Vol I, Issue XII - November 2014 by The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society

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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.

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Table of Contents

A CLOUD OF NITROUS, Mitchell Grabois . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 GROOMING, C. Kubasta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5 YOGISONTHEINSTAGRAM, Ned Dougherty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7 ONE ENDING, Harry Rajchgot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 DAYS WITHOUT YOU, Margaryta Golovchenko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13  WORKING ON THE RAILROAD, Mitch Kalka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 619, Ray McClaughlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17 CONCRETE, Natalie Frijia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 FERVENCE, Robert Lang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 TICK, THUMP, Kat Hawthorne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 THE WEDDING-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX REVISITED, Adam Kane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22 SUMMER IN GAZA, Lynn White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 THE STUFF OF STARS, Patrick John Keirnan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 SURVIVOR, Sam Wilkes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 TOTAL POPULATION WITHDRAWAL, Britta R. Moline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 UNFINISHED MURDER BALLAD: THE OCEAN NEVER NEEDS A CUT, Darren C. Demaree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 EVICTION, Jill Talbot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 EULOGY FOR TOM WHITE, Patrick St. Amand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 FAMILY CONNECTIONS: PHOTOGRAPHS, Valerie Poulin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31 B-SIDE, Mezi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

EDITORIAL STAFF. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 CONTRIBUTORS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37

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A CLOUD OF NITROUS Mitchell Grabois

A cloud of nitrous oxide enveloped me and I fell down a deep well, aware of deconstruction in the cave that was my mouth somewhere so far above me, it was inaccessible, that homey place where I had chewed egg salad sandwiches. I knew that something was terribly wrong, but could not communicate. My mouth was now a subway station, and from it, sand hogs were excavating new tunnels, headed toward the Throggs Neck Bridge.

My wife stayed angry about my affair with the dentist. The space between us in the king bed was like the Midwest, at least Nebraska. Her cold loins summoned opportunistic female spirits who had been in transit between the defiled Temple of Jerusalem and the ghettoes of Eastern Europe, and swung wide to find me, find me by the scent of my wife’s somnolent hatred and the sourdough starter she’d left to spoil on the granite countertop, dark and layered as a Midwest thunderstorm. Those concubine spirits lowered themselves onto me, took my stiff dick through their humid portals into desert realms where camels had trampled the tribesmen to death and now called the shots. None of it made sense to me. Carnality had set me a terrible trap, original sin all over again. My mistress wasn’t even anything special. The concubine spirits took my seed and bore children who formed their own militia and, after I died, spent their lives in the woods, hatching ever more twisted conspiracy theories and firing assault rifles into the leafy green trees.

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GROOMING  C. Kubasta

The thesaurus you gave me when I won a 6-th grade poetry contest; the inscription read: “Giving a poet a thesaurus is like putting a scope on a sniper rifle.” The hand-written notes you sent in college, containing criticism of recent poems, including “no reader wants to read about this.” The way you meticulously ash your cigarette, rolling it in the ashtray, swiping stray ash into one corner, so the receptacle remains spotless, but for one spot. So that between inhales there is nothing but a glowing ember, sharply pointed. * We are grooming each other. Years later, my only friends will be older men. Everyone notes it. * The year between eighteen and nineteen is filled with lunches. You take me out, on my insistence. The air is filled with possibility. I know you will continue this wooing as long as I hold out.

* My students want to ask the poet: did she mean this? Or this? “She wouldn’t tell you,” I say. I say, “What if she doesn’t know?” Dear One, I am sorry. I don’t mean to conflate you. The meticulous cigarette-smoker is not you. I did not even think of you as a man, until that time you brought your mistress to dinner. I noted it. She wore a white silk blouse –expensive— and every stitch of lace on her black bra shown through. She wore no makeup, but for red lipstick. I remember thinking, so this is what he likes. But you never took me to lunch, bought me too many drinks, smiled while you groomed the perfect cigarette. You never grasped my wrist, and scared me, beyond measure. That finger and that thumb circling my wrist, a little too hard, a little too insistent. You never almost apologized.

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YOGISONTHEINSTAGRAM  Ned Dougherty

somehow you heard yogis drink their own piss, maybe it was a slender barista who dabbles as well. flexible and

" bright skinned like a translucent sun, she reassured you the minerals are just our stars and why not drink the sky

" you sip sometimes my body could use a little galaxy

" your students are bored: they lead off with this as they tire through the threshold, they gloss at the white board, they

" death over the worksheet, they effuse a waft of wane, they prattle over dictionaries and declare the world dumb, but

" you give them a tablet and no matter the task the whole room goes silent with capacity and chance

" you tried it a few times: catch the first of morning in one of those glossy dollar store mugs, the life is good

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collection whereon pale-skeleton cartoon characters wax the virtues of golfing and s’mores and strumming a six

" string, but today’s tune is urine and the cup runneth after blasting nebula on the shower curtain and rug ruining the

" day’s wool socks. you drink the dram and stand ecstatic for a moment because the matrix breaks when consuming

" waste; it fills you nicely

" you’d like your students to live tweet one of your lessons so you decide to try the one about phrases and clauses

" because you can gauge a language through this. they text: ducklipping the universe right now #participial, to drink in

" the cleavage #infinitive, beyond the lesson and into the snapchat #prepositiontwice, on tuesdays it is possible to

" fail the class and pass yourself there should have been a clause but the young girl thought it was appositive

â&#x20AC;¨

" there are sterile days: the type when you eat granola upon waking, then circle up with the beleaguered mass, then

" sneak a snack before extolling the nurse in romeo and juliet as the enabler of a moonstruck life, then quinoa, then

" more phrases and clauses, then you crash into the bed after olive pizza to distill the satellites, the syringes, the

" grammar, the oats, the hassles into your morning mug. you down the toil, you measure the gossamer segregating

" english teacher from yogi â&#x20AC;¨ â&#x20AC;¨

" the students are staring at the city-glow of their bedroom waiting for the line to chime, the deep night to shake with

" approval. the day before and after depends on the next vibrate quake against the pillow, the full body buzz. the

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screen displays a red flag of notice but they dive in having been tagged by a far friend with video of a brimming yogi

" ready to consume his life force. disgusted they watch the whole thing and retch then post something of a rap lyric

" with an inspirational selfie and stay up until dawn hoping to sip the limpid stream of likes

