THE RAIN, PARTY, & DISASTER SOCIETY Vol. II, Issue III March 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, SEND A LETTER TO THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF. YOU MAY ALSO WRITE YOUR OWN REBUTTAL AND SUBMIT IT FOR PUBLICATION IN A FUTURE ISSUE.
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Table of Contents AWARENESS DAY, Katharine Diehl………………………………………………………………..........................5 AFTER DREAMS, David Burland…………………………………………………………………………………………...6 THE WEDDING-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, Adam Kane……………………………………………………..7 THE LITTLE ICE AGE, Howie Good………………………………………………………………………………………..9 MEDICAL PROFESSION, Gary Beck……………………………………………………………………………….……10 A CAMEL INCHES THROUGH THE EYE OF A NEEDLE, Jenean McBrearty……………..11 UNTITLED, Adam Robinson…………………………………………………………………………………………………14 HUMANAQUARIUM, Krista Farris……………………………………………………………………………………..15 BORDERS, BOTTLES AND BOTTOMLESS BROTHERS, Scott Malkovsky…………………16 TWITTER POETRY CONTEST WINNGERS…………………………………………………………………………17 DYSTHYMIA II, Jill Cherkas………………………………………………………………………………………..………..18 DIGITOPOLIS AND ALL THAT JAZZ, Gerard Sarnat………………………………………………………19 KAMIKAZE, David E. Poston…………………………………………………………………………………………………20 THE MESSAGE, Nels Hanson………………………………………………………………………………………………..21 THE PLOT, Krista Farris…………………………………………………………………………………………………………22 BENJAMIN, Katharine Diehl…………………………………………………………………………………………………23 MURDER AT HOME, William Pomeroy…………..…………………………………………………………………24 FEAR, Damon Ferrell Marbut……………………………………………………………………………………………...26 MY CHEST WHICH IS YET ON THE PLAINS, David Tomaloff…………………………………….27 DEVOTED, Gale Acuff……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..28 HEARD IT ON THE RADIO, Adam Kane……………………………………………………………………………..29 EDITORIAL STAFF……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………32 CONTRIBUTORS……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….34
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AWARENESS DAY Katharine Diehl I neurasthenic- romantic- some ills last. which cherished pathology? which craving for art? which callow youths thrashing in a river? shedding their ache, as swallows molt feathersII if illness- not wedded to bliss or to fashion. not consumption. no longer choleric. it moves from our mouths. do we term it poetry? harm to the body? repetition- compulsionlike I cough up phlegm now because it becomes me. a diction inexorable- a syntaxa god. III what six-fingered witchery have we? but even beasts get anxiety. doggy Prozac! rats bury! IV and we bleed up- grind molars- watch their faces get greener? some side effect, multiplied- but how have artistsourselves- stayed alive?
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AFTER DREAMS David Burland After Kurosawa's dreams I realize once again that life is the same as death just as snow is cold and ice is hot. In order to achieve anything, you must die while you are alive; it is the one and only way to keep the peach orchard in full bloom.
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THE WEDDING-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX Adam Kane In his farewell address in January, 1961, President Dwight Eisenhower warned the United States of the militaryindustrial complex. The idea is that, while the government must be ready to protect its citizens, it must guard against allowing weapons manufacturers to become a de facto fourth branch of government. (There will not be a quiz at the end.) Tangentially related to this speech, some 50 years later: on August 6, 2013, I proposed to my girlfriend Melissa, and she said yes. At the time, I thought it was a minor miracle, considering my proposal was not nearly as creative as I thought it was. Then again, if acceptance were based on the proposal alone, there would be a lot more unmarried men trying to erase embarrassing Jumbotron videos from YouTube. (Pause now to search “jumbotron proposal fail.”) Fortunately, the acceptance of the proposal has more to do with the relationship itself. And I’m happy to say that Melissa and I like all the same things: JFK documentaries, brunch, LL Bean boots; it’s a match made in dork heaven. So what in the world does any of this have to do with our 34th President? Well, it’s been six months since I’ve been a fiance, and I can say that I only now understand the military-industrial complex, albeit in a slightly different form: the wedding-industrial complex. It is a big, scary monster, the wedding industry, and in the glow of engaged bliss, we nearly got eaten by it. Did you know that the average American wedding is nearly $30,000? THIRTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. Dress. Tux. Venue. Dinner. Bar. Cake. Limo. Photographer. Videographer. Planner. Flowers. Rings. Gifts. Centerpieces. On and on and on and on. Our involvement in this phenomenon started small: Do you have a date? Only 20 hours after my nervous hands slid the ring onto her finger, we started fielding this question. Do you have a date? So we talked about it, and called some venues. Based on this small amount of research, I determined that every venue in the northeast was booked solid for the next three years, except for the one weekend we, the couple, inquired about. But we had better hurry, because there is another couple also interested in that date! We picked a venue sight unseen. We got a discount. We were fortunate, we thought, that we could secure a venue when so few dates were available! We had the hard part done, the rest would be easy, we were told. But that wasn’t the case. We had been sucked in. What we thought was a deposit on a venue was actually an offering to the wedding-industrial overlords. There are wedding websites and magazines that outline the schedule of what needs to be done at what point when planning the wedding. They have little printable schedules, budget outlines and overviews of what the bride and groom should each be responsible for, along with similar responsibilities for the best man, maid of honor, etc…. Helpful, right? Not so much. Melissa read articles, flagged some for me, and we sent some to our families. We were going by the book! But who exactly wrote the book? And who decided they were the experts? And why is it absolutely necessary for a married woman to throw a several-hundred dollar bouquet of flowers into a well-dressed crowd of her friends and relatives, only for them to fight over it? Why is an overpriced piece of chicken an essential part of the first day of our lives as a married couple? The truth is, the wedding industry wants us to think these things are important because they are money makers. They don’t want you to ask why, they just want you to color inside the lines. Caterers can charge much higher prices for a wedding because they know people will pay for it. If enough magazines tell you to rent a 7
