September 2015 by The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society

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Table of Contents Pg. 4 - FLORENCES, Gerard Sarnat Pg. 5 - RAP SO DYE, John Marvin Pg. 6 - IN THE CITY, Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois Pg. 7 - SHABBAT, Valentina Cano Pg. 8 - MAPS, Daniel Blokh Pg. 12 - HOW HOBBES GOT AWAY WITH KILLING THE HEAD OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH, Krista Genevieve Farris Pg. 13 - TONKA, DJ Parris Pg. 15 - ECO ECHOES 43, Duane Locke Pg. 16 - IN THE CITY OF X, Jennifer Roche Pg. 17 - NYQUIL MARTINI, Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois Pg. 19 - DO LIBERATE, E. Kristin Anderson Pg. 20 - GIRLCHILD, Chella Courington Pg. 22 - THE OPPOSITE OF EUTHANASIA, Lauren Page Pg. 23 - DESTRUCTION POEM, Amanda Dissinger Pg. 24 - HOTEL SONG, Lauren E. Milici Pg. 25 - BLACK ME OUT, Elisabeth Siegel Pg. 26 - WHAT’S LEFT WHEN THE RIVER GOES DOWN, Bill Vernon Pg. 28 - I’M TRYING TO SAY I’M SORRY, Madeleine Van Dam Pg. 31 - I ALREADY TOLD YOU HOW THIS WAS GOING TO END, Richard King Perkins II Pg. 33 - BECAUSE IT WAS THE HOLY NIGHT, E. Kristin Anderson Pg. 35 - THE WITCH IS DEPENDENT ON HER SOLITUDE, Danielle Perry Pg. 36 - VOX POPULI, Adam Kane Pg. 40 - EDITORIAL STAFF Pg. 42 - CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

FLORENCES Gerard Sarnat The month after Daddy died, I bought Mom a toy poodle just like the one she nursed at home during high school graduation. Mommy called it Flo after the original accessory named for Grandma Florence: For the most part, Ma spoke about not getting over her very first pooch passing when she’s young -after which Grandpa dumped Mama in boarding school over in Florence... I changed the subject by resurrecting a sepia photo from my parents’ honeymoon in Alabama where they rode exorbitant white stallions while both also chain-smoked. Jaunty fedora, Father looks just like a movie star. Mother turned to me, Who’s that? Taking Flo II for a walk, feeling as anonymous as the patches of grass between sidewalk and curb, when we got back, now that Dad’s not watching, I won’t cook covered casseroles or anything I don’t want to eat. Out of rank pettiness, I gave the dog food, gave Mommy’s maid Maya dogfood, give Mama nada.

RAP SO DYE John Marvin sinister dexterity stretching space pulling fabric light years apart whatever happened to steady state whatever happened hydrogen popping up I’m getting sentimental over you little lambda who are you genius of the cosmic zoo holding court on background bubbling cosmoconstant so so troubling don’t get around much any more energy soaking empty space war and smoke linger along if no one has sufficient strength to end it all in sin thesis why then oh why can’t I except for trees there are no forests but Harold Arlen’s on the Canadiana where every song begins again and never ever ends because it’s rainin’ all the time

IN THE CITY Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois I read Haruf for reports of good and evil on the eastern plains. Travelling west toward the mountains, Denver is a gritty place, though not as gritty as it used to be. It’s where people go when they’ve finally tired of the hick life. I never tired of it but was cast out by greed and pulverizing machines. I’m old and don’t believe in wisdom. I only believe in removing as much crap from my mind as possible. Minimum crap is the best I can do, removing the greed from my heart (my heart—that’s a corny phrase), staying lean almost to the point of pain, skirting anorexia. Anorexia, a road too far into the desert, a road where you stare at a cactus’s spines and feel jealous—that’s merely another form of greed (greed has a million manifestations). That’s why the Buddha advocated the middle path, with greed tugging at you from both sides, the greed of overconsumption and the greed of self-deprivation. Neither works. Both are ego. I would return to the hick life if I could, maybe somewhere where people aren’t hardhearted and I’m not continually damaged by pulverizing machines. In the meantime I’m here in the city.

SHABBAT Valentina Cano I heard of you. I heard of you from voices hushed by sunset, on the crackle of birdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feathers as they retreated into their shadows. I heard on the hum of television sets flicking alive and smiling for attention. I heard of you and closed the doors. Sat down with my pulsing silence to wait.

MAPS Daniel Blokh i imagined us as hermits. We wove leaves and bark onto our skin, lived by the ocean, its finger pressed to our mouths. In my mind, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lost it all. we could reconstruct ourselves; tree for a spine, blue wings for eyes, canvas for a mind.

You knew yourself as you would a map. You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shake so when i traced your arm.

i was scared to tell you. You were words and whispers, glitter painted over thin bones.

Maybe you were scared of me, too.

