Stuffings by Hannah Johnston
“Dreams” by Marz Meyer
Predicting the Weather by Hannah Johnston The mattress sheets They feel like shit They aren't soft The aren't rough They are slick And I'll slip on My face When I wake up Then my day Will be great
Pretend If I was accompanied In this shallow moment Where time shattered And maybe surfed Across my skin I'd be lonely, But not alone I'd see a day where The unavoidable reality Was my own Fortress of my heels Something I'd never escape Orgasms And unattainable dreams Where you could Touch all the little details Pick them up and Dust them Call them Yours Take them home and Shred them Salad toppings Ingest And be full Forever
THE QUEEN by “Dick” Tracy 100b in the lobby made them hungry as they imagined him bound like a burrito and tranquilized so they snacked on jawbreakers while pissing their problems into eachother’s face
A/C by “Dick” Tracy
spotlight By Chelsea Gabbard
he was killed, i can promise you that not that it meant a fucking thing his hands were solid, calloused from everytime he tried to set himself on fire selfish immolation, no cause no contribution, he wasnt great full, for his feet which stood on souls because his iron skin curled into steel fists radiated power, white hot steam creepily peeking out of the furnace
i'm one quiver away from an opening act one clutch of the sheets from a bottle of red wine. i'm three scratches away from new york city, and a whisper or two from the top of the world.
when he finally moved, carelessly flailing around, a steer in an antique mall furnished with heirlooms that were stolen, that we weeped over for years, he didnt care fully pour himself a glass to sooth his aching, his self infliction he feared we, he did fear unwittingly filling his glass with water, belly full, poisoned with clarity, we poured out his whiskey, he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us poisoned with clarity his glass looked transparent, reflected like a mirror poisoned with clarity he was so empty
i can't feel your hands moving rough against my skin, but i can feel the chords snaking their way through my veins. i can't see your ceiling fan working its lazy way in circles or the crack in your wall from too many nights of rain, but i can see the silhouettes of a full house through a film of smoke settled just below the track lights. i can't hear your breath catch or my name fall from your lips, but i can hear whistles and catcalls and the ring of a telephone. tell them i'm on my way. tell them i'll catch a plane. tell them they made the right choice this time. choke me, fill me, scar me, kill me. i'll bleed, but the headlines will be worth it.
“Untitled” by Eleanor Davidson
Suzy and the Devil by Viva Whitlark “Miss Suzie had a steamboat --” Suzy hopped in time to the song, her voice clear as a bell (if a little off pitch), harmonizing with Emma and Janet as they swung the double dutch ropes around her. It had been a whole week since she caught her feet in the ropes. She was the undisputed champion of the second grade jump rope girls. “The steamboat had a bell --” There were four first graders watching her nearby, eyes wide in small faces. Empowered by her celebrity status, Suzy hotfooted through a skip and one-legged hop, grinning at the appreciative gasps. “Miss Suzie went to heaven --” She executed a jump-n-spin, deftly keeping time. A few of the second graders were watching, maybe even a third grader. “The steamboat went to --” “Bet you can’t do it sideways.” The ropes went slack at the loud interruption, Suzy hopping free of them before her ankles were caught and her record ruined. The attention of the children was now riveted on the fifth grade boy watching from a few feet away, his arms crossed and his expression smug. Suzy blinked. He was a new kid, someone she had not seen before. He was also really tall, even for a fifth grader, and had jet black hair tousled rakishly and hazel eyes that glinted yellow in the sun. Everyone knew fifth graders didn’t mess with the little kids except to close them in lockers and trip them in hallways. She scuffed the blacktop with the toe of her sneaker, unsure. “Hah! I knew you couldn’t. You’re too scared, ba-a-a-aby,” the fifth grader said, stringing out the insult into a sing-song chant. “Am not!” Suzy cried, angry. Her record was good even for a fifth grader, she knew it, because Emma’s older sister was a fifth grader and had said so. “Are too. You won’t even bet me that you can ‘cause you’re too scared.” “I’m