Issue #2 Volume #1

Table of Contents:

Editorials from 'round the world

She
by Emily Kreider

untitled
by Courtney Anderson

I sit in a breakroom of a place selling shit and watch the people I hope never
to be:
by Laura Householder

BYON (Bring Your Own Noun) or (A Trip Into The New-And-Improved Interactive
Literary Experience, with 0 Calories From Fat!)
by Carly Maria Dobbins-Bucklad the XVII

The Hidden Dangers of Golfing or (D-I-Y Stories for People Who Are Having a
Lewd Affair with the Parts of Speech)
by Carly Maria Dobbins-Bucklad the XVII

brilliant blue
by Thom Guentner

mementos of an evening
by Thom Guentner

Metamorphosis? a work in progress
by Sarah Harris

it was December
by Sarah Harris

Passing Passions
By Corrie Wagner

Transcendental Tranquility
By Corrie Wagner

Vertical Again
by Darcie Ramp

untitled
by Leslie Henderson

untitled
by anonymous

The Irrigation of the Martyr, or The Secular Post-Ethanim
by Ehren Helmut Pflugfelder

Last Words

Passing Passions

I told you it would be mixed blessings-
midnight kisses under ecstasy blankets
loving arms wrapped so tight
that we have come up for air
transitory togetherness- this chaotic coalition

I begin to see a light shining-
Shining so brightly from you
It singes my eyelashes to see
An ellipse of the sun at 3 a.m.-

You told me how my unpolished words touched you
That they shone like diamonds in the rough
your tone is more serious than the color of your father's business suits
and I'm scared that we're falling too fast
Dropping like Alice down the rabbit's hole
only you don't have a skirt
and your only response is to cling tightly to me
with my patchwork parachute dress as we fall among the stars
breathing mystery and believing in miracles-
they must exist if I found you?
by Corrie Wagner

Transcendental Tranquility

Darkness descends and the drowsy
dogs flop into piles like
last week's laundry.
Eyes wired wide open,
aware of the many hues
hidden in the blackness.
Out of the silent slumber skies
comes the symphony of the sun
scattering kisses of dew
and early morning mist
like a flower girl's rose petals
paving the path of
Apollo's chariot as it
begins its race to the horizon.
By Corrie Wagner

SHE

She wakes in the morning picks
out her clothes for NO ONE.
As she goes through her morning
routine, she's overwhelmed with emptiness.
She walks out the door in a daze.
Driving to work, she loses all train
of thought.
Her loneliness pushes on her shoulders.
making her slump at her desk.
While typing up a report she forgets
why she's even there.
At lunch she eats b/c she knows
she should- not out of hunger.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees
a couple, laughing & touching- &
becomes a bit nauseous.
When it's time to get off of work
she drives home on automatic pilot.
Then she microwaves a 'dinner for one,' turns on the TV & stares blankly into
the screen.
As her eyelids grow heavy she turns out the
lights & dreams of the someone who
will get her out of her rut.
~by Emily Kreider

Untitled
It may have been unoriginal,
But when you said you were as constant as the Northern Star
I wanted to believe you.
I did believe in you-
I DO believe you.
If only I could find that star?

Now, I know it's up there somewhere,
But either I can't see that far
Or it's hiding from me.
Or maybe it exploded.
Burst into a gazillion pieces and started a new universe.