You resembled only you; 8

short hair, eyes like quivering dew under a leaf, so freckled that the spots ran through your veins. You tried to love forms, shapes, the rippled movement of bodies. You tried to love your own. “We could build new ones,” i wanted to, should’ve said.

You learned to like machines, dystopias. You built an apocalypse in your backyard, invited me to see it. It was the last i saw you, watching plumes of smoke unfurl into the

city sky. Light lined our eyes. We spoke of it, the false light that you ate by handfuls, the acquired taste you never really loved.

We cried because the moon was hurting.

“All those bright colors. They looked trapped up there,” i told you. “The lights, like scratches on the sky.”

When i heard the story our island fell apart, sunk into the waters. Our self-constructed bodies fell, loosened, unspooled beneath the waves. They rocked us and told the tale of an unhinged bone, spotted, like an animal’s; spilled paint trickling down the 10

alleyway.

“They could be birds,” you said.

HOW HOBBES GOT AWAY WITH KILLING THE HEAD OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH Krista Genevieve Farris Hobbes sauntered up to a neighbor’s stoop where a front door key was stowed rather obviously. He smelled a little salmon on the mat that said “Welcome.” It was damp drippings from a tin can that was taken out to the curb in haste that morning as the recycling truck lumbered south on North Avenue. Hobbes scratched the mat, flipped up a corner with his claws, bent his head low to soak in the scent. Up went the key, straight to the giant magnet on the cat’s collar. He had been awarded the super-size magnet two weeks ago by some big hands that put it on so he, and only he, can open his fancified kitty door. No other cats could pop through the kitty flap to eat from his bowl when he’s out on patrol- no opossums or raccoons either. Hobbes thought about the magnet, heavy on his neck, thought about the newfound key now dangling from the magnet, adding to the weight. He thought about knocking loose the key, but didn’t. He was hungry now. He licked the cement, licked his paw, moved on from the stoop to chase a finch and was long gone when the “welcome” man stepped on the mat he’d lain at his own door to welcome himself home. The man patted his chest, looked through the window and realized he’d left his house key on the ring sitting on the kitchen table in a rush to get out the door, instead of removing the key and threading it through the lace of his running shoe. Sweat dripped in his eyes and blurred his vision when he leaned down to get the spare from under the mat. He teetered off the stoop and cursed. It wasn’t there. That freaked him out, him being the king of the neighborhood watch and all. But, no worries, it had to be there. He ran his hands through the hardwood mulch around the azalea. A bee flew off a magenta flower- landed on his left hamstring. He stood up, now sweating more, worried about the missing key. The bee was looking for the thrill of its lifetime and plunged its stinger into the sinewy leg. It fell to the ground in a last hurrah. The man was allergic. He had no phone on him, had no key, fell against the stoop. He died. 10 hours have passed. Nobody has noticed. Hobbes wears the key.

TONKA DJ Parris Dude ahead in line to check out at Giant Food transports produce on box trucks for pay. Or did. Dunno if he remembers I used to unload his trailer in the dark silence of oily cold early weekdays. Drove for Estes or NEMF. Perhaps he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to speak with me. Maybe you took yourself this morning to a time exchange. Effort for the time and effort of others. A heron glides in s/low, wide gray wings hugging downy fog, flaps up/approaches a pond in Aldie. Torpid bluegill wave s/low in dreamy cool shallows Painted turtles s/low statues red mud tucked. Rippling mirror smokes cold; the surface sans insect even the Canada geese who seem to never leave. A minor corneal burn from lunching too long on a lamp. No obligate carnivores dashing across the rippling face/deeper behind/ into the sky. I do see mushroomed row houses and resolving in the foreground that heron/Stalks a stabbed step or two every few seconds or so. Did you 13

know the man in front of me was a drug dealer? Which means only how much you might forget what you got given. How backs work for any child pressing hands on the red mud slips off any pond (real/fake) his/her marathon gape et slow gray snails cutting s/low black trails in any slick green scum furring any smooth round stones whose attention describes everything that ever lived.

ECO ECHOES 43 Duane Locke My neighborhoodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s doppelgangers Have dirty feet and soil the white Kitchen tiles as they walk over To turn the bronze knob on my Bedroom door. Even when their lips are pressed Tight against each other in their Futile attempts to feel a sign of life, They chant Gregorian chants, But revise with stock broker lyrics. The women wear white tuxedos, And the men wear white lacy dresses, And they look more like misty apparitions Than the doubles of my flesh and blood, Work-ethic neighbors. They come holding up to their closed lips Loudspeakers like the ones Rudy Vallee Used to sing through, and mumbled Whispers come out as if a severe Thunder storm. The dog howls, and races to The black faux leather sofa in The living room, returns to his dream Of barking in the silent empty rooms Of Castle in Spain near the French border. The doppelgangers bring photograph Albums. People who lived next door To each other and have never spoken Are pictured hugging each other and Handing each other discount coupons. I am told by someone climbing as a Hobo to iron ladder on side of speeding freight Car carrying cattle to be slaughtered That the photos demonstrate how to live, 15

Obey the posterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s quicksand, not my everyday ordinary self.