not!” Suzy yelled, her hands going to her hips and her cheeks flushing. “I’ll bet you a -- a -- a whole quarter that I can!” “Pfft. A quarter? Baby stuff,” he snorted. “I’ve got plenty of quarters.” He probably had, too. He looked like the kind of boy who would not only trip a little kid but steal her lunch money after. Suzy narrowed her eyes, furious at the insult. She was not baby. “A dollar, then!” There was a murmur of shock through the growing crowd of onlookers. The boy looked unimpressed despite the magnitude of the offer. Before he could taunt her again, Suzy said, “Fine! Three dollars! But if I win, you have to give me whatever I say!” The murmur from the crowd rose to a dull roar, whispers flying as children looked to the boy. There was now a full circle of kids around them, every grade show-
ing up as the argument grew louder. It wasn’t every day a second grader tried to take on a fifth grader, after all. The boy was smiling now, a self-satisfied grin curling his lips. He waited for the noise to die down before replying. “Well... If I’m going to give you whatever you say, I think that’s worth more than three dollars,” he drawled, slowly raising his arm and pulling back his sleeve. “What if you said I had to give you my watch? That wouldn’t be fair at all.” Suzy, along with the rest of the kids, inspected the watch on his wrist. It was spectacular, shiny and new, with a red plastic band and a large circle face. A tiny figure of Baron Von Boom was measuring the time in the glass with outstretched arms, his red cloak almost appearing to wave as he moved gloved fingers along with the ticking seconds. Though the crowd oohed, Suzy crossed her arms and glared at him. “I don’t have more than three dollars in my piggy bank. Besides, you said I couldn’t do it, what’re you so afraid of? I don’t want your stinky watch anyways!” This retort brought a round of rising catcalls from the crowd, the kids turning on the boy at the implied insult. He narrowed his eyes, which looked more yellow than hazel in the noon sun. “Fine. Then let’s bet...” In a dramatic gesture, he looked up at the sky, scratching at his chin pensively. “Hmmm... Aha! Ok! If you win, I’ll give you whatever you say. But if I win, I get... your soul.” For a moment, there was silence, as everyone considered this strange new twist. Suzy stared at the boy. He was still grinning at her. It made her angry. “Deal.” Emma dashed up to her, cupping her hands around Suzy’s ear. “Suzy, my mommy says that ‘mortal souls is important! You can’t do that! It’s bad!” “Well my mommy says that I shouldn’t let bullies win, and he’s a bully,” Suzy snapped, brushing her friend away. “That’s more important.” The boy just kept grinning despite the blatant insult. The deal done, the crowd of kids turned to Suzy, jostling for a good spot as the circle around them solidified. Emma, her lower lip trembling slightly, went back and grabbed the ropes. Suzy nodded at her and Janet. “Miss Suzie and the steamboat, sideways. Then I win.” “If you can, you baby,” the boy added smugly. Suzy ignored him. Now that the ropes were swinging in anticipation, she was starting to get nervous. Everyone was watching her and it was uncomfortable, all the staring as she shuffled her feet and waited for the song to begin. She took a deep breath. The record for double dutch champion was hers, a week strong, and that was better than anyone in her grade this year. She could do this. “Miiiiiiiiiiiiss --” Emma and Janet intoned, beginning the whirl of ropes. “-- Suzie had a steamboat!” The rhyme was louder than usual, both the girls’ voices shrill with nerves. Suzy ignored them too and jumped in, facing away from the boy and starting her routine as she belted out the words. “The steamboat had a bell!” She skipped through a one-footed twirl, and almost lost her balance. There was
