THE CREW Editor in Creep
............................................................................................
Editor/Design/Death
Ian Adams
................................................................... Aaron Rosenberg
Editor who actually happens to be the Anti-Christ ................. Jason Khieu SPOOKY Press Relations ...................................................................Jazmin Lucero Headless Photographer ................................................................. Frankie Concha Illustrator and Future Last Human ............................. Mauricio Bustamante Executioner Illustrator ................................................................. Lawrence Alfred Illustrator (but really is a skeleton in disguise.) .................... Julia Izquierdo Satanic Photographer ......................................................................... Vivian Ortega The Villainous Cover Artist ............................................... Emmanuel Gomez
TABLE OF CONTENTS Hunger of the Damned - Audrey Villegas
4
Looking in the Dark - Misc Authors
14
Top Five: Fears - Aaron Rosenberg
24
Paranoia - Christian Concha
27
The Story of a Hedgehog - Gregory Poblete
30
Solutions Beyond the Stars - Dana Sami
33
Miscellaneous Poetry
45
HUNGER OF THE DAMNED Audrey Villegas
“Cain? If the earth spins, why don’t we feel it?” Surrounded by the sound of forks lightly hitting dinner plates and the annoying sound of chewing, two people sat at a tiny square dinner table. Marina, who had just asked the question, was a woman in her early twenties who preferred acting like a 16 year old with her hair dyed dark and her fashionably unruly hair. Sitting across from her was Cain, a thirty-something year old man with dirty blonde hair who thought too highly of himself and couldn’t keep himself without looking like a lean businessman trying to be a lumberjack. “That’s a silly question,” Cain scoffed lightly, not scratching the side of his jaw but running his fingers over the tiny bristles of his beard. He did that often. “See, that’s the difference between you and me, Marina of the sea; the difference between the Saved and the lost. We are Gods amongst the damned.” He also did that often; comparing the Saved to Gods and everyone else to the lost. The Saved referred not to a group of Baptist church members but to the group of people affected by the IQ drug. Known to be called Man’s Sin, the drug was created by Dr. Richard Blake who favored the argument that IQ could be genetic. Whatever intelligence you had was the intelligence you were born with. Blake didn’t actually like the idea of being born with your intelligence because it meant if you were born with an IQ of 70 then there was nothing you could do about it…but what if you could? He liked the idea that he could change the intelligence you were born with. If he could somehow create something to bring out more of the brains potential for everyone, then he would be satisfied with himself and, eventually, he was.
Right off the bat the drug was a hit, but there was a catch—the drug only worked during the early stages in the development of a fetus. That meant the drug had to be administered when the child’s vital organs had just started to function. Even with its limitations, mothers who wanted smarter children began lining up. But with the IQ drug’s incline came its violent decline. Protests outside of clinics claimed it as “playing God” and saw it as a disgusting practice. Thousands of people claimed it was cheating at life and because it did have limitations that could lead to
risks if not followed, the drug was eventually deemed unsafe. The drug only lasted four years before a complete shutdown. That was almost 30 years ago. The generation of children who had taken the drug was called the Saved. Cain was one of them and not a day went by where he didn’t remind you of it. “Alright, we both know you need all the sleep you can get.” Stretching out his legs before getting up, Cain began picking the plates off the table whether they were finished or not. It was late and Marina should
have been in bed by now. “Take your pills.” And so began Marina’s routine of prescribed show and tell. Every night she would eat, take two pills, place them on her tongue, show them to Cain, and swallow. And every night, despite the routine, Cain would say, “Show me.” Quickly showing him the pills on her tongue before swallowing, Marina responded with a hint of frustration, “You don’t need to check on me anymore. I said I wouldn’t do it anymore.” “That’s what you said before. It wasn’t even two months after I dragged you out of the water and you were popping pills in yet another suicide attempt.” That was how they met. Marina, who had been struggling with her depression, decided that drowning herself in the lake by Cain’s home would be her escape. That was why Cain called her Marina of the sea. After saving her life, Cain made it his mission to create a rehab center for Marina in his home. It took a lot of work but Marina agreed, but about two months later Marina tried overdosing on her depression medication so every night when Marina took her pills, Cain counted them first. The routine didn’t end there. Cain always prepared a special tea for Marina to drink afterwards. The medication Marina took made it hard for her to sleep and the tea would allow Marina to get the sleep the medication took from her. Marina hated the tea. Not because it tasted bad, she liked the taste, but when she slept she almost always had nightmares—nightmares that had led her to both suicide attempts. The dreams were just too much. She was a murderer. There were instances where the people she dreamed about would end up on the news or on the newspaper not for their fame or popularity but for how much they weren’t breathing. She wouldn’t be killing them in her dreams but she knew it was her fault. They were already dead her dreams but a figure would stand by the dead body and blame her. The whole experience felt more like a headache than a dream. It was blurry and sounds were muffled and her body
always felt heavy. If it weren’t for waking up in her bed in the morning she would have believed she actually murdered people, but no, all she did was sentence them to death by dreaming about them. Cain knew about her nightmares. She would have nightmares of people dying before but it wasn’t until she started seeing them on the television that she believed she was responsible for it. Cain believed her. He almost kicked her out the first time she told him, but he allowed her to stay because he knew it wasn’t her fault too. She was only dreaming; she wasn’t actually killing people. Cain made a deal with her. She had to promise to tell him every time someone died in her dreams and showed up on the television and as long as she did that, he would keep her safe. But Marina could tell. She could tell how disgusted he was by her every time she told him. He would stare at the television—not watch it or pay attention to it just stare at it even after she had turned it off. Marina was a monster and he knew it. ~ ~~ Cain spent long hours at work. Marina didn’t know exactly what work he had been doing but she knew that bothering him during office hours was just as unacceptable as going into his office. Sometimes he would stay in there for hours before coming out and sometimes he would stay inside for twenty minutes before going to town and staying out there for hours. It was a complicated system that Marina didn’t want to look into. Cain had just come out of his office when the news had been talking about the recent CEO scandal. Alexander Kranz, CEO of Turtell Industries, had been fired from his position when an anonymous tipper informed the company that he was one of the Saved. As a result, almost everything bought with money he earned from the company was repossessed. As the newswoman on the television went on about the discovery, Cain moved restlessly in the kitchen until finally he said, “Turn that shit off.” And before Marina even had time to reach for the remote control, he said it again. “I said turn it off.”
