Table of Contents: Post(mortem/modern) Polly by Robert Rider untitled by Courtney Anderson [ bedtime tale for deviant housewives #35.4 ] by Ehren Helmut Pflugfelder untitled by Courtney Anderson untitled picture by Sayra Chisholm The Emotion Called Lust by Jeremiah Henschel The Storm by Danielle Mazer The Spirit Within by Danielle Mazer 1066: What Really Happened by Darcie Ramp untitled picture by Sayra Chisholm untitled picture by Christopher "Twiz" Tritschler untitled by anonymous Angel by Rebekah Garris Something Quantifiable compiled with the help of Skip Roberts A Story About Some People Part One: by Christopher "Twiz" Tritschler untitled by anonymous editor's note
Post(mortem/modern) Polly by Robert Rider The anthill was an enormous phallic system. No, wait. It was bigger than that. No longer were there any conscious recollections of foreground, middle-ground, and background. I had the notion to believe I was in Abbott's Flatland, but then logos kissed me and I saw my cigarette erection had a bad case of burning gonorrhea--which, in its own right, was slowly destroying its will to procreate. So, here are my qualifications: my degree in English writing, the actual diploma serves nicely as a patch for the broken window in my retarded neighbor's outhouse, has somehow knighted me with the right to laugh in the face of traditional grammar laws and rationally accept that the trap door to my subconscious was blown away in the great acid storm of '96. Shh, listen. Aristotle is preaching on the mountain and chastises me because the anthill is much more significant than me. My name is Polly Fitzgerald Kennedy, Jr. and I was there when the Reagan assassination went terribly wrong. That was the last time a boy would ever be hired to perform an important government job. They're much too soft and self involved. My father, Satan rest his soul, was one of ten finalists in a top-secret government training program, and he wasn't selected because Lee Harvey Oswald was more of an ideal candidate. Ever since he comprehensively understood that his desire to be forever linked to the famous president was only fiction, he was never the same. I think that is why he left his mother and I and fled to Iraq, where he swiftly climbed the political slide and became dictator. I've been a boy now for nine and a half weeks. The final stitch dissolved yesterday and other than the itch it isn't that difficult being male. I am greeted each morning by a smiling face who always stands to celebrate my awakening, and I no longer have to sit to urinate. I haven't shaved since the operation and although the testosterone has left the fur on my face patchy, I have managed to prune a jungle on my neck that seems a most suitable habitation for a family of finches and a widowed androgynous mouse. Their chemistry is most astounding and admirable. Ok, Aristotle. I hear you. The giant anthill that suddenly replaced the universe reeked of decay, lies, and inconsistency. Each small particle of mass that the ants used to form their empire were as large or larger than me. It looked like sand, but it felt like moist feces. There were an infinite amount of them suffocating the air and creating a heaven to suit the ants need. I began to philosophize on the reasons why such a society was formed when the first albino ant approached me. Oddly enough the albino's feet made no noise and I wasn't scared. The ant, in all its self confidence and masculinity, was rather amusing. I hid my smile with a cigarette and the ant began to screech, his front legs waving wildly in the polluted air and his long antenna were vibrating. The albino ant, with his massive tunnel-vision eyes had somehow, in the brief moment that he opened his mouth, traded his amusing existence for a more annoying one. I told him to shut up and that I was ill from his lies and he stormed off into the abyss of his manifested world. I didn't even have enough time to enjoy my cigarette when the albino ant returned with an army of identical males and the king. Once again the ants managed to make me smile. The king, with his enormous penis pushing an agenda of suffocation, was decked in purple fur and wore a crown of sulfur. The stench made me lift my shirt to my nose. The king's men systematically danced around me as if in some deep contemplation of my being. The king, with one loud shriek and a grunt, summoned his mindless workers o halt and he approached me. He turned his massive head to the right and then to the left. I told him my business wasn't with him or any of his surfs, but he didn't pay attention. He came close enough to me for me to reach out and touch his hairy legs but I resisted the temptation. It was what he wanted. He turned his head again still trying to figure me out. I decided it was best to try and help him along in his thought process, and I pulled my pants down to show him the appendage that the good Dr. Irigaray had equipped me with. The king stepped back, admired, and then looked down at himself. I assured him that he was much more blessed and he came back into my space. He began to walk around me in a circle. I followed his eyes and told him again that I had no business with him and that all I came for was the man buried beneath the anthill. He stopped. I told him that housing the Cosmic Dictator Aristotle was now considered a crime, and if he didn't comply with my wishes that I would have to destroy him too. I told him that all I was going to do was take the dead man and kill him properly. That was right about the time the king smelled me and shrieked again. He knew who I was and he was programmed to destroy. He opened his giant mouth and mauled me, consumed and digested me, and defecated me into his anthill. It didn't take long for the next Polly to arrive, better equipped than I was, and begin to chip away at the years of repression. Exhume the demons. We've been waiting two thousand years for us.
