Page 1

[ ] issue #1 / $1

[ ] a literary mag

or zine or journal or pub or whatever.

All rights fuck off. Reproduce, store in a retrieval system, transmit, in all forms and by any means without our express permission. Enquiries concerning reproduction can be sent to us and would be cool, but whatever.

In this issue stories

artwork photography poetry design

damien ober dan biegner ben parson geoff noble zach fischer

gabe chicoine kyrie chamberlin

cate crowley

rachel statham garth brody

kyrie chamberlin max calloway rachael roth & geoff noble

Portmanteau: a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings, such as “smog,” “brunch,” “protecult” or “karaoke.” YEAH, SO ONE DAY IT OCCURS TO ME THAT I HAVE a lot of friends who can write. I’m at my desk, admittedly a little buzzed sorting through e-­mails. I have four of five word docs sitting in my inbox; stories people sent to me just for kicks. I thoroughly enjoy reading this shit. But afterward I’m dissatisfied. I give feedback, gushing, hitting ‘reply’ and dumping compliments into the body of an e-­mail and it seems futile. I want these stories to go somewhere, not just the folder on my desktop I’ve cleverly named, “Other people’s stories.” (Should I have named the mag that?) It takes a lot of time and honesty to write a story, and I want to share what I’ve personally had the pleasure of reading. So thank you for picking up a copy of Portmanteau and (I’m jumping the gun here) sharing it with friends. You just gave more meaning to our stories. I hope this lit mag finds you well. Rachael Roth

Rachael Roth created and put together this magazine. She’s a mini-powerhouse, she wears Docs, and if you liked the mag, let her know.


Nana Loves Paco damien ober Damien Ober’s fiction has appeared in NOON and Confrontation. This Fall, the Baltimore Contemporary Museum of Art will feature his cross-platfrom video installation, Shadow 08. An excerpt from his novel, “Doctor Benjamin Franklin’s Dream America” will be included in VLAK3, due out sometime in 2012.


BEFORE THE WEWEB 3000 AND THE DUAL DOLLAR Multi P, before the terabyte of cloud partition and the lifetime supply of Saucy Drippy Meat, there was Nana and Samantha. Then one day an email made it to even the furthest tickles of the extended family that Nana had come home and found Samantha there, but not all of her. Half was missing, eaten must have been, by something much bigger than Samantha. Nana used the word “guts,” right there in the email. The following Tuesday, Nana told the other great grandmothers about how she found Samantha’s little body eviscerated. It’s Tuesday that they meet for breakfast every week and talk about how many pain pills it takes to tango. And they struggle to get off their rain coats and to close the umbrellas that are way too big for how tiny their bodies have become. And they listen to the loud one say that every day is Father’s Day but Mother’s Day only happens once a year. Nana told them about how much she wishes she could go back in time. How she wishes she could punch that dog in the nose, or that mongoose, or that raccoon that ate Samantha.

But if it was a fisher cat, then Samantha would be on her own, time travel or no. Not long after, a man moved in across the street from Nana. He wore a suit every day and had with him a kitten he called Paco. The only reason he had Paco was because every other weekend, his two daughters would come from their mother’s house and those girls loved that cat in a way only Nana could understand. Every other Sunday, when the two little girls got in their mother’s car and drove off waving, Paco would make his way to Nana’s house and lap up the juice from the tuna fish cans and sleep in the sun that drenches Nana’s back porch for a few hours before sunset. But just to be clear, there’s only one little kitty waiting for Nana in heaven. And that kitty’s name is not Paco. It’s Samantha. In the afternoon, Nana used to walk to the library and write emails to the family. Mostly she wrote about her neighbor’s cat, Paco. And about the things Samantha used to do back when she was whole. One day when Nana went in to do her emails, there was a message from her youngest granddaughter that all this time she’s been forwarding Nana’s emails to the prom committee and everyone is gaga over Nana and Nana should start a blog! Nana wondered what in the world a blog could be besides an excuse to have mimosas with the last grand kid that’s still a kid. They spent a long afternoon setting Nana up a Wordsquish and all Nana’d have to do is type in this box here and then press enter. In the space where you’re supposed to type the title, Nana typed: Nana Loves Paco. They linked it into NoseSmash and Flipper and set it up so the Wordsquish posts would automatically feed the Flipper feed and crank out smashes right up everyone’s nose. And look, all the hottest girls at Danvers High are already subscribed! A month later, a box came in the mail. It was for Nana and


