The Wasp - Volume I Spring 2019 by The WASP

The American Studies Center Student Journal University of Warsaw Volume I | Spring 2019 | ISSN: 2450-5676

wasp /wɒsp/ AmE /wɑsp/ noun [C] 1 a black and yellow flying insect which can sting you: There’s a wasps’ nest in that old tree! 2 when translated into the language of the country where the weather is schizophrenic and where even refugees do not wish to go (see: Poland), it becomes an osa – a place where all meanings collapse: Yesterday, I spent an amazing day at OSA! (here: an abbreviation for Ośrodek Studiów Amerykańskich, English: American Studies Center) LILLA ORLY Editor-in-chief ALEKSANDRA BARCISZEWSKA NATALIA OGÓREK Associate editors PAWEŁ PAŃCZYK KAMILA MARIA WYSZYŃSKA DTP PAULINA STANISZEWSKA PR JOANNA MARCHEWKA Illustrations: pages 6, 14, 30, 34 Caricatures: pages 36-38 TERESA BAKALARSKA Illustrations: pages 20, 21 KLAUDIA WANAT Illustrations: pages 23-27 MAŁGORZATA DUDO Illustration: page 22 ANITA MAJEWSKA Caricatures: pages 36-38 MAGDALENA KRZEMIŃSKA Front and back cover MARTA RAPACKA Caricatures: pages 36-38

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2019

I Walk the Line Lilla Orly 4 FICTION ARTICLES Comme d’habitude The Return of the Banished Aleksandra Barciszewska Ibrahim Mert Acinkaya 6 30 Once in a Full Moon Serial Killers as a Phenomenon in American Popular Tomasz Szymoński Culture on the Example of Television 12 Joanna Chałupnik 32 POETRY Tide Teresa Bakalarska 20 Lace Sappho Katopodi 21 The Girl is Sad Sappho Katopodi 22 Clock’s Pendulum Agata Podbielkowska 23 Man I Knew Agata Podbielkowska 24 Nothingness Agata Podbielkowska 25 Reality Agata Podbielkowska 26 The World Agata Podbielkowska 27

The next issue’s theme: TO BE ANNOUNCED We’re still recruiting! If you’re interested in writing for The Wasp, please contact us: thewaspjournal@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/thewaspjournal American Studies Center: asc.uw.edu.pl

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I Walk the Line It’s easy to draw the line between the Good and the Bad when they are standing face-to-face at sundown. We picture the Good’s all-American features glowing ember in the orange cast by the setting sun. The Bad, back to the light, is shrouded in darkness, his menacing stance an indication of his intentions. The air is filled with the flickering doubletone of an ocarina and the ghostly hoots and hollers of bygone rivals. Yet, a perpendicular shift of their face-off to where each has one cheek to the light and the other in shadow muddies the previously obvious divisive line. The past evidence of their morality is indistinguishable in their identical posture of pistols raised, aimed at the other. The earliest stories we are told as children implore the discernment and revelation of the evil in contrast to the good; the old woman presenting a poisoned apple to the fair-skinned princess, or the wicked witch casting a curse containing the promise of a pricked finger. We are even warned of the duplicity that the corrupt are capable of; evil may come in the form of familial betrayal, we learn as Scar shoves Mufasa off of that fatal cliff. In Lit classes we receive points for correctly identifying the protagonist and antagonist within our assigned readings. We lead our daily lives categorizing the man who held the door open for us into the “good” and the woman who shoved us on the sidewalk into the “bad.” We prefer to consider the globe as populated with a distribution of one and the other and seem not to consider any interweaving in the ethical Venn diagram. Perhaps worst of all is the cloak of ignorance towards ourselves that we choose to remain in, no matter the weather. In an effort to preserve our self-esteem, we turn a blind-eye to the flaws in our thoughts, actions, and words. All of us are guilty of behavior we would blush to disclose to our “apple-of-my-eye” beholders, and perhaps causes us to question which side of the good vs. bad line we stand upon. I would argue that the line itself is a myth more mysterious than Nessie, herself. In truth, it is within precisely those same murky depths that we all reside, whether we are aware of our underwater existence or not. This issue’s piece of the month, “Tide” by Teresa Bakalarska, is a poem on the hell or high-water world of greed we inhabit. The piece is an easily consumable dose of truth regarding the consequences of crazed consumerism. It corporializes the disembodied, patronizing voice that commands us to spend our money wherever it may be spent. That being said, The Wasp provides an unobscuredfree guarantee, encouraging all of its readers to read between the black-and-white line.

Lilla Orly All-nonsense Editor-in-Chief subsisting from printed word to printed word. Enamored by the grim cavities of a too saccharine existence, and tracing half-truths in negative space. Digs meandering routes and gnarly tunes as well as the concept of an ever-expanding universe.

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FICTION

Comme d’habitude Aleksandra Barciszewska

Observing from afar, he plunged into the creases carved around her eyes, mouth, and nose. The lines meandered by sweat, tears, and time when she fulfilled her ‘till death do us part’ promise reminded him of their aimlessly pointless life. The less and less inviting bosom—one that could serve Isaac Newton as yet another proof of gravity—would sway left-right-left-right like their family clock’s pendulum heavily marking the path from the altar to the grave. An inch above the International column in The New York Times, he watched her spot cleaning the end table, mindfully not touching his World’s Greatest Dad cup—a gift from their youngest with which she obviously didn’t agree. The silent approval of their marriage was the sole thing that kept them going on for almost thirty years. Neither did she nor he consider their life spent together as a godsend; more like a way of keeping the promise given to their parents and children, more like a convenient way of not facing the world, more like braising together in the pot of ‘being used to’s, ‘should do’s, and ‘it’s better this way’s. The comfortable stew they both had been simmering was ruined from the very beginning—a deadly dish concocted from rotten meat and vegetables, expired spices covered with two-year-old mold, all boiled in contaminated water, inside a dirty, old pot. *** He swirled the dolphin 360 degrees a few times to invent a sequence of somersaults around the pinky finger. When Peter found a white gold-plated dolphin-shaped ring in his pocket, he couldn’t help but wonder how playing darts at Sebastian’s ended up with some blond met in a bar giving him a hand job under the table at Denny’s. But why the hell did he have that ring in his pocket? Oh, right. The dolphin’s fluke was a bit chipped so she took it off beforehand. Marla was her name. Or Marie. Perhaps Jennifer? Not important. High on acid yet devoted to the job, she was a blur in his mind. A blur with a subtle undertone of a club sandwich mixed with the fossilized gum he encountered while tightly holding on to the tabletop while she did her magic. He gently examined the right side of his head to try to remove this gigantic metal object clearly lodged in his skull, but, somehow, strangely, nothing was there. The only metal souvenir of last night was the mammal with a crooked smile and a hangover that retracted the sapiens to the not so erectus—not even too habilis—version of himself. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” the waitress seemed way too familiar. “What can I get you, today?” It wasn’t Denny’s, that’s for sure. Peter was hungry like the wolf, but he walked an extra mile to go to some tiny, secluded diner, where there was no connection to his vividly blank memory. The girl waiting his table was this girl-next-door type of a person that can babysit your brother, but

