Glistening Trinket Fall, Ryan Mattern
Society Can Be a Bitch, Olivia Petrus
Society Can Be a Bitch, Cont'd
Untitled Document, D.J.R Caron
Untitled Document, Cont'd
Time Trap, Dan Cirilo
Isfa, Dan Cirilo
Only Fifty Pesos, Rob Marshall
spit.sun.shine, Kiel Schliech
Graffiti, Lisa Varley
Why I Take Photos of Myself, Taegan Harker
The Ants and the Spoons, Taegan Harker
Contributor Bios
Editrice Note: Only Slightly Alarming...
Showing posts with label Issue 4 (Halloween) October 2009. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issue 4 (Halloween) October 2009. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Editors' Note--Only Slightly Alarming...
It’s that creepy time of year again, folks, and we at The Toucan are experts in creepy. But aside from that, it’s so nice to be writing these notes again. How was everyone’s summer…wait, summer, when was THAT? Yep, Happy Halloween. The vast majority of people (but not me) I know will be spending their Halloween getting drunk. So is The Toucan, as you can plainly see. And look! He invited some slugs and bats to share the booze. Apparently slugs really like beer…who knew?
Enough of this nonsense. Point is, we’re back with a rollicking good issue. We say that every time, ‘cause it’s true. We have a little more art, a photo accompanying one of Dan Cirilo’s poems, and of course, the aforementioned Toucan partying heartily away. The poems this time seem to have a theme, a bit, of time passing, of fun had, of mistakes made and learned from, of something greater than yourself. That wasn’t purposeful, we’re not trying to attack you with some big life lesson. If we were you’d know about it. We’re not very stealthy. What this has to do with Halloween, I don’t know. Maybe because every Halloween you are inexorably getting older. You started off in pint-size Winnie-The-Pooh costumes and are now sewing your own sheepskin or shoving a pillow down your shirt to look like Gertrude Stein.
About the only alarming thing in here other than an errant typo or two would be “Untitled Document”, but don’t let the blood scare you off from some hypnotic writing and dystopian dreams. Oh, and “Society Can Be A Bitch”. Society is as scary as hell. I mean, fashion models? Frightening. Not to mention alienation. Enjoyable, but scary. The Toucan does not do fashion, despite its last time out in a prom dress, and it only alienates itself on days ending in Y. But if good writing’s your goal, you’ll find it here.
Something you’ll also find, finally, are short contributor bios. It took us a while, but it seems like every other mag had them and we didn’t. And in this case, we thought society might be onto something. Sure you gave them a look already if you got to here, but just like you want to know the doctor who does your lobotomy, you want to know the people who write for your lit mag. And us, of course. We said something too, as if we don’t say enough. We think we have now.
We do really, really, need submissions to keep airborne, so send your souls and scribblings to thetoucanmag@gmail.com!!! And stay updated with our blog. Some exciting distribution possibilities are in the works, and the blog will carry the first developments of the flowers in our feathers should it thrive!
Ta Ta, Liz and Laura, (according to Dan Cirilo, we should be the edit-duces extraordinaire. Two-can, you know :) But we are, in fact, editrices.)
Enough of this nonsense. Point is, we’re back with a rollicking good issue. We say that every time, ‘cause it’s true. We have a little more art, a photo accompanying one of Dan Cirilo’s poems, and of course, the aforementioned Toucan partying heartily away. The poems this time seem to have a theme, a bit, of time passing, of fun had, of mistakes made and learned from, of something greater than yourself. That wasn’t purposeful, we’re not trying to attack you with some big life lesson. If we were you’d know about it. We’re not very stealthy. What this has to do with Halloween, I don’t know. Maybe because every Halloween you are inexorably getting older. You started off in pint-size Winnie-The-Pooh costumes and are now sewing your own sheepskin or shoving a pillow down your shirt to look like Gertrude Stein.
About the only alarming thing in here other than an errant typo or two would be “Untitled Document”, but don’t let the blood scare you off from some hypnotic writing and dystopian dreams. Oh, and “Society Can Be A Bitch”. Society is as scary as hell. I mean, fashion models? Frightening. Not to mention alienation. Enjoyable, but scary. The Toucan does not do fashion, despite its last time out in a prom dress, and it only alienates itself on days ending in Y. But if good writing’s your goal, you’ll find it here.
Something you’ll also find, finally, are short contributor bios. It took us a while, but it seems like every other mag had them and we didn’t. And in this case, we thought society might be onto something. Sure you gave them a look already if you got to here, but just like you want to know the doctor who does your lobotomy, you want to know the people who write for your lit mag. And us, of course. We said something too, as if we don’t say enough. We think we have now.
We do really, really, need submissions to keep airborne, so send your souls and scribblings to thetoucanmag@gmail.com!!! And stay updated with our blog. Some exciting distribution possibilities are in the works, and the blog will carry the first developments of the flowers in our feathers should it thrive!
Ta Ta, Liz and Laura, (according to Dan Cirilo, we should be the edit-duces extraordinaire. Two-can, you know :) But we are, in fact, editrices.)
Something About Our Contributors...And Us
We finally realized we should have bios, and we think they’re works of art equal to the submissions. In keeping with the bird theme, we asked the age-old question “why is a raven like a writing desk?” to enlightening results.
D. J. R. Caron feels the work being published in this magazine is some of his weakest stuff, but doesn't mind the embarrassment because its editor is an adorable shrew who needs her cheeks pinched. (Editrice Note: We think he’s referring to Liz) He is also of the opinion that a raven is like a writing desk because both produce shit.
Taegan Harker has known for a long time that ravens are like writing desks because you can never catch them when they fly. This experience was during her travels around the UK between '98 and '09, when she was trying to convince either ravens or writing desks to inspire her. Nowadays she forgoes that hunt, but carries on the writing, back in Louisiana.
Dan Cirilo: I am an incarnation of Lord Byron & Poe, just not as well written...though, I am oversexed & drug & alcohol influenced; unfortunately it shows in my writing. I am taking steps to improve by excluding mind-altering substances when I write, but can't / won't abstain from frequent promiscuity. 'Is poetry better than sex? No, it's bloody well not!'
Rob Marshall says: "The pen is a new-found tool. Writing wasn't always a passion because writing didn't often happen. After recently finding the pen, the writing has become routine and will bring lifelong joy."
Ryan Mattern, a 21 year-old native of Southern California, grew up immersed in a suburban x counter-culture of punk rock. His parents owned an independent record store in a conservative small town, and Ryan spent his developing years skating behind the store and listening to his older mohawked friends tell him about the evil imperial system and the best way to get liberty spikes to stand up. When he got older he picked up a book called Hairstyles of the Damned by Joe Meno and it all clicked for him. He wanted to move to Chicago and become a writer. And although he did live in Chicago for a year, circumstance has brought him back to California where he is currently going to school and working on his novel. Answer to the question: The last time I spoke to the Mad Hatter, he told me he hadn't the slightest idea, so when he knows, I'll let you know.
Olivia Petrus’s pieces “How To Be A Literary Genius” and “Rise” were published in Issues One and Two of The Toucan, respectively.
D. J. R. Caron feels the work being published in this magazine is some of his weakest stuff, but doesn't mind the embarrassment because its editor is an adorable shrew who needs her cheeks pinched. (Editrice Note: We think he’s referring to Liz) He is also of the opinion that a raven is like a writing desk because both produce shit.
Taegan Harker has known for a long time that ravens are like writing desks because you can never catch them when they fly. This experience was during her travels around the UK between '98 and '09, when she was trying to convince either ravens or writing desks to inspire her. Nowadays she forgoes that hunt, but carries on the writing, back in Louisiana.
Dan Cirilo: I am an incarnation of Lord Byron & Poe, just not as well written...though, I am oversexed & drug & alcohol influenced; unfortunately it shows in my writing. I am taking steps to improve by excluding mind-altering substances when I write, but can't / won't abstain from frequent promiscuity. 'Is poetry better than sex? No, it's bloody well not!'
Rob Marshall says: "The pen is a new-found tool. Writing wasn't always a passion because writing didn't often happen. After recently finding the pen, the writing has become routine and will bring lifelong joy."
Ryan Mattern, a 21 year-old native of Southern California, grew up immersed in a suburban x counter-culture of punk rock. His parents owned an independent record store in a conservative small town, and Ryan spent his developing years skating behind the store and listening to his older mohawked friends tell him about the evil imperial system and the best way to get liberty spikes to stand up. When he got older he picked up a book called Hairstyles of the Damned by Joe Meno and it all clicked for him. He wanted to move to Chicago and become a writer. And although he did live in Chicago for a year, circumstance has brought him back to California where he is currently going to school and working on his novel. Answer to the question: The last time I spoke to the Mad Hatter, he told me he hadn't the slightest idea, so when he knows, I'll let you know.
Olivia Petrus’s pieces “How To Be A Literary Genius” and “Rise” were published in Issues One and Two of The Toucan, respectively.
Something About The Editors--We are, you know, going to write you a note on the next page…ok fine, you’re persistent, and you deserve to know.
Liz Baudler recently totaled her car and wishes more people would submit to The Toucan, a name derived from walking around Brookfield Zoo one steamy summer day last year. Liz writes fiction and poetry, likes editing both, and studies at Columbia College Chicago. And she’s not a complete idiot, she did work on her high school lit mag, so there. Ravens are like writing desks because they both have legs. Occam’s razor, you know.