a gasp from the crowd, but she kept going, her feet not hitting the ropes. The boy giggled, a strange, high-pitched sound. “Miss Suzie went to heaven!” Letting her mistake fall away, Suzy concentrated on keeping her feet moving and her head up, hopping with more vigor than she ever had. “The steamboat went to Helllll-Oh Operator!” As she continued on, her hopping smoothed out, and she started to smile. A couple of the kids from the crowd were joining the chant now, voices rising and she spun and jumped. “Please give me number nine!” She clicked her heels midair, a fancy move she had learned in her weekly tap class. There was a cheer from the crowd and she grinned. “And if you disconnect me! I’ll chop off your behiiiiind the ‘fridgerator!” “You’re going to trip, you know,” the boy said, almost conversationally. Suzy wasn’t sure how she heard him over the yelling song, whirling to face him as she kept up her routine. His eyes were yellow, not even a hint of hazel left, and there were strange shadows in his dark hair. He was still smiling. “There was a piece of glass!” Suzy glared at him as she skipped and did a full circle spin. “Miss Suzie sat upon it!” “You aren’t good enough,” the boy said. “And broke her liiiiittle -- Ask me no more questions!” Suzy could hear her heartbeat in her ears, the heat rising from the blacktop suddenly unbearable. She imagined she could feel it through her sneakers, burning her toes as she hopped. The boy tilted his head. “I mean really, you’re just a little second grader. Everyone knows you’re going to lose.” “I’ll tell you no more lies!” “They’re going to laugh at you, too. Everyone is going to laugh when you trip and fall on your fat face.” Her face was burning from the heat now, too. She gritted her teeth and skipped through one of her favorite parts of her routine, all enjoyment gone. This was serious. She would not be laughed at. And she didn’t have a fat face. “The boys are in the bathroom!” “You aren’t good enough,” he said again. “Zipping up their -- Flies are in the meadow!” “I!” Suzy cried, spinning once more and clapping her hands together, “Am! Too!” “The bees are in the park!” The boy went silent now, his grin dropping into a grimace as he stared her down. His eyes were definitely yellow, Suzy decided with a shiver that almost tripped her up, and once his smug smile was gone his teeth looked terribly, terribly sharp. “Miss Suzie and her boyfriend!” She maintained her balance with difficulty, feeling the tar of the blacktop burning her toes. The smell of melted rubber was coming from beneath her, with a little
hint of smoke. Those sharp teeth glinted as he spoke again. “Your soul is mine, little girl, just as soon as you lose.” The sounds of the circle of children were fading away. All Suzy could hear was her heart pounding, the scent of tar and smoke making it pound faster, and the distant yelling words of the double dutch song. She had the distinct feeling no one else could hear him speaking now. He smiled again, his face looking older than he could be, like that creepy man from the corner store her mother always warned her away from. “You’re mine, Susanna Grace Watkins, because you aren’t good enough to win.” “Are kissing in the D-A-R-K-” “I SAID!” Suzy screamed over the muffled noise, keeping her steps perfect despite the pain of her feet and the pounding in her head. “D-A-R-K-” “I AM!” “DARK- DARK- DARK!”” “TOO!” Her last shrieking cry echoed over the sudden silence. The sky, blue and sunlit just a moment before, had gone black with thunderclouds. Suzy leapt free of the ropes, Emma and Janet dropping them a moment after she did, and stood with her chest heaving, facing the boy. He looked angry now, angry and shocked and trying to conceal both. His smile was downright disturbing. “I win.” Suzy panted, glaring up at him. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth, that reptilian smile cloying. “What do you say I have to give you? Three dollars? Five? A bag of candy? A doll? What does the baby want?” Now it was her turn to smile unpleasantly. “I want something else.” Suzy swung her legs back and forth as she laid on her bed and read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. It was her new favorite. She already had plans for the old wardrobe in her grandmother’s house. Outside her bedroom window, the sun was setting, all the trees in her neighborhood painted in shades of orange and yellow. Her legs were still a little sore from earlier, and the blisters on the bottom of her feet hurt a little, but she swung them back and forth anyways. Her mother had been aghast at the blisters, asking her over and over how she’d gotten burned through the soles of her shoes. Suzy had no answer for her. They were going to get new sneakers tomorrow. She smiled to herself. New sneakers in her new favorite shade of red, bright and shiny like her hard won victory prize. Her grin widened as she used the tip of her new red spiked tail to turn the page. That would teach him to challenge her in double dutch. Everyone knew she was the champion.
Hi my name is Adam and I’m a mutant cyborg scanner that sings and plays guitar in...
