NaNoFiMo

Now that NaNoWriMo has ended, some of you may have an unfinished project on your hands and no idea what to do with it. Well, the events aren't over. December is the month for NaNoFiMo, an affiliate of NaNoWriMo to encourage writers to edit and finish their pieces.

Don't have time this month because of all your finals and projects? Visit their "I Wrote a Novel, Now What?" page for a heads up on upcoming events.

Poetry: Purple Merkin

Purple Merkin


A clump of pubic hair pasted on his chin crawls up in curly patches,
up his cheeks and down his jowls, down this neck
in bushy ringlets connected to his pubic mustache connected to his
pubic sideburns connected to the long pubic hair hanging over his pubic ears
with two blue balls hiding behind pubic eyebrows,
one positioned on either side of his nose sprouting pubic hair of its own,
vibrating above a tiny pink

hole in her stocking below the hem of her dress—a shirt
she calls a dress that ends just under the curve of her ass. A black belt
wrapped around her waist keeps the fabric from moving
when she stands, but when she walks, she reveals

Everything is ruined forever, said the elephant.
You can trust me,
for I am plaid and purple and perfect in every way.
But the world is not perfect or plaid or even purple people
don’t understand the meaning of peace poor people poor
people feel responsible.

~By Colleen Morrison~

NaNoWriMo Novel Writing Competition

Has that plot bunny in your head been sitting idly, never taking the time to be written onto paper (or a computer screen, whatever your preference)?

Maybe you should take interest in NaNoWriMo's National Writing Month (which would be November) where the goal is to write 50,000 words starting from November 1st to November 30th of 2008. Winners will have their words counted and win a nice little certificate (sorry guys, no cash) along with the satisfaction of writing mercilessly without worrying about spelling errors.

It's all about quantity, not quality, so make mistakes and just keep writing!

Please visit this link for more information. No entry fee. Just fun!

NaNoWriMo Novel Writing Competition

_{NaNoWriMo also deletes all entries after the competition is over so you will not have to worry about your frantically written novel appearing somewhere.}

Art: "Print" & "If I could paint this"

If I could Paint this in
Oil on Canvas
60x72



Untitled
Aquatint Print

~By Jacob Gossett~

Fiction/Poetry: "Lions", "Proof", and "Smallness"

Lions with Curls

How is it that a bird sits centered in memory, but the cage and the living room and the color of a mother's robes have faded to sepia? Remember on the shelf a mug that said Trafalgar Square in red. For nine months it was the bus stop. Now no lions can impress.

I found missing letters for green envelopes; found english polaroids. Statues blur at high speeds--a caption reads is this the only time they move? Don't send me anything more ce sera le dernier. Hear that heartbeat underwater. Through pipes I can feel the ocean just two-hundred feet away. I press my ear to the waves that are born between this island and yours and there must be millions.

An ocean between like this: I sit on the phone as the sun rises and wait as the transatlantic static collects like Creeping Buttercups in the alley, like Hare's Foot Clover in my Soho, in your Soho.

Proof

It is in a candid cheek kiss, subjects still overcoated, blocking the entrance to the party. The lady wears a hat (now ladies never wear hats) and the man's white neck tie is only visible in the shadows. Ascots and feathers and molding trimmed ceilings; pearl earrings, Jacquard skirts peeking from beneath swing coats.

She asked if it was real, as her mother sat brushing the soft curls into her hair. She asked about Father and dinner parties before there were record players. Now, now.

Left going in, again (always, forever, amen), when the boy with freckles held down the shutter and lit up the room with a light unlike the soft yellow overhead. Shoved in deepest pockets, no peeks promised, a hidden message developing in the dark.

Found in the corner, in his scrawl--proof, a one-line drawing by fingernail. White as the Monday morning they met when he told her of the waves he bore into, of the spices bought on coasts with no maps.

Some Smallness

Was it rain or dew this morning
turning things too wet for touch,
for holding? I saw the yarn yellow

and fence snared--all flagging
in the wind--untethered over
night, embodying an absence.

The rabbit cage had a hole
and one bunny too few. The
fence had been dug under

and in the grass on the other
side she rested slick, lacking
dignity. When I held her in

my hands I could feel
the skull halved, held together
only by skin and fur (so soft).

Her breaths still came out
labored and she blinked
twice in my lap as I stroked

her bunny ears,
now reared (always to be reared).

Autumn rolled back
over. There was a
tree bare branched. There

was a tree relieved of
leaves. Weight shifting
in the wind, it did not

bemoan those fallen,
but rather it whistled.



~By Caroline Gormley~

Poetry: An Automated Harvest

An Automated Harvest


The machine that spins wire also spins rope and in nature is more akin to a twisted umbilical cord than an arachnid's spinnerets. We must tie every fetus down to a womb. We hold babies in plenitude, but the mother-end of the strand is largely unclaimed. We receive a call for intimacy, but the caller must leave a message or hang up. We don't know how long the cassette tape will run. Already there are spools stored in a warehouse. Hundreds of feet of magnetic tape. Play it to hear a whisper.

“I know you are still afraid of the dark. I was there when you dreamed of the blood soaking your legs only to wake in a puddle of your own urine, I know that you hit her. I know your shame...”

“I know that you woke with his screams and his fists, and wondered why, until you changed the sheets. I know that you've forgotten what it's like to be kissed...”

“I know that you want your grandfather to die. I know that you are already afraid of being useless...”

“I am afraid of being forgotten. I am afraid for my children. I am afraid that you do not love me the way I love you. I am...”

The first length of tape is a WORD hanging in the air by a single strand.

