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E N O R M O U S

R O OM S

volume viii

Cover

fabric
nathan blair bryce harrison barton done david malmburg laser-etched letterpress block

TO THE READER

his year, Enormous Rooms was deemed tabula rasa. Our staff was built from the ground up. As fiery neurons in a molten sea of students, we fused together to form its brain. We crafted a spine with the inspiration of others vertebra by vertebra as our scaffolding. We drew up flesh, muscle, teeth, and eyes from a cavernous well of submitted material. We injected its veins with pured money (the blood of everything, after all) and rearranged its face. You might want to digest this slowly. You might want to pick and prod and feed some of the unpalatable bits to the dog. You may have expected a magazine, but instead you will find an animal with dagger jaws and a soft belly. It will bite. It will shit on your carpet. You might want to cry about it. Now, theres no wonder why we thrust it so eagerly upon you.

senior editor poetry editor fiction editor creative non-fiction art editor staff

Sam Wood Kassandra Konecny Nathaniel Kennon Perkins Sabriel Parker Thomas Aguila Courtney Tanner

THANK YOU

to those that made this issue possible

joseph kirkham nickolas thurber rania chebib donnette perkins john harris darshna patel

candee wilde wade and terri tanner janice takagi anonymous donor anonymous donor anonymous donor

POETRY
warming up age of onan ars poetica compartmentalizing a hundred degree week toggling zemi woodmar sphere cylinder axis legislation in 9 1/2 of bath water... dedicated to my grandmother the iconography of an... negatives: driving down... projection new years day 9 24 26 32 35 36 38 40 43 44 60 61 62 64 73 75
demond blake j. andersen brian lee klueter megan towey truman guolash leanne hoppe megan towey kevin mccoy kevin mccoy leanne hoppe tyler j. keuttel jake woodham truman goulash tyler j. keuttel leanne hoppe megan towey

PROSE
the plant that i bought... diner coffee rapport goat rhetoric the body we are given hit and run the kirchner patch 10 48 55 66 76 81 83
Matthew Donahoo charlie wildey tala chebib joey kirkham truong pham marc inman steve richardson

V I S UA L A R T
untitled structural blueprints of... average- 528 cans average- 44 cases luring humans #1 discovery transcendence series untitled series milk a piece of manhattan predawn cool black #3... predawn cool black #15... life of the party untitled the silent spine personal space series #bossn untitled on edge elegance 8 29 - 31 33 34 37 39 41 42 45 46 47 59 63 65 66 68, 69 70 74 82 87
hannah stewart natalie allsup-edwards natalie kirk haigen pearson haigen pearson janae thalman natalie kirk estuko hansen candace bird elaheh zarehzadeh haigen pearson haigen pearson chad danger lindsay natalie allsup-edwaqrds elizabeth wilhemsen janae thalman kelly oneill haigen pearson hannah stewart elizabeth wilhemsen elizabeth wilhemsen

feathers, etc. 10, 15, 19, 23

hannah stewart Photo

WA R M I N G U P
demond blake 3 am not drunk but on the way I look over at her and shes asleep she always slept when we were done while I stayed up for another hour or so and drank thats no reason to start hating her but shit its a start

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Natalie Allsup-Edwards hand carved rubber stamps

Feathers

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T H E P L A N T T HAT I B O U G H T I S R E A L LY G R E AT, I M E X T R E M E LY G L A D T HAT I B O U G H T I T


matthew donahoo I sent a text message to Eleanor. Do you want to hang out until I have to leave? When do you need to leave? Soon, a few hours maybe. Im doing stuff now, Ill come over later. I looked at the internet a little, walked around in my room. I went onto the balcony and smoked part of a cigarette. I made coffee. Im coming over now, what was your apartment number again? 304, the door code is 3489. I will leave the door unlocked, you can just come in. I unlocked the front door then went to my room and stared at my computer. I listened to music. I looked at Williams facebook and sent an instant message to him. I started to watch a television show in a different window via Netflix. I heard Eleanor come in. Hello? Arthur? I didnt say anything. Eleanor walked into the apartment and saw me sitting on the floor in my room. She said hello and walked toward me, sat on my bed. She put her purse on the floor under her legs. I stayed seated on the floor and said something about the show I was watching. Eleanor said, What is Jgerholics? I laughed. No, Workaholics

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She had seen the show before. I felt slightly awkward but then turned my body toward her and felt less awkward. I asked her what she had done today and she answered. Jareds mom told me to go to the courthouse and get married before I end up in hell for having premarital sex, Eleanor said, after a lull. Jesus. What does Jared think about that? He agrees, I think. About getting married. He has told me he wants to marry me. I always tell him no. Im 22. I dont want to be married. I felt good about that. So, my brother has a girlfriend now, I guess, Eleanor said. Really? Seems like he would never have a girlfriend. Yeah, I know. Theyre having sex, too. How do you know? I met her while I was down at my parents house one day. She was leaving with my brother. After they left I went into his room for something and found condoms and an empty box from Daylight Donuts. I laughed. Donut sex Eleanor laughed. We talked more, did other things, looked at the internet together. When we were leaving I said, I think you are the first person to hang out in my room. Eleanor responded

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tepidly and drove me to the train station. **** I went to Charlies house in Sacramento. After I arrived I said I would like to take a shower. When I dressed, Charlie suggested we walk to the train bridge. We left his house and walked. We didnt talk much while walking. Sometimes I asked questions. A giant drawing of a penis was spraypainted on the sidewalk. We walked past an almond factory and were at some train tracks. We walked on the tracks. Under a bridge Charlie said, Look at this, and showed me something that had been carved into the wall in 1934. Someones name. There were a lot of names carved into the wall. One of them was carved in a recognizable serif font. We thought that was impressive. That person was skilled, I said. We walked further. Charlie said, Up here be careful where you stepwatch out for syringes. I said I would be careful. We were mostly silent except for sometimes asking each other personal questions or saying things about the internet. A homeless-seeming person on the other side of a chainlink fence next to us called out. Charlie said, Howdy. The person had a big pack and a dog and a mandolin. The person asked if there were any trains he could hop nearby to get to San Diego. Charlie had hopped trains in the past and was able to give a lot of useful information to the person. I was

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impressed by their interaction. The person left. I said, Good job, Charlie. We walked further until we were close to the train bridge. The bridge extended over a river, the American River, I think. We walked across the bridge. We listed to each other the rules that we had made for our respective blogs. When we arrived at the other side of the bridge Charlie said, This is the train bridge. I wrote the URL of my website on the bridge and whispered, Viral marketing. I took a picture of Charlie on the bridge and we walked back to his house. **** Charlie and I left to go to Erins apartment. We stopped at an ATM on the way so I could get cash to buy mushrooms later. The passenger side door of Charlies car didnt open from the inside. Charlie would have opened the door from the outside for me, but the situation made that awkward. I said, Oh, I cant open the door. Charlie said, Just roll the window down. I rolled the window down and got out of the car and got $60 from an ATM. We drove to Erins apartment. Charlie pressed buttons on a thing outside of the apartment building and it made telephone noises then was silent then made a buzzing noise. Charlie opened the door. We walked up a lot of stairs to the apartment. We went inside and it smelled strongly like food. Erin was standing in the room.