How would you describe Globsters to an alien? What ever the alien word for violence is! Whatever the alien word for making love is! Which of your songs is your favorite to play live? Roll You Up and Smoke You cause it gets all the ladies whipped up into a frenzy! Destroy Hazard because it’s fast and everybody sings along! If you became a pro wrestler, what would your name and story be? I’d be a big dude that hits stiff and brings the blood! Ideally I’d want to wrestle in Japan! My entrance song would be Crazy but Not Insane by Warzone! I wouldn’t want to be a face or a heel more like a Stone Cold Steve Austin or Sabu where I got a mean streak but the fans adore me! What is the coolest knife you own? A Schrade Big Timer, they only made it for three years! It’s long and fat! A Schrade pocket knife to me is the classic American working man’s pocket knife! Everybody’s pappaw has or had one probably. They weren’t expensive like a Case but were made equally as good! Who are some acts you would like to tour with? I’d love to tour with The Elsinores again but some dream tours would be with Peter Stubb, Lotus Fucker, Chaos Destroy, Lumpy & the Dumpers, Trauma Harness, Shaved Women, Hunted Down, Alan Jackson, Kentucky Headhunters and Motorhead! If I could tour with a dead person brought back to life it’d be Keith Whitley! What was your first taste of rock n’ roll? When I was a little kid I used to watch The Young Ones on Comedy Central and I’d tape the audio with my Talk Boy, I taped the episode Motorhead was on and I’d ride my bike and listen to Ace of Spades from that episode! I’d tape MTV too and listen to Self-Esteem by tThe Offspring on repeat! That was the gateway! I stole a Black Sabbath Paranoid cassette off my dad soon after!
check out Globsters’ latest EP Rock and Roll Misery on Karmic Swamp
www.karmicswamp.org/
How would you describe Working Girls to an alien? Assuming the alien understands English, I’d describe Working Girls as a dreamy yet intimate soundscape that reflects my inner emotions and desires with love-obsessed lyrics and fleeting reverb. What ever happened with The Sassholes? Will we ever hear new material? The Sassholes was the second moniker my band with friend Tamsen Anderson and I had. The first was “Lagoon”. Or I guess technically the first was “Flame” when we were in 6th grade; I think we wanted to sound like Nirvana. The Sassholes was a goofy project that had little substance, when we were heavily influenced by surf rock and lofi pop. Her and I don’t work on music together anymore and if we did, I’d say that our influences have grown infinite amounts since the days of Sassholes. Basically Sassholes is dead. Some of your earlier tracks had little to no percussion. What made you introduce the drum machine? I’d say adding the drum machine was a natural progression in my work. I work alone and wanted to sound fuller and have strong beats that you can dance or at least move to. Also drum beats are now usually the centerpiece to my creative process. What are some of the biggest influences on Working Girls? My biggest musical influences include Beach House (specifically the melancholic and romantic huffing of lead singer Victoria Legrand), Fleetwood Mac, Jesus and Mary Chain, John Maus and so many more. I’m always influenced by what is happening in my life in the moment that I write a song. Is there any artist or group you dream of collaborating with? I dream of collabing with Victoria Legrand. Literally... I have dreams that I am on stage with her, singing a beautiful duet. More than collaborating though, I’d love to just work with other artists in general to help inspire me more. I’m constantly growing and changing in influences and dream of working with anyone who will inspire a new part of my creativity to arise (even if that person isn’t necessarily established in any music scene/ talented at playing music even). What’s inspiring is seeing the way someone else’s creative process works, then internalizing it and evaluating your own methods. Just the other day I was working with a friend who taught me how to mix songs so that they are clearer; that itself was a dream. check out Nate Dickinson and Working Girls on Bandcamp at workinggirls.bandcamp.com/
Hi my name is Simon Lutes and Leopold Zimmerman is my better half.
