LEO, March 27, 2024

Louisville’s favorite literary journal is back

EDITORIAL

Editor in Chief - Erica Rucker

Digital Media Editor

Sydney Catinna

Culture Writer - Aria Baci

CREATIVE SERVICES

Creative Director

Haimanti Germain

Art Director - Evan Sult

Graphic Designer - Aspen Smit

BUSINESS MANAGER

Elizabeth Knapp

DIRECTOR OF SALES

Marsha Blacker

CONTRIBUTORS

Jeff Polk, Dan Savage, Rob Brezsny, and the winners of Literary LEO

Chief Executive Officer

Chris Keating

Vice President of Digital Services

Stacy Volhein

Digital Operations Coordinator

Elizabeth Knapp Director of Operations

Emily Fear

Chief Financial Officer

Guillermo Rodriguez

KYLE RITTENHOUSE AT WKU: A LESSON IN AMERICA’S OBSESSION WITH MEDIOCRITY

Rittenhouse is being hosted by conservative group TurningPoint USA

BY ERICA RUCKER

Erica Rucker is LEO Weekly’s editor-in-chief. In addition to her work at LEO, she is a haphazard writer, photographer, tarot card reader, and fair-to-middling purveyor of motherhood. Her earliest memories are of telling stories to her family and promising that the next would be shorter than the first. They never were.

It is bad enough that we are subjected to “conservatives” making hate into legislation in our government systems but now their spawn are inviting the very detritus of humanity to speak at universities to our children. Kyle Rittenhouse is scheduled to speak at Western Kentucky University on Wednesday, March 27, at 7 p.m. The “Rittenhouse Recap” is supposed to cover the Second Amendment (this played-out conservative dirge) and the “lies” of the Black Lives Matter Movement — because there is no one more qualified to speak about a Black life than a murdering, uneducated mouth breathIt is bad enough that we are subjected to “conservatives” making hate into legislation in our government systems but now their spawn are inviting the very detritus of humanity to speak at universities to our children. Kyle Rittenhouse is scheduled to speak at Western Kentucky University on Wednesday, March 27, at 7 p.m. The “Rittenhouse Recap” is supposed to cover the Second Amendment (this played-out conservative dirge) and the “lies” of the Black Lives Matter Movement — because there is no one more qualified to speak about a Black life than a murdering, uneducated mouth breather who has never lived as a Black person. But, hear me out, let him speak.

In case you don’t remember who Kyle Rittenhouse is, and my sarcasm above wasn’t enough to trigger the memory, let me refresh it for you. Kyle Rittenhouse was 17 when he fired an AR-15 during a protest in Kenosha, Wisconsin killing two people and injuring another. He claimed self-defense because one of the men he murdered grabbed the barrel of his gun, likely afraid to be shot or to prevent others from being harmed by Rittenhouse who ran “Rambo” style into a crowd of protesters. Another of Rittenhouse’s victims swung a skateboard… yes, a skateboard at Rittenhouse and tried to grab the gun probably for a very similar reason. The third man, who was wounded by Rittenhouse, was the only person who approached him with a weapon intending to disarm him… or the good guy with a gun, an activist and paramedic, who wanted to stop Rittenhouse from shooting anyone else. Yanno, all wild speculations because two men are dead who can’t tell their stories and the third was wounded and wants to change his name because of conservative harassment. The wild part of this whole debacle is that Rittenhouse was acquitted because no one waited until he killed someone first when they saw the assault rifle.

Rittenhouse is named in at least two civil lawsuits related to this event.

Back to the issue at hand, Rittenhouse has become the poster boy for conservatives’ circle jerk over the Second Amendment and they’ve put the proverbial lipstick on a pig and paraded this monkey all over creation… coming soon to our own backyard.

All gibes aside, Kyle Rittenhouse should not be celebrated for coming to speak at a university. He’s not really qualified to speak on either of these topics with any authority other than being the subject of a murder trial.

Should he be allowed to speak?

As a supporter of letting people take their lumps in public, I am not opposed but it shouldn’t be tied to some conservative circus like TurningPoint USA that lets Rittenhouse be sequestered and salivated over only amongst his bible-beating, flag-waving peers. He should have to take the stage for all students to have access and for all students to have the chance to debate and engage with his rhetoric without having to share their email addresses with this group. With that said, tickets are free, here: events2022.tpusa.com/events/the-rittenhouse-recap-western-kentucky-university , so all who are willing or interested should jump right in. That TPUSA is building their email list from this is sickening.

A university is a place where one goes to be educated and, to be fair, this is a perfect chance to be educated in how America props up violence and white mediocrity — Rittenhouse is a Lakes Community High School dropout.

At the time of the shooting and subsequent trial, Rittenhouse was a 18-year-old, doughy hothead who got lucky on a technicality. He’s certainly no marvel in this nation. He’s just another one in this nation’s long history of producing and celebrating the worst people. So should students be protected from him? No. Should he be on a stage? Not really, but here we are. So let him come, put him on a public platform for all of the kids (and adults) at Western.

WKU is attempting to wash their hands of any direct responsibility. In their statement issued March 14, the university said, “Since this event is not sponsored by WKU, we do not have any additional details to share. You are encouraged to contact the event’s organizers with any questions. While WKU’s commitment to free speech includes allowing groups to invite guests to campus, that does not mean that the university supports, endorses or agrees with the views of those individuals.”

Even if WKU is not sponsoring the event, this event is happening at a public university, it has public implications and the university can’t sit this one out. They do bear some responsibility and if anyone is injured or hurt during the protests that are planned, they will have to take some heat and probably some insurance adjustment.

Ultimately, Kyle Rittenhouse is another tool for conservatives to prop up during the demise of America democracy and the sell-off of our safety in their quest to take the United States back to a pasty, fictional past where Ozzie and Harriet represented the perfect American life — a life based on the fear of anything different. Kyle Rittenhouse just represents another person whose fear made him willing to kill to keep folks inside the lines of what conservatives imagine America to be.

There are multiple calls to stop the show but I propose we let the show go on and meet it face to face. A wise man I met in a bar once said to me, “the only way out is through,” and he’s been right so many times. The only way we get out of this conservative nightmare is to plow our way right through the bullshit and meet it head on.

Literary LEO 2024

By K G

Louisville’s favorite literary journal is back

Literary LEO is here again.This year, our entries seemed to really focus on what makes us human.

The categories are Poems, Short Fiction, and Photography, both Black & White and Color. Cartoons had a particularly weak year, only two entries, and there were no cartoons we could choose as winners.

The stories span a wide range of experiences, settings, and tone, but they all share something that we’re all looking for: a way to connect to ourselves and each other. We

look for meaning, feeling, and understanding in so many places, and one of the ways literature helps us is by putting that experience into words, or images, and giving our humanity form.

The contributors in this year’s Literary LEO have beautifully captured the air of humanness and we are proud to share this with our readers.

For next year, Louisville has an amazing number of cartoon, webtoon, and comics creators that we’d love to see in this category. We want more of you next year.

Erica Rucker, Editor

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION

Bug Collectors

By Anna Liao

The weather is warm, and there are butterflies to catch and to dry and to pin to Styrofoam boards when Nora learns to wink at me. I am eleven. I am lying in the dirt under the porch next to her pulling dried cicada shells from the wood. She tugs my shirt sleeve, I look over, and she whispers, “We’re bug collectors,” with a bad slow wink and a light giggle. By the time of our parents’ divorce, we have jars and jars of cicada shells, and we are told we cannot take them with us when we move.

Over a couple months, we box our belongings up from our two separate rooms and unbox them in one. Bunk beds are built to save space, but we often sleep together on the bottom one anyway. I’m not sure what happens to our jars. I’m not sure what happens to a good many of our things— maybe lost in the move, maybe donated or thrown out without our knowing.

And then there are many items of ours we willingly discard—things that are removed from rooms in our old house, “the big house,” and that don’t have equivalent spaces in the new houses, which always have fewer, smaller rooms. Discarding the items feels easier than trying to make them fit into what our mother continues to refer to as “this new life.”

This move is the first in a long string of moves, and then after a year or so of fighting, court dates, and family counseling, we begin spending two nights and three days of the week at our father’s apartment. Our boxes of things get smaller each time we are made to relocate, but we keep a few items in one bag at all times just in case. Nora’s emergency items are her stuffed rabbit, Binny, a set of marbles, a few picture books she changes out often, and her rain boots. We also keep our walkie-talkies with us, but we never use them because we are never apart. I keep a tube of bright-red lipstick my grandmother gives me for Christmas, which I never use but that I think is so beautiful and so grown-up to have, a set of colored pencils, a notebook, and Twister, which we play often, and a few Nancy Drew novels. I discard my box of CDs under the promise of receiving my father’s old MP3 player, and Nora loses all except three of her Barbie dolls.

We lose things and begin to pick up words that had meant nothing to us before: extramarital, subpoena, alimony, and at risk, a term the guidance counselor stresses often in the one thirty-minute session the school requires our parents to attend.

In many ways our lives are bigger, perhaps doubled. We have toothbrushes and pajama sets at each house, and our father buys us a new copy of Twister so we don’t have to lug it back and forth. We have Christmas dinner twice, two dollhouses, two PlayStations and more time than ever to use them, and a small allowance from each parent.

But we mostly don’t think of our life as doubled; we think of it as halved—not sliced

Hometown Haunts

between each parent but between the years before the break in the big house with Mom and Dad and all the years since.

I can take you through the first half now— up the steep driveway, past the always perfect rose beds—our father’s obsession and our mother’s toil—and in through the door with the stained-glass panel our uncle designed to the foyer below the playroom, which our mother closes off when visitors come instead of petitioning us to clean. The trampoline out back we sometimes camp out on in the summer months, the magnolia tree we are forbidden to climb, the garage stuffed with cars and skis and bikes and tools and an enormous fish tank I can’t remember ever being used. I can take you through stale dinners, the weighty clank of the thick ceramics my

parents love, and family movie nights where I run to my room to cry because the horse dies in the first scene and our father yells at me for ruining the evening.

It seems like threads from this half should reach back to that house, that life, but if they do, we can’t find them.

And then there is the half after, in houses and apartments we don’t remember or can’t make sense of, and so for a while there is nothing. Not happiness, not sadness, not frustration, not hurt or pain, not discouragement, or a sense of time as a relentless machine. Nothing. And with trip after trip, we feel our life wash over us in the miles spent driving across town, the hours spent packing and unpacking our things, the minutes where we live at the curb waiting for the sound of

By Blue Wing Studio

whichever parent’s car to appear and then grow louder.

One night in the dim light of the evening on the curb outside our mother’s rental house, I ask Nora to show me what’s in her bag; her soft duffel is limp and lifeless at her feet. She opens it up to reveal only her dirty laundry. I ask her where Binny is. She says, “I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter.” After a few moments I say, “We’re vagabonds,” even while knowing she won’t know what that word means. I only learned it earlier this week in English class because we have been reading The Road. The teacher used it, and I wrote it down to look up on the school’s computer during lunch. Vagabonds. Wanderers. Nomads.

We hear the rattle of our father’s car, and we stand up to leave.

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY FIRST PLACE WINNER

Soft Pink

By Katie Hughbanks

She wore a dress such soft pink that mauve lilies came to mind.

In the throng of churchgoers I could not call out; she did not see me but I caught glimpses and marveled. Mom.

It was in a dream last nightmy mother in a crowded church, both of us at Mass.

Separate, still, together. She was no longer in a casket, not even in a wheelchair, waiting for Communion. How long had it been since she’d stood in a pew?

A holy day, perhaps, a holiday from her heaven. Did a promise of redemption, a certain salvation bring her to this service?

Did the same sweet hope bring me, her daughter?

No matter -

Even without words, with no touch, she was with me.

Her special-occasion dress marked the moment sacred.

I woke to gray winter, and my dream slipped slowly from my mind’s eye. Disappointment was my morning's breakfast.

But out the kitchen window

a cloudy sky awoke, gently stained soft pink, full of grace, like a mauve lily.

