2020 Bootleg

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In the spring of 2020, the entire country experienced difficulty that pushed the limits of our ability to improvise. In March, when we began to assemble the Spring Issue of the NMC Magazine, we received notice that campus would be shutting down for the rest of the semester. The faculty, staff, and I decided to hold off on publishing the issue until Fall semester. We all got through the summer months with COVID 19 spiking, riots, and desperate news every day.In the Fall semester, we again were trying something new: a fully digital issue. This would allow the very talented design staff to work as remotely as possible while creating a high quality magazine that would be to our standards.

This semester we have included something new: audio recordings of each piece. This increases accessibility, and it gave us the chance to work with the talented audio department at NMC. We are finally publishing Bootleg, after almost a year of working tirelessly to put it out in the safest manner possible.

As the country sees a second spike in COVID cases and the state has begun shutting down again, students and staff at NMC have been doing their best to work and get through these times with as much positivity as they can. Sometimes that positivity is difficult; we only see the negative and we focus so hard on what we are doing wrong that we ignore what we are doing right.

I wish everyone safety and health. Try to not be too hard on yourselves during this time.

We are all doing the best we can with the tools we have available to us. Enjoy this issue of the NMC Magazine as we explore the topic of Bootleg, with stories and art ranging from prohibition era to literal ‘boot legs’ to stories about resilience and growth.

Wear a mask, wash your hands, and enjoy the fruits of our labor.

Randi Upton Editor in Chief

“Prohibition era, broken promises, empty pockets. Raised fists in the air, fighting against the grain. Power to the B sides of the mixed tapes and the grassroots family scraping by.” NMC Magazine wasn’t looking for name brands this year. Instead, we were looking for knockoffs, makeshift creations, collaged thought processes, magazine cutouts, anything against the mainstream goes. No greatest hits, nor original ideas. Well, we also weren’t asking for plagiarism. We define bootleg as an idea, item, or process that hasn’t been officially released by its original owner. Visual and literary design emerges from a plethora of areas, and more often than not we find that most ideas are inspired by something else.

This edition of NMC Magazine asked for students, staff, and faculty to echo intuitive thought processes with pre-existing ideas,and to delve into the moments in life where bootleg is all we could afford.

-Hannah Strong, Design Staff-Co editor

Table Of Contents Cover, Kamron Williams.................................................. Cover Editor letters part 1.......................................................................2 Mama Don’t Like Tuesdays Anymore, Anne-Marie Kabat....................................................................................6 Chained Escape, Nicole Watson...............................................7 Tunnel Vision, Mariah Middaugh.........................................8 Elephant is my Friend, James Asava...............................9 Vices, Laura Rose.................................................................................10 Wendy the Sailor, Tiffany L. Pascal..............................11 Besides the B-sides, Liam Strong...................................12-14 Wait, Matthew Hicks........................................................................16-17 Emotional High, Ann Hosler...............................................18-21 Wow Doc, I Feel Great!, Kamron Williams...................18-19 Going Astray, Journey Krajnik..........................................22-23 girl, woman, Andrea Grabowski............................................24 Verdue, Hannah Strong................................................................24-25 Cancer Patients be the New Pirates, Hannah Carr...........................................................................................25-27 I Like Your Bootleg, Bethany Vang...............................28 Speakeasy, Leah Dawson..............................................................29 Bereft, Hannah Strong..................................................................30 Mountain Man, Randi Upton..................................................31-33 Tsurune, Anna Parsons.................................................................34 Sakura, Jasmine Dean....................................................................35 Night & Day, Laura Rose..........................................................36-37 How to Love a Ghost, Deanna Ray Luton...................38 Raised Fists in the Air, Issue #2

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Tunnel Vision, Mariah Middaugh PG. 8

2 Bereft, Hannah Strong PG. 22 VOLUME B O O T L#42 EG

Ari Woodruff..............................................................................38 Broken Promises, Ari Woodruff.............................39 I’m Him, Jeffery Adams....................................................39 Fighting Against the Grain, Ari Woodruff.............................................................................40 Empty Pockets, Ari Woodruff...................................40 Prohibition Era, Ari Woodruff...........................41 Dyin’ Dirty, David Sears..............................................41 Issues, Krystal Coyne.................................................. 42 Edging Death, Amanda Coddington................43-44 The Boss’s Dry Cleaning, William Walton...................................................................45-47 The Family Heirloom, Shelby Bigelow.........48 [TITLE REDACTED], Jasmine Dean..........................49 Neat, Olivia Schmit .........................................................50 R@z0r’s Edge, David Hosler..................................51-53 Bootleg Memories, Caroline Schaefer-Hills.............................................54 Forgotten, But Not Gone, Silas James...........55 Know Your Onions, Alissia J.R. Lingaur.....56 ?, Laura Rose............................................................................57 Dark Libations, Aly Walters ................................58 Food Insecurity, James Asava................................59 When The Pandemic Came to Town, Susan Odgers..........................................................................60-61 Editor letters part 2...................................................62 Staff Images............................................................................63 Verdue, Hannah Strong...............................Back cover

Wendy The Sailor, Tiffany L. Pascal PG. 11

I Like Your Bootleg, Bethany Vang PG. 19

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Daddy never came home after that Monday night he gave me the shiniest nickel I’d ever seen We tromped to the corner store, where Daddy let me have any butterscotch I wanted while he talked to the man with big boots

Mama don’t like Tuesdays Anymore

by Anne-Marie Kabat

I was his little dewdropper, flitting through the grass to Mama like the firefly I wish I was as he tipped back each glass At breakfast he left giggle water out of his coffee, maybe that’s why he didn’t stick his tongue out at me maybe that’s why Daddy choked on his tie at work Mama said the stocks went bad like Daddy’s birthday cake sittin’ on our table with his newspaper pile I’ve started to scribble on I wish Daddy could still read anything, the book about the goose or even the words on the back of his bottles because 50 proof meant 100 percent love for me If I beg Mama to open Daddy’s office she’ll let me sit behind his desk and mark all over his dusty calendars ‘cause Mama don’t like Tuesdays anymore VOLUME #42

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Chained Escape

by Nicole Watson

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Tunnel Vision

by Mariah Middaugh

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Why was the language I spoke so distant from my father’s skin?

Elephant is my friend

by James Asava

Why was it easier to get the passwords to the blind tigers than deciphering the words he spoke, using the one phrase I knew, Hathi mere sathi?

We were separated like the uniform of a lost boy scout, embroidered into my Colored bones, culture absent, my tongue an unreliable thermometer to the cumin filled mac n’ cheese.

We wiped our dirty faces with a dhoti.

Was the password the unripe mangos left in my Kakagi’s car?

Or the love my dad showed me through the half-melted chocolate from his pocket?

Because I couldn’t say I love you in Hindi.

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Vices

by Laura Rose

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Wendy the Sailor

by Tiffany L. Pascal

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W o It rk b bu ein on t g co t in th his d b W ble a w e ce oub inc e (t d to ay t nten le i ss lu he n h g

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Every month

by Liam Strong before my family’s annual vacations to Florida, I burned a series of CDs to play inthe twoday drive down from Michigan. Eponymously titled “Vacation CDs,” the escape through music was both literal and transportive in scope.

Notorious for copping an entire tower of blank CDs and laying waste to them in a few weeks, I spent hours tinkering the track lists. Each CD--there were dozens of Vacation CDs--had purpose, whether textural, lyrical, or a collection of songs from the same artist. I over-cooked most of my discs; the maximum runtime a blank CD could hold was 80 minutes, and I wanted to get my time’s worth. A week’s trip to the library’s Sight & Sound section allotted for an expansive palette of records to steal from. I had entire band’s discographies (live albums, too!) ripped onto my laptop. I felt like a god. I felt like a record producer in my own juvenile aggrandizement.

Moreover, I felt like bragging.

Besides the B-Sides

I had the track lists memorized, the melodies and drum patterns choreographed in my head.

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My family didn’t really care, or at least never expressed mass amounts of excitement. The music was, in selfish terms, for me. Maybe I wanted to impress my family. No--actually, I really wanted to impress them. I had the track lists memorized, the melodies and drum patterns choreographed in my head. For my dad to ask, “Hey, what band was that?” was a moment of pride.

