Wizard Spit Issue No. 1

WIZARD

SPIT

Dedicated to Bobby for being most enduring and whose sense of adventure knows no bounds.

Dedicated to parents who show their children the arts early on.

Dedicated to everyone who likes to work for the things they enjoy instead of just talking about doing the things they enjoy.

“It’s a cool place and they say it gets colder You’re bundled up now but wait ‘til you get older But the media men beg to differ Judging by the hole in the satellite picture” -- Walt Whitman

TABLE OF CONTENTS PERFORMANCE ART (I.)

7

1, 2, 3, 4 FUCK THE COPS

HEAD

16

HOW TO: SUPERRAMEN

II.

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20

23 POETRY

III.

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36 THE BIG STINK

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PERFORMANCE ART (I.) “And how has your past experience prepared you to act as museum director?” said an argyle figure as he crossed his legs and tried to appear comfortable in a Gehry chair.

“Well, for starters I graduated from Cornell in 2006,” Brian said in his most confident voice, craning his neck to demonstrate his commitment to strong eye contact.

The interviewer looked over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses. “Go on?”

“That’s it.” gulped Brian.

“Dude, just do it,” piped a voice from behind a zipped-up hoodie.

“No way. You do it!” hissed back a second.

Brian chewed on his tongue and tried to imagine what the man with the glasses was jotting down on the legal pad in his lap, slightly angled just enough to be out of his view.

“I was in a band once,” Brian said with a sniff.

“Really? What instrument do you play?” replied the man without looking up from his clandestine notebook.

“Well, I was the manager.”

“I’ll create a distraction, and then you swipe it, OK?” said Chuck.

“No, this is your stupid idea. I’ll make the distraction; you take it,” countered Rob.

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“ OK, well thanks for coming in today; we’ll review your resumé and contact you once we’ve made a decision.”

Brian stood up, coughing into his left hand while he discreetly wiped a sweaty palm on his khakis and extended his right hand. His gesture was received by a stare cold as murder while the interviewer pushed his tongue into his cheek and dramatically adjusted himself in his seat, never breaking eye contact, before offering his left hand. Puzzled, Brian continued to suggest the right until he noticed the man’s empty right sleeve tucked neatly into his coat pocket. Nothing seals a deal quite like a sweaty left-handed handshake.

Outside the director’s office, Nicole was waiting patiently for her fiancé, passing time by sketching a group of school children who were being corralled through the corridors of the Tallahassee local history section of the museum by a young schoolteacher who wore a face that looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“How’d it go, sweetie?” Nicole was quick to greet him with a peck on the cheek.

“I… I don’t really know,” Brian sighed and looked down at his freshly polished shoes.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much, daddy says you’ve already got it, remember?”

Brian looked over his shoulder to see the man who interviewed him peering through the blinds of his office, which he then closed sharply.

“Go go go go go,” spat a hysterical Rob. “Dude, what’s the one rule of the Bronco?” said Chuck, clearly unfazed by their recent crime.

“I think there were cameras. I know there were cameras. We need to go right now,” repeated Rob, staring off into the distance, lost in his own manic paranoia.

“I just have one rule, man,” Chuck wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere today, or ever.

In a spasm of fear and frustration, Rob managed to click his seatbelt. “Happy now?”

The steak sauce colored truck pulled out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of black exhaust behind them.

“Hi-ya!” The board shatters. A clean break down the middle.

Applause erupts inside the Tae-Kwon-Do studio/community basketball gym.

“Alex, may I now present to you, on behalf of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the green belt. Wear it with pride and let it remind you never to stray from the 10

PERFORMANCE ART (I.)

path of righteousness. Also, tell your mother that will be $23.99.”

“Haaaughhhh,” screams a balding, middle-aged man as he slams his closed fist into the plank. The wood breaks, but off center and in twisted fashion, leaving splinters in his hand.

“Stan, I am sorry, but you have not completed your challenge with the appropriate focus of a warrior. You shall remain a yellow belt.”

“I AM NOT WORTHY OF THE GREEN BELT, SIR,” Stan barked back.

The instructor leaned in to whisper, “You really don’t have to call me sir. We’re trying to ditch the whole military vibe actually; it weirds the kids out. You can address me as Friendship Master Kurt if you’d like.”

It was a long drive back home to an empty split-level condominium for Stan.

Feeling defeated, he let the John Denver cassette loop while he hung his head in shame. Around this time last year, he would have been Christmas shopping for his wife, but she was shopping for someone else now. Around every corner was a ditch that seemed more and more appealing. But Stan had responsibilities at the museum. And plans. “Network Security Administrator” was a broad title.

“Dude, it looks so good,” said Chuck as he straightened out the oil painting of a bronze skinned woman with a rake over one of the many cracks in the wall of their shared studio apartment.

“I don’t know… maybe you should have grabbed something… better?” Rob said with a shrug.

“What do you mean better? It’s in a museum, it’s obviously good. Someone might even mistake it for a photograph, if you squint just right” Chuck was quick to shoot back, defending his selection.

“Yeah, but, like, I think it’s all about being abstract now… like, uh, Picasso and um, Salvia Dahlia,” mumbled Rob, not entirely sure what he was trying to say.

“Oh, fuck all that, Rob. Why would you bother to steal something you can just make yourself with some water colors and a bottle of wine?”

There was a light knock at the door. Two girls with ostensibly thick glasses and short hair let themselves in and immediately made themselves comfortable.

“Chill spot,” a silver-haired girl said in approval of their milk crate palace before she gave Rob a hug. The second girl was not as interested and was already sitting 11

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on the futon rolling a cigarette of some sort. Rob smoothed out his hair and wasted no time.

“So, Karen, how is semester going for you? Producing a lot? Hmm?” Before she had time to reply Rob was already directing her attention to the oil painting of the woman with the rake on the wall.

“This is my latest piece. I call it…” and then he froze, suddenly aware of just how poorly constructed his lie was, and looked to Chuck for advice, who took a big bite of guacamolé, offering nothing more than an audible crunch.

“Untitled. It’s untitled. I wouldn’t want a title to distract from the craft, you know?” Rob felt good about his recovery.

“Oh yeah, totally. Wow this is really good. I didn’t know you were a painter. Or such a feminist. I really dig the sense of autonomy implied by her posture with the rake.”

“Uh, yeah, exactly. Exactly…” Rob scrambled for something to add.