Fumbling with the control before turning it off, Marina sat on the couch and held her breath. When things like this happened she had to make sure to give Cain some space. “What a load of crap,” Slamming the cabinet shut, Cain placed his hands on the edge of the counter top and leaned on it, staring at some invisible speck on the wall. “You know this is wrong right? What they’re doing to us. We’re damned in the hands of the lost. We’re given these gifts and the moment not everyone can get them they take away the drug and leave the Saved to rot.” Pacing the kitchen, he was looking at Marina now as if telling her this one more time would make things any different. “You know, if a registered sex offender and one of the Saved were at a job interview the sex offender would get it. Yeah, cuz’ God forbid we eliminate the genetic winner and let the scumbags slide right fucking in.” Marina knew Cain was right. In the job market the Saved became the damned. The only way one of the Saved would get a decent job was if they bribed the employer or got in their pants otherwise the Saved were unwelcome—it was unfair. They were too smart for everyone else’s good. With the hardships the Saved had in this world, Marina was surprised that Cain had a job that paid him well. When Cain would get wound up like this, the most he would do was go back into his office and work for another four hours but when Cain suddenly grabbed his jacket and started unlocking the door it set off an alarm in Marina’s head. “Where are you—?” “Stay here,” He pointed to her and then to the drug cabinet. “Take your pills and go to bed.” It was only 8:30, but she moved to the drug cabinet anyways. It was only after she swallowed her pills that he left, but Cain made a mistake. He didn’t make her the tea. Normally she would have reminded him about but the tea, but no tea meant no sleep and no sleep meant no nightmares. Just for one night, one long sleepless night, she wanted to escape the ghosts that haunted her dreams. It was just one night; Cain would never know as long as she stayed in her room until morning. Sitting there pretending to be asleep proved to be one of the hardest
things Marina had ever done. She couldn’t shift around too much without making too much noise, the television was in living room and any form of music was out of the question unless she could somehow revive the earphones she stepped on two days ago. She entertained herself by guessing how Cain would come back into the house. Every sound that had something to do with the house would suddenly turn into his entrance. The humming of the refrigerator was Cain returning on a hover board, the animals that walked along the top of the house was Cain on a secret mission that had to be carried out without the use of doors, the crows were actually Cain trying to send Marina a signal with his expert bird calling skills, the rusty door knob twisting was—No, that really was Cain. He was home. Quickly tucking herself in, Marina closed her eyes and waited to hear Cain walk calmly towards his room and shut the door. That didn’t happen. The backdoor opened, but she didn’t hear the sound of it closing behind him. Was he still not done working? His steps sounded normal, there was no rush to get where he was going but he wasn’t going towards his room; he was going towards Marina’s. With a slow creak, the door to her room opened and Cain slowly walked inside. Did Cain always come into her room and check on her? And then she was up. Holding onto her shoulders, Cain was guiding her out of her room and into the kitchen. Oh no, she thought, he didn’t forget about the tea. But he did because instead of stopping in the kitchen he continued to move her through the back door and outside towards the lake. A deep fear rose in her chest. This was it. Cain was finally kicking her out. He must have been too disgusted with her after all and decided that she had to go. He was going to turn her into the cops. Turning around and putting her hands on his chest bringing them both to a stop she exclaimed, “Wait, Cain, please—” “You’re awake?” His brows knit together in confusion and he grabbed her wrists. It was then that Marina had taken the time to properly look
at Cain. His normally perfectly placed hair was disheveled and he was dirty. Mud was smeared up along his arms and shirt. “Marina,” He called, forcing her to look up. “You didn’t drink your tea?” Marina slowly shook her head. She didn’t really know what consequence to expect from Cain so she was surprised when he grabbed her shoulders spun her around and moved her towards a collection of shrubs under a tree. Pointing to the shrubs, Cain commanded her to kick away at the shrubs and following instructions, she lightly kicked the shrubs away. She screamed. “No!” She screamed, turning away from the body that lay lifeless before her, stripped naked and cut from navel to neck. “Cain,” she sobbed, grabbing at his shirt. “What is that?! Who is that?!” “You did it.” He told her, pushing her away. “You killed her.” “No…n-no, I didn’t I was in my room,” She cried shaking her head. “I was awake. I. Am. Awake!” Covering her eyes with shaky fists, she continued to shake her head. She couldn’t have done that. She was in her room—she knew she was. “I didn’t do it.” “Damnit,” Cain muttered collecting the shrubs and covering the dead body once again. “This isn’t going to work…you don’t believe anymore.” “What—” “Get up. Go on, get up.” Yanking her up by her arm, Cain began pulling her through the trees back to the house. Struggling to catch up, Marina took a final glance at the corpse before being forced to look forward. “Cain—” “Shut up.” “We need to call the cops, she’s dead. Cain, we—” “Oh, shut up.” He stopped and looked at her with disgusted disbelief. “You can’t be that stupid.” Before she knew it, they were inside the house again and for a moment she thought that maybe this was all a dream. Cain was moving calmly around in the dark, fumbling with the keys to his office as if noth-
ing had happened. As if he didn’t just blame her for the death of that poor woman outside. Everyone has at least one moment of clarity in their life, whether it was discovering God or not. Stepping into Cain’s office was Marina’s moment of clarity. “Do you see now, Marina of the sea?” He asked her nonchalantly, taking a seat in the chair that sat in the center of the room. She did see. She saw the walls painted with newspaper clipping, names circled in bright green highlighter, pictures of faces lined up in a row, pictures of faces crossed out in the trash beside the row, and the words “We are the saved amongst the damned” spray painted on the floor, and she saw the mud on his arms was not mud at all. “You killed those people.” Looking at Cain she couldn’t recognize him. What a smug devil he was sitting in his chair, not a bit of remorse for what he was doing. “You…you made me think I was crazy.” “No, you are crazy.” He shook his head, stood up from his seat and laughed when Marina flinched and moved away from him. “You had nightmares about dead people before me all I did was use you as--” “You were going to pin the murders on me.” He smiled, somewhat pleased with her ability get something right for once. “Why are you getting so defensive? I mean you tried throwing your life away twice, what difference does it make if I took advantage of you? You were taking advantage of yourself. You didn’t believe anything about yourself. If I told you were part horse I bet you would believe it. “If you’ll listen I’ll tell you exactly what I’m doing. I actually wish I could talk about it more.” And then he went on to tell his story. The story about he was tired of the Saved being treated as less than Gods, tired with the fact that the Saved weren’t allowed to work and made up 43% of homeless people, tired of how dirty the world was. His job was to kill influential figures in the public eye who were against the Saved generation. With the money his sponsors gave him he was able to live comfortable by the lake and still have enough to buy prescription drugs for a poor girl with issues
