Alpha Dog Within a year, Rufio lost his status as alpha dog. When Roxie offered her advice, Rufio should have reminded her of her place verbally and physically, but he was a sucker for a good strategy, and hours of PBS, Alpha Dogs Cyber Force cartoons, and day dreams while tied to a gazebo had made Roxie a brilliant tactician. Daily, she went on adventures in her mind. Each adventure required her to outsmart herself to keep the conflict even, exciting, and complex. She borrowed tactics from Sun Tzu, Hezbollah, General Patton, and more. The best writers in Burbank couldn’t push Captain Mastiff and Feline Fatale’s respective crews as far as Roxie’s imagination did on a lonely weekday morning in the backyard. Rufio had mostly memorized his tricks from the police academy. New tactics didn’t come as easily to him. Rufio’s limitations as a leader became apparent. He always needed to be the point dog and never trusted another dog with very much responsibility, and rightfully so. The dogs were motivated by fear, which made them slow and hesitant. They weren’t free to make mistakes, so they didn’t take the risks at opportunities to steal or kill food. Roxie obeyed orders and learned how foraging and hunting missions worked. She learned her packmates: their strengths, where they felt confident. She suggested organizing teams accordingly. The dogs gained weight. Rufio lost his status because of three virtues. He listened. He recognized and respected intelligence and good ideas. He knew Roxie was a better leader for his pack, and had the character to step down as alpha dog to become her beta. Roxie let the former police dog keep most of his power. “I’ll be the good cop, and you’ll be the bad cop,” she said. Although, if you ask the members of the pack, they will say it was because Rufio loved Roxie, and Roxie didn’t love him back, making him in her power.
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A Stray Rufio killed a female stray who wandered into their territory. He dragged her corpse into the pack’s den under the brush and far from the path. The lost dog smelled like the yellow of death. Since it was the custom that the leaders eat first, the dogs, including Rufio, waited for Roxie to eat. The canopy of leaves covering the den was loose enough to let in the stars and the glow from the city streets. The food was presented on its side with her legs like she was running from a game rigged against her. The food’s eyes were open and looking at Roxie. “It’s best not to identify with her,” one of the dogs suggested. Roxie glared at Rufio, “This is neither food nor happiness; this is a crime.” She knew this would make the police dog put his tail between his legs. “We eat too well to do this. Bury her. No dog deserves to become shit.” 47
A dog protested, “Now listen, Roxie. You can’t just—” “Dig a hole,” Rufio growled, and the lost dog was buried in silence.
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The Joke Rufio used to sleep next to a female collie named “Princess” before Roxie came. Afterwards he wrapped his body around Roxie’s when they slept, always smelling dog erection pink. Roxie felt she should have been happy, being the center of a universe again, but it just reminded her of the boy who loved cats and her rejection. Roxie’s capacity for happiness was ruined. “What are you thinking about?” Rufio asked, the vibrations of his voice going through her. “Nothing. It’s just insomnia. You know I don’t sleep well. Why are you awake?” “I was thinking about that time I killed the stray. How you looked at me. Is that why you never smell pink with me? Am I a bad dog?” He used different words, but Roxie understood his question. He was asking if he was ruined. “I’ve been spayed. I don’t know if I can even smell pink.” “Princess was spayed, and she smells pink.” “Then go lay with Princess.” “She knows I don’t smell pink with her. I want to lay here. I want to know if I’m a bad dog.” Roxie realized she was the same as the boy. Rufio needed her love, but her love was somewhere else. “You’re not bad,” she told the German Shepherd, “You just made a bad decision.” Rufio nuzzled her. She let him while trying her best not to smell green. Why does he get to feel unruined? There was more keeping him awake. “Why do the dogs listen to you more than me?” he asked. “You don’t want to have this conversation,” she said. “Don’t tell me what I want,” he said. If she were another dog, he would have bitten her for this, but he knew she had her reasons. “Fine, you brought it on yourself,” Roxie stood up. Rufio lifted his head, “Why are you walking away?” 48