How would you describe Leopold Zimmerman to an alien? I would probably describe Leopold as an angelic alter ego of mine. Leopold is capable of creating much more beauty than his real-life counterpart. The soul of Leopold Zimmerman totally enflames the music that is produced through him. I would maybe describe him as a phantasmal mystic of sorts. I don’t know. Why would I be talking with an alien again? What the heck is a Leopold Zimmerman anyway? If we’re talking technicalities here, Leopold Zimmerman is a name. Or I guess it’s a pseudonym in this case. I’ve been asked what the name means many times and I think it’s an unconscious connection with both Leopold Bloom from Ulysses and Bob Dylan’s surname, which is Zimmerman. I just think Zimmerman is such a cool sounding name man. It has so much color and character to it. Certainly more character than Dylan. I could understand why he would change Robert to Bob, but why Zimmerman to Dylan? To each his own I guess. You draw from a generally wide taste as far as music goes. Who are some of your major influences? Well I wrote these songs a while back, but when it came to putting them down on record there were definitely many influences in mind. I think some of these influences are pretty obvious since you can hear them in the music, like Neutral Milk Hotel, The Beatles, Nick Drake, Elliott Smith, and stuff like that. I suppose the one influence that really drove my recording/production process was Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. I remember last summer, when I began recording the album, I heard “Good Vibrations” for the first time in many years and I just totally clicked with it. I can’t explain it, but something happened. It felt kind of like a spiritual awakening. It reminded me that music isn’t just a melange of chords and melodies, but a true spiritual connection between the self and sound. I really wanted my soul to just overtake the music itself. I feel like the finest moments of the record are when my soul undulates out of the speakers. So maybe the biggest influence of the record is love. Your album cover features Bullet through Apple by Harold Edgerton over the body of John Lennon. What is the significance of that image to you? I think the significance of that image is that we need to kill our idols sometimes in order to progress to new heights of artistic achievement. Not literally kill them - I don’t at all condone what Mark David Chapman did to John Lennon. I mean kill them in a dialectical sense. In the sense of killing their placement in the eyes of cultural impact. Sure, these figures are obviously important, but it’s that same idea that “The Beatles are the greatest band ever and nobody before or since have done what they did.” This idea may be true to some degree, but it’s only holding our culture back when it comes to creating something truly magnificent and awe-inspiring. If we keep living in the shadows of the past, we’ll never create anything new.
You can here the new LZ album from Retroflex Records at leopoldzimmerman.bandcamp.com
leopoldzimmerman.bandcamp.com
NEW MUSIC
Leopold Zimmerman by Leopold Zimmerman
The frantic falsetto warblings of Simon Lutes truly harken back to a golden age of singer-songwriters as well as New Weird America practioners Devendra Banhart or if Joanna Newsom had been born with XY chromosomes. A true new folk gem you definitely need to hear. A physical copy is slated to be released on Retroflex Records with additional songs.
Paranoia Makes a Crazy Gift by Jovontaes jovontaes.bandcamp.com
Rise Below by All Dead alldead.bandcamp.com These four tracks snuck up behind me in the middle of the night, snapped my fucking neck, and ground my bones in to dust. All Dead is an aural beatdown that manifests itself in to a physical one during a live show. Will, Sheila, and Josh are as terrifying as they are talented. All Dead isn’t just their name, it’s a promise. Rise Below will soon be available on 7”.
Your Voice by Working Girls workinggirls.bandcamp.com Nate Dickinson’s dreampop project takes a relatively gloomier turn on his latest effort. The newbreed melancholy is met with droning synths and drums usually reserved for minimal synth acts. This beautiful marriage of sound is something to set Working Girls apart from the growing popularity of bedroom pop. Order the Your Voice tape from Like Young Records.
We wanna hear your music! To schedule interviews or to send us your album, go to facebook.com/tobaccozine or email us at tobacco.zine@gmail.com
The latest release from Lexington group Jovontaes is chock full of surfy skatey twangs and eerie Kraut influences, making it feel like the perfect weekend getaway at a haunted beach resort. Since 2009 the ever rotating cast has continued to mold their music in to a truly unique sound. Check out Paranoia Makes a Crazy Gift on Sophomore Lounge Records.
coloring page art by Jack Scally, fill it in with color!
see more art at www.facebook.com/JackScallyArt
LOUISVILLE HARDCORE By Austin Naamani
I’m going to spare you guys the typical bullshit spiel about “the hardcore scene” , and instead share some words about a few of my favorite bands that continue to really carry the torch for Louisville’s DIY hardcore/metal tradition.
