APT. 315 Tina Monje Saying things we don’t want to say. Want to say Love You and think otherwise. But Think OfThe Starving Children the mother always says. The starving men mad come to you at one am won’t say a word just pick through ash piles of cigarette butts they choose the promising ones to... Show moreAPT. 315 Tina Monje Saying things we don’t want to say. Want to say Love You and think otherwise. But Think OfThe Starving Children the mother always says. The starving men mad come to you at one am won’t say a word just pick through ash piles of cigarette butts they choose the promising ones to keep in their holy vacant pockets. Doors slam and sometimes lighthulbs explodes. Mice live in the stove leave their scat in the cracks offloorboards wrinkled like grandfather‘s face before he died and sometimes we want these mice to die like the poet but to turn on the oven is an undertaking. Alarms intrude dreams and candlewicks disappear so one would have to burn a hole (much like digging) to find it. Feet rest on tables unsettled toes twittling as if ticks were crawling between them. They might as well be. One day Sun won‘t any longer stroke Earth's rugged flesh. This pen will stretch so far into nothing. The awful joke we make against ourselves won’t matter. California poppy resting on desk dried. Microwaves can't microwave aluminum Didn't You Know? Cork boards and knee sores are used for memory. The day after you the day-after pill. Living life shovel in hand die this way die that burned this way buried that formaldehyde. Form Your Words Smart Kid Don't Hide. IOI Show less
WHO? Stephen Bona “Tap, tap, tap" The tender touch of claw against floor Feller? No (His gaite — graceful as his fur is black) Tail curls around calf. Stammered “mew” Food? Affection? ...LIES! He is the Lumber Barron
ELLIUT’S WINDOW Julia Olson .\n icy draft wound its way through Elliot's window and into his small apartment. It rustled the watercolors pinned to his wall and they rattled as it passed over them. He could get up and shut the window. he thought. Or he could burrow into his shabby orange comforter... Show moreELLIUT’S WINDOW Julia Olson .\n icy draft wound its way through Elliot's window and into his small apartment. It rustled the watercolors pinned to his wall and they rattled as it passed over them. He could get up and shut the window. he thought. Or he could burrow into his shabby orange comforter and attempt to drown out the no' y wind. He threw his covers up over his head and wrapped his thin. white arms around his ribcage. The threadbare blanket did nothing to drown out the noise ofthe flapping papers, let alone keep out the crisp morning air. He groaned into his spongy pillow and rolled offthe bed, The springs in the mattress groancd in unison. Elliot went to the window. and lingered close to the pane in order to survey the ground below. l’all had come all too quickly this year. he thought. as he watched red and brown leaves waltz across the courtyard that separated the two sections of his apartment building. \\'intei"s breath was in the air. and every time it whispered to the maple outside his window the tree would shiver offa few more leaves. The wind rattled the windowpane in its frame. Elliot start-d through the frosted glass: it looked like rain. His mother had wanted to furnish his entire apartment. from a matching cherry bed— room set to full length. sunshine yellow curtains for his dirty kitchen windows. He gave her the kitchen. but that was it. No funky. modern sofas or chairs, No wall Sconces. no votives. Instead he had a top ofthe line mixer, which he never used. and an expensive French press that looked out of place on the hideous Formica countertop. All these things were things that Martha Stewart recommended on her show. which his mother watched religiously. Since he was a boy. his mother had made time each day to watch Martha Stewart make knick knacks. plan cocktail parties. or share pointless anecdotes with the audience while noncha- lantly preparing a flawless live course meal. Those were his mother's favorite episodes. "It‘s like yotfre right there in Martha Stewart‘s own kitchen." she would sayjust before turning back to the screen to fawn over a close up shot ofa golden crusted apple pie. Once when Elliot was in high school. his mother attempted to follow Martha Stewarts ret ipe for a Christmas cocktail. Elliot found her. standing over a large silver pitcher. crying and gulping straight from the bottle ofvodka that belonged in her Christmas drink. Some— thing