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is a zine and an unsponsored platform for artists, writers and poets to submit their work to. You don’t have to be a professional to write, draw, or send hate mail to us. Just be honest, be funny, draw something cool or interesting. Your personal work could be gold, but without anywhere to display it, who would ever know? So, really, what is The Radvocate? It is you. It is your stories, your rants, your artwork, your opinion. If you have an opinion, a story, a drawing, a review or anything else, submit it to us. The best ones will be picked by the editors and printed in our issues, printed every few months or so. Contact us at theradvocatemag@gmail.com to get involved.


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Featuring the series, “Wabi Sabi” & poetry selections from Bruce Bales Satellite Seconds

if we see the same moon can we see the reflection in each other’s eyes hours away tucked in and tussling

window pane prisoners of lust and lunacy wailing silent midnight songs failing in the infinite

along this bending river the distant glow waves slumber and suspicion satellite seconds watching


What Cheer What Cheer; puddles lightning reflecting off the cars, slick with speed laughter behind washing our land of drought You left at 4 a.m. we hope you drive well worry we will Be my guide home foggy morning drying


Greetings humans! Tis I, your faithful Reviewer of Things, Sunny Katz. Today I review unto thee Anna Anthropy’s “Rise of the Videogame Zinesters”, a guidebook to creating your very own game. Ms. Anthropy is creator of such games as “Calamity Annie, Mighty Jill Off, and Lesbian Spider-Queens of Mars”. Her website can be accessed at www.auntipixelante.com. First and foremost, I would like to say that Ms. Anthropy is a badass. Within the first few paragraphs she identifies herself as a transgender queer woman who has a bone to pick with modern video games. She is troubled that there are essentially no characters with whom she can identify. Ms. Anthropy takes her concerns a step further and decides that she will design her own game based on her own experiences. Ms. Anthropy has a message that seeks to empower humanoids from all walks of life that too have a voice and a story to tell. What struck a chord with me is the unspoken “why not you” that lurks behind her words. And really, why not you? YOU have a unique experience and perspective; share it with us. There are also tips, resources, and tools for the creative process. There is not a stepby-step guide, but I think that would cheapen the discovery of building a game from start to finish. Part of the fun is getting horrifically confused with a smattering of ~*RAGE*~ when things don’t play out exactly the way they did in your head, right, RIGHT? ONE MUST SUFFER FOR THEIR ART FOR IT MAKES THEE INTRIGUING AND ATTRACTIVE. I would never dishonor you and be the demon spawn known as Alert of Spoiler, but I do want to share my favorite quote. “A game is an experience created by rules”. This, one thousand times this. Rules shape the worlds in which we play/conquer/pillage/wizard. Without


them, my level 69 wood elf (lolZ!!!1!) would be meandering in circles and occasionally poking bunnies with sticks*. And lest not forget, breaking of the rules come with consequences, which varies from trivial to storyline changing. Although I am quite sure some of you have just been very naughty soldiers/warlords/dragonslayers/trolls and are in desperate need of a good spanking. I am starting to think that you are just doing that on purpose, however, further research is required.

So get out into that big wide world and immediately go back into your fortresses of solitude and create your masterpieces, you dirty dirty scoundrels.

*May have actually occurred even with rules.


"I never loved a woman named Louise!" Isaac's father announced in a deep, phony voice. Mother didn't even turn around as she continued to prepare the oven -baked steaks and microwaved broccoli. "I never loved a woman named Louise!" his father repeated. This time mother turned around, revealing her blood red face and raging eyes. "Oh Henry, please shut up! Just shut up!" It was shocking to witness her exploding frustration, the way it shocks you when someone who's usually really friendly and happy gets angry. Henry smiled, got up from the table, and walked over to the living room, with a glass of orange juice in his hand. "I never loved a woman named Louise!" Still at the table, Isaac grew more and more irritated with his erratic behavior. "Dad - What is your fucking problem!?" Henry looked at Isaac, and stuck his tongue out as he poured his orange juice onto the white living room carpet. Isaac, completely stunned, got up without saying a word and drove into the cold night. Henry was always a very strange man, a very strange man to have as a father. He had recently confessed to Isaac that he had grown a liking to asking women he didn't know for hugs while he was out in public places. He claimed it was wasn't a sexual thing, but Isaac found that hard to believe as he had also shared with him that it had been 15 years since he and his mom had slept together. He had become his dad's therapist, lending an ear to his sad skeletons, and was in the habit of hiding his disgust so his father wouldn't stop talking. It was either he was telling him his deepest darkest shit, or he wasn't saying anything. His tales of disappointment and shame were sunshine to the regretful aura of his silent suffering.