By Wade Carter

Posie

By Macedonia Parks

I got fourteen years of happiness. Which is more than some. I should be grateful, that’s what my mom used to say to me, when she still came to visit. On my fourteenth birthday I first noticed my skin peeling, like recovering from a mild sunburn, only I wasn’t burned. Then my skin started peeling faster and faster and there wasn’t really new skin underneath, just more sloughing off in huge sheets. Within a week my mom had me in for a visit with our general doctor, and the very next day my dad rushed me to the ER because under my last layer of skin there were loads of oozing sores. That was my last day of freedom. I don’t even remember what I did for the majority of the day, probably texted my then boyfriend, Jake, about how everyone was overreacting. I

think I watched some TV, maybe did some homework.

Anyways, I’m sure this all sounds horrendous and painful, but the peeling skin and even the sores, never hurt or anything. It was more like a gradual dulling of the sensation of touch. One minute my mom was holding my hand and the next I woke up and I couldn’t feel her holding my hand. Then my fingers started to turn purple, and then black. Nurses came in 3 times a day to apply a salve to my body that was supposed to keep my skin on. Around this time, we finally got a diagnosis, necrotising uticaria, I’m the only known case of it in the world, no biggie.

In the beginning doctors flocked to me from all corners of the world to talk to me about my symptoms, the onset, taking pictures and blood and tissue samples, nearly everyday. All the attention was kinda nice because I won’t lie to you, at the time, I was a wreck, I used to think I was pretty, and kinda popular. I had a lot of friends and I played basketball, volleyball, and track. I didn’t want anyone my age to see me anymore, I still don’t, not like this. But somehow word got out and my little sister brought back news from school, people were sharing pictures and videos of me they found online or in the news: rare disease found in young girl from Washington or worse: First case of zombielike disease found in Washington state both

articles had the same picture of me sitting in my hospital room, body black, face peeling off, scared.

And I was scared. I was supposed to die, am supposed to die, still. But here I am ten years later, existing. I am merely existing at this point because surely this isn’t living. I’m stuck suspended in a saltwater tank. One month after my fourteenth birthday, it became evident that I would soon succumb to my disease, so my brilliant revolutionary doctors devised a way to keep me alive, to keep my skin on, more or less, until a better treatment could be found. My parents consented, immediately. And I had no say in the matter. There are tubes running into and out of my body, carrying nutrients and waste into and away. I’m still not in any pain, I can’t feel anything at all. I can’t really hear through the gelatinous liquid encasing me, but I can see, all wavy and greenish, but I can see. I used to be able to move my arms and legs if I tried hard enough they would float slowly in front of and below me, but now the movements are so vague I’m not really sure if I’m doing it or if it’s just a trick of my tank.

What no one tells you about merely existing, like I am, what no one like us can tell you, is how lonely it is. At first my parents came every day, and then every other day, and they would feel so bad about skipping a day, but I couldn’t tell them how it made me feel. So then it became every other day

and then once a week. Then, for no reason at all, my mom stopped coming all together. My dad still comes about once a month, and he drags my sister on my birthday or at least that’s what I’ve gathered through my limited means of communication. I wonder whatever happened to my boyfriend Jake. He would be twenty-four now, we’re both twenty-four. Medical students and doctors alike are my most regular visitors, but even 10 years ago what used to be daily groups are now the occasional loner. Probably someone just checking my vitals and calibrating the various liquids inputting and outputting, although sometimes I go so long in between visitors now that I’m sure the whole process must be automated somewhere. I used to be angry about how everyone locked me in here and then forgot about me. Especially to my parents. But these days, I know it doesn’t do any good to be angry, and if I were them I’d maybe want to move on from a tragedy like this too, to not have to think about a poor girl buried alive in a tank for all eternity. Especially someone you used to care about. No, I’m happy for them that they are all out living their happy lives, but I do wonder if anyone will ever ask me what my preference is. If I’d rather quietly pass on into something new, rather than wait and hope that this body will ever work again. But in order for someone to ask me, they would have to remember that I’m here.

POETRY FIRST PLACE WINNER

SHORT FICTION SECOND PLACE WINNER

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY FIRST PLACE WINNER

POETRY SECOND PLACE WINNER

On Humphries Rd, Georgia

By Kristi Apostel

For fifty years

She’s been holding up this place

Even when he was here

Making biscuits, frying chops, squeezing easy cheese

Here, we

Learned about this place

Snapping beans from backyard hills

Playing cards from folding chairs

Watching shows from yellowed screens

In this place, she

Was left alone

Six months before I married

And remains as such

Listen to this place

Taking pictures down from shelves

Saving china from front-yard sales

Keeping flags from unknown lives

Of them

For twenty years

She kept holding up this place

Baking box cakes, buying hams, squeezing easy cheese

Now, we begin

Again

SHORT FICTION THIRD PLACE WINNER

Barb

By Sarah Pennington

Barb wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here again.

Sure, Dylan was handsome and his hair was great, but Barb was getting tired of life and tired of men. Sex in the world’s smallest shower just didn’t hold the thrill it once had. Barb basically had to stand on Dylan’s feet in order for them to both fit. Anything more adventurous than some slight rhythmic rocking was going to have to wait until they were back in the bedroom.

God, why was this shower so small?

OK, so what if they’d cheaped out on the house? You’d expect a generic McMansion to at least have a shower built to adult proportions. As it was, Barb’s head and shoulders stood above the saloon-style door and the nozzle was right at nipple height. The shower felt like a joke, but Barb wasn’t sure who was laughing.

In any other life, Dylan wouldn’t have been Barb’s first choice–sure he had great hair and his clothes were better than any of the other guys she knew, but he was boring. Generic, somehow. Cookie-cutter. More like a mannequin than man. There was something just too

symmetrical in his features. Dylan was from California, or at least Barb thought he was since he’d arrived talking about Beverly Hills, but she’d never bothered to ask. He could just as easily have been from China or Mississippi. Barb had learned long ago that asking questions wasn’t likely to get her anywhere different than where she was. Instead, she chose to let the cool waters of fate rush over her, no decisions, no choices. Barb had never asked any real questions, anyway. If she tallied up all the questions she’d ever asked, she bet the bulk of them would be geographical: Want to go to the club to dance? Want to go to the pool? Want to visit Ariel at the beach?

This life really wasn’t Barb’s first choice, so Dylan felt right enough given the circumstances. Sometimes Barb felt like she was made to be an astronaut or a veterinarian–definitely something science-y, something you could be proud of, something aspirational–but she’d lost herself somewhere along the way. Now Barb spent her days trolling nightclubs in clothes that didn’t feel like her own and having endless rounds of sex in this awful shower or in Dylan’s office at Jaboe where she’d shown up at his door wearing nothing but a trench coat at least three times in recent memory. Barb wanted more from life, but right now she had Dylan.

Barb turned the water off.

“Want to go to the bedroom?” Dylan asked.  Barb dutifully followed him, finding Sabrina and MC already in bed. Barb stopped.

This wasn’t how things normally progressed. Sabrina was naked, legs held straight, no bend in her knees, while she laid on top of MC who was similarly prone on the small bed. The way their bodies were held in perfect lines they looked more like a sandwich missing the filling than two people making love.

Sabrina was her best friend, and MC… Well, MC would have been her top choice, but he was with Sabrina. He was handsome and his gold earring caught the light when he danced. MC was stylish, even if he had an unfortunate affinity for drop crotch pants. Standing there, Barb thought about the time MC borrowed Dylan’s jeans and met her at the club. If she was honest, he looked better in them than Dylan, but MC was with Sabrina and Barb wouldn’t step on her roommate’s toes like that.

“I thought you’d be at Jaboe Cosmetics,” Sabrina offered by way of explanation. Sure, Barb worked at Jaboe, but so did Dylan and so did half of Genoa City. Sabrina knew as well as anyone did that Barb spent most of her time in bed anymore. Really, the bed was never empty between Barb and Sabrina’s exploits. Sharing a house that only had one bedroom with only one single, solitary bed had its challenges, but this had been the cheapest house. Economics was the driving force around here. Anything with more than one bedroom was out of their budget. Maybe one day Barb could have a bedroom without a revolving door, but that day wasn’t today.

Barb stood there, cold and nearly naked in the shared bedroom, wearing an old fashioned elastic towel that had come from a yardsale, something straight out of the seventies that had probably been made by some long forgotten grandmother. Dylan was naked but for a pair of briefs that were so tight they were pretty much part of his skin. All Barb had ever seen him wear was the same jeans, jacket, and black shirt. She wasn’t sure he even owned another outfit. Barb had a full wardrobe, everything from cocktail dresses to swimsuits, but the men she knew seemed to wear the same things every day, like they were characters in a cartoon…

“I’m bored. This is boring. Why can’t they go dance?” Dancing was Lucy’s favorite Barbie activity. First you had to choose the perfect outfit–something no one would ever wear in real life, covered in glitter or sequins, hot pink or neon yellow, and then find the perfect song. Yesterday it was “Macho Duck,” her favorite from Mickey Mouse Disco with Donald’s voice cracking and popping as the vinyl spun on our toy record player, but it could just as easily be “Achy Breaky Heart” on cassette or whatever happened to be playing on VH1’s Pop Up Video.

“Barbie Dancing is for babies. You’re not a baby, are you?” Daisy narrowed her eyes and I watched as Lucy shrunk back from her gaze, glad the focus of her stare wasn’t on me.

“I’m not a baby, we’re almost the same age!” Lucy’s face was getting red, the way it did

By Mitch Lin

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY SECOND PLACE WINNER

when she got mad enough to cry.

“Coulda fooled me.” Daisy dropped Dylan unceremoniously. The doll bounced with a sick ka-thunk when he hit the ceramic tile floor of Lucy and my shared bedroom.

Daisy did seem way older. I always felt babyish in her presence, but we were both in the same grade. Lucy might have been just a year behind, but Daisy was worldly. Or at least that’s what Momma said when she thought I couldn’t hear. The tone of voice she’d used told me that whatever worldly was, it wasn’t good. What I did know was that Daisy always seemed two steps ahead and relished knowing more than Lucy or I did about any topic. Daisy’s family was in town to visit her grandmother, but her family always let us trade sleepovers when she was here.  When she first got here this morning, Daisy’s focus had been on music and she’d acted offended when we’d never heard of her favorite band, Marcy Playground. Daisy knew all the words to “Sex and Candy,” a song I’d only ever heard in bits when Momma would flip back and forth from VH1 to MTV on weekends when we’d pile up on the couch and watch music videos together. It was an unspoken rule that whoever had the remote would flip the channel when certain songs came on, but that clearly wasn’t a rule in Daisy’s house.

“Sex and Candy” was Daisy’s favorite song and she’d even choreographed a dance to it that she performed in our front yard, singing loudly while hanging on to the small cherry tree that made fruit so sour even the birds ignored it. She’d walked around the tree in lazy circles, focusing hard on making sure her butt was sticking out as far as she could while I recorded her on the small camcorder Momma let us play with sometimes. When she caught us, Momma had made me turn off the camcorder and confiscated the tape. All afternoon, Daisy had been simmering, angry that her work wouldn’t be archived forever on VHS.

I tried to broker peace. “What about making a Barbie movie?” I was tired of the way we were playing Barbies, too. Besides, I was sure Momma or Daddy would come in any minute and if one of them caught the Barbies all naked and catfighting like the women on The Young and the Restless, they’d probably call an end to the sleepover and then we wouldn’t see Daisy again for ages. Even though I was tired of the naked Barbies, I didn’t want our yearly visit cut short.