My silent fandom would easily be paused by my parents turning down the volume to chat between themselves, talking about the exciting things we had planned at our Floridian home away from home, or asking where we wanted to eat. The volume forgotten, I resorted to pestering. I was clearly obnoxious, and my adoration for the eighteen-minute-long track by Yes playing subdued in the background never seemed to inspire them. My sister, beguiled to her earbuds, offered no support.

The problem with opening up my own headspace then was that I experienced music completely different from my family. Even with a burnt CD of communion, I shared with them the passing of time more than anything. It’s not an odd thing to sit through full-length albums, absorbing every song, lyric, rhythm. I harbored my dad’s conjecture that an immeasurable amount of music became eclipsed once the single was invented by the music industry. More so, I garnered his inclination to dig for the B-sides of albums myself, to treasure and share songs often overshadowed by hit singles, the A-side of the record. Comparable to

a grading system, yet reinforcing its unfairness, the B-side became the less significant side, the dumping ground of random songs artists piled on to ensure the runtime for a full-length LP. The content, then, wasn’t meant to be as good.

Phil Spector, one of the most prolific American record producers, is also one of the most detrimental to our perception of records as a cohesive piece of art. Focusing all the “important” tracks on the A-side, Spector produced records in an empirically fiscal way; music is an industry, which implies industrial, which implies music is inherently not art to him.

Musicians and producers have since veered away from this approach in myriad ways.

Especially counterintuitive to Spector’s met odology are artists who place their singles on the B-side of the record. In my unintentional rebellion I created my own records, ones where the B-sides were all A-sides, where every song was of equal merit.

Somewhere in the space between Michigan and Florida I dismissed all desire to be contained to either place. I lost myself in an atmosphere of music emboldened by my love for travel, by wanting to be stuck in the in-between, to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, like a treacle of dark matter. Sitting in the cramped backseat of a glossy rental car, my criminality of ripping hundreds of library CDs became less of a hobby and more of a coping mechanism.

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Music takes us places (my dad might suggest “Sailing”

by Christopher Cross). Music unearths the buried parts of ourselves. Music, in its evocation, can do anything.

Once, when my dad and I were driving to the library (our weekly Sunday ritual), he seemed surprised. I didn’t know what was wrong; it was a bright winter day, normal in every sense. He silently turned the radio volume up--still perturbed. He even changed the station (such a rare occurrence!), which only furthered his disappointment. Finally, just as we were slowing toward a red light, he admitted, “I miss your music--you should keep some of your CDs in the car.”

Allocating my contraband to the car was one thing, but the embellishment that my dad enjoyed my dorky music selection was another. I knew he appreciated that I listened to everything he liked; in some way, I have to imagine that was a reflection of pride he reserved for me. The music wasn’t special--it was special to me, but that was also due to all the time and meticulous effort in making my burnt CD collection (I’ll prove this further: I once burned Fuss by The Killers, Music unearths the buried Hot even though I already parts of ourselves. owned a brand new copy, just so I didn’t have to damage it). Actually, I was probably just timid, worried that it was lame to talk about music so much with my dad.

dint of my evasion, the music I shared resonated through the ear drums of my dad, and in many ways, made our bond stronger. Without music, we would not have been close.

The distance of the passenger seat to the driver’s seat was nowhere near the distance of Michigan to Florida, but it was easy to feel a lack of connection when we didn’t talk for hours in the car. When the volume is high, the music bridges the gap. When the car turns off, we have to return to ourselves. When I can’t hear the rest of the world, I hope the discs I’ve made into a chimera of sound speak for me.

I hope the music allows me to remain suspended, indefinitely, in the air.

But therein lies the connection I overlooked in my escape from the world and the people around me. By

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In the spring of 2020, the entire country experienced dif ability to improvise. In March, when we began to assembl Magazine, we received notice that campus would be shut semester. The faculty, staff, and I decided to hold off o semester. We all got through the summer months with news every day.In the Fall semester, we again were try issue. This would allow the very talented design staff t while creating a high quality magazine that would be to

This semester we have included something new: audio reco accessibility, and it gave us the chance to work with t We are finally publishing Bootleg, after almost a year the safest manner possible.

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As the country sees a second spike in COVID cases and again, students and staff at NMC have been doing their times with as much positivity as they can. Sometimes tha the negative and we focus so hard on what we are doin are doing right.

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wait

by Matthew Hicks

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“I can’t believe he said that,” Kasie says, hopping over the curb as we cross the street. Streetlights illuminate the sidewalk for the walk to our shared apartment-- the same path, every night following our midnight shift at Kosso Electronics.

A burst of laughter escapes her.

“The customers we get are so ridiculous, Sienna,” she grins.

A metallic glint of light catches my eye. “There’s a warden ahead,” I say to my best friend sotto voce. Kasie’s grin slips and I shrug in response. This neighborhood is quiet, so the artificial intelligence robots are rarely spotted in this part of the city.

Emotional High

by Ann Hosler

Its metallic exterior and glowing blue ocular sockets wipe away any familial response.

It hovers out of the alleyway ahead and turns in our direction.

Our footsteps are the only noise as we approach. The warden maneuvers in front of us and Kasie tries to step around.

“Hi, excuse us, just going home,” I say, but the warden blocks our passage again.

STOP, CITIZENS. I frown at the warden. The robot is shaped vaguely humanoid, with arms

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In the spr ability to Magazine, semester. semester. news ever issue. This while cre

This semes VOLUME #42 accessibil We are f the safes

“Wow Doc, I Feel Great!”

by Kamron Williams

and hands--even a generic face. Its metallic exterior and glowing blue ocular sockets wipe away any familial response.

Wardens are a peacekeeping artificial intelligence being tested by a group of trillionaire-funded engineers in our city. The AI units self-evolve to carry out their duty and use aerial scanners across Kosso to detect aggression and rage.

SCANNERS REPORT EXCESS ENDORPHINS IN AREA. Kasie snorts. “You mean like, the happy body hormones? Ooooookay. Good to know.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for any stray…endorphins,” I say, sharing a confused look with Kasie. I tug on her arm and we try to step around. Unease rises in me when the warden continues to block us.

CITIZENS. SUBMIT TO A BIOSCAN. I feel the shudder that runs through Kasie’s body and I squeeze her arm in a lame attempt to offer comfort.

Bioscans are harmless-- your first one typically happens upon entering the workforce to establish a baseline of your vitals and other biomarkers. Kasie never liked the invasive sensations of bioscans, though.

The warden waits for a beat and takes our silence as agreement. A web of blue lights emit from its glowing sockets and rake first over my body, leaving behind a chill, then over Kasie. Even from my peripheral I see that her face is drained of all color. Mine is likely the same. This intrusion isn’t typical, and my hands shake.

The warden hums and runs the scans again, then pivots toward my friend.

KASIE WILLIAMS, VIOLATION 8-4-9-0-1-7: HILARITY. RISK TO PUBLIC SAFETY. SOLUTION: RECONFIGURATION.

A second warden approaches from behind and clamps Issue #2

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its thick, hand-like appendages around Kasie’s arms. My friend cries out as she’s easily lifted away from me.

I lunge at Kasie but the first warden extends its arm, tumbling me onto the sidewalk. The pavement scrapes my legs. “She was only laughing! That’s not a risk.”

Two pairs of blue eyes gaze dispassionately at me. I sit up on the sidewalk, but pause when Kasie shakes her head.

“Don’t, Sienna,” she says, voice strained, green eyes glinting in the streetlight.

I take a calming breath. Kasie’s right--the wardens monitor for violence, and I’m on the verge of it. It won’t free her if I get hauled away as well.

Kasie’s feet dangle above the pavement as the warden lifts her and begins gliding toward the city center. “I’ll be fine,” she calls. “Go home!”

After a few blocks, both wardens turn the corner and disappear from sight. The streets are silent, as if nothing happened. I sigh and hug my knees to my torso, dropping my forehead onto them. Not being able to help Kasie is frustrating. It’s like the AI didn’t even want to consider the fact that my friend did nothing wrong. She’s innocent.

I stand and brush gravel from my jeans, then trudge the remaining handful of streets to our apartment.

After a fitful night of sleep, I rush into Kasie’s room. Her bed is undisturbed. She’s a messy sleeper--usually half of her frothy pink pillow

mountain ends up on the floor--so she must have been detained overnight. I shake my head, frowning. Why would they keep her so long?