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Natalie Allsup-Edwards hand carved rubber stamps

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It was a studio apartment. There was a small kitchen in the entranceway. Charlie and I took off our shoes and walked in. Erin was wearing booty shorts or they might have been mens underwear. Charlie sat on the couch that was in the center of the room and I sat on the floor in the area behind the couch. Someone said something about me sitting there and I said I would prefer to sit there. I asked if it was okay, if it made anyone uncomfortable. They said it was okay. Erin asked if Charlie and I would like salad. I said yes. Charlie said no and that he wasnt that hungry while smirking slightly. He was being sarcastic, Erin had invited us for dinner. I walked to the kitchen and stood near Erin. Charlie had walked over and got himself a glass of water. Erin asked what kind of salad dressing I would like and then listed a lot of dressings. One of the dressings she said was chocolate. I said I wanted a dressing that was just olive oil and vinegar. Charlie went back to the couch and navigated the television. I sat down behind the couch and was silent for a little while, while Charlie and Erin said things. Charlie would jokingly antagonize Erin or something, make sarcastic-seeming comments. It was funny and Erin thought it was funny. Erin brought me salad and a glass of water and a bottle of dressing. I said thank you. She said, You can use the ironing board to eat off of if you want, while handing me a small ironing board. I said thank you and that I would just use the floor. I took a bite of the salad without realizing that there wasnt dressing on it yet. I put dressing on the salad. Charlie started watching something on television. I ate

matthew donahoo

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salad and listened to Erin talk and sometimes I would say things. I felt isolated behind the couch but it felt good, like I was a spectator to my own social interaction. Erin said something polite about me looking like I was finished eating salad but there still being salad in the bowl while she refilled my glass with water. She said, You dont have to finish it. I said that I had just forgotten that I was eating for a second and that I liked the salad. Erin said that the other food was ready and that we could eat some. She said we should serve ourselves. The food was quinoa with beans and onions and peppers and various seasonings. I got up and put a small portion on a plate. I didnt want to eat very much. I felt worried that Erin would think I didnt like her cooking. I sat down again and began eating. It was good. Charlie and Erin served themselves much larger portions than I had. We watched something on television. Charlie sat on the couch, Erin on a chair near the couch, I was behind the couch. We sometimes talked but it was mostly quiet. I thought about myself. It seemed, lately, that I had been changing or becoming more experienced as a human or something. I thought I couldnt articulate it very well. I thought it was good. Erin moved to her bed. Her bed was a mostly flat thinga futon or somethingon the ground in the corner of the room. We watched television. Erin said something about being boring. I thought that it wasnt boring, that it was less boring than being alone because I was with other people. I thought that being with other people is not boring, even if you are just sitting next to each other in silence. I wanted to

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say that but by the time I realized the moment had passed and another opportunity didnt arise. At five minutes to nine Charlie said something about a show that was coming on that Erin liked. A show with Zooey Deschanel. Erin said that she was not going to watch it in favor of us being there and already watching something else. Charlie said no; that we would leave so she could watch her show. I didnt really want to leave but I didnt want to impose on anyone so I left with Charlie. Erin asked me if I would like a cookie while I was leaving and I said yes and ate it on the way out. **** Charlie drove me to the bus station in Sacramento. He didnt really know where it was but we found it. The address was 420 Richardson. In the car I said, four-twenty and laughed one short, quiet laugh while Charlie was silent. We parked and got out of the car and Charlie opened his arms and I felt confused for maybe one second then hugged him. He said goodbye and I went into the bus station. The bus was full so I had to sit next to someone. I sat next to a cute girl and texted Fran that I did that. The cute girl looked like Kat Dennings but much more tired. She had a hand tattoo and when she leaned forward I saw that she had a lower back tattooa tattoo of two pistols. She was on the phone and talking to her friend. She said, Yeah Im going home because my mom misses me and shit. Later, she sent a text message to someone named Van:

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Natalie Allsup-Edwards hand carved rubber stamps

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T H E P L A N T T H AT I B O U G H T I S R E A L LY G R E AT, I M E X T R E M E LY G L A D T HAT I B O U G H T I T

I am gonna switch my phone off for a while. I love you. At a stop, people got off and I changed seats so that Kat Dennings and I would each have two seats and would be more comfortable. I got off the bus in Reno around 6:30pm. At the station I decided I wanted to buy Four Loko because I had never drank it before. It wasnt sold where I lived. I walked outside of the bus station. Outside, people from the bus were standing around and smoking. The sky was grey and everything looked very depressing or subdued, beautiful. Thinking about it later, it seemed extremely beautiful. I didnt see any stores nearby so I walked back inside the bus station. Most of the people who were on the bus to Reno would transfer to the bus to Salt Lake. Eventually we all stood in a line. I put my bag down on the line and sat in a seating area. Kat Dennings approached me and said, Is this the right line? Line two? I said, Yeah, I think so. She sat down near me. I looked at her sometimes and noticed her clothes. She was wearing a Fox Racing hoodie that reminded me of girls in high school. I felt endeared. I got in line to board the bus and the driver said he would be searching our bags. I had noticed, on the previous bus, that every time Kat Dennings opened her bag, the smell of drugs on the bus became stronger. I looked at her and she was shaking, fumbling with her ticket. I hoped it would be okay. The driver didnt really search people; he just looked inside of your bag while you held it open and then said, Okay, go to the blue bus. He joked about how thoroughly he was searching people. I got

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on the bus. It was a newer bus with wifi and comfortable seats. Kat Dennings sat across the aisle from me. At a later stop, people got on the bus and a black guy sat next to Kat Dennings. He seemed scary or nice. He took prayer beads from his bag and wrapped them around his wrist. They stayed there for the duration of the trip. He was wearing a black button-down shirt tucked smartly into jeans. I thought he looked good. He had a blanket on him and a beard. The bus stopped at a gas station in the middle of night, everyone got out of the bus. It was evident there were a lot of criminals and delinquents on the bus and I felt, like, tough or something after being around them in a small space for many hours. I wanted a cigarette so I bought somethey would be cheaper at this place than in Utah. I stole a lighter while I was paying for the cigarettes and felt skillful. Outside, I stood away from everyone and smoked. Kat Dennings was smoking with the main group of people but then went inside to buy something. I sat down on a ledge and drank some water and looked at people. Kat Dennings came outside and sat next to me. She said, I really dont want to get back on that bus, while twisting her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. I said, Where are you headed? Pittsburgh. Dang Yeah, got two more days on buses. She stood. I wanted to ask her name and introduce myself but she walked away toward the bus. I followed.

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Later, the scary-nice-seeming black person on all fours in the aisle, searching for something, awoke me. He was searching for Kat Dennings phone, which she had dropped. He found it for her and she was thankful. At a stop around 4am, I got off to walk around. I saw the scary-nice-seeming black person talking and laughing with Kat Dennings. Kat Dennings was my age or maybe younger and the black person was older, maybe 35. I woke up at some point and saw that the black person and Kat Dennings had switched seats and were leaning on each other. I went back to sleep. I woke up again, near Salt Lake, somewhere in the West Desert, and saw that Kat Dennings was in the arms of the black person, leaning against him and reading a Tucker Max book while he stroked her hair and thigh. She was laughing loudly and exuberantly and fake-seeming at the book.

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Natalie Allsup-Edwards hand carved rubber stamps

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AGE OF ONAN
J. Andersen

Masturbating stains the air with sweat, dead sperm a glimpse of old age Fate of a young man withdraw at the Bank of Heaven and the ticket reads: vanity. The poet not vain for vanitys sake or his own sake but he is willing to make the myths for the mythseekers a wartime correspondent, both a witness and a vulture Sarcasm spreads over a ritual gathering of like-minds a young woman who weeps as silently as she comes an angry musician who hears a chord and plays it with equal loving rage Close book prematurely on chapter 23. A driver looking for something wild in the desertlovely wanderings of Mozarts caffeinated static pianoliving in fear of the State Trooper. Fog injects a scene with weirdness,

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wash of hazenaked visual inner madness, fleshed out by polluted cinema and beautiful cinematography. My wife will tell me ease up dont take it too seriously get back to your roots and take a hot bath. But even if shes right it may be too late Too late to chase the most celestial verse all the way to kublakahnian awakening Clean crisis war of chemicals Elmore James sense of pride every sentence as vivid as a dream Love by proxy is getting oldas old as time has known my drunkenness the words were always necessaryif only there were a way around them.