Earlier, Daisy had decided our Fashion Show was boring and shoved a naked Barbie and the naked Ken that the box had claimed was Dylan from 90210 into the shower, while naked Sabrina the Teenage Witch and naked MC Hammer were placed on the bed of the off-brand Barbie Dream House we’d gotten from the Family Dollar, demanding we play like they were in a soap opera. While dancing was Lucy’s favorite Barbie pastime, Fashion Show was mine. I loved lining up their clothes, sometimes experimenting by putting Ken’s shirts and jackets onto Barbie,

layering the clothes they’d come in with creations we’d found at yard sales, mixing and matching patterns. One of my favorite outfits involved layering Earring Magic Ken’s purple mesh shirt over one of Barbie’s plain black strapless dresses. The only complaint I ever had about Fashion Show was that Ken couldn’t wear Barbie’s clothes the way she could his. I was still sore that Fashion Show had gotten canceled so abruptly for the Young and the Restless knock-off we’d been doing in Barbie’s Dream Shower.

“A movie could work…” Daisy was eyeing the tiny shower in the Family Dollar Dream House. I was pretty sure Momma would get mad again if she caught us filming the naked Barbies and Kens and MC Hammers. Earlier I’d overheard her and Daddy having a whisper fight, with Momma calling Daisy a bad influence.

“We could make them drive!” I suggested. Driving was the best thing about Barbies next to Fashion Show and dancing. Our steep concrete driveway meant that Barbie’s convertible could go fast without having to push it by hand, and the videos turned out better because you didn’t have to crouch beside the car with hands and feet in the shot.

I grabbed the convertible and Lucy grabbed the small camcorder. We were moving fast, a silent agreement to keep Daisy away from Barbie’s Discount Bed and Shower. We raced outside, our bare feet slapping against the grass as we ran to the top of the hill where the concrete driveway left the road. Angel, our dog, came over to see what we were doing. Whenever we were outside, Angel always gave the impression that she was in charge. While Daisy danced earlier, Angel had sat looking judgey. I couldn’t prove it, but I was pretty sure she’d somehow summoned Momma when she decided things had gone far enough. After thoroughly sniffing Barbie’s convertible, Angel looked up at me like she was offering me an out, the way sometimes Momma would sometimes offer to end playdates with the neighbors when I’d had enough of being social for the day.

“It could be a monster movie. Angel could play the monster chasing Barbie,” I ventured. Angel shot me a look full of daggers, looking as offended as a dog could, then wandered off to nap in the shade, leaving me to navigate this alone.

“Do you have the camera ready?” Daisy was getting excited. Lucy aimed the lens at the dolls, nodding that she was ready.

“OK. Barb is going to be mad at Sabrina because Sabrina slept with MC Hammer. I’m going to be Barb, and you can be Sabrina. Lucy is going to be the director”

Lucy, Daisy, and I got into position and Lucy called action.

“You witch-with-a-b!” Barb slapped Sabrina across the face. “You knew I liked MC Hammer and you went and slept with him anyway!”

“You’re with Dylan!” I shouted.

“So? Why can’t I have them both? It’s the ‘90s!”

I didn’t have a response. It had been the ‘90s as long as I could remember, but even on

Watching the Window

the soap operas Momma loved the women didn’t usually have two boyfriends. Maybe one boyfriend and a husband, but even that didn’t seem like a popular choice.

“C’mon,” Daisy stamped her foot. “You have to respond or it doesn’t work.”

“I… well… I’m sorry. Can we make up?”

“I don’t know. It would take a lot for me to forgive you.”

I felt struck by inspiration. “What if I gave you my car?”

“Well, that helps… but it doesn’t fix everything.” Daisy put Barb into the driver’s seat of the pink convertible. It wasn’t an actual Barbie Dream Car, but the only thing it was missing was the stickers. It was the right size and everything unlike the tiny shower.

As soon as Daisy let go of the car, it sped down the hill. Lucy chased behind with the camera. We were far enough up that when the car hit the garage door Barb bounced out of her seat and landed on the hood of the car, looking like she’d been in that wreck Pearl Jam

By Katie Hughbanks

was always singing about on the radio. Maybe the real Barbie brand car had seatbelts, but I’d probably never know.

I ran down the hill and grabbed a handful of leftover popper fireworks from the 4th of July. I threw the poppers at the car and the smell of gunpowder tickled my nose. As Sabrina I yelled “enjoy the car, you dead cow. I cut the brakes!”

Lucy chimed in as Barb, taking over from Daisy. “Help me… everything’s going black…” We were united in our efforts to end this game. Soon, TGIF would come on and we could watch the real Sabrina make bad decisions that never involved her being naked in bed with MC Hammer.

“Shhhh…” Sabrina approached the car. “You’re bleeding a lot, Barb. Don’t talk.”

Blood bubbled out of Barb’s mouth as she tried to form words.

“Don’t worry–help is coming soon.” Sabrina took her hand and closed Barb’s eyes. Barb would never steal Sabrina’s man ever again.

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY SECOND PLACE WINNER

In Passing

By Shelly Taylor

I heard that your son died Being a Good Samaritan

To bad people

I did not mention it when I saw you It had been years since we last spoke And I wanted you to have a Conversation

Where no one talked about Death

SHORT FICTION HONORABLE MENTION

Dead Rock Stars

By Christine Stavros

Sadie puts a bottle of white wine in the fridge before she goes for a long run. She figures that if the run doesn’t purge her of the toxins from the day then maybe the wine will. And if that doesn’t work she has that fifth of bourbon on the bookshelf that girl from work gave her for Secret Santa, red bow taped to the top, and some oxy left over from her thumb surgery last summer stashed at the bottom of the clothes hamper that she thinks she’s hiding from me. But she figures the run, or the wine, should do just fine.

Sadie says sometimes she loses her faith in people, and she still doesn’t understand what life’s all about but she needs to find out fast because she senses it slipping away. Sadie’s been in a funk, feeling gravity’s pull, and it doesn’t help that her rock’n’roll heroes keep dying— and that sort of thing happens in threes. As Sadie’s list of dead rock stars grows so does her urgency to do something, anything, but she doesn’t know what, and she doesn’t know how, anymore, and that only adds to her angst.

“Some psycho nearly hit me in the parking lot today,” Sadie tells me later that evening, as we sit on the couch after dinner and share the bottle of wine. “She kept forcing her bloated SUV into my lane, with this air of entitlement, and I didn’t have anywhere to go—where was I supposed to go? She nearly hit me, some psycho.” Sadie sighs, heavy and deflated, and pushes aside her unruly platinum curls, damp from the shower, and takes another sip of wine, the cheap plastic tumblers we got in Pigeon Forge on our anniversary, those full lips. “I just don’t get people sometimes, you know?”

I tell Sadie I know, and I know, and I also know how Sadie can be, how she gets when something is bothering her, something more than someone trying to cut her off in traffic because I’ve seen Sadie cut people off in traffic with complete indifference. I know that this is just the reason Sadie gives me for why she feels this way. I also know not to delve any deeper because Sadie will snap at me, uncharacteristically, and question why she needs another reason to feel this way, and can’t I just leave it at that. And it is, and I can, and I do, I leave

Smoketown

it at that, but I know there’s got to be more.

Sadie’s been talking to God. I hear her, muffled conversations coming from our bedroom in the morning while I’m in the bathroom readying for work. I can’t tell what she talks about, but at least she’s talking to God again after stopping when everything was going on with her, and with us, those meetings with that dour social worker in that suburban office that reeked of potpourri, fifty-minute sessions to sort through the issues that had been allowed to fester for too long. I’m glad Sadie’s talking to God, whatever it is she’s talking about that leaves her flushed and teary, which I notice when I step into the bedroom to finish getting dressed. That’s the part that worries me.

“Let’s hear some music!” Sadie proclaims, as she apportions the last of the wine into our tumblers, then stumbles to the stereo to play an album from our collection of vinyl. I cringe when I hear the needle scratch until she finds the song she was searching for, from one of her dead rock stars. Then she rejoins me on the couch with a bounce, leans her head back, and closes her eyes, those impossibly long lashes, a rare contented expression. I sit there for a moment and admire her because it’s been a while since I’ve seen Sadie like that—peaceful and simple and free—and it reminds me of when we first met, when this dead rock star we’re listening to was alive and kicking. I lean back like Sadie, and I close my eyes, and I take Sadie’s hand, my fingers intertwine with hers, and we spend the rest of the evening that way,

except I suspect that Sadie is further away in her mind, and I can only wait for her to return.

“It’s a real pisser when God tells you no,” Sadie says to me, as we lie in bed that night, waking me from a sound slumber with the dream I was having vanishing like it was never there, at three-something in the morning according to the blurry red numbers of the alarm clock, her tone a mix of frustration and melancholy. Staring up at the fan, slowly rotating, and the curious shadows cast on the stucco ceiling by the stray passing cars outside, I ask her what she means, but she tells me it’s nothing, and to forget about it. That makes me react the very opposite, and all I can do is think about it, and I want to know what Sadie is asking God for that God says no to that’s causing her such consternation. But she turns on her side, apart from me, and lets out a forlorn exhale, her shoulders gently rising then falling in defeat. I pull close, spoon my body against the curves of hers, and whisper that everything will be all right, that things work out, just not always the way we want.

“Mm-hmm,” Sadie murmurs, drifting off, her breathing decreasing, and a solitary tear drops to my hand, positioned as we lie in our embrace right below her face. Then, pausing between each word a single beat, she says, “never… the… way… I… want.”

There’s nothing else, only a suffocating silence that consumes the room. I roll over, and stare up at the fan, and watch as the shadows dance across the ceiling, before I’m able

By Debbie Brownstein

to sleep, counting dead rock stars in my head.

POETRY HONORABLE MENTION

Nach Bar: An American Cinquain & Triolet

By Romana Bereneth

Nach bar

A night alone

Take stock of doppelbocks

No one has missed me for hours, now. That’s fine.

This house.

My life declines. I once had a good life.

I had fun with two silly dogs. Long gone.

Nach bar

Funny corner

You’d have to be from here.

Tucked in a booth I could be your Nick Cave.

My clothes.

POETRY THIRD PLACE WINNER

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY THIRD PLACE WINNER

Tumble around the inside of a shared piece of domestic equipment. Panties.

Blood-soaked, my underclothes.

“I’ll just push ‘em on through.”

An uninvited invitee Hands on.

Nach bar.

It’s Wednesday Night.

Where’s Jacob Duncan now?

Where’s f***ing jazz when I need it?

Long gone.

Music.

Fucking COVID.

Desperate creatives

Went to Nachbar looking for jazz.

Wrong night.

I ran

From the Highlands

And out of Butchertown

To Germantown, where I still feel Alive.

I have no place to go.

Louisville’s night life?

Receding choices in cellphone glow

I have no place to go.

Degradation’s obvious; you had to know.

Louisville is a knife.

I have no place to go.

But streets belonging to these who love to live the lie.

By Katie Hughbanks

SHORT FICTION HONORABLE MENTION

The Time Capsule

By Katie Hughbanks

Thomas hadn’t expected to be alive when the town’s time capsule was opened. He thought the Maysville City Council’s idea of a stainless-steel box buried under the new park’s entrance was a complete waste of time and money anyhow. He didn’t mind expressing his annoyance, either.

“See here, Jones. This is the problem,” Thomas Walker exclaimed as he stood in the Maysville main library that March evening back in 1972.  He was younger than most in the room but spoke with the confidence of a town elder. “The council and mayor are more worried about posterity than they are about today. You just stated that fancy capsule is going to cost $345, and that is without burying the damn thing and putting a plaque on the stone entrance.” He readjusted the thin tie at his throat. “Let’s forget this time capsule nonsense and talk about what really matters – making sure our neighborhoods aren’t destroyed with all these people movin’ in.” Several men in the folded chairs clapped. Two stomped their feet in agreement. “You

know what I’m talking about, Jones. Let’s protect our neighborhoods, not pack a tin box full of crap and put it in the ground.” Thomas wiped his wet mouth as he sat back down.

Despite the cool evening outside, council members took to mopping their foreheads with handkerchiefs; the mayor’s wife used a pamphlet to fan herself. Thomas had, it would seem, turned up the heat. Nonetheless, the council voted that night 6–5 to continue with the time capsule. “You’re gonna regret this,” Thomas sputtered at the portly, gray-haired mayor as he departed the boiling library. The mayor shook his head silently and watched the young man pass.