Kasie doesn’t show up to eat either breakfast or lunch. I pack two sandwiches for our work shift and head out in the early dregs of evening.

My lips twitch into a grin as I enter the break room and see Kasie’s coat. I toss the sandwiches into the refrigerator and bounce down the short hallway, emerging onto the sales floor. A familiar shock of blonde hair is talking with a customer a few aisles away. Seeing Kasie’s hair pulled into a bun instead of its usual loose, wild curls is strange, but she obviously had no time to get ready for work today. I straighten some headphone displays while stealing side glances, and speed-walk to my friend the moment she’s free.

She turns and stares at me, unblinking, but doesn't respond.

“Kasie! I waited at home as long as I could. Did you just get out?”

She turns and stares at me, unblinking, but doesn’t respond. My brow furrows.

“Kasie?” I step closer. Her eyes continue to bore into me and the hairs on my arms rise. “Are your eyes…” I shake my head and

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squint. Her pupils almost look like they’re coated with a bronze glaze, but that doesn’t make any sense. “Why aren’t your eyes green?”

Her arm suddenly extends and I wince as Kasie’s hand squeezes my bicep. “You should calm down,” she says, her voice flat, lips unsmiling. Eyes that have lost their spark.

Kasie releases me and walks away, the movement stilted compared to her usual loping gait. Not a single flicker of emotion.

As if she’s lost what made her human.

Unshed tears sting my eyes and I breathe deeply. The wardens took my friend, but they can’t have my misery.

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Going Astray

by Journey Krajnik

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Girl,w0man

by Andrea Grabowski

bootleg your robbed adolescence. cut off your hair. shave it, make it lavender wine. you were not supposed to do this. take back your stolen life. show your ankles. throw all your hairpins away. the corset too. you were not supposed to do this. dance all night, feet flashing in the dark. drive on your own, what’s left of your hair whipping in the wind. drive until you can drive no more, breathless ford exhilaration. speak easy, speak loud. stilted fucks in bathtub gin moonlight. learn to make the words pure on your tongue. starch confidence into your shining spine. show your knees, ripped shorts riding up your thighs. twist your tank top around your ribs. burn your white cotton bodice. tuck the flask in your garter. you were not supposed to do this. stub your cigarette in the dirt. walk where only a man could walk before. conflate every small sin because god you want to be sinful. you have been shackled in lace and promises of gold rings for too long. say you have desire. say you don’t. say you’ll never say i do. read everything you can. write and write and write and claim it as your own. don’t ever let a man put his name on it. when your hair grows out, go back to the barber. tell him to make it shorter, cherry whiskey. go swimming. you have a body to be proud of. get arrested for showing your legs. dive in again. be angry. you were not supposed to feel this. feel it anyways. ring your eyes in dark kohl, paint your lips poppy brandy. feel everything you were not supposed to feel. cast your virgin ballot, always keep marching in the streets. raise your fist in protest for the first time, but never let it be your last. this is waking from a coma when opening your eyes or taking a full clear breath feels like a goddamn miracle. you were not supposed to feel this. yet you are the miracle.

Verdue

By Hannah Strong VOLUME #42

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Cancer Cancer Patients Patients Be Be the the New New Pirates Pirates

by Hannah Carr

by Hannah Carr

8:56 p.m. Lionel Wafer Wing, Junarl Hospital, Philadelphia: Hospital Room #227 Philadelphia: Hospital Room #227

8:56 p.m.

Wafer Room #227 8:56 p.Lionel m. Lio nel Wing, WafeJunarl r WinHospital, g, JunaPhiladelphia: rl HospitalHospital , “I don’t want a fake leg, Verity! I want my leg back!” Bradley snaps at me.

"I don’t want a fake leg, Verity! I want my leg back!” Bradley snaps at me.

“Dad’s already making the payments.” chides.

"I don’t want amaking fake leg, Verity!

I wantTara my leg back!” Bradley snaps at me. chides.

Dad’s already the payments.”

Tara I glancealready at my best friend in the Tara chair near her brother’s bed. She looks haggard. making thecurled payments.”

I Dad’s glance at my best friend curled in the chairchides. near her brother’s bed. She looks hagTheir father works long hours at GM, so Tara stays and neither has smiled I glance at my best friend curled in the chair nearwith her Bradley brother’s bed.

She haggard. Their father works long hours at GM, so Tara stays with Bradley and looks neither since Bradley lostBradley his leg to cancer.

We a few months ago Bradley will get a gard.

Theirsince father works long hours at GM, soout Tara stays with and neither has smiled lost his leg tofound cancer.

We found out aBradley few that months ago that has smiled since Bradley lost his leg to cancer.

We found out a few months ago that prosthetic, but the idea hasn’t grown on him.

Bradley will get a prosthetic, but the idea hasn’t grown on him.

Bradley willthink get a on prosthetic, but us the idea grown onaahim. pace and and think ways of this until nurse II pace on ways to to kick kick us out out ofhasn’t this funk funk until nurseinforms informsus usthat thatvisitI pace and think on ways to kick us out of this funk until a nurse informs us that ing hours are over. visiting hours are over. visiting hoursThe arebook over.she’d Tara stands. stands. , slips Tara The book she’d read read aloud, aloud,Pirates PiratesPast PastNoon Noon, slipstotothe thefloor. floor.I thumb I Tara stands.

The book she’d read aloud, Pirates Past Noon, slips to the floor.

I through the pages on our way out. thumb through the pages on our way out. thumb through the pages on our way out.

7:13a.m. a.m . PeShipwrecked te’s Shipw reckeThey’ll d Pizz as:for ThWeeks! ey ’ll Perfect Last fofor rW eeVoyage! ks! Perfect 7:13 Pete’s Pizzas: Last Any

mV .o Pyeateg’es!Shipwrecked Pizzas: They ’ll Last for Weeks! Perfect f7o:r13Aan.y fWhy o r A n y V oygetting age! pizza “Whyare arewe wegetting pizzafor for breakfast?” breakfast?” Tara Tara demands. demands.

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Why are wefor getting pizza for breakfast?”boots!”

Tara demands.

We’re I say. say. “Bradley’s “Bradley’sacting actingout outbecause “We’rehere here fortheir theirother other wares—pirate wares—pirate We’re here for their other wares—pirate boots!”

I say.

“Bradley’s acting out because he’sabout worried his classmates' toto get usedleg to and a new he’s worried hisabout classmates' reactions.reactions.

He has to He get has used a new restart because he’s worried about his classmates' reactions. He has to get used to a new leg and fourth grade.” We hop over the curb to the sidewalk. “Let’s give him some control.” leg and restart fourth grade.”

She nods.

“Why pirates?” We hop over the curb to the sidewalk. “Let’s give him some restart fourth grade.” control.”

“What’s cooler than pirates?”

We hop over the curb to the sidewalk. “Let’s give him some control.”

She nods.

“Why pirates?”

“Ninjas,” Tara laughs. She opens the door and the scent of pizza envelopes us.

She nods.

“Why pirates?”

What’s cooler than pirates?”

After we explain that we don’t want the Boot Slice: Slices on the Go special, but rather a What’s cooler than pirates?”

Ninjas,” Tara laughs. opens the door and the scent disappears. of pizza envelopes us. physical boot from oneShe of their mannequins, the cashier Ninjas,” Tara laughs.

She opens the door and the scent of pizza us.

After we explain want athe Boot Slice: Slices the envelopes Go special, butfrom Tara sighs.

“I don’tthat see we whydon’t he needs manager.

Money for on a boot is no different After we explain that we don’t want the Boot Slice: Slices on the Go special, but money a pizza.” rather afor physical boot from one of their mannequins, the cashier disappears. rather a physical boot one of their mannequins, thefor cashier isMoney a manager crouch to inI wander to “I the window display.

“Every Tara sighs. don’t seefrom why he needs a question manager. a question.” bootdisappears. is no Idifferent Tara sighs.

“I don’t see why he needs a manager.

Money for a boot is no different spect the boots. from money for a pizza.” from money for a pizza.”adisplay. awaytofrom there!” voice yells.

“Don’t touch is that!

Were you keeping watch while I“Get wander the window “Every question a manager question.”

