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Table of Contents
YESTERDAY’S NEWS, Adam Robinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4 TIANANMEN TIMES TWO, Kim Peter Kovac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6 MAY 35TH, David E. Poston . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 OH, BEAUTIFUL, Krista Farris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 ABOUT TRAGEDY, Adam Kane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 TEMPORARY SOCIOPATHS IN AMERICA, Justin Karcher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 SOME THINGS THAT ARE THE CASE, B.T. Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 PRIDE, Krista Farris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 EUREKA, Israel Wasserstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 RANT SALAD, Chad Repko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 POEM WRITTEN IN RED PEN, Jessie Lynn McMains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 MADNESS, Lauren Dean . 23 THE ONLY WAY I CAN EXPLAIN THIS, Kayla Wheeler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 UNDERSTAND THAT WHEN I SAY “I MISS YOU”, Reed Hexamer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 85% OF METHAMPHETAMINE ADDICTS, Israel Wasserstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 THE J.D., Lenny Dellarocca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 JUNEAU AIR, Scott Malkovsky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 OCCAM’S MULTIVERSE, Steve Bertolino . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30
THEATRICAL GYNOPHOBIA, Genevieve Lerner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31 FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON, Richard J. Fleming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 GOING BACK TO CHURCH FOR MOTHER’S DAY 2014, Cody Smith . . . . . . . . .35 A LAMENTABLE DECISION, Jenean McBrearty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36 AT THE FUHRMAN FUNERAL HOME, Krista Farris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
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EDITORIAL STAFF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38 CONTRIBUTORS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
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YESTERDAY’S NEWS Adam Robinson
Extra, extra, read all about it.
Or, because no one prints a goddamn thing anymore, just watch and let the dull terror fill you nice and easy until there's steam coming out of your ears—like a kettle that needs to be taken off the fucking stove, but no one's home to move it (or no one gives a damn), so it keeps on screeching until it's moved or the house burns down.
One of the two.
But the air is thick with humidity; or maybe it's the angst seeping out of my pores and filling the room with a fear I can't own up to. All I know is,
I'm stewing in my juices, and I'm boiling from the bottom up. The anchors aren't screaming, and I can't help but wonder why it is they aren't screaming. I can't help questioning semantics, because these people damn sure aren't keeping me grounded, not holding me down in the slightest.
Jogger finds dead body on local bike path. Details unclear. More at 11.
And I'm staring at a television screen, squirming, thinking back to a childhood drenched in sepia, and finding a used condom in a playground slide. Not quite understanding, but somehow, as if by instinct, feeling the dissonance of innocence lost.
Then, suddenly, you're back in the summer of 2013... Maybe 2012; filled to the brim with lust and fear (two emotions not mutually exclusive or inspired by the same things, but, nonetheless ironic in their co-inhabitance). You're perspiring on the living room sofa, steaming from the ears, and wondering what would have happened had that body been found by a child.
You sweat, shudder and wonder if finding a dead man is anything like finding a rubber in your favorite slide.
Do you see his face at night as you're trying to sleep? Do you poke it with a stick to assess its capacity for movement (as if it might slink away like some clear-bodied reptilian creature; as if he might get up, shake your hand and walk away)? Or, do you understand a corpse before you understand the concept of public fornication?
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Do you, upon finding a body, skip the ambiguous dissonance and dive head-first into terror; the nausea, the existential questioning? Do you surrender yourself to a higher power and pray that the brush beside the bike path isn't it for you? Do you pray that this isn't it for you?
And I'm not sure, because I wasn't there... Because I found a jizzed in condom—not a body.
I just know that now, instead of wanting to vomit, I'll look back on that condom and laugh at the idea of people fucking in playground equipment.
Now, I'll watch the news, and I won't feel a goddamn thing.
I guess someone got tired of the screeching and moved the kettle.
Maybe the kettle moved itself.
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TIANANMEN TIMES TWO Kim Peter Kovac
" 1): Brushing Tiananmen: The Musical "
Travel Dispatch Productions In association with Theatre of the Reddish Star Presents
Brushing Tiananmen: The Musical Book and lyrics by Kim Peter Kovac Music by Wu Man, Bright Sheng, Twelve Girls Band, and Jah Wobble and the Chinese Dub Orchestra
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Starring
Gus Novak as Gus Also Starring
Miahua Huang, Zhi Peng, Chay Wang, Xu Guan Featuring Wang Wei as Tank Man And
Jon Norman Nam as Li Po
With Wei Long, Ming Rong, Mae Li-Yu, Miao Tian, Xiaoxan Dong, Zhang Wei, and Li Du
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Production Design Communist Monument Associates
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Costume Design Columbia Sportswear and Knockoff Enterprises
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Lighting Design Beijing Smog, Inc.
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Sound Design iPod Shuffle
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Hair/Wig Design Humidity, Drizzle, and Co.
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Production Stage Manager Buck S. Pearl Music Direction by Sexton Bren Da
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Choreography by Dickinson Lis Sa
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Directed by Kenyon Mei Lis Sah
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Brushing Tiananmen is made possible through the generosity of the Cold Mountain Musical Theater Fund, Han-Shan and Gary Snyder, co-chairs. Major support is provided by Obscure Large City University Department of Visual Arts and Commerce, Dick Blick Art Supplies, and Red Fox Brushes
MAJOR CHARACTERS (In Order of Appearance)
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GUS…………………………………………………………………….……………………………………....Gus Novak LI PO………………………………………………………….……….……………….……….……Jon Norman Nam GIRL ……………………………………….………………………………….……………………….… Miahua Huang BOY……………..…………………………………….…………………………….…………..………………….Zhi Peng TANK MAN……………..……….……………………………...…………………….………..……………Wang Wei PAINTER…………………………………………………………………….………………….….………….Chay Wang PAINTING PROFESSOR………………………………………………………….…………….………….…Xu Guan
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The Ensemble plays kite-flying families, students, middle-aged women, shoppers, pedestrians, students, police, and boatmen.
" SETTINGS AND MUSICAL NUMBERS: "
ACT I Overture……………………………………………………………..………………………………………….…Orchestra
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PROLOGUE: A BOAT SAILING THE THREE GORGES OF THE YANGTZE, 2002 Reading Li Po on Deck…………………………………………………………………………………….Gus Kites on the Wild Yangtze……………..………………..…………………..….Li Po and Company
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SCENE 1: A PEDESTRIAN TUNNEL Under Chang-An Avenue………………………………………………………………………….…....Gus
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SCENE 2: TIANANMEN SQUARE It’s Bigger than I Thought and SO Communist………………………..……………………….Gus Families Flying Kites on a Sunday Afternoon ……………………………….…………Company
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SCENE 3: CHANG-AN AVENUE (THREE YEARS PREVIOUS, 1999) Four Tanks, Two Grocery Bags, and Me………………….………Tank Man and Company March to Prison Dance…………………………………….…..Police, Student Demonstrators
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SCENE 4: TIANANMEN SQUARE (THE PRESENT) 7
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Trying to Honor a Brave and Honorable Man ……………………………...…...…………Gus Hello, American, Can We Walk With You and Practice our English? ……….Girl, Boy
SCENE 5: THE FORBIDDEN CITY (AN HOUR PREVIOUS) Scholarship Paintings for Sale Dance……………………………………………………..Company We Have to Pee, the Line’s Too Long, To the Men’s Room, To Sing our Song………………………………..…….Middle-Aged Women’s Chorus
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SCENE 6: TIANANMEN SQUARE (THE PRESENT) Want to See Some Paintings, Proceeds to Scholarships?....................................Girl I’m Being Hustled, but It’s Okay ……………….…………………………….……………………...Gus
" Intermission " Act II "
SCENE 1: WINDING THROUGH THE HUTONGS Song of Adventure and Fear……………………………………………………….………..……….Gus
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SCENE 2: A SMALL ROOM OFF A DARK COURTYARD Look at These Paintings, We Would Be Honored…………….…Girl, Painter, Professor Medley: On This Painting, Li Po/Is It Really Li Po?.......................................Girl, Gus Bargaining Dance………………………………..…….Gus, Painter, Professor, and Company
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SCENE 3: THE HUTONG OF SOUVENIRS Medley: I’ll Walk You Back/You Don’t Need To……………………….……………….Girl, Gus Goodbye, I Hope You Like Your Painting…………………………………….……………………Girl
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SCENE 4: APPROACHING THE ARROW TOWER I Didn’t get Mugged, I’m like a Phoenix…………………………….……………….…...………Gus
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SCENE 5: TIANANMEN SQUARE I Sing of Tank Man, Tall and Proud……………………………………..……Gus and Company
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EPILOGUE: A CLUTERED BASEMENT ROOM IN THE USA (TEN YEARS LATER) It’s Me On the Painting, Time to Write, Gus…………………….………………….………..Li Po
" Meet the Artists "
Gus Novak (Gus) is thrilled to be appearing in Tiananmen Square for the first time. He has appeared in the film ‘The Pelican Brief’ and most of his stage roles are playing ‘the middle-aged white guy’. He’s a hipster-wannabe who lives in Portland because he can’t afford Brooklyn.