I happen to be Laura Rynberg by pure chance. I dig music, sci-fi anything, and words. I’m a writer by design that never could get the hang of sticking to one field. Though I study fine arts I refuse to limit myself to that. I feel that the words flibbertigibbet, splunge, squee-jawed, and lurgy, regardless of definition, can tell you all you need to know about me. Ravens and writing desks are similar in the fact that neither plays the harp with any skill. Also, neither are Toucans, which makes them far inferior.
Liz Baudler recently totaled her car and wishes more people would submit to The Toucan, a name derived from walking around Brookfield Zoo one steamy summer day last year. Liz writes fiction and poetry, likes editing both, and studies at Columbia College Chicago. And she’s not a complete idiot, she did work on her high school lit mag, so there. Ravens are like writing desks because they both have legs. Occam’s razor, you know.
I happen to be Laura Rynberg by pure chance. I dig music, sci-fi anything, and words. I’m a writer by design that never could get the hang of sticking to one field. Though I study fine arts I refuse to limit myself to that. I feel that the words flibbertigibbet, splunge, squee-jawed, and lurgy, regardless of definition, can tell you all you need to know about me. Ravens and writing desks are similar in the fact that neither plays the harp with any skill. Also, neither are Toucans, which makes them far inferior.
Page 21--The Ants And The Spoons--Taegan Harker
What’s today? The menu for today? Bread and butter for most others,
bottom of the barrel for you, no energy to chisel the wood for any remains.
What’s today again? You have six spoons in your hand,
one for each task you have to accomplish today.
Waken again, even though walking – you have to brush your teeth.
You drop a spoon to pick up the stalk, coat it, punish your gums.
You could be somebody else today, you could be you,
but it’s too many spoons for that,
and maybe you like your spoons,
or maybe they’re stuck to you –
maybe it’s just today at least.
Waken again, you’ve left the water running
and there’s nothing but water in your mouth, now.
Move to the kitchen – you left the to-do list somewhere.
Searching, you lose a couple of spoons in the journey.
One slipped under the sight of the bills,
another into the peak at the top of the garbage.
Instead of your scrawl on paper, every crestfallen line
missing the edge to hint to the passerby,
instead you find ants.
There are ants in your kitchen.
They have come for your food;
it may as well be for the last frays of your nerves.
– and the clock – you need to leave for work –
there’s at least three spoons’ worth of jobs to do there –
talking is one, locking up the other –
is there any way
to beat the ants making their way
laughing to the sacrifices
given to them, not even sugar?
– and it takes too much to sweep them
or even move away, or move the prize,
so you let their bronze etch the kitchen.
Could it be any other way?
You’ve run out of spoons for today.
bottom of the barrel for you, no energy to chisel the wood for any remains.
What’s today again? You have six spoons in your hand,
one for each task you have to accomplish today.
Waken again, even though walking – you have to brush your teeth.
You drop a spoon to pick up the stalk, coat it, punish your gums.
You could be somebody else today, you could be you,
but it’s too many spoons for that,
and maybe you like your spoons,
or maybe they’re stuck to you –
maybe it’s just today at least.
Waken again, you’ve left the water running
and there’s nothing but water in your mouth, now.
Move to the kitchen – you left the to-do list somewhere.
Searching, you lose a couple of spoons in the journey.
One slipped under the sight of the bills,
another into the peak at the top of the garbage.
Instead of your scrawl on paper, every crestfallen line
missing the edge to hint to the passerby,
instead you find ants.
There are ants in your kitchen.
They have come for your food;
it may as well be for the last frays of your nerves.
– and the clock – you need to leave for work –
there’s at least three spoons’ worth of jobs to do there –
talking is one, locking up the other –
is there any way
to beat the ants making their way
laughing to the sacrifices
given to them, not even sugar?
– and it takes too much to sweep them
or even move away, or move the prize,
so you let their bronze etch the kitchen.
Could it be any other way?
You’ve run out of spoons for today.
Page 20--Why I Take Photos Of Myself--Taegan Harker
1.
I'm afraid of not being able to see my mother in me –
and that, at that point, she'll truly be gone.
2.
I'm watching for hint of my flaws somewhere;
it'd say it's all over my face, I don't have to talk.
3.
I'm looking at the scar through my eyebrow, a reminder
that I carry my past in my left eye, my future in my right.
4.
I'm counting every eyelash, every lip-line, in case
one day I wake up and there are too little, or too many.
5.
I'm creating angles out of shadows – trying out
my new language of nuance – British light on American skin.
6.
I'm preserving as many days that I look beautiful
as I can, because there are still too many that I don't.
7.
I'm worried that when I die, I'll be represented poorly.
I'm planning ahead.
I'm afraid of not being able to see my mother in me –
and that, at that point, she'll truly be gone.
2.
I'm watching for hint of my flaws somewhere;
it'd say it's all over my face, I don't have to talk.
3.
I'm looking at the scar through my eyebrow, a reminder
that I carry my past in my left eye, my future in my right.
4.
I'm counting every eyelash, every lip-line, in case
one day I wake up and there are too little, or too many.
5.
I'm creating angles out of shadows – trying out
my new language of nuance – British light on American skin.
6.
I'm preserving as many days that I look beautiful
as I can, because there are still too many that I don't.
7.
I'm worried that when I die, I'll be represented poorly.
I'm planning ahead.
Page 19--Graffiti--Lisa Varley
Hey
Lauren.
There are
plain white t's
littered on the floor
and streaked with highlighter
while we the dj pumps the beat in celebration
'cause we managed to screw in
7 black light bulbs in the time
it took to blow out
your twenty
birthday
candles
<3
Lauren.
There are
plain white t's
littered on the floor
and streaked with highlighter
while we the dj pumps the beat in celebration
'cause we managed to screw in
7 black light bulbs in the time
it took to blow out
your twenty
birthday
candles
<3
Page 18--spit.sun.shine--Kiel Schelich
damn,
someone else has been here before.
you're scuffed,
serrated
let me see your sleeve.
this will come out
I swear,
I've done this before
this isn't even the worst I've seen
see,
all done
you just wear it out
till it looks new again,
exfoliated
when we step outside now
you can hold your head up,
squinting
someone else has been here before.
you're scuffed,
serrated
let me see your sleeve.
this will come out
I swear,
I've done this before
this isn't even the worst I've seen
see,
all done
you just wear it out
till it looks new again,
exfoliated
when we step outside now
you can hold your head up,
squinting
Page 17--Only Fifty Pesos--Rob Marshall
I stared at the pot
I got in Mexico City – a vendor makes them by hand
Only fifty pesos
Its shape was perfectly
imperfect,
slightly lopsided
It didn’t sit atop the table with the symmetric arrogance of machine-made pots, no
no, this pot sat very modestly
Poised and proud,
The definition of function over fashion
–I used it for the latter –
Near the top there was one single fingerprint
A fossil
I imagined myself as the pot
And I weep at the sight of shattered clay on the floor
I got in Mexico City – a vendor makes them by hand
Only fifty pesos
Its shape was perfectly
imperfect,
slightly lopsided
It didn’t sit atop the table with the symmetric arrogance of machine-made pots, no
no, this pot sat very modestly
Poised and proud,
The definition of function over fashion
–I used it for the latter –
Near the top there was one single fingerprint
A fossil
I imagined myself as the pot
And I weep at the sight of shattered clay on the floor
Page 16--Isfa--Dan Cirilo
it is the dawning of my twilight
& I tremble to begin each day;
to make love, to write,
to run the cliffside trails
between Sequoias' shade
& the disappearing shore.
this need, this urgency
I cannot contain...
coiled within muscle & sinew,
a lightening bolt constrictor;
in my breast a nuclear heart
beats rhythm to a living universe,
mimicking the flutter
of a hovering hummingbird.
lava-hot, blood courses up my spine
exploding behind my eyes
in orgasmic bursts of impossible colour.
as consciousness unfolds,
like a thousand-petaled lotus
in a fountain of light,
my soul, my essence, my purest self
floats...serene, silent, lily-like
on a peaceful pond;
a levitating Buddha,
immortal, eternal...
I'm so beautifully alive.
& I tremble to begin each day;
to make love, to write,
to run the cliffside trails
between Sequoias' shade
& the disappearing shore.
this need, this urgency
I cannot contain...
coiled within muscle & sinew,
a lightening bolt constrictor;
in my breast a nuclear heart
beats rhythm to a living universe,
mimicking the flutter
of a hovering hummingbird.
lava-hot, blood courses up my spine
exploding behind my eyes
in orgasmic bursts of impossible colour.
as consciousness unfolds,
like a thousand-petaled lotus
in a fountain of light,
my soul, my essence, my purest self
floats...serene, silent, lily-like
on a peaceful pond;
a levitating Buddha,
immortal, eternal...
I'm so beautifully alive.
Page 14--Time Trap--Dan Cirilo
Time, the master thief, sits like a Black Widow
in a dark corner, still as Death, & waits patiently.
knowing all will come, all feel the sting of her fangs,
all succumb to her poison, all without exception.
for it is we who spin the web that entangles us
in the insanity of an abstract concept.
from the untroubled cocoon of the womb
our children emerge in innocence,
from the silken warmth of now
they are born into a moment of chaos
&, in their exit, enter a gallows
where a noose of linear events
slips insidiously 'round their necks
marking the beginning, not of their lives,
but of the countdown to their deaths...
minute, hour, day, month, year, century;
all recorded before the mother can soothe,
suckle, or cradle her newborn babe.
so begins the flow of sand; the tick, tick, tick
of the seconds that are left...
we are sucked dry of life & left as empty,
discarded husks, hanging by a thread,
&, eventually, blown away.