and expensive sedatives he could slip into her tea to make her believe she had the ridiculous ability of killing people just by dreaming about them. Cain knew the police would track him down eventually—no one was that stupid, keeping Marina around meant that when the police did come she would be arrested because she legitimately believed she had done it. “Evolution is too slow, too weak against the people who don’t want the human race to move forward.” Noting that Marina had been in a sort of dumfounded state of shock, he took the chance to take a jab at her neck and sedate without a single act of struggle. Cain quickly pinned her arms to her side and suddenly Marina was drifting. The sleep she avoided that night was coming for her, refusing to be put off any longer. Her stream of consciousness was flickering like a bad light and as her knees went weak and her eyelids fought to remain open, Cain placed his mouth near her ear and spoke, “I have to make matters into my own hands. I’m going to cleanse the world of the mentally weak even if it means doing it one… by…one.” The next time she heard Cain, he was asking her a question. “Marina, why did you choose the lake that day? Is it because you can’t swim?” There were only three things running through her head. 1. They were in a small boat. 2. She was tied and gagged. 3. He was going to kill her. “No, no, stop crying.” He cooed and stopped rowing. He moved her body into an upright position and wiped away the tears with his thumbs. “I liked you, I really did. I know you can’t help it. Some are saved and some are damned.” A small shrug of the shoulders, followed by a sigh. “C’est la vie.” “What was that question you had asked me before about the Earth spinning? Do you feel it now?” He said, in a mockingly surprised tone of voice. He almost sounded normal again. He was, once more, the kind Cain who had saved her from her death instead of the Cain who built her insanity and rested it on top of her doom. Suddenly she was being
pushed back so that her torso was hanging off the edge of the boat and over the water. The more he pushed her back the more she whimpered and shook her head. “What? Oh! Right last words, of course.” Muttering to himself about being rude, he removed the gag with one hand. She could have screamed. She could have reached forward and bitten his face. She could have done anything to save herself, but instead she decided to say one thing: “You aren’t one of the Saved are you?” Still gasping for breath out of pure fear she pressed forward. “You just want to be.” “Stop it.” He watched her carefully, warning her but daring her to continue. “The Saved wouldn’t kill other—” “Stop it!” He yelled, nearly standing up and letting her go into the water. Marina thought he was going to give her one last speech. His lips were parted and on the verge of forming words, his nostrils flared in outrage but the speech never came. For one long minute, he nodded his head and said nothing more and then suddenly in one swift movement, he lowered her back further. “You were right to pick the water. You really do belong to the sea, Marina.” He pulled her back towards him one last time. “For the record, yes, we can kill.” And with that, he shoved her back completely into the water, counting how long she would flail around before she stopped. “I said we were smart, not perfect.”
LOOKING IN THE DARK Carissa Alvarez Luis Equihua Ian Adams Aaron Rosenberg
Happy Halloween! We thought about trying something different for the anniversary issue. So we decided to go out to the city into a range of foothills north of Lake View Terrace. We have had fiction, and even journalistically reported on things like the protests to the Mike Brown killing, and Modern Corsair TV. What we’ve yet to do is go hunt out trouble for a story. We wanted something for the magazine’s first birthday, so to speak, so after some talks we decided upon a ghost hunt. And at first it seemed like a jolly thing that we could all say was harmless eerie fun. But after all that happened, what Aaron found on the roll of film, I feel shaken to my bones by what we exposed ourselves to out in the woods. It started on October the 4th when we left together in a silver van Luis had rented. We drove up the 210 confidently laughing about what a lark this excursion would be. In the unseasonably warm California evening we road along black rivers of twisting cement lined by slickly palm trees. The Los Angeles stations, like KLBC AM, played jaunty melodies by the youngest and saddest pop idols of the time who all long for the real thing
just once. Ian rattled off a list of examples proving that audio drama was coming back in vogue as he watched the LED shifting color lights of the satellite capable radio. Coming to the exit we realized that there would be a long way to go and the only provisions we had prepared for ourselves was water in tall metallic thermoses and a skin canteen for the one of our party who insisted that the thermoses gave the water the flavor of a penny. And so we stopped at a corner store that turned out to be adjoined to a gun club. Browsing through the snacks and beer we herd the blasts from the rifle range out back. Ringing up what could only be characterized as a disgusting amount of cool ranch corn chips and peanut candy bars the kindly elder gentleman behind the counter asked as he fetched unfiltered cigarettes from the overhead rack where it was that we young folk were going to, with the derision I’ve come to expect from people of a certain age. We described our destination and intent to go camp over Los Demás Creek in the mountains. The gunfire seemed to halt for him to ominously inform us that ‘Nobody goes up there anymore.’ And even helpfully added ‘Rethink that. Nothing good comes from going up there at night.’ Gunfire saluted our van as we accelerated from the rifle range. We found a parking area that was just a worn clearing of dusty earth and a dirt road that forked from the paved path three quarters of a mile away. Unloading the van we took the tripod, cameras, sleeping bags and junk food up a faint path to the eventual camp grounds. We had no time to actually fashion a fire as the daylight was sinking behind a horizon buried by trees so old and clawed looking they wiped the memory of California, palm trees and the city from one’s mind. The area had been a part of an attempted 1920’s development. A dozen homes were constructed at the height of the era of Hollywood Land and the rest of the nation’s economic boom. The houses were abandoned through the greater part of the 1940’s due largely to the tuberculosis outbreak in Southern California at the time. Out records show the last home to be abandoned was in 1963 by the Cob family. We cannot be certain if the home we later came upon was in fact the Cob residence but here we are getting ahead of ourselves.
Hour: 7pm We were still a bit punch drunk from the van and just tipsy on the beer. Straying from camp in block formation we hiked farther up a quarter mile of steep terrain when we came upon the first oddity, the cage. With the last glint of light smothered out by the trees we hoped that the compact spate of poured cement and iron would illuminate some results as we asked questions. [Transcribed from recording device] I don’t know that we’ll find anything. I feel a bit silly - I was so afraid before we started of what we might find, and we’ve been here for a while now and haven’t found a thing. I feel even sillier because I spent so much on this “ghost” gear - $75 on the EVP device, $50 on the ghost hunting outfit… I really wanted to feel like a ghost buster - all I’m missing is my portable containment unit. Though a bit disappointed, we’re making the best of it. We’ve been taking pictures (to show off our ghost gear), making the best ghost-like noises (to not leave out the EVP device) and have more or less just been joking around. Even if we don’t find anything, I wouldn’t consider it a complete loss. It’s been fun, after all. It’s getting darker. We’re gonna keep hiking, taking pictures along the way, and making the best of it. We’re on the move again, I’ll keep this updated as we find more. P.S. I keep telling myself that at the very least, if we don’t find anything, I’ll always have Ian’s ghost voice on the recording device.