Isaac arrived at his girlfriend's house and knocked on the door. When she answered he couldn't help but start crying, "I hate my dad." She brought him inside. As he sat in her parent’s living room telling her what happened the phone rang. "It's your mom" "Hello?" "Issac, you need to come home, your dad's out of control" Red and blue lights danced around his parent's house as he pulled up. He got out of the car, fearing what was going on inside. The first thing he saw when he walked in was a female cop sitting in the living room consoling his crying mother. To the right were two cops talking to his dad in the foyer. He stepped over the massive orange stain on the carpet, and joined his mom on the couch.

"Sir, can you tell us what year it is?" the cop asked. Isaac watched the scene, deeply humiliated, as he began to notice the stark contrast between his father and the police officers. They were a different breed - powerful, confident, and strong. They towered over the weak, trembling man whom he called "Dad". A feeling of self-disgust washed over Isaac. He was not the strong men in the police uniform. His bloods - his genetics - were that of the small man, the weak man, the man who couldn't even control his own sanity. Whether Isaac liked it or not, he was destined to become him.

Isaac burst into tears as Henry pulled down his pants, revealing his shriveled-up penis. The female cop embraced him. "It's OK honey, it's OK." In that intensely dark and confusing moment, her embrace was a warm bubble – like an injection of opiates into Isaac's blood, numbing him from what was happening. He continued to cry, but his tears turned into a warm blanket.

He gazed out the window at the red and blue lights dancing gleefully into the fog.


Untitled by Sara Wasylyk so today i’ve only been awake for 9 hours and if i’m remembering basic math, i’ve been spitting out your name through choked back tears for a third of it. your name has been expectorated from behind these teeth since i first learned that love has the same aftertaste of a rotten peach. your name is a brown and bitter mush i still keep swallowing. rewind seven years and you’ll remember me taking that first bite when you stood one foot shorter than me, with hair to your shoulders , and a cracking voice when you saw me and said “you are the most beautiful girl i have ever seen” now fast forward to the next time you repeated yourself, six years later with an undertone of uncertainty, but god damn, i ate it off the paper plate you laid out for me on your kitchen table the morning after we reached the pit and the pit was my infidelity. you see, everyone will preach the cliches of love and spit it into your face, but they couldn’t spit yours, when yours was always mine to scrape against the roof of my mouth. everyone will tell you that the first fruit is the ripest, but no one can tell you that you might just like vegetables . and no one will tell you that your tongue will remember the way it tasted long after you’ve put it out for trash day. in the winter your skin was impossible to tear through, and although you weren’t in season, i kept finding you underneath all the oranges.


so i persisted in taking bites and i succeeded in absorbing the nutrients all with a sour look on my face. and i never meant to hurt you, you know, but there is some logic to craving the bitter before the sweet. there is a reason i craved a fruit so sparse in acidity but i still can’t stomach you. and as i want to, and as i fought to be able to do so, you stopped growing. and if i were wiser i would have stopped reaching into the branches of the wrong trees with the wrong fruit, and i would have sat beneath yours until you fell into my lap, at the right time.


All, in the End By Lauren Indyk

Your likeness wasn't something I was used to; I'd never felt the swell, never tasted the sweetness. It all seems like a dream, the nights I would relish with friends in the love that hadn't happened yet, that likely wasn't comingfrom the sex and barebones that weren't protruding enough for satiety.

And yet here we stand, limbs sore from frozen stances and beating ourselves forward, fingernails split from nerves and holding on too tightly. The clock on the bedside table constantly ticking, and yet we wouldn't give it up for a second less of time.

While still the fog hazes in and it's something so sweet, like the mark on your forearm and the glisten in your eye when you see something that you truly like. The opacity is overwhelming, filling and ending, and yet here we are, and here we will stand.