“We have got to collaborate sometime,” the young art school student six hours from home said, beaming up at Rob. Chuck could barely contain his laughter and slipped off towards the fridge. Now seemed like a good time to introduce some alcohol into the equation before the conversation veered into territory that might expose their hoax.

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1, 2, 3, 4 FUCK THE COPS

T

he Internet in all of its aesthetic and coalesced brilliance has birthed yet another sickening trend for any common mousetapper to follow. This trend, however, falls not alongside quoted poetry from unknown writers, vintage photos, and over-priced shoes. No. This trend tiptoes its way into your subconscious through what I like to call a “Big Man Big Mouth” scenario.

This happens when someone who is seemingly cooler (synonym for: stronger, funnier, cuter) blabs about a political issue they heard through random conversation and takes up the same view the last person they spoke to follows. The elicitor (cooler person) is the prompter of the “Big Man Big Mouth” scenario.

Since human beings have trouble distinguishing between who is smart and who is good at being loud the lines of communication become very blurred in scenarios such as this.

The exact topic that has been picked up by the BMBM scenario can be easily identified as the “Fuck Tha Police” movement. In which everyone hops on board the proverbial train of hating the, fucking, cops. The only problem about this particular movement is its consistency in provoking normally undecideds at the poles into anti-cop flag bearers and annoying Internet spammers.

For example, below are some points of a conversation that popped up online over the topic. The spark of the conversation was “I really

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don’t like the police.” The names of the speakers will not be included.

Speaker 1: “Many laws are morally corrupt in my eyes. Police have become brutish killers, an army used to protect the rich from the poor.

Fuck the American judicial system.

Why should I obey those whom make the laws, but don’t follow them themselves? The government is bought out, and it’s coming time to tear it down very soon.

Speaker 2: “A lot of the police are poor American citizens as well. Sure you get a bad cop every now and again but that’s very hard to avoid.

One day you’ll need the police, and you’ll realize they aren’t so bad after all.”

Speaker 3: “Oh Speaker 2 we need the police all right cus what would we do with out an ass hole arresting stoners and arriving 15 minutes late (or not at all considering my moped getting stolen) to every fuckin crime naw fuck that.”

Speaker 4: “I wish everyone would get off this ‘fuck the cops’ thing. Shit is getting old.”

Speaker 3: “ Why dont you go back to your nazi facist meeting then Speaker 4” From there it gets worse. Speaker 3 begins to beg for background checks

1, 2, 3, 4 FUCK THE COPS

for every cop that Speaker 4 believes is a “good cop”. Speaker 1 claims he can pull all this evidence of cops being unjust from Twitter. Pretty great, I know. I love the Internet too. Now maybe you see the demographics we’re dealing with here.

Now don’t think I’m telling you to love cops and be extremely respectful and abide by the rules, good lord nothing would get done. I’m more so just saying to approach the situation with a leveler head instead of this “Fuck cops! They are the reason I’m poor and jobless! Yo let me hit that bong” mentality that follows police being mentioned on the Internet.

I’m only bringing this up because Springfield, MO has become quite the hotspot for cop hatred considering the events of late. Now as I relay these stories I’d like for readers to approach each event I speak on with some liberality as well as satire. Oh and I’m sure once I give the update I’ll cook up a whole new batch of cop-haters. For now though, enjoy.

The first of the occurrences took place on my birthday (April 27th) early in the morning outside the Zan nightclub. In the three videos that I watched, which can all be found on YouTube under the Springfield Police Department account, you see the normal gatherings at Zan. Flat-bills and tank tops, spaghetti straps and vape pens, and an even larger mass of uncategorized horny drunken zombies to really fill out the visual ambiance of one of the many shitty clubs of Springfield. It looks to be a seemingly normal night.

Then out of nowhere a struggle begins and a man is thrown curbside and arrested by nearby police. Shortly

after another fight breaks out in the front door of Zan. Officers begin to pull out the woman who is causing the trouble only to have an unknown man off the street shove an officer.

This is when things really got heated.

The crowd poured out and the woman who was struggling with police managed to land a punch alongside one of the officer’s heads.

He turned and slammed her into the concrete. She didn’t move again till the officers put cuffs on her.

Of course by now everyone who was in the club is now outside “wooping” and laughing about what had happened and the situation became somewhat contained. The officers arrested three suspects that night.

Pretty great, right? A riot almost started in Springfield. Well there’s a few more that’ll blow that out of the water.

On May 13th, 2014 Tracy Lingier was at a storage facility near west Sunshine and James River Freeway.

It was there she pulled a gun on two workers at the facility. The workers luckily escaped unharmed and contacted police from a nearby radio station. Tracy sat tight waving her gun around at employees in the office till police showed up. She was told to drop her firearm and come into custody. She managed to explode out the front door and aim it at the officers in attendance. Having threatened the officers yet not firing off a single shot, the officers opened fire. Indeed Tracy was killed at that very moment. An investigation ensued and all officers present in the firefight were asked to take a paid leave of absence till the crime scene 15

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and autopsy could be fully developed.

Crazy right? Well turns out that Mrs. Lingier had been battling cancer for the past four years, according to her daughter, and had seemingly gone off the handle. THAT’S RIGHT FOLKS; THE POLICE HAVE INDEED KILLED A CANCER PATIENT. WAH-BAM! THAT’S A JUICY HOMERUN FOR US INTERNET FOLKS! WE TAKE WHAT WE CAN GET! Tantalizing huh? Well as good Sammy Jackson might say, “Hold on to your (Butts).”

Reportedly on May 9th, 2014 Eric Butts was standing outside the WalMart on Glenstone and Bennett in Springfield panhandling for a pack of cigarettes. Butts having violated his probation for a burglary committed two years ago had a warrant for his arrest. An officer by the name of Jason Shuck approached Butts (*crowd laughter*) and questioned him. Butts (*crowd laughter*) frantic, fled towards Bennett in an attempt to escape only to have a bullet laid into him by the officer.

A notably over-exaggerated action

by Shuck and one that has forced him to take a paid leave of absence for an unknown amount of time.

Considering the community in Springfield this is a very bizarre and irrational incident. Just wait though; it gets much better (*crowd gasps*).

