The Lab Review Volume 2 by The Lab Review & Story Week Reader

contents

the lab review volume 2

poetry

Faculty Advisor

Patricia Ann McNair

april 1918: fort riley, kansas|Patti Jeane Pangborn 6

Chief Editor

Melaina de la Cruz

Associate Editors

Cory Metzinger, John Setzco, Alexandria Baisden, John Stadelman

Layout

Cover Design

Melaina de la Cruz Cory Metzinger, Karol Guerrero, Laurel Hauge

Department of Creative Writing Faculty

Randy Albers, Jenny Boully, CM Burroughs, Garnett Kilberg-Cohen, Don De Grazia, Lisa Fishman, Re’Lynn Hansen, Ann Hemenway, Gary Johnson, Aviya Kushner, David Lazar, T. Clutch Fleischmann, Aleksander Hemon, Eric May, Patricia Ann McNair, Joe Meno, Nami Mun, Audrey Niffenegger, Samual Park, Alexis Pride, Matthew Shenoda, Shawn Shiflett, Tony Trigilio, David Trinidad, Sam Weller. The Lab Review, a journal of student writing, is published online by the Publishing Lab through the Creative Writing Department at Columbia College Chicago, on a semi-annual basis. Fiction, creative nonfiction, stories in graphic form, poetry, visual art, and photography, were submitted by students for consideration. Visit us online at thelabreview.com for past issues, and to link to our sister sites for market research, book reviews, as well as industry interviews and videos. For information on studying creative writing: http://www.colum.edu/Academics/CreativeWriting/ Copyright © 2015 Creative Writing Department

Editor’s Note:

This autumn welcomes a brand new volume of The Lab Review, one that pushes boundaries by exploring sexuality, mental illness, and people from the past that continue to haunt the present. The diversity in the poetry, photography, and nonfiction selections seem to represent the excitement and confusion of The Publishing Lab’s transition to a new office and fresh start. Somehow, it all fits together in an unexpectedly satisfying way.

-Melaina de la Cruz

- | Laurel Hauge

hardcore gives back | Jack Campbell

. 8

creative nonfiction for alan | DeLaynna Corley

a letter| Will Grant

panic, much? | Rachel Deming

how to be a man (according to society) | Will Grant 22 photography cuentos latentes 2 | Karol Guerrero

. 7

naturalezamuerta| Karol Guerrero

crack |Laurel Hauge

author bios . . . . . . . . 28 end note . . . . . . . . 29 |3

in loving memory of

Nicole S. Chakalis

april 1918: fort riley, kansas | Patti Jeane Pangborn

Keep a potato in your pocket. Eat raw onion. Red emblem of relief, on my apron, protection symbol in conflict. But the magic’s gone. Belladonna capsules, opium, vinegar. The sick men come in asking for these, bloodshot eyes and rattling lungs. Dear Sister, it isn’t like I imagined. So much waiting then everything to do all at once. I watched the cook turn blue. Sergeant’s orders, no public funeral. I wear a mask every day and wash my hands, wash my hands but the blood is everywhere and more keep coming.

“I had a little bird Its name was Enza….”

“Cuentos Latentes 2”

- - | Laurel Hauge

The time of day lost between one and the next should be filled with – nothing

forwarding address

A creak to open eight steps switch on and so begins the rhythm

| epistles

up up down down

to people of

our past

front back front back up up down down front back Switch off eight steps a creak to close muffled noises fade to – A fountain gushes through the walls while ceilings won’t stop speaking Light floods the space and weighs on eyes among phantom rooms outside where darkness holds their walls up 8|

for alan | DeLaynna Corley

You were married before. It was a beautiful wedding. The ceremony was at recess near the rusted, red swings and your friends made you a bouquet. They grabbed yellow dandelion flowers freshly emerged in the ground that matched the hot sun above you and mixed them with woodchips to hold it together. He made sure you got on the swing first. We can’t really be married if we don’t do this, he said. You believed him and both of your dimples emerged from your cheeks because you smiled, while you watched him get on the swing beside you. The girls giggled and whispered and the boys rolled their eyes and poked fun. One of your friends with the wavy red hair and brown freckles asked if you both were ready. You both said, yes. His friends pushed him and your friends pushed you, until you both swung in sync – bodies aligned in movement – high in the sky, towards the clouds. The rule was that you must swing five times together or the marriage wouldn’t be complete. When the bell rang and the teachers yelled for their students, he grabbed your hand and said, we’re husband and wife now. You then both parted into different classrooms. You never got a divorce. ...

