—I remember her, 1998, asking me what I was running from,  when I ran away the first time and I said “Katie”.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

BOARDING SCHOOL Alan Semrow

Professor Tweedy tells me that all I have to do right now is apply myself. She says, “Everything good will follow if you just do that one thing.” She says it as if we have a choice whether or not to succeed. Whether we will fail—or do better than the rest. As if this fucking place was a choice to begin with. Professor Tweedy teaches American Lit. I attend her class with my roommate, Ashley, who is a year older than me and, therefore, done up with a years’ more experience. Experience at being bad. Bad is what they call us. What our parents called us before we got here. Professor Tweedy, a woman who’s got to be at least a little bit jealous that she never got the chance to be this bad for even a second in her life—I tell her, “I had my essay done on Wednesday. I could give it to you early if you like. If that would really make you happy.” She purses her lips. “It isn’t due until tomorrow.” “I have it done.” I stare downward at my navy blue sneakers—the ones that all of us at Palington Boarding School for Girls have to wear. “If you really would like to, then…” “—I’ll email it.” I put out my hand for her shake. We part and I exit the room, proceeding down the fourth floor stairs to the first. I lower my sunglasses from my head, onto my nose as I reach the front doors, where a group of four girls are gathered around, whispering. As I edge closer, I listen in. Something about Jane Austen and how similar in style she is to Suzanne Collins. As if I give a shit. As if I think I might just puke in my mouth. I walk through the courtyard and head to my dormitory, where I’ll take the stairs to our fifth floor room. Upon entering, I scan for Ashley. The bathroom door is closed. She’s in there, purging—one of two things: either her self-esteem or a taco. I sit on the bed, staring forward at the closed white door. The toilet flushes and I listen as the sink turns on and then off. The door jiggles open and Ashley stands in front of me. She doesn’t make eye contact and she’s wearing garish makeup—the kind my mother disapproved of heavily before I became a bad, bad girl. Ashley heads over to her bed next to the open window. I look over at her. “Yo,” she says, staring into her compact mirror. “Hey! How are you?” “Ughhhhh. I need a drink bad.”

“Right?!!” Ashley slams the compact shut, looks me in eye—says, “Yeah.” “Well,” I say. “Maybe you should ask Professor Tweedy. I’m sure that cunt has plenty.” “As if!” Ashley rises from the bed and wedges herself between the mattress and the window. The window that isn’t supposed to open, but the window that Ashley forced open the moment she got here. She digs a cigarette from the pocket of her skirt, and follows that with a lighter that is robin’s egg blue. I watch as her perfect, long, red-tipped fingers pluck at the lighter until the cigarette begins to burn and a stream of blue smoke spews from Ashley’s mouth. She says, “I was thinking of running.” I laugh. “How are you going to do that?” She looks me in the eye. “By killing everyone.” Ashley coughs once into her hand and then focuses back on me. She says, “Even you.” “Hilarious. Okay, Ashley.” She gazes down at her perfect red fingernails. “Do you ever miss those days?” I pull my skirt down to my knees and reply, “No. Not really.” Ashley snorts, “Jesus fucking Christ. Seems like everyone here is born again or something.” She sticks her head out the open window and begins pointing fingers. “Look at Laura Harding. She doesn’t even eat. She’s not happy. And look at Lexi McLain. She writes letters to her forty-five year old lover every night before she goes to bed. Happiness—Jesus fucking Christ. This is happiness.” She tosses her burning cigarette out the open window to the courtyard below. “You’re right, Ashley. They’re all losers.” “And you are too,” she says. I stand up and walk to the bathroom. I close the white door, pull down my skirt, and sit down on the porcelain. As I pee, I feel the urge to cry—an urge I wasn’t sure I was even capable of anymore. In front of me is the shower curtain with the blue hydrangea print. I try to smile. I succeed at smiling. I finish and then stand. I flush the toilet and look into the mirror above the sink. I am beautiful. I am strong. I am wise. And I hear breathing from the other side of that curtain with the blue hydrangea print. I walk slowly to the source, feeling if as my body is filling with fire. I take a deep breath and I spread the curtain open, only to find a naked man standing there, looking confused—as if this was not supposed to happen. I scream, throw open the white door, and storm out of the bathroom, across the bedroom to Ashley at the window. I grip both her shoulders and shake. Tears begin to stream down my face as I scream, “I thought you loved me!”

And then I stop. Stunned, she looks into my eyes and begins to laugh. Ashley shakes her head. “You stupid cunt.” I look to the bathroom. The naked man stands, watching. The expression on his face only suggests he’s fascinated, maybe a little frightened. I turn back to Ashley, grab her, lift her, and shove her 102 pound struggling body up to the ledge and out the open window, where she falls onto the stone-paved courtyard. To the naked, horrified man across the room, I say, “You wanna fuck?”

