The Literati Quarterly | Summer 2014 | No. 1

THE LITERATI QUARTERLY POETRY, FICTION, ART & MUSIC

ISSUE NO. 1 | SUMMER 2014

BATY CAMPBELL CANO COURTRIGHT CRUZ DORESKI GRABOIS GREGORIAN GREY HABER HEYWARD THE HILL COUNTRY GENTLEMEN HOBRATSCH JACOBSON JOYCE KEITH LECRIVAIN LETRA MORRISSEY-CUMMINS MULROONEY NELSON NOAH ROMAN WALLACE WILSON SVYAT ZIRCONIUM

EDITOR’S NOTE

MASTHEAD FOUNDER, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Dear Reader, There exists in Sufism the idea that whatever we wish to know well, we must first love. That is to say, we can not master any field - be it poetry, fiction, art, music, an academic field or a profession -unless we love what we are studying. Study without love leads to a shallow, superficial understanding. Real mastery comes from love.

This first issue of The Literary Quarterly has been a study of love for myself which, through fortuitous events, has culminated into this journal you now read thanks to the help of Ethan Ayce Ramirez after a chance meeting at Tantra Coffee House here in San Marcos, Texas. His investment into my dream took this from being a wholly webpage publication to one that lives in cyberspace and in print.

The works collected herein are all works of love. Some of the included are further developed in their craft than others but all are presented as equals. I have learned something out of each of their poems, stories or works of art as well as from the stories of the musicians and their defiant struggle to share their music and, by extension, their souls.

Ethan and I have labored to learn the programs needed to put this publication together. Though it is our first step and perhaps, not without its flaws, we hope our love shines through. After all, we can only go up from here.

May these works stand as a humble monument of appreciation for the poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou who said “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

At the end of the day, I think what all that these collected poets, writers, artists and musicians want is for you to feel. To be inspired to feel is the act of two souls touching - and what greater act of love is there than that?

Joschua Beres Editor-in-Chief San Marcos, Texas,USA

Joschua Beres DIR. OF ART ACQUISITIONS Ethan Ayce Ramirez DESIGN TEAM Joschua Beres Ethan Ayce Ramirez PUBLICITY MANAGERS Joschua Beres Ethan Ayce Ramirez LITERARY EDITORS Joschua Beres Rob Sailors

© Copyright. The Literati Quarterly.

The Literati Quarterly Press. June 2014.

All rights reserved.

The Literati Quarterly Press, an imprint of The Beres Publishing Group

The Literati Quarterly P.O. Box 2504 San Marcos, TX 78667 http://www.literatiquarterly.co ISSN: 2373-1494

CONTENTS THERE ARE THREE MUST-HAVES

by Nick Courtright

6

THE ART OF CRYSTAL NELSON

by Ethan Ayce Ramirez

7

DROUGHT

by Christian Wallace

13

PLEASE, HUMANITY ONLY

by John Grey

15

THE CIRCLE OVER CENTRAL PARK

by J. Anthony Roman

17

INTRODUCING SVYAT ZIRCONIUM

by Joschua Beres

23

SEE ME FALLING

by Ezra Letra

25

MEMO’S VICTORY LAP

by Ezra Letra

25

A WORD FROM THE LITERARY POLICE

by Colin W. Campbell

27

SHOE SHINE

by M. Kromalnik Grabois

28

THE BREATHING GIFT

by Mike Joyce

30

THE ART OF JUAN CRUZ

by Ethan Ayce Ramirez

33

WHEN SIDDHARTH ENCOUNTERED HIS OLD FRIEND

39

I AM HESITANT TO MENTION

by Nick Courtright

40

THE LOOP

by Eddie Baty

41

DISCORDIANISM, OR DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

by Jonathan Hobratsch

50

ACROSS THE SILENT DISTANT SEA

by Stanley M. Noah

52

TALKING TO STRANGERS

by Mariah E. Wilson

53

SCUOLA ITALIANA DI MONTEVIDEO

by Valentina Cano

55

by Nick Courtright

CONTENTS cont.

CALAVERAS DE AZUCAR

by Marie Lecrivain

56

MARXPERDICTED THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

by William Doreski

58

STALKER 2 STALKER

by Michael C. Keith

60

THE HILL COUNTRY GENTLEMEN

by Joschua Beres

63

PIDDLE

by Christopher Mulrooney

66

SUMMER

by Christopher Wallace

68

LOVE PHILTER

by Christopher Mulrooney

69

ROBOTS ON THE HORIZON

by Kelly Ann Jacobson

71

THIS CAN BE MY HABITAT

by Alina Gregorian

72

CONTRIBUTORS

74

THE LITERATI QUARTERLY POETRY, FICTION, ART & MUSIC ISSUE NO. 1 |SUMMER 2014

Angels Over A Church Dome, Mikhail Zahranichny

5

THERE ARE THREE MUST-HAVES

by Nick Courtright

There are three must-haves for “reality”: 1. it “feels” real, as in kicking a rock and it hurting, 2. consistency, like how the car drives down the street but doesn’t just disappear, and 3. cross-referencing, which is both of us seeing the “same” thing.

Well, if that were so wouldn’t it be nice?

We all could lay down our bows and arrows and get to the much more pressing business of forsaking the gross absurdities of metaphysics. Unfortunately, though, cross-referencing still is filtered through one’s perception of the verifier, so therefore requirement 3 cannot pass scrutiny. Dreams that pass requirement 1 can be disqualified because they lack requirement 2. And what of number 2?

Hobgoblin of little minds, it is proof of the truth that one of God’s greatest acts of kindness is allowing opinions.

6

The Art of Crystal Nelson: Mixed Media Heaven presented by Ethan Ayce Ramirez 7

Frequent Phrase Drill, Crystal Nelson.

Teacher, artist and mother of three, Crystal Nelson works from her studio in Aubrey Texas and plays a part both displaying artwork and teaching workshops at The Creative Art Studio in Denton Texas.

Heavily influenced by both the natural world and the distinct forms of type and design her art work displays a contrast that is easily relatable to the state of modern society. Weaving sleek lines together with organic forms creating a world uniquely hers.

8

Crystal first I would like to thank you for the opportunity to delve into the depths of your person as an artist. How has art played a part in your life and for how long?

Art has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My mother was always doing something creative and allowed me to play with many materials and tools from an early age. Art has been a factor in almost every decision I have made. I try to live a creative life daily.

How has being a mother played a part in your artistic process?

Being a mother has always inspired my artwork in some way, from subject matter to media and approach. I have often used various vessels, seed pods and other very organic subject matter to represent the many facets of being a woman as well as a mother. I have only recently been exploring content that is not directly connected to some aspect of motherhood.

What led you into the mixed media arena?

Mixed media artwork has been something I have always dabbled in, even before it was in vogue.

My studio major was printmaking which leads to the love of paper. It also leads to the production of much artwork on paper. Between proofs, goofs, and experiments printmakers end up with a large amount of what could be considered trash. I saw it as collage fodder, painting surfaces, paper mache’ material etc. Before I knew it I was printing, gluing painting and stenciling my way into mixed media heaven!

Where does your inspiration come from?

Inspiration for me comes mostly from nature.

Texture and pattern are very important to me as 9

In Your Head, Crystal Nelson

well. I need to surround myself with a very sensual items.

Things that beg you to pick them up and touch them. I need visual stimuli....visual saturation.

I also find inspiration in good clean design and the graphic nature of words, letters and numbers as well. Sometimes those things contradict each other in a good way.

Now for the question artists seem to get all the time, what artists have had an influence on your work?

This will sound very cliche but that’s okay. Georgia O’Keefe and Frida Kahlo are my muses. Romare Bearden for his fabulous prints and collage work. Joseph Cornell for his wonderful boxes

Face In The Crowd, Crystal Nelson 10

and curiosities. Currently I have been into Rober Maloney and Jaine Davies. There are really too many to list!

When coming into a piece do you already have a feel for how the piece is going to end or do your pieces emerge as you work?

I like to start many pieces at once. I like building layers with paint and paper on some canvases where often a narrative will begin that I cna work with and develop. Other times I go into a piece with a story to tell. I am not sure which is more successful for me so I’ll just keep doing it this way.

What do you feel is essential to the artistic process, as a whole and to you personally?

To paraphrase Chuck Close- Inspiration is for amateurs, artists just get to work. I feel “getting to work” is essential to the artistic process. I think being stagnant, waiting, being fearful those are just creativity killers. Just work, play, experiment, explore.

Growth comes from this place.

Flow, Crystal Nelson

How important do you feel communion with other artists is to the growth of art?

Being around other artists has been key to my creativity in recent years. The constant flow of ideas, collaborative thinking, and feedback is really invaluable. It stirs my soul and brings a newness to my thinking.

It provides opportunities that solitude does not. Other artists’ excitement about my work breathes creative energy into me.

11

12

Blue Pods, Crystal Nelson

DROUGHT

by Christian Wallace The dirt will not stay in its place on the ground, it rises with wind to turn the sky, to blot the sun.

The wind kicks the sand down roads, into lungs, dusting dashboards and window sills. The dust is a memory of ocean, of the water that was but left this land, damning it bitter, eternally thirsty.

The scrub brush grows out of spite, its thorns hostile as the heat. Inside the stubborn churches, the people pray for rain and curse the sun and curse the wind and curse the sand.

At night on the front porch, the breeze cools, beer relieves the throat. We sit together on the wooden swing my brother built.

She brings fire to a bowl sweet and full of weed.

We journey into childhood, the rivers we have known, the bodies traveled. She tells me what she dug from the sand, some ancient man’s flint sharpened to a perfect point—was tool, was weapon.

She lets me touch her—her perfect points, with calloused fingers I discover what I know is there.

We leave our clothes on the swing to learn sand sticking to the sweat-slick parts of the other’s self.

The sand gives way to body digging into body.

Raked under the stars, we are dirt-sand-dust.

Incapable of staying in our place on the ground, we will rise with wind or be stirred by truck tires, but, for now, fucking like kids in the backseat of the earth because we’re bored, because we can, because there’s not enough time to count the stars.

The sky tells the truth; the prayers will go unanswered.

13

14

Carl Heyward

PLEASE, HUMANITY ONLY

by John Grey

The robot, naturally, is not welcome.

This is the last outpost of flesh and bone, of human reproduction, of thought and conversation.

Come into our colony if you will but leave the mechanical man outside.

Well make a meal from the last of these animals, smoke some of our cargo of fat Cuban cigars, laugh and reminisce before the fire.

We’ll taste earth on our lips, sniff it through our nostrils, feed it to our thoughts.

But the robot has a program for a memory.

I do not wish to hear it bleep and blurp that the chicken is superb or that this blend is the finest Havana extant.

And the last thing I want to be told by some automation is that Iowa girls are so much prettier than Garenian sunsets We know that.

It doesn’t.

15

16

Carl Heyward

THE CIRCLE OVER CENTRAL PARK

by J. Anthony Roman

The problem Nelson had with what he saw outside his window, besides it being the oddest thing he’d ever laid his eyes on, was that the structure seemed to stare directly at him, even though it lacked eyes, or even a face. Nelson had the feeling what he was in awe of had a complete understanding of him. He feared he was the reason this structure had appeared. Nelson slowly lifted one of his unclean windows that looked upon the west side of Central Park so he can get a clearer look. A large, white circle hovered in the morning sky above Central Park’s great lawn. Once Nelson stuck his head out of the window, and still saw the circle, he knew it wasn’t the work of years of accumulating filth.

What he saw seemed very real. At that moment, Nelson was the first person on Earth to notice the circle over Central Park.

At 6:10 AM, the first policemen called to the scene were officers Maldenado and Liu. They parked their squad car in front of Turtle Pond and walked near the center of the lawn to look up.

“Holy shit.” observed Liu in astonishment.

“You know how may lips that’s gonna come out of this morning? The holy shit meter is gonna surpass 9/11 today.” answered Maldenado.

“Richard Branson, or one of these eccentric millionaires did this. This is like a practical joke to them.”

“I don’t know. Looks too weird.”

“What the fuck do we do?”

“We? What the fuck can we do, hop on a step latter and get it down? We don’t do shit. We call it in, and let FDNY deal with it. C’mon.” As Maldenado said this and walked away, he thought, I’ll be back. They always stick me with shit like this.