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Jon Norman Nam (Li Po) is honored to be playing an 8th century T’ang Dynasty poet, one of the ‘big three’ with Du Fu and Wang Wei. Though Filipino by birth, he has played characters from Japan, Vietnam, Pakistan, and Korea, and is delighted to be playing his first character of Chinese origin.
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Wang Wei (Tank Man) is honored to be playing Tank Man himself standing on Chang An Avenue, both because of his bravery and because Chang An was the capital city during the T’ang Dynasty. He is pleased that for this role he can wear slacks and a white shirt instead of his usual robes.
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Miahua Huang (Girl) likes to use the American name Tiffany, because, well, “I just look like a Tiffany”. She hopes someday to either be a clothing designer or a translator, and regrets not being the translator for Mike Daisey’s ‘The Agony and Ecstasy of Steve Jobs’, because then she would have been on ‘This American Life’.
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Zhi Peng (Boy), has studied Ballet at the State Ballet Company and Hip-Hop on the streets of Shanghai, and has just enrolled in language school so he can speak more than ‘Hotel English’. He is thrilled to be appearing in this musical with Miahua Huang, and hopes they will soon be appearing together on a dinner date.
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Chay Wang (Painter) is a seventh generation brush painter and calligrapher who teaches beginning, intermediate, and advanced brush painting as well as calligraphy at the Obscure Large City University department of Visual and Obfuscation Arts. This is his first play.
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Xu Guan (Professor) is chair and emperor of the department of Visual and Obfuscation Arts at Obscure Large City University and a former Art Director for Bruce Lee films. He is the uncle of actress Miahua Huang.
" 2): Factoids, Tips, & Tricks for Visiting Tiananmen Square (and beyond) " 1. 2.
3. 4. 5.
6. 7. 8.
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The quickest route from the Forbidden City to Tiananmen Square is underground. The lucky traveler at the urinal in the men’s room near the southern exit to the Forbidden City can revel in the invasion of a gaggle of giggling middle-aged women (wearing those archetypal blue ‘lady hats’) tired of standing in the long line to the women’s room. Heading South to the square, walk through the Tiananmen Gate and do a 180 degree pivot after twenty paces to fully experience the 15 by 20 foot painting of Chairman Mao over the gateway. Between the gate and the square lies Chang’An Avenue: one of Beijing’s main drags, ten lanes wide, no crosswalks nearby, a gazillion cars and a quarter-gazillion bicycles. Big is too small a word for the square – it’s the area of a hundred football fields. On the east sideline is the National Museum of China, on the west is the Great Hall of the People, both built to scale. Oh, and Mao’s Masoleum; imagine the Lincoln Memorial tarted up with some classic Chinese architectural forms. Standing in the square with its ultra-uber-communist architecture will create a psychedelic perceptual disconnect after the traditional Chinese palatial architecture of the 9,800 room Ming Dynasty Forbidden City complex. Chang’an Avenue is the site of the iconic image of the 1989 Tiananmen Square Protests: a thin young man in black slacks, white shirt, and shopping bags standing down a line of several dozen tanks. We don’t really know who he was - was being the operative word, as he has disappeared. Or was disappeared.
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18. 19.
20.
21. 22.
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If fortune smiled on him, he’s in hiding. If not, he’s dead. It is sadly appropriate that he is known only as ‘Tank Man’. The cloying cloak of August humidity is topped only by the low percentage of oxygen in the smogosphere. The newbie trying to cross Chang’An avenue will hopefully stumble on a poorly marked staircase leading to a tunnel under the road. At the other end of the tunnel and up crumbly concrete stairs, the square is bustling with families, food vendors, and kite fliers. Tourists wishing to honor Tank Man in an icon-lite mode can stand in the square with two shopping bags looking a few blocks east down Chang’An avenue. Standing on the avenue itself will only get you run over by cars, bicycles, or both. Be prepared for interruptions by student-types whose opening gambit to elicit a “can I practice my English?” conversation is asking if you are lost. Questions about ancient history like the Arrow Tower are answered; questions about recent history are treated as if you were speaking Urdu. The offer to be guided to brush paintings being sold for art-student scholarships is a hustle, since the same offer is also available at several out of the way buildings in the Forbidden City. In this particular hustle, “just a few minutes walk” means thirty-eight minutes, through the mazelike unmarked alleys of the Dazhalen hutong, filled with crowded traditional interconnected courtyard dwellings. Leaving bread crumbs is not a bad idea. Since imitation is a virtue in brush paintings, a lot of them look pretty similar. Accepting tea and careful examination are polite (read: expected) and words like honored will go a long way with the older gentleman who is (of course) in charge. Mentioning love of the great T’ang Dynasty poets Du Fu and Li Po (AKA Tu Fu and Li Bai) will score some points with students and professor; reading much admired poetry before a visit to another country can help open a tiny door to understanding of a culture. Though it’s all a hustle, a painting that includes a small image of man in a robe near the water with some words in Chinese could actually be Li Po, since legend has it that the poet drowned in a lake while reaching for the image of the moon. He was probably also drunk at the time, a state he wrote about with joy. Post-purchase, it can take time to convince the young woman who is the chief conversationalist-cum-guide that guidance back to the square is not necessary. Purchase already made, it’s not a hustle, but gracious. Make sure you carry several copies of the card from the hotel that has the name of the hotel and a dozen tourist attractions in both Mandarin and English. Sleeping on the stone square would not be fun.
MAY 35TH David E. Poston
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That night, I sat waiting in a high-backed chair behind the pulpit of the First Baptist Church, J.C. Penney suit covering a rumpled dress shirt, armpits yellowed from too many hot afternoons in front of restless senior English classes at our little high school just downwind from the dairy farm.
Those seniors had voted for me to give the faculty address at the baccalaureate service, and now they squirmed in their ridiculous caps and gowns while behind them their parents struggled to keep a proper face over all their fears and their siblings yawned. What a moment—
prom was behind them, soon they’d be rolling down to grad week at Myrtle Beach, blasting “Armageddon It” and “Wild Thing.” Beyond that lay the army for some, the state university for a few, or going full-time on jobs they already held down. In the teacher’s lounge, we joked that their childhood sweetheart, a double-wide and a Trans-Am in the driveway would be living the dream for most of them. But now was the height of cliché season, my turn to inspire.
It’s just as well I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know I showed up that night ready to do better, to invoke more than being part of a kinder, gentler nation or one of a thousand points of light after the dark Reagan years.
