Vol. I, Issue III - February 2014

THE RAIN, PARTY, & DISASTER SOCIETY Issue III February 2014

The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society is an online literary publication featuring works that are unlikely to be published by more mainstream publications. The RP&D Society 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.

To respond directly to a work you see featured in this issue, use our Contact page to send a letter to the Editor-In-Chief. You may also write your own rebuttal and submit it for publication in a future issue. Â

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TABLE OF CONTENTS WE SHOULD HAVE HELD HANDS BACK THEN, Kaity Davie UNTITLED, Zac Bailis OPHELIA, SLOSHED UNDERGRAD, Sean Marciniak @DORIANGRAY, Patrick John Kiernan THE ISLETS OF LANGERHANS, M. Krochmalnik Grabois OUR PARADIGMS, Gemma Fisk WHEN I DON’T WRITE ABOUT YOUR BODY, Jennifer Hanks LISTLESS VIRTUES OF A PERENNIAL DRIFTER, Amica Laran NO ONE GETS TO READ THAT PAGE, William Doreski THE AGNOSTIC’S QUEST FOR MEANING, Nicole Hughes ON NON-MONOGAMY, Alice Tarbuck ST. CHARLES, Damon Ferrell Marbut THINGS OF THE SPIRIT, Howie Good DOWNTURN ECONOMICS, Erik Svehaug FAKE STATEMENTS BY REAL CELEBRITIES, Adam Kane UNTITLED, Brian Rentas GIVE AND TAKE, Zain Syed PASTORAL, Justin Webb I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH, Tim Wilkenson RE-UNION, Corey Mesler MISSION STATEMENT TO THE PATIENT, Jeffrey Zable HOME BASE (PART I), Brett Jones HOME BASE (PART II), Brett Jones MUD, Chloe N. Clark GROWL, Scott Malkovsky

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EDITORIAL STAFF CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES

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WE SHOULD HAVE HELD HANDS BACK THEN.

By Kaity Davie i know that you noticed me. years ago, months ago, days ago, minutes ago. you noticed. so did i. and yet. we just couldn’t / just quietly / just never put it all together. i could have grazed my fingers along the curve of your spine back then, run them through the strands of your hair back then, learnt the indents of your hips back then, instead of using these digits to type messages that i know don’t subtract miles. i imagine how it would have been to take deep breaths with you, lock eyes with you; be forehead to forehead, mouth to mouth with you, had we just / if we just / why didn’t we just / just, goddamn. (can’t you feel it, still?) but darlin’, darlin’, oh darlin’; we should have held hands back then. back before you slyly slipped me your self-serving apologies / your sympathy / your placating plate of affirmation. at the end of the day, after every asinine conversation, you walk away from your phone, sign out of the chat, turn off the world’s notifications, and curl up with another warm body. it isn’t mine. i am not the one sharing your bed / the one clutching your thighs / the one stealing your books / the one caressing your brow / the one holding your hand. (trust me. i’ve thought about it.) and so over and over again, it repeats - “i only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me.”

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UNTITLED

By Zac Bailas Never before had I seen a man's head explode quite like that. The way tiny pieces and bigger chunks flew off in all different directions. There's just something really satisfying about a good old fashioned stick of dynamite, I suppose. A well placed shot between the eyes has certain flair of practicality, efficiency, and, of course, cleanliness. An explosion is different though. The sweet spontaneity of it all is a true wonder to behold.

Now I did not know this man so you can rest assured this was not an act of vengeance or aggression. Call it an experiment, if you will. Merely a scientific endeavor. It also didn't negatively affect my case that this man was not only a convicted serial rapist, but had just attempted to remove a few appendages from my body by wielding (poorly, I might add) a fireman's ax and swinging it like the crazy sonuvabitch he was.

Therefore, I feel confident in saying I acted out of self-defense.

Does that mean I'm not allowed to enjoy it? You know what? Don't answer that.

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OPHELIA, SLOSHED UNDERGRAD

By Sean Marciniak Ophelia (this poem has been written by a Scoundrel) I. Arrogance scribbles, passed from parchment to parchment (pavement?)Old men probably dead convince you you are friends, “Gouge out your eyes if you’re looking for a complex, or raise a glass and make the spirits flex (Mixed Chex) Take statements or go blind; doubt me? You can ask Rex; Beg a King what it takes to reach the last apex” cataclysmic decisions made in an instant.

Taking Queen Mother Gertrude out of the equation, dumping her with Captain Obvious and Blatantmind the Nu Danes B-Boy against her invasionIn her end; poisoned husbandry thy Claudius, studying Machiavelli at Colonus, not getting between Polonius and his curtains.

Sweet girls leading blind fathers to Mr. Durdenwho’ll preach to plastic men who make false decisions “Glouster’s home!”

Leadership’s a power trip.

Leads to swagger daggers being very ScottishOh. II. Who do I need to avenge to get drink around here?

What cut throat snatched your purse that you won’t shake a speare?

Love’s a vicious cycle that leaves Cordelia hungslipped Mein Fraulein some Percocet, she looked high strung.

Exit stage left; more corpses than Pink Snagglepuss getting in touch with his traditions, hunter roots.

Lions, tigers, exits pursued by bearsWhere?

Judy Garland stars in “Suck My Rubies, Alice.”

Envy breeds trouble- double toiling Wonder with Malice.

If you’re at the nunnery you’ve lost the habit, but you follow orders well, so let’s take a stab at it: It takes a certain composition to be crude.

Make you scream “There’s Rosemary, but where’s Gertrude?”

Oh, you can’t see that from your river bed?

Oh, you can’t be bothered when you have no right to offend?

Arrogance leads to a life without consequence.

III. Cut the games, Fortinbras is at the gates.

Prepare the armaments, tell the prince to waittoo late. And there goes our principle cast; 7

call Carol Burnett, she sweeps trash.

Caesar can tell you men of ambition are the first to turn Ides. Of suspicion everyone is guilty, j’accuse the accused!

Juliet’s knife wounds provide no excuse, but kill yourself over me. Makes me feel like a man; young life’s expendable- or so I understand.

Exit Ophelia, sloshed undergrad.

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@DORIANGRAY

By Patrick Kiernan I die every single day. It comes slowly, gas leaking out of a tank; a river drying up to a trickle. It has taken years to notice, but here I am: On empty. In a muddy riverbed.

Standing on the short timeline of my life, I look back at the man of the past.

The man is not myself, and yet he is more complete than me. He is younger – yes – but brimming with delight. He knows nothing of Walls and Comments and Likes, and yet he is whole. He has no outlet for his happiness other than his own physical canvas. His sadness is absolute and crushing, but it belongs to him.

I am not he.

I am the autumn of his soul.

There is an emptiness inside me.

It has not grown like the lines on my face nor the aches in my bones. It is something immeasurable.

I want to step out of my own identity.

I want to live in a construct that is more unique than my own.

We talk of living vicariously through others, but I live vicariously through myself. I live ten feet behind and thirty seconds after my own person. I watch the man in front of me go through every motion, and I feel nothing. I notate the changes, categorize the achievements, collate the emotions, and I feel nothing. On paper, I look quite good. Great things make headlines. Pictures show unforgettable memories, laughter, joy, and contentment.

And every feeling of inadequacy, vulnerability, shame, doubt, and fear is greeted with a blind eye.

The more my construct grows, the more I diminish.

I am the Portrait of Dorian Gray, reversed.

Each day the picture is more successful, happy, wealthy, and loved.

And the man weakens and decays.

I am frightened of what I’ve become.

If there is a way to halt this, I spend every day searching for it. Perhaps, in moments of looking into another’s eyes, I can hide from nothing. At those times, the construct falls away, and the man on the timeline comes crashing into the present.

I wonder who will greet me in the morning. Will the Man diminish, or will the Portrait grow fainter instead?