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ARS POETICA
brian lee klueter This poem is aware of itself Aware of you reading it Aware that it exists in the real world At this moment it is alive Aware of you being aware of its existence Aware of it being aware of your existence Does this make you uncomfortable? Its in your mind, taking up moments of your time, talking to you as if its directly in your line of sight, which of course, it is. You wonder if this is a real poem. The poem knows that its a poem. If a human being told you that he or she was a human being would you question them? If you tried to tell the poem that it wasnt a poem, it wouldnt believe you. But then again, why would you speak to a poem? Its a one-way conversation between sentient beings that are both aware of each other. The poem realizes that the concept is confusing to grasp, so it offers a mental association in order to gain trust with you: stand-up comedy, a one-way experience where the performer is the only one communicating. The poem is performing for you, but all you can do is watch and read. You now realize that the poem is telling, not showing. There is no real use of imagery at all, only random second-person comments. But how else is a poem to communicate? Does this make you uncomfortable? Have you accepted the ramblings of the poem that is aware of itself? Who do you think is talking to you right now?

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brian lee klueter

At this point you should be getting sick of it. Youre still partly convinced that its not a poem, even though youre aware of it as a poem because the poem told you it was a poem. Poem poem poem. The redundancy has affected you in a negative way, but you keep these thoughts to yourself. The poem thanks you for that. What did you expect though? Elaborations on love, death, nature, philosophy, metaphor, rhyme, longing, the universe, or even the worst type of poetic subject available to mankind: feelings? The poem laughs at your expectations And instead offers alternatives Would you prefer an uncomfortable subject involving sex? SEX with animals SEX with your brain SEX with your grandmother SEX with a sharp blade SEX with a small child SEX with the moon. The moon? The poem is pretty sure that the last one was supposed to be humorous. The constructs of your comfort zone have been reinforced by uncomfortable listing and bantering, but are then completely shattered by a lame joke. Does this make you uncomfortable? Is the lack of grandiose language not worthy of your attention? Do you have better things to do? The poem realizes this and appreciates it but still finds that it cant give you what you want. The poem is sick of the word you, and apologizes for

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ARS POETICA

using it too often, even if you dont care anymore. The poem knows your feelings and can relate to you. Know that the poem will always be here The poem realizes that, realistically, it will never be read again by anyone except you That makes it lonelier than you could ever be Lonelier than death or Alzheimers patients But if you ever want to read it again, the poem will be here If you, the reader, ever needs A friend, A lover, Or a distraction The lonely poem will wait. Because it is aware of itself Aware of you reading it Aware that it exists in the real world Alive

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structural blueprints of an artist series


natalie kirk cyanotype prints

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C O M PA R T M E N TA L I Z I N G
megan towey
Compartmentalizing is how I get processed out of her staticky poems when she wakes in a tree-womb of elastic things being digested, a pulsating room of sparks blown up for a meager lame like her kinked stray hairs backlit by the morning; a methodical recollection, a stirring together of lime juice and basil seeds into carbonated water.

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haigen pearson chromira print from film

Average- 44 cases Average- 528 cans

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haigen pearsen chromira print from film

luring humans #1

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A HUNDRED DEGREE WEEK


truman goulash

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TOGGLING
leanne hoppe

Isnt lightyears a distance? Like the way you rode your bike with a box on the front, E.T. might have sprung out at any moment, so I waited as you rode closer. When bikers speed ahead through the stopredlight, I laugh and catch back up after 30 yards. Im measuring distance, not time. As kids, we wondered how a swimming pool could ever fill up, the water moved so slow. One day the rain stopped, and the pool was full. So I wonder about those stars lightyears apartmaybe they get lonely from the black air keeping them in place but theyve been up there for so many lightyears The swimming pool has filled and youre bicycling up lightyears to the moon. Dont ask me how long it takes or how far it is, just lets try to get there.

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janae thalman Photo

discovery

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ZEMI
megan towey

Zemi Things having to be returned to their transparency:


i.

/ green mist-earth / knit atmosphere / fathomless blue-lavender / lights spun out from light
ii.

my omphalos of rainwater, hyacinthine blossom on his chest, his bioluminescence tearing on the gla beneath him, the city rumbles and the ininite
v.

are recalcitrance / and you are convergence

When we go home to zero, what serap will declare so clear our unbecoming?

& - a ingernail of summer - a melting of rain - a crown of lowers - a priest of sunsets (beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi. Zemi. are you beautiful because I love you? Zemi? )
iii.

The places Zemi has been to, again the he will go, bipolar god of lickering lights, saint amid rain and incongruence.

I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution. To Rilke, it's a melody that loods over us when we have forgotten how to listen for it. I never could forget this: for how could I know my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street? We go on morning walks and Zemi laughs at everything I say. He wears it on a cord around his neck when he sleeps:

iv.

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ng to be returned to their transparency:

mist-earth / knit here / fathomless vender / lights ut from light

my omphalos of rainwater, hyacinthine blossom on his chest, his bioluminescence tearing on the glass; beneath him, the city rumbles and the ininite
v.

alcitrance / and you vergence

When we go home to zero, what seraphic voice will declare so clear our unbecoming? The places Zemi has been to, again there he will go, bipolar god of lickering lights, saint amid rain and incongruence.

ernail of summer ting of rain wn of lowers st of sunsets

I love you, because. Zemi. ou beautiful because I love )

e this is what it's like to breathe sea foam e Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution. e, it's a melody that loods over us e have forgotten how to listen for it. could forget this: for how could I know d as both well and chasm? and how could I know windstruck dimension, standing in her white street?

n morning walks and Zemi t everything I say. He

on a cord his neck when he sleeps:

Transcendence Series
Natalie Kirk digital photography

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WO O DM A R
kevin mccoy Pock! And the clatter of clubs and bottles and swearing doctors and drunk lawyers chain smoke a path to the trap and the money is passed around and Pock! And the obscene banter and the obese bags and garbled speech and words from a world both distant and disturbing and the candy colored camels laughing and coughing and speaking and swearing and Pock! And its the goddamn commies and Jews and go on get me some smokes boy and thats a golf shot by Jesus and Im arguing one hell of a case now and Ive got a bad case of the shingles and Pock! And the young eyes understand too much and vow to be different and the movers and shakers make their tee time and cheat on their taxes and drop a dime to mark their ball and Pock! And the last white speck is eaten by the fairway and the pin is pulled and the putter has the last word and the caravan moves to the club house

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estuko hansen silver gelatin prints cyanotype

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candace bird photo

milk

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SPHERE CYLINDER AXIS


kevin mccoy

Lids squash the ball rotating blind crazy Circles in empty sockets. The world is Spinning and the letters blur after The cool drops. The doctor is close. His breath bears witness to his lunch. This is the edge of vision. The dilation Of the world gone wrong. I can no longer Clearly picture what this all means. Tap On the earth and find your way to the exit. It hasnt moved in a million years but I cant seem to grasp the railings for the Dripping sky. Its impossible to focus. Better worse? Click click. Better worse?

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L E G I S L AT I O N
leanne hoppe

The chili plant sits dying, brown water bottoms the vase; I am not going to change it, the season now over, withering naturally. When I shrivel hardened, dried-up; let me diedont change the water, dont green the leaf.

