Issue #3 Volume #1

Table of Contents:
Angst by Desiree Woidill……………………………3
Philokemon by Ehren Helmut Pflugfelder………………………….4, 5
Benito's Fancy Fascist Soup: by Darcie Ramp…………………………..5
A Love Poem by Carly Dobbinbs-Bucklad…………………….6
Greyhound in December Midnight John B Remaley Jr…………………6
Postmodern Personal Ads…………………………………7
Prom Perfection by Rachel Mackanin………………………….8, 9
The First Six-Hundred Words To a Story by Benjamin A. Smith………………10, 11
Fog by Sarah Harris………………………………..11
untitled by Thom Guentner………………………12, 13
draft_1.doc Don Steggert………………….…….14
The 14th of Winnie Cooper By Emily Kreider…………..…………………….15
Sometimes by Courtney Anderson…………………………………15
(This one I Have an Illustration for Somewhere at Home????)
by Leslie Henderson……..….16
A Poem Written Solely for the Purpose of Making Allusions to William Goldman:
By Courtney Anderson…………….…………….17
Celibate Feet by Julie Mihalic…………..…………………17
Fear of Loneliness A Rant by Rebekah Garris…… ……………18, 19
Night and Morning at Jerry by Darcie Ramp………………19
Elizabeth By Sarah Harris…………………20, 21
Somewhere Under the Light of the Water by Julie Mihalic…………….21
Back by Desiree Woidill……………………………22
Micro-flirt by anonymous duo……………………………….23
And some Last Thoughts…………………………………………24

Philokemon by Ehren Helmut Pflugfelder

Owing in large part to my glorious and, dare I say it, Herculean, possibly Clooney-esque even, physique, and complex though daring sensibility (a feature that has caused me more grief than notoriety until recently), I have the distinct opportunity to propose and to implement a structure of grand proportions. The crux of the matter developed out of a particularly long and complicated telephone conversation with my comrade in elitism and social snobbery, Courtney. Within this discussion, we bantered wittily, as is our nature, and even though I called her "terse" thinking it would describe her as harsh, which it didn't (I should have used "curt"), she remarked, as it in her nature, on how the Pokemon craze has developed to the point where a satire should be made of it and how it could and should be adapted to other disciplines, specifically philosophy. Being the consummate and self-admitted (on many rather intoxicated occasions) nerd that I am, I couldn't help but ruminate about this idea for what turned out to be an eerily odd amount of time. I found it terribly fascinating (read: cool). After discussing the idea with myself for a fortnight or two, however long that may be, I decided that this was not a time to merely think; this was a time for action in the most Rambo-meets A Team way possible, though I don't seem to have the same access to high explosives or large black men with copious amounts of bling-bling around their necks. I thought that perhaps my incredible good looks would have some sway in opening corporate doors, and they did, but it was my delightful conversation skills and knowledge base of obscure muscle car technical details (only four Dodge Chargers with the 426ci HEMI were produced in 1970) that threw the proverbial door open, hitting the metaphorical executive in the temple and causing him to have a symbolic massive brain aneurysm (from which he died.)
My subtlety made point is that you will now be able to see and purchase an entire series of Pokemon-style cards mad e available for the masses to consume. They will be entitled Philokemon, an admittedly difficult to pronounce, but all-encompassing kind of conceptual title that the advertising guys were willing to agree upon once they saw how I handled a door. All your favorites are here in full color and the game follows some of the same rules as Pokemon, though the characters' powers change from one philosopher to another. For examples of "fights" see below:
Below: Friedrich Nietzsche defeats Louis Althusser if they fight either on the Powers of Insanity (the former went mad from syphilis and watching a horse being flogged and the latter just killed his wife), or if they fight by way of Althusser's dialectical materialism vs. Nietzsche's existential morality and celebration of the will. That and Nietzsche also has the power to summon the force of lightning and Althusser is stuck with this cannon-blast-net thing which only works if used with a power card and Nietzsche has three or more hits of damage without any armor and Althusser rolls greater than a four. Wittgenstein's Beetle in a Box argument kicks the crap out of the Straw Man argument, but Johann Gottleib Fichte beats Benedictus de Spinoza simply because we like to say "Fichte."
By the way, in my post-Eschaton like knowledge, and epic sexual stamina, I've thought ahead to encompass those incredibly elitist snob-types who will, doubtless, manage to expand the game of Philokemon to another level:
Billy: Fichte beats Spinoza because it's fun to say Fichte. Fichte, Fichte, Fichte.
Elias: I refute the rationality of your card by using both Saussure's Course in General Linguistics and a handful of discourses on semantic paradoxes.
Billy: I reply in a witty manner by yanking a well-chosen phrase or two from Hegel's Philosophy of Right.
Elias: Language of thought hypothesis! Jerry Fodor!
Billy: Reactionary reactions to hyperreality!
Elias: Brain Garner's preface to A Dictionary of Modern American Usage!
Billy: Where'd you get the name Elias? That's a stupid name, from now on I'm calling you Fichte, Fichte.
Elias: (leaps upon Billy and beats him to death with an older copy of Syntactic Structures.
So, as you can clearly see, this game has the potential to be both commercially successful, allowing me to purchase an ab-roller to enhance my already God-like abdomen, and violent to the point of involuntary manslaughter with a groundbreaking discourse of semantics and language acquisition.
Hey, I just got another idea for a game called "Hungry Hungry Romantic Poets." I'm sorry; I'll go away now.

