Atom Spring 2012, Black and White by Atom Magazine

On the Cover:

trina merry Our cover was created by Trina Merry. Ms. Merry is the leading ďŹ ne art & avant-garde fashion body painter in the Bay Area. Her body paintings cover an extraordinary range of styles and concepts. Her work is a combination of creative innovation inherent in the Bay Area, infectious passion and courage, which has kept her work in top demand in the Bay Area & now abroad. Her work has been featured on Bay Area TV shows, music videos, magazines, advertisements, branding events, band tours, calendars, & books. She has a Bachelor s in Media Studies from Azusa PaciďŹ c University. She has exhibited in galleries all over the west coast including SOMA Arts & Project One Gallery in SF. Her work can be viewed at http://zhibit.org/trinamerry, or at www.trinamerry.com.

Featured Photographer:

hilary hulteen Hilary's career as a documentarian has wound about over the years, from early chapters on the road with jangling Bohemian posses like Gogol Bordello and the Yard Dogs Road Show to the illuminated canyons of major festivals and football stadiums, and along to more solo sojourns into the dustbowls of rodeo arenas and backwoods communities of a modern day American West. The series in this month's Atom include selections from many of these collections, as well as a series begun 2010 in Albania. Visit her online at www.SoulClapProductions.com

Editorial Ashleigh R. Hill Brendan G. Nystedt Spencer J. Sands Contributors Erin Brown Diane Solomon Fordy Shoor Kyla McCracken Jeffrey Sugahara Gerard Howland W. Clay On the Cover Trina Merry Teri Wyble (Model) Jason Kruppa (Photo) Featured Photographer Hilary Hulteen Additional Photography André Koehne David Shankbone Spencer J. Sands Ashleigh R. Hill Heavybluesman Brendan G. Nystedt Lin Pernille Man Vyi All work is property of each respective creator except for Creative Commons materials used under the CC License. When attempting one of our DIY projects, please take proper safety precautions. Don’t be a dummy.

he issue you have in your hot little hands is important to us in more than a few ways. Firstly, it s our fourth issue. That means we ve been at this magazine making business for nearly a year. It s pretty incredible how far we ve come from that inaugural issue. Secondly, we strove to make this issue extra special by way of the theme.

Spring is usually associated with bright colors, an awakening of the senses (and allergies) and nature. Being natural-born contrarians, we decided to make this quarter s theme Black and White. It s a celebration of stark contrasts, classic style, the simpler things in life and, most importantly, the printed word on the page. Here s to you, dear reader, and here s to the eďŹ&#x20AC;orts of our contributors. Here s to more excellent volumes of unique content!

Photo c i r b a Ph

By Erin Brown

am a DIYer. Actually, to be more speciﬁc, I m kind of like the wunderkind of DIY (a self-appointed title, please don t

research this.) I say this because I can do an impressive amount of things kind of well and, when you consider the

ironing over the printed surface. Heat setting is a method that s used to better bond the ink to the surface of the ﬁbers of the fabric, which is some kind of science or something… I don t know, just do it.

4. All that s left to do now is to decorate the image with designs

or decorations of your choosing! With the freezer paper still attached for stability and using the needle and thread you can sew patterns or borders around the subjects, or you can use sequins and beads to embellish the image. Let your freak ﬂag ﬂy.

Before you do this, please check and make sure that your picture will ﬁt in the frame you ve chosen. If the picture needs to be cut

down to ﬁt, do this before decorating to avoid an embarrassing clash of frame and embellishment.

vastness of my uselessly varied knowledge, it is a truly

5. The ﬁnal step, and arguably the most satisfying, is placing the

while simultaneously making your homes and work places way

dwelling! If you ve gone a little overboard with the surface

staggering notion. My goal here is to impart some wisdom on you

more awesome than they would have been if I had not graced your lives with my inﬂuence. We shall accomplish this feat

together with a project I m calling Phabric Photo. This project is a

newly decorated piece into the frame to display proudly in your decoration, it would be a good idea to mount the picture without the glass.

fun way to show oﬀ antique black and white photos without

Not too hard right? I didn t think so. By this point all of you should

add some pizazz to any photograph while looking like a crafty

just great. Come back next issue and I ll learn ya ll something new

risking endangering the originals. The method also allows you to dynamo.

The materials necessary to complete this project are: 1/3 of a

have a fabulous new knick-knack to adorn your hovel and that s that will impress your friends and family… but until then, get oﬀ my porch.

yard of bleached muslin, embroidery ﬂoss, embroidery needles, freezer paper, one picture frame, gumption and, if you so choose, some sequins or beads for surface decoration.

The tools required are: an iron, some scissors, a pen, an ironing board, and an INK JET printer! (This project will not work with a laser printer. Trust me, I tried and it was terrible.)

1. The ﬁrst thing that you need to do is to cut a section of freezer paper to 8.5x11 inches. (If you don t know, that s the size of a sheet of printer paper.)

2. Then turn on the iron to the cotton setting and iron the freezer

paper to the fabric piece. Make sure to iron the piece of cotton

on top, otherwise the wax from the paper will melt to the surface at the iron, which is not good at all. Do one pass with the iron then let everything cool down before testing the bond between the

paper and the fabric. If the two are not attached yet, do another pass. If they are, then trim the fabric so that it matches the size of the paper and you re ready to go.

3. Once the fabric and paper and secured together, choose your

image! For the sample I ve selected one of the most iconic black and white personalities of them all, the unﬂappable Rod Serling.

After selecting the image, simply place the fabric and paper into your printer and print the image onto it. Well done! The hard part is over. How does it feel? I bet it feels great. However, try not to

let yourself fall into a false sense of security. It could all fall apart if you neglect this next step.

One important thing to remember is that the ink from your printer was not designed for cloth, but for paper. Therefore please make sure to empty your iron of all water before proceeding to the next step or the steam function may drip and dissolve the ink and it all

would have been for naught. Take your freshly printed image and with the iron on the cotton setting, and heat set the ink by

Materials

1 2 3 4 5

Photo by Hilary Hulteen

Diane Solomon produces and hosts a weekly public affairs program on Radio KKUP, 91.5 fm, and writes freelance for Content Magazine, San Jose Beez, Silicon Valley DeBug and Metro, Silicon Valley’s weekly newspaper. She’s also a big time San Jose Bike Partier, Willow Glen neighborhoodie and Silicon Valley wage slave. This article appeared in a different form in Metro Newspaper (May 2011)

On Blackening By Spencer Sands

ll let you in on a secret. Do you promise not to tell? Anyone? Pinky swear? Okay.... Are you sure?

Really? Okay... I m poor. I know, I know. I look like a millionaire billionaire zillionaire and I certainly act like one, but, truth be told, I don t have a pot to piss in. I realize that I talk about yachting and the proper care and raising of polo ponies more than your average destitute person, but I

promise you, I am ﬂirting with the poverty line as we speak. Now, I am getting pretty good at pinching a penny and concocting getrich-quick schemes but the one place my social station really shows is my inability to aﬀord for the gourmet food that fuels my highly sophisticated existence.

I am forced to buy a lot of the same, cheap foods over and over. This is probably most apparent when it comes to my purchasing

of meat. I simply can t afford the the filet mignon, ground bison and ostrich steaks that I so desperately crave. Instead, I find myself feasting on a seemingly endless supply of chicken thighs and breasts, specifically the boneless, skinless variety. Occasionally, I am lucky enough to find fish in my fridge, but again, it s never great-white shark steaks (what manly men eat, raw), swordfish, or

sashimi grade blue-fin tuna while quite a lot of tilapia , catfish and white fish of many, many types find their way into my chill-chest. These are all good eats, if not a little on the bland side, which is of course compounded ten-fold by the fact that I am eating the same thing constantly. With that in mind, I always get excited when I find a cool way to make the same old food seem new.

The ﬂavor of the week in casa de my house is blackening rub. It is a wonderful spicy, easy to make and even easier to cook way to prepare any number of foods. It is somewhat synonymous with cajun cooking and that is mostly Paul Prudhomme s fault. This

famous cajun tv-personality/chef didn t invent the technique, but he did bring it into American kitchens by way of his many shows and moreover, his patented (and commercially available) spice rubs.

What I like about this kind of cooking is its intrinsic lending to customization. There are some constants in a blackening rub, but

even then the quantities are debated and very much open for personal interpretation. Oregano, thyme, paprika, black and white

pepper show up a lot, but other spices like bay-leaves, cayenne pepper and cumin are popular additions too. The following is how I approached the problem. My results were not overly spicy (for better or worse depending on who you ask) and the ﬂavor that I enjoyed the most out of this melange was the bay.

2 tablespoons Paprika 1 tablespoon Garlic-powder 1 teaspoon Dry Minced Onion 1/2 teaspoon Cayenne Pepper 1 tablespoon Thyme

1 tablespoon Oregano 1 teaspoon Cumin 1 teaspoon White Pepper 1 teaspoon Course Black Pepper 2 Crushed Dry Bay leaves

As is the case with so many of the food articles in Atom, this recipe is all about you making it your own. If you don t like paprika,

please, don t put it in. To apply the spices to your food item, I highly recommend taking a ziplock bag, placing what you want to coat in side with the spice, sealing it up and shaking it vigorously. This works for meats of all kinds since they are naturally a little damp, which encourages the spice to stick, but for drier items like vegetables, simply brush on a little olive oil before placing the items in the bag. As for the actual cooking of food incased in this mixture, the canon tells us that a hot, cast-iron skillet is the way to go. Brown throughly on both sides and enjoy!

Photo by Hilary Hulteen

The Trouble With ‘Atoes: What Happens When Eating Isn’t As Simple As Black and White

By Ashleigh Hill hen I was a little girl, there was (almost) nothing I wouldn't eat.

Or not so much.

Fish, vegetables,

fruit̶you name it, I probably would have

It has been two and half years since I stopped eating

away, my brother and sister would sit with their arms crossed

Easier in that I feel 50 times better now that I don't eat them

and their mouths shut tight, shaking their heads and not

and harder because when those bastards accidentally sneak

varied, healthy diet until....college.

rendered completely helpless to an allergic reaction.

eaten it.

While I was happily munching

eating a thing. I lived this way for many years, eating a rather When I got to college,

suddenly I developed food allergies.

nightshades and things have gotten both easier and harder.

their way into my food, like they did today, I am often It's

amazing to think that such a small, beautiful fruit could make me feel so weak and pathetic.

That's right, ALLERGIES. This has also made cooking exponentially diﬃcult̶you First it started as a fruit allergy. Nothing insane, pineapples

wouldn t believe how many recipes out there call for

them. But then, when I was a senior in college, I discovered

around these poisonous little buggers.

that I was allergic to nightshades.

have a nightshade allergy, I encourage you to try substituting

and mangoes would make me itchy so, naturally, I avoided

tomatoes or potatoes.

Luckily, there are some easy ways Even if you don t

them in your recipes̶these little changes can help you get

What are nightshades, you ask? Oh, just things like tomatoes

out of a food rut and spice up even the most mundane

and potatoes and eggplants and bell peppers.

dishes.

Oh, just the

fruits/vegetables that are staples of the American diet and, thus, my diet. No problem, right? Just cut those few things out and I should be all set. Easy.

For Tomatoes, try: Umeboshi paste: (Pickled Plum Puree) Great for adding to a tomato-textured thing, using with tamarind to create the perfect fake-tomato paste taste, or by itself if you're just trying to replace the taste of tomatoes (like in salsa and other sauces, or curries). Tamarind Concentrate: Great for adding the zing you miss with tomatoes to a variety of recipes. Tamarind and a little sweetener of some sort is the best substitute for ketchup in recipes.

Molasses: Molasses has a strong, distinctive ﬂavor so you ll probably only want to use a tiny bit of it. Combine

this with one or more of the other options in recipes where tomato paste is added as a moistener and ﬂavor enhancer. All of these require a little extra doctoring (usually adding vinegar) but they can totally do the trick in dishes that call for tomatoes.

For Potatoes try... Sweet Potato: Despite having the word potato in the name, Sweet Potatoes aren t in the nightshade family (they re a yam, bless their little orange hearts).

You can

bake sweet potatoes, mash them, turn them into fries, and fry them up for hash browns, all like you can with potatoes. Sunchoke/Jerusalem Artichoke: Sunchokes, even though they have a weird name, are delicious, and don't

ever get as mushy and grainy as potatoes. Use them in soups, stews, and "potato" salads. You can also grate them and use them as hash browns, but they cook down a lot. Turnip: Turnips have distinct ﬂavor, but give a nice root vegetable ﬂavor and texture for use in almost any recipe where you'd use chopped or diced potatoes. My dear roommate, Kyla, makes an amazing mashed turnip/

cauliﬂower dish to use in vegetarian Shepard s Pie and it. is. delicious.