untitled You know why poems suck? Because you can't scream in a poem. You can't stomp your feet in rage. A poem can't blow smoke in someone's face Or flip them the bird. A poem can't hold back your hair the next morning or make sure you remembered to take your medicine. A poem can't help you pick out a new pair of shoes and it can't keep you warm at night. It can't take out the garbage or hold your hand at the movies. A poem can't kill a spider and it can't short-sheet someone's bed. A poem can't laugh at your jokes. It doesn't love you back. ~Courtney Anderson
[ bedtime tale for deviant housewives #35.4 ] ~ by Ehren Helmut Pflugfelder Once upon a time, existing from moment to moment as though they were such cheap cigarettes and on such cheap cigarettes, there lived a young man, lets call him, for lack of a better name, me. (In the future, me will be referred to as "I.") Now I should say that while I was a good man, he did a great number of things which some would consider to be immoral or amoral, however this story doesn't include those people, so they are irrelevant, and furthermore, I is not an immoral person, it just so happens that I's morality has a larger basis of operation than most (expanding like a party balloon.) Now, one time when I was on some mind-expanding and experimental drugs, so called not because they were in the experimental stages of development, but because I was experimenting with them, I decided on a wonderful concept which was not new, but that I now understood better than I would have, if I had not been doing said experimental drugs. Don't get me wrong, I likes children, I taught day care for two years and one day hopes to become a teacher, but this idea ran through I's head like ideas will sometimes do, quickly and with a certain amount of optimism for the possibility of the future action involved with such an idea, like a raccoon through a pillow factory. Before I get ahead of myself, conflicting clich�s aside, I should mention I's idea. I thought that it wouldn't be a bad thing if he was allowed to eat some children. Yes, I know that while I was beaten to the idea by Swift by some 271 years, it still remains a good idea and the specifics are most assuredly different, as I doesn't have any social statement to make, nor does I want to eat children of any specific country or culture. Now, while everyone has thought about eating children and what a ghastly prospect that would be, it seemed, for a short instant, to be a good idea to I. The progression is this: 1) a thought based on something ghastly is one that a person entertains, but quickly lets go because it is so ghastly; 2) the second step is to recognize that it is ghastly, but the mind further develops the thought into an idea once someone (like I) considers the prospect and acquires a plan of action to further empower the idea; 3) once this idea has power, one must abandon the external consequences of said idea, thus allowing it to become a 'good' idea, even if for a few minutes. This is where I once was, for a period longer than a moment, yet shorter than I would need for said action to occur; I thought eating children was a good idea. (Oh, uh, the children should be living when he devours them and they should be between the ages of five and eight and a half. I also neglected think about seasoning, I thought spontaneity would add something to the taste (adrenaline has a taste kinda like paprika.)) The next step (4) is to recognize this idea for longer than a moment (roughly eight seconds) and develop some life-long passion for the eating of children, drooling when one sees a nice, succulent one in the supermarket next to the Paul Newman barbecue sauce. I should say the last step (5) is to carry out this activity, to go about actually eating a child, and while this is quite a mammoth step, it is also the next logical one if I were to be so bold and follow some condensed logic (logic where you don't have to add water). I has not yet progressed to this stage, due to, in I's estimation, a fear of experimenting with the necessary amount of experimental drugs that such an activity would require. Call I a piece-of-shit loser, but I doesn't want to wake up in solitary confinement with blood on his teeth and a mullet. I won't go into detail about what I wanted to do to children, but it is suffice to say that it was gruesome and I hoped you would be clever enough not to read this after you ate. I is kind in that way. Oh, I don't think I will ever eat any children. After he took a nap and had a cigarette, I knows he would feel bad about it. Now if you will excuse me, I's friend, Him, wants to go scour the highways for drifters to pick up and torture in the comfort of Him's basement.
