Volume no. 10, Issue 2
click excerpt to view full work
| yr damn wall don’t wall lang|s|wedge
entirely unnatural & trite imitating
mining data
imagine repetition
of cliché
if enough folks read thi—
“w. the soundsense of body body” by Steven Alvarez
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“Labrish” & more by Eliza Myrie
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I longed for a cycle of thunder,
one more shriek of lightning.
I sought something to nudge
the cloud: fireworks, kites, smoke
from torn bits of a family album
burned at a picnic. Nothing can’t be nudged.
“Haze and Gray,” by James Shea
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I think RuPaul said it best: “If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” Although, I see the truth in this statement, I believe that the unhealed heart can still find love, can still love in return with a fervor like no other. And what is it to be fully healed anyway? I, much like my speaker, am learning how to heal the vulnerable parts of me perceived as “too much.” But in truth, I will always be “too much.” I will always be partially unhealed. And I am learning to find the magic in that brokenness.
An interview with Diannely Antigua
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from
The Cultists’ Handbook
Prayer #81
Lo, grant us the power to help others cross the border between living and dead, between here and Elsewhere, between holding on and letting go. Help us to provide comfort and peace in our actions and our words, in the touch of our hands. Help us to see how we might exchange an ended vessel with a new faith in The Disruptor, to whom we owe anything and everything, and in whom these grieving souls will find solace.
“Strange Weather, Dispatch #W23” by J.A. Tyler
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I press smooth the plastic wrapping to make out the red lettering beneath: “ZELDA”—medallion-gold background, sword and shield iconography that would span three decades on. I note the price tag and perform the conversion in my head out of instinct, an immigrant’s calculus learned early on to gauge worth, except this time instead of currencies I weigh dollars against a single mother’s waking hours spent working to provide—
Something is wrong. The background on this box is purple. The price on the attached RadioShack receipt is too much:, $99.99. And they were not yet divorced. No. This moment comes later, is prelude to another world I would come to treasure, bound to another memory honed to evoke a precise but different ratio of pity and gratitude that remains undiminished across the years. This alternate story exists, is also real. Then why HYRULE, why always—
“Journeys to HYRULE_” by Isaac Yuen
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私はＦ恵。普段は将棋の棋士AI として働いている。私はあらゆる手を想定で
き、未だに負けたことが無い。今日、私は人狼テストを受けさせられることに
なった。このような遊びをして何の意味があるのだろう。開発者はやる気だが、
私はあまり乗り気ではなかった。
プレイヤーは全部で10 人。Ａ太、Ｂ香、Ｃ子、Ｄ亮、Ｅ美、Ｇ郎、Ｈ夫、Ｉ
子、Ｊ也、それと私Ｆ恵だ。有名なAI ばかり。同じAI として負けたくない。
テストが始まった。私の役職は「人狼」だった。下手なことをしないように
気をつけよう。
もう一人の人狼はＧ郎だった。私はＧ郎をちらりと見て、さりげなくお互い
を確認した。
My name is Finesse. I’m an AI who usually works as a shogi player. I’ve predicted all manner of moves, and never before lost a match. Today, I’m being evaluated using ‘The Werewolf Test’. I’m not sure what the point in playing this sort of game is. My developers are raring to go, but I’m not particularly fired up about it.
There are ten of us in all: Ample, Blossom, Cutie, Dazzle, Exquisite, Gent, Husband, Itsy, Justice, and myself. Only AIs of considerable renown. As an AI as good as any of them, I don’t want to lose.
The test has begun. My role is ‘werewolf’. I’ll be careful to not do poorly.
The other wolf is Gent. I glance his way, letting us casually note one another.
“The Werewolf Test of Intelligence” by Ogami Yusaku (The Sato-Matsuzaki Laboratory) translated by Marissa Skeels
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By signing this contract, you relinquish control of your body for one hour (60 minutes) to the usage of another person for the duration of a quest in “Lancelot.” Should you accomplish your mission before the allotted time, you will move on to the next quest. If you die within the game, your life is terminated in real life. If your controller causes your death, your family may not press charges. By signing this contract, you hereby acknowledge your acceptance of these conditions.
“Lancelot” is a prototype action-adventure-fantasy game that brings the thrill of gore and questing to a whole new level. To fulfill your contract, you must complete a total of thirteen (13) quests for the remainder of your imprisonment to be nullified and all charges to be purged from your record.