limo, you rent a limo. Caterers and limo drivers become bottles of water at Woodstock ‘99: as demand increases, so to does the price. I don’t want to sound like I’m faulting any of the vendors we dealt with: small, local businesses trying to provide for their families. I put the blame on Big Wedding. The vendors have to keep up with it too. But as a result of this supply and demand, essential elements to our special day had become commodities. That rustic barn on a hill overlooking a park all covered in trees? That’s a low-mileage pre-owned BMW during the employee-pricing sale, and it’s the last one available, and some WASP-ey couple with a trust fund just got back from a test drive. Put down a deposit right away! The more she read these magazines, the less excited Melissa got about planning a wedding. She would ask me if we wanted to spend time chatting about catering and we would both feel anxious and stressed. We knew it wasn’t working. It’s supposed to be a celebration, after all, not a year and a half spent in Hell. So we took a mulligan. Started over. We listed everything important according to Big Wedding, and crossed off everything we didn’t care about. The imposition we put upon ourselves went away when we finished. The list of things we were supposed to care about? Seemingly endless. The things we actually cared about? Just two: getting married to each other, and having the chance to see our friends and family. Fifty years ago, Eisenhower warned us all against letting the people who supplied our military dictate policy, and I suggest a similar warning to all excited to get married. Don’t let Big Wedding tell you what you want for your party. We haven’t finalized everything, but it’s already clear that escaping the wedding-industrial complex was a wise decision.
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THE LITTLE ICE AGE Howie Good The Department of Internal Difficulties and Natural Impediments has been open for hours already. I stand outside the glass doors, counting the number of suicidal poets who enter the building, some with their wrists bandaged, others still bleeding. A week earlier, the sky acquired the surface consistency of sand. I thought that it was the long-anticipated end of the American Century, but it was just the beginning of another set of dreary, complicated procedures. Only one thing to do – hope. Somewhere near here, there must be crows in an evergreen watching it snow.
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MEDICAL PROFESSION Gary Beck In the 17th century barbers were doctors, cut your hair, treated your illness mostly by bleeding to remove noxious vapors that cured or killed you, and you paid bills promptly aware of the perils of a close shave. Like much of humanity, you managed to survive health practitioners who never seemed concerned about how little they knew.
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A CAMEL INCHES THROUGH THE EYE OF A NEEDLE Jenean McBrearty The Turkish authorities held Diana for three days, questioning her repeatedly about why she stabbed the Sheraton Ankara waiter. “He was trying to rape me,” she told them, “as a newlywed, I find that particularly inappropriate. And it’s not like I killed him.” I’d told her Hawaii was a safer bet, but Diana was determined to have her romance and eat it too. “He wasn’t trying to rape you, Mrs. Salyer, he found your bikini inappropriate,” Inspector Al-Rahani told her and the American Attaché who flashed an I.D. card stamped U.S. State Department. “Well, I didn’t know that. Nowhere in the Orbitz information did it warn jihadist hotel waiters might make unilateral decisions about swimming attire.” Neither side wanted an “incident” so soon after Benghazi. Diana was released, and the World-A-Go-Go Travel Agency refunded the hotel portion of our honeymoon package—and immediately switched our itinerary to Lake Geneva. However, Diana balked. “I’m not leaving till I get a camel ride, Noah.” That afternoon, the hotel van drove us to the outskirts of Ankara, and we mounted two disgusting mammals near an ancient ruin—somebody’s aqueduct, temple, or wall—and that’s when the real trouble began. The hotel van driver, who looked as though he was related to the fashion cop Diana had punctured, led our camels towards a rocky, Palm Springs-like expanse and hoot-hollered towards the East. What looked to me like other van-man family members descended from the rocks. Among them was a young man, stooped and waist bandaged, who wore hesitation on his uncharacteristically pale face. A hesitation that turned to terror when he saw with what agility Diana dismounted a twelve-foot tall animal. I tried frantically to reach the Consulate on my cell as Diana squared off with the interlopers, but couldn’t get a bar. “Is this the man who attacked you?” our driver said. “That’s him. Grabbed me around the neck when I came out of the cabana, and ripped off my bra.” I scrambled off the camel’s back and went to her side. “We’re from Atlanta, so don’t think you can push us around, sir,” I said, my rebel drawl suddenly appearing from beneath layers of Princeton training. “Kill us, and my family will have the entire Georgia militia after you.” Damned if these Turks didn’t look like they just stepped off a Viking ship. They were all at least six feet tall, blond, and blue-eyed. “You’re not afraid of us?” the driver said. “Certainly we’re afraid. We’re not fools. But honor demands that fear take a backseat to a verbal defense of decency in any circumstance where one’s outnumbered and unarmed.” “Well put, Noah,” Diana said. I felt her trembling hand capture mine. The driver sunk his talons into the shoulder of the young man and dragged him a few feet from us. The six other men gathered around them in sort of a Western Anatolia Huddle, and we heard undecipherable murmuring. The driver joined us again, while the other men held the struggling young man. “Have you ever heard of the Varangians?” the driver asked. I looked at Diana and she shook her head no.