By 8:30 in the morning, commuting around the park was a living nightmare. All cross town traffic was re-routed around, no cars were allowed in.

The human inhabitants of the park were harder to control. Hundreds of New Yorkers had arrived to linger around the great lawn. Camcorders and cell phone videos were taken and the image was sent around the world. The crowd seemed to instinctively and communally decide not to cross the circumference of the shadow that the circle had created on the lawn. That changed when Samantha Beltron, a sophomore at Martin Luther King, Jr. High school, gently lay her book bag down and slowly walks inside the shadow. She independently crept forth and the crowd hushed to watch Samantha perhaps disintegrate, or disappear. But as she made it over the threshold of the shadow, nothing happened to her. When she did not, and once she felt confident in this fact, she danced to the very center of the circle and looked up. Soon there was a mad rush from everyone to get in closer to get better shots with their individual recording devices. 15 minutes later, the National Guard arrived to push everyone back from the center. They set up a perimeter and armed guards underneath the circle over Central Park.

By 10 AM the circle in the sky was the most downloaded image of all time, even surpassing tennis star Anna Kornikova. All flights to JFK and LaGuardia were cancelled. Many businesses dismissed their employees, just as many stayed open. The market had plummeted in panic. The mayor addressed the city at 7:35 that evening. He promised to keep all New Yorkers informed of whatever 17

new information came in. He urged the City to regain a sense of normalcy and to return to work in the morning, and visit our many beautiful shopping districts.

A feeling of anxiety and apprehension came across the city, as if the population had wanted the answers to their mysteries by the start of the next work day. Both Mets and Yankees games were cancelled. The evening news and the 24 hour news entertainment stations had no clues to offer, but made up for it with opinion and speculation that troubled the city even more. Many stayed up throughout the night, either staring out of the window, or glued to New York 1’s 24 hour coverage.

The cabbies, mostly empty, drove around the vacant city, 1010 wins being their only companions. It was an awful night for the city’s restaurant industry.

At midnight, Central Park was officially closed off to all civilians. Halliburton trucks rumbled under and through the metro north tracks towards 5th avenue. Government officials and members of the scientific community had arrived at the scene, tents were erected, and trailers rolled in. Cranes arose, appearing to meekly attempt to touch the circle.

From the rooftop of 279 Central Park West, 2 porters, Derek John, and Eddie Castro, who worked in the building, but were off shift, climbed up to get a better look. It was 2:20 AM, the circle seemed to be as dim as the night sky, but still prominent.

“Son, what is that shit?” questioned Eddie. “I’m out of here. I’m going to my cousin’s crib in Connecticut.”

“For what?” spat Derek, “You think if Godzilla comes out that thing you gonna be safe in Connecticut?”

“It’s Central Park, not Japan. Cloverfield is coming out of that shit. And the military kept that thing contained in New York.”

“Oh, great.”

“Maybe it will be someone nice, like the Silver Surfer.”

“That would be a bad thing. He was the harbinger for Galactus, the planet eater.”

“Hmmmm” hummed Eddie, understanding.

Derek went on, “That guy comes around, we’re all fucked.”

The two fall silent and simultaneously start to think about this circle bringing on the end of their lives. Eddie ended the strain of silence.

“I don’t even know my father’s full name, but I know the Silver Surfer’s real name is Norin Radd, and he’s not even family.“ Admitted Derek. “They used to call my dad Smarty, but that was a nick name.”

They laughed defiantly, not letting the reality dim them.

“Oh man. End of the world, and I haven’t had a vacation in 6 years.” Eddie stated.

Derek looked at the circle deeply, as if he was deciding to trust it, or not. “I don’t know. If it didn’t kill us already, I don’t think it’s gonna kill us at all.”

“I’ve been working to leave the city for years, now I may have a reason.” Surmised Eddie.

“You want to leave the city? Seriously?” Asked Derek “Hell yeah. I got kids, I don’t why that shits here.”

“Well there got to be a reason it came here. If it came to New York, I’m not going anywhere.”

No explanation came in the night, or change at the scene. Morning greeted the circle and New Yorkers much like it did the day before. The headline on the Post read, “WHAT THE HOLE IS IT?” over a full page picture taken from the ground up from the center of the shadow. Flights at all area airports 18

had resumed.

A discovery of a whole new mystery came with day 2. Although everyone saw the circle, some people would have different accounts of the texture of what they saw. Some saw the circle as a halo of thick billowy clouds. Others said what they saw was calcified and looked liked bones locked in to a circular shape. Some even described the circle as being made of flesh, like the meat of boiled chicken, or tuna from a can. NASA, CDC, CIA, NSA, ARMY, and a host of other governmental and international agencies, sent droned scanners up towards the circle, but they got no readings. They played music, and hollered at it through megaphones.

Through the day, shanty towns appeared along the edges of the park. Since the civilian population had been severed access to the circle, they dropped their humanity as close as they could. Pockets of groups raised flags. All branches of the followers of Christ were accounted for. There were Muslim factions, forms of Judaism were represented. Theater companies staged productions of Hair. The NYCLU watched the police. The police watched a pro- choice organization perform a strip tease routine. The Boy scouts set up across from the Apple store, check. KKK across from Trump Tower, check. Guardian Angels outside of the Museum of Natural History, check. At approximately 6 AM on the morning of day 3, members of PETA snuck into the park and freed all of the animals they could from the zoo. The perpetrators were promptly arrested, but the animal retrieval took hours.

Gary, the artist who arranged flowers daily at Strawberry fields, moved his operation to the 72nd street entrance to the park. He dropped petals in the shapes of circles on the ground hourly.

Nelson, the first person to see the circle, sat in his spotlessly clean living room. He had scrubbed his windows to a squeak and raised them as high as they could go. His house guest, Alma Katz, could not stop looking around his home.

“It’s so clean!” Alma said, excitedly.

“That’s not what I brought you up here for, stop looking around my place.” yelled Nelson.

“I know but, the one time I was here, I wouldn’t even sit down. You had fish tanks stacked with nothing in them.”

“Yeah, well, I cleaned. When’s Saul coming?”

Alma, feeling a little insulted sensing that Charlie was growing bored with her, knowing he was really her husband’s friend and not hers, answered “He’s at tennis. They wouldn’t let him play at 96th so he called a friend he knew at Chelsea.”

Charlie had been pushing a love seat towards her as she answered him. He stopped and huffed, leaning on its back. “Go ahead, sit.” He gasped out. Although Nelson had put up the effort to clean for his guest, he hadn’t put any special attention to his withered television throne. Not wanting to appear rude, Alma gulped and sat down. After a moment of silence, Nelson spoke up.

“You see, this is why I asked you guys up here.” They stared at Nelson’s view of the circle. The vibrant blue sky seemed to take the color away from anything else in the room. Alma calmed her tensions from the dirty chair and lay back. “Yeah.” She let escape her lips. After some silent admiration, Nelson spoke again.

“After my wife died, I would nail a green ribbon for her up on this tree near Mariner’s playground. If the park employees would take it down, and they would have to when they knew supervisors were coming, I’d be up there to put it back up the next day. I’d check it out every day, it was for Nora. Ten 19

years to the day she dies, summer 2009, a tornado hits the park and rips the tree I would nail the ribbon on up from the ground. I just thought, why? And Irma, I haven’t been in there since. Seeing this here, I feel like it’s a message from her, telling me its okay to come back in again.” Irma stroked, and then held on to Nelson’s hand, hoping he would not cry before her husband arrived and be left alone in the room with the grieving man.

At 8PM on the 3rd night, several members of The Merkaba Group lay themselves on the edges of the wall around the park, off of West 89th street. They were a rambunctious, passive aggressive, defiant clan lead by Angela Collins, a middle aged woman with blonde hair, cut to her chin, and a wispy voice. Officer Maldanado at the scene, and recovering from a bite wound earned from subduing one of the zoo’s escape chimps, spoke to Angela with familiarity coming from dealing with her for the past two nights.

“Miss Colins, would you please get your people to stop meditating and come down from the wall?

Please.” Officer Maldenado asked politely. Angela closed her bright blue eyes tightly and answered the police man. “They are not meditating, or transcending. They are ascending. Ascending to talk to the angels who put that gateway there in plain sight to prepare us for the arrival.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stated Maldenado’s partner Liu. After a moment, Angela closed her eyes again, and stated “We do believe in Christ, but not the one you refer to. Krist. Spelled with a K.” she added.

“Pretty please. With a cherry on top.” pleaded Maldenado. Angela smiled, and closed her eyes as she walked away chanting. Maldenado reported to his sergeant that words were not helping. Several of the officers were asked to physically remove the sect from the wall. The members shrieked and cried when their ascensions were broken. One of the more aggressive police men slammed a 23 year old female member from Lake Tahoe to the ground, breaking her jaw. This was the first act of violence related to the circle in the sky. It was caught on camera and spread on the internet.

Several saw the attack as the authorities claiming entitlement over the circle. Many people joined the Merkaba group that night, and the scene resembled more of a protest. By 2 AM, near the West 86th street entrance of the park, a riot broke out. Bottles were thrown at the police. Police retaliated with tasers and tear gas. The crowd dispensed to Riverside and other parks surrounding the area where more violence occurred.

Derek and Eddie watched the scene from the rooftop of the building they worked.

“All this started because some girl was meditating?” Asked Eddie.

“No, all this started because of that.” Derek answered pointing to the circle. “And that’s how we dealing.” He said pointing down. “It always comes down to some religion fighting some army. I don’t know why, they both have the same goal, complete fucking control.”

“There you go, it’s all about who gets that control. Speaking of the government, ever hear of HAARP? It’s the governments weather control system. Weird clouds appear, then bam! Tornado outbreak!”

Claimed Eddie.

“Yeah, well, if there’s gonna be a tornado, I imagine the clouds are all going to be pretty fucking weird.”Derek answered.

“Nah, that kind of weird.” Eddie says pointing back at the circle. “That’s why I’m moving to Nunavut, Canada.”

20

“What?” Questioned Derek.

“Yeah son. No fault lines, no water near us, so they can’t be a tsunami. Whatever they got planned, we can’t get hurt there. You staying here?”

“Well I’m not going to fucking Nunavut.”

“Alright my man. You know you are welcomed where ever I call my home, and you know that’s where ever I’m at. I’m out, I’m gonna get passed that bullshit downstairs. Need to make it home and get my car, got a plane to catch.” The two embraced in a pound, and Derek watched his friend leave the roof. Now alone, he thought, if the world was ending, he’d rather be no place else then on the front line. He soon left to join the riot beneath him.

That morning the image of a burning garbage can with the circle hovering behind and beyond it stained the cover of the New York Times. People spoke out against the police and military that quelled the dissidents the evening before. Rumors spread around the city amongst the dirt hungry, of rapes during the riot, and people being sucked up into the circle. The stories were sexy enough to hold the attention of the bored and cynical, but not strong enough to hold an ounce of truth.

Citizen organizations from neighborhoods from around the park held public meetings and spoke out against the circle and its effect on the surrounding area. They used the violence of the night before, and the possibility of gentrification if the circle stayed as an attraction as talking points. And of course, the denial of entrance to their park.

At ten AM, Day 4, the mayor addressed the city informing that an emergency session of congress was occurring as he spoke to decide today if the government will take action against the circle. It was decided that the circle served no practical use to anybody. And its presence was potentially dangerous. The reaction of the people was civil unrest, so the authorities certainly saw no gain in keeping the structure up.

An hour later, a cloud front rolled in. Most agreed, no matter what they saw in the circle, once the clouds surrounded it, the structure seemed electrified. Many compared the glow to that of a round fluorescent light.

At noon, the president addressed the country announcing that at 9 pm that night, physical contact will be attempted with the circle in the sky. If there is no response, the structure will be taken down for study.

The residents of the borough of Manhattan were ordered to stay indoors. Those who were unhappy with the news took to the streets.

At 6:30 PM, Officer Maldenado looked twenty feet ahead of him, through his plastic head gear, to Angela Collins. This is going to be worst then Kenn State… he thought,…a lot worst.