untitled Last Tuesday I discovered the meaning of life. When I woke up it was just sitting there waiting for me, Staring me dead in the face. I looked at it and laughed because it was wearing galoshes Then rolled over and went back to sleep. Next time I heard from it was in a letter; It said I hurt its feelings so it would no longer be with me. Too bad I'm too self-involved to care? ~Courtney Anderson
The Emotion Called Lust For once in your life, notice me Feel me, sense me, hold me, and see me Show your love as you say you want to Show that you know you want me Show that you care, show that it's there For once in your life, express your lust for me Tell me, kiss me, and make me see Is not love born into a baby upon birth? Is it a feeling we all knew since day one? So why is it so hard to show sometimes? Is it I, or is it you? For once in your life, love me Give me a chance; give me your time I'll show that lust for love can happen I'll show that love can come in many forms I'll show you that we were made for each other Just promise me ten minutes. ~Jeremiah Henschel
1066: What Really Happened by Darcie Ramp (The year is 1066. There has been much recent turmoil since King Edward the Confessor's death on January 5. In the North of England, the new English king Harold Godwinson, has just defended the country against an attack from another claimant to the throne, Harold Hardrad, Viking king of Denmark (Field 1). Hardrad believed himself the rightful king of England because of agreements made between former English and Danish kings. He gathered up his fierce Viking forces and Harold Godwinson's angry brother, Tostig, who had been banished from England, and set sail for Northumbria only to be defeated (Field 1). The battle is over and English troops turn home after being assured that the Viking ships were limping home defeated. A messenger gallops his horse frantically toward the English army and halts in front of King Harold.) Messenger: Your majesty, I came as swiftly as I could! We've just received word that the Duke of Normandy plans to invade thy southern border while ye are engaged in warfare with these bloody Vikings! King Harry G: Bloody hell! That ignorant pygmy! (turns to his senior officers, snappishly) What are ye waiting for? Doomsday? Order ye olde royal death march! We have to stop him! Lieutenant: Yes, sir. (salutes, then proceeds to fall out of his saddle in his state of drunken revelry, nearly landing on a dog, a chicken, and a severed arm?) King Harry G: (genuinely astonished) Good God, man! Officer: Don't pay him any mind, Your Majesty. He's had a wee bit to drink. (turns to officer below him and barks orders) To the south men! On ye olde double! (The English army traveled the 250 miles from Northumbria to Hastings, where the Normans had landed. The trip only took them nine days (Field 1). The drunken lieutenant was tossed into the Thames along the way. Harold gathered many soldiers on his march, and lost a few to their homes as well. King Harold's army of 7,000 met William, Duke of Normandy's army of 7,000 at 9:30am on October 14 (Field 1). King Harold's side painted their faces blue and waved their bare behinds at the enemy. Okay, so they didn't. But they would have if Mel Gibson had directed the Invasion.) King Harry G: How fares my army, Sergeant? Sergeant: We're winning, sire. I think. (grins sheepishly, blushes, takes a swig from a bottle in a brown paper bag, and shrugs) What can I say? I'm Irish. It's too early in the morning for this. And I don't give a fiddler's fart about your war. King Harry G: (screams) Get out of my army! (to himself) If you want something done right, do it yourself. (a messenger trots up to King Harold) Messenger: The Duke of Normandy has been killed, Your Majesty! We're winning! (An arrow pierces their messenger's breastplate and he falls out of his saddle, nearly landing on a dog, a chicken, and an emu. King Harold's eyes widen momentarily. An emu in England? A sneaky Norman sees this and remembers something he heard about seeing the whites of their eyes, so he shoots his bow, piercing Harold's eye. Harold is pulled from his horse by a rush of Normans and stabbed to death with a sword. The camera swings to a shot of William, who isn't really dead, jumping and clapping like a child. The English army could not hold the Normans off after the death of Harold, their esteemed battle leader. The Normans swept across England until the entire island was in their possession. William was awarded the title of Conqueror and ascended the throne of England.)