(The machines will finish the harvest, because there aren't enough men and women to clip and carry every sheaf of wheat.)


~By Zachary Garver~

Poetry: Inches to Miles

Inches to Miles

We push past knees and hide our smiles
I watch the smoke curl its back into the night
the sky shouldn’t be moving like this.
Wait, whispered as the door closes.
I count the fractures and disconnects
tiny mistakes printed on bodies
sunbursts watermarks footprints.
Later, we draw a map.


~By Chenice Greenberg~

Art: Leos

Angry Leo


Leopihpany


Leo


~By Thomas Mullarney~
18x24 Charcoal

Poetry: Half Dark & Untitled

Half-Dark

How many half-darks I have seen? I could probably
calculate a number. Couldn’t we?
Darkness has little chance of half-existence with
full-breasted mountains in the distance. Sure, light comes over the top of them occasionally.
Sure
the snow is a source of some sort

Don’t go out there she tells me
then remembers her mother
then becomes quiet and shares my triumph,
when I have one

If I stopped watching, stopped calculating
stopped altogether
spoke a language no one knew
got my finger stuck between the keys?

The clock wastes time: a comet going on for miles past the time in which
we have spotted it and named it a comet. It knows not letters it soars it travels speedily through space
perhaps forever. Perhaps forever it doesn’t rest and that is what we should remember about it

A gypsy sleepless night an understatement.
Where have you walked? And slept and fought
Hair dried to the wood
The fungi the decomposers the invisibles
Remove me now



Untitled

Mom knitted
Dad
a sweater
years ago.
It wouldn’t fit him now
if it came out of the hope chest

She has since never knitted
never sewed
decorated
or arranged,
couldn’t be bothered,
I love her for it

Dad brings in the wood
She sweeps the woodchips,
loads domestic machines

She says “he got pissed off” “she got pissed off”
I got pissed off

But hardly ever
fuck

she left me a message
after work
“one of the residents died today”

she left me a message
“I decided I’m going to start knitting again”


~By Erin Heath~

Poetry: Coney Island & Untitled

Coney Island:

The lights from the
boardwalk
Leave
orange stains
on black water
It's
quiet now
The crowds have
all
gone home
except for
us.
We remain
With our toes
in the sand
pointing out
to sea,
our faces turned
to look
back
at the
ghosts
of other people's
dreams.



Untitled:

Were you but a jewel
held up
against the
sun
to bare the lights
and shadows
of your
soul
And show to me
what fire,
if any,
can be found
there.


~By Sophia Johnson~
Freshman COMD (Illustration)

Poetry: Pratt's Poetry Club

~By Pratt's Poetry Club~

Fiction: Raining in the Sheets

I can feel my ears pressed between my knees as I slide back across this knotted wood. I open and close my dizzied eyes, inches away from the grass-stained mud that, hours earlier, I was afraid to stick my boots into. That was before the night’s beer, cheap and stale out of plastic cups, and that was before we traded our cash for tear-away tickets, then traded three for the ride. The glass plastic shield was scarred with obscenity and your back brushed against mine. I couldn’t see your face; just hear your smiling screams from the top as it pulled us down in full swing. I saw your hair blowing out over the water. My eyes point down towards the ground but yours are out towards Matt and Andrew, swinging out from their seats, knocking the light with each spin, strobing the flash into your unflinching sight. You tell me you’re alright but your stare is glossed over and your hand lies across your side lightly. The colors and lights are covered in small town traveling dirt, carried from state to state with the carnival. It’s brushed off here, where we grew up. I’m back after leaving. You are still here.

The fairground music comes from yells, whistles, bells and yelps, the screech from rusted rides and laughing children. They culminate in song muffled through my jeans as I try to hold my shaking head still. I look up towards the night sky, open and circling slowly around our dome. Stars, so many they connect as bars of the playground's jungle gym with the slide nowhere near us. I can't look towards our sky 'til a greased, gone man leans his sledge across my side and tells me to win you a prize. When I look up I see past his ear to the sky behind and the mirror of water. I am too weak, I tell him and I am as I crumble back into my shell. You drop your head too and all is quiet until he speaks up again. I look up through blurred eyes and point out. "There is your man. He'll win her prizes," as Matt walks into view followed by Andrew, shadowing us from the lights. He turns his attention towards them as I turn towards you - smiles, soft eyes and a wave as they stumble off behind them. After a stretch of my legs, a stretch of my shoulders and neck, I sit up staring at you with your palms on the bench. You lean forward and I almost forget that we watched the rain sheet your yard from your porch late in yesterday's afternoon.

You sat on your mother's rocker as I sat on boxes, head leaning back against the white post, chipped from wine bottles, exposing pale bark that splintered at my neck. The water slanted constant along the roof, drifting through drain pipes and dripping into the yard. Just enough of a sound to muffle your voice. Just enough movement to take you out of focus. Through the blur, I looked for your wings, gone now - clipped or were they just fading? I imagine seeing a faint outline, transparent but the color a bit lighter then what surrounded them. But that is just imagination. Because, when I stood up for another drink, I pressed my hand gently against your back and I felt nothing moving from your shoulder’s blades, just the fabric from the hood, now not much thicker than a tee shirt. Thinning out from two seasons of wash. My own hands looked more scarred than your flesh, exposed, hair pulled up, soft small of your neck and I thought to ask, did you notice?, but instead reached for my glass and turned my eyes back into the drowning evening.