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when you say ‘Nietzsche,’ she responds ‘gesundheit.’ “Not sure, yet,” the plan was to eat just anything, but this uncanny persona turned his stomach inside out, causing the bile to ascend right into his throat. “Do I have something that belongs to you perhaps?” “Um, I don’t think so?” a perplexed shadow ran across her face, but quickly came back to the smile number 5 from How to Be an Awesome Waitress in a Shithole 101 guidebook. “You don’t recognize me, do you? Our parents have known each other since, like, always. I work at Denny’s? I just finished my shift when you and your friends came in, last night. Hope you had a good time?” You’ve no idea, Peter thought. “Of course!” Not a clue. His parents were friends mostly with some stuck-up rich people in order to try to move up the social ladder. Yet, she didn’t seem like a kid that snorted caviar out of a silver platter and wiped her ass with $100 bills. Her blonde hair was a tad greasy, makeup definitely expired the night before, earrings’ plating almost vanished and revealed cheap brass underneath, nail polish almost entirely chipped off, and her strappy sandals were missing a few straps. But even though the packaging was cheap, she fascinated him. Mesmerized by the genuine goodness in her eyes and intimidated by the simple charm, Peter started feeling more and more comfortable when talking with this girl. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names. If it hadn’t been for people calling me by name, I would have forgotten mine a long time ago.” Smooth, he thought. “Catherine,” she smiled and handed him the menu. “Okay, I’ll give you a minute and, in the meantime, can I get you anything to drink?” “Water would be great, thanks.”

“The water is great, get in here!” Catherine shouted her lungs out of the bone marrow-freezing water. “I’m telling you, there is no way we can push this deal through, how can you—” “Peter, get off that freaking phone and get in here!” “Hold on, Sam,” Peter already felt agitated with the conversation he was having with the account manager, who seemed to have lost his judgment so early in the morning, but her high-pitched voice was getting even more on his nerves. “You really think I can’t see that you’re shivering and your nipples got so hard they could cut glass? Come on let’s go home,” she looked somehow adorable with the mischievous plan in her mind and goose bumps on her skin generating movement in the fringed top she was wearing. “Okay, I’m back, can I...no, I’m sure your nipples are fine, Sam, will call you back.” Still kind of pouting in the car on the way back, Catherine opened a pack of gummy bears and ostentatiously picked all the green ones that Peter liked just to throw them out of the window, “want some?” “Any greens left in there?” “Nope, green-free pack, sorry,” she said. “Well, isn’t that unfortunate,” he didn’t get why he felt at peace with this woman, but he did. Catherine was like a heavyweight, waterproof, 850-fill goose down, 2-layer-shell jacket that you buy at a reasonable price that keeps you warm, and goes with virtually anything. You need that jacket to get through those cold winter days, but it’s just a jacket. Not a fancy haute couture piece of clothing worth thousands of dollars, not a Gucci suit you proudly rub in everyone’s face. It’s practical, it’s comfortable, it’s necessary. “Speaking of unfortunate, I think I told you we’re not able to book that swing-rock band you wanted?” “No, you didn’t. Why?”

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“They don’t do weddings,” that was a lie. Planning the ceremony was enough of a headache for Catherine already; talking to the band’s manager twice a day—this member needed gluten-free snacks, another couldn’t be in a room close to any bathroom, and someone needed his entire family at the gig—was too much. She loved Peter and wanted him to have the perfect wedding, but since he refused to “disturb the preparations,” Catherine decided to go with a tiny, not-as-whiteas-her-dress lie. “That’s a shame,” he sighed. The day he proposed to Catherine, a few months earlier, he suspected he might regret it one day. Why did he do that? Because he should? Because he was getting older with each consecutive day and most company parties required, or at least suggested, an official plus one? Truth be told, he didn’t know. After dating her for six months, he felt as if that’d be another logical step to be taken. No one actually saw that he gave absolutely no shit about marriage and family, and he was way too susceptible to advice. “She’s a decent, hard-working girl, Peter.” “She’s gonna make a great wife, Peter.” “Why won’t you marry that girl, Peter?” Since there was no explanation for why he wouldn’t, he proposed to that decent, hard-working, great-wife-material girl. Even if the concept of marriage was vague to him, he knew she would make a perfect companion for those lonely nights he suffered once in a while. Saying “I do” seemed like a fair price if it guaranteed him peace of mind and warmth of breath by his side every night.

“I do,” the groom said not without hesitation, but one that was caused by the emotions that strangely found their way through the larynx. The bride looked nothing like brides in the movies, not even like those he had seen at multiple weddings he had attended before. She was his and his only. Those tear-filled eyes were the ones that each day would look at him; her sweaty hands were the ones he’d hold till death would part them, eventually; her trembling smile—the one that got him so in love with her—was an invitation to the life full of events he couldn’t have guessed at that particular moment. “Not in a thousand years would I have suspected this day would come,” Peter said while munching on a salmon puff. “Can you believe that Matthew has just gotten married? Fuck. When have I become so fucking old, huh?!” “Man, you were born old,” Jason replied. “Where’s Catherine? Hugging her son to death to make that parting part of the vow happen faster?” “No idea. She couldn’t stop crying during the ceremony. Why are women so emotional during weddings? When Julie was getting married I swear I almost went to get her an oxygen bottle when the priest said that ‘we have gathered here’ part.” “Yeah, I remember that. Thank God, that was the last one to go. Unless you’re planning to conceive a third one, but I think your swimmers have retired a long time ago?” “Fuck you, Jason.” He found Catherine at their table talking to her sister. “There you are! I was looking for you. Can you tell your wife that she should go to Barbados with me to get some rest?” “Sweetie, you should go to Barbados to get some rest,” Peter repeated. “Thank you!” Jenna raised her hands to thank the Lord that she absolutely didn’t believe in. “But I don’t think going with your sister is a good way to go,” he whispered to Catherine’s ear when Jenna was not looking and, for the first time in a week, she smiled. “You okay? Wanna take a walk and get some fresh air?” “No, I’m fine. It just hit me, you know?” “What?” he caressed her cheek and finished swirling a hair strand, just the way he would right before kissing her.

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“That’s it. That is it. I mean, I have nothing to live for now. Our kids are married, they will start their lives, and I have nothing.” “You know, I don’t think they will just stop being in our lives once they are married,” Peter tried to comfort her, but he knew she was right. He also felt like a kid home alone, except that he didn’t want to stay by himself. The lack of people around always freaked him out as a kid. “Everything’s going to change and you know it. We’re on our own. We’re all alone. It’s like starting over, but this time I have no idea where to go.”