Benito's Fancy Fascist Soup: by Darcie Ramp

Ingredients: 2 cubes bullion, 3 cups water, celery and carrots to taste, 1 map of Europe, 2 million poor Italian farmers, 50,000 rich Italian landowners, 1 socialist structure, disguised, 1 crusty old Hegel manuscript, 1 totalitarian government, 1 powerful military, 1 charismatic leader, 2 tsp poverty, pinch of civil unrest
Directions:
1. Mix bullion and water in a large pot
2. Allow major world powers to finely chop map of Europe. Add fragmented pieces to pot. Stir briskly.
3. Add poverty and civil unrest.
4. Add disguised socialist structure and old crusty Hegel manuscript. These will bring out the flavor in the other ingredients.
5. Dice carrots and celery. Add to pot.
6. Mix totalitarian government and powerful military in separate bowl. When thoroughly blended, toss in one charismatic leader. Add to pot.
7. Mix rich Italian landowners and poor Italian farmers. Blend into a smooth, homogenous culture. Add to pot and stir.
8. Simmer over low heat until explosive temperature is reached. Warning: ADDING HUMAN OR INDIVIDUAL RIGHTS WILL RUIN THE SOUP.
9. Add spices to taste.

Angst

entertaining the rich people
laughing with their wallets open
to the world
they've polished for themselves..
and i am to serve them..
as if they were high kings
and me the simple jesters court.
rich..would i ever want to be rich?
maybe comfortable
Though, the poverty still hungry
my belly full-theirs empty.
can't sleep at night
knowing i'm not doing something
help the bleeding hearts of
hungry children and society sits
butt lazy- FOX ABC NBC HUNGRY- dying to watch
latest episodes of Survivor
Third world countries- Surviving
the Real REALTIY SHOW
BOmbs blood hate
Religious Separation
ethnic cleansing my friend
"Get your death sentence"
Step right up
mass graves are the special for the day!!"
Flip the switch
the hearts says goodbye
goin for a walk
a midnight stroll
hopefully god will find me
please- i hope he does
the man says in the red coat.
laughter on the line
who laughs there?
who goes there?
says the Wizard
the wizard of OZ
our lives
fairytales
between false and false
In motion picture eyes
we will fall asleep
and wake
to the same blank society that
ignores every truth who
sits butt heavy between
channels 2-39. -by Desiree Woidill

A Love Poem

Softly touching my lips,
Stirring emotions up from inside,
You fill my life in ways no other can,
Empty voids and gasping holes,
I gain understanding each day,
As I learn more of you
And what you can do to me, for me,
With me, in me.
Without you,
My life would have no meaning,
Words, I love you more than you can say.