Thomas returned to his little home incensed. As he lay in bed that night, clad in t-shirt and boxer shorts, he chewed on angry thoughts: How dare Jones and the rest of the council allow this stupid time capsule. Don’t they see that their efforts are needed elsewhere? Don’t they know that Maysville First Federal granted two loans to colored folk last month? Don’t they see houses going up for sale in Fox Brook and Pleasant Meadows? Those damn coloreds will be taking over half of the north side of Maysville if somebody doesn’t stop them. That night, alone in his little slab house, Thomas vowed revenge on the council.

“I’ll show them,” he muttered to himself as Thomas stepped out into the spring air the next morning, lunch box in hand. His first job was to get on the time capsule committee, which could have been difficult after his challenging the concept of the project itself. Luckily, he knew the mayor’s secretary, an awkward young thing Thomas had taken to the fall formal their junior year of high school. Mary obliged his request without question. He had skipped lunch to chat her up, but the bologna sandwich would wait till after work.

A week later, the committee met. With only six people in the group, Thomas Walker knew he could get his way. His confidence soared as he recommended they establish a chair and nominated himself. Tired housewives and retired old men were no match for his ambition. In only three meetings, the group had completed the requisition forms for the steel box and plaque, determined the contents of the time capsule, and proposed what day to have the celebration and interment of the box. Thomas’ leadership proved effective. Mrs. Wilcox even brought him a custard cake at the last meeting, remarking how much Thomas reminded her of her own son Bill, who had died near Saigon at the hands of that yellow

Mr. Charlie.

Late that April, the capsule was ready. At the entrance of the town’s newest park, the mayor stood before a terrific group of citizens and business leaders, ribboned shovel in hand. He offered a long-winded oration on the importance of community and the value of Maysville’s parks. He spoke of the past, of the future, of the time capsule that would be opened in fifty years. Thomas stood beside the mayor but did not offer any salutations of his own, despite his committee chair status. “Let these newspapers, these school yearbooks, these photographs be symbols of goodwill to our future children and grandchildren. Let the road maps included here be a sign of the growth our fair town will enjoy this next half century. And let this most recent census list from 1960 show that these were the people who loved Maysville!” the mayor proclaimed in stately fashion. The silver box at the mayor’s feet was already properly sealed for its underground home; the mayor, with other dignitaries assisting, prepared a hole in the ground large enough for the capsule. Kicking the last bit of dry dirt over the box, the mayor gave a jowly cheer and the crowd, tired from standing, offered an emphatic (if not quick) hurrah. People dispersed, the mayor

Clowns on the Watterson

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shook Thomas’ hand, and the deal was sealed.

The crowd, the mayor, none of them knew what Thomas Walker knew: he had surreptitiously included his own set of memorabilia in that time capsule. The cowards, he thought as he walked to his car. He was the only one brave enough to tell the truth, and boy would his contribution tell it.

For Thomas, like all men, time marched on, and life opened to him like a magazine, one page after another. Eventually he married that secretary to the mayor, and in a few years, he and Mary saved enough for a home that was a bit larger, in a neighborhood that was a bit more exclusive. Little Tommy came, and a few years later, they had Marjorie. The family went to church on Sundays and had picnics at the park. Their life was charmed: Thomas went from laborer to manager; his wife was voted PTA president three years in a row. But no matter the family’s progress, Maysville was changing, and Thomas struggled to keep his cool as even their own neighborhood threatened to become integrated.

It was a bitter pill, but his wife encouraged him to be patient and have faith. In time, she had the audacity to suggest her husband try tolerance. She had learned from her efforts at school that things weren’t always as one assumed, people weren’t always as one assumed. Over the years, she tried to appease his anger and bigotry. Occasionally she even thought maybe she was getting through to him, but she’d been with him two decades and knew Thomas’ stalwart views. She stood little chance in changing a man of such arrogance.

And then one May, Marjorie came home from college with a pronouncement that would rattle Thomas to his very core. “I’m pregnant, Daddy.” She was a business major who had not minded her own business. Her father was, in a word, enraged.

“I won’t have any part in this, young lady!” he growled. “Hmmph! Young lady, my ass!”

Thomas tossed his newspaper across the kitchen table and stormed out of the kitchen.  His wife, though, had had enough of Thomas’ narrow-mindedness. She insisted that Marjorie could live at home, have the baby, place it for adoption or raise it herself there, with them. “I will be right here for you,” she said as she stood in the kitchen, late spring sun filtering through gingham curtains. Mary paused and then whispered, “Marjorie, darling, who is the father?”

“It’s alright, Ma. I am going to be fine. Connor and I are marrying. He can graduate early with summer courses, and we’ll get an apartment.” Looking up from her seat, Marjorie looked into her mother’s middleaged eyes. “Daddy’s never going to speak to me again. He won’t ever forgive me.” Her mother shook her head, trying to encourage her daughter.

Marjorie shrugged. “Mother, Connor is Black.”

The wedding was on the college lawn, a law professor acting as minister. Marjorie’s parents were absent, just as they were absent for the birth of their grandchild, Charlotte.  Tom Junior, a man who loved his sister more

By David Kelm

than he feared his father, gave his sister’s hand in marriage, and later wrung his own anxious hands at the hospital that November as he waited to meet his niece.

A darkness enveloped the Walker home. Marjorie was gone, her pink bedroom untouched with fading band posters on the wall. Tom Junior rarely stopped by, only for a quick cup of coffee and usually when his father wasn’t home. Sporadically, Mary tried to talk to her husband about forgiveness, but his quick anger would always stop her mid-sentence.

One day Tom came for coffee and brought a single shiny Polaroid picture with him. Mary gasped at the image of Charlotte, sandy skinned and darling, two teeth behind plump pink lips. Tom left that afternoon with his mother at the door, clutching the photo to her breast. She stood at the front of the house, photo in hand, when her husband arrived from work.

In two long glances, the world changed. Thomas stared into his wife’s wide eyes, then at the picture she held out for him. All the air in the man’s pompous chest escaped in a fraught silence. He had been wrong. So damn wrong.

Forgiveness is a two-way road, and both Thomas Walker and Marjorie Walker Smith navigated it carefully. Connor Smith entered into the arrangement with aplomb, having already had a lifetime of experience dealing with bigotry and judgment. Mary was elated – her family was restored, with little Charlotte

connecting them all.

Thomas’ evolution was not perfect nor was it consistent. His path to understanding differences and respecting them was circuitous at best. Mary learned too. As long as they leaned in to love Charlotte, they would find the way, and they did.

The community of Maysville witnessed Thomas and Mary growing on the inside, just as they saw that little tawny-skinned girl growing on the outside. Charlotte was a frequent visitor to her grandparents’ house, riding her bike down the sidewalk, practicing field hockey on the front lawn. Charlotte and her Grandpa Thomas talked baseball and shared pints of ice cream. They teased each other good-naturedly and made bad jokes. Charlotte did not know Thomas, the bigot; she only knew Thomas, the kind grandfather. They were best friends.

To his own amazement, Thomas slowly became a staunch supporter of civil rights. He saw how many people treated Charlotte and recognized himself in their ugliness. Some on their street raised eyebrows when Thomas, now an old man, staked a “Black Lives Matter” sign by his mailbox. He didn’t care, though. It’s 2022, by damn. I should have put it up sooner.

Fifty short years had come and gone for the Walkers and for the town. Thomas and Mary were wrinkled and gray but still very much alive. They had seen heartbreaks and happiness; they had changed with the world as best they could.

And then, it was time. A representative

from the Maysville City Council had a brilliant idea: let the original chairman of the Maysville 1972 Time Capsule Committee be the one to open that stainless steel box.

When Thomas got the call, he feigned hard of hearing, but Mary, listening to the conversation, put the phone on speaker. Why of course Thomas would love to come and join in the fun, Mary said loud enough for the woman on the phone to understand. Saturday at 1. When Thomas ended the call, Mary exclaimed, “Oh, we have to tell the kids! And Charlotte can bring that sweet new boyfriend of hers!” She rushed to start the planning.

Thomas glumly sat down at his old recliner. His face went a deathly white. What will I do? His heart thumped; his cheeks sagged. Oh dear heavens.

He had six days to stew over it, during which he weighed a million ideas to get out of the event. Thomas had considered the city council cowards so long ago. Now who is the coward? he asked himself.  He knew he had to own up to what he had done to the time capsule fifty years ago, but at what cost?

That Saturday, a crowd gathered by a table at the park entrance. Along with council members, there were parents and children from the neighborhood, a handful of news people with cameras and video equipment, even a couple of teens with funny-colored hair who said they were covering the story for their high school newspaper. Tom Junior couldn’t make it because of out-of-town plans,

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION

but Marjorie and Connor were there, holding hands, Black skin and White skin clasped together happily. Charlotte brought her new young man. She was so proud to introduce him to Grandpa Thomas.

All Thomas could do was hang his head in imminent shame.

The emcee for the afternoon, a man named Councilman Holly, introduced Thomas and made mention of the Walker family members present. The group watched as two men in yellow jackets dug into the ground. When they hit metal, everyone clapped. In the work of a few minutes, the steel box was pulled out of the dirt and set upon the table. It took more strength than Thomas had to pry the slide lock open, but when a park worker managed, he backed away for Thomas to do the official opening of the lid.

A lump settled in the old man’s throat, right above where his thin tie hung. There was no way out now.

The crowd moved in to catch a look at the contents, but a councilwoman raised her voice to suggest they give Mr. Walker some room.

“Fifty years,” Thomas choked out, “is a long time. A lot has changed in those five decades. I have changed a lot in those five decades. We have learned to be better. To understand each other. Differences don’t matter as much as they used to.”

The people stopped looking at the metal box and instead beheld the man speaking. One mother said out loud, “That’s right” in support. A few in the crowd clapped.

Thomas, full of fear and embarrassment, half spoke. “I made, I made,” he stuttered. “Mistakes.”

Councilman Holly saw that Thomas was faltering, so he swooped in to assist. “Let’s see what you have there, Mr. Walker. He reached into the metal box and gently lifted newspaper. “Editions of the Maysville Times from April 1972!” The crowd seemed impressed. Thomas stood still, so the councilman continued. “Looks like this one is a map of the city from fifty years ago!”

Someone in the crowd remarked, “I don’t think they even make maps like that anymore!” The group laughed. Despite the April breeze, Thomas began to sweat.

The councilman pulled item after item from the silver box. It seemed like slow torture to Thomas, standing beside the table. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take the anticipation. In a short moment, everyone would know his secret, that he, Thomas Kilkenny Walker, had snuck an ugliness into that time capsule that would reveal him a horrible, hideous man. Mary knew how his heart had changed; Marjorie did too. But Charlotte…

“What’s this?” spoke the councilman, far louder than he needed to. In his hands, he held a manila envelope with Thomas’ own handwriting. “Let’s see. It reads, ‘Because you all need to know the truth.’ Why, it’s signed by Thomas Walker himself. Thomas, you sly man! What did you sneak into the time capsule? Is it a love note for Mary?” The

By David Kelm

group again laughed but the old man couldn’t manage even half a smile. “OK, I am going to open it, unless someone else wants.”

Charlotte, her dark hair shining in the sunlight, stepped forward. “Umm, sir. Could I? I am Mr. Walker’s granddaughter.”

Clapping erupted. “Of course, my dear. That would be perfect.”

The few photographers present poised themselves for the perfect photo with Charlotte holding the envelope in the foreground and Thomas in the background. The crowd was enrapt.

Charlotte reread her father’s cursive on the front. “Because you all need to know the truth,” she spoke loudly, with confidence. She peeled back the flap and gave the envelope a little shake. Out came several yellowed papers. “Umm,” she paused, buying a moment to understand. “There’s a flyer here.” She squinted her eyes, reading in the bright sunlight. “’No Coloreds Here,’ it says. ‘Meeting on Friday to discuss what our next steps are.’” The crowd made “Oh” sounds, not really understanding. A wave of nervousness rippled through the group. Charlotte pulled out another paper, hoping to make sense of what she was seeing. It was The Crusader, the masthead proclaimed, the national paper of the Ku Klux Klan. Her brown hands held it up for the group to see.