“I have absolutely no idea where we should go now,” he was looking at the map trying to spot the path they were on. “I think we’re just gonna have to start a new life here, you know. We can make clothes out of leaves and pine cones, eat squirrels, and live on trees.” The situation was both hilarious and terrifying, yet, one look at her made it become a titillating opportunity. Peter pulled her close not to leave even a millimeter between their bodies, “What do you say? Will you be my Jane?” No response was needed once she sank her lips into his. Guided by the desire that had managed to accumulate within those two weeks he hadn’t seen her, he violently pressed her against the nearest tree. Pulsating into the rhythm whispered by the woods, the two famished bodies spoke the language of the forbidden yearning only to be heard and seen by the stowaway woodland creatures. His shivering, guilt-ridden hand tore off her once button-down, later button-free blouse to reveal soft breasts he couldn’t help but ravage with his teeth. The tree bark tattooed a blueprint of the temporary location of Peter’s belonging and lust—a portion of himself that he allowed to sketch upon the canvas of her body. Vibrating quietly in unison along with his thrusting body, the forest seemed as if spellbound by their desperate moans. Yet, not caused by the cold, not even by the violent passion her body hosted, tears streamed down her face. They both knew how fleeting their moments together were. With each touch, each thrust, each kiss, Peter wanted to evaporate within this warm body that made him feel alive; a body that he couldn’t have. Each time he finished inside her, she would beg him to stay for a little longer, to slowly yet savagely press his body onto hers, just to remember the feeling of completeness. Being married to Catherine for almost three years, with a beautiful baby girl, Julie, being born two years before, was exhausting. Not because parental chores got on his nerves. Shortly after the wedding, Peter painfully realized how different he and Catherine were and how reluctant he was to accept or change that. They’d built a cozy existence for and around themselves, but there was nothing exciting about that life; the game was played just for the sake of playing. Yet, when he met Alicia, it all started to change. Peter encountered this strange girl in a grocery store while she was dancing for storage compartments and cutting boards to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” played on the radio. Staring at her during the spur-of-the-moment choreography she invented when deciding between wooden and granite boards, he examined how her lace navy bodycon dress accentuated her slim waist and revealed that she wasn’t wearing any underwear that day. Not even a tad ashamed, she smiled to him and that was it, he was doomed. Alicia was the intimidating freshness he longed for in his life for so long. A peculiar, always-dancing creature with sun-kissed hair and a devil inhabiting her blueberry-colored eyes. A crush turned into an affair that lasted for two years, during which they would extract precious moments out of his marital and parental treadmill. Every time he had to leave Alicia and go back to his family caused an ache that produced a foul-smelling guilt all over his body. At first, Catherine tried to ignore the obvious signs. Hell, she was even grateful sometimes. Exhausted by the constant attention Julie required, she simply didn’t feel like being a wife to Peter. She despised that man who took her for granted; the man not capable of loving her or anyone else. Yet, she sacrificed so much

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of her time and affection that she simply was unable to confront him, fearing that would be end of their marriage. And, even if she hated his guts for not loving her enough, he meant the world to her. “You have to end this, son,” Peter’s father was strangely understanding about the situation. “I get that it’s great between you and that other girl, but you have a family. A family. Your wife and your daughter need you. It’s just a fling and, believe me, in a year you won’t remember that girl’s name. I get it, now things between you and Catherine may be bad—believe me, when you were born I also started feeling distant from your mother—but it’s just a phase.” “What if she’s the only way for me to actually feel happy? What if it’s not just a phase?” “Okay, let’s say it’s not. But you have responsibilities that you can’t run away from. I hear Catherine’s pregnant again?” “Yeah, she is...” “Well then, it can’t be that bad between you two if she is, right?” he smiled in the most depressing way a man could. “Look, mark my words, it’ll get better once you end this affair. If you and Catherine need help, get a marriage counselor. And if you want to, we can take care of Julie so that the two of you can go some place nice to, you know, spice things up.” “Hope you’re right.” “I’m always right. Except for those times I’m not.” “Very helpful, dad.” “What can you do, Peter.”

“I have absolutely no idea where we should go from here, Catherine,” he looked deep in her eyes just to find inexplicable sadness and disillusionment. Her lips started quivering and he knew he, once again, was about to make her cry. “I can’t pretend I don’t love you, and loving you is too much. For both of us, Catherine, don’t you understand that?” “How can you ask me to just give up on you, huh? Do you really think I can stop loving you just like that and, what, go on with my life like nothing happened?” “Come here,” Sam took her in his arms and held her tightly to calm the storm he himself caused. They both knew they would never be able to be together. When Peter decided to come clean about his affair and begged Catherine for forgiveness, Sam was the only friend that accompanied her in this most inconvenient milieu and guided her through that baffling state of being utterly lost in-between emotions. She didn’t know what to do. Peter’s remorse seemed genuine and he wanted to make up for his wrongdoing, but she no longer trusted him. She had just given birth to their son, Matthew, when her husband confessed he had had an affair for two years. Of course, she knew about it, but hearing those words materialized the pain she repressed. Sam had always been there for her and Peter. A loyal friend and Peter’s co-worker, he tried to act as a psychotherapist they obviously needed. However, during the treatment, Sam realized how much this woman meant to him and how much he hated Peter for destroying this gorgeous, innocent being. He didn’t want to be that “friend” who takes the opportunity of a couple’s misfortune to swoop in and steal the girl, but spending time with Catherine as a friend turned into something more. Catherine blossomed around him—she finally started smiling again, she took up painting like she always wanted, and, eventually, she felt loved. In the meantime, Peter tried to become the best father and completely focused on Julie and Matthew, and thought that he was the one responsible for the obvious change in Catherine. He trusted Sam with his life and never suspected that he and his wife were in love. Sam’s being a good friend, that’s all, he would convince himself when the two would go on yet another weekend trip outside the city. Because of all the suffering Peter caused Catherine, she somehow neglected the guilt that would