I came to invoke the Goddess of Democracy, newly arrived in Tiananmen Square to show the way for us all, to show that if people rose up together and truly believed, that ideals such as justice and democracy could triumph.
And what if they were listening? Asked today, would they recall Tank Man any more than Milli Vanilli or Bill & Ted or Tone Loc?
Truth is, most of their faces, their names, are wiped from my memory— and mine from theirs, I’m sure—for that we have no power on earth to blame. Still, I wonder—how many of them ever realized that, at that very hour,
at the very moment I began to speak, the tanks were rolling through the Gate of Heavenly Peace?
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OH, BEAUTIFUL Krista Farris
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Teosinte Tiny ears of golden grain Crossbred, spread, Supersized. Drained and plain. America, America
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The bigger the seed, the bigger the workforce, the bigger the temple, the bigger the butt that takes a seat to eat, feed and breed a fleshy fat clusterfuck sufficient and deficient with gut pained constipation-
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Big Man History Some work dog got lucky In the grind smashing the whole to bits waved a magic mano Voila! Nixtamalization
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a recipe passed hand to hand, meal to meal, mouth to mouth, to temper the broken whole a salty saucy sprinkle to make it digest.
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The story goes and the world unfolds. The sedentary sluggishly meet and eat tasteless fiber unfit for human tongues and shove cob upon cob down gullets of piggies and bulls finished to marbled meatiestthe growing mass, internally twisted communing intestinal beasts rutting a rut
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from sea to shining sea.
ABOUT TRAGEDY Adam Kane
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On a Friday night in California, a young man emailed a 140-page manifesto to his parents and therapist, then killed six innocent people, injured 13 more, and killed himself. I won’t go into the details of the crime beyond that, you can find them anywhere. But I was struck by what motivated him. He had built a world in his mind where all women hated and rejected him, and for that, he needed revenge. It all started, so he said, when in seventh grade he was teased by a pretty blonde girl. One moment in time, possibly real, possibly imagined, was the tipping point for this man’s unraveling, culminating with six fatalities, thirteen injuries, and fresh emotional scars for countless others, undoubtedly including the pretty blonde girl herself. I find myself wanting to write about this, but it's proving to be a challenge. The mere notion that one interaction with between two children a decade ago in seventh grade (that may have been completely fabricated) has had such a profound impact on the lives of so many is chilling. It speaks to the serious mental issues this kid was struggling with. Who among us wasn’t teased in middle school? We all were. Who among us didn’t do some teasing? We all did. It’s not right, but everyone behaves regrettably in middle school. To think that one stupid comment or one sideways look could change a person’s entire outlook on life must give us all pause.
The part I’m really struggling with, though, is the twisted, bizarre motivation behind his crime. The idea that he needed to get revenge on the women that didn’t sleep with him and the men those women associated with instead. It’s scary that this way of thinking exists. I’ve been trying to rationalize this way of thinking every day since this crime was committed. And I just can’t do it.
There are things in the world that make sense to me: There’s a short, simple song, “Great Day” by Paul McCartney. It’s nearly impossible to feel sad or anxious after listening to it. Not long ago, friend of mine posted a picture he took while sitting in a boat on a pond in the Berkshires. It was the midday sun on a cloudless day, with a perfect halo surrounding it. A cup of coffee with an old friend, a September weekend in Maine, a baseball game on a summer afternoon. These things make sense.
So when things happen like the shooting in California, or Connecticut, or Colorado, or the violent slaying of a young teacher in Massachusetts, I struggle. And even when there is a trial, or a manifesto, we can determine a reason, but we’ll never have the answer.
I spent time reading up on other episodes of violence or civil disorder. On Kent State and Virginia Tech. On Columbine. On Corkville Elementary School. I read about the beating of Rodney King and the week of rioting that followed the acquittal of the officers that nearly killed him. I read the official stories and the alternate theories. I tried to find a pattern, tried to form an understanding. And then I opened an internet browser, only to discover another outburst of violence at a school. Another student murdered.
And when horrible things happen, we’re faced with a choice. And my choice is to keep searching for truth. Confront my confusion, and anger, and sadness, rather than hide it away.
When I first started regularly writing essays, I challenged myself not to write about tragedy all the time. I did this for several reasons. For one, I am an optimist; I believe people are generally 13
good. I also thought back to a creative writing class I took as an undergrad. We were assigned to write a short story, and then given groups to workshop what we wrote.
The story topics in my group ranged from a high school suicide pact (based on a true story), the funeral of a grandmother (true story), another high school suicide story (also true), and mine: a completely fictional account of a man who appears on a talk show.
I'm not criticizing any one of these stories. Perhaps my classmates took the assignment a little too seriously. It seems clear to me now that they needed the opportunity to relate their stories as a means of catharsis. I certainly understand that. And perhaps I didn't take the assignment seriously enough. Even as I was writing it, it felt a little bit like wish-fulfillment, and rereading it now, it's criminally derivative.
I thought that by avoiding tragedy, I could demonstrate that happiness, kindness, and irreverence could be just as genuine as anger and sadness. And I still believe that. But the truth is, by avoiding the anger and sadness, I wasn't demonstrating anything. I was just avoiding half the genuine feelings we all have every day.
Maybe, by setting that rule for myself, I did a disservice to a writing muscle I know I have. One that's been willfully ignored. We all need to reflect on the scary things from time to time, just the same as reflecting on the good things. And the funny things. This is why we write, or act, or draw, or sing, or sculpt things, isn’t it? To try and make sense of the madness of the world, whether it's a senseless act of violence, a disappearing plane, or a halo around the sun on a peaceful day on a pond in the mountains.
I don't have the answer to any of this, the good or the bad. But I know I need to keep trying to find it.
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TEMPORARY SOCIOPATHS IN AMERICA Justin Karcher
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“I call some teenagers and preteens temporary sociopaths.” Jack Levin, Criminologist 2:18 a.m. and I’m binge listening to Coast to Coast Jesus Christ, the twelve-year-old was stabbed 19 times They say Slender Man did it, the rotten gentleman dandy Or maybe it was her two friends, driven mad by Wisconsin The poor girls weren’t the only things to break though America did too – a repetition of guts, a tantrum of flies At night the kids are on corners and chain-smoking maggots We must umbilical our dead and connect them back to the source It’s obvious we have a destructive world on our hands
Like today it was pouring rain, felt like aching white lace And I wandered the streets without an umbrella And there was a piece of cloth covering my face Because I was trying to waterboard myself There can be no idleness anymore and the light is failing And there are radiant bombs bellowing in our brains And I’m about to lose it; I feel very strange About to Hindenburg pop…like those girls in Wisconsin
Which is probably why I took some Yellow Rockstars last night And went to Duke’s Bohemian Grove Bar for a dub step party But I didn’t dance much; the whole scene was piss I do about a thousand pills a year and should be able to dance But I couldn’t – like I was Stephen Hawking or something Maybe my body’s serotonin stocks are running low Maybe the serotonin isn’t coming back and it’s strange… Because in the bar bathroom I saw Slender Man in the mirror His facelessness all wavy like blowing on a bowl of soup
I looked him straight in the non-eye, stared at his blood red tie And I was like, “I’m not afraid of you, I’m not a child anymore, so What you gonna do Slender Man? Rush out that mirror like a Boeing 757 And carry me to a torturous dimension? Look, I don’t care about you There’s enough death and rage and hate in our hearts to last eons But know this you anorexic anomaly; we’re still capable of love We’re still capable of saintly sanity, not all of us are about to pop…”
Then I punched the mirror over and over again until my fist Resembled the ejaculate of Vesuvius and the pleasure so great I must’ve blacked out because next thing I remember I’m crying in the alleyway and getting my teeth kicked in
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SOME THINGS THAT ARE THE CASE B.T. Joy
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Redcurrants. June moon.
The way grapes are before resurrection.