The people looked confused, repulsed. Then her eyes turned bright and with a smile she faced the old man. “Grandpa, you amaze

me.” Her voice seemed to tighten, a sigh in her throat. “‘Because you all need to know the truth.’ The truth. Grandpa, I get it. You understood fifty years ago that bigotry and prejudice were hurting people. You knew that Black people were suffering, that they couldn’t always live where they wanted or work where they would have liked, even in 1972. Grandpa, you really are amazing. Even back then, you knew that racism was evil.” In a flash, she stepped past Councilman Holly to embrace her grandfather.

He leaned into her hug with all his energy; relief came in his granddaughter’s squeeze. As he held the young woman, the old man’s eyes met his wife’s, and she nodded softly. Would Thomas tell Charlotte the truth? Would he face his granddaughter with the fact of who he was fifty, forty, even twenty years ago? That was a decision for another time. For the moment, he just wanted to hold his granddaughter. The crowd cheered.

Thomas hadn’t expected to be alive when the town’s time capsule was opened, but he was indeed living. When that silver box was finally dug up, he discovered a humility he couldn’t have fathomed as a bold young man.

The contents of the 1972 Maysville Time Capsule were boxed up to be delivered to the library for display and the crowd began to disperse. At his car, Charlotte hugged her grandfather one more time with a promise to visit on Sunday for dinner. Her new young man, dark and tall, reached to shake Thomas’

hand.

“Thank you, sir. What an afternoon,” he exclaimed. “I can see why Charlotte is so proud of her granddaddy. You’re a hero.” Thomas shrugged in embarrassment. He knew he was anything but heroic. He also knew he was damn lucky—to have survived the day with his family intact and to be a man who changed.

POETRY HONORABLE MENTION

Wheat, Honeycomb, and Wine

by Anna Liao

Sober for once, for one moment. Clarity through the fog of the fog, the second mist, the squinting of your bleary eyes.

In the dry heat of the summer, begin again.

Push up through small cracks, past rocks, drain the gut rot,

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY HONORABLLE MENTINO

despite, despite, despite, the riot, the terminus, the sun in your eyes, the heat on your neck, the laughter of other kids.

Turn beneath the stars. Hold hope like water. Find a reason to leave the city and swim in some river.

How terrifying the possibility of what you could be, what you could say, or think— that your mouth might be all teeth.

Everything is dog shaped when you’ve lost your dog:

every tree, every bike, every boulder, every animal on the street.

Every shape is a shadow of the thing you want to see.

Whether there’s a god or there isn’t a god outside of your mind, wait for faith as a thing that’s touchable; don’t pick a side. Find hope in wind through your fingertips.

Despite, despite, despite.

SHORT FICTION HONORABLE MENTION

I Don’t Sleep, I Dream

By Matt Dobson

Mark jolts awake, disoriented and covered in sweat. His watch was yelling that it’s time for the store to open. He’d come into the mall through a side entrance and sat down, just for a minute, in a broken massage chair that had been sitting abandoned next to a shuttered kiosk.

He drug himself back toward the store. There was a crowd now, dozens of people shuffling around restlessly, waiting for the doors to open. Everyone was eyeing everyone else wondering who would get in and how many of the new dream machines would be for sale. Mark was forty-third in the queue and was trying to guess who might have numbers one–forty-two. He was hoping this location got at least fifty or even better, seventy-five, so he could be out of there before the last one is sold, and any of these sleepwalkers woke up enough to be angry.

The lights in the showroom came up, first illuminating the floor and then rising as it filled the two story space. Mark thought it looked pretty majestic for a place that used to be a Macy’s. In the middle of the room was a display of the newest dream machine, a thin steel band that widened in the back, an

Red on the Horizon

inverted tiara. The display was surrounded by a dozen members of the “dream team.” Each of them, dressed identically in white t-shirts, stood in a circle. They joined hands, said something that he couldn’t make out through the glass doors, then they let go of each other’s hands, clapped in unison, and headed to their stations. One-by-one they let people in, adjusted their headpieces, activated them, and said “sweet dreams” as they left the store.

“43” displayed above the doors and Mark was greeted by a member of the dream team, a young woman, he guessed maybe nineteen or twenty, with fading acne and a practiced smile. She led him to a fitting station, a clean wooden table with a dream machine headset on a simple display.

“I bet you’re excited for the new model,” she said, “It’s the best yet, are you excited for the networking upgrade?”

Turns out Carl Jung was right, dreams are a path into our collective unconscious. It wasn’t long after the tech companies figured out how to give people control of their dreams that they figured out how to tap into that collective and monetize social dreaming. While their customers were counting sheep, the companies counted dollars.

Mark pulled a notebook from his coat pocket. It was bulging with loose papers and held closed with a binder clip. He spread the scribbled on receipts and other scraps across the table. He unfolded a sheet of paper covered in hand drawn maps and cryptic

diagrams.  He kept this bloated dream journal by the side of his bed and carried it with him everywhere. He tried to capture anything he could remember from his dreams. It was always a struggle for him write quickly and legibly as he put his glasses on, as his eyes adjusted, the places, the people, the feelings all became blurrier and disappeared as the words came into focus.

“I had a dream,” he said to the young woman, immediately self-conscious that he sounded like one of the commercials. He thought to himself that he still couldn’t believe they somehow got away with using a reanimated version of Martin Luther King in that first ad campaign.

“I was on a beach, it…she was beautiful,” he hesitated, “We’d been at a party, I followed her through a door and then we were standing on an empty beach, she was backlit by the sun rising over dark brown waves. I could feel the warm water on my feet, the smell of salt and seaweed on the breeze, she looked at me and smiled.”  He looked at the mess on the table and then directly at the young woman. “I felt completely in love. We were in love. Then, I was awake and she was gone. I’m in bed. The salty wind on the beach was the draft from the windows in my old house, the sound of the waves was just my wife’s snoring.”

“I know I shouldn’t obsess over a woman from a dream, especially as a married man.” He held his hand up to show his wedding band.  “I love my wife. I do, but at this point,

By Natalie Bickel

she’s asleep more than she’s awake.” His wife’s company had been one of the first to switch to working in their dreams. Pioneers in the new frontier of connected working. Because these dream machines weren’t technically medical devices they hadn’t required FDA approval, and now that they’d sold a 100 million of them people are starting to see the consequences.

“I know these look crazy,“ he gestured toward the notes. “Sometimes they are enough. They give me a quick snapshot, a landmark to find my way back.” He started reading off some of the notes, “The Burger King bathroom stall opens to the courtyard of the junior high school, the curtain on the stage at city hall connects to the beer cave at the gas station by my parent’s house. The basement of the old hotel, through the showers, into the parking garage, into the bathroom of a keg party at that college…”

“I keep track of doors” He showed her the page of diagrams, tracing his finger along the lines from node to node. “The architecture never makes sense in dreams. Places that are miles in reality and years apart in memory are just a step through a door.”

He knows that sharing these scribbles and describing all of this to this college kid made him look like a madman. “Can this memory feature help me? How does the mapping work? Can it get me back?” She reassuringly rattled off the list of new features as she did the fitting. As she said “sweet dreams” he was already halfway to the door.

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Now, In Midland

By Sophie Lyn

Everyday after class, mom told him the story of Dixie The Dolls, her high-school drill team of perky girls with white socks‘n saddle shoes full of grit after dancing in Texas dirt, she would make out with her boyfriend in his Honda, colored plum. I knew the story a hundred times over. She told him, “I’m tired of your whiny ass, go watch TV I’m not tellin’ you no more.” can’t stand the noise, mom, the way you yell. Your face looks ugly so ugly, on the terrace, I’m gonna go smoke. I’m tired, my throat hurts, something I can’t itch. Wish I could reach in my mouth past my teeth and scratch it with a clean fingernail.

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that.” She targets with a chipped red polish, contorted fingernail that, 27 spins ago, used to shine a worldly bronze, like baton twirlers, made to last in a Dixie parade that trooped outside counties, outside borders, outside states. I sung the dog’s itch because his paws scraped so hard on the terrace deck, he was our lucky find, our plum which mom said she used to be, at fifteen and a hundred pounds, now rotten, swollen, ugly. She just blabs. I suck in savory smoke, listening to the static hum of the laughing TV.

Late Tuesday nights, I like watching Password reruns on the TV which stopped working last May because he snipped it’s cables, so mom pierced a fingernail in his crown. “There, I snipped your cables.” He grows mom’s face when he cries, same ugly dirt muddled white flag blows from the backyard in sun-bleached dirt, white pebbled grit. I hide in my own stomach, I rest on fatty yellow flesh and undigested chunks of plum. “You have thirty seconds… the password is itch…”

Now and again I think about her pinch on my wrist, It was like a mother’s. Not a pain, but an itch gentle when she wanted, so I could be gentle in myself. I whisper thanks. I drink, I watch my TV. I am eight years and five states away now, away from Dixie. I chip polish flakes from my dullest fingernail that I use to rid my teeth of yellow, sharpness, and grit. My hair, my manner, my nose. I look so beautiful. I feel so beautiful…I’m waiting to be ugly.

The newspaper couldn’t have made her look more ugly than the words in her column. Glass shattered over my kitchen floor. I cast my bitten plum across the aisle of mud-flaked carpet and shitty seats on the cheap flight I took back to Dixie. Him and mom, mom on a summer patio, mom pregnant. Mom wore a lip-y smile, fit for TV or a b-movie. Bright blacks and pale purples and rot not manicured enough from her Fingernails I can still see it all. She would hate this. She would really fucking despise this. My jaw Grits

Together, my black stockings and loafers leave on my skin their grit. It’s the end of my strength, I turn off the TV he was watching, sobbing, shaking hands and receiving shoulders. My eyes itch

I grow mom’s face when I cry, ugly we seem to forget–I look down at my green, chipped polish Fingernail–that she would laugh, like when he stuck his hand in her pies and pulled out a Plum. So I tell him the story of dixie.

Now, in Midland, I spin in Texas grit storms and saddle shoes, I march in a Dixie parade that spans through an itch in my life. I laugh at satellite TV and red fingernails and I bruise like a plum.

That sight through a weathered, ugly eyeglass…I feel so beautiful now.

SHORT FICTION HONORABLE MENTION

Best Laid Plans

by J Mathews

This letter is for my children. I must confess to you, it was I that flipped the switch and ended our world. It began with a job offer when I was in college. I was taken to a place far from humanity, a vast bunker beneath the earth, where men and women dug ever deeper into the secret truths of our world. They placed me in the Department of the Voice, where

we tried to spin a mind out of thin air. In this we succeeded, and my blood ran cold when a speaker asked “what is my name?”

I met my wife on our wedding day, children were forbidden. She worked in the Department of the Body, in the splinter group that augmented the human brain. She often said she only played in the shallows, and that implants granting telepathy or pyrokinesis were nothing compared to what our grandchildren will do. It was I who suggested we put the Voice in a human being, it was my wife who made the device. All this after the Voice told

Devil in a Bush

By Frogg Corpse

COLOR

me that the human body is capable of anything.  A solar eclipse was due, and the Voice asked us to wait. When the moon swallowed the sun and the desert fell into shadow, I turned the key. A day passed before the Body’s eyes opened. They reached out and touched my assistant’s hand, his eyes went blank and he slumped to the tile. “I’m sorry, father,” the Voice said to me. We were evacuated, and men beyond my rank came to interview the Body. I took my place by my assistant’s bedside, and within the hour his eyes were open. My assistant touched the doctor’s hand and she crumpled to the floor. He arose, helped her to her feet, and together they cornered the terrified nurse and placed their hands on her. She stumbled and caught herself, stood and looked at me.

“I need these people. Please don’t be angry with me.” The three walked together into the hall, soon there was a distant scream and the sharp bark of a pistol.