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normally arise from loving another man. She deserved those stolen moments; she deserved a man, whose one look at her expressed more love than she ever got from Peter; she deserved to be woken up with a kiss; she deserved to be listened to with attention, even when she described a TV show she particularly enjoyed; she deserved to be happy, at last. They knew, however, that this would never last. Even if, deep down inside, Catherine understood that Sam was the man she should be with, she couldn’t destroy the family. The two amazing, beautiful kids she and Peter had meant everything to her. Watching them grow, being responsible for their fragile existence, and carefully planning their life, all that somehow brought the two together. However, when Matthew took his first steps, started talking, went to school, rode a bike for the first time, got expelled from school, graduated, and, finally, got married, or when Julie won a spelling bee contest, got scared when she got her first period, started playing the guitar, fell in love for the first time, went to college, and, finally, got married, Catherine could only think about how she would want to experience all that with Sam. *** Sitting on a tufted leather sofa and watching the news, Peter and Catherine observed yet another war being fought over territory that technically no human should ever have the right to claim as theirs. Judgmentally safe in the house none of them would call ‘home,’ they fought their silent war with weaponry comprised of family albums, furniture bought together, memories made together. With a vague smile, Peter reached for Catherine’s hand just to discover the still vivid taste of Alicia’s skin in his mouth, while Catherine embraced herself in the bittersweet memories of when Sam promised her the world with a mere touch. Their hands fitted like two puzzles resolving a riddle of how to create a tangible void between connecting particles. With still a few potential decades ahead of them, Peter and Catherine knew the change is bound to happen. Yet, no one wanted to initiate the parting moment in their relationship. The so-called love was the prison of shared comfort, habit, and guilt that kept them together for so long. The anticipated change was somehow scary, but each took a peek at their script and the other’s name was nowhere to be found in the next chapters.

Aleksandra Barciszewska Former editor-in-chief. ASC-survivor. Vampiric psychoanalyst by nature. Extracting the sexual from the mundane, rejecting reality for the sake of the very-tale of momentary satiation of the urges for creation.

Once in a Full Moon Tomasz Szymoński

The room was illuminated by the glow of the moon dominating the sky. Professor rolled out of bed and came to the window. In the distance, the howling of wolves inhabiting the forest could be heard. The sound was making him restless. With a freshly brewed coffee, he sat at a mahogany desk. As time went by, the unrest grew. Blank page! Merciless, disturbing. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. Even if I have to seek inspiration until the break of dawn.” The words never came effortlessly to him. Each one was chosen with clocklike precision. Sentences written in haste are not worthy of the ink, although—in his profession— ink had become a thing of the past. Music kept him company in the solitude. The tapping on the typewriter’s keys accompanied by Mozart's symphonies resonating from a gramophone—that was his ideal workspace. If someone, on the off chance, would have wandered into his wilderness, they would probably have stopped dead in their tracks, concentrating on the piano sounds coming from a little cabin. This night, however, putting thoughts on paper was to happen in silence. Before Professor had settled in the wilderness, he had led an ordinary life. A single day brought him more joy than an entire year would, now. Despite the fact that the life of a loner was his own choosing, uninvited echoes of the past hunted him from time to time. He didn’t fend them off. A distraught writer is a good writer. Turning to hard liquor was not his habit, however, when the past was flashing before his eyes, he did hit the bottle. He wasn’t looking for excuses for his weaknesses, albeit he didn’t even acknowledge the existence of some of them. He cared only for himself and the muses watching over him. When the firewater eclipsed the mind searching for solace, the muses seemed to abandon him. In a drunken state, he begged them to come back. His pathetic pleas went unnoticed. Yet, on the following day, he did not feel any regret or shame. This state of mind only deepened his despair, to which he owed the unending supply of creative energy. Years spent in solitude take a mental toll. While having regard for our individualism—even if subconsciously—we desire human touch. The most significant problem of a person isolated from the rest of society is the lack of a conversation partner. In silence, we tend to hear our thoughts too attentively, and when there is no one to talk to… He sighed when he saw the first typed word. He knew. The secret buried deep in his consciousness was about to see the light of night like a werewolf showing its true self under a full moon. Melpomene stood over him and the tragedy was just a matter of time. *** The snow-white bed was drenched with blood. Rigor mortis was setting in quickly. The victim froze in a peculiar pose; sitting on the bed, she stared off into the distance as if hoping for heaven’s cavalry to rush to her rescue. The moon, however, met her gaze dispassionately. The tormentor looked at the body. It was quite an unusual sight. Even though had seen—and had done—a lot in his life, his calling always delivered new sensations. Slowly but surely, a familiar desire began to creep in. He thought back to the beautiful, blond woman—his first. After he had

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satisfied his desire, the woman looked even prettier. He had lain near the victim wearing a smile and slept the sleep of the just. Her body was found a few days later. What if someone would pay her a surprise visit? Would anyone believe that a man unknown to the neighbors, a one-night stand for the mesmerizing beauty, was sound asleep at the time of the murder, laying mere centimetres away from her? From that point forward, he killed only in a familiar place. Besides, venting feelings in his “profession” was a grave mistake.

*** Unwillingly, he walked away from the typewriter. Holding onto a doorknob leading to the wilderness, he heard a noise coming from outside. His grip tightened, his knuckles turned white. Though his facial expression did not change, in his mind an eternal battle was in full swing. Coming a step closer to the door, he still clung to the knob as if it was a portal between worlds. He let go of the knob and howled so loudly and mournfully that some wolves joined in. With heavy steps, he came back to the living room, listening to the horrifying sounds, sweating. He looked around the cabin. A half-empty bottle of whiskey appeared in his line of sight. He reached for it and took a sip. The burning, bitter taste was comforting. He wanted to be as far away as possible but he couldn’t cross the threshold of the god-forsaken cabin. With another mouthful, he sat in a chair. “Next time. I’m telling you.” Professor heard a Voice, seemingly coming from afar, which was strange considering how small the cabin was. “Where are you?” he said and grabbed a knife covered in blood, looking at it with horror. “Stop that or your eyes will pop out of their sockets. You know who I am. Put down that knife, you’ll hurt yourself.” Resounding laughter permeated through the cabin. “I get it, though,” the Voice continued. “You want to live in this blissful ignorance for a few more minutes”. “If you won’t tell me what the hell you are talking about, this instant, I will kill you, wherever you are!” Trying to firmly hold the knife, he took a round-size sip of the whiskey. “Answer me, for heaven’s sake!” “Maybe instead of talking, I’ll show you,” the Voice proposed. Against his will, Professor went into the bathroom. He stood in front of a mirror and everything made sense. And then, there was nothing. *** Regaining his consciousness felt like a breeze of fresh air. Nausea came next. It was rather fortunate that he was in a bathroom. He threw up the consumed alcohol and looked at his reflection. “It… It can’t be!” “I’m afraid so,” the Voice answered. “Actions speak louder than words.” Professor ran out of the bathroom, leaving mayhem in his wake. He emptied the whiskey bottle and collapsed unconsciously. *** It was still dark. Memories were flooding back. He returned to the bathroom; it was time for his stomach to be