The limb of a grape vine looping back like a wasted life,
tangling itself in itself, starting again.
To make a healthy crop it must happen a thousand times.
This is why the first farmers to plant indigo in the Indus valley
decided that they must have multiple bodies.
This is why cherries need their stones.
This is why Mohammad keeps on talking about heaven.
The shape of the untrained olive tree.
The circular stains where her copper jelly moulds hung.
My father reading the adult education books.
This is why the high school senior asks: what’s the point in poetry?
and not one of us can answer him.
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PRIDE Krista Farris
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Scoutman was tripping tipping goblins in the state park a full bellied example of manhood in the West shaking his stuff for the Utah boys. He flapped his arms to the circle-jerk cheers to topple a rock that sat atop a stony needle a hop and skip from Zion
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to protect the den from his demon.
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It fell, mercy me, to the path, squinted up, winked and wondered
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what it had done to be prodded and pushed in the prickly heat and whoo-hoo freed to stand its ground .
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Rock and roll- it smushed some hairy toes and heehe-ed and haha-ed and wheed away while the troop snorted rainbows of dust.
EUREKA Israel Wasserstein
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We dream revelations like avalanche: one moment silence, and the next a roar and cascade until we are buried by insight, as Archimedes, leaping from his bath, shouted his naked triumph. What’s revealed may crack us open in an instant, an oak shorn by a strong wind. We do not see the subtle building of currents into a storm, beginnings made clear only in endings.
So Darwin works his careful way, noting, labelling, observing: the patient naturalist cast his eye upon mockingbird, finch, tortoise, until the weight of variations pressed and overflowed, and, ponderously, the great man began to write.
And even then, as evidence spilled around him, Wallace found the same vista, emerging through data, the eye pulling back, bringing to focus the mechanism, the answer for both to see: elegant brutality of their origins.
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RANT SALAD Chad Repko
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another shooting in my town boiling down another clock tower we cower more and more into Seclusion confusion contemporary delusion but are things really different or is this just an old man's conclusion
We fret for race and politically deface based on who is blue and who is red we thread a narrative so bleak and critique the ways in which we speak boils over our spiritual mystique do you really care or even hear our own despair
Is it really getting worse or were we just ignorant children with childish eyes we deny the violence and mindless were always in supply Is the food really more poison than when Old Joe shit in the water hole through factory lines and domestic wines we done fucked up and never saw any of the signs
Facts are not facts anymore and maybe they never were lies built upon lies just baptize the allies and smother the rest with french fries oh humanity us stupid human tricks out for money, power, tits and dicks Has any of it changed? we're still bumping chests of who is more elite with Russia 19
a childish game of whose dad is bigger and teenage dick length our strength has been taken from us
Are the poor more poor than before is it always the same game these lame propaganda youtube video heads we tread more and more into non educated guesses stresses over GMOs, drugs, economy the sodomy of our mental freedom Away put your weapon! and aggression so together we can question the next fucking progression
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20
POEM WRITTEN IN RED PEN (OR: WRITE THE PAIN AWAY) Jessie Lynn McMains
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You’re doing this to make me feel guilty, he said, when I showed him a fresh cut made while he was at work. When I cut myself, I showed him. I never said Look what you made me do, I knew that he’d see the scabbed-over line puckering like lips pressed thin, pink skin and redbrown blood spreading around it like smeared lipstick; I knew that he’d see it when I removed my clothes in front of him, and I thought it was better to warn him of the wound than have it surprise him when he looked at me, when he touched me.
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When I cut myself, I showed him. When I showed him, he said: You’re doing this to make me feel guilty. He talked about guilt so much, would have thought he was Catholic.
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I have not attended mass since I was ten, yet the Catholicism in my skin manifests in strange ways. My heart has been broken, my body brutalized, I am broke. What am I being punished for? I am rotten. Inherently bad. I will punish myself. Cutting to do that. Jesus had wounds. All saints were martyred. I have wounds. I martyr myself. I am no saint. Guilt, guilt, guilt like plague, impotent guilt which does not make me better. I think about fucking someone, I feel just as guilty as if I fucked them. I’m going to feel guilty no matter what I do, so I do what I want. The same boy broke my heart twice in one month. I think: “You deserved it. Your punishment for breaking that other boy’s heart.”
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I cut myself to make him feel guilty. Panic attacks on purpose, to ruin his life. Like when I had a thirteen-hour-long panic attack. So heavy, in such waves, that I could not breathe, could not feel my hands. Drove myself to the emergency room. I faked it, or made it happen — because a friend of his was in town, and I couldn’t stand not being the center of his attention. Or the other times when I panicked in the middle of the night and woke him up to ask him to fuck me — fuck me please fuck me distract me make me feel something other than walls closing in on my body flesh and bone caging me in — 21
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I faked it, or made it happen — so he wouldn’t get enough sleep, so he’d be tired at work the next day.
Calm down, he told me. Calm down, you’re making this up, it’s all in your head, you’re crazy, you’re emotional. I told him I wanted to quit taking The Pill because it made everything worse, it made my brain more off-kilter, made me nauseous, made me more suicidal, made me want to claw my skin. He said he wouldn’t have sex with me if I wasn’t on The Pill. I hate wearing condoms, and I don’t want you to get pregnant. You’d be the same kind of mom that Sylvia Plath was. The girl-poet mom. To be a girl-poet means you have to be more focused on your work than on your children. I wrote a poem: I do not want to be the kind of mother who sticks her head in ovens. We had a gas stove in our apartment. I laughed about it. Then I wept.
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I am rotten. I can’t stop fucking other people. I cheat on him. Is it cheating if he said okay to an open relationship; is it cheating because I know he’d prefer monogamy? I am guilty, but I can’t stop. He is angry with me for wanting to fuck too often, but I need: to sublimate into something annihilating like sex, to feel hands on me, the hands of people who do not think my scars are damage, to —
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On repeat, at top volume, for days, ad nauseam, an electroclash danceclub hit: fuck the pain away, fuck the pain away.
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The cuts are martyr-wounds, but razorblades are leeches. The bloodletting to release the dis-ease from my body and into the world.
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Sometimes he played the concerned father: I’m worried that you’ll kill yourself. I’m worried that you’ll get sick from drinking, get cancer from smoking, get an STI from one of your lovers. I’m worried you’ll get arrested while protesting with your anarchist friends. But then it went back to: Calm down. You’re overreacting. You’re —
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I was too much. Cried too much, felt too much. I drank too much (booze, too much coffee), I smoked too much, I fucked too much. I was too filthy. I left dust on every surface, I left stacks of crusted dishes in the sink. Wounds crusted over, didn’t shower often enough. I was lurid, painted in shades of red: my blood, my cuts, my lips, my hair.
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You’re doing this to make me feel guilty. You’re doing this to ruin – No, not your life. Not your guilt. Not you. 22
I am doing this to save me.