went wrong. cherryjuiee was forgotten. a substitution ofKool-Aid had failed. He tried to console her, hilt his statement that it was October and not even time for Christmas cock- tails missed its mat and made her cry even harder. She recovered well enough. and the right back in her favorite chair with a martini in one hand and the remote next (lay she wa‘ in the other. laughing along with the audience at Martha‘s monologue. ()ne long beam ofsetting sunshine reached over the skyline and pointed at Elliot through his window. which he pushed open to receive the last light. The maple in the courtyard glowed a brilliant red against the sunset. the branches reached upward like a skeletal hand begging at the sky, Elliot saw a young girl push a boy into a pile ofleaves in the courtyard below. The boy pulled the girl down with him and they rolled around on the ground like animals. Elliot heard their laughter from his window: he saw the moisture from their breath hanging in the air. Occasionally the boy would stopjust long enough to steal a kiss from the girl. and then they would both collapse back into the pile and continue to roll amongst the leaves. 'l‘hey must live in the building. he thought. but he never saw them. Although most of the apartments n ere occupied. Elliot felt as ifhe lived in the building alone. The few people 52 Murphy Square Show less
brown eyes. “His drive. his gusto. his gumption. lt's admirable.” "Well." Shelby began, “You have to remember what the consequences are when someone uses those skills to do bad things." 'jesus Christ, Mom, don't be such a gnosh. You can't just all things bad or wrong, You know that there are no... Show morebrown eyes. “His drive. his gusto. his gumption. lt's admirable.” "Well." Shelby began, “You have to remember what the consequences are when someone uses those skills to do bad things." 'jesus Christ, Mom, don't be such a gnosh. You can't just all things bad or wrong, You know that there are no black and white answers." Nelson then laid out his plan for an extra—curricular student group he wanted to create called The Model Third Reich. He wanted to explore the intricacies of how it was built and put students into the shoes of those who allowed for it to happen. He stressed the importance of historical accuracy. He thought It would be a fantastic learning experience that could really put the rise of European fascism into perspective. "And ofcourse. I'll get to be Hitler." he said. beaming. I raised my eyebrows. “You'll be Hitler?" I asked him. “Ofcourse.” he said plainly. “lt's my group. I want to be in charge of everything." The Model Third Reich was a big hit with the kids. Soon. Nelson began buckling down to focus on Poland. He taped up a homemade sign on the door to our attached garage, labeling It as the Fuhrerbunker. and stayed up late into the night practicing rousing speeches. He would show us footage of the meetings. highlight reels he compiled on his MyPoeketFriend. of the children leaping up and seig-heil—ing him as he smiled in a way that struck me as wrong. “We're moving on to reenactments." He said one day at dinner's l-Really-Care session. "Like Aunt Lindee's Civil War reenactments?" Shelby asked him. Nelson glanced at her with scorn. "Yeah. sort've. l'm lobbying student government to supply me with funds for replicated German firearms." "Well." I said. “I don't know if the school will be okay supplying guns to their students." “Get off it. Dad.” Nelson said with scorn. “Historical accuracy is of utmost importance. Besides. the guns will have blanks in them and we'll all be properly trained in firearm safety.” 5’: Shortly after that was when we got the first letter from the school. Apparently the Holocaust had started and Nelson had begun rounding up all the Jewish. Queer. and less-abled kids and locking them in lockers. The school‘s program coordinator Bob Crozweil reminded us that these actions infringed on the personal freedoms of the students who were being subjected to the abuse, and that. while Nelson was certainly free to express himself in his exploration of the effects of the Third Reich in 1950's and 40's Europe on the general population. he must do so in a way that does not infringe on the humanity ofhis fellow students. “This is fucking bullshit." he said to me when I showed him the letter. “Crozweil is just a narrow-minded asshole." “But Nelson, he's right. You can't just impose these rules onto students who don’t consent to being a part of the Model Third Reich." I told him. “God damnit. Dad!" he