There are other vegetables in the nightshade family, like eggplants and bell peppers, but luckily there are easy ways to work around cooking with them (like using zucchini instead). The internet is full of resources for dealing with allergies like mine that are helpful and delicious, you just have to take a little extra time and do your research. Even if you don t have a strange food allergy, think about changing up your cooking

What Women Want I

By Erin Fraboni

talk to a lot of women. Not the thousands or hundreds per day kind of a lot of women, but certainly hundreds

per week. I compliment them, ask them how their day is, what they are shopping for. It s important to avoid taking the form of the feared overly forceful salesgirl that seems to be the expected

stereotype of the retail setting. So instead, I smile at each remark

regarding her wardrobe desires and spew out charming comments catering to just what she wants to hear.

Working in an atmosphere where understanding the needs and

Taking a step out from behind the dressing room door, one foot

insecurities, need for reassurance, self-righteousness, and

buckled in a pink hued T-strap sandal revealed itself, clicking

down the hallway beside its match. They made Diana s tan skin seem brighter, and were the perfect compliment to the pink,

black, and white ﬂoral dress she had tried on. She looked down at

wants of many diﬀerent types of women is crucial, I see a lot of

everything else in between. Amidst hanging clothes and swiping credit cards, I ve found that these women bring up a question that humanity has been asking for centuries:

her outﬁt, smoothing out the ﬂared skirt of the dress, then looked in the mirror, then at me.

Wow! You look perfect, I said. No, I need to lose some more weight ﬁrst.

What does a woman want? Since the father of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud, has made this inquiry famous, it has shown up in pop culture, literature, and

really, life itself. It s an age-old question, yet seems to have no one deﬁnite answer.

There it was. The I m too fat comment. My response could go

With that in mind, imagine your life depending on that question.

and unnecessary thought or I could say, You really think so? Well,

what it is women most desire, in order to avoid execution. One

one of two ways̶I could insist that weight loss was a ridiculous

if you are that concerned about that little trouble spot, not to worry, the print completely disguises it! Diana smiled. Yeah, I guess it does. A little agreement and a little compliment and we had ourselves a compromise. An hour later, she left with three packed shopping bags.

You have one year and one day to ﬁnd an agreeable answer to ﬁctional knight had to face this challenge.

Granted, he did deserve it. In Geoﬀrey Chaucer s The Canterbury Tales, the Wife of Bath s tale follows the misfortune of a lusty

knight who forcibly takes the maidenhead of a young girl. To pay for his crime and keep his life, he has one year and one day to

discover what women most desire. The knight travels far and wide

in search of the answer, almost giving up until he encounters an

old woman who insists she knows. With the woman s help, he states that what women most desire is sovereignty over their

Self-respect and societal acceptance: Beneath the answers that

women in attendance agree, and the knight s life is spared (with a

held a bit more truth. They are really the foundation to those

husbands. The queen, who had ordered this quest, and all of the few exceptions that shall not be spoiled).

How female readers reacted to this tale during Chaucer s time is unknown, but it is safe to say that sovereignty over men would not be the single reigning answer amongst today s women. So what would the modern woman say to this knight?

I asked. I asked women who have diﬀerent dreams and diﬀerent backgrounds in search of what women most desire. Now.

When typed into your Internet search engine of choice, the question of what women want is mostly associated with men. What do women want from men? What do they want in love? What do they want in intimacy? Oddly enough, these Internet

ﬁndings seem to be more relatable to Chaucer s take on the question than I had expected. The women of the Wife of Bath s

tale want a certain type of man, or a certain type of power over men, and the women of Google want speciﬁc emotional or

physical qualities from men. So is that all that women want? A

seemed a bit too catered to a beauty pageant judge s liking, these ultimate ideals of happiness, love, and success. Many of the

responses suggested that it was gaining contentment with oneself and a sense of belonging among society that were necessary in achieving those broader desires. In other words, women want to

feel good about themselves. Whether that ﬁrst step to getting there is doing whatever it takes to get society s approval or her own, depends on the woman.

Like I had said, I see a lot of insecurities. Sometimes I feel like

those consultants on TV working in wedding dress shops, dealing

with tears, harsh comments, and a long list of needs. The blushing

bride arrives, with a picturesque image of exactly how she should look. She wants to ﬁnd a dress she is in love with almost as much

as her groom, all while pleasing the friends and family she insisted bringing along with her. It becomes a seemingly never-ending

debate of whose priorities being placed ﬁrst will make her the happiest. But it really never ends.

trained man?

There is a reason this question has been made famous. It s not

Well, contrary to search engine results, what women actually want

constantly changing perspectives are nearly impossible to grasp

does not always involve a male counterpart. Across the board, the

personal answers of modern women circulated around the themes of happiness, love, and success, but these really aren t

easy to tackle. The conﬂicting desires, the idealistic hopes, the in one handful. In a nutshell, the women of modern society would likely deem Chaucer s randy knight a dead man.

limited to solely women s desires.

Erin is from San Jose, California. She is currently living in La Jolla, California with her four fabulous roommates. Erin is a junior at UC San Diego studying Literature and Writing. She plays many instruments, focusing on violin in the jazz and classical genres. Erin hopes to pursue her love of writing and music at UCSD and beyond. Mostly everything makes her happy.

By David Sky f you had asked me if a silent ﬁlm

could win an Oscar for Best Picture, I would have said only if it were

written by Woody Allen and directed

by Steven Spielberg. I would have also been

wrong. As everyone knows by now, The Artist

took home ﬁve Academy Awards, among a ﬂurry of Golden Globes, Cannes and many other awards. Without giving away too much of the plot or

repeating points everyone knows about this ﬁlm, The

Artist is about a silent-ﬁlm era actor who clashes with the invention of the Talkie. The silent and black & white ﬁlm has been a world-wide sensation, loved by critics and fans alike̶having grossed over $75

speciﬁc

circumstances

that made them hits, circumstances that they do not

share with The Artist.

I would have believed that a foreign ﬁlmmaker would

million for its relatively small $15 million budget.

have been panned several years ago for making a movie set in America during such an American time

This brings an interesting question to the table: is this

movie had come out eight-years prior, there may have

movie more successful simply because it is

silent instead of in a foreign language? Is this why

Americans̶critics and moviegoers̶have embraced it?

Before I proceed any further, I should mention that I

believe The Artist more than deserved its many awards and accolades̶it was the best picture of

2011, it had the best writer/director, and starred the best lead actor. I am simply curious if what brings Americans closer to this ﬁlm than other foreign ﬁlms is the lack of language, which removes the barrier and distraction of subtitles and the general

inaccessibility a lot of Americans feel when they go to see a foreign ﬁlm. While it is no easy feat to construct

a movie with one page of dialogue that holds a modern audience's attention for nearly two hours,

what would the impact have been if the lead actors spoke their native French?

The last foreign movie to win such awards and

Academy Awards in America and be a smash at the box oﬃce was Life is Beautiful, a dramatic-comedy

holocaust film starring Roberto Beningi, which was released almost 15 years ago. The only foreignlanguage films that come to mind that may have been bigger hits financially are The Passion of the Christ,

which had a speciﬁc draw to it among American moviegoers, and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which was an action ﬁlm. These three movies have

and an American place̶1930s Hollywood. If this been protests that involved freedom fries thrown at

screens. This is clearly not the case, and perhaps the subsided hatred for the French combined with the ﬁlmmakers palpable aﬀection for this era in American

history have smoothed over any other possible transgressions̶at least enough to bring in the

movie-going public and the 84th annual Academy Awards. Films lucky enough to receive an Oscar are chosen as the best made reﬂections of society̶our norms,

values, and, in some cases, the ﬁlms ability to challenge those norms and values. The Academy Awards are considered by many to be the most

prestigious ﬁlm awards on the planet. However, many

ﬁlms and actors have received the Oscar hastily and these decisions over time have reﬂected poorly on the Academy. Many famous examples come to mind; Saving Private Ryan v. Shakespeare in Love; Raging

Bull v. Ordinary People; Brokeback Mountain v. Crash.

However unconscionable the choices, the Academy Awards are synonymous with American films and with American film culture. And perhaps the Academy was swept up in the moment by this film, swept up by the

history, the relevance to artistry, the fine filmmaking. Perhaps a film needn't be in English for it to still be a

fantastic movie. And perhaps Michel Hazanavicius knew exactly what he was doing when he made a French silent-ﬁlm about American ﬁlm history.

Photo By Hillary Houlteen

G ST EN AT R E HOW I DAV ON TOG ID TOS EN BOW TA R E IE TIO , N really changed the : world

By Brendan Nystedt

he February 2nd, 2012 issue of Rolling Stone had a cover story featuring one of my favorite artists, David Bowie.

The article was entitled "The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust: How David Bowie Changed the World". A great thesis and idea for an article, but, the article simply didn't live up to its premise.

Instead, it functioned as a rehash of Bowie's backstory: His ch-ch-changes from a teen heartthrob wannabe to a one-hit wonder to a glam rock and roller from another planet and beyond. His bisexual romps, ex-wife, cocaine-and-milk diet, Berlin-era Nazi fetishism, and other tropes are trotted out for display like an exhibition of classical artwork. Given how much I've read about the

man and his music, I was incredibly disappointed that the Rolling Stone could publish such an article. Isn't this music rag

supposed to be the end-all-be-all of music journalism?

wonder. His journey started in folk and rock,

Instead the author relied on old, tired stories from the wild heyday of the man formerly known as David

to rock. It's a heck of a sonic journey to explore. And unlike more cynical rock performers, he seems happy

There was absolutely no new information presented.

Jones.

The question begs to have an answer: How did David Bowie change the world? Here's my three-fold response.

1) Without David Bowie, there would have been no

transitioned to glam, soul, electronica, pop and back

to mix his back catalogue with his new stuﬀ, often

revisiting subject matter and characters in his songs. His contrasting character changes wouldn t work if he didn t have the talent. Because he had the talent in spades, Bowie nailed every chameleonic leap from genre to genre, station to station.

Madonna, Prince or Lady Gaga. Bowie took a page

Not only was David Bowie interested in furthering his

Bowie and his larger-than-life predecessors was that

like Devo and Klaus Nomi. Nomi in particular was a

out of Cab Calloway and Little Richard's books and became a wild character. The big diﬀerence between Bowie lived and breathed the personas he took on. They were not only phases of his career, but also his

life. Although he wasn't the ﬁrst, he was the greatest example to-date of theatre meeting music in a nontrivial manner. With Ziggy Stardust, Bowie took

himself so far out that his claims of being from another world were not only fathomable but actually

preferable as a logical explanation for his demeanor. Bowie time and time again, both high on his own supply and on a cornucopia of substances, changed the character he played. His androgynous Hunky Dory-self became Ziggy which faded into dystopian

paranoia with Sane, to a soft, feminine, plastic-soulful turn in Young Americans, fans could be excused for thinking Bowie was schizophrenic. With Station to Station, Bowie became the Thin White Duke and from

there he became a bauhaus, digital Moog-powered

machine for the Berlin Trilogy. His most mainstream period, peaking with Let's Dance, he still maintained

an image and character all his own. Throughout his reinventions, his theatricality remained intact. He even became an actor, becoming immersed in roles like Thomas Jerome Newton and Jareth, the Goblin King. While he may have lived on the edge of sanity, his talents were always there to back up his ﬂamboyant and polarizing personas.

own discography but he also helped up-and-comers to stardom. Bowie helped promote niche performers

strange vocal artist far out of the mainstream. Bowie brought him onto Saturday Night Live in 1979 to sing

backup on "TVC-15," "Boys Keep Swinging," and "The Man Who Sold The World". Reportedly, Nomi's signature outﬁt of a hard plastic, Decoiﬁed oversized tuxedo was inspired by Bowie's exact same getup.

Devo, on the other hand, was spotted by Bowie and Iggy Pop, who were able to convince Warner Bros. Records to give them their ﬁrst record deal. Bowie's buddy Brian Eno produced the album for the

ﬂedgling new wavers and the rest is history. He even

convinced Mott the Hoople to stick together, gifting them with their hit song "All the Young Dudes" and working with them on the album of the same name,

even lending his voice to the backup tracks. Iggy Pop s band The Stooges was saved by Bowie, who intervened with Pop (who was a heroin addict at the

time) and co-produced The Stooges third album, the iconic Raw Power. Pop and Bowie reunited later during Bowie s Berlin period with the The Idiot and Lust For Life. Let s not forget Lou Reed s 1972 album Transformer (which Bowie and Mick Ronson

produced), featuring Walk on the Wild Side, perhaps the ﬁrst hit song to feature the lyrics giving head in it.