... You walked to the nearest liquor store down the street to get some ice tea. It was a hot summer afternoon, but the breeze made it bearable. As you walked in, he walked out. You noticed he was even taller. That his baby face slimmed into a masculine jawline, but his bushy eyebrows hadn’t disappeared. You thanked God and his angels that you put on your favorite sun dress that showed off your matured body and your brown skin deepened by the warm sun that day. He turned and flashed you a brace-less grin and said, hi. You said, hey, and grinned back, but not as much, just to play it cool. He said he was ready to graduate high school and you said the same thing with a flirty giggle to follow. He looked at you attentively, his kind eyes washing over you. Calm and collected he was, a puddle of nerves you were. But you never looked away from his gaze, making sure that each blink showed off your eyelashes covered in mascara around your hazel eyes. You wondered if this was the last time you would see him, if he also thought about you from time to time when relationships had failed, and what could have been if he never moved across town after the first grade. He squeezed your arm before you both continued to walk. The wind was warm, swirling soft, white seeds of aged dandelions into the air. He walked slower this time and you followed his pace – you into the store and him onto the sidewalk. You took one last glance at him. And he did the same.

You went to a middle school basketball game and recognized his curly hair and slim body running up and down the court on your schools opposing team. You blended in between the red team attire on one side of the bleachers waving your pom-poms, while the blue side cheered him on the other. You watched his small muscles flick the ball in the hoop with smooth wrists. Your side heckled and booed, but you secretly applauded inside because you knew how much this sport meant to him. At the end of the game in the parking lot, you locked eyes with his. He smiled and waved. You smiled and waved back. When the game ended he tapped you on the shoulder and gave you a long hug. You sank into his body relieved and unrelieved that he recognized you still. He said, you look different, but in a good way. You looked up at him and said back, you’re exactly the same, but taller, before getting into your moms’ cars. 10 |

| 11

a letter | Will Grant

Dear Marcus,

You won’t remember me. I don’t expect you to. If I’m honest, I don’t even remember you completely. Your face is lost to me now. When I remember you I see only a form of you, a being filling a desk or walking past me in the hallway. When I remember you, I remember a feeling, not a person. I didn’t realize how much I’d forgotten you until I started thinking back to all the ways you tortured me in sixth grade. It was the way you would look at me in health class. I remember that. That teacher, whatever his name was, would always face the blackboard when he spoke. He would always be focused on writing down everything he said. My point is, he never saw you. He never saw the way you looked at me, that grimace, that look of disgust that I can’t even see anymore, but still remember the way it made me feel. I think you knew how it made me feel and that’s why you never looked at me any differently. That look was reserved for me. You knew how ugly it made me feel, how low I felt whenever you walked into class. Your eyes would always go to me when you came in, and I would sink down into the floor like I was trying to hide beneath the scuffed up tiles. Distracting myself became pointless. I would sit at my desk and fold the corners of my notebook pages down, pressing the creases tight with my fingernail, doing it on every page until I ran out of them. Sometimes it worked, but most of the time it didn’t. I would sit there, feeling your eyes on me, and try to focus on something, anything, that would make me forget about you. In the hallway between classes you would always walk past my locker. You would step in real close as you approached me, almost touching shoulders, and you would whisper something in my ear. It was never the same thing, you always changed it up. Sometimes it would be “faggot” or “queer” or, when you were walking slow enough, “fuckin’ faggoty ass bitch.” You had quite the vocabulary of words and phrases to throw at me. And you would, you would throw them at me. As they flew out of your mouth, they would carry with them a hit, a gut-punch. Spit would hit my face with every vowel and syllable, your foul breath flooding my nostrils. I would be left with a little wound in my 12 |