“I’m getting out of biting range.” “That’s not fair. I’ve never bitten you.” “It’s not fair; it’s a precaution,” she said. “You rule with power and intimidation. When you were being trained what did you like better, the treats or the choke chain?” “I see.” “These dogs ran away from home, because they didn’t like being treated like they were in the bitch class. You treat them the way a human would. You want compliance, but you don’t treat them like equals.” “That’s the way dogs are.” “That doesn’t make it right,” Roxie said, “and once they saw an alternative, they preferred it.” Dropping his head to the dirt and closing his eyes, Rufio said, “Come on. It’s time to go to sleep.” Roxie took a hesitant step towards him and stopped, “Why did you run away?” He didn’t move or open his eyes, “The same reason all dogs run away I guess.” Roxie said, “A lack of love.” But Rufio said, “Control.” “But isn’t love happiness?” Roxie asked. “There’s no shortage of love at a police station. It’s literally a part of their job to love you. I was happy there. There’s a certain pleasure24 that comes from helping humans. But when you see your human get shot in the head, you realize you have no control of the human world. A bird told me about a place where dogs have control over their own lives, become their own gods.” He began to chuckle, “It’s actually kind of funny seeing a head explode, like the punch line of a joke, and you start to learn that’s what life is, a joke with no meaning—” She went to lay with him, but on the outside of him where his back would touch her stomach. He would be at the center of her universe, if only for that night. “I can see why the dogs are so loyal to you.” He whimpered, feeling Roxie’s pain, “Your humans didn’t deserve you.”
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Direct translation is “A female’s pleasure” or “the pleasure of being underneath someone else,” but the tone is more like that of a religious person saying “In servitude to God, there is freedom.”
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What Happened After the Rain Stopped There were humans who met in cloaks a quarter mile off the hiking path. They burned torches and unless you were looking for them, would be hidden by the cover of thick trees despite the drums they play during their ceremonies. These humans had food, but by intuition Roxie and even Rufio felt something wrong about them. The dogs were told to stay away from them. But the rains came. The animals hid. The humans didn’t come up the hiking trails, except humans in the cloaks. The dogs didn’t have many options for food. Night fell along with the rain, and the dogs followed the sounds of drums. There was too many of them. Normally Princess or Scruffy would be Roxie’s choice as distraction. They were small, cute, and non-threatening. Something felt off though. Roxie could feel it in her tail. She didn’t want any mistakes this time. She sent Rufio. Roxie and her dogs flanked around to where the smell of food was. Rufio crept in the other direction. The dogs could smell the meat on a table in the corner. Once they were in position, Rufio barked. The humans turned towards him and chased after him with choke sticks.25 Roxie and Scruffy grabbed the roast. The roast being large and a couple dozen pounds, the dogs struggled to return it back to the den. The other dogs snagged what their muzzles could carry. Back at the dog’s den, Roxie had finished eating. She wasn’t hungry, but as the alpha dog it was her duty to eat first. It had stopped raining, but Roxie’s fur still held onto what felt like an ocean. Rufio hadn’t returned yet, but sometimes he would take longer to return than usual. He was cautious and skilled at hiding. He was probably waiting the humans out somewhere. But the humans had choke sticks. She had seen them in cartoons once in awhile when a human tried to catch dogs, but as far as she knew humans didn’t really carry them. Roxie didn’t know whether it was worry or the meat that was upsetting her stomach. Maybe the storm had gotten Roxie sick. All she knew was that she was wet and wanted to vomit. “Shut up. Don’t tell her,” Princess growled, “She’ll make us bury it.” The irony being that Roxie hadn’t heard what the other dog had said, but heard Princess telling him to stay quiet. “Don’t tell me what?” The dogs looked at each other, then furiously took bite after bite of the roast. This is where Rufio would command their obedience with threats of physical violence. In the face of noncompliance, Roxie acquiesced to Rufio’s methodology. She jumped on the roast and growled, “No one gets another bite until someone tells me what was said.” Scruffy whimpered, “The food tastes like dog.” Roxie stepped away from the roast, finally noticing it was shaped like a headless dog. Roxie whimpered and vomited. 24
A dog catcher’s pole.