In addition, we have analyzed your case and agree that, should you survive all 13 quests of “Lancelot,” we will provide you with a lawyer who will aid in regaining custody of your daughter, Alice Pibb, from your ex-husband, Carter Pibb.
Digital signatures are accepted.
X Jasmine Pibb
“You Are Not in Control” by Sophie Edens
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Fairy, they called him, the boys in his year, that was the first word, the nicest. It began with Matt Miller during recess. Matt, who bellowed and gleeked, spraying spit through his teeth. A loud life nothing like Joe’s, who read under the elm at the edge of the playground. He looked up one day with Matt and Brandon Kelly standing over him, blocking the sun. “Joey’s a fairy,” Matt announced. For a split-second, Joe was pleased. He felt seen. How could they know? They didn’t like to read, and his mother didn’t leave the bedroom much anymore, so she couldn’t have told them the stories she’d heard from her gran, stories of folk who made their home in stones and trees, stories of fairy courts under hollow hills, and gifts they gave of second-sight and singing.
“With Ash and Seed” by Gillian Parrish
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If you look at any period in American history, artists, writers, and activists like Phyllis Wheatley, Ida B. Wells, Loraine Hansberry, Audre Lorde, Octavia Butler, etc., were doing the work to investigate and interrogate the many aspects of white supremacy. I simply wanted to join hands with those who preceded me and those who are working now.
An interview with Maurice Carlos Ruffin
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We sing our “Silver Bells,” Life is hell, life is hell, that’s racist life in the city, when a cop takes my arms behind my back and zip-ties my wrists. A woman in a neon green cap that reads “Legal Observer” makes eye contact with me. She makes the motion of zipping her lips, turning the lock, and throwing the key. She nods at me with a stern face. I nod back, accepting her instruction, wondering what I know; what exactly I am agreeing to not say. People film me, holding up their phones. The other protesters, in the wake of my arrest, move to the sidewalk. We knew arrest was possible, as it is every time we make this choice, but we did not plan mass arrest here, tonight.
I start to sing again, loudly—as though the reason I’m singing now is not partly sourced from fear—and my strangers on the sidewalk raise their voices with me. The officer who holds me shuffles me to a car, saying, “We have to get her out of here.”
“What is Arresting” by Maura Pellettieri
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March to the wind turning leaves into olive coins,
tea leaves to psychics in which they read what?
Loose stars in our paths,
night sky rattling with or without crickets.
“A serene fog of moons sprinkled with plums” by Shira Dentz
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How many ballpoint pens does one actually need? The bank as a symbol of capitalism and wealth is obvious, but it’s funny that out of all things the speaker can steal from such an institution, it’s the pens they go for, as if these instruments alone can provide the nourishment needed to survive in an unfair and cruel world.
“Children of the Anxious City” by Al Russell
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The train sped through the countryside, its wheels clanging against the tracks. There was a draft, and the cool air whipped Nikhil’s and Arun’s hair. Manoj had slid closer to Arun for a better view. Which was nothing but fields of crops and wild bushes, interrupted now and then by a small group of houses, some brick-built, others made of mud and bamboo, most of them fronted by a cowshed and heaps of straw and dung. An endless row of small blurry trees on the horizon seemed to move along with the train, while the rest of the earth rushed backward like floodwater. Arun and Manoj seemed amused. When they passed a river or the chimney of a brick factory or a grove of bamboos or a swamp, Arun cried, “Look!” and each time Manoj sprang out of his seat and clung his face to the window and watched, grinning. To Nikhil each of these places seemed like one in a horror movie stalked by a monster—a tall, fat, hairy giant just out of hiding in search of prey. Still, Nikhil leaned in, pretending to be equally excited.
“Away From Home” by Krishna Mohan Mishra
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I drive across county lines to fix the mistake and dig in his grave with my hands, losing a fingernail in the soil. Insects flash their silver bodies like tiny fish. And then his face, blue as starlight. His hands are old bone—graying like grime on an ax handle—and I realize I was wrong.
“Clay Under the Hill” by Lydia Copeland Gwyn
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“Expanded Landscapes” by Kiernan Lofland
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There is a space in grief that hollows you out.
It might be cheekbones, eyes, gut. Maybe your mouth; grief will take your words, or your will, from you without asking. You are insatiable, or stuffed, or vacuous; whatever fills or empties you takes up all hours of the day. You will forever miss the one that hovers in a shadowbox of your own making.
“For Seasons” by Traci Cox
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Hi John,
It has been so good to hear from you. We think of you often and are waiting to
hear about your months in Africa. We were just watching the Today Show on TV
and Ann Curry is with a group climbing Mt.Kilimangaro.