Ashley Cook, the roommate and lover of Butts (*crowd laughter once more*), relinquished to the press that indeed Eric is mentally challenged/handicapped and could be confused and scared easily by an officer’s presence. MY GOD, SPRINGFIELD POLICE 16

HAVE SHOT A MENTALLY CHALLENGED MAN OVER THREE DOLLARS. HERE YOU GO INTERNET; HERE IS YOUR TROJAN HORSE. HERE IS YOUR GOLDEN CHALICE; HERE IS YOUR FLAG TO WAVE INTO THE INFERNAL FIRES OF BOHEMIA!

Three insane stories all having happened near the same amount of time is pretty unlikely, at least for southwest Missouri residence. So I’ll just let you soak this in. Enjoy the affable feeling and notion that overcomes you when you actually have a reason to feel something instead of just pulling from the think tank of some other idiot who got on Tumblr. Enjoy it. Really.

Hmmmaawwwhhhh….

Now calm down, shut the hell up, and go do something else besides complain on the Internet. Read a book, do some therapeutic art, clean your room. If it bothers you that much join city council or something.

Start a campaign to end the “Fuck Tha Police” era and start a “We’re Morally Obligated” era. Who knows, may catch on. Just hire some really loud idiots to spread the word around.

May light up like wildfire. Like I said though, who knows?

By Nicholas Nutting

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

HEAD He wakes to his alarm clock; his hand evocatively erupts from his sheet’s plume to silence it, a moan sounds out in his room. Groggy, he moves to his bathroom to evacuate and extricate before starting his day at eight o’clock in Chemistry.

The sun bleeding through his nearly closed blinds shows into his room. Light covers his walls and as the horizon moves to the clouds iridescence reflects through the stained glass tapestries he made when he was a child that now hang on his window near the pane. The colors broadcast onto his dresser top and reflect off the bolted mirror all through his room.

His books lay all across the room whilst so much more in the space is kept so tidy and neat. Collections of his favorite films sit nicely plush underneath his television that mirrors more often than it projects nowadays as he often has no time for such things. School, work, family, friends, and now a girlfriend to ponder on leaves just enough time to discourage his book collection and admire his eyelids once a day, but not much else.

His clothes are haphazardly folded or hung and put away in his closet. And though his clothes do seem to find their places well, a festoon of comic books decorate the floor making his daily routine that much longer. The fact that he destroys nearly two or three booklets upon each entrance into his wardrobe also amounts to a few moments of self-reflection (self-hatred). Though today, his past knowledge of the decoration allows a quick reflex and side step to avoid destruction amongst his collection. He picks his shirt out and feels for denim tucked behind his hung jackets and pulls out a pair of jeans from the recessive shelf.

Clothed and extricated he gathers his books and escapes from his motley room. He runs down his apartment steps feeling the sting of lateness as he realizes the time reads ten before eight. He starts his car and hears quickly after the reverberations of ten other cars in the lot warm their engines by the click of their keys. He realizes then this is no longer a single fight against time, but a fight against traffic. He reels out of the parking lot and into the street.

Eight o’clock arrives right on time, and so does he. The door swings open and he appears into his lab room and sits beside his lab partners.

The lab the class is beginning to work on seems already halfway done as all the gear and utensils they need is already set out for them. The man seems lost amongst the lab sheets and double-sided words of his teacher. He winces as he raises his eyes to stare at Mr. Winston whom feels the need to shout even though they have left the lecture hall.

“Class! Today we shall be dealing in the pH of solutions! Specifically, the solutions I have provided you!” Winston smiles a coy and weighted smile that 18

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not even the suckers share. “The trays to the right (or left) of you withhold all the tools you’ll need today! If any of you have questions, hesitate to ask!” He shouts his last line louder than the rest of his sentiment.

He conducts his choir a bit more and makes sure each individual watches his hand movements just as rapidly as they follow his thoughts. A few times poor Winston struggles to capture the class accordingly and belches out a few hollow notes that remind everyone that he was trained to be an opera singer, but unfortunately lacked vigor to compete.

Finally, he finishes and waddles back to his desk on top of his swollen kankles.

The man stares at him a bit longer until finally he turns to his partner and begins work.

He did not hate Winston. He only hated humanity, as every man does from time to time.

The class is finally dismissed and the man is allowed to leave the classroom to lunch. He packed a few crackers and some peanut butter thinking he might get by until work that night. He scarfs them down quickly. Soon enough it is twelve o’clock and he must attend his next class.

He steps into his classroom and everything is all old and everything is all stale and everything is all perfect. He enjoys this class. His teacher begins his lecture to the class on Martin Luther’s relation to the invasion of the German city of Munster. He is a disillusioned and mad young man, he makes the topics very interesting as he delves deep into each subject. The man is tantalized.

Voices at the back of the class let out snickers and whispers that drift languidly through the room like smoke. Eventually the crackles find his ear and he winces at the noise. “Debauchery” and “dislocation” run through his mind.

Fortifying himself, he cuffs his lengthened hair around his ears and suppresses their breaths.

He did not hate the two obvious slinks at the back of the class. He only hated humanity, as every man does from time to time.

The class is dismissed and soon enough the man is standing in front of a blank canvas with all sorts of oranges, reds, and greens placed in a nice palette next to his workspace. He is thoughtless. It is an art form that has decayed for hundreds of years and now finally dead.

His teacher is a smart man. “How smart do you have to be to arrange colors?”

The man whispers whilst his eyes fleck from one side of his canvas to the other.

“My eyes do it just fine.” He keeps this statement inside his head this time.

He peers above his canvas top to glimpse at works his classmates have done. Nearly all of them are poor Warhol representations or are “juxtaposed surrealist”, as they may be classified. Exhausted by the competition and his lack of talent he laughs at his applicability.

The paint smells fill the classroom and he falls in love with the quiet stroke of brush. His teacher gasps at other students’ work and heralds it as “WORTHY OF REPROACH”. He looks up once more to look upon his other classmates’ 19

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work. He smirks at the authenticity in such a pale recreation. He gathers his things.

He did not hate the colors or canvases laid before him. He only hated humanity, as every man does from time to time.

The quiet echo of Brazilian guitar fill his eardrums. Fluorescent volcanoes of light spew onto the concrete floor and reflect dully on to the eyes of attendees nearby. Dense linings of food and drink lay across every row and yet still things are inadequate and thrown to the side. He stands just below the speaker in his favorite aisle listening to the dull fingerings of a Flamenco enthusiast. Despite his current condition, he can only hope and wait for his exit from the place.

