Ghosts of the South Building, Diane Siebert
Alice Gothica (Part One), Lauren Masterson
Alice Gothica (Part One), Cont'd
Designated Hitter, Ryan Mattern
Designated Hitter, Cont'd
The Journalist of Fingers, D.J.R Caron
The Journalist of Fingers, Cont'd
Laura: The Poem of War, Laura Rynberg
Rise, Olivia Petrus
Some Facts, Alexa Langrock
Automatic 001, Daniel Majid
A Fatelistic Train, Emily C. Dabe
Chronic Indecision, Adam Lawson
Burnt Sienna, Avy Kaplan
Editor's Note: So Ya Got Through It Again!
Showing posts with label Issue 2 March 2009. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issue 2 March 2009. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Back Page--So ya got through it again (Editor's Note)
Oh boy. The editor’s note. Loved suddenly remembering to write that last minute.
We do hope you enjoyed our last issue, which is why you likely bawled with undisguised joy when you saw that familiar chain-smoking bird grinning at you from either the English office or that handy table on the Fiction Writing floor. The fact that we did another issue speaks to either our inherent craziness or your enjoyment. I’ll just say both. And we really are pretty darn excited about this issue… it’s kind of a habit of ours. For one thing, we found a few more poets under rocks, dazzling their flaky language about wildly when coaxed. We’ve been reminded of “Burnt Sienna” mornings on the L along with other “Fatelistic Trains”, the perils of “Chronic Indecision”, and even being at war with your own name, ala Laura of “Laura: At War”. Alice makes a triumphant encore in Part One of “Alice Gothica”, we meet “Ghosts of the South Building” and a “Designated Hitter”, and encounter utter vividness and dystopia in “The Journalist of Fingers”. I think we did OK for ourselves second time around, whatta ‘bout you?
But we need support if we are to keep airborne (it’s a Toucan, ha ha). Definitely in the form of submissions. WE NEED SUBMISSIONS. ESPECIALLY POETRY. There were probably more elegant ways of saying that, but we, as you can tell, are not overburdened with elegance. Now, don’t you fictionatos out there give up, since you guys have been great about submissions. Not that we want this to turn into a competition or anything, but poets and prosers alike, you can show your love and hopefully talent by submitting to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. Our next issue: Early May.
Also, really, the blog, thetoucanonline.blogspot.com, is a helpful and fun resource. The more you check it out, the more we’ll update it. Especially because, dang it, we want to have a release party sometime this century. This will be two issues without a party, and since our mascot is a highly social smoker who is inspired by smoking at parties, this is UNACCEPTABLE. We want to organize a reading, writing, talking, and of course eating extravaganza. Literature is nothing without food, right? We merely need venue suggestions, which can be submitted at the email address or on the blog. However, Senor Toucan is not a tipsy bird, plus he’s underage, so only a hangout that is not 21+ works.
In closing, the usual thx apply, but we’d like to give a special shout-out to Jeanne Lombaer, who was so brainwashed by our brilliant green cover... she found other ways to support us and we wish some of you readers had green on the brain. Thank you, Mrs. Lombaer, our first (and currently only) lifetime subscription holder. Viva you, and La Toucan too!
Editor Liz
We do hope you enjoyed our last issue, which is why you likely bawled with undisguised joy when you saw that familiar chain-smoking bird grinning at you from either the English office or that handy table on the Fiction Writing floor. The fact that we did another issue speaks to either our inherent craziness or your enjoyment. I’ll just say both. And we really are pretty darn excited about this issue… it’s kind of a habit of ours. For one thing, we found a few more poets under rocks, dazzling their flaky language about wildly when coaxed. We’ve been reminded of “Burnt Sienna” mornings on the L along with other “Fatelistic Trains”, the perils of “Chronic Indecision”, and even being at war with your own name, ala Laura of “Laura: At War”. Alice makes a triumphant encore in Part One of “Alice Gothica”, we meet “Ghosts of the South Building” and a “Designated Hitter”, and encounter utter vividness and dystopia in “The Journalist of Fingers”. I think we did OK for ourselves second time around, whatta ‘bout you?
But we need support if we are to keep airborne (it’s a Toucan, ha ha). Definitely in the form of submissions. WE NEED SUBMISSIONS. ESPECIALLY POETRY. There were probably more elegant ways of saying that, but we, as you can tell, are not overburdened with elegance. Now, don’t you fictionatos out there give up, since you guys have been great about submissions. Not that we want this to turn into a competition or anything, but poets and prosers alike, you can show your love and hopefully talent by submitting to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. Our next issue: Early May.
Also, really, the blog, thetoucanonline.blogspot.com, is a helpful and fun resource. The more you check it out, the more we’ll update it. Especially because, dang it, we want to have a release party sometime this century. This will be two issues without a party, and since our mascot is a highly social smoker who is inspired by smoking at parties, this is UNACCEPTABLE. We want to organize a reading, writing, talking, and of course eating extravaganza. Literature is nothing without food, right? We merely need venue suggestions, which can be submitted at the email address or on the blog. However, Senor Toucan is not a tipsy bird, plus he’s underage, so only a hangout that is not 21+ works.
In closing, the usual thx apply, but we’d like to give a special shout-out to Jeanne Lombaer, who was so brainwashed by our brilliant green cover... she found other ways to support us and we wish some of you readers had green on the brain. Thank you, Mrs. Lombaer, our first (and currently only) lifetime subscription holder. Viva you, and La Toucan too!
Editor Liz
Page 24--Burnt Sienna--Avy Kaplan
Electric lights illuminate our lives
And my mind cannot process
2 and 3 and 4 and 5
They’re all one blur
Of bright white motion
Watched until I wane.
Awake at last I try to see
If I can save my face today but
This empty car with cold blue seats
Communicates to me that I cannot.
I read a sign that speaks in faded red paint
So old that each winter more chips leave it
To migrate further south
It reads 95, but I swear I usually arise
Long before this time.
And people in their fervor
Push and shove and I awake
When Jackson comes
But not today.
And my mind cannot process
2 and 3 and 4 and 5
They’re all one blur
Of bright white motion
Watched until I wane.
Awake at last I try to see
If I can save my face today but
This empty car with cold blue seats
Communicates to me that I cannot.
I read a sign that speaks in faded red paint
So old that each winter more chips leave it
To migrate further south
It reads 95, but I swear I usually arise
Long before this time.
And people in their fervor
Push and shove and I awake
When Jackson comes
But not today.
Page 23--Chronic Indecision--Adam Lawson
Most of my days are spent scraping stains off pants and shirts.
Hot sauce crust, Mustard crust, human crust.
Flaking off and falling to the ground.
They collect in specs and piles.
Microscopic mounds of yesterday's hot dog
And last week’s company.
The chili stain on my pants leg reminds me of home.
The stain the Jager left reminds me of the party
and that curly haired girl.
Some people say I'm dirty
I'm just a nostalgic.
Hot sauce crust, Mustard crust, human crust.
Flaking off and falling to the ground.
They collect in specs and piles.
Microscopic mounds of yesterday's hot dog
And last week’s company.
The chili stain on my pants leg reminds me of home.
The stain the Jager left reminds me of the party
and that curly haired girl.
Some people say I'm dirty
I'm just a nostalgic.
Page 22--A Fatelistic Train--Emily C. Dabe
The list of movies to see and books to read
and music to listen to grows feeble
and trivial compared to what I have
already done.
What awaits a checked-off-list owner,
except to pass on gained
knowledge gleaned
off the skimming of oldermore influential creams
and whipped
into a superficial sweet and artificial
naught but a garnish
Without even the scraps of
The feast that it onced emphasized
They will starve on our obesity!
I have relaxed my mind to
Earn yet more relaxation.
Retirement, from nothing,
Was that what our forefathers strove for?
Equal obsolete-ion for all?
OH ALDOUS Why not provide an alternative
insanity, seems the only solutionto the Shelter
of mother’s little
Soma
Garden State
Of
being.
and music to listen to grows feeble
and trivial compared to what I have
already done.
What awaits a checked-off-list owner,
except to pass on gained
knowledge gleaned
off the skimming of oldermore influential creams
and whipped
into a superficial sweet and artificial
naught but a garnish
Without even the scraps of
The feast that it onced emphasized
They will starve on our obesity!
I have relaxed my mind to
Earn yet more relaxation.
Retirement, from nothing,
Was that what our forefathers strove for?
Equal obsolete-ion for all?
OH ALDOUS Why not provide an alternative
insanity, seems the only solutionto the Shelter
of mother’s little
Soma
Garden State
Of
being.
Page 20--Automatic 001--Daniel Majid
Note: "Automatic 001" is a piece of automatic writing with text preserved despite errors.
Bonafide regulatory patterns can coat a familiar face by leaving the creek bed by itself through bear markets. Based out of the Massachusetts state assembly, why weren’t the boys handed their own names besides the trunks they carry on their heads for fear of a good laugh.
Graduation to an essential nutrient deficient monarchy relies completely on what ever kind of battle the two groups can conjure from the blood soaked pits where a fine meal can be prepared. Leave the last table of the night, and it’s doubtful that the money will return to an accustomed flight pattern. Needless feeding was the last commandment left on the mount, beheaded by largess, maintained by apathy.