& the Black Widow, Time, waits
hidden in darkness; invisible except for
the strange, blood-filled tattoo
of an hourglass.
in a dark corner, still as Death, & waits patiently.
knowing all will come, all feel the sting of her fangs,
all succumb to her poison, all without exception.
for it is we who spin the web that entangles us
in the insanity of an abstract concept.
from the untroubled cocoon of the womb
our children emerge in innocence,
from the silken warmth of now
they are born into a moment of chaos
&, in their exit, enter a gallows
where a noose of linear events
slips insidiously 'round their necks
marking the beginning, not of their lives,
but of the countdown to their deaths...
minute, hour, day, month, year, century;
all recorded before the mother can soothe,
suckle, or cradle her newborn babe.
so begins the flow of sand; the tick, tick, tick
of the seconds that are left...
we are sucked dry of life & left as empty,
discarded husks, hanging by a thread,
&, eventually, blown away.
& the Black Widow, Time, waits
hidden in darkness; invisible except for
the strange, blood-filled tattoo
of an hourglass.
Page 11--Untitled Document, Cont'd--D.J.R Caron
suspended forever above the wreckage of waves below.
Typical of notitia vermis behavior is to absorb as much liquefied protoplasm as possible during and after ego dissimilation and then abandon the host. In fact, notitia vermes will hoard so much jelly that is exceptionally rare to discover any traces of a dissimilated body afterwards. Dr. Chaac, the amphibious four-faced head of the Department of Artificial Evolution, administers experimental serum No. VC-667 into the subject. It is a heavily synthesized phlegmatic phosphate, the culmination of several years’ worth of attempts to create a prototype of the vitreous columbina. The vitreous columbina would ideally be the Instrumentalitist party’s solution to the edema harlequin. It will differ in that its makeup is primarily phlegmatic, rather than supine, thereby being far more gelatinous than the harlequin, allowing it to absorb, rather than infect, political opponents. When Dr. Chaac activates the x-ray machine, several disturbing prospects occur. The notitia vermes have absorbed experimental serum No. VC-667 and are beginning to swell to gargantuan proportions. The boy’s body writhes like a human salad of massive and tiny bulges and he begins to secrete a thick purple mucus from every open orifice on his body. In less than an hour, it is discovered that the bulges of the enlarged notitia vermes have vanished completely, as has the reserve of mucus secreted by the boy.
Her face glides into the collage of broken glass
At this time the boy lay strapped beneath the bright strobe-lights of the antiseptic surgery hall. He still shows the erratic brainwaves he had in the past several hours, so it is decided the most probable course of action is to look at the physical brain itself. Before a dissection is taken underway, Dr. Chaac notes a mysterious humidity in the room and a thin layer of grime on his equipment. Wiping some off with his finger, he feels writhing and decaying crawl up his phalanges and into his knuckles. Several hours later, it is discovered the Doctor no longer has control of his right arm. X-rays of the doctor’s arm show another notitia vermis colony rapidly growing in his now tumescent flesh. Interestingly, the arm continues to function properly, independently of the body, after amputation.
and he sees what she is beneath.
A surgical saw cuts through the reclining tissue of the boy’s skull. Removing the cap of the cranium, it is discovered that a thick, fibrous, yellow-gray mold coats the entirety of the forebrain. The subject’s panicking eyes jump and twitch, as if unaffected by the anesthesia. The same procedure is performed on the spinal column and the mold persists there as well. Like a caged animal he tears against his straps. Managing to break his head free, which by this point is not entirely sutured, he starts to chew at his own wrists but it is of no effect, as his teeth have degenerated to the thickness of taffy. He is then heavily tranquilized and immediately returned to his cell. Fragments of spilled brain are swept up and chemically analyzed.
A crash dummy of
When the boy is returned to the lab for the purpose of reprogramming, it is found that his entire body has taken on a high state of translucency. His entire muscle structure is visible beneath a jaundiced tint. It is also discovered that the yellow mold is absorbing the liquefied tissue, rendering any attempt at cerebral rewriting futile. The forebrain typewriters rely on a gelatinous structure for altercation, but the new substance is too resilient and no mark can be made upon it. X-rays taken less than an hour after that show that the entirety of the brain has been absorbed by the new matter. Chunks of the film are removed for chemical analysis, but any attempts at biological reprogramming are now futile. Blank eyes are by no means uncommon, but the subject’s eyes are empty of even the faintest sign of humanity. Electrical surges and prods wring through his jellyfish flesh, but he lacks any and all response.
torn ligaments and pale skin
It is decided by Dr. Chaac to terminate the subject and salvage the new substance. Most of the brain is removed from the subject before the experiment disposal chamber opens into a swirl of liquid heat. The subject is lead by the executioner into the niches of the Hot Casket; a chrome-black device shaped like a sarcophagus attached to a tribunal of steel pipes. The subject is placed inside and immolated by a slow submersion in hot ore. This is done because the extreme heat kills any lingering bacteria or viruses and minimizes the risk of biohazardous outbreaks. But as the Casket hums to life, the subject’s body oozes, inch by inch, out of the perennial divide lining the front. The Doctors drop their mouths in petrified awe. It is unheard of
for a human body to take on such a gelatinous and malleable texture, but still retain the shape of their body intact. Since the Casket is infamous for its slow first phase, the subject-to-be-terminated manages to evade immolation completely. Security fires at the subject with handguns. Large chunks of flesh are blown off the subject, but he continues to lurch forward. The guard screams as his neck is grabbed by the subject and starts to violently writhe and swell. The screaming is cut short, however, as the guard slips to the floor with notitia vermes eating through his larynx.
floats into the placid depths.
The base throws itself into a state of utter chaos. The subject, driven by either primal instinct or a budding collective consciousness, storms up the backstairs and into the air. The skyline appears to rise as he jumps from the rooftop. His viscous body impacts the pavement at considerable force, but his shape does not bend nor break. He stumbles away from the laboratory, but behind him the wailing of sirens cuts through the illuminated night. Whatever remnants of his original intelligence that remained within the notitia vermes drive him. Storm clouds crackle thunder as he rapidly approaches the lake.
With an empty heart, D[arwin] sits on the concrete beach
Flesh relapsing into spatial inconsistency, tiny globs of muscle tissue fall from his body, unrolling into masses of millions of prokaryotes. Falling to grainy beaches, particles of sand stick to the subject’s watery body. Looking at an unfamiliar reflection, the subject’s eyes are still and sedated. His body falls into the lake and floats atop the surface. It unravels into chunks of flesh that break apart into notitia vermis colonies. Further research into notitia vermis development and behavior is a necessity. As is the increasingly profound effects on the host body.
and dials her number.
The tribunal increases funding to the Artificial Evolution laboratories, as the experiment has proven the notitia vermis excellent tools into penetrating the lake of unconscious memories and blueprints in the human brain. Much like the lake, all the garbage that passes through the brain winds up piling up at its depths. Cities of wreckage, chronicling the descend into modern man will forever atrophy in solemn silence.
Typical of notitia vermis behavior is to absorb as much liquefied protoplasm as possible during and after ego dissimilation and then abandon the host. In fact, notitia vermes will hoard so much jelly that is exceptionally rare to discover any traces of a dissimilated body afterwards. Dr. Chaac, the amphibious four-faced head of the Department of Artificial Evolution, administers experimental serum No. VC-667 into the subject. It is a heavily synthesized phlegmatic phosphate, the culmination of several years’ worth of attempts to create a prototype of the vitreous columbina. The vitreous columbina would ideally be the Instrumentalitist party’s solution to the edema harlequin. It will differ in that its makeup is primarily phlegmatic, rather than supine, thereby being far more gelatinous than the harlequin, allowing it to absorb, rather than infect, political opponents. When Dr. Chaac activates the x-ray machine, several disturbing prospects occur. The notitia vermes have absorbed experimental serum No. VC-667 and are beginning to swell to gargantuan proportions. The boy’s body writhes like a human salad of massive and tiny bulges and he begins to secrete a thick purple mucus from every open orifice on his body. In less than an hour, it is discovered that the bulges of the enlarged notitia vermes have vanished completely, as has the reserve of mucus secreted by the boy.
Her face glides into the collage of broken glass
At this time the boy lay strapped beneath the bright strobe-lights of the antiseptic surgery hall. He still shows the erratic brainwaves he had in the past several hours, so it is decided the most probable course of action is to look at the physical brain itself. Before a dissection is taken underway, Dr. Chaac notes a mysterious humidity in the room and a thin layer of grime on his equipment. Wiping some off with his finger, he feels writhing and decaying crawl up his phalanges and into his knuckles. Several hours later, it is discovered the Doctor no longer has control of his right arm. X-rays of the doctor’s arm show another notitia vermis colony rapidly growing in his now tumescent flesh. Interestingly, the arm continues to function properly, independently of the body, after amputation.
and he sees what she is beneath.