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

COMMANDING THE SUN Robert Knox

Too, too perfect day, an afternoon for the solar  The idyll of the American dream-king  "Everyman a king!" they shouted roaring through the Bastille  Alone in his courtyard, revolutions over  A gardener to himself  'Very well, Monsieur, we will pull up all the daisies'  -- 'And plant only the Spices of Mars!'

Did you order this light, Jean-Paul?  Very good. A sun for a king.

The king above bathes the king below in light  as he sits on his throne  And who prepared this tableau?  So that even in September, that gentle interregnum  between the festivals of the Summer King and the quick marches of autumn,  shades and contours beguile us  I do not count the ways you love my senses

Hence, rude thoughts of winter!  Summer's blaze a mere tinkling in the radiator  The occasional murmur at the ear only a reminder  Where we have been appears in where we are  The high king's stars mere wrinkles now  Let me contemplate you, darling, without your silks and shawls  Let me see you finally as you are  How long you have been here, underfoot, in my own backyard,  everywhere I turn, cultiver son jardin  The buzz in the ear, the time of my life

And why do I keep turning  When the world teaches me to rest,  with garlands of light, with flowers up my nose, birds in my ears,  colors wrapped around my eyes?  'Your Majesty, the winds of heaven and hell are at the gate,  roaring down though the centuries!'  'Well, let them in.'

The air is free, the light inflicts us, inflects us,  Inflates us, makes us gods  The glory is the moment  The moment does not last and yet is always here  You can't live in the moment, Seigneur -- 'they are shouting outside!' -- because it's always disappearing

Then occasionally, when no one is looking

Not even you  You can

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

IF YOU WERE STRANDED ON AN ISLAND, WHAT THREE THINGS WOULD YOU BRING? Jade Freeman

Where is the island located? Is it in the tropics? Or the arctic? Don’t you think the location really matters? Don’t you see it completely alters what I’m allowed to choose? Should I bring a coat and gloves? Does that count as one or two things? Or should it be a sun hat and sunscreen? Lobster claw cracker for the seafood off the coast? Am I allowed to bring any sort of technology: cell phone with satellite signal, or a walkie-talkie, or a telegraph perhaps? Would I still be considered “stranded”? Do living essentials count? Water? Food? Shelter? If so, doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of the game? Doesn’t everyone have to choose the elements that sustain life? Or does that mean I obviously have to choose water, then I only get two choices? And does that mean fresh water? Or do I get salt water and then have to wish to bring a water purification system? If that’s the case then I only have one option remaining, correct? Don’t you think that’s a bit cheap? That’s not fun, is it? Or am I just oblivious to the point of the game? Is this island more of a solitary vacation or a trial of will? Will I be alone? Or are there others on the island and it’s just a matter of finding them? If they’re not here, will I always be alone? Do you think I’ll get lonely? How long do you think it takes before someone gets lonely? Could I bring my calico, Pawbert? Do you think anyone would notice I’m gone? Miss me? Wonder where I am when I don’t heat up my frozen dinner in the break room at lunch? Do you think I would miss them?

THE LOVE PARADE Doug Main

It's the love parade, again,  this time with Italians. Cinema  frowns on no brown skin, or  darkened, shells of men. Coffee  when you wake up, coffee when  you die. When is this? Morning.

I'll awake when you love me. More:  I'll awake as you darken. A love plots  out its course: two trumpets, in the  evening like Morse code. A drunken man  dispels notions of beauty; a drunken  woman his opposite: fetching.

The love grotto, the love garden,  the love motto: do unto others as you'd  have them do unto you. Until, with  leaves for once, on the ground, all too  soon, we become divine--we become  divinely inspired. Same fire, different

meaning: We are inspired. We've  lost blood. Our knuckles are there, yes,  hairless as ever. We have shed cloaks  and made water where waters dare not  be made. We are made. We are makers.  We will destroy ourselves yet.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

KID ON TREMONT Jade Freeman

I caught a baby raccoon in a soccer field adjacent to a Catholic church. Pure athleticism, I bragged later. Sam threw a Miller High Life and a Rolling Rock beer bottle at the church. The Rolling Rock exploded underneath the ledge of a first story window. I was majoring in religion. Sam had his hair dreaded in Mattapan the weekend before. On Whitney Street, Sam counted to five and in tandem we kicked the mirrors off the parallel parked Hyundais because I decided I hated Asian cars. At the curb, we found a set of golf clubs and hit balls against the back wall of the church. One ricocheted off the stones and hit a Ford. A woman nearby shouted from her window, “Can you please do that somewhere else?” Sam wanted to make last call and I walked home. Two homeless men were yelling in Brigham Circle— this intersection belonged to the man in a red t-shirt, but a man in gray sweatpants was shaking a Big Gulp cup at the parked cars. I tossed the last of my change, a dime and quarter, between them because I wanted to watch a fight. The key to my apartment was locked inside on the kitchen counter next to Miller High Life bottles from earlier. I walked to the Dunkin Donuts. It opened at five, so I fell asleep in a Bank of America ATM. Fall arrived sooner than last year and I didn’t want to be a kid anymore.