I crouch to I wander to the window display. “Every question is a manager question.” I crouch to inspect the steals boots.from me?” your friend inspect thefrom boots.

Get away there!” a voice yells. “Don’t touch that! Were you keeping watch Get away from voice yells. “Don’t touch that! Were you keeping watch while your friendthere!” steals afrom me?” while your friend steals from me?”

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I jump. Tara is cornered by a large silver-haired woman, her ponytail hanging I jump. is of cornered by a large silver-haired woman, her ponytail hanging beneath beneath theTara brim a feathered tricorn. the brim of a feathered tricorn.

I was just looking!”

“I woman was juststalks looking!”

The forward, eyes acidic. “Out!” she booms. “Get out of my sight, ya’ The woman acidic. the “Out!” she booms.

“Get out of my sight, ya’ picapicaroons!”

Shestalks flaps forward, her arms,eyes slamming door behind us. roons!”

She flaps her arms, slamming the door behind us.

Tara and I gape at each other. Then we dash to the car before she decides to chase Tara and gape at each other.

Then we dash to the car before she decides to chase us us down withI the mannequin’s cutlass. down with the mannequin’s cutlass.

7:47 a.m. Sutler’s: Bootleg Bargains a Pirate Would Be Proud Of!

Taraa.m. tipsSutler’s: an imaginary hat to my playful as Be she walks 7:47 Bootleg Bargains a Piratebow Would Proud Of!through the door. “We’ll get a boot before the hour is up. I can feel it!”

Looking at the monkey skulls inmy theplayful window, I’m to through believe her.

Tara tips an imaginary hat to bow asinclined she walks the Pirate door. “We’ll get a boots fit with Sutler’s vibes. boot before the hour is up. I can feel it!”

A motley of orange, and red head jerks up from Lookingcombination at the monkey skulls inyellow, the window, I’mattached inclinedto toabelieve her. Pirate boots fit thewith register.

“We got boots,” the woman chirps as she hops over the counter.

She Sutler’s vibes. skips to the right, not waiting to see yellow, if we follow.

A motley combination of orange, and red attached to a head jerks up from the Cool!

We appreciate the help.

We’re looking for something piratesque,” I say. register.

Oh“We no,”got sheboots,” says. “That’s not how this Here, you get what you should the woman chirps asworks. she hops over the counter.

Sheneed. skipsI to the right, test your energies, girls, before we look at boots.” not waiting to see if we follow.

Oh,” I stumble to a stop.the “We don’t need to do that.

We know our energies.”

“Cool!

We appreciate help.

We’re looking for something piratesque,” I say.

No,” her voice drops lower.

“You just think you do.

Very dangerous.”

She grabs “Oh no,” she says. “That’s not how this works. Here, you get what you need. I should test Tara’s “My girls, heart before aches for you girls.

The crystals will know. We just need a bit yourwrist. energies, we look at boots.” of blood.”

“Oh,” I stumble to a stop. “We don’t need to do that. We know our energies.”

You know, my forgetful energy just remembered an important meeting.” I step “No,” her voice drops lower. “You just think you do. Very dangerous.” She grabs Tara’s backward. wrist.

Nothing’s more important than your energies. The meeting can wait.”

“My heart aches for you girls. The crystals will know. We just need a bit of blood.”

It really can’t,” Tara says. She pries her wrists loose with my help.

“You know, my forgetful energy just remembered an important meeting.” I step backSee you later!” I holler as we speed walk out. ward.

“Nothing’s more important yourShip energies.

The The meeting can wait.”

9:23 a.m. Captain Nemo’sthan Tight Hotel: Cruise on Land “Itface really Taraman says.

She pries her wrists loose with“Just my help.

The of can’t,” the young dressed as Captain Nemo falls. as well you don’t you later!”

I holler as we speed out. like“See our prices.

We don’t have many kidwalk boots.

They prefer hats.”

It doesn’t have to fit perfectly. We want something he can wear over his prosthetic.

You know, make it more cool,” I say.

I know! You can take one of my boots. It’s cheaper for me to replace it than for you to buy one. Plus—he’ll have the Captain’s boot!”

Tara perks up. “But… will you get in trouble?”

He snaps his fingers. “Possibly. But if you ‘accidently’ walk away with my boot in all the confusion and I don’t mention the twenty in my pocket, we’ll be in the clear.”

26

VOLUME #42

Issue #2

9:23 a.m. Captain Nemo’s Tight Ship Hotel: The Cruise on Land Twenty, huh?” I ask.

I never Thesaid faceit’d of be thefree!” young man dressed as Captain Nemo falls. “Just as well you don’t like Captain Nemo circles the room, pausing to grab the attention our prices. We don’t have many kid boots.

They prefer hats.”of a nearby family. With their eyes on he have approaches a large prop boulder and scales it. He gives ushis anprosthetic. exaggerated wink “It him, doesn’t to fit perfectly.

We want something he can wear over You when he reaches the peak. know, make it more cool,” I say.

Oh, no!” he slides down the rock butIt’s manages land limbs askew.

“Myyou ankle!

“I know!

You can take one of slowly, my boots. cheapertofor mewith to replace it than for to It burns!

Someone get the boot off before it swells! buy one. Plus—he’ll have the Captain’s boot!”

Tara jumps into action andwill wiggles off in thetrouble?” boot we need. Crouching, I stuff twenty dollars into Tara perks up. “But… you get his hand.

He Insnaps his fingers.

“Possibly.

But if you ‘accidently’ walk away with boot in the of our the spring of 2020, the entire country experienced difficulty thatmy pushed thealllimits “Thank you, kind people,” he chokes out.

“Doctor?

Doctor, come forward!”

Nemo pleads as if confusion and I don’t mention the twenty in my pocket, we’ll be in the clear.” ability to improvise. In March, when we began to assemble the Spring Issue of the NMC drawing his final breath.

“Twenty, huh?” ask.

Magazine, we Ireceived notice that campus would be shutting down for the rest of the As others crowd around him Tara and I slip out. No one notices that Tara still has the boot.

“I never saidThe it’d faculty, be free!”staff, and I decided to hold off on publishing the issue until Fall semester.

Captain Nemo circles the through room, pausing to grab the attention of a19 nearby family. semester.

We Wafer all got the summer months with COVID spiking, riots,With and desperate 10:04 a.m.

Lionel Wing, Junarl Hospital, Philadelphia: Hospital Room theirnews eyesevery on him, he approaches a large prop boulder and scalessomething it. He gives usaanfully exag-digital day.In the Fall semester, we again were trying new: #227 gerated wink heallow reaches peak.

This when would thethe very talented design staff to work as remotely as possible We got issue. something for you, Bradley!”

I say.

“Oh, no!” he slides down the rock slowly, to to land with limbs askew. “My anwhile creating a high quality magazine thatmanages would be our standards.

It’s for the prosthetic really,” Tara clarifies. but kle! frowns.

It burns!“ISomeone the boot off beforegonna it swells!

Bradley won’t getget a fake leg. Nothing’s change my mind!”

Tara jumps into action and wiggles off the boot weaudio need.

Crouching, stuff twenty dolThis semester have included something recordings ofI each This increases We think this might.”we Tara and I exchange a grin,new: and she swings the boot ontopiece. the bed. lars into his hand. accessibility, and it gave us the chance to work with the talented audio department at NMC Tada! A pirate boot from Captain Nemo himself. You can put it over your prosthetic, like a cast “Thank you, kind people,” he chokes out.

“Doctor?

Doctor, come forward!”

Nemo pleads We are finally publishing Bootleg, after almost a year of working tirelessly to put it out or something!” as if drawing his finalwider breath. the safest manner possible.

Bradley’s eyes light up, than I’ve ever seen them. His eyebrows fly and his scowl loosens, As others around him unraveling into crowd a humongous grin.Tara and I slip out. No one notices that Tara still has the boot.

As the country sees a second spike in COVID cases and the state has begun shutting down Mission Accomplished. again, students and staff at NMC have been doing their best to work and get through these with as muchWing, positivity they can.

Sometimes that positivity is difficult; we only see 10:04times a.m. Lionel Wafer Junarlas Hospital, Philadelphia: Hospital Room #227 the negative and we focus so hard on what we are doing wrong that we ignore what we are right. for you, Bradley!” I say.