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ONE ENDING  Harry Rajchgot

My father lay on the hospital bed, a tube passing into his trachea, another into his nostril, yet others in a vein, an artery, his urethra. The monitors kept track of his heartbeat, his arterial and venous blood pressures, his internal body temperature, the efficiency of the pump keeping his lungs ventilated with oxygen. How far away the mud fields of ancient Poland, how far away the muddied ashes of his mother, his father, his brother, and his sisters. What irony that at the same time they were so close- the events that had happened so far away, so long ago, were so instrumental to those that had brought him to this place. In a coma, he was so close to the ethereal wind that sustained the souls of his family. How can one explain or know the struggle that is each human life? How can one not wonder at the depths to which lives can sink and the secret memories carried of events long gone? Perhaps only God’s song can make sense of it all... He moved when my mother called his name. It was the first flutter of his recovery from the closeness to death. We asked him later, out of curiosity, and out of fear, if he saw a light when he was near death. There was no light. Perhaps it was the drugs he took–we can always hope. In the end, he was smarter than us all: he knew his body better than his doctors. When his legs became painful and then began to fail him, he knew the cancer was back. It was supposed to be gone, all the tests said so. Only a few weeks’ passing showed it was not. He had wanted to give up earlier; we hadn’t let him. We had pleaded with him to try, to give the chemotherapy a chance, despite the terrible effects it had on him. He knew better. Now he lay in his bed, made crazy by the multitude of drugs he was taking. He was afraid of the nurses, afraid they were trying to kill him. He feared his roommate, who was recording every word he said, and was preparing to sue him and his son and take his son’s house away for what my father might mutter. The orderly was stealing his television, his telephone, making holes in the wall next to his bed. His legs had failed him, his eyes were weakening, his ears could barely hear. His squeaky voice could not find the strength to say the words that rambled through his mind, especially now that he was continuously hiccupping because of the irritation of his esophagus.  He had a last chance to say goodbye to his grandchildren–I brought two daughters to see him for the last time. A few days later, my brother’s son and daughter and my son visited my father in his hospital room. He called to them and placed his hands on their heads, his final blessing. I turned away quickly, overcome with emotion. The closeness of the end struck me hard. I drove my mother home from the hospital. It was Friday, erev shabbat. The sun was setting, the western horizon pink. An unusual sunset: above the sun, a bright pink beacon shone directly upwards, like the beam of a giant flashlight. I’d never seen anything like it. I still can’t explain the physics of it to myself–a mystery. It was cold, very cold, the day my father died. It had been a remarkable winter, much warmer than any other anyone could remember. This made the temperature feel that much lower. A few days earlier, I had gone to see him at the hospital. As I walked in the door and down the hall, other visitors walked past me in both directions, in, out, in, out. Each had his or her secret reason to be here. Each snatch of conversation held the kernel of a long story. I walked past the bris room. Walking

from birth to death. Such a cliché built into the structure of this hospital–perhaps by an architect with a bitter sense of humour. I took the elevator, turned, turned again, down that too-familiar corridor to my father’s room. He shared it with two other men, one across from him with a distorted face, a tumour possibly growing in his head. This man never said anything. He only moved his two arms in unison. Sometimes they were up above his head, other times he shifted them down to lie at his side. A tube ran from a tracheostomy opening in his throat. It sucked and gurgled, drawing fluids away. Another tube ran into him somewhere, hidden by his blanket. A bag hung on a pole, the fluid entering him a strange turquoise colour. I couldn’t imagine its purpose. I turned behind a curtain. There was my father, lying with his legs bent, twisted to the side, looking distorted. He had been freshly shaved. I had tried the day before to shave him, but his electric razor wasn’t charged enough. Three nurses came over and pulled him into a better position. He moaned when one of them touched his leg. I leaned over to touch his arm. He was now quite blind, his eyes blank and unfocused, and his face was suddenly questioning: who is this, who touches me now? Isaac and Jacob in modern dress–am I Jacob or Esau? Father, please bless me too. “Hi. It’s me.” I said it softly. I had to repeat, because his hearing was by now also affected, although not as much as his vision. He hadn’t eaten anything that day. He had only allowed a few sips of water to enter. He was refusing food. He begged death to take him. He angrily wondered why he was still alive, after all his efforts to leave his life. I stayed a short while. My father was medicated against the pain, but not very well. He was tired, trying to sleep. He muttered that we should call the police to arrest the German soldiers who were beating him. My mother was there. She had been with him all day, as she had been every day for these past few weeks. She cried. She couldn’t accept his defeat by this disease and could even less accept his desire to die. They had been married 49 years. After all this time, how would she live alone? I convinced her, after a little while, to let me take her home. She was tired, greatly stressed by the last few weeks, but she couldn’t rest. I hoped that her own health wouldn’t be damaged.

" The next day, I am there when he dies. He breathes rapidly, then gradually fades. His hands are blue. Finally, it is finished. I whisperi the “shema;” I touchi his chest. It is still at last. My mother has been waiting in the hallway. I go out to try to comfort her.

" It is customary to bow to God when the Aleinu, the prayer that states “anuchnu korim”– we bow–is said. I have never done so. It is my small protest, my refusal to forgive God his indifference. Torah tells us to forgive all debts and grievances in the 50th or jubilee year. Perhaps I can someday. My father died in the 49th year after the war ended. He never was able to forgive.

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DAYS WITHOUT YOU  Margaryta Golovchenko

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I had forgotten that veins are no different from the Nile or those tiny Tibetan rivers that get overcrowded with yaks in springtime. I spent all night awake, wondering if the Chinese were right about ring fingers. Would your pompous pebble have been a dam and clog up my river, drying the body’s waterfall? 15 We forgot to love by the first rule of geography: just because you hadn’t seen something before doesn’t mean it was never there. Instead we followed the Antoinette mantra, using sugar to fill in the cracks once cement ran out, completely forgetting about the scheduled thunderstorm. 37 The Wonderwall Phase is no different from the lunar cycle, both swallowing you with their waves when you least expect it. The first time I heard it I was counting stars, wondering how they resembled tiny blood splatters, running to look up whether stars bleed. Now

I begin to suspect you’ve been holding the knife all along. 52 Remember the one time you travelled to Iceland and promised to steal the view outside your window to bring back to me? I laughed and asked why I’d wish to see that which I see for a quarter of each year (needless to say you took that personally). Well here I am now, refusing to leave home during winter without a can of paint, afraid of drowning in its endless canvas. 69 Ironic that I thought of you today considering we’d never even touched, too scared a mere poke would unravel us like we were unfinished origami cranes. 101 A whole day went towards gluing gemstones, by hand, to a dragonfly’s wings – I wanted to make it live up to its name, if only dragon at heart. Come midnight I’ll unleash it upon the moon to dazzle her the way you once did with me.