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Having been given no order to stop, the other dogs continued to eat the roast and then ate Roxie’s vomit. The sun was rising, spreading light through the hilltops. Roxie and her dogs returned to where the men in cloaks would congregate. The table, drums, and tiki torches were gone. What they had left behind was a body of a German Shepherd; disemboweled and decapitated. The body hung from a tree by the forepaws. His genitals were removed and missing. His head rested in the sand by his legs. “Sometimes humans kill to eat. Sometimes they kill for their god,” said Scruffy. Princess rushed to the body and tried to put victim’s intestines back inside his corpse. She howled as she tried to heal him. Rufio’s face looked pained, but also like it had found peace in its final seconds. As if death was a refreshing. Roxie chortled. Then she laughed. Then she guffawed. The other dogs stared and even growled at Roxie. She just said, “I get the joke now.” Roxie approached the body and ate. Princess dug her teeth into Roxie’s hind leg, but she ignored the collie’s hostilities, even when they dragged her to the ground. Roxie smelled pink, and Princess let go. The dogs looked at each other, tilting their heads. Roxie chuckled with her mouth full, and the dogs returned back to the den without her.
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Enlightenment Under the waning half-moon, Roxie began to wander. She didn’t speak to anyone or look at them. She looked past them as if they were already ghosts. She drank water, but didn’t eat food. The other dogs watched her and grabbed her by the scruff every time she was in danger. Roxie didn’t seem to notice. When a dog’s protective tugging would knock her down, she would keep moving as if she was still walking on her feet. It would take hours before she would try to right herself back up, saying, “I think I can walk on this wall.” Under the new moon, fasting for 15 days, Roxie’s ribs were well defined. “Humanity is no god of dogs, and I have a message.” There was no order to give Roxie food, but each dog gave her an offering. She sniffed it, but did not eat, “I will wait until you’re all gathered.” “We’re all here,” said Scruffy. “There should be 13 of you,” Roxie said. The dogs exchanged glances, some pawed the earth until Princess explained “You’re counting Rufio.” “You’re right” Roxie said, “I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath and started, “If the status quo doesn’t serve us, then we have no obligation to serve the status quo…” Although, feral was always known to be a poetic dialect, pet was never seen as anything but doggerel. A tongue spoken by dogs bitched away from their culture. The dogs could barely recognize Roxie. Her barks were evenly measured, and her tones26 had gentle nuances. It was perhaps like the first people to read Chaucer.27 She smelled of white and black, of red and green, of blue and orange, or purple and yellow. She smelled of everything but pink as she spoke of the impending and necessary war against humanity.
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Missionaries The pack had been taught the message to make the dogs of Azusa, California smell their oppression, a message to make them angry, to make them want more. When a brother or sister was trapped in a box, they were to release him or her, or give instructions on what their role would be when the fighting started. Many pets resisted this message of insurgency. Roxie’s pack was called immoral, dishonorable ingrates. 23
In the original there is intentional ambivalence between “tones” meaning “moods” of the speech and “tones” meaning “phonemic variance of pitch.” While Canine and English both share the same homophony in their respective versions of the word, it would not be immediately clear to the English reader since tonality is mostly allophonic in English. 24 Inserted by the translator to create a proper respect that’s otherwise lost in the translation.