Bowie used his clout as an artist to wipe away the

2) Before Bowie, the biggest group to survive a

previous musical movements and install styles and artists of his own liking. It s that kind of creative

happy-go-lucky Liverpudlians to serious, experimental,

ability to remake the world in a way that improves it.

reinvention was The Beatles. Their transition from the psychedelic rock musicians. Bowie arguably has made

it through (at least) 9 changes in musical style. Each style, even the unsuccessful ones, just lend credence to the idea that the multi instrumental Bowie

absolutely deserves the acclaim he's earned over the

years. Although Space Oddity may have seemed like a cash-in on the space craze, it's amazing that Bowie was able to overcome the curse of the one-hit-

vision that separates inﬂuencers from followers‒ the

Bowie s musical landscape became fertile ground for

punk and new wave to come in shake things up even further. His artistic and theatrical ﬂexibility, keen eye for talent and electrifying, hooky, powerful songs

ruled the charts not only with his own recordings but also with songs he helped write or produce for others. That s how Bowie changed the world.

We know Atom seems impressive and you are understandably intimidated, but, fear not! We love hearing from you, and we are super nice. Email us your story ideas: theatom.mag@gmail.com

Atom Magazine sure is nice to hold in your hands, its pages rustling in the wind, its cover attracting the attention of other well-informed people.

www.atommag.net! Welcome to the 21st century..... . .

BLACK

AND AND

WHITE SUNDAYS By W. Clay

I just turned 40, and to be honest it has little signiﬁcance

violent aspect is to risk doing something unpleasant or

act my age, and I have no desire to suddenly grow up and

children (most of the time), cordial to my co-workers (when I have

for me ‒ no black balloons, no over-the-hill jokes. I don t do grownup things. I m married, I ve got kids, I work ‒

those are grownup enough for me. But I also play music

in a band (that doesn t play Doobie Bros. covers) and on weekends, I play football.

At my age shouldn t I be playing tennis or golf? Well,

unfortunately I have one eye that sees much worse than the other and this affects my depth perception. Wreaks havoc with round ball sports. Baseball? I can t tell you how many times I got hit in the eye trying to field fly balls. Basketball? Can t pass, dribble, or

shoot for shit. Pool? Hopeless. But give me an oblong ball that

tumbles or spirals through the air and it all makes sense. I also don t like sports that require me to use some sort of utensil to hit

the ball. I need the ball in my hands and if there is anything that needs to be hit, I m going to do it with my body.

I m a man, I ll admit it, and I like to hit things and break shit, occasionally hurt myself and other people, and generally cause mayhem. It is an essential part of maleness, and to deny this

inappropriate in the gentler venues of my life. I am sweet to my to be), and loving to my wife (always). But I ve got issues,

misgivings, and feelings that are best expressed in a brutal and physical way. It is how I keep the peace, so to speak.

Now, I don t play full contact ‒ because although I might be a fool, I am not a total idiot. At my age, I just don t bounce back so well

from the physical abuse like I used to. I play ﬂag football, which probably sounds pretty wussy to the outsider. One man relieves

another of his flags: how dainty! Admittedly flag ball is devoid of the flat-out stupid levels of violence in full contact ball ‒ the

headhunting, the high-low hitting, the chop blocks ‒ but it is very

physical. You have to run around a lot, which takes some stamina, and all that running results not just in the occasional collision, but also the occasional pulled groin, twisted ankle, blown-out knee,

and broken bone. And at the line, we hit each other, just like the

big guys (except most of us aren t so big). Bruised arms, bloody

noses, black eyes, chipped teeth̶these things happen from time

to time. The right side of my body is messed up from running it

into another man s chest twenty or thirty times a game for three years straight. I use my left side now.

I have a complicated relationship with football. We got a history,

the two of us. I started playing when I was nine and, although I signed up for organized leagues, I always enjoyed the schoolyard or backyard game more. The fewer rules and fewer players, the

more I felt a part of the game. I did love the equipment, especially

the helmet, and used to pretend I was a knight and ride around on

my little Kawasaki. But all that stuﬀ kind of got in the way of what was really important: the ball, the grass, the opponent. Hell, I never really cared for winning, either. I was into the physical struggle.

Football has a way of melting away racial and cultural barriers:

when I see Muslims and Hindus playing together on the same team, it gives me hope for eventual world peace.

In the two years I played with this group, we played some epic

games against each other, occasionally dangerous in intensity and emotion. Several league games had to be ended with words before they were ended with ﬁsts ‒ the score less important than the clash of personalities. I watched great men go down in heaps,

their seasons over, ruined by the evil god of the torn ACL. I

witnessed a quarterback break his right hand at the beginning of

the game, only to finish it with his left. On at least one occasion, my back having given out on me, I had to be carried off the field (I wouldn t play another game for three months).

Things got really complicated when I got to junior high. I found my

We shared a ﬁeld with another group from Cupertino, who played

(for demolishing quarterbacks). Unfortunately I was second string,

settled disputes quickly and amicably. Since I often play line

ideal positions: fullback (for running over people) and linebacker

behind another guy who played both of those positions. In two seasons he came out of the game maybe twice, while I sat the bench. And he wasn t very good from my vantage point. He was

slower than me, he couldn t cut for shit, and he hit the line like a stick of warm butter. But he was the varsity coach s son, so skill wasn t really an issue.

I weathered the humiliating losses, and the long-ass drives to even more humiliating losses, wishing I could come in and help my team out just a little bit. Or maybe one of the worthless humps that

helped lose the game would come out for a bit so I could get

some payback for being humiliated. I was told that I needed to

support my team from the sidelines. After three years of that, I could take no more ‒ I walked oﬀ the ﬁeld and never came back.

In college I discovered rugby. It was fast and violent and it utilized

an oblong ball. It also had a heavy emphasis on drinking, which was what I was majoring in. I got to travel and play in road games,

although since I was B-squad (yet again) I sometimes had to play against my own teammates. I had some fun with it for a time: got my ﬁrst concussion, passed out in the shower and ﬂooded the

basement of my dorm, got banned along with the rest of my team from ever playing at Colby College, learned some of the dirtiest songs ever written by the hand of man [If you are or were ever a

rugger, you know what I m talking about]. I even scored a try

(rugby equivalent of a touchdown) during parent s weekend. Unfortunately, my stepfather was staring at a coed s ass and my mom was petting a dog, so they missed it ‒ but then again, they

by different rules: they let linemen go out for passes and they (apparently I can pass for big ) and I find fighting tiresome, I

migrated to this new group. New rules, new personalities ‒ it took me a while to adapt and ﬁt in. Just about the time I felt I was

being neglected, I would drop several passes in a row, or miss an

easy tackle, thus justifying the neglect. Because of this, my skills improved and I learned to keep things in perspective: one game s

triumph could easily turn into the next game s tragedy and vice

versa. I used to get pretty emotional about my performance and if I did well in a game, it would give me a lift for the entire week. If I

did poorly, I might end up with a damaged mojo that only a sack or touchdown could repair.

I also made it a habit to wear green when I played, to symbolize

my high school alma mater and the resentment I felt towards it.

On the ﬁeld I tried to make up for all of those missed opportunities ‒ as if I was still trying to impress the moronic coaches that never noticed me. After one game in which my green jersey was ripped in half, it dawned on me that my bitter

nostalgia was unhealthy. I weaned myself from green and began wearing the traditional black and white. I now keep a shirt of each

color in my bag (as is suggested on the weekly game Evite), so

that I can play for either team. I ve got my black Raiders #20

jersey if I feel like running like Mcfadden (if only) and my white Browns Tim Couch jersey which has been customized to say

Douche (I bought it that way on Ebay). I even keep some spares

in case newbies show up unprepared in something confusingly colorful.

never showed any interest in my athletic endeavors anyway.

I ve got a bad back, a stiﬀ knee, a bum shoulder, and I don t run

Ultimately I lost interest in rugby, as primal as it was, because to

playing this sport before I completely crumble into decrepitude.

be honest: it wasn t football. I foreswore team sports for a couple of decades. I didn t even think about football again until one of my students invited me to play in the ann ual Turkey Bowl that he and

a few other theatre students and assorted miscreants organized. It was muddy and the game was embarrassingly sloppy̶I hit my head so hard that I forgot where I lived (ironically about two

blocks away). I was hooked again. Not long after that, the husband of one of my wife s friends let it slip that he played ﬂag football. I

suggested to him that he should invite me along. And that was

how I came to play in what I refer to aﬀectionately as the Indian League.

I call it that because 75% of the players were of Indian descent. I

didn t want to be known as the token white dude, so I let everyone know that I was part Indian myself (the Native American kind).

as fast or hit as hard as I used to. I ve got maybe 10 more years That being said, I have more fun playing the game and my attitude

towards it is healthier and dare I say, more mature. Every Sunday I have the opportunity to don the white or take the black (had to get a Game of Thrones reference in there somewhere), win or

lose, catch or drop the ball, run down the ﬁeld under sunny skies

or wind and rain ‒ so I shouldn t complain. And if I should hurt

myself ‒ and I probably will - I ll wear the wounds with pride, even if they take longer to heal than they used to.

W. Clay is a college instructor who occasionally attempts to teach. In his leisure time he enjoys watching dark crime dramas with his wife, drinking snobby microbrews, playing violent team sports, pretending to play musical instruments, and confusing his daughters by using too many weird words.

Photo by Hilary Hulteen

The Rent i s Too Damn High and Other Political Insights: Atom Talks to J i m m y

McMillan By Spencer Sands

t s 2012. You know what that means. No, not

political system on the planet. I am however,

worse. It s an election year. I struggle to think of another two word combination that ﬁlls me

elect our leaders is a beyond broken.

the end of the world. Something much, much

completely willing to admit that the way in which we

with quite so much dread. Between the vitriolic

From the very beginning, with Alexander Hamilton s

that will adorn acolytes lawns (has anyones political

George Washington warned us about in his exit

debates , the attack ads, and the hideous vinyl signs

opinion ever been changed by one of these? If anything, they just serve to let me know whose house to vandalize come hallowe en) I ﬁnd myself yearning to become a hermit.

I bleed red, white and blue, and I say without a drop of insincerity that I believe we have the greatest

elitist electoral college, to the two party system that speech as President, there simply is not much to get excited about. I spend my days working with children, and I think that one of the greatest lies that we tell our kids is that if they work hard enough, and if they

really want it, they can be president. Bullshit. Maybe if

they are part of one of the many American political dynasties, or are born into a huge amount of money,

The very definition of “political outsider”, Jimmy McMillan has been running for office 19 years–this time he’s going for the highest office in the land

but outside of those two scenarios, they don t stand

much of a chance. Maybe that is a good thing. I don t know.

Jimmy McMillan ﬁrmly falls into neither of the two aforementioned camps. He is a veteran who served two years and some change in Vietnam (and I m not talking about that John Kerry swift boat nonsense or President Bush s Air Force experience). He was a

private detective, a rhythm and blues singer and is an expert at karate. But he is undoubtedly best known for creating his own political party (hey, it worked for Teddy Roosevelt): The-Rent-is-Too-Damn-High-Party. He has been a ﬁxture in New York state gubernatorial elections for nineteen years. This election season, he

important parts boil down to the following paragraphs.

A major theme of McMillan s entire platform is that

the young people in this country need to start looking after themselves. He discussed the rise of the

boomerang family and referred back to the name of his party; the rent is too damn high for people working minimum wages jobs to live on their own. He went on to bring up every college freshmen trying to

get into a bar s favorite point: at 18 years of age, we

can be drafted to ﬁght and die for our country, but cannot buy a beer. ...(young people) are too stupid to drink, but not to kill .

has set his sites even higher, and is running on the

He said again and again that he wants the youth of

United States of America.

However, he seemed to have little patience for the Occupy movement. Occupy the voting both, not Wall

republican ticket for the oﬃce of president of the

It is hard not to take notice of Mr. McMillan. Right oﬀ the bat, there is his highly distinctive look. Some have even gone so far as to compare him to a Bond villain with his signature grey bread, his piercing glaze and his omnipresent black gloves. You say supervillain, I

say badass. Next up is his attitude. He simply does not have patience for idiocy, which is a policy I can fully get behind. He is highly direct, and says what he

is thinking without much political hyperbole. All of this combined give you a man who ﬂies directly in the face of political blandness. He is not a boring, well put-together white guy, with perfect, plastic hair, who spouts inoﬀensive platitudes to placate would-be

voters. He is a passionate, patriotic person who is doing everything he can to bring about change in this country.

this nation to step up and take their country back.

Street. It s not that he doesn t believe in the need for protest. He was an active part of the civil rights

movement, and told me that he marched regularly. He drew attention to the protests that happened throughout the Middle East and how the protestors there where doing what they had to do to bring fair governments to their countries. He feels however,

that we have a working democratic system and that

protesting in the way that the Occupiers did accomplishes little: Protest with your vote. He ﬁrmly believes in the American system and strongly feels

that change can be brought about by way of the legislative system. To paraphrase, we don t need a

regime change, we don t have a dictatorship, but we do have the ability to bring about change by showing up to vote.