There’s no need to beguile your own sister, leave her in the ground and pay the wrong man to watch the wrong hole. It’s difficult to believe that no more of the disheartened body, once devoted to a family, was the beautiful beginning to a mediocre middle, and another beautiful beginning. Never mind the tree-nuts, buy the whole lot, and gain a boy. Young and grim.
Won’t a leavened chicken begin to roost on the wrong side of the lake? There are sufficient paradoxes to understand where the money has gone, and when the time permits, a vegetative state can be achieved to herald the age of Boris the man-taker, our time has become naught. Leveled when the sky grows, be weary when the mother takes her own life, be anxious when the soldier begins his assault, or be amazed when the Earth reveals itself.
Nested on more lies than one could carry on a rock, were the men paid to leave? When were we when our God met yours? Nettles will trap your eyes in paradise, kill the ones who won’t allow it. Throw their lives. A burden won’t be relieved on the store or the next, you’ll drown for entertainment, lacking a firm distraction.
Poor boy lying near the feast, suffer me to the hour I grow to be used for a bloody school day; turn my wonder into the fish that cannot be won’t for a love of its own. Find its lent sacrifice charming? Create your own kept women in 16 easy steps. A days work cannot ease your pain, kill your hate with the borrowed manner you’ve had in your own home for years.
The question will still remain: Fortune or sacrifice? Sacrifice of course will need to be revitalized for the young, while the old reap their fortune.
Bonafide regulatory patterns can coat a familiar face by leaving the creek bed by itself through bear markets. Based out of the Massachusetts state assembly, why weren’t the boys handed their own names besides the trunks they carry on their heads for fear of a good laugh.
Graduation to an essential nutrient deficient monarchy relies completely on what ever kind of battle the two groups can conjure from the blood soaked pits where a fine meal can be prepared. Leave the last table of the night, and it’s doubtful that the money will return to an accustomed flight pattern. Needless feeding was the last commandment left on the mount, beheaded by largess, maintained by apathy.
There’s no need to beguile your own sister, leave her in the ground and pay the wrong man to watch the wrong hole. It’s difficult to believe that no more of the disheartened body, once devoted to a family, was the beautiful beginning to a mediocre middle, and another beautiful beginning. Never mind the tree-nuts, buy the whole lot, and gain a boy. Young and grim.
Won’t a leavened chicken begin to roost on the wrong side of the lake? There are sufficient paradoxes to understand where the money has gone, and when the time permits, a vegetative state can be achieved to herald the age of Boris the man-taker, our time has become naught. Leveled when the sky grows, be weary when the mother takes her own life, be anxious when the soldier begins his assault, or be amazed when the Earth reveals itself.
Nested on more lies than one could carry on a rock, were the men paid to leave? When were we when our God met yours? Nettles will trap your eyes in paradise, kill the ones who won’t allow it. Throw their lives. A burden won’t be relieved on the store or the next, you’ll drown for entertainment, lacking a firm distraction.
Poor boy lying near the feast, suffer me to the hour I grow to be used for a bloody school day; turn my wonder into the fish that cannot be won’t for a love of its own. Find its lent sacrifice charming? Create your own kept women in 16 easy steps. A days work cannot ease your pain, kill your hate with the borrowed manner you’ve had in your own home for years.
The question will still remain: Fortune or sacrifice? Sacrifice of course will need to be revitalized for the young, while the old reap their fortune.
Page 19--Some Facts--Alexa Langrock
The old man sits in the kitchen sharpening his knives. Several hundred blades glisten, the moon floating in his palm. A girl sees a hummingbird and says, “I’d like to have that.” She pins the animal to the front of her dress, an ornament sure to receive compliments. The bird brings her dreams that night, but she cannot get comfortable in bed with the lump attached to her chest. Come morning she steals the old man’s sharpest knife, pierces her neck with equidistant holes, watches as water pours out like a wine fountain. She places the hummingbird in the bathroom sink, listens to its song as it drinks up, its chest swollen like the moon.
Page 17--Rise--Olivia Petrus
Note: "Rise" is a flow in the tradition of underground hip-hop.
The lucid melody slithers through the static in my mind
Sedated by this dream state that distorts the hands of time
I gaze out of the window in my absent, blank delusion
And watch your ashes rise in waves; a trait of this illusion
In the corner of my vision, you’re a master of the concrete
Coming to conclusions melting truth beneath the blind heat
I shift my vantage point of thought, but never quite awaken
Too fried and sizzled from the plot my fate’s managed to shaken
Clearly it’s mistaken me, in blissful ease it gracefully
Shaped and changed my destiny by peacing out in apathy
Thus slashing free; my course of acceptance
A prayer said in silence of humble repentance
Read out my sentence, of choices, pretenses
Rendered defenseless with fists clenched with consequences
I drop the tenses senses locked in expressing the thought
Discard impressions not respecting the flow as art
Let’s start commencing lyrical interventions
A revolution reflecting the growing movement’s new message
So I step out of the tangible, dissolve the grains of salt
The mountain range behind my shoulders made of pain I tossed
Transcend the dimensions trapped in casual thought
Immensed in my attention to the lessons it taught
Lost in watching the cosmic knot begin
To bend loose swimming free of my physical sins
A wind rush that spins the final rough remnants
Point to the horizon that disguise inner sentiments
It’s time to rise past that cynical stage
That’s laced with rage, plagued by cynical angst
Hike through the valley, splash in venomous banks
Like the shadow in the alley guards the menacing gates
Relegate debate’s weight
Concentrate on straight states
Drip out hate’s precipitate and network with affiliates
That reconciliate, rest assured it’s synchronicity
Embryonic nurturers breed psychic soul simplicity
Cellular fidelity blends light refractions splendidly
Circumvent intensity, submerge resent; think tenderly…
If the feelings don’t subside, take a dive into expansion
Synthesized explicitly for consciousness advancement
The chemical compassion will appreciate the fact
That entactogens can act as an aphrodisiac
Libido seizures snap; racked in serotonin spasms
The peak you reach is weak, so you fight the crash be grabbing
Another poison package origin stemming from organic chemists
Amateur practice lack credentials; residential menace
He never mentioned that his twisted inventions
Sent his better intentions down a bent path towards hell and
We wanted heaven and Tibetan Olympics
Tripping out our minds towards the infinite limits
No matter which way you spit it, don’t forget there’s a difference
You were blessed with the wisdom of existential incisions
The lucid melody slithers through the static in my mind
Sedated by this dream state that distorts the hands of time
I gaze out of the window in my absent, blank delusion
And watch your ashes rise in waves; a trait of this illusion
In the corner of my vision, you’re a master of the concrete
Coming to conclusions melting truth beneath the blind heat
I shift my vantage point of thought, but never quite awaken
Too fried and sizzled from the plot my fate’s managed to shaken
Clearly it’s mistaken me, in blissful ease it gracefully
Shaped and changed my destiny by peacing out in apathy
Thus slashing free; my course of acceptance
A prayer said in silence of humble repentance
Read out my sentence, of choices, pretenses
Rendered defenseless with fists clenched with consequences
I drop the tenses senses locked in expressing the thought
Discard impressions not respecting the flow as art
Let’s start commencing lyrical interventions
A revolution reflecting the growing movement’s new message
So I step out of the tangible, dissolve the grains of salt
The mountain range behind my shoulders made of pain I tossed
Transcend the dimensions trapped in casual thought
Immensed in my attention to the lessons it taught
Lost in watching the cosmic knot begin
To bend loose swimming free of my physical sins
A wind rush that spins the final rough remnants
Point to the horizon that disguise inner sentiments
It’s time to rise past that cynical stage
That’s laced with rage, plagued by cynical angst
Hike through the valley, splash in venomous banks
Like the shadow in the alley guards the menacing gates
Relegate debate’s weight
Concentrate on straight states
Drip out hate’s precipitate and network with affiliates
That reconciliate, rest assured it’s synchronicity
Embryonic nurturers breed psychic soul simplicity
Cellular fidelity blends light refractions splendidly
Circumvent intensity, submerge resent; think tenderly…
If the feelings don’t subside, take a dive into expansion
Synthesized explicitly for consciousness advancement
The chemical compassion will appreciate the fact
That entactogens can act as an aphrodisiac
Libido seizures snap; racked in serotonin spasms
The peak you reach is weak, so you fight the crash be grabbing
Another poison package origin stemming from organic chemists
Amateur practice lack credentials; residential menace
He never mentioned that his twisted inventions
Sent his better intentions down a bent path towards hell and
We wanted heaven and Tibetan Olympics
Tripping out our minds towards the infinite limits
No matter which way you spit it, don’t forget there’s a difference
You were blessed with the wisdom of existential incisions
Page 16--Laura: The Poem Of War--Laura Rynberg
So, the one and only Lizzy B. (that's an in-joke, you know) persuaded me to find words using only the letters in my name. THEN she convinced me to do a poem with those words. I SHOULD have done my middle name too cause it would have made this much more pleasant. Anyway, it was fun. When I write my autobiography, Laura: The War, this must be in the front because half of the words were angry words and it’s sort of fitting if you know my bloodline (which is dodgy at best, it's pretty much the World Wars in there). ANYWAY, this is a poem using words that have the same letters in my name. I tried to make it make sense, let’s see if it worked.