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THE ISLETS OF LANGERHANS

By Mitchell grabois Tim says he’s a leg man He likes them long like on the pin-ups Vargas did for Esquire during WWII Gilbert proclaims he’s a tit man He doesn’t have to mention it He spent too much time in our high school shack jacking off to old copies of Playboy As for me—it’s Della’s pancreas that slays me It’s the geode blue cells of her Islets of Langerhans only 2% of pancreatic mass but there’s millions of them an endocrinologist’s dream that make her glow with good digestion When we dine at UberSausage there’s no question she’ll get through three or four starting with Cajun Pork and Crawfish followed by a Wisconsin Brat then a Spicy Southwest Buffalo with beer brewed as micro-scopically as the cells of those wonderful Islets the Islets of of Langerhans blue and spacious and as full of music as the Isle of Skye Della’s a sixth of a ton of fun and, with no help can lift the engine out of my ‘55 Chevy pickup She ain’t fluffy as she’ll tell you herself Born of nine mothers all of them mechanics she toils in grease and oil Like Thor she wields hammer and wrench with divine authority and punches no time clock serves no master works outside of Time 10

works up an appetite So, honeypie, I’ve ordered you another Chili Lemongrass Pork Sausage and a couple pounds of slaw I love you and will love you forever and we will walk on the bluffs overlooking the sparkly sea and yell greetings to the sojourners on the Islets of Langerhans

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OUR PARADIGMS

By Gemma Fisk “Lord Jesus, through the glory of Your Holiest of Holiness, take the demon out of this child of the church! Amen, I say, amen!” wailed Mrs. Abbi, the skinny preacher's wife with more faith than anyone this far south of Kentucky; you could tell by the way she stomped her plimsolls.

Micah lay in the middle of the prayer group, unconscious. He’d been told not to climb that rosy red gum tree in the backyard, but Micah had never listened. This time he’d hurt himself. Everyone knew it. But it wasn't up to man to heal - so they prayed. Good acts belonged to the Lord.

Micah couldn't remember what he'd done wrong to deserve his fall, but he knew something bad had happened. Maybe God wanted him to stand, like Jesus asked the paralyzed man to stand. Maybe he was just lying there, already healed while his church family wore themselves out for him.

Micah tried to peel his naked back from the red carpet floor, but felt firmly stuck to it. Perhaps it was the heat in the community room and the smell of microwave-ready oatmeal that made his bones lazy. It was a comforting smell because Ma was A-OK at oatmeal - Dad said so. He wished Dad was with him too. But Micah couldn't move, and a sinister pressure was building in his small chest. He said “Ma,” but his beautiful mother didn't hear him over the choral noise of the CD player. She'd closed her eyes to get lost in the music for Jesus, just like the rest.

Ma knew how to sing it, Lord indeed. She put her hand in the air. Ma didn't see his face whiten like a lamb when his heart slowed, not enough circulation to sustain his thoughts. No one noticed. They were busy perspiring for the cause.

As his broken lungs heaved with a pain only his waking body knew, his sleeping soul swooned to an early end. Ma just thought he'd had a tumble. She loved her little Micah. He'd been a surprise baby from the Lord - a miracle boy. Ma thought the hosts of heaven would do fine for her boy, just like they'd done for her. Ma and the New Christ Community Church prayed over a child's dead body for fifteen minutes.

When Mrs. Abbi tugged on his arm to make him stand for his blessing, the community group let out a mighty wail. His limbs flopped like he was filled with water. Moving the body disturbed a puddle of fetid excrement. They prayed for their holy doctor to come, only wishing they'd called one before.

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WHEN I DON'T WRITE ABOUT YOUR BODY

By Jennifer Hanks is it because I just want it for mine the way you look right out of the bath water dripping onto your razorburned breasts. Mine you never take your earrings out, the holes are getting long your ears weighed down by models of the planets. Mine the wart on your index finger I feel when your stick your hand inside me.

Mine the grass digging into the backs of our knees near the Hudson River the confessions I am soldered from secret materials. Mine not your body drawn and quartered a map red as the blood running through our eyelids. Mine they would not know where to apply their claws. Mine you on stage in a karaoke bar singing run for the shadows. Mine you on stage singing golden years. Mine the songs that become ours, the range of your bird throat full of millet.

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LISTLESS VIRTUES OF A PERENNIAL DRIFTER

By Amica lane Plastic ribbons playing piano keys against the wind The music is of the streets Wailing sirens, some distant emergency Nailguns the percussion, a building grows.

Look over the landmarks, Consecrated over a summer Brightly lit midnight stairs A tumbling hotel Skyscraper skyline; they have names and fingers Pointing up, touching heaven.

Virtues that are kept inside seashells It plays the whispers of the ocean Keep it under the pillow And speak in tidal tongues

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NO ONE GETS TO READ THAT PAGE

By William Doreski Haddock wrapped in brown paper reminds me that the ocean has probably forgotten my name.

Broiled and served with summer squash and native corn, this hank of fish attests that we aren’t what we eat but only close relations. The sun in its blue promenade deploys forces that sport every hue the season can imagine. Traffic snarls in the village where shops fail daily, their customers prone to gout. Although the rouge light fards their expressions, their surly gait as they stagger from expensive cars betrays their slow metamorphosis from then to now. Only the page remains dark, the page always turning at the bottom of the sea. Because everyone wants to read that page, draggers combs the banks and strip for consumption everything alive.

Because no one gets to read that page, war breaks out far inland where deserts abut and oil wells throb and famous old gods stalk about in dishabille. The haddock fillet, properly prepared, will endorse me through an act of digestion that while lacking spiritual punch will encourage me to sleep off the sensation of drowning far from the regular pulse of the sea.

Maybe tomorrow or next week I’ll drive to the shore and wade in the surf, or merely dip one hand into that massive expanse to remind it that I’ve evolved as best as I can, and the rest depends on its gray-blue mood.

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THE AGNOSTIC'S QUEST FOR MEANING

By Nicole Hughes When the cinematic version of Life of Pi by Yann Martel came out, my book club added it to the lineup. During the meeting, a gentleman I had seen at a few gatherings went around and asked everyone if they practiced an organized religion or not. Then he asked which version of the story they liked: the fantastical story or the one without the animals on the boat.

The results shocked me. All of those members present at the meeting who practiced an organized religion preferred the story without the animals, without the adventure, without Richard Parker the tiger, but with Richard Parker the man. Everyone who did not practice preferred the fantastical story.

The reason I bring up this book is that whenever anyone asks me about my religious beliefs, despite social graces, I always think back to Pi. Pi practiced three different religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam, because he loved God so much he wanted to worship him in every way possible. In a discussion about different religions, he mentioned that he didn’t mind any one religion because they follow a strict belief in God. He didn’t even mind atheists, because they were at least 100% behind their non-belief. But he could not stand agnostics. He felt that they were lazy and non-committal. It always made me laugh, because I identify as agnostic.

People tend to confuse agnosticism and atheism, so before I delve further, let me explain the difference. Atheism is the belief that there is nothing after this life. There is no God and there is nothing more than this existence. Agnosticism is the belief that there is something beyond, but we don’t know it and won’t claim to know it.

While growing up, after researching different theologies and searching my soul, I realized agnosticism was the perfect life philosophy for me. Who am I to say which religion is the one true path?

And who am I to look at another person differently for seeking that path because I didn’t follow it? I’m just a woman who is trying to live her life. I don’t need to follow a set religion to show me a set of values. If I didn’t realize that murder and theft and dishonesty were wrong, then I think I would need more than religion.

The only question I wondered about is the idea of life after death. Were there pearly gates behind which the deceased hung around, playing harps on clouds all day? Were there 72 virgins waiting? Did we reincarnate into another life, forgetting all that we had been before? Or maybe we remained as conscious energy here on earth. I had this idea that maybe it would be like What Dreams May Come, and you would live in your own perfect paradise with your loved ones with the option to return and live it all again. But it seemed so distant an idea – until a few weeks ago.