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“We’ve not had the pleasure, Sir,” I said. “Eighteen hundred years ago, my ancestors came from the north to serve in the army of Basil II. We’ve been in Turkey since 1034.” He smiled broadly, and I noticed he practiced excellent oral hygiene. I’m a second year dental student. “You can think of us as Danish Yankees, if you want.” I didn’t think that boded well for me and Diana, but she seemed to be encouraged by the information and his demeanor because she smiled back. “It’s nice to meet someone who understands the value of tradition,” she said in her most charming tones. “One of our ancestors also tried to rape a woman in Thrakesion Thema. You know what happened him?” “I hope they horsewhipped him,” Diana said. “Men in Georgia don’t cotton to strangers accosting their womenfolk.” I had no idea Diana’d taken the assault so badly. Beating a dead man was as pointless as beating a dead horse. Our driver motioned the men to bring the young man to us, and though he fought ferociously, they dragged him over. Our driver pulled out a silver-inlaid dagger from under his robe, and drew it across the young man’s neck with the deftness of a dancer. Diana fainted in my arms, and had I not been distracted with breaking her fall, I might have swooned myself. “Holy shit!” I remember saying as the men cast the man’s body on the ground and watched his blood shoot out in ever more gentle spurts as the ground lapped it up. I confess to overwhelming curiosity that left my lips in a whisper. “What will you tell the authorities?” “Nothing. No one will find him because no one will look for him.” He spat on the ground. The other men scurried away and I heard a car sputter off, leaving me and Diana alone with the camels and the fez-headed Norseman. “Shouldn’t we bury him anyway?” It was a stupid, guilty thing to say, but all I could see was me and Diana rotting away in a Turkish prison. Maybe our parents would go on The O’Reilly Factor and beg for the president’s intercession. “He has no property or else I’d give you that too. That’s what the soldiers gave the woman in Thrakesion Thema who killed her assailant.” He pulled at the camels’ reins and they lowered themselves to ground. “I’ll help you get your wife seated. I’ll lead her camel back to the van.” I climbed on behind Diana, who was coming around. By the time we arrived at the van, she was awake and pressing against my chest. “I think I wet my pants,” she said as we dismounted and slid into the back seat for the trip back to the city. “Don’t worry, the arid desert heat will dry you out,” I said, and before we got to the hotel, all that remained of her fainting spell was a barely noticeable outline of what looked like spilled iced tea. “Did I see what I thought I saw?” Diana asked me when we sat in our spotless hotel suite, showered, fed and packed for our plane trip to Switzerland. She’d wanted something different for a honeymoon. Romantic. Mysterious. Historical. Someplace she could tell her friends about, where she could experience another culture, another time. Egypt was her first choice, but her father wouldn’t hear of it. Too dangerous. Might as well go to Chicago. “It was a hallucination, honey. The sun plays tricks on your eyes and your mind. Remember what happened to T.E. Lawrence.” She stayed close by my side while we traveled, except for that one morning she took a tour of the vineyard, uttering a relieved, “Thank God for civilization” when we touched down in Atlanta two weeks later. Sometimes 12
I think I should have told Diana the truth: certori paribus, modern governments, our civilized institutions, may make the planes land on time—most of the time—but when it comes to justice, they’re woefully inefficient. And they’re infinitely less honorable than van drivers who knew their history and the value of flossing.
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UNTITLED Adam Robinson Young adults of the modern age with cold fingers and protein deficiencies, cigarettes dangling askew from our mouths yet jogging for health in the morning; with such skewed understanding of words like 'love' and 'sacrifice'. I have loved you, never having once felt your breath in mine. I have loved you, never having once loved myself(?) If gray lives at all in the semantics, we redefine the meaning to spare ourselves confusion; to terminate the gray in ourselves that scream question marks suffoc -ating between parentheses. I have loved you, despite my insistence that I am not quite capable of the sentiment. I have loved you in spite of myself. Children of the modern age, taking drags because we can; because a pack of twenty somehow seems like an appropriate insurance policy. I have loved, and I've never quite loved anything. I've crossed out definitions in dictionaries and rewritten my own in the margins, and I've tried warming my hands with friction. I've lighted a cigarette while taking a run.