I have long been fascinated with Mr. McMillan. Who

Almost paradoxically, he brought up the fact that it s

Kenan Thompson s infamous SNL Weekend Update

enough money. It would be hard to ﬁnd someone who

runs for president? He can t possibly win, was my immediate reaction to learning about him by way of impression in 2008. Prompted by my curiosity (all be it four years later), I decided to learn more. After a cursory glance at his wikipedia article and a lesscursory glance at the website for The-Rent-is-TooDamn-High-Party, I was legitimately interested in what he had to say. I was able to talk to Mr. McMillan and

even though I prepared a ton of questions, after 45

minutes, we had only gotten through three. When he gets going, he is unstoppable; a verbal juggernaut. He answered all three of my questions as throughly as I could have ever asked for, and went on to answer a lot of the ones I didn t get to ask. What I learned

about his position could ﬁll a book, but the most

not so much that the rent is too damn high, but instead that the average American is just not making

doesn t believe that redistribution of wealth is a major issue for this country at least among the 99% s that

the occupy movement loves to bring up. What McMillan ﬁnds fascinating, however, is that the poor would be willing to elect a one of the infamous 1% . Candidate Romney has put his foot in his mouth over and over during this election, but the place he really

seems to fuck up best is in trying to relate to the everyman. This is understandable. He is pretty much the antithesis of an everyman. He, unlike so much of

this country, has money and lots of it. I admit that it s not the worst thing I can imagine, a rich person running the show, but I at least wish they would be

honest about they fact that they have no real idea

social

It s no great secret how McMillan feels about the

at just one debate, I would be willing to declare his entire campaign a massive success.

course of the last few years. As he sees it, the United

What has ultimately stuck with me the most since

out banks and ﬁnancial institutions that turned around and foreclosed on private individuals who

view. He really believes that we are to quote him, United States. United. Together . Moreover, he views

what it is like for most folks.

corporate bail outs government has issued over the States government spent billions of dollars helping

found themselves in the same situation. Understandably, he s not pleased with this. Moreover, he see s the American populace s tax dollars being

used to help these mega-national corporations get out of a lurch as an investment. To that end, he asks simply: where s our cut? His attitude is that it is the president s job to represent

my street, not Wall

Street . While it s arguable that this is an oversimpliﬁcation of modern economics, I think the intention is highly salient. Our leaders have been

problems

like gay rights. If McMillan can

succeed in keeping his co-called colleagues on topic

talking with Mr. McMillan is his deeply humanist world

us all as just humans. He laughed heartily when he explained a realization that he had in pondering the

origin of man; speciﬁcally concept of just how little separated him and anyone of his fellow Republicans on a genetic level. It s so easy to take an us-versus-

them mindset, especially when talking about American politics, and I think all voters would be well served by stepping back and looking at the world from McMillan standpoint.

involved in the self-serving protection of their

Every election year, a handful delightful screwballs

the cost of the citizenry to far too long.

urge you to please look up one Vermin Supreme. He

monetary interests and those of their supporters at

crawl out of the woodwork and wreak a little havoc. I

One of the things I questioned him on was his

is a national treasure who wears a rain-boot on his head, insists that our economic woes could be solved

his The-Rent-Is-Too-Damn-High Party and instead

our teeth hold to the key to our prosperity and runs

decision to run for president not under the banner of throw his hat in the ring as a Republican. He started by saying, I apologize for my Republican colleagues, which certainly set the stage for what was about to

by giving each American citizen a pony, thinks that in the New Hampshire primaries as often as he can (which as it so happens, is once every 4 years).

explain. He argued that as a Republican candidate he

Upon ﬁrst glance, it s easy to lump Jimmy McMillan

about the actual issues and not just talk about one

joking. He does have a ﬂair for the dramatic, and he

would be present at debates to keep them talking another s shortcomings. Instead of just talking about political failings and personal problems, McMillan thinks that politicians should talk about what actually matters, namely their position on issues the pertain to the running of our country.

into this same category, but I assure, you he s not does get passionately worked up when talking, but he is completely sincere. He never says that he doesn t believe he can win, and he even uses the predictable rhetoric about when he is in oﬃce, he will do x , but in talking to him, I got the distinct feeling that his real

He says that he is often asked about his stance on

intention is two fold. Firstly, he wants to bring attention to issues that are not talked about enough,

thinks about abortion has nothing to do with his (or

guy from New York (insert any place here, thats the

social issues like abortion. His attitude is that what he anyones) ability to run this country. Issues like this

have been around for decades and don t look like they are going to be resolved in a timely fashion. Moreover, McMillan feels that politicians are these

and secondly, to prove that it is possible for some point) to stand on a debate stage with the

professional politicos that run our nation and call take them to task.

issues as a way to keep from having to talk about the

While the aforementioned Vermin Supreme will be the

that, while important, do not have anything to do with our lives in any serious way become major factors in

vote thrown away , it is my sincerest hope that people don t think of votes for McMillan in the same way. He

topics that actually matter. Why are we letting issues

how we vote. Supposedly moral factors should not, but repeatedly do dictate the outcome of elections.

Both parties are equally guilty of using non-issue as polarizing points, the Republicans are undoubtedly the masters of trying to get people to rally around

ﬁrst to tell you that a vote for Vermin Supreme is a

really does have a vision for what he believes could

be a better America, and he is doing everything is his power to let the American people know about it.

History,

Dog-Eared By Fordy Shoor

“I No,

m sorry. I m not quite sure I understand what you re asking. You want an E-Reader that smells like mold?

I continued, speaking to the cashier at a large chain of

booksellers, I was wondering if I could get an E-Reader that has that smell, you know the old, musty book smell.

I think they all smell the same, she noted, aloof, from underneath

sharp bangs.

Is there an app for that ? I mean, we have books here, and some of them are a old

releases, but I m not sure how they smell.

I politely thanked the cashier and moved onto the print sections, a

habit that, no matter how undesirable the purveyor, occurs with the dedicated literary browser in every bookstore. I ﬂipped

through, ﬂattened, glossy copies of the novels of my youth, each presenting on the cover the most recent trends in design and,

inevitably, promotions for ﬁlm adaptation tie ins. With the modern covers, we see a publisher trying to attract readers with striking design instead of literary prestige. The ﬁlm tie-ins insinuate, by

adapting the novel, that there is an outdated nature to the text,

requiring it to readjust to modern literary trends. Upon opening

Readers, where words can be just as quickly drafted as they are

published. Words have become more transcendental, lost in the mire of the phrases that naturally overload our processing,

allowing us to less and less enjoy a string of words than simply attempt to absorb the concept. In the wake of instant information, we ve learned to read in generalities.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would be ﬂabbergasted at our casual

disregard for the smaller details, as these details serve to outline not only history, but culture as a whole.

Found within the long-

pondered-over pages of heavily used books are the loving details

of culture displayed through the eyes of the owner. Every time I ﬁnd a rare edition, I m constantly happy to ﬁnd these traces of culture waiting to be salvaged by the hands of hipsters and

hermits. It reminds me that a living, thinking person owned this, spent long hours alone, rereading passages and conjuring up their own personal storm of imagination. When purchased new, the books seemed to become little diaries, with the handwritten

annotations reﬂecting more the thoughts of the owner on a microcosmic basis, than the knowledge contained in the book

itself. Ultimately, this pride of ownership, this direct close connection between a person and a work cultivated through annotations, comments, and sometimes-heated one-way conversation is fading with the popularity of page-less books.

each one, thumbing through the stiﬀ, chemically treated pages, all

Perhaps one of the largest drawbacks is, as a result of owning a

sensation that serves to strip each novel of its tactile individuality.

other members within the cult of bookworms. It could be argued

I can smell is the utilitarian scent of brand new ink and sawdust, a After all, is that not what we seek in literature, a sense of tactile individuality?

Whether or not we relish the concept, our notions of history come

from a materialist perspective, in both senses of the word. We

reﬂect on objects, imbuing them with our sentiments while speculating upon the sentiments and epochs of past owners. The

past to us is marked by objects, movements, peoples, and events

almost more so than ever considering that accelerated production of tangible and intangible things .

Perhaps this is the concept that has, for over a decade, driven me to mildewed conﬁnes of second-hand bookshops across the

country. I ve been to the crunchiest of used bookstores in Vermont, Logos in Santa Cruz, Newbury Comics in Boston,

Recycle Books in San Jose, the Strand in New York City, City Lights in San Francisco, Powell s in Chicago and subsequently Portland, all number of dusty relic collectors throughout Europe and the more forsaken corners of the U.S., not to mention shops that display vintage pulp pornography and the most obscure of

occult literature. Not to ruﬄe the ever-blossoming feathers of

counterculture or to convey to the reader some notion of elitist

thousand books in one, utilitarian frame, people cannot identify

that, as result of these lost tactile properties, and the ability to truly

own

them, people have less invested interest in their

literature. The concept of "intellectual parading" is disappearing and, though sometimes condescending in nature, the parading of a novel in public is ultimately meant to either reﬂect a personality

or spark conversation with like-minded individuals. Modern and Post-Modern literature has always been preoccupied by

connection above all else and, aside from the solitary nature of reading, the medium of print proved successful in uniting people.

And though some of these E-readers may be able to program

some of these interpersonally annotative qualities into the circuitry, allowing for a stylus and linked discussions in the future, old readers will never own their books in quite the same way. They

will longingly ache for the kinesthetic joys of ownership; dogeared pages, the scents, the faded and worn covers each

reﬂecting the aesthetics of the era in which it was reprinted; all of these should be somehow integrated into these devices. Though, however integrated technology has and will become, it has proved

that it can never create an app for the emotional connection to ideas between generations.

cosmopolitanism, but this seems to be the standard shortcoming

of those of us who seek and obsess, as well as bargain shamelessly. Whatever prestige these stores carry, the best ﬁnds are always, much like our favorite literature, discovered through risk, usually in the place we expect and desire least.

To me, it is the hunt within these places that helps remind me of how previous generations used to consume print. Despite a

culture where everything is for sale, the way people own books and, more importantly, information, is very diﬀerent. We see the

very universal economic concept of supply and demand working almost directly on how we value information. Our thirst for material literature has been lost in the wake of online print and E-

Fordy Shoor is a Writer/Musician living in the South Bay Area. He is currently working on a book of short stories and a novel entitled Steady Diet, as well as helping cowrite and develop the animated serial Copernicus Pox. Also a seasoned bassist, he has played with the bands Acid Westerns and The Ghost of Wrights.

Photo by Hilary Hulteen

The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Reproduction

The man in question.

By Spencer Sands e and Mr. Benjamin

Walter Benjamin was an inescapable part of my college

confused after reading it as I had been during the aforementioned discussions. It is a decidedly dense piece and despite my eighteen-year-old, self-assumed genius, a cursory twenty-ﬁve minute skim would not prove suﬃcient to absorb even a fraction of what Mr. Benjamin was trying to say.

experience. I can t speak for all art and art history majors, but

To sum up as best I can for those not privy to the ﬁne liberal

I am inclined to suspect that most would share my sentiment.

arts education that I was subjected to, Benjamin argues that

His essay,

The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical

art that is produced by way of machine and without the

Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit ) was the

concept of aura (the intangible aspect of an original piece of

ﬁrst major assigned reading I skipped in my very ﬁrst

that makes attending a museum worth while) is lost when the

collegiate art history class. I mistook it for something that I

aspect of craft is removed. The quintessential example being

that week s discussion (it was a business model that had

same painting. The Mona Lisa arguably has more draw that

worked up until this point). However, it did not go away. It

any other single work of art on the planet, with an average of

somehow out of the academic loop. This may stem from the

daily. That said, it couldn t be easier to view a picture of the

fact that I was. The second time it was assigned to me I

painting in either a book or on the web. More over, with the

take time out of my busy schedule of being snotty, playing

crowd and given how small the actual painting is, and how

video games, and surﬁng to read it. Suﬃce it to say, I was as

much protection there is around the painting, one would, in

Reproduction (or in the original German, Das Kunstwerk im

would be able to ignore yet still be to bullshit my way through

kept coming up. And I kept being confused, like I was

decided that it was probably in my best interest to actually

inﬂuence of a human factor ceases to be art at all. The

the diﬀerence between a painting and a photograph of that

15,000 people ﬂocking the Musée de Louvre where it hangs

internet or a book, there wouldn t be the need to ﬁght a

all likelihood, be able to view its intricacies with much greater

Digital photography has, as of yet, not really (at least in my

clarity. That all said, the art lover can t really say they ve seen

humble opinion) succeeded in breaking out of the realm of

the piece till they ve ﬂown to gay Paris. The internet copies

the digital and into the realm of the tangible. While I am still

lot more to the article, but that s the part that is most

the vast majority of the ﬁlm they shot was promptly

pertinent to what we ll be discussing...

developed. And once developed, the comparative cream

The Part In Which I Prove The Merit of My Art Degree

parents entire lives together can be easily viewed in these

and images in books lack the aura of the original. There s a

The movement over the course of the last decade away from

ﬁnding undeveloped rolls of ﬁlm around my parents house,

found their way into my family s many photo albums. My dusty, and well-loved volumes. Starting with their ﬁrst apartments in the seventies and their ﬁrst pets, to friends'

ﬁlm cameras and into the arms of digital cameras represents

weddings (and eventually their own), the passing of loved

a hugely important shift in the very nature of photography.

ones, the building of the home they still live in, their adoption

While film cameras offered anyone with five dollars to spend

of me, every birthday, graduation, play, soccer game,

completely at their whim, everyone of the pictures they took

evidence of their existence together is readily accessible.

had a set and very tangible value. Between the purchasing of

However, once you hit about 2004, the photo albums stop.

