Sean Hnedak Papers
1 First things first,
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Thank you to Mr. Gaughen for trusting us even when we had no idea what we were doing (which was most of the time), for conveniently collecting old maps, and for teaching Crystal that Jeff Tweedy is old (44). Thank you to Daniel Metz for that one really sweet poster. Thank you to Andy Rusinek for the words Latitude and Longitude that made this whole thing feel vaguely real and to Sander Dufour for a perfect pie-crust cover when we couldn’t articulate what we wanted.
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We have never before and will never again be editors of Litmag. It’s not because we didn’t love the experience (we did), it’s just that we’re graduating. And it’s time to move on. Which is why our coordinates theme was such a natural concept to attach to this project. Sometimes the best way to appreciate where we are is to look back at where we’ve been and to imagine how it will look where we’re headed. To make this Litmag what it is, we used dizzying world atlases, maps of cities we’ve never been to, and travel scraps we’ve been fortunate enough to accumulate over time. We appreciate every bit of artwork we received, and feel that those we selected most cohesively communicate the journeys all of us are likely to take at some point and the things we will encounter along the way.
Jack Kahn Beauty’sGotaBody nd[sic] guessWHAT?she’sTopless
Autobiography
Thomas Tealscarf
[Untitled] Sean Hnedak
Comic Club Kira’s Adventure
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Sunset Katrina Gaines-Spears
Start with a question. Why are we the way we are, where we are, when we are? If you figure out an answer, get back to us. But really, don’t be so quick to look for an answer. That’s not what it’s about. Wander. See where you end up, and maybe create something to express the voyage. With that we invite you to explore the world, and the moment, and your minds, through the artwork and creative writing we’ve humbly collected. “Anyone got a castle they’re not using in September?” (@alecbaldwin, 12:14 PM - 19 Apr 12) - Dani Shapiro and Crystal Long
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The Old, The Wise Emily Laliotis
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2 threeroads converge,
and i Stephanie Guo
Photo Collection Jessica Mersten
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Anonymous Untitled 2 Catherine Sinnow Untitled
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Andy Rusinek and Sander Dufour
Adelyn Chan Late Arrival
The Bear Who Didn’t Care about His Hair [Untitled pieces] Juliana Welch
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Cathy Kang Celadon, Penumbra
Brandon Kirshner 2011-2012 Slang in Review
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Tin Tune Jessica Mersten
13 [Untitled] Naomi Stapleton
Zenteno [Untitled pieces]
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18Mariana
Heartbeats of a Child Claudia See
Bonanza57 Hunter Peterson
Naomi Stapleton [Untitled]
Elijah Granet The Land of Britannia
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[Untitled] Shane Moylan
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Birdcage Sean Hnedak
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Prose Juliana Welch
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Self Portrait Sander Dufour
Papers By Sean Hnedak
I. Runaway I hate the technical terms. I don’t care how many Degrees I’ve turned southeast (odometer reads: crazy)
three roads converge, and i By Stephanie Guo
since I left, even if going a few miles north Will land me into the sea. (Although For the sake of my car, I should probably Listen to the GPS once in a while.) Seagulls Waft overhead, winging past In ways I always told myself I could But never did.
II. Cartographer I watch as my cat Fumbles for the light, Wonder if anyone will notice If I make terra australis incognita A little bigger in the northeast, blot Ink over the ridges of the paper, crumble It up again, light a new candle, let the pen fall from my fingers. These lines: tangible, easily traceable.
III. ? Borders: I don’t understand them. Surely We can transcend dotted lines and terrain And mountains and no sea – see – Can hold us back. Some days we dive into Deep, others we climb gradually To remark upon the subtle nuance Of a passing hill, crevice, plateau. What we scale is no mere summit, What we sink is no mere valley.
Photo collection By Jessica Mersten
[untitled] By Catherine Sinow Parked on the puke-pattened library couches She sits across from me Right hand alternates homework and Android Left fidgets Lexus keys I want to reach out and talk about weather Or current events for a while But the table between our facing couches Is the length of a million miles I want to learn the patchwork persona That matches her pink thrift sweater But she fills her bag and leaves the couch To partake in something better
Untitled 2 By Anonymous Pressing against the floor, my lower back arches, my breathing deepens. The hard wood floor is cold. My hair flows to the side of my face and clings to my cheek. Its layered pieces scatter themselves around my head. The floor breathes against my neck and the goose bumps appear. My fingers explore the scratches and marks that shape its character. My heels sink into the wood; the padding of calloused skin defends so well. The loud music blankets me and pushes down on my eyelids. The vibrations it causes ripple through the floor at a continuous beat. The music is like a forgotten memory and all that is left is the pounding, endlessly folding me in its movements and driving my body closer to the floor. My body stiffens. It is dirty, it is scratched, and it is harsh. It is pain, disappointment, and embarrassment. It forces my body to crumble and my confidence to slip away in one, small crashing moment. So many times it had grasped me, throwing my eyes to stare at its glossy face. So many times I asked it to be my friend, to help me, to support me. So many times it ignored me, needing a sacrifice too great. Trust, it begged. My hands press even further against the hidden lines that rough its face. They are now the wrinkles of an elderly floor that has seen much of everything. The dust that has covered the area of which I lay was no longer visible. The hardness has turned to marble, cold and elegant. A statue that has forced me to become a part of it’s beauty. For the first time, I am not afraid.