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MADNESS Lauren Dean
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He stood by the chair when he yelled. No, it was a barstool. It was a barstool overlooking the kitchen—the kitchen with the pills. They were in a pile on the counter because she still took them. The ones in the box hadn’t worked. The ones on the counter still don’t work. And the postcard on the refrigerator read, “At the Vatican. Thinking of you.” And he didn’t yell often. Yelling didn’t go well with understanding, and he tried to understand. She sat on the couch across the room from the barstool he stood by when he yelled. The couch was from one of the garage sales they went to before this—before the postcard and the yelling, before the pills and the episodes. The episodes that stole her away. The leather was white back then, but time had yellowed it. Time had yellowed everything. She told him that time and pills had stolen the colors out of her world, the depth out of her soul, the power out of her words, the honesty out of her dreams. She told him that her thoughts were so fast; she couldn’t understand them. Another language, she told him—another language booming in her brain so loudly they felt like voices. He knew those times, those episodes, when she forgot how to sleep and her apartment stopped being her apartment and the earth stopped being the earth. Those were the times when he lost her because she lost herself. And the piles of books rivaled the piles of pills. They had not been opened in months, but they belonged here. That’s what she told him. They were meant to encompass the couch and the barstool and the bed and the kitchen. That was what they were made for—to be here, a comfort among the madness. But he could only try to understand. Then there was the slamming, the slamming of pill bottles against the counter, the slamming of books against the wall, the slamming of words against brains. And he had to yell because the slamming was too much. He had to yell because it was his job. It was his job to bring her back, to remind her that reality was the red kitchen and the glass doors that opened to nothing but a guard rail. He had to remind her that reality was the appointments and pills and doctors who only wanted to fix her. He never thought she needed to be fixed. 23
He yelled because he had grown to hate the postcard with the yellowed, curled corners taped to the refrigerator. He yelled because sometimes he wanted to take her back there, and he never could, and even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything. No grand ocean, no glorious old buildings would make the pills fewer and the books legible. No ancient statue, no stone road would take the age out of her eyes or put a new coat of paint on the red, red kitchen. Nothing had been easy since she had come back home, since the spending sprees and the speeding tickets, since the invincibility and then the fear and then the mirror. “It wasn’t me,” she had said, her explanation for all the broken shards of glass scattered across the floor, “I looked, and it wasn’t me.” She hadn’t slept in three days. He should have known. He should have recognized the hollowness in her eyes, the same hollowness that consumed them after a book smashed into the wall, after she agreed to resume her pills. Now they pretended it was an accident, not the offspring of her madness. Now they pretended that everything was okay, that the episodes weren’t real, that the pills hadn’t come to rule her life, that he didn’t have to stand by the barstool when he yelled, that she didn’t have to cling to the guard rails of her fake front porch when she dreamed she could fly. “But I never wanted a life controlled by lithium and sanity,” she told him that day as she shuffled through the box of pills, carefully placing each bottle in a straight line on the black wood floor in the kitchen where she sat and thought about her life. And the dog lay on the bed. The dog understood. She knew the dog understood why she had to throw the pills and the books. She told him the dog understood. The dog never got off the bed when it happened—just laid there and closed its eyes or stared out the window, ears drooping, pretending it was somewhere else. And he understood the dog. He understood that sometimes he just had to let her go. He understood that Alice had to chase the rabbit down the hole into Wonderland, that eventually she would wake up and it would all become some fanciful dream that she would tell him about, the way she told him about the trip and the postcard. Those were the times when he still prayed. Those were the times he was thankful for that solemn Greek Orthodox Jesus over the doorway, looking down at him in something similar to comforting silence, the way all deities are known to do. But it was comforting in those days when she thought she was drowning in lithium, trembling and crying, or those days when she felt “really alive,” painting and drinking and weaving elaborate stories of places that didn’t exist. She would lie in the couch in a mushroom cloud of smoke and tell him about the moon. Her gestures were so grandiose, as if she could encompass the vastness of the moon’s surface in her arms. She would tell him as if she had traveled there herself, knowing every monumental crater embedded in its crust. It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know that the higher she flew, the further she would fall. It wouldn’t be so bad if no one ever told her not to get too happy, not to lose sight of reality. But he missed her—the woman who bought a collie because they were soul mates, who cried uncontrollably because the end of the movie was too sad, who painted the kitchen a different color every week because she thought her house should fit her mood. The kitchen had been red for so long now. “It never gets easier,” someone told them one time. “You just get better at it.”
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THE ONLY WAY I CAN EXPLAIN THIS Kayla Wheeler
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When I was five I picked up a dead finch while on a walk with my parents. It was just lying there, stiff as a Sunday dress, so I cradled it like a lost tooth in my kid palms. When my mother saw what I was following her with, she smacked the animal from my hands. I heard its body hit the pavement, but never looked back. I never cried. I hope you understand.
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UNDERSTAND THAT WHEN I SAY “I MISS YOU” I AM TELLING YOU MY HISTORY Reed Hexamer
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with glass bones shaped like forks and knives my eyes are unwashed dinner plates filtered through my bloating stomach, tasting of the lips of every lover i have ever disappointed i eat the leftovers of our halfbaked touches at three in the morning when i am alone my name should not be Reed it should be Retrospective, Record, Relive, Replay, Repeat but never Release because my name has always been lit up in the neon nostalgia of the glow of an empty fridge searching late at night to pick over something I have already ingested i have always had a heart like a bottomless folding takeout box blooming with grease from forgotten meals my mother has called me "an emotional packrat"
but i have seen the photo albums she hides under her mattress the oil stains on her pillow she holds to the new morning painting glowing portraits of the woman she was the night before the shoes of my dead grandpa my nana keeps by her bed as if one day he will fill them
i understand that this runs in the family that i come from a line of farmers obsessed with the flowers that died last winter no wonder i caught my mother at the kitchen counter with the soup ladle spooning out her stomach to build temples to her ghosts inside her body carving the names of those who touched her into her trunk our family’s women are walking churches to gods we haven't seen in years we have been stacking our shelters from hollowed out trees when will we stop building houses that collapse on themselves
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85% OF METHAMPHETAMINE ADDICTS DO NOT BECOME ADDICTS Israel Wasserstein
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according to one study. If every member of my composition class tried it, perhaps three or four would be hooked. Good odds or bad? Depends on the upside, I suppose. My students like to debate the drinking age, 18 and chafing at illogic, chafing at the slow gravity of their lives, or back from Afghanistan and writing about what it means to grow up in a combat zone. What can they tell the soft man with the jagged scar over his eye, professor at this suburban public school? What image can they evoke to make him see?
Their fellow students, the ones who haven’t already spun the meth wheel, have driven down country roads in shaking pickups, bottles of whiskey pressed between their knees, clattering across railroad crossings and wheat fields, the sliver of moon muting gold to gray. In every class someone has a story about a life destroyed by drunks behind the wheel, but the numbers don’t change: 3 in 10 will know the twist of metal and plastic, alcohol and impact. What’s acceptable risk for forgetting you live in a dying town and are no closer to getting out than you were two years ago? I’m not one for drugs, only alcohol has ever done anything for me. My brother would rather listen to voices in his head than whatever his prescriptions say. The voices tell him he’ll be a movie star, or MMA warrior, or Batman. Some nights he disappears into the darkness. I dreamed of winning the Yale Younger, so try not to judge. I’ll admit I’d prefer they avoid Meth, these students slumped over their desks at 8 AM, or some, remarkably, avid and alert. I won’t guess if their eagerness is enhanced. 15%: Those aren’t odds I’d want a loved one to gamble on, not worth the high, I’d say, not worth clashing with law enforcement,
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THE J.D. Lenny Dellarocca
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We were living on welfare in a gray apartment in Central Islip when I and some hoodlum friends stole a car.
Danny never drove before and the ‘63 Rambler didn’t have power steering. We smashed into a parked car.
I ran, blood streaming down my arm, dodged the man who had just bolted from the corner house to catch us.
The moon shone down like a floodlight and Venus hung in space like a girl burning in my future.
I stood across the street from our apartment. Ran. A cop’s red emergency of summer pulled up and stopped me.
They put each of us in three different rooms, walked out with three versions of the story.
This is mine.
I stole a car in 1968 with kids I shouldn’t have been hanging around with. The plan was to use the car to get away after stealing cases of beer at the side of a neighbor’s house. We never did steal the beer.
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JUNEAU AIR Scott Malkovsky
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If you’ve ever been to Alaska, the cold-as-a-flask severed head of America, you know that it gets dark when the bar stools spin, that Dr. Parker drinks four shots of Patron before a bad diagnosis, another two before he begins the long waltz home, not to calm his ricochet rabbit nerves, but to feel as numb to the world as Carrie Lent, the thirty-five year old dental receptionist who just picked up the phone from the cancer vacationing inside of her lounge-club lungs after flying first class on second hand smoke airlines from the airport runway of her husband’s mouth.