A year ‘n’ an era
Able anger burn by
Gray lane barely regal
Bang arena real ugly
Rage lay near lung
Arrange an early brag
Real angry earn’r rue bugle
Bane barrel nearby ‘n’ earn a granule
Lurgy run ably
Bye bye angel
TA-DA
A year ‘n’ an era
Able anger burn by
Gray lane barely regal
Bang arena real ugly
Rage lay near lung
Arrange an early brag
Real angry earn’r rue bugle
Bane barrel nearby ‘n’ earn a granule
Lurgy run ably
Bye bye angel
TA-DA
Page 13--The Journalist Of Fingers, Cont'd
I can tell by the subtle drooping of her eyelids, but it’s of no importance. I don’t think a day passes without me talking to someone who has no freaking idea what I’m talking about. It’s a learned response. Sickle can just shrug off vital bits of esoterica, a skill which has lead to many a conversation consisting solely of an aimless dramatic monologue and an absently nodding head.
Once again, we sigh.
“I don’t love him,” she says, “but I liked it.”
The thin contours of her smooth face release, her lips so filled with longing for the touch of another, salivating in pure fantasy.
“Do what you want.” I say, “You’re young, you should enjoy it. Do you think I’m judging you? I’ve no need to.”
“I’m good, right?”
“Of course you are. There’s nothing in you. No catalyst for the
the cancer of pregnancy.” I said, in actuality doubting her volatile innards could sustain fetal growth.
“I know, but I can’t help but feel—” “Like a real woman? Fulfilled? Dirty?”
“I guess.”
“Do you want to be clean? Do you want to be pure?”
“I don’t know.” “Don’t bother. Let them all in you. All the world’s a cock and we’re but a bunch of filthy holes. So open wide, dearest.”
And Sickle pouts still, my wisdom obviously lost on her. This is a nowhere conversation. We could loop back around on this same topic for hours and hours. Well, it’s the price you pay for knowing a girl’s mind so intimately. Most guys chase after women to get somewhere, but Sickle Cell’s been a living dead-end from the very beginning. We’re like eternity in a cubicle, the two of us, but the crushed dream apathy is still a few leagues off.
“At least you’re attaining your desires,” I mumble, “I covet what I see every day. Fantasizing, idealizing, molesting in my mind. But you know what? I’ll never have it. Like a fly drawn to an enticing light, I’ll incinerate upon the most passing touch.”
“And what is it you want?”
“Something you’ll never know.” I say knowingly.
Standing up, I stretch out my arms. Hearing a crack in my shoulders, I do the same with my legs. As I cast my eyes downward my thoughts turn to the cabal of flesh typewriters, spewing their seed from copper orifices. Another hallucination, probably a side-effect from all the neck ink.
Looking to the moist night sky, I absently mumble. “Tell me, little Sickle Cell, can masturbation ever involve more than a single person?”
“What?”
“Is it still technically masturbation if more than one body is involved? Like a group, or maybe even a couple?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
I see a little bulge surface on her cheek and move around. I’ve always thought it was just a chick thing, but now I know I’m running out of time.
“You see precious, girls can not use the journalism easily,” I explain, “It requires easy accessibility and that’s not possible with the female body. Things are too internal, you follow?”
“Obviously. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”
My arm wraps around Sickle and I draw her close, her body warmed by the hot pangs of muscular liquidation. Someday I will leave her. It’s inevitable, maybe even sooner than later. When that time comes, pristine fleshy teeth will gnaw at her delicate brain. If left alone,
the system will assimilate her. The journalism, a solitary act, long slandered, will protect and keep her many cells a single composite entity. I have become her protector.
“It’s getting late,” I say, bending down to caress her hair again, “We should go.”
She stands, the light from the streetlamp pouring through her. Hunched slightly, she begins to walk. As we turn the corner, I look down the alley.
“Sickle,” I ask, “Do you remember our disastrous attempt at entrepreneurship? That time I found the intestinal pump behind that dumpster over there? Remember how I used it to suck out all your gunk?”
“When was this?”
“Not that long ago. I harvested it as a skin crème and worked out a deal with Halberd. He got some guy to pedal it off on a bunch of old wasps who became horribly addicted. It sunk through their skin, flowed around their bloodstream, eventually affecting the brain. Thinking they were little girls, they picked up your scent and sprinted after you (much to the discontent of their Alzheimer's rotted hips) tearing at you with nail polish coated claws. If Halberd wasn’t there to flick a lit cigarette at the old sluts, you’d be dead. Remember how their pink skin went up in a cloud of flame? Your melting flesh affected their very psychology, driving them mad with chemical nostalgia. Of course the gunk was still highly flammable. They think they’ve got life experience, but they’re still slaves to vanity.”
“That never happened.”
“You really don’t remember?”
“No,” she says.
A long thin worm, like an otherworldly thread, slithers out of her apple shaped cheeks and falls to the ground.
Once again, we sigh.
“I don’t love him,” she says, “but I liked it.”
The thin contours of her smooth face release, her lips so filled with longing for the touch of another, salivating in pure fantasy.
“Do what you want.” I say, “You’re young, you should enjoy it. Do you think I’m judging you? I’ve no need to.”
“I’m good, right?”
“Of course you are. There’s nothing in you. No catalyst for the
the cancer of pregnancy.” I said, in actuality doubting her volatile innards could sustain fetal growth.
“I know, but I can’t help but feel—” “Like a real woman? Fulfilled? Dirty?”
“I guess.”
“Do you want to be clean? Do you want to be pure?”
“I don’t know.” “Don’t bother. Let them all in you. All the world’s a cock and we’re but a bunch of filthy holes. So open wide, dearest.”
And Sickle pouts still, my wisdom obviously lost on her. This is a nowhere conversation. We could loop back around on this same topic for hours and hours. Well, it’s the price you pay for knowing a girl’s mind so intimately. Most guys chase after women to get somewhere, but Sickle Cell’s been a living dead-end from the very beginning. We’re like eternity in a cubicle, the two of us, but the crushed dream apathy is still a few leagues off.
“At least you’re attaining your desires,” I mumble, “I covet what I see every day. Fantasizing, idealizing, molesting in my mind. But you know what? I’ll never have it. Like a fly drawn to an enticing light, I’ll incinerate upon the most passing touch.”
“And what is it you want?”
“Something you’ll never know.” I say knowingly.
Standing up, I stretch out my arms. Hearing a crack in my shoulders, I do the same with my legs. As I cast my eyes downward my thoughts turn to the cabal of flesh typewriters, spewing their seed from copper orifices. Another hallucination, probably a side-effect from all the neck ink.
Looking to the moist night sky, I absently mumble. “Tell me, little Sickle Cell, can masturbation ever involve more than a single person?”
“What?”
“Is it still technically masturbation if more than one body is involved? Like a group, or maybe even a couple?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
I see a little bulge surface on her cheek and move around. I’ve always thought it was just a chick thing, but now I know I’m running out of time.
“You see precious, girls can not use the journalism easily,” I explain, “It requires easy accessibility and that’s not possible with the female body. Things are too internal, you follow?”
“Obviously. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”
My arm wraps around Sickle and I draw her close, her body warmed by the hot pangs of muscular liquidation. Someday I will leave her. It’s inevitable, maybe even sooner than later. When that time comes, pristine fleshy teeth will gnaw at her delicate brain. If left alone,
the system will assimilate her. The journalism, a solitary act, long slandered, will protect and keep her many cells a single composite entity. I have become her protector.
“It’s getting late,” I say, bending down to caress her hair again, “We should go.”
She stands, the light from the streetlamp pouring through her. Hunched slightly, she begins to walk. As we turn the corner, I look down the alley.
“Sickle,” I ask, “Do you remember our disastrous attempt at entrepreneurship? That time I found the intestinal pump behind that dumpster over there? Remember how I used it to suck out all your gunk?”
“When was this?”
“Not that long ago. I harvested it as a skin crème and worked out a deal with Halberd. He got some guy to pedal it off on a bunch of old wasps who became horribly addicted. It sunk through their skin, flowed around their bloodstream, eventually affecting the brain. Thinking they were little girls, they picked up your scent and sprinted after you (much to the discontent of their Alzheimer's rotted hips) tearing at you with nail polish coated claws. If Halberd wasn’t there to flick a lit cigarette at the old sluts, you’d be dead. Remember how their pink skin went up in a cloud of flame? Your melting flesh affected their very psychology, driving them mad with chemical nostalgia. Of course the gunk was still highly flammable. They think they’ve got life experience, but they’re still slaves to vanity.”
“That never happened.”
“You really don’t remember?”
“No,” she says.
A long thin worm, like an otherworldly thread, slithers out of her apple shaped cheeks and falls to the ground.
Page 11--The Journalist of Fingers--D.J.R Caron
The machine has grown a fat chrysalis of gray matter in the heart of its engine. Pulling out of the empty plaza, the entire frame violently shakes as it speeds into its own oblivion, oblivious to all but the gradual ticking of its driver’s biological clock. The human core is reduced to a red miasmic jelly slathered over the upholstery, gluing the accelerator to the floor. Absorbed into the gas tank, the machine erupts in a flickering red light as it disappears over the horizon.
I see it as I sit outside the pizza place across the busy street from the funeral home. Sickle Cell, with her very shapely breasts, broods over the edge of the sidewalk. Her grandfather’s body passed through there several years ago. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it affected her in so many little ways, she’s hardly the same person anymore.
But that wasn’t it at all, there’s still so much more.