chest, in my mind. I would carry that wound with me for the rest of the day and into the next morning when you gave me a new one. I bled that year. I bled every day. I tried to get help. Meetings were held with my parents and teachers and the Principal. We would sit in uncomfortable chairs with wooden arms and I would explain everything that was happening. I don’t think their advice will come as a surprise to you. It’s the on hand advice for school faculty members to give out in those kinds of situations. Ignoring it worked, right? Do you remember me ignoring it? Do you remember me trying? I do. I tried as hard as I could, but you were fucking persistent. You were relentless. I think what people don’t realize about the “ignore it” plan is that it’s not just about words. What you were saying to me wasn’t words. It was about the way you intended for those words to hit me. I could try to ignore what you said, but it’s hard to ignore a feeling. When someone is hitting you with a bat, you can’t ignore it. You can’t just not think about it when someone is shoving a knife into your gut. It doesn’t actually work. It wasn’t really that I was scared of you, either. It was that I was scared of how you made me feel. When you passed me in the hall and slammed me with your words, I wasn’t thinking “Oh gosh, what if he tries to hurt me?” Strangely, I never thought that. You didn’t seem like the kind of person that would fight with fists. You fought with words and you were unmatched. The words you chose were handpicked for me specifically. I didn’t know I was gay then. You could say I was a late bloomer. What I did know was you thought I was, and if it was true, then it wasn’t a good thing. In fact, it was the worst thing I could be. The next year, after I was taken out of school by my parents and began homeschooling, I finally realized I was gay. I remember when it happened too. My mom was watching one of her soap operas on the TV in our living room. I was sitting on the floor doing homework and, occasionally, glancing up to see what was going on in the show. There was a scene where one of the male characters walks downstairs in a towel and I remember looking up at that moment and feeling mesmerized. I had never really had any kind of attraction to anyone before, male or female. When I saw him in that scene I distinctly remember thinking how beautiful he was, entranced by the way his body moved, the muscles beneath the skin. It was then I realized you were right. I was gay. As soon as that realization was upon me, I knew I couldn’t be gay. I wouldn’t allow myself to be gay. You had taught me that being gay was wrong, that a gay man was a lesser man. You had known what I hadn’t all along, had seen my disgusting truth from the beginning. | 13

For a couple years after that, I focused on changing. When I was alone, my mind would be back in that school, back in that desk with you watching me. I used it as fuel, that look. It was what motivated me to be better, to fix myself. I would spend evenings alone in my room, watching “straight porn,” trying to make myself like it, trying to get aroused over what was happening on screen. Frequently, I would get an erection and I would touch myself, trusting that I was doing it because of the woman in the scene. The tits. The pussy. But, as I came and cleaned myself up, I would know. I would know as I pushed myself over the edge, I was watching the man, looking at his body, watching him move. When I would turn out my light and get under the covers to go to sleep, I would lay there and think to myself, “You’re not gay. You can’t be gay.” It occurred to me years later that, surprisingly, I wasn’t doing this because a religion told me it was wrong. I was doing it because you told me it was wrong. You told me that with every hateful word you threw my way. And, for me, you represented the world. I thought the world hated me. I looked at people like you and thought about how much harder it would be for me if I was gay. The world would pull me down and walk over me. They wouldn’t let me get married or have kids or just live a happy life. That wasn’t my faith. That was you. As the years went on, several things happened. I saw gay teenagers on television shows come out and still be loved by their friends. I saw gay couples get married while rappers sang about equality on the radio. Celebrities took to YouTube to promise that things would get better, that I could have a happy life if I wanted one. Politicians fought for my rights while Neil Patrick Harris became an example of a great father. Things got better and better and better. Over time, I saw the way things could be, the way my life could go. I had a choice: I could live my life being afraid, being scared of my truth, a truth that had the power to hold me back if I let it, or I could choose to be happy—I could live a life full of hope and promise and beautiful abnormalities. Because normal is something we choose. We decide what normal is and that can be dangerous. Normal can hurt. But not being normal can hurt too. It can build fear and anger, fear and anger about yourself, about who you are. And so I chose. It took time to get here. There were years of anxiety and sadness and healing. It didn’t happen over night. But now? My life’s better now. I’m happy, I’m hopeful. I’m living in a beautiful city with amazing friends. I have a love that is greater than I thought possible for myself, and I have a man who loves me just as much. The anger is gone. I feel no more sadness over that year 14 |