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OCCAM’S MULTIVERSE Steve Bertolino
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Jackson Pollock, a housepainter, Muhammad Ali, a Teamster.
Rob Roy, a radio star, fringe on his jacket, Roy Rogers, an outlaw, fighting the British.
Michael Douglas, who played Gordon Gekko, Michael Douglas, who played Batman.
Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate. Maybe there really isn’t an appointed time for every purpose under heaven.
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30
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THEATRICAL GYNOPHOBIA: A DISEASE JUST AS BAD AS IT SOUNDS
Genevieve Lerner
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In the world of theatre in the year 2014, in a medium considered to be groundbreaking and explorative, there is an incredible lack of representation for women. It was only a few weeks ago that I posted this idea—along with examples of how this has been detrimental to my acting career— on my Facebook as a conversation starter. While several women commented positively and applauded my ideas, I was astounded to find that many men were actually offended. They accused me of whining about not getting cast, advised me to be grateful for what I get, and claimed that I have no right to complain because they have to deal with the exact same issues. Clearly, the guys missed the point. None of this was ever about me; I was simply using myself as an example of a way our deeply ingrained issues are manifested. But their retorts only further proved how far our system is from perfect. We have become so accustomed to inequality that we just accept it. We are complacent in our habits because it’s easier to do nothing, to pretend nothing is wrong, to continue to create theatre in the same way we’ve always known. We shoot down suggestions for revolution without even considering them. And yet, despite our fear, theatre will die without change. We need to fix the problems, not accept them—beginning with some pretty funky men-to-women ratios. There are more plays written by men than by women. We haven’t always had the kind of equality we have now in our society. Men used to write plays, women didn’t. And even though we have plenty of women playwrights today, it will take a long time to even the playing field completely. Much of our historical drama is vital to understanding the development of history and humankind—but let’s be real. There are only a handful of plays that so distinctly marked their eras that they should be taught in schools. We need to encourage women of today to write and have their voices heard. There are simply more roles for men. It wasn’t until the mid-1600’s that women actually began playing women in English drama. Until then, all the women’s roles were played by men, so it actually made sense that there would be more male characters than female. Even when women became present onstage, they were not valued as equals to men in society; there would be fewer roles for them. Today, however, there is no excuse. From a male playwright’s point of view, it might be easier to write men because it is easier to identify with members of his own sex. But isn’t that the point of creating characters? Shouldn’t we be trying to see the world from different perspectives? There are more female performers than male. I might be a little biased here, having to beat out lots of other women for roles, while men have seemingly less than half the competition. This is not uncommon in other areas of the arts as well, as I learned very early on growing up in the ballet world. In order to even be considered for a corps member in ballet, women must be flawless in body, technique, and artistry, while the male soloists are often not as good as the women in the background; they just have less competition. Theatre is a less obvious example, but it has a similar outcome. There are so many more women, and fewer roles to put them into. We can’t change history, but we can address it and strive to work toward equal representation today. Making steps toward producing more work of contemporary playwrights will allow us to more accurately reflect our diversity, and in turn, create more powerful and honest work. How else will we encourage young audience members to create new work if not by representing for them our world as it is now? 31
Unfortunately, we can’t just blame the numbers. Women are also underrepresented in the quality of roles available to them—not just the quantity. This inaccurate portrayal of women is a pattern throughout our theatre as a whole. Women are defined by their relationship to men. Unfortunately, with more male playwrights, women are often portrayed the way that men see them: as appendages to men, rather than existing in their own rights. Sometimes women are shown as weak and needy, desperate for a man’s attention. Sometimes they are objectified or are a representation of sexuality. Sometimes they are simply women trying to gain power in a man’s world. Whatever the case, their entire reason of being is defined by how they measure up to the men. Does he like her? Does he find her attractive? How can she gain his power? Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth is an excellent example of this: despite the fact that she is a powerful woman, the entire reason for her existence is to be an influence on Macbeth—essentially, to be his fatal flaw. Conversely, a man’s relationship with a woman is generally a small portion of his character. He may have an aspect of him defined by his relation to women, but we usually see more than just that side of him. Women are portrayed as one-dimensional stereotypes. The process of casting women is usually just placing them into different stereotypical roles. Even worse, there are not very many different stereotypes to begin with, and nearly all of them are negative. The bimbo. The slut. The crazy ex, the overbearing mother, the self-assured woman who will do anything to get what she needs. It is so often that women are put on the stage as a tool, as a device, rather than as human beings. But women are whole people, not just the embodiment of ideas. Theatre can stereotype men as well, but generally more positively. The tall, dark, and handsome stranger, the hero, the smart one, the jock. Additionally, the men are often multidimensional, and are not defined by their fatal flaws or their negative moments as so many stereotypical women are. This leaves room for flux and growth within the characters, suggesting they are human. When the audience sees the reason behind a man’s negative reaction, it is more likely to sympathize with him than it would with a stereotyped “bitchy” woman about whom it has learned nothing. “Strong” means evil or crazy. In what we consider to be the great works of theatre, there are often several multidimensional characters at odds with each other or even themselves. As men, they are generally characters that just have different, but equally valid, points of view on life or their current situation. They disagree, they fight, but the audience can understand both points of view. A woman with a point of view, however, will usually be portrayed as irrational, manipulative, or unstable—completely devaluing her opinions. The strong characters men can look forward to playing in their careers are the heroes of the story. The strong characters that women can look forward to playing are crazy and villainous. The protagonist of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler is manipulative and evil. Even David Auburn’s contemporary Proof centers around two seemingly strong women characters…but one is a controlling bitch and the other is crazy. The theatre is terrified of a truly strong woman; it constantly dilutes her by portraying her as evil, crazy, or both. Representing women negatively allows an audience to take them less seriously. This is not only harmful to women, but to theatre itself. Theatre is about telling stories about the human condition, about dichotomy, complexity; writing characters off as literary devices, as weak, and as one-dimensional shatters this purpose. Once in awhile, a truly strong woman will be portrayed onstage. But even then, the scenario is far from perfect. Only one strong woman at a time, please. The ideal female character is powerful, multidimensional, and not evil-crazy-or-both. She has strengths and flaws, and embarks on a journey throughout the play. Sometimes we actually get to see this character…and then we 32
look at the people with whom she is interacting. She is surrounded by men, or worse, by weak women. Apparently, theatre-goers can’t handle more than one strong woman at a time. The thing is, there are so many different types of strong women in the world, and I want to see more of them represented. Neglecting to portray multiple strong women at once suggests that if you associate with a strong woman, you must automatically be weaker. It also idealizes a personality that is rigid in beliefs, outspoken, and fearless, implying that women must have these qualities in order to be "strong," rather than celebrating the variations that make us human. It is an ordeal to produce a female-dominated play. Theatres don’t think twice about producing plays with mostly male casts, because they are such an industry standard; they know they will be able to make money. Any Shakespearean play is mostly men. Essentially, any play written before the 1970’s Women’s Suffrage Movement features mostly men. And the few exceptions become phenomenon, as if it had never occurred to anybody to feature more women. Even though it was written in 1945, The House of Bernarda Alba by Federico Garcia Lorca is still known internationally for its all-female cast. Unfortunately, these female casts are not just called “plays,” as they would be if they featured all men. They are “all-female casts,” “plays about women,” or even “feminist.” Producing these plays can be crippling for theatres. If a play is labeled as “feminist” – a sadly stigmatized word—it may deter audiences from coming. Why is it important to point out that there are a lot of women in a show? Why are they labeled as anything other than “plays”? We “theatre people” are stuck in place because of fear. We fear our art is a dying one. Companies fear they will drive patrons away and won’t make enough money to sustain themselves. Performers fear they will never work again. And so we continue to make choices that are detrimental to moving forward as an artistic society by devaluing women and ignoring our historical developments. If a performer’s desperation to be cast overwhelms her desire to create truly good work, she may accept roles that poorly represent and stereotype women, only furthering the problem. If companies continue to produce popular plays simply because they are a financially safer option, the stories will eventually become stale and irrelevant. By trying to save theatre, we are killing it. The responsibility lies on all of us—women and men, companies and patrons, audiences and artists—to choose expression over fear. We can fight the women-fearing disease plaguing our theatre, rather than passively participating and letting the status quo perpetuate. We can make our own plays, produce new work, and encourage women to let their voices be heard. We are all just a Facebook status away from starting a conversation.