It is just now October, cold but not the cold of that winter night when I stumbled out of the twenty-four hour diner dialing your number on my way to the car. I shimmied in an hour earlier, scarved and smelling of liquor, laughing with Ryan and Dave 'til the breath left the top of my gut and I bit my chapped lip to be quiet. They didn't notice but she did, eyes buried deep, thin frame, soft jaw, a pot of coffee in her hand. The girl you came to me with in a junior high day at the pool. I tripped and fell over her eyes and frail body but turned you both away, fixing my sights on a girl a little further along. When we moved into freshman the two of you were noticed and carted down the halls by the crowds, her never to be seen again, only ears full of tales depicting her whereabouts. Then I tried not to see her slinging coffee as I slid deep down into the booth. I stared at the ashtray, a book of matches and wondered if she still smoked, if you did. Her face looked like it, pale and thin but still fragile, ultimately sad as I watched her look down behind the walls along the kitchen. She caught me and walked over to put her arms around my neck, still sitting in the booth. We made no conversation. She smelled my hair and said how she missed me, missed us. And as she slid her hands from around me, slow, I wished for her to stay there.


In my alphabet there are only seven letters. I would settle for three. "M-E-L." You turn and look startled. "The devil is a threat to this country." But, no, the Devil's just a threat to our souls. You say that it's true. You see him in pictures, there, just behind them, standing taller than the rest. "But how do you know it's him?" You don't answer, turn your head to stretch your legs, digging your heals into the earth. You say you want to become a doctor, or teach. "You know he wants to marry you."

Just hours before, we stood in clear open fields, stadium lights circling around us. The noise from conversation blanketed over the sound from the stage. Children sat on speakers, face painted, holding balloons. Josh and Anna stood arm in arm, back to the show, passing their flask full of whiskey. You stood to my right, uncomfortable to look at, trying to stand natural with his arms wrapped around you. I saw it in the car, the gate, and the hill. We told them we were off for beer, two of them down with a funnel cake a pair of sausages who put us where we are now. My stomach hurts but yours aches, you tried to stifle it before we hit the air, just inches away from the breath of each other, escaping through laughs and scream, pushed out before us.

The shield of plastic didn't fog like the glass in view from the seats of my Bronco. Two years ago I'd wait, with the sun going down, a single rose, white in hand singing songs and listening to talk on the radio. The time felt like nothing, must have been hours, waiting for you to skip out of rehearsal doors towards my car, apologizing. I just sat, smiling. You wouldn't get your flower 'til we came up for air. I remember sticking my eye up to the heart you colored in with your finger. The only way to see out. Who knows what my parents thought? Fifteen minutes in the evening is all you could steal before you got home. The same in the morning. My heater breathed out cold as I waited, stalled, staring out the window for you to drive up. I stole almost an hour one weekend morning before the holiday with your shoes off and your jeans. We sat quiet in the full sun, wishing for words to say, so used to scrambling them out. You rested your head on my shoulder and squinted and said it was too much.

If we drive long enough down the main road in town, drive far enough, we'll see cemeteries out to our right. At first, just the field but, with a slight curve in the steering, there are gravestones scattered in the headlight, hundreds of them spread out over miles of unkempt grass. The fence isn't more than what would circle a little league game, diamond design tangling up metal post, not much taller than our steps over. When I returned, Andrew drove with me in the passenger seat, as you laid up against Matt in the back. "I'm afraid I'm going to die abruptly. Like the kind that comes in a moment of hesitation, deciding to step off the tracks." We stare off into the grass, some grown long enough to lay shadow across each shot of granite. "The train was coming and the jump was planned. It is just waiting too long." I imagine your eyes stay open with the hit, unflinching at the impact. We barely move.

I see myself driving us back. Not because we're tired, but because those two are piling more beer and couldn't hop in the bed of Andrew's truck - you'd lean against Matt, his arm slung under yours, wrapped around your chest and me up on the ledge, foot wrapped in an old tire buried in the pine. Maybe we'll have to walk back. You'd shush them in the streets, heavy in houses as we watch them disappear between lamp posts. Dogs would bark behind their fences. Maybe we'll watch them fall asleep in flower beds and you'll wish you had come when I asked you to. You'll wish you had carved hearts in my bunk or slid from it to the floor of my dorm, next to me. And you'll will wish that you could leave now, packing up a duffel bag with skirts and dresses, holding on to my arm, when I turn they keys. You'd look forward.

~By Sebastian Olivari~

Welcome Back!

Welcome back, everyone!

<sub>I hope that everyone had an enjoyable summer. Ubiquitous is now accepting submissions for this semester so feel free to start sending your pieces to our email. We look forward to seeing everyone's work.

This blog is still open for links and other websites that anyone is willing to recommend. We appreciate any suggestions. Thanks.</sub>

Online classes and Inspiration

Hope everyone is enjoying their summer vacation so far. :D

I have found this really great site, a group of independent designers and illustrators that have gathered together to create "Imaginism Studios". There are links on their page to helpful resources, such as online classes like digital painting, character design, story boarding and so on. Their artwork is also very imaginative and inspiring (in my opinion). And if you live in Toronto, there's a subway sketching group that meet up to draw people while riding the trains!

Please drop by and take a look. This link will also be placed on the right side of the page with the other links. Enjoy.

Imaginism Studios

Events for the Summer

Ubiquitous' blog is open this summer for event postings! So, if you're in need of some entertainment and want to explore the city, stay tuned to the blog for some notices on upcoming events. If you know of an event or a nice little bookstore/museum you'd like to recommend here in New York, please feel free to offer ideas.