We’re barreling down the freeway in a dented Hyundai, heading towards John Swartz’s house in Paradise Hills. John is at the wheel, most of the rest of us are crammed in the back, and we’re a good half-hour drive from the suburban wastes of UTC, where I call home. This is the uncharted territory for me, and lo and behold, John has the perfect soundtrack for the ride: An unlabeled CD-R containing some new tracks he recently recorded in his garage, by a local band called Hide and Go Freak. The year is 2001. The place is San Diego, but this isn’t the postcard city of Sea World and Balboa Park, glittering bikinis and adorable Pandas. This is a weirder, darker zone that hardly anybody cares to see. And I’m 16 years old, careening headfirst into the mysterious future. The weekend has begun; my “family” (we’re all friends, but we pretend like we’re related) is about to have a dinner party. John— brilliant, eccentric John—has the craziest taste in music, and I love him for it. I figure this new band will be just another one of John’s esoteric avant-garde obsessions. Wonderful for the ideas, but ultimately useless. That’s cool; I’m down to listen. John slides the CD into the radio. “Hey, kids. It’s show and tell time!” The man has a chipper voice, like he’s the host of a ’50s variety show. A woman joins him in an upbeat little duet: “It’s time for show and tell. It’s time for show and tell. Everybody come along and show and tell. I’ll show you something new. I’ll tell you what to do…” The tune—sampled, I figure, from an old children’s music LP—suddenly winds up and cuts off in a fastmotion flourish. There’s a cymbal crash. A rolling beat enters on a set of out-of-tune tom-toms, along with a ghoulish piano line you’d expect from The Munsters. The singer starts muttering and stuttering, spewing words in a barely-comprehensible


flow: “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah ah-ah-ah-ah…” And finally, the whole fucking thing explodes like a haunted mansion on Halloween night—a drum machine clanks out a beat, bass stabs forward like a prison shank, electric organs whirl around and around in spooktacular vertigo. Immediately, I’m taken in. I love the sound of the electronic keyboards, and the chaotic slur of the singer’s voice. But there’s a deeper appeal, too. I’ve never heard anything like this before, and it gives me an ecstatic rush like no other. It’s the same feeling I got when I read the cyberpunk conjurings of Philip K. Dick for the first time. The walls of the repressed world I come from—endless malls, empty condo complexes, homophobic classmates, a middle school built like a prison—are collapsing in a single, four-minute thrust. The singer, who goes by the name Andybird, is muttering something now about a birthday party. The clown smells like vodka. Dad is nowhere in sight. There are people around, but the birthday boy doesn’t know any of them. He opens a present, and it’s a shotgun. Chaos ensues: “Johnny, Suzie, you’re next! / Where’d you go, go, go?” The song, John tells me, is called “It’s My Party and I’ll Kill if I Want To.” That might make some people think of Columbine, of school shooters and tragic teenage bloodbaths. But I never make the connection. Right now, I’m too busy reveling in the synth-punk insanity, taking in the glimpse of a world I’ve never seen before. Eventually, my friends and I get to John’s house. I don’t remember what happens next. Was this the time we all got drunk and played spin the bottle, and I ended up making out with Ruben? Or was this when the great Kevin Von Mutant himself stopped by with Daniil and Jason from Metal-Garde, and we sipped vodka from a tiny Arrowhead bottle? Who knows. As the years pass, these memorable nights will all become a blur. In the next year or so, Hide and Go Freak will come and go in a crazy creative flash, leaving behind a dead keyboardist, a dead friend, and a dead “Mutant Punk” movement dedicated to nothing less than the total destruction of Western Civilization. But they will leave behind one document for the public to consume: the four-track 7-inch that John recorded in his garage. It’ll sell for $2.99 at Off the Record in Hillcrest, and eventually find a new life on YouTube.


Hardly anyone will ever know Hide and Go Freak existed, but I will always remember them. And it’s all because of this ride I take in John Swartz’s car—this one magic moment, a few minutes standing as one of the great landmarks in my musical life. I can’t recall for sure what I say, exactly, as I get my ears violently pried open. But I imagine it’s something like this: “WHOA.”


We wouldn’t sleep there, just past Shoshone, in the perpetual motion of an ’89 Chevy, leather sticking thighs against hands. And when the engine slowed and the tank ran dry we pulled off in the night, opening our chests, helping ourselves to a siphon.

We didn’t stop when the tires burst at the seams, rubber sparking on gravel across your face. We kept going in the 89 degree heat of a Mojave night, coyotes on busted up radio signals, sending across the nothing.

We didn’t speak after. Sun scattered under hood, hair caught in the grill, golden and bright. We brushed bits of scalp from metal, burning hands in the process. I thought you whispered her name, but it was only cicadas bursting against the windshield.