and the effect it had on my life. Wherever you may be, wherever this letter finds you, I hope you’re happy. I hope you found peace in those years after I left. Now, after all these years, I see your unhappiness. It was there, hanging on your back every time you walked past me with your violent words. I was blind at the time, but now it’s clear to me. You were broken too. I hope, whatever it may mean for you, that you’re whole again. Sincerely, Better.

| 15

“Naturalezamuerta” 16 |

| 17

panic, much? | Rachel Deming

The pen scratched across the notebook paper as I sat at my desk and started another-and final-journal for class the next day. It was nearly one in the morning, and my eyes were glued open, following every word that was written. I had to consciously check my eyelids to make sure they weren’t growing heavy; I was used to staying up past midnight, but since school started two and a half weeks ago, I started getting tired earlier. I had work to do, and I couldn’t go to bed until that work was done. I wrote feverishly, line after line, page after page. My head wouldn’t slow down or shut up, so I kept writing. My headphones were crammed in my ears as my phone played the Jane Eyre movie soundtrack via Spotify. It was a gorgeous album; I listened to it all the time when I wrote to keep my brain engaged. But even through the music, I could hear my roommates in the living room. They were playing Mario Kart 8; my ears picked up the sounds of the video game even when the door to my bedroom was closed. The screech of tires and stupid tinkling of music was irritating. And every time they played some game like Super Mario Smash Brothers or Splatoon, it was this loud. I couldn’t believe they weren’t deaf yet. I started to get upset, and I felt it, too. No, no, no. I stuck my pen behind my ear and pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes. Not another mood swing. I could always feel them coming, but I never knew how to get myself out of my head. Meditating made me anxious, and I hated yoga. I tried sitting and listening to my breath sometimes, but I could never control myself and stay that still for a long period of time. I couldn’t calm down. I closed my eyes and breathed in through my nose, but it didn’t help me at all. The mixture of the video game and my own music was like a cheese grater to the brain. Grabbing the pen from behind my ear, the fingers of my right hand gripped it even tighter as I leaned over my notebook, my left hand balled into a fist. If I was going to boil over, I wish it would just happen. I wanted it over before it even started. Then it hit. My eyes were on the brink of exploding out of my sockets, and my hands tried to squeeze my head to a pulp. It wasn’t long before upset turned to angry. I wanted to punch a 18 |

