The Rebuttal by Madison Carter We were driving along a dark windy road when all of a sudden she said to me “I don’t like this road I can never see what’s behind me” “Why would you want to?” I rebuttal “You will see the headlights behind you and the taillights in front of you and if you see nothing you are alone” Her face crumpled as she turned her head She remained silent for a while until her hand slowly guided towards mine “As if I would find comfort in being alone”
Hey Peacekeeper by Bill Zink hey peacekeeper! what’cha packin’? Ford F-250! big-ass knobby tires! Armour-alled! keeping America safe for bumper stickers and petulance haters behind every bush these days “it’s not you, it’s the bosses” but at what point is imperialism? at what point blood sacrifice to a V-8 and the right to live life unexamined semper fi, blade of capital when do you take the blame? a poem by Todd Merriman
Your eyes sparkled so full of life So I removed them with my knife, And now they’re in a Ball jar on my shelf. Oh darling, how they twinkled such! I adored those ocular orbs so much, I just had to have them for myself. As they float now in formaldehyde, Trophies of my lustful pride, I’m beginning to question my mental health But is it crazy to preserve a thing of beauty? I took it as my sacred duty, so your eyes now stare forever from my shelf.
“Nosferatu” by Hillary Cox
collage by Thaniel Ion Lee
buy prints at thanielionlee.com
Algona by A.D. Palmer
When I was about four years old, my dad lost a hand. His right hand. Not the whole hand, really. The thumb, index, and middle finger, along with that whole part of the hand got cut clean off. The tip of his ring finger is gone too. So all he has is a little stub and his pinky, it makes him look like a crab. He worked at the sausage factory in Algona, down in Iowa. The people in town said it got caught in a conveyor belt and the switch to shut it off was broken. They didn't find any pieces of his hand, and people in town wouldn't buy sausages after that because a bit of his hand could be in there. They would be eating my dad. He started drinking a lot after that. A whole lot. Sometimes my mom would scream after I went to bed. He was an angry guy. One day when I was eight I came home from school. It was a really hot day and the bus dropped me off at the top of the lane, it was a long walk down to the house. When I got closer I heard a lot of noise coming from the shed. Before he lost his hand he used to build a lot of furniture, and he still tried to, but it wasn't as beautiful. One time when I was playing safari in the field, I heard him crying and screaming. He wanted to use his hands but it just wasn't happening. When I finally got home I was sweating so bad. I remember the other day mom had picked up some ice pops at the store. I went to the icebox for one but it was smeared with blood. I didn't cry or anything but I was too afraid to look but too afraid to not look. He had cut off half of his left hand, it was sitting on top of my ice pops. I went out to the garage and the noise was still going as loud as ever. I didn't want to open the door. I didn't even have to, to know what had happened behind the door. I saw blood under the door, a lot. More blood than there should be. I knelt down and smelled it, then I touched it. It felt cold, too. Everything was starting to feel a little cold. He was buried in a local cemetery across from my grandmom three days later. The casket was kept closed during the ceremony. My mom didn't cry. She said she loved my dad but he was sick. His head was sick, his brain. Her face was blue and yellow still, below her eye. She had told me she put the iron skillet, the real heavy one she made pork chops in, she said she put it up high and it fell on her when she stood on a stool to get it. She told me it knocked her in the eye and she fell in to the table, and that's why she has bruises on her head and back too. I didn't cry either. I had a bruise on my head too, but dad had laid a broom handle on me while I was sleeping one night. I don't think my mom put that skillet up high either A few older boys who I think were my cousins said they opened his casket. I heard them whispering that he was cut in pieces and laid out like blocks. His legs were next to him and his eyeballs were missing and his jaw was gone. Then they started talking about what happens when you're buried. Bugs crawl in your ears and eat your brains. They said you shit and piss in your pants when you die, and the bugs eat that too. They say you get so fat because your organs burst and leak and swell up. Dead bodies stink because the bugs shit in your body. They like eating eyes too, after they eat all the brain. Soon your whole body is just bug shit and you sit in that box forever. I didn't believe them, but I kept thinking about it during the eulogy. One time, before his accident, he took me way out past Algona to a field that had lots of pigs. Big, fat, sloppy hogs. At the end of the road was a building, a big white and silver one. I heard screaming, the worst and most dreadful screams I've ever heard. That's the slaughterhouse, he told me. In that building, they line up all those hogs and break their skulls. Then they hang them up by their feet and slice open their stomach, and all the blood and stuff is scraped out like a jack-o-lantern. Then the hogs are cut in to pieces. The good parts are boxed up and sent to the factory in Algona, the bad and gross pieces like hooves are either sent to a different factory or fed to the hogs again. My dad told me all of this, and he was squeezing my shoulders tightly. He was so proud of what he did, I'd never seen him so happy. Even when I caught a pop fly in baseball or found a toad from the creek, he'd never smiled so hard as he did when he talked about work. I thought about what those boys had said. I imagined my dad cut up like those pigs and put in his box like they were in theirs. I believed them and it made me feel better. Maybe they would have a place like Algona in heaven, with big, fat, sloppy hogs. My dad would like that.
“Tall Red Barn� fingerpainting by Tammy Ruggles, a legally blind artist and writer.