Sometimes I wish it would.
~by Courtney Anderson

Metamorphosis ?a work in progress?
by Sarah Harris

Life works in phases. Phases of time and place, but not always in them. I have
undergone a phase of the spirit.
Our world is shaped by the way in which we view it but it exists independently
of ourselves. Sometimes it intrudes on us and we are forced to change. The
world has intruded on my spirit.
Life is an entity, it is independent of me and bigger than my capacity to
enclose it. But yet I can't give up trying. This is why I am always forced to
change.
I think that I can understand life. I think that I can understand the world.
And then the world laughs at me and disappears from beneath my feet. I must
rebuild it, I must get dirt beneath my nails and beads of sweat on my skin.
So I float for awhile. Maybe a long time, maybe a short time, maybe it doesn't
matter. And the words flow and I build a new world with my pen and my soul.
Because I do have a soul. It's just that I wouldn't recognize it if I met it
selling vegetarian corn dogs on the street.
We are harsh and silent creatures. None of us live in the same world and we are
all of us alone. That's ok with me. I need a lot of room to truly breathe.
Breathe heavy as I build lands and oceans and islands of pain and love and
heartbreak. My new world is built up on top of a fault line and it makes it
stronger - because we are all of us full up with cracks and chasms. I am deep
and dark.
I people my world with other souls, but I no longer assume they are at all like
me. I step across oceans and islands and sky to see. And I wonder where they
are and what worlds they are building.
Abstract concepts have no place in my world. I have locked them away in a big
golden vault and buried them in the fault line: Love, peace, self-awareness,
Truth. They have no place here. They are what caused me to build: to float and
not to fly; to drift.
I feel a sense of deep emptiness now on the inside. I have built a world that
my soul has no place in. So I lock it up inside the golden box too. And I
wander the surface.
I suppose, if it were to get out, with all its friends, they would form a
theater group and perform in dimly lit coffee houses for crowds of art students
and hippies. Perhaps I would search for them or at least try to see them
perform. But I'd get lost trying to follow the Internet directions and end up
sitting in a gas station somewhere, wondering where I went wrong - while Truth
and Love played bongos somewhere to the bad poetry of my missing soul.
World-building is much easier than trying to live in the world you've built.
You take everything out and there is nothing to put back in. I am all
externals. These words leave my self and touch the paper and they exist outside
of me. I can no longer feel them.
I miss that - the ability to feel things deeply - sometimes. But I put a planet
on top of my fault so it's awfully hard to get in there. I am starting
sometimes to forget.
I liked my old world - the one that disappeared. I lived there a long time. It
was friendly and familiar and full of frolicking and flowers and love and
trust. It seemed so strong, it became so transparent, until I woke up and it
was gone.
You can't build your own world with flowers. It's got to be modern architectural
design - all concrete and gigabytes and plate glass windows.
Sterile. Hard. Real.
I used to be happy - I'm not sure I remember what that's like. I'm not sure it
wasn't a dream of someone else's life. I guess it's hard to be happy when
you've locked it up in a box.
Now I am real, or at least the outside of me is. I think of myself like a
chocolate bunny, that you get in a plastic basket, nestled in plastic grass, on
Easter morning. Excited by the thought of all that chocolate, you bite into it,
only to discover that it's hollow inside. You feel a sense of sadness,
disappointment, betrayal. That is what is inside the bunny. That is what I am.
I used to think I was solid chocolate. Then I discovered I was inside a box.
That the box was made of cardboard, thin cardboard, and the flowers and things
were only a picture, flat, painted-on. Then I broke out of the box. Then I
found out I was hollow.

BYON (Bring Your Own Noun)
or
(A Trip Into The New-And-Improved Interactive
Literary Experience, with 0 Calories From Fat!)

One day, (name of person)___________ decided to throw a party. He/She first
stocked up on (pl noun)_________ for decorations and (pl noun)_________ for
party favors. Then he/she figured it was time to invite people. The first
person he/she called was (name)____________. They said that they were busy
(verb ending in -ing)___________, and that after that they had to (verb present)
___________ the dog. Everyone else, though, said that they could come, and
people started arriving every (number)_______ minutes. The doorbell rang, and
(original name)___________ answered it to find (name)___________ , the great (a
profession)_____________, and along with him/her were two
(adjective)_____________ servants, named (name)__________ and (name)__________,
both of whom ran straight for the food table and began gorging themselves on
(food)____________ and (food)_____________. People were looking bored as
(name)___________ began doing magic tricks with a (noun)__________ and a
slightly-(adj)_________ (noun)___________ while standing on one of their heads.
Apparently, (same name)____________ had grown up and performed in a circus,
until replaced by a midget with a mullet. Shortly, though, the party really
started hopping, because someone turned on the music. Pretty soon (a song)
______________________ began blaring over the (adj)____________ stereo.
Everyone, especially (a name)____________ started "getting their groove on,"
and that's when things got kind of (adj)_______________. One of the (adj)
____________ neighbors called the police, who pulled up in just moments, sirens
wailing on top of their shiny clean (vehicle)____________. People started
(verb -ing)____________ and made a mad rush en masse for the exits. (previous
name)__________ was trampled by (name)______________, and ended up in the
hospital for an injured (body part)____________. So, (original name)___________
found himself/herself sitting among the (adj)____________ post-party wreckage,
drinking (liquid)____________ alone.