WORKING ON THE RAILROAD Mitch Kalka

I think it was my voice that did me in. When I was younger, it lacked expression and tonal range, to the point where “Shit, my hand is on fire!”came out with the same amount of enthusiasm as “I’ll have the soup, thank you.” When I sang, I sounded like somebody talking, and when I talked, I sounded like a boy whose dog just died. And that was when I talked at all. I was incredibly introverted, which didn’t help with the gloomy impression I gave. Between my quiet, unenthusiastic nature and my monotone voice, many people worried that something might be seriously wrong with me. It wasn’t so much the case with close friends, but everyone who only knew me from a distance was convinced that I was dangerously depressed. My best friend Sam’s mom was especially concerned. “Is that Mitch boy depressed?” she would ask him. “He’s so quiet.” “Mitch is a complicated man,” he would tell her. To this, she would reply, “Sam, I can’t help worrying. Maybe you could spend more time with him?” She had assumed that my quiet nature was a sign of serious depression and that this horrible affliction could be staved off by Sam’s frequent companionship. While quietness is probably up there with the key signs of depression, spending time with her son was going to do little to cure what ailed me. I was suffering from depression, to be sure, but I had been my whole life and saw no real need to change. I was comfortable in my gloomy, quiet little world. Besides, Sam was already spending plenty of time with me, coming over to my house every day after school to smoke my pot and watch my family’s basic cable, and none of our time together really made me any happier, at least not in any fundamental way. Yet she pressed on, convinced that all I needed was more interaction with normal, non-depressed souls like her son. I don’t know what she thought might happen otherwise, but whatever her fears, she would occasionally go to such lengths as calling me and inviting me over for dinner. “We’re having meatloaf!” she would say, as if depressed people just couldn’t get enough of the stuff. I could take it or leave it, but I could never help being touched by her gesture. I always accepted the offer, walking over to Sam’s house on many a meatloaf night. Shortly after dinner was cooked, Sam’s mother would leave for her night shift with UPS, leaving the rest of the household –Sam, his young niece, and his father, Steve– to entertain my supposedly troubled self. “I hear we have to spend time with you,” said Steve, sitting down to dinner one night. I nodded my head. “Mitch is going to kill himself,” offered Sam. “That’s too bad,” replied Steve. “You know, killing yourself is a sin,” said Sam. “What’s with you and sinning lately?” I asked.

“Sam’s been reading the Bible.” explained Steve. “Is it any good?” “There’s a lot of smiting.” “Really?” “Oh yeah, God hates everybody in this book.” We were quiet for a moment until Sam asked me a question. “When you do it, what song are you going to listen to?” “Do what?” “Kill yourself, you sinner.” “Geez, I don’t know. Why, what would you listen to?” “‘Oh Sweet Nothing.’” “Really? Good choice.” “You think so?” “Yeah, I mean, it’s a long song, so you won’t feel rushed or anything.” Sam seemed to be validated by this. “What would you listen to, Dad?” he asked. “Oh, I suppose I’d listen to ‘I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,’” said Steve. Steve had a thick Minnesotan accent and an even thicker mustache. You could tell when he was smiling because one end of it would rise up slightly. “Really?” Sam and I said in unison. “‘I’ve Been Working on the Railroad?’” “Yep, pull the trigger right at ‘all the live long day,’” said Steve, his mustache reaching for the sky. Our conversations probably weren’t what Sam’s mother had in mind when she invited me over. If anything, they seemed to validate the idea that I was going to end my own life. “I’ve got some bad news,” said Sam. “What is it?” I asked. “Mitch, I don’t want you to go killing yourself, but we’re out of ketchup.”

Sam’s niece rolled her eyes at us while we continued eating our meatloaf. It might have been a little dry, but in a strange way, it was one of the best meals I’d ever had.

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619  Ray McClaughlin

Everybody knows the way to twirl on a piece of   Cold steel. The Mexican border hums with salsa   tears and family photographs, tucked behind dirty  ears.

Each morning the road’s dusty throat coughs out  another stretch of time.

The scarecrows need stuffing.  The animals need water and grain.

Everybody knows the way to twirl your freedom Pull your carcass up, on and over a piece of   Cold steel.   Those who make it may you be joyful, joyful as   Dogs in water. The phantoms of your past will vanish  with the right kind of night.

CONCRETE  Natalie Frijia

Manuel stands outside of his snorkeling shack, calling tourists over for the essential Belize experience - petting sharks and stingrays, seeing coral, and having a drink on a sailboat. It's the work of every vendor along the main stretch of Caye Caulker, Ambergris Caye's smaller and less touristy twin. From sunrise to well past dark, they peddle their services to everyone who passes, selling not only Belizian experiences, but hammocks, carvings, and coconuts filled with rum. I get the sense that the majority of tourists here have read guidebooks suggesting haggling, because most conversations I overhear consist of vendors justifying prices: "Of course snorkeling is $140 American. We give you the gear, the food, put you on a boat and keep you alive. I know you want to 'experience Belize' on a budget, but did you want to survive it?" is what I hear one man say in response. "It takes money to make these things happen. You pay, we make cost, and then get paid. Fair?" Fair. Manuel doesn't call me over for a mask and some flippers, though. He tells me to get out of the rain. "Come stand under here with me," he beckons. "But it's not raining," I begin to call back. And then suddenly it is raining, and it's sheets of bulging drops falling all at once and I'm soaked. And my dress is white. Of course. He grabs my hand and pulls me under his tin roof, along with a few others, all huddling under an umbrella. Manuel is soaked, but beaming with a gap-toothed smile and laughing at my predicament. "It's okay. I tell you it's gonna rain, and everyone say, 'No, Manuel, it's a nice day,' and I say, ‘You go home and look at your TV and tell me what it say,’ and then it rain and they say I'm right. I don't need any of those, those things. The cell phone or the camera. When I want weather, I know." "How do you know?" I ask. He smiles. "Why don't you? I learn it. My father, my brother, they fish. I learn - you know when you go on the water, and you look, and you see wind and wave and then you know direction and what's the word - pattern." He asks if I understand. I do, theoretically. "Okay," he elaborates, "it's like ... seagrass. We see it on the water one day and okay. Two day and okay. Three day, and then we say, okay, Friday, it's going to rain." "But how do you know?" "Because I know! I don't need them tools, I know. You ask me about the storm. Sunday, my friends go to the mainland and they say, 'Manuel, it's gonna be a hurricane,' and I say, 'Wait, it'll go north.' And

