The Wasp - Volume II Spring 2019 by The WASP

The American Studies Center Student Journal University of Warsaw Volume II | Spring 2019 | ISSN: 2450-5676

wasp /wɒsp/ AmE /wɑsp/ noun [C] 1 a black and yellow flying insect which can sting you: There’s a wasps’ nest in that old tree! 2 when translated into the language of the country where the weather is schizophrenic and where even refugees do not wish to go (see: Poland), it becomes an osa – a place where all meanings collapse: Yesterday, I spent an amazing day at OSA! (here: an abbreviation for Ośrodek Studiów Amerykańskich, English: American Studies Center)

LILLA ORLY Editor-in-chief ALEKSANDRA BARCISZEWSKA NATALIA OGÓREK Associate editors PAWEŁ PAŃCZYK KAMILA MARIA WYSZYŃSKA DTP BASIA SZUKAŁA PR JOANNA MARCHEWKA Illustrations: pages 9, 14, 30, 41 Caricatures: pages 44-47

KLAUDIA WYPYCH Illustration: page 34 KLAUDIA WANAT Illustrations: pages 32, 39

TERESA BAKALARSKA Illustration: page 28

ANITA MAJEWSKA Caricatures: pages 44-47

KAROLINA JAKUBIAK Illustrations: pages 23, 29, 31

MAGDALENA KRZEMIŃSKA Front and back cover

MATEUSZ BOCZKIEWICZ Illustration: page 6

MARTA RAPACKA Caricatures: pages 44-47

MARTYNA WRÓBLEWSKA Illustrations: pages 25, 35

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2019

Unhealed Lilla Orly 4 FICTION POETRY To Be Remembered Inexistence Mateusz Boczkiewicz Agata Podbielkowska 6 28 2.0 Dear Human Being Aleksandra Barciszewska & Lilla Orly Agata Podbielkowska 8 29 The Worse for Drink The Warning Tomasz Szymoński Agata Podbielkowska 13 30 And So It Was The Fling Teresa Bakalarska Karolina Jakubiak 19 31 Crimson Lake The Game Agata Podbielkowska Karolina Jakubiak 24 32 Desire Karolina Jakubiak 33 Drunken Afternoons of Shadow Lia Algiri 34 ARTICLES Cotton Words Lia Algiri The Revisionist Epoch in Comics 35 Ibrahim Mert Alkcinkaya 38 In Every Generation… Teresa Bakalarska 41 The Right Choice Valeria Stupnikova 43

The next issue’s theme: TO BE ANNOUNCED We’re still recruiting! If you’re interested in writing for The Wasp, please contact us: thewaspjournal@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/thewaspjournal American Studies Center: asc.uw.edu.pl

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2019

Unhealed We can all imagine pain. The person at the desk next to us gets a paper cut and we instinctively wince. When watching a movie we may shudder or even jump when a character is stabbed, shot, or breaks a bone. Children, upon experiencing pain, may look to the grown individuals in their lives for the appropriate reaction; if the child is met with rushed attention, they’ll burst into tears. After emotional torment we can reach far back into the flesh of our mind to jab at the bruises, some a jaundiced yellow, others remaining a black-purple for our eternity. Why is it that we’re drawn to our lacerations? Constantly tonguing at the accidental bites in our cheeks, thrilling at the sting of a nick on the leg, ripping open our stitches and never letting them heal. Rubbing salt in our wounds seems to provide just as much joy as it does agony. Perhaps there’s a direct link between the two suggesting they don’t merely exist in the shadows of one another. This is no new revelation, of course. There exists an entire genre of kinks devoted to those who enjoy giving pain and receiving it, involving a plethora of ways to exact it. But beyond the darker shades that make up those fifty exist less obvious hues. While some describe the experience of getting a tattoo as self-inflicted torture, others delight at the throbbing buzz that warms their skin. Ballerinas, despite their searingly blistered feet, continue to manipulate the structure of their bones out of their passion for the dance. Pain for the sake of beauty is no oddity, either. From the lesser evils of waxing and tweezing, to their more invasive counterparts of lip injections and botox, to, finally, the downright bleak practices of breaking bones to add height or bracing appendages for a slimmer appearance. Maybe there is an instinct of survival in the need to repeatedly seek out distress. This issue’s piece of the month, “To Be Remembered” by Mateusz Boczkiewicz, is a heart wrenching, first-hand account of what it is like to be in love. It perfectly describes the feeling of when simply looking at the individual you care so deeply about is too much to bear. The story will tug at your heartstrings so severely they may be in danger of snapping. It is to be read when in want of heartache. The Wasp may be classified as somewhat of a sadistic creature by its very nature. With a stinger that never ceases to pique—unlike the feebleness of its kinsect, the bee—The Wasp repeatedly administers both pleasure and pain. We hope that the writing and illustrations we’ve afflicted upon you will continue to hurt with a resonance lasting a long time to come. Now, with an aching reluctance, it’s time to remove the prick of The Wasp’s dagger from below the skin, at least for the time being, if not for the indefinite future. But, no doubt, I’ll continue to thumb the bite for a healthy dose of discomfort.

Lilla Orly All-nonsense Editor-in-Chief subsisting from printed word to printed word. Enamored by the grim cavities of a too saccharine existence, and tracing half-truths in negative space. Digs meandering routes and gnarly tunes as well as the concept of an ever-expanding universe.

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FICTION

Piece of the month To Be Remembered Mateusz Boczkiewicz

Over the greenish, dirty water of the sea, there was a sunset to be remembered forever. An orange halo was slowly setting. Any careful observer would see every beam separately on the face of water. It was moving smoothly, one drop at a time and all at the same moment, unimaginable amounts of water reflecting this sunset at infinite angles, creating crazy shapes of dancing, blinking light. At the end of the horizon, the green was melting with the spectrum of the colors of the sun, creating pots of new colors, quickly disappearing and immediately changing into others. Clouds approaching the immortal, ancient gods were losing their white innocence in the face of the fiery inferno of yellows, and oranges, and reds. Inch-by-inch, they turned into flying infernos. Sometimes they tried to overcome their master, cover him with delicate bodies and set the world into shadows. But seconds passed, and clouds passed by, losing the sunlight’s blessing and going back to the still beautiful, but now boring, white shapes. Not that he could see any of it. Hordes of seagulls lurking around were to be remembered forever. Each one of them a bit different than the other. Their little beaks and dark eyes wanted to be like the clouds, steal some of the sun’s glory, reflect it and change to something different and their own. White feathers caught some of the fire too. They were running around, screaming, shrieking, fighting, feasting, loving. Pure manifestations of life in the fragile bodies of sea birds. Bigger ones had primal wisdom in their eyes. Little ones had innocence and curiosity known to the children. It doesn’t matter how loud they were, he couldn’t see any of them.

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In the distance above the greenish-turning-yellowish sea, there were massive ships floating like they weighed nothing. Massive, gigantic, monstrous—those were bold words when spoken in the presence of the sea. Ships tried to challenge the majesty of their host. They would like to look as frightening but they knew they were just peanut shells trying to stay on the surface. But still, they were beautiful, thought-provoking. One would look at them and try to understand how something so savagely big can move so smoothly. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t see them. He was not blind and his eyes were wide open. He could see, generally, but not all of these views. Both nature and technology tried to take grasp of his sight, to lure him away from the only view that mattered. Her lips were moving in slow motion as he was drinking in every word. He listened to the voice, more than the content that came with it. The shimmering song of the waves, the delicate song of birds, the gentle, tickling song of the wind—none of it could compete with the song that was her voice. Especially, when she was actually singing. In that moment, she was telling some story, while digging a hole in the sand, just to keep her hands busy. Round, pink cheeks were changing shapes with every word, every sound. Her eyes were dancing, from the sea, to the hole in the dirt, to his face, to make sure he was listening—and he was. She smiled every time she looked at him, because she saw how he was looking at her. Maybe it was just a reflection of the sun, or maybe her eyes were shining and blinking to him? Every one of them tried to dethrone her. Wind joined with sand to blow grains in her face so she had to hide behind her arms. The sun tried to burn out the bluish-grayish paradise behind her eyelids, so she had to close them. As nature opposed her beauty, she made funny faces of disappointment and anger. The cheeks would fill with air as she sighed. The eyebrows would wrinkle. Wind, earth, and water, they all thought they triumphed as her face took all kinds of funny shapes. One would say it wasn’t that perfect anymore without those blinking eyes, shining teeth in full smile, kissable cheeks with a sparkle of pink. One would, but he wouldn’t. His eyes were wide open but they didn’t matter. His love for her transcended far beyond the sight of his eyes. He didn’t need them anymore, for he looked at her with his heart only. It sounds cheesy. It feels so poetic and romantic that one would think it is overly sweet. But it was so true. “Cliché is cliché because it’s fucking working,” as a wise man once said. On the beach full of hot chicks in bikinis, with Instagram full of outstanding models and actresses, he still thought she was the perfect one. With all her flaws, with her funny face covered in embittered sand, and her eyes blinded by the jealous sun. With her moodswings. With everything that she was. He touched her face; she looked at him and smiled again. If one proposed a life full of the aforementioned ladies, or a minute with her, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate, when she closed her eyes and sent him a ghostly kiss through the air, and then laughed out loud.