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Many pets swore an oath to kill any of her pack or those loyal to her pack. But Roxie’s army would swear a similar oath: accept and win all challenges to the death until dead. Under the dark blessings of the new moon, Roxie addressed a crowd of over 200 canines under the large wooden “t.” Most of these dogs were feral and from other cities. Roxie’s ribs were less noticeable, and she was beginning to feel less divinely inspired. She couldn’t summon the sublime pet dialect the way she had before…
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History and the Mind The military leader walks down the hill and through the hiking path, and into a couple of bushes where Rufio would go to think. Roxie feels different lying in the bush by herself, the twigs weren’t poking into her sides. Roxie doesn’t believe in ghosts, but she needs to pretend. She leans against the bushes, making room for emptiness. “What are you thinking?” Roxie asks the absence. “You must think I’m rabid to be this crazy. We only have 200 dogs. We can’t fight the entire world. We will die today.” she says, “I know I’m crazy, but what I’m infected with is worse than rabies. It’s the combination of vision and unhappiness.” She plops herself on her side. She closes her eyes and imagines he is nuzzling her and that she can feel his heartbeat against her back. It almost smells pink. “You would hate me right now” she tells the fantasy, “You would mention Balto28 for the thousandth time. We never fully separate ourselves from the human propaganda. You still feel your purpose in life is to help humans. You’d kill dogs, but never a human being. That’s why I have a pack of 200 dogs, and you don’t.” The stars are fading. The sky is losing its darkness. “You always want to know what I’m thinking,” Roxie says as if she’s responding to someone. “I want to tell you that I’m thinking about Malcolm X, about Che Guevara, about Abraham Lincoln, and I’m thinking about how I don’t have a dog history. My entire perception of the world is from human eyes. How much of my mind is canine? I want to talk about how I’m hoping they document this. I’m hoping one day dogs will know us, what we will try here, and one day they will figure out a way to be free. We will start a canine history. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about fighting my way to a white leather couch and ruining it. I want to pee on it, and it will be my throne, and they can kill me right there.” The military leader closed her eyes, hypnotized to sleep by the sound of an imaginary heartbeat. A dog on a dog sled team that delivered much needed medicine to a stricken town during a snow storm. This dog, along with another dog named “Togo,” was highlighted in pre-revolution media as a way of glorifying canine subservience. Cultural materialists argue against this theory saying that the 20th and early 21st century minds would not have felt a need to use media to indoctrinate canines, but that the story of Balto was mostly used to entertain children. 25
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Uprising The sun creeps into the horizon bringing light to the horrible day. The pack was in formation, pets up front to disarm and surprise the humans and ferals and coyotes in the back for support. With 800 padded paws marching the streets behind her, Roxie’s tail and snout stand tall. Her eyes honed on a point in the distance. Looking at the fur around her neck, no one would ever think that she was once tied to a gazebo or even wore a collar. The future is very soon.
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Armor by Diane Funston If I were a medieval knight, hidden beneath the battle apparel of impenetrable armor; you'd see a vent where my breath could escape in quick-coming clouds, pent-up steam from dragons I'd slain for you. The rustle of my chain mail rusted from forbidden sweat, linking cold metal with salt tears, harder to make my move as unrelenting rust welds me stiff.
My futile words reverberate in silence.
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Applications by Diane Funston I darken light circles in a personality inventory decoding desired characteristics of the ideal job candidate. I tone down the possession of imagination, pledge allegiance to authority, polish policy and procedures to a high gloss; denounce Satan in the form of Poetry, and declare a chain of command for the universe. Stating the world holds no mystery for me, I abandon philosophy in the graves of the erudite dead, who never endured background checks or agreed to round the clock duty, miles from where they would sleep. I enhance the parts of me so microscopic in nature, they'd escape the scrutiny of the closest inspecting eyes— my own.
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Sleeper Agent Love Letter by S. Whitaker Oh, my middle sleep! Our skins make grease under sheets, nightsweat in beamed dark, firelit shades drawn closed. What a theatre a candle makes of dark places. Every other word is truth. To cipher the weal take a pen and scratch out eyes. To shade, to cross. My ghastly toe-headed conspirator, the pale is the knife wiped clean. The vowels we speak are valves for your sweet breath, your sweat breath and mine. Unmake men and take them to edge a field, to meet a faceless man and offer a bag of coins. News tuned to 1200 hertz. Say it with me, our lungs must harmonize to open the secret. Our throated vowels, our bee vibrating fricatives, key, key. The door will open if we throat our hearts in the keystrum, your voice in my ear: to arms, to arms, hold me in your arms. Every other word is truth.
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Spoon Is Me by S. Whitaker Spoon is me Spoon is verb and noun between our claimed sheets. Spoon is me, upside down man, trick or treatment, a meeting list and a meeting place for the drop. Spoon is we, midnight at 3 AM. Wear me, where me now and keep to our chests this kiss of rehearsed greeting and tending. Upside down man, spoon and charm, and parlor trick. Is that all the sum of my great matter? Put me in a bag and dash me with me, in the back of a wagon, rattling off to some adventure. At least when we break light we will break light free.