The Storm The clouds raced across the sky It started getting darker as the minutes ticked by Lightning struck with a piercing sound The howling wind blew my emotions around The rain poured down stinging my face My legs tried to move faster, but kept the same slow pace The thunder made vibrations that numbed my feet I didn't care, I continued walking the puddled street My body was being battered by rain I didn't care, I could feel no physical pain I suddenly noticed two figures walking my way They both smiled and said, "Isn't it a lovely day?" I smiled and nodded the best I could For I was the only one who understood Outside the sun shined, clouds were far gone Inside the darkness lies, where the storm continues on ~Danielle Mazer
The Spirit Within There is a spirit That lies within us all It's what holds us up When we begin to fall When times get tough And you can't see the light The spirit acts as a candle A candle that burns bright Some become so wrapped up In the negative that life brings They bury their spirit And clip their own wings When life gives you grief And darkness fills your day Find the spirit within you To help light your way -Danielle Mazer
Angel Here I am, standing all alone in the rain Silently screaming, confessing my pain People, like zombies with blank stares, walk right by I fall to the ground, but they don't hear me cry Crawling to a building, I search for safety I give up trying, no one cares about me Just then the harsh rain and sad tears stop falling I pick my head up, I sense someone calling Next to a heavenly rainbow stands a face It reminds me of a different time and space It looks vaguely familiar, I search the eyes They tell of my past, childish yet so wise The face speaks not, but helps me up off the ground Wishing to say "Thank You" I can't make a sound Arms wrap tight around me and a voice says "I'm here" Fleeting, the face touches my heart and wipes my tear I turn in disbelief as the face disappears Standing all alone, I cry out and someone hears They stop and so do others, they show their concern Asking if they could help me, they fulfilled my yearn A smile brightens the sky, the angel had not a doubt He'd knew I'd be just fine, for he was looking out. ~Rebekah Garris Dedicated to my late brother, Joshua Benjamin Garris, my guardian angel
untitled by anonymous Once upon a time there lived a little red hen who lived in the ghetto type of barnyard. Times were hard for her and her fellow neighbors, the dog, the cat, and the cow. Now it just happened that one day the little red hen was on a walk and along the way she found a grain of wheat. 'Ah!' she thought, 'I will plant this grain of wheat and save my barnyard friends from starvation!' and she dashed home to relay the exiting news. The little red hen approached in a fiery blaze of feathers and proclaimed to her fellow barnyard ghetto inhabitants, 'Who will help me plant this grain of wheat?' 'Not I' said the cat. 'Not I' said the dog. And so on came the replies, all the way down to the little field mouse. The little red hen was infuriated. She paced in her coup and devised a plan. The next morning the hen awoke and tramped up to the farmer, explaining how impertinent and lazy the rest of the animals were and reasoned that this was the reason for their disparity. The farmer nodded his thin head and agreed, giving the hen the position of overseer of the animals. Any animal who disobeyed her, he consented, would be his next supper. The now elated hen quickly put the animals to work with the grain of wheat. The skin and bones cat and the skeletal dog were to dig a hole for the wheat and the cow to carry the water. Everyday the little red hen worked the animals persistently. Slowly, the wheat began to grow, but the animals, being so hard worked, were growing ill from malnourishment and increasingly angry with the little red hen. One day while toiling, the cat decided to lay down for a nap. The little red hen noticed and charged over and demanded the cat get up. The cat opened its one green eye then closed it again. 'Now Cat or else!' the little red hen threatened. The cat remembered when it could've eaten the little red hen, had he chose to, and curled tighter in a ball. 'This laziness cannot be tolerated' thought the hen and she reported promptly to the farmer. Everyone was very upset when the cat was missing that night and delicious smells emanated from the farmer's house. The animals worked very hard the next day. Time moved on and the animals began to wither away and die. The little red hen didn't know what to do so she went to consult the farmer. 'Well,' said the farmer, 'I believe you should take their place and work the wheat yourself. I will be the overseer now and if you disobey me, you'll be my supper.' The little red hen couldn't believe her ears, but she had little choice in the matter and worked day in and day out with no friends to help her by her side. Days dragged on until the little red hen could do no more but lay on the ground. She had not produced an egg in a month and she was of little value to the farmer. She watched him approach with an ax in hand and she wished with all her might that she never found that grain of wheat.