You know that free magazine people try to hand you on the subway that you probably pass by? Well, the L Magazine shouldn't be over looked and it is a great source for events, whether they are art exhibits, film previews, comedy nights, or poetry readings, there's something for everyone. Their website is a nice little spot to visit. To see their most recent posts on events here in good old NYC, visit the link posted on the right side of the blog.

www.TheLMagazine.com

Tillies is also having another set of Open Mics this month! The Open Mics are on the 8th and 22nd of May. Sign ups are at 8:00pm and performances begin at 8:30pm. Visit their site for more info.

www.tilliesofbrooklyn.com

Open Mic

OPEN MIC ~ hosted by Nick Noir

Thursday April 10th and 24th

Musicians
Poets
Singers
Rappers
Writers

8 pm Sign up
8:30 Performance

Tillies of Brooklyn
248 Dekalb Ave.
Bklyn, NY
(718) 783- 6140

www.tilliesofbrooklyn.com

Pratt Poetry Competition!

The Pratt Institute and The Academy of American Poets Present the Annual

Pratt Poetry Competition Spring 2008!

Pratt Students may submit one to three poems (any style, any subject) to:

Helen Anne Easterly
Mailbox North Hall
101

DEADLINE Wednesday, April 30th, 6 pm

Submit 3 typed copies of each poem with your name, dept., year (freshman, senior etc.) email address, and mailing address ON EACH COPY.

Winning poem will be chosen by Pratt Alumna E. Ward Herlands and Assistant Professor Helen Anne Easterly.

Cash Prize!

Write-A-Thon & Draw-A-Thon!!!

So maybe you want to write instead of draw- or heck, maybe you want to attend both events.

Come to the Write-A-Thon!!!

When: Friday, April 11th
Time: 7pm -7am (all night)
Where: 5th Floor Main building (right above the Draw-A-Thon)

Writing Faculty & Special guests will be conducting workshops and readings.

Pens/typewriters/music/paper/glue/books/magazines and newspaper/(for cut up and collage/ inspiration/pizza/coffee/ all available

$10 in advance
$15 at the door

Call 718- 636-3617 to make reservations

Questions: klamm@pratt.edu


*Entry into the Draw-A-Thon is an AUTOMATIC ENTRY into the Write-A-Thon because of the Draw-A-Thon's 20th Anniversary so you don't have to pay twice to go to both!!!



Come to the Draw-A-Thon!!!

When: Friday, April 11th
Time: 7pm - 7am (all night)
Where: 4th Floor Main building

$10 in advance
$15 at the door.

Pizza, fruit,coffee, and refreshments...

Eighteen models circulate throughout the drawing studios, including one devoted to costume modeling. Specific rooms are dedicated to poses ranging from the energy and frenzy of fast action poses, to sessions of five minutes, twenty minutes, and one-hour duration. There is also the opportunity to work from extended poses of three and six hours.

Live African drum music.

Pratt will also be offering prizes that are generously donated by area art stores and will be awarded at the end of the Draw-a-thon.

Reservations call: 718-636-3617.

Photography is not permitted.

Poetry: It's Raining Here for You

It’s raining here
For you
With your cigarette and black coffee mug in the same hand,
You
Who still keeps a typewriter in the closet
To pay homage to the old ways,
To those grown-up men trying to find their boyhood once again.

Breathe in the droplets,
Or they will smear the carbon copies
Falling from your trees,
Thin leaves for submission to the press.
Doesn’t anybody print unknowns anymore?
You cry,
Doesn’t anybody read?

You dye your
Second-hand clothes with the same tea
You make for me to drink,
So what am I to think
About the fairy tales of utopia you spin me now?

Let go.
Dance for the rain.
It came down for you and shimmered.
The czars and I and even you can all enjoy the ballet;
Your words,
They will wait for you to untie your wet boots.


Jennifer Stohlmann

Poetry: Search and Rescue

My mother brings home an
owl with a broken wing and winces
when she wraps it in warm towels,

like a part of her is broken too--
maybe there is. I make the bed
like you will sleep there: no sheet.

It takes three days for your
lingering scent to stop lingering or
for my nose to adjust--

either way, it's gone.
The owl dies over night and
my mother begins planning the funeral.

Two birds build a nest on our porch.
I say ours but it was never ours,
now was it?

A ferry sinks on the evening news.
the water is warm and thick,
like breast milk,

so they decide to swim.
I remember the skin behind your ears
and loving you,

violently. I want your blood on my hands.
Dirt in carpet, shovel in sink,
and the owl is still wrapped,

swaddled, on the kitchen counter with
the cat pawing the back door and
mother in the yard,

whispering our father in heaven hallowed be your name.
I make up my mind to
swim to you but by the time I

make it to the Atlantic,
the notes in my pocket are too wet to read.
I forget if they were

love letters to begin with. So I swim home.
Dear mother, did the deer join the prayers
at the owl's funeral?

An obvious ending:
The men and women on the ferry later say
the search was better than the rescue.

The less obvious:
The owl unburied himself
and flew away.


Stephanie Willis

Poetry: The Consequences of Fearing Loneliness

I fall asleep in the bathtub to be closer to the ocean.
I invite others to sleep near me. Their bodies
keep me warm like water: cold, cold, cold,
and then you adjust.

October becomes November and I can't distinguish
my breath from smoke. Think of me next time
you drink lukewarm soup or touch a girl
who can't stop shaking.

I am sorry for thinking
the wrong people are wonderful,
for thinking I am wonderful, for thinking
of he and me as we.

I’m sorry for holding his shoulder when he tried to leave.
I apologize for the kiss on the mouth. Don't remember me for that.
Remember me by all thirty knuckles and strands of hair
in your mouth and Sunday mornings.

