p a u l t h o rs t e n s o n da v e m a y e re v a n s c h lo m a n n j e ff p a g g i s ar a r u p a m ur a l i j e s se j a m e s m ad r e m i c h ae l h o r g a n

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menopausepaul thorstenson

gingersdave mayer

blitzkriegbopavioletevan schlomann

nocturnity (part 2 of 4)jeff paggi

clean sheetssara rupa murali

point of viewjesse james madre

baby angelmichael horgan

designevan schlomann

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Bill said,

“Excuse me for living!”

Then he dropped dead on the spot.

His wife, Pearl, said,

“Thanks a lot, Bill, that’s the best birthday present I ever got!”

Then she drank all of the gin in the house and ordered a pizza,

Put her favorite KISS record on, spun, barfed and fell down.

She filled her mouth with alcohol and put a lighter to her lips and

Spit a fireball that burned the whole house to the ground.

“I’m gettin’ too old for this!”

Said Rita through her ski mask

As she ran for the exit of the bank.

Bag of money in one hand

A fake luger in the other

Her brain ran eighty miles an hour on an empty tank.

Her kids saw Mommy on TV and they cheered

And threw Cheerios

As Rita gave a cop a shiner and a bloody nose.

Rita met Pearl at this point

They sat next to each other at the bar

Of a corporate chain seafood joint.

Rita still wore her ski mask

And smoke rose from Pearl’s hair

They struck up a conversation about all of the losers

Who were hanging out there.

They shared one last drink

And a laugh as the sirens closed in

Then Pearl said to Rita,

“I’ve been losing my whole life,

Don’t it feel grand to win?”

by.daveMAYER

About 10 years ago I was falsely accused of having red hair. I couldn’t tell if this was a joke, as I had never been referred to as anything other than blonde for the previous 30 years. And then it happened again. I started to suspect a conspiracy was afoot, but then even trusted friends could be heard casually referring to my hair color as red- as though such an insult were no worse than describing the weather. As a maturing male, I was prepared for the eventual greying of the hair or even balding, but no one ever prepared me for gingering. As the months passed, my depression deepened- and that’s when things got even worse. I started getting accused of being Irish. How could someone say something so cruel hateful to a total stranger? I would quickly attempt to defend myself: “No, I’m not Irish- I’m German. And actually, red hair is a trait of…” and that’s all I’d ever get out before being cut off. This was vital information in my defense and my accusers had no interest in it! The same exchange happened numerous times over the next few years, always being cut short before I was able to school these ignorant fools. So I formulated a plan to nip this gross misidentification in the bud…

by.daveMAYER

If I were able to get to the source of my misery (i.e. the Irish) and plant a seed of knowledge, perhaps that seed would germinate and future generations of not-really-redheads wouldn’t have to suffer such character assassination. I had a speech to give about the origins of red hair and by god, I meant to give it. So I decided to infiltrate a gathering where red heads certainly would be present: a Celtic fest taking place in a semi-historical local location.

After paying the paltry admission fee, I walked over to a billboard displaying a series of poorly rendered European maps showing historical Celtic tribal regions and whatnot. I feigned studying the maps whilst formulating a plan. Maintaining a cool exterior, I somewhat nervously noted I was outnumbered by about 100 to 1. Belly of the beast indeed. Should I adopt a leprechaun-like brogue, or perhaps stumble drunkenly to avoid discovery? It was then that an older gentleman began to approach me. I sized him up and estimated how many of these savages I could take out before they finally overwhelmed me. He smiled at me and said “Look how much land our people used to cover”. Our people?! My ruse had worked! These simple folk had no clue as to the wolf among their sheep!