IN THE CITY OF X Jennifer Roche on Barbara Guest's "Photographs" We speak in photos now. What had been distance may be memory but someone has taken the accident and refracted it. The sun lights the street lamp. The street lamp finds the government building. The tree trees until it closes. Memory is loss whose fear of more loss releases the shutter. A negative rises from whatever is stilled. A feather can not play a violin even in a walnut sitting room. Emotions cycle in a clockwise manner. Pause. Rewind. Play: In the city of X, they pour genies into cameras. 16

NYQUIL MARTINI Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois Darla skulked in the hallway. Her complexion was pitted and she wore thick glasses but I found her attractive, an older woman with secret knowledge, knowledge I feared I would never have. I wanted to be misled, detoured by someone whose life was a detour. I wanted to get high on airplane glue without ever building an airplane. After I reveal Darla’s vagina to the world, she is infuriated and complains bitterly to her pastor, an ex-junkie and ex-con who found God while getting fucked in the ass by another con. I never trust that kind of spirituality, but Darla does, and her pastor promises that he will come up with a scheme to ensure that my time in Hell is extra bad. But Darla still can’t sleep. Her insomnia flares and, as she always does in the middle of the night when sleepless, she goes on Facebook and writes obscene poetry about her organs, her liver and kidneys and her ruined heart, usually erased by Facebook’s censors, but sometimes it gets by them and becomes part of the Eternal Digital. One of Darla’s Facebook friends suggests that she try a Nyquil Margarita, so she drives down the canyon in her old AMC Hornet and drifts into a biker bar. This place, Fontana, California, was

the birthplace of the Hell’s Angels and is home to the highest per capita population of ex-cons in the country, which is where Darla’s pastor was from until he moved up into the canyon, wedged himself in like a rock iguana, and created a following of exiles even crazier than himself. Darla asks the bartender for a Nyquil Margarita. He concocts it without hesitation. Darla drinks it down and orders another. Before long she’s feeling good again. She no longer cares that I have revealed her vagina and other of her organs to the world. She realizes that she did that herself, long before I got involved. She goes to the pay phone in the corner by the bathroom, which reeks of urine, and calls me. I’m awake, also suffering from insomnia. We talk for a while, reminisce about high school days.

DO LIBERATE E. Kristin Anderson The following is a found poem. Source material: Lyrics of “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, first scrambled and then erasured. Always hey. Good women dare back through, to hear hey. Your work can square it. This animal, always casual. I don’t pass, pretending, ’cause we pull, blind, almost on plastic talk. Bitch? I’m mean, everybody just steam, this hey. Hey! Ask, hey. You— hey. I want to read, unbearable in (hey, hey) a salute past hurt, these lines in papers, lucky. Hey. Hey.

GIRLCHILD Chella Courington She announced in first grade she wanted to be a cheerleader. Not a goal I would ever imagine for a daughter of mine. Smiles and fluttering pompoms and short skirts barely fanning over her butt. My answer was to hire a new babysitter, who was not on the squad and practicing routines in my living room. But Girlchild screeched at the news, banging her head so hard against the kitchen wall that I took her to ER. “Stubborn as a mule,” the doctor said. “No concussion.” She learned squats, kicks and jumps, turning dinner into show time. By second grade the babysitter was taking her to gymnastic lessons two afternoons a week. In shortsleeved pink leotards, she’d return home saying she needed to work on her tucks and straddles. I paid $130 for the purple folding mat and watched her head, blonde hair in a topknot, roll down a bowling lane, smooth and steady. Eyes always open when she made the strike. By ninth grade she was one of the girls who waved clusters of black and red streamers and celebrated boys slamming into each other on the field. Squeals and tumbles and syncopated claps when they scored again. I sat quietly in the stands. I had tried to warn Girlchild about high school. Read her the statistics: suicide was the third leading cause of death for teens, some 4600 every year. Not drugs, not angst but bullying. I told her about the fourteen-year-old girl raped by the popular football player. She spoke up and received threats on her life. The rapist texted a friend: “Forget the cunt. The coach is taking care of it.” “I’m not afraid,” Girlchild said. “You are afraid of lightning.” She smiled then rolled her eyes, straightened her blouse and walked out, leaving the front door open. Her strong legs, like a cat’s, carried her to a car filled with equally unafraid boys and girls. Embracing their immortality.