(either in the form of time for people with dark room access

together by way of Apple, but compared to the

or cash for people paying someone else to develop it) each

documentarians that they once were, they have all but

signiﬁcant amount of money. Digital photographs are

that they have taken. And this is not because they have

comparatively valueless; ignoring the cost of the camera and

ceased to photograph their lives (if anything, they take more

it s memory card, the it costs the photographer nothing to

pictures) however, the ﬁles associated with all of the

digital photographer need only unload what he or she has

solely in digital form. They have tried printing them with

already taken to their computer or just erase what they don t

numerous apparatuses and, as of yet, have not succeeded in

photograph would possess is slowly and surely whittled away

their albums.

on a disposable camera the opportunity to take a picture

the ﬁlm and the investment inherent in developing the images

photograph taken cost it s creator a set and wholly

take a nigh unlimited number of pictures. Moreover, the

like when they reach capacity, any external value that a single

by each subsequent click. A photographer working with a ﬁlm

Christmas, Thanksgiving, and on ad nauseam, photographic

There are a few Shutterﬂy® books, and compendiums put

ceased to put together tangible collections of the pictures

photographic evidence of the events in their lives exists

ﬁnding a reliable way to get them oﬀ their computer and into

camera has something in the order of twenty-four pictures

It has never been easier to take a picture. Even if we

they can take before they are required to reload, whereas the

disregard digital cameras (that is to say, mono-tasking

digital photographer (working under the assumptions that A)

devices whose soul purpose is to take pictures) and look just

the memory card in their camera has a conservative 2

at the phenomenon of the digital swiss-army knife, capturing

the vicinity of 3 megabytes) can take roughly 340 pictures

is most often the case, a cellular telephone, at any given time,

before uploading or deletion would be necessitated.

most people have instant access to a device that can take a

This lends itself to a completely diﬀerent methodology in

volume of photographs taken daily has seemingly

photography; wherein formerly every snapshot had a

skyrocketed. More over, we as photographers have more

gigabytes of capacity, and that B) each photo they take is in

deﬁnable value, the digital photographer can take the shotgun

an image takes no eﬀort. Be it an Mp3 player, a tablet, or, as

picture. With these devices perpetually at our ﬁnger-tips, the

outlets, and open gallery spaces that ever before. Between

approach. There is no need to worry about

Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, Imgur, Minus and countless other

whether or not the shot came out as the photo is easily

online image depositories, it is unspeakably easy for us to

viewed, and either deleted and reshot, or saved. Again, this

present the snapshots collected in our daily travels for the

easily erased an replaced instantly at the whim of the

distribution that I start to question the intent of the

photographer, there is no reason to feel invested in a single

photographs we take. Do the pictures we take en mass have

plays into the concept of per-image value; with each shot so

shot. With ﬁlm it is, speciﬁcally when working with a manual

whole world to see. It is with this kind of rapid and easy

any really value or are the just taken because they can be?

aperture and focus, important to bracket your photos. That is to say, take multiple shots of the same subject while

More over, taking photos for the sake of digital depository

you would assume to be the correct setting. You do end up

terrifying way. We re all familiar with George Orwell s 1984, a

shooting the same shot a couple of times, but it the element

world where our every move is watched. The sad fact is that

of mystery remains; you can t just delete the ones that you

Orwell s dystopian prediction is coming true and it is more

and ﬁlmic bracketing comes down to this: the former

the most prevalent modern tale of job-hunting woe is that of

encourages the photographer to further divest in the

the prospect employee whose chances at a given job are

single image will turn out right.

situation, regardless of how public or private we intend for it

changing the aperture settings both above and below what

dislike. In eﬀect, the diﬀerence between digital shotgunning

individual images they take while the later is about ensuring a

has led to us document our lives in a radical and somewhat

our own fault than a repressive fascist governments. Perhaps

dashed by the content of their Facebook wall. In any social to be, it seems there is always at least one person snapping

meaningless cell phone pictures that wi ll eventually ﬁnd their

them are good. I would rather see one good, well thought out

way to the internet with names attached to it. It has been said

photo than ten thousand bad ones.

that the internet never forgives and never forgets, yet

r Zeitalte stwerk im n u K s a D

compromising photos are posted en mass daily. To make a some what low-brow comparison, let us look at the

prevalence of the celebrity sex tape that gets leaked to the web. I challenge you to name a single celebrity sex tape

besides the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee one that was spread in the pre-internet world. Information simply spreads to quickly and is too easy to come by in a digital world.

The Part In Which I Actually Talk About What I Love About Photography

I know it s hard, but I think that from a purely graphic stand point the would-be photographer would be well served by

restricting their cell-phone use to communication only. A few years ago the argument could be made that the technical limitations of cell phone cameras were reason enough to

avoid them for everything except quickly grabbing an image from daily life to later share with friends. I do really think that using a ﬁlm camera is a great exercise is

self-limitation, and if you have access to a SLR, by all means, take a couple of minutes to ﬁgure it out. Film is fun for all the previously mentioned reasons, but what really makes it my

photographic medium of choice is that I have to wait to see the ﬁnished product. I adore the mystery of taking a picture and having no idea whether or not it came out. I am a very

diligent bracket-er but even with all that work, until it s developed, there is no telling what will have worked. There are so many variables to considered when using an older camera: is the aperture set correctly? Is the subject in focus?

Is f-stop in the right place? God, it s basically guess work and I ﬁnd it thrilling! That said, my excitement escalates to critical levels once I drop it oﬀ to be developed. One hour is such an

insigniﬁcant amount of time anywhere else in my life, but waiting for sixty minutes to pass when I have ﬁlm being processed is seemingly the real time equivalent of ten to twelve years.

I completely understand if you either don t have a ﬁlm camera or dislike the expense, and that is ﬁne. But I would

still argue that photography is accomplished in a much more meaningful way if it is done with a device that is designed solely capture images. As you gear up for your day and stuﬀ

you pockets or purse full of the trinkets you will need for your travels, take the digital camera. It is my opinion that even if you use a digital camera in the same, spontaneous

manor that you would a cellphone camera, the intent has shifted. You are no longer an accidental photographer, but instead one who just happens to be in the right place at the right time with your camera. I ve rambled on for far too long, but if I could reduce the last 2,000 words into a simple 8 it would be this: please think

about the photographs you are taking. I realize it makes me sound like a complete curmudgeon, but I really think there are just too many damn pictures in the world and very few of

474

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By Brendan Nystedt years ago, a revolutionary new product

With the Newton and other early PDAs, it was clear that the

was developed by Apple. No, it wasn t the

goal was to turn ink into zeroes and ones. By aiming to

Mac. It was the Newton. The Newton was

emulate the way we use paper, these devices took how

to replace a notepad, send faxes, beam information wirelessly

and ﬂexibility of computing to the mix. Although things didn t

and even browse the web. The Newton s chosen input was a

work out this way, the computer industry couldn t be faulted

recognition.

stylus was about to be dealt a blow from which it is still

one of the ﬁrst PDAs, a device designed

radical one for which it was lambasted‒ handwriting

The touchscreen could act both as an interpreter for the

people worked already and sought to add the advantages

for thinking this way. There s a lot of sense there. But, the recovering.

user s scribblings as well as drawings. The issue was that the

It all came crashing down in 2007, when the iPhone was

software wasn t mature enough. Turning handwriting into text

released. Steve Jobs did his dog-and-pony show, blowing the

was a little clumsy. Despite shortcomings, the Newton

mind of the audience and the computing world at large. How

the most natural input type we as humans know of- writing.

we re going to use a stylus! Jobs paused for eﬀect, adding a

It s the basis of civilization. From cuneiform to ornate

hint of disgust to his voice. No. Who wants a stylus? You

thing humans have down pat. Pens, pencils and paintbrushes

Nobody wants a stylus. And with that, the stylus was put in

have worked ﬁne and continue to work despite the advent of

an early grave. The iPhone and touchscreen devices that

users to have precision input when writing, tapping and

touchscreens. This technology is great for ﬁngers but pens

drawing.

and styli just won t register.

products were a truly new type of computing, one relying on

calligraphy, cartoons, kanji, doodles and painting there s one

digital technologies. PDAs came with stylus devices, enabling

are we going to communicate with [the iPhone]? Oh, a stylus,

have to get em and put em away and you lose em...yecch.

came afterward used new generation capacitive

Now that we re living in the so-called post-pc era, touchscreen devices are poised to take over for laptops and desktops for the vast majority of users. But, are we seriously

supposed to take the late Jobs words at face value? For many tasks, a stylus is the only way to go. Can you imagine Van Gogh painting with his ﬁngers? What about Da Vinci

creating his meticulous inventions and sketches? Fingers are blunt instruments compared to when the entire arm is used to control tools. The elbow, wrist and all the ﬁngers can be

articulated when the hand is holding a pen or pencil, aﬀording superior results. There s a reason why children, with their limited motor skills, are taught to ﬁnger paint before anything else. They don t have the dexterity to wield brushes at very young ages.

With the advent of the iPad has come exciting new software for creating artwork. For all the aforementioned reasons, the stylus doesn t need to be dead but it does need to be reinvented (and a good PR ﬁrm). The results have been lessthan-satisfactory as of yet. The ﬁrst stylus I tried on the iPad

was the Pogo Sketch, a skinny aluminum rod with a short, round foam tip. Because it felt so light and insubstantial, it

Ideas by Adobe

didn t feel like something for everyday usage. Since then, I

discovered the Bamboo stylus from Wacom. Wacom is a trusted name in computer peripherals due to their awardwinning digital pen tablet for artists. Their iPad stylus is

tipped with a squishy rubber polkadot. Although this still isn t an ideal replacement for a real pen or pencil, at the very least

There s two apps I use on the iPad to sketch and doodle. The

this product feels nice to hold. It s just weighty enough, with a

one I ve had for the longest is Ideas by Adobe. This feels a

made from metal and latches onto pockets like there s no

the ability to import photos on which to draw. It makes a

satin ﬁnish to provide grip on the barrel. The clip on it is tomorrow.

little like Photoshop, with layers, variable ink thickness and good use of the pinch-to-zoom gesture which enables really ﬁne detail on a very large canvas. The new kid on the block

takes the opposite approach. Instead of giving users control over fine-tuning and such, FiftyThree s Paper program tries its best to emulate a notebook. There s a range of different tools to use and the color palate is fixed for the time being. The watercolor shading tool is particularly impressive, soaking the page with color and offering realistic blending. The bad part of Paper is that it relies only on gestures to call

up the tool/color palate and to ﬂip pages. That means that drawing on the edges of the screen is touchy and can trigger these actions. Otherwise, the tools are top notch, the app is sleek and smooth and almost an ideal replacement for a real

Paper by FiftyThree

notebook. The stylus is back from the dead and thirsty for vengeance. We thought we could live without it. How foolish! I, for one, am hoping for the similar resurgence of handwriting recognition. I don t care how fast you can type, complex ideas are expressed more quickly with handwriting. That s the missing piece of the puzzle for creating the digital notebook of my dreams.

Photo by Hilary Hulteen

From ”THE RICA”. A comedy, and a television workshop.

Featured Artist:

Gerard Howland thought it best to write about my passion as an artist, the

Well, that didn t quite go according to plan, as since that time I ve

hopefully thrive. Without the passion for personal

tours and so forth, than ever before. It says in my passport that

drive... the thing that makes us get up, get dressed and expression, without the ability to visually story tell, I d

certainly have had a very, very diﬀerent life, upon reﬂection.