pillow. Or a dog. Or a baby. Or even my cat. Charmander was curled up on my futon mattress, snoring softly in the back left corner of the bedroom as I launched out of my desk chair and started pacing back and forth between the closed door and my white dresser in the back right. The ceiling fan whirled above me trying to circulate the musty air, but it provided little relief from the humid September night, and the harsh yellow lights stung my eyes as I took another heated stride across the room. Raking my hands through my hair and gritting my teeth, I suddenly dropped down into a plank on the hard wooden floor and did 10 pushups. Three weeks ago at my last appointment, my psychiatrist suggested I add one or two more days of exercise a week-four or five days rather than my routine of three to four-to help me cope with my escalating stress levels. I ran all the time, so I thought it was a perfect idea. Along with my medication regimen—200 mg of Lamictal twice a day, 10 mg of Lexapro once in the morning, and 10 mg of Adderall before taking classes and tutoring some siblings out in the suburbs—the extra exercise helped for the first week or so. But after the first week of school I already started feeling worn down. I knew I had to take care of myself physically as well as mentally, but classes became my top priority. I struggled trying to balance “me time” and “work time”. And while I slaved away in my room writing and keeping up with my work load, Jeff and Sabra were out in the living room having a good time, which made me even more irritated. I heard them laughing-Jeff was especially loud-and could visualize exactly where they sat on the living room couch. Jeff on the left, Sabra on the right. They’d be sitting casually with their stupid, happy, relaxed faces. I hated them for having fun when I couldn’t. I couldn’t join them, not until my work was done. “Work before play,” my mother always said. She was right; she was always right. So I followed her directions. I paused in the middle of the room and doubled over, grabbing my head again in my trembling hands and squeezing hard. My brain was speeding like a bullet train and I didn’t know how to stop it. I wanted to cry, to scream, to throw things. The first thing I saw on my desk: my pen. It was better than nothing, so I hurled it across the room. It clicked off the wall and fell onto the futon mattress. Charmander merely shifted in his sleep. It sounded irrational, and I knew it, too, but I still felt like I couldn’t handle my own mind. I kept running-sprinting, really-reaching out to grab it, but it always slipped through my fingers. I was so close, just one more step, when it evaporated | 19

My palms sweated as I continued to pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth back and forth back and forth. I stopped in front of my door and bounced on the balls of my feet. Breathe... breathe, dammit. Squeezing my eyes shut, I inhaled sharply through my nose and exhaled a hard burst of air through my mouth. It didn’t make me feel any better-my brain was still racing, my heart was pounding against my sternum-so I tried again. In and out. Again. In and out. And nothing. I turned, dropped into my plank and did 10 more pushups. When I stood, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face and into my ear, but my energy didn’t drain as I hoped. I flopped down on my stomach and rolled onto my side, curling up into the fetal position. Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it. How was I supposed to stop it? What if I couldn’t stop it? What if I lost it? I was going to go crazy. I’d be thrown into a mental hospital and they wouldn’t let me out and all the hard work I put into going back to school would go to shit. That was why I could never see the future; I didn’t have one. I wasn’t going to be able to write or work or get married or grow old with Jeff-the roommate was also the boyfriend-and my parents wouldn’t be able to see me unless they drove hundreds of miles away from their place. I whimpered and covered my face with my hands. My face felt hot and I felt a drop of wetness in my palm as the first tear slipped out from one of my eyes. I was going to fail. I crawled over to my bed, picked up Charmander and held him tightly to my chest, thinking his warm soft body would provide some sort of therapeutic relief. As I scratched him behind the ears, he blinked his eyes sleepily and started to purr. Then there was a knock on the door, and Sabra poked her head into the room. “Hey, Rachel, I made some pasta for dinner,” she said, pushing her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “It’s sitting on the stove if you’re hungry.” Her bright eyes flitted over my face. I wanted to yell at her to get out of my room and leave me alone, but taking my anger out on her was a bad idea. I took a shaky breath and sighed instead. “Maybe later,” I told her. “I’ll be out in a little while. I just need to finish some work in here first.” That was her invitation to be gone, and I hoped she would take the hint. Otherwise, she would talk my ear off about her work schedule or her family or whatever she thought I would like to hear about her life. Again. And she wouldn’t stop. Typical Sabra. I didn’t want to hear about her shit right now. God, just go the fuck away. Thankfully, her short, plump body shuffled back out into 20 |