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a piece of manhattan
elaheh zarehzadeh watercolor

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predawn cool black #3- 4th street coin laundry


haigen pearson chromira print from film

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predawn cool black #15- emigration market


haigen pearson chromira print from film

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DINER COFFEE
charlie wildey

andy worked at an all night diner. Sometimes others wondered if he had had the job too long, and if he should make an effort to finish school. Randy didnt wonder about that often. The diner was in a small town on an old state route that truckers used a lot before I-90 came through. One of the chefs remembered all that, but no one else there did. It still was a popular stop for local drivers, but most cross country travel blew by on the interstate. Randy was 24 years old. He was working a normal Sunday night to Monday morning shift. A trucker sipped coffee and read a local newspaper, just like youd expect if a painting were to be made of the scene. It was summer, and sometimes college-aged kids would drop in late because nothing else was open. At about 10:30 some Danish tourists stopped in, asking about hotels. They were on their way to Niagara Falls. A lot of Europeans went out that way. Not long after 11, a woman came in with two young boys, maybe three and five. She ordered a coffee for herself and two slices of pie for the kids. She was probably in her late 30s, and her skin was an even, calculated sepia that showed signs of a decade or two of visits to tanning salons. Her hair was the whitish blonde of a decade or two of consistent coloring. She was in good shape, healthy, white teeth and so on. Her body, clearly past its prime, gave a sense of being spent, but was still youthful and toned. So where are you headed? Randy asked politely. Oh were just off to Buffalo, hun. Oh alright, not too much further then. You stopping around here for the night or are you just gonna push through?

DINER COFFEE

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She looked at the children as they forked pie into their mouths, chewing slowly and staring blankly forward. I think we oughtta stop for the night and head out again in the morning. Sounds fine. A few good places to sleep around here. Im sure there is, she smiled at him. So what do you have going on in Buffalo tomorrow? Is that home? Oh no, were from over towards Syracuse. Yeah? What brings you out this way then? You ever heard of TNA wrestling? Total Non-stop Action? Er, no maam, I dont think I have. Its my favorite, chimed in one of the boys, brightening. Yeah we like it, dont we, the woman rustled the childs hair. They kept nibbling pie. The trucker raised his empty coffee cup and Randy nodded. Ill talk to you folks later. Enjoy the pie, buddies. He went to get a warm cup of coffee for the trucker. That just about finished the pot, so he dumped the rest down the sink and went to get another one going. The trucker placed one section of the paper aside and flipped open the classifieds. The woman watched Randy as he started a fresh pot of coffee dripping. She cleared her throat and flagged him over. Yes maam? Oh dont call me that. Its Jamie. Alright Jamie. Im Randy, what can I do for you? She straightened her back, placed her arms in front of her, fingers interlocked, hands resting on the table, and leaned forward a bit; her breasts pushed together, her cleavage glaring up at Randy. I was just wondering about some more coffee. Itll probably be another minute or two, answered Randy, looking back at the counter, I just put a pot on.

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charlie wildey

Oh thats fine. How bout some milk then? For my sons. You know, I used to do a lot of work as a swimsuit model. course you wouldnt guess now, by looking at me. Well sure, I mighta guessed. Youre the prettiest ladys come in all night. She smiled. Stop. I wont give you an extra tip for lying to me. Thats the furthest thing from my mind. I bet, she responded jokingly, and with a sly smile. He lingered for a moment, smiling. The kids didnt notice. Eventually Randy said, well, Ill go get that milk for you, with a polite and charming grin. He turned to go. The door squeaked as another trucker came in. Outside the crickets roared. The darkness was thick, except for the occasional streaks of headlights that streamed by; casting shadows that made a single, brief dash from one side of the diner to the other. Randy opened a cooler under the counter and produced a two-liter jug of milk that was a little less than half full. He kicked the cooler closed and reached across and grabbed two glasses, delicately and adeptly turning them placing them open mouth up, ready to receive milk. It gushed from the jug, thick and foamy. As Randy filled the glasses, the woman stood from the booth and left her tired sons working on the last bits of pie crust. She crossed over to the door where there was a rack full of brochures advertising local attractions. Randy continued to the booth, placed the cups in front of the young boys, and called out looking for anything in particular? Just looking for hotels round here. Well theres a yellow pages over by the phone, but you know my roommates out of town, so his room is empty, and Ive got a pullout couch besides that. You dont need to pay for that hotel.

DINER COFFEE

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The boys, each with half a glass of milk in their tummy, were now almost asleep. The woman shook her head. No, arent you sweet, thatll be fine. The kids love their Super 8, you know? I loved hotels when I was a kid, too. Should I get your check, or are you gonna wait around for the coffee? Should only be another minute. No I think we better get going; they seem about ready to get to bed. Better bring out the check for us. Right away, said Randy. He watched her as she walked over to the phonebook; her jeans cupped tight as her hips shifted gracefully back and forth with each step. Randy walked behind the counter to retrieve the check. You decided on anything yet, sir? he asked the second trucker. Just coffee for now I think, was the answer. Fresh pot. Ill get your cup right away. You have any soup today? Yessir I think weve still got some veggie beef soup heated up tonight. How bout a cup of that, too, then. Alrighty. Be back shortly. Outside, a gentle rain began to fall, casting a mystical glimmer on the pavement and forming a halos around the street lamps. Randy pulled the womans check off the rack by the register and tucked it in his pocket. He grabbed the fresh coffee pot and a clean mug on his way to the man that ordered them. The warmth of the pot washed over his forearm and a cloudy trail of steam followed him before dissipating. He put the cup down in front of the customer and filled it. Condensation slid down the glass of the coffee pot. Ill be right up with your soup, sir, but the man was watching the late night broadcast of the local news.

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charlie wildey

Randy pulled the womans receipt from his pocket and grabbed a pen off the counter. She was still flipping through the yellow pages. He scribbled his address onto the back of it. As he walked to the window into the kitchen Greg, the chef, was sitting on a counter doing something on his phone. We still got beef soup, Greggy? Greg looked up at Randy, then over to the soup warmers. Er, yeah, looks like it. Can I get a cup? Okie doke, and Greg slid off the counter, putting his phone in his pocket. As Randy turned, the first trucker gestured that he was ready for the check. Randy nodded. Evidently satisfied that she had found a suitable hotel, the woman was just sitting down at her booth where her sons now slept when Randy approached with the check. Here you go, Jamie. Thanks, hun. And I put my address down there, too. You know, in case anything comes up. Oh I think we should be fine, she glanced at her sleeping children. A tiny bit of a southern accent seemed to ring forth on the word fine when she said it. How much longer do you have to work tonight? she asked. Well lets see, Randy said, checking his watch Its almost midnight, I should be out in about an hour or so. Home a little after one. Thats not so bad. Randy shrugged, nodded, and pivoted to go fetch the trucker his receipt as well. By the time he did there was already a credit card and a pile of change for a tip in front of him. So he tended to that while the trucker folded the paper into a sloppier state than it originated and the woman left a ten-dollar bill on

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the table, woke her groggy children and made for the door. She held the door open to allow her two boys to leave before her, and just before exiting glanced over to the cash register where Randy was focused on the credit card. The door squeaked, and her hips twisted their way out. Randy looked up from the register hoping she would look back, watching her disappear into the bleak night, briefly becoming illuminated again by the headlights of a passing car. Without looking at the trucker, Randy returned his card. Nobody came in for the rest of the night, randy sat on a stool reading Desolation Angels, now and then standing to re-wipe tables or replace napkins or sweep a dust-free floor. His face was as etched out of stone, and his brain went to every corner of the universe. The last hour felt like a month. His relief finally arrived in the form of an 18 year-old with clumped hair that hung almost to his shoulders, wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt. Hows it been? the teenager asked. Yeah, you know, alright. Pretty slow, Randy nodded as he answered, last hours been nobody, he was gathering his things to go. Cool, well, see ya. Already heading out Yeah, have a good one, Luke, and the door shut behind him. A short drive later Randy unlocked his apartment and turned on the bathroom light. He squeezed a bead of toothpaste onto his brush and scrubbed his teeth smooth. Slowly, methodically, he began to change out of his work clothes. A set of head lights cast bizarre shadows through his kitchen window, a car door closed, footsteps in the gravel and a knock at the door. Randy smiled, opened the door. Standing there in the yellow glow of his porch light was Jamie. Hi, Randy said. Hi, she responded.