We couldn’t touch then, scar tissue building up barriers on the dash. The plastic melted into heat lines where we left our bodies silent in the road. But it’s your hands I’d remember, long after I confessed, long after I stopped writing apologetic letters. It’s your hands I’d remember, red and sticky as they covered my mouth, brushed my cheek. Nothing else from you would stick so well as that smell of metal and skin.

Days later my fingertips would spread against glass, your face somewhere across the distance of grey concrete and bulletproof panes. I would pick up the telephone and breathe into the gap where my reflection rubbed yours, smearing the visitor window with busted bits of someone you used to love.

We wiped at sinew with the edges of our hands and kept moving, hurled forward until amber lights refracted and blurred against the residue. We decelerated and sniffed at skin.


I lost you there, in a rest stop. I lost you there, in the burst of a pressure hose, blasting bits of someone down the gutter. We pooled around our ankles, and I watched your reflection seep towards her feet. I thought you whispered her name, but it was only your back turning from rusted chrome. The antennae swayed to a vibration, a radio hum, a half gurgled voice reciting something about static in a small Mojave town. Legs cocked bare, turning blue, a bird spattered against the radiator, steam silhouetting black saguaros in the road. Her hair was so pretty and matted to the pavement. I tugged at a gold strand caught in my teeth.


I thought I heard her speak, face down. It was only crickets running from your feet.

It was a long time before I screamed. I screamed when we rolled her over, screamed when I saw her face, screamed as her pretty cheekbone collapsed under my hand, your hand salty and wet pressed against my scream, gagging on metal. There was blood where you touched the windshield, smearing, running down the hood. You shut the radio off and I screamed. You love me. You love me and it’ll be okay. You love me and we won’t tell anyone. You love me and it was an accident. You love me and you looked at her. You love me; it was an accident. You love me. You love me. I love you. I begged you. I thought I saw her move. I thought I saw you see a ghost. I thought I heard her name, but it was only my sobs smothered in your dirty hands.

I said I wouldn’t say. I saw a photo of her in the dash, once. The gravel smeared face, the face in the photo ‒ they could’ve been the same, were almost the same, was almost someone who was almost me. But there’s only me now. It’s only me.

Only me and a girl who looks like an old lover lying dead in the highway.

But I swear I saw you mouth her name as the engine turned over. Swear I saw a ghost in the rearview fade and get smaller in the road as her hair fluttered like a wiry flame into the night.

After it happened we wiped the windshield with our hands and drove, sound waves shaking the fur on a coyote’s throat. After it happened we drove like we were escaping vocal cords threatening to keep us stuck in the staccato glottal sounds where we tried to speak but only choked. So instead we drove with the voices of a beat up ’89 engine block whispering names in the exhaust, and worried someone would hear. We drove into a stucco dusty orange lit faded side of the road. We scrubbed the sticky grill of your Chevy with a hose and some old shirts. I picked out stubborn bits of hair and skin with my nails. We washed our hands, and I promised I would forget. You almost said her name, but it was just a quiet choke.


The number sewn into your pocket studied me through punctuated glass. I tugged at my hands and apologized. You stared past me and asked why?

There are over seventy ghost towns in the California side of the Mojave. Each one stares me down with a thousand empty windows. A thousand empty hands gripping a thousand mad steering wheels. A thousand wild lovers grinding beneath rubber tread pushing deeper with each passing car into asphalt, moaning into fumes like we moaned, cried, screamed, refused into the dirt and residue of a thousand burning combustions all exploding under your hood at once when you screeched her banshee name and told me to stop.

I thought she was transparent. I thought I’d glide through her like I glided through you. I thought I was a ghost or she was or you were, but the town was backwards and the signs pointed the wrong way and the metal didn’t move through bone with the same sort of grace you moved through me. I thought she couldn’t die if I was dead or you were. I thought dying couldn’t be so easy as that, her warm face in my hands, a small moon in your high beams, a satin cheek disintegrating through my fingers.

We left her body by the road. I left your body in the next town behind a thousand watching doorframes, each one creaking her name. You left me before we even put the key in the ignition, just a quiet specter following heat waves as you drove through a landscape I couldn’t see. So I moved with a ghost’s grace to the station. So I gave them your keys.

