Self Destruct

By Ryan B., brother of Dillon B.

It’s been years since I’ve been stripped of my own control. Now at the pinnacle

of my understanding, I can’t help but realize how utterly weak I was against him.

I was foolish as to let my guard down, calling the bluff of an invisible anomaly

that threatened my entire existence.

I now rest inside this vessel that swarms with constant ideas, decisions, de-

sires, of which most I cannot agree with. How could I fight back against him any-

way? He was me to begin with after all.

I’m not used to this place that seems so confusing along with being completely

unrealistic. I find myself in a graveyard that I’ve seen before in my previous state of

being. However, this graveyard is not of humans long dead, but instead is the resting

place of failed ambition and several other catastrophes, all entwined with a grassy–

like substance making the head stones barely intelligible.

At the very end of a white stone path protrudes the largest of the headstones.

It is the size of infinity, stretching upward into the foggy sky eternally with no sum-

mit. It dawns on me that this headstone was placed here recently due to its lack of

shrubbery covering it, and the name clearly visible. The headstone reads “Kigireek".

Such a word must look foolish to those who aren’t me, for only my consciousness

could comprehend it. “Paul Dawson” is the name on the stone, which to me is no

surprise. It is MY gravestone, and here is where my being will rest forever.

I almost savored the moment I beheld my own resting place, for I knew I

would not have to deal with the harsh nature of the world any longer. The outside

world is now Paul Dawson’s responsibility, not mine. It would be easy to say I am

hallucinating, but I am as adamant as stone in my belief that I no longer exist.

I turned back towards the graveyard’s exit to see the only thing I wasn’t pre-

pared for. Any bomb, gun, or chainsaw murderer psychopath would be a red marble

in the ocean compared to her….She glistened with an unearthly light, her red hair

falling over her trademark white gown she used to wear to bed every night. “Emily,

my only handle by which I held onto life every day, was presented before me on the

out of place white path…What I wouldn’t give to hold her again, how many earths I

would rip apart with my bare hands to keep her with me. Only, she was mine, but

shut away from me by my own mind who has now taken over the outside as well as

the inside in which I, a measly pathetic pawn in life’s chess game am forced to be by

my ever superior subconscious.

I am not permitted to touch her, or even to engage in conversation for I am

no longer worthy. My own head is torturing me for what a cowardly person I have

been. I force Emily’s apparition to exit my new world, for her very image amplifies

my anger and subdues any rationality I may have left. I sheathed my eyes, trying to

redeem any sanity that could be salvaged. It should not be misinterpreted that I

don’t want to be here. As all humanity knows, the subconscious is simply the re-

ceiver of information by the all-powerful king that is the mind. It was my own deci-

sion to change places, to give my body a better life, to give Emily a better life, to

improve what situations I left behind that were being ever worn to destruction by

my own incompetence. He threatened me; told me the inner world he resides in

was not the place for me and I would ultimately fail at running my internal world,

thus crippling the outside…I had no choice, I had to try, and now the fate of the

outside is unknown. The tangle of information being sent is incomprehensible to

me. One word occasionally gets through the mess though. A barely comprehensible

strand of symbols reading “arkitaecal”, or in English, “dwindle.” I try to shout to

him, but all that leaves my ‘mouth’ are obnoxious booming noises.

Patient 001807 Status Update:

Patient is recovering from a single bullet wound (self-inflicted) to the

right temporal lobe. Patient has very limited motor function, as well as

a loss in the ability to speak.

Patient has little to no documented prior incidents. Patient sometimes

cries out in pain while pointing at his head, more specifically the

ears. Reporting possible exploding head syndrome.

Patient has had no family visitors or contact, excluding Mrs. Emily Daw-

son who claims the patient is a Paul Dawson. Further instruction is re-

quired on how to assess the given situation.

Report by Dr. Sean Henry MD at Chris Wallis Hospital, Ohio USA

A Poem for your Son

By Nick Pino

Life has a funny way of kicking

You when you’re down,

And the adage about rain,

It’s true. The clouds

Have more water when you’re already wet.

Unfortunately, son, it gets darker

Before dawn; and the light at the end

Of the tunnel, is sometimes, unavoidably,

Only the start of another.

I don’t tell you life’s shortcomings

To get your spirits down,

Or have you believe that you can’t

Make it, but as a lesson in perspective for those that don’t.

Because life has a funny

Way of kicking you when you are

Down and the adage about rain,

It’s true; The clouds have more water

When you’re already wet.