Turning Lightly into Ash by Meeta Cessler
Someday I’ll be walking down the sidewalk, thinking of the scissors I need to cut my hair. As I walk, I’ll continue to think about the perfect pair of scissors. They’ll have a navy blue handle contoured for the perfect grip, and two shining silver blades; blades with the sharpness that a blade can only have before it has cut through anything at all. As I’m walking along with the idea of the perfect pair of scissors at the forefront of my mind, a hole will begin to open up between the cracks in the concrete below me. I’ll stop and watch the hole grow and grow, until I see a light at the center of the hole, and the light will be the sun reflecting off of the sharp silver blades of the perfect pair of scissors. They will rise up from that gaping hole in the sidewalk and float weightlessly into my hands. I will hold these perfect scissors, and I will grasp firmly those contour grips, and I will raise those two virgin blades to my head and in a swift motion, I will remove the hair from above my eyes. The hair will then fall into the hole and turn to ash as it collides with the darkness. There will be a feeling like no other that passes through me as I slice my hair with those scissors. One of those feelings that momentarily stops time and makes you feel at peace with yourself and the world around you. And now, when that feeling escapes me and time begins again, it becomes my prime desire to recreate that wonderful and unparalleled moment. So I step further down the sidewalk and look for more objects to cut with my perfect pair of scissors. I come upon a tree with its tiny buds only beginning to sprout from tender limbs. With my scissors, I deftly remove each bud from its rightful place. The buds fall in a flurry of green into the mouth of the hole, and just like my hair once did, they turn to ash. They do not burn, they simply change form, but unlike the time only moments before when I cut my hair, there is not a special feeling in my heart after I cut the buds. Time keeps ticking forward. So I continue my walk with the gaping black hole following my every step, and I come across a flower bed. These flowers, so meticulously placed and pampered by some unknown owner are now being beheaded by me and fed to the hole in an attempt to recreate that blissful blockage of time. I stand still and watch as the mass of color quickly fades to gray and falls into the abyss, but nothing inside of me has yet to change. If anything, I am now emptier than before I cut my hair, yet I am so vexed by the feeling I once had that I continue down the sidewalk. My hands become a blur of cutting and feeding the hole. Suddenly, I look behind me at the progress of the hole. It has now claimed not only the sidewalk, but the houses and the trees and the sky as well, and I notice that there is nothing behind me but a wall of blackness. As I gaze into the blackness I begin to wonder what came before the hole. Where was I walking to? Where did I come from? Who was I before I found this perfect pair of scissors? I think on these questions until my head throbs, and my knuckles turn white from my firm grip on the scissors. The only thing I remember is that all consuming feeling I had when I cut my hair and watched it turn to ash in the hole. At that moment I realize that whatever life I had before I found my perfect scissors was now lost to chasing this new, insurmountable feeling. I know that until I can grasp that feeling again, I will be a shell of a person, forever chasing the notions of what once was. There is now nothing behind me but blackness. These ideas spark a fire inside of me, and with vigor and vitality I begin to cut through my surroundings more viciously than before. For miles and miles I run chopping every blade of grass, every leaf, every flower, every tangible object in my path, until my vision becomes clouded with ash, and I slump to the ground in a heap of exhaustion and despair. The vigor and vitality has faded from within me, and as I lie there feeling the ashes fall upon my face. I try with every ounce of energy I have left in my mind to recall the feeling I’ve been chasing for all these miles, and although I long so deeply to remember this feeling, not even a vague recollection of my past memories comes to the surface. I know that somewhere there is something I can cut with my perfect pair of scissors; something that will make me feel the way I did before. I hold the scissors in front of my face, as if asking them for some sign of what to do next. In the silvery blades of my perfect pair of scissors, I see a distorted reflection of my own face. Although the image is distorted, the eyes I see peering back at me from the blades are intensely clear, even more
so than the eyes that lay sunken in my face. Transfixed on the clearer, brighter versions of my eyes, I begin to realize what I must do. I fix the scissors, opening them to the most obtuse angle they can form, and I hold them up to my neck. The blades of the scissors grow longer in anticipation of their next target. Placing both hands around the grips of the scissors, I shut my eyes and close the blades to form a clean cut across my neck. Now, as my head begins to separate from my body, time stops once again, and in this frozen moment in time, my body crumbles into ash and sinks softly into the hole.
art by Casie Lewis
if you own a pizza restaurant, why don’t your boxes look like this?
Batman by Scott Sharp The Pessimists were lying The Haters were crying in corners The pillars were falling. All of them pointing in the same direction once they landed Must be a blow from the opposition Must be refusal of recognition Serial sadness Pointer finger cannons They tried to curl their wrists in the right direction But carpal tunnel vision pulled the shades GET. OUT. YOUR. CIGARETTES Burn a hole through the canvas and take a breath Put your eye in the sky and prepare for regret mosquito larvae by Ro. Z.
This room is one unrelenting silhouette But a little light shines through your ember hole
Keep looking, man. You’re on a Mosquito larvae roll! Withering in sun kissed skin Wiggling in sunshine bliss IT’S A FUCKIN BAT! Dare not know what hellish addiction awaits them Too late to step back Forced from pupae stage From wild abandon 2 fangs in your left eye Their eyes bulging Souls dashing But you got a spare Towards warm bodied hosts One more chance to escape despair Roulette for the wheel of existence A martyr for the cause of living A damned being suffering at the hands of a wicked god Who grants them freedom and bliss in a shallow pool Yet sets them forth on a stinging opposition against a fate doomed from the start
photography by Jack Novak-Sarate
METAL
mondays
There Were No Survivors by Taylor White available on Amazon, iTunes, and Lulu
Do you like zombies, cannibals, or just general mayhem? Of course you do! With all the talk of the end of the world lately, Taylor White’s first collection of short stories gives us a potential glimpse of what we can expect when the apocalypse comes a-knockin’. “Dumpster Buddies” assures us that life with zombie hordes roaming the streets, our lives will remain pretty much as mundane and boring as they ever were. In “The Great Black Hills Presidential Debate” roving bands of cannibals and mutants dominating the wastelands of tomorrow, humanity has still clung to it’s greatest invention: the media circus of the democratic process. Peppered in between the satire and humor is an uplifting personal piece, a morbidly mysterious gore-porn, and the sweeping novella “Disaster World”.