A surgical saw cuts through the reclining tissue of the boy’s skull. Removing the cap of the cranium, it is discovered that a thick, fibrous, yellow-gray mold coats the entirety of the forebrain. The subject’s panicking eyes jump and twitch, as if unaffected by the anesthesia. The same procedure is performed on the spinal column and the mold persists there as well. Like a caged animal he tears against his straps. Managing to break his head free, which by this point is not entirely sutured, he starts to chew at his own wrists but it is of no effect, as his teeth have degenerated to the thickness of taffy. He is then heavily tranquilized and immediately returned to his cell. Fragments of spilled brain are swept up and chemically analyzed.
A crash dummy of
When the boy is returned to the lab for the purpose of reprogramming, it is found that his entire body has taken on a high state of translucency. His entire muscle structure is visible beneath a jaundiced tint. It is also discovered that the yellow mold is absorbing the liquefied tissue, rendering any attempt at cerebral rewriting futile. The forebrain typewriters rely on a gelatinous structure for altercation, but the new substance is too resilient and no mark can be made upon it. X-rays taken less than an hour after that show that the entirety of the brain has been absorbed by the new matter. Chunks of the film are removed for chemical analysis, but any attempts at biological reprogramming are now futile. Blank eyes are by no means uncommon, but the subject’s eyes are empty of even the faintest sign of humanity. Electrical surges and prods wring through his jellyfish flesh, but he lacks any and all response.
torn ligaments and pale skin
It is decided by Dr. Chaac to terminate the subject and salvage the new substance. Most of the brain is removed from the subject before the experiment disposal chamber opens into a swirl of liquid heat. The subject is lead by the executioner into the niches of the Hot Casket; a chrome-black device shaped like a sarcophagus attached to a tribunal of steel pipes. The subject is placed inside and immolated by a slow submersion in hot ore. This is done because the extreme heat kills any lingering bacteria or viruses and minimizes the risk of biohazardous outbreaks. But as the Casket hums to life, the subject’s body oozes, inch by inch, out of the perennial divide lining the front. The Doctors drop their mouths in petrified awe. It is unheard of
for a human body to take on such a gelatinous and malleable texture, but still retain the shape of their body intact. Since the Casket is infamous for its slow first phase, the subject-to-be-terminated manages to evade immolation completely. Security fires at the subject with handguns. Large chunks of flesh are blown off the subject, but he continues to lurch forward. The guard screams as his neck is grabbed by the subject and starts to violently writhe and swell. The screaming is cut short, however, as the guard slips to the floor with notitia vermes eating through his larynx.
floats into the placid depths.
The base throws itself into a state of utter chaos. The subject, driven by either primal instinct or a budding collective consciousness, storms up the backstairs and into the air. The skyline appears to rise as he jumps from the rooftop. His viscous body impacts the pavement at considerable force, but his shape does not bend nor break. He stumbles away from the laboratory, but behind him the wailing of sirens cuts through the illuminated night. Whatever remnants of his original intelligence that remained within the notitia vermes drive him. Storm clouds crackle thunder as he rapidly approaches the lake.
With an empty heart, D[arwin] sits on the concrete beach
Flesh relapsing into spatial inconsistency, tiny globs of muscle tissue fall from his body, unrolling into masses of millions of prokaryotes. Falling to grainy beaches, particles of sand stick to the subject’s watery body. Looking at an unfamiliar reflection, the subject’s eyes are still and sedated. His body falls into the lake and floats atop the surface. It unravels into chunks of flesh that break apart into notitia vermis colonies. Further research into notitia vermis development and behavior is a necessity. As is the increasingly profound effects on the host body.
and dials her number.
The tribunal increases funding to the Artificial Evolution laboratories, as the experiment has proven the notitia vermis excellent tools into penetrating the lake of unconscious memories and blueprints in the human brain. Much like the lake, all the garbage that passes through the brain winds up piling up at its depths. Cities of wreckage, chronicling the descend into modern man will forever atrophy in solemn silence.
Page 9--Untitled Document--D.J.R Caron
Lost and alone,
And the subject awoke, dampened by the grimy mists hanging above the labyrinth of alleyways running through the city. Stepping off his mattress of body bags, his eyes violently dart all across his surroundings. He gurgles out a lamentful moan and slumps down to his knees. In the air, the thick odor of caked blood lingers among the tidal wafting of sewage beneath. Clenching his temple, he wanders into the nearest light like a starving moth. Lurched eyebrows clenching, wildly shifting eyes sent spasms throughout his twitching nose and lips.
D[arwin] looks to the cityscape,
Notitia vermes are eating through his nervous system. Infiltration began after the consumption of the spinal chord (citadel of the ego vermis), during which the worms penetrated the center of the vertebrae and linked into a new shape. All of the subject’s knowledge passes through, and is later absorbed, by the collective of primitive ventral nerve cords. Slowly, a metamorphosis takes place as the worms grow their own vertebrae and slither off, but not before doing considerable damage to the host body. Grey matter in the cerebral cortex loses definition and takes on properties in dire need of further study.
veiled in a haze of dying clouds and exhaust fumes.
Now hollow paranoid eyes stare at an unfamiliar reflection in a muddy puddle. Onto deserted intersections beneath the grinding torrent of passing railways, his neck twists in all directions. A passing cyborg, homeless and disquiet, has amassed a large collection of discarded cellular phones. Seeing them, the subject throws himself to his knees in worship. The cyborg, overwhelmed by this tribute, unleashes a torrent of revulsion, disgust and pity. “The more you gorge, the stronger the hunger will become,” he says solemnly, “Remove the stomach before it consumes you; as it has me.” And with an iron fist, he breaks his own ribcage and tears out his human remains. The subject stares up, mouth agape, as their juices trickle down his brow and onto his shoulders. The notitia vermes swell and flail like lemurs in orgasm, absorbing this baptism like a sponge. The cyborg falls to the floor and the subject continues through the dense haze of the night.
Sickle Cell sits by the window,
He held his stomach as his lip quivered. Then he began to cry. They were out there, lurking in the shadows sniffing his discarded needles, his used pornography, the butcher knife he held in service to his lord. And as he kept moving, he looked up into the magnified face of a model on an illuminated billboard. Peeling paper rot scars her creamy white cheeks. The decaying layers of paint look like torn muscle tissue at first glance, but the subject has met hundreds of women like that in his life. He met her for a coffee or some lunch and she gets into her emotions and lets him in. Opening his arms, her tender body feels soft on his eyes and against his cheeks and he just want to melt into her creamy beauty. Then the next day she looks at him like he’s some abomination and hides herself away. ‘Why?’ is what the reader must inquire. In the author’s opinion it is because she is an abomination herself. When she speaks the truth for the first time in her entire sad, parasitic existence, her true form bleeds through that creamy skin and no amount of blush can ever coat it. She tries valiantly and when he sees her again he can’t tell if she’s done up like a crimson harlequin or menstruating out of her fucking little cunt eyes. (Clears throat) The author would like to apologize for going on such a tract, but let it be known that the subject has a notorious past record for knowing legions of girls like the one seen on the billboard. With his eyes held firmly downward onto moist pavement, he continues onward.
blankly staring into the streets of a passing highway.
Tribunals line the arched intestinal wall of the city offices. They place millions of tiny cameras in dark corners of decaying mortar for the sole purpose of mapping the societal genome of the human animal. Occasionally they will find an empty vessel ideal for the propagation of ego division and replication experiments. An empty vessel, the anatomical term for a human being with an excised ego vermis. When such a vessel is discovered, blank abduction vans will storm into the vicinity and capture the subject for biological reprogramming; the act of altering the function and form of the human brain in an attempt to create subservient offshoots of the standardized homo sapien. These experiments were, of course, pushed into circulation by the Instrumentalitist party in an attempt to chemically create followers that would enact their beliefs as efficiently and effectively as the edema harlequins do for the Egomodernists. In short, a biological arms race.
They dream as the car careens off the edge,
Atop a pier, the subject stares into the wide vista of the lake. In the darkness its befouled sparkle shimmers against the sickly pink night sky. His eyes begin to blur with tears. Perhaps he is sure he took one of the many girls to the lake. But the tears stop and he clenches his skull and grits his teeth. Notitia vermes know the girl. Across the surface, he sees a million cyborg faces, listless and dead, fading into nothing. A blunt blow to the back of his head, and the subject falls to the ground. He tries to crawl away, but the officers are on him like a colony of army ants. With handcuff and blindfold, they throw him into the back of their padded truck. Cascades of flesh fluctuate like the tides as the subject’s body enters the final debilitating stages of ego dissimilation. In this case, it has been triggered by a lethal combination of amnesia, sensory deprivation and annelid interference. When the party has arrived at the lab it is noted that the subject's body has partially dissolved in a thick red jelly.
CONTINUE IF YOU DARE BY CLICKING HERE.
And the subject awoke, dampened by the grimy mists hanging above the labyrinth of alleyways running through the city. Stepping off his mattress of body bags, his eyes violently dart all across his surroundings. He gurgles out a lamentful moan and slumps down to his knees. In the air, the thick odor of caked blood lingers among the tidal wafting of sewage beneath. Clenching his temple, he wanders into the nearest light like a starving moth. Lurched eyebrows clenching, wildly shifting eyes sent spasms throughout his twitching nose and lips.