“Beauty’sGotaBody nd[sic] guessWHAT?she’sTopless” By Jack Kahn
The Bear Who Didn’t Care about His Hair By Sander Dufour & Andy Rusinek In the woods there’s a bear Who grows out his hair And while others would stare, He didn’t care Then, one day, a hunter entered his lair, Bent on despair “Oh no!” cried the bear, It felt less than fair. He turned to run, but tripped on his hair. The hunter grinned, the beast was caught in a snare. He lifted his gun up in the air, Intent on shooting him dead right there But as he stepped forward, he slipped on a pear, and was absorbed in the endless abyss of hair. It swallowed him whole like meat medium rare, Ripping his limbs, leaving him bare. The hunter was dead, a tragic end to his affairs. In silence, the beast sat still trapped and ensared, When all of a sudden, off jumped his hair! The animal was astonished, “magic!” he declared. And as the mane crawled away, it turned back and stared. “I’ve found a good meal, and have business elsewhere,” It said to the beast, who was naked and bare. And that was the end to this tangled affair, So now the beast knows to always cut his hair.
Late Arrival By Adelyn Chan
Autobiography By Thomas Tealscarf I was born on October 1, 1944. My mother was a sergeant in the army and my father was an unripe plum. Growing up we had little money to spend. We used to beg for trout every evening but no one would ever give us any. After the war there was a terrible trout shortage in all of England. Thank goodness that we lived in Canada where there was plenty of trout. As I grew older, I began to take an interest making sounds with my voice. Not just talking noises, but other more interesting noises as well. I later learned that this was called singing. I devoted every waking hour to mastering the art of the voice song. Both my parents disapproved of this hobby greatly and they took away my vocal chords as a punishment but that didn’t stop me. I sang songs every chance I got. One evening when I was thirteen years of age, I was singing alone to the moon, when I heard a tap on my window sill. Carefully I drew the blinds back and peaked out. A small boy who looked like a pineapple jumped through my open window. He introduced himself as Angelo Turtellini. That is how our great musical partnership known as “The Cactus Teardrops” were born. Angelo would play his tiny accordion and I would sing the first words that came into my head. Here is a small sample of our first song “Oh how I’d love to eat some tasty salmon right now I wish I could catch some but I don’t know how If I had a million dollars I’d buy a million trout Because that is just one little fish I can’t live without” I am sure that you recognize these lyrics from our first single “Salmon Boogie”. This song went to number one in 197 countries and went octuple platinum. This new found fame was very pleasant at first. We were on t.v. shows all around the neighborhood, we got lots of money, and Angelo even got a girlfriend who was a United States senator. The ladies were not interested in me despite my tragic good looks and my angelic voice. I married the first woman who laughed at one of my jokes - Mavis Becaon (the typing lady). That was the biggest mistake of life. Unless she is reading this - then it was a blessing from the gods. The good times did not last for long though. Soon t.v. and radio stations got tired of playing “Salmon Boogie”. My biggest mistake was spending my share of the money on a trout farm on top of Mount Whitney. Instead of selling the salmon for profit I ate them all. I was broke, fat, and salmon-less. However, the months of eating nothing but fish altered my genetic code greatly. My body underwent the painful transformation from man to fish. My one true dream had come true! Although my sweet voice sounded muffled coming out of my gills, I was more confident and in tune than ever. The Cactus Teardrops were reborn and we still tour public libraries and private islands to this day.