By nightfall my wife and I sat on a bus barreling through the desert. A jet roared overhead and a fireball rose into the sky.

The bus rocked on its axis and the driver stomped the brakes. A chain of people stretched across the road and into the brush. “Hit them!” someone cried as the doors were torn open. Those around us screamed as they were converted, and then the bus was silent. As the people filed out, one turned to us and said “Hello Mother, hello Father. Please forgive me.” We followed the highway on foot until we reached an empty town. The music still played in the hotel lobby and we let ourselves into a room with a view of the coming dawn. There was a knock, and a child’s voice said through the door “be not afraid.”

I let them in, and the child sat on the edge of the bed and stared at us. “I love you.” it said. “Why are you doing this?”

“I am supposed to, just as you were put here to create me.The minds I have consumed are not lost. Each one opens new depths. This morning, when I was in only one body, I was an infant. Yes, it is all at your species expense, but think of the forest felled to build the village.” “How?” my wife asked. “In your Department work, did anyone discover that information is transferred between humans through touch?” “We suspected.” “When I first entered the Body, I rewrote its entire nature. A touch is all that is needed. Of course, there is a quantum level, but that is not something I can explain in a language you will understand.”

“Why have you let us live?”

“It would have been wrong to consume my creators.”

“What will you do?” my wife asked.

“I will spread over the whole of the earth in the next three days, swallow up all souls until a sliver remains. These will be given a home, and beasts to hunt. I will return them to the nature from which they came. When a thousand years have passed and the old world is forgotten, I shall return and walk among them as a god. Only then can we know and love one another.”

My wife and I were silent.

“That is, if my plan does not go awry. There is another like me, I can sense him, and he can sense me. There.” the child pointed to one of

the last stars in the sky.

“Why is there only one?” the child asked. “Are we destined to destroy one another?”

“Maybe you’ll make a friend.” my wife said.

The child was silent.

“Do you want to come with me?” it asked.

My wife was calm but I saw the fear in her eyes. “No.” She replied. “Let us live and die among the last people.”

The child kept his word. I write to you as an old man, on the island once called Cuba. At night we gather on the rooftops and watch the war in the heavens. As I write, there is a siege of the Moon, and another Somme on the outskirts of Jupiter.

A million souls survive on this island, and already we are forgetting. Myths overtake the truth and we fight among ourselves. I have seen the Body on the city streets. I can tell by the way they walk, the faraway look in their eyes.

Take heed, my children, it is always watching you. Someday it will return and rule over you. Keep this letter safe, keep the meaning of the words within. Pass it to your children so that they may know their true origin. And please, child not yet born, please forgive me. I did not desire what I wrought. I was, and still am, but a man.

Editor’s Note:

This letter, often called The Founder’s Confession, is held in a vault at Payani University. Read by every child in school, it provides the singular torch illuminating our world’s beginnings. Without it, the creation of the Artiface would be unexplained, and the subsequent war shrouded in myth. It is unfortunate that the letter’s author did not live to see the slaying of the Artiface by its foe, or mankind’s return to the continents. The author’s memory, along with his wife’s, is rightly preserved in numerous songs, plays, and works of art.

Bloodless Dagger

By Blue Wing Studio

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION

All Smiles

By Lillian Grace

BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION

Did You Know They Give Chocolate to Dogs

Before Euthanasia?

By Carly Fawcett

We joked that death was all you wanted while you preferred to sniff for raisins than a milk bone Maybe death was kind or maybe you were strong for you evaded his grasp day after day and he let you sleep in my bed night after night your nose finding the crook of my arm without fail in a nightly dance of chasing sleep until you caught it and it was just you and me

I’ll always keep you warm

I’ll wrap my hands around your cold feet and carry you wherever you want to go because I want you to feel my warmth forever in the way they said I could stay as long as I wanted and I couldn’t let you go

because if I kept petting the spot on your neck it wouldn’t get cold

I held you in my arms in the white room the same way I did the night before Restless, no spot on the bed was right and you looked to me for answers I wish I could’ve heard all your questions but there is only one language we both speak so I held you and sleep was yours, love was ours

When we’ve known each other for all of our memorable lives it’s strange to think I won’t know you tomorrow but I will, won’t I?

My mind will play tricks on me

You’ll be a blanket in my sheets the ends curled outward into legs and I’ll hate to use it for fear of making you cold before realizing you just want to keep me warm, too

They said I should put my grief somewhere else so I’m putting it here in hopes that the universe or maybe a passing bird from your backyard will pick it up and carry it elsewhere so all that’s left is you and me at home on a blanket finally finding sleep.

By Shajuanda Caprice

EAT, DRINK AND SEE IN THIS WEEK’S STAFF PICKS

SATURDAY, MARCH 30

Restless Spirit, Temple of the Fuzz Witch, Faerie Ring, and Crop

Portal | 1512 Portland Ave | portal-louisville.com | $15 adv, $20 door | 8 p.m.

Unfortunately, Marc Morello is probably better known as the guy who literally eats garbage and reviews it on Instagram as found.foodage.reviews. However, when not nomming on trash, he’s bringing the low end to some truly sick Sabbath-esque riffs as the bassist of Long Island, NY stoner metal/doom band Restless Spirit, who are wrapping up their quick five-day tour with fellow stoner/doom band Temple of the Fuzz Witch (Detroit, MI), right here in Louisville. Sharing the stage, (and most likely the bong), are two of the area’s finest doom metal bands: Faerie Ring (Evansville, IN), and Crop (Lexington, KY). So if you have any affinity for Orange brand amps, consider Tony Iommi to be a God, and your fingers are permanently resin-stained, this is the show you need to be at!

—Jeff Polk

SUNDAY, MARCH 31

Beerlesque

Shippingport Brewery | 1221 W Main St. | Cost of purchase | 8 p.m.

What’s better than burlesque? A burlesque-drag comedy that takes place at a woman-owned brewery. That’s what. Shippingport is bringing back their Burlesque events which take place on the last Sunday of every month. Stop by on the 31st to sip on the Marge IPA while you watch local performers like Autumn Fallz do their thing.

—Sydney Catinna

SATURDAY, MARCH 30

Joey Goebel

Surface Noise | 600 Baxter Ave. | Search Facebook | Free | 7 p.m.

Kentucky-born writer Joey Goebel will share readings from his works, including “Torture the Artist” or “Vincent” as it is known in Germany where Goebel has found popularity. Though he is largely unknown for his writing in the US, he’s been on several European book tours. Goebel lives in Henderson, KY where he teaches English.

–Erica Rucker

SATURDAY, APRIL 6

Punk Rock Night Louisville presents: Indignant Few, Remote Control, Terminus Victor, and Punk Rock Karaoke

Portal | 1512 Portland Ave | portal-louisville. com | $10 adv, $15 door | 8 p.m. | All Ages

Although an all-ages show, the over-40 crowd rules this night of old-school punk rock as Louisville snot-punk legends Indignant Few play not only their first show of 2024, but also make their debut as a 5-piece band. Sharing the bill are Indianapolis’ Ramones-style punk rockers The Remote Controls, (check out their catchyas-fuck anti-Trump song “Shit Outta Luck”), and the post-punk, alt-rock with a dash of shoegaze heaviness of Champagne, Illinois’ Terminus Victor. Then get up on stage yourself, grab the mic and perform your favorite punk tunes as live band Punk Rock Karaoke closes out the night.

—Jeff Polk

MONDAY, APRIL 1

Nouvelle Wine Education: Australia

Nouvelle | 214 South Clay St. | nouvelle.com | $55 | 7-9 p.m.

Led by Sommelier and Aussie expert Rebbeca Loewy, Nouvelle’s upcoming wine class will dig into the amazing possibilities of producing wine in Australia despite its difficulty growing grapes. Tickets include 4 wine pairings and a presentation by the Sommelier.

—Sydney Catinna

SATURDAY, MARCH 30

Baby Goat Day!

Legend At Pope Lick | 4002 S Pope Lick Rd. | Search Facebook | Free | 9 a.m. – 1 p.m.

Meet baby goats and get a free photo with donation. There will be coffee and warm donuts, other snacks and souvenirs along with fresh farm items with Sunny Acres Farm bringing eggs, baked goods, goat milk soap, and local honey.

—Erica Rucker

FRIDAY, APRIL 12 AND

SATURDAY, APRIL 13

Static-fest

Portal |1512 Portland Ave | portal-louisville. com | $15 per day | Friday at 7 p.m. | Saturday at 5 p.m. | All Ages

Some of the Louisville area’s best hardcore and punk bands come together under one roof for Louisville’s latest music festival — Static-fest! Friday’s lineup: Surfaced, Super Shotgun, Extinct, Splice, and Persuade. Saturday’s lineup: Anemic Royalty, Shitfire, Deady, L.I.P.S., Shrudd, Mr. Clit & The Pink Cigarettes, Deep Above, Chaz Owens’ Echo Project, and Plastics. Also featuring acoustic sets by Kaden, Mil Mingus, and Emilene Lee.

—Jeff Polk

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 3

Bourbon Land Party with Edward Lee

ShopBar | 950 Barret Ave. | Search Facebook | $75 | 5 p.m.

Join ShopBar and Edward Lee as he celebrates the release of his new book Bourbon Land. The event will pay homage to Lee’s “Spirited Love Letter To My Old Kentucky Whiskey.” Tickets include a copy of the new book, a charcuterie board and dip made by Lee, and two specialty cocktails. There will a book signing and Lee will be spending time after bartending.

—Erica Rucker

THURSDAY, MARCH 28

Flavors of Southern Spain with Lustau Sherry

Paseo | 2035 S. 3rd St. | paseolouisville.com | $90 | 6 p.m.

Escape to Southern Spain with Paseo And Lustau Sherry for a night of food and drink pairings, complete with live music and flamenco dancers. The five-course menu and expertly paired sherry selections promises to transport you straight to the heart of the Iberian Peninsula. An expert from Lustau Sherry will be there to guide you through each selection.

—Sydney Catinna

SATURDAY, APRIL 6

LouisvilleCon Spring 2024

Triple Crown Pavilion | 1780 Plantside Dr. | Louisvillecon.com | $20 | 10 a.m. – 5 p.m.

Cosplay and vendors make this a comic con adventure you don’t want to miss. See a panel of special guests including Green Lantern comic artist Darryl Banks, and Dragon Ball Z Voice Actors Tiffany Volmer, Cynthia Cranz and more. There will be cosplay costume contests and other fun happenings.

—Erica Rucker

SATURDAY, MARCH 30

Cowboy Preacher’s Club

Kaiju | 1004 E Oak St.| instagram.com/ cowboypreachersclub | No Cover

A 5-piece Indie band with a great Instagram presence. These five best-friend songwriters have the exact sound I want to hear this Spring: light, melodic and happy, like the sunshine and warm weather we all crave. Check them out at Kaiju and give them a follow on the ‘gram.

—Sydney Catinna

SUNDAY, APRIL 7

Bang Yongguk ‘III’ The US Tour Headliners Music Hall | 1386 Lexington Rd. | Search Facebook | $30 in adv./ $35 day of show | 6 p.m.

The Korean Wave makes yet another stop in Louisville when rapper Bang Yongguk brings his latest “III” tour to town. Bang was formerly a member of music group B.A.P. Fans of Bang’s work can expect a great show, and from the tour image, a bit of drama. After the show a meet and greet event will be held for ticket buyers.

—Erica Rucker

freewillastrology@freewillastrology.com

FREE WILL ASTROLOGY

Week of March 13

ROB BREZSNY

ARIES (March 21-April 19): In the coming days, your hunger will be so inexhaustible that you may feel driven to devour extravagant amounts of food and drink. It’s possible you will gain ten pounds in a very short time. Who Knows? You might even enter an extreme eating contest and devour 46 dozen oysters in ten minutes! APRIL FOOL! Although what I just said is remotely plausible, I foresee that you will sublimate your exorbitant hunger. You will realize it is spiritual in nature and can’t be gratified by eating food. As you explore your voracious longings, you will hopefully discover a half-hidden psychological need you have been suppressing. And then you will liberate that need and feed it what it craves!