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charlie wildey

Your kids? Asleep at the hotel. Moments later they had scattered each others clothes about his apartment. Clutching and grabbing, they kissed messily, their bodies pushing and forcing. They panted in unison, and their sweat mingled. They worked in and on each other, pleasuring the body that pleasured their body. Shifting and shouting and breathing. Eventually a final burst concluded the matter and they both lay still, catching their breaths. Only for a few minutes they lay together. They didnt talk. She leaned over Randy and checked his clock. It was 2:13. Damn, I gotta get going, she crawled out, naked, looking still beautiful though older now. She stooped to collect her clothes. Randy rolled out from between the sheets, pulled on his boxer-briefs, and helped her gather her things. Before she left, they kissed once on the mouth. Randy smiled. Have fun at the wrestling thing. He waved, and she left to return to her children in the motel. Randy yawned and shuffled slowly back toward his bed, turning off lights as he went. He slid back in, lying on his back. For a long minute he stared into the blackness toward the ceiling, drifting eventually into a wandering sleep. He set no alarm for the morning, and would remember no dreams.

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RAPPORT
tala chebib

November 7, 2012 START POLICE REPORT: Basically Im the prodigy kid in high school who is too mature and artistic for his age and doesnt fit in, yada yada and the rest. However, what Im about to tell you is the whole and absolute truth about how all of these sugar cubes ended up in the car Im driving. Doug, or should I call him Mr. Waterbury? No that feels strange. Doug and I first shared each others presence... haha I dont really talk like that. Jesus, wouldnt that be pretentious? What were your names? It doesnt matter. Back to Doug. So we meet after school in room 115 Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. We get to talk. Really and genuinely talk because he and I are a part of the same energy field. Our thought streams flow together. The guy is a genius. The kids here... its like, you know how where you come from, whose sperm and egg combo you mutated from is, obviously, reflected in you? I mean, when I go to parties and these freshmen girls are resting Four Loko cans on their baby bumps to light their cigarettes I have to wonder. So you can understand why I would be in desperate need for someone to relate to. Thats Doug. Anyway, he and I would just drive around and give each other gifts of contemplation, compassion, and validation. Its incredible. A release. Hes this dude that a kid can really look up to. I respect the fuck out of this guy. I wish I knew where he went so you

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could really meet him up close and personal. So every day we meet up, walk to the lot, stop to unlock the gate, he tosses the keys and we start up OlGreenie. This green boat here. Every time. Because fuck all the other cars. Polluters. Anyway, so we drive around. To the park, to the 7-11, from Dennys, to Wal-Mart. Parallel park, Nietzsche, three-point turn, Rumi, right-of-way, Manet. Shakespeare. And then wed stop at these places and hell go in and just buy coffee and come out. Even if he had coffee already. Seriously, once we had eight full cups of coffee in here. Just because he wanted to see if I could stop without spilling them. He gets a cup for me and a cup for him and he pops like three sugar cubes in his. I like mine black. At first I figured the guy just really liked sugar cubes, and then I start hearing rumors at school about how the new drivers ed. teacher is a drug dealer. Kids start getting bored so they try and spice things up a bit by throwing out some negativity. Thing is, negativity feeds on negativity. Boredom from this puritanical bull shit leads to a craving, a sick desperation for sin. Anyway, its pathetic and I dont buy it. For quite a while. A little bit ago, I think it was Monday... doesnt matter. Like a week ago. Recently. Whatever. So were driving around, bullshitting and all the rest, and Doug has me stop at his house so he can retrieve some forgotten item. Only I found out later that it wasnt his house. He goes in and comes out a while later with three boxes of sugar cubes. When he gets back in the car, he looks at me and asks if he can trust me. And I tell him yes because he totally can because we respect each other. Guy looks at the sugar cubes and goes,

tala chebib

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These sugar cubes are blotted with some of the purest dose you can find on this beautiful planet we call Earth. In case you werent completely aware of modern-day drug lingo, dose is LSD. Lysergic acid diethylamide. Yellow sunshine. Acid. Well fuck. Here I am put in this position where Im dealing with some tripped out drug dealer who is also my close friend. What do I do? I keep my mouth shut because Im loyal and I respect him. Youll probably say I shouldnt have done that but youre brainwashed by the same puritan shit too so, thats too bad for you. Anyway, it sucks that the kids at school were right about something for once, but thats the way it is. I went on as if I had never known. And then I got curious. So I asked him for a cube after the lesson before this one so that I could take it on Wednesday. Today. Yes, I am on acid right now but thats not the point. So Im feeling wonderful for a while, and right before I get in the car I reach for the doorknob and it turns into a pussy. I shit you not. And then the whole car just throws out these vibes and I just love it. Were floating above the road, looking down at snakeskin. Were riding a giant snake. Trees are growing and dancing and shits crazy. And while Doug and I are skipping and hopping and grooving to each others thoughts, this building is getting all ninja training preparation to sneak attack us because it doesnt like positive energy. Its a cold, lifeless, drone of a building and it was jealous. So here were are. Me lying here on this beautiful carpet of fresh grass telling you a heartfelt story of friendship next to OlGreenie here, except now she looks like part of a contemporary artists installation piece. Im guessing Doug ran off somewhere because he knew you

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would show up. And... thats all she wrote. END POLICE REPORT. Signed, P.O. Perkins: Suspects record revealed five felonies, all drug related. Students who were questioned identified suspect and confirmed convictions of possession and distribution of LSD. After further investigation, no such record of a drivers education teacher by the name of Doug Waterbury was found. Suspect charged with obstruction of service, and the possession and distribution of an illegal substance.

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I N 9 1 / 2 O F B A T H WA T E R , T H E O L D M A N D R E A M S O F D E AT H
tyler j. kuettel

The winter wind whistles in through the open window. The bottle on the windowsill holds his dying garden flowers & catches the withering sunlight. He picks it up, the wrinkles on his hands like a bad alliteration: bottle up to sun, he holds the bottle-green light. It feels like the lost warmth of her touch, blood warming skin, left lingering on his fingertips. Surely, she has forgotten him now. He sends her dead honeybees in an envelop addressed to Et tu? Et tu?

The faucet whines as it fills the bathtub. He has forgotten he is a body until the bath-water displaces around him, cloudy from bar soap, its warmth leaving. Under the water, he hears the hollow beat of hearta barn burning through the night. He looks down at his dilapidated self, the bodys narrative of withering away, where death sleeps, heavy as a dead horse.

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D E D I C AT E D T O MY GRANDMOTHER
jake woodham

My grandmother once told me that when the sun shines and the clouds cry the devil is beating his wife. Its a partly cloudy day today. One part of town it damn shines brighter than any man-made spotlight. I drive over to the mill and it pours droplets of dew like a sinner crying for forgiveness. Makes me wonder if the bitch had it coming.