something quantifiable: Human population of United States: 270,000,000 (and counting) Number of human beings who could be fed by the grain and soybeans eaten by U.S. livestock: 1,300,000,000 Percentage of corn grown in United States eaten by livestock: 80 Percentage of soy grown in United States eaten by livestock: 90 Percentage of oats grown in United States eaten by livestock: 95 How frequently a child dies of starvation: Every 2.3 seconds Pounds of potatoes that can be grown on 1 acre of land: 20,000 Pounds of beef that can be produced on 1 acre of land: 165 Number of children who starve to death every day: 38,000 Amount of total U.S. grain production consumed by livestock: 70% Amount of U.S. grain exports consumed by livestock: 66% Amount of world grain harvest consumed by livestock throughout the 1980s: half Number of pure vegetarians who can be fed on the amount of land needed to feed 1 person consuming meat-based diet: 20 Number of people who will starve to death this year: 20,000,000 Number of people who could be adequately fed if Americans reduced their intake of meat by 10%: 100,000,000 Ratio of livestock to people on Earth: three to one Amount of Earth's land mass grazed by livestock: half Amount of U.S. cropland producing livestock feed: 64% Amount of U.S. cropland producing fruits and vegetables: 2% Percentage of U.S. topsoil loss directly associated with livestock raising: 85 Amount of original U.S. cropland permanently removed from production due to excessive soil erosion: one-third Time required for nature to form one inch of topsoil: 200 to 1000 years Number of acres of U.S. forest which have been cleared to create cropland to produce a meat-centered diet: 260,000,000 How often an acre of U.S. trees disappears: Every 8 seconds Amount of trees spared per year by each individual who switches to a pure vegetarian diet: 1 acre Estimated area of rainforest destroyed annually: 125,000 square miles The driving force behind the destruction of the tropical rainforests: American meat habit Amount of meat eaten by average person in Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras and Panama: Less than the average American housecat Current rate of species extinction, largely due to the destruction of tropical rainforests and related habitats: one every 60 minutes Water needed to produce 1 pound of wheat: 25 gallons Water needed to produce 1 pound of meat: 2,500 gallons Current cost for pound of protein from wheat: $1.50 Current cost for pound of protein from beefsteak: $15.40 How frequently a heart attack kills in U.S.: Every 45 seconds Risk of death from heart attack for the average American man: 50% Risk of death from heart attack for the average American man who consumes no meat: 15% Increase in overall pesticide use since 1945: 3,300% McDonald's clown, Ronald McDonald, tells children: Hamburgers grow in hamburger patches and love to be eaten. McDonald's clown, Ronald Mcdonald, doesn't tell children: Hamburgers are ground up cows who've had their throats slit by machetes or their brains bashed in by sledgehammers. Original actor to play Ronald McDonald: Jeff Juliano Diet now followed by Jeff Juliano: Vegetarian Cost to render an animal unconscious prior to slaughter with captive bolt pistol so that process is done humanely: 1 penny Reason given by meat industry for not utilizing captive bolt pistol: Too expensive statistics compiled with the help of Skip Roberts
A Story About Some People Part One: Cristopher Tritschler It's hard to believe now, but there was a time when Walter Templeton and Vivian Sumtimes liked their jobs as bartenders. The name of the bar where they did their tending used to be Fill Up's. The bar was just outside of Lemton. Walter was 41 years old, never married, suffered from male pattern baldness, and was 36 pounds overweight. He liked to wear brown polyester stretch pants because the material gave enough in the front so that his beer belly didn't get a rash from his pants being too tight. The pants also did a fine job of concealing his almost complete lack of an ass. One couldn't tell by looking though, Walter always had a towel stuffed in his back left pocket, and in his right was his wallet. Walter's wallet was so thick that he had to quit folding it in half. It wasn't like that because of the high-tipping Fill Up's patrons, or Walter's generous boss. The wallet was like that because it contained every single ticket stub from every single concert that Walter had ever gone to. Walter often day dreamt about a ceremony at the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland Ohio, where he would donate his entire collection for an exhibit. He was first introduced to the world of alcoholic beverages in the parking lot before a Black Sabbath concert in 1974. To this day Walter swears that Black Sabbath was the best metal band ever. Walter was not always fat and balding with no visible dupa. Back in the 80's Walter was pretty thin, and he had long curly hair. he always wore a Denim jacket, black jeans, a Venom tee shirt, and high top Converse All Stars. Walter worked as a roadie for a metal band called DemontoriA. They weren't Satanic or anything, and they definitely were not a cheesy hair metal band. See, at that time metal fans didn't have fanzines to tell them if a band was good or not. They usually based their purchases on how cool a band's name was, or how many