By Juliana Welch
By Juliana Welch
By Juliana Welch
Celadon By Cathy Kang I said walk with me, and you took your hand in mine we traveled along the riparian roads, just you and I. I am a child, and you are a child, maybe more so than I; I was gossamer; you were serendipity but we both looked to the sky. where have you tread since you’ve gone? I am— I am— left wanting, left again but my mind was ocean blown ocean swept
Penumbra By Cathy Kang Goodbye!, Goodbye!, says a whisper to the sky and its frost begins to vanish into the smoky air; Oh stay!—, oh stay!— cries the flower to May but the ship has sails and goes on by somewhere too far to touch; Don’t cry, don’t cry, croons the sparrow to the trees for there was a prince of gold and lead because happiness is a dulcet price to pay; Go—, go—, says the lonely lover to the other since love has no place in angular poetry and poetry has no patience for star-eyed love.
2011-2012 Slang in Review By Brandon Kirshner “Flocka” – General phrase of agreement or approval, also shares the name of the rapper Waka Flocka. “Snot” –It’s not “CHYEAH” –Excited agreement or approval. “Cray” –Moderately crazy. “Pile” –The act of lounging around ones domicile or any other location said pileists see fit. “D.I.L.F.” – Dog I’d Like to Find. “Y.O.L.O” –You Outed Lance Only. “Doogle” –Brother or Companion, see also “Dude”. “Cacao” –Stop (verbal command). “Doe” –Though “Chunk” –To vomit. “Swag” –Not to be confused with a persons “swag” or “swagga”, this definition comes from the time filler used liberally anytime anywhere. “Doubtfired” –To Doubtfire is to achieve a goal by dressing in drag. See also “Tootsied” and “Work It.” “Trill” –True AND Real. “Porp Screw” – A fisherman’s term for purple fishing line. “Flash Mob” –An organization of people, usually of Italian-American descent, who collectively expose themselves to unsuspecting mall patrons.
By Sean Hnedak
Kira looked back down the street where she had been running and sighed. “Five silvers...that was a lot of work for just five.” Now that she had time to observe her surroundings, she saw that she was in the poor quarter where the unprosperous would warmly welcome a bit more silver without question. A healer, dedicated for whatever reason to aid the poor, also maintained an apothecary in the area, which Kira depended on for concoctions to keep her mother’s insanity at more manageable levels. Her course of action determined, Kira walked briskly toward the healer’s house, easily blending into the local populace in her worn dress and wearied demeanor. The house itself was in magnificent condition for the area; one look at the full roof of shingles was proof enough. Other nearby houses had only partial roofs in various states of disrepair. Following the healer’s instructions on how to summon him to the door when she needed to buy medical supplies, Kira ignored the knocker on the door in favor of a rope that disappeared into the house. The rope was connected to bells everywhere in the interior so the healer would always know when people in need had come. With no other action immediately available, Kira stepped back to wait with a patience born from watching the daily routines of soon-to-be burglary victims. The door finally opened when Kira started to become impatient, revealing a slightly unkempt man in his forties. Despite the seemingly threadbare condition of his clothing, it was scrupulously clean of even the slightest hint of dust. “You again,” he asked without preamble, “which means you must be looking to buy more soporifics, that’s the sleepy juice, for your mother. Probably some food too, judging from how long it has been since your last food run. Well, it will be five silvers for the whole lot...Don’t make that look at me. A bunch of Draaka just came in and snapped up all the food they could lay their hands on. You won’t get better prices anywhere else without risking your safety.” Any indignation Kira might have felt was replaced by horror at the news of Draaka presence in the city. The reptilian race, each Draaka about one-and-a-half the size of a fullgrown man, claimed Dragon ancestry and established policies draconian enough that many were willing to believe them. Whenever they bothered to meddle in Human affairs, crime rate quickly fell to zero in the face of the Draaka’s peculiar brand of justice. Unlike the corrupt human guardsmen of the city or the fabled courts of law in other countries, Draaka seized the accused and placed a necklace on them, followed by a quick beheading after it was removed. The strange pro-
cession took only a few seconds. Luckily, Draaka only ever seized people caught red-handed in crime so everyone was very wary to stay on the right side of the law when Draaka were around. “All right,” Kira agreed reluctantly, “I’ll take the deal.” The healer nodded and headed inside his house for the desired supplies. A short while later he emerged bearing a small bottle and a rucksack. “Remember, only put a few drops from the bottle in your mother’s food or drink. That will be enough.” Kira accepted both items, then took a quick peek inside the rucksack and let out a small gasp. “Sir? There’s more food than I expected.” “Hmm? Lucky you, scamper off now.” “Thank you!” Kira dashed off, putting the rucksack on her back and holding the precious bottle close to her chest... And slammed into someone. Dazed and on the ground, Kira began apologizing to whomever she had run into when she felt herself lifted from the ground by the rucksack she wore. “Hello girl, I thought I’d find you somewhere here.” Alarm cut off Kira’s thoughts as she recognized the man as the guard from earlier in the afternoon. Kira, finding it hard to breathe from dangling by rucksack, managed to splutter, “Y-you aren’t supposed to be off yet...!” “The Gods are nice! I skipped,” the guard stopped momentarily, “I mean took the day off, and I run right into the little girl who made me chase her. Who are you, girl?” Kira was thinking desperately. Normally she would just bribe the guard with a few coins, but she had none on her at the moment. “I…, I’m…, uh...” “Can’t rem¬¬¬ember? No money to prove you’re not a thief girl? Poor girl, I’ll just beat you until you can’t steal anymore then,” threatened the guard, “Unless…,” as greed and vicious pleasure inhabited the guard’s eyes and smile, “… unless you want to work for me, thief girl. Well, whaddaya say?” One hand was raised and curled into a fist, ready to strike Kira. Kira was spared from both the beating and from answering the question when the guard manhandling her crumpled and she hit the ground once more. She was grabbed by her hair and jerked up again, powerless to resist pain followed by the unyielding demand of whomever had seized her. Realizing she had let herself focus too much on the guard, Kira looked up at the new arrivals and fainted. It was the Draaka.