A friend of mine’s husband passed away in a car accident. I’ve never been more devastated by a loss.

I cried my eyes out for my friend who was left behind and was so upset that I couldn’t be there for her since I had moved across the country. When I arrived home after hearing the news, I held my husband and cried some more, thankful for his presence in my life.

A few days later, my husband’s aunt passed away. She had been in poor health for some time, so her loss did not come as a complete surprise. I was chatting with my husband and remarked that death normally came in threes, to which he replied, “Well, then we’re okay.” A friend of his brother’s had passed away in an accident at the military base where he was stationed.

We’re okay? No. I don’t think anything about it is okay.

I tried to brush it off. Life goes on, and all that jazz. But late at night I stayed awake, thinking about loss. I would drive to work and start to feel a clenching in my chest at being in a vehicle. I was scared. I remember a friend telling me that a peer she knew had died for a few minutes on an operating table. She had said that she felt nothing. There was no white light, no choir of angels. Is that all there was?

Nothingness? You are here one minute and the next you’re gone? What about other accounts of people who had died temporarily and came back with tales of life beyond? Were they lying?

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I was jealous of people who had a religion. I was jealous of their blind faith. I envied their assurance of life after death, that they would close their eyes and be welcomed to the great beyond with open arms.

How come I couldn’t commit to such beliefs? Why did I find the universe to be a mostly logical place?

Where did any sort of religion fit into this? I refused to just start believing because I was afraid. That would be an affront and disservice to those who did practice and believe. But oh man, how I craved that security blanket. And how I hated that it couldn’t be mine.

A turning point came for me at the yoga studio I’ve been attending for a year and a half. I initially got involved with the studio through a Living Social deal, and I didn’t realize the religious affiliation until I showed up at the studio and saw the name emblazoned on a cross with the motto, “Get Centered with Christ.” I felt awkward when I first joined. But after a few classes I realized that I felt good being there.

Sometimes the awkwardness would return when someone said they would pray for me or attributed something to God and his mysterious ways, because that was not part of my life. But I always nodded respectfully and said thank you, because it was part of theirs.

After prayer and savasana one particular day, when I had lain there envious of those who believed around me, the woman who had been practicing next to me stopped and asked my name. After introductions, she asked if she could bless me.

I’m sure some sort of shock was on my face. Bless me? Why me? But I agreed, because I never want to offend anyone’s religion. And if she felt the need to bless me, who am I to turn positive energy away?

We sat cross-legged across from each other and she placed her hands in prayer on my leg, then leaned closer to me. I sat there awkwardly with my hands in prayer in my lap, wondering what I had agreed to. I hadn’t properly prayed since I was in elementary school. The instructor and other students had cleared the room, so it was just her and me in the dim studio.

Her voice was soft, and I listened as she asked God to give me strength; that God look after me and my loved ones; that I be blessed in everything that I do; that I have faith to follow my path.

When she finished speaking, the tears were rolling down my face. I was shocked at my reaction. I hugged and thanked her, telling her I had really needed that. And it was the truth. I wasn’t nodding and smiling to avoid offending her.

I got to my car and sobbed, but they weren’t sad tears. I felt complete. I felt as if a huge burden had been lifted off my shoulders. I drove for the first time in weeks without a weight in my chest. I wanted to shout to the world that I felt relief. I thanked God and the Universe for believing in me. I thanked them for sending me that message, for making me feel like someone was listening to me and that I wasn’t alone.

Was this my “come to Jesus” moment? No. But I do believe that the Universe is a beautiful and mysterious place. I don’t know how much further I would have spiraled into paranoia and depression without the message I received at yoga. And while I am still a firm agnostic, I’m confident that beyond this life, something fantastical awaits.

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ON NON-MONOGAMY

By Alice Tarbuk You ‘love-me-not’. Enough. It’s obvious.

It sits on the bed and takes off its clothes with us.

It kisses goodnight like the lover squeezed into a couple’s tomb.

It is in your seams like lice and mine like needles. It is in your smile for the tops of the thighs of every other girl on the train, then back to me.

I'd like to talk about your dick.

The way you open me, like light through a church window. Illuminating, but it changes nothing.

I'd like to talk about the way you hedge my desire, make it tidal-wash, flotsam, beach-combings, and fashion yours the very sea itself.

You need. You need women who read books to like your book.

You need women who like dicks to like your dick.

You need women like a hall of mirrors, like a playground of mothers with their arms through the gates.

You want women like Prometheus wanted fire. He went upstairs to fight for it. Downstairs? We'd worked out you don't need a fucking flaming branch: all you need is a single spark to part the dark and alter it completely.

You can't distinguish surfeit from replete.

I'm well enough for you.

Too much I should imagine: bacchante, clawed, forked, screaming.

And if you can't quell your urges, sit me down, strain the yolk from the white with your fingers, upend the nest.

Do not lie to me and tell me this is best or good or preferable or right, or that you wouldn't mind were I to do it too.

And it’s a young man's game. We women, ever wary of our youth, like cups of water we carry and spill, treasure and lose, know how to search for port in a storm, for a house to fill a womb in.

Loving multitudes can't stem the creeping temple greys, can't keep your dick hard past a certain age, can't erect you to the pantheon of gods, make your soul constellation and replace your cells with ever-healthy ones. The wolf of death is always at the door; was at your birth like the bad fairy, the unwanted wish.

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You can fuck a thousand women but you cannot live forever, and you rage at me, when I tell you this.

I'm trying hard to love you, singular. You're multitudinous as downpour, hard to grasp as stars. To know you well I tilt you under light the way that children play those plastic 'ball-in-the-maze' games.

It would take a lifetime’s worth of trying to get it right.

Hell's brimming with acquaintances, make more, by all means, love them in their too-brief season.

In the long, cool evening of your life when reason starts to ebb, and women don't ignite beneath your gaze and touch, remember in the creaking of your wooden house, that someone tried to love you very much.

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ST. CHARLES

By Damon Marbut The sky here often looks like the mouth of childhood dragons.

It has moments it refuses to be anything but sky, empty of everything but conflicting hues.

Through the trees you can go back to being an astronaut in your imagination, or that kid who said, like I told Mom, The Neverending Story left me out.

So, I have a flat tire again. Fourth in a month.

Daily I ride St. Charles like it’s my destiny.

The bike shop mechanics say, “Brother, consider a different route.”

I ignore it. I ignore that I was run down by a van once, where it meets Napoleon. I go because I am still being given its stories.

I am not dead yet.

Walking the bike means nothing to me, now.

3.5 miles? I’ll get beer.

A pair of friends drove by and honked and waved and left me to walk because they know me and beer and being left alone.

The sidewalks are layered with angsty dick-and-balls set in concrete, documents of what is wanted or what is denied.

It’s like children don’t put their hands down as time stamps anymore, but instead, taggers out of spray paint draw cocks.

I step on the balls.

I pass mansions and leer back as if I’m to be as big as them one day as a Poet or just a person who writes poems stopping at gates to light up and walk on.

A jogger, bee-yoo-tee-ful from thigh to chin, looks at me as if to say I am me because I’m not you.

Not a tough argument.

On my back I’ve a heavy pink bag of clothes and crushed cans leaking tepid beer into my wallet.

It’s really soaking nothing.

He and I sweat differently.

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And then the crickets come out past Calhoun.

I’m almost home. I love everything and miss so little.

So few and specific things.

Planes go overhead and I can’t tell if it’s the sound of coming invasion or pizza delivery or my piss wishing to hit a wall.

My husband isn’t home, not like he has been all week.

I wait until he is busy before I need him.

I want to come home and confess all things of the avenue.

It would be nice to say I have seen life, I have seen you in the clouds and horns blowing and the students’ parents parking in front of Tulane and Loyola, opening their doors like dilettantes and virgins not knowing what to do, how to follow these public rules.