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emptied again. He drank water thirstily straight from the faucet. Without opening his eyes, he made his way to the bedroom. Too exhausted to take another step, he fell down on the bed, right next to his next victim. The events of last night were becoming an increasingly regular pattern. The m ore his mind was experiencing turmoil, the more it was subject to the hostile takeover courtesy of the Voice. The lethal combination consisting of loneliness and the long-denied alcoholism only made things worse. The Voice became an avid admirer of strong liqueurs consumed by, in its view, the less interesting part of Professor’s consciousness. It waited for a chance to leech through to the surface. When successful—all hell broke loose. The Voice controlled the body like a puppet-master. The split personality of Professor had only one thing in common. Writing. *** The gaze of the breathless body was still fixed on the—now, invisible—moon. Professor had woken up a few minutes earlier, but was afraid to open his eyes. He remembered everything. He knew with whom he was now sharing the bed, why he had chosen her, and what it would make him do next. He reminisced the moment of his downfall. One step separated Professor from leaving the cabin, breaking free from the yoke of the Voice, and ending his miserable life. Each time he stood in front of those damned doors, gentle whispers summoned him. He tried to force his body to stand up and fulfill the nightmarish obligation. The body offered in sacrifice to Melpomene needed to be burned. His thoughts drifted towards the might of the written word—humanity’s greatest weapon. Throughout history, letters absolved, taught, sentenced people to death, and comforted in moments of doubt. Arousing admiration or contempt. Lovers wrote burning letters, recounting nights of passion, while nuns transcribed the word of God. Words expressed thoughts, desires… and the darkest of secrets. Since childhood, Professor felt a connection to the written word. He devoured one book after another and taught literature; publishing novels was his way of expression (confession). Then, came the divorce which displeased him greatly but only for a short while. Without a second thought, he moved to the wilderness where he sold his soul to Melpomene—the Muse of Tragedy. The irony of her origin did not escape him. Melpomene was sprung from the loins of Gaia’s daughter, Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, which had failed Professor time and time again. He wrote only at night. However, he was not always privy to the wording… “Isn’t it the time for a campfire?” the Voice emerged from the depths of the Professor’s mind. “Be quiet!” “The wolves are hungry. Don’t keep them waiting.” “I will not tolerate this any longer, do you understand?” The last syllables drowned in laughter. “Whatever makes you sleep at night—right, Prof?” “It’s not a joke. I will cut my hands off if I have to!” “Let’s make something clear, shall we? We are destined for each other. You have the knowledge, the technique, and the precision of thought, while I provide the subject matter.”

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In an instant, Professor went from a hysteric laugh to utter despair as if his rational side was nearing the edge of the abyss. Driven by a sudden impulse, he made a break for the door. “Where to now? Forgetting about something, are we?” “No! I want to forget, once and for all!” “All right, all right. Relax. Let’s just get back to the bedroom, take the sleeping beauty, and incinerate her already.” The doors were open. He stood at the threshold, looking at the forest. “I caused her harm…Tortured…How could I?” “With pleasure. Ha! Ha! Ha!” “Will you ever shut up, you damn pestilence of my mind?” “You do realize that you’re insulting yourself, right? It’s like a brother who disrespects the parents of his…Wait!” Professor set his left foot on the muddy ground. “You must know it’s futile. How many times have you tried to get rid of me?” With every ounce of his will, he set his right foot on the ground and whispered: “The die is cast.” *** After crossing the Rubicon, Professor was not permitted to enjoy unity of thought. Before walking ten meters, his mind split in half again. “You thought it would be that easy? If your memory serves true, Pompey did manage to regroup before…” “Caesar destroyed his army in Spain,” Professor ended. The rational part, the one not stripped of humanity, ran towards the hideout. In the meantime, the Voice tried to regain control of Professor’s body, trying to make him see things its way. “Without me, you wouldn’t have written your magnum opus. Your vivid expression is my doing, since I’m the one taking you on these exciting trips.” The Voice became convinced that it was more than a figment of the weakening imagination of the host. The processes going through Professor’s mind were to be studied for decades to come. However, at this moment, he made it to the hideout where his victims disappeared forever. He reached for an axe. “You can still kill without hands, you know that, right?” “Seems unlikely!” With all his remaining strength, he swung for the fences. The edge of the blade came to a halt millimeters from Professor’s left hand. Gasping heavily, he howled once more. He slumped on the ground and leaned on a tree. “Don’t you worry, we will soon find another sacrificial lamb for our beloved Melpomene.” He was crying his eyes out. There was no fight left in him. He listened to the birds chirping, announcing that morning had come. From a distance, he heard himself speak but the words were not his. “We’re having fun, aren’t we? You couldn’t make the first move. Fortunately, you felt that I was getting closer. And when you wrote the first word, you knew the night belonged to me, and we would create yet another masterpiece. You went outside, found the right victim… Oh, the look on her face when she realized that there was no turning back. Priceless! What an inspiration that was. It’s a pity we haven’t written more because…” The Voice stopped mid-sentence, overhearing the sound of an engine. “We have company, Prof.”

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Gasping, he made it to the cabin. A motorcycle was parked nearby and a well-built man was looking around carefully. He noticed Professor. “Good morning, my name is John. I’m looking for my wife. She didn’t come back home, yesterday.” “I’m the only person here,” he muttered, trying to keep the Voice at bay. “The locals said that someone lives here and lost his mind. I couldn’t sit by idly, so I came to check.” “You should not believe everything you hear. It’s true, I live here, but there is nothing wrong with my mind.” His alter ego was laughing at the top of its imaginary lungs. “I cannot recall the last time someone visited me.” “It’s not easy to find your cabin. ” “That was the plan.” “It sounds like you want to hide from something…or someone.” “Clever man you are, Mr John. I decided to dedicate my life to writing.” “If you, by any chance, see a short-haired brunette, please call me,” John clearly did not want to prolong the conversation. “Here’s my number…” “I’m sorry but I do not own a phone.” “You don’t…whatever. It was a shot in the dark, anyway. I’ll get going. And you should buy a phone.” All it took was a split-second distraction. Professor became a passive observer, trapped inside his own body. “Could I venture a guess that you haven’t eaten anything since your wife’s disappearance?” A glimmer of a sinister smile played across his lips. “Please, come inside, I will make coffee and you will rest for a moment.” As if from behind the curtain, Professor awaited the visitor’s reaction. “Sadly, I can’t. I must keep looking.” “You see, Prof? He shouldn’t have counted his chickens before they hatched.” Understanding the intentions of his alter ego, Professor screamed from the depths of his mind to no avail. “Excuse me?” “It’s folk wisdom; reminding us not to get ahead of ourselves.” “I don’t have time for this bullshit.” John, with his back turned to Professor, was getting on the motorcycle. A strike to the back of his head interrupted that. He stumbled. There was little power to the hit. John looked confused at the old man. “The locals were right, you’re crazy!” Professor resumed the attack. John caught his hand with ease and tripped him. He was not aggressive, only methodical. “Please, stop before I hurt you.” Then, in an instant, Professor produced a gun. “You were saying?” He smiled mockingly and stood up slowly. “Is your attention directed at the right place and time? Good.” Professor moved his gun, ordering John to get inside the cabin. “When an older person offers you company and a hot beverage, you say ‘I’m happy to oblige.’ Please do remember that.” John remained calm in the face of mortal danger. In the cabin, Professor commanded John to sit in the chair. “You need to be taught to respect your elders.” “I must find my wife. I cannot waste time while she…” John did not allow himself to believe that this old man was capable of… “God only knows where she is. Yet, it might be closer than you think.” Professor looked petrified as if he had not bit his tongue in time. “What are you trying to say?” “Kill me! Now!” Professor shouted. He held out the gun-carrying hand. “Quickly!” John sat motionlessly. The longer he was in the cabin, the more surrealistic everything was be-