Emboldened by this, I set off to explore the rest of this festival and find a suitable platform to give my speech. Barely 10 feet in, a man exclaimed “Good day brother!”. My instantaneous response to being called “brother” was to slap him in the face- to which he responded by saying

“Nice one!” and handed me a beer. Well I don’t drink beer, but if I did, a Kraut certainly wouldn’t drink the horse urine these Irish folk call beer. But I knew it would help me further blend in, and it is also often used as currency among their kind so I took it. A bit further along the path another man waved and said “Fine day!”. Still slightly off guard from the previous exchange, I reacted by punching him in the stomach. He doubled over, smiled, gave me a thumbs up with his left hand, and handed me the beer in his right hand. I was beginning to enjoy this festival after all. Continuing on the path, I eventually came to a slightly weathered flag festooned stage (which was no doubt soon to be used for the spasmodic convulsions they call “dancing”). This crude stage would do fine for me to deliver my speech. I set the two beers down and bemused what drunkard would combine such horrific colors for a national flag, when a man clapped me on the shoulder. It would seem I was still a bit on edge as my immediate response was to stab him in the neck with a loose sliver from the stage. He stumbled about (probably drunk) spewing blood on anyone and anything in his staggered path. This must have broken my spell of deception because all eyes began to turn in my direction. They all began to point at me and hiss in

unison something that sounded like “geeeeettooouuuuttt!!” or maybe it was “geeeeetttthekrauuuut!!”. Thinking quickly, I threw my two beers at the farthest members of this angry mob, which caused the others to swarm on them in an attempt to sup the beer from their clothing. The bleeding man was forgotten and I had plenty of time to casually stroll to the exit and make my get away.

As is the case with science, things don’t always go as you’d hoped and that particular mission wasn’t entirely successful. I was unable to deliver my sermon to the people who really needed to hear it and so I’m going to deliver it to you. Red hair isn’t an Irish trait- it’s a Scandinavian trait (or Norse or Germanic- choose your axiom). However, there are actually more red heads per population in Scotland than anywhere else on earth. Why, you ask? Well, due to Scotland’s close proximity to Norway, there has always been some intermingling with the Scandinavian people. Norse and Celtic cultures had many similarities and also in religion, art, and the runes of written language. The Romans didn’t much care for the descendants of the Norse so they erected Hadrian’s wall in England and also stayed out of northern Germany in order to avoid seeing these handsome scholarly blonds and red heads. Modern people inexplicably like to pick on gingers and I’m sure the ancient Norse were no different. So when these fiery headed warriors finally had enough- the Viking age began. Wishing to spread their message of peace, love, and tolerance for people of all hair colors, the Vikings embarked on a world tour. Their first stop: what is now Scotland. After centuries of oppression by the Roman Empire, these sickly inbred island folk were quite taken by the handsome gentle giant strangers, and the Celtic women couldn’t help but throw themselves at the hapless Norsemen who had only stopped there to ask for directions. Well, I don’t feel the need to explain to you the birds and the bees (that’s the job of your parents or cell mate), but 500 years into the Viking era, the Scottish and Irish people were looking different (but still hadn’t figured out how to get off their islands). Anyway, the Vikings continued their world tour and were showered with treasure by the English and French monks who later adopted their message of peace and tolerance for peoples of all hair colors. The Native Americans would later use bloodroot to dye their hair and paint their faces red in a show of solidarity for the oppressed Norsemen who had visited them from so far away.

So that’s the history of red hair.

And to all true gingers out there who have suffered a life time of taunts and ridicule because of their hair color, I say— sucks to be you, I was born blond.

WELL, WELL. LOOK WHO IT IS. LITTLE MISS NERD QUEEN

“I wouldn’t know, Max. I’ve been at school all day. You know, learning? That’s what those of us who can read do here.” Ayla was chewing bubble gum, like always, and popped a neon green bubble, loudly, just as the bell rang.

“Whatever, Cry-la,” said Max. In elementary school, Ayla used to burst into tears, for no apparent reason.

“Have fun kissing King Loser here. Come on guys.” The bullies took off, thankfully in the opposite direction of our classroom.

“You OK, Jimmy?” asked Ayla.

“I’ve been worse. I finished those character descriptions.” I handed her the notebook. We had agreed that the best way to create characters would be to have me write short descriptions, and then have her do sketches of them. That way, when it was time for me to actually write a

script, I would know what the characters I was writing would look like.