Mateusz Boczkiewicz “Hey, I’m Batman.” The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2019

2.0

Aleksandra Barciszewska & Lilla Orly

Roan winced as she turned over in bed, her cold feet skimming his shins, her hand unfeelingly brushing the side of his face. She liked to joke that they were like day and night, quite literally; she was out like a light by eight while he sat up until the dark grey walls of their sparsely furnished bedroom began to glow with the early morning light. At times, while Roan was immersed in a book or running around the periphery of the internet, she would wake up from a bad dream and insist in a whiny, childish voice that he hold her until she fell asleep again. Tonight he simply lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his posture imitating that of sleep. But he was wide awake. Every so often he would raise his phone and look at the ridiculing text that glared back at him: Kiss her goodnight for me. It had been a month. Lauren and him had cut ties as though the seams sewn over the four years of their relationship had never been threaded. That’s how he liked it. Knowing this about him, Lauren didn’t speak to him until she was certain it would hurt the most. It hurt because some part of him knew he was waiting for it, the reminder, the hit of reality. Her precision and tact were things that drove him crazy during their relationship, but crazy in a good way. The meticulous way she measured out all the ingredients within a recipe, placing them—chopped, or grated, whatever— each into their own miniature glass bowl to be daintily overturned into the meal at hand when their time came. Her harmonious politeness at social events, greeting and introducing everyone according to their respective familiarity, parting at the perfect moment, never over- or understaying a welcome. Whenever he saw her glide through these motions with ease he wanted her badly. Some part of him, when he tore at her clothes and tangled her hair, wanted to tarnish that perfection. He guessed it was only right that he should fuck it up. He turned to look at her, the one that was laying next to him. Their affair hadn’t been some one night stand or even an overplayed drama with sexual fantasies explored and matters of the heart realized. It had all been a bit short-lived and bland, something he almost grieved each time he looked at her. They had known each other several years before. Back then he was freshly graduated and she was hastily finishing her creative writing degree to come meet him out west. They had initially met at a mutual friend’s housewarming party where they both joked cheesily about the fact that they had purchased the same cheap wine. They didn’t see each other again for a while and, truth be told, it was more boredom than anything that brought them together. Once they finally got together, they were both enthralled with one another. When he still lived close to campus, she would stay over at his place to avoid her obnoxious roommate, and read him the rough drafts of all her latest assignments. He was always enraptured just looking at her, either with her head on his lap, or standing by the window. Her hand trembled a little when she was completely absorbed by the words she had placed herself on the page. If she hated it (which was more often than not) she would drall on in an impatient tone. He was filled with an arrogant pride whenever she took the meagre content of the kitchen’s fridge and pantry and turned it into a delicious meal for him and his housemates. When it was time for him to move, she tearfully filled cardboard boxes with his things, overfilling them to the point that, once Roan arrived at his new place, half of his dishes and prized possessions shattered as they tore through the bottoms of the boxes. They spoke on the telephone because she felt that video chatting was impersonal. When she came out to see him she asked him to take her on a tour of downtown even after her fifth time there. He found it all endearing until she graduated and moved in with him. For the first six months that she was jobless, he felt power in her dependence on him; at times when she asked him for money to buy clothes he was tempted to deny her or at least ask for something in return. After the umpteenth time that her whining about the uselessness of her education had escalated into a bitter quarrel—where he only confirmed what

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she said to which she became defensive—he felt that he had had enough. Despite his feelings, they stayed together for another year, their days repetitive and their sex mechanical. He used another work displacement as an excuse to tell her that they should take some time apart, which eventually led to a break where they could see other people, which eventually led to complete disassociation with one another. In hindsight, Roan thought, maybe he should have looked at every moment of their relationship as foreshadowing for the re-weaving of their stories in the future. The alarm on her nightstand buzzed and she lifted her arm sleepily to slap the snooze button. “Morning,” she grumbled before turning over. “Morning,” he said and got up. *** “Have a great day sweetie,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips before hopping out of the car. He watched her walk away, eyeing the way the tight denim skirt hugged her ass and the blades of her shoulders protruded in the open-back shirt. He still wasn’t accustomed to the new wave of office informality. She worked at a social media start up where her job was mostly to make arbitrary videos ranging from moving clips on environmental destruction to insignificant digestions of internet trends. Each day she left the house looking like she didn’t care to keep her job at all, whether that be due to the lack of business wear or the like of wear whatsoever. In the ten years since their last relationship had ended, there had been a shift; he felt as though the world had molded into one that accommodated her while he was left fighting his way back in.

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As he pulled away from the curb, the memory of Lauren’s message punctured his abdomen once again. Kiss her goodnight for me. The night his and her relationship was resumed he was away from Lauren, at a dinner thrown by one of his old housemates from college. She had been invited more out of pity than anything, but when she showed up she surprised everyone. She had undergone one of those changes people describe when someone’s been through a truly happy period of their lives and it seems as though every positive attribute has been amplified by half a decibel. Her hair was lighter and shinier; her smile seemed wider and somewhat more coy; her laughter held a promise of the things she’d experienced and was to experience. They eyed each other all night, not talking except for confirming the question that seemed to be raised too many times, “Wait you guys dated in college, right?” At the end of the night when he offered her a ride back to her hotel it seemed inevitable. They barely spoke to one another for the whole ride. When they pulled up to the roundabout before the hotel doors they stared at each other for a while until she leaned over and kissed him. The kiss wasn’t familiar to him at all, hell, the lips were foreign to him. It was sensual and held none of the clinginess that their previous relationship had been built on. She slid out of the car without another word. Later that night he received a text from her: Goodnight ;*. It spiraled from there. Since they lived in neighboring states, day trips or weekend meetings weren’t a problem. Roan was almost oblivious to the fact that he was being unfaithful. He practically assumed that his relationship with her and his relationship with Lauren were two dichotomies that simply coexisted. When he came home one evening to Lauren at the kitchen counter sipping her glass of wine with puckered lips and red rimmed eyes the first thought that came to his mind was not that she knew but that some other terrible disaster had taken place. Now, here he was, dropping off the girl that was supposed to be the love of his life, the one that he had gone back to—and he fucking despised her. ________________________________________ “Why do I even bother?” Willow kept asking herself repeatedly until the words would lose any of their primary meaning. Each night she felt Paco Rabanne base notes of leather and amber tripping over his shedding skin molecules, Willow knew how much she missed the void on the memory-foam mattress topper on the left side of the bed. His mere existence would make her nauseous. Not because the intoxicating cinnamon accord in his overused perfume made her sick—although it surely did; not because she felt estranged from this tall, blue-eyed man—although she kind of did; and not even because she knew he never loved her and never would—this she only suspected. The problem was that he was toxic, which was precisely the reason why she fell for him in the first place and did so once again several years later. The life without him paled in comparison to the life they shared before. The day they met, during Cameron’s housewarming party, he was as charming as those laughable Nicholas Sparks’ characters. Suspiciously rehearsed, his words resonated with those yearnings each girl has, even if they deem such lines as cheesy. He slowly grew on her like mold. The spores of his attention quickly turned into an empty form of affection he granted Willow from the very first moment. Even though he surrounded Willow with caresses, shrouded with kisses, wrapped in touches, she felt alienated from his true self that he had safely locked behind iron gates. Yet, those scripted crumbles of love Willow extracted from his words and actions were enough for her to claim him hers, even if it was devoid of all those romantic clichés like butterflies in the stomach. Comfortably present, their relation was

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there just to simply exist; a cold acceptance of social convention no one truly believed in. At that time, Willow was studying creative writing, and there were times she would stay at his place because her roommate had an ambitious goal to fuck all the frat boys she possibly could. Due to the character of her studies, she would write enormous amounts of texts she always wanted to read out loud to him. Not because she was particularly proud of them—that almost never happened; and not because he was such an amazing literary critic—he wasn’t. Willow was always looking for a chance of mere acceptance and pride from him. Each word she uttered—and previously had crossed out and changed at least ten times so that it would be the fanciest, the smartest, the prettiest sentence he’d ever heard—was met with disdain and carefully concealed boredom mixed with anticipation for the ending to finally come. “Why do I even bother?” Willow asked herself each time he succeeded at hurting her one more time. “You know why,” was the answer never spoken, but floating way too close to all the neurons that would gradually become extinct. He always said what she wanted to hear; Willow could never tell the difference between an honest, true answer and one that composed a logical continuation to whatever she had said or asked. The only thing she was positively certain was that he needed her to be the cure to his demons and aches hidden inside. “Do you even want me here?” Willow screamed during one of those frequent fights they had whenever he would simply ignore her and her needs. “What do you want?” “I want you,” his blue tear-filled eyes looked right at her with an obvious begging note that would turn into a passionate kiss followed by a desperate love making. “I would never want to hurt you, you hear me? I just, sometimes, don’t know how to show you how much I care. I just don’t know how to love you, you have to help me,” he would say while stroking Willow’s hair while she would bite her lip to prevent herself from crying in front of him. When she finally graduated, Willow moved in with him. She felt an invigorating, inspiring drive to find a job, where she could use all the knowledge she had gained during her studies. Yet, Willow’s job hunting had ended right before it had a chance to properly commence. He would persuade her to stay at home and slowly get accustomed to the real life. What that offer actually entailed was that he simply wanted a free cook, cleaning lady, and lover at hand whenever he needed those services. Up until that time, Willow was a frequent guest at college parties and gatherings, but he would eventually use guilt and manipulation to isolate her from her friends; he simply always needed or wanted her more than anyone ever could. Emotional and financial dependence made Willow feel ashamed and cheap. Whenever she needed money to buy clothes or food, he would ridicule each reasoning she presented him with, and that made him feel even more powerful than ever before. Soon after that stopped being fun to him, he came with a lame work displacement excuse to get rid of her. The withdrawal hurt more than Willow could ever predict, but, at some point, it gave her a motivation she always needed to be the kind of person she was always meant to be. Two weeks after the liberation though, Willow discovered she was pregnant. Not even for a second did she think to pick up the phone to call him. She was disgusted and guilty of having been pregnant with him. Heavily heartbroken, she made an appointment at the clinic, and never again thought about it. *** “Have a great day sweetie,” Willow said, kissing him lightly on the lips before hopping out of the car. She knew very well he ogled her swaying hips in the tight denim skirt. Caught in a web once again, she met him at Christopher’s, his old housemate’s, party. She kind of suspected he’d be there, thus she went an extra mile to look simply fabulous. Not because she wanted him back—she didn’t. Yet, still, there was this pathetic need to impress him. It took a few drinks to let her guard down and