I told them about the static, the coyotes, the saguaros. I told them you loved her. She looked like a memory, a black shadow jumping from a drainage ditch, stopping like a small flame in your headlights. I told them you wanted to wash the grime and keep moving. I told them I was tired, my throat sore and constricted. I told them you were haunted and I just wanted to sleep. You wouldn’t look at me. Just asked your hands why, as if they had anything to do with anything. Your hands were everything, and still imprinted with the side of her face, her cheek still etched in your palm. It’s your hands, gripping the steering wheel, thrusting us forward at 89 miles per hour across the 127, because you were always running, that I would still dream about.


You think to yourself, “Here we go, a vacation. Fly back to Jersey. Visit my family. Introduce them to my girlfriend.” You think to yourself, “I can’t wait to see everyone, I can’t wait For them to ask about my life.” In bed, you kiss your girlfriend goodnight, She falls asleep before you, same as usual. You toss and turn a bit. You fall asleep On your stomach around 3 AM. Later that day you land in San Francisco for an hour layover. You have a sandwich and a beer, you text your mother in Virginia, “I’m okay :)” you say. Then you’re boarding again, Then you’re on the tarmac, Then you’re flying at 500 miles per hour, 3,000 miles across The vast and varied American country. It’s midnight and raining when you land in Philly. Your girlfriend’s cousin’s roommate picks you up, You spend the night at their apartment near UPenn.


The next day, you follow the girls in the rain, Ruining your only good pair of boots, the Pair you didn’t realize were suede, but how were you to know? It never rains in California, after all. The three of you poke around the art museum, stalk around the city beneath umbrellas. You remember the misery of wet socks, But appreciate the weather nonetheless. Around 4 PM, you take the train into Jersey, And for some reason, the conductor thought it appropriate to run the a/c. So you and your girlfriend stack all your bags on your lap and huddle for warmth. When you finally get to Jersey, your grandparents pick you up, and they look good, but you can tell the last two years have aged them like you’ve never seen. You hug your grandfather and feel his mortality rub your back. He kisses your girlfriend on the cheek. Your grandmother does, too. That night, you drink wine and eat too much, Setting the tone for the rest of the trip. Your aunt and uncle bring their kids over, And you’re relieved they recognize you. The next morning, you wake up early, And suffer the sting of your grandparents Joking about how you wouldn’t get out of bed Until noon when you were younger. You think To yourself, “I saw this coming.”


For breakfast, you drink coffee, eat eggs and toast, and feel entitled like you did when you were a kid, and you spent weekends at this house, being cooked for, and cleaned up after. Only this time, you feel you’ve earned it. After the struggle of the last few years, maybe you have earned this breakfast. You enjoy it. You have another cup of coffee. Later, you look forward to family arriving, you wonder how many will show up just to see you. People trickle in, bits and pieces, then all arrive, and the house is moving, Breathing, heavy under footsteps and conversation. At some point, you look up from your beer, your paper plate covered in food scraps, and see your father step in. He makes his way around, saying “Hello”, dishing out hugs and kisses to everyone. Then he’s one person away. Then he’s standing before you. Then you’re shaking his hand, saying “Good to see you.”, When it’s anything but good to see him. You turn to your girlfriend, you say, “This is my girlfriend.” They shake hands. Then your father, and the new girlfriend he brought with him, they’re over there.


And you’re still over here. And you’re sitting back down At the table, and drinking your beer, Then someone tells a joke, and you’re laughing, but at the same time realizing daddy issues don’t matter anymore because you’re a grown man. You’re a grown man who’s become Well-adjusted and, God damn it, you’re happy, too. You finish your beer, then have another, and another, and it looks like everyone else has done the same. And you’re eating, and you’re laughing, and you’re girlfriend fits in so well. You think, “It’s nice to be here.” But you don’t think, “It’s nice to be home.” Because this isn’t your home. Not anymore.


A FIGHT

he once became more than he thought he ever could be and in the morning instead of being held accountable she told him it was all okay she told him not to worry and as she turned to the mirror and began covering it all up she told him I just bruise easy and then she told him again I just bruise easy and then she said that’s all.