skulls were included on the album cover artwork. Walter loved his job as a roadie, he got great satisfaction out of driving the van, setting up amplifiers and drums, and having everything sound perfect. Walter did everything except play on stage. He ran sound, tuned guitars, did the lighting, booked motels, got the band paid, sold 45's and tee shirts, and booked shows. His roadie job didn't pay well, but he didn't care. He didn't have any bills to pay because he was on the road with DemontoriA all the time. Walter saved all of his money because he hoped to go to college someday and study music. All of that changed on the 23'rd of May, 1987. DemontoriA was playing a show in Portland Oregon. It was an important one, there was a rumor going through the crowd that Kerry King (from Slayer) was in attendance. Walter dimmed the lights and hit the switch for the fog machine, and DemontoriA took the stage. The opened with their hit song "The Screaming Banshee." Terribly, the stage was not properly grounded, and when Ian (the group's rhythm guitarist/singer) went to start singing, a huge, blue spark jumped from the microphone right into his mouth. he was knocked back five feet, and was unconscious for the entire show. DemontoriA couldn't play, and when Ian woke up he kept talking about how he saw God. Ian quit DemontoriA (because of his "epiphany") and started a Christian folk band. The other band members went back to live with their parents. They got jobs at the Toyota dealership in Lemton. Walter moved back home too, but he didn't want to work on cars, (we worked enough on the group's tour van, the damn thing broke down every few hundred or so miles) so Walter got a job as a bartender at Fill Up's. He has been there ever since. Fill Up's was a quite place, just outside of Lemton. The patrons of Fill Up's were middle-aged working class folk. Most of them worked at the local Toyota dealership, or the Drybaby Diaper factory. Fill Up's had red lights on the walls. The only other sources of illumination were the neon beer signs in the windows, the broken jukebox, (they left it plugged in because they couldn't bear to part with it, and it was too expensive to fix) and the light above the sink behind the bar. It was a dark place, but that was probably the best lighting for conversations about Celicas with broken rack and pinions, or Drybaby's new line of color changing diapers for chubby babies. In case you'd like to know, here are some of the slogans for the new diaper line that were being kicked around by the people in Drybaby's marketing department: "Try new Chubbybabycolorchangers for Large Babies? Because chubby kids piss too." or "Chubbybabycolorchangers? Cut bigger to make your fat baby comfortable, color changing to warn you so that you don't get urine all over yourself when you pick up the little monster." That was just some of their ideas. As you can probably tell, the people in their marketing department didn't last long. ?Wait, what was I talking about? oh yes, I remember? back to the story. (I get sidetracked sometimes? sorry)? Walter got pretty okay with the people he worked with. Walter tended bar with a lady named Vivian Sumtimes. That was her name, honest to goodness. The day that Vivian was hired, Walter was telling his friends about his new co-worker: "Yeah, I tend bar now with Vivian Sumtimes." "So you boss hired another part-timer, huh?" Walter's friend Murray replied. Sumtimes wasn't Vivian's real last name. It used to be Smittygorga. Sumtimes was from Vivian's stage name. She had it legally changed about six months after she graduated from college. Originally, Vivian wanted to be a math teacher at Lemton Elementary School. She had a gift, she could add numbers, any size, in her head? faster than a calculator. The only problem was Lemton Elementary School wasn't hiring math teachers at the particular time Vivian needed a job. She couldn't relocate because she was in love with a local talent promoter named Simon Diggs. Simon's biggest achievement at that particular time was getting the Lemton Lady Square Dancers on the local NBC affiliate's morning show called Wake Up Lemton, You're Gonna Miss This Show! Simon had an idea for a career for Vivian. It was brilliant, they formed a traveling mathematics act called The Mighty Math Makers, Making Math Mighty! or T. (M to the sixth power!) -that's what the people in the group called it. The group went from elementary school to elementary school and performed assemblies for the students. Vivian's stage name was Vivian Sumtimes; she did all the addition during the act. Kids in the audience were encouraged to yell out numbers and Vivian would add them all together faster than the 4' tall calculator that they had for a stage prop. The names of the other characters were: Dr. Daniel Division, Michelle the Multiplication Woman From Detroit, Sarah "Even with Negative Numbers" Subtraction, and Exponent Eric. Exponent Eric had a drinking problem and he wasn't always at their gigs. He wasn't missed much because the majority of elementary school kids didn't know what exponents were yet. At some gigs the gifted kids in the school could be heard chanting for Exponent Eric to emerge. Michelle the Multiplication Woman From Detroit was the crowd favorite? she wore a cape and breathed fire whenever she multiplied anything by twelve. Vivian Smittygorga loved her stage character name so much that she legally changed her name to Sumtimes. She figured that she'd be known like Madonna someday. If she and Simon ever did get married (which they did not, and I'll explain that later) and she hyphenated their last names, she would have been known as Vivian Sumtimes-Diggs. You can bet that the late-night talk shows would have had fun with that name, and local excavation companies would have been calling, asking her to plug their services. ?Damn it! I did it again! Now back to the story (story!)