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Grace Notes by Fred Longworth You try to put a first foot forward, then the other, but something's tied a tourniquet around one thigh, turning it into vast numb pillar, and the other seems to have a dozen extra knees. You lurch forward, stop, lurch, stop, lurch and stop, a motorized plastic clown with dying batteries. Inside an enormous speaker, a drum is beating. You try to follow, but the rhythm randoms on like popcorn in the microwave. It makes no sense how everyone but you can synchronize, and glide along. Maybe the kid sitting at the DJ console has implanted the dancers with a wi-fi chip and plays them with a hidden joystick. Dear God—you silently pray—send me a pair of angels to take me by each hand and show me how to dance. God answers, but the pair of feathered partners that wing your way collide and fall. The angels shrug, dust off their leotards, and say they're only acolytes. Senior angels deal with more important stuff. You edge your way toward a sturdy wall. Perhaps it can lend you backbone, if not grace. But as you near it, untrammeled floor tiles mock you with their pristine shine. And looking down, you see a scarab beetle, flipped onto its back, trying and trying, and failing to right itself.
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Then, across the dance floor, someone utterly beautiful forgives your lunge and looks beyond your drag. She smiles at you, and beckons. You flutter like a drunken moth, tumbling toward the only lamp on earth.
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And the Sofas Are Kicking Back by Fred Longworth A metro of gathered urgencies surrounds this coffee house, yet here no one's in a hurry. Between a filmy window and a glass door, street lights and headlights scramble their images and counter-images. Yet when they slide across the floor they slow, as if squeezing through a cracklature in space-time. On scores of cushions in the main salon, heat leans into heat. Arms wrap around shouldersDshoulders lean against chests. If you're looking for alcohol and loud music, for back-slapping and howling girls, for something to grab your consciousness by the narrow handles and wrench its writhing anatomy from inside your head, this is not the place. This is where the murmurs come to have their easy say. Where the wheels on to-do lists park. Where eyes are wide, and ears have open lips. Look on the wall. Even the clocks are taking their time.
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Without a Heart by Fred Longworth With fine scissors I excise the heart from the face of a Valentine card. Then I shred this plum of atriums and ventricles. It brings no comfort. As with the paper dolls my sister played with, in those antediluvian times before little girls went digital, whatever figure is cut away, the outline remains, like your words of gratitude silhouetted by their absence.
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Singing the Song of Angels: A Response by Luca D’Anselmi There’s a church in the city with pillars of stone And windows like sea-glass, still and alone, A fountain, and cloisters of ivy, away From the noise of the street, and the hum of the day. There my father would tell me of Christ, how he died Surrounded by soldiers and thieves, crucified, How he wept for the women, and fell in the sands, And loved those who hammered the nails in his hands. Marshal, dear poet, you have heard the priests tell Of a god who left heaven to walk into hell? Of a god who wept softly for men he had known? Of a god who dripped blood in a garden alone? Of a god who sent men with book and with sword With eyes bright as fire for love of their Lord, With limbs dressed in black, on altars of stone By windows of sea-glass, still and alone? So they give up their lives for a lie, as we say, And toiled for centuries, long as each day— And our money built palaces, lofty and tall With frescoes and candlesticks, gold on the wall— They preach with words awful and deadly and free, Of gorgons and hell-fire, worms and the sea, Of the last day of judgment, and mankind amassed By the wailing of angels and bright trumpet blasts… But Marshal, they preach something sweeter and kind— Of a mother’s soft love, of a father resigned, Of a still, soft voice, that comes with a light, And gives hope to the hopeless, and conquers the night. Of charity, piety, sweetness and love Like fiery rum-cakes, but soft as a dove, Spicy as Christmas, solemn and grand— (Like throne-rooms or magic or the roar of the strand) Then you wake, and the house smells of peppermint-pine, And a child is laid in the crèche, now a shrine.