“Awesome, dude. I’ll get started on the sketches after school. If I get anything done, I can show you tonight at the Mansion.” We walked into class, and Mr. Clyde gave us both a look that said You know you’re late, so I’m not going to say anything. But I want you to know I’m not happy about it, so I’m raising my eyebrow at you. We were reading Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, and we spent the class talking about the main character, who is this guy named Gregor who wakes up to discover he has turned into a bug. Ayla, who had a huge crush on Mr. Clyde, kept asking him questions that didn’t have real answers, like, Oh, Mr. Clyde! You’re so hot. Why do you think the author describes Gregor’s corpse as ‘flat’? Mr. Clyde would then turn these questions back to the

a draft part two of four : by jeff paggi

a draft part two of four : by jeff paggi

class, but I don’t like questions like that. They can only be answered with opinions. I like questions that have real answers. In comic books, everything on the page is there for a reason. If this Franz Kafka was such a genius, then I’m sure he put every word there for a reason too.

After class, I walked home with Ayla. We didn’t have to worry about avoiding the bullies; they had all been in detention for the last two weeks for starting a foodfight in the cafeteria. This was our last afternoon of safety, though.

Maybe I should tell you about Ayla: Her family moved to Evergreen Falls from Turkey when she was three. We met two years later, literally about a week after my Dad left. Neither of us remembers being that young too well, but Mom loves to tell us the story of how we met: one af-ternoon, Ayla knocked on our door, and Mom answered.

“Excuse me,” said Ayla, “do you have a little boy about my age?” The rest, as they say, is history. We became insepa-rable. In case you were wondering what it’s like to have a girl as your best friend, let me tell you. It’s really weird. Especially when she is a girl who is as pretty as Ayla is. It’s not that I like her, you know, like like her, we’re just friends and always will be; it’s just that sometimes, well, there are things that I can’t talk about with her. Like when I first started noticing girls, or when I started masturbating. I mean, can girls even do that? Ayla prob-ably wouldn’t even mind if I did talk to her about those things. She’s really a pretty crazy person. Physically, she’s just about the opposite of me. She has dark skin, hair, and eyes; she is tall and skinny; and she dresses to get noticed. I don’t mean that she wears revealing clothes, just that she wears, like, really unorthodox clothes, lots of bright colors that don’t match, and stuff like that. Like, that day she was wearing bright purple jeans, and a long sleeved black shirt under a neon green t-shirt that said

“SNOT FUNNY” on the front in white letters. Anyway, I’m really glad to be friends with her, because a) I don’t have any other friends, b) like I said, she’s saved me from the bullies on many occasions, and c) she’s actually totally awesome. To be honest, I think that the bullies are afraid of her on account of how weird she is. What’s weird to them is awesome to me.

We talked about The Ionic Insiders on the walk home, and decided that the first story would not be the origin story. Every comic book character has an origin story, which tells about how they became superpowered. The origin story doesn’t always come first though. We got to her house, and made plans to meet up at Owl Park at five-thirty.

I went home and put my Halloween Mix on my Mom’s

awesome stereo. I turned it up as loud as it could go without crackling or distorting, and enjoyed the sounds of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Mom had left a tray on the table with an apple, some mixed nuts, some money, and a note: “James: Here is a snack, and money for dinner. Please do not eat junk food. I hope you liked your present! Love, Mom.” The note made me realize that I had forgotten to open my present.

I took it out of my bag, and set it on the table, wonder-ing why she told me to wait until after school to open it. I took a bite of the apple, and then opened it. It was a hardcover book, just as I expected. It was really thick, possibly a thousand pages. The cover was dark blue, and embossed with moons, stars, and silhouettes of trees. There was a gold title on the front: Nocturnity. There was no author’s name on the cover, and nothing else written on the spine or back. I opened the cover, and found a few blank pages in the beginning, that were yellowed. I couldn’t find any author’s name, or any of the other usual publication information. I began flipping through it. Warren Zevon ended, and the Edgar Winter Group began.

The book seemed as if it was a guidebook to the world of some other book, or series of books. You know, like Guide to J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Middle Earth. It wasn’t a comic book, but it had quite a few drawings and illustrations. There were descriptions and characteristics of creatures, places, and people. There were maps and his-tories. There were many blank pages, sometimes just one in the middle of a section, sometimes many. It seemed like a strange gift, especially considering I had never read the book—or seen the movie, or whatever—that it was a guide to. Still, I decided to find out about it as soon as possible, so I could make Mom feel like it was just what I wanted. I finished my snack, put the money in my wal-let, and went up to my room to read comic books, relax, and get ready for the Haunted Mansion.