By Carly Dobbins-Bucklad
2:41 am
Friday, April 6, 2001

Greyhound in December Midnight

I am not the self-gratifying person, my eyes curdle from the contrast of light on the paper to the black of the surroundings. A dull throbbing pain increases and pierces my brain. Afraid it might fall out on the floor, I start breathing heavily as to calm my nausea and maybe my brain will reconsider its exodus. The air is stagnant and warm, disgusting. Outside it is crisp and fresh but the passengers are forced onto Aushwitz on wheels. Tunnel after tunnel it escalates. There was a time, in my childhood I think, when I would hold my breath the entire way through to make a wish. My veins pulsed and I slammed my feet but I would not partake in the act of respiration. All this torture for good fucking luck. The first sign of surrounding would invite a sweet gulp of air, but not here, not Hell Bus! The bus where feces defies the laws of physics and floats freely. "Fuck Gravity!" exclaims the foulness, the shit that has chemically bonded to the poisonous Nitrogen which the world inhales without knowing. Nitrogen is the biggest whore of them all. She knows that she is the most abundant element in the atmosphere, and that leaves her a little cocky. Unfortunately she, just as every prostitute, is exhaled and cast out like a useless member. Depressed again, she cries and settles into the water, joining the cycle. Humans die, but Nitrogen follows an eternal circle, never ending monotony. So maybe she deserves to be cocky. Damn, am I thankful to be human! This way I have the ability to ignore the floating shit and hope for clean air. When is the next stop? I need a cigarette.

John B Remaley Jr.

Prom Perfection by Rachel Mackanin

At the moment a person finds out that they are a girl, there are certain things that are pounded into one's head about what should be key points in one's life. A few big events might be the first time makeup is allowed within 10 feet of the face, or maybe putting on that first sports bra. First dates are also a biggy, but nothing comes close to that over-publicized, extra-ornamented and extravagated event called Prom. From the time a woman's foot hits the tile of a high school lobby, mouths immediately shoot out the words "junior prom" like its phrase coming from a higher power to bless those who have trod on holy ground. Though an entire year is spent preparing for it, girls seem to spend an entire lifetime primping and fussing over it. Being a girl, I did the same, although I found out the hard way that this "royal ball" was not all it was cracked up to be.
To get the full effect from my story, one must look at the whole picture. My date happened to be my boyfriend, Jon, whom everyone in my immediate family and circle of friends hated. Jon tended to be a "Sweety" around me when we were alone, but an "antisocial dick" when coming in contact with anything else that resembled a human, unless it was one of his stuck up catholic school friends (not to say that all catholic kids are stuck up!). Because we had been going out almost a year by the time prom came around, it was practically an assumed fact that he would be escorting me to the Moon Area High School 1999 "Unforgettable" Prom. This sounded like a great idea at first: take an entire day to cover myself with nice jewelry, makeup, and a dress that weighed about 40 pounds, convene with about 400 people that I knew and didn't know in a room full of laughter and fun, and spend the evening with the man I loved with all my heart. In all truthfulness, the night did start out as planned. My date and I looked just dashing in our fine dance attire as cameras flashed madly at our house. There were no dress mishaps, and nothing was forgotten when we were driven to my friends house to pick up the limo. It was at that point, though, that things began to go wrong.
The combination in the limo, to begin with, was an odd one. The guys in the other two couples were two very good friends of mine, but the two girls I only barely knew because they were the underclass girlfriends. Of course, my friends and I joked around as we were standing there, taking pictures of all the cute couples. However, Jon stood there like a statue mime, only moving ever so slightly when pushed out of the way and speaking when spoken to. The limo ride over consisted of casual conversation on how "neat" the limo was and how sexy all the women were, though the only participants in this conversation were my one friend, his girlfriend and I. Once we approached the school, we were greeted by Jon's mother's camera, at which he proceeded to yell. Zigzagging among the parental units, we were able to somehow make our way into the lobby to get in line for the promenade. There isn't much to say about this part of the night. I spent my time talking to my friends and introducing them to Jon, while he stood there and looked around, only speaking to the one girl he knew, who happened to be a whore that was hitting on my boyfriend at the time simply to make me upset.
Continuing on, the promenade ended with no real excitement except that my friends and I discovered that there was only one duplicate dress in the entire promenade (a big thing in my school!). A mass of prom-goers proceeded to Embassy Suites, the site for this outstanding event. Making our way into the ballroom, I found it comforting to be with my friends as we sat to eat dinner. The meal was good and conversation adequate enough to get us through dinner. Jon continued to be his usual silent self as I chuckled with my classmates. The night went downhill, though once the dancing started.
Jon, I found out that night, does not like to dance. He can slow dance, of course, because one can just stand there and sway and can be considered a decent dancer. When it came to club dancing, however, I discovered that my boyfriend was a wallflower, and a stick in the mud at that. Being the wonderful girlfriend that I am, I sat there at the table with him and watched my friends beckon me over to the dance floor where they were all jamming. After an hour of pleading and prodding, however, I couldn't take anymore and went out to dance. I had a great hour or so as I danced away, occasionally checking on my love to make sure he was content. Feeling sorry for him after a while, I pulled him away to go gamble at our moneyless casino. It was there that the arguing started.
"I saw you dancing with those guys. What were you doing out there? You don't think I couldn't see you organ grinding with those guys?"
Completely appalled, I just sat there and gaped as I pondered the validity of these questions. Alright, I said, I was dancing, and there were guys out on the floor, however, I could not recall any organ grinding going on. Also, if there was, this could have been avoided had he decided to join in on the fun.
The story could pretty much end right there. The night continued on much the same way it had started, with Jon and I constantly arguing as my friends looked on in wonder at how someone as spunky as me could spend their evening sitting on a fake rock next to a pond about 2 inches deep, arguing with one man. Prom actually ended at 12, and the after prom brought no real excitement to the evening. After my significant other and I had sort of made up for the time being, we spent most of our time conked out with many of the other prom-goers at the dinner tables as Chinese auctions and a hypnotist entertained us. Nobody would dance anymore, and anyone who wasn't asleep was trying their luck at the tables.
As we were all riding home, asleep in the limo, I was almost wondering why I hadn't spent that night sleeping in my own bed instead of on a flat dinner table. Sure, the food was pretty good, and it was fun getting dressed up for that whole hour of promenade, but after that, I can get the same body upon body experience at any local club scene and pay a lot less to get in. Plus, I know that I would be wiser on who to take with me to the club. I constantly wonder to myself how so many children are blinded from the truth about this so-called "one time" event. Then I think to myself, I was.