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THE ICONOGRAPHY OF AN UMBRELLA


truman Goulash

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natalie allsup-edwards hand carved rubber stamps

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N E G AT I V E S : D R I V I N G D OW N T H E PAC I F IC C OA S T
tyler j. kuettel

Its beginning to fade: the picture of her at a roadside fruit stand where we once stopped for directions & blueberries. The two bored teenagers there picked the berries from the bramble out back. One muttered in response to our need for direction, pointing down the road. Cross-legged in the dirt, we ate our berries. Her hairdyed the same dusty blue-green as the wind-swept grasses along the roadbed fell down her breast in praise: a prayer I would hear for years after, sometimes white-noise, sometimes the slow ache & solitude of dawn in the wake of a faint, morning light. With the deep, overcast sky rehearsing its lines of rain & fading in the glassy sunlight,

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elizabeth wilhelmsen digital photography

the silent

would we have understood then if that bored teenager had told us two more autumns & you will both be alone? Would we have known what to do, where to go after? We drove where the kid had pointed. She smoked & read aloud the passing road signs, a milky plume of smoke followed every word, every word was narcotic: Astoria, Neskowin, Waldport, Coos Bay

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G OAT R H E T O R I C
joey kirkham

Quit tappin the counter with your foot, then, said Nancy. This bottles almost out. Youre gettin more right? asked Gerwin. Quit talking and keep your eye open. Nancy stood over Gerwins trembling right eye. His left eye was covered with a yellow soaked cotton swab. This cotton swabs soaked through. It looks like you peed out of your left eye, said Nancy. Can that happen? Is it possible to alter a stream of urine to exit from a different orifice? Nancy squeezed the bottle. Out came six drops. Brother and Sister Drop feel themselves being squeezed from their home, falling into a black pit of uncertainty, being swallowed by the beasts black maw. Ah, there we go. You feel that, Nancy? No. Im not the one with swarmin liquid in my eyes. How do you pronounce the name again? asked Gerwin. He leaned forward and closed his eyes. Nancy took a wad of toilet papers and pressed them against his eyelids. Dilating drops. Yeah, I know that. I mean the science name. M-y-d-r-i-a-tics. My eyes feel like that black chick, the one on the Guinness Records show who could sneeze with her eyes open. I think youre confusin the two. That black lady can push her eyes out of her sockets, I think. Or almost out. Like a gecko.

urry up, will ya? My eyes havin a seizure.

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So whos the person who can sneeze with their eyes open? Gerwin hopped down from the sink, knocking over the halfempty Colgate bottle. There was that Catholic priest, I think, in London who thought sneezing was an evil spirit tryin to get out. What did he do? Gerwin opened his eyes and wiped the yellow streaks from his face. You dont remember reading that? He kidnapped the children whose parents didnt go to confession and tied them down and forced them to sneeze. How do you force someone to sneeze? Brother Drop and Sister Drop enter the dark circular opening; the maw. The mouth expands in size, staying open to receive its guests. I think he took a feather and rubbed it over their noses. It was like that scene in The Clockwork Orange... You mean A Clockwork Orange, but, yes, go on. It was like that scene in A Clockwork Orange? Yeah, where they put those hook things under his eyelids so they cant close. You actually saw that movie? asked Gerwin. No. But my dad has the book and told me about that scene. But I guess the priest put some hook thing in their eyes. The children? Yeah, the children. Did it work? Did the kids sneeze a demon out? Obviously not. But I think he blinded the kids and got sent to prison.

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So what happened to him in prison? He was stabbed to death. I found the picture on the internet. It was a nasty picture. All red, and his blue uniform looked all purple, like some deflated oompa loompa. They stabbed him in the eyes and I guess he bled to death. And thats why Ill never go to prison, interrupted Gerwin. Its a meat market in there. Everyone gangin up on everyone, even the guards I heard hide out in the showers with those billy clubs. And do what?

Kandy

Becky

Arthur

Sonya

You know. Nasty things. I dont know. They billy the prisoners with them. Billy, huh? Lets see your eyes. Daaang, your pupils are huge. Almost makes me want to poke them. How do they feel? I think Im done pissin out yellow. I cant close them, though. This is brilliant. Nancy followed Gerwin to the kitchen. How many bottles did we use on me? asked Gerwin. About a full bottle on each eye.

joey kirkham

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Brother Drop and Sister Drop find themselves swimming in a sea of red. They see a herd of goats in the distance. Brother Drop and Sister Drop approach them. Bah, replies a goat. Its time for you to come with us, says Sister Drop. Well take you to the monsters mouth. Bah, replies another goat. Our legs dont function in this sea of red. We cant swim. Come with us, says Brother drop. Bah.

Mike

Nancy

Daniel
personal space series
kelly oneill silver gelatin prints

Gerwin sprawled himself out on the kitchen table. I think if I keep blinkin Ill blink out all the yellow stuff. Hey, Nancy, I think I peed my pants. I feel warm below the belt. Maybe Ill leak yellow all over. I think we put too many drops in. Hey, Nancy Nanc? I think I got yellow leakin out of my ears. Give me a tissue, will ya? Yellow liquid coursed down Gerwins cheeks and into his ears, filling his ear sockets. Nancys voice undulated like a slow

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rising echo as her attempts to speak with Gerwin went unnoticed. He couldnt hear her. Clogged ears. Maaaah, maaah, maah, ma! Exclaimed Nancy, or so heard by Gerwin. Her undecipherable speech bounced off the impenetrable liquid in its feeble attempt to penetrate Gerwins ears. But with no success. Gerwin turned to see Nancys moving mouth. Her words had turned to something tangible. Bright wavelengths leapt from her mouth and danced above Gerwins reaching hands. Imma reachin, Imma reachin, Nancy. What are you reachin for, Gerwin? She grabbed a wad of tissues from her pocket and placed them over his eyes. Keep blinkin that yellow out. Nancy looked directly into Gerwins eyes. He had trouble closing them. His eyes had swollen like a Tarsier primate. Brother and Sister Drop lead the herd of goats towards the monsters mouth. They appear as a tidal wave of yellow liquid, swallowing the panicked goats. The goats have no choice. They are to be lead by Brother and Sister Drop to the mouth, where they will be forced to leave their home. They approach the mouth. A wide, black circle. Just beyond the mouth is a gate that is opening and closing. Liquid is being forced out from the gate. The goats feel themselves being guided towards the mouth. The circle stays still, but its the gate they are worried about. There you go, said Nancy. Open and close your eyes till you get it all out. What do you see now? Gerwin ignored Nancy. Im feeling a bit goatish, said Gerwin. Goatish? How so? What are you talking about? Did you know that a goats pupils are rectangular when dilated? I think I feel them lining up against my pupil. You feel what? The goats? Just keep blinking. The goats line up side by side in the monsters maw. The

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gate closes. Brother and Sister Drop tricked the herd of goats. You were never going to lead us out of the monsters mouth, were you? What gave us away? asks Brother Drop. The gate has closed. We are going to die here. Are we not? You need to keep blinking, Gerwin. Why are your eyes closed? I can feel them against my pupil. Im feeling goatish. Gerwin. Gerwin! You need to keep blinking. Gerwin scratched his head and felt two small horns. Im feeling goatish. The goats began to panic. They feel the yellow liquid rising, pushing up against the closed gates. Stop, said one goat. It is useless. We are going to die. The goats began to hum the one song they know. A hum that, too, was swallowed by the yellow liquid. The goats carry the hum until the liquid rises, encompassing their necks, and soon their mouths. Drowning to death isnt so bad. It was the hum that got them through. The goats inhale their last breath under water, and die. As their wet lifeless bodies fall limp in the monsters jaw, the gate opens. Brother and Sister Drop exit the gate, leaving the ones they deceived dead, all lying in a harmonious union in the monsters jaw. Gerwin sat lifeless on the table. Nancy was frantically beating his chest, screaming at his wide eyes that stared back at her. His pupils were rectangular. She ran to the bathroom and got a magnify glass. She returned to Gerwins body. He hadnt moved. She lowered her eyes to his, magnify glass in hand, and through the instrument could see six dead goats lined up against his rectangular pupil. Youre feeling goatish, she muttered. Two horns, each two feet long were protruding from the back of his head. She finished

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wiping the liquid from the table. She removed his soaked shirt and threw it in the wash. She soon retired to bed, leaving Gerwins lifeless body on the kitchen table. As Nancy slept she dreamt of goats and bloody Oompa Loompas dancing in prison cells. She felt a small goat crawl in her bed and lay beside her. She rubbed its horn and patted it on the head. Good night, Gerwin. You still feeling goatish? No, replied Gerwin. After you eat you dont feel hungry anymore, do you? And after I graze in the grass, nibbling at petals under the sky, I then realize that I am a goat. Just dont forget to keep blinking, said Nancy. Dont worry, replied Gerwin. Ill blink till all the yellow liquid leaves my eyes. Gerwin and Nancy fell asleep, entering yet another dreamland. Maybe there they will find each other. But for now, their bodies sleep, while the six dead goats rock back and forth in the monsters jaw. Bah.