Sitting beside her my eyes are transfixed on the jelly pooling in the cauterized cavern of her bosom. I ask myself ‘Was it like that yesterday?’ Couldn’t have been. No, not at all. It’s clear to me now that her bodily makeup has conformed to the perfect environmental conditions to support a notitia vermis colony. I get that little anxious dagger sensation in my guts. At least that’s nothing new.
“So, Sickles, what’s it like having such massive tits?” I ask.
“Ugh,” she replies, sighing, “Mother locked me in a dark room after she caught me making out with that kid from down the block.”
It’s a shame really, all the love I have for her and she’s letting herself slip away like this. I doubt it’s a conscious thing. After all, what sentient being would intentionally perform unspeakable mutilations upon their own soul? How could she? After all I’ve done for her?’
“My dad called me a useless slut and said I couldn’t use tampons anymore, so I had to steal my mom’s. I had to dye some of my panties red because I couldn’t get this ginormous stain out.”
At a cursory glance she’d look like the same old girl she’s always been, but the flesh on her face is slowly vanishing. As my cheek presses against hers I can see their once creamy color has become transparent pale gray, sagging slightly off a canvas of thin blue veins.
“So he came over last night after my parents left. Oh my God, that was great. We kissed in the dark, but my sister kept bothering us. I don’t think she knew what was going on, but it was still annoying.”
I’d be lying to say it didn’t upset me. After all, little Sickle is my everything, there from the very beginning. And what now? I’ve sat and watched, done nothing as her body became this walking buffet. Between the reek of deterioration in her spine and the ditzy coldness in her eyes,it’s become almost hard to look at her.
“I don’t know. He’s cute but he hasn’t even called me since then.”
“You’re talking about what's-his-name? The thirteen year old?” I ask.
“He’s not thirteen!” she squeals in irritation.
“Does Gravidia care that you’re molesting her little brother?”
“She hasn’t had any objections but that’s because it’s best she doesn’t know.”
“You like ‘em young,” I say, “And I thought you were a big girl now. Whatever happened to the chocolate? Chocolate bars are yummy yes?”
“Shut up!”
“Bet you’re just drooling over some chocolate with nuts?”
“Yeah, I like it just as much as you do!”
“I only like candy!”
She pouts defeated, her breasts hanging and swaying like a hung man. I couldn’t have upset her, she’s used to my frequent and very passive attacks at her self-esteem, an effect like slow erosion. One I’m very proud of actually, makes me feel clever. And still, I can feel the subtle accusation in the stare of her emotionless gummy companions.
“I saw you two in the alley the other day.” I say “You lend him your toothbrush?”
“What?”
“I know what you’re thinking: ‘If by toothbrush you mean tongue, oh Gawd yes!’”
“What else did you see?” “I saw your little friend with that interesting trick push his girlfriend off the roof. Or at least dreaming about it. He imagined, quite vividly, her slender frame snapping in two upon impact with the sidewalk. You’d better watch that one.”
“You can read minds?”
“I can read faces.”
“Really? You figured all that out from one look?”
“You’d be surprised what a very thorough analysis can reveal.”
“Okay, what am I thinking right now?”
“You’ve got guilt, dearest. Little droplets of misplaced derision stemming from Mommy and Daddy’s childhood propaganda. ‘Oh, how could I!? My lips have touched a boy’s! And oh no! I enjoyed it! I enjoyed it a lot! I must be a filthy little tramp, spreading my mouth apart like this! In no time at all I’ll be doing the same with the little mouth in my pants!’”
“But is it wrong?” she asks.
“What you do when I’m not around is of no concern.”
“Do you think I’m a slut?”
“Not really,” I say, beginning to stroke her streaming brunette locks, “You didn’t actually do anything. C’mon Sickle, what’s a kiss? Or in your case the violent and clearly passionate flailing of your tongue in someone else’s mouth? It’s not like you bent over and screamed ‘Make me a woman right the fuck now!’”
“Yes, at the very least.”
“I mean you could’ve, but you didn’t, y’see that’s self-control.”
“I guess.”
And she lets out a low drawn-out sigh that I find myself imitating.
“Just be happy, you’re getting more than me.” I say, “You think I don’t want to stick things in other people? I most certainly do. It’s just that the right juxtaposition of event and person never transpire. At the end of the day I always find myself all alone, distracted by, ugh, something. Something of no importance to you.”
“Stop, I know you could get someone if you really wanted to, you just don’t try.”
“I likes my independence.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because I’m not like you dearest Sickle, I don’t want to be with someone. I just want to get laid. I mean, sure, you’re a girl and you’ll go on all these grandiose guilt trips if you start sleeping around, but that doesn’t apply to me, nope. As a dude I can fuck all I want and get nothing but accolades for it. Problem is, I don’t bother. Nope, right now I’m content with good old Lefty.”
Then it occurs to me that I just used the word ‘accolades’ in a conversation with a fifteen-year-old girl.
“Oh yeah, I totally do the same thing,” she says, “Except I got a vibrating ice cream cone for those lonely nights.”
“Well, what can I do? The human animal, particularly those emblazoned with the vaginal orifice, are particularly fickle creatures. Often I come to the conclusion that it’s not worth it, preferring the somber seclusion of the enzyme of the phalanx journalism.”
“Uh, okay.”
DON'T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? CLICK HERE.
I see it as I sit outside the pizza place across the busy street from the funeral home. Sickle Cell, with her very shapely breasts, broods over the edge of the sidewalk. Her grandfather’s body passed through there several years ago. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it affected her in so many little ways, she’s hardly the same person anymore.
But that wasn’t it at all, there’s still so much more.
Sitting beside her my eyes are transfixed on the jelly pooling in the cauterized cavern of her bosom. I ask myself ‘Was it like that yesterday?’ Couldn’t have been. No, not at all. It’s clear to me now that her bodily makeup has conformed to the perfect environmental conditions to support a notitia vermis colony. I get that little anxious dagger sensation in my guts. At least that’s nothing new.
“So, Sickles, what’s it like having such massive tits?” I ask.
“Ugh,” she replies, sighing, “Mother locked me in a dark room after she caught me making out with that kid from down the block.”
It’s a shame really, all the love I have for her and she’s letting herself slip away like this. I doubt it’s a conscious thing. After all, what sentient being would intentionally perform unspeakable mutilations upon their own soul? How could she? After all I’ve done for her?’
“My dad called me a useless slut and said I couldn’t use tampons anymore, so I had to steal my mom’s. I had to dye some of my panties red because I couldn’t get this ginormous stain out.”
At a cursory glance she’d look like the same old girl she’s always been, but the flesh on her face is slowly vanishing. As my cheek presses against hers I can see their once creamy color has become transparent pale gray, sagging slightly off a canvas of thin blue veins.
“So he came over last night after my parents left. Oh my God, that was great. We kissed in the dark, but my sister kept bothering us. I don’t think she knew what was going on, but it was still annoying.”
I’d be lying to say it didn’t upset me. After all, little Sickle is my everything, there from the very beginning. And what now? I’ve sat and watched, done nothing as her body became this walking buffet. Between the reek of deterioration in her spine and the ditzy coldness in her eyes,it’s become almost hard to look at her.
“I don’t know. He’s cute but he hasn’t even called me since then.”
“You’re talking about what's-his-name? The thirteen year old?” I ask.
“He’s not thirteen!” she squeals in irritation.
“Does Gravidia care that you’re molesting her little brother?”
“She hasn’t had any objections but that’s because it’s best she doesn’t know.”
“You like ‘em young,” I say, “And I thought you were a big girl now. Whatever happened to the chocolate? Chocolate bars are yummy yes?”
“Shut up!”
“Bet you’re just drooling over some chocolate with nuts?”
“Yeah, I like it just as much as you do!”
“I only like candy!”
She pouts defeated, her breasts hanging and swaying like a hung man. I couldn’t have upset her, she’s used to my frequent and very passive attacks at her self-esteem, an effect like slow erosion. One I’m very proud of actually, makes me feel clever. And still, I can feel the subtle accusation in the stare of her emotionless gummy companions.
“I saw you two in the alley the other day.” I say “You lend him your toothbrush?”
“What?”
“I know what you’re thinking: ‘If by toothbrush you mean tongue, oh Gawd yes!’”
“What else did you see?” “I saw your little friend with that interesting trick push his girlfriend off the roof. Or at least dreaming about it. He imagined, quite vividly, her slender frame snapping in two upon impact with the sidewalk. You’d better watch that one.”
“You can read minds?”
“I can read faces.”
“Really? You figured all that out from one look?”
“You’d be surprised what a very thorough analysis can reveal.”
“Okay, what am I thinking right now?”
“You’ve got guilt, dearest. Little droplets of misplaced derision stemming from Mommy and Daddy’s childhood propaganda. ‘Oh, how could I!? My lips have touched a boy’s! And oh no! I enjoyed it! I enjoyed it a lot! I must be a filthy little tramp, spreading my mouth apart like this! In no time at all I’ll be doing the same with the little mouth in my pants!’”
“But is it wrong?” she asks.
“What you do when I’m not around is of no concern.”
“Do you think I’m a slut?”
“Not really,” I say, beginning to stroke her streaming brunette locks, “You didn’t actually do anything. C’mon Sickle, what’s a kiss? Or in your case the violent and clearly passionate flailing of your tongue in someone else’s mouth? It’s not like you bent over and screamed ‘Make me a woman right the fuck now!’”
“Yes, at the very least.”