The First Six-Hundred Words To a Story by Benjamin A. Smith

Tommy was almost finished plowing through the day's assigned workload in less than three hours. He was tempted to not start on anything new. After all, who wants to delete names out of a computer file in a secluded room any longer than they have to? He had been working for the last few weeks on the factory's payroll, fixing mistakes made by glitches in the computer. This morning he had the wondrous job of deleting the names of all the people who had died since the last pay period. He had only a few names left to click his mouse over out of the 17 thousand dead people on his list.
The factory would not miss them among its 100 million population of people who worked, ate, slept, and lived there. Tommy couldn't keep from feeling the helplessness of the people as he deleted their names. John Zeigler, Tommy thought while clicking the man's name, you've probably been caged in the factory all your life and never seen the outside world. Tommy pushed the delete button.
It was almost a sac-religious job he had; he hated the factory system so much. And yet here he was, a grunt worker cashing in on the epoch of the factory's degradation. His neighbor Frank, high up in the factory's Account Office, pulled on the right strings and landed Tommy this high paying job. Tommy now felt as if he had let the grimy hand of factory steal his conscience. The exchange was a job where he didn't have to stand on his feet all day and take orders. Tommy shook his head and breathed deeply, inhaling a dose of reality and rousing himself from the current introspective streak. This is just my job, that's all, Tommy thought as focused on the name Zinzendorf; it's not immoral. He again pushed the delete button.
Tommy sat with his hand on the computer desk, lightly tapping his fingers, now completely done with the names on the list.
And it was still before lunch break. Should I call that man? Thought Tommy. It would only mean that he'd give me more work to do, and I'll see him at lunch, Tommy continued to reason to himself.
Tommy relaxed, perched his feet upon the computer desk before him, and waited for his lunch break. He struggled to keep his eyes open in fear that he'd fall asleep.

By now Tommy had made his way to the cafeteria. As he took his place in line his eyes danced from one side of the room to the other, searching with disappointment. Emily was not in the room yet. Yesterday, she said her heavy workload in the laundry room kept her from coming to the cafeteria in time to meet up with him. It was hard for him to even focus on the food he wanted, his eyes were blurry from staring into the monitor and his mind was distracted thinking of Emily.
"Sir, Sir" a cashier said while waving her hand to get his attention, "what kind of drink do you want with your meal?"
Tommy squinted his eyes and focused his attention on her. "Um, how about one of those big ice teas" he said gesturing with his hand toward the cup size he wanted.
"Sir" the lady again echoed, "you have to get the drink yourself. I just need to know if I should charge you for it."
"Oh, jeez, what am I thinking?" Tommy said pulling the cup with disinterest from the dispenser.
"That will be thirty seven units sir."
Tommy now passed the back of his writs across a sensor. The cashier looked at the screen in front of her and said "Thank you sir; enjoy your meal and have nice day."

