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In This Issue... Fritz Hamilton Sarah Lucille Marchant Eric Burbridge Liam Spencer Zach Murphy John Ragusa Don Thompson Brian Sullivan Marlon Jackson Eleanor Leonne Bennett art Allen M Weber Larry January Brian Looney Michael Greeley P. Keith Boran Brittany Clark Michael Gruber Kenneth DiMaggio Chad Grant Shaun Horton Janet Kuypers

Note that any artwork that appears in Down in the Dirt will appear in black and white in the print edition of Down in the Dirt magazine.

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“I hold your eyeballs in my hand.” Fritz Hamilton      “I hold your eyeballs in my hand.”     “Thanks, would you consider putting them in my sockets?”     “We still wouldn’t see eye to eye.”     “No, but now I can’t see at all.”     “Why do you think I gouged them out?”     “You like me blind.”     “No, Fred, but I didn’t like you much when you could see.”     “Thanks, Jake, but how bout some mercy?”     “If you give me your wife for one solid night of fornication, Fred, I’ll put your eyeballs back into your sockets.”     “What if my wife doesn’t like the arrangement?”     “She didn’t seem to mind the first time we did it, Fred. She didn’t mind the tenth or twentieth time either. It doesn’t bother her that I’ve gouged out your eyes either.”     “All right, you can have my wife, but I’d still like you to put my eyes back in.”     “For what?”     “So I can see her well enough to shoot her.”     “That sounds like something you might do to a horse, Fred.”     “Okay, I’ll shoot her horse too.”     “Damn, Fred, you are angry!”     “After I shoot her & her horse, I’ll calm down.”     “Okay, Fred.” He puts my eyes back in my socket. “How’s that?”     “Fine, Jake.” I remove my pistol from my pocket & shoot Jake through his right eye. I step over the corpse & look for my wife to forgive her, & when I blow out my brains, I’ll feel better about it.

I walk through the tunnel of death Fritz Hamilton     I walk through the tunnel of death & find, among the piles of writhing bones, a hypodermic needle full of blood & smack. The bones are weeping & screaming.     “Do you take credit for all of this?” I say to the prick.     “Indeed I do,” he says, “this & much more. This is just one among many drug outlets in America. They’re needed in order to maintain our habit. No nation more than the U.S.A. finds it necessary to turn off life in order to numb the pain.”     “But, prick, you must take responsibility.”     “Perhaps, but if not me, somebody else would be sticking it to you & your children. It’s your God. You need it. You kill & die to get it.”     “So what are we to do?”     “There’s nothing you can do. It’s what you need to function. It’s as necessary as prostitution & the Catholic Church.”     “I did see the priest molesting one of the kindergarteners in St Dick’s yesterday.”     “Yes, & he injected the child with morphine first in order to relieve his pain. After the kid gets to like it, he’ll probably become a bishop. Then after his usefulness is over, he’ll be found here, in the tunnel of death.”     “That’s horrible, you prick!”     “Would you like a hit of my juice? Then you can go back to your corporation & make a profit killing people. Maybe you’ll rise to the top & be Mr America.”     “O shoot me up! Hit me! Please! PLEASE!”

6 April 2009 Sarah Lucille Marchant snowflakes cut geometric shapes from the rest of the surroundings, creating the illusion of stinging vibrance – greens and greys drink fullness from dots of life floating in the air

Sarah Lucille Marchant Bio     Sarah Lucille Marchant is a Missouri resident and university student, studying literature and journalism. Her writing has appeared in publications such as Line Zero, Every Day Fiction, A Cappella Zoo, and Straylight.

No Respect Eric Burbridge     A line of sweat trickled down Peter’s chin with every blow he delivered to the old fool’s gut. The first, the most exhilarating, went deep in the abdomen. Ah...that softness, there was nothing like it. The victim doubles up and expels spit and blood when the wind was knocked out of them. The second, guarantees bruises and scrapes because of the tightened muscles. But, only two stomps were part of his technique. After all he didn’t want to kill him.     Old people had left them nothing but debt and a limited future.     He snatched the old man and his arms dangled on his side. “Don’t come outside after dark old fool.” The sounds of sirens got closer. The old timer coughed and blood ran along his parted lips. He struggled to focus on his assailant, but he only saw a black mask. Peter dropped him and ran back in the alley. *     Peter lay in the bed and looked at the 3D. He smiled when the attractive female reporter described as the work of the ERMIN (eliminate respect for the mature in the neighborhood) terrorist. Their graffiti was in the alleys and on abandoned buildings. The police and the community called them VERMIN.     Peter didn’t mind being called that; he was proud of it. To hell with the elderly. But, he made it known to his crew; anybody mess with his Aunt Annie, their heart gets cut out.     All older people ever told him; you have potential, but you’ll never use it. A shame; a gift wasted. Before Aunt Annie got dementia she told Peter how the politicians set up ‘System’ for the privileged. System messed up education, that’s why he was in bad shape, her last words before slipping into catatonia. System also took care of the elderly, but if they came out after dark, they were on their own. Slow prosecutions, or none at all, for curfew violations and assaults from the defiant young of the mid twenty-first century. *     Peter sat on a concrete wall that bordered a seldom used rail yard and empty warehouses. He crushed out a stale cigarette and exhaled the toxic vapors skyward. A cool breeze made him zip his black hoodie. The sun dipped below the horizon and left a rainbow of colors. Time to go to work. He walked the unused rails until he reached a signal bar. He climbed the ladder and opened a circuit box and took out his tool case. In it; a 38 revolver, a switch blade and burglar tools. He didn’t need them, but he did a routine check.     He got to the overpass and slid down and squeezed through a hole in the fence by an abandoned building. The street lights came on; so far very little traffic. The silence increased with the smell of the pending rain. That meant vacant streets and another boring evening.     Something came out of the shadows several blocks ahead. He saw red reflective surfaces on a bike or personal vehicle of some sort. He ducked into a service drive and waited. The thunder and lightning released its companion; rain. The liquid pellets bounced off the pavement and ricocheted everywhere. Peter peaked around the side of the building and saw a wheelchair with its strobe light flashing. The occupant stopped at the light. Peter looked closer. An old fool. He thinks he’s slick, sneak around under the cover of heavy rain. Big mistake, but Peter had a code; hands off the handicapped. The rain stopped and Peter crossed the street. The light changed and the old fool crossed, then he stopped. He fumbled with something under his poncho on the side of the chair. He took out a cane and struggled to his feet. It wasn’t white so he wasn’t visually impaired. Good.     The old fool walked to the apartment building’s door and rang the bell. No answer. Peter ran toward the senior citizen. “I got you, old fool.” He looked at his full gray beard and reached for it. The old man slapped his hand away and grabbed Peter by the collar. Peter jerked back just enough to avoid an upper cut. The old man stumbled and fell, banged his knee and screamed. Peter reached to pick him up when he spun and kicked him in the groin. Peter dropped to his knees and covered his crotch and fell over groaning. The old man crawled away slowly, feeling for his cane in the dark. He saw it in the street lights shadow. He got to his feet, hobbled over and picked it up. Cars honked and sped through puddles of water drenching the old man. He heard footsteps, spun and swung the cane and caught Peter in the throat. Peter clutched his neck and gagged, coughing out blood and spit. The old man cracked him on his knees. Peter fell and his face slammed into the rain soaked gutter. He heard a voice cry out, “Grandpa, grandpa...hurry, hurry.” A door slammed; Peter wiped his face and looked up at an empty street. Where did that old fool go?     At six feet, two hundred pounds; the seventeen year old vermin just got his ass kicked.     He pulled himself out of the gutter and limped toward the building. His legs and knees were killing him. He heard distant whistles. Someone in his crew needed help. He shoved his fingers in his mouth to return the signal. He blew and pain shot through his throat. He heard sirens, time to go.     The clouds opened again with blinding showers. The old fool left his scoter. Peter flopped down in the seat and pulled into a gangway next to the buildings vestibule. His legs ached; he sat and massaged his injuries. Peter played with the chair’s joystick; four blocks and he’d be home.     Why walk when you can ride? It’s raining too hard for anyone to spot you.     He hit a lock-out switch so the strobe wouldn’t kick in when he stopped. He pushed the stick forward and the chair accelerated. He moved slowly to avoid potholes in the sidewalk. The whistles got closer and closer. Peter stopped; those signals were to close. No wonder, somebody had stepped out of the alley. He couldn’t make them out. He tried to shout, but he couldn’t utter a word. His neck stiffened and his throat was clogged. He could barely breathe. He saw two people out of the corner of his eye run across the street. He jumped up and his knees buckled; he fell back in the chair. The rain started; he tried to snatch the hood off his head.     They’ll see he’s not an old fool.     Somebody collared him from behind and threw him out of the scooter. “We got you old fool.” He rolled over and strained to shout something, anything, but his mouth was frozen. Peter shut his eyes from the blinding rain. He got kicked in the gut and air shot out his lungs. They flipped him over and a bat hit him in the neck. He couldn’t move. He tingled all over, and then he got numb. His body kept moving from the blows.     It’s me you fool, Peter. Take off the hood, you’ll see. Please!     They stomped his head and face. The rain shut his eyes. “Stomp him more, I hate old fools,” a female voice said.     It got darker and darker. “I’m not an old fool, stop killing me...stop...stop...”

Better answers Liam Spencer     “What are your intentions with me?”     She sat looking apprehensive, her thin legs crossed. The look of hope and confusion combined to make a pitiful sight.     I hesitated to answer. I wasn’t prepared and had a massive hangover.     “This? First thing in the morning?”     “I have another guy I spent nights with. I don’t need you. I just wanna know.”     “Huh? Wow!”     “Well, a girl like me is in demand. I can get anyone.”     “Ok, ok, but can’t we have coffee and get awake? I can hardly form words.”     “Oh, it’s like that. You can’t even tell me.”     “Yes, I can, just let me wake up first.”     A huge sigh came from deep inside her. I drank my coffee and smoked. Her face was red and getting redder.     “Are you awake yet?!”     “No.”     I poured more coffee and lit another smoke. How could I deal with this? I was somewhat interested in more with her before, but after this? I stayed silent. She sat broiling. What did she want?! We had only known each other three weeks! The sex was good, and she was hot, but come on, three weeks?! And another guy?!     Still, the sex was good.     “Fuck this! I’m leaving! You are obviously only looking for fun!”     I said nothing, but let her go. The door slammed hard. I chuckled, and realized how lucky I was.     A week later she was back, but clarified that she was only looking for fun. I made her agree to no questions until my fourth cup of coffee. She never asked a question of me again. A month later she was with someone else. I guess he had better answers.