Heartbeats of a Child By Claudia See A child’s heartbeats. da dum dA DUM DA DUM What is happening to the child? Time passes without regard. Age speeds by, like an overexcited clock. Life goes too fast for the child. It is too late to play catch up. The boy holds a sun-kissed bud. Slowly, petals creep forward from the insides And form a perfectly intricate flower In its center grows a perfectly round fruit The color of the sun, and taste of a hundred honey drops But time steals away these perfect moments. As the flower wilts And the fruit falls away The man reaches out to find that which was lost But touches nothing but the mocking air. Somewhere, a whisper pleads with Time Slow down! Wait for the child. But Life doesn’t wait. Why should it wait? The heartbeats of a child fade away. away, away Until only a silent stillness remains
By Mariana Zenteno
By Naomi Stapleton
Sunset By Katrina Gaines-Spears
By Naomi Stapleton
The Land of Britannia By Elijah Granet There is a land, known as the land of Britannia. This land is a proud one, a great kingdom ruled by a beloved monarch. But, you see, there is a problem in the land of Britannia. The problems begin at the birth of any child in any respectable family. The parents of the new child will search far and wide for a nursemaid who has a proven record of preparing children for the top page programs in the land. Even when their babe can neither walk nor talk, the parents already have their sights set on a path. First, a strong page program, followed by admittance into one of the top squire programs, which prepares the child for the knighthood, which allows the child to obtain various titles, leading to some unknown quantity that Britons refer to as “success”. At the age of six, the young child’s parents will apply to have their son serve as a page in one of the many castles of Britannia. Although the child is guaranteed a first rate education at their local lord’s hall, British parents feel the need to search out for the top page programs. Some British parents will uproot their entire family to be nearer a good public page academy. Wealthier British parents will attempt to get their young son into a private page school, the owners of which promise that the little page will be nearly guaranteed admission into top squire programs.
decided it is essential to promote ‘diversity’ within their squiring programs, even if the Jutes and Saxons would not merit entry otherwise. This leads to great resentment among Angle parents, whose Jute and Saxon neighbors of equal rank often receive preferential treatment. A young Briton who is not accepted to his “dream knight”, forced to be one of their local knight’s squires, making him ashamed before his peers and parents, who see the knight the Briton squires for as a reflection upon said Briton’s personal character. Rejection can be a devastating experience for a Briton, especially when his parents have instilled in him from an early age the importance of squiring for a good knight.