brilliant blue

I stared at the brilliant shade of blue that came from your eyes
The candle burnt and filled the room with the faintest of light
You told me that I make you feel like you're twelve
I told you that I honestly believe you are an angel
We lay in bed until one and talked about nothing
As I stared at the brilliant shade of blue that escaped from your eyes
Thom Guentner

mementos of an evening

you had to go back to Buffalo but I didn't mind
because your smell is still on my sheets and that's enough to keep me company
your half-full cup of water is still on my nightstand
and the old pop-tart box still has the ashes from your cigarettes in it
i'm carrying around your chap stick you left on my floor because it reminds me of your soft lips
and I can't wait until Friday so we can do it again

Thom Guentner

The Hidden Dangers of Golfing
or
(D-I-Y Stories for People Who Are Having a Lewd Affair with the Parts of Speech)

One (adj)__________ day? John, Paul, George, and (name)___________ went to the
(adj)____________ golf course. They had worked (adv)_____________ the
previous day at their jobs required them to spend hours (verb -ing)___________.
The very first shot George made was a hole-in-(adj)____________. This irritated
(original name)___________ so much he/she threw his/her (adj)_________ (pl
noun)___________ into a nearby bush, which only made him/her more (adj)
____________. So at that point, (original name)____________ jumped into the
golf cart and began to drive away (adv)___________, when suddenly (name)
_____________ walked out onto the path in front of him/her. The golf cart
swerved wildly, and then hit (second name)___________ and ran them over.
(first name)__________ was upset at what he/she had done, and hurried to call
911 on his/her (noun)___________. An ambulance rushed on to the (adj)
__________ grass, and after some (adj)____________ work by the trained (pl noun)
__________, they got (second name)____________ stabilized and stowed (adv)
___________ away in the back in only (number)_________ minutes. However,
(original name)____________ was so distressed by the event that he/she lost
their sanity and spent the rest of his/her life saying (fun
word)"___________!" while running around in circles collecting (pl
noun)____________, believing he/she was a(n) (adj)___________, (adj)____________
(noun)___________.

The End.
By Carly Maria Dobbins-Bucklad the XVII

I sit in a breakroom of a place selling shit and watch the people I hope never to be:

Middle-aged women desperately suck on their cigarettes and drone on about
worthless husbands and their spawn
Teenage girls tease their blonde hair (with black roots) while complaining of lousy lovers and bastard children
Elderly ladies with their beehives and bifocals remember the good old days when selling shit was meaningful
I watch them and feel guilt for my three-month shit fling as compared to their
lifetime in hell
For me, this breakroom is reason to laugh and all the more reason to return to
the educated world of University
For these people, this breakroom is all the center of life and all the more
reason to begrudge me and my school
Their boss is a tyrant whose sweat-stained shirt is a symbol of power and all a
force not to be reckoned with
My boss is the epitome of a wasted life with nothing to show but a fading dream-
a dream that was lost when a stock boy decided this is as good as it gets
If a shit-factory is as good as it gets, this sweaty hog is my king
~By Laura Householder
"a poem dedicated to Hills, once located in the Cranberry Plaza"

It was december. By Sarah Harris

It was December. She stared out listlessly into a seemingly endless sea of
white, and wondered distractedly if it ended somewhere, and if so, what did it
look like? Would the snow abruptly give way into a solid wall of sunshine? And
if one were to stand across that divide would it be possible to remain
simultaneously hot and cold? If so, She assumed it would feel much the way a
soul might, a constant burning and freezing inside of you, all at the same
time. So much better, she reflected as she returned to her desk and the
transcendent glow of a computer screen, so much better to have given up all
that, to devote oneself to usefulness and to small green pieces of paper.