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usher in the waterfall of his mind-binding words that uncovered the old dependent Willow that wept during each emotional drought he would eventually serve her. During those several years Willow hadn’t seen him, he seemed to have gained a few extra gray hair that cascaded over his always calm forehead. The Nicholas Sparks’ spark was still present, though. “You look beautiful,” he said while handing her yet another Tequila Sunrise that brought a sunset to her judgment. “I’ve missed you, you know? During those years, there wasn’t a single day I didn’t think about you,” lie or not, Willow wished for it to be true. “Should have called then?” “I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk to me.” “I wouldn’t want to, but I would answer,” she smiled with a shadow of a promise in her eyes and left him at the bar. The very moment she got into his car, she knew she was making a huge mistake. A mistake that would ruin her newly gained self-worth. A mistake that would unearth the toxic connection they had, but faded during those years apart. A mistake she was more than willing to make. The ride home turned into frequent phone calls and visits that had a fresh hue of care and affection he was always reluctant to give Willow. He was more attentive, listened to whatever she had to say—this time with what it seemed to be genuine interest and responsiveness—cared about her needs in the bedroom, and, for the first time, he touched her without that hint of remoteness tinted with disgust. This titillating freshness lasted for a few weeks. Willow was a new exciting toy for him, yet, unfortunately, he got familiar with its features and got bored again. She knew that it went on the same path it did before, but being his made her remember the sweet, oblivious state of being herself. Simply, transferring the need to lead her life into his hands made her feel whole again. Willow knew that he was in a relationship and he seemed to have found a strange kind of pleasure in cheating on that woman. He would call Willow whenever she was around and would eagerly, albeit supposedly accidentally, drop “sweeties,” “honeys”, and “babies,” which he never did when they were together; he would often take Polaroids while they were in bed to carry around in his wallet; or he would ask Willow to wear an extra layer of her Gucci eau de parfum while being intimate. Now, here she was, being dropped off to work by a man that was supposed to be the love of her life, the one that she had gone back to—and she fucking despised him.

Aleksandra Barciszewska Former editor-in-chief. ASC-survivor. Vampiric psychoanalyst by nature. Extracting the sexual from the mundane, rejecting reality for the sake of the very-tale of momentary satiation of the urges for creation.

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The Worse for Drink Tomasz Szymoński

Could you possibly imagine that there is a club consisting only of bartenders who use their position of power to destroy innocent lives? Well, right… That means you lead a normal life and you are not a beautiful, yet stupid blond bombshell. I’m a dead man talking, just so you know. You see, I can tell you everything there is to know, but I have one condition. I want you to send each and every word from now on to every newspaper you know—maybe excluding Playboy—and inform the world of their heinous crimes. My name is Apart. Fall Apart. Yes, my parents had a strange sense of humor. Saying it like that gives a little Bond-ish ring to the name but it really doesn’t help with people. However, it’s not important that I was bullied at every stage of my useless education. Or maybe it is. I was that type of a child for whom socializing was very awkward. I never had friends. I wasn’t very keen on education either. I had started working before I graduated middle school. Money was tight so I had to do it. I have worked in almost every little shop there was in my town. I was never able to keep one job for more than two months, though. My mother was always telling me that what I’m doing right now will benefit me someday in the future. To be frank, I wasn’t really considering me being a part of the future world. I managed to get expelled from high school before graduating. Mom wasn’t happy. I didn’t blame her. Then again, I understood the fact that coming from where I came, I wouldn’t be a good and clean middle-class citizen. One with a wife and three kids, living in a big house and driving a comfortable car by getting a six-figure paycheck for the job that I love. You may say I was either very pessimistic or very perceptive. My mom died on my 18th birthday. I was completely and utterly alone. Oh right, I forgot to mention that my father was cruel to my mother and me. I always cherished the time I was only with my mom. He disappeared in mysterious circumstances when I was fourteen. Some might say that it was too late for me to be a normal kid. I think they were right. After all, there must be something wrong with me to inspire a story worthy of telling you. After my mom died, I was left with a choice. I could either have stayed where I had lived and most likely go six feet under as well, or I could have left town and search for something in life. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the second option was the only realistic possibility. I packed everything valuable including my father’s gun that had never been found during the investigation. I know he wasn’t man enough to actually use it. I couldn’t say that for myself. I didn’t have any close family so there was no one who would look for me. Suffice to say that I was over twenty-one when I finally got the guts to go through with my plan. Therefore, legally, I was free of any supervision. I went to the bus stop. Not really sure which way to go, I let fate decide my destination… Regret, Missouri. I’m not kidding, that’s the name of the city. I’ve checked into a motel with what little money I had. I could only afford the cheapest one. The room was obscure and not really furnished. There was a bed and a shower with the options of cold or insanely freezing water, nearly in a solid state. I chose “cold” and took a quick shower, lightning quick. After that, I slept one day straight. I woke up feeling like I had dreamed the whole thing. The death of my mother, saying goodbye to the town I grew up in and, finally, being in this Carrie-like motel. That was the day everything changed.

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*** I had to find a job if I was to move from that motel. I didn’t have any credentials, any recommendations. I went over some local hardware stores and seven-elevens but nobody was hiring at that time. I suddenly felt alone. You have to understand that it was never a problem for me. I mean, I always had my mother supporting me. Back then, I was really, really alone for the first time in my life. Having no friends was okay when I was in high school but with my arrival in Regret, Missouri, I felt like I would have to fill the void to avoid going crazy. I tried something new. I went to a bar. If I remember correctly it was called “For Pleasure, Only.” I entered being somewhat scared of what I could learn about myself. I was never a drinker; neither was I a party enthusiast. Inside, I found a rather large crowd talking out their asses, trying to impress slightly less drunk girls in miniskirts. You wouldn’t believe how out of place I felt. Coming up to the counter and ordering a beer was one of the hardest things I had done in my life, or so it seemed then. “That’ll be five dollars,” the bartender said to me. “That’s a lot for one beer,” I answered, having no clue whatsoever about actual prices. “If you don’t like the price you can always leave.” I stayed. After living in the wild for ten minutes, I tried to analyze their behavior. My findings were shocking, to say the least. I couldn’t understand how stupid and careless those people were, drinking like there was no tomorrow. I was stripped of everything I cared for and those halfwits were sitting there laughing, making their little problems go away.

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“Tell me, how hard is it to get a job like yours?” I asked. “You can find out,” the bartender said with an insincere smile. “We’re having tryouts next week.” “Thanks.” I thought that this just might be the answer to all my prayers. I hadn’t finished my beer. The bartender looked at me suspiciously as if I had done something illegal. “I paid, didn’t I?” I said to him walking out of the bar, not really caring about his reply. As I walked home, I noticed how many people were yelling at one another, breaking the law, having a good time. I also saw some drunk walking alone barely keeping his footing, muttering nonsense. I suddenly felt very angry, which didn’t happen to me often, even taking into account being beaten by my father every chance he got. I would rather hold everything inside and let it grow, and only then let my emotions get the better of me. I assume that “it,” or rather the id, was coming to the surface. I spent the next six days learning about bartenders and their job while hardly making ends meet. I was in “For Pleasure, Only” a few more times, looking at bartenders to understand what they were doing. I couldn’t shake away the feeling that everyone in here did deserve to live. I was partly scared, partly excited about the thought. It felt like something new was born inside of me and it wanted to take a look around. I got the bartender position without breaking a sweat. Or a leg. *** Three weeks had gone by and I did everything I was asked to. I learned how to make cocktails so that customers could get drunk without tasting the bitterness of alcohol they were processing. I also learned how to look like I gave a damn about their pathetic problems. Why do so many people come to bartenders to bitch about their lives? Some of them, mostly men, were able to yammer from dusk ‘til dawn without even realizing that nobody cares about their troubles. I would nod, fill their empty glasses, then nod again and pour some more. After a month, I was seriously sick and tired of their never-ending complaints. I walked home angrier and angrier every time. I never drank anything, which meant I saw everything clearly. Once, after some lame workers’ party in “For Pleasure, Only,” I snuck out of my usual place and took a breather. I saw two men outside arguing about some sporting event. They were under the influence of not only alcohol, I would guess. I moved closer so that I could hear the discussion. I thought to myself that I could easily take both of them down. I wasn’t the strongest man alive, but at least I could walk in a straight line. I would smash their faces together and nobody would even come to look for them because the rest was as hammered as they were. I came back to the bar with unsettled emotions moving through me. My superior, well, only by the hierarchy in the workplace, hadn’t even seen me leave. I’m telling you, I was on-edge that day. A few more weeks passed and I became a creature of habit with a tight schedule and no extracurricular activities. When I had a night shift, I slept through the day and vice versa. I still couldn’t afford to buy my own place. I was purchasing groceries and all essential products in the store next to the motel. I didn’t befriend any of my coworkers, but at least I was almost never alone. Being lonely is a completely different thing. I started to notice some changes. In my formative years, I was immune to the stupidity of my peers. However, as soon as I began to work in the bar, I seemed to have lost that ability. I heard people talk about their lives as if they were in the center of the universe. Their problems were grand and profound. Everyone was busy with their lives, constantly going somewhere in pursuit of the