Lost in a reverie as dark thoughts descend he hears the familiar crash of glass to stone. He walks calmly, quickly to the front and notices two milk jars splayed across the floor and milk still rushing the ground from which it burst, its tendrils reaching the front door nearly. He gasps with no sense of true shock whatsoever, as it is so common to feel nothing at all. He nods to his coworkers who are currently in watch over the spilled area to make sure no potential lawsuits near the area. At this, his legs push him to the janitorial closet and he gathers a mop and mop water.

Though the chore is rigorous and rather droning he is increasingly stimulated by the act of cleaning. He finds it pleasing, and now, spiritual to some degree.

Most of all he finds it sucks away time from his shift giving him an escape from an imagined obsession with “Brazilian Guitar Radio”.

He sops up the milk as best he can, returning to drain his milky mop water a few times. He sweeps the glass shards that sprinkle a ten-yard perimeter across the front of the store. All is done in nearly an hour. He looks to the clock and sees he still has an hour left.

An hour left to wander the towering rows of nothing. An hour left to contemplate reality and the cold resolute of existence. The refrigerator stands beaming incandescence whilst the shelves lean like frigid monoliths reaching down to ask you “Who?” The man never has an answer. He only closes his ears and fills the gaping hollows, and often fails at the latter returning still to his echoing subconscious.

I embark slowly across town methodically and without quiver. My heart beating hard and my pulse remaining steady I smell the night and enjoy the flavor. I am alone and wondering why. These questions press my foot to pedal harder and the “FWUP” of each streetlight I glide under becomes increasingly bass-filled.

Finally the speakers announce that closing time is fast approaching and that the cashiers at the front would check each and every customer out. A sigh of relief flies from the lungs of the man as he ends his stare into the face of a cereal box and his contemplation of doom ends. He gathers remaining carts out in the parking lot and corrals them into the front of the store. He sweeps all 20

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across the store making sure to slide over each dust bunny, crumb, or speck on the floor to insure he can see his reflection wherever he stands. He realizes then he never truly wishes to escape this place when he feels the grip of melancholy amongst the shelves, but only wishes to escape himself. He smirks and turns the corner to find another smashed milk jar on the floor already having stretched its arms wide across the floor. He looks past each of his shoulders and sees no culprit. He hates humanity for the last time that day.

I pace inanely on the streets of my hometown distancing myself from my car.

I can’t breath a normal breath with my blood pumping so sporadically. Anger fuels all my decisions and I let out a shout out into the sky, but aim it at myself.

I swing my clods at enemies that aren’t there and feel my stomach bubbling with acid. Onlookers stare bewildered like deer in crosshairs. “Don’t even try!”

I scream at their naive faces. I trudge off towards a nearby alleyway all the while muttering empty nothings under my breath.

The alley is dark and the brick makes quaint juxtapositions for my considerable lack of position at the moment. A varmint shows itself and spills into the alley a discarded butt from the womb of the garbage next me. It bevels and flexes its toothed, gnarled jawline letting gaseous puffs of rotten swing through the air followed by yaps of all kinds. I stand harrowed but in fear of the beast. It lurches towards me and I scamper down the alley away from it. It retires just before the edge of light breaches the darkened crypt and slowly the creature hunkers back to its place. I am defeated and feel cheap. Screaming I sprint into the alley once more, after the beast. It hears me and swivels around once again, showing its teeth. At this it sees my uncapped madness and gives an empty beaded look just before it hauls back to its home.

I chant in victory and let anyone hear my roar. I feel as volatile as ever and can hardly contain my heart. Then I see a car on the fringe of a neighboring parking lot. There is a man attempting to gain entrance. I revel at this moment. My knife is hot in my pocket.

I take on to a sprint across the asphalt with knife in hand. I scream. The bastard swings around and braces himself against his car and I bury my knife deep into him.

From the very moment flesh meets steel I feel an overwhelming dissatisfaction.

Blood pumps onto my palms and my victim falls contortedly, yet limpidly onto my feet. A surge of doubt in my own humanity fills me and I whimper laying my forearms against the windows of his car.

A hollow and air-sucking “God” is spoken and escapes from the scene. The man lays cold and dead alongside his tires. His indignation from the day flows out to the pavement and soaks up into the sole of his murderer.

By Nicholas Nutting

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HOW TO: SUPERRAMEN Ramen noodles: A quintessential recipe for students who don’t know how to cook, and a staple in the diets of homies on the grind worldwide. Although indubitably delicious, nobody just eats ramen as a treat once a month-- When you’re eating ramen, you’re Eating Ramen, so a little variety can go a long way whether you’re cooking up the perfect late night snack, or a full meal substitute, with a few tips, everyone can enjoy this calorie-dense block of starch.

YOU WILL NEED: + Pkg. Ramen Noodles (Shinji Spicy is my fav, “Oriental” is the best of the .20 cent pkgs) + Egg (1 per pkg. of noodles) + Hella Soy Sauce + Frickload of Cock Sauce + Heat Source (Stovetop, campfire, lake of fire; avoid microwaves) + Small Pot (insert your own 420 joke here) + Wooden Spoon (Good ole wooden spoon) + Water (optional substitute: malt liquor) OPTIONAL: Strainer Chopsticks Serving bowl (KITCHEN HACK: JUST USE THE POT)

COOKING INSTRUCTIONS: 1.) Pour like, just enough water to submerge your noodle brick.

2.) Boil that shit over your stove or heat source of choice on HIGH. 3.) A watched pot never boils, ya dummy. Read a book or check your email.

Maybe you should do some push-ups.

4.) Once you have achieved ROLLING BOIL status, drop that brick into the pot.

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5.) Notice how the noodles absorb the water. Amazing.

6.) Reduce heat to medium-low (~4 on my stove).

7.) Place your trusty [Wooden Spoon] across the top of the pot. The spoon will keep the liquid from spilling over. I don’t know why, man.

8.) Set your timer for 3 minutes. HINT: use your phone.

9.) Check email again/contemplate today’s existential crisis.

10.) Now it is time to crack your egg, and drop it into the pot.

11.) Pretend the egg yolk contains a bunch of baby AIDS spiders and SMASH IT UP with your [Wooden Spoon] very quickly before it hardens and swirl around the pot. This is gonna give it a reeeal nice texture.