It was December. Not that He knew. The sun beat down always upon Him, the sweat
poured down, and eventually the ache came. It would come gradually, creeping
up slowly and softly like an old lover, until it got its fingers to your throat
and wrung your neck. He was working in the fields this week. All around, as far
as he could see, were tall stalks of wheat and corn. Back home, His mother
was slowly starving to death, Her wrinkled skin becoming more and more loose,
until the woman in it became utterly lost. Yet He tilled the earth, and thought
nothing of it. The corn would grow, would be taken down, and exchanged for
small green pieces of paper. He could touch it, could nurture it, but could not
eat of it. And so the sun grew higher and the ache came with it.

And God looked down.

Untiled by anonymous
Washing off her repulsive dead skin with the exfoliating sand particles, she
avoided looking in the mirror above the sink. She feebly reached for the
green tube of specially medicated for oily skin cleaner and placed it on her
wretched T-zone. It disgusted her to even touch her forehead but she worked
the pungent concoction into her skin vigorously like a mother cleaning her
child's vomit out of a carpet. Rinsing it all away she then snatched the clear
bottle of moisturizer that smelled like rotten children, and spoiled milk.
Head down, she rinsed like a machine. Numbly, she grabbed for the
chemically formulated bottle of cover-up and matted it generously on her face,
leaving and orange-tint mask. She grabbed for a stick of concealer and
painted the underneath of her yellowed eyes to disguise the hint of purple.
She picked up a small case of the same type of purple and used a stiff
applicator to apply the dust to her small piggish eyes. Black tar-like mascara
was soon clumped on her lashes and she used a lethal-looking instrument
to clamp down upon the small thin hairs to curl them up. This accomplished, a
small pencil followed up to her deformed-shaped lips and drew a mouth. Her
eyebrows she had completely given up on, so she drew slanted arched above her
eyes where the nasty hair used to spring about everywhere.
"Carla, are you almost ready?" cried Kim. Giving a look behind her in
the mirror at her huge ass, she walked towards Kim, ready as she'd ever be to
go to the cafeteria for dinner.

Editorials From 'Round the World:

I agree that superficially these numbers are staggering but you have to look
beyond the numbers, and I know that alot of you veggies have less intelligence
than the average Jerry Springer guest so I will break it down a little for
you.... 1. Alot of the starvation, maybe 95%, happens in countries that the USA
would not help even if our entire country were veggies. 2. Also, in some of
these countries they don't even eat the damn cows. They use all these natural
resources and no one can eat them because in some cultures cows are the highest
form of life. I think that those people need to reprioritise. 3. OK 1/2 of the
earths land mass is grazed by livestock but 3/4 of the entire world is water.
Yes it is mostly saltwater but a process called desalinisation (the desalting
of water for you Springer people) could be used but it is too costly. Did you
know a human can live longer on water alone than the biggest variety of food
available? 4. 64% of land in USA produces livestock feed. How much wool, milk,
eggs.....does that produce? And the loss of 85% of top soil to livestock
raising is bullshit. How much do you think we loose to condo and subdivision
developers? 5. One acre of crop land disapears every 8 seconds. How much of
that is lost to developers, fires, pollution, toxic waste.... 6. Ever think
that some of that rainforest (none of which is in the US) is destroyed for
military, governmental or drug purposes? 7. The amount of meat eaten in the
South American countries is also missleading. Its to fucking hot there to raise
cows. They try but you know what they get? Beef jerky. 8. The heart attack
stats are good but so many more people die from car accidents than anything
else. Anyone trying to ban cars and walk everywhere? 9. What exactly is
humanely killing? Is hooking someone up to a chair and zapping them till their
eyes pop out and they crap themselves humane? How 'bout dropping a 100 kiloton
nuclear warhead on an unsuspecting city of Japanese people, TWICE?!?! This may
sound cynical but me deciding not to eat red meat once a week or so is not
going to help things in the most miniscule way. Just wanted to let you know
that everything that you read is onesided. Any ideal can be proven if one uses
the right stats and the right arguments for their own purposes.