" " " " " " "

A PERFECT VIEW OVER THE CITY Winston Plowes

withdrawing obligations  from dwell shaped men

who live in the wasted past  of a 20 2 0 spectacle.

a thriving second brood  carried Frank overtones

a burden combined with  a trace of responsibility  hitherto declined.

All the above words were found in The Guardian match report by Kevin McCarra where Manchester Utd beat Chelsea 3-1 on Sunday 18th September 2011 at Old Trafford. All original case and punctuation preserved.

ANY CURRENT PORTION  Mitchell Grabois The scenes change. Your image mutates. Yet beyond all the black, white, and shades of gray is vulnerability, and a sadness that transcends circumstances.  The world is full of containers: bathtubs, closets, motherhood, childhood, Mason jars, pyrex tubs with snap-on lids that slide onto refrigerator shelves, but nothing holds us forever. Ultimately we escape our bonds. Nothing’s so trite as life and death, but disease in all its variety is novel, and disturbance flagrant in its drama.

Looking for scratch paper, Gus rips a page from one of Darlynda’s Victoria's Secret catalogs. He figures she keeps them as a form of masochism, as she is hipless, flat-chested and plain. He is no more attractive, with unruly reddish hair and a gangling walk. Now fifty, Gus knows they’re headed for ugliness—he only hopes they get there tardy, as he always did to school.  He still remembers Darlynda in second grade, hanging from monkey bars, a cute little sparkplug despite her buck teeth.  This Victoria's Secret model has dark eyes and a midriff smooth as ice, more appealing, he’s sorry to note, than any current portion of Darlynda. Still, he recognizes that a fashion photographer with an airbrush could probably make Darlynda sparkle as she had when they got married, three decades back on the shore of Lake Michigan near their hometown of Windchill, where winters are more brutal than fate.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

YOU’RE SIXTEEN & YOU’VE JUST COME HOME FROM ANOTHER HARDCORE SHOW William James

& the shirt you bought from a band you never heard before   tonight is draping over your shoulders like some tired flag,   & you're covered in sweat that's both yours & not yours,

a wave of shared exertion crashing down which feels like baptism,   like first communion, like you're sixteen & everything is a mystery,   or a mistake, & a stranger kicked you in the face tonight

until everything all made sense all at once & now your jaw   is a stiff bruise & you feel every single one of your teeth   which is magic because it hurts but not the way it hurt

when the locker door dug into your spine, not like your father's   belt buckle screaming through the air & you're bleeding, yes,   but not like you did when the pocket knife slipped into your arm

on purpose, more like the slow holy stain of the eucharist,   more like being washed clean & you're sixteen, always terrified   of damnation because the preacher man says christ is coming back

with murder in his eyes, & you are filled with a million different sins,   not washed in the blood of the lamb, you're unclean & terrified   that you will burn in hell forever, in flame & sulfur, swallow brimstone

like you're so fucking scared of the choking, but you're sixteen   & you've just come home from the first of what you know will be   many, many hardcore shows, & a stranger kicked you in the face

so hard salvation burst from your nose like you were a broken fountain,   & there you were all bathed in red, in all that pouring glory, hallelujah,   & you know that you're as holy as heaven ever meant for you to be.

" " " " " " " " " " "

THE STATE IS BROKEN Tobin Johnston

After 15 minutes of waiting on the unemployment phone line, a woman slams down the receiver and declares to a resource room full of people, “This state is broken!"

She is from California and California works great, per this woman.

It is not that I don't understand her frustration. A person cannot work within a heartless, soul-riving bureaucracy without accepting a certain level of Stratievesque absurdity. The military, for instance, has a golden tradition of acronizing the phenomenon of systemic gaucheness; “snafu” and “fubar” come immediately to mind. One comes to accept that productivity in such an environment is defined not by the imagination of the reformer or the grit of the revolutionary, but by the insignificant acts of passive resistance against a great tide of nonsensicality. One must play a perpetual Alice before an endless tea party, accepting ridiculous riddles and poor grammar with a courteous smile. In short, mistakes will be made. From small peccadilloes such as the transposition of two numbers by a caseworker, to the reliance on honest self-disclosure of income by a client who has several different children with several different women in several different states, to the titanic misallocation of funds and insider, hidden-bid deals the newspapers long to uncover and thrust upon the front page, shit happens.