then go, and Monday - no hurricane. Wind, 35-40 knots, some plantain trees maybe gone, but no houses. Not too bad. I just know. I know how the earth speaks. I watch." I nod. I've heard of people who can read weather, and I know people who like to believe they can, but I have not yet met someone who knows the difference within themselves. I ask about the split. It's a stretch of water, a 10-minute swim across, between the main part of Caye Caulker and another enticing beach, seemingly abandoned save for a distant windmill and some houses. There is no bridge between the two. I hear yesterday the two patches of land used to be one and were separated by a hurricane. I ask what he knows. "Okay, the Split. Nineteen sixty-one, a storm, and it was just a tiny split, not very big. Maybe here to here," he gestures, pointing to the house across the street. “And then, more storms, and it get bigger and bigger, until. Okay, you know Mitch and Kate? Hurricane Mitch and Kate?" They sound vaguely familiar. He draws a map in the sand with his toes, of the split between the main island and its other half. "Here the water, and the bar, and on the other side, here and here, we had mangroves. And then, Mitch, I think, and he hit from here and knock it down. And Kate, she hit from here, and then - gone. No more mangroves. And we don't know - I don't know what happened to them. The whole, they just disappeared." "And the breakers," he continues, "you know what then? They're made of concrete, and first one, then the other, just..." He uses his arm to demonstrate and bends it in half. "They say concrete don't bend, but nature bend it." The rain was far from letting up. "One more day. This is the last, and then okay. But it's okay. We all got time. Go slow." We wait for the rain to stop, watching rivers of rain water hit the sand streets, turn chalky, and run through town.

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FERVENCE  Robert Lang

Behind the hysterical bark of a car-chasing terrier  Ada emerges from the High Street Station.

Her eyes emit their genteel music,  her colored wind greeting him.

They sat watching a small pocket of trees  all alone amongst the concrete.

She favors his artsy crew  sailing through sunken dreams  rising like birds upwards over a mountain.

Her warm hands felt like braille in the night  bringing his atrophic fingers to a fervent rouse.

Their droopy eyelids scintillate  sharing tales of the jazz age  sleepy from nostalgia's absent father.

A bit of cigarette falls from his sweater

sheepishly embracing her goodbye.

You dear, silly, man you.

Voice trailing towards the F train,

a colorful gust following her down the steps.

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TICK, THUMP  Kat Hawthorne

Reveil’s gift to Minuette on their wedding day was a cuckoo clock. It was the finest clock he’d ever made, dainty, beautiful, just like the woman it had been made for. The face was fair, the hands delicate, the cuckoo’s soft song a charming melody. Its key was made of artfully twisted metal, its ring the shape of a heart. During the ceremony, Minuette and Reveil wound the clock together, symbolically marking the beginning of their time as husband and wife. They couldn’t have been happier. But before crossing the threshold of their matrimonial home, a terrible accident occurred. Some folks believe that rain on a wedding day is a sign of good fortune, but that was not the case for Minuette and Reveil. For them, rain meant a washed-out bridge noticed too late and deep-rutted roads too slick with mud for stopping. With a sharp crack and the squeal of splintering wood, the bridge beneath them fell to ruin. The footman was thrown from his lofty perch and drowned in the river’s hungry courses. The driver, like the toppling carriage, was dashed to pieces on the river’s rocky floor. Minuette’s white dress —so pure, so clean—was washed with gore, a spindle from the carriage’s fine wheel impaled through her chest, pointing to her wound like a shocked exclamation. Reveil, the only passenger whose life seemed spared, crawled in madness to his beloved, who was now little more than a heap of twisted limbs and fragmented possibilities. “You cannot leave me yet, Minuette,” he said, “there is still time.” From some wet place in the mud, amongst the corpses and rubbish, acting as the Reaper’s most unlikely herald, the little cuckoo chimed. Minuette awoke to a rhythmic sound. Tick, thump, tick, thump. A heart-shaped key protruded from a hole in her chest, twitching round and round in a jerking, clockwise direction. Tick, thump, tick, thump - wet, meaty. Tick, thump, tick, thump. “Do not fear, my love,” said Reveil the clockmaker to Minuette, his finest masterpiece, “now we have nothing but time.”

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THE WEDDING-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX REVISITED Adam Kane

I think I should start by pointing out that my experience as an essayist isn’t nearly prolific enough to be titling something “The Wedding Industrial Complex Revisited,” and coming from someone who assumes his reader base is entirely made up of his relatives (which is flattering, don’t get me wrong), I imagine the title might come across as a bit pretentious. I suppose, considering my assumptions about the readership, that it makes sense to write about something that many of them were involved in. I should also point out that many people, related or otherwise, have been very kind to me about my first essay about the Wedding Industrial Complex (WIC, as I assume it’s known amongst experts), so I think it only fitting that I, upon successful completion of the Wedding Day, revisit the topic (as it were).

The little-known fact of eschewing the WIC is that, in many ways, that extra money being spent is really a mark up for your peace of mind. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars for flowers in a Mason jar? Sure, but then someone is getting paid to pick them, cut them, arrange them, set them up, and put them on each table in an aesthetically pleasing but inconspicuous way. Same with the paper lanterns, the music, the dessert. So, as the now-Mrs. Kane will tell you, the monetary savings was otherwise spent in brain space, manpower - sorry, womanpower - and spreadsheet management. ("What I saved in money, I paid for in agony," Mrs. Kane says unprompted.) Mrs. Kane has an exceptional attention to detail, so she had thought of every last thing, and had accounted for every possible variable.