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ever-so-desired happiness. Yet, the most irritating thing was the social callousness I had to witness every time I was behind the counter. Lawyers who would say anything to make a buck; a psychiatrist who would laugh about stories people tell them in secret. One time, I saw a man getting beaten for no reason at all in the dark alley near my motel and I just stood there, looking at them. Nothing seemed to get to me. I thought I had become heartless. Don’t get me wrong, I was still listening to them yapping, but, at the same time, I could as easily take the nearest bottle and throw it at them. I wouldn’t feel bad about it one bit. Then, one night, I witnessed something. *** I was at the end of a two-shift marathon. Nevertheless, I distinctively remember how one of the bartenders that worked with me put something in a drink. Some little pill. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew that it shouldn’t be there. He, I think his name was Mike, gave the drink to some lady. Well, she wasn’t some lady. She was beautiful, as standards would suggest, with blond hair and long legs. Mike smiled at her but I saw something in his eyes, something sinister. The same look I envisage myself making while coming home from work. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I be a rat which meant getting Mike fired with some legal charges in a nice packaged deal? Or maybe I just keep my mouth shut and see how this will play out? I chose the second option. I was serving some guy whiskey but really concentrating on both Mike and the blond girl. He was cleaning glasses, behaving nothing out of the ordinary. She was laughing very loudly, talking to her all-female friends. My shift was ending and nothing suspicious had happened. The only interesting fact was that the girl was still in the bar, sitting with the last girl to stay so long. Mike’s shift was ending as well. I was ready to leave, but I noticed that he was still inside. I didn’t know him well. Yet, I was sure that nobody wanted to be in the bar after ending their shift. Not much, but at least something to go on, I thought. I sat on the nearby bench waiting for them to appear. Coincidently, just after the blond girl walked out and said goodbye to her friend, who turned left, Mike also appeared. Both my co-worker and the girl turned to the right, leaving her all alone in the dark streets of Regret, Missouri. I had a good viewpoint on the whole scene. Mike caught up to her. Then, almost at the end of the alley which led to a more illuminated spot, the blond girl started to walk like she was completely wasted. She had been behaving normally just a few seconds earlier. Mike took her over his shoulder but she was trying to escape his grip. Finally some action, I thought. She was obviously drugged by Mike so there was no chance in hell that the blond girl could run away. As soon as they both came into the light, the car appeared and Mike threw her inside the vehicle like a piece of garbage. Luckily, they were so occupied that I calmly stood up and walked away unnoticed. Once again, I had witnessed law-breaking and I couldn’t give a damn. I was interested in Mike’s action, though. Drugging an innocent girl so close to his work. You don’t crap where you eat—that saying instantly came to mind. Well, Mike apparently wasn’t familiar with that expression. It was either that or he just didn’t care so much about being caught. I was trying to think through my next step in this little game when someone threw an empty bottle of beer at me. I saw three drunk guys yelling in my direction. I just shook my head in disbelief and moved along. They were persistent, I had to give them that. The next bottle broke near my foot and a piece of glass cut my skin near the ankle. That is the breaking point in the story. I’m very pleased that you are such good listeners.

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I am actually a little shady on the detail there. I remember being overcome by anger or rather fuelled by it. Next thing I knew, they were all lying in a lake of their own blood. I ran as I had never run before. Then, I found myself in my room, looking at my bloodstained clothes. I ran my tongue across my teeth and I realized I was missing one. I also had a bruised forehead. I started to giggle which quickly transformed into a burst of evil laughter. I laughed and I laughed, as hard as those girls in the bar, as hard as those drunks who thought I was easy meat, seemingly to no end. I stopped only because I was lacking oxygen. I was desperately trying to catch a breath, but I fell on the floor and lost consciousness. *** Next time Mike and I had the same shift, I approached him asking about some good ways to spend time after punching the clock. He replied that he usually goes to clubs or drinks at home with his buddies. I wasn’t satisfied with that answer so I pushed a little harder. After mentioning pretty the blond babe that was in the bar last Saturday, Mike began to pick up on my intentions. Clearly, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I lost the subtleties and asked what we were going to do with his little secret. He was trying to deny it, as I expected, very unconvincingly. When he lost all hope, he wanted to go outside either to beat the crap out of me so I wouldn’t tell anybody or to come to terms with the new arrangement. He didn’t want to fight me. He actually wanted me to join him. It came as a little bit of a shock, but, after a little consideration, I shook his hand and accepted his offer. Mike told me everything I needed to know. About their secret club, their ways of operating and that he was also new to the whole thing. That’s why he enlisted me. Here’s what it’s like: there are about a hundred of them across the country, small towns mostly. No more than two in one location to ensure no conflict of interest. They only meet when someone is compromised and they swear not to say anything about the club, neither to their families nor to the police. They only target simple-minded women, never the regulars or anyone in a relationship. Finally, after they are done with the subject, she is given a powerful dosage of their specialty—an enhanced version of Propranolol—, which makes people forget about traumatic experiences. I would say that getting drugged, abducted, and used falls perfectly into that category. It took a while for all this information to sink in. However, I had a rather clear understanding of the inner workings of the “Tapster Club,” as they were calling themselves. The next few weeks flew by like that moment in Lion King when Simba was growing up. Either way, the important thing is that they trusted quickly and didn’t ask many questions. For me, it was the perfect arrangement. The only thing that they wanted of me was to swear on my life (which I haven’t been taking very seriously) that I’d never speak of the club, no matter how shitty my predicament would be. I remember my “first time” as though it was yesterday. I wasn’t nervous, anxious maybe but most definitely I wanted to laugh again. That puts me in a kind of sociopathic light, doesn’t it? Be that as it may, I do not regret anything. As they say, when you hang out with people moving dirt, sooner or later you’re bound to get a little dirty yourself. Although the more I think about it, the more I see that it’s all society’s fault. Witnessing many things during my shifts made me realize that we as a species have come full circle. The way we communicate, the way we live is somewhat similar to the situation centuries ago when primal people were drawing on stones. We spend more time looking at TVs, computers, and, worst of all, checking our phones than actually talking to one another. We are paralyzed when we can’t use the Internet. We cannot think for ourselves, everything is given on a plate. And do we really think we are so different from those drunks I used to watch stumble out of the bar? Addiction is addiction, and you can’t categorize it. We are as addict-

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ed as those regulars in the bar who cannot handle a day without a little buzz. Do you see my point? Tell me, when was the last time you sent a real postcard to a friend or a family member? When was the last time you visited someone you knew very well, uninvited? When was the last time you saw a teenager going through a long and difficult book rather than reading the summary or movie adaptation of it? How many times have you seen two people sitting in the restaurant not having their nose in their little devices? Exactly. That’s why I did what I did. We live in such bad times. Take Mike for example. He failed as a member of this society and what did he do? He abused innocent women for his pleasure. And why? Because he could. He was aware of his wrongdoings and was still going at it. There is no moral; there is no place for such things. I do not own a cellphone, a computer, or a TV set. I do not socialize through the use of screens. I do not drink. Do you know what that’s like? Maybe I should have become Amish… No! I see everything clearly. How corrupted people are, how heartless. I can’t stand looking at them. They disgust me. The Club gave me tools, society gave me the reasons, and the rest, as they say, is history… What I mean by that is—everything is in the files written by detective Henderson. Together with the name and surname of each Tapster Club member I have killed over the years. I am the only one alive. In summary, I plead guilty, your honor.

Tomasz Szymoński Having read an issue of the Amazing Spider-Man written by J. Michael Straczynski at the age of 13, he wanted to create his own stories, protagonists, and worlds. He is a translator and copywriter by day and a sci-fi reading, pizza pie eating, (pop) culture fanatic by night. One of his greatest dreams (nay, goals) is to be read. More at transncreation.wordpress.com.

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And So It Was Teresa Bakalarska

[D-7] When Nick Hastings was appointed as the woodsman for the newly discovered giant red tree forest, nothing in the stuffy air of the room, or in the uncomfortable stiffness of his collar, or in the slow ticking of a dark clock foretold the journey this step would take him on. But there he was, receiving the appointment—director Dixon, his father’s close personal friend, shaking his hand. Something in this handshake spoke about the promise of the grand society, of an unspoken secret world to which one scarcely can be admitted. And even if Nick could not imagine what this promised world looked like, already he wanted to enter it. Desperately. So there he was, barely finished his PhD studies, and about to start the thing he’d only ever observed carefully from afar—like an unfamiliar beast—this thing called a career. She was a wild beast to tame, as he was led to understand. “This is a big thing my boy” director Dixon murmured upon taking Nick aside and firmly squeezing his arm. “You may not understand now, my boy, but those things blow up,” he licked his lips as if in effort, “Yes, those things really blow up, you know? And then, there are those other things. Bigger things.” Nick nodded knowingly. There were those things. They could indeed be big. Dixon looked at him with careful assessment. (This look engraved itself uncomfortably in the lower part of Nick’s head, ready to seep constant, untraceable anxiety for days to come.) “Yes…” Dixon murmured half to himself, “this will do. See, young man, we just gotta have a man on the job. Don’t want none of those people sticking noses where their department doesn’t reach, you know.” And so, there he was, after a half day trip along smaller and smaller roads, bigger and bigger ravines, grayer and grayer sky. A man on the job. The job, as it appeared when he jumped out of the van, was provisionally fenced off. One use of a big key later, and this new chapter of Nick’s life stood wide open. From now on he had to go it alone. Two feet in, the gate closed with a thud, and he was welcomed by the hum of the trees—as if they were holding a breath for so long that it came out shaking and desperate. Oh. But it was Nick’s breath that shook. [D-6] No wonder the trees grew red here—under their dark maroon, rough bark was a tender sapwood of a brick color—no wonder they grew like that on this warm, fragrant soil, never letting any of the heat that permeated the day go to waste. Nick was stunned to find the ground still filled with that warmth even after a surprisingly cold night, his first night. When he walked out of the woodsman’s makeshift cabin, in the early hours of the morning, the sun had already advanced in the sky, peaking from behind tall hills surrounding the Giant Red Tree Valley (as he called it in his head). The day before, it had already been too dark to make out the shapes of the trees, except for that they were, indeed, giant. They must have lived here forever, nestled comfortably between two green hillsides, watered by a small, clear, and nameless stream, fed by the muted sunlight—a rarity in the mostly rocky, coniferous, and dry region. The eyewitness accounts were correct, Nick had to admit, when they spoke of an aura of natural miracle, of another planet. And were they not a miracle indeed? They seemed to have literally materialized from thin air around three months prior to Nick’s appointment. At least it was around that time that he first heard rumors circling the botanist community. They found something in the plains. Something Big. A new, record-breaking kind