But I do something more important than moan.

Vacant house, alone on the couch and cooling off with a book, the back deck looks nude without Michael.

The sun still comes through.

A renter in the back house stumbles out, in country from China and I see Michael watering basil, his back turned. I’m sure he will hear the student.

He hears everything. He is my ears when they decide to go.

I see the student call out across the yard. I see his mouth move.

But before all of it, I watched and waited for Michael to turn.

It would happen.

And when his neck twisted, the watering pot lifted in his hand toward the deck railing.

I saw the tan on his strong wrist.

Voices leapt across the lawn.

There it is. I thought. How well I know you.

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THINGS OF THE SPIRIT

By Howie Good 1 An angel descended on our town via an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys. “Who would you rescue if you could rescue only one – wife or child?” the angel asked the men he met. He beat more than a few to encourage them to answer. “I’d much prefer to be drinking coffee,” he assured them, the darkness so thick they couldn't always tell what was grabbing at them with big, meaty fingers.

2 An old young man in a stained T-shirt, a bruise purpling his chin, lurches out the door of the Church of Holy Shit! “Mister,” he calls, “got 60 cents?” I can’t quite decide the right thing to do. The street is crawling with spies and assassins, and all because of a faulty chemical switch in the brain. It’s like a story from the Bible, God betting Abraham which sugar cube a fly would land on.

3 The Buddha is portrayed with his eyes closed for a reason, but perhaps not the reason everyone thinks.

Seeing is a neglected enterprise. When I happen to look out the kitchen window, I count four deer, or four spirits disguised as deer, crossing the yard. It isn't snowing, but it should be, an inch per hour, a long, cold sentence without clauses to cause the reader to pause. There’s a theory that the only things you need are the things you already have. By that measure, I don’t need a quote from Simone Weil tattooed in a spidery script on my neck: “Imagination and fiction make up more than three-quarters of our real life.” Some areas of the body must be extra painful to tattoo.

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DOWNTURN ECONOMICS

By Erik Svehaug Manuel laughs and sets the pace at the lumberyard, salvaging twisted, stained, split lumber, turning short pieces into stakes or pickets. He and his crew replenish plywood, cut orders, load trucks and help customers in 100 degree heat or driving rain.

I’ve carpooled with him since the economy puked in 2008.

His parents’ seven kids couldn’t all be legal, he says, but he, Rosa, Guillermo the oldest, and Santiago got Green cards. As later siblings arrived, their birth names were put away in favor of their forged identities, not even used on birthdays.

Since the dirt floor in Jalisco, they slept in trucks, tents, trees and corn fields, even in a cave in the foothills near our town until they finally rented a busted two-bedroom.

They had also all emerged from the bent-over, nail-tearing tunnel of fieldwork: Santiago into the mushroom plant, Luis to a warehouse. Adan became a hospital orderly and Jose an electrician.

Manuel talked about Guillermo’s first day of work: “He went as a trainee to a bank wearing his best clothes, his wedding suit, and his silver-toed boots. They looked at him like his Mariachi band was missing.

Another Hispanic there wouldn’t even look at him!”

They still lived together in their two-bedroom rental surrounded by raspberry fields. Everyone contributed funds until, on the last day of the Salinas rodeo seven years ago, they bought a house together with remarkably low payments. Manuel had handed the pen back to the smiling agent, also from Jalisco.

Guillermo brought food and Papa and Mama. Rosa introduced her fiancé from the headset factory. I met Adan’s pregnant girlfriend. Manuel’s four year old played a tiny violin.

Last spring, Manuel revealed to me: “Our payment more than doubled what it was. Our Jalisco agent said: ‘No mistake; the payment is adjustable, and can come down, too.’ But I had a bad feeling. We can’t keep it up.”

Sure enough, the bank soon kicked them out and they were back in a two-bedroom rental.

“Rosa and her husband live with Guillermo in the city, now. He is still at the bank. His job is good, I hope.”

Small world: my wife’s friend works at that bank. She says Guillermo has an American suit now and a basement cubicle. His record is compiling and signing two hundred thirteen foreclosure files in an eight hour shift. “Compile and sign,” they tell him and the other staffers. “Signing is a mere formality; we pay you by the file.” There is no need to vet the foreclosure documents. It is like being back in the strawberry fields; paid by the flat.

He prefers to work in a sterile space, the new piles neatly to his left, with the completions on his right. He flays the papers in the file directly in front of him. When the worried face of his sister crosses his awareness, worried about her doubled payments, it intrudes into his Operating Room like the risk of infection. He screens it out. His job is just to sign.

Morning break is tart grapefruit juice from a plastic bottle, lunch is tuna in Tupperware and late break is mocha in a foam cup.

He is part of the combine that mows, threshes and spits mortgage shreds into the streets, moving with remorseless rhythm across the landscape.

Some months ago, his machining signature ran over his brother’s paperwork. Manuel and his family were locked out of the rodeo house sixty days later.

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FAKE STATEMENTS BY REAL CELEBRITIES

By Adam Kane A few days ago, I was aimlessly scrolling through Facebook and clicked on a picture of Louis CK with some text printed over his face, in classic meme formatting. The quote itself was in the style of a bit Louie performed in his 2013 standup special, Oh My God. The bit is known as "Of course...but maybe." It's very funny and worth checking out. This quote I saw on Facebook, however, was not one I had heard before. It reads: "Of course foreigners steal your job. But maybe, if someone without contacts, money, or speaking the language steals your job, you're sh*t."

After a quick internet search, I discovered that I was correct in my assumption that Louie never said this. It's not very funny (first clue), it's worded awkwardly (second clue), and doesn't really represent Louis CK's comic sensibility, described in The Globe and Mail as "weary-but-optimistic" (third clue.) What must've happened here is some fan sitting at home thought it would be fun to make a similarly worded joke and pass it off as Louis CK's, maybe to make a weird point about immigration laws, and it then spread on the internet. Through computer magic, it wound up in my Facebook timeline. It's like reverse plagiarism, in a way, and it's the exact opposite of joke stealing.

This example is relatively harmless, other than the fact that there are a bunch of people out there who might form an opinion on this comedian based on something he didn't say. Fortunately, it’s safe to say Louis CK doesn’t need the extra laughs; he gets more than just about anyone. Still, it's a strange phenomenon, dating back to every amatuer parody song credited to Weird Al Yankovic on Napster in 1998.

Not all instances of this phenomenon are as benign. After the horrific events at Sandy Hook Elementary School, a quote about remembering the victims and forgetting the perpetrators attributed to Morgan Freeman went viral on Facebook. It was a nice sentiment paying tribute to the victims, but Morgan Freeman never said it. He never issued a statement on the tragedies in Newtown, other than to say he wasn't in a position to offer inspirational wisdom. And he was right in doing so. In times of great sorrow, we should look to our families, and civic and spiritual leaders for guidance, not celebrities. Instead, some mouth-breather on Reddit thought it would be funny to take a quote he found online and slap it on a picture of Morgan Freeman's face. Seriously, someone on Reddit said, "I thought it would be funny." Look, I deal with a lot of heavy stuff with humor, but I'm failing to see the connection here to humor, or real life for that matter.

In our collective fragile state of mind in December 2012, this misattributed quote spread like wildfire, right along with actual quotes by Mister Rogers and partially factual stories about the heroes and victims in Newtown. I mean, Morgan Freeman can certainly deliver an inspirational quote, but are we all so impressed by his acting abilities that we just assume something inspirational that's been attributed to him is accurate - on Facebook, of all places? What if someone did the same thing with a picture of Morgan Freeman and a quote about how we all need to buy up as much ammunition as possible and build bunkers under our houses? Does it somehow seem more inspirational because Morgan Freeman's face is next to the text? This kind of thing seems to happen all the time.