The Wedding Day forecast called for rain, which was frustrating in a kind of cosmic way, especially considering the rest of the 10-day: sun, sun, sun, sun sun, sunsunsunsunsun. It was like Augusta, Maine had fallen into an alternate universe where everything was the same, except the weather was whatever San Diego was getting (except for the one day).Of course, the weather can’t be accounted for. On the Day’s eve, the popular topic of conversation among the assembled family, other than the top quality of the groom and his best men’s haircuts, centered around the line, “I hope the weather stays like this.” From my perspective, it wasn’t necessarily critical for the rain to stay away, but I don’t have enough hair for the wet, humid air to have any effect on it. Since Mrs. Kane and I would be so dressed up, and had hired a friend to photograph the whole Day, it was only fitting that we get some pictures taken. And we wanted them to be nice. Understandably (I hope), we preferred it would be sunny.

After a successful rehearsal, delicious dinner, and the following bachelor party, • Six beers (split three ways) •

Two and a half standup comedy specials

•

Lights out by 11

we awoke to sunlight. And it stayed sunny while we were at Tim Horton's, and during the drive to pick up the rings and programs and while we were putting on our suits and discussing which knot we would use on our ties (Four-in-Hand). All according to the plan.

But during the drive over to the church I saw a raindrop. And then a couple more. And I had to turn on my wipers. And then I thought about needing to replace my wipers, which is an odd thought to have on your wedding day, I think. I started feeling nervous. Rain, when it hits you in the face, is actual water. You don’t feel a raindrop on your forehead when you’re planning something. It's real - and suddenly this day that was only spreadsheets and phone calls with vendors and inspiration pictures was as real as the water falling from the sky.

And then it all happened, and everything on time, including the 10 minute buffer for the late arrival of the bride which I don’t think the priest knew about because of his well-intentioned but ill-timed remark about how it’s never the groom who’s late.

We had selected that reading from Saint Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians that everyone has at their wedding: love is patient, love is kind, et cetera. We chose it because we genuinely love it. It's a verse that everyone hears at a wedding, but the honest truth is, it's read at every wedding because it's true and it's beautiful. We also chose it (I did, anyway) partially because we envisioned a moment similar to when Billy Joel plays Piano Man in concert. The song is so popular, it's cliche. And when you hear Billy Joel play it live with the harmonica device that looks like a neck brace, and he connects with the lyrics because it’s a real memory, you're reminded why it's become a cliche. So when the first lines of First Corinthians were intoned, a small part of me was disappointed that the assembled family and friends didn't start cheering in recognition.

At any rate, the passage is wonderful and incredibly fitting. It's repetitive; a list, almost. What love is. What it is not. In my estimation, it is perfect prose. And with each rhythmic beat, the light through the stained glass window shone a little brighter. And it was sunny when we were pronounced as Mr. And Mrs, and even sunnier as we drove to our designated beautiful spot for pictures, and sunnier still as we arrived to the reception in the small ski hut overlooking the lake. The sun shone as we ate our wedding pizza. (You read that correctly.)

Despite our simple, laid back reception, we had every trapping. (Minus the bouquet toss on principle.) Cake cutting, heartfelt speeches, a first dance. And we had glorious sunshine all afternoon. Take that, WIC.

Until the rain started. We received a text message from my sister who had to leave early. "Rain is four minutes away." The pizza truck packed up. And we danced a bit. The rain we had been dreading fell hard and fast; we didn’t care.

After a half an hour, the rain started to let up, and those assembled began to run outside. "Get out here!" Someone grabbed Mrs. Kane and I and pulled us on the back porch. It was still raining. Not hard anymore, but big, fat drops. Behind us, over the serene lake at the bottom of the hill, was a rainbow. The whole thing: pot of gold at the end, whatever is at the beginning, and every point in between. It was bright and vibrant, as if drawn by a child pressing too hard on the paper with the crayons. And faintly, just above the bright and vibrant rainbow, was another one.

Everyone there: bride and groom, young cousins, grandparents, pragmatists and optimists alike, just stood and stared in awe and wonder. We had prayed for sun, and we got sun. But then we got something even better. A rainbow, in the words of Kermit the Frog, is an illusion. But that’s what made it so great. You can’t touch it or taste it. You can only see it and feel something.

Then the sun set (also beautiful), and we packed up, and everyone went home. The Day was over. And Mrs. Kane and I went on a honeymoon, and then back to work like everyone else, and back to the minor inconveniences of bus schedules and the line at the grocery store and Massachusetts drivers. But we left Augusta, Maine and we were different - because those big, fat raindrops we were dreading were a gift from something I call God (and you can call It whatever you like). God looked down and saw that it was good. We could feel it and see it. No amount of money to the WIC, no agony, no spreadsheets, could account for that moment. Yet there it was.

That moment I had pictured in my head during First Corinthians happened on the back porch of the Kent’s Hill Ski Lodge. All at once we recognized something familiar, but connected with it and each other in a way that will never happen again.

I imagine this all sounds preachy and in a way I guess it kind of is. I can only tell you what I felt. I’m not writing this as proof of some Greater Being - that needs to be an individual discovery. I’m not saying we should just leave everything to chance. Any functioning adult has to have a certain attention to detail and ability to think a step or two ahead. And if you want a wedding planner and a fancy ballroom and tuxedos and chocolate fountain, you’ll have a great day. The same is true if you want pizza and pie and folding chairs like we did and the surprising amount of agony that comes along with it, WIC be damned. Just make sure to build in some time for the unexpected, and once in a while, allow for the wonder of it all to take precedence.

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SUMMER IN GAZA  Lynn White

In the rain of the rockets  there’s no water.  Metal rain.

In the rain of the rockets  there’s no sunshine.  Smoke rain.  Black rain.

In the rain of the rockets  there’s no life.  Death rain.  Life ending rain.  Death without life rain.

In the rain of the rockets  there’s no hope.  Deaf rain.  Deaf rain.  Deaf rain.  Death rain.

THE STUFF OF STARS Patrick Kiernan

SURVIVOR  Sam Wilkes

I used to cringe every time I thought of her. I cringed because I thought of myself.

But that self, that me, has long since been deserted; chloroformed and left by the side of the highway as the car rolled on, driven by this me, with a cigarette and a smile.

I like this me much better. That me was such a goddamn pushover.

I know it would’ve been different had she dated this me rather than that me. That me was a gentleman, pulling chairs and holding doors. That me expressed his feelings, vomiting his soul into letters revealing his deep-seated insecurities and humble desires. That me catered to the ever-changing ebb and flow of the female mood.