PS: Do you own any leather, cleaning products, down made products,
clothes........ most items that you own can be linked to animal or human
cruelty. You know how much that 10 year old that made those Nikes you are
wearing makes an hour?
~Ben

Eds: Hi. First off, thank you for replying in an editorial form. We're not so
sure why you believe vegetarians are unintelligent, but we can only assume from
the hostile elements within your letter that you are either ignorant (we left
your spelling and grammar mistakes in), have had some grave injustice committed
against your person by a vegetable, or perhaps both. We think that
it's super that you read something and took some time out from your book
burning, that you thought of a way to organize the facts in your head, used at
least some higher level cognitive skills, and came up with an opinion on both
vegetarians and "Fables." We here at "Fables" did not say that we are
vegetarian. We never said that the statistics you read said anything. It was
an independent article made up of facts. You interpreted the rest. We also do
not agree with a large part of your letter (apparently you think that "Fables"
supports the US military, atomic power, child labor, toxic waste, and capital
punishment, all of which is untrue), and we applaud the fact that you can
recognize that statistics can be skewed. These were. We believe that your
ability in the field of logic is staggering, so much so that some of us were
forced to sit down because we were laughing so hard. Please, use your ability
to go and solve crimes! For the good of the city! And leave your prejudice,
anger, and debilitating assumptions behind.
PS: And no, we do not own any Nikes, land that is used to grow grain to feed
animals doesn't produce wool or eggs, car accidents are not the #1 killer, "a
lot" is two words, a human will eventually die without food, and well, you're a
moron.

A cold abandoned silence
Overcomes
Again to my fears I have
Succumbed
My mind is speaking
but no one answers
My feelings I know
but to say unsure

to forever outlast time
without effort devour the world
can it help to pray on Sunday
will it help to pray on any day
are my tears enough to stop the crying
to death and life none are immune
will we ever know the world around us
can we never stop feeling the human pain
the way is to have a deepening soul
to forever know the power of time.

I am uneasy with
familiar people
untrusting of
unknown faces
But terrified beyond words of
Those I love the most.

I love,
and I'm alone
I want,
and I don't know
I need,
and I'm afraid

I love,
and I am weak
I want,
and I'm weak
I need,
and I am lost

I love,
and I'm afraid
I want,
and I am lost

I love,
and I am lost
by Leslie Henderson

"submission in the standard key of you/she"
~anonymous
her brain is the wall of a telescope
your conscience a nation of enemies
her impatience home to telephone wires
you imagine faces in planes circled
super speed and charged emotion at
the terminal brush by faint scents
of five dollar soaps and briefcase leather
she sees jukebox-softened profiles
through six martini clouded vision
by day she browses your favorite authors
at night she sways nods her head
you grab your elbows rock back on your heels

on trains she scans slowly faces
you do not attach your eyes to action
just keep it close to know you walk among
she's walking change and subway tokens
you live through smoke and dollar bins
she passes half-conscious through
brief embraces with tactless men
you dismiss on contact through
barely concealed annoyance
she posterizes the male defeats
you catalogue the female downfalls

she looks loud you quietly listen
she hammers lust into submission
feeds aquamarine landscapes with
with nothing it's all unsurfaced
he hears analogue transmissions
ambient pleas panicked insidious faith
but his is failed telemetry
and hers is insecurity
he is wet towels not a word aloud
awash in "what if she's?"

observe a gap that will not yield to want
you sit down you read that book alone
title pages sentience
or call them abstract thought
write about women who don't exist
or trade some sparse emotions
for notoriety type it up
send it in and serve notice:
say hey bitter language acrobats
graceless tongue-tied grammar elite
validate my forlorn hackneyed art
and just print me already.