Violent Youth Zach Murphy     My junior high school experience was dominated by sex and violence. Since the response to my asking someone out for the first time was “no way,” it was hard to imagine a girl going out with the likes of me. I settled for the next best thing: feeling up pretty girls in the school’s corridors. I only struck when I thought the hallway was crowded enough. When it was, I started looking for pretty girls. Then I’d get behind one and feel the curvature of her ass with my hand. One of them jumped so high that she landed on the floor. She was smiling afterward, though.     When her friend helped her up, she asked, “Who did that: Mike?”     She was referring to a Neanderthal football player who made my life a living hell: more on him later. That’s what I was counting on. The girls wouldn’t suspect me because I was such a nonentity. They would think that I was incapable of such a ballsy endeavor, even though I was right behind them whenever it happened; I never ran away. I also had my favorites that I felt up more than once. Later on, in high school, I realized that I hadn’t gotten away with it entirely. The first day in science class, in front of everyone, this girl announced that I have touched the ass of her friend Gail, and the contact had not been sanctioned by her. I denied it, but I was guilty. She was one of my favorites, wearing tight Jordache or Sergio Valente jeans that drove me crazy.     There was one girl in junior high that titillated my young loins the most. She had a beautiful face and body, but her most remarkable features were her fully developed and perfect titties. They were the biggest and the best in the school. The opportunity that I had been praying for presented itself when I saw her at the outer edge of a crowd in the hallway. I was so excited, that I literally ran over to her and pressed my whole body against the back of hers.     It has been said that karma is a bitch. Perhaps karma sent bullies to punish me for sexually assaulting turn-of-the-puberty girls. Maybe that’s why I was bullied frequently in junior high school. Three friends, at least two of them were football players, bullied me the worst. Mike was stocky and ugly. Clay was taller and uglier. Jeff was tall, and he had curly blonde hair. They sat behind me in more than one of my classes. They smacked me really hard on the back of the head whenever the mood struck them (and the teacher wasn’t looking). They thought that this was funny and so did my classmates. I was so pathetic, that I even laughed along with them sometimes. Sometimes they smacked my head repeatedly with a burst of quick, hard ones. I never fought back. I was a coward. Considering what I know about the human brain now, it’s clear that I shouldn’t have let them batter mine around the inside of my skull as many times as they did. The teachers somehow never noticed this bullying, or they just ignored it. All of my classmates knew about it. Those smacks were loud.     School shootings suck, but at least they have brought attention to the subject of bullying. Perhaps kids aren’t as likely to get away with physically assaulting other kids as much as they used to. Such beatings were just considered to be part of growing up. Hopefully, that has changed some, and kids have the right to not be abused by their peers. If there was a gun in my house, who knows? I might have used it against my tormentors.     I was riding my bike near my house one day, and a bunch of kids starting throwing acorns at me. Apparently, I had reached my bullying limit just prior to this incident, because I snapped. I went home, grabbed a baseball bat, and rode back over to those kids. I threatened to hit anyone who threw anything at me. I clearly meant it, so I saw fear in some of their eyes. Satisfied, I remounted my bike and pedaled homeward. Of course, at least one kid hurled an acorn at me as I departed, spoiling my victorious freak-out.     That wasn’t the only time this cowardly junior high school student fought back. This kid in my music class, Freddie, didn’t like me. Join the club. Well, I didn’t like him either then. We insulted each other regularly. We eventually decided that we would fight it out. We planned to get to the classroom early on fight day so we could do it before the teacher arrived. That fateful day came, and we stood in front of each other and started talking trash. The fistfight began when I shoved him. Some girl told me to leave Freddie alone because he was shorter than me. The rest of the kids wanted blood, and they got it. Freddie bloodied my lip, but I didn’t even feel it. I got him in a headlock: bad news for Freddie. However, as an acquaintance of mine who witnessed the bout noted, I was only giving him noogies on the top of his head, when I should have been beating his face in. Finally, a teacher heard the ruckus and broke it up. Freddie pointed at my bloody lip and laughed, which was when I became aware of it.     Then he declared, “This is not over,” which was an obvious threat.     Since Freddie was shorter than me, and he gave me a bloody lip, the consensus among the kids was that I was the clear loser of the fight. Now I was the loser who started a fight with a smaller kid and got my ass kicked. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. We both received detention, where Neanderthal football player Mike was already serving time (shocker!). Not surprisingly, he berated me for losing to a smaller opponent. I can still recall the look of disgust on his face. Freddie never did finish the job; in fact we became friends after that.     Violence was all around me in junior high, though. I’ll probably never forget an incident that involved my asshole locker partner, Ryan. Ryan was a tall and moody sort. He and I had been randomly assigned to share a locker with each other. A girl, who took art class with Ryan and I, seemed to have a crush on him. She was big boned, but pretty. She decided to tease him by hiding his pencil: bad idea. Ryan kept asking her where it was while she giggled like, well, a schoolgirl. He was standing over her and becoming increasingly frustrated while she continued to giggle in her seat. Then it happened really fast. His arm was a flash as he hit her nose hard with the palm of his open hand. Large drops of blood fell from her nose and formed red circles on the table as she started to cry. Ryan was sent to the principal’s office. Her nose bled quite a bit. I don’t remember, but he might have broken it. It was a sudden, reprehensible act of violence.     Scotty and I were best friends, but he was very competitive. When we played sports on the same team, everything was fine. It wasn’t always fun to be on the team that opposed his, though. For Scotty, the ends justified the means, which is why he lied and cheated. I heard that he’s a lawyer now: that figures. An example of his Machiavellian tactics occurred when we were playing football. My team kicked off to his, and the ball hit his hand, then the ground. That meant that possession of the ball was up for grabs. Someone from our team seized it, and we celebrated. Scotty claimed that he didn’t touch the ball. We all saw him do it, so we argued. Scotty stubbornly continued to deny it, though, and he eventually got his way.     He was also very physical. We very rarely played tackle football on a field; it was mostly touch football in the street. That didn’t stop Scotty from getting rough. On a day when he and I were playing for opposing teams, he kept running into me hard and illegally interfering with me before I could attempt to catch the ball. I called pass interference on him every time he did it. The more I did it, the harder he glared at me. I had seen him intimidate several kids this way. Regardless, I continued fearlessly because I thought that our friendship would allow me to challenge him with impunity. I was wrong. He treated me especially roughly on a particular play, then he looked at me fiercely, as though he was going to hit me. He saw the fear in my eyes, and it made him smile with delight. I don’t think I called any more penalties on him that day.     This time, we were playing street hockey, and Scotty and Rob were involved in an intense physical battle for the puck. Rob was a skinny kid that we played sports with whenever we could drag him out of his house. Scotty decided that the game was turning from hockey to boxing. He had lost his patience and was preparing to hit Rob. I was mesmerized by this turn of events. Is Scotty going to beat the shit out of him? Then Rob looked at me with wide-open eyes that made his fear clear. His very effective nonverbal communication snapped me out of my reverie, and I got between them before Scotty could demolish him. Too bad Rob wasn’t around to return the favor when I needed it.     Completely fixated on Star Wars, I wrapped black tape around one end of a neon-green broomstick to create my very own lightsaber. As I played with it, I imagined that I was Luke Skywalker. Scotty dropped by. I showed him my new lightsaber. I went a little too far and ended up behind him, holding my lightsaber tightly against the front of his body. I don’t remember if he warned me to stop or not, but he managed to turn around and punch me in the eye. I immediately released him, and after a moment of shock, I lay down on the ground. It wasn’t a knockdown. I hoped that lying on the ground would prevent him from hitting me again; he didn’t. He apologized, but I wasn’t impressed. I told him to leave. I didn’t want to be his friend anymore. I was sick and tired of having a best friend that was bigger than me. I’d rather have a friend who had an ass I could kick, if it came to that. Scotty kept trying to apologize to me, but I wouldn’t take his calls. He was very persistent, though, so I finally agreed to go to his house. The bastard gave me a get-well card. He wasn’t sincere about it at all. He was smiling when he gave it to me; he clearly thought it was funny. Despite his lack of respect for the major tragedy which had befallen me, I accepted him as my friend again.     While I was enrolled in high school, something happened to me that left a dark cloud over my head for years. The homely girl on the block, Rachelle, managed to get herself an ugly, tough-looking boyfriend. I don’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Thug; it suits him. He and I initially got along well together. He was on our block to see Rachelle, saw me shooting hoops by myself, and asked me if I wanted to play a game with him. We played one-on-one, and I won. I’ve played several sports, but I was probably better at basketball than any other sport I attempted. Even when there was no one to play with, I could always improve my abilities by practicing. It was the perfect sport for a loner like me.     Another time, I was playing basketball with my best friend on the block, Todd. Thug, Rachelle, and her little brother, Dean, walked over to where we were. Thug played ball with us for a while. Then he and Rachelle went back to her house. Dean started asking me all these loaded questions about Thug.     He asked me, “Do you think that you could beat Thug in a fight?” He also asked, “Are you scared of Thug?”     I was somewhat diplomatic when responding to these questions, but I didn’t want to seem like a pussy either. I didn’t realize, at the time, that I was being set up by this instigating little shit. He went back to his house. When he returned, he was accompanied by an angry-looking Thug. I can still picture the dramatic sight of him getting closer and closer.     “Watch out for this guy,” Todd warned me.     Thug walked right up to me and started interrogating me about the things that Dean told him I had said. I suppose that Dean made it seem like I had voluntarily said all these things about Thug when he spoke to him about me: leaving out his involvement. I tried to explain the situation to him, but Thug was having none of it. Like a dog, he could sense my fear. As I kept trying to avoid conflict, he became more aggressive. He pushed me. I couldn’t believe this was happening! I hadn’t said or done anything to deserve this. Then he punched me hard in the mouth. That was extremely startling, and it threw me into a panic. I tried to get away from him and go to my house, but he was in the way. I went left, and he blocked me. I went right, and he blocked me again. This is where my football experience came in handy. I faked left and went right. I got by him and ran to my house; he chased me. When I reached the front door, he gave up the chase and left our yard. I was too scared to venture out and get my basketball, so I asked Todd to throw it to me while I was standing in the doorway. He did, but he was clearly disappointed by my cowardice. As Thug walked by my house, on his way back to Rachelle’s, he predictably called me, among other things, a pussy.     I went inside and looked at myself in the mirror. My upper lip was swollen and bloody. He had broken the skin just above the lip and left a deep, ugly cut. I have the scar to this day: a scar of shame. There was a knock at the door. I approached it with caution and saw that it was Dean. I opened the door, and Dean apologized for what he had done. I accepted his apology and tried to act as though getting punched in the mouth and completely humiliating myself didn’t really bother me. However, because of that incident, I have very strong feelings about people who initiate fights between others and then watch them from the sidelines. Even if a woman incited a fistfight (for no good reason) between her husband and me, I would seriously consider slapping her once I was done with her better half. This event crushed me, and I was ashamed of myself for several years afterward as a result.     However, when my friend Scotty called me the next day and asked me to play street hockey near his house, I accepted the invitation. Now, I don’t believe in God, but something strange happened. When I arrived at the location of the hockey game, the face of the opposing team’s goalie caught my eye. It was Thug! I was very surprised to see him there, because I had only seen him a few times before that day, and only on my block. It seemed possible that some mysterious force was giving me another chance to hit him back. I didn’t, though. At least I didn’t turn around and run like hell. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it sure seemed like he was telling his friends the story of how I got cut and the aftermath. I suppose that one of his friends questioned the veracity of the tale. He asked me if I had fought Thug. I meekly confirmed it without going into detail. We played our hockey game. I scored a goal against Thug; that was all the vengeance I could muster. I hope that scumbag is rotting in a prison somewhere.

Strength John Ragusa     Whenever he was at the beach, Norman Whittaker stared longingly at Millicent Wendorf, his next-door neighbor. She was nothing less than beautiful; she looked gorgeous in a bikini. She had curves that you wouldn’t believe. She was a perfect specimen. But she only kept company with strong, muscular guys, not weaklings like Norman. He wished his physique was more impressive. He could ask Millicent out, but he knew she would just laugh at him. He was a skinny little runt; why would she go for him?     Norman didn’t have the courage to approach her and introduce himself. He was sure that he would panic and run off. Then he’d never want to face her again, because his embarrassment would be too much for him to take.     Norman wondered if Millicent would go for a brainy man. Maybe she liked intelligence as well as brawn. But then she met Marvin, a guy who was smart as well as strong. So Millicent would stay with him and continue to ignore Norman.     He envied the men that Millicent fancied. They didn’t know how lucky they were.     If he had muscles, he’d stand a chance with Millicent. But he’d never be strong.     Norman realized that the only way he could get Millicent interested in him was if he started eating healthy food and doing exercise. He began lifting weights, too.     The only trouble was that he was miserable doing these things. He missed eating junk food, and exercising made him tired and fatigued. Working out with weights left his muscles feeling sore. There had to be some other way to get strength.     Norman considered taking steroids, but he decided against it. They were simply too dangerous. He didn’t want to risk his health to get muscular.     He would have traded places with the men Millicent liked; he’d be so much happier if he were one of them.     He tried to get other girls to notice him, but they were more uninterested in him than Millicent had been.     Norman hated to look at himself in the mirror. He was so puny, a brisk wind could have knocked him over. He was pathetic.     He worked hard to get a higher salary, thinking that Millicent would date him if he became rich. But she still took no notice of him.     Norman felt like he was the unluckiest man on Earth. But he wouldn’t remain that way, because he bought a lucky rabbit’s foot. He wished on it that he could become strong. There was a chance that he would get what he wanted.     The next morning, he woke up and noticed that his physique had changed. He was now full of muscles! His wish had evidently come true.     He tried lifting a table to test his strength. He was able to raise it high above his head. There was no doubt about it; he had become a strongman. He couldn’t be happier.     He was sure that Millicent would go out with him now. After all, he was big and strong, the way she liked men to be.     Now he would only have to summon the courage to meet her.     That afternoon, he went to her house and rang the doorbell.     She answered the door. She was instantly impressed. “My, but you’re a well-built man. Didn’t I see you before, when you were skinnier?”     “Yes, that was me. I started working out and running, and now I’m a new and better man.”     “I like your new look.”     “Thanks. Say, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”     “Sure, I’d love to.”     “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven, all right?”     “That’s fine. I’ll be ready then.”     Norman was now ecstatic. He would finally date his dream girl as he’d always wanted to. Fortune was smiling upon him. He was suddenly a joyful man.     He really owed his change to the rabbit’s foot. He’d keep it with him from now on.     That evening, Norman wore a tuxedo and cologne. He picked up Millicent and took her to an elegant restaurant.     “Do you like this place?” he asked her during dinner.     “Oh yes. It’s a great spot to eat.”     “I knew you’d like the food they serve here.”     “I’m enjoying it a lot.”     “I’ll only eat the healthy foods they serve here. That way, I can stay in good shape.”     “It’s amazing how you went from being a runt to a big, strapping man. It’s a wonderful improvement on the way you look.”     “I like my new look, too. I don’t appear to be weak anymore.”     “Wait until I tell my friends about this! They’ll be stunned.”     They finished their excellent dinner together, and then Norman drove her to his place.     “This is the perfect site for romance,” Millicent said.     “It’s a fine spot to make out,” Norman said.     “I feel so happy to be with you right now.”     “I’m delighted to be with you, too, Millicent.” He put his arm around her.     “I like your touch,” Millicent said.     “This is like being in heaven,” Norman said.     Things began to get romantic there. They kissed each other passionately, and Norman felt like Rudolf Valentino.     However, he didn’t know his own strength, and when he embraced Millicent, he inadvertently crushed her to death.     He is now serving a ten-year prison sentence for involuntary manslaughter.     He yearns for the good old days when he was weak.

Shadows Don Thompson     Hundreds of shadows have taken refuge in this dark room, an obvious hiding place but nevertheless secure. Some of them crawled on their bellies all afternoon to get here. Some came home with me, crumpled in my pockets like soiled paper money and now lie on the dresser with the loose change: legal tender for insomnia, but not enough to buy sleep.     Others spent the whole day under the rafters—those who never leave the house, hopelessly phobic about the sun. A few that seem afraid of everything, even themselves, cling to the walls and sweat. Old-fashioned shadows continue to wear velvet, keeping their traditions. Dancers from the wheat fields, erotic in black satin, emit a musk that can’t quite overcome the dry breath of grass widows.     No two are the same in this crowded darkness—shadows heaped and intertwined like snakes in a nest, a comfort to each other. They can rest easy, at least for a few hours, safe from the light that frightens them so much, knowing they have a watchman who never sleeps on the job.