when she opened the card first like polite people do, it said, dear Mrs. Nana, We are sending you this Maniac 6 Digital Camera in hopes we can see some pictures of Paco added to the blog. Keep up the great work. But Nana hasn’t worked since she was 65. She took out the camera and plugged it in and that was the day that one little sector of the internet started to fill up not with just any old cat, but with mostly Paco. And a little of the other cat that sometimes came with Paco to lap up tuna juice. Nana called this cat Amigo. Which isn’t to indicate that Nana is Spanish. She’s still that same Irish girl she’s always been. It’s Paco who is Spanish and Amigo is Paco’s friend. Nana stopped going to the library because a Nana Loves Paco fan at the Banana Corporation sent her a laptop for free. Not long after, something called “the local chapter” set up a Megasoft Lifecam 6k. Now with just one button, Nana can have Paco interviews and play sessions double pawing their way through the whole social network. Right there with the crotch shots and the one punch knockouts and all those sexy ladies, Nana Loves Paco—the most viewed webseries on internet. When Nana goes out to breakfast with the other great grandmothers on Tuesday, they all talk about what blog they could start and maybe become as famous as Nana, after all these years. When Nana comes home from Tango and breakfast with the other great grandmothers and chauffeured trips to shelter fundraisers and ASPCA luncheons and Cat Crazy Magazine interviews, she opens a can from the lifetime supply of Horneto


Honeyed Tuna. Except for every other weekend, when Paco stays home to be played with by the daughters of the man in the suit who lives across the street and is



Loch Ness Monster dan biegner Dan Biegner is currently alive (maybe not if you’re in the future) & enjoying life by writing, nerdcore rapping (really?), and dreaming of adopting dog(s).


I’D LIKE TO BELIEVE THE LOCH NESS MONSTER exists. With empirical evidence hard to come by, it seems unlikely. Yet countless have claimed to catch a glimpse of her. Now I don’t know whom to believe. After all, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Still, the lack of scientific proof leaves much to question. Indeed, I have little faith that such a creature is out there. But I’d like to believe there is. Once, I thought I caught glimpse something myself. Was it Nessy? Was it a large log bobbing off in the distance? Was it a hoax? Or was it a girl who thought that I was the coolest guy in the room—no matter which room we were in? We met one winter at a local cafe. It might have been fate or destiny—the both of us predisposed to meet by the supernatural forces that guide us. A nice thought, but the reality is that it was simply the child of Chance and Circumstance. She sat at the table across from me; not directly. We diagonally faced each other, careful not to catch each other’s gaze. Yet we,

the both of us, kept sneaking a peak. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the fuzzy image of Nessy! As I turned to clear my eyes and my mind, the indiscernible image of the unknown creature morphed into an indescribable portrait of a lovely young lady. Our eyes dodged each other like pilots in a dogfight, swerving sharply to avoid contact with enemy fire. And then it happened: we locked on. Unbelievably, she spoke to me. At first it might as well have been Elvish – the words a-­buzzing. I focused all of my firepower on the words escaping her lips. Just as unbelievably, I returned audible fire. I was just happy that we were still together and talking like old friends in a bar. We were not there long, quickly advancing to the theater. The space was empty, void of customers. It was quiet, dark, and still, like the bottom of a well. It was ours. It was clear that we were immediate friends. For the first time, I felt special. All of it was unlikely, though I did manage to stay a little bit grounded. After all, even the dimmest star in the night sky can be seen if you look hard enough. For once, things seemed to click. There I was, a distant ball of compacted, burning dust and there she was, an astronomer with a powerful eye. When I took her home, I managed to ask her for her phone number. Snatching those coveted digits required great poise, focus and effort. I half expected a giant boulder to come crashing down and chase me in an attempt to flatten my hopes—a trap springing once I grabbed the forbidden artifact. For days, she occupied my mind like a victorious army. She did parades up and down my thoughts. Nothing else seemed to matter. This was unlike any friendship I had ever had. Then she invited me to meet all of her friends. This was the picture that caused grief for scientists—the one that no one could