Except for the nightlight plugged in the outlet near the door, the room was dark. But I could feel Girlchild. Her body taut and silent, inhaling deeply. She wouldn’t crawl in bed, snuggle against my side, or put her head on my shoulder. For her, being near was being a few feet away. I was usually conscious of what she experienced and thought, what she would say when the words were ready. Yesterday we were talking about Mr. Sorenson, the math teacher I had yet to meet, when my labia began to tingle, spread upward and suddenly I was wet. Girlchild didn’t 20

break a beat. “He said my answer was right though the process messy and gave me partial credit. He wants me to....” “That’s not safe,” I blurted before she finished. Looking straight at me as if I’d crossed her threshold, she said, “Don’t go weird on me.” That’s what she called my sixth sense, and I didn’t tell her otherwise. I knew she would act as if it were another of my silly comments then later let it haunt her, weakening the bond I worked hard to strengthen. So I kept my intuition to myself most of the time. In the case of the math teacher, cheerleading practice interfered, and she never made it to his office.

THE OPPOSITE OF EUTHANASIA Lauren Page I wish I had been the one to carry your son, so that I could show you the way my whole self is swollen with your seed, a manifestation of your infestation and implantation. If you were to cut me open, inserting your fingers and removing your budding boy from this cavity, you would have to pierce and pull slowly, lightly so as not to break off a piece of yourself, that stretches through my entirety. At the end of it all, even sitting empty, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll still hang off prompts poured from your pink mouth as we sit in overly-hot coffee shops where I imagine the fermenting bananas are about to combust from their place by the register, bursting banana guts into space, the way they do when left in the car for too long and across from you my hand puts the dark liquid through some seismic activity caused by your tired blue eyes and my sutures are glittery silver fragments pulsating over the inflamed skin of my womb where I could only hold you for nine months.

DESTRUCTION POEM Amanda Dissinger for one night, i auction my body off to the lowest bidder you do not get to have me, your one sided way of loving anything would be better than attaching myself to your strings again and this destruction feels like architecture it feels like royalty and anytime you waver, i take another lover anytime you say her name, i take another lover my butterscotch heart has turned into metal and you don’t get to define everything, you don’t get to define my destruction anymore don’t tell me i don’t erupt when i am erupting there will be backseats, back alley, back door, back rooms, no sheets, all the sheets, no me, all him and all the ways you hurt me without trying will be translated into a different language and when my erosion begins, all i want is for you to even try to collect all my pieces when i am self-destructing, you can either stand back or be brave when i am self-destructing, you will have no more questions

HOTEL SONG Lauren E. Milici after Emily O’Neill baby, your knuckles say live fast. november when you split my lip—glittered with broken glass. ball gag on the nightstand, bible & your wedding band. lolita in a white dress, latex. butterfly bandage, bathroom sink. I said, baby, your insides taste like ash; black lung & seven-dollar pack. you said you like me best when I’m dancing drunk on dollar store wine—but baby your heaven is more contrived than mine.

BLACK ME OUT Elisabeth Siegel His tongue took my teeth misinformed, failing to covet, envy the thorns around my head. Remnants of day turned dusk despite poetry that blazed like me. Today I recreate eyes skin arms hair mouth and dark innersides of our genius, diving through frenzied pain, intense fragile privacy. confused fatal and fate.

WHATâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LEFT WHEN THE RIVER GOES DOWN Bill Vernon We didn't riot. Who can rebel against Nature? There were, though, looters and troopers who chased them. Jimmy Campbell, my cousin, shot two men in a rowboat tied up at his house. There were craters in Main Street, which washed out so badly Miller's Hardware collapsed in the front and had to be tore down. It rained so hard and so much, the Shiloh Baptist Church slid down the slope on its lot and was swept up against the old covered bridge. Water rose behind it like a new reservoir, flooding DuBarry's Used Cars and the plat of brick ranches on Lamb Road. Flooded out and escaped to the hills above our homes, we stood there and watched what was loose in the valley float by. There were people clinging to sycamores and yelling from rooftops. Rescues took place for two days. We bided our time, gulping sandwiches, coffee and pop (do-gooders' gifts) and sleeping on cots at Brinks Consolidated County Elementary School. When I finally got back to my place, wading through mire everywhere, I found it askew on its slab. The insides were strewn and piled, mixed together like some agitated, angry god had just thrown things around out of spite. The silt was inches deep, and the smell was so bad you wanted to plug up your nose. I asked no one in particular, "What did I do to earn this?" The relief from the Red Cross was real helpful: mop, pail, and disinfectant. I laughed at the man who was handing them out. "Look, Mister, every goddam thing I had is gone!" It took Disaster Aid only three days to level the buildings on my street. There was a special service the Sunday after that. The priest proclaimed, "We all are lucky just to be living." They discovered Russ Pendrake the next day, dead on a park bench, shotgun nearby, newspapers spread out neatly beneath him to keep off the mud. I was sleeping in my car when they said that most of the roads had been cleared off, so I drove around, haphazardly like, I don't know why, my headlights slamming into fog like a dull knife on wood. The limbs on Kunkle's Road by the river arched overhead as usual, but now they were hung with streamers of bark, branches, plastic bags, and cloth. The white boxes caught in the roots were stoves, washers, dryers, once an old fridge.