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HUMANIQUARIUM Krista Farris
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BORDERS, BOTTLES AND BOTTOMLESS BROTHERS: THIS POEM HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ALCOHOL AND EVERYTHING TO DO WITH LOVE Scott Malkovsky About this time last year I had a bucket of booze Bouncing on my knees and kicking me in the teeth Clenched in my arms dangling low to the ground Demanding to be drunk if I could just make it home Eleven o’clock at night, the sidewalks mostly cracks Figuring out how to stay together as I hobbled Guinness and Grey Goose past the cops on patrol, Hiccups in the street’s esophagus, so I held my breath Intersections became roadblocks, my feet became bricks Jaywalking could have killed me so I sat on the curb Kept the bucket close, growled at the fast walking zombies, Legs tearing up the asphalt like lawn mowers on carpets *** Mocked and abandoned, I sprawled out breathing Night into sky, painted each star and constellation, Orphans blindly birthed from my bad breath lungs Pushed aside by clouds and left forgotten by the sun Quiet whispers played Quidditch with my brain, so I grabbed a forty, Raised it high, said a prayer, caressed it lightly, Stumbled my thumb under the tab and pushed Trees grew beneath me, and with that, I walked Unapologetically flipping the bucket off behind me Vehicles washed my shoes for free and as I walked Walls of emotion and constraint crumbled down *** Yet again I found myself on my front porch Zero interest in paying my rent
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TWITTER POETRY CONTEST WINNERS We here at The RP&D Society exist for one reason: to challenge everyone and everything we encounter. Earlier this year, we asked our audience to send us their best 140-character poetry, to participate in the #rpdpc (rain party disaster poetry contest). The exercise was that of concise language, concise expression of thought, and the results were astounding. Here are the winners: 1. Tom Loughlin / @apoorplayer "10潞 of icy moonsliver light. Forlorn,lovelorn,drunklorn. Naked, making snow angels, your memory freezes in time. Maybe that happened" ...a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more... MacBeth 5.5.25-27 Dunkirk NY 路 poorplayer.tumblr.com 2. Amanda Marie Rogers / @amandaspoke "I am under your keyboard,/ pushing up on letters/ you should not press. (The Muse)" Writer. Publishing Professional. Actress. Reviewer. Creator. Local Love. Pet Love. Social Media Manager @25yearoldself. My thoughts are sort of like yours. Buffalo, NY 路 amandamarierogers.tumblr.com 3. Sean Marciniak / @GooseoftheKaisr "Tripping off your timpana, Eddy/ Daft drunk robots dance to steady/ Mexican monkey hallucinations/ (Ellie f_king stark raving ravens)" I have been to the mountaintop, but forgot a picnic basket so I was just hungry. w/ #randotherobot #falmadorian0bnoxious
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DYSTHYMIA II Jill Cherkas "Time soothes all sorrows" – The Little Prince i. no way to get around this one ii. sometimes i quote unquote feel the weight of the world on my shoulders as if my own head weren’t heavy enough iii. today is just one of those days where i never quite wake up. i came back trying to replicate a feeling and only got more lost
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DIGITOPOLIS AND ALL THAT JAZZ Gerard Sarnat “One of the slimiest and greediest motherfuckers who ever lived.” -- Miles Davis on Charlie Parker, whom he worshipped Jacked up world-class spoon addict now reduced to cannabinol flashbacks, skinny tie fixed, bell rung, portals gape on a Tupperware dance party whose haggard hostess throws up on his attaché case stuffed with fondue. Pacing needling words to sew up messy loopholes, he knows it's trouble: after eavesdropping on her each night plus more on weekends, she admits to handjobs on a priapistic boy while grooving to their Simone. A wise-ass who’d later spread out crabcakes cracks open a Budweiser then strokes vinyls divined to be bird shit with a Parker fountain pen. Strung out on horse power, Charles’ bucking bronco fingers need anti-freeze.. A tactile sax man just in from Kansas City, lynching up his belt palms off a conk gel on some poet whose head looks like an unmade bed.
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KAMIKAZE David E. Poston All praise to Jesus for giving me the arm that got us into field goal range. Snapped, placed, and kicked from the left hash mark just inside the 33-yard line as the last three seconds tick away and the vast homecoming throng lifts their kicker up in prayer, the ball seems to be fluttering wide right of the goalposts behind which the finest state-of-the-art high school scoreboard in the nation reads: “HOME 20 VISITORS 21”. The referees start waddling forward, sweeping their arms crisscross horizontally as if all is lost. But no one is watching the refs; they are all looking upward. To this day every one of them recounts it just the same way. The silence erupts; the crowd storms the field, swallowing the refs in a sea of upraised arms. The kicker watches his teammates lift the Chosen One onto their shoulders. In the parties that follow throughout the night, not one cheerleader loses her virginity and no team members are arrested. Winning streak preserved, our Hero leads his team on through the state playoffs to their third consecutive title. When he gets the SAT score he needs, he goes on to two collegiate national titles and a stellar pro career—just as Father planned—then marches on through terms in the House and Senate, right on through his legal team officially sealing his White House win. Yes, Mr. Huckabee, it was that night I learned that a commander-in-chief must never doubt. The kicker lies awake some nights, but the refs sleep well.