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coming. It’s just a nightmare. He’d wake up next to Dolores any minute now. At the same time, Professor fought with the Voice. He wanted to die at the hands of this innocent man. The Voice sensed the danger and concluded that killing John was the safest bet. He flicked the safety off. “Snap out of it and end this nightmare,” Professor begged, losing his eloquent manner. With every fibre of his being, he struggled to postpone the inevitable. His index finger was getting closer to the trigger. John jumped him. They scuffled. The older man summoned reserves of strength inaccessible, even in his youth. The fight between the two personalities was just as fierce. John set his sight on the barrel. It pointed directly between his eyes. Birds sitting on nearby trees flew away, startled by the ensuing gunshot. *** John could swear that the old man was smiling. He looked at the hole in Professor’s head and went to the bedroom. “Oh, dear God!” He fell to his knees. The stench of death was overwhelming. In his years in the service, John dealt with death on a daily basis. One look at Dolores was enough to know that she was long gone. He sat beside her and began to caress her hair. “This crazy old man, he really tried to tell me,” he thought out loud. “A part of his mind wanted to kill again and the other just wanted to die. He provoked me… If not for my reflexes, I would be lying here with you, my dear.” John, stupefied with grief, walked out of the bedroom. In a smaller room, he found a typewriter. He pulled out the paper it held and burst into tears after reading the first sentence. He wanted to kill the old man again and again… The paper sheet bore the following words: Full moon. Before she could gaze at the distant satellite in all its glory, she felt a piercing chill and sharp pain as the blade penetrated the skull and darkness shrouded both her vision and her soul. The knife slid smoothly from the socket…

Tomasz Szymoński Having read an issue of the Amazing Spider-Man written by J. Michael Straczynski at the age of 13, he wanted to create his own stories, protagonists, and worlds. He is a translator and copywriter by day and a sci-fi reading, pizza pie eating, (pop) culture fanatic by night. One of his greatest dreams (nay, goals) is to be read. More at transncreation.wordpress.com.

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POETRY

Piece of the month Tide

Teresa Bakalarska

you? you know ME I drink the hours of the night never enough of the tide [click it and buy] want – take – have new kind of a crime Amazon Prime you? you’ve got Amazing eyes oh honey! you wanna sell it or buy? in this economy I only know high-clouds on the sky: became a weather-guy if they never cry your business will strive one dollar for the promi$e one dollar for a deck of card$ [call me a bard] skyscrapers growing up to the space well it’s my shooting star white-hot-quick-drive hit-it-or-die sell-it-or-buy am I delivered or do I deliver? a little difference will give you a breather one-handed-bandit [play it for nothing] he has the magic over my money I don’t do debts I don’t to bets I was becoming SOMETHING remember your promise? I brought you a song, cut my hair for deposit some bad business decisions went waste d and lost my precision 0 to 100 got out of the prison walked into a nightmare

Teresa Bakalarska A human, crisp, professional whiner. Writes everything from poetry through prose to god-awful rap lyrics. Thinks that Buffy The Vampire Slayer is the greatest achievement of humanity.

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Lace

Sappho Katopodi

I wear lace underneath my skin It’s pretty It runs smoothly underneath my nipples and my sides It’s white I like the color white It’s cleansing There’s lace underneath my thin arms It itches tonight cause the room is colder I saw this girl who was lovely She might like lace I’m tired of this constant state of worrying My mum should have warned me about a smart person’s troubles I just want to be pretty and wear lace But right now it’s eating my insides and I think I’m too deep again Maybe my skin is too thin to wear lace Maybe lace isn’t for everyone

Sappho Katopodi A writing mess who tries her best. In love with poetry, art, and coffee.

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The Girl is Sad Sappho Katopodi

i think she looks like me. thats why i keep her her eyebrows reaching the sky everytime the lights pops up the sad girl with the sad picture it fits. it matches. its completes it doesnt cause any trouble it doesn't complicate i dont like complications. they taste like salt in my tongue my hair is not red and shes not in my age i dont know if she smokes i don't know if i should but the girl is sad and so i chose to keep her

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Clock’s Pendulum Agata Podbielkowska

I stood there alone Motionless Holding my breath The area was shrouded with gloom And the only hearable sound Was the sound of the clock’s pendulum

Agata Podbielkowska She is like a vampire—she prefers to live at night. Surrounded by candles, with psychedelic music filling the space, she sits, shrouded in the smoke of the incense. She sits and writes whatever just comes to her mind. And boy, what strange stories they are…

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Man I Knew Agata Podbielkowska

There was a man I knew very well He was tall His hair was black His eyes were blue His lips were red He was so beautiful His soul was divine Up until he sold it For a bottle of red wine

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Nothingness Agata Podbielkowska

Heavy drops of rain Falling on my face I see no more I hear no more In the nothingness I am forever stuck And my heart will now be Forever black

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Reality

Agata Podbielkowska

I just had another drink I didn’t know what to do I didn’t know what to think It all Just defeated me I no longer can Cope with it Nor ignore it It overwhelms me It absorbs me Is there any way out Or am I trapped Losing all my faith Losing all what’s precious Losing all my dignity Weeping In today’s reality

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The World Agata Podbielkowska

One of them Shouts loudly The other Threatens everyone Another one Brings death Silently And someone else Commits a genocide Claiming that It was a necessity These are the people Who keep on Breaking The worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ribs As they are all Simply The Orwellian pigs

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ARTICLES

The Return of the Banished Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya

It might seem somewhat too optimistic to view Freud’s return of the repressed in one of today’s most popular and common music genres, trap music. It is especially present in the music of the group Migos. Yet, a venture into the music of African Americans may deliver miraculous evidence of the links between trap music and slave song. Often, historians have stated the fact that virtually all genres of music in the United States are essentially rooted in African music, which was transferred to the New World through slavery. The transported slaves sang, danced, and made music. Maultsby suggests they were encouraged to do so in order to stay mentally and physically healthy and motivated during their travel from the West African coast to the New World. Known for their musical tendency and eagerness, African people, upon the continuation of their heritage as African Americans, freely performed their music for almost half a century, until their masters began to suspect their music as a method of secret communication. Following several slave revolts, all sorts of music making was banned in the South. At this point in history, in which the artistic soul of the African American people was attempted to be suppressed, the spirit of music in them immediately drove African Americans to 30

perform it at every occasion. These activities were named by the historians as “The Ring Shouts.” “The Ring Shouts” were the musical activities in which a ring was formed around a fire by the slaves, and songs that had call-and-response patterns were sung. This involved a leader uttering a line, followed by the refrains, repetitions, or choruses of the rest of the group. Specifically, this pattern of call-and-response turned out to be such a characteristic and salient feature, that most of the preceding genres such as blues, jazz, rock and roll, rap, and trap visibly contained it. To exemplify this in the most comparable way, the ubiquity of the call-andresponse pattern is visible in contemporary Migos songs. These calls and response have been dubbed “ad libs” that are used as backing sounds at the end of each line. What interests one the most and illustrates the Freudian example, is that after all the pressure from their masters to stop African Americans from performing their music, it has held strong for centuries to come. Subsequent dominating examples reflect certain music genres as their own original music. However, the music of the repressed African Americans, despite the numerous transformations and alternations, specifically in the 19th century, manages to respawn.

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Sources Southern, Eileen. The Music of Black Americans: A History, Norton, 1997. Spener, David. “’I Shall Not Be Moved.’ in the U.S. South: Blacks and Whites, Slavery and Spirituals.” We Shall Not Be Moved/No Nos Moverán. Temple University Press. 2016. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1kft8ff.6. Courlander, Harold. Negro Folk Music, U.S.A., Columbia University Press, 1963. Portia K. Maultsby, “West African Influences and Retentions in U.S. Black Music: A Sociocultural Study,” in More Than Dancing: Essays on Afro-American Music and Musicians, edited by Irene V. Jackson, Greenwood Press, 1985.

Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

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Serial Killers as a Phenomenon in American Popular Culture on the Example of Television From the Masters Thesis of Joanna ChaĹ&#x201A;upnik

The presence of serial killers is visible in many aspects of life in the United States. Upon turning on the television, viewers are bombarded with information about the newest criminal statistics, the breaking news about an abduction, or a murder which occurred even just around the corner. The visibility of crime, and especially murder, has been as high as ever in American media. Additionally, the last two decades have seen an enormous boom in the number of criminal TV series. There has even been an abundance of different types of CSIs on television, for each cityâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;CSI: New York, CSI: Miami, CSI: Las Vegas, etc. As of January 2018, there are approximately 752 American crime television series, according to the Polish webpage Filmweb. Moreover, 463 of them came out during the last twenty years. It was just last year that Netflix let out the TV series Mindhunter about the beginnings of the profiling of serial killers by the FBI. Just now, Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes have been seeing enormous viewership, followed by the premiere of Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil, and Vile at Sundance Festival. Undeniably, there is a demand for such motion pictures, which is being fueled by, among others, the media. Every person who grew up in the United States will know names such as Ted Bundy, the "BTK" killer, Jeffrey Dahmer, or John Wayne Gacy. They, and many other serial killers, have become "perverse icons" in American culture. Their stories were all over the news, captured the attention of millions and millions of Americans, and are the inspiration behind criminal novels and TV shows up to this day. Nevertheless, roots pertaining to this phenomenon go back in time earlier than many may realize. Historically speaking, the United States has grown the most interesting bunch of serial killers for the last several decades. One of the first cases of a serial killer in the United States, namely H.H. Holmes, was recorded at the end of the nineteenth century. For decades to come, the mysterious Holmes would lay the foundation for the typical American serial killer. Years later, since the 1960s, the United States have seen a boom in the number of serial

murderers. Therefore, no wonder the persona of the serial murderer has been so visible in American media. The amount of serial killers produced by the United States is quite impressive. To be exact, as of September 2016, there were 4,743 serial killers in the Radford University/FGCU Serial Killer Database. Even though the numbers are so high, there remain many misconceptions about these criminals. People often associate said individuals with eccentric loners or, simply speaking, monsters. Of course, some serial killers do fit this profile, but many others have well developed social skills and are able to hide in plain sight. Frequently, they will be family men, good employees, and common members of their community. An ordinary citizen, or even a law enforcement officer, might have no idea that the person they are talking to is a serial killer. Curiously, it is the United States that has seen hundreds and hundreds of killers since the 19th century. It was in the 19th century, however, that someone first realized the potential these personas can have as far as the media go. Interestingly, since the beginning of serial murder in the United States, newspapers knew this subject was worth money. For instance, the aforementioned individual, H.H. Holmes was paid 7,500 dollars by William Randolph Hearst's newspaper in exchange for a confession. In it, he admitted to twenty-seven murders. The following century was to see a new kind of criminal representation in the media. During the 1980s, newspapers and television were fighting for audiences with the tabloid media. Their solution was to lower their editorial standards. It became less about facts and objectivity, and more about sensationalism. The serial killer was the perfect topic, the media could easily obtain bigger audiences with just the right titles. One can argue that the 1980's were the birth of the celebrity serial killer phenomenon. Nevertheless, the presence of the serial killer in the news had to be in some demand by society, otherwise TV producers would not have pushed to involve them in the eight-o'clock news show.

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With the presence of the serial killer in the media, other questions regarding the aforementioned reasons for this phenomenon arose. Another one is stated by Scott Bonn, namely that sex and violence sell, so serial killers are the perfect news subject as they offer both those things. Yet another is believed to be the fact that a serial killer is often able to blend in, thus evoking an uncertainty about one's neighbor. After all, this nice man living two houses down may be a serial killer. David Schmid turns to the infamous serial murderer Ted Bundy, framing him as the one who, on the outside, seemed to embody an American idealâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;educated, charismatic, and attractive. This contrast between the surface and inside of Bundy, Schmid says, is a big reason for America's fascination with serial killers. One may argue that this notion is also something the media caught up on and exploited while broadcasting many trials or interviews with known serial killers. As we know today, television would go farther than simply showing news pertaining to these criminals. Since the 1960s, an uncountable number of novels, TV series, and movies about serial killers have hit the American market. Every type of viewer will find something for themselves amongst the numerous TV series. One can visit Miami and watch a serial killer kill other serial killers (Dexter) or embark on a criminal investigation with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, as they profile their Unknown subject (Criminal Minds). There is an even bigger variety of works when it comes to films. Here, one can even laugh and solve a mystery at the same time, all thanks to crime-comedies. The world of criminal fiction is enormous, however, it would not be possible if not for the audience. Americans crave serial murderers; to read about them, and watch them, and all of this while remaining comfortably seated on their couches. Undeniably, serial killers have become a cultural phenomenon in the United States. The stated phenomenon penetrated so deeply into American culture that it is even visible in the usage of words in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Upon search-