The Quantum Domesticator Brian Sullivan     Andy awoke at about midnight to go to the bathroom, and with some surprise, noticed that his beloved Daphne wasn’t next to him. He arose and leaving the bedroom saw Daphne in her nightgown tentatively walking through the living room, seemingly on her way to the front door. With the haze of sleep still occupying his mind, he called to her, but she didn’t answer. He walked to her and asked her what she was doing, but again she didn’t answer. Her eyes were glazed and fixed on the door giving her the appearance of being in a trance. Andy, with growing fright and the haze of sleep rapidly leaving him, took her arm gently and again asked her what she was doing. There was no reply. He deduced that she was walking in her sleep, and so he put his arm around her shoulders and without waking her, led her back to bed.     They had been married for almost a year and among all their good fortunes they were able to purchase a cottage on Good Meadow Lane. Though small, it was in perfect condition and displayed all the charms of a small Victorian cottage, and the small yard was surrounded by a white picket fence, which adjoined a meadow lush with wild flowers, colorful birds, and evening fireflies. It was, for them, perfect; cozy and warm and a wonderful home in which to nurture their love for each other and grow as a young couple into the uniting bonds of commitment and matrimony.     Andy’s love for Daphne was unequaled in the eons. Long before their wedding, he determined that he would do everything in the world that he could to make her happy. Not a moment would pass that he wouldn’t do something for her; he would buy her flowers, tell her a joke, shower her with compliments and affections; there was no end to his devotion. It was more than joy to see her smile, to see her glance at him at an un-expecting moment, to hear her voice, to hear her call his name. His very soul was full of her; her wishes were his goals in life, and it gave him great satisfaction and fulfillment to make her happy.     As time had passed since they purchased the cottage, little details began to require attention. Andy tended to notice the larger details, such as the gutter was clogging and wasn’t draining properly, or a base board heater needed painting, and he would tend to them promptly. Daphne, spending more time in the house, would notice the larger problems and also many of the smaller problems; problems that if they weren’t tended to soon, would become big problems. Andy was happy to make the repairs as it gave him satisfaction as a home owner to keep his property looking good, and it also made Daphne happy and proud to live there.     As time progressed, some of the smaller problems grew. Andy, maintaining his career, working on community projects, and occasionally attending a ball game with his friends, could barely keep up with the maintenance. He tended to focus on the larger repairs, while the smaller repairs lingered, sometimes until they became big repairs. To help Andy organize his increasing number of repairs, Daphne began to write them on paper, making a list and organizing them in priority. They reviewed the list together and Andy would then work on the list while Daphne worked on her separate list of domestic chores. The list was quite helpful.     Once on a Saturday morning, when working on the third item of a list, Andy saw Daphne looking at him; she was beaming from ear to ear, looking happier than ever before. Andy couldn’t get over how happy she looked. It was as though she had just discovered the stars in the sky, the flowers on the earth, and the balmy breezes of the sea. She couldn’t have been happier. Andy determined to increase his pace of work and to complete all of the chores on the list. He worked all day and into the evening, missing the first game of a Red Sox – Yankees series on TV, completing the list for his wife, who, it seemed couldn’t possibly be happier. Before retiring for the evening they reviewed a list of five chores for the following day and prioritized them, having two priority 1s, two priority 2s, and one priority 3. The rest of the evening passed in joyous bliss in the little cottage on Good Meadow Lane.     In the morning, Andy awoke and groggy-eyed went to the kitchen to make coffee. While the coffee was brewing, he looked at the list, and to his surprise, he found that the list had doubled in size; there were now ten items on the list, neatly prioritized. He didn’t know when she could have added the items to the list, unless she did it during the middle of the night. He skipped his coffee and started working on the list, thinking of how happy it would make Daphne.     Early in the afternoon, working on the last chore of repairing a cracked picket on the fence, Andy went to the hardware to buy some nails. When he returned, he went to the kitchen and noticed that the list had grown once again, now having twenty items. He was surprised, but estimated that he could fix the fence and complete the list, but would need to miss the first game today’s twi-night double-header. Not yet weary, he thought of Daphne and how she smiled at him, and set out to complete the list.     As time went on, Andy no longer needed to think of items to add to the list as Daphne seemed to be gifted in listing all of the domestic items that needed Andy’s attention. He marveled at how she could think of so many thing for him to do and how happy it made her when she saw him at his tasks, and equally how happy it made him to see her so happy. He marveled too, that after so much toil that the house could not yet be in perfect condition, but it was obvious to him that is was not, as Daphne continued to create lists of items that did, in fact, need attention.     Time passed blissfully through the summer lists and as autumn arrived, so did new lists of priority 1s. Andy always thought of Daphne and her extraordinary, joyous, radiant smile, and only occasionally thought of the baseball and football games he had missed, but he was as happy as a man could be.     One night, a week into October, having retired for the evening several hours ago, Andy awoke and noticed that Daphne wasn’t next to him. Remembering her sleep walking during the past summer, he jumped up and called her name; but there was no answer. In his boxer shorts, he ran down stairs and saw her in her night gown walking through the living room, approaching the front door, in the trance that he had witnessed once before. He started to call her name again, he decided that it might startle her, so he said nothing. As she walked to the front door with a fixation, Andy decided to let her open the door to see where she might go, and he trailed behind her closely so that if she tripped, he could catch her before she hurt herself. She opened the door and walked fixedly over the walkway, through the fence gate and turned left. She walked along the sidewalk in her trance-like state, past three houses and turned onto Main street. Andy, still in his boxers, walked closely behind her, hoping no one would see him or her in the midst of their eerie midnight walk. As they walked passed two houses, Andy, looking into the darkness saw more women in their nightgowns, transfixed on the front door of the Muldoon’s house. He noticed that these were all the wives of the neighborhood, entering the house in a dreamy state. He saw Mrs. Pickering, the doctor’s wife, and Mrs. Burns, the vicar’s wife, and Mrs. Rabito, the butcher’s wife, and Mrs. Cone, the town drunk’s wife, and Maddy, his best friend’s wife, all filing through the front door. Andy was stunned. “What is going on here?” he thought. Being only in his boxers, he let his wife proceed on her own in the company of the women of the town.     Stealthy he darted to a basement window radiating an enormous amount of light onto the yard. He looked in and his eyes beheld a sight that his imagination could never envision. He gave himself a pinch to check his awakeness. He decided to pinch himself so hard that it gave him a bruise, which would serve as proof on the following day that he had not been dreaming. He looked, and forced a hard blink to be sure his eyes were clear. He saw rows and rows of computers, each having a label such as Sydney, London, Moscow, Singapore, Lima, Bangladesh, Stockholm, and even Honolulu. He stared closely at the text scrolling on their monitors. He saw what appeared to be lists. He pressed his forehead onto the basement window and squinted with all his might to read the text. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He read from the Edinburgh machine: • Fix the leaking faucet • Fix the squeaking door • Spray for ants • Take out the trash • Rake the leaves • Wash the outside windows • Wash the inside windows • Wash the baseboards • Wash the car • Mow the lawn • Trim the hedges • Remove the lawn thatch • Give the dog a bath • ...     The list went on and on and on and scrolled down the screen faster than he could read.     There were more than one hundred computers and miles of cable that lead to a gigantic state-of-the-art quantum computer labeled the Quantum Domesticator and a high-speed printer located near the basement door. The wives filed down the basement staircase and one-after-another took almost a ream of paper printed with lists and exited through the door to the back yard, where they briefly, and while still in a trance, waved their lists in the air and smiled broadly at each other, as though this were the final accent to a pagan ritual, and then left.     Andy was stunned. He couldn’t reconcile what he just saw. Daphne exited through the basement door, smiled joyously and returned home. Andy followed her, scratching his head all the way. When Daphne entered the house, she went to the kitchen table, added ten items to the list, returned to bed, and slept soundly.     When morning arrived, Andy phoned his best friend and described the midnight scene he had witnessed, as well as the protracted list of chores on the kitchen table and the sore, sore bruise on his arm. His friend listened closely and told him with little diplomacy that he was nuts, but could talk no longer as he was too busy with chores and wanted to get everything done before the football game on TV tonight.     Andy picked up the list and went to work on it right away. He decided to work extra hard today and to focus intensely on the tasks so he wouldn’t think too much or at all about the events of the previous night.     Not long into his first chore, Daphne glanced at him and displayed her biggest smile ever. Andy, while vigorously scratching his head, displayed a large almost nervous smile as well, as he couldn’t overcome the potency of her smile.     In the blink of an eye, babies arrived, as such smiling is apt to produce, and Daphne’s list spawned little lists that grew into reams. There were diapers to change, bottles to wash, wheels to fix, bicycles to build, bats to tape. And so they happily lived by the meadow for ever more, though Andy continued to scratch his head on into eternity.

Falling Marlon Jackson Like the gloat of a feather everybody’s falling Swirling within the air until they’re belonging; such tasks are mysterious like clouds and our minds learning everyday experiences

Janet Kuypers reads the Marlon Jackson December 2012 (v113) Down in the Dirt magazine poem Falling

See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading this poem straight from the December 2012 issue (v111) of Down in the Dirt magazine, live 12/5/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery open mic in Chicago)

Rainbow, art by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Eleanor Leonne Bennett Bio (20120229)     Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old iinternationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic,The World Photography Organisation, Nature’s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. www.eleanorleonnebennett.com

Revenge Has Two Faces Larry January     Opal Whatley’s stunned gaze lingered heavily on the bloody corpse. Papers flew from her clipboard as it clattered to the floor. The ashen body lay spread eagle across the bed, his eyes frozen on the ceiling fan. Clad only in urine stained once white jockey shorts, the tattoo, “Born To Raise Hell,” adorned his chest. The buzz of green bottle flies broke the silence as they circled above the gaping head wounds. An odor like a ripe portable toilet filled the cramped room. The frightened property manager’s stomach rolled. With her hand clamped over her lips, saliva pooled in her mouth. Worried the killer might still be there, she inched backwards, spun around, and dashed for the front door.     Two days earlier, Rosie Parisi opened the side door of her cluttered garage to take in the cool afternoon breeze, cleaned her circular glasses, and pulled a Chargers’ cap over her shoulder length red hair. As the treadmill gained speed under her feet, she adjusted the turquoise headphones for her iPod and cranked up the volume.     The creases in her face grew with each painful step. Tears stung her eyes as she turned off the iPod and stopped the treadmill. Her marriage to Joe had always been explosive, but this time something snapped inside her. She feared he would carry out his death threats if she left him. Only one choice remained. Her mind raced as she shuffled to the kitchen to ice her muted purple ribs and blotchy stomach.     A lively tune broke the silence as Rosie’s cell phone flashed a welcome number. She laid the ice pack aside and answered the phone, “Hi dear, It’s good to hear from you.”     “Hi, Mom. I’ve got good news and bad news. I accepted a job teaching sixth grade at a school for military kids,” Sarah paused, then hurried on, “I’ll leave for Germany the day after graduation. My ride just pulled up. I’ll call you later. Love you.”      “I love you too,” Rosie said into the phone, aware she was speaking to dead air. Rosie’s eyes turned glassy. How she missed her children. The house felt so empty without them, but she wouldn’t wish them back for anything. She often thought Michael was safer on a carrier in the Red Sea than around Joe.     At breakfast, Joe finished his eggs, stared at Rosie and said, “Are your parents still gonna stay here tonight?”     Her left fist clenched below the table as she nodded her head.     “They better be gone when I get home tomorrow afternoon,” he said as he grabbed his tackle box and left for his in-laws’ beach rental.     Joe always had a mean streak. In high school, he played first-string varsity football for three years, out only one game. For assault, of course. His senior year he bullied a kid in the bathroom and demanded money. When the kid balked, Joe surprised him with a thunderous right cross, crushing his upper front teeth. Joe hadn’t improved in all the time they’d been married. If anything, year after year he had become worse     Rosie’s parents arrived that afternoon. They didn’t like Joe, but had no clue how bad things really were. She and the kids didn’t discuss it among themselves, and certainly not with anyone else.     Arched over the kitchen sink, rubber gloves up to her elbows, Rosie anxiously shifted her weight back and forth as her parents ate the last of their dinner. Everything was in place. This was not the time for doubts. Her mother’s voice broke her train of thought. “Rosie, you made dinner, let me do the dishes.”     “That’s okay, I’ll do them. It’s not often I get to have you over,” Rosie said, with a forced smile.      “I worry about you,” her mother said. “How much do you weigh, 110 pounds, 115? How could you weigh 190 two years ago and now be so thin? Up and down, up and down, that’s not good.”     “Mom, everything’s fine. I’m a lot healthier than I look,” she assured her.     Later, they told family stories with her dad stealing the show. Rosie asked him,” Why did you wait two days to explain how you broke the cooktop?”     He paused and said, “I didn’t want to interrupt your mother.”     Aware of what lay ahead, Rosie tried to stretch the conversation. Their half-shut eyes and nodding heads argued against it. After cocoa, she hugged them longer than usual.     Unable to find his toothbrush, her father said, “I’m enjoying this, but bedtime’s much easier at home,”     “Meds are ready,” said Rosie as she dispensed a handful of multicolored pills in assorted shapes and sizes. There was just enough confusion that neither parent noticed the additional pill.     “Where do you want me?” her dad asked.     “You’re in Michael’s room, and Mom’s in Sarah’s,” answered Rosie.     “Good,” her mom said. “His snoring drives me crazy.”     Once in her bedroom, Rosie kept an eye on the large red numerals of the clock as they advanced at a glacial pace. Finally, it flashed 12:45 a.m. She put on her Timex, black hoody, faded Levi’s, grass stained Nikes, and eased the SUV from the garage.     The house Rosie lived in until she was twenty-one was now one of her parents’ rentals. Its’ location just two blocks from the beach was great, but that was offset by the heavily used railroad junction. The trains rattled the foundation and made a deafening sound as the cars roared passed. Three weeks ago the renters split in the dead of night. They had lasted longer than most. Even those desperate enough to handle the sleep deprived nights were frightened away by the area’s gang activity and vandalism.     With her parents’ beach rental in sight, Rosie slowed to a crawl and found a spot shadowed by a large palm tree. She closed the car door softly, and pulled on a pair of beige latex gloves. Taking a deep breath, she directed her thoughts to the task at hand. She crept with catlike stealth to her old bedroom window, pried the pitted aluminum frame from the track, and leaned it against the wall. Slowly, she wormed her way inside.     It was 1:42 a.m, almost time for the train. She coaxed the bedroom door open. A high pitched squeak from the bottom hinge stiffened the hair on her neck. Goose bumps on her arms looked like the skin of a plucked chicken. Her eyes had adjusted while waiting. She could see the stains on the hallway carpet. She remembered all the times Joe’s open left hand rocked her head forward, his closed right fist left her dazed on the floor. Her free hand pressed against her bruised ribs, and her resolve came back stronger than ever.     The train whistle echoed in the distance. She tiptoed across the hall and pushed open the door to the second bedroom where Joe slept. With a shaky hand she flipped on the light and rushed toward the bed. “Joe, Joe, it’s Rosie, get up, get up. Mom’s had a heart attack!”     Joe, startled and disoriented, flailed his arms and legs until he was awake enough to swing his legs off the bed. He was standing upright when the train roared by. She looked him squarely in the eyes, raised the concealed gun, and fired two rapid shots point blank to the head.     In slow motion, Rosie watched as Joe’s lifeless body fell backwards, arms flung wide. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All those years of abuse now lay across a bloodstained bed.     She used her sleeve to wipe the blood splattered on her face, and began a methodical search, stripping his wallet of cash and credit cards. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, pain sliced through her torso with each beat. She knew she had to remove his watch and the gold chain he always wore. The watch was easy. Her head throbbed when she reached for the blood drenched chain. Eyes partially closed, she grabbed it, yanked, and almost fell when the chain broke. With only minutes to spare, she tossed the living room, kitchen and bathroom, saving her old room for last, then crawled out the open window.     Traffic was spotty going home. Her street in sight, she doused the lights and dropped her speed. Dimly lit solar lights cast a faint path to safety. She nudged the sun beaten red Bronco into the darkened driveway. The garage door motor hummed as it broke the early morning calm. In an effort to avoid a noisy repeat, she carefully lowered the door by hand.     In her bedroom, Rosie hurried to stash her clothes. After a quick shower, she slipped into a flannel nightgown. She inched her way to the nightstand in her mother’s room, and changed the clock to 1:55 a.m. She nudged her mom’s shoulder until their eyes met, told her she was talking in her sleep, and escorted her to the bathroom.     Getting back in bed, her mother said, “It’s 2:00 o’clock. I always have to go at two.”     In a few minutes she returned to her mother’s door, heard a slight whistle with each exhale, and edged into the room. She adjusted the clock to the correct time, 3:30 a.m.     By noon the panic stricken property manager had called 911 to report the homicide. Detective Russo, one of several initial responders, volunteered to be the lead detective. He was given the case, even though it meant he would have to work solo until his partner returned from vacation. He punched Joe’s address into his GPS and left the crime scene to notify the widow.     With one last glance at his neatly cropped moustache, Russo stepped from the unmarked car. Dressed in a stylish tan suit, he wiped the dust from his shiny brown loafers. His trim, lean shadow accompanied him up the walkway.     Eyes directed at the peephole, he removed his sunglasses and pressed the bell. When Rosie opened the door, he displayed his badge. His voice dropped, “Hello, I’m detective Russo, with the San Diego Police Department, may I speak with Mrs. Parisi?”     “I’m Rosie Parisi,” she answered.     “I’m sorry, but I have some bad news,” he said. “May I come in?”      Without saying a word, she opened the door. Her parents were in the living room and heard the exchange. Her mother went straight to Russo as he stepped inside, “What happened?” she demanded.      “Please be seated and I’ll explain everything,” he said.     Rosie and her parents huddled together on the worn leather sofa. To be closer, Russo pulled the lightweight maple rocker across the threadbare carpet. Bent forward in the chair, he said in a monotone, “I regret to inform you that Mr. Parisi died early today from gunshot wounds.”     Rosie’s mother and father were worried and frightened. They grilled Russo relentlessly. After thirty tense minutes he brought the session to an abrupt end. He handed Rosie his card, said he’d talk with her again soon, and left the house.     Russo climbed in the car, clicked his seatbelt, and gazed out the windshield. When he arrived Rosie should have been the one to ask what he wanted. Her parents had pried him for details, but she only asked a few minor questions. She maintained a sad expression, but didn’t cry. She made eye contact, but didn’t sustain it. When her mother hugged her, Rosie winced, possibly from some type of injury. She wore a watch and costume jewelry on her right hand, but no ring on her left. He unbuckled the seatbelt, reached for his notepad, and swung the door open.     Russo thanked Mrs. Allen, a neighbor, for her cooperation with the routine questions. As he turned to leave she said, “By the way, if you’re going next door to the Waters’ house, they’re on vacation.”     “Do you have any idea when they’ll be back?” he asked.     Mrs. Allen replied, “I’m not sure, but Rosie will know. She’s taking care of their cat.”     Russo got up early and did paperwork before his impromptu visit. As he passed the Waters’ residence, he noticed Rosie. She leaned back, arms fully extended, and pulled the overloaded trash container to the curb. When their eyes met, Rosie’s jaw dropped. In the rear view mirror he watched her shake her head from side to side. He pulled into her driveway and waited by the car.     As the interview with Rosie concluded, Russo had a hunch he couldn’t put to rest. He moved his car around the corner, grabbed some disposable gloves, and walked slowly back to the Waters’ house. The trash container was wheeled behind their six foot dog eared fence, completely hidden from view. His lips puckered from the stench of urine soaked sand and week old cat dung. In a large black bag, along with the soggy kitchen waste, he found a capped two-gallon plastic litter tub. As he dumped the contents into a bucket, a revolver slid out. Shiny grooves took the space once held by a serial number. Eyes riveted on the gun, he imagined Joe in his sights, confused and shaken. Two rounds hit dead center in the big man’s forehead.     His thoughts were interrupted as the knocks and pings from the street grew louder. He hurriedly poured the clumped sand over the gun, pressed hard on the lid with the heal of his hand, and snapped it in place. The container reached the curb just seconds before the diesel came to a stop. The arms of the steel giant hoisted its’ prize, and devoured the contents.     “Welcome back,” Russo said as he entered detective Nelson’s office.     “We had a great trip,” Nelson replied. “I’ll tell you about it later. There’s a meeting with the lieutenant in ten minutes. Can you brief me on the Parisi case?”     Russo took a sip of coffee, then began, “His family members have solid alibis. There were no financial incentives from his death. No one saw anything. Forensics came up empty. He was only there for the weekend. A couple of weeks ago he trashed two gang bangers eyeing his truck. It looks like a robbery that went south, or possibly a gang-related hit.”     “Thanks for the update” Nelson said. “By the way, after work are you ready for a butt kicking?” he joked as Russo was fiercely competitive and usually won.     “No racquetball today. I’ve got a dental appointment,” replied Russo.     “What’s wrong?” Nelson asked.     Pointing to four of his top front teeth, he said, “I got these knocked out a long time ago. I’ve been wearing a bridge all these years. Now I’m getting implants.”     “Was it from sports?” Nelson asked.     “No, I got sucker punched back in high school.” He paused a moment before adding, “A real asshole.”