shouted, “Historical accuracy is of the utmost fucking importance!" He stormed oifto the Fuhrcrbunker and l heard the sounds ofthings breaking in his wake. Shelby came up from behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “just let him be," she said. “He‘s a teenager. He's got to figure this stuffout for himself." At the time, I thought she was right. The first attack came only a few weeks after the letter. I got the call that my son was leading a violent revolt. Shelby and I headed down to the school, which was zoned off by a large ring of police. People stood behind bike racks staring at nothing. We went up to who seemed to be in charge and introduced ourselves. “We've got reports of at least three dead. We want you to try and talk to him," he said. l took out my Myl’ocketFriend. I wasn't sure how to respond. so I dialed my son's number and he picked up. “Hey. Dad!n he said. cheerfully. "Nelson." I looked at the entrance of the school. The glass in the doors was all shattered. “You killed your teacher?" “Yeah. that was too bad. I didn't want this part of the coup to go so violently. I mean, the violence is coming—coming in Show less
THE RISE AND FALL OF THE FOURTH REICH Rowan Smith of the gravest mistakes that I ever made was thinking of myselfas liberal. I remember when I was a teenager I had been invited to a birthday party for a friend who belonged to a dynastic and affluent local family. Their house was gratuitous,... Show moreTHE RISE AND FALL OF THE FOURTH REICH Rowan Smith of the gravest mistakes that I ever made was thinking of myselfas liberal. I remember when I was a teenager I had been invited to a birthday party for a friend who belonged to a dynastic and affluent local family. Their house was gratuitous, fountains here, statues there. He showed me the authentic Picasso that was in his bathroom “I love looking at this thing while I shit. It makes my shits, like, mean something. You know?“ There were towering cakes, platters of unpronounceable cheeses with trans-continental origins, ice sculptures carved in the image ofthe birthday-boy, and, to my horror, BloodRation. BloodRation, a portmanteau of blood and hydration, was a designer water that had recently been released to extreme controversy. Marketed towards the super-rich—and perhaps sadistic—it was housed in a glass bottle encrusted with gems, the keystone being a cap fashioned from an authentic blood diamond. I was sickened by it. I stormed out ofthe house, forgetting my jacket, and was labeled a fag for caring so much about those gay retards in Africa. That, I think, was the beginning of my youthful rebellion. I went to peace rallies, listened to punk music, and voted for Obama, who won, and we celebrated in the streets with champagne and cigarettes. I went to college and fell in love with a poly-sci girl named Shelby who had short black hair. an olive face that craved for hands to be placed under it, and jeans that hugged her hips like I wished my legs [0. We got married after we graduated and named our son after our hero: Nelson Mandela. I knew that I didn’t want Nelson to have the same kind of childhood I bad. My son would never hide in the dog house while his mother threw his father‘s stuffout of the upstairs window, while he banged on the locked front door, bottle in hand, screaming about my—fucking—shit this and you-fucking- bitch that. He would never have his grandmother call him pornographic and burn his journals ofwriring because he expressed his sexual desire. He would never lose a bet to Brad Knightly and have to lick his fucking nutsack, which his shithead friends would take pietures ofand disseminate into all the middle-school lockers. We bought all ofthe MyChildCanLearnEthics discs, teaching him his responsibilities to the underprivileged as a white male. We placed utmost value on the individual. We fostered him, nurtured him, loved him as much as we could. We wanted him to be himself, to think freely, to pontificate with the unabashed intelligence ofancient Greek philosophers. Everyone's opinions mattered: no one was told they were wrong. only presented with potentially beneficial alternatives. Nelson grew into a very gifted and confident teenager who loved to paint and was planning to pursue a bachelor's degree in studio arts. Shelby and I were over the moon. Look at him. I‘d say, giving credence to oil painting, ignoring completely the archaic nature ofhis craft, pushing on determinedly, purposefully, hoping to accomplish something truly wonderful in this world. I‘d