“All my career I see nothing but domestic calls and the occasional break in. Day I get partnered with you, I knew I’d see the end of the world.” yelled Officer Liu. “And here we are kicking the shit out of hippies.” Answered Maldenado.

“God bless America.”

Maldenado looked ahead at Angela, the blue of her eyes seem to glow like gas flames on a stove. She closed them tight. It was the last thing Maldenado saw before ceasing the crowd in front of him.

21

The containment claimed the lives of 5 people on the streets of Manhattan, including one Derek John, a local porter.

At 8:45 PM an armored ARMY vehicle spotted a cat running across the street as they turned north on Bowery. It was the only living thing on legs outside of Central Park. Hundreds of these vehicles roamed the borough, flashing a yellow emergency light, and wailing a siren, only interrupted with a message to stay indoors.

An F-35B Hover plane was chosen as the craft to make contact. It had not been named yet, and given the monikers to chose from, including, The Peace bringer, The White Dove, and the Zephran Cochrane, the name Anola Gay II was picked. This was all done privately to avoid public scrutiny. At 2100 hours, the Anola Gay II hovered up to the circle, with a 16 foot antenna as its horn. The moment the antennae penetrated the circle, it vanished right before the eyes of the world.

Nothing came from anyone’s mouth for many moments. Once realization of it set in, officials shuffled around the park. People around their TV sets and windows were stunned and somewhat disappointed. “That was worst than Geraldo and Al Capone’s vault.” Said Nelson to Irma and Saul at his living room window.

The next morning, whenever, and wherever in the world one awoke, everyone couldn’t help but feel like they had done something wrong.

No answer to the mystery of the circle in the sky ever came forth. Several books were released by officials at the scene. Much money was made. The following year, on the exact date the circle appeared, hundreds marched in the Circle/breast cancer/lupus/remembrance walk. Many walked with pictures of their lost ones on them, even if they did not match the subject of the death which sponsored the event. Eddie Castro wore a t-shirt with the image of his fallen co-worker and friend Derek Johns.

Nelson carried a picture of his wife, next to his friends Irma and Sual, sat under a tree and watched the new ceremony. Nelson now visited the park daily, rain or shine. Leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs at the ankle, he says “What did we show them, huh? Embarrassing. I’m sure they could have answered the questions of history. They could have brought us true harmony. They could have wiped us off the face of this beautiful planet. Instead, they did a whole lot worst. They left us exactly the way we are.”

Danny Maldenado, smoking a cigar and wearing a Hawaiian shirt, plenty glad to be retired and on the other side of the gun, walked hand and hand with Angela Collins, leading hundreds to the great lawn. Once they arrived, they formed a huge circle, looked upwards to the place where it appeared, and they waited.

22

iNTORDUCING

SVYAT ZIRCONIUM 23

presented by Joschua Beres Svyat Zirconium, born Svyatoslav Alexandrovich, hails from Saint Petersburg in the Russian Federation. His music and style can best be described as abstract ecclectivism. Though always a creative child, it was not until he was fourteen and bought a simple computer program for music that he became drawn to making music, “I started dropping some beats and writing melodies and after a while I felt like that was a kind of a thing that I can express myself through.” He currently uses the program Cubase to create his music.

His music combines mixture of different dance beats, ethnic melodies and rhythmic vocals.

Svyat has admiration for such performenrs as Adele and Florence and the Machine because “their voices are so incredible they don’t need anything else on the stage to make an amazing show.”

Svyat’s creative roots stem from dance and from childhood he had a great apreciation of hip-hop music and representative artists such as Timbaland, Pharell Williams, the Black Eyed Peas and M.I.A. This uniqe blending of hip-hop, ethnic and folk style music have all contibuted to his own crafted sound.

While Svyat has yet to publically perfom his music, he does have music videos on YouTube. He has performed as adancer and once appeared on a Russian TV talent show of which he said, “it was fun but I got only 4th place.” When it comes to balancing music with life obligations Svyat says he wishes he coiuld find that balance. “ Inspiration comes and goes so when I’m inspired - I make music, and when I’m not - I do other things.

When it comes to sharing his music with the world, Svyat says it can be a challenge. For him, his art is his thoughts and when these thoughts manifest into a song or a video it transmutes into a different piece of art. Sharing his art then, is sharing his soul and “sometimes that’s challenging to be honest.” When pressed to give advice to other aspiring musicians and performers Svyat simply states, “I wouldn’t give any advice because I think that you can learn only from your own experience.”

Svyat’s vision has culminated into an art project called “Zirconium Svyat Alchemical Laboratory”. “I associate my art with alchemy because I believe that my creative process is my way to become better as an artist and as a person just like ancient alchemist believed they can transform any simple metal to silver or gold following the right procedure.

You can check out his musical art via his Tumblr at http://zirconiumsvyat.tumblr.com/.

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SEE ME FALLING

by Ezra Letra

I will labor for just a glimpse of recognition on the iris that forests your soul. No longer will we be two masked strangers.

I’ll reveal my passions and you will guide me blindly to your mind.

Just look. Do not embrace what wears my body, instead look at my soul.

Replace my boots for the miles I’ve traveled in thought. Remove my specs, throw them to sea, and realize the vision of you.

I have never been visible and to you my words come from an invisible tongue. I color my words with brilliancy.

MEMO’S VICTORY LAP

by Ezra Letra

What if this throne was meant for you?

Used more times than my brother’s Casio in the eighties, before Attica, after my birth. The breath that lassooed my mother’s health like Memo, the stubborn calf that ran to the edge of pop’s land after eating.

I still say he was doing victory laps.

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A WORD FROM THE LITERARY POLICE

by Colin W. Campbell

“So, what do you mean I’ve got to re-take the alien test?” said Bruce B. Bruce.

“It’s just rules,” the Galactic Inspector used his routine voice. He was careful to avoid direct eye contact as he added, “Are you sure we’ve got the name right? You’re middle name is Bruce too?”

“Yes, that’s me. I really try to fit in here in the third rock. Call me Bruce.”

“Thank you Mr Bruce. If you don’t mind about me saying it, I can’t help notice the know-youwhat.”

“You mean the antenna? Like, I’m a bit insect-like?” said Bruce B. Bruce. He knew at once that this would not be a good time for his famous preying mantis impersonation.

“No, no that’s not a problem. It’s a free world. Insect-like visitors are welcome. There’s a problem in your written application. If it was only one time you might get away with a verbal warning and just promise to stop it. But it’s there in the record, again and again. We have the Literary Police now. You’ll have to go to the Re-education Camp. Please look it as an opportunity, more than a punishment. A few weeks of Pavlov training should be enough and you’ll be as good as new. Then you’ll sail through the alien test.”

“But you haven’t said what I’m doing wrong.”

“It’s gotten. You said gotten, over and over. Ever-so-many times.”

“Yup,” Bruce B. Bruce admitted it.

“Don’t say Yup!”

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SHOE SHINE

by M. Kromalnik Grabois In the central plaza young Mexicans in love are smooching on the benches Two evangelists take turns shouting at passersby just like in America and as in America they are ignored I expect one of them to have a monkey a monkey that scurries away then runs back and leaps on his shoulder as he bellows: SPIRITU but there is no monkey I’ll have to go to the zoo if I want to see monkeys monkeys evangelical or atheistic The monkeys chatter about theology Their arguments are endless An old man is set up to shine shoes It is midnight He wears a guayabera shirt stained black in spots with Kiwi “Stains of Kiwi” is the name of a type of marble my ex once wanted to install in our kitchen His friends gather round and make bets-will anyone come get their shoes shined between now and 2 a.m.?

He could use the money but doesn’t care if he gets any Being a heroin addict was never on my bucket list but all the other satisfactions faded down to a dull shine and there was no other shoe rag to do the trick 28

Carl Heyward 29

THE BREATHING GIFT

by Mike Joyce

Jack didn’t look at her exposed hipbone in lust, didn’t look at her crucifix in shame. It was this more than anything that told her he was already dead. His eyes filled with purpose beyond reason; his eyes filled with the desire to go to the surface. He got up from the bed she had nursed him on for days and began walking towards the bunker door. She followed him; past the old gas-mask, hanging from a spiky hinge--the only gas-mask they had. Past the bulwarks at the end of the tunnels, the gates with the rusting razorwire, the lines Jack and Lala told her never to cross. She followed him, always ten feet behind.

When he opened the manhole cover, completely oblivious to her, the first sunlight of her life was so much more intense, so much whiter than the electric lights of her lonely underground life. She stood, eyes closed.

Slowly at first, but then faster, the indistinct topography burned into clarity like one of Jack’s cigarette stubs on her skin. The smelly textbooks and fidgety schooling before Lala died had taught her the different months of the year and the shapes of the animals in the sky. Taught her about the killing spores falling like snow all around her, spores that had always looked so scary in the photographs. They caught in her hair, her eyelashes, and when she shed the blanket covering her shoulders they caught in the straps of the bra she’d just learned how to use. It was almost a relief. It was almost a freedom.

They entered into a wide boulevard with blank traffic signals overrun with hanging moss, grown thick in the shadows of buildings broken by trees. Jack was making for the largest of them all, dozens of stories high. She knew that once the fungal spore of H. Cordyceps infected a human, it would cause them to navigate to the nearest high ground, so the seeds could sprout and spread further in the wind. She followed--gazing at the cement jutting out of hills like giants’ bones.

Through the dirty and broken windows of the high-rise, she watched the sun walk through the sky. Alone except for a man made into an animal, she looked down in wonder at the beauty of the tall grass that clung to the crumbling masonry--looked in wonder at the colorful birds curious to her presence. Jacks pounding feet were beating out the rhythm to the last hours of both their lives.

An alarm triggered as his hands pushed the red panel that said “FIRE.” She was surprised it still worked after all this time. Jack didn’t seem surprised. Jack didn’t seem like anything anymore. Once out on the roof, he stumbled up, up, grabbing hold of the metal rungs that jutted from the metal siding. The wind was vicious this high, and she started shivering. He kept climbing, even when she thought they were at the top. Trying to climb the mammoth aerials until he fell down exhausted. Lying on his side, he pushed himself onto his back and lay there, 30

lay there and that was all. She stared at him. She had nothing else to do.

The sinking sun was interrupted by a crunching noise. That would be his skull breaking, she guessed. She ran to him and leaned over, a fixed look in her eyes and a furrowed brow.

Through the gaps in his bulging eyes blood wept. So this is how it was, she thought. The loosening skin began to tent from his split forehead until it tore and the bloody end of the fungus began to reach towards the sky. She walked back to the stairwell and sat under the shed roof, watching the sunset.

When she opened her eyes, she opened them in shock, not realizing she had slipped consciousness. She rose, transfixed. She could see the light from the constellations that Lala had read to her about, see the stars in-between the ones in the books, she could even see the colored clouds of astral dust and gas stretching the Milky Way. Where Jack’s upper body used to be, now a fungal shoot rose so large it looked like a tree. The shaft was naked until it branched into seedpods at the top, a dozen feet in the air. In bloom like this, it reminded her of the palm trees Lala drew for her. A pop echoed from one of the seedpods, and it exploded phosphorescent white spores into the air. She felt so free, watching them float in the wind and drift off over the carcass of the city.

She followed the shining white spores to the edge of the building, then sat down and held her knees against the wind and stared. She stared until her thoughts were slower, more difficult.

She thought about how, only two weeks after Lala died, Jack had pulled her down and shoved his hand in her mouth for the first time. A headache thundered down the neural pathways of her brain, drowning out the noise of the wind. She tried to think of what he had done next. It didn’t come. For a moment she was frantic, and then she stopped and tried to remember what it was she was so frantic about. She couldn’t.

All she could think about was how pretty the little spores looked, about the incessant noise in her ears, and one memory, this: the reflection of a girl with deep bruises darkening her neck in a spotted bathroom mirror. She was holding a safety pin, jabbing at the screening of an old gas-mask--an old gas-mask that was still hanging on the spiky door hinge back home, a gasmask that had been the only barrier between Jack and the spores. Seedpod explosions of white entered her vision from rooftops lower down and she smiled. The first smile that crossed her face since Lala had died.