Unfortunately, son, it gets darker before dawn,

And the light at the end of the tunnel

Is sometimes, unavoidably, only the start

Of another.

I don’t tell you life’s short

Comings to get your spirits down or have you believe

That you can’t make it

Son that’s my lesson for you, because compassion,

Reads between the lines.

PHOTOS BY

JEANETTE CHWAN

The Jewels of Yawn

By Mani K-2 at last mine are the chaos

emeralds take forms of hyperion

in two great timespans

defined by Itzamna am I able

to exaggerate my purple

until it is silver and the seasons

have landed on a planet made

of platinum the alchemists joined

the sun and the moon together

a horned and reclining helium

hydrogen kaboom the languid went

elegance I can not fathom miserere

mei Deus grew up together

apart we together grew I suppose

the brushburns on my inner thighs

prove His pederasty and existence

in one fatal blow I saw Miles Prower

die thrown by Doctor Robotnik's mettle

hand to my feet head to my sonic "boom

blastandruin but I outrun them

because I'm faster" than the poor excuse

for Fyodorov is Dr. Ivan Kintobor

to be Psalm-fi(y-one-ed or eis tous aionas ton aionon distorted hale Earth in chirality

as Mobius spins around no Orient

the Echidna theology hailed knuckles

and bombed the earth with genetic

dark arts during our chymical wedding

and bore a Euler characteristic of four

is a holy number of distress at time's end

everything went better than expected

as a great video game and Saturday morning

cartoons are just as vibrant as the mandala

once burned on the metal sonic tip of a fire escape

I nonplussedly laid merciful Brahmandas

around the judgment seat of God and yawned

until they were Fabergé and Viennese choirs

androgynously electrified heavy metals

to scream the coniunctio of animal and man

and machine made love by difference

not all of us can be speed's yonder the same

(Fitzpatrick Has Got to Move the Ball Up the Field)

I'm I'm gonna tell you a story. I'd I'd like to tell to tell you all a story. I'm

gonna tell you a a story. A story. So, I says to him I says Jim, I says Jim, I says

to him I says Jim, hey Jim I says, I says to him I says I says I says I says to him

Jim I says hey Jim, I says hey Jim I says to him hey Jim, I says to him I says I

says I says I says I says to him I says hey Jim, hey Jimbo, hey, how about how

how about about how about about how how how about how about how

about how how about about how how about how about how how how

about about how about how about about how about them Bills? Them Bills?

Them Bills, how about about how about them? And Jim says to me he says,

he says Joe he says says he says Joe he says he says says he he says he says

hey Joe, he says hey Joe, he says Fitzpatrick, you know Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick

you know you know Fitzpatrick, he says he says says he he he says he says

Fitzpatrick, you know Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick, he's got got he's he's got he's

got to get get to get the to get the get the to get the ball to get the ball to

move the move move the the ball the ball up the the up the the up the the

the )eld the )eld. To move move the ball, up the )eld. And I says to him I

says, I says, I says to him I says hey Jim, you know, know, you know, you

know you know, you, you're right, you're right. You know, you know you're

right. And and that's that's that's m my m m my story my story.

By: Sam Share

By Sam Share

(Liminal Mythopoeisis)

This paper argues that the event, in its plural contingency, cannot, as Ador-

no and Deleuze have elsewhere adduced, be reduced to a calculus of availabil-

ity. If we take the Erfahrung as an a priori metastatic historial ontic phe-

nomenon, it at once becomes clear that the normative othering of the body

qua spatial monad is not a performative gesture but a textual archi-erasure

of institutionality and a modality of specular post-erotic hegemony. For the

trace is always present in its plenary absence, forming the poeietic economy

of the agency of the troping chain. It is the episteme, the hyperbolic ЕΦгфйю

of this liminal erasure, that condenses the telescopic hetero-imagistic seman-

tic disarticulation of the neutered pedagogical recondensation, or instantia-

tion, of the irreducible scilicet of paradigmatic self-referentiality. Now, a sub-

limated post-dialectic of oneiric pretextuality cannot be taken as totalizing

(re)feminine objecticity - but it can serve to recapitulate the desituational

expropriation of the heuristic narrative. Systematicity, in its technical as-

pect, is therefore a broader historico-punitive penal ascription of the Schiller-

ian play-impulse. The historitical 'instanteaneity' of a mythopoeiesis of post-

longitudinal disreferentiality then matriculates. Baudrillard would hold here

that the homostationary umbilicality of the shark in motion presubstantiates

linguistic hermeneutic topological defenestration. Residual splenarity oo-

relates creo-plasticity into an avant-transformative parenthetical intersub-

postpreposttextuality. Liquidized historico-substantial liquidity. Liquidity

ontic oneiric. Predicated empathic disconstitutioninuationanality. Liquidity

cognitive autoaesthetic inscriptive hybridity. Preentral staplary confronta-

neity. Indecanstalrr gimrreel. Ixtipotiel kstlrrrrr rrhxkl

By Sam Share

I’m simply trying to pay attention;