explain. This was the shred of evidence that perpetuated the belief that something was out there. If ever two people were made for each other, we were they. It almost seemed we were opposite-­gendered Adam & Eve. From her rib, I was born. I was a new man stemming from time with her. She made me a better person. And so, with that fresh piece of evidential carrot dangling in front, I chased & pursued. Finally, I asked her out. I had mapped it all out. The timing seemed perfect, the place seemed perfect, the idea seemed perfect. There was only one problem: I did not seem perfect. In my mind, I put in the legwork to yield incredible results. This was the time. This was my moment of triumph! I would finally uncover the truth that the Nessy is real! All of those years of ridicule were worth it. The onlookers casting on looks of doubt and judgment would lower their own heads in shame! They were wrong! They just didn’t believe. But that didn’t happen. My nets came up empty and my cameras shot only the darkness of the deep. What appeared on my radar as a large unidentified object turned out to be something easily explained. Instead of the prized creature, it was merely a shipwrecked motorboat motionless at the bottom, waiting for the chance to crush some fool’s hopes. I thought I saw her again a few months later at the cafe. For a moment, I thought I caught her scent and turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of a young woman craftily escaping my sight. She slipped off into the waves of incoming patrons. So desperately, I wanted to rush out there and chase after her—to know for sure what it was I saw. But I didn’t. Months later when I thought I caught her at a concert, I again lost sight of her before I could make sense of what I had seen. I wanted to shift through the crowds, trying to find her. Then

I realized what the best course of action was. And at some point, I just stopped looking. When the idea that someone thinks I’m the coolest guy in the room, no matter what room we’re in, pops into my mind, I step back to analyze the data. With empirical evidence hard to come by, it seems unlikely. Yet countless have claimed to find this feeling. Still, with experiences hard to come by, there is much to question. Indeed, I have little doubt that no such creature is out there. But I’d like to believe there is.


kyrie chamberlin

Animals Eat the Glass ben parson THERE WERE SEVEN SWIMMING HOLES IN the backwoods of Larsen County. Rhett knew all of them by the time he was thirteen. He knew the names of the ashes, the pines and oaks all by heart. He knew that the crisp shadows of the morning headed west, and those of the evening pointed east. Rhett knew how to be real quiet and let the fish come to his hook. He could walk through leaves and barely make a sound, and tell the difference between the tracks of a coyote and a fox. All this Rhett knew from his uncle Marshall. Rhett had gone to live with Marshall at the age of three, and had only ever asked about his parents once, when he was ten. Marshall had been silent for a long time before answering, “Well, your mother went to Saint Peter, and your pa went to Jack Daniels lookin’ for her.” Blue light glazed the ground as sunlight poured through the bottle. It lay in the dust and gravel along the side of the dirt road. Maple trees lined the road and spread limbs heavy with green into the forest on both sides. Shouts echoed along the trees, followed by three boys on bikes. They each skidded to

Ben Parson is an undergrad at UMass Amherst where he studies English, creative writing and film. He hopes to be able to write for a living, and possibly teach literature at the college level.