“We gotdoing something “It’s for the prosthetic really,” Tara clarifies.

I wishfrowns. everyone safetyget and health. to not gonna be toochange hard on during this time.

Bradley “I won’t a fake leg.Try Nothing’s myyourselves mind!”

We are this all might.” doing the best can with athe tools available toonto us. Enjoy this issue “We think Tara andwe I exchange grin, and we she have swings the boot the bed. of the NMC Magazine asCaptain we explore topic of with and art ranging from “Tada!

A pirate boot from Nemothe himself.

YouBootleg, can put it overstories your prosthetic, era to literal ‘boot legs’ to stories about resilience and growth. like prohibition a cast or something!”

Bradley’s eyes light up, wider than I’ve ever seen them. His eyebrows fly and his scowl loosens, into your a humongous grin.

Wearunraveling a mask, wash hands, and enjoy the fruits of our labor.

Mission Accomplished.

Randi Upton Editor in Chief

27

I like y0ur B00tlEg

by Bethany Vang

VOLUME #42

28

SPEAKEASY

by Leah

D aw s 0 n

Issue #2

29

Bereft

by Hannah Str0ng

VOLUME #42

30

by Randi Upton

MOU NTAI N MA N sitdilapidated in the dilapidated shed, just large enough for a workbench and some with barrels, with You sit You in the shed, just large enough for a workbench and some barrels, boxes overflowing in boxes overflowing in corners. the door windows and theare single of damp the shed are open the damp corners.

All the windows and the All single of the shed opendoor to the summer air. to A slight breeze moves summer air.

A slight breeze moves from tree to tree, unable to pass into the shed and offer relief. from tree to tree, unable to pass into the shed and offer relief. Sitting on a box, swinging your small legs and finSitting a box, swinging your jeans, small legs and fingering frays from cut-off gering theon frays from your cut-off you watch Grandpathe Dempsey moveyour between thejeans, shed you and watch his old, beat-up Grandpa Dempsey move between the shed and his old, beat-up truck.

His long face is solid in contruck. His long face is solid in concentration as he counts and carries jugs. His thin but strong back and legs wellcentration counts and carries jugs. His thin but strong back and legs well-heeled under the heeled under as thehe labor. labor.

You know better than to interrupt. While humming, you see a guitar on the workbench, partially restrung. Words Youpainted know better than to interrupt.

While humming, you see a guitar on the workbench, are crudely on the guitar’s body: THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS. partially restrung.

Words are crudely painted on the guitar’s body: MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS. “Granpa, what is fascist?” your tiny voice asks over the screaming of THIS the cicadas. is fascist?” your tiny voice asks tallying over theon screaming of the cicadas.

Dempsey“Granpa, pauses awhat moment before continuing to count, paper.

Words are crudely painted Dempsey pauses a moment before continuing to count, tallying on He squints over the truck bed, brow furrowed as he runs his tongue over the paper. He squints over the truck bed, brow as he his tongue over the chewing tobacco ye finish’d on lip. the“Girl, guitar’s body: THIS chewing tobacco infurrowed his lip. “Girl, yeruns finish’d that Diary book, right?” he asks, in his that Diary book, right?” he asks, spitting brown goo onto the ground.

MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS. spitting brown goo onto the ground.

You nod. You finished The Diary of Anne Frank last week, having bought it at the school book You nod. You finished The Diary of Anne Frank last week, having bought it at fair as a reward for finishing fourth grade with honors. the school book fair as a reward for finishing fourth grade with honors.

Dempsey leans against the truck bed, fanning gnats. “That book talk’d bout Hitler. Hitler was Dempsey leans against the truck bed, fanning gnats. “That book talk’d bout Hitler. Hitler was a fascist,” he says a fas-cist,” he says with finality, restarting work. “Why yeh even o’er here? Ain’t you supposed to be with finality, restarting work. “Why yeh even o’er here? Ain’t you supposed to be out playin’?” out playin’?”

You touch spot on youron thigh, where cut-off Theend. rattlesnake bite frombite a few months before Youatouch a spot yourjust thigh, justthe where the shorts cut-offend. shorts The rattlesnake from a leftfew a nasty scar and you’ve been scared about playing outside since.

Dempsey looks at the twin bite marks manmonths before left a nasty scar and you’ve been scared about playing outside since. Dempsey gled withatpink scar tissue and grunts. looks the twin bite marks mangled with pink scar tissue and grunts.

You look back over to the guitar. did you did kill fascists?”

You look back over to the “Granpa, guitar. “Granpa, you kill fascists?”

He sighs. yer aunt even know yer here?”

He“Girl, sighs.do“Girl, do yer aunt even know yer here?”

You shake your head. “She’s at work. Are you going into town? Can I come with? And you didn’t answer my question.”

Issue #2“No, I ain’t goin’ ter town. I’m goin’ up over der holler. I gots work to do, but yeh can come wit if yeh keep quiet. As fer yer question, I dunno bout all that other than when I was in the war.” He walks away from the truck and raises a hand to get your attention. “I’ll be right on back. Yeh stay

31

You shake your head. “She’s at work. Are you going into town? Can I come with? And you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I ain’t goin’ ter town. I’m goin’ up over der holler. I gots work to do, but yeh can come wit if yeh keep quiet. As fer yer question, I dunno bout all that other than when I was in the war.” He walks away from the truck and raises a hand to get your attention. “I’ll be right on back. Yeh stay away from dat truck now, yeh hear?” He disappears into the ramshackle farmhouse, three stories but none of it stands straight. The only evidence it was once white is the scattered paint peels.

You skip to the truck, stopping to stand by the door and curl your toes in your Little Mermaid flip flops. Your toes hang over the end. You sigh and take them off, throwing them against the farmhouse. Barefoot, you trudge around the old Ford, and peek at the barrels and jugs in the bed. You twist the lid off the closest jug. Before you can even see, the smell of rubbing alcohol takes you off guard. Coughing, you replace the lid as Dempsey exits the house.

“Git away from der and git in the damn truck!” Dempsey shouts. He turns the key in the ignition and gives the truck a few pumps of gas. Before waiting for you to put on your seatbelt, he backs down the road, before pivoting onto the county dirt road. The roads are dangerous and winding around the Blue Ridge, but Dempsey knows the way.

He takes the roads too fast, every bump rattling the truck. A rare smile creeps on his face as you shout and giggle.

You reach the covered bridge, closing in on Dempsey’s nearest neighbor, Farmer Brown. Brown is your favorite because he gives you all his runts. Dempsey slows the truck down to a crawl, reaching his arm out the open window to run his hands through the surrounding brush.

He grabs a white flower, the petals small but great in number. “Ya know what this is, Sunshine?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“This is Queen Anne’s Lace. Real purty, ain’t it? Bees love this flower and it’s special. That there root? That root is wild carrot. That there is the real carrot, that all carrots come from. Try it,” he holds it out to you.

You brush off some of the dirt and nibble. It is tough to bite but once you chew it, you realize it tastes like the orange carrots you know. “Wow! That is so cool! Markita at school did a science project on carrots,” You excitedly rattle off. “Uncle Jim says she only placed over me because she is a ne-” Dempsey smacks your leg.

“Don’ be hayseed, girl. You better’n that,” he said quietly. He speeds up, shifting gears and punching the clutch. He hacks into his hand and spits out the soggy pile of brown leaves that sat by his gums.

Suddenly, Dempsey starts a coughing fit. It gets worse in the summer. This one is bad and he pulls over to catch his breath. After a few minutes, the coughs become violent, and you are frightened. You pat him on the shoulder and shout over the coughing. “Don’t worry, Granpa! I am gonna go get Farmer Brown!” You jump from the truck as he slouches over.

Feet pounding on the dirt road, tiny rocks stabbing into flesh, in minutes, you reach Brown’s house. Your breathless screams of “Help!” get the farmer into his pickup. You grab the tailgate as he drives down the road.

VOLUME #42

32

The next few hours are a blur. Brown carries Dempsey into his own truck, taking him to the hospital. You call Grandma Lucille from a payphone. Aunt Judy rushes from her job at the porcelain factory and scolds you for having bare feet in the hospital. Everyone waits for the news. Even as a child you understand the seriousness of a hospital.