“I mean you could’ve, but you didn’t, y’see that’s self-control.”
“I guess.”
And she lets out a low drawn-out sigh that I find myself imitating.
“Just be happy, you’re getting more than me.” I say, “You think I don’t want to stick things in other people? I most certainly do. It’s just that the right juxtaposition of event and person never transpire. At the end of the day I always find myself all alone, distracted by, ugh, something. Something of no importance to you.”
“Stop, I know you could get someone if you really wanted to, you just don’t try.”
“I likes my independence.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because I’m not like you dearest Sickle, I don’t want to be with someone. I just want to get laid. I mean, sure, you’re a girl and you’ll go on all these grandiose guilt trips if you start sleeping around, but that doesn’t apply to me, nope. As a dude I can fuck all I want and get nothing but accolades for it. Problem is, I don’t bother. Nope, right now I’m content with good old Lefty.”
Then it occurs to me that I just used the word ‘accolades’ in a conversation with a fifteen-year-old girl.
“Oh yeah, I totally do the same thing,” she says, “Except I got a vibrating ice cream cone for those lonely nights.”
“Well, what can I do? The human animal, particularly those emblazoned with the vaginal orifice, are particularly fickle creatures. Often I come to the conclusion that it’s not worth it, preferring the somber seclusion of the enzyme of the phalanx journalism.”
“Uh, okay.”
DON'T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? CLICK HERE.
Page 9--Designated Hitter Con't
Crash touched the pine tar on his helmet and rubbed his hands together as to maintain a firm grip on his bat. The bat that he superstitiously believed had gotten the team this far. This complicated and underrated triad of bat, eyes, and hands was the only thing he was expected to understand. His only task: to swing at anything that came close to the plate. To always have an upper hand against what was thrown at him. To expect, or rather foresee what drew near. To completely obliterate anything meaningful that ever made an effort to get near him.
In an attempt to fill the void both Crash and the ticking clock had created, the announcer bellowed out: As you know, Kenny Nash has struggled at the plate since his wife Kim moved out two months ago. She met a charming police officer at a coffee shop. She forged his signature on their divorce papers, left him with custody of their son, and eloped with the cop to Tampa. They are more in love than she and Crash could ever be. So, let’s give him your support, folks! The audience looked around, confused, and chanted, “Crash!”He stepped back into the box, batted the dirt out from under his cleats, and braced for the second pitch. Tosh reared back and tenderly released his knuckle-curveball, hovering with so much spin that the laces of the ball began to unravel. The leather sidings curled and ripped themselves from the rubber core, which exploded into a million shards of itself as it reached the plate. The hurricane spun and danced viciously on the center of home plate. Before he could back away, Crash was yanked into the eye of the phenomenon by a pair of hands. There, in the safety of the direct center of the storm, he saw his wife Kim, her auburn hair whipping around her cheeks and neck in the slowest, most fragile form of perfection. They were sitting at an umbrella-shaded table outside of their local coffee house. He watched as her hands fumbled nervously and incessantly to remove her wedding ring. He examined his beautiful wife as she reached into her handbag and pulled out different makeup application instruments. His heart leaped out of his chest, as he couldn’t remember the last time she had bothered to wear makeup for him, or if she ever had. Would he have even noticed? As soon as his heart reached the furthest point that his skin would allow, it retracted into an empty cavity, possibly to never beat again, not for anything. It was at that moment that a police officer had asserted himself to a confrontation between lips and saliva. He smiled and handed Kim, who also smiled, her favorite drink, which Crash had long forgotten. He sat next to her and they talked like old friends, taking short breaks to kiss and whisper dirty jokes into each other’s ears, both showing absolutely no regard for a former love sitting across from them. Crash cleared his throat as means to get their attention. Nothing. He said Kim’s name. Nothing. Finally, he stood and swung his bat with every ounce of intensity he had down at the table. The metal slab collapsed, drinks spilled brown splotches everywhere, and the lovers arose, holding each other dearly. Kim looked at Crash, displeased, and yelled, “Strike Two!” The cop pushed him out of the eddy and back into the batter’s box, but not before shouting, “Crash!” Though it sounded much different than it did when it quaked through Grainger Stadium.
Back in the action, Crash turned to see his adoring fans still chanting his name, only the way the police officer coined. Lead by the Indians’ mascot, the crowd was howling, “CRASH-AND-BURN! CRASH-AND-BURN!”
The consciousness stung, that his only way out of a life that had totally abandoned him was hanging in the balance of a game with which he was falling out of love. Baseball was the only thing he had ever wanted to know or love, but while coming to he realized that the game had never once said it back. It was then, one strike away from the next disappointment, that Crash wished he didn’t have the responsibility. He wished that his parachute had never opened when he and Kim went skydiving for their fifth wedding anniversary. He angrily wondered why his son had never poisoned his breakfast or set the master bedroom afire. Crash wished that he had strangled himself to death with his own umbilical chord when in his mother’s womb. He dreamed he had been born a plover so that he could soar through life above the Atlantic on the Outer Banks. With the sunset instead of spotlights to warm his wings. Where the only sounds ever to be heard were the breaking of waves and the caws of his friends.
When Tosh wound up for his third pitch and before the ball had even reached the plate, Crash handed his bat to the umpire and walked off the field, for good. He apologized to the mascot for pushing so hard, but refused to look at the crowd as he made his exit. Every light in Kinston burned out right then and there, never to be replaced again.
In an attempt to fill the void both Crash and the ticking clock had created, the announcer bellowed out: As you know, Kenny Nash has struggled at the plate since his wife Kim moved out two months ago. She met a charming police officer at a coffee shop. She forged his signature on their divorce papers, left him with custody of their son, and eloped with the cop to Tampa. They are more in love than she and Crash could ever be. So, let’s give him your support, folks! The audience looked around, confused, and chanted, “Crash!”He stepped back into the box, batted the dirt out from under his cleats, and braced for the second pitch. Tosh reared back and tenderly released his knuckle-curveball, hovering with so much spin that the laces of the ball began to unravel. The leather sidings curled and ripped themselves from the rubber core, which exploded into a million shards of itself as it reached the plate. The hurricane spun and danced viciously on the center of home plate. Before he could back away, Crash was yanked into the eye of the phenomenon by a pair of hands. There, in the safety of the direct center of the storm, he saw his wife Kim, her auburn hair whipping around her cheeks and neck in the slowest, most fragile form of perfection. They were sitting at an umbrella-shaded table outside of their local coffee house. He watched as her hands fumbled nervously and incessantly to remove her wedding ring. He examined his beautiful wife as she reached into her handbag and pulled out different makeup application instruments. His heart leaped out of his chest, as he couldn’t remember the last time she had bothered to wear makeup for him, or if she ever had. Would he have even noticed? As soon as his heart reached the furthest point that his skin would allow, it retracted into an empty cavity, possibly to never beat again, not for anything. It was at that moment that a police officer had asserted himself to a confrontation between lips and saliva. He smiled and handed Kim, who also smiled, her favorite drink, which Crash had long forgotten. He sat next to her and they talked like old friends, taking short breaks to kiss and whisper dirty jokes into each other’s ears, both showing absolutely no regard for a former love sitting across from them. Crash cleared his throat as means to get their attention. Nothing. He said Kim’s name. Nothing. Finally, he stood and swung his bat with every ounce of intensity he had down at the table. The metal slab collapsed, drinks spilled brown splotches everywhere, and the lovers arose, holding each other dearly. Kim looked at Crash, displeased, and yelled, “Strike Two!” The cop pushed him out of the eddy and back into the batter’s box, but not before shouting, “Crash!” Though it sounded much different than it did when it quaked through Grainger Stadium.
Back in the action, Crash turned to see his adoring fans still chanting his name, only the way the police officer coined. Lead by the Indians’ mascot, the crowd was howling, “CRASH-AND-BURN! CRASH-AND-BURN!”
The consciousness stung, that his only way out of a life that had totally abandoned him was hanging in the balance of a game with which he was falling out of love. Baseball was the only thing he had ever wanted to know or love, but while coming to he realized that the game had never once said it back. It was then, one strike away from the next disappointment, that Crash wished he didn’t have the responsibility. He wished that his parachute had never opened when he and Kim went skydiving for their fifth wedding anniversary. He angrily wondered why his son had never poisoned his breakfast or set the master bedroom afire. Crash wished that he had strangled himself to death with his own umbilical chord when in his mother’s womb. He dreamed he had been born a plover so that he could soar through life above the Atlantic on the Outer Banks. With the sunset instead of spotlights to warm his wings. Where the only sounds ever to be heard were the breaking of waves and the caws of his friends.
When Tosh wound up for his third pitch and before the ball had even reached the plate, Crash handed his bat to the umpire and walked off the field, for good. He apologized to the mascot for pushing so hard, but refused to look at the crowd as he made his exit. Every light in Kinston burned out right then and there, never to be replaced again.
Page 7--Designated Hitter--Ryan Mattern
It was aesthetically bright that night, or as bright as a September evening in Kinston could possibly be. There was a vibration snapping every frequency that even thought about becoming a sound. Held breaths caused every heart in town to double every pitter and quadruple every patter. The announcer called for an excited cloud formation and misting droplets of anxiety.