a stop, kicking up dust that stuck to their sweaty brows and forearms. “We have to walk from here,” said Rhett. “I’m not leaving my bike,” said Max. He looked at Rhett who was pulling his bike off the road and laying it behind a tree. “No one’s gonna mess with it,” said Blake as he hopped off and dragged his ten speed to another maple. “The paint’s gonna get scratched.” said Max. Rhett shrugged. Max dismounted & leaned his bike upright but off the road. He turned and saw the bottle that had rolled into the ditch. “Cool!” he shouted, “Check this out!” He bent down and slipped his fingers around the neck. As he rose his arm extended and flung the bottle into the woods. There was a shower of shimmering glass as it collided with a birch trunk ten feet away. “Animals eat the glass,” said Rhett. “What?” asked Max, smiling as he turned to Rhett. “Animals eat the broken glass,” Rhett repeated. “So?” asked Max. “Can we just get going guys?” Blake moved between the pair. He liked Rhett, and had been friends with Max since kindergarten. “Don’t do shit like that,” said Rhett, and he headed off the road into the woods. Blake nodded at Max, and both followed after Rhett. The three boys were headed to the quarry. In the eighteen hundreds there had been a stone cutting mill in Larsen County, but as time had passed the jobs moved to bigger factories and the mill had become a historical landmark. The quarry became overgrown and flooded. Wasted space as far as the city council was concerned. For those who didn’t mind ‘Posted’ signs, it became a way to escape the heat.

When the boys came to the stone ledge their shirts were hanging wet from their shoulders. Blake and Max’s legs were bleeding from briar thorns. They looked out at the flat blue, girdled by smooth angles of rock. The water was dark, no bottom was visible. It made Max think about sharks and crocodiles. Teeth waiting below the surface. Max liked pools better. “Let’s go,” said Rhett. He pulled his t-­shirt off, exposing the tan skin of his torso. Blake followed suit. “Here?” asked Max, gazing down the fifteen foot drop to the water. “What about over there?” He pointed across the curving wall of the quarry to a ledge that stood eight or nine feet from the water. “The water’s too shallow to jump,” said Rhett, “you taking your shirt off ?” “Huh?” said Max. “He swims with his shirt on,” said Blake. “Well,” said Rhett, “if you don’t wanna jump you can always climb down.” He grinned at Max, and ran to the ledge. His skin tightened over the corded muscles of his back and shoulders as he fell through the air. The smooth line of Rhett’s body slipped into the water, hardly making a splash. Rhett resurfaced and let out a whoop that folded off the walls of the quarry like a wave. “Come on!” he called. Blake shrugged. He leapt from the ledge, curling his body into a tight ball, and exploded into the water. The waves were still large when he surfaced for air. Max looked down at the pair splashing each other. If they could this he could do it. He thought of Rhett’s smug face. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. It clung to his round nipples and belly. It made him feel heavy. It was just a jump, he could do that. He backed up about eight feet, trying not to look directly at the space where the ground stopped. He drew


heavy breaths through his lips. They felt large and swollen in the heat. It was just a jump. He started to run, picking up speed as one leg crashed in front of the other. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath. The edge was there, it was coming. Closer and closer with each step. And then, dust kicked up as he skidded to a halt. “Very nice!” called Rhett. Max stood looking straight down the drop before him.

Art by Gabe Chicoine (Also that giant cat face back on page 9, the back cover too. )

“Why don’t you try over here Max?” said Blake, “it’s not so steep.” Max looked to where Blake was pointing and nodded. He headed away from the ledge towards the trees to cut around. He heard Rhett’s voice call after him, “You should probably take off your shirt next time! Less wind resistance!” As Max turned to answer, his shoelace got snagged. The world spun. Max could hear the snap when his arm broke.


Three Poems rachel statham Queen of bananagrams. She spends her time reading Faulkner and watching videos of baby animals online.

Non-­Stop geoff noble Geoff Noble is a showah and has contributed toiahsdofna. In the future he hopes to aosdif. He lives in Gnome, Alaska with his hdal and two rqui.