31

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THE REAL, THE CRAZY, THE COLORFUL: THE ART OF JUAN CRUZ presented by Ethan Ayce Ramirez 33

Dedicated to his craft Juan often spends his nights creating dreamscapes that draw upon deeply personal experiences and a strong connection to his cultural heritage. At times disturbing his works of art always seem to delve deeper, searching for something. A rising young artist he is currently based in Dallas, Texas where he is setting out to make a name for himself. Art fuels his day to day activities in ways that usually take artists years to perfect.

So Juan when it comes to art what are some artists you have admired, both visual and musical artists?

For some reason I admire Rufino Tamayo. His work shows so many different colors. From warm to cool colors. Musically well I have to say I’ve been influenced by the Mars Volta. Their music is something else. It takes me into my zone.

I can totally understand how the Mars Volta would put you in the “zone” for painting. Do you listen to music while painting or do you prefer to work in silence?

Are you currently a student?

Yes I am currently a student at Brookhaven Community College.

Did you go to college directly after high school?

It took me about 3-4 years to go back to school.

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El Cielo Y Sus Dioses, Juan Cruz

I’m usually always carrying a pair of headphones. No matter where I go. Music drives me and pushes me to search for my true feelings.

But there are times where I just need silence, most times it’s with music.

Teotihuacan, Juan Cruz

What prompted you to return to school?

I met this artist about 2 years ago, he saw my work and said he liked it, but he said it would be best for me to go back to school. To get more information and new techniques. His name is Fred Vilanueve, he’s the one that got me going back to school and I have thanked him for that.

It is always nice when we run into people who really make an impact on our live. When it comes to making your art you have been known for using colored pencils but recently we have seen a shift towards other mediums, can you explain your reasoning for branching out?

I wanted to experiment with different kinds of medium. Since I started using so much color in my drawings it kind of seemed right to start using oil and acrylic. When I actually started using different mediums I discovered that oil was the way to go. It may seem awkward to some but I love the smell of oil paint.

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Untitled, Juan Cruz

When looking at your art I get a sense of Central American Indian influence, can you give me a little insight into where that comes from?

Haha you could say that. About two years ago I started reading about the Aztecs. About how Spain took over and how the great Aztec empire collapsed. I wanted to show my Mexican heritage. That it still flows through my blood. That even though we collapsed it would never disappear. The use of my colors comes from them. About a year ago I went to Mexico City and it opened up new ideas and new information about my culture, which led to more drawings and paintings.

That is great I can appreciate that. In a lot of your pieces it seems as though a story is being told.

Do these stories come from cultural heritage or more from personal experiences?

I mix it. I love my culture but I also love my emotions because they help me connect to my piece.

Although sometimes I base my art on music. It usually finds my soul and heart and a new piece is created.

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In regards to your art process, can you give us a little insight into your methods?

It depends. If I’m drawing I usually clean up my computer desk and set my pencils and paper. But if I am painting...well that is a different story. Since I do not have a studio I usually work in the living room of my apartment. But first I must make sure there is a lot of space. I usually take about an hour before I get into my zone. I feel I was born to do this. Nothing calms me down or brings joy to me more than art. I love it! From start to finish. I feel my style is way different from others. Maybe some may be better than me at drawing or painting realistically but they will never be able to do what I do.

Because it’s what I love and what my passion is. I do it because I love it and not because I have to.

So would you say that passion is what drives an artist?

Isn’t our passion what makes us? I believe without passion we have nothing. Not a path or clue on where to go. However I’ve met many artists that do it because they have to. But in many cases they stop doing it.

Heart Of A Reckless Woman, Juan Cruz

How do you deal with creative blocks?

When it comes to the stage of creative blocks, I tend to go for long walks and drives or I go to the museum. It helps me fight the block and relaxes my mind.

So to finish up today I would like to thank you from all of us here at The Literati Quarterly and with one final question. What got you back into your “zone” as you put it?

Well I’m a really competitive person when it comes to art. In 2012 I realized I had left something behind. At that time I started seeing all these new and upcoming artists.

I felt like I was falling behind and lost. That is when I realized that art was the only thing that made me happy. That was the only place I found comfort and peace within myself.

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Heart Of A Reckless Woman, Juan Cruz

WHEN SIDDHARTHA ENCOUNTERED HIS OLD FRIEND

by Nick Courtright

When Siddhartha encountered his old friend after many years, after Siddhartha had fully embraced the oneness of all, his old friend, who’d devoted his own life to pursuing wisdom, thought him a fool.

Because the teacher is all around us, the teacher begs rejection; remember this when we listen, or when we do not.

Let’s ask Gorgias, the sophist. He said even if one knew all knowledge offered by the universe, that this knowing would remain trapped within, that it could not be given to another. So, awaken: the enlightenment of one will remain the enlightenment of one—Truth is nontransferable. Still, the stone is the stone, the stone is the river, the river is Siddhartha, Siddhartha is Siddhartha.

If that’s nothing to you or everything or something, you are Siddhartha is you.

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I AM HESITANT TO MENTION

by Nick Courtright

I am hesitant to mention the Three Gunas. Sattwa, which is light and goodness and purity, Rajas, which is passion and ambition and striving, and Tamas, which is stability and lethargy and inertia. The ratios of these vary, but equal 1 all together, as suggested plainly to Arjuna

by Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita.

The metaphor may or may not be true.

Maybe Tolstoy was correct when in War and Peace he said “you will die and find out everything—or cease asking.” Or maybe that is nowhere near correct, that Tolstoy doesn’t give us enough credit for what we can accomplish now, in this life, pure and restless and lazy as it is. Ask, why was I hesitant to share the Gunas?

Division is tough, and because we have only years to rest, they should be cherished.

40

THE LOOP

by Eddie Baty

Benny was sipping his coffee at the usual diner’s back booth and was well positioned to watch the beautiful businesswomen of the city walk by. Perhaps it was because Benny had been single for two years, but the passing women looked like supermodels. It wasn’t that he was imagining their beauty, they were scathingly attractive indeed, there was simply a small amount of desperation within him.

More than he would care to admit.

A gorgeous woman walked by just as Benny was taking another sip of his coffee. He wanted her eyes to kick toward him and for her face to brighten at the sight of his own, but he could only imagine such a scene. He ceased his daydream and glanced at her again before she was out of his sight. His eyelids grew a touch heavier and he complimented her in his mind.

Benny lifted his head and set down his coffee when he saw a plain woman walk into the diner. She was tall for a woman but shorter than Benny. He was smitten, mouth agape. This was someone he could actually obtain. He wanted to talk to her, but he was afraid, bolted to the booth. He didn’t know how attractive a woman had to be to be out of his league so he approached none of them. He was used to denying himself. It didn’t upset him that he couldn’t say a word to the woman, but it did lead him to grit his teeth and scold himself as he rubbed his forehead. He stung his other hand holding his hot coffee mug.

Benny often spent his time alone. He knew people, he just wasn’t one to invite them anywhere if they weren’t going to invite him around town either. He believed they all saw him as an acquaintance. They never told him anything personal about themselves, but he did, and he believed friends should talk about everything. If they weren’t going to, he wouldn’t spend time with them. People usually ended up finding him when he was alone, though, and they were more than happy to see him. They always smiled and sat down like they were sitting across a celebrity, but he believed their excitement was all a show.

Their voices would often become white noise and his face would stagnate, and they noticed it. They made excuses to leave, bidding Benny a good day and one that would help him feel better, but that was just white noise too.

A middle-aged busboy’s head slowly poked out from the kitchen and he glanced at the back of Benny’s head. The man slunk back behind the wall.

Heavy steps came from the kitchen and Benny smiled to himself.

The middle-aged busboy approached and lowered his head. “Benny!” he said, whispering. Benny looked to him. The man’s eyes were all he could see, and they were tensely red. “You gotta help me, Benny.”

Benny had to stop himself from laughing and he cleaned his teeth with a toothpick. “Okay, Carl. I’m listening.” He sat back comfortably in the booth. Carl’s sob stories never actually made anyone feel bad for him. They were hilarious.

Carl sat down across from Benny and leaned forward, looking him in the eyes. He pointed at Benny.

“You didn’t tell me how bad this gig would be, Benny.”

Benny looked at Carl’s hand and noticed grime and bits of food on his fingers. It was hovering above his coffee so Benny took the hand and casually moved it away. “What could you possibly complain about?”

41

Benny was smirking.

“It’s just awful, Benny,” said Carl as he dramatically turned his head and closed his eyes. “I’m too professional to be here.” Carl paused and lowered his head, noticing his own dirty hands. His head began to vibrate in anger. “I’m a clean guy, Benny! I’ve always been a clean guy!” His hand gestures were fast and aggressive and they sent bit of food flying onto Benny’s shirt-pocket.

Benny sat a second and sighed. He wiped his shirt with the cloth in his lap. “You don’t have much of a choice, Carl. You lost your old job and couldn’t find another one. You needed whatever you could get and this was it. I got you this gig.”

Carl calmed down so quick you would have thought his anger was contrived, but it wasn’t. He was a ball of raging fire that only occasionally ran cold. He turned back to Benny, again dramatically. “Oh no Benny, I am thankful. I am. It’s just not fair that I lost such a good job in the first place.”

Benny stopped bringing the coffee to his face and held it there. He stared at Carl, puzzled.

Carl’s eyes became desperate. “That’s all.”

Benny slightly lowered his coffee. “Actually. It is one-hundred percent fair that you were fired from your old job.”

Carl was shocked. “Really Benny? Tell me what I did wrong then. Tell me.”

“Carl. You called your boss’ wife a lady of the night.”

Carl boiled and shot back into his seat. “Oh come on! She was wearing a dark dress and a veil! The words just came out! I only meant to compliment her!”

“Of course she was wearing a dark dress and a veil! It was a funeral!” said Benny with his hands raised, hammering his words into Carl’s ears.

Carl closed his eyes and sighed from his nose. “The past is the past, Benny. I just didn’t think before I said it.”

“Clearly.” Benny sipped his coffee.

“What? You’ve never slipped up and said something offensive?”

Benny smirked. “I don’t believe I have.”

Carl gritted his teeth. “So you’re just the one we should all aspire to be then! Huh?!”

Benny set down his coffee and looked sincerely into Carl’s eyes. “I believe I am,” he said sarcastically.

Carl sat back mildly frustrated. Benny was only toying with him but he always fell for it. He tapped his leg nervously as he cooled off. “It’s ‘think’ by the way. Not ‘believe.’ You think you are. Not you believe you are.”

On the fringe of laughter, Benny looked to Carl. “What do you know about thinking?”

Carl huffed and swatted his hand at Benny. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Alvin stepped through the front door. He was a tall and well dressed man, but he was not nearly as smart as he looked. The complete truth was that he was an idiot. He walked to the back booth and sat next to Benny.

“Hey,” said Alvin. He made no eye contact with Carl or Benny and looked around quickly as if someone was hunting him.

“Hey Alvin,” said Carl dismissively.

42

Benny greeted Alvin the same way.

“So Carl, we can definitely move the big stuff to your new place today,” said Alvin. “My crane guy’s ready to go when you get off. He doesn’t charge much either.”

Benny didn’t know Carl was moving. Again, no one seemed to tell him anything.

“Really?” said Carl. He needed some good news. “Thanks Alvin. I owe you one. Grab a coffee on me.”

Alvin sprouted a corny smile. “Thanks Carl. I’m actually gonna grab a beer instead.” Alvin stood up.

“A beer?” said Benny. “The sun just came up.”

“Hey, there’s five guys drinkin’ a couple cold ones somewhere am I right?” said Alvin. He winked at Benny and walked on to the diner’s bar.

If Benny had the energy he would plunge his face into his palm. “That’s not the expression,” he said to himself as he sipped his coffee.

Carl looked over to Alvin. “Put it on Benny’s tab.”

Benny held out his arms in confusion.

Carl leaned in. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll pay ya back.” He patted Benny’s shoulder.

“Whatever,” said Benny. “And wait a minute. You never told me you were moving. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t? Sorry, buddy,” said Carl. “I’m moving into the city.”

“But you’re already in the city.”

“I’m too far away,” said Carl. “The new place is right across the street.”

“What? You only live five blocks away!”

“I’m walking to work though, Benny. This is hard work to be walking so far.”