Let me get ahead of myself now. Let me think of
sharing a grocery cart and doorman greetings by name
and waking up under flannel and down.
Don’t ask to know what I am thinking.

Or, teach me to stand still. Teach me to be quiet
and steady and comfortable in this moment alone.
Teach me to stop expecting the best for me
to be what I expected.

I apologize for lingering too long. I apologize
for kissing him when I tasted only like beer.
I woke up with his elbow in my face.
I licked his elbow. I am sorry for this.

Touch my thigh in the morning. Think of the last bed
and its inhabitant— think of her short hair and lazy mouth.
Teach me indifference. Kiss my mouth and
go home and stop answering the phone.

Go back in time to a favorite moment.
The winter at the beach—the way my feet
sunk into the sand. Choose to stay here;
claim there has been nothing worth returning to.

Consider my ribcage and wrists. Consider
coin tosses and drawings passed back and forth
and the tops of my feet in the cold.
Return to me.

Stop missing the small things: toes and teeth and eyelashes
left on the pillow. Or miss them more.
Go back with me to that beach. Breathe only fog.
Reach as far as you can reach. See if we can touch.


Stephanie Willis

Fiction: Meanwhile

“Ugh,” grumbled the gatekeeper.

“What?”

“Kids. Damn kids.”

“Yeah?”

“And Money. Damn money.” He shifted in his seat. Two crows passed.

“How many?”

“How many? Two crows.”

“Kids. How many.”

“Three.” Pause. There was a creaking at the door, but no one turned his head to look. Silence. Silence. Creaking. Silence. A third crow flew by; the three convened on top of the bar across the street. Gay bar. Straight crows, though. No one bought drinks.

The air was brisk. November brisk. The air was crisp, too. Brisk November crisp. Like, if you took a step on a-not-too-city sidewalk then all you would hear is the brisk, crisp, brisk whi-crack of crisp crumpled leafs squish under boot. Floral bouquet death rattle rattle.

“You got any kids?” The gatekeeper didn’t really care; he had time to kill, and no shank.

“No.”

“You got any money?”

“A little.” It was black out. The older the years get, the less they like light. By November, two thousand five was so crotchety it locked the sun out on the porch and swallowed the key, along with some stale tapioca and cold hot tea. Ugh.

I had nothing left to say to the gatekeeper, and he had nothing left to say to me, so we kept talking. What was said was not important. There was silence. Another crow passed. Landed on the bar. Fat crow. Fat enough to be on a diet, because this crow didn’t buy a drink either. Now there were four crows on the bar, but the bar probably thought there were five, because one of the crows was so fat.

It started snowing.

“God is a bird, I think,” the gatekeeper muttered, “I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Because his shit is white.”

It stopped snowing.

Benjamin Korman

Fiction: The Magic Of Cinema

The director’s chair was found six years later, folded up and broken down in a pile of trash among a roll of posters, a wobbly coffee table, and a towering wooden sculpture of the moon with a crack running down the middle. In six years, it will have been three places. The first place is a film studio, where M transformed it into a mountain on whose peak he would stand and command his minions. The second place is a stockroom, where M brushed past it every time he had to use the toilet, whose chambers could only be accessed that way. The third place is the trash pile, where M discarded the director’s chair to the wind, the rain, and the rag and bone man. If wood could wish it could weep, then in six years the chair would surely wish it couldn’t wish anymore.

M sat on the chair with so much exuberance that it stopped creaking and began to squeal. The director removed his masculine paw from the arm and raised it at his crew.

“Heave, you sons of bitches!” M hurled a violent gesture at the workers, who were in the process of utilizing a series of pulleys that they had constructed the previous day to lift a tremendous wooden model of the moon. They tried, and again they failed.

“It’s heavy,” remarked the portliest crewman with the most ill-fitting of caps.

“I know it’s heavy, it’s the moon! The moon is heavy! God put a lot of cheese in there, and I expect you vermin to respect every last morsel of it, because so help me if this thing splinters or cracks you’re all fired.” M staked his reputation on fantastic inclinations, and keeping up appearances was his favorite hobby.

“Harrumph,” harrumphed the fat man; intent on receiving a paycheck at the end of the week, he went back to work.

M did not like the workers because he was certain they were all anarchists. And he did not like anarchists because he was certain that they all had no beliefs, not even that there was cheese in the moon. The negative end of his passion that he reserved for anarchists (and unwashed hands, and unwaxed mustaches, and wobbly coffee tables) was offset by his admiration for the moon (and sharpened wits, and pretty women, and mildly pretty women), which he studied from afar like a philosopher studies immortal penumbras. The moon was big, and wise, and it could not be conquered. M’s admiration was unending. But M was not an astronomer; he would never visit the moon and peel its skin, revealing the soft mushy flesh underneath. Nor could he taste the silver cheese M was a film director, and with his current production he intended to sap the moon of all its mystery using genius, using brilliance, and using the magic of cinema (Although M didn’t believe that cinema itself was magic; to him, the magic was in the hands of the director).