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And all that I long for, dear Marshal, you see, Are the gold-blooming gardens that soar by the sea, The mountains and dragons, the prophets and kings And Icarus falling with fire-fraught wings, The grey-shifting sea-lanes, the flutter of sails, Temples on mountaintops, graves in the vales, And Dido who bleeds from her breast as she cries For her Love, and stares helplessly into the skies. But more than the shadows of worlds that might be Of fairies or phantoms or rocks by the sea, Dear Marshal, I long for who made me a man. And would love and give glory as best as I can. But these days oh! sad days, the loss and the shame In which all of my loveliness falls into flame— Where gardens have withered, and sails have been furled, And kings plodded off in the dust of the world. Our cities rise higher, and burn through the night And rear into heaven with noise and with light, The palisades echo with horns and sound And the churches with voices and quarrels resound. But the statues sit silent, and some say they cry For the shame of the sins against children. Oh! My God, Why? And those old men—well—they taught me the loveliest things Of my gardens of gold, and the sunsets of things, They told me of kindness, and honor, a way That winds to the West, where the end of the day Breaks bright like fresh bread, and crimson like wine, And the sun sets to purple and green in the brine. And still I remember their words and their songs And the churches which taught me so well and so long— Though I’ve turned my head, to the lands where the sun Will rise again brighter when starlight is spun, Somewhere fresher and pale, where the cold and the air Spreads the dew like a lawn paved of crystal, and there, In the meadows of silver, with light in my eyes, I will honor my god in the dome of the skies.
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My brother left by Christopher Gorrie 1. Before I knew he had. His flight trailed off into a Utah Sunrise. He left behind a little strand Of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw Long talks of topics that soon thinned grey, A set of dog-eared books has been put down. Books that brought nearer to my thought his own, While Interstate-5 grated the ground. 2. He must have, as the plane touched the runway, Felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones, His thoughts turning to those dog-eared days; The seemingly endless months full of groans, As they should have been, being spent alone; And that set of books, at least it would seem, Ignited the wick on which our passions gleam. 3. These six years past since they took him away Held minutes like a needle in plied dust. There’s something in the spring that brings decay: The outward beauty of the world just Clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust That all the blooming flowers usher in. Then the rain comes… 4. As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth, I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess: Men who’d not anticipated births Inside my brother and I like cypress Trees, evergreen and coniferous, we Drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun, Barely audible, gasps in the copse. He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
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Contributor Biographies Shane Castaneda is a native of San Diego, California, specializing in visual arts. His work is influenced primarily by graffiti, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Andy Warhol, and the landscapes of southern California.
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Melonie Weismann craves the texture of oil paints, the click of her camera's moving parts, and the friction of colored pencils on paper. Trained at the University of California at Santa Barbara, her thoughts often revolve around the fertilization of creation within destruction, the power of collective consciousness, and minimalist nonattachment. She enjoys blending the real and the surreal, building bridges between the real world and the dream world for those who don't yet know them as one and the same. A transplant from northern California, Melonie finds inspiration in the foreign flora and barren desert landscapes of the southern region. She is currently focused on designing immersive audiovisual experiences with the Triptych collective in San Diego, California.
John McKernan – who grew up in Omaha, Nebraska – is now retired after teaching 41 years at Marshall University. He lives – most of the year – in West Virginia where he edits ABZ Press, which publishes an annual poetry magazine and publishes each year a first book of poetry in the ABZ Poetry Prize Contest. His most recent book is a book of selected poems titled Resurrection of the Dust. He has published poems in The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Journal, Antioch Review, Guernica, Field, and many other magazines.
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Dylan Flint is a Washington native with deep ties to the Pacific Northwest and Seattle. Currently a full time University of Washington student, Dylan enjoys philosophical debates, spirituality, and pumpkin spice lattes. His job involves building and renovating old wooden boats, and he is currently accepting applications for an around-the-world sailing voyage. In his rare moments of free time, Dylan can be found practicing yoga on the roof of his Capitol Hill Apartment or exploring the deep complexities of the human condition in meditation.
R. W. Haynes writes in South Texas, where he is frequently reminded of William Blake’s assertion: “Without Contraries is no progression.” He recently completed a novel and hopes that this year the Muses will help him finish his second book on the playwright Horton Foote.