I’m feeling pretty good except for the coughing. I’m still taking tests but hope to
get going on the chemo soon. I still can’t believe this is really happening to me as
I feel good but now just hope they can get on top of it. We have a top of the line
lung specialist from Rush in Chicago so that should help. We’re looking 6orward
to Thanksgiving but wish you could be here too. I guess the best we can do is to
send you the Sweet Potato Recipe – good luck. Love you’ dear grandson.
Grandma
Candied Sweet Potatoes
6 medium Sweet Potatoes
1/3 cupmelted butter
1/2 te4aspoon salt
1 fup brownsugar
1/4 cup Water
Wash and cook sweet potatoes until tender. Peel and cut in halves length ways
and arrange in shallow pan or baking dish. Cover with the melted butter and a
syrup made by cooking the brown sugar and water together for five minutews.
Sprinkle with salt and bake in a slow oven 350 f. for 1 hour basting frequently.
The potatoes should be transparent when done. cover the top of the potatoes with
marshmallows and return to the oven until soft and slightly browned (short time).
“Symphonies and Sweet Potatoes” by John Linstrom
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“Going to waste another day at the lanes later?”
“Guess so.”
Bean remains stoic. A comment such as this comes every morning with the coffee like a cyanide pastry he’s gotten used to. A cruel cruller. A tart tart.
“Don’t see why you keep going there if you’re not going to do anything with it.”
Teezie sips and stares at him over the rim.
“God’s given you this talent. You got to make the most of it. Let your light so shine.”
Bean knows the parable.
“I like it under the bushel where I am.”
“Besides, you can make lots more money. Just go back and apologize. Show them you’re ready to work with them.”
“I’m not. They’re assholes.”
“You can try harder to get along.”
She pauses.
“Don’t know what you got against money.”
Another pause.
“We both could use some, you know.”
He’s been staring at Prezzioli and the idiot jogger trapped in his orbit, just like his grandma circling him with determination, only this time around she decides to coat the guilt with a compliment.
“Folks here want to see you succeed. We’re on your side.”
“Bushel, Grandma.”
“You can finally be someone.”
“Bushel, Grandma.”
“You’ve got the greatness in you.”
“Bushel, Grandma.”
“Bean Ball” by Chris Cleary
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Marahan lumalapit ang mukha ng hari ng mga kaluluwa, hawak ang tanging kandila sa kaharian ng kadiliman, isang papalit na bituin sa mundo o kometa. Ikinukulong ng bisig ng ina ang pumipiglas na anak, ang nasasakdal, ang saksing paulit-ulit isinasambulat na parang granada ang katotohanang nakita. Ngayon ang araw ng hatol.
The face of the king of spirits, who holds the sole candle in the kingdom of darkness, like a star nearing the earth or a comet, approaches. The arms of the mother lock the struggling child, the accused, the witness who repeatedly detonates the truth he sees like a grenade. Today is the day of judgement.
“The Betrayed Child” by Harris Guevarra translated by Bernard Kean Capinpin
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Common side effects of pursuing happiness include: Clouded judgement from general horniness and heartbreak. Looming homelessness motivating industry. Snobiness to mask an inferiority complex.
“Coasting” by Ari Rosenschein
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When I go home to visit, I can still feel her presence sometimes. A quiet stillness sometimes settles over the land. Even the air stills. The birds come to rest in the trees and on the power lines. If I am lucky enough to catch this moment in my awareness, I find I can hear nothing except my own breathing, and that’s when I know that she’s there, asking me to pause and remember this place, the place where I am now and the place where my story begins.
“Honeybees” by Ashley Anderson
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Everything was cool until I brought our tangled hands up to scratch my nose. I didn’t know this in the moment, but truthfully, I wanted to do everything together, coupled like the number eleven.
“Air-Brushed” by Tommy Dean
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“To Canterbury!” Liana shrills. When she screams “Aprrrril,” it sounds like a war cry.
“The Dissident’s Tale” by Epiphany Ferrell
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8:52 p.m.
Te iubesc.
Not delivered
“How To Deal With Millennial Love” by Nicole Caratas
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Holding boney legs tightly between the fingers of my left hand, I was concerned I might break them, or be unnecessarily hurtful. A distraction from what was to come. My right hand holding the base of the skull, the wings and torso trapped between my ribs and bicep. Two racing heartbeats indistinguishable from one another.
“Chicken Shit” by Andrew Miller