To the side of a faint trail we found the first cage, one of many that would appear that night, Ian persuaded Carissa into the confined space that she had been sure that wild creatures had nested in. Going through with the opening questions that the experts of paranormal investigation had written as basics (Graveyard: True Hauntings from an Old New England Cemetery by Ed and Lorrain Warren) such as ‘Is anyone here? Can you hear us? What is your name?’ As Luis grabbed photos above us through the iron bars the two in the cade discovered a hatch door to the lower left of them. In Scooby Gang fashion they followed the ominous entrance to pitch-blackness. The hatch led out to a two foot drop onto a landing for a two story stone staircase, at a dangerously steep angle. Handing off the flashlight the open questioning continued. Lingering on the stars for twenty minutes more they played back the EVP device. A series of questions in we heard a voice- possibly a voice- as it was faint and garbled. Playing back the umpteenth repetition of Luis asking if a ghost was present we heard “Here.” But rewinding twice we came to the realization that the “Here,” that we heard so clearly was not captured on the EVP but was a voice in the environment we heard ourselves. At the dim base of the stairs we could see a red light, unnaturally bright coming from below us. Ian led the group nix Aaron, who stayed in the cage, to the glow. Luis wondered aloud if anyone had heard a second repetition, not that loud but purposeful, of the word “Here.” And there at the bottom of the stairs we found a locked iron grate exit to sheer hill side. The red light came from the setting sun passing through the forest. Though the “Here,” several of us heard can still not be explained to any satisfaction naturally.
Hour 8-9pm Doubling back we found that the steep stone stairs let back to a carved out hallway made all the more narrow by the thick gas lines and water pipes. It turned out that the stairs we explored was one of three descending paths it forked into. The other two ended in that eerie red light, but the center paths lead back out to the woods. Wandering a ways farther in undistinguishable brush and what seemed to be traces of a minor fire Aaron rejoined the group, claiming that he followed our loud chatter. Aaron snapped enough photos to fill up a roll. From those he closely inspected the one he used with night vision most disturbed us. We considered giving an explanation of the density of twigs or the way light is distributed in the night vision or rather than that let this photo speak for itself: Retrospective Study: To analyze the case in the woods, we must make either one of two possible assumptions of the photographic piece of evidence brought to my attention. Assuming the image in question has not been tampered with (and so far under scrupulous investigations they prove to be authentic) either: 1. The light causing the alarming part of the image somehow found its way to the lens, or 2. The image in question contains the light emitted by what we call a ghost. Under the assumption that there was a photographic error in this picture, it was most likely causde by the use of the image intensifier, also giving the picture a green tint. I theorize that the hand over one Miss Carissa Alvarez was the result of optic feedback- where in the image intensifying process captures light and where some of that light manages to get stuck for a moment longer within the intensifier. The light bounces around, leaving an impression- in this case a hand by sheer coincidence.
Under the second alternative assumption, we must first question what a ghost could be. As a man of reason, the idea that a soul could return to an area to haunt those who pass by is ridiculous- much too much traveling for those who die far from where they “haunt”. I propose an alternate idea: a ghost is a remnant of the past due to the four plus dimensional nature of the universe. On a different plane of viewing all that we call time happens the same way we can draw a comic strip. We can choose any order to draw in, but what happens when natural causes outside of us effect out comic? Our comic can be torn into pieces and those pieces can be scattered in the wind. I propose that these things we call ghosts are pieces scattered in the wind. Considering the EVP recordings- something most certainly odd happened during this moment. No proof of a ghost. Hour 10-11pm Through the thicket of branches we came upon an abandoned house. One story, pressed aluminum sidings and a ruined complex of chicken coops in back of it. After a few moments present Carissa is visibly uncomfortable. A light mist has come down from the mountains. Luis returned to the camp to monitor the camera feed on our rudimentary set up, connected to the laptop. So with just the three of us left Aaron went into the house as Ian and Carissa explored the terrain on the slope below the home and the rusted cages. [Transcribed from Recording/ Note Log] We found a house. And as soon as we did, things started happening. It started with what seems the cliché horror flick move of seeing something out of the corner of my eye. I would see something, turn around, point the light… and nothing. There was always nothing. This happened 4 or 5 times. Then there was the figure. It was as if a person was just there, standing in the corner. I could see Ian clearly beside me, it couldn’t have been him… I would call out, thinking it were maybe someone else, something, anything that would have explained away the fear I now felt. I followed
the same routine: turn around, point the light… but unlike before the figure stayed. How do I explain the figure? How can you explain such a thing as anything other than…than… wrong? We started walking toward it, this clearly wrong thing, but the closer we got, the more out equipment began to malfunction (my EVP device no longer works, at all). By the time we got the flashlight working again, the figure had disappeared. We continued to explore, more on edge than we had been a few moments ago I started hearing Ian’s voice calling for help. He was no more than 5 feet from me at the time, back to me, there was no way it could have been him… But I heard it so clearly. At first just a call of “Hey, over here!”, followed shortly by a scream that seemed to slice the air, and now just consistent hushed mumbling. Ian doesn’t hear it, but it’s… it’s there. Torn between the burning desire to leave, and of wanting more because we finally have something after so long of looking, we’ve decided to stay a bit longer until one of us cracks. And if the voices don’t stop, I know it’s going to be me. Luis gasps drew Ian and Aaron to his side believing him to be in physical distress. We had thought he’d been at the camp sight. He is slouched in the mesh cages behind the house and had woken from a trance of some sort. He believes to have lost twenty to twenty-five minutes in what was for him a matter of seconds. In his time under Luis reports having a vision of being lost in the woods, far from home and quote “Dispirit to let anyone know I’m here.” After all is done we decide to hike back to the camp site for the night to overview that witch we recorded and then to get to bed. The wild had other plans.
Hour: Midnight In sight of our camp, we could make out the glow of the computer monitors that Luis had set up at the start, Ian fell face first. At first we thought it was just a hole, but we soon found it to in fact be a grave. The burial style, bodies stacked atop each other in shallow plots was consistent with the TB epidemic of the 1920’s. Cautious, we handled nothing with our bear hands. We found no heads on any of the three to four bodies- this was unusual. Lacking a head on a body typically means that the identity is meant to be hidden. But concealing three or four bodies at once yet leaving them all in one spot, with not much in the way of depth of cover seemed irrational to us. Ian and Aaron investigated with curiosity clouding their natural apprehension at handling human remains. Using tongs and plastic bags to observe closely the boys we joined by Carissa. The EVP device’s record function had broken but she still clamed to hear something faint and distant. Both camera operators found that coming within a certain distance of the grave caused problems with image clarity. This fogged image was the sole captured with any visual integrity. Trying for the EVP’s in and out of the grave’s radius we weaved our bodies in and out of the trees along the faint dirt path. The vine growth informed us how underused this aria was by human travelers. Luis shouted out for the group to shut up. We eventually did quiet are more than concerned panting over having found an unmarked, shallow grave in modern times, an evening’s drive form Los Angeles. He bid us listen. So we did. And In strained quiet we heard pulsing bangs. Ian shouted “It’s the gun lodge! They’re just old nuts.” To which Carissa replied “Why would someone be shooting at midnight in the woods? And how can we here it so clearly?”, she said with the last two words muted by the sounds of what we
decided were gun shots coming closer. Walking back to the grave we began to collect the equipment and tripods. Aaron and Luis made plans to double back through the circular path we had taken to re-collect the cameras we left for later monitoring. But that plan fell through as well. The bangs that grew incrementally louder now came with tremors. They were unperceivable at first, but we ran back to the abandoned house to find the tech workers when the rumbling became worse. All California natives and not one knew what the edict of safety was for in an earthquake in the woods. Hustling back to the campwe past the grave for the last time. The earth was disturbed. It, in the dark, looked to some like someone had taken three or four great shovels full of dirt out of the ditch of bones. We ran back to camp, grabbed what we could, and left three more mounted cameras in the woods, now lost, as the bangs became louder and the earth shook more like an animal desperate to toss off some vermin from its back. We drove away. Making it to Long Beach we parked by the marina and slept that night in our clothing in the van. None of us know what happened, yet we know what did not. We know there were no earthquakes according to the Sothern California Seismological Activities Board. We know it could not have been old men with gun fascinations we heard that too many miles off, even if they are were discharging weapons at 12 o’ clock. We know that we found one odd thing after the next in our photos. We know that as scared as we were… are… we will do this next year.