What if something happens to Dempsey? Who will take you on walkabouts and tell you the name of every plant, if it is edible or medicine? Who will let you read aloud to them for hours? You wring your hands. What will happen to Dempsey’s truck and that nasty smelling stuff in it? Will Brown take it to his house? You breathe deeply, exhaling slowly. Of course, everything will be fine.

A man in a white coat comes out and talks to Aunt Judy. They say many things you do not understand. That day, you learn the meaning of black lung. Terminal.

Even as a child you understand the seriousness of a hospital.

Issue #2

33

bu

rsons TSU-RU-NE

by Anna Parsons

Tsu·ru·ne ( つつつ ) n. 1. The sound of the bowstring during release when the arrow is fired. 2. A brief meeting with a sound as unique as a single snowflake, a sound never to be heard again.

3. The sound of home and comfort, a devastating loss to those who can no longer hear it. 4. Music whispered in the ear of the archer, a song for the archer alone / a ‘thwang’, ‘thwap’, ‘crack’, ‘snap’ / the ring that interrupts a clear, empty, at-peace mind / a pressure point that releases taut muscles straining to keep the bow drawn / a quiet breath that caresses the cheek, the neck / wind that tosses loose strands of hair against the ear / a moment of isolation, separation from the world, / a new dimension for one alone / a single thump, a single pulse, a single heartbeat to match the archer’s own.

VOLUME #42

34

Sakura

By Jasmine Dean

Issue #2

35

Night VOLUME #42

36

& Day

by Laura Rose

Issue #2

37

Raised Fists in the Air

deny grief avoid reality dream lucidly seek therapy savor sobriety burn mixtapes marry solitude solicit guidance sacrifice regrets find repentance control your mind consult a medium consider hypnosis try ashwagandha develop telepathy practice witchcraft reanimate a corpse discover spirituality contemplate mortality embrace the present possess your demons bury every photograph engineer a time machine neglect yourself in devotion fear relapse without recovery send messages in glass bottles

by Deanna Ray Luton fill the void with your vice of choice leave voicemails until the box is full seek validation in all of the wrong places smuggle your favorite brand of contraband quench thirst for blood with water or whiskey

by Ari Woodruff

H0w t0 L0ve a gh0st

VOLUME #42

38

Broken Promises

by Ari Woodruff

I'm Him

by Jeffery Adams I’m that fried chicken grape kool-aid drinking watermelon eating Brotha that you stare at.

I’m that rap music gang-banging thug that makes you clutch your purse when you see me coming.

I’m that intimidating aggressive suspect thrown in a jail cell for just looking like someone who could commit a crime.

I’m that colored Negro Boy who has to change their voice to sound more like you, so you aren’t afraid of my people’s native tongue.

But, honestly, I’m just a Young Black Gentleman who is trying to make a living in a world designed to make life tough for people who look like me.

Issue #2

39

Fighting Against the Grain

by Ari Woodruff

40

Empty Pockets

by Ari Woodruff

VOLUME #42

Dyin’ Dirty (Lucky Seven)

by David Sears

“For all who struggle; things are not as dire as you think. Find the radiance in the shadow.”

Just sellin’ frontin’ and movin’ the kind He’s smokin’ drinkin’ and hidin’ inside [Chorus] 10…9…8…This cannot be fate 6…5…4…There just has to be more 3…2…1…Never land on seven

Prohibition Era

by Ari Woodruff

Now beggin’ freenin’ and numbin’ his mind He’s longin’ cryin’ and wantin’ to hide Just shootin’ snortin’ and warpin’ his mind He’s pleadin’ needin’ and losin’ his life [Chorus] Now dyin’ rottin’ and wreckin’ his life He’s thinkin’ endin’ and sayin’ goodbye

Issue #2

41

Issues

Issues

by Krystal Coyne

VOLUME #42

42

Edging Death

Edging Death

Click to listen

by Amanda Coddington Content Warning: Sexual violence/violence/rough sexual encounters

He runs his fingers down my shoulder, tracing my collarbone with his thumb, breathing deeply, the smell of brandy licking at my nostrils. The same scent she wore last night.

“Blow into my ear,” I say, pulling up the lace stockings that slid down my thighs. My fingers are slick with sweat from the back of his neck.

Before I can get out more words, he flips me over and pushes his knee into the small of my back. The air inside the room turns into a forbidding musk. I wonder if she still smells like him.

His breath caresses my shoulder blades as he pulls back tighter, fingers gripping my neck. No sound passes through my lips, tempting him further. I feel the buttery silk of their bed underneath my body. He doesn’t know I’ve been in these sheets before.

“Take it,” he says. The clasp of my corset snaps, stinging my tender skin. Shifting my weight, I lean back against his taunt body, every muscle erect against mine. His inner elbow releases from under my chin.

“I want to feel you inside me,” I say, knowing she’ll walk through the door any moment. He groans into my backbone, then tangles his fingers into the loose wisps of my hair, forcing my face into the mattress. A smear of rouge blots the bedding, the flesh around my lip-line angry.

The first time she handed me the metallic tube, she pulled the two halves apart, her eyes edging satisfaction. I wrapped her legs around my waist. She watched the rise and fall of my bare chest as she laid back, tracing her exposed cleavage with the smooth end of the lipstick container etched beautifully with her name.

“Always think of me,” she said. I leaned against her, my nipples erect at the contact of her clothing. She closed her eyes and arched into me before dragging the angry substance under my jawbone.

Issue #2

43

“Every time it touches my lips,” I said eagerly. My skin screamed with pleasure. She said nothing in response, but her thighs pleaded for me.

I wipe the substance from the corners of my lips with my index finger. The arsenic from the rouge swells my skin.

The front door opens and timidly shuts. Her heels tap softly against the floor, making my skin tingle. He doesn’t appear to have heard her and slides the nylon of my stocking down my legs and over my ankles, exposing my toes. His fingers wrap around my mouth. The saltiness of his skin ignites my tastebuds as one of his fingers slide between my lips, hooking behind my cheek, forcing me to watch him through the vanity mirror. His eyes take in my naked flesh as if this would make me vulnerable, uncomfortable, like it does her.

The ivory of my own skin reminds me of hers, a creamy complexion dressed in fading hues of bruising, jeweled with them around her neck and wrists, the regalia of his property. The vanity holds little evidence of her. She has not been his for some time now. The only thing that still remains of her life with him is a soft white satin and lace chemise.

He sinks his teeth into the back of my knee, and I shudder from the slight pain. Every hair on my body stands at attention. He looks at me as if he is trying to bite into the soft of a pear and runs his tongue in the divots he created.

The door to the bedroom cracks open. I feel her just out of my reach, shadowed behind the entry. Her breath fills the space. The perfume hugging her collarbone dares me to give in. She’s there, watching, waiting for me to do it, to end him for her. Her body told me before to do it for us.

He doesn’t panic as she enters. Instead he holds me tighter by the wrist and turns to look for the bottle we had opened earlier in the night.

He shifts to keep hold of me while reaching. She rushes over, snatching the bottle away from the dark cherry end table. His eyes lock on her, anger flashing over his face. I wiggle beneath his hefty frame, pushing my pelvis upward, urging his attention back to me.

He looks between us and the rage disappears. In its place, a desire to have us both.

She raises the bottle to her lips, her eyes never leaving mine. Standing at the edge of the bed, my lover pulls up her skirts, exposing a garter and the small metallic end of a revolver.

I reach toward her, coaxing her onto the mattress.

The bottle topples from her hands, spilling the familiar oak-scented brandy she so commonly drinks.

“For us,” she whispers, as I draw the weapon from her thighs. He is oblivious to what is happening, enthralled with two women and an open bottle. Grabbing his face, she kisses him urgently.

“Goodbye,” she murmurs into his lips.

I pull the trigger.

VOLUME #42

44

The Boss’s Dry Cleaning

Click to listen

by William Walton

“So, how’d you end up in all this?” Vito asked.

“All this?” asked Jimmy.

Vito shifted in his seat a little, turning to look at the boy in the driver’s seat.

He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and he was nervous. His legs shook, he was awfully sweaty for November, and despite being parked, he kept a vice grip on the steering wheel. Vito looked out the window and nodded toward the fat man walking into the dry cleaners.

“Mickey’s driver. You’re a bit wet behind the ears is all.”