EARLIER ON THAT TERRIBLE NIGHT, KATHY had given him some typical shit about not drinking too much, which he then of course did, aware all the time that she was of course right and that he was, of course, going to have to deal with another fight in the morning. When he went to pee at Reggie’s, mid-­stream he looked in the mirror at himself. The lights above the mirror, seven or so lightbulbs in a row, brightened as they heated up. His eyes widened, his pupils got smaller, and he felt a rising in his chest. This night would not end well. “Jesus Fred, why dontcha calm it down,” Jake said at the bar. Outside the roads and cornfields gathered snow. “What?” he said. He knew what. He didn’t care what. “That is Mark’s wife. Not girlfriend anymore.” Reggie. A slowing of his thoughts—or pretend slowing of his thoughts, a deep sigh, a sudden change of mood—occurred because of fondness for Reggie. Look at him: his curly hair, his innocent uprightness, sitting there in his big jacket with his beer and hat

and pudgy, friendly face trying to look serious. “Hey, man, not my fault if she’s into it.” He said this loudly on purpose. They sat at a booth against the wall. His thoughts flew around his head like the blown snow. He didn’t want to hate everything, but he did, so he thought he should just give the hating a go for the night. His job at the Frito-­Lay warehouse, unloading and loading the truck of boxes of chips. What a waste. The trucks were full and then they were empty. Conoga, Wisconsin. Kathy always on his back. Every morning he woke up and he was still here—in his head, at work, watching television, at the bar—it all just continued. Later, after last call and uncountable whiskies, he felt cleaner, if only for a moment. Standing outside before driving home, the snow fell and he watched a blip of red on a windmill light and fade, light and fade. He was nearly home when he crashed. The car, failing to turn, the wheel seemingly disconnected, glided quietly into someone’s yard and then pounded head-­on into a parked car in the driveway. The crash knocked Fred unconscious, and when he woke, there was a man knocking on his window. Thunk thunk thunk. Fred rolled down the window. “Hello officer,” he said. “Good evening, sir. Care to step out of the car?” The officer leaned down level with the window and pleasantly smiled. He was younger, probably only late twenties, clean-­shaven, wearing a friendly, warm expression. “Sure.” He climbed out watching his feet on the snowy ground, stepping carefully, with much focus and toil. “Woah, careful there Fred,” the officer said as Fred tilted 23


dangerously. “Do I know you? Do we know each other?” His drunken curiosity was all-­engrossing. “No, no sir. Why don’t you sit with me on the hood of my cruiser? Come on, you look a little shaken up.” Fred forgot his curiosity and agreed, so they found themselves on the hood of the cop car. He looked at the dark house—no one had noticed the crash or the cop car with its red and blue lights flashing frenetically. “You know,” the officer began, “Wait—, do you like REO Speedwagon?” “I get them mixed up with other bands.” “Yeah, but I love the song on the radio right now. He jumped off the hood and ran to his driver’s side door, opening the door and windows and letting the song free from the car. It went, “When I said that I loved you I meant/ that I’d love you forever”. It sounded good. It sounded righteous. “Love this song. But let’s get serious. I came here tonight because we’re in the same boat. We’re individuals in a situation. Tell me Fred, what did you want to do with your life before now?” “I never really knew.” “You had no ideas?” “No.” “Nothing? Dig deep.” “No. I just knew I didn’t really think it was all that great.” “Uh, OK. People don’t usually say that. You ever watch Dog? He gives people a great pep-­talk before they go to jail. Some tough love. Brother this and brother that. That’s what I’m trying to do here. I get my bounty or whatever and you get to have this night never have happened. You know what I’m