Here’s a more recent example: In January, James Avery, the actor who played Uncle Phil on the 90's television classic The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air passed away. For those of us in our late 20's, this was kind of a bummer to hear about on New Year's Day. As a way of dealing with that feeling (I'm assuming, rather optimistically and completely facetiously), someone created a fake WIll Smith Twitter account and tweeted out that if we all retweeted, NBC would produce a Fresh Prince reunion show to celebrate the life of the man who played Uncle Phil. The hoax worked - more than 300,000 retweeted it! "Where is our Fresh Prince reunion?" cried the masses. Meanwhile, this hoaxer can change his or her Twitter identity to "@RetweetThisVine" and spam people with weird, six-second videos, or worse, annoying viruses.

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These strange internet hoaxes and misdirects happen so frequently that, like billions of monkeys on typewriters, sometimes we, the internet, land on something. After all, Facebook got Betty White to host Saturday Night Live. And it was a day early, but Twitter morbidly predicted the tragic death of Paul Walker. These viral campaigns and odd coincidences only add fuel to the fire. Sadly, those who were once emailing our aunts and grandparents about deposed African princes are now joining us (along with our aunts and grandparents) on Facebook, and somehow we're falling into the trap.

We live in a world where all the knowledge of our known universe is accessible whenever we desire.

At times, however, with this power, one can feel a bit like the man from the famous Twilight Zone episode: alone in a world full of books but stuck with broken glasses. We have incredible, instant access to the greatest things ever written and said, but we’re frequently stuck looking for truth through the cracked, distorted lens of the internet. As we’ve seen countless times, this distortion can lead to embarrassment and have actual, real-world consequences.

Louis CK has actually made many hilarious, insightful, and thought-provoking comments, and they’re worth sharing. And in the aftermath of Sandy Hook, the true stories of heroism and compassion, the art, and the tributes were countless. The inspiration we’re looking for is already out there; it’s time we stop fabricating it.

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UNTITLED

By Brian Rentas The validation that could only come from you being as much a man as you think you are.

Almost as much as this every day empty space longs to be filled with you or a wholeness that reminds ‘it gets better.’ Just bit tongue between teeth, the malice of your ambiguity.

The silence only satisfied a maligned self.

Contented by your spitting out, spitting away of, your talent no use to me, me to pick up the flecks of myself spit out on the road by you.

Wanting to hold both hand and heart and mouth, but doors slammed roads more taken by better demons have divided us. I have no way to you, as if I ever did.

As if you ever wanted (it? me?)

Heart in gut, hands weather worn, bed and tongue empty, a measure of dignity alone, the unrelenting unanswered phone, the score.

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GIVE AND TAKE

By Zain Syed I get that the begging boy takes what he can and the working man takes what he needs and the sleeping king takes what he wants but why does the crying girl give mercy to her offender and the wincing woman give love to her abuser and the dying matron give faith to her creator?

Hold on to my arm and stay by my side and you may take what you may.

But walk with me now and give me your hand til the end and over again.

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PASTORAL

By Justin webb How could I do this How could I do this How could I do nothing How fast this truck tonight How could this sun flower field sleep beneath snow How it houses so easy dead children face down How dim each bodys rummage off the soft slopes How radiant the boughs of pastures aflame How loud the radio How loud this the cracklings of unmade beds How pale some moon side facing away from earth oh god oh the great many god How can Ive this cadence How can Ive the tires beneath me How I dream of my piano How I require ivory on either side of the cut How strewn the scraps must be How they flew from torqued wreck How do Ive so many sirens behind oh How the great many How steep this hill How hidden the road How furtive the bluster oh How the great god am I going How could the why be me

An audio recording of the author reading this piece is available on the site.

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I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH

By Tim Wilkinson “I love you this much,” she said, spreading her arms wide to each side, extending her fingers to expand her reach, as if she would fly.

Her blue-green eyes sparkled in the violet glow of the fading sun, the cheap plastic string of polished white pearls gleaming. She smiled, wide and genuine, a soft rolling laughter erupting from her thin pink lips as her sprite tummy giggled slightly.

“But I love you infinity,” he responded.

“Yeah, but I love you infinity … plus a jillion.”

“Well, I still love you more,” he added with a firm finality that only tickled her more.

She cried later that day when the large mother goose rushed her as she handed out bits of stale, crusty bread. She had been afraid. Who can blame her, not much bigger than a goose herself, and not nearly as strong. Her tears were gone now, faded; the puffy pinkness surrounding her eyes, too.

He remembered the time at the beach when he had run into the surf with her in his arms. She had never seen the ocean before, the surf or beaches of sand. The wave was too big and he had rushed too far.

It caught him by surprise, pushing then pulling at his feet as he toppled face first into the waist high sea.

Of course, he could not let go of her, so he’d held on tight, going under, pushing her down before him. She came up last, choking and gagging, salty bubbles exiting her nose.

She was afraid then, too, yet he was more. She cried then as well, but only for a time. He was not afraid, not really, only fearing what she might think. He simply scooped her up. The goose was nowhere near as strong as that wave. Nor near as deadly.

Years later, she still feared geese and waves.

Yet even as he remembered these things, he knew that was all so long ago. She was gone now. He had lost her - even before that stupid letter, the one in which he’d said so much without ever saying what it was he most wanted to say, his words and useless sentiments wasted, for the words hastily typed upon the page were not his. They were not from her father, yet from some thickly veiled vault of shame where truth filled the shadows and pity and guilt lit the way. Meaningless and void, they said nothing of his heart, his pain, his love. They said nothing at all, and yet everything, for they expressed all that she needed to hear, excusing her anger and providing her escape.

She was his daughter. She always would be. Yet he … well, no. He was not her father. She’d made that clear years ago. He hadn’t heard from her since and he knew he never would.

That was also clear.

Funny, he thought, how many words it takes to earn another’s love … and how few it takes to lose it. One phrase, one sentence, one word, is all it takes, all it took. All the years invested, the weekends together, the camping trips and the sleepy nights and early mornings watching movies and cartoons, all the laughter and the smiles. Well they matter not, for only the words live on.

He closed his eyes, feeling the cold in the high air ruffle his graying hair. Leaning forward, spreading his arms wide he yelled, “I love you. I love you this much … ” he added to the empty space before him, letting go, his arms spread wide and as if he would fly.

He felt only lightness, a tickling, quivering sensation, and a sudden weightlessness filling his belly as the moments fled past. After that, he knew only one instant of solid, harsh collision as his head shattered and split, flattening against the rushing pavement. Then he knew nothing.

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RE-UNION

By Corey Mesler There are engines of survival we haven’t even touched yet.

Outside Rudolph Nureyev is leaping a bus. You take the letters from your aunts and hide them inside the mantle.

Family members begin to gather. The lawn needs demolishing. You wish you could dance with him, the strange cousin who pretends to be Rudolph Nureyev. You know that tomorrow you will not be the same because every day is like a burning page.

The table is set. The dishes are not quite ready. You take your place at the children’s table because you want food the kitchen never has. Someone from your past, maybe the uncle who touched you in a funny way, wanders in out of a car wreck.

Your brother puts a new record on the phonograph. It’s the song you used to sing when you sharpened your nails.

Tomorrow, you say, if only I can be someone else, someone cut off from family, someone dancing as if the bus is invisible.

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MISSION STATEMENT TO THE PATIENT

By Jeffery Zable Among our objectives is the easing of pain coupled with improvement in such functions as standing, walking, and shitting on your side which only our trained physicians may diagnose in conjunction with manipulating individual treatment for dysfunctional joints that will ultimately be catalogued and finally removed thereby allocating your checkbook or credit card to follow the prescribed treatment until your skeletal remains are no longer inflamed and your range of motion has returned allowing you once again to come and go as you please.

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HOME BASE (PART I)

By Brett Jones [For A.C.] PART I Everything is going to be okay – you just did too much.