Benny stared at Carl with false pity. “You bus tables, Carl.”

Carl was unamused. “Oh come on Benny, let me make my own decisions.”

“Alright, alright. But that’s not my only concern. This crane guy is bad news if I’m thinking of the same person.”

Alvin returned and sat next to Benny with a mini pitcher of beer. Benny sighed, imagining his bill.

“So, Alvin,” said Carl. “Who’s your crane guy? He do good work?”

“Oh it’s Slick Sam,” said Alvin as he poured his beer into a pint glass. “He’s the best.” Alvin noticed Benny’s empty cup of coffee. He poured some beer into it. “There ya go Benny.”

“I knew it,” said Benny as he moved his beer-filled coffee cup to the side of the table. “Carl, this guy is a disaster. He destroyed an entire apartment’s wall with a dresser because he had a welder sitting next to him working on his controls at the same time!”

“Oh that was one mistake, Benny,” said Alvin. “That was the only time the welder could fix up the crane.

Plus Slick Sam was doing his job and getting some repairs done at the same time. He was killing two birds with one stone. He’s a smart guy. Plus the welder ended up having to foot the bill. Slick Sam got back to work the next day with no hiccups.”

“That’s not okay,” said Benny, dumbfounded.

“The welder melted his joystick in half!” said Alvin.

“That was bound to happen! Sam is the reason the poor guy was working on his crane in the first place!”

Alvin turned and got uncomfortably close to Benny’s face. “His name! Is Slick, Sam!”

Carl calmed the two down and tried to get the conversation back on track. He needed to know who this guy was, so he asked Alvin about any notable jobs he had been a part of.

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“This is all I need to say,” said Alvin as he leaned in. “Slick Sam is the guy who put the Statue of Liberty back together.” He clicked his teeth as he leaned back.

Carl was impressed, but also confused.

“What are you talking about?” said Benny. “It’s always been there! It was put there a long time ago!”

“The terrorists destroyed it a few years back, Benny,” said Alvin. “Slick Sam was called at three in the morning by the President himself and they put together a replica, shipped it, and put it together in four hours.”

Benny rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense. How come no one knew about a terrorist attack on the Statue of Liberty? Did Slick Sam tell you this?”

“Well yeah-duh, Benny. The government kept it a secret, Benny,” said Alvin quietly. He looked around to make sure no one heard him. “And Slick Sam has never told a lie.”

Benny sat back confidently. “He tell you that too?”

“Maybe,” said Alvin with widened eyes.

Benny crossed his arms and looked away. “Well then he definitely has told a lie,” he said to himself, but Alvin heard it.

Alvin grimaced and flicked Benny’s ear.

“Ow!” Alvin looked away. “Wasn’t me.”

Carl let Alvin know that he would be off the clock soon and that he needed to meet him outside with the crane in a half hour. Alvin agreed and Carl got back to work in the kitchen. Benny sighed. He was stuck alone with Alvin.

Genevieve and Talia walked into the diner together and Benny was perked that he had someone new to talk to. Benny opened his arms wide.

“Boy am I glad to see you two!”

“Hey! You too!” said Genevieve. She was wearing a slim blazer, a low cut top, and carrying an expensive black leather purse, swaying her hips as she walked to the back. “It’s good to see you Benny!”

Genevieve sat across from Benny and Talia sat next to her. Talia was incredibly beautiful, to Benny at least. She had the right color hair and the perfect complexion. She was exactly the type of girl Benny wanted. He had difficulty talking with her before, but he felt confident after talking with a couple of dimwits for ten minutes.

“How you doin’ Talia?” said Benny with a smile. He was interested in her, but her relationship with Genevieve was ambiguous. He suspected that they might even be dating.

Which would be totally okay, thought Benny.

“Doing well, Benny. How are you?” Talia smiled back.

“Good, good,” said Benny, nodding.

Alvin was smiling awkwardly at the two girls with one eyebrow raised.

Genevieve noticed his unsettling gaze. “Ah, hey, Alvin,” she said as her smile fell a little bit.

Talia waved at Alvin by obligation only.

“Ladies,” said Alvin, still smiling.

“So Genevieve,” said Benny. The girls were relieved to turn their attention away from Alvin.

“Did you know that Carl’s moving?”

“Yeah I knew that,” said Genevieve. “He’s moving across the street.”

“So everyone knows?!” said Benny. “Why didn’t he tell me earlier? No one tells me anything!”

“Maybe because he thought you wouldn’t support it,” said Alvin.

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“I don’t support it!”

“So he was right! That’s why people don’t tell you things!” said Alvin as he stood up. He took a deep breath and checked his watch. “Okay, I’m heading out. I’ve gotta go get Slick Sam.” “See ya,” said Benny. He was looking down intensely at his glass of water as if it were far away. Benny tensed his jaw as he thought of his judgmental nature toward Carl. It happened a lot in the past and hadn’t stopped. He had never really supported anything he did and, in fact, often tried to speak against him. It began to bother him.

Alvin chugged half of his pitcher before leaving. Talia, Genevieve, and Benny were disgusted but at the same time amazed. Alvin walked on and looked back to the booth, smiling as he nearly tripped over a chair.

Genevieve rolled her eyes and shook her head. She turned to Benny. “So, Benny,” she said. “Me and Talia saw this amazing piano player last night. It was so good! Have you ever heard of Demitri Almonei?”

“I haven’t, but I thought you two were going to that new jazz club on twelfth.”

“Well, we were, but Talia has sort of a -” Talia placed her hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I should be able to talk about it,” she said. She explained that her father was a musician and a violently abusive parent in her youth. He played many different types of instruments and because of that, she could watch none of them played ever again. She would be shocked by the reminders of her father. She could listen to Dimitri Almonei because he was a famous pianist and the piano was the only instrument her father did not touch.

Benny and Genevieve were silent after hearing Talia’s story.

“Oh listen to me,” said Talia. She was embarrassed. “I sound so overbearing and snobbish.”

Benny and Genevieve both leaned toward Talia. “Oh no you’re not!” they both spoke at the same time.

They looked at one another. “That was weird,” they again spoke at the same time.

Talia giggled. “Thanks guys.”

Benny looked at Genevieve and she to him, and in that moment he found himself attracted to her instead. He was taking a breath before making a move when her phone started ringing.

“Sorry guys, one sec.” Talia got up so Genevieve could step out to take her call.

Benny became frustrated. Things were getting in the way right as he’d found some confidence.

Benny and Talia were left to one another, and Benny opted for silence.

Genevieve hung up and sat back down with the biggest grin on her face. “Oh my god guys, I just got promoted. I’m the head of my floor!”

“What?!” said Benny. “Congratulations!”

“Girl! Are you serious?” said Talia. “That’s awesome!”

Genevieve smiled at Benny. “You wanna know how I got it?”

Her stare implied a lot of unsavory theories in Benny’s head. “Yeah, what did you do?”

“Well. Mark Lemple was the other one they considered but he bowed out for me. He said I was more qualified than he is. Weird, huh? Might have something to do with the fact that I edited the paper he received that had information on the position.”

“I’m assuming this information means salary amounts and things of that nature,” said Benny.

Genevieve laughed adorably and with a hint of mischief. “Mhmm! I made the salary look a lot lower 45

than it actually is so he bowed out and offered the position to me. He asked for me to give him an office in exchange whenever I finally get promoted. He thought that would be a sweeter deal than the position itself. So yeah! Whatever Mark, have your office!”

Benny laughed. “I’m impressed.”

“Wow Genevieve,” said Talia. “Not bad.”

The three of them talked awhile and heckled Carl every chance they got, to which he would respond with a shameful scorn and a “yeah, yeah, yeah.” They had a meal and more coffee before they heard some rumbling outside. Carl clocked out just as a crane came into view. Slick Sam was driving the machine and Alvin was leaning out the window, waving at pedestrians and honking cars as if he were in a parade, but no one was happy to see him. The moving truck showed up as well and parked on the side of the street around the same time. The back of the truck grinded open and revealed a full size piano.

Benny, Genevieve, and Talia walked outside after Carl and stood on the sidewalk to watch Slick Sam do his work.

“So, Sam,” said Alvin, riding on the crane.

“Slick Sam,” said Slick Sam with two lit cigarettes in his mouth. The guy was fat and grungy. He had bits of food and cigarette ash lodged into his long brown beard, and he wore a pair of glasses that was missing one lens.

“Sorry,” said Alvin as he slid back into the passenger seat. He looked at Slick Sam. “Why are you smoking two cigarettes?”

“I lit one for my buddy.”

Alvin smiled and patted Slick Sam on the back. “Oh no thanks, pal. I don’t smoke.”

“Not you.” Slick Sam pointed to a man decked in grey sweats walking on the sidewalk toward the crane.

“Him.” “Who’s that?” said Alvin.

“That’s my buddy Jimbo. He’s a painter.”

Jimbo climbed up the crane and stood over Alvin. “Why’s he staring at me?” said Alvin.

“He’s gotta do some work on my rig. I wanna paint this baby’s controls gold, and the dashboard too.

Basically the whole interior,” said Slick Sam as he stood up and offered Alvin a way out on the drivers side. “You got to have your ride, Alvin, now you gotta let Jimbo sit down and work.”

Alvin nodded. “Gotcha.” He stepped out the driver’s side and waved to the pedestrians as he tripped down the crane and flopped onto the concrete. He groaned.

“Oh, brother,” said Benny from the sidewalk. “Slick Sam’s got some guy working on his crane again.

This is going to be a disaster.”

“His name’s Slick Sam?” said Genevieve, laughing a little bit.

“Yeah. It is,” said Benny. He sighed. “Where does Alvin find these guys?”

The crane attached itself to the piano as Carl stuck his head out of his fourth story apartment. “Okay!” said Carl. “I’m going to open up both windows and you just send it in okay?”

“I’ve got this!” said Slick Sam. He lifted the piano up and swung it hard over the sidewalk, barely grazing the top of a streetlight.

A policeman approached on a motorcycle, weaving through the stagnant traffic with his sirens blaring.

He braked and came to a stop. “Attention,” said the officer over his vehicle’s intercom. “You are not authorized to be doing this. Someone’s gonna get hurt!”

Slick Sam held up a fast food receipt. “You’re wrong officer! I’ve got my authorization right here!”

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The officer was too far to see that the paper was not an official authorization, but he didn’t want to respond to the call in the first place. “Great,” he said over the intercom. “Got a game to watch at home anyway. Carry on.”

Benny glared at the policeman. “Really?”

The policeman backed up and turned around. He advanced forward, peeling out back the way he came and wobbling on his bike before gaining control. He was going the wrong way on a one way street and was dangerously close to clipping several of the idle and parked cars. He flipped his pursuit lights on as he sped toward a red light and turned them off when he ran through it.

Benny had been watching the entire thing. “Unbelievable.”

Genevieve turned to Benny looking distressed. “You getting a bad feeling about all this too, Benny?”

Benny nodded worriedly and looked to the crane. The piano was dangling, swinging to the sound of a stretched rope and was nearly level with the fourth floor. “Things are about to get a lot worse I feel.”

Genevieve looked up. “Oh my god, you’re right.” Genevieve turned to Talia but she was gone. “Oh no.

Benny. Where’s Talia?”

Benny quickly scanned the area. “I don’t know. That’s weird. I hadn’t even noticed her walk off.”

Genevieve bit her lip in concern as she looked around the sidewalk. She looked on toward the street and panned through traffic and the people gathering to see the crane do its work. Others were exiting their cars to watch as well and they clouded the area, blocking Genevieve’s vision. She continued to look on toward the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Only ten feet from being directly below the hanging piano was Talia, looking up, oblivious to her poor positioning.

“Talia!” said Genevieve as she began to run into the street. She bumped into people, excusing herself as she cut through the horde of dazed onlookers to the other sidewalk. Benny followed just behind her.

Jimbo was nearly finished spray painting the interior of the crane’s cockpit gold as Slick Sam was preparing the final move into the apartment. Carl was staring directly at the piano through his large windows and it was close enough for him to play. He smiled with a child’s excitement as he tapped a few keys. His slight disturbance to the piano caused it to drop an inch or so from the crane’s grasp, but it was still hanging firmly. Carl figured the piano was settled and he stuck his head out the window.