the hallway. “Okay. I just wondered if you needed anything. Jeff and I are out in the living room playing some Mario Kart, so...” she trailed off and stood in the doorway for a moment, then closed the door behind her. I fucking know you’re playing that goddam video game, I seethed to myself. You think I can’t hear it clear as day through my fucking door? Jesus fucking Christ. I buried my face in Charmander’s little chest and breathed in his kitten scent. I was still on edge after a minute or two, so I gently set him back down on a pillow. He rolled over onto his back and stretched out. It only took a second before he was snoring again. I bounced up off the bed and started pacing again. I couldn’t sit still, not unless I wanted my mind to torture me some more. Maybe if I somehow distracted myself.... Stride, stride, stride, stride, turn. Stride, stride, stride, stride, turn. Stride stride stride stride turn stride stride stride stride turn stride stride stride stride turn... My brain still felt like a live-wire, and my stomach started to churn. If this mood swing went on any longer I was going to throw up. My forearms braced the sides of my head as I bent over again and clenched my hair in my fists. The air whistled through my teeth as I exhaled and my chest tightened. I glanced up at the little tabby stretched across my pillows; he hadn’t moved a muscle. Typical. The little guy always slept like he overdosed on Ambien. With my sides heaving, the growl started in the back of my throat and rose into my mouth. It sounded dangerously low, like a dog might make at a stranger, but then it was rising in pitch like a siren. I dove underneath my blankets, covering the back of my head with my arms, and muffled the scream as best I could.

| 21

how to be a man (according to society) | Will Grant

Being a man is not an easy role to play. It’s a role you have to throw yourself into, a role where you have to give 100% of yourself 110% of the time. It’s not a joke and it’s not always fun, but, damn it, you’re a man and you’re not here to have fun. The first steps to being a man involve the body. This involves not just a physical process, but a mental and spiritual one as well. Your body must a fine tuned, sexually driven, perfectly put together machine. You have to breathe masculinity, walk sex, and spit testosterone. Your body is your instrument and you must use it to play the song of man. You get a membership to a gym. This is important: do not go to Planet Fitness. Planet Fitness is for fat cowards who are afraid of a real gym experience. That’s not you. You need to grunt and yell and scream “Hoorah!” as you toss those eighty pound dumbbells back on the bench. Go to LA Fitness or somewhere else that encourages yelling. When you go to the gym, you carry a gym bag because you’re fucking serious about this work out. The bag has no frills, very basic, very black. If you can find one with Puma or Adidas printed on the side then you’re golden. You’ve probably been working out since college, most likely between morning sex with your girl and that afternoon class you always skipped. Your bag is filled with the essentials: a change of clothes for when you’re done, deodorant, shampoo (no name brands, no conditioner), second pair of sneakers and socks. No books, no magazines for the treadmill. The treadmill is for sweating and the ESPN highlights on the flat screens. You’ve already got your work out clothes on (basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt) so you toss your bag in a locker and get to fucking work. You start with the treadmill, running, not walking, a mile to get your heart rate up. Then it’s the weights. You hit the pounds hard for at least two hours (NEVER less). The moms, most with kids still in Pre-K, watch you. You notice.

22 |

When you’re done, you head back to the locker rooms and hit the shower. You have to shower at the gym. Only boys shower at home and you’re a man with muscles, pubes, and nothing to hide. When you’re in the showers, you chat with the other fellas. The conversation will always shift to women. If you’re the man that respects women, you stay silent, laughing or nodding occasionally so you don’t seem like a douche. If you’re the playboy kind of man, you join in the conversation. Hell, you fucking lead the conversation. You tell all about your conquests and one night stands. You tell’em about that girl that got on her knees for you at the movie theatre and that time you went down on some waitress in the restaurant restroom. Nobody comments on the semis that most of you are getting. Everyone except you. You pride yourself in the amount of control you have over your domain. Those little boys. With your body hair, you have to walk a line. You need it, it has to be there. Hair and manhood go hand in hand. It’s important to have it in all the necessary places: chest, legs, groin. It’s also important to not have it in all the necessary places: back and ass. Your chest can grow free most of the time. You’re lucky in that most men don’t have to worry about it getting unruly. On occasion, you may wish to trim or shave certain edges to keep it within the general area. This is allowed. Never touch your legs. Now, the area most men will struggle with is the groin. First, NEVER shave your pubic hair. Never. It doesn’t matter if that guy in your favorite porno did it. It never looks as good on you. Yes, it makes your dick look bigger, but you’re meant to have hair down there. Don’t remove it. Trimming is key. Always trim. Not too much, but enough so you’re not suffocating your girl in rug every time she blows you. That results in fewer blowjobs and men get blowjobs, damn it! If you’re one of the unfortunate men that struggles with back and/or ass hair, rip it off quick. Wax that shit down. No woman wants to run her hands down your back while you’re pile-driving her and feel like she’s getting rug burn on her fingertips. If the only hair on your ass is a light dusting of peach fuzz, you should be safe to leave it. The most important rule when handling the hair situation is to never look like you manscaped. It should look like it’s growing or not growing the way God intended. Now when you’re dressing yourself, you have to be careful. It’s important to look good, real good, but not like you put too much time into getting ready. You should look careless, but confident and sexy. You have to pick how you’re gonna play it. | 23