D[arwin] looks to the cityscape,
Notitia vermes are eating through his nervous system. Infiltration began after the consumption of the spinal chord (citadel of the ego vermis), during which the worms penetrated the center of the vertebrae and linked into a new shape. All of the subject’s knowledge passes through, and is later absorbed, by the collective of primitive ventral nerve cords. Slowly, a metamorphosis takes place as the worms grow their own vertebrae and slither off, but not before doing considerable damage to the host body. Grey matter in the cerebral cortex loses definition and takes on properties in dire need of further study.
veiled in a haze of dying clouds and exhaust fumes.
Now hollow paranoid eyes stare at an unfamiliar reflection in a muddy puddle. Onto deserted intersections beneath the grinding torrent of passing railways, his neck twists in all directions. A passing cyborg, homeless and disquiet, has amassed a large collection of discarded cellular phones. Seeing them, the subject throws himself to his knees in worship. The cyborg, overwhelmed by this tribute, unleashes a torrent of revulsion, disgust and pity. “The more you gorge, the stronger the hunger will become,” he says solemnly, “Remove the stomach before it consumes you; as it has me.” And with an iron fist, he breaks his own ribcage and tears out his human remains. The subject stares up, mouth agape, as their juices trickle down his brow and onto his shoulders. The notitia vermes swell and flail like lemurs in orgasm, absorbing this baptism like a sponge. The cyborg falls to the floor and the subject continues through the dense haze of the night.
Sickle Cell sits by the window,
He held his stomach as his lip quivered. Then he began to cry. They were out there, lurking in the shadows sniffing his discarded needles, his used pornography, the butcher knife he held in service to his lord. And as he kept moving, he looked up into the magnified face of a model on an illuminated billboard. Peeling paper rot scars her creamy white cheeks. The decaying layers of paint look like torn muscle tissue at first glance, but the subject has met hundreds of women like that in his life. He met her for a coffee or some lunch and she gets into her emotions and lets him in. Opening his arms, her tender body feels soft on his eyes and against his cheeks and he just want to melt into her creamy beauty. Then the next day she looks at him like he’s some abomination and hides herself away. ‘Why?’ is what the reader must inquire. In the author’s opinion it is because she is an abomination herself. When she speaks the truth for the first time in her entire sad, parasitic existence, her true form bleeds through that creamy skin and no amount of blush can ever coat it. She tries valiantly and when he sees her again he can’t tell if she’s done up like a crimson harlequin or menstruating out of her fucking little cunt eyes. (Clears throat) The author would like to apologize for going on such a tract, but let it be known that the subject has a notorious past record for knowing legions of girls like the one seen on the billboard. With his eyes held firmly downward onto moist pavement, he continues onward.
blankly staring into the streets of a passing highway.
Tribunals line the arched intestinal wall of the city offices. They place millions of tiny cameras in dark corners of decaying mortar for the sole purpose of mapping the societal genome of the human animal. Occasionally they will find an empty vessel ideal for the propagation of ego division and replication experiments. An empty vessel, the anatomical term for a human being with an excised ego vermis. When such a vessel is discovered, blank abduction vans will storm into the vicinity and capture the subject for biological reprogramming; the act of altering the function and form of the human brain in an attempt to create subservient offshoots of the standardized homo sapien. These experiments were, of course, pushed into circulation by the Instrumentalitist party in an attempt to chemically create followers that would enact their beliefs as efficiently and effectively as the edema harlequins do for the Egomodernists. In short, a biological arms race.
They dream as the car careens off the edge,
Atop a pier, the subject stares into the wide vista of the lake. In the darkness its befouled sparkle shimmers against the sickly pink night sky. His eyes begin to blur with tears. Perhaps he is sure he took one of the many girls to the lake. But the tears stop and he clenches his skull and grits his teeth. Notitia vermes know the girl. Across the surface, he sees a million cyborg faces, listless and dead, fading into nothing. A blunt blow to the back of his head, and the subject falls to the ground. He tries to crawl away, but the officers are on him like a colony of army ants. With handcuff and blindfold, they throw him into the back of their padded truck. Cascades of flesh fluctuate like the tides as the subject’s body enters the final debilitating stages of ego dissimilation. In this case, it has been triggered by a lethal combination of amnesia, sensory deprivation and annelid interference. When the party has arrived at the lab it is noted that the subject's body has partially dissolved in a thick red jelly.
CONTINUE IF YOU DARE BY CLICKING HERE.
Page 6--Society Can Be A Bitch, Cont'd--Olivia Petrus
My ugly duckling phase of life began to dwindle and fade sophomore year, mostly a result of the advent of developing breasts. I eventually exchanged the circle of the stoned for a membership to a local gym, took a keen interest in Kundalini yoga, T’ai Chi, meditation and several other fascinating subjects of that nature. At last I had mastered the art of applying a light amount of makeup that accentuated my face rather than disfigured it into a blinding billboard of atrocious colors. I finally managed to slide into jeans that flattered my figure and t-shirts that fit; normal teen casual, or what some would label the “post modernist non-feminine pant world”. I even began to experiment with more female, or what Cosmo would call, “chick, bohemian, flirtatious, sex kitten, smoky, sex vixen, dream objectification of the male fantasy, sex cheerleader, sheik…. the list goes on and on in a drone of superfluous and ridiculous adjectives that sound ‘pretty’” outfits, and even discovered a fashion secret most shocking to a
tomboy.
I had ultimately rejected skirts and dresses in favor of jeans and t-shirts, which I believed were more comfortable. Then I had a “fashion epiphany” during the summer, when the humidity and heat would become unbearable so often, and it was that sundresses were actually the easiest and most comfortable things to wear. Not only were they easier and more comfortable, I would get several compliments on them, and would be praised for “dressing like a girl”. Initially, that drove me away from wearing them often until I graduated high school because I did not like all the strange attention, especially considering the fact that I was not adjusted to being complimented on my outfits and somehow managed to perceive them as threats. I suppose culture and society did influence me in that respect; American sure learned how to become terrified of damn near everything after 9/11. A compliment was not to be taken lightly; it could have easily been interpreted as a bomb threat or precursor to some sort of terrorist agenda worthy of raising the terror alert level to at least orange. That’s what I thought anyway.
The way I present myself to society, and how my outer appearance is judged by it, is usually not something I consciously consider when I throw together a hurricane of an outfit in the morning. My ever-drifting mind is the eye of this metaphorical tropical monstrosity: calm, cool, and detached from the whirlwind of action my body is in, rushing around throwing on clothes or makeup, just trying to be on time to school or other responsibilities in the morning. The influences are far more subtle, and much more driven by common sense and instinct. For instance, it is not likely I would wear a pair of boots as a fashion statement, or as a response to seeing some celebrity wearing them in Hollywood, but more due to the fact that it was snowing or raining outside and cold. In my mind, I would be wondering why in the world someone would wear a pair of thick boots in the mild and warm climate of Hollywood, trying to cast aside the observation they are pouring sweat by claiming that they do not sweat, but “glimmer”. If I wear a sundress, it is probably because I was feeling too lazy to put on pants that morning, or felt “fat” as so many of my female sisters understand this phenomenon, and wanted something comfortable to deal with.
I see how influences in culture and society impact the way people dress, especially for women. The stereotypical, ultimately unattainable ideal of thin, Barbie blonde, disproportionately large curves to emaciated waists and minds, the expectations of some narrow-minded individuals for us to be “seen and not heard” and conform to several other, all-pervasive double standards percolating in the collective unconscious of the male species for the greater part of history, still dominates the way many women perceive themselves or feel they must live up to. So women feel more inclined to starve themselves, foster a drastically low self-esteem they aren’t faintly even aware of, and dive into the pages of shallow fashion magazines because they believe they are suppose to, and live by those debilitating standards. Beyond the feminist perspective of our American pop culture, men are by no means immune to these unrealistic standards that may even at times perpetuate a sense of looking down upon women as inferiors, not equals. Society tells men they must be strong and muscular and absolutely, positively masculine, for if they are not, they must be homosexual or, in laymen terms, a “wuss”.
Though less common, this can drive men to exercise excessively, swallow handfuls of steroids or diet pills, believe that spritzing themselves with Axe cologne really will cause multiple attractive females to have sex with them when they walk down the street, believe that they are to dress a certain way to demonstrate their masculinity, or that talking down to women is acceptable, judging them by appearance first and foremost is the standard, and groping them or making sexually inappropriate comments to them is just fine and dandy.
Society, like life, is a bitch. No wonder my mind takes quick stock of observations and drifts off quick back to my dream world. Who would really want to consider these unfair implications any further than one would have to? I may be an aloof space-case, but I am proud of this. My attention deficit disorder attention span keeps me from ever becoming too immersed in those false and despicable stereotypes for any extended period of time. So although I do not have a great fashion sense, will never be the woman who turns heads when walking down the street, or be plastered across the feature pages of Vogue, I am grateful and never would want it to be any other way. I will never be exactly want society wants me to be, and honestly who could ever be what society wants them to be with ideals so high and unrealistic? Yes, the ugly duckling phase sucked, being made fun of all throughout my grade school and high school years sucked, but it would “suck” more to be an adult that believes she must starve herself to gain acceptance amongst her peers, that having her bottom groped on a subway train is a compliment or plunging into credit card debt at age twenty four because she “absolutely had to have” the designer clothes from Chanel is a rite of passage. I am very lucky my mind will not even allow me to dwell on these things for more than five minutes. Instead it is remembering all the fun I had playing street hockey when I was ten. Sure this brain of mind might not be completely productive, and can get me into troubles when things I must do out of necessity are not tended to, but perhaps this is more a beneficial aspect rather than a hindering element of my personality; it keeps me from being enamored by all the bullshit.
tomboy.