The tentative title of the film was “The Great Voyager,” and it recounts the tales of a creative, adventurous young man whose hands were as clean as his moustache was waxed, born and raised in the heart of the Future. After battling and defeating the wicked-hearted “Emperor of Futureland,” the daring young scamp goes on to meet, woo, and trounce upon every pretty and mildly pretty woman in the whole of the Future. He then builds a time machine, and, with unceasing bravado, proceeds to meet, woo, and trounce upon every pretty, mildly pretty, and entirely plain woman in the entirety of history. Returning to The Future, the young man brags about his escapades and becomes a national hero. When asked what he will do next, the hero replies, “I plan to voyage to the moon!” He builds a spaceship and, taking ten of the most mildly pretty women in the land with him, he sets off for new frontiers. Upon reaching the moon (a trip lasting three years— noted by the dozens of toddlers who joyfully teeter out of the ship after landing), the brave young man battles and defeats the entire indigenous population of frog people, miraculously and unexplainably grows to the size of the Sun, gives a long soliloquy about the importance of dreams, and puts the moon in his pocket, where it stays until the end of time, which, by fantastic inclination alone, he causes. Roll credits. M wrote the script himself, and he was very proud of it.

He leaned back in his director’s chair and muttered a garbled curse at the staff. After another fifteen minutes of nihilistic bungling, the crew finally lifted the moon onto the set, and M commanded the cameraman to begin rolling. The film sped from canister to canister; he directed his actors.

“Thomas, you are playing a brilliant man! Stand like a brilliant man would stand, like a bear standing at the mouth of his cave!”

“Yes, sir.” Thomas stiffened his back and forced the air into the chasm of his chest.

“No! You look like a bullfrog! Become a bear. Rip the webbing from between your toes, walk out of the swamp, and grow some balls!”

“Yes, sir. You’re right. I’m sorry.” The actor cowered apologetically. M took a brief moment to sigh, and was suddenly overcome with rage. He swallowed his sigh and spat out an apoplectic grunt.

“Where is my tenth maiden? Where is my tenth maiden? When the hero voyages to the moon, he brings ten voluptuous maidens with him, and I count nine! Will somebody please enlighten me as to where I can find my tenth maiden?!” A delta of veins emerged from M’s forehead and started to pulse. His face turned red. An actress was missing.

M considered himself to be a person possessing all of the attributes that a woman should ever need to find desirable. Healthy, rich, intelligent, mustachioed, and, above all, not bald. For these reasons, he considered his relationships with the actresses in his films to be a sort of charity to which he was donating. Of the nine women currently standing on his stage, he had slept with six. Two of the six he had deflowered, and for that he was terribly proud. Two more, who did not wish to be deflowered, he had allowed to perform fellatio. This was another of M’s charities. The woman on the stage who had not yet experienced M surely would by, or possibly during, the film’s premiere. Four of the nine women on stage were from Kansas. Another two traveled together from Nebraska. There was another from Wisconsin. One was from Maryland, and the last one trekked from Canada, which M assumed to be a vast wasteland of scenery and pleasant living.

M was their savior because he had, in one hole or another, given them class. And without class, they were nothing but the weathered feces of the Middle West.

Furious. In an act of raging indignation that would only hinder the production further, M grabbed his chair and threw it into the stockroom, where it would remain for the next five years and eleven months.

“I’ll be back!” he bellowed, and stormed away.

The missing actress was named Catharine Pless, and she did not audition for her role. Ms. Pless made M’s acquaintance at a party, and her visage burrowed deeply into the furrows of his brain. She was not impressed by his career. Her left breast was slightly larger than her right, and it made several attempts to escape her evening gown. There were knots in her hair. She ate and spoke at the same time. M asked if he could meet Ms. Pless again, and she answered with stern indifference, a raised eyebrow and a piddling snicker.

When M arrived at her apartment, he spent fifteen minutes boring her to death about artistry and passion and cinema magic. She spent four minutes in the bathroom, and then they went to bed together.

They proceeded to hump for eight minutes. Ms. Pless yawned audibly and asked to be excused for a moment to powder her nose. M began to get very anxious. When she returned from the bathroom, she carried in her hand an electrical appliance roughly the size and shape of a toy pistol. A rubber cone was situated at the long end of the appliance and, when it was given power, it would, presumably, vibrate. M frowned.

“You’ll need to use this, or else I’m going to go to bed.” M’s eyes gaped semi-sideways. All of the blood suddenly rushed back to his brain, and he clumsily recounted all of the encounters with women he had ever had and realized that at this moment they meant absolutely nothing. A ball of phlegm became snared in his throat, and it grew thicker each second he could not answer her. Finally, he submitted. He used the appliance and in twenty minutes she was asleep. He saw himself out. That night he lay in bed for two hours without blinking, and the next day he appeared at her apartment again and offered her a role in his film.

He snatched the handle of her dressing room door and tugged it open. Inside, she sat and read a magazine. Her jowls were wrinkled with the stains of boredom. She did not notice, or did not seem to notice M’s presence. He opened his mouth, but only a thin spray of air escaped. She turned the page of her magazine. A moment passed, and she turned another page. More time, and another page still. M slowly backed out of the room and silently closed the door. He stood against the door, empty, for three minutes, and listened to the pages rustle inside the room.

When M returned to the set, he informed his actors of his brilliant decision to include only nine maidens on the young hero’s voyage to the moon for very important kabalistic reasons that were only now occurring to him. He stood, and together they all went back to work.

Ben Korman

New Updates

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Enjoy.

Fiction: Backward

Backward


So Marco and I drive to Fashion Island because American rag is having a sale and I've been eyeing these Ksubi Dee Dee Ruff Rockers ($295) for a long time and I have the absolutely most perfect pair of double Identity White Patent Leather sneakers ($195) to match with them because the jeans taper at the ankle and I think I'd wear them sagged a little bit because my American Apparel Deep V-Neck is one-size too big (on purpose, $26) and the Ksubi Block sunglasses ($198) I bought from American Rag goes well with them too.