I was raised on a small rural English farm on the outskirts of London, where from the age of ﬁve onwards I was the man of the

house. I believe I gained my work ethic from having to take care of my portion of farm duties, my passion from my Irish mother, and my creativity from both parents. However, I had almost no

exposure to the arts and I was hopelessly lost at school, to boot.

My dyslexia was not diagnosed until my mid twenties, by which

worked more in the theatre, opera, theme parks, expositions, rock

I m a stage designer, but the truth is I am a Jack of all trades... I ve

found fascination in almost every form of entertainment design, and now my passions encompass directing, writing, composing and the creation of artworks. I have never had two days repeat themselves in my creative life, and that is key for me. I m

interested in my current work, my current projects only, and I seek to broaden my experience as an artist for the rest of my life by testing myself, challenging myself never to fall in love with my work. My best work is always my next gig.

time I d already had to ﬁgure out other creative ways to move

Atom Magazine have kindly given me a chance to air two of my

that time, even though I had designed several dozen plays, I d

rendering form, a theme within this current edition. The pieces

forward in my accidental stage and costume design career. At

never been able to actually read one, something I kept very much

to myself. I was able to get through by listening to directors, who

more than made up for it by talking endlessly about the play s

content from every vantage point conceivable. The design solutions were born from inspiration taken from anything and

everything available at that particular moment. Needless to say it was a little random on occasion, but I got away with it somehow. It freed me, as un-schooled I found myself empowered to take action without all the questions a trained mind might have

current capers, both of which were created in black and white

displayed are from two graphic novels I ve created, both inspired by Shakespeare, and both are examples of productions I d like to

eventually create physically as the inaugural productions of The American Shakespeare Company and Film Theater, of which I am the founder. One is a comedy, THE RICA , based, very loosely, on

Romeo and Juliet and The Merry Wives of Windsor, and the other is a drama,

Dr. Macropolus , based even more loosely on

Macbeth and Janacek s opera, The Makropolus Case.

pondered over endlessly.

For ten years I stopped drawing - I could not get used to the

And when some say that they grew up in the theatre, I literally

other artists representing my intent to my clients, so I donned

did... I was inside a darkened auditorium from the age of nineteen to thirty-ﬁve, before coming to America - to the sunshine, where I planned to be a ﬁne artist - never-ever to cross the threshold of a theatre again!

wearing of glasses. But I became tired of presenting works from

glasses and got back to my roots in creating these pieces. The only fundamental diﬀerence now is the medium, as I used to create pieces with pencils principally, however, now I need the stark contrast of ink, I think in order to see what I m up to!

Illustration, and in particular graphic novels, are my current focus professionally, and with the help of my new agent, Jean Blasco, I plan to stay a little more in my studio and create across the board without the imposed borders of production.

Passion for expression, like energy itself, can neither be created nor destroyed. All the world s a stage ... It is the engine for life as an artist/storyteller ‒ it has to be. We don t know it any other way, and it may not make sense to anyone else other than ourselves,

necessarily, but for me it is a privilege to have been blessed with enough of a gift to muddle through, and even make a good living too... As

no matter how much I ve complained throughout my career about the long hours and the short monies ‒ it s not like running a farm and it always beats working for a living!

From “Dr. Macropolus”. Zombi-Zee, the raven, roptus eagle assassin, and harbinger of Voodoo een, Marie-Marie.

From ”Dr. Macropolus”. Captain Morgan, aka Cap’n Blizzard.

From “Dr.Macropolus”. Dr. Macropolus, aka ‘Dandelion’, the host MC – presumed to be ane Macbeth.

From â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dr. Macropolusâ&#x20AC;?. Marie-Marie and the witches arrive as Banquo and Macbeth ponder the blasted heath.

From “Dr. Macropolus”. e Black Rock Desert seing for the Circus of Dr. Macropolus and “e Blasted Heath Ball”.

From “Dr. Macropolus”. A theme camp and port - the year 2229.

About Gerard Howland: • International award winning theatrical and entertainment designer • The founder and president of The ASC, The American Shakespeare Company • Director of Design for the San Francisco Opera for seven years • Designer for Walt Disney Imagineering, for over twenty years • Best known in the Bay Area for the creation of the Coke Bottle, Mitt & ‘Splash Landing’, at the Giants ballpark. Mr. Howland was touted by Wired Magazine to be one of Hollywood’s Twenty most likely to shape the future of the entertainment industry. His clients include: Disney Studios, Universal Studios, Fox Studios, Warner Brothers Studios, The Rolling Stones, U2, The English National Opera, LA Opera, Houston Opera, San Francisco Opera, Washington Opera, Munich Opera, Paris Opera, ACT, SCR, The Royal Shakespeare Company, The Olympics, General Motors, The World’s Fair, Paul Allen, The San Francisco Giants and The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Illustration representation: Blasco Creative Artists, Chicago (www.blacocreative.com)

Photo by Hilary Hulteen

Occupy Occupy Your Your Mind Mind By Eli Sanchez

f you watch the news these days, it seems that more often than not, there is some sort of

Occupy movement springing up in some spot in the United States. The movement, originally

designed as a protest against the Top 1% Wealthy Americans has now become a broad-based protest on budgetary problems with various state governments, to tuition hikes at universities. Let s face it, the movement has made it a point of protesting some valid points, but what seems obvious also is that a lot of things get overlooked.

Occupy suffers from falling over from the weight of its own shoulders. It is largely disorganized and suffers from infiltration from anarchists and rabble-rousers, not to mention outsiders who just come to be seen.

Occupy needs to focus on a few fundamental details or it will suﬀer under the weight of its own intent. For starters, they need a bulldog.

Someone high up or with high visibility needs to go to the dark side. A notable quote from Star Trek VI in which Mr. Spock said, Only Nixon could go to China, was an apt quote. In order for Occupy to get a real foothold, someone is going

to have to go and let themselves be tarnished for the good of the movement. For Occupy, a rich 1% needs to seriously join the fray and push for change. Stop getting beaten down by the Socialism argument. In fact, public schools, the tax code, and social security actually

are based on some socialist foundations. Don t let the naysayers get away with it. Taxes are designed to help everyone pay

into system where everyone beneﬁts as it the idea of the education system and social security. In other words, people need to avoid getting scared oﬀ by that argument. Taking care of one another is not a four letter word and don t let it become that way.

Rights vs. Privileges. Healthcare, education, and employment are rights. If we are to live in a capitalist society, by deﬁnition that means we also must create some sort of method to purchase goods and services, and that system must be available to all. Education should not be priced out of reach for people, jobs should be available, and healthcare in order to survive shouldn t be something put behind a glass case.

Avoid the pitfalls of routine. In reality, there is less steam behind a movement because of the waning interest in some folks of wanting to rock the boat.

People have conformed and pigeon-holed themselves into a sense of routine that does not

stray from the straight and narrow. I call it the Pastels and Polos Conundrum: We ve moved away from cutoﬀs and t-shirts in favor of an acceptable lapsed individuality that moves towards the Country Club mentality in which the only real diﬀerence in people is how much someone paid for their driver.

Intelligence. The dumbing down of society, either by smart phones, tablets, defunding of the education system, or overall

dietary habits that contribute to the overall ADHD attitude of the today s youth keeps the focus all over the board instead of on overall improvement. Granted, not everyone on planet earth is aﬄicted as such, but sit on public transit once in a while

and you ll watch the stream of uninvolved humanity sit down, pull out an electronic device, and lose themselves. That s not to say that these things cannot also be tools for learning and developing, but the law of averages suggests most people are focused on their little games and less on enriching activities.

Create your own bliss. Don t let someone else manufacture your dream. Ethos of Control. Whose control are you really exhibiting? Are you merely exercising someone else s ideals, or are you truly expressing your own? Our society is based on a system of the more successful you are, the less you have to contribute because you have, in eﬀect, paid your dues. The tax system is based on punishment of people who actually are praised for their contributions, but at the same time are raked over the coals on the other side.

Religion. Most fervor is based on some sort of gap in real philosophical thought. Again, it goes back to having your own Ethos of Control.

Eli has realized very recently that the whole point of his college education was to finally understand the humor that he heard as a child uttered around the old kitchen table. Since then, he has been in search of a small dog who haunts his dreams and hopes to finally come face to face with a dachshund named Robert Dog who has been conspiring against him all over the United States. He lives in Oakland, CA with his wife and a very fluffy cat.

Canadian Girlfriend

By Al Bruno III

t ended as it began, with an abrupt transﬁguration and ﬂutter of wings. *** The air in Rousedower s Tavern was thick with cigarette smoke. The patrons were college students and

middle-aged bohemians; both groups were lured here by the promise of cheap beer and easily ignored acoustic bands. Barry Moore tired to look casual as directed Jimbo and Mike to a corner table.

When the waitress brought the menus, Barry watched while his friends debated over the exchange rates between American and Canadian currency. They didn t have a lot of either after pre-paying for the motel room and they still had to have enough left over to make the trip back from Montreal to the SUNY Albany Campus. Barry grimaced a little at the thought of four more hours crammed into Jimbo s Dodge Charger.

Well? Mike Proctor straightened his glasses. He was the tallest of them; his face was far too small for a head so large. He preferred to wear tie-dyed shirts and heavy boots. He looked like the Frankenstein monster had collided with a hippie commune, Where is she?

Barry made a show of scanning the crowd; he caught a glimpse of his reﬂection in the mirror above the bar; plain looking with shaggy hair and an easygoing smile. I don t see her. She must be running late.

I can t believe you re making us do this man. Jimbo Lord wore mostly black, because he d learned that black

was slimming. Sadly, Jimbo had never learned that diet and exercise were even more slimming. I mean, we ve come all this way, can t you just admit it? Barry shook his head, Admit what?

You ve been telling us about this girl for almost a year. The waitress brought over a bowl of popcorn and Jimbo

dug in. This perfect girl. Come on. Admit it so we can drop this charade and hit some strip clubs. Topless... Mike half-spoke, half-sang, ...and bottomless.

Guys, she ll be here. Barry said. The waitress came back and took their drink orders--two beers, one soda. Mike looked over the menu again, What are the wings like? Barry shrugged. The door opened with a long drawn out squeal as another group of college students filled the air with raucous laughter. The band finished their first set to scattered applause and made their way to the bar. I thought this was your little love nest? Mike asked. How can you not know what the wings are like? I never tried them all right? Jimbo shook his head sadly. Look. Just repeat after me... There- Is- No- Phoebe- Reischl. You can tell her that soon enough. Lord have mercy. We have got to break you of this. Barry took a drink of his soda. Break me of what? She s real. Mike shook his head. I need evidence. We have not seen one picture of this girl and you have not received one phone message. Not even an email and believe me we ve looked. Guys... How far do you think he s going to take this?

something?

Mike wondered aloud.

Should we settle in and order

Jimbo nodded sagely. Even in the midst of an intervention, there is always time for curly fries and wings. Mike smiled. You re like the Sun Tzu of junk food. What intervention? Barry scowled. I don t need an intervention. In his third year of college Barry had moved oﬀ campus. Of all the applicants he d looked into for a roommate,

Mike Proctor had seemed like the one least likely to murder someone in their sleep. Jimbo Lord had come to

help Mike and he d never really left; when he wasn t working or trolling for babes on the Internet, he was planted on their couch. It didn t take very long for them all to become friends, and it didn t take Mike and Jimbo long to ﬁgure out that their newest friend didn t have much luck with the ladies. When the waitress returned to their table she asked, More drinks? Mike and Jimbo ordered curly fries, hot wings, and more beers. You know what I think? Mike smiled. I think what you need Barry, is a night with a professional. Hey! Barry said.

Hang on a minute here, Mike continued. I don t mean some skank, I mean a night with one of those high-class

hookers you always see dead on CSI.

So many things were wrong with that last statement... Barry said. Look, you re among friends here, Mike frowned and looked around the bar. Friends and Canadians. Just admit

you made her up so you wouldn t seem so lame. Yet in doing so you became lamer, Jimbo said.

The door squealed again and in the silence, everyone at the table seemed to look up at once. Barry felt his entire world tilt sideways. A woman stood in the doorway; she wore jeans and a bomber jacket covered with faded decals; her dark hair was pulled back in a knot. Her smile practically glittered as she waved and headed over to sit down at their table. It was Phoebe, there was no mistaking her. But that's impossible, Barry thought. She doesn't exist. *** ...They congealed in the forgotten places: those abandoned or given over to entropy and solitude. Ritually blinded and squealing like newborns, they meandered from burnt-out houses and empty storefronts through the alleys and side streets of Montreal. No one saw them, no one dared... *** Sorry I m late. You wouldn t believe what it took for me to get here. Phoebe shouldered out of her jacket and

bulky purse and sat down beside Barry. She touched his arm with easy familiarity and kissed him on the cheek. She extended her hand to the men across the table from her, You must be Mike, and you must be Jim. Mike shook her hand. As I live and breathe... heavily. Jimbo kissed it. Please call me Jimbo. Phoebe s giggle sounded just the way Barry had imagined. The band made their way back to the stage, spent a few moments arguing about a chord and then started playing. Several of the bar s patrons took this as a signal to leave, the door squealed again.