To be a good listener

Patient

Sincere

Eye contact

Attentive because I care

If I didn’t know any better

I’d mistake this for making love

Then I notice my vision plummet

I’m not paying attention

She has my eyes

I’m lost

And class has ended

It’s just an illusion that I can’t think,

That she is every thought,

Every drop of ink.

That every breath sustains her image in my mind

Suspending consciousness like a silhouetted shadow

Now think,

What thoughts are not illusions?

Any of them?

And the thoughts of insanity….

By Mark Zimmerman

Meteorites

By Tracy Chen

to Jarrett the could have been maybe, if I was named correctly. if I like the stars was infinitely willing to collapse. your name fits in the hollow of my cheek melts too slow clack clacked embedded in teeth banners and sleeves (is negative space big enough for me?) my ghostie, my tragic love braced for swallows. words. skies. long split in half, once every 200 days. I am only doing this to myself. I am only an anchor in your heart dragged along the bottom scraping up skeletons. I can only perch and sing at my heart your name a few letters strung with twine. It is too late. I am already drowned in your 365 smiles and one ring of green stars.

Sleep Little Ones

In Memoriam of the Victims of the Sandy Hooks Elementary School Shooting

The little ones lie in peace.

We mourn.

All they wanted was Christmas.

But still, some maniac takes them away.

“If he were spanked as a child, this wouldn’t have happened!”

“If we had more gun-control laws, this wouldn’t have happened!”

“If he had gone to church, this wouldn’t have happened!”

Cement clouds cover the sky and our souls.

He just went crazy one day and took the life

Of the one who gave him life.

She kept the guns in the house.

How would tougher gun-control laws fix anything?

I’m sure Hitler was whipped as a child.

I’m sure Jack the Ripper received the paddle.

I’m sure plenty of maniacs were spanked.

Can we let his mother rest in peace?

I’ve met people who are religious but are good.

I know Einstein is among the saints

John Calvin, Urban II, and bin Laden detest.

Can we lay this issue to rest?

There’s no guarantee we’ll

Ever put to rest the little ones,

The nightmares that divide us.

But to put the little angels to rest

In Heaven blessed,

And maybe one day

We too will rise again.

By Lesley Crawford

A Lovely Remembrance

By Morgan Fallon

The Wikipedia article about Meghan Callahan has no photos of her. It in-

cludes images of two of her prints. They're both of men comprised of perfectly

drawn connected ovals riding bikes. Oval torsos, oval arms, oval legs, oval heads,

oval hands, and oval fingers holding the handlebars of perfectly drawn bikes.

Their creator died because she refused treatment for cancer to spare the life of

the boy she was pregnant with. She died two weeks after his birth. I imagined her

husband imploring her to risk the life of their baby to save her own during the

months before her death.

It wasn't hard for me to imagine this because I've seen it before. My mother

died giving birth to my sister. She was told the pregnancy would be risky given

her age but she wouldn't consider terminating it. My parents argued behind

closed doors while the pregnancy progressed and my mother suffered various

complications. I was fourteen at the time. My dad explained everything after she

died, though I had a pretty good idea. He needed me to be strong to help him

with my new sister. "She looks just like her, doesn't she Matthew?" Looking for

my sister's resemblance to my mother made me realize the gravity of our loss and

the World's.

I discovered Meghan Callahan while at a coffee shop in the Heights. I was

skimming the reviews section of a magazine someone left on the table. I don’t

remember what it was. There was a picture of her playing a violin in what looked

like an art studio. There were drawings hanging on the wall behind her. The arti-

cle above the photo was a review of another magazine. The only thing I remem-

bered about its contents is that it included a, "lovely remembrance of artist Me-

ghan Callahan." I wondered who she was and what happened to her. I Googled

her as soon as I was at a computer with internet access.