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PROJECTION
leanne hoppe

A grown-up dog, tired of waiting, lazy, pees on the kitchen rug. A throw rug: easy to clean. Dog spanked and forgiven. Kevins birthday at the bar five doors from home. Friends come back to sleep: drunk. One, too drunk, pees on the attic floor. Urine drips through carpet, through plywood and plaster. Kevins sister sleeps below drip drip on white down. The dog trods upstairs sniffs the dark circle under the friends pelvic bone A person forgives a dog that forgets. No one spanks the friend.

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hannah stewart photo

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N E W Y E A R S D AY
megan towey

The first winter was composed of sleeping, flower-like, but this second is like prowling the gap between feeling and thinking; limbering up the dawn, unscarfed, uncoated, with my head like a getaway bag, hastily packed, a floppy trammel of tossed lists: lists of lies told and believed that have since turned into calcitrate in unsunned cloisters, and I should know the dawn because Ive seen it, and I should know the gap because I populated it with crows and left-behind items of clothing. It was like dismantling a spiral staircase step by step, leaving a sequence of hollows stripped of the seasons riverly cadence. So I have myself to blame for this desolate winter, because I thought I could be solved by the same process by which we build bridges to unnamed places: one slimy brick before the other, incomprehensibly; forever imposing axiom upon axiom onto that plane until the equinoctial day it answers back.

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THE BODY WE ARE GIVEN


truong pham

was thirteen years old the first time I had a nosebleed. Back then we ate a lot of microwave dinners because they were inexpensive and were manufactured for the average middle class American family. The boxes were designed with explicit attention to the public in mind. A wheels and cheese dinner flickered alone inside the microwave, rotating in a perfect circle. The microwaves hum could be heard in another room. At thirteen years old I could speak English fluently like most of the kids in my grade and far better than my parents could. However, at home we were forbidden to speak English for fear that our native tongue could be easily misplaced and abandoned. My grandpa watched from the living room, his body became birdlike as I began to speak. Words and colors poured from my mouth and gathered in a pool of odor beneath the kitchen counter. Right before his hand struck me cleanly on the nose, he pointed at my mouth as though he expected me to forget how to speak. His body vanished instantly like objects often do when they are covered in dust. Above my head the lilacs looked like they were drowning, the water blanketing their roots. I remember seeing it in a travel magazine. The pictures were folded outward to mimic the real thing. The pages had been held before and the creased edges were physical evidence of that. It was a tower built in 1889, its steel frame casting a long shadow which expands and contracts in the sunlight, before vanishing abruptly into the Seine. It reminded me of A Moveable Feast, a novel by Hemingway, because he could open up a city in the same manner an orthopedic surgeon cuts into the bone. He revealed to the reader its beating heart, the lungs, the multiple canals that traverse along the surface of the body,

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and also, the layers of skin which covers it all. It is summer in Paris, and two bodies walk beside the river, they each carry a name in their coat pocket. It is summer in Paris; the ground is littered with paper advertisements for a clothing store around the corner, young couples are excavating their own bodies, and in the distance the Eiffel Tower becomes a perfect backdrop for a photograph. I imagine that a book opens in the same manner that a body would. It seems unfair to have scientific names for each part of the body without doing the same for the novel. Words that describe an entire day or words like help me were invented out of desperation. Desperate to exist, we run the tips of our fingers through one another, being tactile. Being close. Before I entered the house, I heard his body drip, the colors faded from his summer shirt. It was December and the snow had filled the crevices around the house creating a placid surface to walk on. His room contained no windows, and although the carpet beneath the bed absorbed most of the weight, I could not help but notice how heavy his face looked. For an instant, I wanted to touch his name, trace the signature on his passport with my mouth, and sign my own beneath the existing one. I wanted to build windows around his body; I wanted to see the tornadoes inside the flesh for myself. My grandpa held his words like a boxer. He kept them close to his body and could quickly deliver a remark within an instant. He was oftentimes too stubborn to listen and was quick to disagree with anyone who wanted to argue with him. When he walked into a room his voice would permeate above everyone elses, and suddenly we were aware of it. It is strange to observe the instant a person comes into contact with a room. Their own flesh becomes another object on display, the figures kept behind glass cases and bulletproof covers. I remember the noises his body would make when he

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truong pham

moved around the house. I was unaware the body could sound so much like a country until I heard his bones. They were inside his flesh as though they were put there on purpose. I often times would press my ears to his ribs to hear the sounds that an ocean could make. Our own voices underwater could be mistaken for love. I watched an airplane in flight for the first time when I was nine years old. Looking out from a glass window I saw my own reflection on the side of the plane. Suddenly I was aware of the noises coming from inside the plane, mothers pouring themselves into magazines, the static etching of a radio barely audible from the overhead speaker, and the vibration itself, as we collided with a pocket of air. It amazed me what men were capable of. Our bodies remained birdlike for nearly twelve hours. At the funeral I stayed close to my mom, my arms hovering just above hers. From a distance she looked like a woman going through a terminal, her hands swayed as though she were carrying luggage for the first time. We did not communicate that day because the room was filled with people trying to speak to one another. I could tell she missed her dad because her voice trembled when she saw his body for the first time since his passing. She called it sign language, the way their hands used to mimic one another in the air. I called it body language because for the first time our bodies were separated by columns of wind. The lingering smoke from the incense wrapped the entire room in a blindfold. When I opened my eyes the room we were in flooded with water, only his body would float, the rest of us struggled for air. Three photos hung on a wall in his apartment. He looked healthier because his bones were frozen inside the lens of an old 1992 camera. In the first photo he was standing beside a windmill in the Netherlands. He and my grandma were standing on a hill,

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which receivde a frequent amount of wind. It moved between the space that two bodies could produce and wandered aimlessly into the background. In the summer the wind would collect dirt around the lens of the camera and only my grandparents were visible. However, their bodies looked like mirages in the distance. I saw my grandpa the way he wanted to be seen, with layers of wind covering his flesh. My grandpa and grandma stood like dark shapes next to the Eiffel Tower. Their bodies bent and twisted like they were made of liquid, trying to fill up the space in focus. He had his arm around her shoulders, as though he were comforting her about a dying pet or a lost lottery ticket. I could almost hear their conversations with the cameraman, my grandpa telling him to move closer but not too close because he wanted the tower to be in the picture. I noticed the date on the photograph because dates are important when we talk about people. It defines what a person is capable of and how much disparity can be held within a moment. When I first heard news that my grandpa was on stage four of his cancer, I had just finished reading The Fountainhead. His transformation started as a young man enlisting in the War, to an older looking body, deteriorating from across the dinner table. I saw him gaze at my parents, uncles, aunts, grandkids, and wife, as though our bodies themselves were diluted in mineral. The restaurant we were eating at had large columns that sprung up from the ground to hold up the roof of the building. The columns were constructed to look like Tibetan architecture. Each person in the restaurant had ownership of their body, and they carved their names in the flesh with ink. I compared my body to his because I was young and he was naked. We could both exist in a single room, in the same house, within the same space and not know it. He did not love me and I was sure of it. I would never grow up to be a doctor

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truong pham

or someone who could put a person back together. I didnt end up with the best grades in school, and he never told me how proud he was of me. As a kid all I did was watch ants travel, lifting their weight onto non fict erthe steps in our yard and burying themselves in the traffic. Their bodies looked gold in the summertime; neither of them carried wind in their bodies anymore. He stayed at a hospice for a while, about a month. Then they moved his bones back into the apartment and he was given a new bed. The last time I saw him he was not standing beside the Seine, or looking out at the yard. His name lay on the same bed as his body did, the two seemingly unrecognizable. I could not compare him to anything anymore, he looked neither older nor younger, but he stayed the same for the next two days. I was not there when his body was submerged in chemicals, I did not see the buoyant faces that surrounded him on his bed. The body has its own language, separate from the mouth. I watched as his body opened like an atlas, the pages filling up a coffee table. When we cremate a body, we burn the dates that are ingrained on the flesh. When they burnt his body, he was not begging for a new one. Two men carried his body into an oven, like ants carrying seed. The last time I saw him he looked like a young man standing in Paris for the first time. His body littered with flowers, each one carrying a different name. Each person pressed their faces into his arms trying to feel out the bones.