I stopped at the graveyard—the bridge past it was gone—and saw that the grove of cedars was washed out and the whole north hillside was gouged away. Right there at the top were two holes where coffins had been. I'd heard that a bunch of coffins were missing, and now I could see that my mother's had to be one of them gone. That's when I got out of my car, stood there on the edge, stared at that rushing sound down below, and yelled, "You son of a bitch, go on and eat all you want! We have to take it, but I—by God!—curse what you do." Then a vision rose up from the thundering flow. There were bones and bodies draped over bent bushes. There were bobbing caskets, and where the lid on one was rent off, the face peering up was my own.

I’M TRYING TO SAY I’M SORRY Madeleine Van Dam I can feel my Mom’s drinking habits dripping into my throat and I’ve got my Dad’s eyes and his tendency to never return phone calls so no, I will not answer the nine voicemails you left me. I am going to explore the bottom of the sea. I heard that 90% of the ocean remains undiscovered and that’s where I may find myself. But I have learned that water is not medicine; people are not painkillers. I try and connect your freckles with my index finger, charting a course in dark waters using only the stars. I know that my palms do not hold solar systems. They only contain black holes but I let you hold my hand anyway. I think I’m trying to say that I’m in love with you and that scares the shit out of me.

THIRD Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Adelaide of Burgundy became the patron saint of second marriages. Her first husband, Lothair II, King of Italy, was poisoned. Her second husband called himself great, called himself holy. Adelaide knew the truth but would not share it. She had taken a vow of silence. Her husband blessed her for it. He was vexed with loudmouthed women. If it were up to him, he would have all female voice boxes removed at birth. What a different world it would be, he fantasized as he drifted off to sleep. His silent and good wife, Adelaide was a woman to be emulated, he told his friends at table as their wives looked on with sour expressions. At age seventeen, I was a good deal younger than Adelaide, who I’d heard was the saint of second marriages. I was a Paul Simon song: a rock, an island. I was Dostoyevsky’s underground man. I was Camus’s Stranger, who only needed his neighbors’ howls of execration to complete him. All of this was nonsense to Adelaide. I was a zombie, undone by a woman I’d met in New Orleans. I was a diamond with a flaw, as described by an Okie girlfriend who, until I told her otherwise, thought that The Diary of Anne Frank was a work of fiction. None of this was relevant to Adelaide. She was a good deal older than me, the saint of second 29

marriages. I would be her third husband.

I ALREADY TOLD YOU HOW THIS WAS GOING TO END Richard King Perkins II Dear Editors, Please see the enclosed poems for your review. Thank you. Sincerely, Richard King Perkins II P.S. â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Even though you now state otherwise, my guess is that you probably still have a great distaste for the poet who intentionally lost himself at sea. Don't equivocate. Stick to your beliefs. I remember getting some fairly passionate letters (actual physical letters, not email) when shortly after The Dirty Old Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death, a couple of poems of mine were published that were not rah-rah poems as was typical at that time, but instead gave my own opinion of certain aspects of his work of which I was not fond. My response to the criticism: "Irrelevant." _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________

Dear Mr. Perkins, We won't read these. The Editors, P.S. - So much for equivocating. _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________ Dear Editors, Irrelevant.

Sincerely, Richard King Perkins II

BECAUSE IT WAS THE HOLY NIGHT E. Kristin Anderson It’s different, coming back; we were looking for anything like that. As we orbited, I caught yellow out of the corner of my eye. You’re either effectively wild or effectively lucky. That’s what makes the mechanics work. It’s not just me; there’s a sadness. It’s another one of those vague it just stands; at least make them wear life rings. Out here, we’ve been heartbroken so many times I knew the research would be contentious; we’re children and immigrants. I think something magical can happen for us. I’m not even going to check (replay). I know what happened. Don’t let them go bare – It will be the same threats – large hail, gusty winds – but it’s hard to say if it will be exactly the same. I’m going to milk the excitement, the atmosphere. It’s going to come out of me Well, there are a lot of worse places to be. We’re just waiting. [This is a found poem. Sources used:

Associated Press. “Hole-out on 18 Caps Kuchar Win.” Austin American-Statesman 21 Apr. 2014: C6. Print. Cappiello, Dina. “Study: Fuels from Corn Waste Not Better than Gas.” Austin American-Statesman [Washington] 21 Apr. 2014: A2. Print. Chang, Julie. “Severe Weather May Hit Monday.” Austin American-Statesman 21 Apr. 2014: B1+. Print.]