But the statement “This state is broken,” I think I disagree with. I mean, considering that global hunger, tribal warfare, racial genocide, etc. are not just morally abhorrent but also exceedingly inefficient means of running a society, it would seem that the world at fucking large, and not just the state, is broken. Therefore, devoid of any sense of proportion, the woman’s comment is both extremely unfair and grossly inaccurate. Framed within a broader context, the state, while mildly inefficient at times, when compared to places on this earth such as Ciudad Juarez and South Sudan, is so less broken, it actually works.

I take my break to use the restroom. Her words strike me again. This state is broken. I flush the toilet. Well, the facilities work.

When I return from my break, the woman is gone. A man who does not speak Spanish is trying to help a woman who does not speak English fill out a job application. Suddenly, the world seems less broken.

Of course, I could just be taking her words too literally. I don’t think she really means the state is broken, social order is in decay, our culture is awash in apathy and greed, the streets are not safe for decent folk anymore. I think she means something less like an idea and more like an emoticon; something not sophisticated, but infantile. What I thinks she means is, “Waaaaaahhhh.”

" " " " " " " " "

WEST WING MEMORANDUM Krista Farris

Classified Memorandum

M-1-15

Re: Resolution of West Wing Distraction

From: Executive Office of White House Security      At first there was just the occasional feather stuck to his cheek when he woke up in the morning. Someone would brush it off. It was dismissed as down from the comforter he and the First Lady cozied under on the rare nights he actually got to sleep at home. Nor did it cause much of a stir when one showed up in his scrambled eggs. Other than a few crass jokes about previous presidents, hen houses, and the Secret Service in Columbia, the matter was forgotten as soon as the server whisked the plate away.

Even when yellow feathers started blowing onto the President’s podium in a cloud during his speech on home-bred terrorists it was dismissed since several press corps members spied Oreo, his 7-year old daughter’s new cat bolting wild-eyed from a box elder; mere inconveniences tolerated with a straight smile to give the appearance of a knit-together First Family all posh, but middle-classy and what not.

Then the tweeting started. When he spoke of the tweets at first, they were confused, thought he meant the digital kind. He was always glued to his phone after all. They moved on to debrief him about the Middle East. But, when he started describing a high pitched incessant chirp along with tweeting, the Department of Homeland Security, the Secret Service, the FBI, and the CIA all descended, sending the best of their “top secret best” to search the White House for bugs, bombs, and other imagined devices from top to bottom, from dome to drawer. Nothing was found, except a few feathers under the POTUS’s bed and some atop a door jamb in the executive suite.

It was then that he started working in his bedroom during the day, with the cat purring on his lap, and hunkering down in the Oval Office at night. Pulled a couch to the dead center of the room away from any windows- said he didn’t like to be near any trees or windowsills, “just in case.” Rose one night and placed a ten inch tall masking tape “x” on each window, seemingly to demonstrate his patriotism. Americans are paranoid since 9-11.

Soon he was sequestered in there- working and sleeping, and who knows what. No questions are asked out loud when the First Lady is known to be sleeping alone. Glade plug-in air fresheners were brought in to mask the scent of sleeping man and cat. He liked the smell of “Clean Linen.”

One day, the President emerged from his bedroom after lunch and insisted on walking the cat. Someone ran to the Walgreens on 16th and K and found a black leash. From then on, he brought Oreo to fundraisers, summits, and State Dinners. Insisted it would further the cause of therapy pets nationwide. Made sense, but was hard to justify when his daughter exclaimed on the Today Show that she “just wants her cat back.”

Shortly after, having caved to public pressure, the POTUS found himself uncharacteristically cat-less

inside Cadillac One holding his ears and wailing at the driver to pull over and fix the “damn chirping.” The chauffeur eyed the bodyguards nervously and kept driving right up to the security check-point off Pennsylvania Avenue.

Upon nearing the House gardens, the President saw his wife and insisted on getting out of the limo. So, it was then that the Secret Service officer, Code Name Otis, opened the car door, tripped over Oreo, who happened to charge the car, and granted that moment of opportunity for the POTUS to grab the gun and shoot.

What followed was squawking, lots of squawking, and twitterting of all sorts. The Leader of the Free World was loudly laugh-singing “Fly Robin Fly,” with tears streaming down his cheeks. He dropped the gun, curled in a ball and rolled like an Easter egg on the White House lawn. Otis noted that what looked like a halo of yellow feathers hovered over the POTUS for a couple of seconds then zipped away toward the blinding 17-hundred hour summer sun. However, no evidence was found.