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of red giant tree, or maybe something entirely different. Untouched. A discovery of this caliber hadn’t happened in over a solid hundred years. The world had been treaded, tasted, known, and described—and all that was left were petty details, experiments, unproved theories of little importance. Quantities and qualities and uses and optimizations and nothing that would make your heart beat slightly faster or your pupils widen. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be found? A string of random events (a change of a river’s course which turned a mining company from one hill to another, sudden rains that prompted them to look for a new route to the outcrop, mistaken directions in the night) had something of a heavy, directed fate in it. Maybe they’ve been waiting? For a good moment, a moment when they were needed; for Nick? From the first moment he saw them he had fallen in love. A kind of love that had some awe, tenderness, and fear in it. Mostly fear. They were ginormous. Wide, tall, and bushy. Majestic. When you looked upwards, the treetops resembled an ocean, the branches tangled and gently swinging at all times. And in this sea of leaves, every now and then a clearance, letting through a long column of light, pointed like in ancient oil paintings. It took a quarter of an hour to traverse the forest along the stream, and much shorter crosswise. In a long, almost triangular shape, it ended at a sudden rocky wall, which let only the stream pass through. The trees were noticeably older and bigger closer to the wall. In this area the ground wasn’t as clear, littered with broken branches, sticking roots, and other signs of old age. Nick stopped in front of what seemed to be the oldest and the widest of the giants. The bark was chipping away in huge chunks, the branches weakly falling towards the ground under their own weight. It was half dead and half alive, the vital juices clearly struggling to make the vegetation happen. A Passing Spirit. Nick came closer and rested one hand on a bare spot of the bark. A bricklike powder covered his fingers. His eyes watered for some reason. Maybe it was the strong scent of a rotting tree? The air buzzing with unspent stormy electricity? Or maybe he was intoxicated and overwhelmed by their apparent immortality? This afternoon was spent on trying to calculate the number of giants. But the night came sooner than expected, along with dark grey clouds and colder wind. Nick got lost in the count, the wild ways of the trees disturbing any attempt at systematicity. And all the way through the night, a mighty storm roared somewhere nearby, circling around the forest, but never really coming by. Lightning pierced the sky, drawing sharp shadows from the branches and leaves. But not even a drop of rain knocked on the cabin’s roof. [D-5] Something changed with that storm. Nick was eating breakfast—bread and eggs with black coffee—when it hit him. Something definitely had changed, but the change was so subtle he could not pinpoint it. Did they seem not as red as before? But no, the color was still vibrant against the yellowish-green ground. Maybe it was the sudden silence of the air as the wind stopped? But no, it had to be something more, because the forest somehow presented even more restlessness than before. It seemed to be breathing with an effort? As if it was anxious? Nick hastened his eating, more and more concerned, but trying to act rationally. At last, he gave up, left his meal halfway through a bite and ran out into the forest. Nothing seemed amiss. Let this stupid unease be damned. There was nothing to worry about, he assured himself. Yet, he proceeded to half-walk, half-rush through the woods, quickly surveying the tress. They were all fine. The oldest one (Passing Spirit, as he called it) appeared as halved as before. But, then. He almost missed it—one of the smaller trees, right next to the wall in a natural corner of the landscape. She was relatively unnoticeable, the trunk barely one-fifth in diameter compared to the largest individuals. The presence he felt in the forest knotted here, and it was clear why. Upon

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closer observation, the tree looked different: much of its trunk had lost its color, turning a sickly shade of yellow. Oily liquid condensed on the surface, shining in the early sunlight. It must be some kind of a sickness, he concluded. The giants’ immunology was unknown, and so were the illnesses that plagued them. Certainly, he’d never heard of something like that in relation to other species. There is nothing perfectly healthy in nature. Nick knew that, obviously. Then why did a twinge of fear find its way to his gut so easily? Still, there were measures to be taken. A generous amount of water needed to be transferred from the stream to the tree. Fallen leaves. They were of a pale yellow color and so dry they sometimes turned to powder when touched. They needed to be removed in huge bags beyond the forest area, and burned. The smoke smelled sickly sweet and made Nick’s eyes water. Careful examination didn’t find any parasites, insects, or fungal infestation. Regardless Nick deployed all insecticides, fungicides, and treatments he had on hand, however limited they were. There was not much more that could be done. He forced himself to leave the tree alone and to carry on with stocktaking. After all, he had his duties as the woodsman to fulfill. But again, the night fell a bit too soon, and the worry distracted him enough so that he hadn’t made much progress in the count. At the very least, he became more acquainted with the forest— decided on some firm favorites: one of the bulkiest giants with an interesting bark pattern, almost perfectly symmetrical twins, and a nook of little baby trees that barely reached his arm. [D-4] The days between Nick’s appointment and his arrival were spent in a whirlwind of meetings and calls. The people who knew anything concrete about the giants were few and far between. There were many more officials who wanted to push for their interest, but a multitude of them only left Nick confused and unsure what exactly they wanted. “Excuse me,” one of the important heads asked at some point, “but why, exactly, are you going there? This appointment is so out of the blue.” Nick had to agree. Even he could see that his appointment was somewhat bizarre. Probably, a part of some overarching, undisclosed to him, agenda, that he had no business debating. One of those nets of relation permeating the world, inaccessible to civilians. Initially, when it was decided that the forest, at least for the time being, would be kept a secret from the public—a measure to prevent an influx of tourists, amateur botanists, and entrepreneurs—one of the local professors took charge of the site, performing the duties of a woodsman and a scientist. Then, suddenly, the professor was gone—and impossible to reach—and Nick’s appointment as a solo woodsman was underway. He couldn’t help but wonder, why? Maybe it was a once in a lifetime stroke of luck? But his third day on the site brought forth a new hypothesis—they wanted to ruin him. All the suspicions that he had suppressed as irrational overthinking bubbled to the surface; every now and then a bubble burst with an awful gut-twist. The tree hadn’t gotten any better. Quite the opposite, it got much, much worse. From root to tip, it was almost ash-white, bits of the bark crumbling into piles of powder, leaves all gone. The oily substance solidified into streaks, resembling scabs on raised skin. But the sight which swiftly pierced Nick’s chest, drawing a choked gasp from him, was much more dreadful. The illness has spread in a star-like pattern around the original tree, leaving eighteen more sick, bleeding the oily substance and losing color. Nick had to order himself not to panic. The day has just begun and it was clear what it would be spent on. The situation was urgent, but not tragic. That’s what Nick repeated to himself, as he proceeded to apply treatments to the sick giants—even his favorite twins were affected. He gathered and burned the leaves with the utmost carefulness. All afternoon, he worked tirelessly to dig a

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moat around the affected area. He filled the bottom of the moat with chemicals, hoping that such an ordeal would help to stop the spread of the disease. If it even was a disease. Blinded by sweat flowing into his eyes, tired and anxious, he would have believed dark magic to be the cause if someone suggested it. The borders of reality blurred in his weary mind. After working well into the night, Nick fell asleep, exhausted by the anxiety. Hopefully his efforts would bring the expected fruit. [D-3] Nick’s efforts brought no fruit. The disease spread, affecting now about a third of the forest, not minding the chemicals or moat whatsoever. The fallen leaves were too many to gather. All throughout the day Nick tried to observe the way in which the disease traveled. But no matter how long he lingered on the edge of the affected area, he could not catch sight of it. Yet it must have been happening somehow. By nightfall the sickness consumed over half of the population, all the while avoiding Nick’s attempts at prevention and observation. In certain places the grass did not even peak from under the coat of white ash tree remains. He was losing his damn mind. This beloved forest turned against him. The ultimate betrayal. In the evening, desperation pulled him towards the phone. To share the burden, to call all the leading tree doctors, to have someone take this responsibility. His hand clammed around the handset. Even in this haze of anxiety he was able to think rationally. There would be no transference of responsibility. He’d be charged, judged, and convicted. This could not happen in his life. His life wasn’t built to overcome obstacles, to change its course. It was the kind of life in which value comes only from perfect things, from greatness. And to have them come in with questions, chemicals, entourage, all the sounds of the world. To have them come like that to a sick forest—what blasphemy. Illness happens. Nick knew he wasn’t at fault. Yet he was guilty. He was guilty and he would pay the price. Or maybe this evil forest would pay the price. Maybe the superiors who played him as their pawn would pay the price. [D-2] The next day the haze finally overtook him. Fueled by rage, he tried to cut down the original tree. But the trunk was still enormous, and almost as hard as stone. The chainsaw only left ugly slashes on the surface; an open wound with no blood. It broke him. He sobbed long and loud, until the night dropped the veil of silence and sleep over his exhausted body, disheveled hair, and red eyes. [D-1] It a not the singing of birds that woke him—there were no such birds here—but his own impatient expectance, causing mild fever. Every part of his body felt dry with dragging time and unspent energy. There was something of finality in the air. The day was long ahead, possibilities many, strength replenished. This day the change would happen. He could feel that. And, yet. How did it happen that it was squandered on meaningless, distracted attempts? He spoke to the trees and pleaded with them. He ate something. Observed the ash under a microscope, the time pointedly ticking in his throat, almost reaching something but never quite. He tried to catch the moment of infection, again, to no avail. And then, the darkness had finally set, and he could no longer pretend that there was still time. He’d known that, and, yet, he found a thousand ways to delay it on the clock. The strings of control—this tiresome red-colored helium balloon, always struggling to wiggle

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free—had finally slipped from his cold, stiff fingers. And when it disappeared beyond the horizon, Nick realized that he’d never really been in charge. He’d never been guilty. He was just here, and this thing has just happened here. It was a mystery indeed. Why did the trees bring him here to have him watch them die? Maybe they wanted to be remembered? Maybe they wanted revenge on humans? The reason did not matter at the moment. Nick stumbled through the forest until he reached the last tree unaffected by the disease—the oldest one. Half-dead and half-alive. Passing Spirit, he once called it. How fitting. And as he finally lay down, the ground burning under his outstretched palms, surrounded by a forest of dying, giant trees, and as he looked up to the abyss of the sky, the first drops of storm rain fell down. And then there was lightning that seemed to split the world in two. And it was so.