THE WITCH IS DEPENDENT ON HER SOLITUDE Danielle Perry the witch is dependent upon her solitude: locked away in her coffin, spinning webs to ensnare anyone foolish enough to enter her forest. (he’ll say it’s his forest, of course he will, more fool him for not knowing that hers is the real power / he is just an empty shell waiting to crack) the witch was out in the world, once, long ago when she still dreamed of being a princess, and she wasn’t quite a witch yet. she became a witch on the day that her prince died and all she was left with was the end of the world. on that day the swords. on that day the coffin. there are visitors - there are always visitors - but only two people have ever - ever - actually seen her in her solitude: the end of the world, and the little girl who will become a prince. he put the witch there, or, she put herself there for him (it amounts to the same thing in the end) and the little girl will be the one who frees her. she and the little girl, now adolescent, made a promise: in ten years, they will be together and they will drink tea. she wonders what she will be like then. will she still depend on her solitude? will she still be a witch? will she be understood? the witch says goodbye to her brother, her erstwhile prince, her end of the world, and she ventures into the world, alone but for her familiar, ready for a new story.

VOX POPULI RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE DARKNESS Adam Kane If you’ve been doing your best Rip Van Winkle impression the last few months, you’re probably wondering why so much national attention has been paid to a county clerk in Eastern Kentucky. Kim Davis, whose biography and demeanor seem to affirm every stereotype one might have about Eastern Kentucky, has gone from government employee to headline grabber simply for being stubborn. County Clerk is, amazingly, an elected office in Eastern Kentucky. It is not an office that can create policy. It is not an office that can shape the debate in any way. County Clerk is the person you go to when you need a fishing license or a hunting license or, yes, a marriage license. Since June, however, when the Supreme Court ruled laws banning gay marriage unconstitutional, Clerk Davis has refused to issue marriage licenses. To anyone. She believes, or at least, her lawyers have told her, that she is exercising her religious liberty. As a Christian, she says, she believes a marriage is between a man and a woman. It would be unconscionable for her to go against her beliefs and issue a marriage license to two men. As a private citizen, Kim Davis is welcome to believe this. She belongs to a religion that interprets the Bible a certain way, and quite frankly, she has every right to do so. Freedom of religion means Kim Davis is allowed to believe what she wants to believe. It also means that preachers can tell people on television that hurricanes are caused by divorce, and churches can protest the funerals of soldiers and the openings of mosques. Freedom of religion means we’re all allowed to worship (or not) as we please. In fact, it is exactly the opposite of what Kim Davis and her attorneys would lead us to believe. Under the Bill of Rights, Kim Davis as an agent of the government is prohibited from exercising her beliefs on private citizens. The Federal Court system has told her as much; and her refusal to cooperate has left a judge with no choice but to hold her in contempt of court. Perhaps this is the worst thing that could have happened for anyone with a rational brain, as now she’s giving speeches and shaking hands with fringe presidential candidates and morphing herself into some strange Sarah Palin/Joe the Plumber hybrid. I genuinely think that what Kim Davis is doing is wrong. If she’s not comfortable issuing marriage licenses to gay and lesbian couples, she shouldn’t have to. But there is absolutely zero reason whatsoever for her to be preventing them from being issued in her county all together. She’s got a staff of deputies who are willing to issue the licenses. “What are you here for? Marriage license? That’s window three.” There. Problem solved. (Only it’s not, because the form lists her name as the County Clerk. And because, even though she’s not actually signing them, she’s still giving her tacit 36

approval of the form being handed out. Except that, as citizens of the United States, all are eligible to receive the form and marry whatever consenting adult they so choose. So Kim Davis has taken to changing the form, which she’s not permitted to do by law, other than the law of Kim Davis. Also, I’m pretty sure my head exploded somewhere in this parenthetical.) By being so standoffish and righteous, she’s authorizing, as a government employee, the illegal discrimination of a group of citizens. In her crusade protecting the sanctity of marriage, she’s ignored the fact that she’s not performing the weddings nor is she in a position of legal or moral authority; she hands someone paperwork and when they fill it out, she makes sure they signed everything correctly. (This is to say nothing of her own sordid history with relationships and marriages, which I won’t go into, other than to say that, by judging publicly a group of people on a moral level, she’s opened herself up to criticism of the decisions she’s made in her own life.) I say all of this because I also kind of feel sorry for her. I think, deep down, each and every one of us has some stubborn bit of irrationality that we just can’t let go of. That person in the cubicle next to you can be perfectly nice, friendly, and seemingly rational, until you find out that she is anti-vaccinations. Or the friendly guy who spots you at the gym sometimes is one day helping you with a bench press when you notice his “Make America Great Again” trucker hat. Maybe you’re on a first date with a girl with excellent taste who mentions casually how much she enjoys Hoobastank. Beliefs, in a vacuum, are neither good nor bad. It’s only when they’re pushed on other people without their asking that they become a problem. (Honestly though, if you’re antivaccination, it means you’re ignoring scientific fact. That’s kind of a problem.) You can believe in Hoobastank or Donald Trump, as long as you understand the very real fact that not everyone does, and some people want to have a conversation with you about it. Whether we like it or not, someday the winds of change and progress are going to gust in each of our faces. Things will be happening around us that will challenge what we’ve been taught and what we believe. It’s been happening since long before Kim Davis worked in the clerk’s office, long before anyone needed paperwork to get married. Hidden behind hashtags and jingoistic memes on Facebook starring, for some reason, the minions from Despicable Me, is a fact that the Kim Davises of the world would like us all to forget: we’re better off in 2015 than we were in 1915. We have longer lifespans, fewer wars, and greater opportunity to pursue happiness. I’m not naive: ISIS hasn’t suddenly vanished and health care and sick leave aren’t guaranteed rights in our country. On both a macro and micro level, life is still hard. That will never, ever change. But despite those issues and many more, what a time it is to be walking the earth: we can fly in a plane in the sky from one continent to another in less than a day; we can communicate with anyone we want to whenever we want to on a device small enough 37