Both of Barry s friends had dated extensively through college. Mike tended to specialize in damaged goods. He d just recently broken up with a girl with attention deficit disorder--in truth she hadn t so much broken up with him as simply wandered off. He d rebounded quickly enough and was now dating a bi-polar political science major with a passion for student protests and flicking lit cigarettes at strangers. So you re Phoebe... Mike said. The waitress had brought over their food but none of the men at the table seemed to notice. Phoebe looked over the hot wings before choosing a particularly plump looking one. That s what it says on my birth certificate. Jimbo leaned forward. You didn t happen to bring it along did you? It was different for Jimbo--he found all of his girls on the Internet, he regularly visited a dozen or so message

boards and convinced women to come and visit him with his mastery of the written post. Jimbo s most recent

conquest had presented herself as a bi-curious nineteen year old African-American college student. When she d arrived she d turned out to be a thirty-something white woman with badly died hair and prison tattoos. Since

Jimbo described himself in his messages as a John Stamos-type, he really didn t have the right to accuse her of being a liar. Somehow they really hit it oﬀ anyway and she spent the weekend with him--everything was going great for Jimbo until her husband showed up. So... Barry watched her eat. So... You guys don t mind do you? I m starving, Phoebe said with her mouth full. She set the bones from one wing

down and grabbed another. You know how I get when I m working, Love Bug.

Barry ﬂinched at the sound of the nickname he d imagined her calling him. He d never told anyone that, no matter how much he might boast about her personality or bedroom techniques. Jimbo laced his ﬁngers together. And what do you do for a living, again? For all their misadventures, at least his friends were out there in the trenches. Barry tended to keep his head down and concentrate on studying for his anthropology degree. Oh, he d tried his hand at meeting girls on campus, but somehow they either sensed his fear of rejection or his lack of money. The only girl he d managed to get two dates with had ended up trying to recruit him into a cult-- as if he had that kind of time and money.

There were plenty of bars around campus too and Barry had tried the scene, but no matter what he did he seemed to just fade into the background. Except of course for that one day he d worn those new shoes on a

rainy night. Barry still cringed at the mental image of him walking into the bar, slipping on a patch of wet ﬂoor and crashing into the trio of stewardesses at the bar. Sometimes he could still hear their bilingual cursing.

I m a commercial artist, mostly boring stuﬀ like ad copy and signage, She explained. But I make a lot of extra

scratch doing Star Trek themed oil paintings and selling them at Sci-Fi Conventions. Mike gave Barry a disbelieving glance. Really?

The lead singer of the band paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember the next lyric of 'Stairway to Heaven.' The drummer launched into an impromptu solo to try and drown out the heckling.

Oh yeah, and you would not believe what some fans would pay to have them selves painted in as a member of the Enterprise s bridge crew. I mean, I m no Dru Blair but people seem to like my work. How could she know all this? Barry wondered. Am I going crazy? Almost one year ago he d invented Phoebe Reischl to make his friends stop trying to send him oﬀ on blind dates with the girls they didn t want. It wasn t that Barry hadn t tried his luck a few times. The guys always told him that at the very least he could look upon these as practice dates ; but after one of the girls brought him to her high school reunion and introduced him as her ﬁancé, Barry had had enough.

One winter weekend he d gone to a science ﬁction convention in New York City, a semi-annual ritual, weather and funds permitting. When he got back home he told his friends he wouldn t need any more blind dates. He d just met a girl named Phoebe, and his heart belonged to her. She was perfect girl, perfect for him in only the

way an imaginary girlfriend could be. The only drawback was she lived in Canada but Barry had told Mike and Jimbo that he knew he could make it work. ... isn t that right, Love Bug? Barry started. What? Mike smiled. Earth to Love Bug. Your sweetie was just telling us the story about how you met.

Oh? Barry looked at her, at the quiet affection in her eyes. Oh yes. Love at first sight, she said. And to think if you hadn t held that elevator for me I might have ended up going to dinner with that fan-film guy. Everything... Barry paused, his mouth felt full of saliva. ...Everything happens for a reason. "Barry said you were thinking of branching out into other styles of art? Jimbo asked. Well, I ve gotten a few requests for Babylon 5 stuff but I can never get the spaceships right... In a matter of a few months Phoebe Reischl became more than a cover story- she became a talisman against

the lonely grind of study and work. She became an excuse to pull back from the dating scene for a while. So what if the girl at the coﬀee shop smiled at him? After all, she was no Phoebe. So what if Barry found himself alone on the holidays and he just walked in on his roommate having sex with the same coﬀee shop girl under the Christmas tree? He had Phoebe.

Well, not really but he had the idea of Phoebe, the idea that the perfect girl was somewhere out there waiting for him. But she was here now; living, breathing and unconsciously running her ﬁngertips along the length of his arm. For

Barry the whole bar had ceased to exist, Jimbo and Mike were like phantoms. Phoebe caught him looking at her from the corner of her eye and blushed a little; she brushed a stray lock of hair aside and said in a stage whisper, You re staring. They didn t think you were real, Barry said. And for that we apologize, we just thought you sounded a little too good to be true," said Mike. She is. Barry stroked the curve of her chin, like he d always imagined. Phoebe caught his hand and nibbled on the ridge of his knuckle. You re sweet. Jimbo leaned back in his chair. You two need a room? We have one, Barry said, dangling the motel room key before her. Unless you d rather go back to your place? *** ...their masters called them the Ophanim. The name was a cruel, knowing joke. They slowly found each other and began traveling in groups. The cool March wind ﬂuttered over the mutilated black wings that were nothing more

than gnarled ﬁsts of cartilage and bone that sprung from their backs. They were dressed in tatters and rags; every scrap had been scavenged or stolen. The Ophanim might have wept at their state but their minds were as broken as their bodies... *** They left Mike and Jimbo back at the bar and called a cab. When Barry had held the door of Rousedower s Tavern open for Phoebe he had glanced back at them, the envy in their eyes was almost physically palpable. They looked like they couldn t believe what they were seeing.

Barry could understand that, especially now when she was snuggled against him in the cab, her hand on his knee. Her body was soft yet toned, a dancers' physique- but not the kind of dancers Jimbo and Mike were planning to go see tonight. Phoebe described herself as a lapsed ballerina --she hadn t taken a formal dance

lesson in years but she still kept up the routines of practice and exercise. It still made her sad sometimes that she had never had the money to continue her studies.

But she never said any of this, Barry thought. I said it. I imagined her saying it! None of this makes any sense. Phoebe, he said. What was the name of that school in Europe you were going to go to? We re here. What? The cab slowed to a stop. Phoebe rummaged around in her purse until she found her wallet. She ﬂashed him a mischievous smile. I can t believe I m paying for your booty call.

Booty? Barry let her pull him from the cab and lead him back to his room. He hardly felt the chill wind or the

half ice, half slush that splashed around his feet; he hardly felt anything except for the terriﬁed thudding in his chest.

She steered him along to the side of the building, to room 377. Open up. How did you know what room I m in? You ﬂashed your room key at me remember? She gave him a little kiss. Uh... Barry blushed, found the room key and led her inside. She caught his hand as he reached for the wall switch. Do we really need lights? Do you want a drink? Barry asked as she moved closer, pushing him against the door. We have sodas in the

cooler.

There are just two beds in this room. Was one of you boys going to double up? I brought a sleeping bag. I was going to sleep on the ﬂoor. You re too nice. Phoebe pulled her blouse over her head; the bra she wore was powder blue lace. The clasp

was on the front, she took his hands and led them to it. Maybe that s why I m so crazy about you. A girl can feel safe with a man like you.

Barry was shaking, he felt like a teenager again, all clumsy and cornered. She kissed him and pulled him down onto the bed.

They didn t pull the covers back; they barely thought to nudge the luggage onto the ﬂoor. How... why are you here? How could I stay away? *** ...the Ophanim knelt clumsily in the melting snow and ice. Their faces were like smeared paintings, somehow

wizened and beatiﬁc at once. When one shuddered from the cold, they all shuddered. They all waited for the last

of their numbers to arrive. Long ago there had been dozens of them but now there were only seven. Every year their numbers dwindled further...

*** The ﬁrst bar they went to left Mike wondering if Canada had a Better Business Bureau he could complain to. The gaudy neon signs had promised 'EXOTIC DANCERS' but none of the women that had graced the stage had been able to dance very well and neither Mike nor Jimbo considered stretch marks or missing teeth to be exotic.

The wind and the cold were even worse than before; it battered them as they crossed the street to the car. Where to next? Jimbo asked. Let s call it a night. Mike waved his hands. The only person having a good time right now is Barry. I still don't believe it, Jimbo said. No one can be that... that... Wow. Cold and miserable, they climbed into the car. Mike sat in the passenger side, trying to warm himself by ﬂapping his arms. Jimbo started the car and turned the heater and defogger up full blast. Man, that girl had the prettiest eyes didn t she? The stripper? The one with the razor burns? I mean Barry s girl. Jeez, it doesn t even sound right saying that... Yeah. Mike smiled. I ve always been a sucker for green eyes. Blue, Jimbo corrected, her eyes were blue. No. Green. You colorblind or something? They were totally blue, they had bits of gold in them. They almost shone, it was like... Jimbo frowned. ... like

they weren t even real.

*** Barry stirred with a smile. He had forgotten about this part, about the good part after the other good part; to fall asleep holding your lover close, to gently doze oﬀ feeling someone s heat radiating back at you.

I can t let this end. I ve got to get an engagement ring. I ve got to find a justice of the peace. Do they have those in Canada? Barry smiled and reached across the bed to draw her in close again. Hey! Where is she? Barry sat up and saw her in the bathroom, standing naked before the mirror, preening. She kept turning on her heel, trying to examine the reflection of her back. Her skin was smooth and flawless; it reminded Barry of a

statue, the perfect girl cast in marble. Remember this, Barry thought to himself. Keep this memory it someplace safe where nothing can tarnish it. Remember this. Finished dreaming? Phoebe grinned at him, her dark eyes ﬂashing. Do you want to go get something to eat?

Should we talk about what we want to do tomorrow? Come back to bed. That s all I want.

Switching oﬀ the bathroom light, she climbed back onto the bed and draped herself over him. We should get dressed before your friends come back.

Maybe they won t come back." Barry kissed her shoulder. Maybe they hooked up with someone.

Yeah, right, She started to laugh and then stiffened. Did you hear something? Hear what? Phoebe got out of bed and peered out the motel room s bay window. What was that? I didn t hear anything. Barry got out of bed and put his arm around her. What s wrong? Hey, you re shaking like a leaf. Phoebe fell back into his arms. We re not alone. They re back already? Barry peered out the window, usually you could hear Mike s car from a block away thanks to his crappy muffler. I have to tell you, she crossed her arms over her chest. You deserve to know. I don t have to know anything, Barry said. All I know is I m happy. I don t think I ve ever been this happy before. Phoebe started to cry.Barry tried to hold her but she pushed him away. Hurt and a little stunned, he watched her rummage around on the floor for her clothes. Eventually she gave up and slipped on Barry s cast-off shirt. What s wrong? Barry asked again. She sat down on the bed and drew her legs up to her chest. Do you know that over 70% of Americans believe in angels?

But we re in Canada... *** It must be contacts, Mike said. Chicks are vain like that. Jimbo said, Or you could be wrong. No. I know what I saw, Mike frowned. I ve been ogling girls for years. We should check on him. With a sigh Jimbo put the car in gear and started driving. He s not gonna like us interrupting. Yeah, well he ll get over it, Mike said. Something s not right. Something s not right with her. Well duh. Look who she s dating... *** You re what? Barry pulled his jeans on as he listened to her speak. An angel but not in the way you understand the term. You re beautiful and fun and the greatest sex of my life. Barry fell to his knees. Please don t be crazy. Belief has power and every generation has its own mythologies to give us form, Phoebe said. Most people now call angels to them, they don t even realize they re doing it.

Why...? The Divine Spark? Psychic power? I ll never know but, Love Bug, you have to understand that my kind fall to

Earth as incomplete dreams, weak and empty, she shivered. You were diﬀerent and you believed so much. Usually one dream means so little.

No, I meant why are you talking like this? Barry said. You re real. She pressed herself against him and then retreated across the room, You know better than that. Until tonight I was just a story you told yourself at night before you fell asleep. But you re here. I couldn t resist your passion. And so you just... made yourself into Phoebe? No. All I ever was is this. Your moment, your dream made it real. Barry ran his fingers through his hair. This is insane. At first I was just going to make my own way in the world, loose myself in it, but as soon as I had this flesh... it ached for you. Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest. I was stupid. I put you at risk but I had to find you. I should have run far away.