Teresa Bakalarska A human, crisp, professional whiner. Writes everything from poetry through prose to god-awful rap lyrics. Thinks that Buffy The Vampire Slayer is the greatest achievement of humanity.

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The Crimson Lake Agata Podbielkowska

When the Sun starts to hide behind the horizon, and then when it comes back again—that’s when you see the color of the lake. The night came. The Moon said hello to the stars. And then it looked at its reflection in the lake. Oh, how dark it was at midnight. The trees surrounding the lake were humming to the melody played by the wind. Oh, how silent it was at midnight. And I was somewhere in the middle of it all Imagine how I look Imagine the whole scene And dive within I remember entering the staircase and walking down the corridor when the light went out. It would happen quite often—you do not expect much from the old Victorian house in London. I opened my huge bag and for the next 10 minutes tried to find a candle and matches—candles were only one of the many strange things I would carry in my bag. Finally, after several minutes of struggle, I found what I needed, lighted the candle up, and started climbing the high, spiral stairs. I got to the door of my flat; the hard times were about to come, as now I had to find my keys. Another 10 or 15 minutes passed. Finally, I managed to find them and entered my flat. I lighted up all the candles I owned, as well as a couple of my incense sticks—they smelled of roses. I sat down on the pillow that was lying on the floor, helping myself with a glass of red wine before. There was one thing missing—a very important thing. The music. I stood up, and took a record from the new group called King Crimson—they had just released their debut album, In the Court of the Crimson King. Their music was something out of this world—it had elements of rock, psychedelic, and classical music. The lyrics were beautiful poetry. I put the record on and lighted a cigarette. Then, I took my notebook, and, even though the light from the candles was weak, I took a pen and decided to write something. Smoking a cigarette, drinking wine, and listening to the music of King Crimson completed the task. I was absolutely amazed by the voice of King Crimson’s vocalist—Greg Lake. It must be one of the most beautiful voices ever possessed by a human being. And, then, I came up with an idea. I scribbled down a few lines, and after a few minutes I had a complete poem. I combined the name of the group with the name of its vocalist and thus the title “The Crimson Lake” was born. The Crimson Lake Under the Crimson Moon Sits the Crimson Moonchild Watching her Reflection In the waters Wondering what is real And what is fake Down the Crimson Lake 24

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I also put the title of one of the tracks from the album in my poem, Moonchild. I looked at what I wrote for a while. Then, I put my notebook aside, extinguished my cigarette, drank the rest of the wine I had in my glass, lied down, and closed my eyes. The music caressed my ears. I was no longer in London. The forest was very dense and dark, but my eyes did get used to the darkness very quickly. Somehow, I knew which direction I should go. I just followed the way the wind was blowing. For me night was day, day was night. Step by step, it was getting colder and colder. I didn’t mind. I just rumbled on. The forest began to grow thin. There was something—something strange, enigmatic, and magical. And I had to find out what it was. And I saw it: the Moon’s reflection in the surface of the lake. The Moon had company: shining stars. I suddenly felt the eager need to join them, so I stood on the shore, and then decided to enter the water. After a few steps, I stopped and looked at my own reflection in the water; yes, there I was. Strangely enough, I could see all the details of my face, despite the complete and utter darkness I was surrounded by. Was it the Moon and the stars that helped me see myself? Or was it just because I was emanating with almost the same darkness as this night brought. I stopped looking at my reflection. I just couldn’t stand it; therefore, I decided to let the water swallow me. And, when I dived into the depths of the lake and turned my face to the sky, the spectacle began. The Sun wanted to return to this side of planet Earth and in order to do that it had to chase the Moon and the stars away. The lake changed its color. I was not floating in the darkness anymore. I was floating in the redness. No. It was not redness exactly. The Sun was slowly taking control, and it turned the lake’s colors from black to crimson. Yes. It was the Crimson Lake. I no longer knew where I was. And, then, I felt the water begin to make its way into my lungs. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I needed the air. I needed it so badly. I was shaking. I was crying. I wanted to get out of there; I wanted to live. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I had no idea… then I heard the words…“Confusion, will be my epitaph”…I was confused, but was I going to die? I could still smell the scent of roses.

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Zeah, Zeah! I heard the voice. Someone was calling me. Should I answer? But how? Zeah! I heard the voice calling again. I felt the touch and the warmth. This creature just took me in its arms and whispered my name once again. I was floating. Hold me, hold me, I don’t want to drown! I was still floating, but no longer was I in the water; I was in the air. I looked at the lake. Oh, how beautiful it was! The Sun was rising and it painted the lake with the crimson color. I could smell the scent of roses growing stronger. One last time… Zeah! I opened my eyes, and saw another pair of them. For a moment they seemed to be crimson as well, but then they turned blue. The lake and the trees disappeared. It was neither the Moon, nor the stars nor the Sun looking at me. It was Ethan. He had fear painted on his beautiful face, but soon it gave way to a huge smile. Where were you? I looked at the gramophone. The album ended. There was a complete silence in the room. Far away from here. He held me closer. Without me? I had no idea what to answer so I just fixed my eyes on his. Then he told me he had bought tickets to see King Crimson in the Marquee Club. So we went. I remember standing in the front row with Ethan. When the band started playing, I turned to him. If you want to join me this time, just close your eyes. He did. Once more I found myself walking through the dark forest. Once again I saw the lake. Once again the Moon said hello to the stars. Once again it looked at its reflection in the lake. Once again the Sun started to chase the Moon away. And once again I decided to dive into the surface. And the lake once again turned from black to crimson. But this time I did not start to drown. This time the water kept me untouched. This time, I felt strong arms wrapped around me, holding me gently. Ethan was with me. He enjoyed the feeling, just like I did. He accompanied me on this journey. We came to the shore and looked at the lake. How beautiful it was to stand there with a loved one, looking at and feeling the magic of the Crimson Lake. The music stopped. We suddenly returned to the sweaty Marquee Club. Greg Lake thanked the audience. And the band left. I could swear that just before Greg left the stage he looked at me, and smiled. As if he knew. It was the year 1969. Let the music take control. Close your eyes. And see what happens. Mind your loved ones. They may be there. To help you. In case you fall too deep. And get lost. Travel in time. To the past. To the future. Feel the present moment.

Agata Podbielkowska She is like a vampire—she prefers to live at night. Surrounded by candles, with psychedelic music filling the space, she sits, shrouded in the smoke of the incense. She sits and writes whatever just comes to her mind. And boy, what strange stories they are…

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POETRY

Inexistence Agata Podbielkowska

Bend down that note Then sing to me About the world That is beautiful About the absence of sorrow About all things That do not exist

Agata Podbielkowska She is like a vampireâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;she prefers to live at night. Surrounded by candles, with psychedelic music filling the space, she sits, shrouded in the smoke of the incense. She sits and writes whatever just comes to her mind. And boy, what strange stories they areâ&#x20AC;Ś

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Dear Human Being Agata Podbielkowska

Why are you So much separated From what is beautiful From what is real Why don’t you know What does it mean To feel Why are you so Self-concentrated Why don’t you go And taste the life Why are you so stuck within The shiny Slave-holding Screen Why are you So much separated From what is beautiful From what is real Why don’t you know What does it mean To feel Why are you so Self-concentrated Why don’t you go And taste the life Why are you so stuck within The shiny Slave-holding Screen

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The Warning Agata Podbielkowska

Mischievous smile On your face It makes me shiver What are you laughing at? Is this a warning? Is this a threat? “Watch out, dear child” you say “Look at yourself” Look at what’ve done” “Look at what you continue To do “Look at what is becoming of thee Sooner or later You will become the same thing That has become of me”

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The Fling Karolina Jakubiak

Profound destruction In the love That was lost; The innocent beginnings And the furious ends. Painting pastel images Of the lazy summer days â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Hot in the August sun and Watering down with the cold waves of an early September

Karolina Jakubiak Always sleepy, always hungry, and always creative coffee addict.

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The Game Karolina Jakubiak

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to play anymore But when you hide All I can do is seek. You make it impossible for me. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m done. I give up. You will never stop hiding, will you? Even while standing Right before me

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Desire

Karolina Jakubiak

I stood there alone Motionless Holding my breath The area was shrouded with gloom And the only hearable sound Was the sound of the clockâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pendulum

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Drunken Afternoons of Shadow Lia Argiri

We writhe at the sound of you we swear internally “Be gone!”We still welcome you after all. You alleviate these darkest wants you smudge every bit of our screaming souls, we welcome you after all. We await for you, you hear none of our pleas, Yet we plead and we plead and we plead You, Prison of the Temporarily Freed. Drunken afternoons of shadow, I wish you’d stuff the loophole of the eternal scale, I wish you’d listen- yes I know, I know I knew of your jail. We- the cursed of the nightfall, the weak ones who’re always beyond retrievals. It must be guilt; guilt must be the purest of evils.

Lia Argiri Anything fantasy or music-related will do. Belongs to that group of people who will probably never get over Harry Potter. Avoidance and stressing out is the key to her being (not recommended).