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THE MESSAGE Nels Hanson Spring plum trees set yellow peaches and peaches smooth plums, sweet corn red kernels or rather rose to match tan cheeks of blushing girls while vines swelled melons gray as summer clouds withholding rain for mountains’ dust of silver snow. Deep water from wells poured lightest lavender, sable flowers bloomed among thistles’ orange spikes like pumpkins’ sprouted thorns. Farm prices fell, then shot sky-high, grapes checked with many-colored lozenges attracting shoppers bored with August green and ruby, Concords’ midnight indigo. Above the fields a rainbow’s thin bands shaded gradually through glare to fleece to final pearl past 20 whites and wouldn’t leave for days. Poems and paintings required rework to rival nature’s videos, chameleons perched and flashing manic on lens of spun kaleidoscope. Fraught vampires switched to pink, capes lemon-lined, no bitten neck still scarlet as strains of rosined notes dripped upward. Overnight gravity went odd, passé, nudity conceded quickly and disrobed, news flash delivered by pretty boy and girl at junior anchor desk all major networks hurried to rent. I am old and walk ripe rows of dazzling eggplant whose blaze recalls noon-gold suns far as pictures in storybooks. I pick, hands burgundy, bucket brimmed solar, throwing hot light that makes me wince and stare at faded loam only yesterday brightest fallen blue from azure sky bled marigold. On blackveined leaf a caterpillar trudges patiently with purple feet, slow accordion whose folding, unfolding striped side spells with easy script a message anyone could read – “All things at last are as we always wished and hoped they’d be” – dissolving now, stained windows blurred by colored rain.
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THE PLOT Krista Farris
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BENJAMIN Katharine Diehl I think they invented more ways to be lonely in the age of computers and my brother is nearly thirteen. Our only son left alive parks his flesh before the cloistered blue glow of his internet. His child’s brain sticks to what it knows. For lunch every day he eats peanut butter on bread. With an exacting distribution of the spread.
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MURDER AT HOME William Pomeroy On a cold, lifeless morning in January I stared out my kitchen window, eyes glazed, toward a monstrous house built cheaply on a lot which, according to our deed, could never be developed. Quietly I stirred coffee (a nineteen-year-old already addicted), having found its power badly needed in the daylight between sleepless nights. Every noise was shrill: rattling spoons, opening cabinets. Breathing heavily, my exhalations gave no relief. Then I remembered: As I was cleaning brushes the day before, my new boss had approached me. “We’re going into a house where a murder happened.” Driving there, I swallowed bitter grounds then pulled into White Cove: a development oddly suited for what “happened.” Rows of pre-fabricated, two-story homes equidistant, all beige with a two-car garage. Like untested cadets in formation, their surety felt contrived. As Sherlock Holmes knew the moor concealed evil, I reasoned this picket fence guarded itself—until after the crime. Having kept their distance, neighbors would say, “I can’t believe they did this.” For some events, there is no preparing. I could not fathom what lay beyond their door. But with measured pace, I crossed the yard. My breath clung in pockets to motionless air. Ron, my boss and family friend, opened the door. His blonde hair, sweat-laden and disheveled, formed sharp contrast, along with square, decidedly German features, to bright red suspenders and paint-splattered white tshirt. With a look of slight relief, in a tone of pained kindness, he said: “Good morning, Will.” I knew it would be the last “good” moment. Inside, the place seemed at first ordinary. Had I not awaited signs of murder, I might have allowed myself, at intervals, to pretend nothing was wrong. Instead, each glance brought perceptible tremor. The moment would come, a sight where hope dissolved: evil brandishing itself beyond repulse. Until then all seemed frozen: colder, even, than outside. The living room and kitchen were adjoined: their main room a giant, dimly-lit square that brown carpet encased, and near its center stood four burly, dark, thick-bearded men with tools spread upon a drop cloth. Intensely they regarded me, producing seemingly malicious silence. Ron told me I would “cut around” the hallway, outlining its edges for a coat of primer. This sounded normal. I left footprints on shampooed carpet, brush and gallon pail in hand, eyes patrolling wall contours. The chill had trammeled my nose, but still I noticed acrid cleanser. At the end was a master bedroom. Just before, a section covered already in blotches of primer. About to ask if Ron wanted a second coat, I overheard: “He shot her in the bedroom with a 12-gauge. Close range. In her stomach. Turned it on himself in the hallway.” So it was not Ron who applied the primer. I studied those jagged circles, rapt but feeling hollow and nauseous. I could not agree with him saying: “The fire department did a nice job.” 24
Through the paint, small black clots of shattered viscera tauntingly peered. They had attempted to whitewash his brain discharge before scrubbing clustered lumps to even the surface. In shock, my brain ran wild. I could not slow the onslaught: A woman who closely resembled my mother scrambling into the bedroom. Rushing after her, a man visible only from behind. Facing him, eyes wide in terror, hands raised protectively; her guttural, animalistic scream reserved for death. The shotgun driving her backward, stomach ripped open, onto the bed. Her husband fleeing the room; then, after crushing remembrance, pelting the wall with his brains. In the bedroom there was nothing to suggest foul play—just absence of feeling. All decoration had been removed: walls, floors and windows empty. There was only the stench of delusive cleaning. A large section of floor had been cut and replaced with cheap, blonde, unstained panels. This, at least, had been efficiently handled. But something about this absence—caused by the violence surrounding—felt worse than its more direct signs. Left before as stubborn residue, life itself had disappeared. Their room was a carcass, an emblem of death. Anxiety coiled inside my chest. It trapped my breathing. When Ron entered, I realized a long time had passed. I stood there, pallid and shaking, my paint in hand and brush undipped. He stared concernedly, then asked, “Why don’t you run and get us some coffee?” I discerned his meaning, since Ron knew my past. He would call when the job ended. Until then, I needed repair—to hide my bleeding. I had not recovered. One never does. People think we can adjust. They are wrong as usual. New cuts re-open old wounds. It only gets harder. We are infected by attempts to heal.