Annual Ghost Story Contest Local community college, Cerritos College will be holding a ghost story contest. If you are a Cerritos College student and have a creative hand you ought consider submitting a short story of 4000 words or fewer to fgaik@cerritos.edu who will send you a conformation upon resaving your submission. They ask that you send an original tail of fear and dread in a word document of 14 point font, single spaced, numbered pages and your name as author on page one. You are encouraged to exhume old myth, or legend as a base for your horror story. Win up to $150 in first place, $100 and $75 for second and third. Even if you do not win the cash prize, your story may be published in and upcoming issue of the Modern Corsair! Deadline is Midnight on Halloween.
TOP FIVE: FEARS INSTILLED IN OTHER MINDS. Aaron Rosenberg
Number 5: Agoraphobia Pick up the phone. Of course it’s real. It’s urgent. Don’t be stupid. No, you’d be crazy if you refused to pick up the phone all day. What if it’s somebody that need help. What if your parents got in a car crash? Maybe your sister has been killed. Pick it up. You don’t want people to think that you’re crazy, do you? Go on. Good. There are people outside of your house watching you. They think you are a creep. A creep! You hear that? You know what they do to creeps don’t you? Creeps aren’t allowed to breed. You do want to breed, right? You want to fuck. Show them you’re not a creep. Show them you want to fuck. They think you’re a creep that stays indoors all day. Show them that you’re normal. Do it our they’ll cut off your tiny fuck-stick. Faster, you slob. What do you mean there’s nobody outside- of course there’s nobody outside. You didn’t fall for that again, did you? Stupid. Nobody’s here to hold your hand anymore, stupid. I’m here though. I’m your only friend you fucking loner shit. I’m a friend of a fucking freak- no, a freak that doesn’t fuck. At all. Oh look. There’s the phone again. Pick up the phone.
Number 4: Atelophobia James deserved immortality and was distraught to find his optometrist stern-faced, telling him otherwise. “You’re a liar, don’t you run around using jargon, using fucking lies.” “Mr. Alvings- I’m afraid it’s a fact.” James had a cataract in his left eye. He retaliated the next week through morning suppliments, using them to try and chip away at the fog behind his left eye. Flaxseed oil, fish oil, vitamin A, B, C, D, E, lutein, ginkgo biloba, and an especially expensive bottle that James couldn’t pronounce- the man at the vitamin store told him it’d help. It didn’t. His left eye remained cloudy and disgusting to look out of- almost as disgusting as wearing glasses or contacts as his optometrist recommended. What did he know? Carrots didn’t work- nor did a total liquid carrot diet- when mixing that with a half-marathon morning, his neighbors found him unconscious on concrete. When he woke he refused the existence of those unconscious moments. After crashing into a cyclist when driving from work at the hardware store, he decided he’d fix his left eye by wearing a blindfold over his right eye. He’d force the eye to get stronger. It didn’t. At his wit’s end, he thought a spoon would best serve his need of a fix. He then realized a knife was needed to finish the job. Number 3: Coulrophobia “I had one when I was her age. My parents said I loved the thing.” “It’s just that it seems a little abrupt.” “Oh Bobby, it’s just a harmless toy.” “Don’t you condescend- I just don’t like the fucking box”. Number 2: Hypegiaphobia The Earth rests upon a needle- kept in a constant balance due to sheep luck. It’s been balanced since the beginning of formation 4.54 billion years ago and each molecule has kept it teetering on the point. You, now knowing this information are an x-factor- in control of the lives
of 7 billion people. The wrong step can push the planet over, hurtling us through the void towards an unforeseen ground with an impossible mass. Now be still- still as possible. If you don’t we will die. It’s been in balance up to this point but one microscopic misstep will push this planet towards depths we cannot comprehend. Keep still. Do not kill us. Number 1: Odontophobia “Three cavities? Really? I mean, my teeth don’t hurt that bad.” “Yes.” “Alright, well thanks for everything Doc. I’ll schedule another appointment soon.” “No.” The doctor slammed his hands down on the chair, the impact booming as his hands hit the rest behind the patient’s head in a near forceful manner. “We do it now.” “Are- are you sure?” “Yes.” The patient grasped at the armrests. Veins bulged out of their forearms, pulsating with a quickening heartbeat. “Relax. You’ll hardly feel a thing. Now, keep that mouth open.” The doctor revealed a long syringe filled with sickly grey venom. “It’ll be just a pinch.” The patient felt the needle pierce their mouth three separate times as the novocaine was forced into pink, bleeding gums. The patient winced during each injection. “There. Not so bad, was it?” The doctor rotated to grasp his tools and turned to find the patient with a closed mouth seconds after rooting power into his drill. “Now, now. Open that mouth and keep it that way.”