“Okay!” said Carl. “I’m ready when you are!”

Jimbo continued spraying the controls as Benny and Genevieve ran around the crane and approached Talia. She was just under half a block away.

“Talia!” said Genevieve and Benny together. Talia turned toward them.

“That was weird,” said the two, again at the same time. They smiled as they heard notes being played on the piano.

The melody took both of Carl’s hands to play it, and it captivated Talia’s attention. She was impressed with Carl and she gasped in her amazement.

There was murmuring in the crowd. Others were impressed with Carl too.

The chatter in the crowd was getting louder. “Does anybody else hear Dimitri Almonei?”

“Hm. Carl’s actually pretty good,” said Benny. He cupped his hands around his mouth and looked up.

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“Hey Carl! You sound really good! Keep it up, alright? You’ve got talent!”

Carl looked down to Benny and smiled. “Thanks, Benny!” He nodded in pride. It had been a long time since he heard approval from Benny.

Carl resumed playing the piano and it became even more loose. It frightened his skin pale. The crane began to groan deeply and the piano seemed to be slightly descending every few seconds. Carl paced backwards with widened eyes. “This was a huge mistake,” he said.

Jimbo finished his paint job. Slick Sam was pleased and the two high fived, but the paint had locked Slick Sam’s joystick just as he began to move the piano forward into the apartment.

“Oh darn,” said Slick Sam, aggressively shoving the joystick to break it loose from the paint. The joystick came loose on his final push, sending the piano far too quickly at the apartment. The piano clipped the side of the building as it swung on its tether in a circle. The entire rig began to twist and turn like a top close to falling and Jimbo was knocked forward, hitting several buttons on the dashboard as he attempted to brace himself.

“Oh dear god,” said Carl. Through the windows, he watched the piano detach and fall from his sight.

The piano seemed directly overhead and Talia screamed as she ran back. Benny caught her, spun her around, and attempted to shield her from any debris with his back. The piano crashed into the ground, but there were only a few flying shards, and they did not go far.

“Oh my god are you okay?” said Benny with his hands on Talia’s shoulders.

“I can’t be near that piano!” said Talia. She shrieked and pushed herself away from Benny. She began to sprint down the sidewalk. “I can never be near any piano! Never again!”

Benny squinted as he watched Talia run away. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” he said. “I think that rules out pretty much every kind of music for her.”

Genevieve laughed and scooted closer to Benny. They turned around to view the scene.Onlookers were shocked by what had just happened and several of them began to pull out their cell phones to call the police.

Alvin saw them and began to pant. “If you’re calling the police! Let them know he did it!” He pointed at Slick Sam. “Slick Sam did it! I repeat! Slick- ow!”

Slick Sam had quietly gotten off the crane and punched Alvin in the face. He cupped his hands around his lips. “It wasn’t me!” He pointed to Jimbo. “That man did it!”

Jimbo shrieked and began running away. Slick Sam ran after him, taking drags of his cigarette every five or six steps. He caught Jimbo and locked his arms around him, but Jimbo broke free and sprayed Slick Sam with his golden spray paint.

Carl sighed as he watched the scene unfold from his window. He gently lowered his face into his palms.

“Hey Genevieve,” said Benny as Genevieve turned to him with bright eyes. “So, uh. What’re you doin’ tonight?” His face became tight and his mouth locked, but he forced himself to let go and he felt his body loosen. “Would you be interested in letting me take you out?”

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Genevieve got close to Benny and slapped his shoulders with both of her hands but she kept them there, gently rubbing his collar bones. “It’s about time you asked.”

“Hey, it didn’t take that long!”

“Oh I’m just playing,” said Genevieve quietly. She let her arms down but held hands with Benny as they began to walk down the sidewalk.

Alvin sneaked up behind them with one eye completely shut by bruises. “Well it’s about time, eh Genevieve? What took you so long, Benny?!”

Benny looked to Genevieve with a playfully confused smile. “He knew?!”

Genevieve nodded guiltily. Alvin stood by with his dumb smile and his face in desperate need of medical attention.

“Why did no one tell me?” said Benny, pouting, but in jest.

“Benny. No one tells you anything. Remember?” said Alvin, now with a fairly normal smile. “You know that.”

What Alvin had said, of all the people who could have said it, struck Benny. He was actually glad no one ever told him anything. He would have chickened out and not said anything to Genevieve if he knew she was interested in him, and the spontaneity of the day was the first bit of excitement he’d had in awhile.

“You’re right,” said Benny, holding Genevieve’s hand as Alvin was suddenly detained by the police. Maybe being out of the loop is a better place to be.

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DISCORDIANISM, OR DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

by Jonathan Hobratsch

With blank stares, we sing the symphony of discordance. In this at least we agree. Today, me and Octavio Piccolomini depart as tears down separate cheeks. A smirk results.

Someone will fall off the face of this and someone will soak in.

And what is this if not the flesh of everyone on the coast of Tuscany who harbors the harbors as their own? The ships too. And what about my point?

It seems time that Octavio and I get on our fancy horses and charge toward Wallenstein in Vienna. And generalissimo Wallenstein wrapped up in a Turkish carpet with his name on it, bleeds, filled with halberds humming inside him. His eyes, vaporous, tell us to go away—we do, but Piccolomini does not. I’m told the carpet was his, but I will never know. Actually, I made that up. But that’s how rumors go— Later, Gallas, Graf von Campo und Herzog von Lucerna yadda yadda yadda, goes to me—authorizing himself as my superior. His strangeness cascades itself upwards into Heaven which reciprocated a dampness that hasn’t left. It was time for mutiny—a word always close to tongues. Give me a glass first so I can say it eloquently, so my words can have their way with you. Turns out he’s stone deaf. He thinks ahead.

And never looks me in the eyes—which are compound and spectra in their hallucinatoriness –which means I am not getting away with anything I want.

I thought I’d follow him to the end of the Viennese Palace hallway like a silent sycophant.

But Piccolomini, with a carpet, appears and whispers, gesturing me towards shadows. I promptly split in two. Gallas with his fly-eyes cried, and Octavio covered me with the carpet. To this day everyone in Austria walks on me and that’s why I will never endorse their aristocracy.

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Marie Morrissey-Cummins, Near Sandycove Tower

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ACROSS THE SILENT DISTANT SEA

by Stanley M.Noah

You see. I’m standing at the window looking out while in the moment the mirror must see my reflection. Three of us---window, mirror, me and the landscape, and lighthouse beyond. You came in beside me. And we viewed the distant sea, the lay of tides like then-and-there like now-and-here.

The displacements no matter stay. You can see far away as well as me. You and me in the same room, three dimensional, French doors, the mirror looking on, window cracked. Once again you standing there alone like a lamp of fire when I’m gone and return.

You standing here and the sea and the mirror near the coffee table with flowers and yellow fruit, dark chocolate and drifting memories. You, beside the window like a painting above in the room of French windows and the silent sea.

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TALKING TO STRANGERS

by Mariah E. Wilson

Cellphones only serve to make me feel even more socially awkward than I already am. Without them, I could at least hope to strike up a conversation with the handsome man who rides my bus. He gets off two stops before me. Theoretically, this would give me plenty of time to get him to laugh; too bad it would be at me and my clumsy attempt at flirting. He gets on the bus and stares at his cell phone. He never looks up, like this tiny box holds his entire universe. Shit, he probably has a wife.

Back when I started working I was sixteen and cellphones weren’t as popular or as advanced as they are now.

I think you could play Tetris on them; that was huge. When I was sixteen you could talk to people, random people and not feel like you were interrupting their lives. Now I always feel like I’m disturbing them.

The break room is filled with people who all stare at their phones. I don’t bother trying to strike up a conversation with anyone in there. Whenever their thumbs stop moving, they glance up and look around. I think they are trying to see if everyone else is still there. Occasionally someone will laugh to themselves. It makes me sad that no one talks anymore. To avoid the self conscious pit in my stomach, I eat alone at my desk. That way I can avoid feeling like everyone is looking at me, like they’re waiting for me to pull out my cellphone so they don’t have to feel completely rude for not acknowledging my existence.

At my desk, like any other day, I pulled my lunch bag out of the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. I was about to open it when my boss came strolling over to me. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his lopsided grin made him appear ten years younger than he really was. It didn’t help that he had one of those faces that never ages.

“Marcy, I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat somewhere else today.”

“Why?” I cringed at the thought of sitting in the corner of the break room like a leper.

“The guys are coming up from IT to switch out some old equipment. It’s only for today. Tomorrow you eat wherever you want.” He strolled away.

can

I picked up my bag and headed toward the break room. I felt like I was walking a death march. The break room was silent, but I knew that didn’t mean it was empty. I stopped at the door and peered in. Everyone was eating with one hand and texting with the other.

I walked right past the break room and down to the elevators. Before I knew it I was walking out of the building and down the street to a little park on the corner. I hadn’t been there in a long time. It wasn’t anything big or elaborate, but there was grass, trees, and a few benches. I think I remembered seeing some swings. I could almost feel my hair blowing around my head as I swung higher and higher. It was the first time I smiled that day.

I made a bee line for the swings and sat down, tossing my lunch over to the side. I grabbed the chains and pushed off. I pumped my legs, in and out, forcing myself to go higher and faster. When I was as high as I could go, I stopped pumping and just enjoyed the ride until I lost my momentum.

“I thought you were going to go over the bar for a minute.”

The sudden interruption startled me, and effectively jolted me out of my nice peaceful daydream. “Excuse me?”

“Is this swing taken?” he asked as he sat down.

It was the man from the bus. The man who I’d drooled over from a distance. “No.” I said as I struggled to keep my excitement in check.

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“I’ve never seen you here before.” He narrowed his eyes as he examined me.

“I take it you come here often.”

“Every day.” He started to swing. Every so often, I’d catch him looking at me when I was looking at him. He dug his feet into the ground, bringing himself to an abrupt stop. “You look familiar.”

I stopped my swing and shot him a smile. “We ride the same bus every morning.” I couldn’t help the giddiness that bubbled up inside me. He recognized me. That one fact was enough to make this whole week brighter.

“How did I not know that?”

“You’re always glued to your phone.” I wanted to die. I felt like I was a gawky fifteen year old girl again when my lack of social graces was only outdone by my lack of figure. I had the figure now, but I still had no idea how not to be socially inept.

“I talk to my niece every morning before work.”

“That’s so nice. How old is she?”

“She’s ten.” When he paused, I could hear him suck in a breath of air. “She’s in the hospital right now.”

“Aw, the poor thing. What’s wrong?”

“Cancer.”

I didn’t know this man; I didn’t know his niece, but the thought of a ten year old girl lying in a hospital bed hit me full force. What could I say? Oh dear? I’m sorry? How awful? I ran ideas through my head, but each one sounded generic, inadequate, stupid. So I did the only thing I could think of. I took my right hand off the chain of the swing, leaned over and grabbed his left hand. When he looked at me I thought he was going to say or do something to make me regret my decision. I’d go home feeling like the world’s biggest loser. Instead of crucifying me for my disregard for personal space, he squeezed my hand and smiled at me. It was like a light went on between us. I no longer felt like I needed to say something, I don’t think I had to. I think he understood.

That’s how I spent my lunch hour. I held hands with a perfect stranger. It was a simple gesture, but by the time we got up to leave, he looked about five years younger than he did when he first arrived; like a weight had been lifted. I still felt like an awkward thirteen year old girl with a colossal crush.

“So, I have to get back to work.” He scratched the back of his head, his eyes glanced around the park, avoiding my gaze. “Thanks.”

He turned to leave, but then turned back. I found myself wondering if I looked as awkward as he did. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marcy.”

“Tod.” When we shook hands we managed to find the courage to look each other in the eyes.

“See you on the bus, Marcy.”

The next two weeks left me wondering if he ever existed. He didn’t ride the bus, and though I went to the park for lunch every day after that, he never appeared. I questioned my sanity. I was almost inclined to believe that out of loneliness and desperation for meaningful human contact, I’d invented Tod. It was like being a kid again, when you realize your imaginary friends never really existed. There was a horrible pit in your stomach as you remembered you invented them in the first place. Sure, you had a lot of nice times together, but nothing was real. The world felt a little more lonely after that.