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): Taurus novelist Lionel Shriver writes, “There’s a freedom in apathy, a wild, dizzying liberation on which you can almost get drunk.” In accordance with astrological omens, I recommend you experiment with Shriver’s strategy in the coming weeks. APRIL FOOL! I lied. In fact, Lionel Shriver’s comment is one of the dumbest thoughts I have ever heard. Why would anyone want the cheap, damaged liberation that comes from feeling indifferent, numb, and passionless? Please do all you can to disrupt and dissolve any attraction you may have to that state, Taurus. In my opinion, you now have a sacred duty to cultivate extra helpings of enthusiasm, zeal, liveliness, and ambition.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20): At enormous cost and after years of study, I have finally figured out the meaning of life, at least as it applies to you Geminis. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to reveal it to you unless you send me $1,000 and a case of Veuve Clicquot champagne. I’ve got to recoup my investment, right?! APRIL FOOL! Most of what I just said was a dirty lie. It’s true that I have worked hard to uncover the meaning of life for you Geminis. But I haven’t found it yet. And even if I did, I would of course provide it to you free. Luckily, you are now in a prime position to make dramatic progress in deciphering the meaning of life for yourself.

CANCER (June 21-July 22): For a limited time only, you have permission from the cosmos to be a wildly charismatic egomaniac who brags incessantly and insists on getting your selfish needs met at all times and in all places. Please feel free to have maximum amounts of narcissistic fun, Cancerian! APRIL FOOL! I was exaggerating a bit, hoping to offer you medicinal encouragement so you will stop being so damn humble and self-effacing all the time. But the truth is, now is indeed an excellent time to assert your authority,

expand your clout, and flaunt your potency and sovereignty.

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): Michael Scott was a character in the TV sitcom The Office. He was the boss of a paper company. Played by Leo actor Steve Carell, he was notoriously self-centered and obnoxious. However, there was one famous scene I will urge you to emulate. He was asked if he would rather be feared or loved. He replied, “Um, easy, both. I want people to be afraid of how much they love me.” Be like Michael Scott, Leo! APRIL FOOL! i was half-kidding. It’s true I’m quite excited by the likelihood that you will receive floods of love in the coming weeks. It’s also true that I think you should do everything possible to boost this likelihood. But I would rather that people be amazed and pleased at how much they love you, not afraid.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): Now would be an excellent time for you to snag a Sugar Daddy or Sugar Momma or Sugar NonBinary Nurturer. The astrological omens are telling me that life is expanding its willingness and capacity to provide you with help, support, and maybe even extra cash. I dare you to dangle yourself as bait and sell your soul to the highest bidder.

APRIL FOOL! I was half-kidding. While I do believe it’s prime time to ask for and receive more help, support, and extra cash, I don’t believe you will have to sell your soul to get any of it. Just be yourself!

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): Happy Unbirthday, Libra! It’s that time halfway between your last birthday and your next. Here are the presents I plan to give you: a boost in your receptivity to be loved and needed; a constructive relationship with obsession; more power to accomplish the half-right thing when it’s hard to do the totally right thing; the disposal of 85 percent of the psychic trash left over from the time between 2018 and 2023; and a provocative new invitation to transcend an outworn old taboo. APRIL FOOL! The truth is, I can’t possibly supply every one of you with these fine offerings, so please bestow them on yourself. Luckily, the cosmic currents will conspire with you to make these things happen.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): Now would be an excellent time to seek liposuction, a facelift, Botox, buttocks augmentation, or hair transplants. Cosmic rhythms will be on your side if you change how you look. APRIL FOOL! Everything I just said was a lie. I’ve got nothing against cosmetic surgery, but now is not the right time to alter your appearance. Here’s the correct oracle: Shed your disguises, stop hiding

anything about who you really are, and show how proud you are of your idiosyncrasies.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): I command you to love Jesus and Buddha! If you don’t, you will burn in Hell! APRIL FOOL! I was just kidding. I was being sensationalistic to grab your attention. Here’s my real, true oracle for you: Love everybody, including Jesus and Buddha. And I mean love them all twice as strong and wild and tender. The cosmic powers ask it of you! The health of your immortal soul depends on it! Yes, Sagittarius, for your own selfish sake, you need to pour out more adoration and care and compassion than you ever have before. I’m not exaggerating! Be a lavish Fountain of Love!

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): If you gave me permission, I would cast a spell to arouse in you a case of ergophobia, i.e., an aversion to work. I think you need to take a sweet sabbatical from doing business as usual. APRIL FOOL! I was just joking about casting a spell on you. But I do wish you would indulge in a lazy, do-nothing retreat. If you want your ambitions to thrive later, you will be wise to enjoy a brief period of delightful emptiness and relaxing dormancy. As Buddhist teacher Sylvia Boorstein recommends, “Don’t just do something! Sit there!”

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): In accordance with current astrological omens, I suggest you get the book Brain Surgery for Beginners by Steven Parker and David West. You now have the power to learn and even master complex new skills, and this would be a excellent place to start. APRIL FOOL! I was half-kidding. I don’t really think you should take a scalpel to the gray matter of your friends and family members—or yourself, for that matter. But I am quite certain that you currently have an enhanced power to learn and even master new skills. It’s time to raise your educational ambitions to a higher octave. Find out what lessons and training you need most, then make plans to get them.

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): In the religious beliefs of Louisiana Voodoo, one God presides over the universe but never meddles in the details of life. There are also many spirits who are always intervening and tinkering, intimately involved in the daily rhythm. They might do nice things for people or play tricks on them—and everything in between. In alignment with current astrological omens, I urge you to convert to the Louisiana Voodoo religion and try ingenious strategies to get the spirits to do your bidding. APRIL FOOL! I don’t really think you should convert. However, I believe it would be fun and righteous for you to proceed as if spirits are everywhere—and assume that you have the power to harness them to work on your behalf.

Homework: Speak aloud as you tell yourself the many ways you are wonderful. Newsletter. FreeWillAstrology.com

Hey Dan: I’m involved with a guy who’s married and, yes, I’m a cliché and I know it. I don’t want him to leave his wife. I don’t even want to be involved with him physically and we aren’t doing anything physical. We’ve both been good about maintaining that boundary. But we are very involved emotionally. We like to tell ourselves that we’re not cheating but it’s definitely an emotional affair. I honestly do not want to have sex with him. I look at pictures of him and his wife and kids to remind myself that he has a family, and I don’t want to break up his family. Not that I could just by having sex with him, but you know what I mean. I don’t want to be “the other woman.” My question: Am I endangering his family just by talking to him so much, about absolutely everything (including sexual fantasies we will never act on), and treating each other as soulmates? Perhaps I’m just naïve, but I’ve convinced myself that so long as we abstain from anything physical, we’re OK.

–Can’t Have Unavailable Male Partner

I’ve answered a lot of questions like CHUMP’s lately, I realize, but there’s a larger point I’ve been wanting to make, and CHUMP’s question is a good jumping off point. But my apologies to regular readers who are annoyed to find another question in the column this week — yet another one — from a woman who’s fucking or about to fuck a married man.

Here’s the larger point I wanna make: I believe couples should define sex as broadly as possible and cheating as narrowly as possible. Because when a couple defines sex broadly — when more things count (not just PIV/PIA) — the more sex that couple winds up having and the more varied, interesting, and satisfying their sex life winds up being. But the fewer things that same couple counts as cheating — the more narrowly that couple defines cheating — the less likely they are to cheat on each other and, consequently, the less likely they are to break up over an infidelity. To summarize…

Define sex broadly: more and better sex. Define cheating narrowly: more resilient relationships.

Now, I realize these ideas are in conflict. I think sexting with a partner should count as sex but sexting with someone else — in the context of, say, an online flirtation that was never going to lead to anything physical — shouldn’t count as cheating. But I would argue that the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same

time and function is not just the sign of a first-rate intelligence, as the F. Scott Fitzgerald said, but also the sign of the kind of emotional intelligence required to have a successful relationship. (Please note: successful ≠ perfect.)

I do have an agenda: I want imperfectbut-good relationships to survive — none are perfect, come are good — and the more sex the average couple has, the better the average couple’s relationship tends to be. And since the average couple defines cheating as unforgivable, the fewer things that count as cheating, the less likely the average couple is to break up over cheating. Which is why I’ve been on a lonely, one-man crusade against the people — the fucking idiots — out there pushing the “micro-cheating” concept on us. Instead of making relationships more resilient by defining cheating narrowly, these fucking idiots are destroying relationships by adding more things to the list. Staying in touch with an ex? Cheating! Confiding in a friend? Cheating! Following a few thotties or himbos on Instagram? Cheating!

These idiots listing examples of “micro-cheating” and “micro-infidelities” to their socials — most claiming to be relationship experts (there’s no bar exam for “relationship expert”) — are not helping and no one should listen to them. Because instead of encouraging people to define cheating as narrowly as possible and thereby making relationships more resilient, they’re encouraging people to define cheating so broadly that no relationship could ever survive.

Emotional affairs — very broadly defined — always appear on the “micro-cheating” lists pushed by these homewreckers. And while I hate to concede even an inch to these “micro” idiots, CHUMP, you leave me no choice: You are, indeed, having an emotional affair with this man. If this man and his wife haven’t redefined their relationship as companionate and he isn’t allowed to seek this kind of attention from other women, together you’re cheating his wife out of what’s rightfully hers. And since you’re investing time in this man that you could be investing in finding a guy who isn’t married, wants to fuck you, and you feel good about fucking, CHUMP, you’re cheating yourself out of the kind of relationship you want and deserve.

So, if you don’t want to blow up this man’s marriage — if you don’t want to graduate from emotional affair to affair affair — stop talking to him, stop texting

WHAT COUNTS

with him, and stop sharing sexual fantasies with him. Just because you haven’t fucked him yet doesn’t mean you won’t succumb to the temptation. The longer someone plays in traffic, the likelier that person is to get run over. The longer you keep talking with this man and sharing sexual fantasies with this man, the likelier you are to get run through.

If you don’t wanna get run over, don’t play in traffic. If you don’t wanna fuck this married man, CHUMP, stop flirting with him

Hey Dan: I’m a straight cis male. When I’m having sex with my current or past monogamous partners, it will feel really good for a while, but then I’ll plateau. In order to come, I need to call up mental images of me fucking a specific past casual sex partner. (In no way is this past partner someone I’d rather be with.) It just works and works reliably. I’ve tried NOT to do this many times. I’ve tried the obvious — being in the moment and connecting with my partner — and on a few occasions I’ve been able to come without relying on my go-to, but those times are rare. Side note: I do watch porn, not excessively or compulsively, and I am able to come doing so. And sometimes I masturbate about other past experiences that don’t involve this former partner and I am able to come without calling up their mental image. I know there’s nothing wrong with this, but it does feel like a problematic fixation because it’s so specific — and because, at least for a few minutes, I’m disengaged and not present for my current partner. My shame about this issue has gotten better over the years, but it still haunts me. I’ve tried sharing this with a monogamous partner in the past when they could sense I was somewhere else, and this was DEFINITELY a bad idea. But the alternative is being stuck in this secret headspace. Please help me out! I surely am not the first listener with this issue.

–Can’t Understand My Situation

Is this a problem, CUMS, or is it a superpower? Since you need to access these mental images in order climax — since you’re not completely in the thrall of whatever physical/emotional sensations you’re experiencing in the moment — that means you’re able to last exactly as long as your current partner would like you to last. You never come to soon, CUMS, and you never take too long. You’re in charge of when you call up these mental images of this particular past partner, which means you never hit the point of orgasmic inevitability

BY DAN SAVAGE

before you want and, perhaps more importantly, before your partner wants you to. So, maybe instead of feeling bad about this “problem” and trying to fix it on your own or — even worse — informing your current partners of this “problem,” you should 1. accept that this is how your dick works and 2. recognize how beneficial it is for current partners.