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33
FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON Richard J. Fleming
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1 People seldom realize their potential, no matter how many square pegs they pound into round holes. The Great Pyramids were built by slaves who were buried by their mistakes. Please notify future graduates, they will receive a nice diploma; suitable for framing. A Hall Monitor will hand out passes to the lavatory. Employees must wash their hands to prevent the spread of dystopia.
"
2 Paranoia sounds a lot like a broken karaoke machine. Feelings of helplessness grow where nothing else can. In the early stages of Dementia, it is very easy to forget the combination to a gun safe. Passwords protected by asterisks, are also difficult to remember. They look like snowflakes under a microscope.
"
3 Snow is predicted early in November. It will be very cold. There's a coal shortage. Stay warm. Bake hot biscuits on a pot belly stove. Follow the trail of bread crumbs. Do not leave any footprints. Tie a string around your finger, and cherish the memories it will bring. Be sure to book a seat on the next flight out of Egypt.
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GOING BACK TO CHURCH FOR MOTHER’S DAY 2014 Cody Smith
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Men with hard hands and dirt-bitten fingernails fill the church pews and platform showcasing untailored suits. The pastor asks for uplifted hands to signify prayer requests. He prays over us all,
says his reservoir is full of the Lord, but I’ve crowded mine full of doubt till it pulls stretch marks in the skin— little indentions of discolored flesh waiting to bronze under sunburns. The pastor’s assistant brings two trash bags bloated with discard
and drops them by the pulpit. The pastor tries to tie in some point to justify the illustration: something about how hurt people hurt people—but he talks in half-truths
because we’ve never needed excuses to damage. And I know if I were to raise my hand to question why these gods thirst for the bloodletting we pull from each other like uncountable transfusions on our way to decay, it would be mistaken for a prayer, and maybe rightfully so.
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35
A LAMENTABLE DECISION Jenean McBrearty
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A man is born for his moment. Ike’s moment came in ’44 with the Normandy invasion; Kennedy’s in ’62 with the blockade of Soviet missiles; and Obama’s came in ’15 with China’s nuclear armada, when the headline read “America Surrenders!” After reading Jason’s opening paragraph, Helen put down her red felt pen and drummed her fingers on her editor’s desk to get her husband’s attention.
He shielded his eyes with the leather-bound edition of The Poems of Frost—he had miles to read.
“Don’t ignore me, Jason Reagan. America surrenders? It sounds weak, like a wrong decision.” “It” was the ceding of Hawaii to China after the Chinese government threatened to nuke the island from an off-shore deep-sea Navy base it built with Russian aid.
“The Constitution guarantees every state a republican form of government. The last I heard Hawaii was one of ours,” he said from behind his printed fortification.
She gave her pen a light, well-directed toss and it landed just over the top edge of the book.
Jason lowered his defenses.
“We owed the Chicoms a trillion dollars and they sent a persuasive collection agency. What would you have had Obama do?” she said.
“My great, great-grandfather would have said, ‘Fuck you!’ and launched a thousand missiles to blow their ships to hell.”
“Nobody wants the world to blow up on his watch.”
She turned her back on him. As if that truth trumped every other truth available.
“O-kay,” he said, “erase Kennedy’s Cuban missile crisis, change Ike’s line to ‘Chamberlain’s moment came in ’38 in Munich’ and end with ‘Is a California give-away in our future?’”
He uncapped the red felt pen that had been lobbed into his lap and scrawled “Better Red than Dead” across a page of poetry that might not survive a historical revision.
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36
AT THE FUHRMAN FUNERAL HOME Krista Farris
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If you choose to sparkle after death, We can press you to reveal your pointed clarity. We can put you under more stress for less than the cost of a thousand fine dinners you thought you were capable of withstanding and we will hold you there for weeks in a static environment your loved ones will describe to others as peace filled, like a prescient post-traumatic hug encompassing you in our capsule. When you emerge, you will be recognizable by the one of a kind boron blue tint your being casts when light passes through the shimmering diamond you become. You can be the unique gem your unspecified loved ones can argue over or the one that a certain special someone can wear on her breast, his finger, a lop-sided belly button, nipple, ear or elsewhere you determine in your final will.
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*Call today for special holiday rates. We have craftsmen on hand to help you pre-select your setting. 10% off emerald, ruby, and sapphire (or other birthstone) accompaniment gems in the month of January. Gold or silver settings standard. Platinum available for additional cost upon request. Be sure to ask about our “Family Jewels� BOGO offer.
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Editorial Staff
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Jordan Rizzieri (Long Island, NY) is a 26-year-old caregiver and writer. After graduating from SUNY Fredonia with a B.A. in Theatre Arts and a minor in English, she spent over a year in Buffalo, NY honing her playwriting skills. In 2011 she saw the staging of her first full-length play, The Reunion Cycle, as part of the Buffalo Infringement Festival. Upon her return to Long Island, she began blogging about being a young adult caring for her ailing mother, as well as publishing essays on the topic. As she prepares to return to the work force, Jordan spends the evening hours writing, watching WWE wrestling with her boyfriend and listening to spooky podcasts. On the weekends she drinks a lot of craft beer, listens to the radio and has arguments with her boyfriend's cats (which she almost always loses.) Feel free to contact her with questions about flannel, grunge, The Twilight Zone and the proper spelling of braciola .
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FICTION EDITOR Kay Kerimian (Buffalo, NY), just freshly turned 25, has gone from Long Island native & bagel aficionado to hippie-dippie Hudson Valley student before ultimately taking a chance on The Queen City as a professional go-getter. Holding degrees in Performance & Gender Studies while carefully considering a literary escape route, Kay currently resides in Western New York with her partner in crime; the two share plans to explore the great unknown together by this time next year. After hastily publishing a small collection of short stories independently at the ripe old age of 17, Kay quietly abandoned her lifelong ambition of becoming a celebrated writer for an equally quixotic career in the performing arts while adopting a new name. When not on stage or on a proverbial soap box, Kay spends her free time reading (a lot), traveling (as much as possible on an artist's income), & thinking up the next big project (currently attempting to try something new every day for a year). She prefers using lower-case, enjoys coffee, whiskey, & sweets (respectively & in no particular order), & pines for never-ending libraries. Always interested in a dialogue, Kay welcomes discussions involving disability awareness, heteronormativity, & hypothetical super powers.
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NON-FICTION EDITOR Jennifer Lombardo (Buffalo, NY) is 25 years old and works full time at a hotel in order to support her travel habit. She graduated from the University at Buffalo with a B.A. in English in the hope of becoming an editor. When she isn't making room reservations for people, she reads, cross-stitches and goes adventuring with her friends. She is especially passionate about AmeriCorps,Doctor Who and the great outdoors. Ask her any question about grammar, but don't count on her to do math correctly.