All right. Barry started pacing the room. Let s say this is true. Let s say that my wanting you to be real made

you real. Then who cares? I love you. You love me too, right?

Do you really think this hasn t happened before? That there aren t others out there waiting to be born? Look, this is all new to me. Do you really think the masters of this world would ever allow such a thing? I don t understand... Masters? Barry, Phoebe drew herself up to her knees. You should go. They don t care about you, not really. We both only get one chance. Most never even have the courage for that. There was the sound of a commotion outside. It almost sounded to Barry like a crowd of unruly children was making its way up the street, bickering and laughing as it toppled trash cans and clamored over parked cars. But this commotion was punctuated with strange howls and stranger curses.

An edge of panic crept into her voice. Walk calmly out to the street and then start running. Find your way back to your friends and your old life.

He approached the window and parted the curtain. Phoebe pulled him back, shaking him in her urgency. The Ophanim. Ophan-what?

I don t matter. I didn t even exist until tonight. Go. Go home and ﬁnd a girl that loves you a little more than you

love her and be content.

Barry stared disbelievingly at her. The tears in her eyes were genuine enough but was she really just a ghost created from his loneliness? If he ran and hid, like he d spent so much of his life hiding from one thing or another, where would that leave him? What would that leave him with?

The howls were louder now and he could make out whole words now. Vows of cruelty and lust. The motel room door started to shake and rattle. The glass of the bay window squealed and cracked. Shadows curled like smoke

in their wake but they weren t enough to hide from Barry the faces of the things; their desiccated bodies and empty faces. If Phoebe was birthed in a single dream then these creatures could only have been pieced together from the choicest nightmares. Go, Phoebe sobbed. Hide. Please. Barry grabbed her by the hand and dragged her back into the bathroom. There was a window there made of

frosted glass and painted shut. He locked the bathroom door as he heard the bay window give way to a chorus of eager howls.

Please don t do this, Phoebe begged. These Orphans... Barry grabbed a towel off the rack and hefted the plastic trash bin. Ophanim, They re called the Ophanim. These things-- what will they do to you if they find you? Phoebe looked away. It doesn t ‒The bathroom lights flickered and faded in time with the voices of the creatures. The bathroom window was shoulder level. Barry smashed out the glass, clearing the fragments away as best he could and laying the towel over the sill. Come on, he held his arms out to help her. Climb.

She climbed up. For a moment she was close enough for an embrace, the scent of her fresh sweat and fading perfume wafted over him.

How can she not be real? How? The bathroom door was shuddering on its hinges, pushing away from the frame with a riot of cracks and snaps.

Shriveled, broken hands tore at the air. Barry watched Phoebe slip from the window and land on the ground below with a pained yelp. He moved to scramble after her and felt the damaged edges of the window bite at his clothes and the skin beneath.

For a moment he was tumbling end over end, then he hit the ground and there was a ﬂash of light. Barry s vision swam in and out of focus. His head ached; his body was alive with a cold itching. He had landed in a snow covered shrubbery, crushing it.

Phoebe pulled him to his feet. We have to keep running. ...Running... ...Ophanim... Barry started to move, his ﬁrst footstep landed in a puddle of half frozen water, ...Cold! Cold! Police, we need to ﬁnd the police.

Snarls ﬁlled the air; Barry looked back to the broken window. Phoebe said, The police can t help me. No one can.

Barry took her hand and started running. I ll be the judge of that. *** ...outrage knotting their faces the Ophanim threw themselves out the window, ripping out sections of the wall in their zeal. They were used to prey that was half-complete and half-conscious, still weak and terriﬁed from birth. The Ophanim s quarry never ran. Their quarry never had the chance to hope.

That drove the ruined angels into a frenzy that was beyond their masters control. Why should this quarry be diﬀerent? Why should this quarry dare to escape the same torments that had marked them? They would not allow this... *** Two blocks later their bare feet were numbed by the snow and ice. They tried to ﬂag down cars and taxis but the drivers wouldn t even slow down for them much less stop.

Why won t anyone... Barry jumped back onto the sidewalk as a car nearly clipped him. Hey! They re still close, Phoebe said. The human race has been trained to look away from them. This is nuts. Just go, leave me. I said no, Barry offered her a quick desperate smile. I meant no. Phoebe started to return it. I never could win an argument with you. Then her expression became pained. Are you really an angel? For lack of better word. The streetlights began to flicker and fade, familiar snarls filled the air. Barefoot and freezing they started to run again.

*** Brakes! Mike shouted. Jimbo slammed his feet down on the pedal. The tan dodge Charger twisted sideways. Jimbo s mind was filled with visions of being t-boned but the streets were eerily empty. The only oncoming traffic he could see was Barry and his Canadian girlfriend and they were running for their lives. But from what? A knot of shadows streamed up the road behind them, the traffic lights and shop signs flared like lightning and went out. There were shapes in the darkness, trying to see them clearly made Jimbo feel faint all over again. Mike opened his door and leaned out, Get in! What are you doing here? Barry pulled Phoebe into the backseat the Dodge. She slammed the door closed.

What am I doing here? Mike sat back down. What are you doing here? Jimbo hit the accelerator and sped oﬀ, he kept glancing back in the rearview mirror. What are those things? I m sorry, Phoebe said, hunched over in her seat. I made you all a part of this. I m sorry. Barry lifted his hand up and closed it into a ﬁst, staring intently, .Remember that parking garage we almost got pulled over by? What is happening here? Mike demanded. What are those..? Jimbo s eyes widened. Phoebe said, They re getting closer. That was all Jimbo needed to hear, he gunned the engine. *** ..despair had made them relentless, loss had made them cruel. Their prey was stretching from their grasp, their prey was being helped when no human in their well-honed blindness should have been able to do more than cringe and swoon.

The Ophanim s thoughts were splintered, most only sought to complete their task so they might return to the

void that imprisoned them. Others felt trills of fear at the thought of their masters displeasure should their prey escape...

*** I said what are they? Jimbo sounded hysterical. The ride had been brief; no police cars gave chase even though they had abandoned the rules of traﬃc lights and speed limits to the wind blocks ago. No cars appeared in their path to block them or careen in their wake.

They re monsters, Phoebe explained. That s all you need to know and whatever you do, don t let them touch

you.

This just gets better and better, Mike said. I knew you were too good to be true. I just knew it. The parking garage was a long rectangular structure of worn gray stone; the lights were dimmed and the gates for incoming traﬃc were locked down. During the day the garage handled the overﬂow of cars from the nearby hospital but at this hour of the night it was deserted.

We re here. Jimbo stopped the car and turned in his seat to stare out the back window. Barry? Barry was still staring intently at his clenched ﬁst; his mouth was a thin bloodless line. Phoebe touched his shoulder. Love Bug? He glanced at her, his expression softened. I was thinking. Mike waved his hand in front of Barry s face, We re here, now what? Phoebe and I are getting out of the car and you guys are going to get back to the States.

Jimbo breathed a sigh of relie., Sounds good to me. Shut up," Mike snapped. "That does not sound good. I don t have time to argue, Barry said, halfway out the door. I don t know what s going on but I don t trust her or any of this, Mike said. Just go. Save yourselves. Barry had hold of Phoebe s hand and dragged her from the car; she winced as her

back brushed the upper part of the Charger s doorframe. There was a patch of red between her shoulder blades. It was slowly expanding.

Guys, I have to do this alone, Barry said. You can t help me. We re not leaving you. Mike walked around to Jimbo s side of the car and pushed him aside so he could

retrieve the tire iron from under the seat.

Are you sure? Jimbo said. He sounds pretty serious. Shut up! Mike said again. What are you going to do, Love Bug? Phoebe asked. He grinned at her. Don t be afraid. And listen guys I need you to-The Ophanim burst out of the darkness around them, shadows bleeding in their wake. Their papery voices were laughing and mocking. Barry pulled Phoebe towards the parking garage. Run! he shouted.

A gnarled hand caught Jimbo on the bare ﬂesh of his arm. He mewled and tried to twist away but it was already too late. His skin, muscle, and bone collapsed and trickled like ash to the ground. He fell back towards the safety

of the car but a second snarl of grimy, twisted ﬁngers caught his face. His voice rose for a brief piercing moment and then became silent.

Mike swung the tire iron catching one of the Ophanim on the side of the head and hitting another in the chest. Each blow brought a satisfying crunching sound as he dodged and waded through them, making his way to the

parking garage. He was trying to curse but the words had run together into a stream of nonsense. One of the

creatures brushed its ﬁngertips along the sleeve of his jacket; the fabric blackened and curled away like a leaf in a ﬁre. Mike brought the tire iron down on the attacker s skull and slipped around to the other side of the Charger. He could see Barry and Phoebe receding further and further into the parking garage. It looked as though they were making their way to the stairwell.

One of the Ophanim scrambled across the hood, tackling Mike, he felt the creature s hand grasp the back of his neck, and then sink through to the bone as the ﬂesh crumbled away. The Ophanim pulled Mike s head free with a hiss of victory. *** My friends are dead. The realization was enough to slow Barry s pace on the stairwell. My friends are dead because of me- because of us.

He looked ahead to Phoebe, her pace had slowed as well, but that was because the wound on her back was

spreading and swelling. Barry knew what that meant and it gave him the strength to keep moving. He hurried to her side and gingerly slipped his arm around her waist. Come on," he said. Almost there. Something s wrong, Phoebe said. ... hurts. I know, Barry said. But we have to hurry. Four ﬂoors below them he could hear the sounds of pursuit. The car alarms for the few vehicles on the lower levels screamed to life then dwindled in the Ophanim s wake. Barry could hear the door to the stairwell swing open and the sounds of their impossible voices echo up after them. It s not too late, Phoebe said. Just leave me. No. Barry put one arm around her back and another lifted her up by the legs. There was another ﬂight of

stairs to go, could he carry her that far?

I have to. He thought as he felt the swollen, weeping mass between her shoulders pulse and shift. Something s wrong, she said again, her voice a whisper. Barry kept his breathing steady and counted the steps until he reached the topmost level of the parking garage, the rooftop level. The voices of the Ophanim were close behind him now; he could hear the cold anger in their voices. Was it his imagination that made him hear Jimbo s and Mike s voice in that chorus? Don t look back. Keep moving. Almost here. Oh no. Phoebe looked around, the dark cloudless sky seemed to press down on them; this entire level of the

parking garage was empty and full of shadows. It was as though she realized where she was for the ﬁrst time. What are we doing here?

Then a burst of pain robbed her of breath, she felt the growth begin to split apart. Barry carried her running full out the last few yards to set Phoebe down at the very edge of the parking garage s roof. He risked a glance down at the sheer drop, nothing spectacular but enough to kill a man. I m sorry, Phoebe said again. I m sorry I caused this. You have nothing to be sorry for, Barry said. You were worth it. You always were. The pain in her back became a ﬁre. The growth tore her skin to shreds as twin appendages slipped free and shivered in the cold March air. Don t ﬁght it, Barry said. Fight it? Do you know what s happening to me? Of course. Barry kissed her one last time before standing up and shielding her. The door to the stairwell burst

open and the Ophanim spilled out onto the asphalt. They jabbered and hissed and moved forward as one; their certainty made them slow, made them relish every footstep.

Phoebe s new wings pulled free from their casings and shook the moisture of their birth away from their pale white feathers with a single shudder. What is this? she whispered.

If I could imagine you in the ﬂesh... Barry began. ...then I can imagine you away from here. If I can call you out

of longing then I can long for something better than these monsters for you. Love Bug, she breathed. Barry felt her arms touch his back.

I doubt you could carry me, even if those weren t new wings, Barry said. Just go before they realize. I think

they re waiting for me to beg. You can t-

If you love me you will. Otherwise this was all for nothing. Barry stepped away from her moving towards the Ophanim. He wished he was holding Mike s tire iron, or could ﬁnd a weapon within easy reach but it was too late for that now. He needed to buy her just a few more moments. He was surprised that he didn t feel afraid, or hopeless. After all, hadn t he expected to dwindle away to nothing? To die old, alone, and sick in some hospital bed? Wasn t it better to die on a night like this?

He found himself surrounded. Barry thought of Phoebe in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror. He gave the Ophanim a grim smile and told them. Nobody messes with my girl. *** It ended as it began, with an abrupt transfiguration and flutter of wings.

Al Bruno III is a writer of comedy and horror with almost twenty years experience in crafting stories that as unforgettable as they are strange. Or then again, maybe he's just another writer with a blog. The Wit and Weirdness of Al Bruno III http://albruno3.blogspot.com

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