Vertical again

I'm vertical again
But barely standing
I'm numb again
But starting to feel
I'm burning, consumed
Wet. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Silence.
No one really hears
No matter how much they care
I think for myself
But not just now--
I can't
That's your job
I don't know how
As I wrap myself in memories I wonder
If one day I'll be warm
The chilled air is bitter
But I'm not bitter
The stars don't shine the same way
That's all
All the makeup in the world
And all the fancy dresses
Could not make me feel as beautiful
As you could
As we were
As you are
By Darcie Ramp

The Irrigation of the Martyr,or The Secular Post-Ethanim
~by Ehren Helmut Pflugfelder

Horace was leaving his invalid (meant in more than one way) mother for
the first time, though only to satiate his desire for high quality music in the
form of Stephen Malkmus, formerly the lead singer of Pavement, now on his own
after the breakup. Malkmus was touring some of the clubs on the East coast of
the United States, and Horace was from none of the cities on the tour list; he
was from Tempest, West Virginia, a town populated mostly by retirees and the
workers of the chocolate factory that held the town together. On good quality
days the town would smell of cookies and the children could get fatter just by
breathing deeply.
He now lived within the bowels of the new city, destined to become a fantastic
man of many pursuits, able to be described as 'dynamic' by his peers who also
used terrible methods of talking so that they sounded like the miniature toy
train sets in his mind. He thought about his destiny often, realizing that he
couldn't ever get anywhere unless it would adhere to the destiny which was set
out before him in long bold strokes by the machines of the earth. Naturally,
he had rebelled from his parents when he was in high school, and naturally, he
had made comfortable friends with them again, but he had never gone into the
profession they wanted him to. This was actually all part of the grand scheme
of things as far as he was concerned. Also included in the 'grand scheme' were
the odd things he dealt with which he called a love life and the furniture
which he placed in his apartment, all from the same company and all from
Europe. Markus would have faith in the destiny he believed himself to have
until the day it ran out on him.
The bus ride to New York was hazardous in itself; he had to sit next to
a young man who kept touching himself seductively and kept asking for a mint,
even though it became obvious to everyone in the first three seats of the bus
that Horace had none. The man didn't smell like cookies, he smelled like
gasoline and onions, good alone, but violent in the specific combination this
young man chose. The new jacket that Horace had purchased at the Army/Navy
store for the concert itched him like asbestos and a warm room. He'd take the
jacket off, but his shirt was thin and he wasn't sure what the young man next
to him would do.
New York smelled like he expected it to, alive and with a slight hint
of urine and cat. It smelled like people, the descendants of a million
immigrants, of curry and spices from around the world, of Broadway, of angry
vendors and young women from the salon, it smelled like prosperity and defeat,
it smelled like New York in summer, baked from within and sure of itself, so
much cooler than all of you and so much worse than all of you.
Horace walked out of the bus station, ready to look for a map, and then
his hotel. He believed he could invent an evening of monotone purpose. A taxi
tried to run him over; it was only by the luck of the listen that he heard the
taxi a moment before the cult felt bound by a destiny they believed, not too
far from the ideological constraints of Markus's destiny.
On the way back to his cubicle (one), Markus stepped on a tack that had
refused to be picked up by the industrial size vacuum the night before. It
stuck in the sole of his shoe, but didn't actually touch the base of his foot.
When he stepped down, it was pushed flat against the bottom of the shoe, though
still not touching his foot (that was the thickness of his soul.)
On the way home (two), he saw a beggar in the street, but refused to
stop for him, instead deciding to walk over the prone form.
On the way to the bathroom in his apartment (seven), he thought of the
things that meant the most to him and had some trouble with the concept.
On the pillow that night, he pressed his head (four), hoping that his
destiny would come to pass on the tomorrow day.
On the rising of the sun the next day (wait), he woke up and cried,
found his shoe, pulled the tack out, thought about his destiny, and then had
some coffee while staring at the Hallmark sentiment on his wall which made less
and less sense the more he pondered it. On the way to work, he saw the police
carrying away the homeless man on the street, the very same one he passed the
day before. Markus thought nothing of it (see nonexistent diagram #12.) At
work, he had the misfortune to witness the act of Penelope being dropped off by