say these things to our friends at their Hacky Sack Boutiques and Dumpster Diving Potlucks and Post— Modern Feminist Historical Reenactments. One February evening we were going through one ofour family traditions. I called it “Tell-Me-About-Your—Day-Blit- Really-Tell-Me—About—It-Because-I-Actually-Cate-About—You." I listened to Nelson regale us with the topics ofdiscussion front his European History class. “You know, I kind've like Hitler," he said. I glanced sideways at Shelby whose eyes met mine. “How do you mean?” I asked, looking back towards my son. “I mean his presence. The power of his presence. He's an enigma, larger than life." he had a gleam ofpassion in those Show less
who dreamed quietly offucking false idols who took violent hand-me-downs as welcome gifts who screamed feverishly at men in dresses and the women who love them who rollerskate skinny down dirty streets dreaming lou reed and nice and needles bathroom stalls and Basquiat who fine dined on the backs... Show morewho dreamed quietly offucking false idols who took violent hand-me-downs as welcome gifts who screamed feverishly at men in dresses and the women who love them who rollerskate skinny down dirty streets dreaming lou reed and nice and needles bathroom stalls and Basquiat who fine dined on the backs of Mexican girls in the desert sun free denial of the worst terrorism ofAmerica land ofthe freedom watch who dance in private bliukrieg goose step gestapo underworld cruising bookstores and libraries to challenge history in a vacuum. who lit the sky in mad gunpowder furies burning fingerprints and birth certificates in Valley Park hoping to disappear before the flame burned out and they were discovered as the hopeless minstrels they were who ate psilocybin to dance with horses in a snowstorm breaking gates and icy rivers rushing towards the laughter ofthe king the Cadillac and the vegas strip who smoked 0n catwalks into Autumn dawn and made love in sloe-gin rippled haze skin to tired skin breasts rise and fall the warmest love known “9 Show less
mile around the pond. They got to the picnic shelter and he asked Gigi to sit at the picnic table. From the other side of the pond. a high-pitched screech broke the silence. “That's a Barred Owl." “What?” Echoing across the water. they heard the owl all again. “That's a Barred Owl. lu hooting... Show moremile around the pond. They got to the picnic shelter and he asked Gigi to sit at the picnic table. From the other side of the pond. a high-pitched screech broke the silence. “That's a Barred Owl." “What?” Echoing across the water. they heard the owl all again. “That's a Barred Owl. lu hooting sounds like it's saying. ‘who cooks for you. who cooks for you." “Don't move,” Old Man Bill said. then walked badt down the path. Gigi sat on the bench. surrounded by buzzing mosquitoes, and listened for the owl. Old Man Bill's footsteps were heavy and uneven when he returned. He put a bag down on the table and Gigi sat up on her knees to see what was inside. "You know Miss Zetah?” Gigi nodded. “She's my daugiter." he said, pulling the bag shut so she couldn't see in. Gigi smiled. “You like her don't you? You like my daughter." Gigi nodded again. “Thought so." Gigi stopped smiling and looked up at Old Man Bill. making eye contact for the first time. “My daughter tells me you get picked on because your mom killed herself.” "She didn't kill herself." “What?” Gigi sat back on the table and looked out across the pond. "Son ofa bitch...your own wife." he whispered. Gigi looked up at the sky. She hadn't heard the owl for a few minutes. It must have found a mouse to eat. “Come here." Gigi walked to the edge of the pond with the old man. From the other side of the pond. the owl let out another screeeh. 80 Show less
CONTENTS In Film 42 J. K. Pinther Ode to Donn] M J. K. Pinther My Fol/yer Now 43 D. E. Green Untitled #1 47 Emily Bauermeister Pink I 43 Maggie Royce Pink 2 49 Maggie Royce More 771M E12050 Melodie Lane Driven 8} A Pornographie Instiet to Drown 5' Patrick Werle Feeders 52 Saul Clayman 7hr Rh! and... Show moreCONTENTS In Film 42 J. K. Pinther Ode to Donn] M J. K. Pinther My Fol/yer Now 43 D. E. Green Untitled #1 47 Emily Bauermeister Pink I 43 Maggie Royce Pink 2 49 Maggie Royce More 771M E12050 Melodie Lane Driven 8} A Pornographie Instiet to Drown 5' Patrick Werle Feeders 52 Saul Clayman 7hr Rh! and Fall oft/1e Fourth Reid; 53 Rowan Smith The Calling of Sol Mnroni 55 Cameron Alt 7719/ Leap! For Us 57 Tina Monje Leaping Fenter— Vieton 59 Cameron Alt flaring Page: From Dead White Books 50 Patrick Werle Night 52 105: Alvilar Mortemen 53 Lia Jacobson Foreword to Mandelbrot 84 Rowan Smith Sports, Bed, Morning 58 Lia Jacobson The Funeral 69 Terri Cooper I’m/m oft/1e Sill/"bark 70 Steven Saari Look 72 Maggie Royce Romper Esta Coma De Agun 73 Maglay OrtiLAucapira The Horse: of Berry Cemetmy 74 Steven Saari RSVP 75 Tina Monie Gigi 77 Amanda Symes Coriorimienlo 8' Jose Alvilar Timewarp 82 Hannah Schmit In Lethe} Currenl83 D. E. Green Osteoporosis B5 Lia Jacobson Orlober Cigarettes: A Treatise 35 Rowan Smith Rabid Dogeg Kevin Ehrman—Solberg Frida on Fire 92 Nina Robinson Sins 93 Kyra Wachholz Dog Wigs 94 Amanda Symes Red Wolf Coekfigbts 93 Maggie Royce n Berome Spectral 99 Rowan Smith Apt. 315 101 Tina Monie Foreign 102 William Trembley Nephew/104]. K. Pinther Courage "'5 Nina Robinson Falling Leave: ‘05 Nina Robinson W/imer Night 107 Lesley Becker Answers About/ingel: 109 Steven Saari A Kiss "0 Emily Bauermeister Blurred Lines 1" Whitney BlountSmith Untitled #3 "2 Emily Bauermeister X-Mas Mass “3 Sean Evenson [50er Angel Need to Fly "4 Levi Sedgewick 777i: Day "5 Melodic Lane Afier Howl 118 Patrick Werle Untitled 12] Emily Bauermeister S/e] Donors l22 Nick Dahlquist 7})? Nort/I Begins 123 William Trembley Show less
THIS DAY Melodie Lane It isn't that I don’t think of you Nearly every day. Or on all the other days Just as often. It's only that on This Day. I am reminded of when Time Divided in two — The Before and The After. When the world sent its strongest reminder Ofthe one and only thing That matters in... Show moreTHIS DAY Melodie Lane It isn't that I don’t think of you Nearly every day. Or on all the other days Just as often. It's only that on This Day. I am reminded of when Time Divided in two — The Before and The After. When the world sent its strongest reminder Ofthe one and only thing That matters in this Life. Now, As I lay awake on This Day Many years past 'Ihe After, My thoughts linger a moment longer On memories of Your voice. Your laugh, Your smile. And on This Day I allow myself A momentary pause from what is real llli Show less
BELL THEORY Britta Erickson Guard walked along the concrete hallway: his steps echoed a rubbery thud thud thud. The bottoms ofhis boots ocwionally squeaked and scufl'cd the eternally dirty floor, even though the bosses did not approve of marking; his shoes leave. Marlo an (Inflow are a sign aft/mm.... Show moreBELL THEORY Britta Erickson Guard walked along the concrete hallway: his steps echoed a rubbery thud thud thud. The bottoms ofhis boots ocwionally squeaked and scufl'cd the eternally dirty floor, even though the bosses did not approve of marking; his shoes leave. Marlo an (Inflow are a sign aft/mm. We mus! be in control. The memo was vague and angry, like most other things in the break room. Florescence from the tiled floor to the crossing ceiling: the bright meant to madden but the effect raged against the staff. Migraines abounded. the guards were overtired and angry, and the place ached with the height of their exhaustion. The Guard unwrapped the sandwich he'd been longing for all shift. It wasn't especially good; the bread was kind ofcrusty and tuna salad carried the scent ofold eggs. The moment was his only chance for a break that night. He only wanted to sit for a moment. But if not sit. at least stand still and let his face tell the inmates to calm the fuck down. He was tired oftelling them. threatening them. pulling them down and up and out from under. He was tired. Mention the Madman... Maybe more about him more... The Prisoner wanted to scream. but he did not. He instead tat on the bed. And sat. and waited for someone to make a mistake or yell or swear or chant at the guards. And then they would say something. or they would yell something. Or the guards would say nothing. Because the guards could— they were free and allowed to say or not say whatever the hell they wanted. No one watched them shit or sleep or eat or cry. No one searched their assholm or between their balls for drugs or knives or whatever else a madman would hide on his body. The Prisoner stopped thinking of the guards and instead wondered about his dreams. Lately he had been dreaming of the way his home. small and clean. How it always held the sweetness of cigarettes right before the smoke settled into the crimson sofa and staled. The Prisoner often wondered what 20 became of the sofa. Perhaps Sammy had taken it when the house was rented out. or one of the neighborhood kids heading to college had come in and