This me would’ve acted like he didn’t need her, like he could’ve had any hot bird flapping by in the bar, like she was simply lucky to have been allowed to shadow his holy ass around. This me wouldn’t have asked her how her day was or told her that a casual pony tail was her prettiest look. This me would’ve used her for hot sex, not put in cuddle time, and then left to go shoot pool with his same buddies that he sees every day.

I’m pretty certain she would not have cheated on this me. This me wouldn’t have allowed such a humiliating scenario. This me would’ve dominated as nature intended. She would’ve obsessed over this me and relayed every detail incessantly to her gaggle of hen friends. Indifferent to her infatuation, this me would’ve ultimately cheated on her.

So, this me survives. That me is dead. And I no longer cringe.

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TOTAL POPULATION WITHDRAWAL  Britta R. Moline

1. The world conceded that   the word ‘creative’ was  No Longer Relevant   in these hours before the dawn.

2. In the long run, the real revelations,   the real social orders of all places,  were so far out to sea   that we failed to maneuver them back.

3. Back to the real questions -- the real garbage,  the real bare-chested men,  Writing, “Die! Big men! Die!”  And taking up too much space on the trains.

4. We were too lazy and  too unreliable   to cut the crown from the Civil War --   So we analyzed its droppings instead.

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UNFINISHED MURDER BALLAD: THE OCEAN NEVER NEEDS A CUT Darren C. Demaree

Thick bones developed under moonlight, the ocean is a bully, all club and downward trajectory; he brought his love to the edge of the sea because she loved him just enough to have room in her heart for other men, and he knew that if they stood there long enough, the sun would set and the ocean would fill her heart with enough wave that it could never love another man again…

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EVICTION Jill Talbot

This country is not a country. I hunted you down, took down  the arrows, the sparrows, the signs in strange languages  I found a dead fawn down the road and up the road  a man sits on the porch, knees into his chest, a few  days ago the puppies and children sign vanished, as did the   puppies and children; a few belongings on the lawn, a for  sale sign, the door ajar and the porch light always on. An   eviction and he sits. And I want to go tell him that it’ll  work out, being patronizing is sometimes the only way to   hold on. In the empty house, when the wrong person  comes knocking, better is just a syllable away from dying.   I’ve sat outside houses, too, a good way for contemplating  and looking from the outside in, a sort of sideways  birds eye view and I miss those kids, they were wild and   free as kids used to be, on the street playing their  puppy running with them, their little toy wagon  somebody always has to pull and across from them  the mailboxes I half expect a sign of where they’ve  gone. And the for sale sign remains, now a mattress   on the porch and a truck. Moving is always a state  of civil disobedience. Heights marked in pen on the wall.   A house is just a portrait we take inbetween new places.   A house is not a fable; it is skin where laugh lines crack  the floor boards and crows feet mark the exits.

A EULOGY FOR TOM WHITE Patrick St. Amand

I’ve been dead for one day now, and I’m waiting for something to happen, but nothing seems to. I’m not in my body, but I can’t leave it . . . exactly. I’m just there, not angry, not feeling anything. I remember feelings, like when I died. I stopped breathing. I was in the hospital. It hurt, a lot, but I was medicated just enough not to care. I couldn’t breathe, and after I realized that, the experience blurred. Afterwards, I hung around my body. My mother and father were there when I died, and they cried over me, looking down at my limp body. My wife was there, and she too looked down at my limp body, but she didn’t cry. This didn’t surprise me, or hurt me. She never cried. My nurse and doctor were there, as they had been frequently, checking my vitals and giving each other furtive looks. And, of course, Tom White was there. He didn’t seem to react to anything, and really, that’s the best thing he could have done. I saw them embalm me—that caused mild stress, but only because I thought it should. They didn’t remove my tumor, or anything else for that matter, just as the doctors couldn’t when I was living. The mortician did make sure that I was dead. He checked my pulse a number of times and did other routine procedures. Then, they stripped me and put a small cloth over my penis. Afterwards, I saw them inject embalming fluid into me and my blood and other fluid drained out of my body. If I could feel emotion, I think this would make me sad. They turned my body, my once beautiful body, into a presentation. I guess I should be happy that I opted not to be cremated. I don’t know if I could have managed to pretend to care about my body burning. Plus, in my current circumstance, I’d be lonelier. My funeral service was lovely. Truly lovely. A large number of people congregated at both the funeral home and the service. My wife looked stunning, and my family composed themselves with the most professional aplomb I’ve ever seen. They buried me at Our Lady of Sorrow cemetery. My wife and I hadn’t anticipated my cancer, so we hadn’t anticipated buying a lot of land. As I was being lowered into the ground, I did think it a bit odd that someone mentioned this was a single burial spot. Did my wife not want me to be beside her in eternity? I guess within 50 – 70 years, I would find out if she did or not. Being in here, chained to my body yet removed from it, has given me time to objectively reflect on things around me. This coffin, for example, is a fine piece of carpentry. My uncle made it for me. I overheard him speaking with my father at my wake. My father thanked him—good form—and my uncle assured him that he wouldn’t have to pay a dime—good form. I hear many things though, and smell, unfortunately, many things as well. I see only that which is around me—in this case, my dead body— and I can feel the cloth they buried me in. But all these sensory details, every one more delicate since I am dead, do not distract me from that point I continue to think about. Tom White and my eulogy. Tom and I had been friends for a long time and, as such, we discussed serious topics in bizarre contexts. One time in college, Tom had had his throat almost slit outside a bar. Tom’s relationships with various women caught up with him. If it hadn’t been for a few of Tom’s friends—myself included—Tom would have been killed. -What…what…what if he had slit my throat? We were drinking beer in Tom’s room. Just Tom and I. The man had been arrested and hauled away and Tom would eventually press charges. -Well…what if he had?

-Then I’d be dead. -Yes. -Doesn’t that concern you? -But you’re not. -But I almost was. I took a slug of beer and looked at Tom. He quivered and hugged himself. His bottle shook as he brought it to his lips. -Listen, do me a favor, er, well, listen. What do you think of living? -I’d say it’s fantastic given the alternative. -When you face the end of your life. You know what goes through your mind? -What? Self-preservation? A will to live? -Reputation. -Pardon? -Reputation. -What about it? -What would have happened had I died tonight? -You would have bled to death because he had a knife. You would have been rushed to the hospital where they would have attempted to resuscitate you, but you have AB Rh negative blood, and they wouldn’t have been able to save you . . . probably. Tom sipped his beer but his tremors spilled beer onto the floor. I held my bottle with a firm hand and drank, happy Tom was alive. -Do you think I would have been remembered well? -You would have been remembered. -Hey…when…when I die…will you say something nice about me? -As in?