Nearly a month after our first conversation, Tod walked onto the bus. He looked at me, and a corner of his mouth turned up, like he wanted to smile, but he lacked the ability. His face was pale and grey; there was no twinkle in his eyes. He didn’t have his cellphone out either. He sat next to me and I grabbed his hand. I still didn’t know what to say. I don’t think I needed to say anything.

54

SCUOLA ITALIANA DI MONTEVIDEO

by Valentina Cano

There were rooms like drawers.

One that held a flag which had to be woken and fed before unfurling.

Another with a staircase as thin as a spine that whispered the scientific names of the animals that had died beneath its boards.

There was an attic that held portfolios of everyday massacres stuffed into construction paper animals.

Rabbits full of severed thoughts which our parents signed at the end of the year.

Marie Morrissey-Cummins, Rhododendrons

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CALAVERAS DE AZĂšCAR

by Marie Lecrivain

Piles of sugar skulls grin at passers by, mirror images overlaid on faces, the inevitable future softened by a spray of roses or marigolds.

Sugar skulls decked out in favorite colors of loved ones long gone, stacked in gay piles like their disinterred cousins in Parisian catacombs; a long and winding road to the final place among the shadows.

Sugar skulls bought and traded among friends; some taken home to reside on altars among flowers and framed photos.

Others are thrust into a cupboard to gather dust and cobwebs; the patina of the dead.

And most are eagerly crushed between teeth held together by a jaw set against fear.

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Marie Morrissey-Cummins, Yellow Tulips

57

MARX PREDICTED THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

by William Doreski

Our class on the French Revolution meets in the dingiest room on campus. Cobwebs drape the corners.

A rat snuffles underfoot. Despite the chill, a young woman sits topless and pale as limestone.

The other students ignore her.

You whisper that she’s Marie Antoinette. The other students grimace into textbooks that cost twenty packs of cigarettes or six bags of marijuana.

They’ve borrowed to pay their tuition, so hope to learn to overthrow the worlds of banks and bankers.

The professor, her hairdo a fist of bedrock, storms into the room and kicks at the rat, missing but startling it. The half-naked student frowns and scribbles notes with a pencil stub almost too short to control with her clumsy gestures.

The professor announces that we live in a tragic land in a tragic time. You agree that the frozen river kinked through the campus resembles the digestive tracts of professors like her, like us, who will die soon of intellectual disgust.

The sun is a savage diamond in the window. It washes the room with a gilded expression. No one cares that Marie Antoinette, slouched in her desk-chair, has dropped her head on the floor. It rolls toward me, but I kick it away.

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The professor claims that Marx predicted the French Revolution a hundred years before he was born.

She observes that the economy under the Bourbons favored leisure over agriculture, and that chefs invented peppery sauces to baste their broils of peasant children.

The topless student recovers her head, wraps herself decently in a shawl, and stalks from the room in a huff of torn pages. You drag me after her, abandoning our expensive textbooks in order to track that bit of history before it returns underground in a shudder of hurt feelings.

Yinka Shonibare, from Gallantry and Criminal Conversation, 2002

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STALKER 2 STALKER

by Michael C. Keith

Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale.

–– Alexander Pope He was everything Suzy Foxworth had dreamed of in a man––good looking, intelligent, funny, and well groomed. He was nothing like the handful of men she’d gone out with. He was certainly different. Yet she really didn’t know him very well. In fact, he was only an acquaintance, if that, a classmate in an evening 19th century British literature class. She had not even talked with him, but she had witnessed his wit and cleverness in class discussions enough to know he was the one.

Miles Farrell sat two rows ahead of Suzy in the small amphitheater, and her vantage point enabled her to soak in his striking appearance. Like Jake Gyllenhaal, only more handsome, she thought. I wish he’d notice me. I’ll try to bump into him again after class. But as before, when she was near him, she could not muster the courage to make contact. You coward. You’ll never get anywhere with him if you don’t make a move. But I can’t. I just can’t. Wednesday . . . definitely this coming Wednesday. Just say hi, for God’s sake.

Miles was unaware that anyone in his night class had a deep crush on him. He would not have cared if he knew, since he was entirely smitten by another woman––the type he’d always fantasized being with. Unfortunately for Miles, however, she was not interested in him in the slightest. In fact, she had come to regard him as a terrible pest, and possibly a threat, because he continually hit on her, despite her obvious displeasure.

At first, Carolyn Casey was mildly flattered by his attention. She felt he wasn’t bad looking, but she was dating someone else, and they were getting pretty serious. Finally, she had to deal with his unwanted advances head on.

I just need to get him off my back. He’s kind of creeping me out the way he’s always around and looking at me.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in a relationship with you, Miles. I have a boyfriend, and we’re getting engaged soon,” she told him, although there were no such actual plans in her immediate future.

Carolyn had to repeat herself on several occasions, because Miles failed to heed her words.

She’ll come around. Just wear her down. She won’t be able to resist you forever, he thought, as he followed her home from the mall where she worked. She’s got to see that I’m right for her. We’d be so good for each other.

I’m not going to settle for anything less any more. She’s the one. I’m tired of the plain Jane’s I’ve been with. No more! No more!

Before Carolyn reached her house less than a quarter of a mile away, she spotted Miles following her and decided to have it out once and for all.

“Why are you stalking me?” she shouted, marching up to him and poking him in the chest. “I’m going to call the police and get a restraining order. What’s the matter with you anyway? Haven’t I told you that I’m going with someone else? What is there about that you don’t understand?”

“I’m not stalking you,” replied Miles, defensively. “I just like you and hoped you’d change your mind. I think we’d be cool together.”

“There is no us together . . . ever! Are you deaf or just stupid? I’m not interested in you, so will you please 60

leave me alone?”

“Okay . . . okay! I’m sorry. I just thought . . .”

Miles suddenly felt himself on the verge of tears, and Carolyn’s anger was softened by his abject expression.

“Just find someone else, please,” pleaded Carolyn, turning and walking away.

He watched as she disappeared around the corner of her street. Never, thought Miles. I’ll never find someone like you. You’ll see we’re perfect for each other. Deep down you want me? I’ll give you a few days. Then we’ll see how you feel You’ll change your mind. *** For several days leading up to Suzy’s Wednesday class, she obsessed over Miles. They made love in her ceaseless fantasies, and in them he proposed to her over and over again. But as she feared when Wednesday finally arrived, she again lost her courage to approach him. It made her frustrated and depressed that the person she desperately wanted to be with remained at such a great distance because of her own timidity and lack of self-confidence.

After the class, Suzy decided to follow Miles, and it was then that she began to realize he was as infatuated with someone else as she was with him. For two days, she tracked him and found it always led to his secretly watching the same attractive young woman. Who is she? She’s prettier than me. Why doesn’t he go up to her?

Is he afraid she won’t like him? Does he feel about her the way I feel about him? If so, we have that much in common. Whatever happens, I’m going to talk to him after class next week, Suzy resolved.

After that Wednesday’s class, however, Miles left too abruptly for Suzy in initiate her plan. Determined to finally make herself known to the man for whom she felt such unrequited passion, she followed him again.

I’ll catch up to him, and finally say something . . . anything. His route led them to the very mall where the woman of Miles’s obsession worked. He took the stairs up to the third landing, and as he reached the top, Suzy summonsed the courage to call his name.

“Yeah? What do you . . .? Oh, sorry, you’re in my class at school, aren’t you” he said, perplexed by her unexpected appearance.

Suzy reached the landing and for a moment was at a loss for words. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with a desire to hold him . . . kiss him. “Oh, Miles!” she blurted and threw herself at him. Before they made contact, Miles recoiled and fell backwards down the cement stairs. Suzy stood frozen in shock as Miles struck his head several times and finally lay in a limp pile at the bottom. Oh, my God! I’ve killed him. He’s dead!

After several moments, she entered the mall corridor and took the escalator to the main level. From there she quickly returned to her small apartment. I can’t report it. I’ll go to jail. It was an accident. People won’t believe I was just trying to kiss him. It will be so embarrassing. Poor Miles. Well, if I couldn’t have him, no one else will now, she thought with a growing degree of contentment. She sat alone in the dim light of her living room and then got up and made herself a snack.

When the news that Miles was found dead in the mall reached Carolyn, she felt a mixture of emotions. Foremost was a huge sense of relief. He was stalking me again, I bet, she thought. Guess he got what was coming to him. He did have a nice smile though.

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made in the shade Summer is the time for festivals, art markets and outdoor live music in downtown San Marcos! Check out Summer in the Park Concert Series every Thursday at Plaza Park, Art Squared Art Market the second Saturday of each month and SummerFest on the 4th of July. And there’s more–just visit TourSanMarcos.com.

/TourSanMarcos

www.TourSanMarcos.com | 512.393.5930

THE HILL COUNTRY GENTLEMEN

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The Hill Country Gentlemen: Chasin’ That Neon Rainbow PRESENTED BY JOSCHUA BERES

lmost three years ago they got their start on the same stage as country giant George Strait — at Cheatham Street Warehouse in San Marcos. The Hill Country Gentlemen employ the rich sound of authentic Texas Country against the soulful dulce rhythm of Americana.

In 2012 they released their first album, self-titled “The Hill Country Gentlemen” and they are in the middle of recording their next.

I met the band in the back room of Tantra Coffee House on an unseasonably chilly overcast Texas spring day. The three founding members were the first to arrive - Kevin D. Humphrey the lead guitarist, Jeremiah Sawyer who plays bass and Troy Stone the lead vocalist and principle songwriter. Kevin is easily the most kinetic of the bunch.

Kevin grew up in a rather strict Southern Baptist setting, but even such a setting proved to be influential. The culture of his church was rare in that it allowed for the musical multiculturalism of both the white and African-American gospel traditions. His grandfather was the defiant one, he listened to the “outlaw” kind of country music - the kind of country that “brought hippies and rednecks together”. It was in this setting of church and music, Kevin grew up singing and dressing up like country legends like Glenn Campbell. Kevin says he was never one to rebell, music offered him a creative and emotional outlet in which he could healthily express himself. Music did not make him feel guilty like wanting to hang out with friends did, or as is the bane of every young man - girls. Reliant K was his favorite band by his teenage years, but it was not until ten years ago when he bought his first car that he became exposed to such groups as “The Band”, BB King, Buck Owens and the Buckaroos and Dale Hawkins - the architect of “swamp rock boogie”.

Jeremiah Sawyer and Troy Stone have had a bit of a longer history together,they both met at Saltgrass Steak House where they worked and passed time by singing while on shift. The two would often go out on the “Square”, a collection of local bars in San Marcos to try and pick up chicks. These outings more often than not ended with both guys drinking Pearl Beer at Troy’s condo and the duo playing music. Jeremiah’s roots in music, like Kevin’s, also go back to his childhood, his father was into rock while his mother was into the Top 40 of country. Once at a school talent show he performed Alan Jackson’s Chasin’ That Neon Rainbow. Music to Jeremiah is something cathartic and freeing. It was when a close relative died, that Jeremiah wrote and recorded his first song which he played at the funeral. It was something he could share in that moment to ease everyone’s pain. Troy grew up with a mix of classic rock and country including one very listened too cassette tape - “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits”. It was his father who would teach him the basics of the guitar when he was 9. Though music was put on the back-burner to academics during high school.

It would not be until 2009 that Troy got back to music.

He counts among his influences Guy Clark and Dwight Yoakum.

It was Troy’s dream to start a band. Around that time Kevin was playing in a group called Boxcar Express. Troy worked at the now closed venue Waterdogs Sports Lounge where Boxcar Express would play. In their free time, Troy and Kevin bonded over songs about the wars ongoing in the Middle East and songs about the working class. When 64

Boxcar Express broke up, Troy asked Kevin to be in a new band, Jeremiah was quickly onboard. Songs about the war and the working class connected Kevin and Troy. Songwriting drew in Jeremiah. Troy played a My Soul is Starving by the Carpenters. Forming the band was easy and they soon had ten songs but not a single gig. In those early days they rehearsed thirty hours a week on top of work. It would be Troy’s then girlfriend who would book the Gents their first gigs in Bandera, Texas the self-proclaimed “Cowboy Capital of the World”. It was a 3 hour gig. Within three months of forming the Gents first record debuted. Richard Skanse,who had wrote for The Rolling Stones, profiled that first self titled album in Lonestar Music Magazine. It was that little article that made them realize they are worth something.