ALL DEAD is probably my favorite new band on the Louisville DIY roster, as well as my favorite 3-piece assault period besides Magrudergrind (sorry guys). I was able to catch up a little bit with axe-wielding sanguinarian/frontman Will Ragland to get a little more information on the group. Started during the hot summer month of January 2013, ALL DEAD came together out of frustration, psychosis, and the necessity for an alpha form of expression (a full-time band to you dolts). Hitting you with a thrashy bass-driven onslaught right from the get-go, ALL DEAD plays a unique style of blackened, metallic hardcore that grabs you by the SHUT YO MOUTH! It has been confirmed that Will’s 7-string guitar makes his package a bit more appealing to the ladies, Josh does in fact practice his melodramatic high-hat build-ups in front of the mirror, and Sheila looks pissed off - all of which only add to the ominous downpour of riffage. ALL DEAD has a new 7” due out August 8th at the Trap Them show @ Magbar. You’re a fool if you don’t pick that ish up! FFO: Converge and Jason Voorhees
www.alldead.bandcamp.com www.facebook.com/ALLDEAD
photo by Meagan Jordan
www.anothermistakehc.bandcamp.com www.facebook.com/anothermistakehc Though not as cool as Python was but still pretty cool, Another Mistake just isn’t quite cool enough for an interview. And what I really mean by that is they are currently busy slaying females on their tour bus all across the eastcoast with Vulgar Display right now. Seriously, this band is super tight! I think they started in late 2010? I don’t know. Another Mistake have been hard at work since day one making a name not only for themselves, but the Louisville hardcore scene in general. I’m serious. Talk to any asshole wearing black Vans at any hardcore show across America about Louisville, and they will tell you how awesome Another Mistake is. Or Kinghorse if they’re really old. Though the group has undergone a few changes in the line-up, two things have stayed true: The first being Tyler’s glasses-homing Air Maxes, and the second being the uniquely familiar sound. Often described as distincly reminicent of early 2000s youth crew (and I couldn’t agree more), I feel Another Mistake’s reach is much deeper than that. Their lyrical content operates on an emotional level that is completely off the map, constantly reminding us that we’re all equally as shitty as the person standing next to us. This band could only exist in Louisville.
Hallows is a strapping young group of gents from the place we all love to hate, Southern Indiana. Thats right, they’re fucking hoosiers! But seriously they’re from New Albany, which gets the same bullshit weather as us, so you have to respect them for that at least a little bit. Plus, New Albanian Brewing Company brews hands down the BEST brew you can get your shaky little hands on around here. Fight me. Started in July 2012, Hallows delivers a brand of heavy and melodic hardcore that is quickly becoming a staple at Louisville metal/hardcore shows. Though each member brings their own individual influence to the the table, Vocalist Carson Hudson cites bands such as Counterpart, Defeater, Gideon, and Have Heart as integral to shaping Hallows’ overall sound. As the metalcore scene becomes more and more saturated with the same cookie-cutter band trying to get signed to Rise records, I feel that Hallows is on the cusp of something very special. Maybe i’m just partial to them because they’re from “Louisville”? I don’t care. I think this band rules. Hallows is gearing up to release their first 6-song EP in the Fall (which I am very excited to hear), but in the meantime you can check out their single “Common Grounds” on their bandcamp page.
www.facebook.com/hallowsband www.hallowsofficial.bandcamp.com
Little did I know, littledidweknow has been thrashing the banks of the Ohio for quite some time now - since 2008 to be exact. This surprised me a little because I, the end all be all authority of metal and hardcore knowledge, have only been aware of them for about a year now. Littledidweknow is hands down my favorite metalcore/ deathcore/br00tal deathcore/ insert-microgenre-here-core band to come out of Louisville since We Speak Texan. The group just released a KILLER album called “Lucid Happenings” which you can buy directly from their bandcamp page. This limited-run cd has everything - plenty of sweeps, crushing breakdowns, and musical chops all around. I’m willing to bet my left nut that all of these dudes suffer from severe carpal tunnel, including their vocalist who probably fingerbangs 10 groupies a night. These dudes shred, and shred hard. When asked about the alleged carpal tunnel epidemic, I recieved these two very immature responses: “I get carpal tunnel from time to time between work, the band, and masturbation.” and “Unless the freeway is really backed up, I never take the tunnel, whether i’m carpooling or not.” Very cute, ladies. Very cute. Now go check them out or forever wank it to new Victrory Records bands.