Hang in there.

The ambulance is on the way – you need to stay with me.

Hang in there.

Remember buying that Jimi Hendrix poster on that wall over there?

It was freshman year, you had just moved into the dorm with Robbie, remember? Remember the pictures you took the first time we all met?

And remember the ones you took while snowboarding on some mountain in Vermont on a trip with Tempest, only two weeks after becoming friends? Remember the party Tempest had last weekend? I never thanked you for pulling my girlfriend and I apart when we were both too drunk, too ready to start dumb shit, after she pushed me into the wall and I pushed her back. Remember that? That’s why I don’t drink these days. I never ever drank High Life again.

That was just too much, just like now, but we recover, we learn something, we become better.

Hang in there.

How about that photo with you and Barber, before he got fat, backstage at the New York City show in 2004? Remember we walked out of that show, spun, it was raining, so we all stood in the rain looking up, letting the rain wash off the bit of culture we found ourselves in but could never breathe…

We started to get too wet, standing in the middle of Times Square.

You took a photo. I still look at that photo more often than most.

We walked to McDonalds, the one at 1560 Broadway, by 46th street, and declared an upstairs table “Home Base”.

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We stuck a fat milkshake straw in a cheeseburger for our flag and watched a stranger yell at himself in the mirror, demanding he eat his chicken nuggets.

We decided if we were ever lost or separated we would return to Home Base.

Three years later, when I was working six blocks away from Times Square, I would walk by Home Base on every uniquely sunny day.

I never entered the building. I just walked by and gave a dollar to the young beggar and his dog sitting outside. His sign was never clever and he did not seem particularly important. But he barely seemed alive and his dog knew it was going to be another cold night.

That rainy night in Times Square, we didn’t have a place to sleep.

We didn’t have much money or any friends to call living nearby.

But at Home Base we were safe. You took a picture of the flag.

You’re doing well — everything is alright.

Hang in there.

Think about Clair.

Think about Clair’s kid!

He’s the man – and that kid loves you – that’s why they call him Little Sonny.

He escapes in music and likes to wear baseball hats just like you.

You mean more than that kid’s father — you are that kids life, man.

And Clair–she’s on her way–she’s not mad, she just wants to take you to her bed, so you can be together and sleep this off until morning.

She’s on her way. And you’re doing good; you’re looking better.

Just hang in there.

-—–-–—–-–-–-–-–-–-–Here, take this tissue.

Your nose is bleeding a little bit.

Don’t lean back though — that’s more dangerous – just pinch your nose and relax. I know it sucks, but you’re alright. Just try to take a deep breath, breathe from your mouth. Stay leaning forward. It will stop soon.

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In a few hours they’re going to start serving breakfast at Home Base.

I bet our cheeseburger-straw flag is still upstairs. You’re alright – Imagine this is Home Base; everyone is here, everyone is laughing.

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HOME BASE (PART II) By brett jones Robbie has a tattoo of you on his chest now.

None of us ever went to see that band again.

We all move slower. Little Sonny is bigger now, he still likes good music. Clair is alone by choice.

Every night she puts Little Sonny to bed and tucks herself in.

She thinks about you and Little Sonny and about Little Sonny’s father.

She thinks maybe everyone will leave her. She unplugs her alarm clock by the cord. Robbie and your roommates still live in the same apartment, still use the same bathroom. Your old disco ball is still used daily, mostly in silence.

Right now there is a line out the door at Home Base.

We are ditching our flag and heading back into the rain.

You are leading us out the door, towards an after party at some nearby underground club. We walk right in.

Mac is in his element, putting on a face, meeting strangers.

Cheddar is buying more beer because he looks the oldest.

Soon Cheddar will come back with a cigarette in his mouth, five beers between his fingers. The band looks different in person, kind of dorky actually, hair down to their knees, faces hidden, moving like freaks. To the right of the stage some kid is dancing in his boxers, clothes scattered around his feet and making out with the speaker, eyes closed and rubbing his belly.

To the left of the stage, there are two girls dancing; one with olive skin, one blonde wearing only overalls.

Every five seconds they almost kiss, grabbing each other by the hips or the hair and pulling closer. Olive skin reaches down into the blonde’s overalls, before finally pulling apart and tucking her nipple back into her tank top. She walks over, you say, “I’m Sonny”, and the two of you disappear to a booth in the back of the club.

We meet outside after the sun comes up and walk to Grand Central Station.

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We wait and smoke cigarettes in front of tourists. Everyone is tired but none of us can bear the loneliness of falling asleep.

We finally catch the train out of the city, to the parking lot where we parked the van.

Turns out we accidentally left a window open, and last night’s rain soaked the driver’s seat. Robbie yawns and says, “That’s life I guess, could always be worse. Let’s get home”.

The license plate on the truck parked in front of us reads, “IDIE4HER”.

On the ride home we are forced to stay awake because everyone else is driving too fast.

At the first rest area, you stay in the van, pull your hat over your eyes and try to nap.

When we return from inside you are sitting in the driver’s seat, two hands on the wheel. You drive the speed-limit the whole way home, so the rest of us can finally sleep.

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MUD

By Chloe N. Clark We’re both watching the floor as the water begins to slowly seep across it when he looks up at me and says, “I think I know you.”

But that happens later. After the rains and the pools of muddy brown water and the lake that outgrew its shore. That happens later. Instead it starts with a Monday and me being late for class. This, in and of itself, was unusual enough. I’ve always been a punctual person, the kind who even shows up early for dental exams. The morning had begun with me being woken from a dream about a group of people who lived on the faces of cliffs and turned into leopards whenever clouds drifted in front of the sun. My alarm clock screamed, but I hadn’t wanted to leave the vividness of the dream. I think it was a dream that I had maybe had once before when I was a kid. It left me in a strangely heavy mood as I walked to campus. My legs felt as if they belonged to my shadow instead of me; they were lagging behind as my torso pushed forward.

I was only a couple of minutes late but it was more than I liked and so I decided to take the elevator instead of the stairs. The elevator in that building was one that I had never liked—it is smaller than I think is legal, and if there are more than two people in it then everyone has to press together close enough for a slow dance. It was luckily just me and one other person so I sighed with relief. He looked over and smiled, “Ah, good old personal space, right?”

“It is nice to be packed like Twinkies instead of sardines,” I responded as I pressed my floor button. He laughed and then we both watched the numbers turn.

It started raining at 3 PM that day. A soft drizzle at first and so I wasn’t too concerned about having not brought my umbrella. I walked home after my last class and I even sort of enjoyed the feel of the warm rain as it slid down my hair and onto my face.

It reminded me of how as children my brother and I would race outside at the first sign of rain. We loved to splash in mud puddles and we wouldn’t go back inside until we were completely drenched. Our mother never said anything about this as we clambered back into the house with our feet making terrible squelching sounds against the floor. She would just point to the shower and tell us that we should be glad that mud was something that comes out with soap unlike sin which stains faster than blood. I still think of blood stains whenever I noticed dried mud clinging to the cuffs of my pants.

By 7 PM it was into a full blown thunderstorm. I never minded the sound of storms but I didn’t like seeing them. There was something about the colors in the sky and the way that the wind would assault the trees that made me uneasy. So I closed all of the window blinds and sat down with a cup of hot cocoa and a book that I was supposed to have already finished reading for a class. I fell asleep somewhere in there and woke up to my stereo blasting out a song by Sheepskin Bible. There must have been an electrical short or something from the storm. I unplugged everything and went to bed.

That night I dreamed I was going to see a woman who made the dead into art. She lived in a high-rise condo that was built atop a pair of chicken legs. She showed me how she made the dead beautiful; she painted their faces with a delicate brush and then encased them in glass. I asked her how she got the bodies and she smiled before saying, “These things just come to me sometimes.”