Lessons with the Professor directed by Louis Bowman starring Matt Clayton and Dakota Wright http://youtu.be/03uldlliMho
In the short film directed by film-maker/ artist Louis Bowman, a maniacal TV show host quickly shows us just how fragile humans are, both in mind and body. In just 11 minutes I traveled from perplexed, to nauseated, to disturbed. Even though the near-zero budget left the gore a little light, it’s well compensated for in the gross department.Bowman’s vision and goal is clear with Lessons with the Professor: be as offensive as possible. There’s a little something for everyone who sees this to get peeved about. But that’s what is good about a true excercise in filth, it helps you prioritize your mind. If you aren’t even mildly offended by a single moment in this short, congratulations, you’re some sort of psychopath.
substitution by Jacqueline Heinzen i have cyclically seen and been blind to the place where i imagine humanity is; where ‘i belong’ is not something felt exclusively when alone; where love is assumed; where sincerity and pretense have never crossed paths look directly at my face and demand “unravel” or at least pick at my edges until i bleed out; dissect me after. that would be nice. it would be nice. also, kiss me. not if i’m dead, that would be weird; not that i would care if you did; i wouldn’t care. the world will end in five billion years for reasons we already understand, but i can’t comprehend certain looks throughout the day and i couldn’t explain to you my consuming attachment to loneliness you are blind; you are exactly who you want to be we are drifting away we can see clearly
“We’re All in Cahoots” by Cory Fusting
Delusions of Grandeur by John Beechem
At the last possible moment of endurance, Paul blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth. A wracking cough erupted from his throat as the bathroom filled with a sweet-smelling haze. He put his pipe on the rim of the sink, and grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, rapidly brushing away the taste and smell of the smoke, and also fulfilling the demands of his meticulous morning hygiene routine. Not that he had had much of a morning lately; at least, not the waking up part. He had become consumed by a symphonic blur of mental and spiritual energy, wrapped up in a kind of charged trance--a blend of rapid thought, obsessive focus, and revolutionary philosophizing. Paul had read about this tendency in those who were bi-polar, or “suffered from manic-depression” as those in his father’s generation were described. A kind of madness stirred a person into frenzy, and they would exorcize this excruciating ecstasy in a creative spree, forging works of genius, or at least profound quantities in a short time. Conversely, these same souls were sometimes crippled by darkness, wracked with a depressive despair. Usually, these black periods would pass on their own. Other times, those experiencing them would end them prematurely, choosing to walk into the sea, wave a gun at a squad of police, fall off a bridge, or simply plunge a needle and thus numb the pain forever. Lately, Paul had learned to harness his power in an attempt to ride the manic energy into the realm of cosmic discovery. But looking at himself now in the mirror, his eyes watering with the hit he took—a quick remedy for both boredom and excess energy, at least at most times—he looked more like a burnout than a prophet. This week, nothing had been able to subdue the inferno inside his mind, including anti-histamines (labeled as sleep-aids), herbal tea, exercise, nor restless hours in bed. Not that he really needed much sleep anyway. Even two or three hours of slumber in this state kept him feeling heroic, like a highly evolved human being who had shed much of his need for rest. Or a prophet filled with a divine wind, having flashes of realization, epiphany, or delusion if one felt a touch cynical. After spitting into the sink and rinsing his mouth out, Paul put his pipe away in a desk drawer in his study and grabbed his backpack, swinging it around his shoulders. His fingers squeezed the buckle of his bike helmet between his fingers, freeing it from the hoop of his right arm strap. He pulled the gleaming red and white bowl of plastic and foam over his head, and buckled it with a sharp click. His hands slapped his pockets a couple of times; once assured he had everything he needed for work (wallet, phone, keys, music player), Paul opened his door, locked it behind him, and bounded down the steps into his apartment building’s basement. Creeping down the stairs, he let the few dim rays of sunshine entering the basement’s windows lead him to his bike which was locked around a narrow metal support column. Paul unlocked his bike and rolled it alongside him, unlocked the basement door, pulled it open, and clumsily banged the bike past the wooden door-frame before climbing up a half dozen concrete steps. He set the bike down on a patch of grass in front of him, leaning it on a worn, wooden picnic table as he threaded the cords of his ear-buds through the straps of his helmet. Then his right hand gripped the center of the handlebar, and he led it down the slight incline of the apartment building’s street-side yard. His body tensed with anticipation for the chance to bolt into action by pedaling rapidly down the wide avenue near his home. It led to Sunshine Market, a local health food store where he worked, and he only had about fifteen minutes before his morning shift started. The rhythm of vehicles hummed past and eventually slowed enough to let Paul occupy a space in the lane closest to the sidewalk. A thudding revolutionary hip-hop M.C. blasted from his music player. The slow acceleration of his bike relative to the cars and trucks zooming past him built up to a feeling of liberation as the street began to decline. In his manic state, the feeling of his muscles straining on the pedals of the machine created a pulse of endorphins that increased his frenzy even more. Paul turned left at one of the intersections, placing him on Bardstown Road, a mixed assortment of hip shops, local restaurants, fast food chains, and lots of motorized traffic. He weaved his bicycle in and out of a parking lane, allowing vehicles to pass him, pointing an index finger in the direction of the lane he was about to enter, gripping the handlebar with his opposite hand. As he made his way south, block by block, thoughts of self-divinity began to brew. Ideas that he sensed an impending change, that the spirit of revolution had touched him personally, and an emerging obsession that a raised middle and index finger, thumb touching the ring finger with the pinkie curled in, colloquially known as the “peace sign” was in fact a sign shared among those agents of positivity and natural preservation whose mission was to protect planet Earth. Obviously, such thoughts were an expression of madness, but a part of Paul’s mind reflected on the realization that all of the central figures of most of the world’s religions were called insane in their own times (or would be