I had ultimately rejected skirts and dresses in favor of jeans and t-shirts, which I believed were more comfortable. Then I had a “fashion epiphany” during the summer, when the humidity and heat would become unbearable so often, and it was that sundresses were actually the easiest and most comfortable things to wear. Not only were they easier and more comfortable, I would get several compliments on them, and would be praised for “dressing like a girl”. Initially, that drove me away from wearing them often until I graduated high school because I did not like all the strange attention, especially considering the fact that I was not adjusted to being complimented on my outfits and somehow managed to perceive them as threats. I suppose culture and society did influence me in that respect; American sure learned how to become terrified of damn near everything after 9/11. A compliment was not to be taken lightly; it could have easily been interpreted as a bomb threat or precursor to some sort of terrorist agenda worthy of raising the terror alert level to at least orange. That’s what I thought anyway.
The way I present myself to society, and how my outer appearance is judged by it, is usually not something I consciously consider when I throw together a hurricane of an outfit in the morning. My ever-drifting mind is the eye of this metaphorical tropical monstrosity: calm, cool, and detached from the whirlwind of action my body is in, rushing around throwing on clothes or makeup, just trying to be on time to school or other responsibilities in the morning. The influences are far more subtle, and much more driven by common sense and instinct. For instance, it is not likely I would wear a pair of boots as a fashion statement, or as a response to seeing some celebrity wearing them in Hollywood, but more due to the fact that it was snowing or raining outside and cold. In my mind, I would be wondering why in the world someone would wear a pair of thick boots in the mild and warm climate of Hollywood, trying to cast aside the observation they are pouring sweat by claiming that they do not sweat, but “glimmer”. If I wear a sundress, it is probably because I was feeling too lazy to put on pants that morning, or felt “fat” as so many of my female sisters understand this phenomenon, and wanted something comfortable to deal with.
I see how influences in culture and society impact the way people dress, especially for women. The stereotypical, ultimately unattainable ideal of thin, Barbie blonde, disproportionately large curves to emaciated waists and minds, the expectations of some narrow-minded individuals for us to be “seen and not heard” and conform to several other, all-pervasive double standards percolating in the collective unconscious of the male species for the greater part of history, still dominates the way many women perceive themselves or feel they must live up to. So women feel more inclined to starve themselves, foster a drastically low self-esteem they aren’t faintly even aware of, and dive into the pages of shallow fashion magazines because they believe they are suppose to, and live by those debilitating standards. Beyond the feminist perspective of our American pop culture, men are by no means immune to these unrealistic standards that may even at times perpetuate a sense of looking down upon women as inferiors, not equals. Society tells men they must be strong and muscular and absolutely, positively masculine, for if they are not, they must be homosexual or, in laymen terms, a “wuss”.
Though less common, this can drive men to exercise excessively, swallow handfuls of steroids or diet pills, believe that spritzing themselves with Axe cologne really will cause multiple attractive females to have sex with them when they walk down the street, believe that they are to dress a certain way to demonstrate their masculinity, or that talking down to women is acceptable, judging them by appearance first and foremost is the standard, and groping them or making sexually inappropriate comments to them is just fine and dandy.
Society, like life, is a bitch. No wonder my mind takes quick stock of observations and drifts off quick back to my dream world. Who would really want to consider these unfair implications any further than one would have to? I may be an aloof space-case, but I am proud of this. My attention deficit disorder attention span keeps me from ever becoming too immersed in those false and despicable stereotypes for any extended period of time. So although I do not have a great fashion sense, will never be the woman who turns heads when walking down the street, or be plastered across the feature pages of Vogue, I am grateful and never would want it to be any other way. I will never be exactly want society wants me to be, and honestly who could ever be what society wants them to be with ideals so high and unrealistic? Yes, the ugly duckling phase sucked, being made fun of all throughout my grade school and high school years sucked, but it would “suck” more to be an adult that believes she must starve herself to gain acceptance amongst her peers, that having her bottom groped on a subway train is a compliment or plunging into credit card debt at age twenty four because she “absolutely had to have” the designer clothes from Chanel is a rite of passage. I am very lucky my mind will not even allow me to dwell on these things for more than five minutes. Instead it is remembering all the fun I had playing street hockey when I was ten. Sure this brain of mind might not be completely productive, and can get me into troubles when things I must do out of necessity are not tended to, but perhaps this is more a beneficial aspect rather than a hindering element of my personality; it keeps me from being enamored by all the bullshit.
Page 4--Society Can Be A Bitch--Olivia Petrus
I am the epitome of what some would call the “aloof space-case.” I can estimate with relative accuracy that I spend more time dreaming throughout the day than I do during the night. Long ago I abandoned fleeting attempts at rationality tugging upon the invisible ribbon of practicality tied to my mind. Throughout waking life, my conscience floats aimlessly amongst the clouds, gently gliding amidst misty fantasies and soaring across ideas. It has a distinct talent for effortlessly avoiding what it considers to be the mundane, however necessary, tasks and responsibilities required for survival in this society. My seemingly perpetual state of mental absence does not render me completely clueless and unaware of the stirrings occurring within my immediate surroundings. Quite the contrary: I’m a rather observant, psychically absorbent space-case, though afflicted by a severe handicap of easy distraction triggered by a vulnerability to boredom. I possess sharp, penetrating powers of observation and have an abundance of insights about the world around me; what person does not, after all? The true folly of my character lies in my mind’s erratic tendency to take quick stock of these observations and then recklessly drift off to the unending source of pleasures, adventures and absurdities of my overactive imagination. Or is that the greatest strength of my nature?
This delirious detachment and simultaneous transmutation of the world around me maintains both positive and negative externalities. The positive, I surmise, would lie in my mind’s intense desire to discover and engage in the rare and precious gems of genuine and sentimental experiences in contemporary society. My famished brain is always on the hunt for the intangible treasures of the physical plane such as love, compassion, empathy, music, charity, God and truth. Ironically, the downfall of having this spacey mind is somewhat connected to the benefit. My short attention span (and to an uncertain extent that is debatable), arrogance or ignorance which rejects aspects of society it deems to be shallow or uninteresting, can at times be a direct defiance and challenge to some of the standards of our culture and society. No example better highlights the malaise my odd mind can bring upon the person apparent to the public and at the mercy of their judgment than my fashion sense.
My short existence in this dimension has been punctuated with phases of dotted outfits and crossed accessories scribbled together by what probably appeared to be a blind dyslexic. Needless to say I survived a cruel and painfully extended ugly duckling period. When I was old enough to dress myself, the daily standard for years, at least a decade of my life anyway, generally boiled down to a loose pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt. This was suitable for the rugged lifestyle of a nine-year-old tomboy who adored playing street hockey and climbing trees. Culture did not influence my choice of dress during those years; comfort, ease and the necessity of durable, cheap clothing to endure whatever trouble I was to get myself into for the day did. Puberty hit sometime around sixth or seventh grade, a time when children tend to be the most cruel and desperate and their impressionable, undeveloped minds fall victim to the warped stereotypes of MTV and, ironically, Seventeen Magazine. So while I watched a good size portion of my peers smear their pouts with bubble-gum-flavored LipSmackers balm before gym class, and wore their Abercrombie and Fitch, Aeropostale, or whatever other overpriced, name-brand preppy store they convinced their parents to be inconspicuously dragged into while trying to look like independent mall rats to the cute looking sixteen-year-old pimple faced male sales clerks, with great conviction, I was left looking straight up fugly. Still rocking baggy, tattered, hole-plagued (real holes, not those fashion holes some designers charge an extra twenty five dollars to scrape up a pair of jeans with, called “fashion wear” or something) J’nco jeans and extra large Old Navy shirts, (Old Navy being a high class retailer to me at the time) I certainly did not meet any standard of beauty that society, or my fellow classmates of the male orientation, would deem glamorous of an eleven year old girl. It was not that I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was suppose to be dressing girly and trying to attract dates for the most important event, and perhaps even day, of our hormonal and greasy pre-adolescence lives, the D.A.R.E dance, it’s that I could not easily grasp why I would have to go to all that trouble, and my consistent and repetitive failures when I did try to conform.