If you’re a business man, you wear a suit or some form of a slacks and button-down shirt combo. Your shirt will always be tucked in and wrinkle free. The pants should look freshly ironed. The tie needs to be nice with minimal patterns. Stripes are acceptable. You don’t need a pocket square for work. It’s important to never go too far. Your hair should be combed and slicked with some kind of gel. Always be clean-shaven, always. A beard, while possible to pull off, can mess up your entire appearance. Be careful. If you’re not the business man and instead go for the bachelor lifestyle (which probably includes a job as a contractor, bartender, or musician, among others), you have more freedom in your costume choices. You can make a lot work for you, but you tend to stick to jeans and a t-shirt. You like your comfort and why should you deviate from that? You don’t have to answer to anyone or anything. You are your own man. Your t-shirts tend to be tighter to show off the muscles you’ve procured from all that time at the gym. Your jeans are worn and relaxed, they hang low on your hips. Sometimes, when you feel the occasion requires you to look a little nicer, you bring out a button down. Unlike your business man brother, these are not tucked into your waist band. You let it hang loose and relaxed, the top few buttons undone to show off the man fur you’ve been growing since adolescence. Since you don’t have a job that requires you to look formal, you can let the hair on your head be free. If you can pull off the “just rolled out of bed” look, good for you. This look is not easy and only works for select men. Most guys have to comb and if you are one of these guys than don’t forget the most important rule of grooming as a man: never look like you spent time on it. Your hairstyle should look like it only took a couple run throughs with a comb. Remember to take care of your hair. Women love to run their fingers through your hair, so it should feel good when they do. Using conditioner at the gym is a definite no, but always embrace it in the privacy of your own shower. Outside of your shampoo and conditioning routine, don’t use too many products. Products will make it look like you spent too much time on your hair which, as you now know, is a no-no. When you’re with your friends, you drink beer. The only time water is an acceptable choice during a social outing is at an expensive restaurant and when you’re the Designated Driver. Beer is the drink of men. It keeps hair on your chest and jizz in your balls. Never falter on this rule. You drink your beer and you talk sports, women, and work. Scratch your chest and adjust your dick. Never cry or show any emotion that doesn’t involve humor, anger, or boredom. You are with your people and you don’t do that with your people. 24 |

Now sex is something that has to be important. It drives your life. It recharges your batteries and prepares you for battle. You must have sex often. The kind of women you choose will bleed into what kind of sex you have. If you’re the businessman who respects women and is a friend of monogamy, you might get sex fairly often. It will usually be what your friends consider “vanilla sex.” It won’t be wild and you certainly won’t be referring to your penis as Christian Grey. You will focus on her, making it enjoyable for her. You’ll be tender and attentive, being mindful of her pleasure as well as her emotions. It will be enjoyable because all sex is, but it won’t be everything you crave it to be. Deal with it. On the other hand, if you decide to be the playboy bachelor, you can expect your sex life to be feral and savage, like an undomesticated wolf. You’ll pick up girls in bars and fuck them at their place before walking back to your place feeling like a fox. Your pick up techniques will be refined and sure proof. Pick up lines are for little boys and sexually insecure college kids. If you want a girl, you just walk up and get her. She’ll be moist and begging for you to take her home. You’ll bang girls who are untamed in the bedroom and you’ll be good at it. You better be, otherwise you should just put on a suit and get married because you’re done. You start every evening by looking yourself in the mirror and saying “I’m gonna find a girl and sexually ruin her for all others because I’m a man.” And you will do just that. Being a man is an important role to play and not everyone is up for the job. But you, you are a man and therefore must adhere to all the rules and regulations that come with the part. You must be strong, you must be confident, you must be sexual, and, above all else, you must never be gay. Men aren’t gay.