called such in Paul’s time). The signals flashing through the neural receptors in his brain were coming in as thoughts to his mind so rapidly, accepted as self-evident truth, that his experience began to mirror that of a psychedelic trip. The feeling coalesced that he and his co-workers at Sunshine Food Mart, an assortment of young hipsters and older hippies would soon be awakening into awareness that much of this world was an illusion about to be shattered. The idea came that all of them would soon emerge from a dream, and remember that they were superhuman, able to transform the world with their thoughts and actions. Paul felt as if he could step into this reality like a cicada emerging from its shell—fully formed and ready to confront anything. He weaved his bike through the rear parking lots of an assortment of retailers that populated the shopping center, and leaned his bike against the wall of the store he worked at. Paul pressed a couple of buttons on the combination lock of the employee’s entrance, and pushed it into the rear section of the store. It was a space with a concrete floor, racks of grocery overstock, a desk, and the entrance to a walk-in cooler and a walk in freezer. The air-conditioned coolness of the store wrapped itself around him, and he led his bike to a space between two racks to lean it against one. He stopped his music and coiled the cords of his ear-buds around his device, placing it in his pockets. Paul shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and placed it on the bottom shelf of a rack for employees’ possessions. The shape of the backpack imprinted itself on his shirt in a pattern of sweat that would turn cool and evaporate in the climate-controlled space of the store. Once his work arrival ritual was complete, Paul walked through the double swinging metal doors that led from the rear of the store into the retail area. A short hallway linked these two sections together, and he entered the door of his manager’s office where a young man with a few less years than him, Jesse, was counting out money for that morning’s till. Jesse looked up at where Paul stood in the doorway and smiled. “Hey, Paul, how’s it going?” Jesse asked as he continued to count out money. Paul smiled slightly as he regarded Jesse in his seat. behind him and approached the desk. “I’m good, man.
Real good.
He closed the door of the office
Hey, it’s about to start,” Paul announced to him.
“What is?” Jesse asked. “A revolution, I guess,” Paul replied. His thoughts began to telescope to perfect clarity. A number of movies came to his mind—ones of heroes suddenly answering a call to arms. Paul saw that he and his other co-workers at the store were just these heroes and would lead humankind past this critical juncture into a new age of joy and prosperity. At once, he recognized that he was the newest incarnation of Jesus Christ: a new messiah who would be cut down and at once usher in a new age of awareness and clarity. Those around him would be his disciples; his own wife, Mary Magdalene. At the periphery of his consciousness, Paul realized that this was exactly what a crazy person would think. He knew that delusions of grandeur were a common symptom of mental illness, but at the same time, a new thought crept into his mind and acted as a counter-point. Jesus himself had delusions of grandeur. He declared himself the son of God. What greater delusion could there be? Yet he changed the world, irrevocably. Perhaps those who made the most impact were those who didn’t listen to the voice inside their head that told them that they were insane. Paul envisioned he and his companions as part of a cycle. They were born into this world, over and over again, to inject a new age of revolution every time they came into existence. Inevitably, his incarnation was cut down, but others lived on to continue his work. Paul realized that he was a kind of avatar. His soul was continually reborn, but until now, there was no way that he could remember that that this was occurring. What was different about this cycle, he was discovering, was that he and his disciples would be able to record these realizations to crystal clarity, and no one would be able to tarnish or distort them as they had the words and deeds of his predecessors. He leaned over the desk that Jesse was counting bills upon and began to speak in a conspiratorial tone. “Now listen. They’re going to think I’m crazy. They’ll come in here to take me away, and we’re just going to...roll with it.” Jesse looked back at Paul slightly bemused. to express his curiosity.
“Who is?” he asked grinning, arching his eyes
Paul ignored him as if this question didn’t matter.
Instead, he began describing in
elaborate detail the vision and ideas he was having, slowly witnessing them develop in his mind as he articulated them aloud. Eventually, he became frustrated, because his words could not keep up with the pace of his thoughts, and his explanations became obscured in a fog of confusion for the both of them. Despite his best intentions, Paul’s words fell flat. He and Jesse were not on the same trip, in a manner of speaking. To punctuate this feeling of disconnection, Paul grabbed a pencil from the desk and flung it against the wall opposite from them. Next, he opened the office’s heavy wooden door and walked out into the bright storefront of the Sunshine Food Mart. He began to approach each of the few customers in the store announce to them, “It’s starting!” The bewildered customers noted him with incredulity, and then continued their shopping. Eventually, Paul circled back to the rear of the store and told Carolyn, an older, warm-hearted co-worker the same thing. Beaming with a smile, she asked in a confirming tone, “It is?” When Paul nodded and returned to the office to sit down at the desk Jesse was no longer occupying, Carolyn calmly dialed 911 from the phone behind the customer service desk. In the time between the phone call and the arrival of the police, Paul continued raving like a lunatic, albeit from behind the office’s desk. He was still hot and sweaty from his bike ride, and wanted desperately to rinse off in the store’s employee shower, but things had already been set into motion. Within a few minutes, a couple of police officers came inside the office. They observed him, sitting in a comfortable rolling chair, leaning back with his glasses off. Paul’s vision was blurry, but he hoped his sight could be made perfect in the series of events soon to follow. The cops looked like dark blue blurs, except for the man closest to him. He was tall, bald, black, and compassionate. Perhaps he had dealt with people like Paul before, but this thought did not cross the young man’s mind. Instead, he was still pre-occupied with the prospect of getting into that shower (it would feel so good), but the police were not having it. Instead, they calmly blocked his way and convinced him to sit back in the rolling chair. Paul’s spirits had not diminished. The cocktail of neuro-chemicals rushing through his brain were creating a kind of euphoria had never experienced before. Eventually, the paramedics arrived. When questioned about his condition, the simplest explanation Paul could come up with was to tell them “I took some shrooms.” Why Paul said this, he didn’t know, but it seemed easier than explaining that he was either having some kind of mental breakdown, or was indeed some kind of shaman experiencing a prophetic vision (Paul suspected it was a combination of both possibilities). By the time the ambulance doors slammed shut, Paul was relieved. Whether for good or ill, things had changed. The psychedelic climax of the episode was over, and the longest sleep in more than a week was about to follow. Paul could rest.