12.) Let it cook another minute, then add the included flavor packet. *some people only add this to the bowl after noodles are done, but fuck that. It doesn’t dissolve evenly and losing a tiny bit of MSG flavoring won’t hurt you.

FYI these contain “meat” products.

13.) Drain water if necessary, and pour contents into a bowl.

14.) Pour a lot of soy sauce. More than you think.

15.) Squirt a little sriracha. Less than you think.

16.) Garnish w/ chopped onion and serve hot!

Consider adding supplemental protein like hot dogs, deli cuts, dead cops, leftover chicken, cashew nuts, or tofu cubes.

Mmmm. Tastes like unpaid internships and a romanticized idea of poverty.

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II. A broken elevator. Wonderful. Fucking wonderful. What is this, the Holidae Inn? Eight stories? Is this a fucking joke? No doubt I’ll be a sweaty pile of shit by the time I reach the party. This will certainly not help reinforce the savvy adult athlete persona I have been cultivating all winter… Well this night is ruined. Absolutely ruined. I can’t believe I’m going to let $26.98 worth of cider go to waste. I’ll have to tell the boss something came up… needs to be important, an emergency perhaps.. I had to fill in for an Ultimate Frisbee tournament?

Yes… I’ll get a good lunch story or two out of it. Maybe I can flip this and still score some points with Nicole...

“You know babe, it’s the holidays-- we don’t really want to go to this. We should be with family. What does Dr. Jargensmeyer always say at the end of session?

Family first.”

Nicole noticed Brian’s anxiety, as she always does, but said nothing.

“Really? What about your boss? And the promotion?”

“Fuck the promotion. Like I need to be giving anymore of my, our, family time to that old bastard.”

Oh yeah. That’s good. I sound like a real maverick. God, she’s probably so turned on.

“Well, if you can’t hang with the big dogs, then you’d better stay on the, uh, porch” a nasally voice chimed in.

Shit. Where did Max come from?

“Oh, Max! Didn’t hear you come in, hah, although guess you can’t expect me to with those tiny feet of yours.”

Good neg. Riposte! That should knock him off balance.

“Right.. well I’ll be headed to the top now. Which way are you going?” Max dropped his head forward with a smirk, eyeing Nicole.

“We were just heading up ourselves, in fact!”

Nicole stared knives nine inches deep into Brian’s eyes. He blinked. Twice.

Deal with her later… must focus on the immediate threat.

Max looked at Brian. Max looked at Nicole. He noticed her vexation and rolled his shoulders back with a chuckle. He returned his gaze to Brian, who was ready to receive it with a well-choreographed counter-smirk he had practiced in the mirror earlier. The trio began up the stairs. Max led the trek, Brian rushed to 25

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catch up, and Nicole held up the rear with folded arms. At the second turn, Brian took a shot at making a pass. Max blocked and doubled his pace. Brian passed the cider off to Nicole and began taking double steps until he was parallel with his rival.

Haha! Nothing to this stair business. One after the other… lift with the heel… counter swing with the arms. Almost there.

Panting from straining his lazy bones, Brian tasted victory in the form of his own salty sweat when he reached the top floor. He opened the door out of the stairwell, and set about looking for a restroom to clean up.

If only I could find some paper towels. I can finally put the Lifehacks I picked up from Yahoo Answers to good use. All about the proper shake and fold technique. Mix in a little Germ-X solution and I’ll be fresher than Old Spice in no time at all. Well, close to Old Spice. Nothing is fresher than Old Spice.

Brian finished his forum-stickied hyper-efficient cleansing routine and opened the door just in time to catch the end of Max’s toast to The President. Finding himself once again out of breath, Brian crossed the room at a 40 degree angle and forced his way into the conversation. “...and it’s practically all they drink in Seattle,” said Max, who had read the packaging on Brian’s cider on the way up the stairs.

Son of a bitch.

Brian chimed in, “You like the cider, yeah? I bought the best selling brand. They said it was the best on NPR.” Silence hit him the face like a sock filled with prison issue bars of soap.

“Yeah, totally the best brand... if you’re a hipster!” spat Max. The crowd went wild. Max was showered with handshakes, high fives, and fist bumps, by four men of appropriately descending age.

“Haha, those fucking hipsters, right guys?” said Brian in between gulps of cider and air.

The laughter faded and the crowd dispersed.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Nicole stole all the good liquor and left.

26

PERFORMANCE ART (II.)

Operation #2 At a quarter past three in the morning, the two neophyte thieves made their final checks before stepping outside into the cold air of opportunity. The car ride was somber and silent except for the steady rattle of a hanging community college lanyard against the windshield. Rob suppressed a familiar nervousness in his stomach. He looked over at Chuck, both eyes focused on the road, left arm hanging limp on the steering wheel, like it was just another road trip to nowhere or weekend beer run. Chuck held a neutral expression on his face, interrupted only by the occasional facial twitch or double blink. Rob envied his stoicism in moments of action, but even more so he wished he could express the same level of calm during the idle days that made up the majority of his life.

They did two laps around the parking lot, before parking the truck on a residential street fifty yards behind the museum, confident they were free from the jurisdiction of any camera lens. The air was still. The streetlights flickered in unison every forty-six seconds.

Rob was walking backwards in circles making sure he wasn’t being followed.

Chuck was already looking for an entrance.

Rob was ruffling through his rucksack of assorted tools-- mostly screwdrivers and odd wrenches he had acquired from his dad’s garage, until he found a disappointingly light crowbar and began to leverage one of the main windows.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he noticed Chuck approaching with a rock.

“Wait!”

Chuck paused, reluctantly.

“What?”

“Is breaking a window really necessary? Somebody is going to have to fix that window. Do we want to be those guys?” He had one hand on his hip and was lightly tapping the miniature crowbar against his shoulder as he pondered the consequences of their action for the first time, apparently. Chuck copied his pose, if only for a second before answering, “Most definitely” and shattering the window with one swing. They were in.

Stan was replying to a post on his favorite survivalist forum with instructions on how to properly fit a gas mask on a dog when he received an alert on his second monitor. He immediately saved his draft and tabbed into the control panel for the museum’s security cameras. The silent alarm had been triggered in the “Trail of Tears” wing. His chair was still spinning by the time he was out the front door.

27

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

I nside the museum Rob clung to walls, expecting laser tripwires and motion sensors around every corner. Chuck strolled about the center of the room, stopping to admire different pieces with genuine curiosity and making sure not to touch anything. When Rob finally caught up, they both saw it.