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FEAR Damon Marbut The guessing is what counts, as in how many times might I kiss him again above the nipple where there’s hair growing as in what to do about this hernia, and age as in am I reduced to some unfamiliar reduction like a sauce served to those who can afford me at triple the cost. I think of love as heavy ice crippling a branch, waiting to be photographed as it breaks like it were a cave-dripping frozen against the sagging earth. When we were children, when my sister and I were children, we feared smothering and fresh air and no stuff of elders. Now, if there is one, I think of her looking at her three boys. I think of her thinking of me. I think I’ve done fine work of letting her know I carried her with me in New York and Puerto Rico and the southwest deserts, but then, the Hitler of us is so brittle and sick and set to ruin the world I can’t think of what else there is to say as in this is how we are dumbfounded as in this is what must be a ruse as in this is the quietest night of my life.
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MY CHEST WHICH IS YET ON THE PLAINS David Tomaloff
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DEVOTED Gale Acruff I love Miss Hooker but she's in love with Jesus and I don't know how to tell her that she's wasting her time, He can't marry her and make her that kind of bride of Christ. She's my Sunday School teacher and should know better but at 25 she isn't getting any younger if she's going to get spliced and even though I'm only 10 I'm a Hell of a lot better choice than the Son of God, if He'll forgive me for saying so. At least I'm flesh and blood and in a few years can do what men do, whatever that is--shave and speak deeply and drive and go to work and smoke and drink Schlitz and read Playboy if they're careful and be fathers, even though I don't know how, I guess I'll pick it up along the way and then take Miss Hooker out, even if she'll still be fifteen years older, then spring for an engagement ring to show I'm true and then marry her and maybe she'll give up Jesus for me for good, she can pray to Him still, that's kosher, I might do that myself, but she'll have to be devoted to me like I will to her and then we'll be ready to go meet God when we die, I might trail her by fifteen years so as she's dying I'll hold her, damn the smell, and say nice things and remind her that I'll see her one day when I die, too, in Heaven to be judged and, I hope, allowed to stay. I don't know what I'll do if I catch her keeping time with Jesus. It's not that I'm jealous--I just don't want her to get hurt.
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HEARD IT ON THE RADIO Adam Kane It’s March 2014, and the number one song in the country is, according to Billboard, “Happy,” by Pharrell. It’s stuck in everyone’s heads. It was written for Despicable Me 2 and nominated for an Academy Award. He then performed it at the Oscars, causing Meryl Streep to shimmy in front of all of us, which, thinking about it now, was pretty fantastic. The music video has inspired colleges, cities, and other groups to make dancing videos. It’s a very, very fun song. But is it a great song? Admittedly, there is no single way to determine whether or not a song is great. You could ask 1000 people what the best song of all time is, and you’d likely get hundreds and hundreds of answers. Personally, I think a great song is one that somehow defies genre - it’s as likely to get played at a middle school dance, the drama club cast party, and a twenty year reunion. A great song has timelessness, staying power, and universality. A great song has the possibility to be loved by anyone, regardless of their role in society or general outlook on life. This question is complicated, if you ask me. “Happy” has a catchy melody, it’s fun to sing and dance to, and it’s produced well (as one might expect from Pharrell). There are those who, at one time, liked the song, but now hate it because it has been overplayed. This presents an odd conundrum: how can a song be overplayed if, for the vast majority of the time, the individual has the power to decide when to listen to it? One can turn off his radio and listen to other things on his iPod, after all. Others dislike the song because they find Pharrell’s voice unappealing, or like their songs with more of an edge. Still others don’t like it simply because it’s being played on the radio. I had a conversation recently with a coworker about Mumford and Sons. I mentioned that I was not a fan, and she replied, “Well, I liked them before they were on the radio.” I responded that my opinion of them has nothing to do with how their songs are transmitted to me. In fact, I may not even turn them off if they come on the radio - I don’t feel anything when I listen to their music. It is completely non-offensive to me, I just prefer other things. However, the fact that this thought was at the forefront of her mind was telling. Somehow, a band being played on the radio indicates to some listeners that said band has already jumped the shark. It was once the case where the best art was also the most popular. In a seven year stretch, The Beatles had 27 number one songs and are now considered by most rock critics to be the greatest rock band there will ever be. This