artwork by Ryan Case
“Jowls Joyce” by Graham McKillip
a story by Madelynn Erbe
“Why can’t you?” I tried not to look at Charley’s crumby mouth as she whined at me. If I looked directly through the double-wide hole where Charley’s front baby teeth used to be, a soggy piece of chewed-up granola might fly out and stick to my face, or even worse, land in my mouth. That would probably make me puke. “Because,” I said, wincing as Charley’s teeth crunched down on the granola bar, “my dad said so.” I added a shrug and a sorrowful half-smile for authenticity. Proud of my lie, I stared at the grey metal ceiling waiting for her reply. “What?” She hadn’t heard me through her crunching. I sucked my teeth in annoyance and clenched both fists tightly around the straps of my backpack. “I said that my”- the bus dipped over a pothole and my face smashed against the seat in front of me at a neck-cracking angle. Several beads of sweat shook loose under my jumper and slid down my back like cold little spiders. “Owwww!” “Sorry,” the fat bus driver said. Grumbling, I peeled my cheek off the seat and wiped my greasy blotch from the brown leather. Charley laughed, still clutching her half-eaten granola bar. I frowned at her and the gross little curls at her temples, glued in place with sweat. If I looked at Charley for too long, I might see a teardrop of sweat stream down the side of her face and drip onto her Peter Pan collar. That would probably make me gag. Instead, I stared at the back of the school bus seat. I traced “PEE”, “ASS” and “HELL” with my slippery index finger, imagining the thrill of actually painting the words onto the leather with a marker, like a teenager. While Charley’s mouth crunched in my ear, I traced all the bad words I could think of ten times each. I tried not to think about my quickly swelling bladder, my sweat-soaked school clothes, or dinner at Charley’s, bowlfuls of chewed-up granola topped with fresh crumbs. My living room couch and television, a delicious snack, and above all, my own private bathroom ruled my thoughts. I just wanted to get home and relieve myself. Was that so much to ask? I was tracing my seventh “BOOBS” when the bus stopped at the end of Charley’s street. Charley wasn’t getting off the bus, though. She was looking at me. I stopped tracing and turned to face her with my blankest stare. “What?”
“Are you coming over or not?”
“Oh, I can’t. My dad said no. Sorry.” It came out a little too fast for the truth. Charley pouted and slid off the seat. As she squelched down the aisle in her Mary Janes I realized I hadn’t sounded very sorry at all, but Charley probably hadn’t noticed. I bounced on the seat until the bus was in motion again. I really had to go to the bathroom. As the bus rolled out of Charley’s neighborhood, I stood up to peel my thighs away from the leather seat. I sat back down with my legs crossed to hold my pee in and wiggled my hips from side to side. I pressed my knees together as tightly as I could, trying to make the bones scrape against one-another. I uncrossed my legs and tapped out the beats to “Hit Me Baby, One More Time” and the Pokemon theme song. I tried to go back to tracing bad words on the seat with my finger, but my hands were too sweaty. I sat on them instead. By this time I wasn’t wiggling just my hips but my entire body, grimacing in pain. Finally, the bus parked in front of the big Rancho Sahuarita Apartments sign and
art by Chloe Forsting
I jumped all 3 steps off the bus. My rubber soles slapped the pavement and took off for home as if they had a mind of their own. It wasn’t until I was running full-speed to my front door that realized I might not make it to my bathroom. As I ran, I yanked my key from its chain around my neck. The chain broke and fell behind me as I ran. Gripping the key, I slammed my body into the doorframe of #385. Home! Gotta get inside! I jammed the key into the lock, but I couldn’t make it turn. I let go and tried to shake the tension out of my hands, jumping from foot to foot and moaning. In desperation, I tried to force the key, but it would only budge a quarter of a turn on either side. I shrieked, ripped the key out of the lock, and flung it to the ground. I grabbed the knob itself and pulled and pulled. Angry tears streamed down my face as I beat the door with both fists. No answer, of course, because no one was ever home when I got back from school.
“God damn it,” I breathed.