her new fianc�e. During his coffee break, he read that the cult had been
raided by police and was now in jail without the benefit of their shoelaces or
probably their civil rights.
Markus took a taxi home that night, as it turned cold and he didn't
feel like walking, something he often didn't want to do. The cab driver was
extremely nice and wanted to make conversation, another something Markus was
rather averse to. Eventually they warmed up to each other and as the cabdriver
dropped him off by his apartment, he was invited in, but couldn't
because he was working.
He then went to bed and died of a massive brain aneurysm, barely making
a noise loud enough for the neighbors in the next apartment to hear while they
were making love. He was buried by the state and no one thought about him for
more than eight minutes, because it was too disconcerting to think about how
much they were like him for much longer.
It would have been to late to live. He bought a hot dog and a drink and walked
around, stopping in Chinatown and looking around in central park; it all looked
like the television shows about New York, nothing new. The sky was blue, but
he rationalized that it was a "New York blue." The statues in the park of men
on horses had only two feet on the ground, a sure sign that the people died in
battle. All the statues in Tempest had all four feet on the ground, a sure
sign that the person riding the horse died from things unrelated to the battle.
The world was new again for Horace.
About nightfall, when the sun fell down behind the buildings and the
center of his world grew cool and cold, a world full of shadows, Horace
neglected to take the subway to his hotel, deciding to walk instead, which was
a mistake, because he was accosted and beaten on the way down an alley that he,
for the reason of pure experience, wanted to venture down. The man who robbed
Horace smelled of Thunderbird (one bottle warm and one bottle cold.) All
Horace could taste was copper from the rivulets of blood pouring down his face
and onto the pavement below his stained jeans. (Incidentally, the homeless man
was a figment of Twiz's imagination.)
While the young man was tasting his own blood, slowly recovering in the
alley, not bothering to think about appearances or the shadows between the
buildings, not trying to smell whatever it was that he thought New York City
smelled like, only trying to control himself and not vomit up the blood that
was shaken loose from his organs by the homeless man, who was now purchasing
himself a cup of coffee and a doughnut, and was thinking about buying an all
day pass on the subway and has already sold the concert ticket, having little
respect for the success of Stephen Malkmus's solo career. All Horace could
think of was a Jackson Pollack painting he once saw, but didn't understand. It
was esophageal at best, all the dried, thick paint trying to fall off the
canvas, but not making it, because of the terrible nature of the painting. Red
and green collided with black streaks. It was called "Revenge of the Forest,"
or "Angry Trees," or something like that. Horace could picture his insides
getting torn apart like the Pollack. The alley smelled like urine and cats.
Jackson Pollack painted himself into a corner, just then.
Horace then fell asleep and murdered the citizens of a thousand homes,
individually. He killed the baker, the woman who whored herself out for sport,
he slit the throat of the mayor, he kicked an old woman to death with an army
boot, he burned down their houses and spilled blood into the streets. It
wasn't a nightmare anymore.
To his left, a cat urinated and then went off to find food.
In the last moments of partial consciousness, he renounced his religion,
making sure to eradicate any traces of what he could have been,
forgetting about his mother, wherever she was, dead to the world anyway. The
god that had sometimes controlled his life was going to die; it was going to be
buried in a private ceremony that was tasteful, but thrifty, for the ones who
still had money left were saving it for a rainy day when they could look out
their window and hear the lack of birds and die inside all over again. The
rain would fall in every backyard in the world, even in places where no
property existed. The rain would soak every soldier to the bone, every
housewife's tears, every child to death. The rain would fall forever.
Horace thought, or tried to think about where he was and what he was
here for. He discovered that New York was there for amusement of the people
living there, that the rest of the world was something for the basement, it was
only let out to breathe whenever New York felt like it. It was the first to
fall off the earth. He felt around on his face for recognizable features, but
found none. His lips were shaped like ripped pieces of meat in a display case
and fell off in his hand, just like that bomber that crashed in China forty
five years ago (their teeth came off in their hands.) He had nothing to be
anymore. His lips were on the pavement, below his stained jeans.