Still open on the Commander-in-Chief’s Smartphone, where it sat all lit up on the limo seat, a Wiki webpage; some flap about “The Kennedy’s canary, named ‘Robin,’” been “buried in the Rose Garden at the White House.” The President remains silent on the issue and there have been no further tweets. He has, however, vowed to end all funding to PBS and outlaw all images of Big Bird in the United States. As such we recommend an increased Secret Service presence outside the White House gates to monitor imminent sidewalk protests that will likely involve an enraged puppet or two.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

AUTUMN CALM AND COLLECTED Zane Johnson

Autumn calm and collected  Or bliss-less and somber  Yields to the restless Mover  Tucked deep in deepest frost.  The fateful turnings of the nocturne,  In its alternate staccatoed,  or long-winded hymnal,  Brings the most anxious of souls  with a healthy fear of night to slumber.  What also sleeps, and  what wakes to the balance?  What is night without the   Fear of predation?  To wake to the Sun’s gentle break  Is the cog’s slip into place  In its own turn, and   Will inevitably yield Winter.

Heavy flurries lie brooding  Just beyond the Solstice’s bulwark,  Emanating forth into the stillness,  Giving nightmares to life;  Dreams of hungry ghosts  Spurned of ethereal machinery  Into the sum of space in a blissful day  Plight-less.  Warm like blood in truly empty arteries and veins,  Plight-less in the flesh.

Cold gust brisk through punctured  Window pane   Tempers the fragile frame  For the frost, after all  is the only dependable thing, and,  After all, the only solace there was   To take was in those hollow moon rings:  Elliptical radiance.

O Suffering persists,  Bringing every warm or cool day to night.

O Suffering frames  Every hour graying against the memory of youth.

O Suffering turns,

Bringing days to night to weeks to millennia  And in the colorless void, I take refuge.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

WAR AND HOOTERS Mitchell Grabois

We supported totalitarian regimes and dissed Muslim culture with unrestrained arrogance and, when the suicide flyers struck the Twin Towers and burned them to the ground, we rose in what we knew was righteous anger and, on false premises, waged war.  Our soldiers come home mangled and post-traumatic, to join others damaged nearly beyond recognition by poverty, abuse, neglect, lack of love, and contempt expressed in a thousand ways. The pain is irremediable, and generates more pain, in cycles that never end.

I’d never been to Hooters, never had any interest, maybe because my wife is large-breasted, but I was at a conference and a bunch of guys wanted to go. At that time I was trying to be more social, less of a loner, so I feigned enthusiasm as we walked from the convention center.  We waited a while. When the waitress arrived, she was small-breasted and had a black eye. I wondered how she got the shiner. When she took my order we made eye contact. After a while I went to the men’s room. She was in there sobbing, her mascara a mess.  This is the ladies room, she protested.  Actually no, I said. I motioned at a urinal.  In a moment she was crying on my shoulder, telling me about her abusive boyfriend. I’m a psychologist and people know it, even if they don’t know it, so this kind of thing happens to me sometimes. After a while I helped her clean up, and she left. I unzipped and pissed.  I returned to my table, where the other men were drinking beer and laughing loudly. Five minutes later the waitress brought me a plate of hot wings I hadn’t ordered. On the house, she said quietly. I don’t like hot wings, but I didn’t tell her.

THAT BIG OL’ DIAMOND Brennan Bestwick

Long as the Earth been borned, it’d been ahidin’ in the bottom of that pond, inside that purple mountain, aglowin’ more yella than sun. That diamond was two times bigger than the mountain itself, an still tucked down under that water. Erry ol’ boy in town tell its story, but ain’t no man never touched it. They all underestimate how deep the pond be anna just drown tryin’ a grab her. I heared all they talk and goed after it for ya, wore a helmet that had a lil lamp on it. It made my head look funny, but I loved you. Spent thirty whole years acrawlin’ through caves to find that sunked jewel in them peaks. I was so thirsty when I found it. I cupped both my mitts up an had a drank. That water made my tummy shine yella as the diamond ‘neath it. All a sudden, them rocks that stumbled me the whole climb through lifted off the ground and spun round my belly. I had moons for ya, just like that. But moons ain’t good ‘nuff for my gal. So I dove on into that pond head first, thought I’d be swimmin’ thirty years more, but I kept on kickin’ ‘til I got all the way down. I put both my arms round the stone and plucked it right on up, so hard it shot me straight back on outta that mountain. Flew so fast, it took all the years I left inside and gave ‘em on back. I was younger than I’d been first time I seen them cliffs. I tossed that gem on my back real easy. I was strong as no man before me’d ever been. There must have been some god in them waters blessin’ men with a special kinda strong if they love they sweeties much as I love you. I swear it. I walked the whole thing on in to the middle a town, told all them ol’ boys that could still swing an ax to do they damndest. They put all they could break off in they pockets. Some a them men’s wrinkles filled in, just like that. They was young again. All the love they gave came right on back to ‘em. I pulled the boys off and kept the biggest piece of that diamond myself, carved it up into a pretty lil house for us. Now every morning we wake in our own sun and I hear you roll over and whisper in my ear. Don’t you never leave me, cause I’d never stop cryin’. And I smile cause you know I never would. You was my sweetie before that myth ever spread and ain’t nothin’ gonna change it, I love you so.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