Defeated, I stood in front of the door, hopping from foot to foot and squeezing my knees together. I bit my lips until I tasted blood. I was deathly afraid of someone walking by and witnessing this shameful dance, but I was even more afraid that no one would walk by. I was in dire need of some kind of help. Maybe a battering ram or something. Should I scream? A single aimless syllable wavered from my lips, hit the door, and died unheard by anyone. I took a deep breath and loaded a louder scream at the back of my throat. I was ready to let it loose when I felt a hot trickle down my leg. Oh no. I shook my head and groaned. This was happening. “N-nooo!” I protested, but it was coming out. I squeezed my eyes shut as the jet of warm pee flooded my doorstep, staining the sidewalk dark grey. It gushed out from under my jumper before I could move my feet, and I was sure my socks and shoes were ruined, but I didn’t want to look. I knew if I opened my eyes, there would be a crowd of people around me, pointing and snapping pictures of the stupid little girl peeing her pants. I was going to let it all out before I would decide what to do about it, but it was taking longer than I had expected. I stood outside my door peeing for two minutes before the stream finally slowed down. As the last drops dribbled out onto the soaked sidewalk, I started to cry. A breeze picked up and turned my sweat, tears, and pee ice cold. I stood shivering and sniffling in the blistering heat, looking down at all the damaged I had done. Three squares of the sun-bleached Arizona sidewalk were dark grey. Something on the ground flashed in the sunlight. I bent down and picked my key off the welcome mat, which thankfully my stream had missed.
art by Braxton Gaither
“Bradford Cox” by Ryan Reisert
Not Another Day by Taylor White
When I’m driving to work, I’m the only person out here. It’s quiet except for a train whistle, the rattling of keys, and a car door opening and closing. Crickets. An engine starting and the car beeps on the inside. Occasionally, there will be a person across the street. Smoking. I wonder what they do with their time; with their lives, that lets them get up at four o’clock in the morning sit on the porch in their underwear. sit and smoke. they seem so care-free. I can’t help but feel a little jealous. The rest of my day belongs to all the projects that I’m obligated to. The friends I’m attached to. The general meandering upkeep of the daylight hours. But these ten few minutes of darkness are strictly my own. The world is empty, silent, deserted. The streets are mine. Aside from the occasional glimpse of headlights; fellow drivers who break the peace. I spot pedestrian ghosts on sidewalks, standing in porches and doorways. Certain shapes of headlights give me a slight twinge of panic because I can tell that it’s a cop car. And at 4 am, the cops will pull you over for any reason at all. They think everyone should be at home in bed at 4 am sleeping. I can’t help but take their side on this one. Red lights stop me even though there’s no one crossing: no cars or pedestrians. So I sit and wait for my turn to come. For that green light to tell me that everything is okay. I pass by a cemetery and I’m slightly jealous at all the sleeping people in there. They don’t have to get up. They just get to sleep. The only other voices that I hear are the rappers and the singers coming through my stereo. During the day I keep them loud. But this early I just want to enjoy the quiet of the empty streets. Slug is singing “Whoa; whoa. Not another day. Not another day of the same old song.” I pass by a giant clock on the way. And either it or my car’s clock is wrong. There’s about ten minutes between them. On my way down Newburg Rd. I try my best to stay at the speed limit, between 35 and 40. Because the cops will pull you over for any reason; they don’t care. Sometimes headlights come up on me from behind, filling my car with illumination, demanding I go faster. For regular folks, I stay at 40. For the police, I don’t dare go above 35. Something dead on the side of the road. I’m certainly not jealous of him. When I reach the Watterson, Newburg Road opens up into two lanes and the lights that have been following me veer around and speed off as if to say “Fucking finally got around that grandma. Now I can get to my important thing.” I open it up to 45 then 50 because I suspect I may be a few minutes late. If I can make it by 4:05 I won’t have any trouble from anyone. Just a regular day. I always take these last few turns fast. I swerve, trying to get it where the g-forces throw me to the other side of the car. My last bit of fun. I pull into the well-lit, manicured lot. Normally I sit and wait, to milk another minute or two. But not today. I ring the buzzer. A piercing digital whine lets me know the employee door is unlocked. I clock in at 4:04.
art by Michael Dever
Grassroot Manifesto by mathias mathias1.bandcamp.com
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Death Passes by S H O Z O shozo.bandcamp.com
Listening to Grassroot Manifesto is like experiencing the album version of the film Slacker. Rambling diatribes over wandering guitars seem dissonant at first, but the potency of this album is hard to write off. It has a polished, orchestral feel, despite being decidedly low-fi. Poignant and compelling with comforting piano and Daniel Johnston vibes, Grassroots Manifesto covers several styles with ease and unorthodox grace.
A long-time cornerstone of the Lexington music scene, S H O Z O are sincerely committed to everyone having a good time. Their sound has evolved to a sometime-sweet, sometime-moody dance catalog full of potent lyrics. When vocals are present, their brooding tone lends itself to Joy Division, while fans of Hot Chip or Neon Indian will find themselves booty-shaking along.
Split Series Vol. 3 by IamIs and Tamara Dearing gubbeyrecords.net
reviews by Jess
On this split album from Gubbey Records, Tamara Dearing offers up poppy, trippy, and nforgettable melodies, with dreamy 50’s-esque echoes over modern-day guitar riffs. Layered traffic-tunes channel Au Revoir Simone and Imogen Heap all at once. A perfect match, IamIs is driving and exciting. The intricacies in the percussion echo Death Cab or Two Door Cinema Club, inviting you to dance or maybe just think about it. The male/female balance in the vocals is playful and intriguing, bringing to mind Dirty Projectors.
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Lightly chugging guitar tones over bombastic drums welcome you in most songs from Louisville group Straight A’s. Their lyrics are powerful and filled with emotion, mixed with nimble guitar lines a la Fall of Troy or early At The Drive-In. Seductive vocals add an early Killers feel, resulting in a sensual, heavy experience. Humility the Hard Way is out October 1st on Noise Pollution Records.