Thomas Martin Nov 7, 2013


Herald-News Archive Search 45 Matches found for: Willem Johnston Results: Descending Matter of Record, May 19, 1981 Births Carl and Amy Johnston, of Edgington, a son, Willem Barnaby Johnston, born May 15. Photo Archives, April 4, 1989 Willem Johnston, a second grade student at St. Vincent Elementary, is shown with his county Spelling Bee Championship trophy. He is the son of Carl and Amy Johnston of… Police and Courts, July 29, 1993 Couple killed on I-80, son survives …were killed in an automobile accident early Friday morning. Their son, Willem, was found unconscious when paramedics arrived at the intersection of Interstate 80 and… Matter of Record, Aug. 1, 1993 Obituaries …she was survived by a son, Willem. She was preceded in death by two brothers and her parents. Her husband, Carl Johnston, died with her. A Mass of Christian Burial will be… Police and Courts, Aug. 19, 1993 Teen charged in fatal hit and run …Willem Johnston remained hospitalized as he recovers from the accident, while Cox remained held on $1 million bond. Cox, a junior at West High School, was also injured… Editorial, Aug. 24, 1993

Cox case illustrates flaws in teen driving laws …Cox, who police say was intoxicated at the time of the crash, has been charged in the death of Carl and Amy Johnston. Their son, Willem, was also injured. Laws need to…


Police and Courts, Sept. 1, 1993 Teen pleads not guilty to manslaughter, OWI …pleaded not guilty to four felony counts related to the Aug. 2 crash that killed the Edgington couple, and injured their only son, Willem. His location was unknown… Police and Courts, Oct. 18, 1993 Prosecutor: Johnston’s son in foster care …who had withheld information on the son’s whereabouts, released that Willem Johnston was with a foster family because no surviving family members remained… Police and Courts, July 23, 1994 CSI: Blood in Cox’s car points to 0.12 BAC …used revolutionary new scientific techniques using dried blood samples taken from Cox’s vehicle to test for his blood-alcohol content at the time the Johnstons were... Police and Courts, July 24, 1994 Son testifies during fatal crash trial …Willem, who reeled in tears intermittently, testified to attending his grandfather’s funeral only to lose his parents on the ride home. He awoke to the sound of screams… Police and Courts, July 25, 1994 Cox: ‘I mourn every day’ …Willem, sat with a blank face as the teen standing trial for the Johnstons’ deaths testified how the memories of the crash haunt him. Charged as an adult, Cox faces… Police and Courts, July 27, 1994 Cox guilty in couple’s death …their son, Willem, stood from his pew and walked out quietly after the foreman read guilty verdicts on two counts of vehicular manslaughter, operating while intoxicated… Police and Courts, Sept. 27, 1994 Cox sentenced to 35 years; Orphaned son: ‘Forgiveness? No.’ …was sentenced to up to 35 years in prison. Their only son, Willem, 13, addressed the court with an impassioned speech, which included a vow against Cox for taking his…


Editorial, Sept. 28, 1994 Judge Thompson too strict in Cox sentence …Cox must serve 85 percent of his sentence, making him nearly 47 years old when released. The punishment is too harsh for such a young offender who did nothing more… Matter of Record, April 19, 1999 Court dispositions …Johnston, Willem B., 17, guilty of underage consumption, underage possession of tobacco and curfew violation. Fined $200, 40 hours community service. Jones, John… News, June 1, 2000 North High graduates 137 …salutatorian Willem Johnston told his fellow graduates to “ work hard and guard what you love it can be taken from you.” His parents were killed by a drunk driver in 1993… Matter of Record, Sept. 30, 2000 Court dispositions …Johnston, Willem B., 19, pleaded guilty to attempted burglary, given a deferred judgment up to one year. Jones, Tonya L., 47, found guilty of prostitution, fined… Matter of Record, Feb. 17, 2001 Births Erica Hanson and Willem Johnston, both of Edgington, a daughter, Amee Carla Johnston, born Feb. 14. Social Announcements, June 20, 2002 Marriages …and Willem Johnston were married June 15 at St. Vincent’s Catholic Church. Both are students at St. Peter’s University, where he majors in biology and forensic sciences… News, May 28, 2004 St. Peter’s grads told to ‘reach far’ …and never forget where you came from, where you’re going and where you are,” said valedictorian Willem Johnston, a forensic sciences major accepted to the Quantico…