THERE ARE NO PEOPLE Ghada Khalil

Everybody grows children and herbs,   eats, wastes, marries, divorces, sleeps,   showers, partners and separates, drinks,   cleans, cooks, kisses, gets drunk,   remains sober, launders, coughs, dies,   laughs and swaddles small humans after their births.

Tomato vines climbing on the outside wall,   Everybody is propped snug in the space   between useful objects; a broom, dust pan, pins,   towels, sheets, a washing machine, furniture, cutlery,   mirrors, plates and green strawberry jam.

Elevators, empty or full, shuttle up and down.   All buttons with numbers are pushed.

Dust under the big sofa, a window to the street   that is busy on some days. Everybody pulls a curtain,   looks out the window, sees people smaller in the   distance, opens the fridge, looks for bread, launders   underwear, puts coins in any machine with a slot   to wash or to get chocolate, gets a ticket for the wrong   parking spot, withdraws money from the big room   they call bank, dislikes that teller, asks for coffee and  opens their door and leaves with a key.

Garbage trucks, empty or full, shuttle up and down the streets.   All places of residences with numbers have full garbage cans.

Everybody wakes up again, eats breakfast,   walks barefoot, cuts the hair on their head,   clips nails, throws empty shampoo bottles,   sees one hair on the sink, overhears the neighbor   upstairs, comes back with groceries, rattles edibles   in plastic bags, holds the door for the new charming   tenant of apartment 8, looses weight, puts on weight,   hears scanning beeps of what they bought at   supermarket check-outs, where someone stands there   searching for short black lines on white backgrounds   they call barcodes behind conveyor belts that prop   every item for scanning: toilet paper, grapes, bread,   a fake painting from aisle 10 that was plagiarized  from Medieval art, etc. Everybody leaves money   behind at the supermarket.

Carts, empty or full, shuttle up and down the big market.

All aisles with numbers are stacked with objects for hunger.

Everybody takes the train, has a wet umbrella,   swipes the train card, sees the book that the woman   with the orange scarf is reading, hears the man   without teeth singing a song on a broken guitar,   feels ziggy gives frizzles, turns in bed when one thigh   hurts, bites an apple, combs hair, gets naked for showers,   has their first date, has their 11th date, kisses for the first time,   has a doctor appointment, leaves before 8:00 am, comes back   after 9:00 pm, buys shoes, has a job interview, goes on vacation,   sits fastened in a plane, stares at safety leaflets,   is told to put on the air mask first before helping a child,   has a phobia of death, has not read the big list of phobias,   is not aware that some people have a phobia of the air we breathe - Aerophobia,  does not know what people feel when they die,   does not know if they are dead or alive, does not know.

Pink hearses, empty or full shuttle up and down the streets in small towns.   Full Names on placards and plot numbers are all bought in currency exchanges.

Everybody disappears when they enter buildings  and apartments. Then, Everybody is absent, invisible,   unseen, insignificant and unimportant. Everybody   has an extinguisher, an hour, decomposes,   looks at mirrors, desiccates, checks their belly,   their weights, smiles at themselves, checks their teeth,   has nipples, has a mother, was inside the belly of someone   pregnant with them. When they lock the door   from the inside, Everybody vanishes.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

MASHED Mitchell Grabois

Seedy lunch counter in New Jersey. Monster Mash just out. Juke box plays it nonstop on the owner’s dime, which we punks love. On both sides of the door, low metal coolers. Stuff in there looks like it was stocked pre-WWII. If you touch both coolers at once, you get an electric shock. If you lick your fingers first, the shock almost knocks you out.  They did the mash.  Morris Mordes puts his hands full on the coolers. In two seconds he has a gran mal seizure. It’s supercool.  His granma comes runnin.’  He's visiting another world, says my older brother, as Morris foams at the mouth.  His granma sticks the handle end of a large crescent wrench in his mouth.  You're supposed to use a popsicle stick, says my brother.  What are you, a doctor? screams Granma.  My brother later does become a doctor, but nobody knows it while Morris is throwin’ his fit.