Reading the Wikipedia article about Meghan Callahan spawned the ideas

which led to me getting closer to her than I ever imagined. The probability that I

would have ever heard of Meghan Callahan was almost nonexistent, so I won-

dered if there was a reason I had. The similarities between her death and my

mother's made me think that this might be more than a coincidence. This suspi-

cion was fostered by other similarities. My mother played the guitar, a stringed

instrument just like Meghan's violin. We spent our entire lives in this town and

went to the same college. I might have ran into her, but no possible sightings

came to mind. I imagined we would have got along quite well.

These ruminations went on for a week until I saw a poster for an upcoming

gallery reception devoted to the work and life of Meghan Callahan. To me, it

proved that this was more than a coincidence. It would also give me a chance to

see if I was somehow connected to Meghan. They say people live on in those they

leave behind. What kind of a relationship I could have had with Meghan would

be revealed by how well I got along with people at the reception. If things went

well, I might make friends with people who knew Meghan and have a lasting vi-

carious friend-ship with her through them.

I woke up full of nervous energy on the day of the reception. I wondered

what I'd find out about Meghan and if I'd get along with people who knew her. I

took off from work to get ready. I rehearsed what I might say. It took me days to

decide to wear black pants and a grey button down shirt to the reception. It

seemed fitting to wear dark clothes since it was a memorial, but not a suit since

it wasn't actually a wake or a funeral. I stopped at a bar for a drink to calm my

nerves on the way to the reception. I had three. Being fashionably late seemed all

right because I expected Meghan's friends to be artist types who never went to

anything on time.

I stood outside the gallery looking through the front windows when I ar-

rived at the reception. Pictures of people made from ovals covered the walls. Eve-

ryone seemed happier than I expected. I looked for a guy with a young child who

must be Meghan's widower, but didn't see him. I went inside and began looking

for the prints I saw on Wikipedia but couldn't find them. I began looking at the

prints in the gallery more closely. They were depictions of people made of con-

nected ovals waiting by street signs, using appliances, holding tools, and using

silverware. In one print, two oval men are changing a tire on a car. The objects in

the prints look realistic though the people don't. They are really beautiful draw-

ings.

"Hi," someone said to me. "I'm Allison."

"I'm Matthew."

"Did you know Meghan?"

"Yes," I said though I never met her. "It's really sad what happened. My

mother died the same way she did"

"She had cancer?"

"No she was pregnant with my sister and there were complications. She

didn't want to risk my sister's life to…"

Tears welled up from Allison's eyes, "It's so sad and so unfair."

She leaned in for a hug and I told her, "The important thing is that her son is all right and that we all had a chance to know someone as selfless as Me-ghan."

Is everything Ok?," someone asked while we were holding each other.

We broke apart and Allison said, "Yes Katie. This is Matthew. He knew Me-

ghan, he's really nice. His mom died…"

I could see she was welling up again so I explained. Their eyes welled up as I finished

and we all embraced in a group hug.

They told me stories about when they lived with

Meghan. They told me about the shopping cart

bike she built that they all used to haul groceries

and stuff around. "Oh yeah, I heard about that," I

said. They said she stayed in working on her

prints most of the nights they went out. They

pointed out some prints she did while they all

lived together. She focused on her art with a re-

markable resolve. Her tenacity impressed them

though it was sort of a barrier between them.

They were glad for whatever snippets of time they

could have with her. Her artwork was like her real

social life, the only companionship she really

needed. They were surprised when she met Mark

because she was such a home-body. They thought

it would only be temporary and she'd start seeing

him as a distraction. They were surprised when

she moved out to live with him.

"Is he here tonight?," I asked. Allison pointed to

someone wearing a dark brown suit jacket and

black pants. He was talking to a couple of people.

I thought I'd be able to pick him out if he was

here because he'd be holding Meghan's son,

which he wasn't, or would be exhibiting crippling

grief, which he wasn't. He was smiling and was in a better mood than I expected. He

didn't fit the profile of Meghan's widower that I imagined.

"Do you want to talk to him?" Allison asked.

"I never met him actually. Meghan told me about him and he seemed ok. She

was happy, and I was happy for them."

Illustra�on by Mani K-2

The people Mark was talking to left and Allison waved him over to us. I was nerv-

ous about meeting him. He knew her best and he'd be the one most likely to see

through the ruse I constructed just minutes ago. My hands trembled as I ex-

plained how I knew Meghan. I told them we met in college, in some gen-ed clas-

ses we took together. "I hadn't seen her for the past few years, but we stayed in

touch through email. She really spoke so highly of you." He hugged me right after

I said that.

"Meghan had so many friends, and they all seem so great. I'm still getting

messages from people who knew her who tell me how much they'll miss

her."