? T. (M to the sixth power!) was a perfect compromise for Simon and Vivian. Simon got to do his promotion work (as the group's manager) and Vivian got to teach math not only to Lemton's Elementary kids, but youngsters in other schools as well. The most special thing about The Mighty Math Makers, Making Math Mighty! wasn't its educational value, it was a way for Vivian and Simon to remain together. The two adored each other. Vivian called Simon her "Little Square Root" and Simon called Vivian his "Wonderful Good Thing That Happened To Me On A Sunday Afternoon When I Ran Out Of Milk And Had To Go The Store, But They Were Out Of Milk So I Had To Go To Another Store And All They Had Was Crummy Soy Milk, But That's Okay, Because That's Where I Saw You, My Sweet, My Darling." He didn't call her that often, but when he did, Vivian melted. The Mighty Math Makers, Making Math Mighty! visited all of the elementary schools in the tri-state area. The group dissolved after Dr. Daniel Division left to work for NASA, and Exponent Eric checked himself into a twelve-step program. Simon tried hiring replacements for them, but there was no fooling the children. Unfortunately Simon could not cope well with T. M. M. M. M. M. M's failure so he left. He had this crazy idea about putting together and managing an all boy singing group like The New Kids On The Block, but instead of doing crappy pop songs they would play hardcore. Simon thought there was a market for it. He left for New York, and he left poor Vivian to deal with all of the T.(M to the sixth power!) expenses: the van payments, the 4' tall calculator rental bill from Texas Instruments, and the liquor store bill for pure grain alcohol that Michelle the Multiplication Woman From Detroit used during her act to breath fire every time she multiplied something by twelve. The only good thing about Simon leaving was the fact that Vivian gained full custody of their pet ferrets named Coltrane and Miles. To make ends meet, Vivian got a job at Fill Up's. She and Walter became instant friends. They had a lot in common, the both worked at Fill Up's, they both had pathetic stories, they both were sweet, genuine, caring people, and they both were bald. (Vivian lost her hair during the last T. M. M. M. M. M. M. performance when Michelle the Multiplication Woman From Detroit multiplied twelve and twelve together). Yes, Vivian's baldness was not quite as permanent as Walter's was. Vivian always did the cash register? because? well, you know? her whole math genius thing. The duo were the backbone of Fill Up's. The patrons from the Toyota dealership and the Drybaby factory loved them, and actually considered them close friends. Both Vivian and Walter were always invited to company picnics and holiday parties. They even attended Murray and Sylva Kitchner's wedding. Murray was a mechanic at the dealership and Sylva worked the plastic bag machine at Drybaby. The two didn't meet at Fill Up's, they met at the Knock 'em Down bowling alley. The radio commercials for Knock 'em Down went like this: "Hi There! This is Harry, the owner of Knock 'em Down bowling alley. C'mon down and Knock 'em Down! We have twelve lanes to choose from, and I bet that's twelve more than you or your damn neighbors have!!! Woo Hoo! It's FUN!!!" I know you're thinking: "Why didn't they just drink at the bowling alley?" Well, they couldn't because bowling alley couldn't get a liquor license from Lemton (because it was a dry town). The only beverages sold at the Knock 'em Down were Faygo cola and Iced tea. Murray and Sylva liked drinking Long Island Iced Tea. In case you'd like to know, the bowling alley closed its doors for good in 1990. Now the building is the home of Crazy Harry's Carpeting Solutions. They have twelve styles to choose from. ?So, um, yeah? back to our story? Vivian and Walter served drinks to their working class friends, people passing through town, The Hells Angels once a year (on their way to where ever it is that the Hells Angles go on a yearly basis), and the local chapter of the Lions Club after their monthly meeting. Once a limo driver from Las Vegas was in Fill Up's and he paid with a twenty that he said Wayne Newton gave him as a tip for saying that he had the best hair in show business. Vivian and Walter had the twenty-dollar bill framed beside a picture of Wayne Newton. Of all the guests that the two bartenders served, they only disliked one, and his name was Jerry Beverington. He started coming into Fill Up's sometime in late 1998. Jerry offered Walter and Vivian jobs almost weekly. He owned a bar called Jay Beeze (after his initials? how original). Jay Beeze was in one of Lemton's neighboring towns called Mooseford. The bar was one of those places that had expensive lighting, loud thumping music (either a Dj or a lousy bar-rock band), and plenty of customers that had fake tans, bleached