| 25

hardcore gives back | Jack Campbell

While we stand in a scattered line just to prove that we don’t require any sort of structure to survive in this world, we will talk and spit and laugh and rage and tell stories. Like, how Anthony couldn’t get his dad to stop hitting his mom or how there was a time Dylan had his face kicked in by a group of rowdy teens because he was tired of being called a fag. When big black boots titled Doc stomp harsh over delicate decades to express there is some sort of meaning behind what I stand for, I will shout, “I AM A HUMAN BEING! I AM A HUMAN BEING! AND I HAVE A SAY IN THIS!” When the pale yellow doors open into an even colder but less winded concrete room where the black is peeling from the ceiling and walls as if it knew we were all there to get over our demons, I will shed a layer of my own vendetta and toss it to the rest of them and shout, “PLEASE! JUST RID ME OF THIS ANGER!” And when I’m in the pit, bathing in sweat, my veins pumping battery acid, the reek of anger and fearlessness will linger in the air. When I’m in the pit, I will swing my fists, stomp my feet, and scream so that I can feel what I’m really worth, what I’m really made of, just like everyone else here.

26 |

“Crack”

| 27

contributor biographies Jack Campbell is a second year poetry major at Columbia College Chicago, who has had the opportunity to publish several works while continuously growing as an artist. Reflecting on personal experiences in life and drawing inspiration from his community, he strives to produce work that captures the raw emotions that come from great transformations in love and pain. In 2014, he partnered with Indy Reads in Indianapolis to self-publish a zine of his own work. He is the 2015 receipient of the Editors Choice Award for the PWR Anthology at Columbia College Chicago.

realities. She welcomes you to her world and hopes you enjoy it. Laurel Hauge 1. Likes to make art about things people don’t think about. 2. Loves the racks that go inside of dishwashers. 3. Is an undergraduate senior in the photography program with a concentration in fine art. 4. Is a sad girl. Patti Jeane Pangborn is a second year MFA Poetry student at Columbia College Chicago. Her work can be found in the Spring 2015 issue of Shadowgraph Quarterly and Columbia Poetry Review 27.

DeLaynna Corley is currently a senior at Columbia College Chicago, from Ypsilanti, Michigan, and will be graduating in the spring of 2016. She is majoring in Creative Writing: Nonfiction with a minor in Television Writing. When she is not in Chicago for school, she lives with her family (who are mostly the subjects of her writing and luckily, have not disowned her yet because of it). Recently her piece “Motel 6” was featured in the New Mexican Review Fall Issue 2015—her first publication. When she isn’t writing, she is watching everything and anything else on TV, getting lost in a YouTube vortex, or finding something to eat. Rachel Deming is a junior Fiction Writing major from smalltown Minnesota. In her spare time, she enjoys contemplating life, washing dishes and cuddling with her two cats. Will Grant is a senior, studying Creative Writing and Photography. He enjoys writing about people, places, and things. When not writing or photographing, he enjoys eating broccoli and finding ways to meet Anna Kendrick. This is his first published work. Karol Guerrero uses the medium of photography as an essential part of her “photographic anatomy”. Photography, for her, is that need to cling to moments and scream through pictures, stuck emotions, or simply share with the world the way she sees life. She likes to lend her eyes to the unvierse for a while by rebuilding little stories to recreate different realities — realities immersed in dreams or sometimes dreams immersed in 28 |

end note The front cover image is entitled, “Cuentos Latentes” and was provided by Karol Guerrero. The back cover image is entitled, “Thirty Seven Poems” and was provided by Laurel Hauge. Both photographers also have work featured within this issue.

| 29