Fog by Sarah Harris

Sometimes I feel as though I am traveling through a dense and clinging fog. Nothing is clear to me but it is as if I am constantly in that state halfway between sleeping and waving. Everything comes to me through a filter. Street lights like distant stars - the cheerful hello/goodbyes of friends echo hollowly and their waves flicker and their footsteps blur until they once again blend with the shadows.

I am all alone now and the world has gone into silence. Perhaps the fog has only grown thicker, perhaps I have wandered into an unfamiliar place. I no longer even notice the ground beneath me, it is cold and I have the sense that I am floating.

For all I know, I could have stepped off a precipice, I could be walking on nothing but thin air and the willpower not to look down. I do not look down

Fear of Loneliness A Rant by Rebekah Garris

Let me start off talking about everyone's favorite subject. It's something everybody wants, most people don't get a lot of it and you have to work at it to improve. What do you think the mysterious subject is? I'm talking about making and keeping friends. I guess not quite everyone's favorite subject, themselves. What did you think the subject was? Pervert! Now back to the lecture at hand…friends. I want to know why it is that I try so hard to make friends. I guess that's a question I have to answer for myself. Hhhmmm….well, considering the fact that I'm a "bright, happy, smiling giggle-machine", it doesn't take all that much for me to make friends. That is not the area I have trouble with. The whole problem is that I make all these cool friends, but it's impossible to keep them all. I have friends from pre-school who I still consider my friends, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I never see them. So what sort of friendly function do they serve? Fond memories? I suppose it's better than bitter ones. I also have friends from elementary school and junior high that I never talked to in high school, if I could help it. Even now that I'm in college, I go home and I don't hang out with the same people that I did in high school, for the most part. If I do see my high school "buds" once or twice a year, I'm lucky…or unlucky, depending on who it is. Usually the "buds" are just those people who send me vapid forwards that I immediately delete without giving it even a first thought, that is if these "buds" maintain any type of correspondence with me. You'd think this insanity would end now that I'm in college and I've made "true" friends that I live with or see pretty much all of the time. It doesn't stop though. I barely talk to people that I was friends with my freshman and sophomore years here. Even within this year, I've made a revolution of friends. What appropriate word-choice. Excellent diction. Revolution. Making new friends and moving on can be a revolution. Revolutions are rebellious in nature, as is the idea of making completely new friends. Most people would be too scared to make new friends let alone give up old ones. The outcome can either be victorious or disastrous. It's really too bad that I can't just clone myself so that I could hang out with everyone, but I'm sure I'd get annoying and I'd still have to decide who the real me would get to hang out with. I constantly feel like I'm betraying or ignoring someone whenever I do anything with anybody, though. It would almost be better to just become a hermit and not have any friends. That way I wouldn't hurt anyone's feelings. I'm still trying to decipher which is my bigger fear: being alone or hurting someone? They don't exactly lend themselves to each other. And it's too late for me to become a hermit now. If I disappeared, I'm sure some people would take it personally. I just have a feeling that my friends would all think I found something better to do than talk to them anymore. What am I supposed to do? Maybe I should become mean and make everyone hate me. But then I would end up making friends with some other mean person with no friends and the vicious cycle would repeat. Aaaahh…the life of a gregarious, giggling girl, what a blessed curse.

Night and Morning at Jerry

my shoulder was sore
from the boards under the couch cushion
when I woke up
but it's okay because I was with you
I was safe, content, alive
in your arms all night
you held me and it didn't matter
that anyone in the house could have seen
my leopard print string bikinis
under your senate shirt
stained with breast and grape jelly

I was a little cold and I know
you would have wanted me to get the other blanket
but I didn't want to wake you
you were so beautiful there, asleep, likely dreaming
your lips that kissed me and whispered "mine" were beautiful
you soft snore was beautiful
after wanting for long, everything seemed beautiful
mine, finally
if heaven's half as beautiful as you,
I won't mind the end when it comes
By Darcie Ramp

(This one I Have an Illustration for Somewhere at Home????)

do our souls grow downward from the sky
or spread like roots to reach far and wide
we all lie down in day or night to sleep
and in sorrowful loneliness alike we weep
can our spirits outlast the sands of time
or do too many have hearts of coldest turpentine
stubborn we do not bend we only break
will not give we only take

Gone to all
And tossed aside
There, shall the unreached
Dream reside.