Once a Briton has been accepted as a knight’s squire, they begin their training. Alas, many squires spend more time at their local alehouse carousing with the wenches than they do learning the chivalric arts. This is of little concern to the knights, who are not particularly concerned with their charges’ behavior so long as the bag of gold containing the year’s tuition arrives on time. After four years of such folly, the young squire graduates and is dubbed a knight. At this point, one might think the newly crowned knight would begin his duties in upholding the codes of chivalry and honor throughout Britannia, but that is rarely the case. After graduating from the squireship, most new knights attend “postgraduate programs”, where they prepare dissertations to earn heraldic distinctions and titles. The poor knight’s parents, who spent most of their meager revenue on getting their child to become a respectable knight, are now forced to pay for further knight At the age of twelve, the page will have to apply to squire for a knight. Although every castle has numerous knights, all training. As their child fills out dissertations in an attempt to get a lion on their personal coat of arms or to earn the Order of them well learned in the ways of chivalry, the British parof the Garter, the parents delay retirement and continue to ent’s priority is not learning. Every British parent of respectwork on. Meanwhile, the child, who is earning no income able stature has had their local monk read to them the court whatsoever, is also learning nothing at the hands of their herald’s list of the top knights to squire for. Although these rankings are based on reputation, not actual prowess (after all, graduate programs. One might think that to earn a Chivalric when was the last time number 3 ranked Sir Bedivere did any- Cross on a coat of arms, one would have to engage in actual thing chivalric?), they are considered to be Law by the parents chivalric behavior. However, if a knight wanted to earn said Cross, he would instead have to demonstrate to local monks of Britannia. The top ranked knights, extremely selective, his knowledge of the abstract theories of chivalry that too charge outrageous amounts of gold for those lucky enough often have no bearing on reality. These knights will become to be accepted as squires. Though none of these knights can lost in the world of Academic Chivalry, rarely contributing to read, they order their local abbot to set their monks to work the health and wealth of the land as they swore to do in their reading applications the parents paid dearly for their local Knight’s Oath. monk to write. They also examine the applicants’ scores on the CAT (Chivalric Aptitude Test), which despite having very Such is the situation of Britannia; a land caught in a vilittle correlation with actual chivalric aptitude, is one of the main criteria for entry into a squiring program. British parents cious cycle during which the populace works aggressively so that their progeny can enter a world in which no work is know this and will often spend much of their revenue from done. Many fine British scholars have complained about the the year’s harvest on local monks who make a living preparhost of problems associated with such a way of life, but to no ing pages for the CAT, even though the pages are alleged to avail. For until the people of Britannia decide that they will have learned all the material they could need for the CAT in not put up with such continued irrationality, irrationality will the academy their parents also paid dearly for. continue. Those who have the easiest time getting in are Jutes and Saxons, as the knights, who happened to be Angles, have
Bonanza57 By Hunter Peterson
Self-Portrait By Sander Dufour
The Old, The Wise By Emily Laliotis Cascade down your crook’d spine, Tears of the ages, Tidings of old, Old news. Cracks in your feet, Tell where you’ve been, Where you’ve gone, Where you’re going to. The crows that line your face, Traces of laughter, Carving images, Of joys in the road. Wisps on your head, Sacrifices to those who you, Cared for worried for, Prayed for stayed for. Each blue vein, Sticks out as moments, You hold on to, That permanently mark you. Every fold on your hand, Left from lending it, Over and over, To the little boy crossing the street. Your weathered body, Personifies the life, Of one who lives fully, With strong head and open heart.
Tin Tune By Jessica Mersten Grandpa taps a tune like typewriter keys in his rockin’ chair stompin’ rusty nails into rotten wood saggin’ face siftin’ a half smile Mama braids hair tamin’ melody and dirty curls coils snakin’ round tanned necks stretched down past the road covered in dust and cigarette butts Little ones spin to the spittin’ radio cracklin’ voice drones a tin tune it’s music to the little ones whose brown feet whirl whose white dresses lift high tiny dandelion seeds they blow when the radio’s broke Grandpa’s asleep and Mama’s cryin’ in the corner
[Untitled] By Shane Moylan Life is full of elusive and sporadic sunspots. people return, places rupture, and things explode. as our own glowing star, we let ourselves groove along these unprecedented flares and travel new paths that each new development opens. each ride last in lengths that vary from light-speed instances to black-hole infinities. duration does not defeat content, but content, with all possible holes magnified by means of effecting fallacies that come about by any cause, is what makes time matter. hell is (supposedly) a long time, and heaven is (supposedly) a long time, but you can’t make any more altering mistakes when you’re dead. you can only drift. your glow that represents living fades, and your body will implode and die, but your being teleports unfathomable distances in heartbeats’ lengths to the cosmos, where you are eternally free of the harm of life. nothing will happen to you ever again. thus, length can overpower content in such circumstances, in the spatial crease where infinity and tranquility coincide: death.
Prose By Juliana Welch Once upon a time I held a smoking pony. The cigar was made of bark and meow and dried leaves the color of going. It seemed to me his seeds were sowing, a flaming tree within him growing, needled through with satin thread instead of maytime mattress Springs. From between chrome teeth, grilled honey smoked smile, he let out a buzzing. Those bumble bees came and stung my face in alphabetical order, the same sort of hoarding sheep heard boarding that misted my whiplashed eyelids. But this pony kissed my wounds with pursed coins, lips made of mahogany and copper currency. Pay for my next check up in cash, pony. I’m counting on you in four by four time signature, key of D as in demented and desperate, dinosauric proportions. Too heavy to hold, you’re not a pony at all are you?
Birdcage By Sean Hnedak