So Marco and I park in the Fashion Island parking lot and walk out of it and on the way we pass this girl named Cherie who is one of those hippie chicks who really likes Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom and she says Hey to us and keeps walking but she doesn't even look at us because she's a dumb bitch who isn't very nice and I think she fucked Marco once at a party in Corona Del mar or something and there are some polaroids of it somewhere on MySpace or Facebook. Something inside of me resents Marco for this because Cherie might be a dumb bitch but she is pretty hot and she has nice legs and tits and I would just love to squish my face between them and smell her possibly (probably) sweet skin of Chanel perfume and then fuck her on my Tempurpedic mattress and then listen to Devendra or maybe Sufjan or some Modest Mouse. But Marco is a good guy and we get along alright so I let it pass and continue walking to American Rag.

So we're in American Rag and I go straight to the back of the store where the Denim is and I look at the Ksubi wall and there are six shelves of Ksubi jeans which is amazing because Ksubi is my favorite Denim brand and they make amazing clothes and they are really pushing the envelope in the world of up and coming fashion houses. But they don't have my size. They never have my fucking size in these Ksubi jeans. I don't why I keep coming back. Maybe because there is this girl that works here named Kati and she is super skinny and is super chill and I would just to take her out one night and get wasted with her then come back to my place and drink some beers and then fuck all night. Marco is looking at the PRPS jeans but they are a really weird company because they don't make skinny jeans and what kind of Hip fashion label doesn't make skinny jeans? So fuck PRPS and all those other companies that don't make skinny jeans because they make clothes for Bros and fuck Bros because all they wear are baggy clothes and “LRG” shit and it makes me disgusted with Orange County and everything in it. Where did the culture disappear to? This whole place is just full of True Religion wearing Bro Hos who don't know the difference between Chekhov and Dostoevsky. You'd think the least these dumb, uncultured bitches could do is read some Eggers or Bukowski or something. This county has to get some culture.

So as we're walking around the store this girl in my English class passes me and I think she has a crush on me (her name is Marcy or something) and she tries to make eye contact with me but I keep my eyes fixed on the Rag & Bone T-Shirt ($85) hanging on the rack and I think she says Hey to me but I ignore her and keep walking. She isn't very cultured either. She really likes Dickens or something along those lines that doesn't have anything to do with today's world and today's society. Fuck her too.

We finally walk out of the store empty-handed and I turn to Marco and say What now and he says lets go to Laguna to that one book store that is really chill and I say OK and we walk back to the parking lot and get in my Audi ($30,000) and start driving.

We're on PCH. The sun is starting to set over the water and I think about what I am bringing tonight and if I will get laid and how much weed I'm going to smoke and all of the hot bitches that are going to Rich's party back in Huntington and what I'm going to wear since I didn't get those Ksubi jeans but I have old pairs of Ksubi so I guess it's alright.

Somewhere on PCH on the way to Laguna Marco and I decide not to go to that book store so we turn around and head back to my place in Huntington but I kinda don't want to because my mom might be home and I don't want to run into my mom because it will delay going to my room where my clothes are and I need to pick out an outfit for Rich's tonight because Marie might be there and I might want to fuck Marie tonight, I don't know yet but I need an outfit for tonight. Marie is this girl in my art class with very nice slim legs and an ass to match that wiggles and sways perfectly as she walks and the J-Brand 10-Inch Indigo Blue jeans ($172) look so good on her because she is tall for a girl and the J-Brands show it off very well. Her lips are pouty and her make-up is perfect and every time I see her I think about her lips sucking my dick and her tongue moves up and down along it and it is pretty amazing and then I imagine fucking her from behind and she's playing with her pussy and I'm pulling her hair and she's about to cum but right now I'm driving and I'm starting to get hard so I stop imagining so I don't crash my Audi.

My mom isn't hove so Marco and I go straight to my room and I put on the rare Joy Division record I just got it's the Amsterdam show from 1980 and it's their best show ever and has most of my favorite songs on it except Warsaw which was Joy Division at their most punk. I don't know if Marco likes Joy division but he is a dumb bitch if he doesn't because they have done so much for music today like, um, well I can't think of anything right now but they just did. Marco sits on my bed with his shoes and I say What the fuck, Marco, take off your shoes I just washed and febreezed those sheets and your lame Nike Sbs ($80) are filthy you really need to take care of your shit better. Marco immediately jumps off the bed and says sorry and sits on my Black Leather Crate and Barrel couch ($2,100) leans back and pretends to drum on his knees. I sigh and pull out three pairs of jeans: a pair of Ksubi Van Winkles ($220) APC New Cures ($140) and Nudie Dry Black Organic Grim Tims ($225) and then three T-Shirts: two APC T-Shirts ($50, $120), and that American Apparel Deep V-Neck I mentioned. I stare at each outfit I've put together and I pick my Black Ksubi Van Winkles and the American Apparel Deep V-Neck because they'll go really well with my Double Identity White Patent Leather sneakers I talked about and I'll wear my Black Lucite Lightning Bolt necklace from Alex & Chloe ($56). I turn to Marco and say wait here I'm going to change and go into the bathroom and take off my clothes then I put my new outfit on and come out and ask Marco What do you think he says yeah that looks sweet I say sweet lets get to the party. Marco says okay and we leave my room and get in my Audi and start heading towards Rich's.

So Rich lives the next block over but I wanted to take my Audi because it's so much easier than walking and my ass is a little cold so I turn on the seatwarmers and Marco asks why did we drive and I tell him that my ass was cold and I just felt like taking the Audi because it's easier than walking and he says oh, alright and by this time we're at Rich's so we park and get out.