As an adult, Morris Mordes was meek. He talked with flowing motions, a cross between a rabbi and a ballerina. He worked as a room maid in a Manhattan hotel, commuting from the Bronx, until he repudiated the USA by stepping on a plane to the Holy Land, where he met Petra in an Arab drug store near a kibbutz where they were both staying.  He would have disliked the old, mean Petra, but had fallen in love with the new, vulnerable postdysentery version. Petra’s upper arms were barely bigger than her forearms. She wouldn’t stop asking me if I thought she would ever be the person she once was. I thought No, but said Yes.  She sometimes dreamed of beating people up. In her sleep she twitched like a dog, balling up her weak little paws, showing her chiclet teeth in a snarl.

" " " " " " "

SONNET FROM 555 John Lowther

A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.  After a while it burns out the nerves, so they put it in their cocks.  Just as Niagara Falls feeds power stations, in the same way the  downward torrent of language into smut and vulgarity should be  used as a mighty source of energy to drive the dynamo of the  creative act.  Machaca burrito.  I cum in pies.  Chicks dig a stereotype.  Love is like post-modernism.  Live, interactive sex shows are also extremely popular.  If beliefs were private, they wouldn't matter.

Editorial Staff

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Jordan Rizzieri is the 90's-loving, extremely tall founder of The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society. After a having brief love affair with Western New York, Jordan now resides on Long Island, NY. She holds a degree from SUNY Fredonia in Theatre Arts (aka lying before an audience) with a minor in English (aka lying on paper). Jordan briefly experimented with playwriting (The Reunion Cycle - 2011 Buffalo Infringement Festival) and her mother's primary caregiver for over two years. She has been running a caregiver's blog on her experiences since 2011, as well as publishing essays on the topic. Now, Jordan spends her daylight hours arguing with her boyfriend's cats and at night takes on the identity of Pyro & Ballyhoo's sassiest critic, The Lady J. When she's not watching pro-wrestling or trying to decide what to order at the local bagel shop, she is listening to Prince and writing letters to her pen pals. Feel free to contact her with questions about the Attitude Era, comic book plot lines involving Harley Quinn, The Twilight Zone and the proper spelling of braciola.

NON-FICTION EDITOR Jennifer Lombardo, Buffalo, NY resident, works full time at a hotel in order to support her travel habit. She graduated from the University at Buffalo with a B.A. in English in the hope of becoming an editor. When she isn't making room reservations for people, she reads, cross-stitches and goes adventuring with her friends. She is especially passionate about AmeriCorps, Doctor Who and the great outdoors. Ask her any question about grammar, but don't count on her to do math correctly.

POETRY EDITOR Bee "Internet Coquette" Walsh is a New York-native living in Bedford–Stuyvesant. She graduated from SUNY Fredonia in 2010 with a B.A. in English Literature and a B.S. in International Peace and Conflict Resolution. Reciting her two majors and two minors all in one breath was a joke she told at parties. The English Department played a cruel trick on her and pioneered a Creative Writing track her final year, but she charmed her way into the Publishing course and became Poetry Editor for the school’s literary magazine, The Trident. Bee has spent the past three years trying different cities on for size and staring into the faces of people in each of them who ask her about her "career goals." An Executive Assistant in high-fashion by day, you can find her most nights working with the V-Day team to stop sexual violence against women and young girls, eating vegan sushi in the West Village or causing mischief on roofs. Run into her on the subway, and she'll be nose deep in a book. She holds deep feelings about politics, poise, and permutations. Eagerly awaiting winter weather and warm jackets, she’d love to talk to you about fourth-wave feminism, the tattoo of the vagina on her finger, or the Oxford comma. FICTION EDITOR Adam Robinson is an aspiring writer and barista languidly skulking the wetland void of Western Michigan. Following acceptance in 2012 to Grand Rapids' Kendall College of art and design in pursuit of an education in graphic art, his love for language and literature was made priority. Now, an English major on sporadically perpetual hiatus, you can most often find him pulling shots of espresso, keying long paragraphs in the dark, secluded corner of a local café, or taking lengthy walks through the dense Michigan woods conveniently placed in his own backyard. Monotoned, fond of the semicolon and existentialist literature; listen closely and you can sometimes hear him beseech advice from the ghost of Dostoevsky (who tends not to reply).

Contributors  Bec Everett is a legal assistant by day and an actor by night in New York, NY. She lives with her actor/playwright/director fiancé in the very last neighborhood in Manhattan before you hit the Bronx. She has a habit of being a very opinionated human rights advocate and occasionally, on a good day, she's even an activist. She has a BFA in Theater with an emphasis in Acting and a minor in Peace Studies from Adelphi University.