The Kinston Indians were down by one run in the bottom of the ninth inning in their showdown with the Erie Sea Dogs, two teams who had been grid-locked all season long for first place in their division and had a chance to go to the Eastern League Playoffs. Not a single fan stirred in these final grueling innings. Even peanut vendors well below their sales quotas hushed and nervously prayed.
The Sea Dogs’ newly acquired prospect, Tosh Wakatsuki—from Japan and capable of throwing some kind of wicked kamikaze when on the hill—had been called in to relieve in the fourth inning and maintained a no-hitter ever since. One by one, Kenny “The Crash” Nash watched as his comrades fell prey to a violent Japanese barrage, much like the USS Arizona, fiery and swirling into the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean. These Sea Dogs were relentless pirates at heart and by franchise.
After the first batter of the side had become little more than a brilliantly painful “K” strewn over the edge of Erie’s dugout and just before Crash’s best friend, shortstop Tony McCabe stepped out into the on-deck circle, he leaned over, worked a sewagey piece of Red Man to the side of his mouth and said, “Ain’t no way we goin’ out like this. It’s our chance to be kids forever, Crash.” He recalled getting the worst cold of his childhood one rainy, autumn afternoon that he and Tony had spent playing Over-the-Line. Both children were freezing, but nonetheless unwilling to quit the game. Growing up in Kinston, baseball was like an airborne virus to which all succumbed. This was not a bad thing in the slightest, just to say that as far back as Crash could remember, baseball was the only thing important to him. And no matter what distractions came about, nothing came close in daring him to break custom. Before he could even get in a practice swing, Eli Stinson grounded out and it was then all on Tony’s shoulders to keep the team alive. He took the first pitch of the at-bat, a fastball high and inside, for a ball. The second pitch was Wakatsuki’s bread and butter, a knuckle-curveball paced almost thirty miles per hour less than his fastball, and with a tendency to disappear upon arriving to the plate. Definitely unhittable. Tony had no choice but to chase it. That pitch rolled in slow and smooth, delicate and beautiful, reminding every batter of his first kiss. That one special moment during the summer vacation between elementary school and junior high. Every boy and girl in town, terrified by the rumors of breasts, getting trash-canned, and showering with their peers, gently collapsed into each other’s arms, completely vulnerable in an attempt to perfectly recreate their favorite movie scene. Sadly, no kiss would ever be the same.
Stunned with nostalgia, Tony violently swung at a fastball right down the pipe and felt a wonderfully strange sensation: contact. He smashed the pitch back up the middle for a single. This glint of hope for the Indians set all eyes aglow and left every seat empty as fans jumped and roared in ecstasy, a once forgotten feeling. All the while Crash had been spinning two bats over and around his head, fearing a looming responsibility to both his team and his faithful hometown.
The loudspeakers boomed the announcement for everyone’s favorite lapsed hero: Kinston, North Carolina! Please welcome number twenty-seven, designated hitter, Kenny “The Crash” Nash! Still erupting over Tony’s single, the crowd began to chant, “Kin-ston! In-juns!” over and again, louder with each section’s involvement. Tony had taken a huge lead, pointed to Crash, and mouthed Bring me home, baby!
Crash cherished these few seconds as if they were one golden hour. A shiny, metallic reminder that along with the glory of heroism came the potential opportunity for advancement to AAA or even the majors. That one desperate chance he needed to be given in order to prove that he was cut out for the big leagues. That he had scarcely dreamed other than of rejoicing in the cheers of his loyal fans in the comfort of his diamond-shaped kingdom. An opportunity to show his love for the game, the likes of which he had held back from his family in order to give one-hundred and ten percent to this ballclub. That he lived as though life was the past-time and baseball was reality. The thought of being called up to Jacobs Field with a blue and red “Cleveland” embroidered over his heart brought tears to his squinty, black eyes.
Milk spoiled faster than Crash’s timely stroll to the plate. Tensions were high and adrenaline peaked as the crowd began to roar, “Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash!” It eventually picked up enough to shake the earth far beyond the city limits. Crash, raptured by his fans’ support, looked fiercely into Wakatsuki’s eyes and dared him to bring the heat. But, he was frozen by a late-breaking slider.
The umpire screamed, “Striiike.” Crash cocked his head back with an angered disappointment. He looked to the ump for reassurance.
“Your son secretly hates you for pushing him so hard in baseball. He really wants to be an artist. His resentment for you is extremely prevalent in his work,” The ump fired. Immediately Crash threw his hand up and stepped out of the box. He placed his helmet on the ground and began rubbing his eyes. He saw the Indians’ mascot standing atop his team’s dugout, flailing his tomahawk in gentle, mellifluous strokes. The air around it, slowly becoming paint, was churning into a grotesque aquarium of browns and greens. The foam and rubber Native turned to Crash and said, “I’m not you!” Crash continued to rub his eyes and shook his head. This was followed by a desperate attempt to blink away the demons. He nodded, the Indian now harassing the 4,100 in attendance, and continued with his routine.
FOR THE NEXT PITCH, READ PART TWO...CLICK HERE
The Kinston Indians were down by one run in the bottom of the ninth inning in their showdown with the Erie Sea Dogs, two teams who had been grid-locked all season long for first place in their division and had a chance to go to the Eastern League Playoffs. Not a single fan stirred in these final grueling innings. Even peanut vendors well below their sales quotas hushed and nervously prayed.
The Sea Dogs’ newly acquired prospect, Tosh Wakatsuki—from Japan and capable of throwing some kind of wicked kamikaze when on the hill—had been called in to relieve in the fourth inning and maintained a no-hitter ever since. One by one, Kenny “The Crash” Nash watched as his comrades fell prey to a violent Japanese barrage, much like the USS Arizona, fiery and swirling into the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean. These Sea Dogs were relentless pirates at heart and by franchise.
After the first batter of the side had become little more than a brilliantly painful “K” strewn over the edge of Erie’s dugout and just before Crash’s best friend, shortstop Tony McCabe stepped out into the on-deck circle, he leaned over, worked a sewagey piece of Red Man to the side of his mouth and said, “Ain’t no way we goin’ out like this. It’s our chance to be kids forever, Crash.” He recalled getting the worst cold of his childhood one rainy, autumn afternoon that he and Tony had spent playing Over-the-Line. Both children were freezing, but nonetheless unwilling to quit the game. Growing up in Kinston, baseball was like an airborne virus to which all succumbed. This was not a bad thing in the slightest, just to say that as far back as Crash could remember, baseball was the only thing important to him. And no matter what distractions came about, nothing came close in daring him to break custom. Before he could even get in a practice swing, Eli Stinson grounded out and it was then all on Tony’s shoulders to keep the team alive. He took the first pitch of the at-bat, a fastball high and inside, for a ball. The second pitch was Wakatsuki’s bread and butter, a knuckle-curveball paced almost thirty miles per hour less than his fastball, and with a tendency to disappear upon arriving to the plate. Definitely unhittable. Tony had no choice but to chase it. That pitch rolled in slow and smooth, delicate and beautiful, reminding every batter of his first kiss. That one special moment during the summer vacation between elementary school and junior high. Every boy and girl in town, terrified by the rumors of breasts, getting trash-canned, and showering with their peers, gently collapsed into each other’s arms, completely vulnerable in an attempt to perfectly recreate their favorite movie scene. Sadly, no kiss would ever be the same.
Stunned with nostalgia, Tony violently swung at a fastball right down the pipe and felt a wonderfully strange sensation: contact. He smashed the pitch back up the middle for a single. This glint of hope for the Indians set all eyes aglow and left every seat empty as fans jumped and roared in ecstasy, a once forgotten feeling. All the while Crash had been spinning two bats over and around his head, fearing a looming responsibility to both his team and his faithful hometown.
The loudspeakers boomed the announcement for everyone’s favorite lapsed hero: Kinston, North Carolina! Please welcome number twenty-seven, designated hitter, Kenny “The Crash” Nash! Still erupting over Tony’s single, the crowd began to chant, “Kin-ston! In-juns!” over and again, louder with each section’s involvement. Tony had taken a huge lead, pointed to Crash, and mouthed Bring me home, baby!
Crash cherished these few seconds as if they were one golden hour. A shiny, metallic reminder that along with the glory of heroism came the potential opportunity for advancement to AAA or even the majors. That one desperate chance he needed to be given in order to prove that he was cut out for the big leagues. That he had scarcely dreamed other than of rejoicing in the cheers of his loyal fans in the comfort of his diamond-shaped kingdom. An opportunity to show his love for the game, the likes of which he had held back from his family in order to give one-hundred and ten percent to this ballclub. That he lived as though life was the past-time and baseball was reality. The thought of being called up to Jacobs Field with a blue and red “Cleveland” embroidered over his heart brought tears to his squinty, black eyes.
Milk spoiled faster than Crash’s timely stroll to the plate. Tensions were high and adrenaline peaked as the crowd began to roar, “Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash!” It eventually picked up enough to shake the earth far beyond the city limits. Crash, raptured by his fans’ support, looked fiercely into Wakatsuki’s eyes and dared him to bring the heat. But, he was frozen by a late-breaking slider.
The umpire screamed, “Striiike.” Crash cocked his head back with an angered disappointment. He looked to the ump for reassurance.