Clay Rheinlander, the Gents drummer reached out to band after the original drummer left. He had seen the Gents playing through the music circles in San Marcos and watched them as they matured. When the timing was right and the door open - he joined. Clay started off as a semi-pro musician, he is currently 36, and has been playing since he was 15. He feels that music venues have changes because of the success of such things as iTunes and YouTube which can make it hard to find good and worth while venues.

The groups piano player and producer, Dan Holmes has been producing music since 1998 when he found recording in a studio was too expensive and built his own. His first time publicly playing with the Gents was Halloween, 2012. In the past Dan played with Duke Tumatoe and The Power Trio, a blues artist of note in the Midwest.

The group as a whole believes in roll-your-sleeves-up and working hard until you make it. They currently have twenty-one songs they are recording of which about half will make it to the final album. While some of the songs may never be released, the group hinted that some would be available for digital download for free from their website. They are working to make sure every song is different and unique from every other on the forth coming album and they do this while balancing work, life and family. Their dedication to their craft is something everyone can learn from and there slick sound is something to make any Texan proud.

Within a year they hope to have radio play and be touring regularly. Their next gig will be Saturday, July 5th at The Phoenix Saloon 193 W. San Antonio St., New Braunfels, Texas 78130 where they will be playing with the JJ Garrett Band. The show starts at 9PM with The Hill Country Gentlemen taking the stage at 11PM. The venue is 21 and up and there is no cover.

When asked what advice they would give other up-and-starting artists they all chimed in: “Don’t quit your day job!”

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PIDDLE

by Christopher Mulrooney

Ira Joel Haber, from Seashells

in the bewilderment of interplanetary space you don’t know where you’re about or what you’re at the saint has her attributes great book and wee anchor with of course the Sunday paper and its pronouncements

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Marie Morrissey-Cummins, Tree Falling Over The Walkway

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SUMMER

by Christian Wallace The water up to our necks in the bath, my eyes are full of wine and tears.

Dim light from antique lamp crowns colors of Mexican tile that frame this sanctuary. Above, shades of yellow, green, and deep reds cling to aging wooden panels — the ceiling of this heaven.

The ghost of a song waltzes toward us from beside our iron bed, the flecking paint an affirmation of our notion of youth—we know: we too shall crack and peel away from this world.

But tonight the Riesling is particularly good, and through the steam our bodies seek each other until we clasp like an ancient locket holding together desire for a life full of beauty.

Intertwined, cradled by still-warm water, we are souls older than the Texas summer heat searching for us through the open window.

Tonight, the crickets sing and sigh and the wind rests easy, somewhere on the bough of a dark tree waiting for the morning sun to kiss its limbs with light.

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LOVE PHILTER

by Christopher Mulrooney this could approve of me this should apprise you of my existence this’ll do me we strained our science a number of sciences really for this result like a whale its diatoms and lo how it works across any distance any immeasurable relation thus you have me thus you have me and I have you ingrained a memory much as myself you I know I’m forgetting myself to have you in my place by the fire in the corporate offices drinks on trays apéritifs canapés what exactly is this point you’ve reached? well that’s a good question really now look at all the suffering I mean caused by lack of love in the first place give her a dose

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Ira Joel Haber, final notebookdrawingfor April 2014, Collage, ink and paint on notebook paper 70

ROBOTS ON THE HORIZON

by Kelly Ann Jacobson

In one perfect line they march, their legs like cancan dancers’ as they whir, rise, and fall.

There’s a beauty in their sameness, their wave of chrome, that, if they weren’t coming to slaughter, would deserve a parade.

But, too busy running, people miss the way the faint sunlight falls like rain through the toxic clouds.

They miss the precision.

Like pigs, they claw and climb from their inevitable death.

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THIS CAN BE MY HABITAT

by Alina Gregorian

Aless, The Fountain of The Four Winds

We have slipped unawares out of this economic field into the field of psychology.

Freud said. The question is not what is in the heart and soul of the judge. So many absurdities to keep track of, how do you manage. I said. You are in a place of great celebration, as one flower says to another: keep the Memphis in your mind. So many index cards, I cannot count the carpet strands. As the state of Texas assumes the role of self-proclaimed ‘Winston Man.’ We have slipped unawares into a violin, where one child says to another: we need more politics, more insipid stars have fallen.

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Carl Heyward

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CONTRIBUTORS Eddie Batty, whose full name is Harold Edwin Baty III, is a student at Texas State University. He has been writing for a long time and has been creating stories for even longer. He tries to write a new short story, piece of flash fiction, or do some outlining every week within his work and school filled schedule.

Alina Gregorian is the author of Navigational Clouds, a forthcoming chapbook from Monk Books, Flags for Adjectives, a forthcoming chapbook from Diez, and Flying Bark, a forthcoming full-length book from Coconut Books. She curates a video poetry series on the Huffington Post, co-curates Triptych Readings, and co-edits the collaboration journal Bridge.

She teaches at Rutgers University, and lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Colin W. Campbell escaped from the day job in Scotland and now writes very short fiction and poetry in Sarawak on the lovely green island of Borneo and faraway in Yunnan in southwest China. www.colincampbell.org Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, The Corner Club Press, The 22 Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, Avalon Literary Review and many others.Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, will be published in 2014. You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com.

Juan Cruz is an artist currently attending art school at Brookehaven Community College in Dallas TX. His works have been displayed in The Basement of Oak Cliff, and The Country Creek Club, as well as featured in the Brookhaven show gallery.. You can contact him at jcruzart19@gmail.com.

Nick Courtright author of Let There Be Light, was just released by Gold Wake Press with endorsements from such greats as Naomi Shihab Nye, Matt Hart, Kwame Dawes, and Noah Eli Gordon. His first book, Punchline, was a National Poetry Series finalist in 2012. Courtright’s poetry has appeared in The Southern Review, The Iowa Review, Boston Review, and The Kenyon Review Online, among numerous others. For more information, see his website at http://nickcourtright.com/.

William Doreski has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently The Suburbs of Atlantis (AA Press, 2013).

M. Krochmalnik Grabois has poems which have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He is a regular contributor to The Prague Revue, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, most recently for his story “Purple Heart” published in The Examined Life in 2012, and for his poem. “Birds,” published in The Blue Hour, 2013. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for 99 cents from Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition.

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John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Oyez Review.

Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is a sculptor, painter, book dealer and teacher. His work has been seen in numerous group shows both in the United States of America and Europe. He has had nine one-man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. His work is in the collections of The Whitney Museum of American Art, New York University, The Guggenheim Museum, The Hirshhorn Museum and The Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Over the years he has recieved three National Endowments For The Arts Fellowships and three different grants. He currently teaches art at the United Federation of Teachers Retiree Program in Brooklyn.

Carl Heyward is an artist and writer who resides in San Francisco. He has exhibited his mixed-media paintings and artists’ books internationally. Heyward’s work has been collected by such institutions and individuals as The Sackner Archives, The New Museum of Art in New York, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art Library, the San Francisco Art Institute, Yale University Art Library, The Australian National Gallery and Sonoma County Museum of Modern Art. He has served on Advisory Board Artists’ Television Access, San Francisco Art Institute’s Artists’ Committee. Heyward received an NEA Arts Administration Fellowship. His work has been shown in Italy, Ireland and India to name a few places.

Jonathan Hobratsch graduated from the MFA program at Texas State University in San Marcos, TX. He previously taught at Pace University in New York City. Currently, he works for The Huffington Post and lives in Austin, TX. His poems can be found in various journals on the internet and his blogs can be found in The Huffington Post.

Kelly Ann Jacobson lives in Falls Church, Virginia. She recently received her MA in Fiction at Johns Hopkins University, and she is the Poetry Editor for Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine. Her young adult novel, Dreamweaver Road, is forthcoming from Books to Go Now, and her literary fiction novel, Cairo in White, is forthcoming from Musa Publishing.

Kelly has had poems published in Wooden Teeth magazine, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine, Coldnoon, Blue Hour Magazine, Promptly, and Poetry Pacific. Her work, including her published fiction and nonfiction, can be found at www. kellyannjacobson.com.

Christopher Mulrooney has work which has been published in or is forthcoming from by The Moon Publishing & Printing, Ood Press, Kind of a Hurricane Press, and Turf Lane Press. His work has recently appeared in West Wind Review, Zettel, Indefinite Space, California Quarterly, The Southampton Review, Soliloquies, and Inscape.

Mike Joyce spends his time bumming around Chicago and discreetly staring at people. Last Tuesday, someone stared back--and asked him to fill out a simple survey regarding his opinion of the perforations in paper towel rolls. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in numerous publications, such as jmww, Connotation Press, and DOGZPLOT. When not writing or awkwardly filling out surveys, he serves as the Editor-in-Chief of Literary Orphans (www.LiteraryOrphans.org).

Crystal Nelson is a mixed media artist specializing in collage and printmaking. She currently lives in Aubrey and teaches middle school art in The Colony. She received a degree in graphic design and returned to school at University of Texas El Paso for her B.F.A. in printmaking with a minor in painting. She has shown her work in several North Texas galleries and currently has work in A Creative Art Studio and Gallery in Denton. She teaches visual journaling, gel monotypes and collage classes at the same gallery.

Michael C.Keith is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. In 2009, he coedited a found manuscript by legendary writer and director Norman Corwin. Keith is also the author of the most widely adopted text on American radio—The Radio Station, 8th edition (Focal Press, 2010). Prior to joining Boston College, Keith served as Chair of Education at the Museum of Broadcast Communications. He is co-founder of the Broadcast Education Association’s Radio Division, was director of the communication program at Dean College, and served as an invited professor at George Washington University and Marquette University. He is the recipient of numerous awards, among them the International Radio Television Society’s Stanton Fellow Award, the Broadcast Education Association’s Distinguished Scholar Award, and the University of Rhode Island’s Achievement Award in the Humanities.

Stanley M. Noah has a BGS degree from the University of Texas at Dallas. He has been published in Verse Wisconsin, B.O.D.Y., Main Street Rag, South Carolina Review, Poetry Nottingham and other publications in the U.S.A., Britain, Canada and New Zealand.

J. Anthony Roman is a playwright and fiction writer. His full length play The Vacant Sky was presented as a staged reading at the 2006 NYC Hip Hop Theater Festival, and featured Obie Award winning actor Russell G. Jones. In 2010, Roman’s one person play Perv was presented at the Labyrinth Summer Intensive, and was read by actress Ana Ortiz. His fiction has been published by gadfly.com, and The Unboxed Voices Anthology.

Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and is writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Maitenant, A New Ulster, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (2014) Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House, Love Poems…Yes… REALLY… Love Poems (2013) Sybaritic Press. She is alsothe editor of the forthcoming anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E. Butler (2014) Sybaritic Press. Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steampunk accessories, and the letter “S.” Ezra Letra is a man with many muses: rapper, photographer, writer, director, graphic designer, producer, proud father. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in University of Arizona Press, Red River Review, Out of the Gutter, Sugar Mule Press, and Gutter Books LLC. Born in Queens, NY and residing in Phoenix, AZ, Ezra holds a B.A in English and Creative Writing from The University of Arizona. His debut poetry chapbook When La Migra Stopped Coming was published by Nostrovia Poetry in early 2014. He is currently touring the U.S. Southwest to promote his latest musical venture: The Nobody EP. See more of his work at http://www.ezraletra.com/

Christian Wallace hails from the western part of Texas. He received his Bachelor of Arts in both English and History at Texas State University where he graduated Summa Cum Laude. Christian went on to complete his Master of Arts in Writing with First Honors at The National University of Ireland in Galway. He is currently writing a play.

Mariah E. Wilson is a writer from beautiful British Columbia.

She has been published in The Loch Raven Review, Every Day Poets, The Kitchen Poet, Walking is Still Honest, Luciferous and The Corner Club Press, for which she is also now the Poetry Editor. She has work forthcoming in Thin Air Magazine and Apocrypha and Abstractions.

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INSPIRE.