"Where's the little guy?," I asked. "I was hoping to see him."

"Seth is with Meghan's parents for the night."

"I guess I'll have to meet him another time."

"Sure, that could be arranged."

"Mark, would it be all right if Matthew came over tonight?," Allison

asked.

Before he could answer she told me they were going to Mark's for some drinks

and asked me to come along. I accepted the invitation.

On the walk to Mark's house, we stopped at a store for beer. Katie and Alli-

son went inside while Mark and I waited outside. He told me he was glad I came

and I told him I was glad we finally met. He gave me another hug. The girls came

out while Mark and I were still hugging. "Aaaaawe!," they said and wrapped their

arms around us. I knew I belonged there more than anywhere else. I haven't had

much of a personal or social life because I've been so busy helping my dad and my

sister. I have more time than I know how to use since she went off to college.

After our hug, we walked for about ten minutes before reaching Mark's

house. Allison stayed close to me the entire time. She sat next to me once we set-

tled in the kitchen. She pulled a small candle out of her bag and said it was a me-

morial candle for Meghan. After it was lit, they all started telling more stories

about her. The more I listened, the more assured I was that I was in the right

place. Allison began resting her head on my shoulder at the end of each story. She

would sit up straight again when Mark or Katie began telling another story and

then placed it back on my shoulder to punctuate their endings. I would have

stayed there for years if possible.

"Where's the bathroom?," I asked.

"It's upstairs, the second door on the right," Mark answered.

I began heading back downstairs after I finished using the bathroom but I

stopped at the bedroom. I saw makeup and bottles of perfume on top of the

dresser. It reminded me of how my dad had kept all of my mom's clothes,

The Four dimensions of myself:

Curiosity,

Haste,

Doubt,

And Passion,

Sweltering the facade

And the expression meant to curb it

Meant to relieve, but not to act

Since its action is hollow

Suffocating the feeling that falls to impotence

The origin of paralysis.

To cure:

Inform curiosity of its blindness

Remind haste that it easily regrets

Propose that doubt, doubts itself

And simply let passion, tire itself out

By Mark Zimmerman

makeup, and perfume. Sometimes I would hold and smell them when no one else

was home. I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. There were Meghan's

blouses, t-shirts, skirts, dresses, and pants. "I miss you Meghan Callahan," I

thought in my alcohol drenched mind. I shut the door and was about to leave

when I saw a container of makeup powder with yellow flowers on it. My mom

had one just like it. I opened it and lifted it to my face, it smelled just like my

mom's.

"What are you doing?," I heard Mark ask. We stood in silence looking at

each other. Then I looked at the floor thinking about what I was doing and would

do next. "It’s all right, here come on," he said. Then he showed me to the door.

Above! Sweet Jesus— Above! Birds, above; planes, above; skies, above. Surely they must mock us! Surely the rain must fall a manifest statement of their malign fucking intent! And below us? Grass, Dirt, Worms— We stomp their fucking faces in. Above! Oh, Lord, to be Above! To tower above their piss-puddled, craven fucking cowering.

To cast a shadow; to eat their appeasements, their offerings, their prayers. Oh Lord, Lord, Lord— to be Above! (Or so at least a man can imagine, staring into them clear fucking blue skies up there.)

By Metonymically Meta-

Anonymous in Chicago

Dear XXXXXXX,

I keep forgetting/being too lazy to email you. This is my email address for

paypal (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX). I think that's it. I'm at work right now.

My arm is very itchy and I think it might be because I've had some Advil. May-

be it is just legitimately itchy. I've actually completed all of my tasks for the

day and I'm ready for the weekend, but though my boss has offered to let me

go early, it's because she thinks I am sick (though I am. maybe. a little. getting

there) and so I felt bad and I'm still here. I'm dreaming of potential soups to

make for dinner (egg noodles? something with chick peas? chicken noodle from

a can?) Yesterday I had an Elvis sandwich for lunch, that I made out of random

ingredients I happened to have (stale bread toasted to hide the stale. peanut

butter. bacon <two slices>. banana <half of a>. honey.) I built it up in my

mind for a few hours before, and I was afraid I would be disappointed, but it

was very good. If I were to do it again I would leave out the honey; though I

didn't use much it just kind of dripped through the bottom and neutralized the

peanut butter. XXXXXX doesn't like peanut butter because he was allergic to

peanuts as a child, and XXXXXX doesn't like bananas because she is close-

minded, and so I was sad that I had nobody to share in my enjoyment.

love,

XXXXX

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