So at the party I see Rich Megan Drew Alison Cody Oliver Ryan Michael Marco and my reflection and my outfit looks really put together and it's better than everyone else's in the room. There are some other people but I don't know their names and I don't need to know their names because they don't matter and I can tell that the names I don't know belong to people who don't read and appreciate music and the arts like Rich Megan Drew Alison Cody Oliver Ryan Michael Marco and I do but even Marco really doesn't appreciate music and the arts that much but I guess he reads a little and that's why we're friends because he's smarter than your average kid. There is no sign of Marie yet. Some kids are on the ground playing twister and spilling Jack&Coke everywhere and actually it's kind of embarrassing because I think these kids are freshmen and they have no idea what they're doing at a party like this because none of the other kids are talking to them or trying to be friendly because they are freshmen and they don't even know how to handle themselves when drunk yet so I think it's going to be bad news for them tonight. Rich comes over and says Hey glad you could come and I say wouldn't miss it for the world and Marco agrees and Rich starts talking about this poem he is working on that doesn't have any verbs or conjunctions just nouns and it's slightly annoying because his massive forehead is eclipsing half of this hardbody's face and it looks like she is a solid hardbody with a tight build and a firm ass but I can't see the rest of her because Rich is in the way so I move out of the way and pretend to grab a beer because this girl is standing right next to the beer. I catch a glimpse of her and she really is a hardbody with a tight body and a firm ass and very nice slim legs and she is kind of tall so I say Hey how's it goin' and she says Not too bad and I say my name's Truman and she says I know, we've met and I say We have? And she says Yeah, don't you remember? Last time at Rich's? You called me Priscilla but my name is actually Marie? We have art together? You burped in my mouth as we started to make out? And I say Fuck you, you're not Marie and she says Yeah, I am, asshole and I say Fuck you, bitch and walk away and crack open the beer and take a long gulp and walk outside and light a cigarette.

The moon is up. There is a freshmen lying face down in the lawn, a puddle of green puke spreading out from his face. I think about helping him but I don't think I could do anything of great significance to help him. As I'm staring at this kid lying face down I realize I lit my cigarette filter and not the tobacco.

Ryan Chang

Art: "Landscape and Pattern" & "Study of Disaster"

"Landscape and Pattern"
80" x 72"
acrylic, metallic paint oxidized with the artist's urine and saliva,
and dirt on canvas
2007



"Study of Disaster #7"
13" x 12"
paper, acrylic on broken maple board
2006

Edward Schexnayder

Art: Final Piece

Evand Schmidt

Art: "I Unpetalled You"

Aldrin Valdez
http://aldrinvaldez.blogspot.com

Art: Untitled Images

Images submitted by Lauren Culbreth.

Poetry: Relics

Relics

Spine/I am shattered pieces of memory
Unwilling to part from each other
Compressing and extending in curves
Perhaps never straight

Shoulder/an endless possibility
A radius of a sphere
Everything and thus nothing
Almost insignificant

Fingers/we lock into each other
Each one of us flexes and extends
To create a knitted surface
Its dimensions always morphing

Elbow/who are you faceless creature
Who resembles something of everything else
An element too simple
Whose footsteps only exist in a single plane

Knee/whatever happens
whatever its complexity
It all comes down
To flexion and extensions


And Marrow/your invasive warmth
Crawled into my emptiness in silence and
You stood up slowly
And you became me


- Hilary H.

Poetry: The Talkies

The Talkies

When I was twelve

my mom enrolled me in an acting class at the Westfield Y.

We pretended we were mirrors and starfished ourselves on the marble floor.

I sat next to Weird Meghan,

who licked the flat backs of toy gems and

pasted them to her forehead.

She smelled like spit.

Filtered into groups of four, we practiced skits

for the showcase. I was in a bit

about the talkies, waving lacy hands

and saying things like

“Marvelous!” and “Darling!”

I focused on making my words slow and breathy, like the sigh of air

as it escapes a pinpricked balloon.

Weird Meghan's voice scuttled at the bottom of her register

and her jokes didn't make sense.

Our teacher moaned “Higher,

higher!” as Weird Meghan stared

pale-face blank, plastic jewels peeling from her skin

with the sticky resistance of tape on a wall.

During breaks, Weird Meghan sat on a broken radiator in the girl's bathroom.

I listened to her guttural voice curl around her words—

phelgmy stories about Sailor Moon and vampires.

Once she wrote the name of an Egyptian pharaoh on a square

of toilet paper and made me promise not to say it out loud.

It was cursed; whoever said it would go deaf.

I imagined sound being replaced by that mute

ring my ears make when I'm underwater.

That class, I watched my teacher's coral lips shape air, words

floating like smoke signals.

I still remember the way my lines

lifted like heat off the ground.

The way my voice rose with

Where ever you turn

all you hear is sound!


- Maryrose Mullen

Poetry: Coney Island

Coney Island

I smoke in the backseat and he does not mind.

She is still beautiful.

Breathe in and what kills me is she is ecstatic.

She uses language to open doors.

The sidewalks all face the wrong direction

so we use our feet to find the sand.

I first fall asleep from where they guard,

but she wakes me up and is perfect against the waves.

Perfect against the roller coaster backdrop

and I don't know how much a cyclone costs.

I don't know how to climb ladders

so she takes me to the dock after we link arms.

I pull her out to the edge

and hope that she does not jump unless I do.

On the way home we take turns falling asleep

in our metal car.

We check to see if something is left behind

and I can see she sleeps with her eyes open.

Remember on the dock she asked what perfect meant

after telling all the sky's different colors.


- Laura Radcliffe