Untitled by Julian Seiden
Tom was walking down the street, smelling the crisp Fall air that whipped
around his body. Buttoning up his flannel, he watched a golden pile of leaves
twirl about on the pavement, shining in the bright yellow sunlight through a
clear blue sky. Smiling, he thought about his girlfriend. He would be over at
her house soon, he could see the blue roof in the distance. He thought about
all the times they had together, how blissfully happy they were with each other,
how life seemed to drift away into nothingness whenever they were together. He
was suddenly reminded of his first time on an airplane, how the roaring jets
that seemed to get louder and louder had made him sweat and shake in his seat,
and how his girlfriend had held his hand the whole time and made all his fear
go away. The memory was so strong in his mind it seemed like he was there
experiencing it for a second time. He thought he could actually hear the jets
of the plane.

SPINGFIELD, ILLINOIS- A young man walking down the street was hit by a car
yesterday afternoon. Thomas Feldspar, 19, was traveling to his girlfriend's
house on Ridley Street when a dark blue Neon came out of nowhere and struck the
man from behind.

He thought of the time he was on his bike and had hit a rock, swerving out of
control and crashing into a parked car. The pain had been intense, but his
loving girlfriend had spent all the time she had with him, nursing his wounds
over weeks and making all his discomfort fade away. It was as if he could feel
the pain he had felt that day, how horrible it had been. He thought back to
the time he and his girlfriend had been sledding on one grey-skied Winter's
morning. They had gone down the hill together and had hit a bump, sending
their sled and them flying into the air. It seemed like they were falling
forever; they landed and rolled in the snow, laughing and kissing. They laid
there for some time, staring up into the gently falling flakes and simply being
in love with each other, the warmth of their hearts making the cold ded of
winter seem to slip away. Remembering the sensation of falling through the air
made Tom's body tingle.

The car, estimated to be traveling t a speed of 60 miles per hour, sent the
young man flying into the air for 50 feet before hitting the ground

He thought of the time he bought his girlfriend a puppy for her birthday, how
the cute little thing had jumped into his arms and licked his face with its
scratchy tongue, almost like sandpaper, with so much love and admiration. It
was as if he could feel it sliding across his face again.

and coming to rest another fifteen feet down the street.

He thought of the time he and his girlfriend had a water-gun fight with some of
the neighborhood children, the water covering his body was warm from the
burning summer sun. He wiped the water out of his eyes at it dripped down his
face, the first thing he saw when he opened them was his girlfriend, her
T-shirt clinging to her body and a smile on her face. They hid in the bushes
and made out while the children laughed and played around them. He could
almost feel the warm sweat and water flowing into his eyes, stinging them.

When discovered, the car and driver were nowhere in sight and the body was
covered in blood.

He remembered the first time he and his girlfriend slept together, their
love-making filling their bodies with heat and passion. When they were done
they simply lay together, very still, their naked bodies pressed close, their
hearts beating as one. They stayed that way as Tom drifted into sleep, happy,
content, letting the whole world around him fade away into nothingness.
Nothingness.

He was pronounced dead at the scene due to massive internal trauma by the local
authorities. While Thomas's family was not available for comment, his
girlfriend had this to say about the tragedy: "I can't believe that he's gone.
All I can think about is all the memories we've had together."

Mother-Fucker by Michael Likar

Thoughts of aggression,
Yet my mind is still passive.
Languidly laughing inside.
Room with a view.
Insight,
Cosmic corruption.
Iron fist wish,
Full of empty space.
Rotten egg salad,
Twisted, ripe mother-fucker?
Who are we, to do
anything; about anything?
No good piece?
Ungrateful bastard.
Grateful world.

Wretch ~by Michael Likar

I am the wretch of all evil.
Your pain is but a fraction
of the pain, pains and hell
that I have felt.
Is it not enough
that I would gladly give my life,
my sight and whatever material
possessions I hold, to, and or, for you?
I am lost.
The years roll by.
No sign of the forth seal.
But, he is coming.
You see his face in your worst dreams.
You see his fury in the hearts of evil men.
I am this wretch,
of which I speak of.
And in this life I will sleep,
Until my time is called upon.

Sordid