to fit in our pockets, and that device can also take awesome pictures and play any song you’ve ever heard.You can raise money for your independent film or a cause you’re passionate about with the click of a button and some savvy communication skills. Are you worried about the Olympics coming to your city in a few years? Start a grassroots opposition movement using Twitter. Simply put: the world is not going to hell just because people disagree with you. Kim Davis lives in a world that’s going to hell, and that’s why I feel sorry for her. Everything is changing around her, and she’s shut her eyes, held her breath and pinched her nose at even the thought of anyone having a different viewpoint than her. It’s a survival instinct. The world around her is not going to hell; it’s becoming more open, more tolerant, more inclusive. It’s the opposite of everything she knows, and so she’s trying desperately to control her tiny, ultimately inconsequential domain. And so if she wants to sit in her office with the door locked and the blinds closed, I suppose she can do that all she wants. (Though the fact that she’s taking home an $80,000 government salary while doing so ought to raise some questions.) She’s the one missing out on a country and a world slowly changing for the better. Her loss.

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).

ASSISTANT POETRY EDITOR Wilson Josephson splits his time between the backwoods of New Hampshire and Northfield, Minnesota, where he attends Carleton College. Wilson spends the majority of his waking hours swimming back and forth over a line of black tiles, so he spends any dry hours he can scrounge up flexing his creative muscles. His prose and his poetry have appeared in Carleton’s literary magazine, he regularly performs in the student dance company, and he even directed a play once. Wilson is also the laziest of all the founding members of Literary Starbucks, and he still writes jokes about obscure literary figures when he has a little free time. His newest passion is making people laugh, usually by making himself the punchline, occasionally via the clever deployment of a slippery banana peel. SOCIAL MEDIA MISTRESS Kaity Davie is an overly enthusiastic gal taking on the world of the ever-evolving music industry, talking music by day and lurking venues, NYC parks, and pubic libraries by night. Currently, she makes magic happen across a number of social networks for a number of bands, brands, and writers. After having several poems published in The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, she began managing their social accounts in early 2015. Kaity keeps her sanity by writing rambling lines of prose and celebrating the seasonal flavors of Polar Seltzer.

Contributorsâ&#x20AC;¨ Gerard Sarnat MD received his education at Harvard where he was the editor of the freshman literary magazine The Yardling, and Stanford. He established and staffed clinics for the disenfranchised, has been a CEO of healthcare organizations, and was a Stanford professor. Gerry is published in over a hundred journals and magazines and is the author of three critically acclaimed collections: HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man (2010), Disputes (2012), and 17s (2014) in which each poem, stanza or line has 17 syllables. For Huffington Post reviews, reading dates including Stanford, publications and more, visit GerardSarnat.com. John Marvin is a teacher who retired and subsequently earned a Ph.D. in English at SUNY Buffalo. He has poems in scores of journals, and literary criticism in Hypermedia Joyce Studies, James Joyce Quarterly, Pennsylvania English, and Worchester Review. His book, Nietzsche and Transmodernism: Art and Science Beyond the Modern in Joyce, Stevens, Pynchon, and Kubrick, awaits a publisher. Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over nine hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver. Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her works have appeared in numerous publications and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, was published in 2014 and was called a "strong and satisfying effort" by Publishers Weekly. Daniel Blokh is a 14 year old poet living in Birmingham, Alabama. His work has previously been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Teen Sequins, and the Creative Minds poetry contest. When not writing poetry, he loves reviewing movies and spending time with friends. Krista Genevieve Farris is appreciative you've read this far and are interested to know more about her and her writing. Links to her essays, poems and stories can be found at her website. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three kiddos. In addition to RP&D, her recent work can be found in Gravel, The Satirist, Indiana Voice, The New Verse News, Mamalode, Shot Glass Journal, Brain,Child Magazine, Blunt Moms, The Literary Bohemian, Right Hand Pointing and elsewhere. D.J. Parris has had work in The East Jasmine Review, The Marathon Literary Review, Mackinac Magazine, Yemassee and Tinge and has forthcoming work in Similar:Peaks:: and The Nomadic Journal. He lives in Aldie Virginia with his wife and son. Duane Locke, PH. D, lives hermetically in Tampa, Florida near anhinga, gallinules, raccoons, alligators. Has had published 7,039 different poems, none self-published or paid to be published. This includes 34 books of poems. His latest book publications are DUANE LOCKE, THE FIRST DECADE, 1968-1978 (First 11 books)---YANG CHUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S POEMS---and TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATIONS, FIRST SELECTION, from FOWLPOX PRESS. Forthcoming 2015: VISIONS from KIND OF HURRICANE PRESS. Nov. 2015: TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATIONS, SECOND SELECTION (Sorties) from Hidden Clearing Books, ECO ECHOES, first selection, 2015.