“What.. is it?” said Rob. “I don’t know. Looks like shit. Is this what you’re talking about?”

Before them, behind a red rope hung a magnificent canvas adorned with warm magentas, pastel purples and a deep reds, splattered at random across a round, reflective backdrop.

Rob was in awe.

“It’s so… vaginal.”

Chuck shook his head.

“OK, so this is definitely the one, let’s fucking go.”

Chuck grabbed the painting by the frame, and pulled hard. But it wouldn’t leave the wall. couple faint footsteps echoed down the hall. The thieves froze. They A exchanged a glance and ran down the Nautical History wing. Rob doubled back and ripped the painting from the wall with a surprising exercise of strength.

He felt his muscles burn with a foreign feeling he thought might be what brave people refer to as “determination.” He really wanted to bang that art school girl.

Around the corner, Chuck took refuge inside a scaled-down model of Spanish slave ship. No need to locate Rob; he could hear his heart pounding next to him as he clutched the mission objective with an iron grip.

“I don’t hear anything. I think it’s clear.” Rob poked his head out from the ship cabin, only to be pulled back in by his collar.

“Of course they’re still here. Probably waiting for us,” said Chuck, who was somehow the authority in this situation.

“We might have to stay the night. Better make yourself comfortable,” said Chuck as he spread his jacket out into a bed of sorts. He sprawled out and laid his head on palm. “Got any cards?”

28

POETRY

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

Collected #39 (when you become a sunset the world will purge) I suns sieved into ocean sway painting away your today. dripping through the walls and cracks of your effervescent heartstring rack into your squishy fold, your body sack. you were there all purple and orange as the planes ripped through your flanks and I sat all wet, soaked in dreams you became too many, letting through seams the sunset I now see tinted red from your damp tattered head.

II they came, I--not looking-they came into my dream a blackened cough--a horrible dream. the heavens grew chasms hell gasped for air as the earth shook away to show its decay.

I tossed across the hall as light as a ball-while the floors became dust and the walls stripped to rust.

I woke up this morn all bloody with dirt as I realized earth itself did cause this hurt.

Collected #41 (her legs) trumpets make their trickling wave as the baristas rush to meet their make-the rustling waves of newsprint shuffle under the ambient tint-glistening legs shimmer across the floor belonging to a waist that slips in the door-she cuts through the void as a knife would smash through a pane of glass DAMN THAT ASS! her busy fidget lets me know she’s come for blood the men all hold the air following her every thud as her soles clap under those glistening legs 32

POETRY

Collected #42 (her smile) she haucks pretentious banter through her porous face spackled with a paste meant for beauty; poor in taste she rambles of nothing quite sincere while she crosses those legs that brought her here.

I forget the importance of her smile when she speaks of weathering the climate of social denial.

Collected #51 it’s all melting away again-the rust on my skin from where the rain came in. the Midwest was not forgiving, and oh my lust, I have no love for giving-for it has seeped into the ground where all my pain has been since the rain came in. all this time reminiscent of past never brought me days just nights of tormented gasps-that seep through the walls falling on deaf ears of passersby standing wet that day the rain came in.

By Phoenix Lee

33

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

Yellowed Teeth Cryptic talk of things unknown has lead To a variety of exits, but only exits are them.

Whether by pen or sword a gate will swing To an open blackness hung on the fibers Of Lies knitted and tied.

Find a noose to conform around the necks of corpses While wars rage in digestion of substances wholly Considered. Now be pleased when a rotting burn Stains your very skin as a light of contorting brilliance Reflects to show a quiet humanity, but you O waver of hands.

Finder of falsity and injustice, the chains now bind you to mast.

The ship governed was yours, and the anchor heaved by your hand.

Claim now the scar of domestication, but Truth guides believers.

The darkened harbor finds blood in sand.

A ticking clock, a hidden metaphor, Is lost. It is only in devout for air When you wish upon the pillars, though they spin.

Grasp at them and lick at the drips of sweat.

Eat barbed wire and taste cold flesh.

Though you smile through yellowed teeth When the clock times out and buzzers ring You’ll drown in alcohol and sweating mountaintops.

Your cosmic farce is a light towards an end To the grievances of man and Gripping on to troubled knots, Make peace to your amends Or play forever on unknown lands.

“Who am I?”

By Nicholas Nutting

34

POETRY

Summer in the early 2000s. Unspecific Love, Missouri I may have dreamt I was sleeping or awakening, Cerulean calls clamoring their way up the concrete legs of bridges across the USA. And I may have been driving on stretches of highway, towards the coast, where I may have hoped to be engulfed, fully.

And I may have passed by a growing forest, light blue and pine, where I saw fog hang for the first time, skin pressed to skin, misery and bliss, days lent to fever me into any passing Whim, earth and shadow, I commend them with a smile and a pressed-folded hand, it’s sweating because it’s summer, but it’s across my breast and pulsing. Because, I have a heart and sometimes it beats and sometimes it sings and so, I think, we all may be dreaming.

So then, unfettered, I fall.

The days have piled, someone else’s who say they know me, I cannot stay for long.

I must keep falling falling through my parent’s bedroom ceiling, crashing and breaking the linoleum, their old bed in half, going, past my brother’s window he’s playing Gameboy, he is eight years old.

And past the bookshelves, and the years of family pets, to every graveyard I ever visited, till I break the surface and look out to all the floating photo albums of our vacations, to lakes, National Parks, the Southwest, and even once to the ocean.

35

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

And finally to fetter, ball and chain, whom I kiss, lovingly. I look up from my ankles and my knees to the trees, where young Missourians come out of the thickets, billowing masses of overalls and black jeans, their mop buckets sloshing of inland swamp and high boots, fishing wire and combs, well-dressed Missourians smoking spliffs on the Bluffs, sunrise is but another day for holding hands, kissing, sharing lettuce wraps, or sleeping.

I dream of my friends, often.

Often I see them on porches, dazedly reaching inside the cooler and I think I love them the most for letting me die, as we all near summer, we are all nearing summer, deaf ears and swimming, we are drunk and Summer is near and also dying. Summer is as the Moon lies atop every neighborhood pool in summer and Summer is dying like Cynthia’s wild petunias, or dead like possums on county roads, blood and stench and road flies, Missouri, follows me in summer and in summer I cum over and over. So that, in death I am transformed, in dreams I am transformed and my friends don’t care about the coffin I lied in for years, because it’s Summer again and we all know we’re dreaming and we all know we’re dying.