POETRY EDITOR Bee Walsh (Brooklyn, NY) is a 24-year-old New York native living in Bed-Stuy. She graduated from SUNY Fredonia in 2010 with a B.A. in English Literature and a B.S. in International Peace and Conflict Resolution. Reciting her two majors and two minors all in one breath was a joke she told at parties. The English Department played a cruel trick on her and pioneered a Creative Writing track her final year, but she charmed her way into the Publishing course and became Poetry Editor for the school’s literary magazine, The Trident. Bee has spent the past three years trying different cities on for size and scoffing at people in each of them who ask her about her "career goals." An Executive Assistant in publishing by day, you can find her most nights stage managing non-profit theatre, eating vegan sushi in the West Village or causing mischief on roofs with her boyfriend, Brian. Run into her on the subway, and she'll be nose deep in a book. She holds deep feelings about politics, poise, and permutations. Eagerly awaiting winter weather and warm jackets, she’d love to talk to you about fourth-wave feminism, the tattoo of the vagina on her finger, or the Oxford comma.
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Contributors
"Adam Robinson is a 20 year old barista and aspiring writer, floundering, sometimes crawling,
occasionally sprinting at full speed through the wetland void of Western Michigan. Enjoys long walks on the beach, dark under-eye circles in passersby, and in-depth discussions on indifference. Slept in sporadic increments for the better part of nineteen years; sleeps just fine these days. And what prompted that shift? Not entirely sure. Everything feels, tastes, sounds, looks the same (with the exception of, maybe, the view behind eyelids and how long the view lasts).
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Kim Peter Kovac works nationally and internationally in theater for young audiences with an emphasis on new play development and networking. He tells stories on stages as producer of new plays, and tells stories in writing with lineated poems, prose poems, creative non-fiction, flash fiction, haiku, microfiction, and three-line poems, with work appearing in print and online in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Frogpond, Glint Literary Journal, Crunchable, and Elsewhere. He is fond of avant-garde jazz, murder mysteries, contemporary poetry, and travel, and lives in Alexandria, VA, with his bride, two Maine Coon cats, and a Tibetan Terrier named Finn. www.kimpeterkovac.tumblr.com
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David E. Poston has poems forthcoming in The Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume VII: North Carolina. He has continued to speak to graduating classes occasionally over the years, always worrying about whether he can deliver something worthwhile but consoled by the fact that people listen less and less. Learn more about him here and learn more about what inspired the poem by watching this clip.
Krista Genevieve Farris’ recent writing can be found or is forthcoming in Tribeca Poetry Review, The Literary Bohemian, The Piedmont Virginian, and elsewhere, in addition to The Rain, Party and Disaster Society. She’s a rogue anthropologist who likes to dig in the dirt, run, and help her sons and gardens grow. She has a Masters Degree in Cultural Anthropology and Social Change from Indiana University and a BA in English and Anthropology from Albion College. If you’d like to know more, Krista’s Artist Spotlight can be found on the RP&D Tumblr.
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Adam Kane is a pop-culture enthusiast, essayist, and recovering actor living and working in Boston. You can follow him on Twitter, where he tweets about the Red Sox, Syracuse basketball and the line at Starbucks.
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Justin Karcher is a poet and playwright living in Buffalo, NY. He is the co-founder of Theater Jugend and is its Writer-in-Residence. As a lifelong fan of the Bills and Sabres, he is rather comfortable with disappointment and uses it to fuel his writing. He incorporates a “violent, poetic language that speaks to and about a generation of lost souls, newly minted adults who have yet to figure it all out” (Buffalo Rises). One day, he hopes to be ripped to shreds by Thracian Maenads like his idol, Orpheus. Justin can be found on both Twitter and Facebook.
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B.T. Joy is a Scottish poet living and working in Glasgow. He has published poetry in journals, magazines, anthologies and podcasts worldwide; including in Forward Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Presence, Bottle Rockets, Frogpond, and The Newtowner. After receiving his honours degree in Creative Writing and Film Studies in 2009 he went on, in 2012, to receive a PGDE from Strathclyde University and has since taught as a High School English teacher.
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Israel Wasserstein is a Lecturer in English at Washburn University. His first poetry collection, This Ecstasy They Call Damnation, is a 2013 Kansas Notable Book. His poetry and prose have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Blue Mesa Review, Flint Hills Review, and elsewhere. By the time you read this he may be dead due to overdosing on the World Cup.
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Chad Repko received his BA in film from Temple University in Philadelphia PA before concentrating mostly on Poetry. He currently lives in Pottstown PA writing and slowly attempting stand up comedy. He published a collection of romantic poems entitled Touch and Moonlight. He can be found on Facebook.
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Jessie Lynn McMains is a writer and zine-maker currently based in southeastern Wisconsin. Visit her website, or follow her on Tumblr, where she blogs about nostalgia, punk, and the Midwest, and posts a lot of selfies.
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Lauren Dean grapples with bipolar disorder under the heat of the South Alabama sun. She has two degrees, one in psychology and the other in classical civilizations, both earned from the University of Alabama and accompanied by a minor in creative writing. Her work has been presented in Straitjackets Magazine and Black Words on White Paper.
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Kayla Wheeler is an ex-ballerina from New Hampshire. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in FreezeRay, The Orange Room Review, Wicked Alice, and nin. She represented Slam Free or Die at the 2013 National Poetry Slam. Follow her on Twitter or Tumblr.
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Reed Hexamer is an archivist, a perpetual student, a witness and a storyteller who has been performing spoken word for about eight months but listening her whole life. She enjoys night walks, working with her hands, climbing things in the dark and touching plants. She just finished her freshman year at Massachusetts College of Art and Design will return in the fall as president of The Official Massart Poetry Alliance. You can find her art on her site.
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Lenny DellaRocca has had poems in Nimrod, Poet Lore and many other lit mags since 1980. He can be found on both Facebook and via his website, and you can purchase his book "Alphabetical Disorder" on Amazon. He lives in Delray Beach, FL.
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Scott Malkovsky is an actor/poet living in Southern California, who spends way too much of his time dreading the inevitable demise of the compact disc. He has a Twitter, but he hardly ever does anything with it because of how much time he spends thinking about compact discs. He's really concerned. And what's with this cassette resurgence? He could care less about cassettes.
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Steve Bertolino lives in Middlebury, Vermont, where he works as an academic librarian and serves on the executive committee for the New England Young Writers Conference. His recent and forthcoming publications include poems in Right Hand Pointing, Melancholy Hyperbole, Bone Parade, Written River, Third Wednesday, The Lake, Uppagus, and Squalorly.
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Genevieve Lerner is professional theatre artist and a dinosaur enthusiast. When she is not acting in films or onstage, she finds herself reading A Game of Thrones, teaching herself piano, photographing her friends, dancing ballet, shopping at Wegmans, and running out of time to do everything she wants. You can read about her adventures at Wordpress blog. She would also like you to know that pterodactyls are pretty cool.
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Richard J. Fleming is a survivor of three Chicago blizzards. He graduated from Mundelein College of Loyola University, and has degrees in Fine Art & English Literature. He has recently had poetry published in Right Hand Pointing, The Rusty Nail, Inkwell Mag, Curio & Otoliths. Right Hand Pointing published his first Chap book, “Aperture”
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Cody Smith is a sojourner educating himself one road trip at a time. His life is a collection of scenes looking out of car windows from the Appalachians to Yosemite. He is an undergraduate at the University of Louisiana at Monroe where he'll never graduate unless he stops writing poems in his math classes. His work has appeared in Dark Matter, Full of Crow, and Otis Nebula. Connect with Cody via his Facebook.
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Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, and former community college instructor (Political Science and Sociology). She received the EKU English Department's Award for Graduate Non-fiction (2011), and her fiction, photographs and poetry have been published in many journals and anthologies. Most recently, her humorous story The Root of Everything Arty was published by FLAPPERHOUSE. Her novels, Raphael Redcloak, and Retrolands are serialized on Jukepop. Her mystery novel, The 9th Circle, was published by Barbarian Books. For more on Jenean, check out her website.
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