“I was a driver in France.”

“You fought in the war?”

“No. I drove a supply truck for the Red Cross. I was good and far from it all.” Jimmy let go of the wheel and relaxed a little. “My brother fought. 3 rd Division.”

“The Rock of the Marne,” Vito said.

“You served?”

“No, I just like the pictures. The newsreels couldn’t get enough of the 3rd during the war.” Vito lit a cigarette and offered one to Jimmy. He took one. His hands shook as he struggled to light it. Vito almost lit it himself but had second thoughts; he wanted to see things play out.

Something was up and he needed to know what. He felt it in his gut, and these things had a way of making messes that he’d rather not clean up.

“So, you learned to drive in Europe, but why are you here, in this car, driving Mickey around?”

“Why is an Italian working for an Irishman?”

Jimmy asked.

So, the kid could stand up for himself, Vito thought. Or at least he had the sense to try and distract from probes into his personal life. Still, he needed an answer. Jimmy stopped shaking just long enough to finally light the cigarette.

“I had a falling out and Mickey pays well.”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all you need to know,” Jimmy said.

“What I want to know is why Mickey would bring in some kid from Queens that none of us ever heard of before.”

For a second it looked like the kid was going to try and make a run for it. Vito got ready to pull the gun from his pocket, but Jimmy never reached for the door latch. He just sank He felt it in his gut, and down into the seat, cowering like these things had a way a kicked dog. of making messes that “Do you know what’s going he’d rather not clean up. on in there?” Vito pointed to the dry cleaners. “Mickey is hand delivering $7,000. Tomorrow, when three of Giuseppe’s boys come to pick up their dinner jackets, they won’t be leaving. You understand?”

Issue #2

45

Jimmy coughed, choking on his smoke.

“You see, I think you do know that. I think you’re having second thoughts.”

“I’m not having second thoughts.” Jimmy stilled for the first time.

“I don’t buy it.” Vito pulled the gun from his coat pocket. He didn’t point it at Jimmy, but the message was clear. Jimmy started shaking again.

“Look I’m not happy about being here, but I’m not a rat, okay?”

“Why should I believe you won’t tell the cops, maybe try and give Giuseppe’s crew a heads up?” Vito asked.

“Because, I’m doing this for my mom.” Jimmy started crying but tried his best to stop.

“My brother, he came back different, shell shocked.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” Vito said. “Crazy stuff.”

“He can’t hold a job and ma’s sick. She grew up on the same street as Mr. O’Connor, told me to ask him for a job.”

And the seal was broken—any pretense of being a man was gone and now Vito was stuck with a kid crying for his sick mommy. He put the gun away and pulled out his handkerchief.

“Christ kid, I’m sorry. That’s a tough place to be,” he said, handing the handkerchief to Jimmy. “Clean yourself up before Mickey gets back, forget I said anything.”

“Does it get easier?”

“What?”

“Do you ever stop having, you know, second thoughts?”

“I never had any in the first place.”

“Oh.” Jimmy’s breathing finally began to slow to a normal pace as he wiped away his tears. “So what, you’re just a bad “Jesus, keep it. I don’t guy?” need your snot in my “You think I’m a bad guy?” pocket.”

“You’re a gangster.”

“Well so are you now,” Vito said.

“Yeah, but I’m different. I…” “Listen kid, I don’t care. I really don’t.” Vito tossed the butt of his cigarette out the window. “Good guys and bad, I don’t think I believe in all that. If feeling bad about yourself helps you sleep, then I guess go ahead and hate yourself. Just don’t try and lie about what you’re doing. It’s pathetic.”

VOLUME #42

46

“Listen, you just drive Mickey where he needs to go and we don’t need to have this conversation again,” Vito said. Jimmy went to return the handkerchief. “Jesus, keep it. I don’t need your snot in my pocket.”

“Okay.” Jimmy swallowed and fought the urge to start crying again.

He put the handkerchiefInin pocket sat straight as Mickey thehis spring of and 2020, theupentire country experienced difficulty that pushed t walked to the car. As the mob boss opened the door, Jimmy looked to Vito ability to improvise. In March, when we began to assemble the Spring Issue of for assurance but got nothing.

Magazine, we received notice that campus would be shutting down for the re “Everything go good in there, Mickey?” Vito asked. semester. The faculty, staff, and I decided to hold off on publishing the issue “Fantastic! Your old boss won’t know what hit him. It’s hard to put semester. We all got through the summer months with COVID 19 spiking, riot a good crew together these days,” Mickey said, closing the car door. news every day.In the Fall semester, we again were trying something new: a “Take me to Ratner’s, Jimmy. I’m starving.” issue. This would allow the very talented design “Sure thing, Mr. O’Connor,” Jimmy said, pulling out of the alley andstaff to work as remotely while creating a high quality magazine that would be to our standards. back on to Avenue J. “Kid you’re in the crew now, it’s Mickey okay?”

This semester we have included something new: audio recordings of each piece.

“Okay, Mickey.” accessibility, and it gave us the chance to work with the talented audio dep We are finally publishing Bootleg, after almost a year of working tirelessl the safest manner possible.

As the country sees a second spike in COVID cases and the state has begun again, students and staff at NMC have been doing their best to work and ge times with as much positivity as they can. Sometimes that positivity is difficu the negative and we focus so hard on what we are doing wrong that we ig are doing right.

I wish everyone safety and health. Try to not be too hard on yourselves dur We are all doing the best we can with the tools we have available to us. of the NMC Magazine as we explore the topic of Bootleg, with stories and a prohibition era to literal ‘boot legs’ to stories about resilience and growth.

Wear a mask, wash your hands, and enjoy the fruits of our labor.

Randi Upton Editor in Chief Issue #2

47

The Family Heirloom

by Shelby Bigelow

VOLUME #42

48

Title Redacted

by Jasmine Dean

Issue #2

49

t a e

N

a vi i Ol itt y b hm Sc

VOLUME #42

50

R@

Z0

R'S

ED GE

shoulder says.

R@z0r grunts, not turning his focus from the green and black terminal in front of him.

In a flurry of action, his fingers fly across the keyboard as he enters a series of commands and slams the enter key. A moment later a list of filenames scroll across the screen.

“You’re in,” R@z0r says. “Don’t hire me again.”

The man sneers. “Well, Mr. R@z0r, I’m paying you to get these files for me. There’s nothing but text on that screen. I don’t think you’re done yet.”

“Fine, give me the damn hard drive,” R@z0r says, giving the man a hard look before sitting back down. “Can’t believe I even agreed to this job.”

R@z0r plugs in the external hard drive. With another flurry of keystrokes the files begin to transfer. His brow furrows as he watches filenames scroll up the screen.

by David Hosler

CHERNOBYL.RTF FUKISHIMA.DOCX

THREEMILE.ODT

T e a a t C l w ge ng ch ide ona fo gl e. f af to pri mat he or he a her y c t t t St b ed S is he m ed n’s il d m gn (t ed or iga unt rme fro si l De ud p ch d fo it x i n, cl e M ve s e d n el an ak so an he sh tr t el ck W as ld to Es w or e r t w e h at w M

“I told you it'd be no problem,“ the man hovering over R@z0r's

“Just what kind of

system did you hire me to access?“ R@z0r growls.

“Oh, it's nothing really,“ the man says, dismissively waving his hand. “Just a research lab at MIT.“ The terminal screen stops scrolling.

“Damn, that was fast.

I'll send the Bitcoin to your wallet as soon as I get back to the hotel.“ The man reaches a gloved hand past R@ z0r to grab the hard drive. Two new lines appear on screen and the man freezes.

-

ACCESS GRANTED

INTRUSION DETECTED CONNECTION TERMINATED R@z0r snatches the drive and yanks the cables from the back

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of the computer. “You stupid piece of shit! You didn't tell me they had an IPS in the network!

That shit can't be detected! Shit! I knew that firewall was too easy to get through. What's your name?“ he demands, thrusting the hard drive into the man's outstretched hand.

“John, I' I'm John. What just happened? What does this mean?"

“It means we’re screwed. "It means we're screwed. You You need to wipe that need to wipe that drive and drive and get rid of it.” get rid of it."