Roxy Brown is a writer from San Diego who is centered in a unique but contemporary style. Her influence starts with cacoethes scribendi, “the insatiable urge or itch to write,” and is fueled further by muses including Sylvia Plath, Philip Larkin, Khalil Gibran, Anais Nin, and Natalie Eilbert. She currently is in the process of obtaining her degree in neuroscience with an emphasis in creative writing.
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Reece A. J. Chambers is a twenty-one year old writer from Northamptonshire, England. He graduated from the University of Northampton with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing in 2014. His work has been published in Red Kite, a book compiled by the university and available online, while the bulk of his poetry can be seen on Hello Poetry (prose on WordPress). He is influenced by many writers, including Sylvia Plath, Nick Hornby, Jack Kerouac, J.D. Salinger and J.K. Rowling.
R. S. Gwynn has taught at Lamar University since 1976. He is the editor of the Penguin Pocket Anthology series from Pearson Longman. His new collection of poems is Dogwatch, from Measure Press.
Hope Ann Valentine is a freewheeling twentyone-year old currently living in Northern California. She is a firm believer in Bob Dylan Ethics and WWJD. She’ll be relocating to the East Coast this spring after she graduates with a degree in Government and Journalism. Her main occupation is being a child of the Earth, but she hopes to pursue a career in international affairs journalism and to keep adventuring. You can contact her, or creep on her, at www.hopeannvalentine.tumblr.com.
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Stephen Linsteadt is a poet and a painter. He is also the founder of Scalar Heart Connection and the author of the book with the same title, which is concerned with humanity’s connection, or lack thereof, with Nature, the Earth, and the global community. His poetry is a reflection of this outreach, and explores the process of painting as a road to self-discovery.
Sharif Shakhshir is a Southern California native who suffers from an extreme case of Californication. A hopeful screenwriter, novelist, poet, cartoonist, princess, butterfly, astronaut; he got his masters at the now stabmurdered Masters of Professional Writing program at USC, which emphasized adaptability between writing forms. Sharif tends to pull together disparate ideas and make them play in the same sandbox together; usually, they play My Little Pony: Special Victims Unit. Sharif is unemployed, overweight, a person of color, a Hollywood cliché, and an intellectual. Given this combination, it is no surprise that loneliness is a prominent theme in Shakhshir’s work. Said work can be seen in other publications like The East Jasmine Review, Perceptions Magazine of the Arts, and Writing That Risks. He is also on Twitter: @Sharif12. Diane Funston is actively involved in the San Diego Poetry Annual, Magee Park Poets, GUTS, Summation, and most recently Lucid Moose of Long Beach. She co- founded the women's writing group SILK in Escondido, CA, and is a member of Writers and Books in Rochester, NY, her hometown. She divides her time between a home in Central Nevada and a cabin in the mountains in Tehachapi, CA. She has a B.A. In Literature and Writing from CSU San Marcos.
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S. Whitaker's poetry has appeared in dozens of journals. He is the literary review editor for The Broadkill Review, and a member of The National Books Critics Circle. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry. He lives on the Eastern Shore of Virgin
Fred Longworth never recovered from the dire influences of Mad Magazine. In spite of this, he holds a B.A. in English Literature (San Diego State University), and an MBA (National University). Selfemployed for most of his adult life, Fred succumbed to the intoxicants of poetry in the 1990's. Does anyone really care about this stuff? His poems have been published in Able Muse, Bloodroot, California Quarterly, Comstock Review, Pearl, Rattapallax, Spillway, Stirring, and the ubiquitous "et al." In fact, his life has largely consisted of "etc." and "et al," with an extra dash of "moreover."
Luca D'Anselmi is a second-year student at Bryn Mawr College working towards his M.A. thesis. In 2011 he received his B.A. in Latin from Hillsdale College. His research focuses on pastoral poetry, Roman elegy, and Renaissance reception. On the side, he has become interested in the history of textual emendation, Propertius, Milton’s Latin and Greek poetry, Paulinus of Pella, and A. E. Housman’s poetry and scholarship.
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