was back when the only medium to hear new music was the radio. It was great, innovative music, and it was also insanely popular. In February 1964, The Beatles went on television and 60% of televisions in the country tuned in. Somewhere along the way, there was a pop culture schism - Rolling Stone magazine ranked Nickelback as the second-worst band of the 1990’s, and yet they sell out huge arenas. When was the last time your favorite musician won an award, or had the number one song in the country? I mean, Spoon has sold a lot of albums, but unless their next one is a major departure, they won't be getting played on Hot 97.9 anytime soon. So clearly, popularity does not equate to greatness - at least, not anymore. Nor do I think a song being at number one is about the song itself. Look at Glee. The show churns out a half dozen or so “singles” every new episode - cover after cover after cover. And here we are: Glee has had more songs on the Billboard chart than the Beatles. The Beatles were a popular, great, completely original band, and Glee is, at best, a mediocre television show. We can’t rely on awards either, what with the amount of campaigning that goes on. It’s all arbitrary. Anything and everything is eligible for the Grammy for Best Album. Concert albums, soundtracks, greatest hits compilations. It’s so nonsensical, it makes Kanye West’s fervor over the award that much crazier. A tell-tale sign of a popular song these days is how it spreads before it gets played on the radio. Maybe it starts as the music in a YouTube video (see: “Call Me Maybe” and “Harlem Shake”), or a very public televised 29
performance (those darn Mumford and Sons).Or it’s even more organic. We all have a person or two in our lives that has frequently recommended a restaurant, band or movie and has never steered us wrong. It’s the the reason we all wore Airwalk sneakers in sixth grade and played Pogs in third grade. These are the people that are telling you to go download an album because they heard the band at a free concert two years ago. And if enough of them are recommending the same thing, that certain thing has virality. But it’s not the virality alone that matters. It’s not like kids in elementary schools across the country are still playing Pogs. Pogs were awesome until we realized that it was throwing a piece of plastic at similarly shaped pieces of cardboard. (Plus, you know, gambling.) The substance itself is just as important. A band can have a great first album, but without buzz it’s probably not going to make an impact. And an artist can have buzz, but without good songs, that’s not going to work either. (And we’re left with “Gangnam Style.”) So it’s too early to tell how we’ll remember “Happy” a year or five years from now, if at all. It was written by a man with sustained success as a songwriter and producer, but not a solo artist. If Pharrell is able to create another high-quality, memorable song, “Happy” will be remembered longer. Think Katy Perry. Her first single was “I Kissed A Girl,” a cry for attention if ever there was one, and not a “great song” by any stretch. But that was years ago, and she’s been able to turn a catchy and somewhat controversial song into sustained success. So if Pharrell can’t duplicate his success, “Happy” will fade, or at best, be discussed occasionally on one of those VH1 shows. And Pharrell will go back to producing for other artists and maybe moonlight on The Voice. So I’ve come to the end of this realizing that, with greater frequency, my opinion of what a great song is doesn’t match what the majority thinks. It’s rare when a song I like is also liked by enough people that it’s considered “popular” in a traditional sense. But in the case of “Happy,” and a few others, it does happen. I have no idea if, when he wrote the song, Pharrell was thinking about the typical 28-year-old white male with a receding hairline. In fact, I’m sure he wasn’t. And maybe that’s the mark of a great song: it’s equally appealing to guys like me, who listen to Paul Simon and The Shins, people who own Minion dolls, Meryl Streep, and everyone in between. It’s not often that my middleschool aged cousins and I like the same song, so the fact that a song like that even exists is impressive enough. In fact, I didn’t even know how popular the song was until last week, when I did a Google search while writing about something else. So it can be done. A great song can also be the most popular song in the country. Just don’t count on it happening from the cast of Glee.
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Editorial Staff 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 .
FICTION EDITOR Kay Kerimian (Buffalo, NY) quietly abandoned her lifelong ambition of becoming a celebrated writer for an equally quixotic career in the performing arts after hastily publishing a small collection of short stories independently at the ripe old age of 17. Holding degrees in Performance and Gender Studies, she currently lives with her partner in crime working as a professional actor & advocate. Founder of Buffalo Theatre Collective, Kay is interested in learning through the classroom of community. When not on stage, on a proverbial soap box, or on the road, Kay is constantly devising new ways to challenge herself. 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.