-As in…will you give me a eulogy? You know, one to remember. You have a great way with words. And you’ve been my friend for a while. I think you could make people remember me. And I promised I would. From that time, I had been collecting anecdotes and recording discussions and pieces about Tom and his past and his contributions towards everything and nothing. I would cite Shakespeare or Dante or Milton or Twain or Da Vinci. I was going to articulate the sum of a life as beautifully as I could, as anyone could. My compilation would praise him; however, at my funeral, Tom read my eulogy. In it, he gave an anecdote about how I pissed myself while drunk, and he quoted a line Brendan Fraser delivered from The Mummy. “Death is only the beginning,” Tom told the crowd. He finished stating that I was a good guy. People in the audience weakly nodded. The sum of my life was expressed in clichés and banalities, yet my poetry of a life still living goes unread. And here, in my coffin, attached to a corpse, not feeling much of anything, I reflect upon the sum of my life and my unspoken words.

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FAMILY CONNECTIONS: PHOTOGRAPHS Valerie Poulin

When I moved 860 miles from home at age 22, to live in the city where I was born, I slid a handful of favourite photographs into cheap department store frames. The photographs doubled as a means of inexpensively decorating the apartment I shared with an older sister and as a way of warding off homesickness. “There’s none of me,” my father told my sister when our parents visited us the following year. “There’s none of me, either,” my quick-thinking sister replied. She was trying to soothe his hurt feelings, but she also had my back, perhaps unintentionally. The truth was, I had not found a photograph of him that I connected with, one that captured the essence of who he was. Until he died. Then I found three.

II When I was a kid, I loved looking at old photographs of my parents as teenagers, before they were married, and as newlyweds. Not only did my parents have lives before me, there was something celebratory and special about these moments. Special because they documented both their separate and shared lives. And special because back then the development of film into negatives, then into printed photographs, required a camera (owned, or borrowed), the purchase of a roll of film, and the patience to wait a week after dropping off the canister at a bricks-and-mortar photofinishing lab. My sisters and I sifted through these abandoned black-and-white photos, randomly selecting photographs that were carelessly stored in our basement in a red-foiled box that looked as if it once may have held Valentine’s Day chocolates, but now dulled by age. Its corners were split, broken from the weight of being stored under heavier boxes. I may have been looking for clues to my own existence, searching for meaning behind their expectation that I failed to fulfill: I was expected to be born a boy and carry the name Robert—a living tribute to my father’s deceased brother. Or, maybe seeing their younger selves forever locked in the promise their futures held, I understood that disappointment had not yet cluttered their lives, that my parents were happy. Later, I understood the appeal. III Back home, after my father’s death from a massive heart attack, my mom and I talked about their early life together. She closed her eyes and said she could still smell the scent of his leather hockey jacket. A recollection of dating, of early romance. I spread photos across their double bed, creating a kind of mosaic of their past, and when she left the room, I plucked two of those small, square photographs; then I spotted a third, one that told me everything I needed to know about my father. In it, a young man wearing a leather hockey jacket and baggy dress pants slumps in front of an open casket, his back to the camera lens. It was September 1951, he was 19 years old, and he was standing in front of his older brother’s lifeless body. The photo was taken a year before my dad travelled overseas to play hockey. To me, it captured a turning point, a downturn in his life. I nicked all three photos. One photo seemed to answer a question, but the two others raised a different one. IV When my son was 10 years old, he wrote, “I am sad my grandfather died” on a school assignment. My father-in-law was still alive and in good health at the time, so I was confused. Then it hit me. He was taking about my father, a man my son had never met. V For years, I had been telling my son stories about my dad. Mostly, the stories were about his playing hockey in the U.K., Europe, and Sweden. Early on, my son set his sights on a career in hockey— sometimes athleticism skips a generation — so making this connection between my son and father felt like an easy one. I reprinted and framed an old photo from his season with the British National League, in 1952, and put it on his bookshelf in his bedroom alongside his minor hockey trophies and medals. My father had few pictures taken of him as a child (there would not have been spare pocket money to

purchase film, or to develop it; there wasn’t a lot of spare anything), and I liked the idea of presenting my dad in a favourable, perhaps even heroic, light to my son. It beat the funeral photo I’d pocketed from my mom’s collection. My son’s interest in hockey as a career intensified as he got older, and I worried about its potential to crush his spirit because I believed that it had crushed my father. He had barely lasted barely a season— and had been traded to another team before being cut and sent home. And he never talked to us about it, so I assumed his experience was too devastating to talk about. In truth, I had probably layered his story with my own experiences of regret and disappointment. In adolescence, I had revelled in melancholy and longing, and looking at those old photos stored in the basement made me feel as if I had glimpsed my father’s glory days. As an adult, I realized that I might never know the circumstances that stripped my father of his dream to play professional hockey. Where I thought I might find clues in old photos, I simply had more questions. And for a long while, I stopped trying. VI When my son was 14 years old, I rediscovered two of the photos I’d snagged from my mother’s collection that were taken the year his grandfather was playing hockey overseas. In one, my dad is seated at a desk in front of a typewriter with sheaves of paper beside him, looking every bit the part of a 1950s writer. He is wearing eyeglasses—spectacles, really—and a cigarette dangles from his mouth. He looks very Hemingway-sequel, which is likely the image the photographer and subject were going for. A second photo shows my father sitting under a lamp, penning a letter, an ashtray and eyeglasses nearby. Sure, he was posing for the camera, but it’s casual and believable, and knowing my father’s personality, I could see the slight humorous bent to them, as if I were in on the joke. VII Dad was a terrific dinner-hour storyteller, and in that photograph, I saw a playful young adult, living his dream as a hockey player, but posing as a writer. Maybe writing had been his Plan B. Maybe I passed my father’s hockey ability to my son, so that I could make room to inherit his passion for writing. For the first time, it occurred to me that I might have inherited my creative writing habit and poetic voice from my father. “Sometimes poetry cascades through generations,” wrote the Polish poet Wistlawa Szymborska. I would like to think that this is true. I looked at the man who would become my father and I saw my self.