(A)live Brian Looney The vein in my hand protrudes. I don’t enjoy its sight. Reminds me of mortality, the wear and tear persistent. It crops up to say hello–then disappears beneath the skin. I wonder if it sings with life. Or if the blood is tainted. Or where the vein has traveled. Or where its siblings are. Perhaps the vein sings by itself. How simply it protrudes. How simply it returns. The worm inside my flesh. The worm that keeps me live.

Janet Kuypers reads the Brian Looney December 2012 (v113) Down in the Dirt magazine poem (A)live

See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading this poem straight from the December 2012 issue (v111) of Down in the Dirt magazine, live 12/5/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery open mic in Chicago)

Widoe’s Den Michael Greeley     There was no latent energy streaming out from my authority. I had one fist and it was used to mash and mangle, because, in the end, that’s all I’m here to do.     Motherfucker talks shit to me, he gets knocked the fuck out. End of story.     Yet, I sway in emotionless debt, the moneyless kind, that leaves me ranting like a parasite, like one of the hood rats I choke out so they’ll shut the fuck up and I can go home.     If one more delicate flower makes his way over to me, whining about his stringy wife and their bastard son, I am going to flip my shit on him. If your kid gets out of line, you take care of it. You shouldn’t have to call the cops.     This was my line of thought until he started acting out, crackin’ wise at everything and everybody, smoking weed on the side of the house, that kind of thing.     And what did I do? I slapped my bony kid around. No big deal.     He ain’t like me. And I can’t make him be, but I can make him follow my rules ‘cause it’s my house. The aching tides of duty, they follow me. My one and only son, How he hates the ground under which I walk, All that matters to him is fun.     The agony that exists inside a father whose son hates him – it is not to be discussed. Shove the pain down below, into a clenched ball the size of a fist within the stomach and stop being such a pussy.     I’m sitting in my squad car, watching these rich kids next to the pizza place at 11:30 at night. They’re all drunk. These people think they’re better than everybody else but they’re just- they’re just- nerds! Dorks. Softies. If you threw them in the jungle, they wouldn’t survive. People like me would chop their heads off, watch them run around like crazed chickens and then eat them for fucking breakfast. Or I’d use ‘em for bait to catch a bigger animal. In whichever case, they’d get eaten, even though their skin don’t look that good –appetizing’s a better word. It looks yellower than mine, pastier, like they’re rotten inside.     Here comes some of the high school football team, the Prep school that is...all boys...college kids. These people walk like they got a pole up their ass, their noses sticking up with their shoulders pushed back. The guys look like girls and the girls look like guys. Some of the townies got that problem, too, though, I guess. Fucking queers.     My jerkoff son has got that problem, too. I don’t tell him he looks like, you know, a fag, walking around like that, but I think about it all the time. Why can’t he just walk like a regular guy?     These kids are fuckin’ dumb, hootin’ and hollering like I’m not sitting right here. They probably don’t know my kid, though, so I wouldn’t be embarrassing him if I busted them right now for underage drinking. Not like I would care if I embarrassed him, ‘cause I got a job to do.     People think we bust people at every chance we get, but it’s not like that. I hate to say it, but we let a lot of shit slide, even with the spics and niggers. Offended? Get used to it. I stopped giving a fuck about it a long time ago. Everybody’s racist. Everyone. I don’t care if you lived in a rainforest all your life and have never seen a human before. You come out of that forest and you see a shiner standing there and immediately you start making all weird kinds of comparisons and whatnot, just to make yourself better than him because you got lighter skin. I’m telling you, it’s true. Cops know it, ‘cause cops are the most racist motherfuckers on earth, even more than Tommy Prep Football Star over here. We’ve just accepted it. Don’t get me wrong. I like black guys, even more than most white people, ‘cause they got balls, but I’m still a racist and always will be.     Here comes the call – a bunch of white kids smoking weed behind the dentist’s office again. Let me give you a tip: if you’re going to go smoke blunts with your friends, don’t do it at 11pm at night, on a Wednesday behind the town dentist’s office. What are you a fuckin’ moron? Just a small hint for the jerkoffs out there who don’t feel like getting a wrist smack for smoking the ganj’, because, let’s face it, that’s all these white kids are going to get.     Fun time. Let’s go. Chase some 16-year-olds around the neighborhood.     I roll up on the scene and see a number of them scattering from the hub, the parking lot dipped below a square of trees next to the highway – Lipoma’s office-     There they go! Look at them run! Morons. I run up on one of them walking down the road like nothing’s the matter, trying to fool me into thinking he’s not with the other kids. Meat! This kids is in his fucking pajama pants.     “Put your hands on the car!” I yell to him. He gives me a look like nothing’s wrong. “You’re eyes are blood shot!”     White kid. Doofy haircut. Harmless. Take his ass home to mommy and daddy so they can deal with him. But that’s not my gig tonight. I’ll let the rookie do that. Tonight I get to chase these kids around.     The call comes through, a bunch of them scattered all around the railroad tracks, hiding up in the trees and in the nooks and crannies along the road. This should be good.     I put the lights on just for show. I got one pinned down, next to the highway bridge, except he squirts off to the right, down the highway entrance. I see him in the light for the first time. Is that? Nah, Bill, my son, he’s not that stupid.     Anyway, this kid’s about to make me get out the car and chase him on foot. Nah. Hell nah. I’m arresting this kid straight up when I get him. Taking him straight to jail, no warning, no nothing. I’m out the door. This should be fun... Fortuitous broken sailors surging Forward in their aching ships Forgot to whisper words of wisdom To the quieter side of their souls before the expedition. Instead they acquiesced, petty against The sobering tide of restlessness and grief. Hallowed be the croaking dawn Of ports tried and true. Rescued in the agony of regrets, How I besought the company of one, And how he hated me. How could it ever be so, That I sought the company of One, the father, and how he hated me so...     I was privy to thoughts and batteries lining my walls like orchestrated canvases of sadistic, apocalyptic mirth. But this weed will give me something to do. It makes the studying better anyway, for high school is agonizing. All I do is study, all day long about things that I could care less about and that I won’t remember in 5 years anyway. Why do they do that? Why are things the way they are when things don’t make any sense while they’re like that? Six peasants wrap themselves around A telephone wire, Hoping for a voice That’s their own for all to see, Only to be spattered along Inequity’s redness, a perfect Wet dog whose dire Disposition wreaks of depravity And musk.     You can tell a lot about a person by checking out their dog. My dog sucks, not going to lie. The bastard is fat, ugly, and his eyes sag and are bloodshot with deep sadness, but I don’t think that’s my fault. He’s my dad’s dog, a police dog. How much fun could that be? Dogs take on everybody else’s energy, the energy of their masters – mostly the stuff that he or she doesn’t want to look at – that’s the dog’s job. That’s why they’re called dogs, the opposite of gods, because they pick up on everybody else’s shit. You need to kick something when you’re down? Kick the dog. I’m the dog, too. If we didn’t have another one I’d be walking on all fours.     Who cares? Take the blunt and smoke it. Have a few laughs with your buddies and cause some trouble. Just don’t get caught, because if you do, you’re dead meat. My dad would kill me, beat the fuck out of me like the dog. Bon voyage to simple things! The quickening of gray approaches! Splendor inside of gorgeous Symbols that were twisted out of stone Will grow from inhaling this poisoned root. Suck in the smoke and let death squabble inside itself.     This stuff tastes a lot stronger than normal – not like earth, like chemicals. Botts says it’s laced. Thanks for telling us that, asshole. I have to go home in an hour. But mom is asleep and dad is working, so it’s no big deal. Just let the high sink in. Relax. Smoke a butt, listen to some music and laugh. Just laugh everything away. That’s all we do is laugh.     But this feels too weird. What was in that shit? Ecstasy? Damn dude, why didn’t you tell us that? But it doesn’t feel like ecstasy at all. I can feel my heart racing, fast, much too fast, like there’s nothing and everything wrong at once. I think I’m going to be sick. I am going to die. What a realization! One day I will be dead.     Here come the lights, a thousand of them, barreling over the sidewalk, bleeping out their crazed sirens like blood sucking hounds. I am high. I am running with the rest of them like deer from the slaughter through the trees. I am so fucking high. I’ve never been this high. Fuck you dad.     This kid looks a lot like Bill. Shit. That’s Bill. Don’t go toward the highway you idiot.     I am the leopard soaked in ionized whiskey. I am vermouth seething from a hallowed assailant who cries drearily in the night. I am a fornicating madman on the loose, and there is naught who can impose his will on me. I subjugate myself before the altar of impetuous rioting, for I am the deity of callous indignation.     This pig, this lark, this buffoon wishes to sequester me like some sopping wench filled with holes that drip with sand?     Lackey! Morose scoundrel who I’d dignify with a chase! For it is I who writes history. It is for I the songs are sung. And it is I who sings them, altogether!     Porridge redefines my girth and liquid youth breathes life through my petrified heart. Run!     Run from the piggie! Oink! Oink!     Down the ravine you go schoolboy, toward the Hollywood Hills of vitriol. The highway! Run through it like a specter!     Impose your leg work upon the cement and show this beast who controls the earth and for what reason. Youth! For mine father, be the one! A servant of the state, fattened with regulations and grease. Chomping local bread and cheese that the peasants afford him is how he spends his days. He speeds around in a chariot made of steel to quench his lust for power, just to make an only son feel like a lost pebble made of shit. How I wish he loved me. Covered in darkened soot, I run. I run from his ordinance, I choke on the stars in the blackness, How I wish he could see. Just one fleeting glance, At how I revere him so, Then he might not chase me And set my candles spinning. But privy be, not on this night, A carnival of chaos now the more, I’ll make him burn and growl And gnarl. I’ll brew his pot to boiling hot Before the gods of angst and turmoil, And let youth settle our score, For fate and fortune are what I crave, Take the step toward the lakes of fuming gas and oil. And run across that highway you worthless, ugly son! No. Bill. Don’t. Please. What’s he doing? Christ... Follow me on thy feet, you whelp, Cross dangerous worlds galore. I’ll feed thee to thy crosses. Praise your maiden, the holy law, you Whore, Catch your son, then tell all of your bosses!     The officer’s son ran across the budding, burning highway as his father pursued with relentless passion, a quarter of such sentiment resting on genuine concern for his yolk, the remainder on the reputation in question, the one he’d built over years working hard for the community at large.     But Bill was fast, and the officer had eaten two “Jumbo” slices of sausage pizza with a large coke from Mario’s while on his second break. What could he do? It was given to him for free.     The son had been high on marijuana before, though this time he’d inhaled more than that which would set his nerves at ease. The fact that his friend, Botts, had sprinkled half-a-gram of Angeldust upon its contents only intensified his impending plunge into monster-truck-infested waters.     He flew through the night, a reckless, diving, diadem filled with self-imposed ideals of greatness. Be that as it may, the gods always have their fun with those arrogant enough to twist the teats of mother fortune.     Cars and trucks, vrooming at gargantuan speeds close to that of madness, flung themselves from the boy’s path with honking atriums that blurred his senses.     And, huffing and puffing, father followed, though he was the pig, and it was into the wolf’s house that he now wished entry. “Quite the paradoxical accord,’ the gods quipped, as they pulled their strings with their acutely individualized brand of pleasure.     And father followed, as always he did, just to see what was the matter.     In belligerent despondency, the flailing, garbled youth flung himself atop the divider, his trek only half-fulfilled. That stony triangle which we all take for granted, that which splits our pointed, dotty automobile blood, now acted as a resting point as father cried out from close behind: “Stay right there! Freeze Bill! Don’t move one more inch!”     But with a smile filled with wraiths, the boy turned, high as a fucking kite with no anchor, and dared invincibility for the first and final time. 666 His funeral is next Thursday, And daddy won’t be there. Remember that amid thy ego, There’s always room to care, About a father’s rules, And a son’s need to break them now and then. Compromise! My blessed Grandson, is more wise than Buddhist Zen. For they were both smashed to bits by the teeth of speeding cars, And now life, it has no meaning, For their mother/wife, Who’s heart is sapped with seamless scars, Alone in her widow’s den. ‘Cause life, it n’er have meaning, Without the quickenings of strictly lawless men...