PARANOIA Christian Concha
Again it’s that nervous ticking feeling that keeps you feeling creped out. The sense of the unknown and the totally unpredictable. What do you do? Where do you hide? Is there really any hope of survival? Will I die? When will I if I do? And the best part? You have no damned clue as to what the hell is going on. Hello everyone and welcome to another awesome issue of the Modern Corsair. This time around into the games that give you a great sense of paranoia. First off and sorry this is a little late but come on guys how could you not expect me to talk about this game. I’m talking about P.T., the demo for the up and coming Silent Hills. I had downloaded the demo the night it had come out and had no idea what to expect. It was around eleven at night when I had finished the download and hoped straight into the game sitting in my little room alone. At first it seemed pretty strange with no story or anything to go off of. Then as I got into going through the game I found myself squealing like there was no tomorrow. Jesus Christ was I freaked out so bad. This game made me feel paranoid to a really bad extent. Despite the entire thing being a repetition of the same hallways I found myself slowly creeping around corners despite them being the exact same corners and flinching to every sound or sight. This
demo did a fantastic job of making you extremely paranoid. The entire time I would panic saying “Shit! Shit! What the fucks gonna happen!?” and then nothing? You, Mr. Kojima, are a massive ass hole. Though, he is a fantastic and brilliant ass hole. I won’t say much about the game per usual because maybe someone hasn’t seen it, but I assure anyone that it is a totally worth your time demo. The next game on the agenda is the ever so expected Alien Isolation. This game has been such a big talk for a long time running now. Now, before I explain I want everyone to know that I absolutely adore the Movie Alien. I’m such a little fan girl to that movie and I will absolutely love it forever. Now, for the games that have come from the series, what can I say? They absolutely make my eyes bleed and completely fucking suck. However, Isolation has shown me a bit of promise in a series I always wanted to be good. The game has a really nice ambiance and atmosphere. The constant darkness and crawling through confined spaces adds a nice fear and paranoia element. It’s actually really fucking dark and the flashlight does not really help especially that the flashlight has a battery limit that needs batteries to keep it going. That is a very nice survival horror element that horror games need. However, the one thing that bugs me is the in game conversations. The major well done cut scenes are awesome of course, but when in gameplay the talking has a tendency to be awkward with the lip movements which to me is very annoying. It’s also a bit slow at the beginning, though that isn’t much of a problem really. The story so far seems fairly interesting being the daughter of Warrant Officer Ripley from the movie but I won’t go on to talk about it, it’s nice and that is all you really need to know. So as far as has it become for once a good alien game? Yes, it’s good but not
entirely fantastic but it’s millions better than the shit that has been out before it. I would talk about The Evil Within, but that isn’t out yet so I’m gonna have to leave you all with these two games to give a go. So go crack those games open and play them. Once you try not to think about what’s under your bed or you may never know just what is around the next corner you walk.
THE STORY OF A HEDGEHOG Christian Concha
I don’t know why I always feel the need to give the readers of these reviews a back-story to why I choose the movies I watch but here it goes. The story is basically the same as every other one, just me, surfing through Netflix on the last night before deadlines trying to find a movie that slightly resembles the topic of the issue. I remember seeing one movie in particular with an interesting cover that had a crazy looking man with a knife in his hand that I thought might work. That man is Simon Pegg. Simon Pegg is one of the most well-known, comedy heavy hitters from England. He is famous for such works as “Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz,” and “The World’s End.” If you’ve been reading my reviews for a while, you may be familiar with the fact that I am not too big on English humor, but Simon Pegg movies are definitely an exception. So I look at the mini summary of the film, decide to give it a shot, pop some popcorn, and enjoy. “A Fantastic Fear of Everything” directed by Crspian Mills and Chris Hopewell, is about a writer, Jack who is researching for his next project about the origins of famous Victorian-era murderers in which he calls
“Decades of Death.” However, his research begins to haunt him when he starts to fear that these murderers are actually alive and are coming to kill him. This paranoia may also be caused by the fact there is an actual murderer on the loose called the Hanoi Handshake Killer that cuts off the fingers of his victims. Everything that Jack does is carefully done and requires a double take to ensure that no one is in his home attempting to murder him. A few things that Jack is seen doing to prevent such a tragic event is inspecting the food he eats before eating it, he plugs every hole on his face when he goes to sleep, and he even glues a knife to his hand for protection. The rest of the film follows Jack and his paranoia of being murdered with different interactions such a group of young carolers he refuses to listen to because he does not want to open the door. He even refuses to open the door for a police officer asking if everything is all right. Jack’s anxiety of being killed reaches its peak when his book agent calls him telling Jack that he has a meeting with a man who is interested in hearing more about “Decades of Death.” He discovers that his name is Harvey Humphries and Jack somehow connects his name to a Victorian murderer named Dr. Hawley Harvey Crippen who was known for cutting up his wife in a bathtub. Jack begins to second guess going to the meeting in fear that Harvey Humphries might be a decedent of the famous murderer and actually wants to kill him. Eventually, Jack decides to go to the meeting, but he has no clean, presentable clothes to wear to the meeting. So he goes to a Laundromat to clean a few articles of clothing when things begin to
escalate. I have yet to spoil an ending (I think) in these reviews so I will not spoil an ending today. Except there is this really great children’s story Jack is telling about a hedgehog that is entirely in stop-motion, but other than that, you can see the ending for yourself. This movie is slightly different than Simon Pegg’s other movies. This movie is not as laugh out loud hilarious as his other movies are, but there are some very humorous moments throughout. This movie is definitely darker and slightly grotesque compared to Simon Pegg other films. On the hole, this movie was a lot of fun to watch. If you enjoy anything by Simon Pegg, then you will definitely enjoy “A Fantastic Fear of Everything” without a doubt. It might not end up being your favorite Simon Pegg film because “Shaun of the Dead” is a thing, but it will be in your list of honorable mentions. For the final verdict of “A Fantastic Fear of Everything,” I will give it 3.5 knives out of 5. Being that it is close to Halloween, this movie is a perfect watch because of serial killers and Simon Pegg, because that’s everything you really need in a movie to be scared.