Known to none
And gone to all
Here, dead lies a
Dream falled.

I am lost
I am afraid
If you need me, I will stay

I am cold
I am alone
Will you leave me on my own

I am confused
I am weak
What should I now speak

I am worthless
I am sad
What will you think, of what we've had

I am here
I am gone
Is it wrong, to still hold on

By Leslie Henderson

draft_1.doc Don Steggert

Alfred Hitchcock said the greatest murder weapon is an icicle. After the damage was done, the evidence would melt away. Betty disagreed. For more than 50 years Betty and Gil did everything together. When winter's frigid breathe dissipated, they planted a garden of vegetables. After a season of maturation, they canned the tomatoes and other crops for preservation. Every Wednesday evening, Gil drove Betty to Bingo and picked her up when it was through. Betty sat and did crossword puzzles while Gil carved figures out of wood. Their lives were lived for each other and with each other, until there was no one to live for.
It was August and summer was making its exit and wasn't going alone. Betty and Gil were sitting on the back porch canning tomatoes for the coming winters hibernation. Sitting in the chairs they always sat in and passing the time the way they always did, Gil tilted his head back and left his partner's side. The days that followed seemed to be an eternity for Betty. Their house, now belonging only to her, was littered with her husband's artifacts. Post-it-Notes that read, "Instant cardiac arrest" graced the table, which housed the phone, to serve as a reminder to Betty of how it all happened. Encased in a glass shrine was every figure his hands, still full of life, had carved from wood. His chair sat next to hers, empty and unmoved. Betty found it hard to sleep alone and cook dinner for one. Her crossword puzzles incomplete and her life lonely.
A love removed can be as painful as an icicle penetrating the flesh. The wounds a broken heart creates cannot be healed by stitches or skin grafts. Betty lived surrounded by the scars and immersed in the pain of loss. Love can bleed the human emotions dry. Love drives our intentions, occupies our thoughts and guides our souls.
It was only months later and Betty lie next to Gil once again. Burdened by the perils of loneliness and plagued by the jaggedness of solitude, Betty wanted out. She could not find life without him and didn't want to. The same thing that completed her life was the very thing that destroyed it. Love. Betty was murdered by love. The evidence that love leaves behind will not melt away like the icicle. The legacy of love will cling harder than DNA or blood. Love will invade the mind, rob you of time and assault the heart. The scars are forever.
A Poem Written Solely for the Purpose of Making Allusions to William Goldman:

The Thing of It Is…
this is No Way to Treat a Lady.
You Masquerade as a Marathon Man-
All Magic and Tinsel and The Color of Light,
but this time you've gone A Bridge Too Far.
Now it's Your Turn to Curtsy, My Turn to Bow.
I'm taking Control.
It is no longer Father's Day and there will be
no more Stepford Wives.
Not even All the President's Men
could force these Boys and Girls Together again.

SO, if anyone needs me,
I'll be alone in my Temple of Gold,
never again to be anyone's Princess Bride.
A solitary Soldier in the Rain. By Courtney Anderson

Celibate Feet
Women do have one thing on their minds-
It all depends when you ask.
I have money on my mind now… no, wait, sex.
Sex… sex with lots of money…
Nope, I'm having sex while shopping for shoes.
Yep, that's what on my mind.
To you maybe.
That is what you want me to be thinking about.
I am thinking about getting through the night,
getting to the bottom of my favorite mug,
getting to class on time.
Who has time to think of sex when there are shoes?