www.facebook.
com/littledidw
www.littledidweknow.bandcamp.com
eknowband
Today I saw Mark Mulligan at the corner of Eastern Parkway and Preston. He was caked in something white and crusty, it was on his luggage, his shoes, his pants. I asked him if he needed anything. I went and bought him a Mountain Dew and a water bottle so he could take his medicine. Later that day he’s on Bonnycastle. He’s changed his clothes but that white stuff was still there. It looked like vomit. “What happened Mark?” “I wanted to make Christmas in July so I used two boxes of cake mix to decorate my luggage. It’s scaring people though” “Yeah I thought you got sick, I was worried.” “This nice lady gave me a ride up here but I broke my luggage.” We both fiddled with the handle for a second, useless. I tell him where he can buy new luggage for cheap. He kissed my hand and said “Thank you Dad! I love you!” Another time I had seen Mark on a bus. I sat across from him and he
greeted me: “Grandpa! I didn’t know it was you!” “How are you Mark?” “Oh you know, out here panhandlin’. I haven’t ate in a... million years!” “I didn’t know you were that old!” “Yeah I been living in the sewer a million years, now I’m moving to this dumpster.” The bus pulls up to a Wendy’s and Mark rings the bell while he hurries to stand up. His sweatpants sag and you can see his ass crack. As he’s getting off the bus, he waves and calls to the driver: “Thanks mom I love ya! I owe you a million bucks tomorrow.” I tell him “Don’t let those rats bite you, Mark.” He smiles and his gap shows. “It’s okay, I’ll bite them back.” His laugh is squeaky and he tells me “Sometimes you have to have a sense of humor about yourself.” He is completely right.
art by Mark Anthony Mulligan
Long Run by Curio He stumbles as he pushes himself through the wall of trees that stands between him and this chapel. The branches fight with him, scratching his face, hands, arms, until finally they surrender and let him through to the water. He descends to the thin line of beach that encircles the long, narrow lake, then steps onto a large boulder standing just off shore, small waves lapping at its edges. The young man drops to his knees and buries his face in his hands. A mallard, watching from the center of the lake, utters its grating cry as if to disrupt the young man’s penitential pose. The wind’s heedless frolic sends ripples across the lake, first rushing one way, then the other. The lake’s pristine waters yield teeming life below where minnows, crawfish, turtles, frogs, all go busily about their lives, oblivious to the sorrows of the world above. The pines, standing tall by the waters’ edge, sway and bow in the breeze, whispering, gossiping about what they have witnessed. A few maple leaves drift through the air. A large golden one drops into the water near the young man who takes no notice. It floats delicately on the water’s surface, then is spun on its way, carried by the wind to another destiny. The young man stands and turns his face to the sky in supplication, one hand clutching the Glock 9mm pistol. Then, with a forceful pitch, he flings the savage instrument into the lake.