It was still raining the next morning and so I stuffed plastic grocery bags into my backpack and grabbed my umbrella. It was one that I had bought for three dollars at a gas station and I didn’t totally have faith in it.

I used to have an amazing umbrella when I was eleven. It had been gigantic and covered in pictures of brightly colored tropical beetles with each one’s scientific name scrawled beneath it. I lost it somehow, probably, in one of my family’s many moves. My mother always rushed us. We just took what we needed and everything was a frantic dash to get away. That umbrella was the only item that I had ever really missed when I realized that I had forgotten it. I thought of it in the closet or under the bed waiting for me to come back and rescue it.

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I walked to my first class and the umbrella held up admirably even under the force of one unusually strong gust of wind. The class was one that I had taken because I imagined that it would be fun. It was on the American fantastic as a genre. I had been hoping for L. Frank Baum and Washington Irving. Instead the professor seemed to take the subject as a joke that he was being forced to teach. He managed to even drain the fun from fabulism.

“The authors use these devices of the impossible because they can’t figure out how to deal with their subjects on a more emotional and human level,” the professor stated in his voice which always droned like a nest of wasps disturbed.

I eventually stopped listening and looked out the window. I saw the guy from the elevator walking past.

He was drenched and I imagined how cold he must have been and it made a shiver crawl up my spine. He looked up and for a second our eyes locked and then I looked away.

By Wednesday the rain had become a source of bitter jokes among the students. The sound of rain had begun to feel like it was permanently etched onto my eardrums. I scurried down to the library mall area to get a coffee and saw a puddle that was large enough that ducks were swimming across it. One guy walked up and kicked water at one and it quacked angrily. He laughed and stepped forward enough that his foot came down in the puddle. I must have blinked because then he was gone. He must have just wandered off— hopefully to pick on something his own size which would do more than just quack at him.

I ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso and as I was leaving I bumped into Elevator Guy and some of the coffee freed itself from its cupped constraints and onto my hand.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” I replied as I walked off in the direction of my next class. I looked down at where the coffee had splashed my hand and my skin had blossomed into a soft red. My mother once told me that if you tossed boiling water onto a demon it wouldn’t burn. Hot water is just as refreshing as summer rain to them, she told me.

The next day the lake began to flood over its banks but no one was too worried. They all said that it couldn’t go much further than it already had. I wondered why they were so sure; if they had some kind of concrete scientific evidence or not.

I remember hearing a program once on the radio as we were driving with my mother. My brother and I were in the backseat holding onto stuffed animals that she had gotten for us at some convenience store that we stopped at for gas. My brother’s was a lion and mine was a turtle. I think my mom had picked them out subconsciously based on our personalities. The program was talking about floods. How they were sent

by God to purify the land of sinners. My mother caught our eyes in the mirror, “Listen closely you two.

He’s always watching us. He’s always waiting for us to slip up.”

For a while after that I became afraid of water. I even had to close my eyes during the underwater scenes in Titanic. If God would choose it as his tool of punishment then it must be dangerous and filled up with rage.

I avoided walking near the lake and instead took a different path to get to my two o’clock class. It was a walk that I could keep an eye on the lake from. I saw a man standing right next to the water. It looked like the Elevator Guy from a distance and I wondered if his shoes were getting wet. I hated wet shoes; they always made me remember how it had felt in the tub as my mother baptized us. Wet shoes now always make me cough involuntarily as if I’m still trying to get the excess water from my lungs.

On Friday the campus seemed less full than usual. I supposed that students were getting sick of getting drenched between classes. I walked slowly. For some reason I kept thinking about my brother the last time that I had seen him.

I was 14 and we were being taken to separate homes. He was 12 but had always seemed older than me. He was still clutching that lion and I was hugging my turtle. Then he looked over at me, “If it ever floods how will I know that you made it?” And I had no idea how to answer. That used to keep me up at nights, that not even for a moment had I been able to act like an older sibling. Not even that once.

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I felt lazy and so I decided to chance the elevator again. I stepped inside and there was Elevator Guy. I half-smiled at him and pressed the button for my floor. On floor 3 we heard the noise. It sounded like every siren in the city had just burst into song: wailing out warnings. How had the word siren come to be about warning when it used to be about traps as sailors came too close to rocks and then they fell into the coldness of the sea? The elevator stopped. I checked my cell phone but the signal was lost.

I turned to him and then we both looked at the floor and the water beginning to creep in. He looked up at me and said, “I think I know you.”

I nodded once and then said, “It was always going to be water, wasn’t it?”

He shrugged, once, and then said, “At least I will know then.”

We both looked down at our watches as the numbers began to turn. Then it was bathtubs and rivers and lakes and water and water and water.

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GROWL

By Scott Malkovsky They call it a growler because it’s fuckin’ angry, because it demands a plate of microwavable nachos to dumpster dive down my gullet at midnight, because it makes me forget about that Chupacabra of an audition, that bilingual yet somehow mute friendship.

They call it a growler because it transforms the landscape of my brain into a Picasso, because it further rages me into a bottle of ouzo, the Greek romantic who whips me into shape and punches me in the regret, sticks to my guts and implores me to kneel, to pay homage, to cough up my dues to the throne.

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Jordan Rizzieri (Long Island, NY) is a caregiver, writer and professional pain-in-the-ass. After graduating from SUNY Fredonia with a B.A. in Theatre Arts and a minor in English, she spent over a year in Buffalo, NY honing her playwriting skills. In 2011 she saw the staging of her first full-length play, The Reunion Cycle, as part of the Buffalo Infringement Festival. Upon her return to Long Island, she began blogging about being a young adult caring for her ailing mother, as well as publishing essays on the topic. After being disheartened by the attention-seeking content of other online publications, she was inspired to breathe life into her own literary magazine. After wrangling three wonderful friends into joining her, The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society was born. Now as she spends her days caring for her mother and running the RPD website, Jordan spends the evening hours writing weird non-fiction essays, watching WWE wrestling with her boyfriend and trying to build up a tolerance to spicy foods. On the weekends she plugs in her IV of high-test coffee, listens to terrestrial radio and has arguments with her boyfriend's cats about who gets more of the bed (which she almost always loses.) 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 .

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NON-FICTION EDITOR Â

Jennifer Lombardo (Buffalo, NY) is 25 years old and 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.

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FICTION EDITOR Â Kay Kerimian (Buffalo, NY), just freshly turned 25, has gone from Long Island native & bagel aficionado to hippie-dippie Hudson Valley student before ultimately taking a chance on The Queen City as a professional go-getter. Holding degrees in Performance & Gender Studies while carefully considering a literary escape route, Kay currently resides in Western New York with her partner in crime; the two share plans to explore the great unknown together by this time next year. After hastily publishing a small collection of short stories independently at the ripe old age of 17, Kay quietly abandoned her lifelong ambition of becoming a celebrated writer for an equally quixotic career in the performing arts while adopting a new name. When not on stage or on a proverbial soap box, Kay spends her free time reading (a lot), traveling (as much as possible on an artist's income), & thinking up the next big project (currently attempting to try something new every day for a year). She prefers using lower-case, enjoys coffee, whiskey, & sweets (respectively & in no particular order), & pines for never-ending libraries. Always interested in a dialogue, Kay welcomes discussions involving disability awareness, heteronormativity, & hypothetical super powers.

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POETRY EDITOR

Bee Walsh (Brooklyn, NY) is a 25-year-old New York native living in Bed-Stuy. 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 scoffing at people in each of them who ask her about her "career goals." An Executive Assistant in publishing by day, you can find her most nights stage managing non-profit theatre, eating vegan sushi in the West Village or causing mischief on roofs with her boyfriend, Brian. 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.