SOLUTIONS BEYOND THE STARS OR HOLY UNIDENTIFIED FAITH OCCURENCESES Dana Sami
Guess what readers? No- Ferguson is no better. Well no, that woman who bacterized snippets of her scrambled Harry Potter is still casting an experience to logic, and… literary taste, I suppose. No. But No new cataclysmic, atrocity has taken place in America in like three weeks. Everything that was exceedingly fucked up before is the way it was. Racist white dudes still in power, anti-Scientific sentiment still holds back children from a good education, and we are still a politically gridlocked nation whose only solution that ever gets anywhere is ‘We can bomb it’. But I’m not talking about that. Any of it. I want to talk about one thing, that I’ve had finished for over a month now, but the time was never right. But I can now! Aliens! I am a social media nerd. I take way too much of it in. And I, let’s be frank about it, am sometimes a lack luster employee do to my ability to just keep scrolling Tumblr or click on the next video by Philip DeFranco. In my wonderings on Stumble Upon I stumbled upon something truly great. Using my mythology filter to stumble into random web site after the next
I found this one page called Anything UFO who back that up with ‘case files’ from the 1950’s that chronical alien encounter and observation of Humanity well up to just last month. Anything UFO’s official slogan is: here’s the proof, now you have to believe it! A line that sounds like what a desperate Jeff Goldblum would cry to the higher ups in Independence Day or Jurassic Park or (write third 90’s movie reference later). The lead story on the blog was a sequence of photos taken by different residents of a small town in Texas called Stephenville. During an electrical storm lights appeared in the sky. Strange lights. Spooky lights! Lights that the people of Stephenville called a sign that we are not alone in the universe and that we are being watched by the aliens at all times. During this storm the pulsating lights hovered and accelerated over the town in silence. The UFO made no sound. No whiteness heard the long hum of an alien craft nor a rumble of a space rocket’s jet spitting spears of flame. But many devises did malfunction over the duration of this ominous storm and the even more ominous disk, outlined by a ring of unnaturally perfectly shaped, equidistance lights that seemed to breath with cycles of diming and intensity in the lowest bands of the atmosphere. Video and film cameras captured images of the odd thing as awe struck on lookers gaped at this wondrous proof of extraterrestrial life. Some people, rational ones, may wonder if the power outages and strange light phenomena during this Texan storm might be related to the buildup of electricity in the air then interfering with the electric grid for the county. But that as an excuse was widely dismissed by Stephenville due to reports of actual encounters of the 3rd kind. (In reference to
the Dr. Josef Allen Hynek hierarchy of extraterrestrial encounters. First kind being a UFO in the sky, second a UFO causing a strange effect on transmissions or on electronic device performance, and the third kind being physically present in the same space as a living creature from an alien world. Dr. JA Hynek is well known in the world of conspiracy theorists, do to his long time working with the CIA on top secret projects like Project Grudge or Blue Book, which was prematurely uncovered in the end of the office of J. Edger Hoover when classified documents were made public, implicating the US government in a number of odd to morally reprehensible things done to privet citizens.) Back in the small town in Texas, a former high ranked police officer claimed that while still on the force he encountered alien beings while making a normal patrol. Atop a roof overlooking an empty parking lot at night the officer witnessed an eight or nine foot tall creature made of brilliant green, translucent matter observe him in the autumn of 2000. The officer in his statement did not reveal his true identity, by photo or name but he did admit that after retirement in his late years as a privet contractor he would desperately seek any information regarding the giant alien creatures who watch him park ‘with no sense of threat’. And that would be the place it ends if I were some hack. A charming gem of a Halloween story based around an old veteran who is probably a kook is good, but I can dig deeper, oh- so much deeper into this story. And bring it back to art if I find the time. Have you heard the name Margaret Keane? If you were born after the 1970’s or never took a class on art appreciation that would surprise me. Mrs. Keane was actually a great American artist whose favorite medium was canvas painting, and whose favorite subject was children with impossibly big eyes. Some people will tell you that the human eye likes big eyes on our cartoons, and pets and Margaret Keane paintings because we are evolutionarily predisposed to imprint on creatures with big eyes and that is why most parents find a sense of love and belonging
upon their first sight of their new born. Human minds are wired to love things with big, deep pupils, like babies, or puppies or perhaps, our ancient ancestors? A minority of some note believe that creationism is true. But rather than being made in the image of a loving and personal god, humanity was created by the alien intervention we can all see in the opening seen
of the movie Prometheus. They believe in a Planet-X where thousands to millions of years ago creatures from the 12th planet in our solar system came to earth to loot it of the gold to build more complex and precise computers. In this exchange humanity or some say Homo erectus or even Homo habilis were given secret knowledge and mated with their masters. This train of thought believes that our present day love of anime characters and Gumball Waterson is an imprint left by the alien tampering with our genetic sequencing when we formed rustic monuments to our overlords the alien supremes. And one man, David Icke, climes that aliens still run our pitiful human world. Icke believes that the old aliens returned one they feared humanity had developed too quickly for its own good with the technologies of atom splitting and so they cracked down on up with the Illuminati. Yes- you probably have heard of the
Illuminati. Or New World Order. Or the Pentaverate. A long standing thought that some secret body (Jew typically) are running the institutions of power. David Icke believes in every president for the last 60 or more years along with the Queen of England having been secretly a lizard creature in a person flesh suit. So- did any one notice the number of times I use the word ‘Believe’ in that last paragraph? You could go back and could, but I assume you’re lazy as hell, I can tell you. It was five times in a 210 word paragraph. Faith goes hand in hand with extraterrestrials. Think I’m full of shit? Look at this chart: 50% of Americans believe in having experienced something personally that is supernatural in nature, ie not explainable by science. This said that 60% of the country believes in alien intervention. The places
that a close encounter or UFO sightings tend to occur also tend to be in places with a faithful population. The red states are also those most like-
ly to clime lost time and anal play with space monsters. That is to say the more faithful you are as a person, the more you allow yourself to believe in things that are not founded on facts but in spite of how difficult they are to believe in. And in the thought of faith there comes more conventional faith, colored of course by the ideals spun out from late 20th century conspiracy theories. There is the 70’s cult of Raëlism, still trucking along strong to this day. This group are one of the few supporters of conservative Christian creationism in the classrooms. That is abruptly the end of the Raëlians connection with the conservative science deniers. Raëlians teach that the world was created by an ancient alien race called Elohim and that Jesus and Buddha were both prophets of our alien creators. They also promote a form of deem massage/ tantric sex as a form of meditation and prayer that they hold to be critical to humanity coming to one connected consciousness for the New World Order. Claude Vorilhon, the cult’s founder, now renamed Raël after his religious experience advocates for sexual liberty, acceptance of all sexual orientations, gender expressions, and a life of non-violence. In the early 2000’s the Raëlians condemned both pedophilia and Catholicism, implicitly making a connection between the two. They then came to support what their leader considers a greatly important cause human cloning. Raël has said that the campaign for legalized human cloning and age acceleration will be the key to immortality. Grow a new body, age it up, and transplant a mind into the fresh vessel. Easer said, one thinks. This UFO cult has also stirred rallies and protests in the name of women’s rights and the acceptance of what could be said to be a fringe view on sex positive attitudes with the ‘topless marches’. UFO’s and aliens have spurred on larger faiths as well. I bet you think I was going to talk about Scientology. Well I was, but there was little ground to cover, I feel. It is a crazy alien cult whose prophet was a failed Science Fiction novelist. If you have more questions about the
religion that is collecting Hollywood stars as if they were Benny Babies go see Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master. No I will just mention that the other cult to full blown religion of American origin Mormonism is very similar to Scientology. Both American as hell, both made by blatant frauds, and both hold strangely overt references to alien life and the heavens. Lord Xenu of the Galactic Confederacy killed political decenters from across the galaxy by dumping them in earth’s volcanos (when the planet was called Teegeeack) and detonating nuclear war heads in one faith. In another, heaven is a literal quadrant of space somewhere that faithful Mormons will rule their own realm and repopulate them in the orbit of the great world Kolob where god lives. And Mormons do not denounce the existence of alien worlds teeming with intelligent life. They believe that god has done the same thing for each of these beings. These are ridiculous faiths in my opinion, (I’m sure my boss would want me to say) but what is this coming to? Art. Art is by major, my focus, and my passion. If you think I can’t tie everything back to art somehow than you have never really known me. Art is tied to religion in that it too helps us process deeper thoughts, and meanings we see in life. Art has been an aid to all major religions (another thing you might know if you took art appreciation). In relation to alien life art has reflected the two schools of thought to the hypothetical existence of alien life. One is a crippling fear of possible extermination or at least an indefinite generational span of slavery. The other is a hopeful voice of brotherhood. And in the name of shaking things up- I’ll do the hope filled one this time.