By Julie Mihalic

The 14th of Winnie Cooper By Emily Kreider
"April is the cruelest month." ~T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland

Well, I tend to agree with Mr. Eliot. April is the cruelest month because April is the biggest tease. It is the beginning of spring, so everyone expects the weather to be wonderful. However, it tends to snow and it often rains. You can see the signs of forthcoming green grass and beautiful flowers, but you can't enjoy them. The weather changes hourly.
If you think back, who was the biggest tease T.V. ever knew? Who else but Winnie Cooper? She led Kevin on and played with his heart with every word that came from her awkward mouth. "I like you, but I don't like like you." What does that mean? She'll let you kiss her this season, next season she'll date an older boy, then you may kiss her again in another season, but NEVER will she let you touch her boobies.
And since both April and Winnie share so much in common, I deem April "Winnie Cooper" month. So today is the 14th of Winnie. Ms. Cooper was the cruelest, Kevin never even got the chance to enjoy her beautiful flower.

Sometimes
Sometimes, I just need a nap.
Sometimes, I want my mommy and a blankie and my bear.
Sometimes, I'm 4 years old again.
I relish these sometimes.
I live in these sometimes.
I am these sometimes.
Sometimes I want to scream and smash things-
Sometimes I do.
Sometimes I simply can't fucking take it anymore
and I really seriously honestly truthfully
wish I could beat the shit out of someone.
Anyone.
Just because I feet like it.
It is these sometimes that turn me into that 4 year old.
By Courtney Anderson

Elizabeth By Sarah Harris
Sometimes I take a moment and its like I step outside of myself. I look around at my life and the people walking around me and I have this sudden sense that I'm moving through things, but that I'm not really in them. And I'm thinking these things to myself but then I just keep on walking and I get in my car and I drive. And I go home and maybe eat a little, maybe turn on the TV and at night I lay down and I close my eyes and I open them again and it's a new day and I've forgotten but you never can. Sometimes I wish that I could just stop. Just freeze even for a second, and not be. Not have to deal with all the trouble and the pain and the somethings that go along with being. I think it would be nice to not be for a little while. And as I drive to work maybe I think to myself how simple it would be, what a simple little thing, just to jerk the wheel a little bit and go into the other lane. But I don't. Instead I go to work and I smile at everyone and I say how tired I am because I didn't get any sleep last night, studying for that test, and oh its just so early. Much too early to have to be, to have to move, but I do because there isn't any other choice, not really.
You see the problem with suicide is that if you really think about it at all then you think about other people, still moving and all that after you stop. And you feel bad about it, at least you do if you're someone who cares about life in any significant way. And you must care, or you wouldn't be thinking about it so much. And then you realize how selfish it is really, to hurt all those people who love you enough to want to move around through the world with you, the people who may even occasionally make you feel as though you're in it, even though of course you're not. And you know then that you can't stop moving. So you don't and of course you don't tell any of them and eventually maybe, if you're lucky, you go back into your stupor until the sudden moment when you wake up again.
All of life is a waking dream, if you're lucky. I always secretly wished that I could be insanely stupid or crazy or something. Stupid people don't know that they're stupid. They don't miss the brain cells that they never had. They're just happy. I don't think I would mind being happy. I wouldn't know that I was missing out and so maybe I wouldn't be. Same goes for being crazy. Crazy people, I mean those who are mentally diagnosed as insane, don't really know they're crazy. They know that they can do amazing things. What would it be like, to know that you could fly? I feel more sorry for everyday people, who know that they can't. Where's the magic in that? I would rather soar.
So who am I really? What kind of a question is that. We ask it all the time but we never find the answer and we call other people crazy - just because they think they know. They know that they are superman or Marilyn Monroe. And we know they're not, but how do we really. We don't even know who we are. At least I don't. And I don't think anyone does. Maybe not even God really.
And about that. Did you ever feel like God, that quintessential old man with the beard and the white robes, was just sitting around upstairs having a good laugh at your expense? Like God couldn't find something more comfortable or more fun to wear for eternity than white robes. Me, I think he's in bright red flannel pajamas with little yellow stars, and he's watching my life on a movie screen in a lazy-boy with a big tub of extra buttery popcorn, just howling away at the funny bits. And when he gets bored with it he gets the remote and he switches me around. There are all sorts of channels. Love story, comedy, tear-jerker, tragedy, chick-flick, action, suspense. Only I don't know what bit I'm in until he switches it. And when he gets tired of it, he'll turn it off and put in a new one, and maybe let me come and watch it with him. I'd wear light blue cotton pajamas with pictures of little fairies sitting on clouds. The ones with the footies.