I must have dozed off, because suddenly I noticed my Halloween Mix wasn’t playing. When I looked at the clock, it was five-fifteen, and the walk to Owl Park is a good fifteen minutes. I grabbed my costume, and ran out the door. When I got to the sidewalk, I did a 180, and went back to lock the door. I ran as fast as I could to the park, cutting through a few backyards. Ayla was standing under the elm tree we always meet at, already in full costume. She stuck her arms out horizontally.

“Braaaaiiiiiins . . . Neeeeeed Braaaaaiiiiiins,” she said.

“You’re in luck then, dude. I have enough for the both of us,” I replied and lowered my head as if to offer her a bite. She, instead, gave it a playful tap, and said, “Come

on. We’re going to be late.” We cut through the park, and walked down Elm Road towards the river. The Haunted Mansion was in the park, in one of the oldest buildings in town that had been purchased, in a state of decay, by Kevin McNeil, a director of horror movies. He fixed the place up, and every year put on a haunted mansion that was actually scary. The first time Ayla and I went, when we were ten, we seriously thought the monsters were real. I had nightmares for weeks, and the moment we got out of it, I decided that I would never go again. Ayla, on the other hand, would not stop talking about it. She decided that we would work there as soon as we were old enough.

“So,” Ayla said as we walked, “I’ve heard that in some cultures it is traditional for Zombies to give presents to each other on Halloween, although I’m guessing you forgot to get one for me.” She handed me a bag. “Also, isn’t it your birthday?”

“Jeez Ayla, I mean, thanks, but you didn’t have to get me anything.” We had never exchanged gifts on each other’s birthdays before, and now that I think about it, that was the first time I ever got a birthday present from a non-family member.

“Well don’t just stand there looking all Bambi-eyed Jimbo! Open it up.” I tore the wrapping off carefully.

“Oh my god, Ayla. Secret Stories #1?” I was shocked. This book was not only harder to find than bigfoot, it was impossibly expensive.

“I found it at a yard sale for fifty cents, Jimmy,” she said. “Don’t think I broke the bank or anything.”

“But why didn’t you keep it! Or sell it! I can’t accept this,” I said, hoping that she would insist.

“Oh, keep it Jimmy. I mean, money won’t be an issue after we become famous comic creators, right? Let’s let this be a symbol of our partnership, and the beginning of a new era of awesome.” I don't know why but I liked it when she said that. I knew we were young, but it was the start of a century and it made me—and us, and everything feel, well, really big and important.

"We're gonna be late," she said. But I could tell by that far off look in her eye and her smile that she was feeling the same way I was. We started running towards the Mansion, which was on the west end of the park. You know how some memories stay much clearer for much longer than others? That run, drenched in the day’s last sunlight, was one of those memories.

The Zombie room was flawless that night. I mean, we were always good, but that night we were fantastic. The room is about three times of my bedroom in a

rectangular shape, there is a door and each end, and it works like this: there are five huge piles of fallen leaves that we moved into the room on the floor, and the rest of the floor is covered with a single coating of leaves. At the end of each of the five piles are cardboard gravestone replicas we made. There were five us who wore zombie costumes, and painted our faces. We cover ourselves un-der the piles of leaves and stay still while a sixth person waited outside. When a group of little kids approached the room, the guide would ask them if they wanted to take the shortcut through the mansion, or the long way. No matter how they answered, the guide would say,

“Very well then. Follow me through this door.” He would lead them into the room, with a black light, dry ice, and creepy music. He would explain that the when the grave-yard was full, they would bury people in this room, which had no floor, just dirt. Then he would distract them by saying “look, what’s that!” and at the same instant turn-ing on a strobe light. “Oh no!” He would scream, and that was our cue. We would rise up and do the zombie walk into each other and towards the group. The groups would howl; with delight or horror I don’t know, but they would certainly howl. We scared people as well as we ever had that night. The timing was perfect for every group. After the groups would leave, we’d collapse on the piles of leaves in fits of giggles, tickling each other, or doing impressions of the faces on the little kids we’d just scared. This one point in the middle of the night, in between groups, Ayla and I were getting ready to cover ourselves back up with leaves, and she leaned over to brush a leaf that had stuck to my makeup off my face. It’s not that it was romantic; it’s just it made me realize that, besides my mom, Ayla is the only person whom I have any sort of regular physical contact with.