stolen it. Maybe his mom had given it away, or set it out on the porch or put it on the front lawn. The place really revolved around the sofa—it was the newest thing in the house by three decades. the only major thing he'd bought for himself, and the way the sofa played on the brown walls and dark wooden floors was magical. He hated that someone might get it simply because no one was using it. He hated being away from home. He wanted to be out. get out. get away. Each morning or night or whenever he felt like it the Guard would smirk at the Prisoner as he strolled past the cell door and at the next man down the line, and the nexr. The Prisoner. seated on the concrete bed. next to the stainless steel toilet/ sink/centerpiece. waited to see ifa door would buzz. The Guard dreamed about Phoebe, how she smiled so quickly and laughed and wanted world peace. She’d sway through the world. and go to peace rallies and advocate gun control. But shed light up whenever she saw him, even when the holster sat on his waistband in a Starbucks. He'd hoped that she would call. it had been a while. Sometimes be worried be scared her away; he didn't sleep well and it kept her awake and she woke up early to serve coffee to yuppies. She lived in the moment and never worried too much'. the Guard envied her for it. but truth was he couldn't be a boyfriend or a husband. And he really hoped she'd call soon. She fucked like she was 19. loud and disturbing the neighbors. She sometimes looked him and he swore she understood the screaming and fighting and how he hurt every time he came home. The Madman was covered in shit. The toilet worked fine and he knew how to call for help. He was covered in shit because that’s the kind of person he was. Some threw things at the Show less
TO BECOME SPECTRAL [{(1“11|1 E§lllitli You will place a blanket over your head And insert the rifles barrel. Muzzle pressed tightly against your palette, You will pull the trigger. Blood will pour from your eyes, nose and mouth And the bullet will tear a small hole in the blanket From which your... Show moreTO BECOME SPECTRAL [{(1“11|1 E§lllitli You will place a blanket over your head And insert the rifles barrel. Muzzle pressed tightly against your palette, You will pull the trigger. Blood will pour from your eyes, nose and mouth And the bullet will tear a small hole in the blanket From which your mind will erupt. It will have been some time since you spoke, But that old friend will hear the news And cry. He will put on his best clothes (Although they are far from nice), And take the day offwork To drive through the rain To see you. Of course, the box is shut tight And there is nothing to see. For halfa decade he will lay awake at night wanting to die. He will roll away from his lovers in the darkness And press his hot forehead against the cold plaster wall And pray for nuclear war, Or a house fire, Or to be struck by lightning, Or for a rifle like yours to see him through. Eventually, though, his thoughts will stray back to you. He will think of the shawl your family will knit to place over your casket. 99 Show less
I KNOW GIRLS Michelle Downs My coffee is burnt and browning like the crisp ends ofthe outside tree limbs. l taste last night's fire burnt and fraying end ome cigarette. Red lipstick smeared and left forgotten on a bar Chipped nail polish from too much washing— And the awaiting mirror from which 1... Show moreI KNOW GIRLS Michelle Downs My coffee is burnt and browning like the crisp ends ofthe outside tree limbs. l taste last night's fire burnt and fraying end ome cigarette. Red lipstick smeared and left forgotten on a bar Chipped nail polish from too much washing— And the awaiting mirror from which 1 cannot hide. My cold hands fumble with bleak thoughts and black keys. And... [I] I know girls Girls dance through littered alleyways and bars Like they're dancing on a ballroom floor. Girls who binge-drink. binge-cat. and scream Girls who plead to starve quietly And disappear apparently Girls who pinch their checks to erase The blood oftears. l know girls who cry in crumpled heaps ln l’retty Clothes. ln Dressing Rooms. Girls who fail to exist when their phones fail to ring Girls who are only alive in the dark Because the sunlight exposes their flawed flesh. Girls who bend through bruises To accommodate someone else's desires. I know girls with their hoods up and broken lips covered in a crowded lecture hall Invisible as they die publicly. I know girls who grab at their skin wanting to rip it all away. IO Show less