Cosmetics were a nightmare that started with me swiping mascara on my eyebrows at age ten and ended in a collision of harsh, uneven red lipstick borrowed from Bozo the Clown, in addition to running eyeliner that put “heroin sheik” dark circles under my eyes, making me look as though I was crying all day. Which I might have been after smiling at a cute boy in homeroom and having him ask, “Are you wearing makeup today?” To which I would reply dreamily, “Yes” and he would say, “It shows,” in a cold, deflated and disgusted tone. Nor did I achieve any great success in trying to pull off a pseudo-preppy look of high-heeled leather booties, a plaid skirt, white shirt and one of my father’s red silk dress ties hanging loosely around my neck (thank you Avril Lavigne). The day I flaunted that massacre, I sashayed into the class I shared with the boy I had been crushing on since third grade. I certainly did gain his attention; he walked right up to me and told me bluntly, “you look really weird in that.” “Thank you,” I replied just as directly, “That’s exactly what I was going for,” uncertain whether it was said out of total honesty or as a defense mechanism. Though I would never go on to gain any popularity amongst the glitter-cheeked cheerleaders, or even get a date for the D.A.R.E dance; consequently attending the most important event of our greasy hormonal lives’ solo and wearing a misses formal gown only to find a gymnasium crammed with kids wearing jeans andtheir “D.A.R.E” t-shirts, bouncing around in a moon jump and playing games, I did find solace in the baby punk rock crowd. It’s not that I shared their same passion for bands like Good Charlotte and Sum 41, but more or less that my horrible, unflattering style of dress did not completely clash with their black heavy eyeliner look, intentional mind you, and safety pin sensibilities. Instead of trying to live up to the CosmoGirl! ideal, I simply secluded myself amongst kids that were trying to rebel against that image.
Throughout my sinister and volatile freshman year of high school, I still looked like what some would consider their homely, grim and beastly-looking stepsister, only with more zits and an explosive temperament bursting with irritability and angst. Again, I did nothing to live up to even an acceptable or presentable appearance; I did not feel as though I had an inner beauty to work with anyhow. Unfortunately, the baby punk rockers excommunicated me from their clique since I could not afford to shop at Hot Topic, and did not feel inclined to attend their pagan rituals in which they attempted to summon Kurt Cobain’s spirit from the underworld via Ouijia Boards and casting curse spells on Courtney Love. Instead I sunk back into the stoner group, which worked out well for me since the potheads cared about nothing else aside from marijuana and getting high. Fashion was of virtually no concern to them; a majority of the individuals consisting of this group could not remember what they themselves were wearing at that very moment. However, astonishingly enough most could easily recall every single distinct detail of the first time they got high years ago, the best ice bongs they ever hit, and their favorite flavors of sativa featured in High Times with a crystal clarity akin to that of a Buddhist monk. During this time of my life, I usually concealed my pudgy baby fat under an enormous hoodie and still preferred jeans and street shoes. This standard combination, a staple of the stoner crowd, served me well during the days of wandering forest preserves aimlessly in a daze during all seasons of the year, all hours of the night.
THE RANT CONTINUES IF YOU CLICK HERE
This delirious detachment and simultaneous transmutation of the world around me maintains both positive and negative externalities. The positive, I surmise, would lie in my mind’s intense desire to discover and engage in the rare and precious gems of genuine and sentimental experiences in contemporary society. My famished brain is always on the hunt for the intangible treasures of the physical plane such as love, compassion, empathy, music, charity, God and truth. Ironically, the downfall of having this spacey mind is somewhat connected to the benefit. My short attention span (and to an uncertain extent that is debatable), arrogance or ignorance which rejects aspects of society it deems to be shallow or uninteresting, can at times be a direct defiance and challenge to some of the standards of our culture and society. No example better highlights the malaise my odd mind can bring upon the person apparent to the public and at the mercy of their judgment than my fashion sense.
My short existence in this dimension has been punctuated with phases of dotted outfits and crossed accessories scribbled together by what probably appeared to be a blind dyslexic. Needless to say I survived a cruel and painfully extended ugly duckling period. When I was old enough to dress myself, the daily standard for years, at least a decade of my life anyway, generally boiled down to a loose pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt. This was suitable for the rugged lifestyle of a nine-year-old tomboy who adored playing street hockey and climbing trees. Culture did not influence my choice of dress during those years; comfort, ease and the necessity of durable, cheap clothing to endure whatever trouble I was to get myself into for the day did. Puberty hit sometime around sixth or seventh grade, a time when children tend to be the most cruel and desperate and their impressionable, undeveloped minds fall victim to the warped stereotypes of MTV and, ironically, Seventeen Magazine. So while I watched a good size portion of my peers smear their pouts with bubble-gum-flavored LipSmackers balm before gym class, and wore their Abercrombie and Fitch, Aeropostale, or whatever other overpriced, name-brand preppy store they convinced their parents to be inconspicuously dragged into while trying to look like independent mall rats to the cute looking sixteen-year-old pimple faced male sales clerks, with great conviction, I was left looking straight up fugly. Still rocking baggy, tattered, hole-plagued (real holes, not those fashion holes some designers charge an extra twenty five dollars to scrape up a pair of jeans with, called “fashion wear” or something) J’nco jeans and extra large Old Navy shirts, (Old Navy being a high class retailer to me at the time) I certainly did not meet any standard of beauty that society, or my fellow classmates of the male orientation, would deem glamorous of an eleven year old girl. It was not that I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was suppose to be dressing girly and trying to attract dates for the most important event, and perhaps even day, of our hormonal and greasy pre-adolescence lives, the D.A.R.E dance, it’s that I could not easily grasp why I would have to go to all that trouble, and my consistent and repetitive failures when I did try to conform.
Cosmetics were a nightmare that started with me swiping mascara on my eyebrows at age ten and ended in a collision of harsh, uneven red lipstick borrowed from Bozo the Clown, in addition to running eyeliner that put “heroin sheik” dark circles under my eyes, making me look as though I was crying all day. Which I might have been after smiling at a cute boy in homeroom and having him ask, “Are you wearing makeup today?” To which I would reply dreamily, “Yes” and he would say, “It shows,” in a cold, deflated and disgusted tone. Nor did I achieve any great success in trying to pull off a pseudo-preppy look of high-heeled leather booties, a plaid skirt, white shirt and one of my father’s red silk dress ties hanging loosely around my neck (thank you Avril Lavigne). The day I flaunted that massacre, I sashayed into the class I shared with the boy I had been crushing on since third grade. I certainly did gain his attention; he walked right up to me and told me bluntly, “you look really weird in that.” “Thank you,” I replied just as directly, “That’s exactly what I was going for,” uncertain whether it was said out of total honesty or as a defense mechanism. Though I would never go on to gain any popularity amongst the glitter-cheeked cheerleaders, or even get a date for the D.A.R.E dance; consequently attending the most important event of our greasy hormonal lives’ solo and wearing a misses formal gown only to find a gymnasium crammed with kids wearing jeans andtheir “D.A.R.E” t-shirts, bouncing around in a moon jump and playing games, I did find solace in the baby punk rock crowd. It’s not that I shared their same passion for bands like Good Charlotte and Sum 41, but more or less that my horrible, unflattering style of dress did not completely clash with their black heavy eyeliner look, intentional mind you, and safety pin sensibilities. Instead of trying to live up to the CosmoGirl! ideal, I simply secluded myself amongst kids that were trying to rebel against that image.
Throughout my sinister and volatile freshman year of high school, I still looked like what some would consider their homely, grim and beastly-looking stepsister, only with more zits and an explosive temperament bursting with irritability and angst. Again, I did nothing to live up to even an acceptable or presentable appearance; I did not feel as though I had an inner beauty to work with anyhow. Unfortunately, the baby punk rockers excommunicated me from their clique since I could not afford to shop at Hot Topic, and did not feel inclined to attend their pagan rituals in which they attempted to summon Kurt Cobain’s spirit from the underworld via Ouijia Boards and casting curse spells on Courtney Love. Instead I sunk back into the stoner group, which worked out well for me since the potheads cared about nothing else aside from marijuana and getting high. Fashion was of virtually no concern to them; a majority of the individuals consisting of this group could not remember what they themselves were wearing at that very moment. However, astonishingly enough most could easily recall every single distinct detail of the first time they got high years ago, the best ice bongs they ever hit, and their favorite flavors of sativa featured in High Times with a crystal clarity akin to that of a Buddhist monk. During this time of my life, I usually concealed my pudgy baby fat under an enormous hoodie and still preferred jeans and street shoes. This standard combination, a staple of the stoner crowd, served me well during the days of wandering forest preserves aimlessly in a daze during all seasons of the year, all hours of the night.
THE RANT CONTINUES IF YOU CLICK HERE
Page 1--Glistening Trinket Fall--Ryan Mattern
The music plays and around she spins with one leg arched up, foot pressed against her calf as if to make a “P”. She would turn all day and every night if allowed, the lights reflecting off her porcelain face and hair causing shadows to dance along the wall. On her island where she imagined looking up to see the pots that swung from the hanger above her head, she was loved by all who sat with their chins in their hands, watching her go. She stopped only momentarily to smile at the onlookers, cast marble eyes upon the dishes that rose and fell like buoys in the dishwater, and pray for someone to tickle her spine with one more twist of the key.
There wasn’t an eye depriving her of attention or a breath let out in anything other than of a sigh remarking on her beauty. Except one. Huddled underneath the armchair was a boy holding tightly to his slingshot, dreaming of something he ought not to.
He peeked over the end table at the girls standing in the kitchen in a circle around the trinket who spun to her song. Slowly the girls became permanent fixtures around the island, not moving for anything, frozen in awe of their toy. His cousin Jessie was the oven. His sister Elle a garbage can, her mouth stuck open. He then looked at the trinket, seeming like the only living thing in the room. She smiled at him. Taunted him. He rummaged through his jean pockets, casting out an arrowhead he found by the old Indian furnaces, a brittle grasshopper that crunched like wax paper between his fingers, and dug out a rock just the right size for the job. He set his wrist on the table and loaded the rock into a pouch in the center of the elastic. He held his right hand, with the loaded purse underneath his right eye, the left one closed. With his aim dead-on, he began pulling back and counting. He heard his old man’s voice in his head: Remember boy, when you’re lining up your shot you need to count while you pull back, depending on what it is you shoot. One for a bird. Two for a squirrel. Three for a cat.