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HIT AND RUN


marc inman

he summer I turned eleven, a car hit a boy from my neighborhood. Knocked him down and ran him over. His pants caught on the exhaust and he was dragged about a half a milefrom the big brown church to the Top Stop convenience storeuntil his jeans tore loose. The car never stopped. The boy lay on the side of the road for over ten minutes. Although the street was busy with automobile traffic, somehow nobody saw or helped him. He yelled, but the nearby subdivision was set below the road on a steep slope, and the Top Stop was bordered by an empty field. Thats what he was in front of. Oddly, it was his older brother who finally found him. The boy lived. I visited him in the hospital. Embedded gravel peppered his skin. He had numerous broken bones, and he had to get a screw put into his leg. When he came back to school, we stuck magnets against his jeans and were mad when they didnt stick. He never walked the same. A year later, he set his house on fire when he was home alone. His family had to divide their eight kids between the neighbors until their house was fixed. But when I think about him lying on the street, I wonder: how did no one see him? How was it that only his brother helped? Could adults not tell that the lump on the side of the road was a kid? When my mom heard about the accident, she said to me, Let that be a lesson to you. I thought it should be a lesson for her. Even though this happened almost twenty-five years ago, if I spot something on the side of the road, I slam on the brakes. I did this the other day. I dont want to miss something like that.

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elizabeth wilhelmsen digital photography

on edge

83

T H E K I R C H N E R PAT C H
steve richardson

irst Day.

Quit smoking and years later that addicted for life idea becomes a real bitch. Maybe its just a self-fulfilling prophecy. You know, if I wasnt told addiction would last a lifetime then it wouldnt. Quit and then try staying with Scott. Try sleeping on the white vinyl couch , stale with years of cigarette smoke lingering in the synthetic pores. Thats right, you were always morally above smoking cigarettes. The way you were morally above God. To you, sleeping on Scotts couch would just provoke a moral uproar, something for you to protest with the utmost bitchiness. Maybe you would start a movement to save the flies. The geometrically minded pests buzzing at eye level, making constant ninety-degree turns through clouds of carcinogens. Whos to say a fly doesnt have rights? To be honest, if I came to town alone, this smokers paradise of a house would be enough to knock me off the wagon. Yes, I am in town again. No, you wont hear from me. Last time I was here, without Jeff as my traveling companion aiding me in my fight for pink lungs, the freedom to smoke indoors was liberating. Relaxing by the heater to suck down death beats sitting on the curb with the constant winter drizzle threatening to extinguish your cherry. Scotts dark house, with his waterlogged, wooden demon teeth barely hanging on after years clinging to the gutter above the front door. Scotts house with his blue-tarp-floored shower, faucet punched through the moldy wooden-shingle-walls, overflowing if you didnt make it

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T H E K I R C H N E R PAT C H

quick. This house was luxury. Right now, my body still craves for something I know better than to dip back in to. The red reflecting glow of Scotts cigarette-lit face breathing back at me every 30 seconds from the fuzzy TV screen becomes too much. I grab a book about some artist, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, off the shelf Im sitting by. I think, Ill just flip through this to keep my thoughts off my self destructive tendencies. Then you come to mind. Next Day. Between driving around town or out to the waterfall and mapping out where my days were once spent getting Jeff to all the tourist attractions, cigarette thoughts dont bother me. Back at Scotts house with Jeff collapsed on that stale sofa and Scott still bar-tending, during the quiet times, that is when my haunting desires start creeping up my spinal column. I take these thoughts as my cue to reach for the yellow-bound book that can be judged by its cover. Seeing the book on the shelf for the first time was seeing it as a distraction. Now its becoming my crutch, my nicotine patch. Imagine the heavy brush stokes of Self-portrait as a Soldier, reduced to a one-inch square, just big enough to see the cigarette dangling from Kirchners lips, imagine that as patch-art. Flipping through pages of Kirchners work initially makes me think of how my own abilities with a brush surely outweigh this degenerate worka common reaction of mine. I can mix paints and create images with incredible likeness to reality. So can a camera, using no imagination. Really, the ability to act as a biological camera means nothing, and I envy the imagination Kirchner has. I envy the ability to see more than what simply is. Why would you come to mind while I look through the Berlin Street Scenes? It could be Kirchners German nationality reminding me of your house, stinking of beer brats and red kraut.

steve richardson

85

But, I dont think thats it. Im back in town. We havent talked since I moved. All I want is to distract myself from a physical hunger that if satisfied will by my end. I dont know. You just come to mind. Another Day. Today Jeff and I drove to the city of my childhood. He had never been, and I hadnt been back. What we did doesnt matter, Im not writing to keep you informed. My thoughts just need an escape. Besides, what else is there to do in this broken house? Even the blackberry vines climbing the outer walls stay clear of the windows, probably to avoid cancer. I peel open my Kirchner mega-patch straight to a full-page image of Self-portrait in a Morphine Fit. This could be the best piece yet. I dont know how I could have missed it before. To me it looks like a fit induced by some other drug. Something psychedelic and unforgiving, psilocybin mushrooms maybe. Although with mushrooms, color would have more of a role. The monochromatic darkness of the portrait is where Kirchner and I agree on what morphine looks like. It looks more like the despair of having shot your last bit of your last pill hours ago, not the calmness of the high. You dont know this though. You dont want to hear about immoral conduct. Your set of guiding rules surely still forbids you from anything illegal. But cause is unimportant in this image. Anyone could relate the darkness and chaos of Self-portrait in a Morphine Fit to their own form of anxieties. Your fit could stem from the sight of Scotts damned flies, unknowingly ingesting poisonous cigarette smoke. Last Day. Just before leaving, and after days spent studying pictures, I finally had the sense to read a few sentences beyond the titles of Kirchners work.

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You would not approve of his bohemian lifestyle. Of his painting while naked men and women danced around him. You have no problem with nudity one at a time. You would examine Kirchners depictions of nudes the way you once insisted on examining my awkward, transitioning body. But, reading of his life in the studio would trigger that ugly shape of disgust your face makes so well. You surely would not approve of his mental breakdown when, to you, my minor anxieties were so pathetic. Your heart might even be cold enough to find pleasure in his suicide. The way Ive seen you wish death upon any Burgerville employee who inconveniences you, I just wouldnt be surprised. When Im hours from Scotts house Ill have to fight off urges for nicotine with some other crutch. Its normal to sweat at the sight of Brad Pitt sliding a smoke from his white softpack on screen or to salivate at the stacks and stacks of delicious options behind the clerk at 7-Eleven. Im past stressing over smoking all day but the little triggers will never go away, even if its just a self-fulfilling prophecy. The pleasure I associate with smoking wont fade from my memory, even if its just because Ive been told it wouldnt. My good memories of you are fading, and luckily, nobody ever told me I would always remember you.

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elizabeth wilhelmsen digital photography

elegance

2013 Enormous Rooms Literary Magazine. Authors and Artists retain copyright. 175 units printed by Lewis Color. Enormous Rooms was created using Adobe CS6 Software using the following fonts: Times New Roman and Minion Pro.

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