“Your son secretly hates you for pushing him so hard in baseball. He really wants to be an artist. His resentment for you is extremely prevalent in his work,” The ump fired. Immediately Crash threw his hand up and stepped out of the box. He placed his helmet on the ground and began rubbing his eyes. He saw the Indians’ mascot standing atop his team’s dugout, flailing his tomahawk in gentle, mellifluous strokes. The air around it, slowly becoming paint, was churning into a grotesque aquarium of browns and greens. The foam and rubber Native turned to Crash and said, “I’m not you!” Crash continued to rub his eyes and shook his head. This was followed by a desperate attempt to blink away the demons. He nodded, the Indian now harassing the 4,100 in attendance, and continued with his routine.
FOR THE NEXT PITCH, READ PART TWO...CLICK HERE
Page 5--Alice Gothica Part One, Con't
“Have you got any one pairs of two?” The Lamb repeated.
Suddenly, Alice found herself speaking an old rhyme:
Little child, little child, have you any rules?
Yes sheep, yes sheep, happiness too.
Sorrow for the old man who limps with a cane
Anger and sultry for the girl who paces this lane
And pain for the little boy who’s bitten nightshade
Little child, little child, have you any sense?
No sheep, no sheep, only six pence
The little Lamb sighed, “If only I needed one pairs of three…”
But when Alice turned to once again argue with the little thing, she found it had disappeared.
“Oh! I wish these creatures didn’t disappear so!”
Alice began walking down the path again, but no matter how far she went, she could never get past the yew tree.
“It certainly does not agree with one to walk somewhere and get nowhere at all,” she explained sternly to herself, “What a bother it would be, being late for school and running in place forever!”
“But to be stationary is to be mobile…”
This time Alice did not jump at the new voice. She was getting rather used to these strange goings and comings. Rather, she marched right up to the yew tree with her hands on her hips, and began scolding.
“Now I have had just about enough of you!” She exclaimed, pointing her finger at the tree.
“And I have not nearly had enough of you. We haven’t even properly met!”
Alice scowled and made a most unladylike noise. “And how is one to properly greet a tree?!”
The leaves rustled and Alice looked up to see quite a large butterfly winking its owl-eye wings at her.
“Why would one need to greet a tree when its resident is the one not being introduced?”
Alice gasped and touched her fingers to her mouth, her rings rather cold, “Dear me, I am so terribly sorry, Butterfly.”
“An excusement is in order. You have introduced me but I have not introduced you. What are you at present?”
“At present?” Alice puzzled this as she had always found herself constantly herself.
“Well, at past I was a branch of leaves, and in the future I will be Owl, however, at present, I am Butterfly.”
Alice blinked hard, and sure enough, Butterfly did seem to be rather more like Owl presently.
“Whoo are yooou?” Butterfly Owl hooted.
“Well…presently I am Alice.”
“And what presently makes you sure you are an Alice? For you seem to be more like a Jabberwocky at past and a kitten in the future.”
“A what?”
But Butterfly Owl was now only Owl and presently flew away.
Alice flopped down under the yew tree, her silver chains jingling, “What ever will I do?”
As Alice sat under the tree, she found the grass slowly rising up to meet her.
“Dear me! This grass grows rather fast!”
When the grass was tickling her knees she stood up and yet the grass seemed just as tall as it had been when she was sitting down. When she looked up she saw that the yew tree was enormous. Alice swayed as she inhaled a sharp acrid scent. Her mind felt like bees ground down like dulled butter knives. Her heavy-lidded eyes, only slits, viewed the grass burning like coals in the brazier. She sniffed again and her head swam.
“My word! I’ve shrunk!”
Indeed she had. Close by were leaves large enough to fashion clothes out of. As she pulled back the blades of grass she found herself among towering toadstools capped with red and white spots.
“It’s almost like a village of sorts. I wonder who lives here…”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Suddenly, Alice found herself speaking an old rhyme:
Little child, little child, have you any rules?
Yes sheep, yes sheep, happiness too.
Sorrow for the old man who limps with a cane
Anger and sultry for the girl who paces this lane
And pain for the little boy who’s bitten nightshade
Little child, little child, have you any sense?
No sheep, no sheep, only six pence
The little Lamb sighed, “If only I needed one pairs of three…”
But when Alice turned to once again argue with the little thing, she found it had disappeared.
“Oh! I wish these creatures didn’t disappear so!”
Alice began walking down the path again, but no matter how far she went, she could never get past the yew tree.
“It certainly does not agree with one to walk somewhere and get nowhere at all,” she explained sternly to herself, “What a bother it would be, being late for school and running in place forever!”
“But to be stationary is to be mobile…”
This time Alice did not jump at the new voice. She was getting rather used to these strange goings and comings. Rather, she marched right up to the yew tree with her hands on her hips, and began scolding.
“Now I have had just about enough of you!” She exclaimed, pointing her finger at the tree.
“And I have not nearly had enough of you. We haven’t even properly met!”
Alice scowled and made a most unladylike noise. “And how is one to properly greet a tree?!”
The leaves rustled and Alice looked up to see quite a large butterfly winking its owl-eye wings at her.
“Why would one need to greet a tree when its resident is the one not being introduced?”
Alice gasped and touched her fingers to her mouth, her rings rather cold, “Dear me, I am so terribly sorry, Butterfly.”
“An excusement is in order. You have introduced me but I have not introduced you. What are you at present?”
“At present?” Alice puzzled this as she had always found herself constantly herself.
“Well, at past I was a branch of leaves, and in the future I will be Owl, however, at present, I am Butterfly.”
Alice blinked hard, and sure enough, Butterfly did seem to be rather more like Owl presently.
“Whoo are yooou?” Butterfly Owl hooted.
“Well…presently I am Alice.”
“And what presently makes you sure you are an Alice? For you seem to be more like a Jabberwocky at past and a kitten in the future.”
“A what?”
But Butterfly Owl was now only Owl and presently flew away.
Alice flopped down under the yew tree, her silver chains jingling, “What ever will I do?”
As Alice sat under the tree, she found the grass slowly rising up to meet her.
“Dear me! This grass grows rather fast!”
When the grass was tickling her knees she stood up and yet the grass seemed just as tall as it had been when she was sitting down. When she looked up she saw that the yew tree was enormous. Alice swayed as she inhaled a sharp acrid scent. Her mind felt like bees ground down like dulled butter knives. Her heavy-lidded eyes, only slits, viewed the grass burning like coals in the brazier. She sniffed again and her head swam.
“My word! I’ve shrunk!”
Indeed she had. Close by were leaves large enough to fashion clothes out of. As she pulled back the blades of grass she found herself among towering toadstools capped with red and white spots.
“It’s almost like a village of sorts. I wonder who lives here…”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Page 3--Alice Gothica Part One--Lauren Masterson
“How unfortunate,” Alice thought to herself, “that the clouds have decided to take summer away when the trees haven’t even begun to bleed.”
How right she was as the wind blew through the trees still full of green.
“It really ought not to do that,” Alice pondered as the wind tangled her black curls into her necklace, “Who ever heard of green trees dropping their leaves?”
Even as she said this a few fallen leaves fluttered by. Most of them were brittle and browning at the edges, but green none the less.
“And here is finally a perfectly pretty yellow one!” Alice exclaimed as she plucked a canary yellow leaf from the scatter, “Oh!”
Alice found herself pinching a rather thin Canary between her fingers instead of a leaf. It gave an annoyed peep.
“What manners!” The Canary exclaimed as it pecked its flat beak against her finger, “Plucking a mother from her nest! The very idea!”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Alice exclaimed as she placed the Canary back on the sidewalk, “Is that better?”
But the Canary didn’t answer because it had completely burrowed into the leaves leaving behind not a trace of yellow.
Alice straightened up and shivered, clutching her black hoodie closer, “How I’d much rather be overheated than cold. One can always take off more clothes unless they have them with. Which they would already be wearing, I suppose which wouldn’t do them any good if they were still cold.”
As Alice pondered this she failed to watch the sidewalk bend suddenly, like a great serpent rearing up, and nearly tumbled into a large fox.
“Careful!” The Fox exclaimed as it held its teacup perchariously overhead
“Dear me, I’m terribly sorry,” Alice shook her head and the sidewalk righted itself.
“It’s quite all right. Things here have a habit of moving on you if you don’t pay careful detention.”
“Don’t you mean attention?” Alice asked as the Fox flicked his tail and settled his tea into his pocket. “Not even a drop…” Alice murmured, seeing not a single stain on his pocket.“No, detention dear. For if one paid attention to all the scenery they would miss everything else. No, one must pay detention, which is deterring your attention whilst not ignoring.”
Alice pondered this while twirling her hair round and round her finger until it was nearly caught in her ring, “My dear, how clever you are, sir!”
“Clever indeed! You never see a stupid fox, now do you? There aren’t enough of us in the world to be stupid.”
“But there are a great many people in the world and not all of them are stupid!” Alice protested, fearing the coy little Fox was mocking her.
“Yes, and there is no need to bristle so, only that there are such a great deal of people in the world that some of them can afford to be stupid because there are always a great deal of others left.”
The Fox then pulled out a pocket watch and flipped the lid. Only instead of hands, a strange little poofle of a creature popped out and hopped, flashing eyes silver as tin. The Fox plucked the little momerath betwixt his paw and squeezed its fluff. The legs melded and sharpened until a needle produced from its head. The Fox tapped his furry arm and drove the momerath deep within. The Fox rolled his eyes, quivered and then opened them again. He then briskly wagged his tail before them.
“Be gone in two shakes!” He called waving.