Never learning the proper technique for shooting glass and porcelain, he figured “four” would do the trick. By the time he counted that high, his arm was clear behind his head and shaking from the tension. He felt the pressure in his teeth like they were about to turn to dust. And just when his shoulder felt like it was going to pop out of the socket, he released.
*****
Like most boys his age, he was forced into manhood. He had a summons to report for basic training in Cincinnati one week after his eighteenth birthday, just past his high school graduation. He had seen so many guys done up in their pressed green suits and hats leave on a bus only to come right back into the holler inside a box, hugged by an American flag.
He listened to stories, on the Greyhound to the city, about all the atrocities people had seen or heard about in the jungle.
“I heard Jimmy Corbin got his head blowed clean off while he was takin’ a leak,” the guy sitting next to him said, while rapidly opening his fist, emphasizing an explosion. “He was still standing, leaned up against a tree, pissin’ all over himself when they found him.” He said it matter of fact like it was no different from the radio calling for rain. He imagined seeing Jimmy as the jock he remembered, with a wet ring around his crotch and legs. He didn’t know why, but he thought of Jimmy’s football helmet, alone on the long bench that stretched along the center of the locker room at the high school.
When they arrived at the base, they were lead to their barracks to drop off their packs, then were immediately ushered into a room of barber chairs. He watched as his hair, curly palm fronds over his eyes and ears, fell down his neck and tumbled across his shoulders delicately, like the wind was too afraid to make a noise. When it all reached the floor, it left him looking like a butchered tree; bony, bald, and exposed.
After weeks of physical training, and a newfound muscular physique—loose skin now clung tight, weak arms and legs now sculpted from marble—he learned to fire a rifle from a bulldog of an instructor. Here he excelled. He felt like he was seven again, looking down the sight and lining up a shot, ready to obliterate whatever there was. Accuracy flowed from his fingertips and in through the chambers of his weapon every time he practiced. Other cadets were not as fortunate.
“Men, let’s all start mourning for Private Abrams,” the instructor yelled, brown tobacco juice flying from his mouth to Abrams’ face, who recoiled in disgust. After the spray he looked like his nose was bleeding maple syrup and his eyes were leaking a polluted river. “Abrams is gonna die out there! This sloppy fuck couldn’t hit a slope at point blank!”
*****
Like feathers being plucked from a chicken, glass pieces of her body glistened in the lamplight as they exploded into a million shards of themselves. The girls’ eyes swelled up and they cupped their mouths, turning away as if they were witnessing murder. Their screaming symphony collided dissonantly against the boy’s victory cry. He crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and twirled clumsily, mocking all who loved the figurine.
He would always chase that sense of ruin, feeling a life inside of the weapon he wielded, but would never truly comprehend the nature of accuracy.
*****
He had been in country for almost four months when he took over for a discovered sniper. He would go into the bush for days at a time, returning to camp only by the cover of nightfall to stock up on supplies. Out there he answered to no one, moving about from tree to tree as he saw fit. Tracking game just like his old man when he would shoot coyotes inside of the property line; the boy would tag along firing rocks and BBs at whatever he could.
One afternoon, during a routine aerial patrol, he heard a commotion around one of the camps he had been monitoring. Through his scope he saw home. There were a handful of Vietcong soldiers sitting in a circle, cheering and whistling at a woman dancing in the center of them. They drank from their bottles, laughed and threw cigarettes butts at her as she snaked and twisted to their liking. Her black hair whipped and furled around her tanned face as she cocked her head in confidence. She arched her back and touched herself, revving up her audience to a dangerous volume. Then, like the universe from nothing, she sparked an inextinguishable flame in his heart. It was a bell chiming throughout his body, stopping him from blinking and causing him to salivate. It was then that she arched one leg up and spun.
He already had his finger on the trigger and begun counting in his head, all the while humming the song to which the figurine once danced.
There wasn’t an eye depriving her of attention or a breath let out in anything other than of a sigh remarking on her beauty. Except one. Huddled underneath the armchair was a boy holding tightly to his slingshot, dreaming of something he ought not to.
He peeked over the end table at the girls standing in the kitchen in a circle around the trinket who spun to her song. Slowly the girls became permanent fixtures around the island, not moving for anything, frozen in awe of their toy. His cousin Jessie was the oven. His sister Elle a garbage can, her mouth stuck open. He then looked at the trinket, seeming like the only living thing in the room. She smiled at him. Taunted him. He rummaged through his jean pockets, casting out an arrowhead he found by the old Indian furnaces, a brittle grasshopper that crunched like wax paper between his fingers, and dug out a rock just the right size for the job. He set his wrist on the table and loaded the rock into a pouch in the center of the elastic. He held his right hand, with the loaded purse underneath his right eye, the left one closed. With his aim dead-on, he began pulling back and counting. He heard his old man’s voice in his head: Remember boy, when you’re lining up your shot you need to count while you pull back, depending on what it is you shoot. One for a bird. Two for a squirrel. Three for a cat.
Never learning the proper technique for shooting glass and porcelain, he figured “four” would do the trick. By the time he counted that high, his arm was clear behind his head and shaking from the tension. He felt the pressure in his teeth like they were about to turn to dust. And just when his shoulder felt like it was going to pop out of the socket, he released.
*****
Like most boys his age, he was forced into manhood. He had a summons to report for basic training in Cincinnati one week after his eighteenth birthday, just past his high school graduation. He had seen so many guys done up in their pressed green suits and hats leave on a bus only to come right back into the holler inside a box, hugged by an American flag.
He listened to stories, on the Greyhound to the city, about all the atrocities people had seen or heard about in the jungle.
“I heard Jimmy Corbin got his head blowed clean off while he was takin’ a leak,” the guy sitting next to him said, while rapidly opening his fist, emphasizing an explosion. “He was still standing, leaned up against a tree, pissin’ all over himself when they found him.” He said it matter of fact like it was no different from the radio calling for rain. He imagined seeing Jimmy as the jock he remembered, with a wet ring around his crotch and legs. He didn’t know why, but he thought of Jimmy’s football helmet, alone on the long bench that stretched along the center of the locker room at the high school.
When they arrived at the base, they were lead to their barracks to drop off their packs, then were immediately ushered into a room of barber chairs. He watched as his hair, curly palm fronds over his eyes and ears, fell down his neck and tumbled across his shoulders delicately, like the wind was too afraid to make a noise. When it all reached the floor, it left him looking like a butchered tree; bony, bald, and exposed.
After weeks of physical training, and a newfound muscular physique—loose skin now clung tight, weak arms and legs now sculpted from marble—he learned to fire a rifle from a bulldog of an instructor. Here he excelled. He felt like he was seven again, looking down the sight and lining up a shot, ready to obliterate whatever there was. Accuracy flowed from his fingertips and in through the chambers of his weapon every time he practiced. Other cadets were not as fortunate.
“Men, let’s all start mourning for Private Abrams,” the instructor yelled, brown tobacco juice flying from his mouth to Abrams’ face, who recoiled in disgust. After the spray he looked like his nose was bleeding maple syrup and his eyes were leaking a polluted river. “Abrams is gonna die out there! This sloppy fuck couldn’t hit a slope at point blank!”
*****
Like feathers being plucked from a chicken, glass pieces of her body glistened in the lamplight as they exploded into a million shards of themselves. The girls’ eyes swelled up and they cupped their mouths, turning away as if they were witnessing murder. Their screaming symphony collided dissonantly against the boy’s victory cry. He crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and twirled clumsily, mocking all who loved the figurine.
He would always chase that sense of ruin, feeling a life inside of the weapon he wielded, but would never truly comprehend the nature of accuracy.
*****
He had been in country for almost four months when he took over for a discovered sniper. He would go into the bush for days at a time, returning to camp only by the cover of nightfall to stock up on supplies. Out there he answered to no one, moving about from tree to tree as he saw fit. Tracking game just like his old man when he would shoot coyotes inside of the property line; the boy would tag along firing rocks and BBs at whatever he could.
One afternoon, during a routine aerial patrol, he heard a commotion around one of the camps he had been monitoring. Through his scope he saw home. There were a handful of Vietcong soldiers sitting in a circle, cheering and whistling at a woman dancing in the center of them. They drank from their bottles, laughed and threw cigarettes butts at her as she snaked and twisted to their liking. Her black hair whipped and furled around her tanned face as she cocked her head in confidence. She arched her back and touched herself, revving up her audience to a dangerous volume. Then, like the universe from nothing, she sparked an inextinguishable flame in his heart. It was a bell chiming throughout his body, stopping him from blinking and causing him to salivate. It was then that she arched one leg up and spun.
He already had his finger on the trigger and begun counting in his head, all the while humming the song to which the figurine once danced.
Trick Or Treat! Sweet New Issue!
Okay, so it's not Halloween anymore. They put the candy away on The Toucan. Nevertheless, after tripping on our ghostly sheet, we're here, we're back, and here's our new issue, hot off the Xerox machine. Keep checking back here for details, because we've got some distribution ideas up our sleeves. Also, enjoy the contributor bios this time around!
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