“Paranoia” by Tim Still
“fuck” the boy muttered to himself as he walked down the cold street a girl passing heard him speak but couldn’t discern the words “Did you something?” she “oh “i
nothing” was just
say asked
he said praying”
eighty years later they were buried thirty-five feet apart in the same cemetery
“Distance” by Henry Maness “Temple” photograph by Henry Maness
The Birds
by Madelynn Erbe At the lake I saw untouched beauty. It was wild and shy. It was also dirty, savage, pure, and virginal all at the same time. It was a calm little eye surrounded by the crashing waves of countless hardwoods. There were a few trails there, very accessible day hikes with astounding views. I was the center of three hundred and sixty degrees of dead leaf crunch, beaten dirt, and runoff all meeting there at the lake, where it was mysteriously quiet. The whole orchestra of the forest was holding its breath there at the lake, but one step back into the woods and a raucousness filled the air. Trees fell themselves on top of anything and everything, whether someone was around to hear them or not. They simultaneously rotted and gave nourishment. The insect colonies they housed with their departure buzzed happily and crackled their tiny shells for the beetle industry. The trees were louder than helicopters out here, dead or alive. I came here for the songbirds. The wood thrushes, the warblers, woodpeckers and pewees as well as the vireos, the nuthatches, and the chickadees. I didn’t bring any gear besides my binoculars, which probably wasn’t the best idea as the sun was setting on my hike half-finished. I had seen two varieties of woodpeckers by eight p.m., but I had two hours left of hiking and only half an hour of sunlight. Most people would have turned around, but I had to walk the whole of Warbler Road. I didn’t come down here with just my binoculars for nothing. There were other birds I wanted to see.There was also a persistent prickle on the back of my neck. That was the fear of bears and the strange pride in being so far away from all other humans. Many other people came here for the songbirds. Once in 1808, a man in Louisville sold his general store for a cabin on this very lake, where he could watch birds all day. He strode these woods before there were trails. He walked with only calm, shoes, and eyes, save for the sunny mornings he carried his easel to the lakeside. This park was named after him because he painted all the birds he saw with the same hollow love in each black beady eye. The little pits were barrels of the rot and birth of the forest, and their beaks were silent and oil-painted. The paintings were warm-blooded and Kentuckian. I saw them in books and in museums, and I came here to see the real thing. The birds were shunning me today. They made it clear that I wasn’t their type. I was making too much noise, stumbling around stupidly but not quite predatorily. No one was singing any warnings of me, the small lady walking on the Warbler trail. I didn’t hear any of the chickadees at all until dusk, when I was skittering down a hillside. I stopped mid-skitter and aimed my binoculars. Sunlight was really failing me, now, but I needed no light to hear the four yellow little notes: chick
a dee dee chick a dee dee, a perfect sixteenth note run, in perfect tune. The chickadee was a little fiddle. He was a fat bumblebee filled with joy. He loved his own voice, and he used it to say everything. His little silver horn was cherished by the woods. In the morning, the sun quickly warmed the forest to the same temperature, tuning it like a conductor. The wind plucked through the trees like a cigar box guitar, and on this wind flew the nuthatch and the chickadee side by side. They matched the timbre of the timber they inhabited, they vibrated together acoustically. They sat on air like little floating pandas bears with their black eyes. They never shut up because there was always something to sing about. This chickadee sang its simple warning three times before I heard a flutter to the south of me. Squinting 50 feet above my head through the dim forest, I spotted what I had gone to the park to see: a nuthatch. The nuthatch had big feet and an even bigger head. It was loud. It farted its metal dollar store party favor trumpet all over the serious, serious wood. The deer shook their heads at it. The nuthatch was short and fat with two black eyes. It was always punching its head into everything. It pecked under the tree bark with its heavy beak until a scurry of pine beetles revealed itself. The beetles were devoured by the little blue puff with the heavy beak. Punching its head into the crack, eating, the nuthatch listened to the chickadee repeat its call. It called back in between bug bites a less amazing copy of the chickadees’ simple virtuosic melody. The nuthatches never envied the chickadees. They only wanted to be friends. The chickadees were just so happy. If a chickadee saw a bear, a nuthatch would care. It would sing back. I watched as the nuthatch clipped itself loosely to a thin branch, his feet curled around the stem like it was a thing to be ashamed of; a cigarette butt he was about to litter. The nuthatch was watching the chickadee with sweet admiration such as can only come from a pair of tiny black beads in a sea of fluff. I stared for too long. I lost all my light and the rest of my hiking time. Poor planning on my part. When both the chickadee and the nuthatch had gone quiet, it was too dark to see them. It was also too dark to hike the trail, but I did it. John James Audubon had an oil lamp, no doubt. I walked a mile through black vegetation and hissing sounds and scraping trees, thinking only of sharp bear claws and sharp bear teeth. Binoculars weren’t going to protect me. The nuthatches weren’t going to protect me either. They were sailing away to their nests with ease. They didn’t know about the danger of bears. The flew right above them. Hiking back to my little camp, I was a human glow. An inch above my head began a sonic Appalachian darkness, navigable only by the birds.
‘White-breasted Nuthatch” and “Black-capped Chickadee” art by John James Audubon
art by Petra Burkhalter see more of her art at blackknotstudio.com
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