Alice looked around, “Be gone where?”
“Goodbye!” The Fox called. And just as he had said, he was gone in two wags of his tail.
“What a strange way to leave,” Alice thought as she continued down the path, “Oh how I wish these books weren’t so heavy!”
“And what a strange way to come,” a small voice bleated as Alice trudged on.
“Excuse me?!” Alice jumped as she searched for the new voice.
“Here!”
Alice looked down and saw a rather small black Lamb sitting cross-legged on her book bag with its front arms wound round her shoulder strap.
“No wonder my bag is so heavy! Please get off!”
The Lamb bleated as a black tear slipped down into its shiny wool, “Oh, that just wouldn’t do, miss! That just wouldn’t do!”
“And why not?” Alice demanded, for she was now rather cross.
“Because I haven’t gotten one pairs of two!”
“Haven’t got two pairs of what?” Alice demanded, “Why must everyone I meet speak in riddles?”
“If it’s riddles you’re wanting to ask three quarters past the moon,” the Lamb explained as it smoothed the great tangle of wool covering its eyes.
“But I don’t want any riddles!” Alice exclaimed.
How right she was as the wind blew through the trees still full of green.
“It really ought not to do that,” Alice pondered as the wind tangled her black curls into her necklace, “Who ever heard of green trees dropping their leaves?”
Even as she said this a few fallen leaves fluttered by. Most of them were brittle and browning at the edges, but green none the less.
“And here is finally a perfectly pretty yellow one!” Alice exclaimed as she plucked a canary yellow leaf from the scatter, “Oh!”
Alice found herself pinching a rather thin Canary between her fingers instead of a leaf. It gave an annoyed peep.
“What manners!” The Canary exclaimed as it pecked its flat beak against her finger, “Plucking a mother from her nest! The very idea!”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Alice exclaimed as she placed the Canary back on the sidewalk, “Is that better?”
But the Canary didn’t answer because it had completely burrowed into the leaves leaving behind not a trace of yellow.
Alice straightened up and shivered, clutching her black hoodie closer, “How I’d much rather be overheated than cold. One can always take off more clothes unless they have them with. Which they would already be wearing, I suppose which wouldn’t do them any good if they were still cold.”
As Alice pondered this she failed to watch the sidewalk bend suddenly, like a great serpent rearing up, and nearly tumbled into a large fox.
“Careful!” The Fox exclaimed as it held its teacup perchariously overhead
“Dear me, I’m terribly sorry,” Alice shook her head and the sidewalk righted itself.
“It’s quite all right. Things here have a habit of moving on you if you don’t pay careful detention.”
“Don’t you mean attention?” Alice asked as the Fox flicked his tail and settled his tea into his pocket. “Not even a drop…” Alice murmured, seeing not a single stain on his pocket.“No, detention dear. For if one paid attention to all the scenery they would miss everything else. No, one must pay detention, which is deterring your attention whilst not ignoring.”
Alice pondered this while twirling her hair round and round her finger until it was nearly caught in her ring, “My dear, how clever you are, sir!”
“Clever indeed! You never see a stupid fox, now do you? There aren’t enough of us in the world to be stupid.”
“But there are a great many people in the world and not all of them are stupid!” Alice protested, fearing the coy little Fox was mocking her.
“Yes, and there is no need to bristle so, only that there are such a great deal of people in the world that some of them can afford to be stupid because there are always a great deal of others left.”
The Fox then pulled out a pocket watch and flipped the lid. Only instead of hands, a strange little poofle of a creature popped out and hopped, flashing eyes silver as tin. The Fox plucked the little momerath betwixt his paw and squeezed its fluff. The legs melded and sharpened until a needle produced from its head. The Fox tapped his furry arm and drove the momerath deep within. The Fox rolled his eyes, quivered and then opened them again. He then briskly wagged his tail before them.
“Be gone in two shakes!” He called waving.
Alice looked around, “Be gone where?”
“Goodbye!” The Fox called. And just as he had said, he was gone in two wags of his tail.
“What a strange way to leave,” Alice thought as she continued down the path, “Oh how I wish these books weren’t so heavy!”
“And what a strange way to come,” a small voice bleated as Alice trudged on.
“Excuse me?!” Alice jumped as she searched for the new voice.
“Here!”
Alice looked down and saw a rather small black Lamb sitting cross-legged on her book bag with its front arms wound round her shoulder strap.
“No wonder my bag is so heavy! Please get off!”
The Lamb bleated as a black tear slipped down into its shiny wool, “Oh, that just wouldn’t do, miss! That just wouldn’t do!”
“And why not?” Alice demanded, for she was now rather cross.
“Because I haven’t gotten one pairs of two!”
“Haven’t got two pairs of what?” Alice demanded, “Why must everyone I meet speak in riddles?”
“If it’s riddles you’re wanting to ask three quarters past the moon,” the Lamb explained as it smoothed the great tangle of wool covering its eyes.
“But I don’t want any riddles!” Alice exclaimed.
Page 1--Ghosts of The South Building--Diane Siebert
Last December, I sat in my classroom grading long after most people had left school for the day. It was finals week, and I had a stack of papers that I just couldn’t seem to finish at home, so I worked on as the other teachers popped their heads in to say goodnight and tell me not to stay too late. I watched the winter sky darken and felt the chill in the room. The tall windows that make up the south wall of my classroom usually seem so friendly when they let in the bright morning sun. This evening in late December, they were large black eyes watching me as I worked. It’s odd being alone in a place that usually teems with people. The quiet ignites the imagination, and the old tales of the Ghost of the South Building flickered through my mind.
“You’ve been reading too many bad essays,” I told myself ruefully.
I packed up, locked up, and started down the long, empty hallway. I was listening to my footsteps echo off the walls and straining to see the courtyard through the inky hall windows when a person standing a few yards away by the stairs startled me.
Must be a student, I thought, but the school was locked at this hour, and no one was supposed to be able to get in. At second glance, I noticed that the clothes were all wrong for a student—too old fashioned.
Drawing closer, I saw it was a young woman with chin-length brown hair and wispy bangs falling across her forehead. She wore a dress in a style from at least 60 years ago and an add-a-pearl necklace. We faced each other in the dim fluorescent light. There was something familiar about her.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” she said in a soft, southern drawl.
“Are you sure?” I asked, the discomfort beginning to rise in me. My eyes darted left and right, hoping to see someone—anyone else.
“Yes. I just like to check in and see how everything is,” she replied. “You see, my brother and I spent a lot of time in this building when we were kids. Jem said that was our job.” She smiled and then added, with an amused eye roll, “A lot of students thought I was an African-American boy.”
I felt my eyes widen, and I looked hard at this young woman with her plain and open face.
“Scout?” I heard myself whisper.
“Why, yes,” she said.
My mind clicked through possible explanations. Was someone playing a joke on me, had someone spiked my Diet Pepsi, had teaching teenagers finally pushed me over the edge?
Finally, I said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, really. We characters like to—for lack of a better word—haunt schools, especially English classrooms. It’s where people get to know us and our stories. They love us, hate us, toss us in the trash when they are finished with us, but it is where we are most alive. Some of our dearest friends—like you—are here, and we just like to stay in touch. You remember what Atticus said about not really knowing someone until you stand in his shoes. But things look fine here,” she said and called “goodbye” as she glided down the stairs.
I stood still for a long moment. When I began to breathe again and could move my legs, I shakily turned and headed down the hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I glimpsed a tall, gangling boy in a red hunting cap . . .
“You’ve been reading too many bad essays,” I told myself ruefully.
I packed up, locked up, and started down the long, empty hallway. I was listening to my footsteps echo off the walls and straining to see the courtyard through the inky hall windows when a person standing a few yards away by the stairs startled me.
Must be a student, I thought, but the school was locked at this hour, and no one was supposed to be able to get in. At second glance, I noticed that the clothes were all wrong for a student—too old fashioned.
Drawing closer, I saw it was a young woman with chin-length brown hair and wispy bangs falling across her forehead. She wore a dress in a style from at least 60 years ago and an add-a-pearl necklace. We faced each other in the dim fluorescent light. There was something familiar about her.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” she said in a soft, southern drawl.
“Are you sure?” I asked, the discomfort beginning to rise in me. My eyes darted left and right, hoping to see someone—anyone else.
“Yes. I just like to check in and see how everything is,” she replied. “You see, my brother and I spent a lot of time in this building when we were kids. Jem said that was our job.” She smiled and then added, with an amused eye roll, “A lot of students thought I was an African-American boy.”
I felt my eyes widen, and I looked hard at this young woman with her plain and open face.
“Scout?” I heard myself whisper.
“Why, yes,” she said.
My mind clicked through possible explanations. Was someone playing a joke on me, had someone spiked my Diet Pepsi, had teaching teenagers finally pushed me over the edge?
Finally, I said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, really. We characters like to—for lack of a better word—haunt schools, especially English classrooms. It’s where people get to know us and our stories. They love us, hate us, toss us in the trash when they are finished with us, but it is where we are most alive. Some of our dearest friends—like you—are here, and we just like to stay in touch. You remember what Atticus said about not really knowing someone until you stand in his shoes. But things look fine here,” she said and called “goodbye” as she glided down the stairs.
I stood still for a long moment. When I began to breathe again and could move my legs, I shakily turned and headed down the hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I glimpsed a tall, gangling boy in a red hunting cap . . .
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