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Cotton Words Lia Argiri

“You expect too much of this flowery urn.” With my pointing finger I jab a soft spot in between my ribs. “Lesson number one: do not expect. You will be blinded by the half-truths and the punctuation. Lesson number two: move with your eyes closed.” I pinch the bridge of my nose for a little bit too long. “Actually, half-truths are vulnerable, better make it a straight lie and learn to smile after. But it is all in the name of feelings, it is justifiably the only way to exist. The clock’s ticking granted me with abilities you will not imagine. I can really smile right after I do not even need a ‘tick’ Do not frown at me, see, that is the inevitable outcome of not following my teachings. There, if you want, do not listen, I did not even want to be heard. If you want, be alive, collect wrinkles in the name of stories. You may be one of the strong ones who do not scream when they see. You may belong to those who bleed for something.” You then wonder where did I belong to. “I did not scream. I did not bleed either. I just am .” I smile. I don’t mean to be that way. Then I yell“But wait,” You stare at me bitterly, I stuff cotton in my mouth. “I do want you to bleed.” But you cannot hear these words. If you would have listened, you would not see them either.

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ARTICLES

The Revisionist Epoch in Comics Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya

In the USA, comics have been associated merely with the physical action-based utopia and happy-ending stories of superheroes such as Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, and numerous other Marvel and DC Comics superheroes. However, the 1980s introduced revolutionary works by Frank Miller, Alan Moore, and Dave Gibbons, who transformed the aforementioned traditions of comic books or graphic novels. With legendary works such as Watchmen and Batman: Year One, the course of comic-creation gained a whole new route, which subsequently witnessed non-pop-culture works like Brian Wood’s Channel Zero. Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, and Captain America have achieved such major success in comics that not only did they help comics become a part of popular culture, but they also later began to be adapted by other branches of media. However, from 1939 up until 1980, the stories maintained their certain aspects and lines that kept the product selling. Therefore, the fictional creativity, freedom, and artistic perspective were hindered by the marketing ideology. Comic book fans in the United States became somewhat bored with happy-ending stories of indestructible and utopian superheroes. Then came the Watchmen. Bob Kane’s Batman was actually the closest to a realistic anti-superhero of the 1980s in terms of character with his vigilante concept. Alan Moore—British author and a prominent observer of the United States, its literary atmosphere, and status quo—along with Dave Gibbons crafted arguably one of the two greatest vigilante graphic novels of all times. Watchmen is by all means a revolutionary and novel comic book. Ironically, Alan Moore expressed his disappointment after some time of Watchmen’s publication, when he realized that most of the readers actually sympathized with one of the main characters, Rorschach, who is as politically incorrect as possible; he’s a racist, sexist, sadist, self-hating maniac 38

that tries to punish people who are guilty according to his standards. What Moore wished instead was that the readers would find role models in the futuristic genius Ozymandias or Adrian Veidt who saved the world from nuclear war (albeit at the expense of a couple of million New Yorkers’ lives) by releasing a gigantic lab-created monster to the city. This dual conflict of embracing the “wrong” character is merely one aspect of the graphic novel that altered the disrupted customary approach to the plot. Another groundbreaking characteristic that catches the attention in Watchmen—which is also one of the most striking features of Frank Miller’s Batman in Batman: Year One—is the concept of the “imperfect superhero.” Virtually none of the characters in Watchmen fit the conventional framing of a superhero that would be an invincible, politically correct, and charismatic problem-solver. Despite Nite Owl’s self-crafted cool-looking aero-shipthingy called “Archimedes” that also matches his owl outfit (which has a fully white Antarctica edition), he is a considerably insecure and relatively pigeon-hearted character. As a result, his unconventional defects disrupt the reader’s high expectation of the superhero. The same goes for Dr. Manhattan. His omniscient abilities gained after the accident in the laboratory impress the reader even upon first impression. However, he shockingly distances himself from the people in virtually every problem that occurs, and he only uses his splendid powers in extreme and urgent situations.

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Similarly to Watchmen, Batman: Year One, constitutes another “game-changer” in the 1980s, all thanks to Frank Miller’s revisionist touch to Batman. Miller introduced the superhero by taking the reader back to Bruce Wayne’s young ages and showing how he became Batman. Most interestingly, the comic book opens up with the picture of young Bruce Wayne sitting on the ground between the lifeless bodies of his parents, who lost their lives after the shooting at the cinema exit. At the very beginning of the graphic novel, Miller deprives Batman of his invulnerable superhero status through exposing a moment when he is as sensitive and weak as a normal person. In fact, in the rest of the comic book, Miller presents a miscellany of scenes where Batman is reduced to a level that Mark Fisher describes as “Capitalist Realism.” According to Fisher, Batman as a superhero is not a flawless savior, but the reader embraces him since he is the lesser evil. Contrary to the previous examples, Batman in Batman: Year One, takes eight actions (three of which end badly), experiences severe flashbacks to his parents’ murder, and gets shot four times, trapped by the police twice, and stabbed and beaten over the head once. Moreover, both Batman: Year One and Watchmen mirror social milieu at that time, similarly to numerous other comics of that period. Watchmen’s characters masterfully reflect the concept of liberal individualism in the American society. Each member of Watchmen follows their own track and ideology, thus forming a collective movement. Ozymandias’ utopia, Rorschach’s judiciary system, and Nite Owl’s day and night dreaming of adventure with cool, advanced gear are some of the instances. Batman: Year One, on the other hand, recalls a major problem of the United States of America, namely police corruption. The rather realistic depiction of Batman, which allows him to fit in the environment where the real dirty deals take place, helps the overall nature of the plot to expose police corruption in the city. This revelation, however, is predominantly done through Lieutenant Jim

Gordon, rather than Batman. From the moment he gets appointed to Gotham City, Jim Gordon experiences corruption, firsthand; the officers make profit on the drug dealers by protecting their sales, blackmailing or bullying other officers—Gordon included—to protect their status, or use excessive force in operations. To conclude, both Watchmen and Batman: Year One are extraordinarily revolutionary works of comics—the genre which has been most often misinterpreted or underestimated as a literary branch. By discovering a deeper context and literary richness in these two works, one can appreciate and comprehend comics as a genre more profoundly.

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Sources Anderson, Ho Che. "80-'89: Comics' Greatest Decade," ImageTexT Interdisciplinary Comics Studies 9, No. 2. http://imagetext.english.ufl.edu/archives/v9_2/anderson/. Allen, Rachel J. “From Comic Book to Graphic Novel,” July 27, 2006. https://www. cbsnews.com/news/from-comic-book-to-graphic-novel/. Bacon, Tom. "Ten Times Superheroes Did Politics!," Geeks Media. https://geeks.media/ ten-times-superheroes-did-politics. Bane of Kings. "Batman: Year One by Frank Miller - Comic Review," The Founding Fields, May 16, 2012. http://thefoundingfields.com/2012/05/batman-year-frank-millercomic-review-bane-kings/. Davis, Blair. “Beyond Watchmen,” Cinema Journal, vol. 56, no. 2, 2017, pp. 114–19. Crossref, doi:10.1353/cj.2017.0005. Fisher, Mark. “Gothic Oedipus: Subjectivity and Capitalism in Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins,” ImageText: Interdisciplinary Comics Studies, vol. 2, no. 2, 2006, p. 7. Goldstein, Hilary. “Batman: Year One Review,” IGN, 17 June 2005, https://www.ign. com/articles/2005/06/17/batman-year-one-review. Hoberek, Andrew. “After Watchmen,” Considering Watchmen: Poetics, Property, Politics, Rutgers University Press, 2017, pp. 159–83. Hughes, Jamie A. “‘Who Watches the Watchmen?’: Ideology and ‘Real World’ Superheroes,” The Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 39, no. 4, Aug. 2006, pp. 546–57. Crossref, doi:10.1111/j.1540-5931.2006.00278.x. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art, Harper Perennial, 1993. Miller, Frank, and David Mazzucchelli. Batman: Year One. Deluxe ed. edition, DC Comics, 2007. Moore, Alan. Watchmen. DC Comics, 2008. Prince, Michael J. “Alan Moore’s America: The Liberal Individual and American Identities in Watchmen: Alan Moore’s America.” The Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 44, no. 4, Aug. 2011, pp. 815–30. Crossref, doi:10.1111/j.1540-5931.2011.00864.x. Rikdad. “Retro Review: Batman: Year One.” Rikdad’s Comic Thoughts, 23 Mar. 2015, http://rikdad.blogspot.com/2015/03/retro-review-batman-year-one.html. Vanderbeke, Marie, and Dirk Vanderbeke. “Graphic Dystopia: Watchmen and V for Vendetta.” Dystopia, Science Fiction, Post-Apocalypse: Classics, New Tendencies, Model Interpretations., Trier, pp. 201-220. Fisher, Mark. “Gothic Oedipus: Subjectivity and Capitalism in Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins.” ImageTexT: Interdisciplinary Comics Studies 2, Vol.2, 2006. http://imagetext.english.ufl.edu/archives/v2_2/fisher/index.shtml. Goldstein, Hilary. “Batman: Year One Review.” IGN (blog), June 17, 2005. https://www. ign.com/articles/2005/06/17/batman-year-one-review. Matchett, Glenn. “Frank Miller’s Batman: Year One- Creating a Legend.” ComicsVerse, September 4, 2015. https://comicsverse.com/frank-millers-batman-part-one-year-oneor-how-legends-are-made/. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: Harper Perennial, 1994. Rikdad. "Retro Review: Batman: Year One." Rikdad's Comic Thoughts, March 23, 2015. http://rikdad.blogspot.com/2015/03/retro-review-batman-year-one.html.

Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

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In Every Generation… Teresa Bakalarska

… there is a chosen one. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer. Those straight-out-of-a-cringy-fantasy-book lines open one of the most iconic ’90s TV shows under the straight-out-of-the-definitely-rejected-ideas-pile titled Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Buffy or BtVS for short, the WB drama ran for seven seasons between 1997 and 2003, turning vampires (and the show runner, Joss Whedon) into objects of worship, and teenage girls into unexpected heroines. For years, I’ve struggled to answer when asked why I love Buffy so much. What can be so great in a questionable-special-effects show about Buffy Summers, a teenager-turned-vampire-slayer, and her underwhelming assembly of high school losers set in a boring valley town named Sunnydale? There are a multitude of answers, including but not limited to: campy humor, female empowerment, genius storytelling scheme, or Sarah Michelle Gellar’s brilliant acting. But maybe it’s just because it is simply—Buffy? It was the hot summer of 2013, over a decade after the final episode aired, and much like Buffy, I was 16 years old and slightly cringe. Not sure how I ended up watching the first episode; most probably like every great discovery it was a matter of pure coincidence. A lucky turn of events, of course. Call me overdramatic (I will be the first one to do so), but it changed me forever. Raised in a very catholic family, slightly snobbish me watched the first season with sizable dread—and not only because it featured the Big Evil, vampires jumping out from corners, and (as the opening promised) demons and the forces of darkness. In a truly blasphemous way, the show mixed death, pentagons, and dark psychological themes with outrageously unapologetic quirky humor, leaving me and its early critics noticeably disturbed. Admittedly, Buffy’s true appeal has never lain in its thriller aspects. After a season, horror-style jump scares earned only a shrug—both from the

audience and Buffy. It was the evil’s hunger for power and real-life terrors of misogyny, intolerance, and grief that really made your skin crawl. And it made you come back for the next episode and the next season. Unnervingly accurate, the show casually dealt with themes of authoritarianism, small town prejudice, family problems, finances, and sex, all the while producing and fighting new monsters and delivering brilliant one-liners. To even attempt to list all the best moment, jokes, or episodes is a daunting task. After all, the show spanned 144 episodes (not counting the spin-off), accompanied by the enormous legacy of fan-made content, critique, and— bagatelle—an entire discipline named Buffy Studies (under the umbrella Whedon Studies). A lot of those studies are connected with Girl Power and third-wave feminism.

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A bulk of them deals with the vibrant, packed-with-neologisms language of the show, which influenced much of its audience’s lingo. A lot of it was simply revolutionary. One of the most famous examples is the use of the term “google” as a verb all the way back in 2002—a novelty at the time. It is obvious, however, that neither the technical brilliancy, nor the linguistics, nor even the political remarks were responsible for the show’s huge impact on an entire generation and widely defined pop-culture. Perhaps the biggest virtue of Buffy was that it appealed directly to that generation. Because, although the show never took itself seriously (with self-awareness totally off the charts), it did take one group seriously that desperately needed that treatment—its young audience. In a world where teenagers (and especially teenage girls) are rarely treated as complex individuals and equals, the show took an effort to dive deeper into their world, try to understand it and speak its language. It knew that to empower girls it’s not enough to wave a flag with a “Girls Rock” slogan, show someone take revenge on a guy, or have a heroine in a costume kick some villains. Instead, it showed strong but flawed girls and women (and guys) struggling with obstacles, failures, and themselves. It showed that it’s normal to suffer—because of a close one’s death, heartbreak, or school problems. It showed main characters in toxic relationships, and struggling to leave them, not sugar coating anything. It had them learn kindness, tolerance, and forgiveness, often the hard way. Underneath the cheap special effects the show attempted authenticity in emotions, even if it unavoidably missed this target by miles. For example in a famously awful episode titled “Beer Bad,” which was just…bad, or in “Doublemeat Palace” (my personal favorite, but not critically acclaimed, to say the least)—the overall balance came out definitively in green. A loyal, young audience and the fact that the show has survived the test of time have confirmed it: the universality of experience is relevant even decades later. Today’s critique will find many flaws within Buffy, and

it will be right to do so. Certain storylines deserved to be turned into stone and buried under a big mountain, and some characters desperately needed closure they never got. From the perspective of 2019, one of the most outstanding characteristics of Buffy is its lack of ethnic and racial diversity. Its main cast was entirely Caucasian and most of the POC cameos turned out painfully stereotyped. Whereas the show was pushing and pioneering gay character and relationship visibility on the small screen, its treatment of homosexual characters left a lot of room for improvement. This might be the reason why Buffy is following one of its most beloved story arcs—redemption. In 2018, the news of a new, more diverse, reboot came out, although admittedly, the works were said to be in the very, very early stages. As one would expect, opinions are divided; some fear that Buffy will suffer the not-as-good fate of many reboots, others claim that there is no need for a diverse version of Buffy, but rather that an original or spin-off series with diverse characters would be more appropriate. However, whatever comes out of this project, I am willing to give the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully, Buffy 2.0 will be acclaimed by the new generation as its own greatest achievement of humanity—just as 1997’s Buffy has been, and always will be, to me.

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The Right Choice Valeria Stupnikova

Would you tell a friend you’ve seen their partner cheating on them? Would you kill and then eat a cat for $30,000? Would you become friends with a person who’s been sitting in prison for murder? Most people would find these questions shocking, if not provocative. They are quite sophisticated as there are no obvious answers. For some, people killing and eating a cat for money would be immoral, but, at the same time, they would find befriending an ex-prisoner okay. So, how do people define what is acceptable for them and what is not? It depends on their moral values. If you look at the definitions of morality given on the Internet, most of them sound like this: “Conformity to the rules of right conduct; moral or virtuous conduct.” (Dictionary.com); “Conformity to ideals of right human conduct.” (Merriam-Webster dictionary); “Principles concerning the distinction between right and wrong or good and bad behaviour” (Oxford dictionary). Apparently, morality is about good and bad actions, but what exactly does that mean? How can we distinguish good from bad? In this article, I will try to answer these questions using three approaches from the perspective of moral philosophy, and illustrate how these approaches work in the examples I’ve mentioned above. The three approaches are virtue ethics, consequentialism, and deontological approach. Virtue ethics points out virtue as the most important character trait. According to Aristotle, a right action is deemed to be right as it is done by a virtuous person; a virtuous person is a person who exercises virtue; and, by doing virtuous actions, this person is said to be in a good, flourishing state which is natural. A virtuous person knows how and when to act accordingly. In the situation with cheating, a virtue ethicist would tell the truth because lying is bad. Seemingly, he wouldn’t kill and then eat a cat for money, as killing is bad as well. Also, it is most probable that a virtue ethicist would become friends with an ex-prisoner because he is a kind person. Consequentialism is an approach that focuses on the results of actions. According to Bentham, a good action

is an action that makes the world better. Conversely, if an action makes the world worse, it is thought to be bad. The central idea is to act in such a way as to maximize positive consequences. A Consequentialist would think about the possible results in case he tells his friend the truth. If the truth makes his friend happier, he will tell them. The same goes for the example of killing a cat and friendship with an ex-prisoner. Everything depends on the consequences, and in the case of good consequences the answer to all three questions would be affirmative. The Deontological approach is based on the idea that actions are right or wrong in themselves, regardless of their results. Kant believed that morality is grounded on reason. Actions should be made as if they are universal law, i.e. act in a way that you want your action to become a general law used by everyone in the same situation. People should know whether the action is right or wrong, as they are reasonable. Thus, if the action is right it should be done and vice versa. A deontologist would tell the truth to his friend because it’s a debt of friendship. He also wouldn’t kill and eat a cat because killing is bad and cruel. Similarly with the ex-prisoner example, a deontologist wouldn’t become friends with him as he did bad things. Having been familiarized with different moral approaches, it becomes more understandable why we behave in this or that manner. Depending on our personality, beliefs, and the situations we are faced with, we tend to act in particular ways. Notably, there’s no one who acts according to one approach, as our values tend to change from time to time. Nevertheless, morality is a broad concept and a disputable part of everyday life.

Valeria Stupnikova Eats chocolate whenever she wants and never gains weight.

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Contributors Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

Karolina Jakubiak Always sleepy, always hungry, and always creative coffee addict.

Mateusz Boczkiewicz “Hey, I’m Batman.”

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Anita Majewska Addicted to basketball, drawing, and Netflix. I think with images. If I look depressed, I probably just ran out of hummus.

Joanna Marchewka Regular, non-artistic soul but in love with digital and traditional art, basically looking for opportunities to take up new challenges. Coffee and tea lover so nothing surprising so far, consequential in tasks where involved. Definitely gonna be someone in the future—whether millionaire or fast-food worker. Has a variety of extraordinary interests such as Netflix because no one has ever pointed that out. Yep. Hi.

Natalia Ogórek Singing is her biggest passion, but she does not connect her future with it. Lover of TV series and Marvel. 70% funny, 50% weird, 100% organized.

Paweł Pańczyk Graphic designer. Just be yourself!

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Marta Rapacka 3rd year BA student. Apart from being utterly in love with TV series, she loves spending her free time discovering mysteries of Adobe Photoshop. Coerced into accepting the new goal of her existence, namely being The Very First Caricaturist of The Wasp—an honorable title she proudly bears and exploits (see: above and below).

Paulina Staniszewska Petite, tattooed social media assasin with an enormous cake addiction. Loves musical theatre, drag queens, silly TV shows and making her friends laugh, but she still hasn't figured out how to make money out of all four.

Valeria Stupnikova Eats chocolate whenever she wants and never gains weight.

Basia Szukała Travel girl who always keeps a weather eye on the horizon. In love with chocolate and pineapple. Play her Hans Zimmer or reggaeton. Do not disturb while she is taking photos and you will get lots of hearts.

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2019

Tomasz SzymoĹ&#x201E;ski Having read an issue of the Amazing Spider-Man written by J. Michael Straczynski at the age of 13, he wanted to create his own stories, protagonists, and worlds. He is a translator and copywriter by day and a sci-fi reading, pizza pie eating, (pop) culture fanatic by night. One of his greatest dreams (nay, goals) is to be read. More at transncreation.wordpress.com.

Kamila Maria WyszyĹ&#x201E;ska Studies Graphic Arts at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. American Studies is her second faculty. Loves to travel. Wants to live and create across the world.

The WASP | Volume II | Spring 2019