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B-SIDE Mezi

(Toronto, 08.09.11) We all saw her scream (the Russian Queen from Lisbon, in Persian rugs and copper art), her chemicals feasting on the blood of the insane as she stood unaware, in tired mutations of the same dream, sifting through endless silos at the speed of light, static as a rock.   Slums as big as mansions lay small under the night sky, as luscious manifestations of life oozed out of towers in Berlin and through the sprawling streets of Tripoli and Teheran. Screens spoke masses, shining like the Mongolian desert, as windless Kashmirs extended, just short of the icebergs north of 60. And the willow tree just stood there, weeping

like a willow tree. And the moon shunned like the moon. And the stars shunned like the stars.

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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 Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over six hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. 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.

C. Kubasta attended Wells College and received an MFA in poetry from The University of Notre Dame. Her work experiments with hybrid forms, excerpted text, and shifting voices. A Lovely Box was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013 and won the 2014 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Chapbook Prize. Her poems and translations have appeared in numerous journals, including So To Speak, Stand, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Verse Wisconsin, and The Notre Dame Review. Check out her website. She currently teaches English and Gender Studies at Marian University, in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. She lives with her beloved John, cat Cliff, and dog Ursula.

Recently named the New Mexico Charter School's Teacher of the Year for 2014, Ned Dougherty is an award winning high school English teacher at Vista Grande High School in Taos, NM. His poetry has been published in various journals and magazines across the country and Interwebs. Find his poetry and essays on education at teachpoet.com and follow his 140 character ramblings via the handle @teachpoet.

Harry Rajchgot is a Montreal dentist. He is co-editor of Harvest-HaAsif Literary Anthology and of the newly-launched JONAHmagazine. He writes musical parodies and has a blog, 1001 Uses for Dental Floss. He is in the final editing phase of a novel. Follow him on Twitter.

Margaryta Golovchenko is a high school student and emerging poet from Toronto, Canada, although she can often be found stealing sideways looks at the world map. Her work has appeared in The Teacup Trail,In/Words, The Impressment Gang, and others. She is a proud bibliophile and collector of all things beautiful who shares her (mis)adventures on Twitter.

Mitch Kalka is a Chinese food addict and poor shopper. His many regrets include never visiting the Grand Canyon, painting his room an ugly orange color, and not sharing his feelings more often. He currently lives in St. Paul with his eighty-six year old grandma.

Ray McClaughlin is a poet from Ontario, Canada. His work has appeared in Mutin, The Puritan, Bywords, Maple Tree Poetry and Desire. He is at work on his first book of poetry. His blog can be found here.

Natalie Frijia is a PhD candidate at the University of Toronto's Drama, Theatre and Performance Studies Program, and spends most of her summers traveling the world by bicycle in search of adventure and stories. Her work has been published by Scarborough Arts, and performed at Theatre Passe Muraille's Crapshoot series and Back Burner Productions' What Are You Doing Up There?! Festivals. You can read more of Natalie's writing on her website.

Robert Lang is a graduate of the Hartt School of Music at the University of Hartford. Bronx bred, he stays in his happy place rambling prose with aspirations of an MFA in Poetics. Robert tweets and tumbles everyday cadences.

Kat Hawthorne tends to lurk (somewhat menacingly) in the darker corners of the literary world. Her short fiction has appeared in such literary magazines as Underneath the Juniper Tree, Thrills Kill and

Chaos, Infernal Ink, Shadows Express, and Fiction and Verse. Her literary novelette, The Oddity, is available from MuseIt Up Publishing, and her middle grade horror novel, The Boatman, is forthcoming. As well as being a nerd of the highest order, Kat is an acquisitions and copy editor at BookFish Books LLC. Please visit her website for more information.

Adam Kane is a pop-culture enthusiast, essayist, and recovering actor living and working in Boston. You can follow him onTwitter, where he tweets about the Red Sox, Syracuse basketball and the line at Starbucks.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her poetry is influenced by social issues, places she has been and people she has known or imagined.

Patrick John Kiernan is an actor, writer, and runner, with a very quixotic view of the world. He is blessed with the ability to do several things (sometimes simultaneously!), and occasionally frustrated with his attention span for each. He is prone to wanderlust, and has lived and worked in California, Ohio, Vermont, and New York City. He currently lives out of the back of his car, performing Shakespeare around the country. Follow Patrick through his site, and on Twitter. Should you see him battling a windmill, feel free to lend a hand.

Sam Wilkes is an attorney, writer, musician and ring toss hustler living on the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay, Alabama with his wife and plump wiener dog. He has a love-hate relationship with Alabama, but consistently draws inspiration from her. His short fiction has been published in WhiskeyPaper, Crack the Spine, Deep South Magazine, Fiction on the Web, Steel Toe Review, From the Depths, and several others. One of his short stories was nominated for the 2014 Pushcart Prize. He can be found on Twitter at @Samkwilkes.

Britta R. Moline writes in and on anything that moves her, inspired by miscommunication, micromoments and automatic/DADA writing. She has been published by PopMatters magazine, the MARTa Herford museum, Save the Crumbs, and Whatever Saves. She writes from her friend's kitchen in Paris, France.

Darren C. Demaree is the author of "As We Refer to Our Bodies" (8th House, 2013), "Temporary Champions" (Main Street Rag, 2014), and "Not For Art Nor Prayer" (8th House, 2015). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.

Jill Talbot was born in Vancouver, BC. She attended Simon Fraser University for psychology. Since then Jill has pursued her passion for writing, winning 3rd place for the Aspiring Canadian Poets contest, runner up for the Little Bird Anthology short story contest and 1st place for the Passion Poetry contest. She lives on Gabriola Island, British Columbia. You can follow Jill at her website.

Patrick St. Amand lives by the shores of Lake Huron in Sarnia, Ontario. He is an avid reader, avid writer, and casual cyclist. When he isn't teaching eighth grade, he is fretting about word choice and the Detroit Red Wings. Some of his work can be found in Polar Expressions Publishing short story collections as well as the online journal Wild: A Quarterly.

Valerie Poulin writes poetry, personal essays and non-fiction. Her work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies, in newspapers and magazines. In her home outside Toronto, Canada, she has VHS tapes of her TV appearance and short film debut. Valerie regularly posts her work on Valerie Writes

and Tumblr, and occasionally tweets.â&#x20AC;¨ â&#x20AC;¨

Mezi is an Ottawa-based writer and fine-art photographer. He works on series of visual poetry and short fiction by combining writing with digital images.

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