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Humility the Hard Way by Straight A’s noisepollution.bandcamp.com
Woman by Violet Knives violetknives.bandcamp.com Violet Knives offer up a deep, sonorous music experience. Cathedral-like vocals layer moodily over a spacious post-grunge guitar sound. Dreamy, soft, and extremely well-produced, songs like Head Full of Wishes appeal to fans of Thirty Seconds to Mars or Interpol alike. Woman will be out October 19th. Don’t miss the release party at Diamond’s on Barrett Ave. featuring Discount Guns, Grafitti, and Ranger.
duh by Sunbraids sunbraids.bandcamp.com Drippy, dreamy, rainy tunes from Sunbraid have the quiet sincerity of the best Iron & Wine offers. With tender, spacious vocals, this folk offering has a light and comforting feel. Sunbraid’s lush, earthy tones will leave you sleepy and content. Order your tape from New Albany based label Like Young Records at likeyoungrecords.com
submit your albums to tobacco.zine@gmail.com
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Julie of the Wolves are a band who long ago mastered the ability to have balance in their hard-hitting, light-footed tunes. Silver-tongued vocalists Stephanie and Carrie create an inspiring and exciting sound, easily channeling a widerange from Mates of State to No Doubt, Blondie to the Evens, and back around for the sass and spite of X-Ray Spex and Hole. Listen to “Sum of Your Parts” for a kickstart to a shitty day Create/Destroy drops on November !st on Noise Pollution Records.
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This hypnotizing offering from Niles Kane is a jumbled journey through repetition and suspense. Each track gives the sensation of time-keeping, moving you forward through the anxiety-filled story. There’s an intriguing juxtaposition between real experience and sensory experience; like its horror counterpart Night of the Living Dead, this album gives you the creeps. As you’re lulled by the subtle pace, don’t be surprised to feel it creeping up around your throat, threatening to strangle you. Create/Destroy by Julie of the Wolves noisepollution.bandcamp.com
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Rude Neighbors by Niles Kane evictionrecords.bandcamp.com
Hi, we’re Weird Girl and we are all three dillheads
How would you describe Weird Girl to an alien?
The aliens already understand.
What’s the story behind your name? There’s not really a story.
Who
are
some
of
your
major
influences?
Stone Cold Steve Austin, John Denver, Catmandoo, N. Cortex, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, N. Gin, Dingodile, Dimebag Darrell, Steve Miller Band, Tony Hawk’s Underground, MTV’s Rob and Big, Bob Gatzen, School of Rock, Kroger brand sweet and salty pretzel bars, girls, mystic stuff.
Who would be your dream groups/artists to tour with? Lynyrd Skynyrd, WINGS, Metallica, System of a Down.
What’s the scariest thing about skeletons? “cause it’s inside of you”.
weirdgirl.bandcamp.com
We are North, the North and we destroy other peoples’ property during practices How would you describe North, the North to an alien?
you know that feeling when you are trying to create your character for a new round of Oblivion, but can’t choose because you know that the severity of this decision will dictate the next 90+ hours of gameplay on your system, ultimately effecting your emotional and psychological well being? we’re kind of like that.
How long have you all been making music as a band?
for about a year and a half (?), though the band existed in a different incarnation a couple years ago. Said incarnation only played two shows though.
How did you all come together?
we met playing shows together when North, the North was in said previous incarnation, and our drummer was in a band called The Sunday Proposition. We ended up getting along and having similar tastes in instrumental music, so we decided to revive the project
Who are some of your influences?
It’s weird because we don’t sound anything like a lot of the bands that we consciously emulate. But, they still inform our various writing styles. But if I had to name a couple things... Fang Island, local punk music, riffs that are too hard for me to play, Southern Gothic literature, genuinely, actually, Adventure Time, Pianos Become the Teeth, Touche Amore.
Who would be on your dream tour?
Slint and Mountain Asleep. The reunion tour dream featuring some other Louisville kids.
You currently don’t have a vocalist. Is that a style choice or are you looking for one?
We don’t have vocalist because it makes the music a little more attentive and dramatic. It relies on progression and dynamics as a mode of story telling, a feeling that can be conveyed as being relatable. And writing about our feelings is hard because we usually like to yell obscenities instead.
Hi we’re called SHOZO and we are from many places at different times How would you describe SHOZO to an alien?
In our travels, we have found that most extraterrestrial life forms don’t really appreciate music. It is a uniquely human art form. In fact, some extraterrestrials (they get offended if you call them aliens) don’t even hear vibrations! Our music was created for the human race, and we only expect them to understand. Call us speciesist if you want to.
How did all of you come to form SHOZO?
We found each other across different planes of existence. Our minds and spirits called out to each other.
There is a an extensive mythos behind the band. Can you tell us how you decided on your characters and fill us in on your back story?
I’m the Electric Executive because I made a series of poor business decisions and lost my company, Amity Inc. and had my consciousness locked in a computer body. I was then rescued from my lonely floating tower in the stratosphere by Bernard, a yeti who loved my machines. We eventually stumbled into this Monk
with an electric guitar named Shozo Kaze And he introduced us to The Traveler of Space and Time. The Traveler is from a quantum computer simulation that is a reflected projection of the universe in the singularity of a collapsing super massive black hole. Our characters are really us. They are reflections of our minds, our souls. There was no commercialized planning on the perfect “character” to play on stage to sell the most albums. It stemmed from a desire to be ourselves on stage, and the best way to be ourselves was to dress like a fictional character.
Who are some of your inspirations? Musically and aesthetically.