saying?” “No.” “Listen, you could go to jail here. DUI’s are no joke in Wisconsin. You don’t want that. I’m trying to work with you here, Fred. Let’s make a deal.” “How do you know my name?” “Because listen. Just listen. You can wake up and have the slate wiped clean. No DUI. I’m giving you a gift.” And yet, Fred didn’t want the slate clean. Nothing presently in him cared about what had happened, or would happen. He’d thrown a wrench in the machinery of his forsaken life and he didn’t want that life back. Maybe jail could be good. Three square. Showers. Rec. time. Fred stared at how the shadows reformed and disappeared in the maelstrom of flashing. “What is the deal! Some people,” the policeman said. He was starting to sound younger, like a pissed-­off teen. He suddenly got up and blustered back to the driver’s side door, turning on the scanner. A voice, tired but official-­sounding, intoned: “917, 917. We’ve got a DUI on route 71. Fred. Fred got a DUI.” The voice had changed to his mother’s. “I can’t believe that. God, Fred. God. Just forget it. Useless. Imagine what your father would say. Your dead father. You know what, Fred? He’d be ashamed of you.” That was weird, Fred thought. After that, his boss at work, a hunched, flushed grey-­haired man he was actually very fond of: “Fred, we’re gonna have to fire you. Can’t have someone who is acting like this at the warehouse. Nope, just can’t do it. Can’t do it Fred!”


Next up was Kathy’s voice. “I’m sick and tired of your drinking and your shit and the lying and the mess and your miserable shit…” Fred started to get a glimpse of a feeling he didn’t want to be having. He’d had it when he hadn’t made the baseball team his sophomore year, even though his sick dad really wanted to see his son play, and when Kathy had broken up with him the first time. Complete loss—of anything that held together the fibers of whatever made up himself. The officer had been staring at him the whole time. “See, Fred, it doesn’t have to be like that. I knew you’d come around. I just knew it.” “So what needs to happen?” Fred asked. “Well, I just need to read you your rights and arrest you.” “How is that any different? “Believe me, it is. If you could just stand up and put your hands behind your head there. OK. Thanks. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to…” Fred felt the cold metal against his wrist, the light jostling from the officer. He heard the clicks of the cuffs. Click. Clickclickclick. II. When he woke up the next morning, he remembered everything. He got up and looked out the window and his car was in the driveway, fine, a little snow on the windshield. He glanced back at Kathy, still asleep, her mouth open and her round face lunging out into the air. The room was messy with clothes and a fountain drink that’d been there a week. Plastic bags. Cups filled with cigarette butts, an unopened TV. Both the door to the bathroom and the door to the living room 26

opened both ways, but there was too much crap in the way to open either outwards, into the next room.


I’m Sorry Charlie but You Can’t Be Part of the Charlie Club garth brody Garth Brody is about 5’5’’, which is a pretty good height for writing poetry, which is good because that’s what he likes to do. Plus music. You can find recordings featuring him and his people at a very fun little website called

It goes back to when you were nine, the first time your friends disappointed you, and your mom bought strawberry ice cream, and you stayed home, watched your favorite tapes. You learned what to do instead of crying, sitting on the couch with the purple knit quilt. Later, you felt licked, belly-­sick and confused; you’d forgotten the air-­tight argument you’d built, and you had an odd sense that someone thin and unsympathetic might be moving in the distance, gathering good evidence against you.


Then, when you were nineteen, you saw your face at the end of your street,

glaring over an evergreen. You were standing in the yard in the daylight. Now, elsewhere, in a strange home where your fridge and the radiator and all the lights hum a new tune— a pounding, unfamiliar resonance— and plastic plants in florid fluorescence, and the call goes out around noon to stand in some neighbor’s driveway and bring pasta salad with rosemary. You see it again above the flat bushes and cashew chatter; on the street a character draws nearer, looking lost near an evergreen, unsteady and gaunt, with an eczema-­red face and black, bullet-­hole eyes; he steps out sideways into the middle of the road.


I Never Talk to Strangers zach fischer Zach Fischer lives in New York City. His favorite beer is the Waggle Dance and he is good at making people feel uncomfortable.