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s t a c k s o f p a p e r s , b o o k s , a n d s w e a t e r s

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VIEW

VIEW (jesse james madre)

jesse

james

madre

If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed, shewould look like an ever stretching Christ on the cross. Arms reachingEast and West like she wants to bring both coasts together so the sun can never set. Or maybe so it can never rise? The moon-lightmarches across her cheeks like victorious soldiers surveying theirnew and beautiful conquest. Her mouth dark red in the soft light andhard shadows. Erratic breathing Makes the soldiers of light jump fromher skin, her back twitches and arches off the cross she has made for herself.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed, Iwould look like Joseph of Arimathea, kneeling, with my head around hernavel, replacing the Holy Grail for my lips to catch the hopes and dreams of my savior in my mouth. Everything about me, North to South on her. Mytongue keeps the sun at bay and my hands are just as warm and from upabove it looks like I’m a sorcerer,casting spells to heal every wound she’s ever had. I’m trying to taste the years we lost as she rips her arms from the cross and runs her bloody fingers through my hair,arching more as I pull her from her hips into my mouth.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed, Iwould look like a lion, climbing her body with my teeth and nails.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed,she would look like a lamb, all sacrificial in her wanting of mysedative teeth.I rise like the moon inside of her as she sets like the sun bouncingrhythmically on the waves of my horizon.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed,we would look like giants of light for what we make is growing untilwe share our air with no one. Breathing out what the other breathed in. Growing. The room gets smaller as her nails dig deeper and my teeth taste longer. Her legs lassoed around me and seconds become stronger in their presence in the grand scheme of things. Of rising and setting. I can’t stop touching her. And with her mouth and legs around me I can not stop...If your point of view is my point of view you’ll see her eyes, brownand glowing. Her mouth open and taking in all the air in the room,house, world. If your point of view was mine you’d never want toleave. Constantly tracing her silhouette with my eyes as I do.

Baby Angelby Michael Horgan

Slept out on the front porch againThe lawn chair left wrinkles in my headI'd rather be sprawled across your bedWhile you revive parts of me that are deadRemember a time before I could sniffAnother's kiss upon your lipYour mother never cared for you like I didBut even that won't save this sinking ship

I'm the casualty of your caressAnd you're a thief to steal my breathI've seen the light of God reflected in your breastBut now your father's got you on house arrestBecause he doesn't like the way that you dream of meWalking out on you on shuffled feetWhile the baby angel sings a song so sweetNothing that he fears will prove to be

You're gonna have to leave your friends and family behind for goodYou're gonna have to forget about everything you never thought you could

Because it's everyone else or meYou have to prove your loyaltyAnd that's the way it has to beBecause that's the way it has to beBecause it's everyone else or meYou have to prove your loyaltyAnd that's the way it has to beBecause that's the way it has to fucking be

Baby Angelby Michael Horgan

Slept out on the front porch againThe lawn chair left wrinkles in my headI'd rather be sprawled across your bedWhile you revive parts of me that are deadRemember a time before I could sniffAnother's kiss upon your lipYour mother never cared for you like I didBut even that won't save this sinking ship

I'm the casualty of your caressAnd you're a thief to steal my breathI've seen the light of God reflected in your breastBut now your father's got you on house arrestBecause he doesn't like the way that you dream of meWalking out on you on shuffled feetWhile the baby angel sings a song so sweetNothing that he fears will prove to be

You're gonna have to leave your friends and family behind for goodYou're gonna have to forget about everything you never thought you could

Because it's everyone else or meYou have to prove your loyaltyAnd that's the way it has to beBecause that's the way it has to beBecause it's everyone else or meYou have to prove your loyaltyAnd that's the way it has to beBecause that's the way it has to fucking be

p a u l t h o rs t e n s o n da v e m a y e re v a n s c h lo m a n n j e ff p a g g i s ar a r u p a m ur a l i j e s se j a m e s m ad r e m i c h ae l h o r g a n

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