Somewhere Under the Light of the Water

Waves crash against a deserted beach
the way love falls upon me;
No one is there to witness the beauty and serenity
of a powerful force.
Stars shine down on me,
Yet no one can find me in my light.
Struggling with fate,
I flex my powers to be noticed
in a fight I have not won yet:
A tag team match suddenly handicapped
by the lack of feelings.

By Julie Mihalic

Postmodern PERSONAL ADS:

SF WANTED: Any hot pizza boy
for a SPECIAL delivery. One large
pizza with EXTRA sausage (hold
the cheese.) Fill order at 112
Kiester Apts and you will be
rewarded graciously.

SM Eccentric and freckled.
Narcissist, looking for the purest
form of self-love at first sight.
Must have short hair, dig
philosophy, deviant graphology
and making fun of the way
people talk. 738-0689

SM Do you want to suckle at
the tit of happiness? Has a
thirty inch weiner (dog) and
a huge Lincoln. Meet me
behind Boozel for hot love
after perogie day.

SF Do you like Pearl Jam?
A lot? Smart, feisty, outgoing.
Unnatural Obsession with John
Stamos's younger brother.
Meet be @ Tater Junction on
½ spud day. Meow!

SM Hi. Fuck you. Are you
into Heywood or Don Caballero?
Do you enjoy smoking,
drinking coffee, and making fun
of god? Even if you do, chances
are that I hate you.
"I'll take 'em 8-80, dumb,
crippled, or krazy." 738-8855

SF Minimalist seeks man.

Just what are those things on the covers of "Fables?"

First Issue: the drawing of an eclipse and a panopticon
Second Issue: the wiring schematic of a Belgian radio, inverted and flipped
Third Issue: a picture of Three Mile Island from afar

Back

Tonight
you laid
in my
curves
fitting.

lines of
relaxed face
buried in the
neck of trust
the moon
reflective
in your
body folds,
unfolding
onto my shape
rhythmically
with my shape.

i forgot
how much
i missed your laugh
like a windchime
in
Spring,
soft
light
wave of sound

Into the sun
then
back again
on my shoulder
your heat
back again
to living
to breathing
back to love
back to you.
- by Desiree Woidill

Micro-flirt by a duo of anonymous people

You know, if you weren't dating someone, I would so ask you out.

Aww… now isn't the cop-out way to flirt. Oh, this just makes me giggle… I've got you, like the grasshopper askes Mr. Ant to be his hop-scotch friend.

Vague allusions to crickets and small eight-legged (?) insects just make me confused. The direct way to answer the question was avoided nicely. (and I have no idea how to flirt, I lost it in the Great Slushee Incident of '96)

Crickets and eight-legged creatures make me confused as well- but I do enjoy hop scotch! Your interest is nothing more than a dead end, like a faery trying to kiss the moon, that reminds her of last spring's dandelions

Ah, lament, but an avenue never gazed down, though not followed, is still part of a better walk than one without wandering and wonderings.

The cow jumped over the moon with lollipop and Sugar Daddy ( daddy, is no pun) swing-set smiles, side and seek giggles- an adventure is what I have

Oh, and I didn't ask you here just to hit on you, that would be demeaning and wrong.

I understand that, I'm just irresistible like chocolate

AND SOME LAST THOUHGTS:

~ So, aren't we the intensely productive campus? Just another wonderful literary journal crammed full of mind-expanding and thought-provoking tidbits and morsels destined to launch the careers of at least a few of the contributors. Don't believe me? If you would like proof, just check on Amazon.com for Robert Rider's first novel (he was Fables 1st contributor ever.) Huh? Yes, that's right, this little zine gets around. Recently it fell, well, was pushed, into the hands of both the Lee Shore Literary Agency and Dave Eggers, founder of "Might" magazine, "McSweeney's" (a groundbreaking literary journal), and the author of the bestseller, "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius." Just think of this as your one stop shop towards literary fame (meant in a non-capitalistic sort of way.) On a personal note, making this zine was tons of fun this semester, and next semester it will be back with the help of one Desiree Woidill. Bye for now…
PS: on-line within the month! We're goin' electronic!
www.geocities.com/fablesfromthepostmodernage
PPS: you can email your submissions to: [email protected], but they might be available just on the website until the fall of 2001.
PPPS: depending on what happens, my book might be available on Amazon.com come fall too (crossed fingers and such.)

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