Corporal Finn P. Keith Boran I     A car is parked; its windows fogged over, its occupants are engaged in illicit maneuvers, movements punctuated by an occasional moan or groan. To be blunt, they’re distracted; they are in the moment, focused on the present exhilaration of one body connected to another. They’re perspiring, hands clasped tightly, aspiring to reach the summit together.     They had just shared a meal; it had been platonic at first, just two interested parties hoping to collaborate on a merger of sorts; it was a first date. They shared little in common, but loneliness pushes you to take risks, initiate mistakes, and then live amongst your regrets. And so, naturally, since both where of age, had a pulse, and gave consent, copulation commenced in a rural stretch of land outside of town.     With both parties preoccupied with their ascent, they were unaware that the neglected grass surrounding them had begun to rustle, for they were no longer alone. And just when the two had reached that treasured climax, the passenger side window was shattered. The girl screamed. It was no longer laced with hints of physical pleasure, but with fear. She wasn’t just startled; this was a realization that her life was concluding. She was pulled through the window, her recent romantic interest yelling her name all the while.     He heard one last scream before something bumped against his car, resulting in her complete silence. “Jessie,” the romantic interest yelled once more, “you okay?” He tried to start the ignition, thinking he’d received his due for the evening. When the engine turned, he flipped the lights on, expecting to see sweet Jessie naked save for that pretty smile. Instead, he saw what had become of his recent conquest, his betrothed, his beloved. He screamed too; his pitch exceedingly higher, he wasn’t pulled from the car at all. Instead, a confused hiker found him days later upright in the driver’s seat, still naked, his skull fractured. II     “We figure they were engaged in a heated sexual situation,” the Sheriff continued, “leaving him unawares of the danger surrounding them.” Having knelt beside the car, Finn took a moment to look at the wilderness around her. “I can see that, dear Sheriff,” she replied, “but where is the beauty that did ensnare this young man; if my understanding in biology is correct, it does take two to commit the act, does it not?” The sheriff hesitated. “Well, ma’am,” he whispered, “we have yet to find the lass responsible for such a crime; it must have been something he said during the thick and heat of it all; my boys and I have a theory upon it, a wager of sorts; we’re betting he called her by another’s name, and thus enraged her past the boiling point; no one can blame her for such an act as this under such emotional distress.”     Surveying the car, Finn felt the indentation upon the rear passenger door. “Sheriff, I’m sorry to disagree, but I think your theory incorrect; the girl was killed just here, her body then dragged away.” Removing his hat, the Sheriff wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief. “What proof do you offer, Finn,” he asked, “Can you communicate with the man deceased, and speak the events that took place here?” With her one remaining arm, Finn felt the grass and dirt near the passenger door before she shook her head no. “This man has left; he’s gone home, and I shall not force him back; we can learn everything if we invest in the investigation of this gruesome scene some more.”     Slowly standing, Finn pressed against her cane as she recovered herself. “Would you care to fetch my things from the car,” Finn asked, “perhaps I could conjure a rendering of where her body’s awaiting our discovery.” III     The hummer roared down the road. And in the dry tan sand, everything seemed to fade into the limitless collage spread out before them. Checking her weapon, Finn searched the beige exterior again for any tiny change, a movement that signaled impending acts of violence from the hidden edges of the collage, and the people who hated her because she was given a gun, as well as an opinion. But the landscape sat motionless, whispering “safe and sound” through its quiet inaction.     Finn knew when the collage lied, as it so often did. In her first months, Iraq had been a deceitful ally, whispering untruths into the ears of a naîve soldier, one who had not seen much of the world outside of her rural home in Georgia. Finn had trusted the voice at first, thinking many attacks a result of a misunderstanding, poor planning, or some other reason rational and noble. But after several friends had been rendered dead, maimed, or mentally disabled, Finn became jaded and bitter, a natural reaction to such hostile environments. She grew too loath it, the supposed ally she’d been sent to save.     She’d also hear voices, just whispers, while on patrol. “I’m losing it,” she’d whisper as she’d rock back and forth in the shower, “I’m coming unglued.” The whispers were inquisitive, always asking something of her, wanting to know a secret. Deciding it all a delusion, Finn has since stopped listening to the whispers that surround her, whispers of folk deceased, seeking advice on how to find eternity, on how to find some rest, some peace.     And in a reaction to the collage’s insistence on remaining still and motionless, Finn’s attention had wandered to an inaudible whisper just beside her; it grew louder with Finn’s every attempt to blot it out, to pretend it didn’t exist. That’s when she heard the familiar echo in the distance, one known to herald the arrival of artillery shells. Finn gripped her weapon tightly, contorting her body in anticipation of the initial impact, hoping if she dies, it might be quick. IV     Handed a notepad and pen, Finn flipped the cover open. She stood listening, waiting for her instructions to begin. She limped towards one direction, then another, then another, and when she approached the southern line of the scene, she heard the whispers become murmurs. Carefully, Finn sat down, closed her eyes, and began to draw. No longer avoiding them, the murmurs became voices, for Finn had finally allowed herself to listen. She sketched. Details the voices gave her, things they felt important, needed to be seen, they all came to life upon Finn’s notebook.     Her strokes, both frantic and absurd, frightened those around her. They became uncomfortable. “Is this some poor attempt at humor, Sheriff,” one deputy asked, “because I do not find Ms. Finn’s routine to be entertaining in the least.” The sheriff lifted his finger to his mouth. “Give her the opportunity to assist,” he whispered in reply, “for we have no clue as to where the broad may be, or what commenced precisely at this present scene, perhaps one may lead us to the other; they’re funny that way.” V     The first shell missed wide, creating a crater some thirty yards to their right. A private in the passenger seat laughed in relief, but it was short-lived, for everyone knew they were now recalculating. They heard another echo, and braced themselves accordingly. “We’ve got incoming,” her Sergeant yelled into a radio, “it’s coming from that ridge, concentrate all fire on that ridge.” The Sergeant turned to the private beside him. “Mount it,” he said as he gestured to the .50 caliber machine gun up top, “and push them back.” The private began his ascent, but failed to fire a round, for the second shell struck too close, causing the hummer to wreck.     The man next to Finn opened his door, but was shot before he could make his way to cover. The Sergeant said a few things unpleasant as he opened his door to return fire. But he didn’t last too long, taking several rounds before he went down. Finn strapped her body armor down tight as she crawled from the jeep. Several soldiers followed her lead. “Corporal Finn,” one whispered, “what do we do now?” Taking cover behind the wreckage, Finn began to return fire. “Spread out, and return fire,” she replied, “We need to hurry up and wait; help’s inbound.”     After several minutes, one of the soldiers was killed instantly, for another shell struck close to home, but still another lingered on. He had been shot in the knee, and could not keep himself calm. He screamed in agony. After a few minutes more, only he and Finn were left. “Suck it up, Smith,” Finn yelled between rounds, “just a few minutes more.” A light hiss interrupted her; a bullet had struck her chest. Her grip loosened upon the rifle, for the unexpected pain forced a flinch; it was almost unbearable. Dropping to a knee, Finn retrieved her pistol to return fire. Another echo erupted. But Finn didn’t see any explosion; she only heard a soft roar before it all went black, like an awkward fade from a film homemade. VI     “Sheriff,” Finn yelled out, “three hundred yards to my left, that’s where her body was laid; she’s waiting for us now, and we mustn’t be late.” Ripping the drawing from her notepad, Finn stood up slowly. Limping towards the sheriff, carrying her sketch and cane in hand, Finn gestured in the body’s direction. “Make haste, Sheriff,” Finn said, “set your boys loose, have them expand this scene; there is much more to see, and not just a body.”     And the Sheriff’s boys begrudgingly complied, marching at the advice of a disfigured marine. They felt themselves emasculated in some insecure way, and unwilling to assist the maimed consultant through the wilderness she’d drawn with eyes wide shut. Finn understood; her talents were strange, hard to understand, and caused others to question her sanity as she once did. But now, Finn embraced it, listening to the voices still demanding to be heard, demanding advice. No longer did they seek secrets from her; they whispered them to her, telling her things she’d never want to know before her injury. But now, they made her useful despite her appearance.     It wasn’t long before a deputy yelled out, letting them all know he’d found her; she was not far from the spot Finn had sketched in her notepad, only her head and arms were missing. As one deputy proceeded to vomit, another one removed his hat to cross himself. “Who would do such a thing to another,” the Sheriff whispered, “and why dissect the body just to leave her torso scattered so?” Finn took a quick peek. “A monster, I’d say,” Finn replied, “one that would prefer this one not be identified.”     Squinting, the Sheriff appeared frustrated. “And I suppose you unable to draw a quick sketch of this monster with your insufferable crayons, eh Finn?” Reaching around her back, Finn removed the daypack from her shoulder. Setting her cane aside, Finn reached inside, and fiddled about for the notepad. “I could always try,” she replied, opening her notebook; she waited for whispers, the type she’d grown to trust and love. VII     Finn awoke briefly, she awoke with a shock, as the surgeons bustled and busied with reviving her dying body. “I think we have a pulse,” she heard one man say excitedly. “But that’s impossible,” another answered, “there’s too much of her gone.” . . .     When she awoke again, she tried to move. Reaching for the railing along the bed, she felt her hand clasp tightly around metal; she tried to shift her weight and failed. With her left eye, she tried to sneak a peek, but was unable to locate her left arm. She moved it slowly, hoping to bring it into view, enabling her to survey the damage, to see what had become of her appendage. Feeling it in sight, Finn looked, and found only ceiling and bright lights before her. “Where’s my arm,” she whispered, before the pain kicked in and forced her out again. . . .     Finn awoke again later, and managed to lift her head slightly. She saw a man in a white coat; he held an X-ray to the light, using his free hand to point something out to an older colleague beside him. “Have you ever seen a case like this,” he whispered. “No,” the older doctor answered, “I’ve never seen a tumor like this before; it’s a wonder she’s alive at all.” VIII     As Finn began to sketch, the voices suddenly changed. Something was amiss they claimed, and advised her to leave. “What could be amiss,” she thought, “when I’m surrounded by officers of the law?” But as she sketched, she began to see, for something was growing just beyond the clearing, planted between some trees. Turning, Finn took a brief gander at each, hoping someone might be nervous, and therefore easy to read. Most of the deputies seemed despondent, some more than the rest. But the Sheriff looked bored, as though he was bothered to be there, be patient, and just wait. “Sheriff,” Finn called, motioning with her head for him to come along. Straightening his hat, he smiled as he commenced, for he was anxious to see what she’d drawn at last. “What have we here,” he said, taking the sketch. “Pot,” the Sheriff laughed, “planted just down the hill, beyond the clearing, between some trees; you mustn’t be serious?” That’s when Finn heard the familiar hiss she’d heard before, as a deputy fired his gun, wounding the Sheriff as Finn began to run.     Coming to the treeline, Finn knew what to do, the voices had told her, and she obliged. She jumped, fell, and rolled, making her way down the hill. “I might not last long,” she thought, “but I can still start a fire.” Finn recovered as quickly as she could, and proceeded to run; it was awkward at first, but she ignored the pain, and crossed the clearing to the spot where the pot was hidden, along with the woman’s severed arms and head.     Finn could hear them coming; they were shouting her name. They issued violent threats, and promised to inflict pain, like killing her so slow just to enjoy watching her face. Finn paid no heed; she reached into her pocket, procured the lighter, and produced a flame. She smiled as she held it to the treasured plants, watching them whither in the heat before melting away.     Finn heard them again, so she spread herself flat. She waited until they were close, before she began to crawl. Finding more plant to light and burn, Finn had created a growing fire that separated them all. She kept crawling, and she had almost gotten away, when a deputy found her and began to scream. Finn tried to run, but it was no use; her accident rendered one leg too weak to hold much weight.     When they caught her, she punched, she screamed, she yelled, scratching several deputies before they finally got her on the ground. “Corporal,” they yelled as they held her down, “relax, you were hurt, but you’re safe now.” Finn felt a warm sensation pierce her arm, forcing her body to give up and go limp.     She kept trying to run, but her body was no use to her now. And as she looked around, everything had changed. She was not in some forest, trying to burn some pot. Finn was on a hospital floor, surrounded by men in coats of white. “It’s okay,” one whispered, “you’re fine now.” But in a rare moment of sanity, Finn knew she’d lost it, and it would only get worse.

The Kind of Mother that Believed in Evolution Brittany Clark     Charlotte Johnson was the kind of mother that believed in evolution. Not the scientific kind, but the social kind. The day she became this kind of mother can be pinpointed down to her first daughter’s thirteenth birthday when she came downstairs and claimed she wanted all black clothing. Charlotte read parenting books of all kinds. She read books that said anything against “normality” was evil, and she read books that claimed the reason we have no revolutionary thinkers in our society is because we are all so suppressed. She wasn’t quite sure which she believed until this moment, and this moment was the moment she decided she would be the kind of mother who evolved with her daughter. She called it Evolutionary Parenting, and she even wrote a book on it, detailing (or embellishing) her own experiences to fit the range of every other parent out there. Charlotte Johnson had a knack for bullshitting. The book became a bestseller after a year. They called her the Revolutionary, Evolutionary Parent, and there were T-shirts, a sitcom show, and, per Charlotte’s urging, action figures. Charlotte Johnson got pregnant in order to get more material. Then she got pregnant again. When her husband left her, claiming fame ruined their marriage, she bought sperm online and got pregnant again. There were always new things to learn with each child. There was always different material and more ways to evolve. That is, until Charlotte’s eggs ran out and people suddenly found her work incredible and not based on fact. She kicked off a new series entitled Evolutionary Grand-parenting, but it was beat out by a new revolutionary thinker who looked at parenting as an algebraic equation: Quadratic Parenting. When asked in her last interview if she planned on pursuing more research, Charlotte responded, “I’ve done all I can do for my art. I’ve sacrificed my body and my life for the rest of you. Now it’s time for myself.”