To the south end of the country of Mali a centuries old tribe called the Dogon numbering in upwards of 680,000 comes the myth of the hyper advanced Nommo. Singular or plural the Nommo are a intersex species who came from beyond the stars and rose up from the waters to share the star maps with the Dogon and tell them of the rings of Jupiter before even the Islamic converters came with their advanced astronomy and mathematics to chart the sky. Dogon peoples seeming anachronistic knowledge of Saturn’s moons or the form of binary star systems baffled the archeological community since the 1930’s. When any question was raised to the indigenous peoples about how they could possibly know of things modern western science had not learned up to that point they would reference back to these strange inhuman creatures they claimed had visited their ancestors and in fact had become partially their ancestors taught them. Nommo etchings are one of the few clues into this region’s cloudy past. But what of modern art in culture (I decided that this is where the whole thing has been headed)? Much of the alien paranoia, conspiracy and popular depiction are negative ones. Ripley saves us from H. R. Giger’s night terrors, or when there is a few billion to blow on production the studio will ship it all to making the gin soaked, smooth blended, late trimester abortion, that was Battle: Los Angeles. Well readers, I can proudly say that the solution has been under our noses the entire time. It is a story of hope and improvement and a love for that witch is just and good for the sake of goodness and Justus. The alien creature that fits the old American myth of outer worlds and far off kingdoms and a universe of compassion and order. An alien who has lived among we humans undetected for 75 years, who is called the Big Blue Boy Scout. He goes too by Kal-El. My favorite superhero, Superman. He can run faster than a speeding bullet, leap a tall building in a single bound and can fly with ease! Superman can also turn back time, give amnesia kisses, laser vision, x-ray vision, ice breath, survive for days in the vacuum of space
and has the strength to literally lift a city block. Some say that Superman is boring because he has so many powers and is at the same time unambiguously good. He does what is right because rightness is good, and badness is wrong and should be punished (non-lethally). Batman does what is right because his parents were shot dead before his big child eyes, and he has a personality disorder a therapist should work out. Batman’s Marvel counterpart Ironman is searching for fatherly approval and to escape his self-destructive addict life. Black Canary is rejected by the police department because she is a woman and her father dies heartbroken over it. There is, however, no gritty start for Superman. He had a rather happy childhood, loved by Ma and Pa Kent who raised him and lived long lives to see their son Clark Kent go on to be a respected journalist in the big city of Metropolis, have adventures, clone a son, and bang his cousin, Kara Zor-L. Why do I like Superman best? And how is he one of the best superheroes? In order: obviously the reason a character like this has thrived so well in the American and international zeitgeist is that Superman is Jesus Christ. No. But really. The broad mythology of Superman, that is to say the ‘cannon’ detective Comics upholds regarding him takes the UFO myth and then superimposes it over the Biblical and Pseudepigrapha texts say regarding Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus is said to be born in Nazareth in a manger in the book of Luke. In June of 1938’s Action Comics Kal-El lands on earth to be raised by his mortal parents in the small town of Smallville. Jesus is shown to have astounding powers as a child when he creates sparrows
from a mud puddle and he teaches the rabbis of the temple great spiritual truths. Kal-El made a habit of racing the train and using his super powers to perform chores around the farm. Jesus was filled with a great terror learning the full gravity of his heavenly father, Elohim, once he came to the great city of Jerusalem. Superman felt a great awe in learning of Krypton’s fate from his true father Jor-El. And then Jesus died for the sins of the world to rise again by his father’s word in the tomb. Superman fought for all of humanity against his most deadly opponent, to only be brought back from the grave in the Fortress of Solitude by his fathers will. Also this is not mentioning that the Kyriptonian names are all linguistically rooted to the Hebrew El- as suffix and prefix meaning ‘That of God”. But Superman did have some shitty qualities too (like some other well liked guy I’s just talking about). He was a misogynist, who felt that Supergirl needed his constant intervention and lecturing. His motto for ages was “Truth, Justice, and the American way,” which if not a bit nationalistic, sure isn’t something to be shouting proudly from the roof tops from every single possible facet. He now has renounced his US citizenship (the pretend alien, remember) so that he can be a citizen of the world who can fight for the good of all humanity. Superman also has fought bigotry against race. KKK numbers saw a revival in 1940’s southern states. So human rights activist Stetson Kennedy infiltrated the terrorist group and advocated that there be a youth aimed campaign against the KKK. Contacting Bud Collyer, star of the Superman radio show they conserved of a story line called “Clan of the Fiery Cross” where Superman beat up the Ku Klux Klan, describing it not only as vile, wicked and sick but (sadly I think most important to men
and women of the 1940’s) un-American. Clan meetings dropped like a brick and Superman made an ass out of the racists by spitting back their hate with a view of a tolerant inclusive future. And so, in a plethora of ways did Superman prove to be the best alien who ever came to this blue speck. And that is more or less the present. Thank you for letting me do this. We can see America has a weird obsession with the unknown and frontier. Next month- I hope there’s something to talk about. Till then do go watch The Master, I think you can still catch it on Netflix.
Horror Process Julia Izquierdo
Killer Fear K. L. Jones
I fear for tomorrow. Will I kill again? I fear for myselfThat blood thirsting Desire Penetrates My being . It is white as coal and Pure as hot soot, So hot, Hot, Kill, Pure satisfaction is my fear.
Deep Sea Nautical Affairs Of Misfortune Carissa Alvarez
And another 10,000 night as sleepless, Watching the tide roll Counting the clock Watching as tick tick Hands creep more restless 10,000 and one two “Free us” we’d ask We’d manage But does asking get far?
White Men’s Tears Luis Equihua
I heard their voices behind the shelves. I come inside from the rainy night I hear those voices from behind the shelves, Thinking of where they’ve gone is not an option, With this much water on my face I’ve got to clean up Before I get out there, Searching for them again
CREDITS The Modern Corsair for October - Issue Number 13 Waaay too spooky. This issue was: Paranoia So, uh, hey there buddy. You’ve been sleeping for a real long time- don’t you think it’s time to wake up? Honestly. It was funny at first, but now you’re just getting on everyone else’s nerves. Close your eyes and will yourself to wake up or something, will ya? The next issue will be: Nostalgia Someday we’ll look back at this all and reminisce, recalling great times, happiness in the form of other people, and question what you were wearing. Check out our subreddit at www.reddit.com/r/themoderncorsair Send all entries, comments, or suggestions to themoderncorsair@gmail.com. We’d be happy to hear from our readers. Special thanks to: Minds Wide Open And the biggest thanks of all to: You. Not you as the reader of this magazine, specifically you as the human reading this text in this moment. Keep on reading, beautiful person.