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KAITY DAVIE, a Long Island native and current resident of the oft-forgotten borough of Queens, is a sassy and enthusiastic 25-year-old making her way in the music industry. Working in radio promotion and music marketing, Kaity spends quite a lot of time in music venues throughout the city and across the country, while also making time to hug friends, explore museums, go on adventures, and eat brunch - though not all at the same time. Once upon a time in high school, she won the senior class award for poetry, which gave her a false sense of entitlement and convinced her that she can occasionally ramble in prose. She will accept any invitation to a party that offers unlimited juice. Find Kaity on Twitter, Tumblr and Instagram.

ZAC BAILIS is planning an escape into the big apple come May of this year, 2014. There he seeks employment in whatever outlet will take him. Currently working in a warehouse that sells yoga merchandise as a shipper/receiver, he hopes that the only thing people remember about him in this stage of his life is his unyielding creativity, and the love he shares with his beautiful girlfriend. You can find him on Tumblr, Twitter (@zacwow), and LinkedIn (Zac Bailis).

SEAN MARCINIAK is a local to the Buffalo(ve), NY area. After spending the last year as a rogue comedian (open mics) in NYC, Sean returned to Western NY where he is an actor, comedian, freelance thinker, 1920's robber baron, and occasional Polish Shaman. You can follow him on twitter, or in real life (if you're sneaky).

PATRICK JOHN KIERNAN is an actor, baker, sound designer, writer, and runner, with a very quixotic view of the world. He is blessed with the ability to do several things (sometimes simultaneously!), yet frustrated with his attention span for each. He is very prone to wanderlust, and has lived and worked in California, Ohio, Vermont, and New York City. He currently lives among the apple orchards of the Hudson Valley.

Follow Patrick through his site, and on Twitter. Should you see him battling a windmill, please lend a hand.

M. KROCHMALNIK GRABOIS’S poems have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He is a regular contributor to The Prague Revue, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, most recently for his story “Purple Heart” published in The Examined Life in 2012, and for his poem.

“Birds,” published in The Blue Hour, 2013. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for 99 cents from Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition.

GEMMA FISK studied an English Literature degree alongside the Humanities at Anglia Ruskin University and decided to continue being boring by combining both subjects in her writing. She now writes amid a multitude of chickens and dogs and can be found blabbing about updates on her website and on Twitter.

JENNIFER HANKS is an MFA candidate at the University of New Orleans. Her work has been previously published in journals such as Muzzle Magazine, Word Riot, Glitterpony, and Foxing Quarterly. She is currently on a poetry series about the apocalypse. You can follow her progress on Tumblr.

AMICA LARAN gave up a good job and a stable existence in the drab grey of London to live in poverty and chase waves in Southern California. When she's not in the ocean, she's performing at various open mic nights around San Diego and continuing to write poetry. She can be found on her blog and on Twitter.

WILLIAM DORESKI lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire, and teaches at Keene State College. His most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Atlanta Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Worcester Review, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, and Natural Bridge.

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NICOLE HUGHES works with developmentally delayed kids and children with emotional needs in the foster care system. Writing has always been her passion and she is currently working on her first full length novel. She lives in Arizona with her husband and kitty children, and you can find her on Facebook, where she'll chat with anyone about life, yoga and cats.

ALICE TARBUCK is studying for a PhD in contemporary poetry. She lives in Edinburgh, where she cofounded poetry collective Inky Fingers. Her work can be found in O/Modernt, The Orpheists and [no:definition] among others. She also reviews for DURA, Fiction Uncovered and others. You can follow her on Twitter or on her blog.

DAMON FERRELL MARBUT is the author of the coming-of-age novel Awake in the Mad World and the bestselling poetry collection Little Human Accidents. He lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. Connect with Damon on Facebook and Twitter.

HOWIE GOOD, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection The Middle of Nowhere (Olivia Eden Publishing). His latest chapbooks are Echo's Bones and Danger Falling Debris (Red Bird Chapbooks). He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

ERIK SVEHAUG works at a picturesque lumberyard with steam train tunnel and white cathedral on a hill.

He is supported by his wife and inspiring daughters. His short and flash fiction have appeared both online and in print, recently in Halfway Down the Stairs, Infective Ink, Everday Fiction and the UMM Binnacle UltraShorts. He advocates for a compassionate world. For more on Erik, check out his website.

ADAM KANE is a recovering actor living and working in Boston. You can follow him on Twitter. Be warned, though, most of his tweets are about the Red Sox, Syracuse basketball or the line at Starbucks.

BRIAN RENTAS is a recent graduate of Pace University's Women's and Gender Studies program. When not working at a women's health non-profit, Brian spends far too much time writing and talking about early 2000s pop punk, emo and Lana Del Rey. You can find Brian on Twitter.

ZAIN SYED is a recent graduate from SUNY Fredonia, where he studied English and copy edited for the school newspaper. Currently, he is looking forward to finding a real job, moving in with his girlfriend, and getting a kitten.

JUSTIN WEBB resides in Homer, NY, a small town south of Syracuse, with his beautiful fiancĂŠe and his fat, yet highly lovable, cat. An editor for an e-commerce publishing firm by day, he has an affinity for reciting poetry, good hefeweizen, Ireland and the French language. He holds a B.A. in Philosophy from the State University of New York at Fredonia and has had work appear previously in The Furnace Review and Haiku News. More of his work may be found on his DeviantArt or his Tumblr.

TIM WILKINSON, author, poet, lover, father, son, traveler and human, began writing at the age of twelve.

Recently published in The Path Literary Journal, Static Movement, The Speculative Edge, Ancient Paths, Writers Haven, Fictitious Magazine, The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project, and The Garden Gnome, he continues to explore his lifelong dream of being a writer and actually being paid for it. Tim believes in love at first sight, ardent romance, passion and soulmates, the benefits of travel, books made of paper, The Beatles, fairy tale happily ever afters, chocolate, marriage, the joy of live theatre, music, beer and coffee, his earthly father, daughter, wife, and of course, Christ and God, yet not necessarily in that order. One can follow Tim on a myriad of social media, including but not limited to: Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and his own site.

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COREY MESLER has published in numerous journals and anthologies. He has published 8 novels, 3 full length poetry collections, and 3 books of short stories. He has also published a dozen chapbooks of both poetry and prose. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times, and two of his poems were chosen for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. His fiction has received praise from John Grisham, Robert Olen Butler, Lee Smith, Frederick Barthelme, Greil Marcus, among others. With his wife, he runs Burke’s Book Store in Memphis TN. He can be found at his site.

JEFFREY ZABLE taught for thirty years (elementary school and college), but now is only doing short term projects for his District. He's also a hand drummer who plays Afro Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and 'Rumbas' around the Bay Area. His writing has appeared in hundreds of magazines and he's published five chapbooks, including Zable's Fables with an introduction by the late, great Beat poet Harold Norse. He has present, or upcoming poetry and prose in Clarion, Toad Suck Review, The Alarmist, Vayavya, Snow Monkey, Futures Trading, Puffn Circus, Skidrow Penthouse, Ditch, The Bitchin' Kitch', Mas Tequila, and many others. He hopes to have a blog soon. For now he can be reached on Facebook.

BRETT JONES studied Creative Writing at SUNY Fredonia, where he founded the Literary Lampoon section of the school newspaper and frequently contributed to Zinophobia, a student run ‘zine. Recent work can be found in Dark Matter, Symmetry Pebbles, Gambling The Aisle and forthcoming in Tribe Magazine. He currently lives in Rochester, New York. Follow Brett through his site and on Twitter.

CHLOE N. CLARK is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing & Environment. Her work has appeared in such places as Rosebud, Menacing Hedge, Supernatural Tales, and Abyss & Apex, among others. She bakes, studies cryptozoology, gets into debates about Doctor Who, and rants about everything . You can find her on her twitter.

SCOTT MALKOVSKY is a 2011 graduate of SUNY Fredonia with a BFA in Acting and a minor in Creative Writing, who moved to Los Angeles in 2012 to pursue a career in television. Here are links to his drawing blog, called Punk Thoughts, and his IMDB Page.

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