Show Me Some Teeth Michael Gruber     My name is Jack Euster, and I have never been this nervous in my entire life. I’m certain because I’ve never seen this face that appears in the mirror as I shut the medicine cabinet. This face has soft, dark patches beneath eyes in need of sleep. This face has creases that don’t disappear, even after I stretch it out. This face is pale and hollow from lack of appetite. This face has too many gray hairs in its unkempt scruff. This face is hyperventilating and terrified, even when nothing in particular is wrong.     That’s my problem. I’m never happy, but never unhappy either. It’s an odd relationship, like with your favorite cousin that lived across the country and you only got to see him for two weeks every summer. You’re inseparable for that short time; every day is bliss because your annual best friend is back. Once you get older, though, you start to realize it’s fleeting. You can’t enjoy the fourteen days because you know that in fifteen it’ll all be over and you’ll go back to your usual, baby-sat dreariness. That’s me and happiness. I won’t let it come around at all because I know it’s going to leave. That’s why I just—     “You ever read this?” an intrigued, curious voice shoots down the hallway and into the bathroom. “The Great Gatsby?” I shake the deep thought out my ears and shuffle into the living room. Kenny’s face is crinkled in focus, coughing in a dissolving cloud of thick, white smoke. His gaze is fixed on a tattered copy of Fitzgerald’s most famous work, post-it notes protruding all around its edges. He sets a tall, red, triumphant bong on the floor next to him while I stare. Kenny doesn’t pay rent, but he lives here. I don’t mind because I hated living alone and I love staring at him when he’s like this. I’m always in disbelief of the sincere curiosity, captivation, and joy Kenny gets from doing stuff he wants to do—also from ignoring everything else. I don’t think it’s fair. Sure, my grades are better, but his life is better.     “Jack-ass, did you read this?” He addresses me as an old, Southern man would address his granddaughter’s Vietnamese fiancé.     “Yeah man, I liked it.” It’s my favorite book. He’s reading my dog-eared, highlighted copy. I lent it to him sophomore year when he met this super hot English major. It didn’t get him anywhere, though. She was kind of a bitch and she dropped out to backpack in Europe or something cliché like that. Didn’t bother Kenny, though, I remember jealously as he takes another rip from The Red Baron.     I grab my laptop and collapse into the chair next to Kenny’s, trying to focus on my fantasy baseball team or the news or Twitter or anything to occupy my mind. My eyes flip to the clock in the top corner what seems to be ten times before each minute passes. Twenty, silent clock changes occur before I open my Facebook, just to look over it one more time before I deactivate it. I read the “About Me” of a stranger on my own profile. I need to get this thought process down.     My name is Jack Euster, and I have never been this tired. I’d pass out, but I’m too occupied now with looking at pictures of girls I liked in high school and holding down vomit. My stomach churns, but I can’t sleep it off tonight. I want to nod of slowly, peacefully, so I keep clicking the right arrow. I knew I was going to marry at least three of these girls. These girls who got pregnant or went to med school or gained weight or got that boob job she bitched about incessantly at sixteen-years-old. That last one, she broke my heart. I hope they burst. When I finally hit picture 327 of 327, my energy runs out. Asthenia sets in and my stomach is too exhausted to ache. I bring up my own profile pictures when Kenny snaps the silence.     “This is so damn good,” he says without looking up from the book. I know he’s about to read aloud because I’ve heard that exclamation too many times, like right before he ruined the end of The Lord of the Rings for me in sixth grade. I was so angry, mostly because I felt I should have predicted it on my own and I hadn’t.     “Listen,” he says, commanding my attention to the last, great American novel. I don’t think he appreciates this enough, but he does deliver a decent affluent, early twentieth-century New York accent.     He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself.     The words permeate my skin, sinking in and mixing with the exhaustion that fills me before settling on top like water on oil. I turn my attention to the contortions of my mouth in these pictures, looking for one of those smiles. It’s not there, and I can’t call any of these formations a smile. I usually stretch my lips straight across as if to connect despair and acceptance on either side of my face. As I scroll through, I’m frustrated I couldn’t muster a better act for my Internet character, if for no other reason than to make fake-tits jealous of my feigned happiness. Her boyfriend’s a douche.     On picture twenty-two of twenty-four, Jack Euster finally appears with a smile. His face is full and healthy. It’s rested, clean-shaven, and truly youthful. Kenny’s there, too, with his hands on Jack’s shoulders, smiling just as wide. They’re in their high school library, wearing dark suits and sharp, red ties. They just signed commitments to play lacrosse at Cornell. Their future is still the future in that library, not the disheartening present occurring in this one-bedroom apartment.     My laptop dies and the face reflected in the screen’s blackness is the same one from the bathroom mirror. Sleep is now inevitable, so close that I forsake my bed for this worn, hand-me-down chair. Thanks, Grandma. I put my computer down and look over to Kenny. He looks up from the book with a face of pure, confused pleasure. He intends to share it.     “Gatsby has everything, and he’s still not happy. Like, buy some shit. Meet someone at your own party. The dude has everything and he won’t enjoy it. He won’t let himself be happy. He could be, but he won’t.”     I look at the big, stupid grin coming from this real-life Seth Rogen character gazing at me. I still don’t think he appreciates my favorite book like he should, but at least I know he’s enjoying it. Kenny enjoys everything. Kenny lets himself be happy. In his bewilderment at my fictional idol, Kenny gives me one of those smiles.     My name is Jack Euster, and I have made a mistake. In one moment of emotional impulse, I reverse a decision I’d been deliberating for years.     “Man, I need you to drive me to the hospital,” I struggle to say. “I just swallowed a bunch of anti-depressants and I don’t want to die.”

American Gothic (#1) Kenneth DiMaggio Barefoot topless mud-pied children trying to cap and fruit jar fireflies on a front lawn disassembled and rusting with a car that once sparked cigarettes your naked parents once smoked just like they do now from a legless sofa on the nearby porch

Hemingway Chad Grant     Autumn wove furious looms of blistering heat upon Los Angeles. The days were too unbearable for sweaters, and I was down and out as autumn pulled the wool over my eyes. Work went to the beautiful and was very hard to come by, so were the women, my girlfriend of a year left me high and dry, but so are the perils of being a young adult. Our relationship was fickle, no seriousness, simply sex, a loft, and a terrier in the heart of the city. Somehow I managed to scrape by. Hemingway, our dog, was in heat humping at anything he could find. We were both at a loss, weary, destroyed but not defeated; losing the rat race of youth, love, and the opposite sex.     The days gradually cooled, and winter rolled around. I managed to spot a gig at a bookstore, sparking up a conversation with a customer reading Hemingway, but it was to no avail, a modern day Jake Barnes, humping the system with a minimum wage job, on a rainy afternoon day.

The Initiation of a Wolf Shaun Horton     The mirror reflected what a mess he was. One eye black and bruised, swollen to the point it was starting to block his vision. Both of his lips bled slowly through several cracks and he felt one of his front teeth, finding it was loose. He tilted his head to the side a little and nodded to himself, agreeing that his nose was cocked to one side more than usual as well. All he could do was sigh at his reflection though; this wasn’t the first time Landon had been beaten up and mugged on his way home from work. It was probably the same punks who had done it the month previously.     He limped lightly into the living room, moving to unbutton his shirt and sliding it into the hamper, caked mud and all. Once a month or so this happened, and he was getting used to it. He’d clean himself up some, and stop off at the hospital for a quick check-up before heading to the police station to make his report. It was easier then calling 911 from the phone booth in the street, as it was usually half an hour or so before any officers could show up. He could be cleaned up and walk to the hospital in that much time.     His left hand throbbed some, which he hadn’t noticed before. He did remember one of the youths stomping on it after he’d gone down, but it was bleeding. It took him a moment to remember; after they’d emptied his wallet and ran off he’d laid there a few minutes, playing dead in case they came back. While he’d laid there tonight though a stray dog had come up and sniffed at him before nipping at his hand. He figured he must have been playing dead a little too well. The animal had actually drawn blood before he’d gotten up and shooed it away.     He went back to the mirror after dressing in some clean clothes and picked up his comb, running it through his short, black hair, knocking out clods of dirt. The bleeding in his lips had stopped, and he patted down his loose tooth with his tongue. The black eye wasn’t swelling up any more at least, and he’d leave it to the fine folks at the hospital to do something with his nose. He opened the little safe in his room and took out a few bills, anticipating the cost of the bus and the taxi he knew he would end up taking before getting home again.     He stepped out onto the street, heading down the mediocre lit sidewalk. The hospital was a few blocks away, and conveniently enough there was a bus that had stops at both the hospital and the police station; someone in the city transportation department’s idea of efficiency probably. He walked with a slightly brisk pace, feeling a bit better since he’d cleaned himself up some. As he rounded a corner a garbage can in front of him fell over causing him to jump. As a large dog lifted its head from one of the other trash cans though he took a deep breath, calming himself down. It looked at him a moment, tilting its head to one side in the way dogs do when they’re curious. He held out his hand for the animal to sniff; working with dogs was part of his job and he could tell when they were in moods better not messed with. It padded over lightly, and he noticed how big the dog actually was. He couldn’t quite place the breed though, probably a mix; German shepherd, Rottweiler, and something else due to the patch of white on the top of its head. It sniffed lightly at his hand. It tilted its head and looked up at him, before licking the wounded appendage and returning to rummaging through its claimed garbage. He blinked and smiled some at the gesture and continued on down the block, figuring the nurse at the hospital would clean the wound out sufficiently when he got there.     The hospital seemed busier then usual and it took them a good twenty minutes to get to him. The cartilage of his nose had been twisted some, which was why it was a little crooked, but a little coaxing put it back in short order. A nasal strip over the bridge of his nose was to keep the passages open to spite the swelling and they wrapped up his bitten hand after applying an anti-septic. He gave them his insurance information and went out to the bus stop.     His hand itched some under the bandage, but he figured that was probably due to the cleaning and the quick application of the bandage. It wasn’t a bad bite, but it had still been oozing some blood when they’d admitted him and the nurse working on him had decided better safe then sorry, particularly when he told her it was from a dog probably living on the street. He was just assuming that though, given the general part of the city he lived and traveled through.     The bus pulled up and he climbed in, dropping into a seat not far from the door. The bus was fairly empty, a few other people sat further back; one was even asleep. He stopped to think and realized he wasn’t sure what time it was. He glanced down at his watch and groaned some, just a few more minutes and it would be early rather then late. He didn’t expect he’d get home until probably close to four AM. He shifted in his seat to get a little more comfortable, the police station wasn’t a far distance, but there were several stops in between. The cab ride home from there would take about twenty minutes.     The bus ride itself took almost forty-five minutes; dropping him off at the front door of the station. Once inside, the attending officer greeted him and took down his basic information before having him take a seat. The police station was also a bustle of activity tonight, and the phones were ringing off the hook; which meant Landon had to wait until an officer was available to take down his full report. The wait was longer then he’d expected and he dozed in his seat. Rather than being home by three am, it was about that time he was woken up in his chair by the first officer to return from his beat. The older man smiled down at him and led him back to a desk. Landon thanked him for taking the time, since the officer was officially off-duty, having stopped in at the station after the shift change to drop off his nightly reports.     Landon explained the attack; he’d been on his way home from where he worked, which was just a few blocks down from his apartment complex. The group of three or four teenagers had surrounded him from one of the alleys, demanding his wallet before punching him in the face and throwing him to the ground. They’d pulled his wallet straight out of his pocket, taking all the money before throwing the empty pocket-book back at him. The group kicked and beat on him for a few more minutes, before growing bored and heading back into the alley.     The officer took down everything he said and asked a few questions to clear up a few of the more obscure details. He then led Landon back to the front desk, gave him the standard pleasantries, and with that the night was over. Landon used the public phone inside the station to call for a taxi and stepped outside to wait. Looking down at his watch again, he groaned as it was approaching four-thirty. The taxi arrived shortly after and proceeded with the relatively short ride back to his apartment complex.     Landon locked the door of his apartment behind him, looking up at the clock. It was only a few more hours he would have to be up and getting ready to head back to work and the bustle of the night’s activities had taken their toll. He waved off the idea of a shower and changing clothes again and fell back onto his bed, pulling the top blanket over him from the side to get what sleep he could.     The next couple weeks passed more or less uneventfully. The swelling and cuts on his face healed. The skin on his hand had healed over as well, although it also still throbbed on occasion. He started taking different routes home at night, although the inconvenience irritated him. He still worried too, since it was hard to know what streets were safe and which ones weren’t on any particular night.     Tonight he’d taken a back street, trying to stick to the more brightly lit areas under awnings as he walked. His hands were sunk in his pockets, his paycheck stuffed into his wallet. He’d given some thought to picking up a small handgun or some similar weapon to protect himself with, but the price and the possibility that the kids might be carrying weapons as well let him shrug off the idea. No sense escalating a beating to a shooting after all.     “Hey man, got any change tonight?” Came the call as Landon rounded the corner. The group of kids stepped out from the shadows, two stepping out in front of him while one moved behind him and the other two slipping to the open side in the street. They looked at him for a moment before the one behind him started laughing.     “Hey Dan, isn’t this the guy we mugged a couple weeks ago?”     “Heh, yeah, I think so, guess the guy didn’t learn his lesson about walking the streets at night.”     “Wonder how much he’s got on him, last time it was barely even worth kicking his ass.”     Landon looked around, starting to panic, his heart was beating in his throat and his hand was throbbing again. Suddenly the one behind him grabbed him by his coat and threw him out into the middle of the street. Landon slipped to one knee, but quickly pushed himself back up to his feet, looking around, hoping someone would see. It was a full moon and he was now out in the middle of the street, someone could easily see what was happening.     The kids surrounded him again, laughing in anticipation of another easy profit. The one in front of him came in, swinging his fist for Landon’s face. He clenched his eyes shut, anticipating the pain of contact. Instead of his face though, he felt the impact on his palm. He’d brought his hand up and managed to catch the punch before it struck him. The impact made his hand throb even more though, his fingers reacting to it by clenching, grabbing the kid’s fist in a tight grip. The teenager looked around at his friends, startled by what happened before swinging with his other fist. The impact came on the side of his face, square in the cheek. The force was there, but it didn’t hurt like it should have. Landon blinked and looked around; the other kids were all looking back and forth at each other.     “Don’t just stand there you guys. Get him!” The kid in his grip yelled to his gang, yanking his arm back, trying to break free.     The teen to his right ran up, swinging his leg into Landon’s mid-section. Again there was the impact, but no pain. He turned his head and looked at the kid, shocked that his attack hadn’t done any apparent damage. From somewhere deep in Landon’s throat came a low growl, the sound reverberating through his neck and chin, somehow pushing his lips up into a thin smile. The kid’s eyes got wide and he backed away, tripping on the step of the sidewalk.     Landon turned his eyes from the one in front of him to the other two on his left and opened his mouth to taunt them, instead releasing another feral noise, a loud snarl that twisted his mouth into an even wider grin. Landon yanked forward on the youth whose fist he was still clamped on, swinging his other hand around in a fist of his own, taking the kid full in the face. He heard the crack of broken bone, as he felt his knuckles make contact with the teen’s face. Blood gushed from the freshly shattered nose and the kid crumpled to the ground. The rest of the gang stood still, shocked at what had just happened.     Landon took a deep breath, and finally realized his whole body was now throbbing, but it wasn’t pain. He held his hands up to his face. His fingers were longer, his nails sticking out of the tips of his fingers looking more like claws. His forearms bulged, laden with muscle he’d never had and hair as thick and as course as that on his head covered his arms. He reached up and touched his face, finding his nose standing out far further then it should have, his fingers trailed down his own lips, and under them, discovering teeth the length of what a bear should have.     Ears no longer human twitched on top of his head as the rest of the gang bolted down the street. An instinct deep inside him was triggered and he gave chase, taking strides with such speed that he caught up with the first one in mere seconds, grabbing him by his shirt and flinging him into the side of the building as Landon passed by, grabbing the next two at the same time and pushing them to the ground, standing on their backs, pressing them into the dirt of the street. He crouched on top of them, the last teen still running. His lips curled back in a snarl as he sprang off the two he’d pulled down, catching up to the kid in mere moments. The rush of the chase taking him over, his claws raking the kid’s back and spinning him around in time to see Landon’s open mouth close around his face, teeth sinking into the sides of his head and pulling out a large chunk as Landon’s head wrenched back.     He shook his head, sending the chunk flying into the street. He turned and looked back toward where he’d left the other kinds in the gang that he’d sprinted past. Two large dogs, like the one he’d seen on the way to the hospital weeks ago, stood next to the pair he’d stomped into the street. Another dog was dragging up the one he’d thrown against the building further back. He turned back around and in front of him sat another large dog and a smaller one. Looking closer, he realized the larger one in front of him was the one he’d seen on the way to the hospital weeks ago, it had the same white patch on top of its head. Something also seemed familiar about the smaller one, but he couldn’t quite place it. It slowly padded up to him and nuzzled his right hand, the one that the stray had bitten him on weeks ago when the kids had mugged him. He looked at his hand and back at the dog. It was smiling in its eyes, its tail wagging lightly. They all seemed to be smiling, tails waving from side to side; and he understood. He was being welcomed to their group, to the pack. He gave in to the instincts welling up inside him and under the light of the full moon in the middle of the street; he threw his head back and howled, the rest of his new friends rising up on their back legs and joining him.