By Alexandra Webster

36

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

III. Stan knew exactly where they were. He knew this museum like the knob on the back of his neck. Stan was a patient man himself, and wanted to see how this would play out. By protocol he should have already called the police, but considering all of his recent phone-ins to report chemtrail sightings, it was unlikely they would respond. This was his jurisdiction anyway. He always knew the museum security was a joke. In his mind he was already drafting the incident report. This was his opportunity to bring some glory to the IT department. This was his green belt.

nother pair of footsteps sounded off. Sharper, a higher tone than before. Heels.

A Nicole was cleaning out her office. She kicked over a “Women in Art” display.

Poured wine into the Wetlands aquatics case, watched it diffuse throughout the tank as the fish took refuge at the bottom.

S tan responded to the commotion by running full speed towards the mayhem, dual-wielding fold-out nightsticks he ordered off the internet. He had not expected a crisis of this magnitude and reflexively launched his own counteroffensive allowing his parasympathetic nervous system to eclipse what little restraint remained in his psyche.

Nicole never saw it coming. Stan might have been able to prevent the accident if he wasn’t so blinded by his lust for justice and already half way into a spinning tiger strike when he realized who his target was. Too late. A warrior always follows through.

The blood trickled down her nose slow like a winter cold at first. Nicole remained composed while she dabbed her finger above her upper lip, feeling the warm blood on her middle finger. The blood began to pour. Down her chin, onto her breasts and eventually reaching the floor. Stan, horrified at what he’d done, decided to retreat.

Nicole came back into the Naval wing, blood staining her packed bags. This image was more than enough to convince Rob and Chuck that it was time to go. While Rob was crafting an escape plan in his head, Chuck found another window, and smashed it with a cannonball from the eighteenth century.

38

PERFORMANCE ART (III.)

“Holy shit, man,” “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT,” Chuck fumbled the keys as he tried to start the truck. Rob looked at the painting in his hands, looked deep into the center of that gestalt of odd shapes and colors, and he saw it-- the sheer terror of opportunity and the chaos of chance looking back at him.

Back at the apartment/thieves’ guild, they argued over where to hang their newest loot while Chuck tried to settle Rob’s paranoia.

“As far as the cops will know, you’ve been blond your whole life,” Chuck said as he mixed a bowl of peroxide and baking soda.

“Now repeat after me: Nah, officer, that ain’t me.”

The voicemail Nicole left Brian letting him know not to come looking for her didn’t bring any tears, but the bloody mess inside the museum and the imagined consequences of such a security failure during his first month as acting Director did. He knew he had a real problem on his hands once he realized the security footage was stolen as well. He reached beneath his desk for a bottle of Southern Comfort, but found none.

After a solid weeping session behind the closed blinds of his office, Brian put on his business face and handled the situation the only way he knew how. He found someone else to blame.

“Oh, your hair… wow, it’s so…” Karen cycled through euphemisms in her head while Rob stared back at her with his best poker face.

“D.I.Y.!” She finished her thought and chased it with a drink.

“Yeah, I was just feeling creative, you know, and what is an artist’s body, if not an extension of the canvas of our experience?” said Rob with gusto. He was getting better at lying, even Chuck noticed.

Karen beamed.

“So, show me this expressionist piece you’ve been telling me about!”

“It’s actually in my bedroom, it’s just that personal. I like to keep my art private.”

“Bedroom? But this is a studio?” Karen said, puzzled.

“Well, my closet is really big.” Rob said, without a hint of sarcasm.

“Oh, well I guess you can’t be too safe these days… especially with the weird art 39

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

thefts that keep happening.”

Rob choked on his drink. Chuck stopped dancing behind them, craned his neck to listen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rob said.

“Who wants another drink?” Chuck shouted from across the room.

“Yeah, it’s the strangest thing. One of my classmates actually had a piece up at the Tallahassee Local and it just disappeared one night. Super weird because she’s just a student in my program; it’s not like it’s even worth anything. So where’s your hidden masterpiece?” she said with a giggle.

Rob leaped between her and the closet door.

“It’s not here. It’s not ready.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy. Maybe I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

The drinks were catching up with her.

“NO. I mean, no.” Rob was defending the closet door with both arms stretched across the frame.

Karen looked at Rob, clearly irritated.

“You probably wouldn’t even get it,” Rob said with his nose upturned.

Karen looked at Chuck, eating salsa off the countertop. She looked at Rob and his fried white hair, then down at the unidentified stains on the carpet and mountain of trash by the door and wondered what she was even doing there.

She gathered her things and promptly left without saying goodbye.

Back at the museum, Brian was poking his head into different offices trying to find a minority. He noticed Stan’s office was empty. He took a moment to sit in Stan’s chair, and collect his thoughts. He wished Nicole was here to help him.

He contemplated the possibility that maybe it didn’t matter how he explained the breakin, since she gotten him the job in the first place, he would likely lose it without her father’s support. He let his head hang, resting his chin on his chest, when a young tour guide appeared at the door and let him know there was an incident going on in the main gallery.

40

PERFORMANCE ART (III.)

Before a crowd of about twenty people, Stan stood in the center of the room clothed in his Tae-Kwon-Do uniform.

“Listen up, sheeple, I’ve got some things to say.”

To his surprise, everyone actually turned towards him, giving him their undivided attention. He took a knee. He motioned for everyone else to take a knee with him. Again, he was surprised that the room yielded to his request. He didn’t realize it, but the crowd was gathered for a performance art piece scheduled to take place at the museum later that afternoon anyway.

“Some of you may recognize me as the Network Security Administrator of this museum. My name is Stanley Ashley Conrad, and I have failed to uphold the value of justice. Worse yet, I injured a friendly ally. All I have left is my honor.”

Stan procured a shiny, short dagger from his robe and proceeded to make a deep horizontal cut across his stomach. At this point, some parents ushered their children out of the room. Wincing, but refusing to scream, Stan withdrew the blade to make a second, vertical cut up his abdomen, before passing out. The audience watched from a distance, mesmerized. From the back of the crowd someone started clapping.