LAST NIGHT I LOST MY PEN LAYING LENGTHWISE with a lady on the lawn of a lady’s college, with the dawn’s coming sunrise listing lazily ahead. We couldn’t use her bed which kept us tame and the whole time I held her skinny body, I carouselled her name, because for once in the dark’s warm embrace I needed to walk away knowing who I’d been with all evening. I remember how she spoke, her timbre, her flavor, but without my pen, the name was lost, stuck in the moist mud where we kissed. …


I find the friends I’d forgotten on the ground fisting sour worms and whiskey in a the hallway of a dorm, like they are still starry students, sitting crossed legged with our hosts, two trying bisexuals with too much sense and too little restraint. By three, when I come, they are ghosts, wet with sweat and tiptoeing the coast. It’s suddenly like I was never gone. We debate the nature of fructose and butane and the bourgeoisie and Charlemagne and what it means to be gay. The men and

women I meet are the children of server systems. They talk until their throats bleed. … My mystery matron, my blanket from the ground, my California mirror whose name I’m confounded by, talks smartly and shallowly in the company of strangers, of the hallowed ground of gold rush towns, the borders of the desert bounds she is borne from. She is as pretty inside as she is without, sharp, stout, and much too young for me. My friends and I disappear with dawn’s hello, tucking in our strangers goodnight. Sometimes it feels right to leave. … Time makes nothing of traveling. The bag is dropped behind the spitting heating pole before the hollow door slams shut hollowly on the echoing apartment. I step over the odds and ends of an empty man’s trash can, wrappers and books and condoms sticking to the wood. By the phone and empty fridge, the table is stacked with unopened letters. How do they keep finding my address? Why can’t I remember their names? And how do I keep attracting women with so much to say to strangers? … Back in the city my hand grips poles instead of hands, and sober, I make somnambulist steps towards the sidewalk, the subway, to work. A woman falls to the ground, six city citizens bend to pick her up. I switch my weight between front leg and back, not sure where to stand or how to help. I get off the subway, a pigeon paralyzed in my path coos softly, broken legs and beating heart, unable to perch or eat, only just able to fly away. I get to work. An acquiatance’s wife has left him. I


wake up. I have three flavors of whiskey waiting at my house. I promise him they will flow like wine, another anonymous bath of timeless compassion is waiting. This is how I can help the world. Call me Morpheus, king of dreams. … Where is my pen? I borrow the bar’s to write these words. I am always forgetting, always force feeding the meter for carousel rides, lost now in his lonely narrative and wishing to relive his bottom of the bottle ramblings when I’m home by myself. It is not whiskey, but flowing stories of exploding brains, tours of Iraq, a siren wife who left him alone with his sadness back to her evangelist parents heavy with cancer and draining his account for damages that hold my gaze. How am I so lucky, with my bottomless brews of nightly excitement and lethargy, when he is so stuck, so empty so sad? Where are the names? And where is my pen?


extra credit cate crowley is a student from UMass Amherst graduating in May 2012 with a B.f.A. in photography. Graduate school is in the future, but for now she plans on spending her summer as director of a horseback riding program at a summer camp in MA.

kyrie chamberlin is a designer & aspiring space-­explorer. She likes cats, cute boys and cartoons. Find her online at

gabe chicoine is meant a sound that loss, a disordinato and unstable conglomerate dell’ transaction and the fact that does not hit genuine objective and is hardly worthy the meat on relative boneses. It has a Web site, what on the ritrovamento you can the most relative designs: Sela rammarichi. Contact:

special thanks to: Massachusetts Daily Collegian, Mike Biegner at Canson Art Supplies, Chris Slemp a.k.a Slempdog Millionaire and all who contributed their time and energy to make this possible. Aww yeah ‌

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Portmanteau I  

The first editon of the lit mag, Portmanteau.

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