Omega Delta (part 2 of a novel in progress) Visible online in the previously published (but now sold out) collection book Balance Janet Kuypers Time: 6:42AM, December 21, 2012 C.E. Place: Aloha Airlines flight 2242, flying south over the Pacific Ocean, looking for their destination     Brian checked to make sure the intercom was off so no one could hear him, as he looked at horrendous clouds, probably over a turbulent ocean and unrecognizable land patterns below them. Brian kept checking controls, and looking over different parts of the Earth’s horizon, as he kept looking back to the pilot.     Eric never looked at Brian; he only kept his left almost in a fist, cupped between his nose and mouth as he stared at the ocean.     “Christ Eric, speak to me.”     Eric didn’t say a word, and only watched the billowing clouds below, exploding below them all over the earth, looking like billowing clouds from nuclear explosions.     Brian looked back over the controls. “We’ve been so high up in the air to deal with the weather, and we’ve had to go so far off course that I couldn’t even tell you where we are.”     Brian listened to nothing from Eric, so he checked over panels again as he looked out at the waters.     Brian couldn’t take Eric’s silence any longer. “Say something, Eric.”     Eric finally started to move part of his hand away from his mouth so he could speak. He finally said, very quietly, “We did everything right.”     Brian started to speak louder. “So that land mass, that looks as big as a continent, is supposed to be Hawaii?”     Eric waited a few second before he responded, before he almost whispered, “Something’s wrong.”     “No shit something’s wrong,” Brian immediately started yelling back under his breath. “Nothing looks right down there, and the oceans look like total sh—”     “Brian, you watched the panels with me as we both did this. I know we’ve had no radio communication, but you know geography, and you know we were doing the right things. You look at a God-damned map here, and tell me that at the speeds we were going, even at the altitude we stayed at, that we’re in the wrong place.”     Brian sat, almost stunned at Eric speaking, as he tried to soak in everything he said. “Well, we could have been wrong in some of out calculations...”     “Could we have been this far off that we can’t recognize anything from where we are?”     Brian stopped and sat there, then turning back to the front window and starting at the land and water below him, trying to make sense of it.     They sat in silence, looking at their new surroundings, when Brian finally spoke again. “Then... Where are we?”     Eric didn’t answer.     A few more seconds passed.     “Eric?”     He didn’t move, then he finally said, “Yeah...”     “What. What are you thinking?”     Eric waited a few seconds before he spoke again. “I was thinking about my wife,” he said under his breath.     “Why? What about your wife?”     Eric waited again for a few seconds before he answered. “I... I just got the feeling that something happened to her.”     They sat in silence for a moment. Eric spoke again. “Something happened to her while I was flying this plane.” •••     Sydney couldn’t lean back in the seat she was strapped into. Justin was sitting next to her and wanted to try to rest, as the entire flight crew was exhausted from trying to make everyone feel better during the painfully turbulent flight. He’d open his eyes every few seconds and see her still leaning forward, almost looking out the little window.     “Sydney... Are you okay?” he finally asked.     He watched her head shake ‘no’ slightly before she blinked once or twice and answered. “Yeah.”     He watched her, and could tell something different was bothering her, even though she didn’t tell him what it was.     A few seconds later, Sydney talked again. “Why do you ask?”     “You should be exhausted, and you’re leaning forward instead of leaning back and trying to rest. Is your stomach alright?”     “Yeah.”     “I know we haven’t eaten.”     “I couldn’t have eaten during this flight. And Hell, I ate at LaGuardia, I’m fine.” A few seconds passed before she realized that he was concerned about her. “Wait — are you okay?”     “Yeah, I just wanted to know if you were—”     “You know,” Sydney said as she unbuttoned her buckle and cut him off, “I’m sorry, but I should probably talk to the captain, see if anything is getting better.”     Justin moved his legs to make sure she could get through, and as she was starting to leave, he asked under his breath, “You could use the intercom...” as the then saw he walk toward the cockpit. •••     Before Sydney knocked on the cockpit door, she thought about going to the intercom to ask if she could talk to them. Then she realized that they might not let her in if she asked them over the intercom if she could visit them if something was wrong. On that she decided to take her chances and she knocked on the cockpit door. Immediately after knocking she pressed her head against the door and said “Eric, this is Sydney. Can I please come in?”     Then Eric heard a louder noise against the door and started to step back as Brian opened the cock put door slightly. Sydney saw him and started to immediately put her foot in the doorway.     “Is something wronga?” Brian asked as she started to lean into the cockpit.     “I hope not,” Sydney answered as she walked into the cockpit so they could close the cockpit door and not bother any passengers. As the door shut she finished with, “But I wanted to make sure to see what’s happened.”     She glanced at Eric, who looked over to her as she spoke, and she was struck by his ice blue eyes behind the back hair that was starting to fall down his forehead. His eyes caught her for only a second before she saw the sunrise through their windows at the front of their jet. Eric saw her then stare out those front windows, speechless. She took a step toward the windows, to get a better view, before she eventually spoke again. “I’m not used to seeing the view out of these windows. I usually don’t even get to look out the passenger windows when we’re flying.”     “How does it look?” Eric finally asked.     Sydney looked around, finally answering, “Scary.”     “Why scary?”     “... I don’t know. It seems like we’re higher than usual above the ground. And I don’t know if the water always looks this turbulent from this high up, or if that has anything to do with the storms we just flew over.”     “You’re right, we are higher. We had to try to fly over the storms, so we reached nearly fifty thousand miles,” Eric answered.     “We normally go at like thirty-three,” Sydney said, almost under her breath.     “I know. But we had the fuel, and it might have been the only way to help us through the flight.”     “I can’t believe the storms have been so wide-spread. Being this high up, I guess I’m just not used to seeing the world from this angle.”     “Neither am I,” Brian said under his breath.     Sydney spun around as soon as Brian said that. “What does that mean?”     “I... I don’t know what it means,” Brian tried to say to get out of what he said. Sydney immediately turned back toward Eric. “That’s why I came in here. It’ll sound stupid, but I just got this terrible feeling, like a sinking feeling, that something wasn’t right.”     She could see the look on Eric’s face start to change as she told him this. “And anything you say to me in here is in confidence until the crew and the passengers, neec to know... So let me know what’s going on.”     Eric took a little breath after she finished and said, “I couldn’t tell you what’s going on. I know...” Eric tried to figure out what to say to try to make sense of everything that had happened to their flight these past hours. “We changed our course to go closer to the North Pole as we traveled, and we raised our altitude a lot to try to avoid these storms. But these storms seemed to happen on the ground wherever we traveled, and... and as day broke and we started to travel south again, nothing about the horizon seemed right.”     Sydney looked confused. “What do you mean, look right? You’ve flown to China before, you would recognize the land coming from the far north. I mean, I see water, there’s land, maybe there’s still a horrific storm there, but —”     “I mean, even though we navigated properly around the planet and we knew our altitude and speed as we were going along, well, land masses aren’t where they should be.”     “What...” Sydney looked over toward Brian, and he gave her a look as if he was thinking that this was Eric’s talk, not his, and he couldn’t say anything about it.     “What does it mean, land is not where it should be... I’m no pilot. Please fill me in.”     Eric looked out the front of their windows and started to point to the horizon line straight ahead. “See that continent way out there, slightly to the left?”     “Yeah.”     “That’s where the Hawaiian Islands are.”     Two seconds passed. “No it’s not.”     “I know.”     “So how far off course are we from Hawaii?”     “...I don’t think we’re off course.”     Sydney looked at him, then looked back out the window. Then she started to lean back a little, still looking out those windows. “I don’t believe you.”     “Okay, then don’t.”     “Seriously, Eric, we have to get back to Hawaii.”     “Sydney, we still don’t have any radio controls with land anywhere. And that should be Hawaii. I think we’re going to have to land at an airport over there and radio on ground so we can get on course to Hawaii again.”     “What, you think we have to... What, are we that far off course? Or do you think we lost the Hawaiian Islands?”     “I don’t know what the Hell’s happened, but I know we were on as good of a course as we could be without any radio controls. I’m sure someone will help us at an airport there, and although we’ve been so damn late for this flight, I’d be sure Aloha Air would offer free airfare to everyone on board for this. They’d have to.”     Sydney started to lean forward to look out the window again, leaning on her hand in almost the same way Eric did a few minutes earlier when trying to figure out the future of flight 2242 with Brian. Eric watched her as she started to see what he thought he saw a few moments earlier. She moved her hand from her face and rested both hands on free space before the panel stitches, and she went to ask the question, without saying it like a question, “So.” Her voice lowered. She nodded her head toward the giant landmass at the horizon. “That’s where Hawaii is supposed to be.”     Eric answered quietly, “I think so.”     “And Brian?” Sydney asked without turning around to look at him. “What do you think, Brian?”     “I don’t know what to think.”     “I haven’t been feeling well recently,” Sydney finally said. “My stomach has been in knots, and it’s not because of the turbulence, or lack of food.”     Everyone stayed silent in the cockpit for another few seconds.     “What should I tell people.” She let her last word drag from her mouth for a second before she said, “I don’t think we should tell them anything.”     “We have to tell them something,” Brian interjected.     “I didn’t mean... I mean we should tell them everything going on that we absolutely know, but don’t...”     “Don’t what,” Eric asked, almost said, under his breath.     “Don’t... scare them.”     They stayed there in silence again before Sydney said, “Don’t scare them like how I’m scared right now.”     Eric immediately turned around and faced her. “Are you okay?” he asked, while putting both hands on her shoulders.     She looked at him and wondered if he felt the same fear she was feeling. “I’ll... I have work to do. I’ll just have to know what to tell people.”     “Um, okay. We’ve got four hours at least of flight before we land, and I think the weather is starting to calm down. In an hour after we check out weather and altitude people can get some food. But for now go outside and have a seat and get yourself together, and we’ll radio you to come in right before we have a plan of what to say. We can figure out how to keep everyone peaceful as we figure out where to land this guy.”     “Yes, captain,” she said quietly, as she tried to regain herself before she stepped out into the cabin again and act like she knew what she would have to be doing to keep everyone’s head together for the landing of this flight. #####     Scientists on Earth couldn’t have calculated what would potentially happen to the planet, because no one had lived through anything like this — if it had ever happened before, there was never a written record of it.     People didn’t consider that humanity knew about our planet before we had the technological skills to acquire that knowledge on our own. For example, people didn’t question why intricate maps of the Antarctic existed before we could discover that land ourselves. And people didn’t question why ancient calendars, when first created thousands of years ago, ended in December 21, 2012.     No one questioned historically that civilizations resolved their understanding of the world through astronomy and understanding the heavens. People knew the historical significance astronomy had on cultures (they understood it after examining Stonehenge and the Egyptian pyramids, and they knew that when people did not have a more scientific understanding of the cosmos, it’s constancy gave it almost God-like qualities to the world). People didn’t question what the missing key was.     People searched the sky for years with modern telescopes, searching for rogue comets that could potentially one day strike the Earth. People have researched the origins of our moon, and theorized that a no-longer-existing planet (theoretically named Orpheus) crashed into the Earth in it’s early development, and the scattered remains from Earth’s explosion later congealed to form our orbiting moon we have today. People worked so hard over the years to understand the future, but in missing pieces of their distant past, they couldn’t foresee the cataclysmic damage weather patterns and the cosmos would have on their planet.     Astronomers had searched the cosmos in depth for over thirty years by 2012, searching for planets in our unending search for life outside of our planet. It had been about twenty-five years that scientists had used the array of telescopes that were stationed in outer space (so we could see more clearly without the Earth’s atmosphere hindering us). Astronomers also searched through the cosmos for comets and stray asteroids: there had been regular searches for these things to ensure that a foreign body’s path would never crash into our planet. After seeing the effect the comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 had when it hit Jupiter in July 1994 (where it hit the atmosphere and heated up, exploding into a fireball of extremely hot gas, before the gas and debris expanded, rising and cooling as it fell back toward the planet, spreading its destruction), we had a clearer picture of why we had to find a potential comet or meteor — because the effects could greatly alter the planet.     People often discovered comets, but the frightening thing was that historically scientists only discovered comets after they were about to pass Earth. Translation: they were discovering them too late, every time.     Good thing none of them were on a collision course with Earth.     And no, a comet didn’t hit Earth on December 21, 2012, but scientists didn’t see the two comets that did come so close to Earth.     The first comet struck through our orbit directly in 2007, which violently changed the oceans (causing a great number of Tsunamis and Hurricanes, bringing rise to increased tornados globally). This global change greatly affected the atmosphere as well, which brought on so many other weather problems. The moon had been pulling away fro the Earth in it’s orbit for years; the moon was slowly orbiting father away from the Earth every year. And this comet not only reacted with the Earth so much that many dormant volcanoes became active again, but also knocked the moon a little out of its own orbit, giving it a slightly more elliptical orbit for these next few hundred years, which also greatly affected our planet.     After crossing the Kuiper Belt in it’s 1,622 year orbit with the sun, the second comet (in 2012) happened to break through the Asteroid Belt before it streaked near our planet — so close to our planet that it actually slightly altered the axis of Earth, and caused a slight slow-down of the Earth’s orbit. As the unnamed (because it was undiscovered) comet passed, the Earth also felt the pull of this comet, and as Earth started to adjust itself to the slight axis tilt, it’s plates started to move.     Scientists discover around 2000 that the water level was slightly rising, and this was because the ice caps in Antarctica were starting to slowly melt. They thought they could explain this away by discovering other ice caps at other parts of Antarctica, but it wasn’t the answer, and the water level was actually rising.     The moon’s distancing orbit to the Earth was having an effect on the climate on Earth as well. Liberals through the United States, for example, complained that humans were destroying the o-zone, while conservatives said there humans had no effect on it (methane gas from cow flatulence probably had more of an effect, they argued, and regular volcanic eruptions, even before the drastic increase in volcanic activity on the planet, had a much greater effect on the o-zone than humans). People had no way to tell if humans, had an effect on the o-zone, because people could not agree on the effects humans have on the o-zone, and people did not have records of Ozone, environmental and atmospheric activity over the past 100 years. People had no way to tell that humans did have an effect - albeit small. That effect, combined with the elevated water levels on the planet over time with the sudden change in atmospheric weather patterns, that caused the Earth to be ready for it’s sudden upheaval. Time: 7:03AM, December 21, 2012 C.E. Place: Aloha Airlines flight 2242, flying south over the Pacific Ocean, trying to find their destination     Justin watched Sydney walk down the aisle after she left the cockpit.     He didn’t see her when she got out of the cockpit and put her right hand against the cabin wall as she ran her left hand through to hair. She didn’t know what to do to compose herself, and she didn’t know how to keep herself together after she started to put the pieces together of what had happened to the Earth after they started their flight.     Justin continued to lean into the aisle and watch her walk toward him to take her seat.     Sydney saw Justin there, and she stared back at him, as she started to figure out how to put herself together and say the right words.     By the time Sydney got to her seat, Justin started to get up and tried to speak, before she cut him off. “You were in there a while, and—”     “I was hearing everything about the weather, and what Eric and Brian were doing to get us through the storm.” She started budging her way into her seat, hoping her motion would also distract him from asking more questions. “It’s really amazing what they had to go through to save out lives.”     “What did they do?”     “They had to alter the flight course to try to go closer to the North Pole, and they had to increase their altitude by something like forty-four thousand feet, sometimes going as high as fifty thousand feet for a while.”     “We were up that high?”     “We’re still that high, we’re working our way down only now. Look out the window.”     Justin turned to look out the little window, but he couldn’t see out the window well. “Here, look over here,” Sydney said as she offered her seat. “The storms seem far away, but the storms are still going on.”     Justin started to switch seats with her, to get a better view out the window. “Do you think we’ll be able to land?”     “I’m sure we’ll land. We’ll have to, or else we’ll run out of gas.” She just realized she was leaving more questions instead of answers and had to say something quickly to make everything sound better. “We’ll land somewhere, and we’ll be fine with gas. I was in the cockpit hearing about how they navigated through these storms the entire time without radio contact with any airports. So I’m sure we’ll get to an airport, and we’ll be fine.”     