By Bryce Craig

41

THE BIG STINK It happened gradually, with just a few people at first, but spread like wildfire— really, really smelly wildfire. I remember the first time I saw it happen up close. I was in my doctor’s office for a physical and she was in the middle of explaining that I was going to need to schedule a prostate exam in the coming weeks when it hit her. It scared the bejeebus out of me. I mean, you see videos of it happening on YouTube and you watch reports of the “anomaly” on TV, but it doesn’t prepare you for the real thing. It sure as hell didn’t prepare this poor woman.

I’ve transcribed the conversation here: “Well, everything checks out, Pete. Cholesterol’s good, blood pressure’s just a little high, weight is average. Cut back on the smoking and drinking and you’ll be healthy as a horse.”

“I don’t know. The trouble is, if I quit one I start up on the other twice as bad. At this point I’ve resigned to being a chain smoker, a raging alcoholic, or someone who dabbles in both.”

(She laughs at this.)

“All the same. Try to lay off the stuff. You’ll be turning 50 in a month—“ “—Don’t say it out loud, for heaven’s sake!— (More laughter. I’m on a roll.)

“You’ll be turning 50, and that means you’ll need to get a pros— pfffffbrrrrbpffbrrbprrrb. Pffbrrrbpprrrb. Pffff. Brrb. Pff.” And then her eyes go wide and she tries to scream but the only thing that happens is that she farts some more, her gas escaping from behind her teeth and sliding over her tongue. And God, did that room smell something fierce when she finally stopped. I tried to reassure her, making sure to not breath through my nose, but I doubt she could hear me over her sobbing and occasional gaspassing. She started to vomit in a trash bin. I quickly paid my bill and left.

You see, the impossible had happened. For some inexplicable reason, this poor woman’s farting and speaking functions had swapped places. When it happens, you try to speak and get nothing but gas right there in your mouth.

And when you feel the bubbling of a juicy one at the last stop in your digestive tract, then you’d better decide what you want to say and fast, because words are about to come out of your ass.

It somehow affects writing as well. You’ve no idea how long it’s taken me to write this—I’ve been eating nothing but baked beans for months, and can still only manage a few sentences a day.

It started out as something of a mess. There was an economic crash, due to the fact that most businesses require verbal communication to operate. Hollywood all but collapsed, though silent films have made a comeback. T.V. has likewise been decimated. The music industry is a shell of the shell of its former self.

43

W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 1

Book and magazine publishing, advertising, daytime talk shows, blogging, 24hour news stations, all these have stopped. Massive unemployment left billions without work. Governments ceased to function, seeing as they couldn’t bicker with each other or shovel bullshit down people’s throats (now it’s in their own throats, ha ha). Very smelly riots broke out all over the world, though what everyone was rioting against is hard to say. Anarchy became the law of the land.

There was a lot of pointless killing and looting. Suicides skyrocketed, and the poor things couldn’t even leave a decent note.

But at some point during the chaos, things started to shift. People began to accept what had happened, I guess, and set themselves to figuring out how to function without saying much. We emerged from the rubble of madness and got down to business, as people are wont to do in the end. And, wouldn’t you know it, things started looking up.

For one, it was a much quieter place. People weren’t blabbing on TV, or on the radio, or the Internet, or into cell phones. We no longer had the luxury to scream, “Look at me, look at me! I’m clever! I’m an important person!” on whatever media we had access to. Even 140 characters often proved too much for our rear ends to release at one time.

And, I think for the first time in decades, people found themselves noticing things. We noticed the dilapidated neighborhoods, the homeless, those who weren’t well off (which, after the Greatest Depression, were many). We saw the sludge that had been dumped in our waters and the smoke that had been pumped in our air.

We realized that we knew nothing about the people around us, the ones living across the street, the ones sleeping in our own beds. We made efforts to connect.

Because of the lack of verbal communication, you were forced to really pay attention to the people you were trying to communicate with, whether it was your wife or your dentist or the gas station cashier. Looking people in the eye became a necessity, reading their body language, taking note of what mood they seemed to be in. It was hard. And I don’t know about everyone else, but once I couldn’t talk, I really wanted to. With family, with neighbors, with coworkers.

People I’d ignored my whole life. I wanted to know them! Really know them!

Who in God’s name were they? What was floating around in their heads? So we’d start conversations that would be forced to take place across days at a time.

Once, I saw my next-door neighbor sitting on his patio, watching the sunset.

He looked bored, and I was too, so I waited until I could feel some pressure build up in my lower intestine, and walked up to his front step. “Hi,” I said through the hole in my pants (everyone had cut holes in their pants at this point—you didn’t want the only sentence you got all day to go unheard because it was muffled by your drawers). He smiled and held a finger up. After a bit of a wait, he said, “How’re you?”

I didn’t have anything to reply with, so I just gave a thumbs up. We smiled at each other again, and after a few uncomfortable seconds he gestured toward his patio swing. I sat down. His wife came out and held up a glass of lemonade. I pointed to myself to make sure she was offering it to me, and when she grinned 44

THE BIG STINK

and nodded I took it, smiling in such a way that I hoped she knew I was grateful.

We watched the sun finish setting in silence, listening to the cry of the cicadas and a cardinal singing praise in a nearby tree. Another bubble of air popped out of me unexpectedly, and I could only say what was on my mind: “Good.”

So this “catastrophe on a global scale,” as the parrots behind the news desks liked to say so many times before they too, thank God, got the gas-mouth (or ass-speak, depending on which end you’d like to focus on), wasn’t so bad in the end. Things slowed down. People took time to look and think. We tried hard to show we were interested in each other and cared about what we each had to say, no matter how little that was.

But I don’t think any of those changes are the best thing to come out of this.

The most important change to me, as one who’s always cherished words and who now does so even more fervently, is that we can’t waste a single one. No more wasted words—just think about that! When we say anything, we have to be sure it’s exactly what we need to say, and as close to what we mean as possible.

So when my wife and I are at home and we’re on our back deck listening to an owl somewhere in the dark of the trees and she forgets what’s happened, as she’s prone to when she’s daydreaming, and tries to say something but makes a stink instead, I say the only thing that matters when, a few moments later, I feel the words pushing their way out, despite the fact that I can’t believe she can still forget and dammit if her farts aren’t the raunchiest things that’ve ever entered my nostrils. I lean off the swing a little, and out bubble the words “I love you.”

By Curtis Thomas

45

THE ABOUT

Bryce and Nick thought of some things.

Chandler organized them.

Calvin added pictures.