ing for the word serial, such a definition emergesâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;"a: performing a series of similar acts over a period of timeâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;a serial killer." Arguably, this very definition is an example of how deeply rooted in American culture the serial killer phenomenon really is. Americans are drawn to serial killers and probably nowhere else in the world do these criminals enjoy the media status that can only be compared to that of celebrities. If a topic is to remain present in culture for an indefinite amount of time, it has to somehow appeal to everyday life. American television has been able to keep the serial killer subject as current as ever, by giving him a makeover every now and then. Nevertheless, as aforementioned, in the case of the serial murderer this was possible due to the basic human notions of sex, violence, and fear. A decade ago, criminologist Richard Whittington-Egan wrote about the serial killer phenomenon, "If we look to the future there is unfortunately little cause for optimism, because there is no reason to think that the phenomenon will fade away." Needless to say, his predictions proved to be correct. Therefore, research on the subject of serial murderers is so imperative. Upon diving into data and cultural notions, it became more and more visible how serial murderers are simply nonexistent without the television factor. By exploiting societal phobias and interests, television was able to put the serial killer into nearly every American home. Jenkins goes on to state that a "serial murder represents for the media the perfect social problem." He explains that this subject does not require the journalist to make it any more interesting for the audience, as it has all the necessary components to be approachable and sellable. No wonder it became such an often-used topic. Nevertheless, had it not been for certain cultural predispositions, television would not have been able to spread the serial killer phenomenon so widely. Therefore, this subject is so

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significant, as it speaks volumes about American culture and its roots. Curiously, the very beginning of the serial killer as a cultural character can be traced back to Puritan America, when these criminals were used as a warning of sorts, for what sin may lead to. However, to fear a fate similar to that of a serial murderer, people first had to identify with him. Arguably, that is what laid the very foundation of the polarity in American culture between the hatred of this monstrous creature and, simultaneously, the deep attraction. This pattern would go on to be visible in American culture all throughout history, up until the most recent serial killer form: the antihero. Similarly, the clergymen who began the notion would come to be replaced with an equally powerful entity: television. Upon closer look, though times have changed, the status quo of the Puritan priests remains, only now, it belongs to American television. By putting the serial killer into a certain narrative, television can manipulate the audienceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feelings toward this kind of criminal. Though, without the clergyman's agenda, television has pretty much continued their work; the audience still fears the serial killer, but at the same time is drawn to him. As shown in this thesis, Dexter or Hannibal Lecter are good examples; their characters being both loved and feared. In today's world, however, television uses the serial killer character for a different reason. Criminologists agree that the serial killer context changed profoundly after the attacks on 9/11. So much so, that many put a thick line between pre- and post9/11 America. Arguably, in the present day, the serial killer character is the representation of America's great fear, namely, terrorists. Just like aliens conveyed the Cold War fear of spies, serial killers convey todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fear of terrorists. Though it has been almost two decades since 9/11, terrorism is as present in the world as ever. Not a year goes by without different types of terrorist attacks. Nowadays, said acts of violence happen worldwide, not only in the United States. Moreover, it is a phenomenon not likely to end quickly. With such a reality, the future does not seem brighter. Moreover, this trend of the serial killer character has been pouring into other outlets as films or the Internet. Nowadays, it is possible to watch clips on YouTube about any serial killer character. Therefore, predictions can be made that the phenomenon of serial killers in American culture will not only continue to be present, but quite possibly will be fueled even harder by television, rooting this criminal even deeper into American traditions.

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Sources Aamodt, Michael G. "Serial Killer Statistics." Dr. Mike Aamodt Department of Psychology Radford University. Last modified September 4, 2016. http://maamodt.asp.radford.edu/Serial%20Killer%20Information%20 Center/Serial%20Killer%20Statistics.pdf. Bonn, Scott A. Why We Love Serial Killers. New York: Skyhorse Publishing, 2014. "H. H. Holmes." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. Last modified July 26, 2017. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H._H._Holmes. Jenkins, Philip. Using Murder: The Social Construction of Serial Homicide. New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1994. National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, United States of America. Serial Murder: Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators. U.S. Department of Justice, 2008. Schmid, David. Natural Born Celebrities: Serial Killers in American Culture. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2005. "Why Americans Are So Fascinated by Serial Killers." History.com. Last modified June 23, 2017. http://www.history.com/news/why-americans-are-so-fascinated-by-serial-killers. "Serial." Dictionary by Merriam-Webster. Accessed August 9, 2017. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/serial. "TV Series." Filmweb. Accessed January 29, 2018. http://www.filmweb. pl/serials/search?countries=53&genres=15&orderBy=popularity &descending=true Whittington-Egan, Richard. "The Serial Killer Phenomenon." Contemporary Review 290, no. 1690 (2008): 323-330. Wiest, Julie B. Creating Cultural Monsters: Serial Murder in America. Boca Raton: CRC Press Taylor & Francis Group, 2011.

Joanna ChaĹ&#x201A;upnik Graduate of the American Studies Center BA and MA program. She also finished postgraduate studies in Criminal Psychology at SWPS University.

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Contributors Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

Joanna ChaĹ&#x201A;upnik Graduate of the American Studies Center BA and MA program. She also finished postgraduate studies in Criminal Psychology at SWPS University.

Sappho Katopodi A writing mess who tries her best. In love with poetry, art, and coffee.

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2019

Anita Majewska Addicted to basketball, drawing, and Netflix. I think with images. If I look depressed, I probably just ran out of hummus.

Joanna Marchewka Regular, non-artistic soul but in love with digital and traditional art, basically looking for opportunities to take up new challenges. Coffee and tea lover so nothing surprising so far, consequential in tasks where involved. Definitely gonna be someone in the future—whether millionaire or fast-food worker. Has a variety of extraordinary interests such as Netflix because no one has ever pointed that out. Yep. Hi.

Natalia Ogórek Singing is her biggest passion, but she does not connect her future with it. Lover of TV series and Marvel. 70% funny, 50% weird, 100% organized.

Paweł Pańczyk Graphic designer and emotional experience seeker. Just be yourself!

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2019

Marta Rapacka 3rd year BA student. Apart from being utterly in love with TV series, she loves spending her free time discovering mysteries of Adobe Photoshop. Coerced into accepting the new goal of her existence, namely being The Very First Caricaturist of The Wasp—an honorable title she proudly bears and exploits (see: above and below).

Paulina Staniszewska Petite, tattooed social media assasin with an enormous cake addiction. Loves musical theatre, drag queens, silly TV shows and making her friends laugh, but she still hasn't figured out how to make money out of all four.

Kamila Maria Wyszyńska Studies Graphic Arts at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. American Studies is her second faculty. Loves to travel. Wants to live and create across the world.

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2019