teeth, shiny shirts, leased cars, and record collections that mirrored the Billboard Top 30. Yes, yes, I know you're thinking: "Well, why didn't Jerry just solicit bartenders in Mooseford? They seem to have an abundance of available people for the work." Well, I was getting to that. See, Jerry would have loved to have had Mooseford townies working for him, but the fact of the matter was none of the people in Mooseford needed work. They all had started their own Dot. Com companies or had parents that left them huge amounts of money for simply graduating high school. Mooseford people were like that. They married each other for money or stock in companies or property. Love was never considered. Walter called them the "Aristocracy of Mooseford." Vivian and Walter had a pact with each other not to sell out to Jerry because he represented everything they were not. They figured that they were pretty safe at Fill Up's with the regulars, and their friends, and the red lights on the walls, and the broken juke box (that was too expensive to fix, but they left it plugged in anyway because they liked it), and their framed picture of Wayne Newton beside his twenty, and the conversations about Toyotas and diapers. They didn't figure that all of that would be gone on the 30th of June, 1999 when their landlord didn't renew their lease. It turns out that Jerry gave the landlord of Fill Up's a large check for the building and property. He planned to turn Fill Up's into another place like Jay Beeze, but "better." Vivian and Walter didn't have any other place that they could go for work, and since Jerry's offer still stood, the two had no choice but to ask him for jobs. That is another story.
untitled by anonymous I can't believe he completely forgot about me today. Usually whenever it's good times or bad we at least spend these early quiet mornings together, deep in thought before the hustle of the day explodes. Last night he acted distracted and ignored me, but I patiently and silently waited for perhaps a chance to be next to him for a while or at least have him look at me. But no, I sit here alone while he's off god knows where. I can feel the mildew growing in a ringlet inside my soul. It will get worse soon if he doesn't pay attention to me. Haven't I been dependable? I've always been there to comfort him when no one else can. No matter where he lived I lived with him. We met each other in Kmart. I was hanging around some shelves, noticing the people walk by when I saw him. It was love at first sight for the both of us. I watched him as he approached me and I knew I would be going home with him that night. (Don't get me wrong, I wasn't super cheap or anything). That was five years ago and since that day we have spent some wonderful times together. His friends would come over and we'd all sit around chatting. Only one time has he betrayed me like this. His big sweaty friend had spent the night on the couch and woke up before him one morning. Unfortunately, his eyes rested upon me as soon as he walked in the kitchen, and he decided to use me, or should I say misuse me, in anyway he pleased. Thank god he left after a short drink and my man woke up and found me. I was in a shambles. I could still feel where his lips had touched me, the stain of his saliva. My man gave me a bath but the whole time he had a disgusted look on his face, thinking about how the sweaty friend had touched me. The next day he walked right past me and I knew he'd choose another. He didn't even try to hide it. It went on for a week but I guess he realized that I was not contaminated and we eventually got back together again. How I long to hear the familiar sound of the coffeepot brewing! It's not easy being a coffee cup you know.
editor's note Yello, and welcome to the first of a hopeful many of these wonderful things, which are called "Fables From the Postmodern Age." This is essentially a literary forum for the people who's work sometimes slips in between the gaps of the official publishing done here on Slippery Rock University, that work which might be too bizarre, too personal, or thought of in a time other than in the narrow publishing guidelines proposed. Inside this volume one, issue one, you will find short stories, poems, rants, and other assorted bits and pieces of the times and emotions/thoughts we live in. What's more is this issue (and the hopeful upcoming issues) prove a point, that the literary community here at Slippery Rock isn't as apathetic as some might think; there exists a genuine interest in the arts and a genuine need for such a forum as this (a forum not unlike the wonderful "Postmodern Litterbox.") Seeing as how this is the first issue, I hope that you, the reader, might ask yourself, "Well, being the literate person I am, how can I contribute to such an effort?" Luckily, I have an answer; please hand in your wonderful writing either in written form to the Sigma Tau Delta mailbox in the English office with your name, phone number, and title of your work(if there is one) on the top, or, if you are fond of the computer like so many kids are these days, email your submissions to [email protected] with the same info. Please enjoy this issue and send stuff in if you feel like joining the blossoming literary revolution that will soon be sweeping the campus (I just wanted to put in something about a revolution.) ~Ehren Pflugfelder, Ed.