Justin seemed appeased and turned his head toward the small rounded window. Sydney looked out the small amount of window space around Justin’s head. All she could see of the outside world was whiteness, no earth, just light, almost glowing around his head. •••     After staring blankly at the light the streamed in through the window for a few minutes, Shannon walked up from the back of the plane to check on Justin and Sydney in First Class. Shannon crouched nest to Sydney, who still stared out the window. Justin turned to look toward the aisle to see Shannon when he heard her step to their seats and crouch down. She was about to start whispering questions to them when she saw that Sydney still hadn’t moved.     “I wanted to ask...” Shannon then nudged Sydney, who hadn’t acknowledged her presence. “Sydney?”     Sydney perked her head up at the nudge and hearing her name. “Yeah?”     “I was checking on how you were up front. Everything quiet here?”     “Yeah, Everyone is resting in the back of the main cabin?”     “Yeah, I think that now that the turbulence is down some, and after all this time, everyone’s just exhausted.”     Justin but in. “Sydney said we had to fly this at like twelve to fifteen thousand feet higher than we normally fly to avoid the storms. I was just checking the view outside the window.”     “Yeah, the pilot altered the course toward the North Pole more to avoid storms too,” Sydney added.     “Wow,” Shannon answered. “Id that what you were thinking?”     “What do you mean?” Sydney asked.     “You didn’t even hear me come up to start to speak to you before. What were you thinking about?”     “Oh,” Sydney answered. “I was just thinking about my apartment in New York. It’s like I’m only there four nights a month, so I share it with a ton of friends, and...” Sydney paused before finishing her sentence, “and I was just wondering what happened to them.”     “What do you mean?”     Sydney snapped herself out of what she was thinking. “I don’t know. I just never see them and I hope everyone’s doing well, that’s all.” She started thinking about taking care of the plane again, and started talking after a second. “We probably have about four hours of flight left. Gauging our stability in the air now, I think in a minute we can give everyone our apologies and start service small amounts of food.”     Shannon agreed. “Yeah, we’ve got three hundred people on this flight that are either starving or sick from the flight, and I think that now that it’s light out, people are tired, but they’ll prefer a food offer.”     “Okay,” Sydney then said, “Justin, you get materials ready here, Shannon, check the back cabins for food preps, let’s just use the half meals, and I’ll fill the rest of the crew in. Then I’ll get on the intercom and let everyone know we can start distributing small amounts of food.” •••     Ten minutes later, the passengers heard the static click of the intercom.     “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Sydney, and we wanted to apologize once again for the terrible weather and delays we have received on flight twenty-two forty-two. The captain wanted to inform everyone that they had radio problems and decided to change our route to head further north to avoid the weather problems. The captain also increased to altitude of this flight to, in essence, fly over the storms. We think this helped flight twenty-two forty-two keep its course through these weather conditions.     I know some of you are hoping to rest, even though the sun has been up for about an hour now, but for those who are hungry, we believe that in spite of the remaining turbulence, we can get some of our foods to everyone. It’s still turbulent right now, so we do ask that you keep your seat belts fastened. We at Aloha Air want to apologize again for everything the weather has done to this flight, and we will be coming down the aisles for foods and beverages. After food is distributed, anyone from our crew can answer questions for you about information we currently have about this flight.”     Click.     Everyone heard her intercom click off, and no one knew how to react. Everyone on the flight felt exhausted, but most looked forward to some food.     Sydney walked down the hall and checked with Courtney to make sure that she and Vince could do the food distribution in that portion of the plane before she walked straight to the cockpit and knocked on the closed door. She said with her head pressed against the door, “It’s Sydney,” before she heard the unlocking of the door and she was able to come in.     She looked at the two men. “I hope what I said was okay.”     “Yeah, I think so,” Brian interjected. “It’s not too turbulent out there now?”     “Well, it’s still rough in the cabin, but it’s better than it was before. I came in here to ask what we should tell people, have you gotten thought to any airports yet, or do you know what we should tell them?”     Eric took over and told her, “The next announcement needs to come from us, so I’ll give the next report to everyone. I may get something out to everyone within the next twenty or thirty minutes. After you hear me talk to the cabin, come back here and we can come up with a game plan to figure out what our next steps will be.” •••     For the next twenty-five minutes, Sydney did the best she could to help everyone in their seats to get comfortable. A number of people pressed their call buttons, but there wasn’t much anyone could tell them. The entire staff just did their best to let them know calmly that the captain will let everyone know what the landing plan is. People were wondering why the flight attendants didn’t know the plight plan, so the crew just had to repeatedly tell people that the captain had to go through a number of last-minute maneuvers to save the flight from the terrible storms.     Then the cabin finally heard the click of the Intercom again.      “This is Eric, your captain again. We all hope everyone is doing well after this arduous flight, but because of the weather problems at major airports along our path, we have had no radio communication with anyone on land since about one hour into this flight. Storms caused a lot of problems over a large area, so we have had to alter out flight by moving farther north and raising the altitude of this trip. Without radio, we have had to estimate coordinates while flying through the night in this flight.     We are still unable to contact airports through radio communications.     Now, because of our flight pattern on this trip, our southern flight and our slow descent of this plane has brought us to a different location than we anticipated. Looking sharply forward out the windows on the left side of the cabin, you can see a large landmass at the horizon edge. It is the closest land in sight for a safe landing, and we will land at an airport near the coast there to then repost our coordinates with the airports.     Once again, we thank you so much for your tolerance and patience. Let us know if there is anything we can do to make the remainder of your flight more pleasant.”     The entire cabin heard the click of Eric getting off the Intercom, and Sydney started to make the gesture to move toward the cockpit. But within two seconds she heard the Intercom click ‘on’ again, and Brian started to speak.     “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your copilot Brian. I just wanted to say that knowing how I have felt during manning this flight, that everyone out there deserves a prize for being so understanding throughout this flight. I know my stomach has been in knots during half of this long flight, so I can only imagine what you have been going through. I know we have not contacted Alaska Air by radio yet, but I’m sure they will do anything in their power to help everyone out after this tenuous flight.” The passengers listened to a slight pause before Brian spoke again. “I think we all deserve a Mai Tai after this trip...”     It seemed as if the entire plane let out a slight laugh when the passengers heard this.     “But if we’re too exhausted, maybe we can find another way to celebrate surviving this flight when we land,” Brian said, starting to almost chuckle as he spoke. “Thanks again for everything.”     Click.     Sydney listened to the final click and she almost bee-lined for the cockpit, passing two flight attendants on the way, letting them know that she’ll try to figure out what the next step for everyone is. •••     Eric and Brian had come up with a plan, and filled Sydney in on what to tell people. Sydney then made her way to every flight attendant working on flight 2242 to give then the details, so they would know of what to tell people. The next two hours were spent with the crew getting blankets for people, as well as glasses of water. Every 45 seconds, another call button would be pressed, and Justin, Courtney, Shannon or Sydney would explain everything they could to the concerned passengers.     After almost two hours, the click of the radio for the crew came on, and Eric asked for Sydney to come to the cockpit. When she entered, Eric talked first.     “Looking at the distance to the land, we should see streets and cities, but there’s not much of anything to see. Brian and I have been searching out there, and we can’t find any real signs of life there. We can spot some trees, but they look like there’s a line of trees in bad shape, and we can’t make out lights of buildings. At this distance, there look like lines for what might be roads, but we really can’t make out much more than that.”     Eric looked at Sydney, and she said nothing. She just stared for a few seconds, and then she turned toward Brian. When he saw her turn to him, all he said was, “And there’s still no radio communication anywhere.”     They sat in silence for close to a minute.     Then she finally spoke. “What are you going to do?”     We have to keep going that way until we find a place to land. I know this place can’t be uninhabited, so we should have radio communication before we even see the airport or details on land.”     Sydney let 5 seconds pass before she spoke again. “Then why are you telling me this?”     “We wanted you to know that we’ll do the talking with the passengers from now on about what we’re doing and where we’re going to land and how things are going. If people ask you, tell them you know as much as they do, and the captain is letting everyone know what’s going on as soon as they learn anything.”     She looked at Brian. She thought he seemed calmer than before, but he still looked tense and nervous. So she faced him and said, “So, we’re clueless and screwed.”     Brian looked at her for a second and answered, “Pretty much. We just can’t let everyone else know that.”     As Sydney was about to leave, she asked if they would call her into the cockpit to let her know what was going on when they decide to do. “I won’t tell anyone,” she added, “...I just want to know, if you could let me know.”     Eric nodded in understanding, and she left the cockpit to work on helping the passengers through this landing. •••     The next three hours on this flight were chaos to Sydney, but she couldn’t let anyone know of what she was thinking. The pilots in the cockpit were trying to figure out how to land a plane on a landmass they didn’t recognize, with no communication to anyone. They listened to three long sets of messages from the pilot and copilot during that time, and learned that because radio communications are still down from the storms and electrical activity in the atmosphere, they were still unable to contact an airport, but the captain showed confidence in his voice that they would get somewhere safe and everyone would be fine. Brian even manned the Intercom for one of the announcements, wanting to interject that although the water looks rough, it still looks beautiful out the window to see as their flight 2242 flies over the water.     She saw a flashing on the radio b ox when she checked it after two and a half hours. It was a brief message for Sydney to report to the cockpit when she had the chance. She heard a passenger say as she walked by, “Excuse me —”     She turned around, and a twenty-something man with chin-length dark brown hair was looking at her. “I’m sorry, did you call?” she asked.     “Yes, I’m sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.”     “No, of course not,” she said, as the then started to crouch down to talk to him more closely. “What can I do for you?”     The man started to lean forward, as if he was afraid to say what he thought too loudly. “I’ve just been really worried on this flight. Is everything okay?”     “Other than the weather problems we’ve had on this flight, I couldn’t tell you of any other problems. Why?”     “Well, I’ve flown to Hawaii a ton of times, and this flight has been a few hours longer than usual.”     “Oh, do you live in Hawaii?”     “I used to. Now I’m in a music school in New York. So I got back and forth a lot to see family.”     “Well, I’m sure you can see your family once we land. I’m sorry the weather has caused so many problems, but everything should be fine after we land.”     Sydney looked at this passenger; her eyes were almost locked into his before she turned to go back toward the cockpit. As she started to turn, she felt the man grab her arm before she heard him say, “I’m sorry. Miss?”     She turned back to look at him. “Yes?”     “What’s your name?”     “Sydney. What’s yours?”     “Trevor.”     “Trevor, it’s very nice to meet you.” She put her opposite hand on his hand, which was still holding her arm. He looked to her hand on his as she spoke. “We’ll be okay. And call out my name when you see me if you need anything.”     Trevor moved his hand off her arm, and their hands started to meet, so that they were almost holding hands. “Thanks, Sydney.”     She smiled. “No problem, Trevor.”     They squeezed what grip they had on each other’s hands before she turned around to head toward the cockpit. •••     Inside the cockpit, Eric told Sydney that although they were probably a half hour from landing at the shoreline, they could still see no signs of life. They had no radio communication, and they could see no signs of civilization — no roads, no lights, no buildings. “I’d expect to see the dots of cars at this height,” Brian said, “but there’s nothing there.”     Sydney started blankly out the front windows of the cockpit before Brian spoke again.      “...It looks like some forests are close to the shoreline, but half of the trees seem to be down.”     Eric turned his head slightly to finish their thoughts. “This is why we haven’t called you in here for so long.”     She stayed there for a moment, not moving, before she could finally speak. “Where are we going?”     “Well,” Eric answered, “we’ll have to find a clear patch of land, I thought we’d try to fly in a bit to see if there is anything inland.”     “...I think you should land a little closer to the water,” Sydney finally said.     “Why?”     “Because if we’ll have to stuck here, we might want to be near some water.”     “Good plan,” Brian said. “That’s why we should have a woman in here for ideas every once in a while.”     A few seconds passed before Sydney asked again, “Where are we going?”     “Your solution is a good call,” Eric said. “We’ll find a space closer to the shoreline, so we’ll be safe.”     Another moment of silence passed before Sydney answered very slightly, “That’s not what I meant.”     Eric turned around to look at her, and he could see be the look on her face that she had the same fear and dread that he felt in his soul since this flight began. •••     The next thirty-five minutes of landing of flight 2242 was the most difficult landing anyone on that plane had ever been through. But then again, it was the last flight landing of any kind anyone would ever go through again. •••     Every four minutes the captain got on the Intercom to let the passengers and crew know of what they were planning to do. Justin and Sydney manned the first portion of the jet and tried to make sure everyone was as comfortable as possible. Shannon and Courtney managed the main cabin, and with assistance they were able to make sure everyone was securely in place and all of their carry-on baggage was stored away. They were sure all of the foodstuffs were packed away so nothing would spill in a crash landing.     And everyone started becoming friends with the people next to them on the flight, because no one knew if they would successfully land. Charlie and Sue held each other’s hands. A traveler named Duane, started talking to Jim, who was going home to this wife for the holidays after working in the States. Helen tried to find solace by leaning her head on her husband Tim. Trevor talked to Kurt, the man next to him in first class, but would still look over to see who was walking past him, making sure everything was in order. Justin and Sydney both took care of any people concerned or worried about landing safely.     As Justin needed to pass Sydney to help other people, he said, “You know, hearing the way you talk to the passengers here,” then he leaned into her and whispered in her ear, “you sound like... Florence Henderson.”     “I what? Screw your Florence Henderson!”     Justin was laughing, while trying to still whisper. “I mean, you sound like you could be a mom from the Brady Bunch.”     Sydney sneered. “Sure I don’t sound more like Alice?”     “Nah... You’re the type that people come to, but you sound like a mellow, stable thing.”     “Mellow?”     “Yeah, like a swami or something. Oh, girl, leave it alone...”     “Now I’m a swami...”     “I was just paying you a compliment!” Justin’s voice raised in his last line and half of the first class turned around to look at them. Sydney looked at the faces staring at her, and when she saw Trevor’s eyes, so said to the cabin, “He was telling me that I’m either like the mom from the Brady Bunch or a swami.”     People started to laugh a little, so she had to continue. “...But I don’t have kids, and I drink. Oh, but at least I know about this plane. So if you need anything, ask any of us,” she said, smiling, as she tried to get back to cleaning the cabin. •••     Eric announced ten minutes before landing that because of a lack of radio communication and because of airport technical difficulties, they had no choice but to land on the ground. Eric didn’t tell them they would be trying to land the plane on the smoothest path of ground, because they couldn’t be sure if there were any roads in the area.     Courtney and Sydney took turns announcing proper landing procedures, instructing everyone, if possible, to lean over their laps, holding their legs.     People were afraid.     There was still roughness in the air — not due to winds, but to clouds in the air, of dust still settling from the chaos of the night before.     Most people leaned forward, holding their thighs, keeping their heads near their knees. •••     Eric and Brian talked to Sydney once before the final descent began, so she could tell the rest of the crew what to do when they finally touched ground. When flight 2242 finally landed, Sydney instructed people in all exit rows to calmly open the exits over the windows, while the flight crew removed the doors and set up the slides for people to be able to evacuate.     When Sydney opened the exit door, she got her first look at the new world. She had to step back and put her hand to her face, because this was the first time she saw her destiny. Louie, one of the passengers who was right near the door, saw her lean back and he stood up to check on her.     “Are you okay?” he asked.

Janet Kuypers Bio     Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.     She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.     She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.     Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).     In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).