Police and Courts, Sept. 17, 2004 EPD hires 10 new officers …Willem Johnston was also hired as a civilian crime scene investigator, the third CSI on the force. A native of Edgington, the 23-year-old is married with a 3-yearold… Police and Courts, Jan. 27, 2005 ISC decision weakens DUI convictions …In a 5-4 decision, the Iowa Supreme Court ruled evidence used at Williams’ 1995 trial was inadmissible, opening the floodgates for similar appeals including Robert Cox… Police and Courts, May 18, 2005 CSI: Murder weapon found in trunk …Willem Johnston, a crime scene investigator, testified to finding the knife that a criminalist would later link to the victim, 19-year-old Cassidy Phelps. Jason Harris… Police and Courts, Feb. 18, 2006 Court: Cox to be released …Cox used Williams v. State of Iowa as the basis for his appeal. The appellate court ruled that blood samples taken from the vehicle showing his blood-alcohol content… Police and Courts, Feb. 25, 2006 Cox freed; son mum on appeal …Cox walked out of the Iowa State Penitentiary in Fort Madison to throngs of reporters. Meanwhile, the sole survivor of the accident, Willem Johnston, now 24, worked a… Police and Courts, Feb. 26, 2006 Cox: ‘I’ll never forgive myself’ …in an exclusive interview with the Herald-News, Robert Cox said he wanted to live in solitude away from Willem Johnston. It was out of respect for the survivor of the… Photo Archive, Feb. 26, 2006 Robert Cox talks at his home with a Herald-News reporter about his release from prison after serving nearly 14 years in the 1993 car crash that killed Amy and Carl Johnston…


Matter of Record, July 8, 2006 Divorce filings Johnston, Willem B. and Johnston, Erica R. (Hanson). Married June 15, 2004. They have one child. Police and Courts, Aug. 1, 2007 Police: Homicide vic was released prisoner Police identified a man killed outside an Edgington bar Sunday as Robert K. Cox, who killed an Edgington couple and injured Willem Johnston in a DUI-related accident… ONLINE UPDATE, Aug. 1, 2007 Police: Cox death not random Robert Cox was stabbed in the torso more than 10 times in an Edgington bar parking lot, leading police to believe the 30-year-old’s killer knew his victim, police said today… Police and Courts, Aug. 2, 2007 Crossing Blue: DCI handles Cox death investigation State investigators took over the investigation into the death of an ex-con because of his relationship to Willem Johnston, an Edgington crime scene investigator. Robert Cox… Police and Courts, Aug. 3, 2007 CSI on leave during investigation …Chief Robert Clausen said Willem Johnston, a crime scene investigator, was on leave while DCI investigates the case. Johnston’s parents were killed in a 1993 accident that… ONLINE UPDATE, Aug. 4, 2007 Prosecutors: Cox death not premeditated Willem Johnston has been charged with second-degree murder in the stabbing death of a man who killed his parents in a car accident in 1993. Prosecutors say the death was not… Police and Courts, Aug. 4, 2007 Johnston charged, confesses to Cox slaying, police say Willem Johnston, an Edgington crime scene investigator, confessed to killing Robert Cox on the 14th anniversary of his parents’ deaths while the two were at the same bar…


Photo Archives, Aug. 4, 2007 Mug shot of Willem Johnston, charged with one count of second-degree murder in the Aug. 29, 2007, death of Robert Cox in Edgington. Cox was convicted in the deaths of… ONLINE UPDATE, Aug. 4, 2007 Ex Mrs. Johnston: ‘He’s not a killer’ The estranged wife of a CSI charged with murder said today she’s in total disbelief Willem Johnston could have killed anyone. “The way he loved his daughter… Police and Courts, Aug. 5, 2007 Johnston makes first court appearance Willem Johnston walked into the courtroom in leg chains, the same that used to hold other men based on his work as a crime scene investigator. He appeared stoic and calm… Editorial, Aug. 6, 2007 Letters to the Editor …Willem Johnston saw the drunk driver who killed his parents walking to his car after leaving a bar. Robert Cox could have killed again that night. Willem is a hero for what… News, Aug. 6, 2007 Community reacts to Johnston case …a teacher, said, “Johnston should be commended, not charged. What if that drunk would have killed me when I was driving? I figure we all owe that man our lives.” Police and Courts, Aug. 7, 2007 Coroner: Cox BAC 0.00 …Wright said laboratory tests from Robert Cox showed he had not consumed any detectable amounts of alcohol the night he was killed. The findings contradict theories… Editorial, Aug. 7, 2007 Our take: The Cox and Johnston case At work, Willem Johnston was about the small details of a crime scene, the same ones that convicted and set Robert Cox free for killing the future CSI’s parents. It’s a sad…