We like this one band called The Beagles.They haven’t formed yet in your time period, but they are much better than that one band that has a similar sounding name. When a lady is up front dancing to something we have created... that’s all the inspiration we need. It’s easy to make music, but to get people dancing and singing, that is where great music is made.
Any long term goals for SHOZO?
You know how there are executives who decide which music will be on top 40 radio? There are tastemakers who make all our decisions for us. Which fashions are popular, which films to watch, which trashy novel to buy next. We will work our way into their world so seamlessly, that they will not know what hit them. A new wave in the entertainment and artistic world, where free expression is the only rule. We want to include every artist, every musician, every person who has felt out of place in our mission. There are no “cool kids” in the SHOZO universe. We would like to play more and more profound and entertaining shows. Also a graphic novel might be in the works.
art by Petra Burkhalter
shozo.bandcamp.com
How would you describe Olsen Twin Peaks to an alien? Here is an artifact of an interesting byproduct caused by what is known as “the human condition”. It is important to note, Mr. Alien; that, as far as they know, humans are the only species that organize sounds in to melodic patterns to simulate physical, psychological, and/or emotional states of being on their planet. They are, of course, mistaken. Humans are under the impression that what they’re doing is an abstract idea called “art”. “Art” of course, does not exist, and the human’s are simply obeying the same instincts that drive birds to sing and apes to grunt. The better they produce these sounds, the more likely they are to attract mates and food, and over the years, tastes have diversified such that they have learned that different ways of organizing their grunts and squawks attract very specific variations of food and sex. OLSEN TWIN PEAKS exist within that nonexistent abstraction. As specified above, what they seem to seek to do is express physical, psychological, and emotional states of being in a way that attracts very expensive food........ and sex.
What other projects are you two working on? Well, besides us both already writing new Olsen Twin Peaks material for what will become our next album, Matt has another band with Joshua Love (PHANTOMLIMBSAKIMBO.bandcamp. com), produces some soundtrack and commercial work for two local haunted houses (TheDevil’sAttic.com, 7thStreetHaunt.com), produce a podcast, (ScaryNoises.net), and has a half hour set on a weekly radio show (mixlr.com/radio-pure-gently). Joe does remix work and production work for various artists under the name Synth Pop Joe, (synthpopjoe.soundcloud.com), as well as other on-going side projects. We like to stay busy.
Hi, we’re called Olsen Twin
Joe lives in Texas an ana. How does collabo of in person help or hin
It’s a pain in the ass but we make deep, insightful thing to say on th basically boils down to that one s we make
Peaks and we are invisible
nd Matt lives in Indiorating digitally instead nder the creative effort?
e it work. I really wish I had some his topic but anything I could say sentence. It’s a pain in the ass but e it work.
Your latest effort is based on the french horror film “Martyrs”. What was it about this movie that inspired so much material? It wasn’t so much that the project was initially influenced by “Martyrs”, as much as it was discovered about midway through writing the material that the major emerging themes of the music and lyrics were in sync with that of the film. It was this discovery that gave the project shape and direction. I think the visual aesthetic of the film may have spoken to the sound and vibe of the album. It’s pretty bleak, but still very beautiful. That’s the whole thing about OTP as an entity, the juxtaposition between the raw, gritty, ugliness of our secret truths and the tragic beauty that they cause. Speaking from a strictly lyrical point of view, the idea of stripping away layers, up to and including one’s skin to get to the raw meat, the truth in everyone’s little black hearts, is central to ideas expressed on the album. However, it’s also asks the question, would embrasure of that darkness, surrender and transcendence of it, elevate a being from mere martyrdom into Godhood?
Who
are
some
of
your
major
influences?
Oh man, that’s a real hard question to answer. I think both of our influences are so wild and varied that listing them would maybe end up being misleading to people without hearing our music first. Not to mention, that’s an endless list that changes almost constantly according to what we’re feeling at that particular moment. Personally speaking, I’m less influenced in what I produce by the people I admire than I am by experiences. Emotions, thoughts, situations... they dictate what ends up coming out far more than “I really wanna’ sing like this or that person on this song”. As a people that really love music first and foremost, I think we both don’t limit ourselves as far as taste, genre, and things like that. It helps keep what WE do ourselves fresher, it lets strange and perhaps counter-intuitive influences creep in at the edges. Also, we’re both influenced by visual artists, whether it be a film director, painter, graphic designer, etc...
What
are
your
favorite
horror
films?
Dude, talk about another endless list that get’s updated all the time. ALL OF THEM, ALL OF THE HORROR MOVIES ARE OUR FAVORITES!
When
will
the
Martyrs
album
be
ready?
This is a lame answer, but the best I can say is: “Very, very soon”.
olsentwinpeaks.bandcamp.com
DCLXVI articles 1-4 photos by William Ragland
williamragland.bandcamp.com
Cave Country by Kennedy Schuck
Well, we’ve done it. With the relase of Tobacco Magazine’s third issue, we’ve already lasted longer than we had planned. Isn’t that fucking cool? A completely community run magazine, focusing on everything great. You guys are really talented, and I’m not jiust saying that. Keep in mind, this is your zine. These pages are for you to fill up. Tell your friends to submit. Make something yourself. Give us ideas. Never stop creating.
special thanks to: Austin Naamani Madelynn Erbe Loyd Coy Nick Smith Will Ragland Jim Marlowe Sean Liter Jess Chaney Petra Burkhalter Tammy Ruggles Eleanor Davison David Rucinski Taylor White Yoko Molotov Jack Scally Jason Besemann Kennedy Schuck Peyton Crenshaw Sheila Hickey Bryan Powell Max Sibley Hannah Johnston
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