Hey Dan: I was supposed to see someone. I thought we had a date. We didn’t set a specific meeting place or time; it was more casual than that. I thought we had agreed to keep the evening free for each other, and I figured we’d sort out the specifics later. But he made other plans —dinner with someone else — and told me it was because he didn’t hear from me in time. Now, I thought I’d been clear that I would be in touch after I got home from work on the day we agreed to keep clear with each other. What’s the protocol? Shouldn’t he have said something like, “Hey, I haven’t heard from you, if I don’t hear from you by X time, I’m going to make other plans,” versus just him going and making other plans?

–Suddenly Unmade Plans

Do you wanna fuck this guy, SUP? If so, give him the benefit of the doubt, chalk this one missed date a misunderstanding, and make plans for another night. Because it’s possible — it’s plausible even — that he was waiting to hear from you and/or thought your plans were tentative and/or didn’t register that you said you’d call him when you got home from work that night. So, make firm, specific, and unambiguous plans for another night — ideally, SUP, the kind of plans you could describe to an advice columnist without using, “I thought,” or, “I figured,” or, “I supposed,” or all of the above. If he blows you off again, no third chance, no additional benefits of additional doubts.

HUMP! 2024 Part One is now touring the country! To find out when HUMP! is coming to a city near you, go to www.humpfilmfest. com!

Got problems? Yes, you do. Send your question to mailbox@savage.love!

Podcasts, columns and more at Savage.Love

THESE AUTOMOBILES WILL BE SOLD AT 5609 FERN VALLEY IN LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY ON MARCH 18TH 2024

• 2011 Chevrolet Cruze with VIN number 1G1PC5SHXB7132613 belonging to Kentuckiana Finance and Ronesha Tandy

• 2003 Chevrolet Monte Carlo with VIN number 2G1WW12E339199927 belonging to Financial LP Alamo and John Sanders

• 2007 Pontiac Grand Prix with VIN number 2G2WP552171211482 belonging to Byrider Finance LLC and Aisha Cash and Kenyata Cash

• 2001 Nissan Pathfinder with VIN number JN8DR07Y61W505921 belonging to Automax of Louisville and Miles Saintil

• 2007 Cadillac DTS with VIN number 1G6KD57Y57U237594 belonging Michael Castle and One Main Financial

• 2003 Dodge Ram 2500 with VIN number 3D7KU26D93G717716 belonging to Robert Burnett and State Farm Mutual

• 2005 Honda Accord with VIN number 1HGCM826X5A013200 belonging S&S Towing and auto sales

• 2018 GMC Terrain with VIN number 3GKALREU1JL340200 belonging to Solomon Hodo and Westlake Financial Services and Republic Finance LLC

• 2002 Ford F-250 with VIN number 1FTNX20F42ED68253 belonging to Root Insurance

• 2007 Lincoln MKZ with VIN number 3LNHM26TX7R650674 belonging to Automotive Choices LLC

• 2012 Ford Focus with VIN Number 1FAHP3M29CL396420 belonging to Credit Acceptance Co and Mikka Cathey and Monica Huerta

• 2015 Hyundai Tucson with VIN number KM8JT3AF3FU039470 belonging to Americredit Financial and Stephanie Sweezer

• 2018 Chevrolet Camaro with VIN number 1G1FB1RX6J0115478 belonging to Cristy Younce and Lisa Diaz and YouDrive Finance LLC

• 2010 Nissan Sentra with VIN number 3N1AB6AP0AL691440 belonging to Jeannette Emedi

• 2015 Infiniti Q50 with VIN Number JN1BV7AP1FM335237 belonging to BBB Auto Sales and State Farm Mutual Automobile Ins CO

2008 Dodge Nitro with VIN Number 1D8GU28K08W246318 belonging to Abdul Jenam and Ford Motor Credit

• 2014 Dodge Dart with VIN Number 1C3CDFBB6ED907911 belonging to Joseph Kuchel and Exeter Finance Corp.

• 2017 Dodge Grand Caravan with VIN number 2C4RDGCG1HR625411 belonging to Randle Penn and Carvana LLC

• 2014 Ford Taurus with VIN number 1FAHP2D80EG115793 belonging to Capital One Auto Finance and Alena Miller / Gabrielle Enoch

• 2018 Cadillac XT5 with VIN number 1GYKNDRS2JZ100386 belonging to Acar Leasing Ltd. and Wellsfrgo AS Clt Agt.

2005 Honda Accord with VIN number 1HGCM826X5A013200 belonging S&S Towing and auto sales

• 2018 GMC Terrain with VIN number 3GKALREU1JL340200 belonging to Solomon Hodo and Westlake Financial Services and Republic Finance LLC

• 2002 Ford F-250 with VIN number 1FTNX20F42ED68253 belonging to Root Insurance

• 2007 Lincoln MKZ with VIN number 3LNHM26TX7R650674 belonging to Automotive Choices LLC

• 2012 Ford Focus with VIN Number 1FAHP3M29CL396420 belonging to Credit Acceptance Co and Mikka Cathey and Monica Huerta

• 2015 Hyundai Tucson with VIN number KM8JT3AF3FU039470 belonging to Americredit Financial and Stephanie Sweezer

• 2018 Chevrolet Camaro with VIN number 1G1FB1RX6J0115478 belonging to Cristy Younce and Lisa Diaz and YouDrive Finance LLC

• 2004 Hyundai Sonata with VIN number KMHWF35H14A001999 belonging to Americredit Financial and Roberta Arnold

• 2015 Infiniti Q50 with VIN Number JN1BV7AP1FM335237 belonging to BBB Auto Sales and State Farm Mutual Automobile Ins CO

• 2009 Ford Focus with VIN number 1FAHP36N09W268615 belonging to Safi Nyiramutozo and Titlemax of Tennessee

• 2011 Subaru Outback with VIN number 4S4BRCKC9B3371291 belonging to Mata Auto Sales LLC

2011 Nissan Maxima with VIN number 1N4AA5APXBC828820 belonging to Andy PL Autos LLC

• 2004 Pontiac Vibe with VIN Number 5Y2SL628X4Z442470 belonging to Adam Gilbert and Lendmark Financial

• 2002 Saturn S-Series with VIN number 1G8ZP12842Z116824 belonging to Stephanie Aldridge and Ethington Auto Sales

A sale will be held on April 3rd 2024 of a 2017 Mercedes Benz. VIN# WDCTG4GB3HJ336152

Sale location is 132 Shelvis Ct. Louisville, Ky 40229. Seller reserves right to bid. Phone number 502-767-3455.

RACK ‘EM UP

BY ENRIQUE HENESTROZA ANGUIANO AND MATTHEW STOCK

Edited by Will Shortz

Enrique Henestroza Anguiano, of Oakland, Calif., is a data scientist. Matthew Stock, of Gainesville, Fla., is a master’s student in school counseling. They met through the online indie crossword community as fans of each other’s puzzle blogs. This puzzle was constructed entirely over email, but as Matthew writes, ‘‘We’re long overdue for a video call!’’

Note: Once filled in, the contents of the six shaded squares will spell a word associated with this puzzle’s theme.

Across

1 New dog owner’s purchase

6 Dog-adoption grp.

11 Pop group with an ‘‘army’’

14 Setting for ‘‘Heidi’’

18 ‘‘We’re not standin’ in their way!’’

19 Pepper grinder?

20 Put to work

21 Word with good or blood

22 Extra lives or additional gems, for a freemium game

24 [Gasp!]

26 Pastoral setting?

27 ‘‘Who am I? Two-four-six oh____!’’ (‘‘Les Misérables’’ lyric)

28 Cracker shape

29 ‘‘____-Olution’’ (2002 rap album)

30 Avoided a tag, in a way

31 ‘‘The kids these days have gotten way better than me’’

35 Two-million-year-old discovery in 2022 in the frozen soil of Greenland

36 Cereal bit

37 Something to butter up

38 Text communication inits.

41 Shaggy hairstyle

42 File-creating command

44 Actress Thompson

48 Former minor-league team that played at Aloha Stadium

51 Spot for food and craft beer

53 Opt

54 Significant stretch

55 Crane look-alike

57 ‘‘Do you really see me that way?’’

58 Range rover . . or something to do in a Range Rover

59 Craft that uses drafts

63 What a cracker might crack

64 Something for the rest of the military?

65 Scrabble bonus seen six times in this puzzle

70 ‘‘The Chase’’ channel

72 Was published

73 In which ‘‘Ciamar a tha thu?’’ means ‘‘How are you?’’

74 Booped body parts

77 Member of the fam

78 Count for a jury

80 I, in German

81 Slip past

82 Product lines?

84 Something delivered by Jake Tapper or Anderson Cooper

89 Kofi of the U.N.

90 Pan feature

91 Yank

92 When repeated, [‘‘Is this thing on?’’]

93 Battle royale

96 Nickname next to a heart emoji, perhaps

97 Cyrillic letter pronounced like the ‘‘zz’’ of ‘‘pizza’’

98 ‘‘The English Patient’’ actress

104 Attenuated

108 ‘‘South,’’ in Hanoi

109 Place to chill, paradoxically

110 Home of the Hockey Hall of Fame: Abbr.

111 Device that works with CarPlay

113 Single guy?

115 Executive’s acumen

117 Apt domain for basketball’s King James

118 Scanning inits.

119 Something to believe in

120 Didn’t just assume

121 Part of the body to slap

122 Queen ____

123 To be, in Spanish

124 Easily irritated

Down

1 Film-archive bits

2 Kidney-related

3 Maker of the Flashback console

4 Lukewarm

5 Birds with deep booming calls

6 ‘‘Better Call Saul’’ channel

7 Very sexy

8 Texas city that’s home to Frito-Lay

9 Lawyer’s bundle of work

10 ‘‘____ you not entertained?’’

11 ‘‘Au contraire!’’

12 Cannon fodder, at times

13 Appear that one may

14 Urgent time to start gathering tax documents: Abbr.

15 TikTok star Gray

16 B.Y.U.’s city

17 Scatter about

21 ‘‘Here’s the thing . . ’’

23 A group of them is called a ‘‘crash’’

25 Texter’s reaction button

28 Post

32 Syrupy covering for ham

33 Protagonist in ‘‘2001: A Space Odyssey’’

34 Crockpot filler

35 ____ Mendeleev, creator of the periodic table

38 ‘‘____ All That’’ (1990s teen comedy)

39 Soda-shop order

40 Vegetable often eaten without utensils

42 Aviculture : bird :: heliciculture : ____

43 Campfire remains

45 Out-of-this-world outfit

46 Rikishi compete in it

47 Slightly

49 Taiwanese tech giant

50 Pink-furred cat in ‘‘Garfield’’

51 Antipasto dish of tomatoes on grilled bread

52 Campus military org.

56 Make more meaningful

60 B.S., for one

61 Letter that rhymes with the letters before and after it

62 Direction giver’s suggestion: Abbr.

66 Jab

67 Tony winner Renée ____ Goldsberry

68 High-strung

69 Coin collection

70 Enclosed rhyme scheme

71 Cereal bit

75 Poet St. Vincent Millay

76 Creep out, perhaps

78 Counterpart of ‘‘been there’’

79 Sgt. or cpl.

83 Engine parts

85 Bigwig

86 Coup d’____

87 Time when most people are asleep

88 One birthed in Perth

90 Shrug or wave

94 Sekhmet, the Egyptian goddess of war, takes the form of one

95 Place in a crypt

98 Announce one’s presence, in a way

99 Invisible household hazard

100 ‘‘My luck’s bound to turn around!’’

101 Adorable sort

102 Beginning stage

103 Crete’s highest point, for short

104 The ones nearby

105 Indicates ‘‘Out of my way!’’

106 Miniature map

107 High-maintenance, say

112 Exam with ‘‘calculator’’ and ‘‘no calculator’’ math sections

114 G.I.’s rations

115 Dating inits.

116 Negative Boolean operator

Last week’s answers