ONLINE UPDATE, Aug. 7, 2007 Johnston found dead in jail cell Willem Johnston was found dead in his jail cell around 10:10 p.m. today, but police wouldn’t say if foul play is involved. Johnston was being held on $500,000 bond for… Police and Courts, Aug. 8, 2007 Johnston’s death ruled suicide The county coroner ruled the death of Willem Johnston, a crime scene investigator turned murder suspect, as a suicide. Dr. Judith Wright said a bed sheet was used to… Editorial, Aug. 8, 2007 14 years later, 4 dead, 0 winners. It was a fatal car accident in 1993 that united Willem Johnston and Robert Cox for the rest of their lives. In the end, both were the attacker and victims. Only time found each… Matter of Record, Aug. 8, 2007 Death notices Willem E. Johnston, 26, of Edgington, died Aug. 4, 2007. Funeral arrangements are pending with Halligan-McCabe Funeral Home, Edgington. Matter of Record, Aug. 9, 2007 Obituaries Willem E. Johnston, 26, of Edgington, died Aug. 4, 2007, in Edgington. He is survived by a daughter, Amee Johnston, and his ex-wife, Erica Hanson. Funeral services will be…

- END -


In which two men, in this case, producer/beatmaker Tobacco, reclusive Pennsylvanian, Black Moth Super Rainbow main-man, and Tucson weirdo-rapper Zackey Force Funk, cross paths for a night of hedonistic excess; Tobacco behind the driver’s seat of his tricked-out El Camino post-Lamborghini Meltdown, Zackey his passenger, a chatterbox from the get-go, eager to find his own Helen of Troy, the impetus for the launching of his internal ships to a neurotic war, the Demon Queen of the night, an ever-elusive nightmare-vision existing in the shadows beyond his reach. A first stop to pick up the proper fuel for the excursion—a bottle of vodka, an ounce of weed, a gram of cocaine, enough mushrooms to bring a grown elephant to his knees in hallucinatory rapture. Around them, the city, neon in strobe, faces in partial eclipse, the shifting of auras enforced upon its inhabitants, swollen tongues relegating all speech unintelligible and guttural.

Tobacco knows every blind alley, he takes his curves sharp, tires screeching around corners, one racing-gloveclad hand upon the wheel, the other nervously fiddling with the Korg built into the dashboard where a stereo should be, patches and knobs and synth keys covered in the oil of a too many sweaty nights. He has a larger mission at hand here, he knows the experience he’s after, although vague, but his co-pilot Zackey, he threatens to derail the whole endeavor. Zackey’s only got sex on his mind, “Pussay pussay pussay” he won’t stop saying. Tonight, Tobacco will indulge his friend’s lustful pursuit, if only to help himself evade the demons that wait for him at home. They’re on the hunt for a house party, but first, a nightclub, a world of lurkers in three-quarter shadow, the dancers sweat-glistened in the spotlight, a few moments of ironic, distorted glory, the music in the heads of our travelers overtaking whatever’s coming through the sound system, the gyration on the stage mutating into something more sinister. As the two men stroll through the club, Zackey sees her out of the corner of his eye— the Queen—and the moment becomes Love Hour Zero, Zackey dropping all pretenses and confessing his obsession, overcome with elation at his discovery, crying real tears over the prospect of the Queen’s Puni Nani. But that imagined moment they share, it ends as quickly as it started, the Queen turning away, Zackey’s drugs kicking in, and the turning of Quixote and Pancho’s kaleidoscope quickens.

Off to the party they go just as its being busted up, some Rude Boy having come along and flashed his ego and his guns. The boys dig through the bottles on the counter as the crowd flees, coming up empty, and off they go again into the night, hastily trying to make their escape. But they’ve burrowed too deep on this Bad Route, this clarity they’ve hoped to find is in reality a fog too thick, they’ve learned to Despise the Lie, all sugar rushes come to a crash, the night ends in the flames of disappointment, and this innate need within them, perhaps that can finally be put to some rest.


“Six Word Memoir” by Meredith Gran © (www.octopuspie.com)


theradvocatemagazine.bigcartel.com


The Radvocate Issue #11  

The Radvocate is back and bigger than ever! Issue 11 features stories, art and poetry from Bruce Bales, Hanna Tawater, Sean Sagawa, Brian Kr...

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