NON-FICTION EDITOR Jennifer Lombardo (Buffalo, NY) 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 Walsh (Brooklyn, NY) is a 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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Contributors Katharine Diehl was born in Brooklyn and writes poems on the subway sometimes. She has been published in burntdistrict and Passages North (forthcoming), Revolution House, The Gap-Toothed Madness, and other journals. She is a grouchy, contrary millennial who blogs sometimes on her Tumblr. David Burland is a technologist and creative artist living in Los Angeles, CA. When he's not writing music and poetry or lulling his dog Banjo to sleep playing guitar, he's either binge watching Netflix or perusing social media with his wife. He's most active on twitter @dpburland. His musical project, Cactus Area, is also live streaming music from the ambient folk record "Echo and Sway" here. 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. Howie Good's latest poetry collection is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work. Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. Published chapbooks include: 'Remembrance', Origami Condom Press; 'The Conquest of Somalia', Cervena Barva Press; 'The Dance of Hate', Calliope Nerve Media; 'Material Questions', Silkworms Ink; 'Dispossessed', Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls', Heavy Hands Ink. His poetry collection 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press; 'Expectations', Rogue Scholars Press; 'Dawn in Cities', Winter Goose Publishing; ‘Assault on Nature’, Winter Goose Publishing. ‘Songs of a Clerk’ and ‘Civilized Ways’ will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His novel 'Extreme Change' was published by Cogwheel Press; 'Acts of Defiance' was published by Artema Press. His collection of short stories, ‘A Glimpse of Youth’ was published by Sweatshoppe Publications. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City. Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, and former community college instructor (Political Science and Sociology). She received the EKU English Department's Award for Graduate Non-fiction (2011), and her fiction, photographs and poetry have been published in many journals and anthologies. Most recently, her humorous story "The Root of Everything Arty" was published by FLAPPERHOUSE. Her novels,Raphael Redcloak, and Retrolands are serialized on Jukepop. Her mystery novel, The 9th Circle, was published by Barbarian Books. For more on Jenean, check out her website. Adam Robinson is a 20 year old student currently residing in Western Michigan and scuffling into obscurity with little to no sense of direction. You can find him on Tumblr. Krista Genevieve Farris has worn many hats and hairnets in the work world, including a polite cap that pleaded “Lettuce Serve You.” She dug up teeth and an obsidian workshop as an archaeologist in Honduras and donned spandex at 5 am every day for 16 years to teach group exercise classes. She’s taught English in Costa Rica and anchored the evening news on a Virginia radio station. She wakes up each day to a testosterone filled house thanks to her three sons and husband and spends much of her day making sure no one turns on the ceiling fan over the stack of writing she leaves on the dining room table. When she’s not writing, she’s running, or digging in the dirt thinking about writing or running. Krista’s poetry and essays have been published in the Albion Review and Haight Ashbury Literary Journal and is scheduled to be included in 2014 issues of Tribeca Review and The Eccentric. She has a BA in English and Anthropology/Sociology from Albion College and a Master’s Degree in Cultural Anthropology from Indiana University. She was born in the Detroit area, was raised a Hoosier in South Central Indiana, and now lives at the top of Virginia in Winchester. Scott Malkovsky is a resident of Los Angeles County, where he pursues a career in television. He is infatuated with puns and ‘90s skate-punk, even though the concept of getting on a skateboard completely baffles him. You can find him on Twitter where he is currently consciously trying to remind himself he exists. Wow, that sounded deep. He’s not.
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Jill Cherkas studied Communication at Saint Louis University. She is currently serving and eating a lot of gourmet pizza in Saint Louis, lusting for the day when she moves to Los Angeles and gets her dream job in the music business. You can follow her "exciting" life on twitter. Gerard Sarnat is the author of two critically acclaimed poetry collections, 2010’s "HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man" and 2012’s "Disputes." His work has been published or is forthcoming in over 80 journals and anthologies. Harvard and Stanford educated, Gerry’s a physician who’s set up and staffed clinics for the disenfranchised, a CEO of health care organizations, and a Stanford professor. For "The Huffington Post" review of his work and more, visit Gerard Sarnat.com. Digitopolis will appear in Gerry’s third collection, "17s," in which each poem, stanza, or line has seventeen syllables. David E. Poston is exploring various genres. His poetry has recently been read on NPR in Boston and will appear this month on posters in and around Winston-Salem and he and wife/collaborator Patty are beginning a new children’s book for the Widget. However, his palindromic western play, Lil, continues to be slow going. He can be found on the Poets and Writers Directory and LinkedIn. Nels Hanson’s fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award and Pushcart Prize nominations in 2010, 12, and for 2014. Stories have appeared in Antioch Review, Texas Review, Black Warrior Review, Southeast Review, Montreal Review, and other journals. Poems appeared in Word Riot, Oklahoma Review, Heavy Feather Review, Ilanot Review and other magazines, and are in press at Pacific Review, Heart Online, Pavilion, Sharkpack Review Annual, and S/tick. A poem which appeared in Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine and one in the Citron Review have been nominated for 2014 Pushcart Prizes. William Pomeroy lives with his wife in Greenwich Village and teaches English in Harlem. He taught Ethics and Poetry in a medium-security prison while completing his Philosophy degree. His work has been featured in Ontologica, Art Times, Glide Magazine, Brooklyn Exposed and Maryland Hunting Quarterly. “Murder At Home” is the beginning of a memoir he is writing on a series of traumatic events (arson, wrongful arrest, robbery, home invasion, criminal court proceedings) he experienced as an eighteen-year-old. He appreciates you reading it. 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. David Tomaloff is a very important something. His work has appeared in several chapbooks, anthologies, and in fine publications such as Connotation Press, Sundog Lit, Lost in Thought, and A-Minor. He is co-author of the collaborative poetry collection YOU ARE JAGUAR (Artistically Declined Press). His latest chapbook, SLEEP, is forthcoming from Plain Wrap Press. Send him threats on the web. Gale Acuff has had many poems published in journals and magazines and has authored three books of poetry. He had taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine. Gale currently teaches literature at Sichuan University for Nationalities, in China.
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THE RAIN, PARTY, & DISASTER SOCIETY
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