Jennifer Roche is a poet, writer and collage artist who lives in Chicago, IL. Her work is forthcoming in “Footnote: A Literary Journal of History (#2)” and has appeared in Ghost Ocean Magazine and Anthology of Chicago. Jennifer is currently working on a chapbook of erasure poems called “20,” created from Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. E. Kristin Anderson is a Pushcart-nominated poet and author who grew up in Westbrook, Maine and is a graduate of Connecticut College. She has a fancy diploma that says “B.A. in Classics,” which makes her sound smart but has not helped her get any jobs in Ancient Rome. Kristin is the co-editor of Dear Teen Me, an anthology based on the popular website, and her YA memoir The Summer of Unraveling is forthcoming in 2017 from ELJ Publications. Her poetry has been published worldwide in many magazines and anthologies and she is the author of five chapbooks: A Jab of Deep Urgency (Finishing Line Press) and A Guide for the Practical Abductee (Red Bird Chapbooks) Pray Pray Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press, 2015), Acoustic Battery Life (forthcoming from ELJ Publications) and 17 Days (forthcoming from Choose the Sword Press). She is an online editor at Hunger Mountain and a poetry editor at Found Poetry Review. Once upon a time she worked at The New Yorker. She now lives in Austin, TX where she works as a freelance editor and writing coach and is trying to trick someone into publishing her full-length collection of erasure poems based on women’s and teen magazines. She blogs at EKristinAnderson.com. Chella Courington is a writer and teacher. She’s the author of three flash fiction chapbooks along with three chapbooks of poetry. Her stories and poetry have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals including SmokeLong, The Los Angeles Review, Nano Fiction, and The Collagist. Her novella, The Somewhat Sad Tale of the Pitcher and the Crow, is forthcoming (Pink.Girl.Ink.Press). Born and raised in the Appalachian South, she now lives in Santa Barbara, CA, with another writer and two cats. Lauren Page is currently a veterinary student enjoying the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of Blacksburg, VA where she lives with her orange tabby cat, Chicken. If she’s not in the library she’s probably snuggling with Chicken or out hiking on the Appalachian Trail. Lauren was a runner-up in the 2014 Steger Poetry Prize and won the 1st place prize in poetry writing from Virginia Tech's undergraduate creative writing department in 2015. Amanda Dissinger works with all sorts of music in Brooklyn. She enjoys 80s pop music, watermelon and the library and recently released her first book of poetry 'This is How I Will Tell You I Love You' via Bottlecap Press. Lauren E. Milici pens confessional poetry and believes that the best art is derived from naked honesty. She frequently posts drafts, sketches, and musings at her website, laurenemilici.com. Elisabeth Siegel is a senior at the Harker School in San Jose, California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Textploit, VerbalEyze, and Glass Kite Anthology, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She is the editor-in-chief of her school's print newspaper, the Winged Post. Bill Vernon served in the United States Marine Corps, studied English literature, then taught it. Writing is his therapy, along with exercising outdoors and doing international folk-dances. His poems, stories and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies, and Five Star Mysteries published his novel OLD TOWN in 2005.

Madeleine Van Dam is a 20 year old college student currently living in upstate New York. She is originally from Florida, but prefers the mountains to the beaches and tourists. When sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not writing poetry, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s usually taking pictures or running around barefoot. She is currently trying to establish herself as a budding writer. Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications. Danielle Perry graduated with a degree in Religious Studies and English Literature from Guilford College in North Carolina. She lives in Portland, Oregon now, where she has increasingly amped up her witchiness. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Toast, Voicemail Poems, FLAPPERHOUSE, Freeze Ray Poetry, and Cool Skull Press, among others. Adam Kane is a pop-culture enthusiast, essayist, and recovering actor living and working in Boston. You can follow him on Twitter, where he tweets about the Red Sox, Syracuse basketball and the line at Starbucks.