R@z0r leans toward John's blood-drained face. “JOHN! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? Take the fucking hard drive and move!“ A startled bird flutters in the rafters and both men flinch. John crams the drive into his coat pocket, then grabs the monitor and tucks it under an arm. R@z0r grabs everything else and the two hurry toward the front door. They pass a crumbling grand staircase and a dust-covered, tattered carpet, remnants of a former luxury hotel outside Scranton, PA. A black Chevy Tahoe is parked right by the doors outside, where John foolishly left it when he arrived. R@z0r avoided driving to this place, evading the many cameras on the 307 that would have tagged his car. At this moment, though, he'd capitalize on John's inexperience to get them both away from this shithole.

John's hand emerges from his coat pocket with a jingle of a too-full key chain. R@z0r scowls as

the man fumbles through the dozens of keys until they clatter onto the pavement.

R@z0r pushes John aside and scoops up the keys, shoving them into the idiot’s hand. “Take me north down the 307 and drop me off on the side of the road,” he says, striding ahead without waiting for a response. R@z0r dumps the computer system into the back and climbs into the passenger seat.

John slides in behind the steering column and jams the key into the ignition. The V8 roars as John slides the gear shift into drive while stomping on the accelerator. He pivots out of the parking lot to the adjacent road, taking the R@Z0R'S nearby on-ramp toward the barren night-darkEDGE ened highway.

Sirens blare to the south. R@z0r peers at the side mirror, but no lights flash in the rear view.

The Tahoe speeds down the 307, passing a lone sign: BEST WESTERN NEXT RIGHT. “Keep going,” R@z0r demands, glancing at his phone. “Three miles north is the last traffic cam.

We’ll be out of its range about a quarter mile past that.” R@z0r flicks his eyes to John, who clutches the wheel, stone-faced. He sighs and returns his “So what the hell were those attention to the map on files, really ?” screen.

"So what the hell were those files, really ?"

John is quiet for a couple minutes. “I guess I can tell you,” John finally sighs. “I didn’t lie. It is VOLUME #42

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R@Z0R'S EDGE

a research lab, but not the MIT you’re thinking of. They’ve been investigating nuclear reactor problems, trying to find a clean solution to stabilize the nuclear cores.”

R@z0r slowly moves his hand to his side. He’s been in some dicey situations before, but this just got a lot more dangerous.

“So, the files you just got for me is all their research,” John smirks. “One of my Berlin contacts is willing to pay a lot of money for it.”

The Tahoe hums as R@z0r watches the trees pass by in the distance.

“My contact also requested no witnesses,” John continues.

R@z0r grabs the door handle and shoves against the wind. Luck is in his favor rather than a guard rail. He tumbles out of the speeding SUV down a long hill at the side of the highway, tucking into a tight ball.

R@z0r’s right arm is limp when he eventually rolls to a stop. His phone falls from a nerveless grip, its screen shattered. He laughs softly as he raises a shaking left hand toward his face, still clutching the external drive that he swiped from John’s coat.

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Bootleg Memories

by Caroline Schaefer-Hills

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Forgotten, but Not Gone

by Silas James

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Know Your Onions

by Alissia J.R. Lingaur After Gwendolyn Brooks

I We so right. We twitter fight. We roll coal. We mock soul. We toss butts. We lack guts. We love lies. We soon die.

II We sort glass. We bag trash. We lasso volts. We harness sol. We insulate. We regulate. We accept worth. We renew earth.

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?

by Laura Rose

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Dark Libations

by Aly Walters

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Food Insecurity

by James Asava

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n

Whe n

Th eP an

de

m

ic C

am

et

oT

ow

When the pandemic arrived, we weren’t prepared. No unified FEMA, Homeland Security, Red Cross, or U.S. military response. Perhaps, many said, the coronavirus is Trump’s Katrina.

When it really hit the USA in March, we watched people hoard toilet paper and sell bootleg hand sanitizers at inflated prices. Younger people who’d not been very interested in history googled how those before them had survived the plague, Great Depression, the polio epidemic, and even 9/11.

From Harvard to Northwestern Michigan College, all students finished the semester at the University of Zoom.

by Susan Odgers Dystopia fiction writers like Emily St. John Mandel became our new gurus. To stop spreading the virus, we were told not to touch our faces, unaware of how automatic our urge to do so was. Ironically, we didn’t want to be “socially distanced” from one another.

Human connection was reduced to remote Human connection screens, a virtual life at best. was reduced to remote screens, a virtual life at best.

We hiked, walked our dogs, and stared at the bay, looking to nature for perma-

nence and resilience.

We read and wrote lots of poetry and reduced our consumption of news, bad news, fake news. We stopped greeting each other with handshakes or kisses, bumping elbows and fists instead. A single public cough or sneeze could silence conversation, heads spinning to see the offender. Contagion, quarantine, incubation, and sick pay—our new word soup. One person’s ill health affected everyone. It turns out we weren’t as separate from one another as we’d previously thought.

Some blamed the coronavirus on Asians, anyone who looked Asian, or Corona beer.

A sandwich board VOLUME #42

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sign on Main Street read, “Make compassion contagious.”

The stock market crashed, and then came back, but not all the way. The Feds cut the interest rate to The word of the day became zero. Travel "canceled.” became relative--no spring breaks to far-away destinations. Marooned cruise ships, travel bans, and locked down countries. Staycation literally meant “stay at home.” The word of the day became “canceled.” Could it also be spelled “cancelled”? We looked it up. Everything appeared canceled, the N.C. A. A. tournaments, Broadway, Disney parks, Coachella. Could the presidential election be postponed?

The public libraries locked their doors, stores closed, the homeless shelter lost volunteers, parents scurried for daycare, and yellow school buses delivered food to homebound school children. We wandered around in face masks and gloves. Constantly washed our hands, pushed elevator buttons with disposable tissues and disinfected every surface, yet worried we couldn’t get clean enough.

Low gasoline prices put us into our cars, virus-free bubbles, giving us freedom from home.

Starbucks, the local deli, restaurants—everywhere—we were all drive-thru customers. The frail was said to be the most at risk of dying.

The aged, those with underlying health issues…

but why weren’t children getting sick? Maybe a vaccine by June? Where were the testing kits? Or people to analyze the kits?

Some went online to the neighborhood site, Nextdoor. Needs were matched with resources. Could the power of creativity, of community, not only bring us through the pandemic, but on the other side of it, make us better, stronger?

It was too early to know.

When The Pandemic Came To Town

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Work on this double issue began during the Spring 2020 semester.

It being the centennial of the 1920s, we wanted to reference the era, but in a way that was less Art Deco/Great Gatsby and more directly prohibition inspired; cobbled together, circumventive, improvised, illicit, or subversive.

We (the Spring 2020 Design Staff) developed a look & feel for the publication which included mis matched wood block type, distressed body copy and handwritten pull quotes, and explored the idea of photocopying or collaging different things into the layout.

When Michigan’s coronavirus lockdowns began in earnest (mid-March 2020), the publication was shelved until the following semester; the Fall 2020 Design Staff picked up the pieces in a world transformed by a global pandemic and widespread social unrest, and had to decide where to take it from there. The result is in your hands.

-Matt Esckelson, Design Staff Co-editor

The 2020 lockdown provided its challenges to make the magazine have the same feel as it has in the past. Publication had to switch to online, and thoughts and ideas were given through emails, and zoom meetings. This magazine issue has been handed down from one set of editors to the next. The new editors took the thoughts of bootleg, prohibition era, and anything against the mainstream, and tried to display those in a way that felt as if it had been done together.

Rather than in separate times. This edition of the NMC Magazine shows a different side of art, one where anything one wishes to create, whether that be a makeshift creation or a distressed image, goes. This edition of NMC Magazine asks for students, staff, and faculty to take this issue that was transformed by a global pandemic and view it as something positive in these trying times.

- Shelby Bigelow, Design Staff Co editor

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Literature Staff .

= Unpictured = Amanda Coddington, Anne-Marie Kabat, Deanna Ray Luton, and Natalie Preston.

Design Staff

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In the spring ability to impr Magazine, we semester. The semester. We news every d issue. This wo while creating

This semester accessibility, We are finall the safest ma

As the countr again, student times with as the negative a are doing righ

I wish everyon We are all d of the NMC M prohibition era

Wear a mask

Randi Upton Editor in Chief

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