Scott Malkovsky is an actor/writer who spends his days doing nothing and thinking about everything - everything, that is, but logging into his Twitter account.

Alan Semrow lives in Wisconsin and is a graduate of English from the University of WisconsinStevens Point. His poems and fiction have been featured in multiple publications, including BlazeVOX14, Red Fez, The Bicycle Review, Earl of Plaid Lit Journal, Former People: A Journal of Bangs and Whimpers, Barney Street, and Wordplay, and he won the Essayist Award from the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point English Department for his nonfiction work. In 2015, his stories are set to be featured in EAP: The Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, Golden Walkman Magazine, and Blotterature Lit Mag. Semrow spends the majority of his free time with his boyfriend, best friends, family, and Shih Tzu, Remy. More of his work can be viewed on his website.

Shelby Converse is currently hibernating in the Adirondacks, but does occasionally emerge to have her work published in The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, The Inn House Review, The Green Room Blog, and The Trident. A Pushcart Prize nominee, a graduate of SUNY Fredonia and tweets @ShelbyConverse.

Robert Knox is a freelance journalist, creative writer, and rabid backyard gardener. He blogs on nature, books, films and other subjects on his blog, based on the premise that there's a garden metaphor for everything. His regional arts coverage appears weekly in the Boston Globe 'South' Section. Poems have have recently been published by Verse-Vitual and The Screech Owl. Poems have also been accepted for upcoming issues of Bombay Review and Earl of Plaid.

Jade Freeman is a writer currently living in Boston with her two dogs and working on her MFA at Emerson College.

Doug Main is a journalist and writer who lives in New York City and whose work has appeared in Newsweek, where he's a reporter, as well as the New York Times, Popular Science, Smithsonian.com, Discover Magazine and elsewhere. He also writes poetry and occasionally shares it with other human beings. You can follow him on Twitter.

Winston Plowes is a hare chasing bicycles and winning by miles in the summer . In winter he categorises his collection of found jigsaw pieces and tunes his cutlery. Each night he waits with his cat under starlight for his found poems to return to roost from the pages of journals published worldwide to his floating home in Calderdale UK. More on Winston can be found on his website and Facebook.

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over seven hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical

psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver.

William James writes poems and listens to punk rock - not always in that order. He's an editor at Drunk In A Midnight Choir poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Emerson Review, similar:peaks::, NightBlock, Split Lip, and The Nervous Breakdown, among others. His first full length collection "Rebel Hearts & Restless Ghosts" is forthcoming in 2015 from Timber Mouse Publishing. He can be found via his website and Twitter.

Tobin Johnston is a poked hive of literary ambition and when not misappropriating Roland Barthes, he has a government job and a good woman and three kids that make him laugh even when hobbled by writer's ennui. “The State is Broken” is a part of a collection of essays titled, A Simple Social Servant. He has also just finished a YA novel about Divorce and Dragons tentatively titled, I’m Gonna Burn Them Alive with My Dragon.

Krista Genevieve Farris recently voted for her youngest son to be household president for three days based on his campaign speech to provide candy every other Wednesday for two months. She had no idea he would use his power to prohibit her from playing Little River Band’s “Cool Change.” She’s grateful for term limits. More of Krista’s essays, stories and poems can be found in Brain, Child, Literary Mama, Gravel, Cactus Heart, Right Hand Pointing, The Screech Owl, The Literary Bohemian, and The Piedmont Virginian.

Zane Johnson is a poet, musician, Zen practitioner and student of literature in Denver, CO. This is his first publication, but you can find more poetry, Buddhism and hardcore music on his Tumblr.

Brennan Bestwick reads and writes in the Flint Hills of Kansas. He is currently pursuing an M.A. in poetry from Kansas State University. His work has appeared in PANK, Word Riot, Write Bloody’s Aim for The Head anthology, and elsewhere. He wants to dance to Lionel Ritchie with you.

Ghada Khalil writes poetry and makes experimental no-fi sound performances and mixed media collages. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in theNewerYork Press Book IV and Electric Cereal. She has an M.A. in Media Studies from New York University. Find her at her website and on Twitter.

John Lowther’s work appears in the anthologies, The Lattice Inside (UNO Press, 2012) and Another South: Experimental Writing in the South (U of Alabama, 2003). Held to the Letter, co-authored with Dana Lisa Young is forthcoming from Lavender Ink. He works in video, photography, paint and performance. His dissertation-in-progress tries to reimagine psychoanalysis with intersex and transgender lives as pointers toward our ever-expanding subjective potential.